I was a Facebook “early adopter” inasmuch as I created a profile in late 2004 or early 2005 so that I could do recon on the undergrads I was supposed to be spotlighting in the marketing publications that I worked on at the time.* Back then, I could see pretty much anyone’s profile, provided they attended the university where I work. Mostly, I needed to make sure that none of their profile photos included gravity bongs** and that none of their personal information said anything to the effect of “HITLER WAS RIGHT” or “Embrace Jesus as your personal savior or suffer His wrath.” If they passed on both counts, they became a Maybe. If they had academic honors or a special scholarship, they became a Yes. And if they were “diverse” in addition to that, we basically dispatched a limo to go pick them up and bring them in for an interview. Because that’s how the world works.
My own profile was entirely blank, no photo, nothing. I would periodically get friend requests from old college friends, but I’d ignore them, because that’s not what I was there for. Now I’m on Facebook every day. I do not remain in contact with too many high school or college friends. (You needn’t wonder why.) I’ve blocked a lot of people. (Look: I’m not up to anything interesting. You’re not missing out, okay?)
Friday night, I came down with a 102° fever, lower GI nastiness, muscle aches, general malaise, etc. I lay on the couch, wrapped in the amazingly warm and strange blanket my in-laws gave us for Christmas, watching Tivo’d episodes of Tabatha’s Salon Takeover. (What.) At some point, I checked my email. Work stuff, sale at Rugs USA, and a Facebook Friend Request from my first unrequited high school crush.
I was momentarily startled, but also quite delirious, so I promptly forgot about it and went back to sweating, self-pity, and concern that the salon in Palmdale was just plain unsalvageable, Tabatha or no.
For reasons that are neither interesting nor important, I attended Betty White’s 89th birthday last night. It was held at Le Cirque, which surprised me, as I didn’t know it still existed.
There was a lot of food and, unlike the open bar events I’ve grown accustomed to attending, I didn’t have to elbow anyone out of the way just to get a tepid glass of “Champagne” that’s actually just a sparkling brut (what? I shouldn’t know the difference just because I’m some self-styled lumpenprole?). Nope, last night it was Champagne all the way, chilled and easy to get to, presumably because everyone in the room was from Hollywood and, as such, in recovery.
When we arrived, we found a table in the middle of the room and looked around in search of famous people. The only person I saw was Frank Whaley, who was standing over by the “risotto station.” (Disappointed that it wasn’t a “risotto fountain,” because that would be even more appallingly awesome than this.) One of my companions squealed in delight and said, “Swing Kids is my favorite movie!”
“You should go tell him that,” I said. “He looks a bit lonely.”
We drank some more, looked around some more, ate miniature crabcakes and some “sliders” that were a little too large to be rightfully considered finger food.
“Where are all the celebrities at?” the Whaley fan companion wondered. “I’m not even seeing any D-listers.”
You know that saying in poker about how if you don’t see the mark at the table, you’re the mark? I had a sudden realization.
“Man, we’re the fucking D-list. This whole room is D-list. Not even D-list! Z-list! There’s gotta be some other, better, VIP room that we’re not allowed in.”
But what can you do? And it’s true, we were Z-list. But we did get cake pretty soon after that. A little while later, Ana Gasteyer walked by. And so did that comedian with the hat and glasses thing. (Apparently Jack McBrayer was there, too?) His trucker cap was bedazzled in Braille. “I wonder what that says,” my other companion said, not really all that curious.
“Probably it says WHAT ARE YOU, BLIND? I’ll go over and ask. He’s not talking to anyone or anything, just eating something from the grilled vegetable station.”
So I went over and was like, “Sorry to bother you while you’re eating, but what does your hat say?”
And he was nice about it — “It says [something about strength or power; unsurprisingly I was not paying attention].”
And then they brought him two pieces of cake. “They hooked me up! This is good cake,” he said, eating it with the gusto of someone who really likes cake.
“It is really good, but the fondant frosting is a bit overwhelming.”
“Which is that?”
“The stuff that’s in a right angle on your plate.”
