Mansion - 2 1/2 days and counting.

I made a mistake with my self tanner lotion again (stupid!) so now my right arm looks like this:



And an impromptu wrestling match with Italy on Sunday (in a non-sexual manner, I swear...) left me with a big nasty bruise on my upper left arm so now I'm half zebra, half J-Lo from Enough:



And I think my new Sephora tinted moisturizer is making my skin break out.

Opposite of pretty, party of 1, your table is ready.

Ah well, I still have great breasts. They'll make up for any other imperfections.



Me in my swimsuit on Friday. You likes?

At lunch, I ran to Target to stock up on LA-roadtrip-to-the-Mansion supplies.

Healthy, non-bloating, pre-bikini snacks for the car (e.g. SmartWater, almonds and...some chocolate. Can't be perfect.)

A wine cube for the getting-ready-pre-party in the hotel room...and one for the post-party. (These travel easy.)

A new gold necklace to match the gold earrings that match my gold shoes. And yes, I will be wearing 4 1/2" heels with my bikini throughout the entire 12-hour-party unless I'm in a pool of water or heading down a slip-n-slide.

Pepto. For the day after. You know it's necessary.

Who invented Pepto? They're a genius.

Wait, let's not talk about digestive issues anymore.

Let's talk about who I hope is at the Mansion Friday but probably won't be.

A.) Paul Walker. Aka, my future husband. Take a day off from being so furious, Paul, and come chill with some pina coladas, a steamy grotto and me.



2.) John Krasinski. Let's hang out. Make me giggle.



F.) Keanu. I promise I won't make fun of you for making "The Gift." I won't say, "There is no spoon." Just take your shirt off.

There should be a warning siren when someone starts falling in love with you.

On Saturday, Italy called and said a few of his sisters and one of his brothers were in from out of town and they were going to go grab a drink that night and would I like to join them?

I love how boys drop this so casually but really it's like a small dating atom bomb has just exploded and he doesn't even see that one my eyes and half my hair has just been singed off.

Meeting....the family?

Oh balls.

He heard my hesitation and quickly added, "They're all really nice, I promise!"

Keep in mind that Jon and Kate Plus 8 have nothing on Italy's family, whose parents had 9 children. His oldest sibling is in her 50s, his youngest in her 20s.

But he sounded so hopeful.....so I swallowed my cynical-tasting bile and immediately went to my closet to see what would fit a casual meeting of the fam drink night. Something cute and classy without looking like I'm trying too hard. Nothing with cleavage so I don't look like slutty arm candy. Definitely cute shoes. Minimal make-up. And two glasses of wine to prep. Good.

On my way, I send a text to my girlfriends who have met Italy to see if any of them could offer up some words of encouragement or advice.

Me: "I'm meeting five of Italy's sisters and one of his brothers tonight! Ack!"

The responses were great, albeit not so helpful in the advice department.

Girlfriend T.: "That's a lot of family. They'll love you!"

Really? Because I'm a non-meat-eating, non-Catholic, non-Italian.

Girlfriend A.: "Whoa! Wine is your friend in these situations."

Waaaaay ahead of you girl.

Other Girlfriend A: "Wow. That's huge. Good luck."

Why do I feel like I'm going to audition for American Idol all of a sudden?

Mrs. Jenna: "Yikes! I wish you all the luck in the world...."

Dead man walking....dead man....walking.

Lady Luck: "Noooo! You better have a come to Jesus with him! He thinks this is going somewhere!"

To which I responded, "I did! He knows I'm moving!"

LL: "Noo! He is trying to change your mind! No one introduces a girl to his family without an underlying motive! He loves you! Be gentle!"

He doesn't....love me....does he?

Oh ballsackhole.

So I get to the bar and Italy texts me that they're out on the patio. I approach. I see Italy. He's grinning from ear to ear. And then, like a slo-mo shot in a dramatic movie about a piano on the beach, my vision widens and I see what I would come to learn are five of Italy's sisters, one brother-in-law, one brother, one sister-in-law and one niece.....who's two years younger than me.

