Socialites

Jenelle and I have secretly (ok, not so secretly really) had the dream of being photographed for the social pages of this ridiculous local publication called Splurge!  Yeah, it’s called Splurge!  With an exclamation point and everything.  Nonetheless, the fine magazine has since gone belly up and our dreams subsequently shattered.  But we still hope to grace the social pages somewhere.

So it should come as no surprise that we aspiring socialites attended an American Cancer Society benefit earlier this year (complete with silent auction, awful Brighton and Kathy Van Zeland – aka “that Kathy bitch” as I once mistakenly called her in a serious discussion with Jill about quality handbags – purses all over the room and some of the biggest hair in Wichita).  The best part of that event was that Jenelle won a makeover package at a local salon.  And the margaritas out of a giant cooler.  And did I mention that we talked shop with Kayne Gillespie of Project Runway fame?  Yeah, we know how to do it up here in the ‘Ta.

Then this week I happened upon two free tickets to the preview party for the Junior League of Wichita’s Holiday Galleria.  Which, obviously, is like the cream of the crop of Wichita Socialites.  So it should come as no surprise that Jenelle and I were there with bells on.  And have I ever been one to turn down free champagne and hors d’ouvers?  Absolutely never.

The highlight of the evening was Jenelle, who was full of comedic delight.  As I was browsing a silent auction table a little longer than she would have liked, she said, “Hurry up, bitch.”  I looked at her in shock.  “We’re Paris and Nicole tonight, remember?” she reminded me.  I just about died laughing.  There was also the woman who sat at a table with us and didn’t waste time to lean over and mention with great sincerity that her husband was on the city council.  And then there was the chair massage that I took full advantage of, no matter how unladylike it looks to be straddling a weird massage chair when trying to win your way into the hearts of Wichita’s elite.  And then there were the coupons – oh the coupons! – because no matter how much of a socialite you are, you can always use 20% off at the local beauty boutique.

Yay!

Sex and the City – the movie(!) has begun filming in (where else?) New York City.

I am ecstatic.  This brings me back to the semi-ghetto Rancho Cordova apartment that Martine and I shared with our psychopath, gun-toting roommate and sorority sister, Oriana.  Thankfully, the crazy biotch would go out of town on the weekends and Martine and I would have SATC marathons and eat take-out Chinese food because it made us feel more “New York.”  For a long time we were committed to finding a man like Aidan because, well, any man that will sand your hardwood floors is a man worth keeping.

Ugh

I’m sick.  Like barfing and fever and some other unpleasant stuff.

I have no idea if it’s food poisoning or the flu, but you can be damn sure that I won’t be eating at Johnny Carino’s ever again.  No more soup and salad lunches for me, thankyouverymuch.

Bad Idea

I sooooo should know better than to a) take a nap at 6 pm and then b) make myself a triple iced latte (nonfat, two Splendas) at 10 pm.

I am never going to bed.

This is just depressing

When I saw that this week’s Friday blogthing, courtesy of emawkc, was a quiz that determines how California you are, I was thrilled. I mean, HELLO, I am a California girl in Kansas, remember? This quiz was MADE for me.

Only my enthusiasm quickly turned to mild depression when I got the results back:

You Are 48% California

You’re fairly Californian. Unless you’re really from California, you should be stoked!

How California Are You?

Only 48%?

Clearly Wichita’s low cost of living, lack of traffic and serious lack of fruitcakes and general crazies has lessened the amount of California in me. This saddens me greatly. People in Wichita don’t order their lattes at specifically 118 degrees (the dude in front of me at Starbucks in the 90212 did this) and the nearest In-N-Out Burger is over a thousand miles away. How can I maintain my Californiosity like this? Hmpf.

Yo, yo, yo…

I’m back.

I feel like I have a million things to tell you all, but I don’t really know where to start.

Let’s begin with DC.  It was pretty good.  Aside from the conference, there was a lot of R&R.  Plus, Camille and I hit the International Spy Museum, which was basically the most amazing thing ever.  Turns out that I would make one helluva spy based on my keen instincts and sharp memory.  At least that’s what the little computerized quizzes at the museum indicated.  I’m not joking when I tell you that I went back to my hotel room and went straight to the CIA website to find out what it takes to be a secret operative.

Possibly the most incredible part of the trip was this:

I spent one afternoon wandering the Washington Mall and stumbled upon a pro-war rally.  After grabbing a bit to eat, I walked straight into THIS – a huge anti-war march that spread from the White House to the Capitol.  I parked myself on a ledge and snapped picture after picture with my Blackberry.  I’d like to add that Santa is apparently opposed to the war in Iraq as well.

I also enjoyed three Smithsonians (Air & Space, American Art, Modern Art), Sushi, a street art fair, margaritas at this sort of crappy Mexican place in Crystal City that happened to be underneath my hotel and therefore was amazingly convenient, and many bowls of crab and corn chowder.  Delish.

Back in Wichita, I hosted this month’s Bunco night.  I made the cutest cupcakes ever (that’s real buttercream frosting and fresh raspberries on top).  The Martha Stewart in me was proud.

