i've been gone a long time.

but i hear my train a comin.

THIS POST IS BROUGHT TO you by Tramadol and apparently the caps lock key oops sorry

this is the story of my weekend: wifebeater, painkillers, yankees hat (to cover the nappy hair) and darkened room on couch.


ripped jeans from the dressing room in happier days when i could leave the house and do stuff like walk around and try on clothing. ripped jeans, yes or no?


and more from happier days before back pain: went out for a friend's birthday, shook our ass (collectively), drank almost too much but not quite, passed out on the couch and woke up in panic attack mode. i swear, even one drink and i am fucked the next day. not like i just had one. but you get the picture.

i went for my purse to heal myself with delicious xanax, my savior, and found that someone went in my fucking purse and stole my entire bottle! how fucking invasive. that means that someone had to go in my purse, find the zippered case that my pill bottles were in, look through them to see which one to take (and why not take them all?) and then re-zip the pouch and re-zip the purse. and of course they didn't take the tramadol that i haev a million of, they took the awesome cornicopia of pills i've been collecting for a variety of things. xanax, klonipin, adderal, all gone. =( frowny face. whoever you are, i hope you have fun with my carefully hoarded pills. asshole.

i keep it real at illconvoy. no photoshopping out my 15-year-old skin that somehow didn't get the message about breakouts ending in ONE'S TEENS. hopefully nicole's glowing complexion can at least shine a little light on mine.

i do'nt remember you falling, liz, but i'm sure it was hilarious.

blackberry, champagne, money, ass shaking, hoop earrings, and a scarf. my loves captured together in a photo for eternity.

i love the bananacure

so i've been sitting for about 20 minutes now, the longest i've sat since friday afternoon. feeling a little swervy. my couch is calling.

wait, they're clowning WHICH one?

i keep seeing this photo set everywhere (dlisted.com, that annoying omg! yahoo thing, etc.) and i can't help wondering why kathy griffin is getting shit on when paris is actually serious with her "outfit". did she just step off the set of A Mid-Summer Night's Dream? or is she BFF with that Peter Pan dude in Tampa...wait maybe she IS that dude...i might be onto something here.


anyway, have you noticed how matchy-matchy paris has been lately? i'm all for the Two Colors One Outfit rule, but choose the colors wisely.

yes, matching your purse to your shoes is always a safe call. but matching your shoes to the giant oragami shower curtain around your waist...not a good look. and what's with the silver clutch? there are two things you never mix in one outfit: different metals and different denims. unless you are dolly parton or going to burning man, gold and silver or dark and light denim do not belong in the same outfit.

in other news, i got a yellow mani/pedi the other day from hillaria, the world's best nail tech. i was hoping for neon lemon...got canary mustard instead.

things that might grow on me: yellow mani/pedi.

things that won't grow on me: paris hilton's rendition of blade runner.

Facebook Haterade

a few weeks ago some random dude emailed me a one line email: "do you spin records?"

just to be polite, i wrote him back telling him no, i don't. i guess if you wear adidas track jackets and hoop earrings you are obviously a dj.

then he wrote back and asked "i just started spinning a few months ago. do you break or anything?"

oh, my bad, i guess the track jacket means i'm a b-girl. because you can't just love hip hop and wear adidas without being a master of at least ONE of the four elements. (google it, mom). i ignored him because really, i don't have time to answer random-ass questions from freaky strangers on facebook.

so then, at 5:15 am today i get this message:

"Those pictures are fake, aren't they...
I realize you're probably some weird pervert in his 60's cruising facebook for guys. I'm just wondering why you are picking up random guys on the internet if it's really you in those pictures. You probably should add a couple more pictures of that girl with different track jackets on just to make it a little more believable. I thought about possibly adding you as a friend but I don't know if we would really have that much in common. Whoever that girl is i'm sure she's a sweetheart with a unique sense of style. Good luck."

awesome. at least he got two things right. one, i AM a sweetheart with a unique sense of style, thanks for noticing. two, if you think it's okay to write a complete stranger and accuse them of being a fake ass old man because they don't answer your asinine questions on facebook, then you're right, we don't have that much in common.

this is him

POUR OUT A LITTLE BOLI FOR THE HOMEGIRLS

NOOOOO THIS IS NOT OKAY. FUCK YOU KRISTEN JOHNSTON, FUCK YOU KATHRYN HAHN (WHOEVER YOU ARE), FUCK YOUR FAKE ASS FAT ROLL, YOU BITCHES WILL NEVER REPLACE PATSY AND EDDIE.

THIS:

IS NOT THE SAME AS THIS:

CHEAP ASS IMITATION BITCHES WON'T LAST ONE SEASON.

i want i want i want

blog posts about dreams are boring.

