Monday, February 22, 2010

That's (not-so) Brisk, Baby!

Due to my extreme lifestyle, I have a bit of a caffeine addiction. It’s not anything I’m trying to quit, I’m not opposed to addictions for addictions’ sake. I enjoy it (tastes good), it does what it’s supposed to do (keeps me awake), and it gives me an excuse to go walk outside and get a little bit of sunlight during the day (to go to Starbucks, Rite Aid, or the Panadaria down the street). I actually feel the same way about cigarettes, but instead of giving me an excuse to get sunlight, cigarettes give me an excuse to take a break from dancing and talk to hot chicks.

Recently I bought a case of Brisk Iced Tea instead of soda, mostly just to change it up, but also partially because I thought it might be a little bit healthier. Last night I had a normal amount of sleep,which generally requires 1-2 caffeinated beverages the next day. I had two Iced Teas today and felt nothing. I looked on the can, and it said there were 8mg of caffeine per 12 fl oz. This meant nothing to me, so I googled it and found this super cool website, . Turns out Brisk Iced Tea has only a tiny bit more caffeine than a cup of decaf coffee (which has 6mg), whereas a regular 8oz cup of coffee has 145mg of caffeine. I’m pretty sure a cup of coffee is healthier than 18 high fructose corn syrup-filled Brisk Iced Teas. Look at that, I learned something at school today! I’m thinking about making a word problem out of it.

Additionally, I now have a long list of really hilarious energy drinks that I can’t wait to try!

“Crunk Mango Peach” and “Who’s Your Daddy” are the new black (and Brisk Iced Tea is not).

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Call Mr. Flintstone, I Can Make Your Bed Rock

I have in the past, by multiple people, been accused of being a little bit "aggressive" when it comes to the bedroom. Not that I am pulling out whips and chains (though I don't mind a little spank every now and then *wink*), I'm just aggressive in terms of getting things started and making a relationship move in that direction. Now this strategy has worked pretty well at getting me laid. Unfortunately, this strategy sucks at locking down a girlfriend. While guys seemed fine with the term "boyfriend" meaning "a sex slave who buys me dinner every now and then," girls apparently get all offended that I don't want to "know them as a person" or hear about their "feelings" or something. Lame sauce.

To combat my overly-aggressive tendencies (ironic choice of the word "combat" there. . .), I have given myself a "3 date rule" (i.e. I'm not sleeping with anyone unless we have gone on at least three dates). Which means that I haven't had sex in three months. And still no girlfriend. Even lamer sauce.

On the plus side, I'm saving a small fortune on bikini waxes.

Maybe waiting is the new black. . . ?

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Here Kitty Kitty

While jogging around the hood the other afternoon some dude rolled down the window of his mid-nineties Toyota Corolla and screamed “LOOK AT THAT ASS!” in my general direction.

What the fuck?  What is this dude trying to accomplish?  Does he expect me to swoon?  Run over and jump in his car and start planning our sexual escapades?  Has anyone ever started a relationship from a moving vehicle? Even a really really casual one?  Am I out and about to catch the eye of a winner like him?  Better yet, does he think that I haven’t looked at my ass? 

Newsflash dude, I’ve seen my ass.  That’s why I run everyday in attempts to make it disappear so that losers like you don’t catcall me.

Assholes. Stop it!

Catcalling is not the new black.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Most Exciting Day Ever

So part of my pre-Coachella “diet and exercise” plan includes a daily run/walk situation which basically consist of me huffing and puffing around Los Feliz or Silverlake in awkward sweatpants whilst listening to decidedly un-Los Feliz/Silverlake music.  Just imagine a large-assed girl shuffling around the neighborhood in white, gatherered, capri sweatpants slowly jogging and being unable to resist throwing a hand in the air when Beyonce says, “if you liked it, then you should put a ring on it,” even though no one else can hear the music coming from her purple nano.  Yeah, that’s me. Pretty embarrassing, but whatevs, not as embarrassing as being a fat girl at Coachella.

So as I am jogging around today and spacing the fuck out who do I bump into but A REALLY SEXY VAMPIRE!!! OMFG!  No, not an actual vampire, but someone to plays one either film or television.  I even got a head nod as I shuffled by the sexy vampire as he walked his dog!  Then I got another one when I waddled by the sexy vampire on the return part of my loop.  So this is what I know:

  1. A sexy vampire lives in my neighborhood (because who drives to another neighborhood to walk their dog unless there is a park or something)
  2. Said sexy vampire is neighborly (though I do not plan on inviting him into my house because we all know that’s terrible idea)
  3. Where the sexy vampire lives within about a quarter square mile (Shout out to google maps for making stalking easier!
I’m not going to name names, because I plan to actually stalk this person and don’t want there to be direct evidence on the internet.  If you’re a lawyer and reading this, let me know what needs to be more vague here.