They're all holding stakes and big boxes of matches.

No, wait, that's just chopsticks and big glasses of wine. Whew.

Long story short, after a sister broke any awkwardness by sharing a story about Italy owning a Darth Vader mask, I was good to go with teasing fodder for the rest of the night and the attention was detracted from quizzing me about my anything important.

I earned points by memorizing everyone's names.

And of course, the shoes. Boys don't get it, but I knew I'd be in if I wore cute shoes and I did and I was.

"What size do you wear? I'm stealing those!"

Cha-ching. Two points for me.

Still, that night in bed, I channeled SJP as a silent monologue reverberated in my mind....

"I couldn't help but wonder....what the fuck am I doing?"

Even though I don't think SJP ever said fuck. Did she?

But like 98% of the musings in my life, I did to it what I do best. I found a nice, dark little corner of my mind and stuffed it in a Payless shoe box and vowed I'd come back later and sort it out.

Besides, the Mansion is in four days. I've got to turn my focus and attention towards getting ready for that!

Outfit? Check.

Back-up outfit? Check.

Mani/pedi? Check.

Perfectly shaped brows? Check.

Tan? Working on it.

Text from Z-list celebrity that I made out with at last year's Halloween party? Check.

Z-list celeb: "Will I see you at the Mansion Friday?"

Me: "Yes you will."

Z-list: "Awesome. I can make some more awkward and unsuccessful passes at you. It'll be like old times."

Going to hell? Check.

I do not heart corporate america.

Today, all my clients hate me and I them.

Client: "Why is my story slightly different than it was when I sent it to you?! It's like you, I don't know, EDITED it or something!"

Me: "Well, let's start with the fact that a.) I'm your editor and b.) 'Forocity' is not a word and c.) A sentence like this; does not need a semicolon."

To me, this is the equivalent of saying, "What the fuck?! I came into your salon and now I have shorter, more stylish hair?! This is a complete outrage!"

Stapler. Eye. Insert. Repeat.

Then, I was at lunch with a bunch of coworkers who I hardly know (more on that later) and was regaling them with this tale of the clients from hellish lands of yore, when one of them tried to cheer me up by reminding me, "Four hours until happy hour."

To which I responded, "Yes, a martini will definitely help."

And then one girl looked at me and said, "A martini always helps!"

Eeek! Insert twilight zone music here.

So yesterday I had my annual review and my boss told me that I was no less than a brilliant--genius even--editor, with silky shiny hair and a body made for sin to boot.

No one actually said that.

But I did get a good review. Unlike M. Night Shyamalan.

And then I got the "things I can work on" speech. At the top of the list? "Interoffice personal relationships."

Me: "What? I need to sleep around more?"

Apparently that's not what they mean. Apparently I'm six years old and I've just been told I'm bad at making friends on the playground.



My Boss: "People don't know you well enough here. We like to be a team here at [Cultland Inc.]."

When she said the word "team" she interlaced her fingers and shook them at me. Her fingers are a better team than I am.

I don't think it's my fault I'm not BFF with all my coworkers. I've had previous thoughts that I was invisible here. But to me, this seems like it should be something to my credit, not my determent.

I come in. I do my work. I don't vent about men, tell drinking stories, talk about my vibrator or hash out childhood woes with all my coworkers. Do those omissions really make me a worse employee?

I'm tempted to send out a company-wide e-mail in response to this criticism.

"Hey everyone! Slumber party at my house tonight! Get ready to take off your pants and dance around to Donna Summer songs with me! Twister at 9! Who wants to be light as a feather first?"

Donald Trump never had to throw a slumber party to get to the top.

Unless slumber party is a very loosely interpreted term ... in which case, maybe he did.

My girlfriend T., who just got hired here a month ago, has already gone to a Jewish speed dating event with one employee, pilates with another and signed up for french classes with her boss.

And she loves it.

See, some people are made for corporate america and some people (read: me) are not. I'm not a joiner. Unless by "joiner" you mean "margaritas at noon."