I had the weirdest dreams last night that my friend senna and i lived in these floating trailers above this weird field. And I wasn't allowed to eat dinner in the Cool Floating Trailer because I was too poor and geeky, it was a lot like 2nd grade. It was okay though because I was like fuck this floating trailer bullshit, this can't be safe anyway. Shit is going to fall out of the sky one day, mark my words.

this picture has nothing to do with dreams or floating trailers, but there's no such thing as too much Patsy, so i'm posting it.

usually it's annoying when people post mad videos on blogs.

but this shit is just so good. oh lord if i could only shake my ass like that.

ever get so depressed that you have to sit very still because moving hurts and you're freezing all the time?

erykah badu is the truth

no only is she talented, hot, and a dope performer, but she gave birth at home with a mid wife and no drugs. holla. i keep saying i want to do a home birth as so many of my friends were born at home...but damn that idea is scary.

actually, i guess what is really scary is the thought of having kids at all, no matter how they little asses get out.

we just opened a new print studio! so today i spent all day on etsy looking for undiscovered unique and innovative new artists to represent. etsy is actually incredibly inspiring and it was great to discover new people that are being creative and live in their own little self created world of whimsical felted characters and watercolored birds. (because 98% of etsy is watercolored birds. for real.) etsy makes me warm and fuzzy inside. etsy is a happy little world where there's always tea and everyone has eclectic clothing and mismatched antique frames around pictures of loved ones and funny looking pets with snaggle teeth in hand made sweaters and if you wear glasses they are hornrimmed and if it's cold at least 495 people can offer you a knitted circle scarf with chunky yarn and you can walk through painted forests with bears but the bears are nice and there's even a guy who will ship you vegan buffalo wings but if you prefer food made out of fabric or felt (mostly cupcakes) you can have that, too.


in other, non-etsy related news, i could really use some friends that listen to hip hop up in this bitch. i'd be happy even if they like DnB at this point. fuck, i'd settle for straight up house music i'm not kidding. i didn't realize how much music is a part of my life until i lived for a year without ANY access to it. i just want to shake my ass. is that so wrong?


these new things are helping me forget that winter on the east coast fucking sucks and i will apply them all and dream of being brown and wearing a wifebeater.


god DAMN does balenciaga look good. the giant hairy arms might be a bit awkward on the subway, but i can't be mad at nicolas ghesquiere. he is a god.

another thing i can't be mad at - i know, i know, i was amazed too - is this shoe:


i know, it's basically a white dock shoe with tassels that kanye west pretended to design with LV that by definition should be wack, but i'm an absolute SLAVE to tassels, tassels basically own my soul and you could put tassels on just about anything and i would wear it, no matter what it was. i'm not kidding, i was just trying to think of something you could add a tassel to that i wouldn't wear and i couldn't come up with a single thing. hammer pants. with a tassels somewhere, yes. i would rock them. acid wash high waisted bugle boy jeans. with tassels, yes, i would rock that shit with a dope acies mine wifebeater and my celine platforms. the tassels would make it work. i can't think of anything! if you can think of something, leave it in the comments.

okay, enough tassel and etsy land for one night. i have to finish the mamafest merchandise and try to sleep. trying to go to yoga tomorrow for the first time all week. i haven't been able to breathe out of my nose due to laryngitis so i would have suffocated trying to do some downward facing dog. i love yoga. more yoga = less xanax. awesome.

take seven mintues out of your day.

i'm sure you're mad busy and shit. but nothing you could possible do will be as dope as this video.

joaquin phoenix did not preserve the sexy

WTF Joaquin? Puffy is staring at your crazy homeless-looking ass in total disbelief, and quite frankly, so am i.

in other news, my business partner wants me to do fitness bootcamp before work three times a week. fuck that. if i need to step up my fitness game i'll stop eating sugar and go to yoga. if i need to step up my weight loss game i'll stop eating at all and go to my drug dealer. either way, the last thing i need is a new jersey soccer mom yelling at me to do more sit-ups.

so 2009, huh? 2009 is like the year we used to pretend it was when we were little and wanted to play grown-up. i thought there would be a lot more rocket boots and flying cars by now, but whatever.

so i rang in the new year in a loft in brooklyn. actually, a few lofts. as usual i sucked at taking pictures and only have a few random ones that don't really illustrate any of the things that went down.

nothing says happy new year like Rick Owens ponyhair kicks. i love the recession because it makes all the shoes we want totally affordable.

dorsey was the holiday grinch and did a lot of shit talking the new year. the jager helped.
(i stayed the fuck away from the jager because every single time i drink that shit i end up blacking out, even if i just take a shot. plus it tastes like shit. for real. do not try to front like jager tastes good because you and i both know that it tastes like cough syrup and kerosene.)

see? a few jager swigs later and the grinch is down to take a civilized picture.

thanks for the loft party, homegirl!

