Kitty kat.

Please direct your attention to the following site. This was brought to my attention by a delightful friend who suggested this go on le blog. Never did I think I would be discussing perfume that smells like a ripe vag, but stranger things have happened.

It goes without saying that this is unspeakably, horrifically trashy. This is perhaps the zenith of trash, along with frosted lipstick and styling mousse. There are people in this world who decided it would be okay to BOTTLE THE SCENT OF A WOMAN'S VAGINA. People. Seriously. I don't care if you're a neckbearded virgin with a RealDoll at home in your parent's basement or some gigolo pimp-master brohan who bags Marina bitches every weekend with a calculated recipe of crantinis and an excessive amount of Acqua di Gio. This product is marketed at each and every one of you. As a MASTURBATORY AID. If you are so fucking creepy that you need manufactured scent of vagina to bring yourself to pitiful, gasping orgasm, I sincerely hope that you never get laid again.

Hair of the dog.

You rallied last night, got your ass off the couch and went out to the bar with the kids. Maybe you didn't eat dinner. Maybe you had two huge drinks, smoked some pot and then ate a burrito. Maybe also you threw up last night and briefly considered making a bed for yourself on the floor of the bathroom with the throw rug draped ceremoniously over you like a stole. Now you're awake, you've got a headache and every time you stand up you bob and weave like a homeless. This is not ideal. It's Sunday. There's shit that needs to get done. Laundry. Return things to the library. Take a shower. Fix your bangs, which are insane right now. Maybe eat those chips your roommate bought last night while you contemplate doing a face mask and watching Season 4 of Sex and the City. You kind of wish you could get stoned and watch nature shows on the Discovery Channel but lack cable, pot and the drive to find either. Looks like someone's hung over!

Hangovers look like this. Hangovers are the feeling when you wake up dressed only in your underwear and a sweatshirt, wondering why you failed to put on pants or remove the sweatshirt. Sometimes you wake up and there's a bag of Milanos, a Nalgene filled with water and a pair of scissors in your bed next to you. There's no reasonable explanation for this.
Let's all try to handle hangovers with decorum, grace and dignity. Wash your face. Put on some pants. Brush your teeth, even if the sensation of the toothbrush in your mouth is enough to make you vomit again. Throw on your eating pants and get your ass to brunch. You're going to eat a trough full of hash-browns, hollandaise and bacon. It's going to be delicious.

Get a job.

A change has come over me recently. A sudden, nauseating but also oddly liberating change. A change that was a long time coming, maybe, but was also one for the better, even though I didn't believe that at first and had to be told this over drinks and photobooth pictures one balmy Wednesday in early September. I've shuffled off the mortal coil of Bravo! Marketing. I've become unemployed. Redundant, as the British call it. Done.

This recent development leads to an entirely new realm of trashiness previously undiscovered and never written about on this blog. Daytime trashiness. Middle of the week, still at home in your pajamas because you woke up at 7:30 thinking you still had a job for a brief moment trashiness. Watching the Today Show past 9 am. Forcing yourself to leave the house and going to Walgreens to buy tampons and a blowdryer. Walking around throngs of the possibly-homeless pushing carts in the A/V section of the library and coming home with awkward documentaries and a copy of "Say Anything" because you haven't seen it yet, but you heard it was good. Yesterday, I watched a documentary about children at a musical theatre camp in the Catskills and somehow felt ok about myself after it was over. This is monumental.

There's something vaguely unclean about being home during the day on a weekday. For a while, you feel like you're just at home, on a sick day, and it's fun. No one's around! I can eat ice cream! Look, I'm watching the View! Then, around 12:30, it hits. You've been up for a really long time. You thought you had a job when you woke up this morning and in fact, you do not. People have already started their day and are at lunch, eating compact plates of falafel and chatting with their co-workers. You've maybe had a handful of cookies and stared at the fridge with the door open for a while. You peck for a little while at craigslist and send out some cover letters. It all feels rusty, like you've done this before and it sucked and now you have to do it again. There's an air of desperation, even though it's sunny and perfect outside. You know you're going to get through this, regardless of what happens. It will all be ok.

Panty dropper

No one really likes doing laundry. It's time-consuming, labor intensive and often involves you walking up and down the stairs of your apartment complex dropping socks and t-shirts along the way. Sometimes motherfuckers steal shit out of the laundry room when you've walked away for TEN MINUTES BECAUSE YOU LEFT THE QUARTERS UPSTAIRS. Once I found a carefully written epistle in my laundry room on top of an empty box of laundry detergent, ranting in a passive aggressive fashion about the injustices of the world and how it was totally unfair that someone used all of their detergent and how they could just go fuck their mothers because honestly who does that?! Laundry incites riot and unnecessary rage. I waited up until fucking 11 pm last night waiting for my goddamn pants to dry. I kind of hate laundry. With a passion.