But I'm a good editor. I dress well. And I never microwave fish for lunch. Where is my bonus?

The PBM isn't an appropriate field trip for a 12-year-old?

Hollywood has his son all 4th of July weekend, so he's turned down his invite to Hef's on the 4th. Boo. Looks like no romantic rendezvous for me.

Well, unless I meet a brand-new-twice-my-age-funny-celebrity to glom onto at the Mansion.

Is glom a word? Spellchecker says it isn't.

Anyhow, I had mentioned to Hollywood a while back that I was tentatively planning an LA jaunt the first weekend in August. He says he sincerely hopes I still plan on doing that as he does not have his son that weekend, and, I quote, "I'm sure you realize that august first is colorado day because on august 1st 1876, yes 100 years after the declaration of independence, colorado became a state. I was so moved that you chose that day to make a trip west as I always celebrate colorado day with great fanfare making my famous 'pikes peak mile high continental divide pueblo surprise.'"

I don't know what any of that gobbilty gook means, but I hope the "pueblo surprise" comes in a martini glass.

I'm still undecided whether or not to go out there. Again, he does what exactly in this pseudo-friendship-that's-romantic-when-it's-convenient-for-him?

I mean, I get he's a divorced dad and an actor so his schedule is busy, yaddah yaddah, but seriously dude, I'm not your concubine.

At these times, I always think of that line from the beginning of Pretty Woman when Richard Gere is on the phone with his soon-to-be-ex saying, "No, I don't think you're my beck-and-call girl."

And then later on, he tells Julia Roberts, "I will pay you to be my beck-and-call girl."

What? Richard!

After all, what rich men want and can't have thanks to the feminist movement, they just pay for.

Did anyone looooove Pretty Woman growing up, and then got old enough to realize we were idolizing a movie about a man who first buys a prostitute and then, after he decides he'd like to keep her, he woos her with money and luxurious clothes?

Is that really every girl's fantasy? Luxurious clothes, sure, but being bought by a man?

Sometimes, when I get into a really cynical mood about love, usually when I'm alone on a Tuesday night halfway through a bottle of Pinot, I start thinking, "Well, if I can't find a man I want to marry, maybe I can find a lifestyle I want to marry."

Isn't that horrible?

Then I stab sporks into eyes so I snap out of it.



I hope never to be one of those vapid, jobless housewives married to a rich man who keeps them captive with an American Express Gold card.

Then again, I wonder if the above, or true love, is easier to find sometimes.

What I really hope is to earn my own American Express Gold card and then buy a man with a perfect body and an over-adequate man part who spends all day baking me chocolate souffles! Yeah! Girl Power!

One of my coworkers just walked into the office with a bicycle wheel. Where's the rest of the bike?

What other mindless things can I muse about on a Thursday?

I'm wearing a red and white bikini to the Mansion next Friday. It looks nothing like this, but this is the photo google images would like to go along with my blog.

Arghghaghghag! And other noises of frustration.

Over the weekend, Italy and I were watching TV. I think Blade was on. Why is that movie playing 872 times a day right now? That's vampire-overload.

Anyhow, so we're watching TV. It's nice, it's relaxing, I'm thinking how comfortable I am with Italy and how I'm not sick of him yet. I'm thinking of making nachos. I'm thinking of maybe getting naked and seeing if he'll join me. A number of things are running through my head.

And then. It happens. Him. On my TV. Long-Distance Ex. In that godforsaken stupid commercial that apparently they've made 12 versions of now.

He's on in my gym while I'm on the treadmill. He's on in the morning when I'm trying to enjoy some Zack and Kelly antics with my Frosted Flakes. And now, he's managed to invade my cozy Wesley-Snipes-movie-date.

I lose it.

"HOW MANY FREAKING VERSIONS OF THIS COMMERCIAL DID THEY MAKE? GAWWWWWWWD!!!!"

Italy cowers behind a pillow and grabs the latest issue of my Cosmo to roll it up as a weapon. He looks at me like I've just sprouted horns and a tail and am about to reign down fire and brimstone on a village of small innocent children.

