Vaguely Urban

Quirky Girls; Healthy Colons

When I lived in New York, one of my roommates started what I thought was a novel and endearing tradition of affixing our produce stickers to the insides of a kitchen cabinet door.  It made a cheery mural, and served as a proud testament to our commitment to fruits and vegetables.

At some point my brother came to visit, saw our festive roughage record and started laughing.  At first I thought that he thought we were weird to deface our cabinetry, but really he was laughing because I used to do the same thing to one of our kitchen cabinets when we were growing up.  I had totally forgotten that I used to do that, but it does explain why I rallied so quickly round the flag.

A couple months ago, I started saving the stickers from all the fruit I ate at my desk.  I put them on a card, and ultimately mailed it off to my old roommate.  Perhaps she can give us the skinny on how many successfully completed the journey from Los Angeles to Silicon Valley.

Apologies for the clusterfuck in the upper right corner.  I would have preferred a more even distribution, but needed to batten down a sticker that had lost it's adhesive.  That green and white stripey one.  I should have let it fend for itself like the others, but it's a rare Korean sticker and I was particularly proud of it.

Friday Flotsam XI

You know what kicks ass over depending on the kindness of strangers?

Being unexpectedly borne up by the kindness of the dearest old friend.

Today is a hard day.  Thank sweet goodness, the very best friends make even the hardest day easier. Like when your mama is crying and justifiably so and you can't make it better and then she gets flowers delivered to her house from your ever loving girlfriend because that girlfriend just knew it would be a hard day and you never said anything but she just KNEW and she sent flowers and a note to your mama.  That kind of friend, multiplied by lots of other friends who are lifting lifting me up with their love all the time makes it all a bit more bearable.

****

On a lighter note, here is the tampon hand-off between me and my friend's 6'5", handsome cop husband.  We were at their house for dinner, and their glossy shiny golden retriver went tampon-spelunking in my purse.  It was really humilating when he pried the  (clean, unused) T-bone out of the dog's clenched jaws.

Thankfully, we'd had enough wine that the humilation was blessedly muted.

Also we had matchies dogs, in two convenient sizes.

The highlight was our midnight dog walk, with glasses of claret in hand.  When our handsome cop host p'shawed away my open container law concerns, he totally won my forever loyalty.  Also he performed a textbook sobriety checkpoint evaluation on both me and Dave before we left and ME was the soberest for to drive!

*****

Last, not least: GO BRUINS!!!!!!!!!!!!

Great Art, Doesn't Stink

It's no secret that I can't draw for shit.  But sometimes even the crummiest artist is so deeply inspired that she can eke out a passable drawing.

I was recenly fortunate enough to find this kind of sublime inspiration. 

It's my travel deodorant!  And it was complimentary!  I got it from a swank resort where I had to stay when I unexpectedly ended up in Austin on my way to Dallas and my luggage didn't make it.  Swank Resort gave me a Female Grooming Kit with a wee Lady Speed Stick. 

Lady Speed Stick has travelled with me to Pittsburgh, New York, Vegas, and now Phoenix.  In addition to helping me fight off the stank from the big city to the high desert, it delights the eye with its supremely appealing proportions.  Look how cute and squatty it is.  Adorable!

Last week, on the first morning of my conference in Phoenix, I was happy to get to use my rad travel deodorant.  As the morning session wore on, I stayed fresh and pleasingly-scented.  The product stayed on more than just my pits... it stayed on my mind. 

While I maybe should have been paying more attention to the information being shared by our panelists, I found myself sketching a little rendering of my little deodorant.  It looked like this:

Honestly, I'm pretty proud of it.  Keep in mind that I was nowhere near my little deodorant when I drew that picture.  The mind's eye is keen when inspired by such beauty.

I figure only the most discerning art historians will be able to tell the original from the facsimile. 

Friday Flotsam X

Dave helped me come up with the phrase "law and motion practice" in my last post.  I am mostly a secretive control freak when I post, so collaborating was a rare treat.  I emailed Dave on Wednesday morning to tell him how pleased I was with the results of our family effort.  He responded:

we should write a book - how to make the law funny.

it would be funny.  it wouldn't be very long.
---

I love love love Ethiopian food.  <<insert 'but Ethiopians don't have food' joke here>>  Dave and I went on our first date to an Ethiopian restuarant up by Harlem.  While in my pre-filing delirium, I was fantastizing about shiro, my favorite ethiopitem, and I decide that, were I a world-class Ethiopian marathoner, I would title my memoir Running on Empty.

---

I'm in LA when I'm writing this but by the time it posts I will be in Phoenix.  Technically, I'm going for a work training thing but in my heart I'm going solely to nestle myself between Melati's bosoms cupcakes.  BONUS.

My Kook Will Have Out

In the 6+ years I've been lawyerin', I've only pulled two all-nighters.  Both times were when I was helping another associate file a motion for summary judgment.  The MSJ.  The big daddy of law and motion practice.  Set your TiVo and hire a dog-walker, it's Emm Ess Jay writing time!

On Wednesday, I file three motions for summary judgment.  THREE times the life-sucking fun!  You find me another lawyer that's filed three of these bitches on one day, and cocktails are on me.

When I log the kind of hours that these three fatties have required, my brain gets a little kooky.  A sample, from last night around midnight:

typey, typey does not warrant the imposition of punitive damages !!! Warrant!!! <<<guitar riff in my head>>> She's. My. Cher-rr-ry PIE!  <<pie wedge falls into Tawny Kitaen's lap>> accordingly the Court should enter typey typey.

