Career Girl

Naomi Wardrobe Stakeout #3

4:00pm

Welcome to my third official installment of Naomi Wardrobe Stakeout. I know it’s been awhile, and for that I apologize.

Let’s take it from the TOP:

You may remember that a few months back I took advantage of Naomi’s fragile mental condition and talked her into letting me give her eyebrows a makeover. It was unbelievably satisfying, and she looked like a normal person for exactly eight hours. Of course, Naomi went back to doing them herself the next day and they quickly resumed their uniquely crazy design. I’ve tried to describe them many times, never quite doing them justice. From a distance they’re just your standard pair of chubby larva. But as one moves closer they remind one of the scribblings drawn on one’s face with Sharpie as one lay unconscious and drooling after (let’s just say) passing out top of the coat pile at a high-school house party. The thing that kills me is that they clearly take a lot of work. I wonder how she knows when they’re done. I mean, at what point does she look into the mirror and say, “Voila, perfection!” before skipping off to work? I will admit her confidence (however misguided) is enviable.

And now to the TOES:

One word… Crocks. Please explain how festively colored, rubber gardening clogs made the jump to everyday casual footwear? Crocks are the Uggs of ’07. The only difference is that that Crocks have been embraced by baby boomers rather than spray tan addicts and mini-skirted Japanese chicks. I thought for sure they were a summer only phenomenon but not for Naomi. Bless her heart. I guess she waited so she could rock them with socks.

I’ll spare you the middle. The horror bookends that are her eyebrows and shoes are painful enough. You’re welcome.

This One Goes To Eleven

2:50pm

So, today Kelly and I were laughing our asses off in front of my desk. I was doing this ridiculous head banging thing that makes him pee his pants. I’m not proud, and God knows I’m always willing to sacrifice my dignity for a laugh however meager. But anyway, Kelly and I both have the movie “This Is Spinal Tap,” memorized from beginning to end (judge away) and I was doing my best Nigel in the Stonehenge scene. So basically, if you took a swimming pool full of dorkiness, cooked it down to a nice half-cup dork reduction sauce and then allowed that to dry into an intense cube of dork bullion, you’d have something that resembled the pure level of dorky that I’m talking about here.

Of course it was at that moment that Claire came back from her lunch meeting and saw me flailing around in a manner most unbecoming to a lady. WHY????

This is Murphy’s Law of the office. The second you act truly unprofessional is the second that your actions will be witnessed and cataloged by the person you most long to impress. I still have the idiot shivers as I type this… so excruciating!

Oh ps: she said absolutely nothing about it which is of course, the absolute worst. Right? Right.

 

 

 

True Tales Of The Naked And The Spazzy

6:15pm

Thanks to an avalanche of horrid marketing campaigns targeting erectile dysfunction, I am now familiar with the word priapism. Learning this word has not enhanced my vocabulary in the slightest, as I’ve yet to work priapism into casual conversation. Instead, it simply rattles around my brain, creating hideous word pictures that haunt my sex-dreams. Luckily I've never found myself in bed or otherwise engaged with anyone suffering from a bout of priapism. This is not to say that my sex life has been without its horrifying little incidents. I don't know what else to call them other than what they are: Sex Accidents.

Once, my then-boyfriend and I accidentally ripped the bathroom sink off of the wall in a rain of plaster and plumbing while going at it in the bathroom. To make matters worse, my boyfriend neglected to let go of my legs as the sink (and I) crashed to the floor - I'm lucky that I didn't sustain a serious head injury. That would have been a fun one to explain in the ER waiting room.

Another time, in the heat of passion, I kicked my down comforter off the bed and onto a lit candle where it promptly exploded into flames. If you think burning hair stinks, just try to imagine burning goose down. Even after I extinguished the last smoldering ember (naked firefighting is super graceful, trust me), the entire apartment was covered with a thin layer of putrid feathers. I was literally vacuuming it out from between the pages of books for weeks. And for that word picture, you’re welcome.

 

*Ps: Don’t leave me hanging – you know I’m not alone! Please send me your most embarrassing sex-accs. I’m dying to hear and will post sans identity of course!

 

I Guess Naked Pro Wrestlers Would Have Been Worse

 3:35pm

Two packages were delivered for Claire this morning, one from Agent Provocateur and one from Kiki De Montparnasse. Have I already told you that she's been working out like a maniac? She meets her trainer in Central Park every night after work. Is it me, or does it seem like she's blatantly advertising her affair? And furthermore, am I a co-conspirator simply because I'm picking up what she's laying down?

It’s possible that she honestly wants to get busted. Maybe she’s hoping Barry will find out and throw the hammer down as it were.

I'm always shocked by how many people are afraid to be the bad guy and just end it. Instead, they misbehave until the other person can't take it anymore. It's a major high school/college boyfriend move. I know this because, though I've never really been dumped, I’ve had countless boyfriends act like complete a-holes until I cut them loose with disgust. Ah… the fine art of hand forcing. One Ex hit on my cute little sister (OK more than one). Another began aggressively monitoring my eating, i.e. “CG, ask yourself, do I really NEED this M&M?.” But the worst passive-aggressive dump-tale I’ve ever heard comes from my childhood friend Tracy. Let me preface this by saying that at this point in history, any dude who doesn’t cover his porn tracks (especially if he has a live in girlfriend) is a complete and total imbecile who deserves a vicious, lifelong case of cerulean balls. Anyway, as you’ve probably guessed, Homie left a page open on his computer, featuring... (and here's where it gets uniquely fascinating) NAKED … MALE… LACROSSE… PLAYERS (as a bit of a cherry on top, his browsing history revealed 100+ such pages recently… um…perused). As you also probably guessed, this went down like a nun’s knickers, which is to say it did not. Tracy had movers at the door within hours.