Oops, I thought I said that in not such a psycho raging bitch tone.

Italy: "You...uh, don't like this commercial I take it?"

I consider for just a split second spilling out the whole sorrid story. Maybe it would even make me feel better to be honest for once. Maybe I could cry on his shoulder and he'd pet my head and then go make me kool-aid and a smore.

But that feeling passed. Repression is my friend. In my own little hell, Repression and Vodka and Effexor and Cookie Dough are all playing poker in the back room of a seedy club, waiting for me to join them.

Me: "Oh, um, it's just....such an annoying commercial! I mean, it's not even funny! And it's on ALL the time!"

The last time I heard from LDX was on my birthday. Being the considerate, sweet and thoughtful guy he is, he sent me birthday wishes in the form of a facebook message.

"Happy Birthday Kid. Hope it's a good one."

Kid? Isn't that what Mr. Big called Carrie? I thought it was sweet when we were dating, but now, like everything else I think back on, it seems condescending.

How long does it take to forget someone when they still appear on your TV every 2-4 days?

Last night, Cute Poet and I drank wine and dangled our feet in my pool and just talked. He asked me why I was so reluctant to get into a relationship with him, or any guy for that matter.

Me: "I know I'm probably moving to LA next year. I don't want to start something that I'll just have to end."

CP: "But the starting is the best part. And you never know what could happen once you start something."

Me: "I do. Someone has to end it."

CP: "That sounds cynical."

Me: "I know. I'm afraid I've caught some sort of bitter, cynicism virus. I can't make it stop."

CP: "You know, things start on their own without you making a conscious choice for it to be so. We started a long time ago."

Me: "No. We didn't. I haven't let us."

CP: "......."

Me: "I need more wine."

Just keeping it classy over here.

This weekend, the following things may or may not have occurred:

My girlfriend T. and I went out dancing at the gay club on Friday night. (Who doesn't love the moes?)

I asked Italy come pick us up. Safety first kids.

When Italy arrived, I made him come and dance with us and the moes.

I decided in my drunken state that Italy would look better dancing with the moes if he had no shirt on.

Italy disagreed.

I thought buying two drinks at one time would save the effort of going to the bar twice.

I apparently whipped out some Carmen-Electra-striptease-workout-inspired-dancemoves, according to Italy. "I'll go back to the gay bar for a repeat performance of that."

I got very upset when McDonald's didn't have any ice cream to make me a chocolate shake at 1 a.m. (How can you run out of ice cream in the desert?!) Italy said the drive-thru boy looked worried for his safety.

I tried to convince everyone to sleep outside on the lawn with me because it was "warm and snuggly" on the grass.

I passed out on a beanbag chair in T.'s apartment instead.

The next day I ate a pickle for breakfast because it sounded good. Then I proceeded to throw up said pickle in a Starbucks bathroom and Italy changed his mind about ordering a muffin.

I tried to get the gods of good karma to like me again by making 20 grilled cheese sandwiches and handing them out to the homeless people in the park near my building.

I think it worked because then I went shoe shopping and found rock star parking right near the door.

Even though all parties involved agreed Friday night fell into the "wicked fun" category, today I googled "Effexor" (the antidepressent I've been on since March) and "alcohol" and came up with a little tidbit my doctor failed to share with me.

"Effexor has been shown to enhance the effects of alcohol, causing irrational behavior, increased confusion and periods of black out in some patients. Drinking alcohol while taking Effexor is not recommended."

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh k. Some questionable Saturday nights in the past three months have definitely just been explained.

Guess I'm going to need to tone it down from 718 Three Olives Cherry Vodka and 7's to, oh....11?

Ok, ok. Two. Two and a half, tops.

I don't want to throw up caviar and champagne on these cuties at the 4th of July party for godsake.

Tonight -- taking Cute Poet to his first ever yoga class. This could be interesting.

It's National Take Your Dog to Work Day

....and this is how hard mine is working right now. I gave him filing to do! Gawd! Answer my phone at least! Pull your weight. This job is buying those dead animal carcass parts you so love to gnaw on!