ket and i right before the countdown.

after the countdown i basically tried to play catch-up with my sobriety. i realized over christmas FOR REAL THIS TIME that i don't really like to be drunk. we were in VA for for the holiday i got in a text fight with one of my best friends and had some shots of patron to take the edge off. i think what i actually did was give myself cirrhosis of the liver. i woke up the next day with the mother of all anxiety attacks, and poor brian had to drive us the whole way home from DC because all i could do was whimper, try not to puke, and eat xanax. i made it all the way back to our parking garage without incident, and then spent the next 20 minutes by myself shaking and puking in a trashbag in our car like sarina from intervention. not my finest hour. since then i've lost five pounds (a lot for me) and just looking at food turns my stomach.

the point is that i can't handle alcohol anymore, so the few glasses of Veuve at ket's house, swig of wine in the back of a cab, and maybe 1/3 of a bottle of prosecco made me mad swervy for the entire night. wtf? ket and i tried to find some yosh to at least clear my head but it didn't go down, then dorsey disappeared and then ket disappeared and i was adopted by the most adorable gays of all time who decided we were kindred spirits and put me in their cab back to their loft where i counselled them through a rough spot in their relationship and made friends with their blind italian greyhound bella, did a line, and fell asleep.

i woke up in the CUTS in brooklyn, had to walk forever to find a train, which ended up being the G on flushing, and made it back to civilization. all in six in micheal kors heels. but i looked good.

i don't have any resolutions this year. i don't really feel like i need to make any major changes. if i ate any better than i did i would be a fucking vegan for christ's sake, and that shit is NOT going down. i already work out as much as a 15 hour a day work-a-holic can. i don't smoke. i'm clearly not going to be drinking too much. the yosh is pretty much a distant memory. jesus, how boring do i sound. maybe my resolution should be to try to add back some vices. okay, fine. i resolve to spend waaay too much money on Chanel make-up and to add in a $20 sack once in a while. and i'll go to yoga more. hello 2009.

so chihuahuas apparently have this thing where they get erections that don't go away for, like, a month, and you have to take them to the creepy small animal hospital when you get back from canada and find out that the tip of their month-long-erection penis has become frost bitten from being in the cold.

when you take the chihuahua to the creepy animal hospital, the hilarious nurse with the voice exactly like Rosie Perez says "Aw, his name is Biggie Smalls? Well we know what's big right now, don't we!"

then you have to have the chihuahua sedated because, well, it SUCKS to have someone stuff your penis back into your body, i guess.

then you get a syringe of KY Jelly and are taught how to stuff the penis back in if necessary. hell no. i'm calling rosie perez the minute that shit comes out again. biggie and i have to look each other in the eye for at least another ten years and there's no way the penis syringe shit is going down.

also apparently when you sedate a chihuahua its tongue sticks out of its head like the 2007 world's ugliest dog and it's the funniest thing of all time.

OCD closet

do NOT fuck with my closet.

i was just at a wedding last week in Canada and had to mess some shit up in order to pack. that's why there are piles of things on the table at the bottom. the table is a temporary place to put things, things do not go on the table permanently or i get a little OCD freakshowish and have to put them Where They Belong and dust off the table immediately. my man has his own closet in the small room between the living room and the office. Man Clothes fuck up the flow.


g-strings? check. shoes? check. new camera that i can finally put in my acme made camera case i've had for no reason for two years? check. tramadol and xanax or so help me god shit will go wrong? check.





i suck at taking pictures at weddings, even with a new camera that i'm excited to use. this is really the only one i got that isn't a grainy dark lame red-eyes for everyone attempt.


i shared a room with my hot stepsister and her adorable daughter. we ordered breakfast in bed and watched kung fu panda. then we had champage. not bad. the only negative was the 30 below temp. what. the. fuck. i can't believe people live like that and not go totally insane. i went out to start my stepbro's truck without a coat on and almost died of hypothermia in the driveway. i suck at winter so bad.

nom nom nom

could this sound more like an advertorial? jesus, sorry, just let me vent some flagrant consumerism for a minute.

i used to have this thing...i really liked it a lot...it was, let's see if i can remember the word...a WAIST? A waist. that sounds right. it used to look really good with this other thing i used to have...an ass. sigh. too much computer work is robbing me of the best (looking) years of my life.

today i was IMing with a friend about my major struggle to not buy these four perfumes:

viktor & rolf, flowerbomb. in a pink crystal grenade. with the best marketing campaign EVER. how much do i sound like xiaxue? super chio bottle la?!

i got a sample of this from sephora when i ordered the two skincare items i can not live without, and i have to sell crack or a kidney on the black market to get them i will so help me god, and was totally surprised by how delicious it was. it has notes of carmelized popcorn, which sounds more like how a sticky soccer mom minivan smells and less like a "pure. precious. modern" woman smells, but actually it's the shit! i'm in love. dear miss dior cherie, you are so getting bought and owned today.