Last night, Linda B. and I went with My Cool Boss to our intern’s football game.  It was so fun.  I was proud of him – he was tough.  He’s a lineman and I kept cheering everytime he knocked someone down.

And now it’s back to normalcy for awhile… or a week and a half.  Then I’ll be back in California for Katie’s wedding and a reunion with Martine and family time.

I’ve SOOO Got the Right Stuff

Yesterday, Erin posted about being a party starter.  I have a party starting story for y’all too – but first you must get a little background…

So back in the day (roughly 1989-1991), I was like the number one New Kids on the Block fan (yeah, you might think you were number one, but I’m sorry to break it to you – I was).  I LOOOOVED them.  I loved me some Joey Joe (who was born on December 31st, was one of eight children and grew up in an area of Boston called Jamaica Plain… also, he loves Mexican food) and Jordan and Donnie and Danny and Jon, who later went on to a fruitful career in real estate and, as you may recall, had a Shar Pei named Nikko that he took on tour with them.  I know – I’m so outta control with the NKOTB trivia (most of which can be attributed to the riveting literary classic New Kids on the Block – Their Lives and Loves by Grace Catalano). 

My New Kids love had an odd resurgence in eighth grade when I decided that they should be the object of my affection once again.  So I busted out my NKOTB scrapbook and old issues of Bop and Tiger Beat and my New Kids pillow and towel and water bottle and all of their home videos.  I even started listening to their tapes (yeah – TAPES) on constant rotation.  And then, as though I had some sort of cosmic connection with those cuties from Beantown, they attempted a comeback, like, a month later.  I KID YOU NOT!  You may recall their comeback single – “Dirty Dawg.”  So I was pretty clearly established at this point as their number one fan.  They came to San Francisco to play at the Trucadero for their comeback tour.  Jon was curiously absent.  Possibly closing escrow on one of his properties.  But I was there.  It was standing room only and my mom and my friend Amy and I were so close that we could have possibly been sweated on.  Girls were crying and fainting and being carried out of the place by big security guys.  It was amazing.

But life goes on and so did the nineties and the boy band was replaced by grunge and alternative and NKOTB was all but forgotten by me. 

Until senior year. 

OMG, I am TOTALLY the Next Oprah

I am, like, more than Hillary Clinton powerful. More than The Olsen twins with their mega merchandising millions and Wal-Mart clothing line! More than Barbara Walters and the crazy women on The View! More than Martha Stewart powerful! Ooh… need to take a moment to let that one sit in. More powerful than The Martha…. Whoa.

Thanks, as always, to emawkc for this fantabulous Friday blogthing (and not just because I’m more powerful than he is and I like to give back to the little people).

Your Power Level is: 82%

You have all the tools you need to be a success – both professionally and personally. You’ll probably go beyond reaching your goals. You’ll change the world (at least a little).

How Powerful Are You?

Can I Go Home Now?

I like traveling, I really do.  But I have a very short attention span and a short fuse and little patience.  So basically I’m a pain in the ass.  I’m just tired of being away from home, tired of struggling to pay attention in class, feeling trapped in freezing air conditioned rooms (including my hotel room which, despite me cranking up the thermostat to 75, feels like 60).  I am tired of eating out and subsequently overeating.  Tired of not having Lola to keep me company.  Tired of not being able to have margaritas with Linda B. after an awful day.  Tired of not being able to take breaks with Jenelle to walk down to the basement to get frozen yogurt during the afternoon crawl toward 5:00.  Geez, you’d think I’d been away for months, not four days. 

I also really miss my DVR and hate the fact that Marriotts always seem to have all of their TV channel line-up targeted toward male guests.  I mean, how many ESPNs can one person watch?  Plus every Discovery and History channel and even Spike.  But where is Bravo?  Or MTV?  Or VH1?  Or HSN?  Or Food Network?  Or even some TLC?

I’m sorry.  I’m just whining.  I’m grumpy.  I have the PMS.

Plus, thanks to Facebook, I found out that The Ex is not only married now, but will soon be a father.

And I’m stuck in a cold ass hotel room feeling fat from the chips and margaritas consumed over dinner, dreading sitting in another day of meetings led by boring, completely devoid of personality, super DORKS.  I’m irritated that my $50 flat iron died and I had to buy a cheap ass $20 version from Rite Aid that works better than the $50 one ever did, which only makes me wonder why I ever bought a $50 flat iron when I could have saved $30 and had sleeker, sassier hair all along.  And why is it that the cashmere sweater that I found on clearance at Gap is pilling all over the place when it should just be looking cute and cashmere-like?!  AND FURTHERMORE, I’m just plain TIRED of being SINGLE while my crazy exes are PROCREATING!

WHAT THE EFF?  I need a Starbucks and an attitude adjustment.  And maybe a cute man to knock at my door with a piece of cheesecake.

Help, Please

Should anyone in the Denver, Kansas City, Seattle, San Diego or Washington, DC area know of any exciting marketing or writing opportunities in their area (read: a new job for Shea), please let me know at your earliest convenience.