Lazy fucker.

Preposterous and I "get real wit it."

Texting convo between me and Preposterous last night.

Me: "Will I see you at the Mansion on the 4th?"

P: "No maam...prior commitment."

Me: "Rain check on skinny dipping again then. Damn."

P: "I'm convinced that your officially scared of me so it's ok babe"

Me: "What?! Don't even throw down a gauntlet like that! I feel many things about you but none are close to fear. :)"

P: "Whatever!!"

Me: "Maybe you aren't used to a girl who wants to get to know you for more than a collective 18 minutes before she takes advantage of you. Ou, burn!"

P: "Oh stereotypes, stereotypes."

Me: "In that case, I retract my skinny dip offer, lest I fall into a PBM-girl sterotype, and you are now obligated to dispell your celebrity stereotype by taking me out to an actual dinner when I move to LA next year."

P: "You're on."

Ring ring....

I look down at my phone, expecting it to identify the caller as my mom, the Barack Obama campaign or maybe the school loan people.

"Yes, I know I'm late. No, I don't plan to rectify that today, but thank you for checking."

Instead, much to my delight, the screen flashes "PBM."

Home's calling! Adopt sexy bunny voice asap!

Me: *breathy...bunnies are always just finishing having amazing sex* "Hhhhhello?"

PB Woman: "Hi, [martini]! It's [a woman who had to do god knows what to be in this position]. I just wanted to let you know that you and [my girlfriend A.] are invited to the 4th of July party at the Mansion. I'm sure you're coming, right?"

Me: "Holy baby jesus! I mean, yes!"

PB Woman: "Fantastic! I'll see you girls in two weeks!"

Me: "Thank you!"

Great Caeser's Ghost, I have to get to the gym! *Puts down poptart*

Most pointless post ever....but I do talk about penises and sex.

Do you ever feel like your life could turn around completely if you just redecorated?

Guys, you with me? You know things would turn around with new throw pillows.

I feel that way constantly.

If my credit card had no limit, I'd have a different living room every 6 weeks.

Hmm....I wonder if this is indicative of any other pattern in my life.

All right, enough thinking.

Ok, but since I am not Melania Trump and since I have an expensive weekend martini habit, God created IKEA.

(Sidenote: Google-image searching for a photo of Sweden, I never before realized how much that country resembles a penis. Well, Sweden and Norway together. Actually, Norway is really the penis, Sweden's like the ballsack...or a second conjoined penis. Stopping now.)



Where am I going with this? I'm going right to land where blue and yellow -- the universe's most vomit-inducing color combination -- reign supreme.

It seems better than going home right away (see previous post). Plus, I'm all out of cinnamon toast crunch.

Italy wants to hang out again tonight, and even though I do like spending time with him, and usually he makes me dinner which is amazing, I don't want to start progressing to the he-practically-lives-at-my-place spot in our dating journey, considering my goal here is to keep things casual.

The other night he told my cat he loves her. I don't know what that was about. It was kinda cute, kinda scary.

Don't shake your head at me. I just don't want him getting too attached to me or my pussy when I know in the back of my mind that I'm moving to LA next year and I don't foresee him hitching a ride in the U-Haul next to my Ab Rocket.

Just trying to stay realistic.

Anyhow, hence the IKEA shopping spree. Will take my mind off thinking about things like relationships and commitment and someone falling in love with my cat.

Last night I had a girls night with T. & A.

(giggle)

We went to the gym and then we made dinner and let me tell ya -- we're fucking amazing chefs.

Make this. I know it sounds funky, but it's incredibly good. Put lots of salt on it, and then it's even better.

Then we started drinking watermelon martinis and talking about ways in which we've injured ourselves having sex.

I once fell off a bed head first and then the mattress came down with me.

A. put a headboard through the wall. I think she escaped unscathed though, if not a little dusty from the plaster.

T. is the kind of girl that has sex that makes butterflies cry it's so beautiful, but she did admit to doing it on the floor once, "...and I think it really fucked up my back."