Mad Men of Chaillot

Yesterday was the season 3 premiere of the fabulously provocative show, Mad Men. As a tribute to the show and the ever present main character, the great city of NY, Times Square brought out the big screens and put on a show for everyone willing to brave the crowds. Once I had gotten there it was proving to be more uncomfortable than exciting. I was hot and sticky, people kept walking in front of my view and they wouldn't let me enter the costume contest. Now I just felt stupid in my USO mini dress. I felt like screaming, "this was for Don Draper god dammit!" He's the kind of handsome that has us ladies with high hopes, and low self esteem doing anything for -- I would dress up like his mother and give him a good spanking (without even thinking about getting paid!) if that was what his heart desired. Anyway I digress, the situation escalated to the point where I knew in my heart of overblown self entitled hearts that I just would not be able to enjoy this show if I was not sitting in the VIP section. Thus I set about to make entry into that coveted cool dark triangle working as a temporary home for reality television celebrities. At this point I did not have a plan, I thought I would start with positive thoughts and a little eye making with the men who were carrying clip boards. Then I marched right up to the entry way, and simply ASKED IN A NICE VOICE if I could sit in VIP and bring my darling friend who is a huge fan and this would mean so much to her because she's also undergoing radiation and her dog just died. What do you know! It worked! I felt extremely proud of my wheeling and dealing skills at this moment, and I also felt my mojo coming back to me full throttle. That's right who can resist my charm, my charisma, my persistence! I also secured us some very nice fedora hats and some sparkling ginger ale. Another event won over proving to me that the Gods must really believe i deserve to be true VIP.

I am my own Fag

Hey there beautiful babies,
So the other night I was sitting around with my girlfriends, except they're all men, watching the good ole Will and Grace

And I thought, "Jeepers this show is funny! I never really got into it you know, cause the whole dynamic was a little too close to home."

One of my besties replied, "What you're the hopeless single girl hag in love with a fag?"

And then it hit me I AM MY OWN FAG. Cause there ain't nothing haggy about me!:
I do not have low self esteem,
I will not go with you to eat fast food as "our little secret"
I do not wear flip flops in mid winter in other peoples houses
I am not your friend so that I can vicariously live through your sexual experiences with men because I'm too afraid to have my own.
I do not live in an ll year old princess fantasy.
And finally -- I can do my own hair (kind of)

Really what I mean is I'm way too fabulous to be sidekick girl, cause I'm all about taking center stage and we know they put the fat girls up stage right. I've got the sashay and sauce of Bette, but the same killer looks and amazing ability to attract hetero men Angelina Jolie.

Slum Dog Millionaire

I'm about to move for the 6th time in a year and half of living in this wonderful big apple. I guess it's just a rite of passage to own only what you can carry in a car service from one end of Brooklyn to the other, right? I may not have any pots and pans but boy do I own many a spangled costume and a whole slew of teeth whitening trays. Anyways, as I sat around my apartment (really just two pillars of dust held together by millions of layers of paint) with my fab roomies we reminisced about the great time we've spent in east flatbush. The convo went something like this:
Hey guys I'm really gonna miss this place
yeah me too, we've had so many wonderful times here and so many memories!
Yeah just remember that time we had no heat, hot water or gas during the winter?
That was so much fun, sleeping together orphan style bundled under seventeen coats trying to preserve body warmth!
Or what about that time we got bed bugs three times in matter of months.
I loved that! We had to keep getting all our costumes dry cleaned and nothing is better than that chemical smell.
Yeah my fave part of that was the sleepless anxiety you get when you think you're covered in blood suckers.
I loved it when you would run into my room and tear of all your clothes showing me your young nubile skin and asking me to count all your bites.
Oh gosh and remember when one bit me in the eye and I look like Quasimodo for two days and I didn't have to go into work cause no one in their right mind would buy a dildo from me?

Always the optimistic one! xox

But the best part is when we got the whole building to rally together and demand better living conditions by protesting in front of our landlord's upper east side office. It was the day after the Oscars and we were shouting " We're slumdogs you're a millionair." Then like an activist's wet dream Freida Pinto from the Oscar winning movie SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE walks out of the building next door and joined us for a picture. True Story. I gotta say I would take it all over again just for the serendipitous brush with fame and miracle.

This is a picture of her right at our protest!

Style Alerts! Baby Prostitues are In!

This summer get out your rompers and playsuits.
The look of the season is child hookers. That’s right take you’re cues from the best nymphets out there!



You can either do a Jodie Foster with a little bit of tough street chick, or go the lacy Louisiana brothel look of Brooke Shields.




Either way as long as you wear a one piece vaguely resembling a diaper you’re good to go with seducing that mustachioed molester Lothario. Hubba hubba professor Humbert.

look at me

hey there gang,
In a world where every creative type demands attention and fame -- I too desire to be loved... by millions. All the comedians in midtown deem the blogosphere passe, but I too want mass success and I realized that with all my reading of those old tangible dusty things called books I missed the cyber explosion that has wiped out the dreaded fear of anonymity. Now is my time. This blog is for all of us with no real skills but the constant memory of our mothers calling us special. Tendinitis has started in my right hand due to my severe clutch on the specific memory of my dear mother tickling my back and calling me pretty in a sweet Irish brogue.
I have a fire in me that needs its match... but I simply don't have anything on the special skills part of resume (or really a resume for that matter.) Does ultra charm count?
Listen up my beautiful babies. Did you go to college during an economic upturn and feel obliged to study something more interesting than resourceful -- queer theory anyone? I mean who in this financial conundrum really needs someone who can deconstruct a metaphor stuck in a metonymic trap? Or did you spend years honing a special talent in the small pond of your hometown only to grow up constantly at war with doubts and self loathing, and most of all shock at your mediocre success? If you are reading this and you can relate take comfort. While I keep a brave face for my small but growing public, misery is my middle name -- and I need company. It's lonely at the top, or at least I'm told it is.