Thank you. 

The Pleasanton Story (or A Tale of Two Cars)

It was 1998 – senior year - and for the first time ever, my high school BFF, Kerry, and I had cars to drive.  This was monumental.  Especially since I used to walk every morning with my pal Katie, dodging angry drivers as we tried to cross the busy street in front of the high school.  Of course, true to form, I was usually late and Katie left without me so I was doing the dodging by myself.  Then there was the phase where we rode with this girl Caitlin who had blue hair and drove a beat up station wagon that had a “Mean People Suck” sticker on the back.

But I digress… Kerry and I had cars.  More specifically, two POSs that were masquerading as cars.  Two hand-me-down, totally uncool rides devoid of all sexiness, but still getting us from point A to point B.  My car was a 1988 silver Ford Taurus (aka “The Silver Bullet”) that had seen better days, had oxidizing paint, a funky smell and squeaking brakes.  The power steering fluid leaked and I toted around a jumbo sized jug of the stuff so I could constantly refill it.  If I didn’t, I would (a) be unable to turn the wheel at the most inopportune times and (b) cringe as the car made the loudest, most awful and embarrasing noise when I finally was able to turn left or turn right.

Kerry’s car, however, was the real gem – an early 80’s Plymouth Reliant.  Because of her grandfather’s love for the ol’ pipe (not THAT kind), there were little holes burned into the upholstry from his tobacco.  Kerry’s solution – toss a towel adorned with a map of Hawaii on the seat and call it good.  And call it “The Hawaiian Dream.”  The car had many other delightful features, such as a terrible vibrating/shaking motion at stop lights (we considered it a foot massage), ceiling upholstry that came down so low it grazed one’s head in the front seat, the inability to accelerate to any speed above 50, and, best of all, only ONE radio station that came in.  I remember it like it was yesterday… Cruising down Santa Rita Road listening to 98.1 KISS FM – today’s R&B and classic soul.

The Duck Flies at Midnight

I’m headed to Washington, DC on Friday for six days at a nerd convention for work. Seriously. If you guys knew what I did for a living (my day job, that is), you would be completely flabbergasted. In fact, you could probably speculate all day long and never guess exactly what it is I do between the hours of 8 and 5. We’ll keep it like that for now. Just know that it is not glamorous or remotely cool, but pays the bills and provides some mild enjoyment.

ANYWAY, six days in dorkdom aside, this is becoming a bit of an annual trip for me and I will be catching up and having fun with my dear friend, Camille. We wrote for the high school newspaper together. She was editor-in-chief. I was features editor until I decided it was too much responsibility and went on to cover such titilating topics as ”Heap of the Week” (a regular feature about the crappiest cars in the school parking lot) and ”Pro vs. Con” (like, should we or shouldn’t we have a stoplight in front of the school and can boys and girls just be friends?). I also had the pleasure of reporting on an unfortunate incident in which the mother of a sophomore girl hired a stripper for her daughter’s birthday party. All hell broke loose in the family-friendly community of Pleasanton, CA.  After I uncovered some previously unreported details about the event, the principal threatened me and the journalism teacher called my mom saying things like, ”the first amendment” and “revealing her sources” and “contempt of court.”  Oye. DRA-MA. Who knew that writing for The Amadon could be so controversial?

So, back to DC… Camille and I will hang out.  We’ll do Georgetown and monuments and Smithsonians and sushi and, the best part of all, check out the International Spy Museum.  The amateur sleuth in me is ecstatic.

Ugh. My MTV Evening.

So I just spent the better part of my evening liveblogging the VMAs.  It was painful to say the least.  The show has become a sad display of what MTV thinks is cool… which is totally NOT cool.  It was basically an ego fest with a heavy dose of binge drinking mixed in.  But in case you missed the Britney Spears comeback/disaster, you can check it out at MTV Reality World (ok, shameless plug).

Best Week Ever blog best described the painful 3 minutes or so:

It’s Britney Bitch! No. Actually, it’s some chunky soccer mom who’s pooped out a couple of kids but is wearing a glitter bikini anyway, stumbling around the stage, lip-synching a little, but otherwise utterly f*cking confused about what, exactly, she’s supposed to be doing right now. This is sad, like someone doing Karaoke who just forgot the lyrics and isn’t really sure what they’re supposed to be doing. The cutaway shots to the celebs in the crowd are only making this more painful to watch. Britney’s back, bitch! Or not really.

I’m a lil’ Mature for my Age

Yep, it’s Friday!  Time for the 3 o’clock am Blogthing!  Woot!

You’ve Experienced 56% of Life

You have a good deal of life experience, about as much as someone in their late 20s. You’ve seen and done enough to be quite wise, but you still have a lot of life to look forward to.

How Much Life Experience Do You Have?

Your results in the comments – please and thank you.

Confession

Since the murder mystery party this past weekend where I convincingly played the role of slutty Paula Muscles, aerobics instructor and adulterer, I have begun cutting the neckline and sleeves of many a t-shirt. I’m bringing Flashdance back, people. And it’s HOT.