I cannot wait to go jogging in full hair and make up tomorrow!

Having a sexy vampire for a neighbor is the new black.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Panty Raid!

Ladies and Gentleman, I have a problem.  No, it’s not my drinking problem. That’s already been well documented and discussed. No, I’m not smoking crack.  Although Dr. Drew is starting to make me think that I might be the only person in America who isn’t.  I am compulsively buying expensive undergarments.

Like every girl, I love pretty lacy under things.  I have rationalized the necessity for $15 Hanky Panky  underwear for daily wear, none of that Victoria’s Secret mall lingerie bullshit here.

But the problem has gotten REALLY bad since a little boutique known as Panty Raid opened in the neighborhood.  Now, I literally have to walk 30 seconds from my morning coffee spot to the most adorable little lingerie shop in Los Feliz.  I can’t stop buying panties!  The need for matching bra and panty sets is becoming overwhelming.  I can’t even go to the gym if my sports bra doesn’t match my underwear.

I’ve also discovered something amazing; garter belts.  Garter belts completely eliminate the need to wear tights.  The truest saying I’ve ever heard in my life was Edina from Absoultely Fabulous who simply said, “I'd just once like to take my clothes off and not be marked by them...”  I’m in full agreement with that statement.  I mean, even Kate Moss is probably left with that tragic flesh-seam running down her stomach when she wears tights.  Not only does the garter belt eliminate the aforementioned seam, but it also doubles as a purse of sorts for items such as a Blackberry, lipstick, cigarettes and small handguns.

It also gives you that added jump in your step if you know you’re wearing sexy lingerie, even if no one else does.

Sexy lingerie and garter belts are the new black.

Ex Marks the G-spot…

I recently hooked up with one of my ex’s and I’ve realized it’s kind of like seeing a comedy routine twice. You know the jokes already but they’re comforting in a way. And although you’d never admit in a public forum that you were so desperate for a laugh you went back for a reprise, you know you’re at least guaranteed a chuckle or two.
Anyway the whole thing got me thinking about ex’s…. thankfully, this particular guy is pretty sane, but what if I was dealing with a nutso? Sure I’ve had my share of crazy, but being the sneaky ginger devil that I am, I’m not going to disclose anything about myself … so I’ll tell you about my friends.

Rather than bore you with endless anecdotes of all the crazy ex’s I’ve been hearing about over the last couple days, I’ll just list the best of the best (insert image of me with raised eyebrow and judgmental smirk at pretty much every item).

1) Picking a fight with a mailbox (guess who won and guess who ended up in a beak-like cast for two months?)
2) Ignoring the break-up completely, moving in, and keying new girlfriend’s car.
3) Unfastening the stitching of his dress pants ever-so-slightly so that eventually, his ass will ‘bottom out’ (hopefully during a very important meeting).
4) Urinating in her Brita Water Filter.
5) Take a picture of his desktop wallpaper, set it as the desktop wallpaper, and watch hilarity ensue as he furiously tries to click on icons with no result. (Actually way more satisfying than it sounds.)
6) Sleeping with the mom/dad. (Surprisingly not as satisfying as it sounds.)
7) Diluting his tea with extra-strength laxatives.
8) Vomiting in her closet.
9) Claim an STD but “that’s all I’m telling you.
And the most crazy thing I’ve ever heard an ex do....
10) Go to Haiti to be an Aid Worker. (She was an actress.)

After hearing all these ridiculous acts of violence, hilarity, and sheer brilliance, I cuddled up happy in the knowledge that my ex is normal, sane, and willing and able to go for a roll in the hay without any baggage.
Yup, I really am lucky that him and I are able to share such a productive relationship even though we didn’t work out as a couple. And if he ever does let me out of this basement, I’ll be sure to take this up with his wife.

Dear ex’s, you’re the new black.

Friday, February 5, 2010

Rehab is for Quitters

If you are lucky enough to know me in person, then you know that I am basically a robot. I do not need the things that normal humans need to survive, like food or sleep, and I generally function very well on caffeine and cup-o-noodles. On an average week, I go out between four and six nights, get around four hours of sleep each night, and I am more than fine the next day. When people describe me, they generally say something along the lines of, "She's cool, she's pretty funny, and she goes out a LOT." I don't go around getting shit-housed all the time, but I generally knock back a couple, shake my groove thang, and then call it a night.