The only reason I did laundry last night was because the underwear drawer was starting to look bare. Due to my irrational yet strong hatred for doing this menial task, I try to do laundry very rarely. I have enough clothes to last and I like to think that I don't smell. Possibly I am a disgusting creature, but this is no matter. Whatever, man. If you don't like it, then leave. Underwear is not something you can make stretch. We change our underwear every day, children.

These underwear even have explicit instructions written on them as to when to change. There is a reason for that. Shit is naaasty. However, in my travels yesterday I briefly contemplated relying on an old college trick that got me through many financially strapped weeks when I desperately needed to do laundry but was too busy squandering my lucre on things like cigarettes, magazines, salsa con queso from the C-store and weed. Instead of going to Safeway like a responsible grown-up and getting quarters, I was going to take a little trip to Ross and buy underwear instead of doing laundry. This stroke of genius saved my ass numerous times in college. Once I was invited to an impromptu trip to a friend's house in New Hampshire. I had about three hours to get ready and packed. I had not done laundry in many moons. I was all packed and wearing the last clean pair of underwear I had. My only choice was to walk to the TJ Maxx in Brookline next to the liquor store and purchase 5 of the most shameful pairs of underwear ever. One pair is teal. It says WANNA BE A ROCKSTAR on the ass in rhinestones. One pair has the Easter bunny on the crotch. This was bargain basement underwear, shit that most should not and would not wear. That's why they were $3 each.

Panties in hand, I remember strolling peacefully back to my apartment. Take that stank pile of laundry! I've beat you once again! The rhinestones fell off individually over the years. I still have those underwear. They are my underwear of shame.

Don't be this trashy, kids. Try to keep it together. Do your laundry. It won't be that bad, I promise.

Trashy or Not?

Nappers

napping in your bosses office while she is away? trashyornot, it's so much fun :)

Wet Hair

So last night you threw back too many lychee martinis and forgot to set your alarm before passing out. You wake up 30 minutes before work starts, take one look at your hair to assess the damage and almost vomit in your mouth. You throw yourself into the shower hoping to wash away your shame, piecing together the events of the night before. You throw on the clothes nearest to you on the floor (without a stain on the boob and with the least amount of wrinkles) and attempt to fix yourself up so you can prove to yourself, against the harsh judgement of the world that you are really a classy brawd....well kinda....sometimes....

Cut to twenty minutes later. You are speed walking down the street, jacket half on, putting on earrings and adjusting your bra strap when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the store window. The familiar taste of vomit collects on your mouth. You try to look away but like a bad car accident, your eye keeps turning. You see it every where, on the side of the bus, in the sunglasses of the people who walk by, in the post office window: Your wet hair gleaming, scattered about your head like a bad flower arrangement. You eerily resemble the wild dog who sketechily wanders up the alley behind your apt looking for food. Except you look worse, like you been dragged up and down the street a few times before having your hair run over by a truck . You pray/hope your hair will miraculously dry by the time you get to work.

No luck...you breathlessly brush through the doors 10 minutes late, to be greeted by your coworker who loves to comment on how tired you look. "Didn't get much sleep last night huh?" She smiles "sympathetically", cocking her head to one side.

For the rest of the day your hair is desperately trying to figure out what to do with itself, and eventually you give up and put it back into the inevitable pony tail.

Sigh.. the curse of the wet hair... plaguing us girls (and some fashion conscious boys) since elementary school. It's the look that screams to the world how badly you suck at life. How you just can't get your shit together in time..ever. I always wondered how the girls in the Cosby show pulled it off...

Plus, living in the ice box that we call the northeast, during the winter time (ie 8 months out of the year) we get the extra bonus of having your hair freeze into cute little dreaded icicles, delaying the drying time even more. At least if you live in Southern California, you could be mistaken for being a hot surfer chick who got up early to catch some waves. (right...)

But before you go and start blow drying your hair in the hand drier in the bathroom, you can take comfort that there is a time and place for wet hair. When it is actualy appropriate and even sexy. Contra trashy...

Enter the beach hair. The glorious time when it doesn't matter what you are wearing, if you are wearing anything, or when the last time you took a shower was..well because you're tan and beautiful.

The best part about the wet hair at the beach look is that it will soon turn into the sexy beach blown hair look, that you so desperately try to recreate with John Frienda's beach blonde (which sadly they do not make anymore). So go... jump in the water, get your hair as salty and sandy and sun exposed as possible. Let your damp locks fall freely on your cleavage. Just make sure you're at the beach.

Three for the road.

The corner store in my neighborhood sells loose cigarettes, three for a dollar. This situation is perfect for homeless people, degenerates, drug addicts and apparently, me.

The feeling of scrounging frantically in the bottom of my bag for a quarter to add to the pile of change clutched in my sweaty palm so that I may purchase three single Camel Lights is indescribable.

Once again, I'll take one for the team.

Le fruit du merd

one word, three syllables: Oranges. The mango's evil twin sister.

Why god invented this fruit in the first place is beyond me, but even more confusing is why it has been squeezed, mixed with various otherwise fine tasting foods, packaged and consumed.

hello

endies endies endies!