The Craziness Continues

This month has been absolutely insane. There's been so much going on in my life. This past weekend, I went to NYC to hang out with two of my favorite people in the whole wide world. It was amazing, and we had such a wonderful time. My girlfriend, Jaime, and I stayed at my friend, Ash's place in the upper East Side. We spent every night at a famous NYC hangout where old-school celebrities, authors, photographers, and the intellectual elite come out to play.

Every night was an adventure, and I got the chance to meet fascinating people. It was a much needed escape for me, and it was the perfect opportunity to catch up with my old friends and have a blast. Saturday was spent having brunch at Sarabeth's in the upper East side. The food was phenomenal. I had the french toast, and they were out of this world. The mimosa was good, too, and it came with its own mini-bottle of champagne, good enough for 2 mimosas. I was a happy girl.

Saturday night, Jaime and I ordered two bottles of wine at dinner. I drank about 3/4 of a bottle, and I suspect Jaime drank the rest. I was smashed.

Being as intoxicated and stupid as I was, I drunk texted the young guy at 2:30 in the morning. He texted back. I think he was just as drunk. Who else would text somebody back at 2:30 in the morning, except another lush, right?! Then, I texted him the next day to apologize for waking him up: no response! Argh, this is why drunk texting is never good because you will always end up texting a douchebag who doesn't deserve the time of day. Always.

Oh, and this is days after I e-mailed this 23 year-old idiot and told him that he was being "retarded" and to either be my friend or don't, but not to treat me like some chick he had met in a bar because I was better than that and he knew it. To which he sent me this e-mail about how he was "trying to figure things out" and how I was an "amazing woman" and that he was "grateful" to have my friendship. Whatever. Actions speak louder than words, so from this day forward, this supposed friend of mine is on my shit list.

He texted me one word last week: "Friday?" And apparently, it meant that he wanted to hang out this past Friday, but I couldn't because I was going to NYC. This guy is a dipshit. I'm done even thinking about him. He's too young, and I need to focus my time and energy on guys who are adults and not children. I am all set.

Sunday night was a phenomenal night: we saw Mr. Big sitting a couple tables down from us, and yes ladies, he's as gorgeous in person. Jaime and I tried our best not to freak out and remain calm, but it was tough not to just run over to him and jump on his lap and lick his face. Every time we heard him laugh, we had to keep it together. Neither of us was thrown out and no restraining orders were filed, so mission accomplished.

One of the best quotes of the night came from Jaime at the end of the night, who was completely shitfaced because every guy and his brother were buying her drinks, texted a cute guy she had met at the restaurant: "I know you have a girlfriend, but I want you to know I'm easy like Sunday morning." It doesn't get any better than that! Another example of drunk texting gone horribly wrong.

The Times We Had

I am currently reading The Times We Had by Marion Davies, who was newspaper magnate, William Randolph Hearst's mistress for many years. It's a wonderfully entertaining book that will put a smile on your face. She comes across as funny, smart, and very lovable. You can see why Hearst was so smitten with her. I wish I could go back in time for one night, so I could hang out with her, sipping cocktails in her hilltop mansion and having a gay old time.

My friend, Jaime, recommended the book, so I e-mailed her yesterday to discuss Hearst's behavior in the beginning of the story:

Me: Slightly stawkerish. He’s constantly following her around! It’s kind of endearing, but then when you start thinking about it, it’s creepy. Ridiculously rich men can get away with stalking, I guess.

Jaime: Yeah, I mean he was also giving her rolls of hundred dollar bills to use as tampons. And it seemed like he never forced her into sleeping with him. It just seemed like a lot of cuddles and buying giraffes. Right now it sounds like the ideal situation. I've had passionate relationships and, with few exceptions, nothing good has ever come of them. So if some guy came along that wanted to buy me things and hang out with me and build me a palace in the mountains, I'd tuck my dog under my arm and be off.