This week, in honor of parent conferences (because I teach 7th grade. . . yes, I am that hardcore), I decided to give myself a break, and only went out on Thursday. I figured that it would be a bad idea to have whiskey breath around grown-ups that actually know what whiskey smells like. This means that I did not drink Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday (skipped mimosas Sunday, skipped Moustache Monday, skipped Rockwell Tuesday, and skipped The Betty on Wednesday). I felt a little bit lame, but figured it's be a good idea to rest up and let "the scene" miss me a little. By Thursday, I was starting to feel like a bit of a shut-in, so I called up one of my favorite semi-alcoholic friends to hit the town.

I had three drinks, stopped to get food on the way home, and was in bed by my "normal" time (a.k.a. 2:30 am). This morning, I felt like total crap. Wtf?! Over my four day break, I somehow managed to lose all tolerance to alcohol and sleep deprivation! Not cool. Thus, I have vowed to never take a break again.

Sobriety and sleep are NOT the new black.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Too Ugly To Blog

Did you miss me?  I know that I have been absent from the blogosphere for a few days, but I have a really good reason; I was too ugly to blog.  Let me tell you my little story…

So I have an obsession with having shiny jet black hair. I know, so typical and expected for the founder of the new black blog.   Despite the fact that I have always had a mild allergy to hair dye, I have been keeping up with my locks.  Usually I get a little rash at the base of my scalp, and it’s awful and embarrassing and all of the gay dudes at my gym totally judge me when I rock a pony and whatnot.  Where was I?

So apparently these allergies are progressive and this time my head and neck swelled up to twice their normal size and I ended up looking like this bitch and losing my ability to breathe normally.  So I had to take steroids and benedryl and something else that I stopped taking because it said “do not mix with alcohol” and “take with food’ on the label, two things that stifle my lifestyle.  So the moral of the story is I have been hiding in my house and not blogging and that hair dye is dangerous and shit.

All I know is that when I go, I don’t want it to be from a box of Nice and Easy. 

Jet black hair is no longer the new black.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Blah blah blah

Was recently invited to a special appearance by Kesha. Unfortunately, my crappy cell phone static resulted in me hearing "Keyshia", as in the great Keyshia Cole... I was stoked.

Well imagine my surprise when I walked in expecting a radiant songstress but was greeted by a sloppy white chick with half-inch roots, a visible beer ponch, and most assuredly some type of Herpes. (Whether it was 1 or 2, I could not say.) It was like being at a fantasy ex-girlfriend convention....

Abnoxious as she was, I was impressed by Kesha (who spells her name Ke$ha - wow) on two fronts:

1) anyone who is that S-faced but can still lip sync is Ok in my books, and

2) her song Blah Blah Blah really hit home for me.... on that superficial but still lasting level... the kind of level that one hopes can be shift+deleted with just one dose of antibiotics after a questionable rendezvous with someone from oh, say, an annexed country....

But I digress...

When it comes to relationships - or at least the start of them - there seems to be a lot of blah blah blah and no action. I can name a slew of gal pals who have spent many an earnest night getting jimmy leg in the back of a cigarette-stained chevette - twisting themselves into positions that would make the Cirque de Soleil crew blush - all the while trying to fein interest as Bacardi-infused whispers of white picket fences and meeting the parents fill our ears.

While its usually the fairer sex that gets labeled as Chatty Cathy's... I think it's fair to say that when it comes down to it, ya'll men need to put out or get out. (Can I get an Amen from the Canadians on this one? See my blog on staying warm... talking won't cut it, mister, we need some serious eskimo style friction please.)

You want to have a relationship? Ok. Just wanna bump uglies? Fine. Have a wife? That's cool, I have a boyfriend. You like to hook up only when drunk? Ditto. Wanna Chris Brown my ass? Can't, I have a real date tomorrow, but I will touch your man bits for another martini....

See how easy that was?

Fellas, just tell us what you want... most of us will dig it.... but we're not mind readers. In closing, I'd like to mention that it's Hug-A-Ginger-Day. (Remember... Hug-A-Ginger, not Talk-To-A-Ginger-About-Your-Feelings.) I'd also like to mention that Ke$ha and Talking are not the new black.


This blog was dedicated to a very special girl: I hope I'm the rainbow to your lucky charms : ) (that's not as perverted as it sounds, it's wayyyyyy worse.)