And so on.  I think the little eruptions of insanity may have preserved my general sanity in the long run.  That's what I'm telling myself anyway.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Like many Irish-Americans, I have to work on the official St. Patrick's day.  Sucky poo.

Well, misery loves drunken company.  And, rather than forego our Irishness completely, a dedicated crew decided to make the most of St. Patrick's Eve.  We had ourselves a pretty nice little Sunday, heading to the OC to see this Irishy-American band we really like.  They're called The American Wake.  For me, they define the paddy rock genre.

We got to the pub pretty early, because pubs are small and the 'Wake is huge.  We scored some nice real estate, and settled into our pints.  I was a little worried, because Dave and I had had a fierce Wii sesh on Saturday, and my pint-raising arm was seriously compromised.  I battled hard to overcome this disability.

We were in the middle of a great conversation about blow jobs, when we were interrupted by the opening act stylings of a troop of local riverdancing tweens.

We quickly switched our conversation to a more appropriate topic.

Unfortunately, not everyone was so considerate of the children.

Jeez, woman. 2001 called.  It wants its horribly exposed thong back. 

I took a picture of Thong every hour on the hour.  It never went away.

In the end (see what I did there?) the band was fabulous, the pints were effervescent, and the crowd was festive, but when I'm sitting at my desk on St. Paddy's day, the image that will remain with me will be of Thong.

It's not even green.

Slainte!

Friday Flotsam IX - Vegas Extras

Ok, so we didn't really have a priest in Vegas.  He's a pastor.  Priest sounded more dramatic.  Given that the pastor is married to my bf, it's probably for the best.  Also, if Ty were really a priest, his parishioners would call him Father What-a-waste.  He's Thornbird-tastic. 

Now, we may not have had a priest, but we did have some other divine niceties, including:

- Couture cupakes - guiness chocolate, red velvet and coconut.  I had one of each, and I regret my restraint.

- Our own security guard and velvet rope area.

- The ample ample delights of our cocktail waitress, exclusively for our private enjoyment.

THEY REFUSE TO BE CONSTRAINED, BY BRASSIERE OR BY TYPEPAD'S FORMATTING CONVENTIONS!!!

(You should have seen the way she opened a champagne bottle by wresting in about in her cleavage.)

- Two lesbians and a 'mo.

- The historic first congress of TSC, Tasterspoon, bmh, AND Routine Mom.

- Hand-screened undies favors for boys and girls.

XXX representing 30 in Roman numerals.  I like symbolism on my bum.

Eff The Rules

My boy turned 30.  FINALLY.  And if that's not grounds for breaking the rules, I don't know what is.  So I'll  flaunt the "what happens in Vegas" more, and simulatenously shatter my "no pictures of me or my peeps" rule.

See, Dave knew he was going to Vegas for his birthday.  He thought I was taking him on a romantic mini break, just the two of us.  He was wrong.

While a Vegas weekend a deux might be enough for a regular birthday, the three-oh demanded a bit more.  I needed to call in the troops.

The troops answered the call.  Coming from New York, from San Francisco, from L.A., the OC, San Diego, and Phoenix, they came.  And they brought their collective A game.

Rarely have I been as nervous as I was during our dinner on Friday night, knowing that my Lieutenants were smuggling 25 of our life-longest friends into our luxury suite.  "Oh, Dave, before we go see magician Danny Gans, can we run up to the room so I can get a sweater?  I'm freezing." He graciously bought my Classic Vegas Kitsch ruse.

 

Dave was really, truly surprised off his gourd.  If he'd been a lesser man, of lesser bowels, he really would have crapped his pants.

Danny Gans a mere memory, our crew rallied hard for two solid nights of whooping it up like we'd never heard of 30.

I mean, any time you get 4 lawyers, a doctor, a six-figure consultant, 2 Harvard grads, and a priest up on the stripper pole, you're doing all right. 

Given the reality of our years, it may take us awhile to recover.  But it was so, so worth it.

Friday Flotsam VIII

WARNING! ACHTUNG! AMERICAN IDOL SPOILERS AHEAD.  Do not read further if you are waiting to see this week's results show.

***

Now, then:

We've all enjoyed the visual similarity between Danny Noriega and Jessica Alba:

Thursday, during his "had a bad day" clip show, Dave and I nominated some alternate doppelgangers.

I commented that he looks like Food Network's Ellie Krieger.

Dave's vote was for Kim from ANTM.

If Dave's right, Danny has gone so flamingly gay he's now a lesbian.   

Just to gild the lily --- While I was looking for an image of Danny Noriega, I came across this little gem entitled "Danny Noriega In Ten Years."

Gimme some sugar.

Keeping Dry The Schnoz

Because really, who can ever get enough shots of my nostril?

I brought back the boot because I neglected to tell you something hugely important about the boot.  Marcia raised the point in the comments about the last boot entry, and it bears headlining.  Because the boot will hurt you.  More accurately, the boot will SOAK you. 

Here's how it happens:  When you drink down to the point that air hits the toe of the boot, a glurp of beer rushes up and hits you in the face.  The first time you drink from a boot, your 'friends' will wait in gleeful anticipation of this moment. 

Unless of course you are A True Lady and your natural inclination is drink from the mug sidesaddle (as it were).  Please see photo above.  Then you will avoid the glurp and deny your friends their cheap laughs.