I can’t begin to guess how Claire’s cards will play out. But you can bet I’m watching her like a hawk.

And I Enjoy Vacationing in Flaaraadaaah

10:01 a.m.

Oh June, June June… June of the Feng Shui, June of the facial remodeling, June of the epic divorce…. Man, I love me some June!

June is an endless source of amusement. The ways in which she tortures Ali are many. One of the things that always manages to get under Ali’s skin is June’s inability to actually laugh (the fact that she's up to her tatas in Botox probably doesn't help). Instead, when June thinks something is funny, she just says (flatly), "That's funny."

Now in reality, whenever anyone says, “That's funny”, it means that it most decidedly is not funny. But in June’s case I can't be sure. Zombie Queen is on autopilot and who the hell knows what she’s thinking, maybe deep inside she’s cracking the f’ up.

Sample convo:

 Ali: June, check out this Onion article about freeing the American Apparel models.

June: (reading the headline over Ali's shoulder) funny.

Ali: (to self) so help me God, woman, I will kill you with my bare hands.

Ali and I were trying to imagine this character trait translating into other situations.

A mugger jumps out from behind a tree and puts a gun to June's head.

June: (flatly) scary.

June’s 22-year-old personal trainer volunteers to be her sex-slave for the weekend.

June: (apathetically) hot.

June learns that all of her coworkers have been spying on her J-date account.*

June: (emotionlessly), humiliating

We've literally brought each other to tears laughing about how June must sound in bed

June: (coldly) yes…yes… yes.

*In case you were wondering - yes, super-duper true.

Um... He Also Has Hair…

4:30 p.m.

So I've avoided describing Bloke with any depth or detail, mostly because I am unduly paranoid that he or someone he knows will stumble across the blog and discover a resemblance (I'm probably flattering myself with this scenario, as my readers do not exactly number in the millions). Regardless, the mere idea gives me a case of the idiot-shivers. Like, have you ever hung up your cell phone and immediately started talking shit about the person you were just talking to and then realized that – oops - you hadn't hang up the phone properly?

No? You aren’t that stupid (or evil) you say?

Hmmm. Well, it's a total kick in the girlie-nuts let me tell you. There's nothing you can say and nothing you can do - you’re just busted… worse - deservedly busted. So you take a deep breath, lay back and bathe in the musky waters of mortification.

Bloke facts for the people:

Bloke makes a living with his music - albeit meager as per usual, though he is markedly un-moochy which comes as a huge relief. He keeps himself in ale and chips or whatever his Limey needs may be. He has great dental habits (nothing against the Brit boys, but they do have a bit of a rep), claims to have a decent relationship with Mommy (or Mum as it were), and passes all other possible serial killer tests with flying colors. There, are you satisfied? Cause that's all I can give you for now.

Oooooh So Dirty!

1:15 p.m.

Ever notice how the universe tends to cruelly balance out a good thing with a bad thing? Sometimes in big ways - like how the lives of lottery winners always end in trailer-tragedy. And sometimes in little ways - like how everyone lost 10 pounds overnight on Atkins, only to gain atrociously bad breath (think corpse with a side of turd).

No you say? Well, damn it, I noticed.

Remember how Ali got a huge raise recently? Perhaps you’ll recall that I reacted to the news like a complete and utter ass (albeit internally)? Anyway, it turns out that it's been causing all kinds of gnarly problems for Ali at home. Jule feels totally emasculated because Ali’s been paying for everything. And Ali’s been paying everything because she’s making lots of money and wants to do more expensive things. Consequently, he’s been engaging in all manner of early-man activities, mostly tit-bar related. He’s been out with his “boys” all hours and acting defensive and cocky about it when questioned. It's a messy mess.

So, one point for poverty at last!

Bringing the scorecard to:
Poverty 1
Wealth 9,000,000,000,000,000.00

Possible marketing campaign:

Poverty: keeping men feeling manly since for-fucking-ever.

Anyway, Ali and I talked about taking a trip down to Kiki’s so she could get a hot little getup and give him a private table dance that would get his ass in line ASAP. But then we realized – men could really give a crap about quality. In fact left to their own devices they tend to choose really tacky lingerie, (i.e. itchy, synthetic, red…) so we went to Pleasure Palace and got the cheesiest French maid getup you’ve ever seen. I predict he’ll be reformed by morning. Stay tuned.

You Have Tiny Texticles

6:15pm

My last entry made me think about how much texting has completely transformed the world of dating. It's hardly worth mentioning that I think the change has been for the bad. I am all too clear that bitching about it just makes me sound old, whiny and out of touch. It's a learn-to-love/live-with-it situation, I’m afraid. But here’s the thing men (please allow me to imagine that there are men in the world who actually read this), if you have EVER texted a girl in order to ask her out on a date, then you may as well stay home alone every weekend listening to James Blunt records and brushing your silken hair because you, my friend, are a complete and unequivocal p-u-crooked letter-crooked letter-y. There, I said it.

If you can’t grow a pair and

a. pick up the phone and let your fingers do the stalking or

b. walk up to her in a bar and offer to buy her a drink or

c. yell at her out the window of your speeding molester-van or

d. ask one of your friends to ask one of her friends to ask her what she thinks

of you or

e. poke her on facebook or

f. fax her an artist’s rendering of your package with a “check the box yes or no”

note underneath

-then you don’t deserve to enjoy the perks of modern technology. Text sex? Yes (whatever it takes to keep things fresh, Daddy). But for the love of God, please don’t make such a tragically wussified first move.