“Huh, what’s it made out of?”
“Sugar. And tile caulk.”
“Yeah, bad stuff.” He was humoring me at this point. “So what do you do?”
“Nothing related to any of this.”
“Hey, do you know if there’s like a VIP room somewhere?”
“Nah dude, this is it.”
“I was just wondering.”
“I’m gonna go get a drink.”
“Try the risotto station while you’re over there.”
As you can see, there were a number of other celebrities there. We didn’t see any of them. But my companions got hugs from Betty White. So that was nice. Also, Wendy Malick looks really good.
If you’ll recall, yesterday’s weather was fairly yucky. I would’ve preferred to show up to the party in hip waders, but instead I wore a subdued and black and gray ensemble that lacked sophistication but made up for it by its absence of grease stains. I changed out of my Doc Martens into a fancy pair of heels, though honestly, what does it really matter if you’re on the Z-list?
Speaking of fancy shoes, femininity, and other things that elude me, Lauren and I had a conversation about her Roger Vivier Pilgrim pumps, made famous by Belle de Jour and Ava Gardner. “I love them. They’re classic,” she told me. “Even though they’re so delicate, they’re still perfect for this time of year.”
“Yeah, because they’re small and you can carry them in your purse and put them on once you get to where you’re going.”
“No, I meant that they’re perfect in that you can get a man to carry you over the ice puddles.”
OK, Target’s using General Public in one of their ads? Really? I give up. Thank you, fitness club TV, for cluing me in to the fact that I am officially too old to write about pop culture and should move on to writing about how I have too damn many potato peelers in my kitchen drawers and I don’t even know how they got there. Speaking of old, I dyed my hair blond this weekend. Really blond. It hasn’t been like this since I was 20.
Hello 35! I am ready for you!
I got one of those awesome new Android OS phones at work. The kind that let you download apps that make theremin or machine gun sounds and have a 45-minute battery life. It’s great! Except for the fact that I keep getting calls from Rikers Island.
The other night I picked my nose until it bled.
Really, I did! And I wasn’t even doing any deep, satisfying excavation. I was absently scratching the tip (yes, the outside tip!) of my nose with my index finger and inadvertently scraped open what I can only assume was the terminal point of a major artery that most people don’t have in their faces. I pulled my finger away, saw the blood, got a square of toilet tissue, and went back to what I was doing. And the bleeding wouldn’t stop. It was a small, yet constant, stream of bright red blood. The TP started looking like a teeny-tiny Shroud of Turin, and by the time N came home, it was soaked. “What the hell happened?” he asked, with a look that unsubtly suggested he was calling shenanigans on the whole thing. I finally stanched it with a giant glob of bacitracin. I spent the following day casually touching the end of my nose to make sure it hadn’t begun bleeding again (and it had, more than once). I thought about that gesture, the index finger tapping on nose-tip, which a friend of mine and I have used for many years in social situations to indicate displeasure. Whatever scenarios I was unhappily ensconced in up until now, they kind of paled in comparison to having an ever-present bead of bright red blood on my nose.
Where did she go?I am lazy. If you're bored, go visit my tumblr, updated daily with other people's witticisms and erudition.
- May 2013
- July 2012
- August 2011
- July 2011
- June 2011
- May 2011
- March 2011
- February 2011
- January 2011
- December 2010
- November 2010
- October 2010
- September 2010
- August 2010
- July 2010
- June 2010
- May 2010
- April 2010
- March 2010
- February 2010
- January 2010
- December 2009
- November 2009
- October 2009
- September 2009
- August 2009
- July 2009
- June 2009
- May 2009
- July 2006
- June 2006
- May 2006
- April 2006
- March 2006
- February 2006
- December 2005
- October 2005
- July 2005
- June 2005
- May 2005
- October 2004
- May 2004
- April 2004
- March 2004
- February 2004
- October 2003
- September 2003
- July 2003
- June 2003
- May 2003
- April 2003
- March 2003
- January 2003
- December 2002
- November 2002
- October 2002
- September 2002
- August 2002