Me: I love how he gives her a diamond watch, and she loses it! So, her friend calls and tells him, and the next day, she receives another one – no note or anything, just a watch! She mentions how it’s not as pretty as the other one! And, he’s always bailing her out of situations, and she barely knows him. He’s just this looming figure in the shadows, but he’s loaded, so nobody gets freaked out. Because if Mr. Hearst was "William Hearst the Chimney Sweep", they would’ve called the cops on him long ago for stalking little girls. The story is great, and I love her. She’s so adorable in the way she tells a story. In my head, she sounds just like Betty Boop.
Dude, giraffes and cuddles sound awesome. It’s a win win, in my book. Who needs passion or sex when I can host parties and drink all day and night in a lavish mansion with marble pools and elaborate gardens! Passion is seriously overrated, and it only causes problems in the long run. I’ll take my diamond watches, exotic animals, and champagne any day, thank you very much.

Related Posts: Dick Whitman or The Guy from Simply Red?

Dick Whitman or the Guy from Simply Red?

This month's GQ has a really bad photo shoot with one of my all-time favorite leading men: Jon Hamm aka Don Draper on AMC's Mad Men. I sent one of my best girlfriend's, Jaime, two of the pictures from the layout, and as I had suspected, she didn't care for the pictures, either.

This was our e-mail:

Me: What's up with the placement of the hat?!

Jaime: What is up with My Friend Flicka in the background? You can totally tell this whole shoot was conceived by a heterosexual man who is sooo jealous of D-Drapes that he wanted to completely emasculate him and turn him into Huck Finn or by a homosexual male who thinks that what he is wearing is fetching in a hip incorrigible hobo sort of way and that all women love horses so yeah, let's throw a horse in the background and they'll go wild.

The last man a woman would want in her house is an unemployed dude with a horse. Does not matter how hot he is. Seriously, I'd take employed man with pot-bellied pig over homeless with horse any day.

I feel like Paul Rudd fills his inbox with this picture and alternate titles for it of varying levels of ridicule all day.

Me: I'm trying not to burst out laughing right now because nobody around me is going to think this is funny. I hope to God, Paul Rudd tools on him mercilessly because this is one of the worst photo shoots I've ever seen. You take one of the most ridiculously handsome men and turn him into a stable boy?!

Yeah, I think the photographer was going for the whole Dick Whitman motif, but failed miserably because even Dick Whitman wouldn't be caught dead wearing a ridiculous hat like this. And look at the way it's placed on his head! It's so 80s new wave band, I can't stand it. I feel as if he's going to break out singing "Come on Eileen" at any moment. Not sexy.

Umm, how about just throw the guy in a suit? He looks fantastic in a suit. Jon Hamm is the type of guy who was made to wear a suit. Instead, they put him in a porkpie hat, throw him in a field, and tell him to channel Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn. He's a grown man! Throw Emile Hirsch in a corn field or James McAvoy, but not Jon Hamm!

Then, I sent her the 2nd picture.

Jaime: Okay, this confirms that it is actually a hetero man who set this up...stalk of wheat in the mouth?!!!! As evidence I will hearken back to every July or August cover of Playboy in the 1980s. Due to a poignant and predictable lack of imagination on the part of hetero male America, summer issues would always feature "Southern Belles" or "Texas Debs" and would inevitably portray these women in Daisy Dukes sprawled out over classic cars or taking a much deserved nude nap in a pile of hay. But the perennial accoutrement, the piece de resistance, was always stalk of wheat or straw or hay or whatever that sh*t is in the mouth.

Seriously, who in Viking hell would think chewing on straw is sexy. Goat-f##kers, that's who. Plus it's also so cliché. Let's do a "country-bumpkin" photo shoot and let's make him pose with some straw in his mouth to really tie the ribbon up on that package. I'm sure the next issue of this magazine features Amy Adams dressed up like 40s screen siren or Jim Carey as a sad clown because no one's ever thought to shoot them that way except for everyone who has ever taken a picture of them.

If I were Jennifer Westfeldt I would f'ing sue the photographer on this shoot for defacing private property.