chance is the old standby. i'm not sure if i'm still in love with it or if i just feel like i have to have it again, because, well, i always have it.

and gucci II, my other favorite.

my friend was saying how she'd resent the perfumes if she ended up spending that much dough on them. that they'd stare at her from the dresser and remind her what a waste of money they were. i had the complete opposite thought: i would arrange them OCD style on some kind of mirror or plate and bask in the sense of completeness i felt from having them all together at one time for my personal use and enjoyment. i have a really hard time deciding between things i want. i think it comes from my childhood where i had plastic windows, shitty clothes, bad hair and no money. don't get me wrong, i'm happy for having been raised ugly and poor - that's where i got my winning and captivating personality. i never got to rely on my looks or family loot, it was straight up intelligence and humor with which i clawed my way to the top (of the high school social ladder, anyway.) then i got older and somehow ended up being kind of hot. which was nice.

it was once i went off to college and gained control of my personal finance that i learned i didn't have to decide between the brown shoes and the black shoes, i can have all the shoes. i will never forget the moment in Macy's, trying on shoes with the usual sadness and sense of poverty that i always had when shopping, that i realized i could have both fucking pairs and the world would not end and i'd still somehow manage to eat that day. (although eating in college was pretty optional anyway...raise your hand if you feel me on the college anorexia...) anyway, deciding not make the choice was an awesome feeling.

how does a poor girl from a hippie commune end up obsessing over L.A.M.B. shoes, perfume, and titties? i have no idea. just one of many Total Contradictions that people have been pointing out to me lately.

so we moved into an old brick apartment above an italian restaurant. the building is from the 1800's. the original tin tiles are still in the ceiling which i think is really cool. in certain places the tiles change to random patterns and i wonder if the Olde Tyme Store ran out of the correct tiles or if there was a leak and the tiles had to be replaced or what happened and i always wonder who put them up and what this person looked like and why they chose the tiles they did and who lived (and died?) in here in the past 200 years. bring on the ghosts. seriously, how could this place NOT be haunted? so far no ghost activity except a soft thumping that happens on the door once in a while that freaks out the doberman. potential ghost activity i guess.

someone really needs to invent these two things, pronto: one, a dishwasher that actually washes dishes instead of just half assedly sloshing the food around on them and calling it a day, and two, a fucking painkiller i can take for my back that doesn't give me the mother of all painkiller hangovers with symptoms including but not limited to Monster Headache and shaky nauseau.

and now, for your viewing pleasure, the entire contents of my shitty blackberry phone media card. in no particular order. (i KNOW, how AWEsome.)

soho hates sarah palin

www.aciesmine.com


i'm bringing back the 70's pantsuit/jumper one boogie night at a time.


didn't buy the dress, a little too hot chicks with douchbags for my taste...

i actually wore shorts one time...

mom dukes

happy birthday to me, patron shot #6 please

this shoe owns my soul

thanks mom


sen dogg. if you are reading this, get a fucking facebook account immediately for the love of all things good and holy.

dowling manor

san francisco spiders do NOT fuck around. Note missing leg probably lost in spider battle.

Pop dukes. he doesn't fuck around either.

i wanted to write a funny, interesting, probably kind of manic and definitely run-on sentence filled post about how much i fucking love DC, including but not limited to paragraphs regarding my heroic intake of patron, sipping spiced rum and cider in the jacuzzi, downing xanax and lorazepam to combat the following hangover anxiety demons, making out with friends, reconnecting with friends, remembering that i have the best friends in the world, and the fact that i got the fucking sickest pair of L.A.M.B. heels at Saks. ( i was going to try to describe the shoes but realized that would be impossible. Can you describe the face of an angel? Can you describe the caress of a pegasus' wings against a rainbow? there are no words good enough for the hotness that is these shoes. so instead i took a crappy picture on my blackberry.)

even in this grainy blackberry photo you can tell that these shoes are clearly the ruler of the world.

now i'm back at home. in reality. opened the pile of bills on my desk, had lunch with the business partner, took the dogs out, listened to the best fucking drum and bass album ever produced while thinking about the old days doing key bumps on my way to FIVE, and listlesly unpacked almost six of the 3,984,579,238,475 things in my suitcase before i completely gave in to my restlessness and said fuck it. why am i living so far from the people i love and am energized by? for my career? for the potential of a solid financial future? shouldn't i care more about being happy and surrounded by fam on the daily instead? why am i not buying a townhouse in the Mission, living in San Francisco and making my dreams a reality? why am i not moving to DC like, tomorrow, and again, living my life like each day is all i have?

and seriously, what the FUCK am i doing in New Jersey?