Monthly Archives: April 2012

What’s Your Number?

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So on Saturdays I work at a certain super market (you know I won’t say which one since I don’t even use Foursquare because I think it’s a tool for potential stalkers) sampling wine for a promotional company. Now, I’m not bragging or anything but I do get hit on by my fair share of AARP members, though usually not from guys any where near my own age. That all changed the other day…

So Paulie and his friends came to my table to sample some wine, and ended up inviting  me to a bonfire at his house. And, you know, maybe I would have gone if there wasn’t such a distinct possibility of me being found in the bonfire 6 days later, with only my dental records as a means to identify my body. (That is generally how I rate potential suitors, by the likelihood of them murdering me. It’s a scale of 1 to Joran Vandersloot. I would say this guy was like a 6 for murder but a solid 8 for molestation. I don’t like to hover anywhere past a 4).

So, I kinda just stood there and made some awkward sounds and half sentences like “ohhh I uhhhh, not a big fan of… smoke… and fire…. and.. I meaaan” until he finally walked away. Then about five minutes later this was slipped onto my table accompanied by an “in case you change your mind:”

You know, I wasn’t going to call you, Paulie, but your enchanting drawing swayed me.

I’m kidding. That only upped his murder status to a 9 and his date rape potential to “NBA Player.”

Now, I hesitated to post this because it could potentially come off as mean-spirited, but there’s no way a guy named ‘Paulie’ reads this blog, and in general, my personal feelings on being made fun of is as long as I never, ever find out about it, you can say what you want- it never happened. It’s like ‘if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear…’ type situation (Something you should know about me is I never like to finish the second half of a cliche).

But, hey, God bless him for having the courage to accompany his phone number with an illustration. Paulie, if you’re reading this, I’m flattered.

Blogger’s Block

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I’ve got to admit that I’ve been low on blogging inspiration lately. Or any inspiration. Basically, I only have the creative mental capacity to make American Idol cast-off predictions and turn out blog posts pertaining to drag queens singing about Chick-fil-A. 

It’s been difficult to think of new things to blog about, since this thing is about absolutely nothing and yet… everything. all at the same time. It’s all over the place. I wanted to get back on the wagon of blogging M-F at the same time, so I bought this little notebook from Anthropologie. I don’t want to tell you how much it was…. $18….

I’m really into vintage typewriters right now, and this is so cute. It just makes me want to go to a locally owned coffee shop and write for hours. I mean, I haven’t… but,

Now is this planner any different from the Moleskine planner I had to have that was somehow more expensive than this notebook? Well does my Moleskine have this cute little folder in the back?

Yes, yes it does. BUT the pocket doesn’t have a cute little camera on it! Or little drawings of bikes and flowers on the pages. So, hopefully this ends up motivating me a little to be organized and plan my posts farther in advance and maybe to write something that’s not for my blog. If not, at least it served as one blog post. Worth it.

Dara and the Big Sleepover

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Am I the only one who feels like a trashcan after a sleepover?

Because I had a sleepover last night and I definitely feel like a waste receptacle.

(Ooooh, a sleepover… was it with a boy, a girl, Phi Phi O’Hara?)

{PS Does anyone know if RuPaul’s Drag Race is on Demand? on OnDemand? May I demand it at my leisure?}

(It was a platonic lady friend, by the way, not that it’s any of your business. I won’t say who, though, because a lady never eats Chipotle, drinks Skinnygirl Pina Coladas, goes to bed by midnight, and tells).

I don’t know what it is about being at someone else’s house, but I never feel yucky-er than when I wake up the next day.

For one, my irresponsibility and forgetfulness never ceases to amaze me. I almost always forget a tooth brush, but this time I raised the bar and forgot another pair of daily contacts. Like, the one thing I actually need, I forget. Trust that I remembered this:

I could remember to pick up and bring a $15 bottle of low calorie booze, but the item that would allow me to safely drive from Point A to Point B without killing myself or others– I forget.

So, I’m about to go to bed and take out my contacts (because I have dry eyes and at this point my contacts feel like shrink wrap keeping my peepers nice and fresh) and then I realize I’ve got nothing to wear tomorrow. And I just have to leave them in. No matter how uncomfortable they are I have to leave them in because I can’t call AAA the next morning to bring me my glasses. This then became a moment of reflection where I look at my life and look at my choices, and I think if I could just act like an adult once in my dumb life I would have a pair of spare glasses or contacts in my car at all times, just in case!!

Did this become about something other than sleepovers? I digress.

This is how I feel before and immediately after every sleepover. Like, Dara and the Big Sleepover-- it always feels like some sort of low stakes debacle wherein our heroine forgets her toothbrush but eats Mexican food anyway.

What’s weird about sleepovers is that everything seems worse and grosser because you’re at someone else’s house. It’s not like I’ve never slept in my contacts or didn’t brush my teeth before I went to bed. In fact, one of my greatest qualities is the ability to fall asleep wearing that day’s clothes and a sports bra, surrounded by more clothes, a laptop, and a dog with his butt lodged in my spine. It just has to be at my own house. I could bring a change of clothes and shower but still feel like I spent the night in the bathtub of a frat house. I could brush my teeth a million times, and the taste of tacos won’t leave me until I’ve gone home at the absolute earliest reasonable time and then slept in my own bed for nine hours.

One thing I do like about the morning after sleepovers is the excuse I give myself to eat bagels on the drive home or get a Diet Coke at McDonald’s at 8 am. Nothing tastes better than Diet Coke in my trashcan mouth.

‘Courtney’s Countdown’ Ep. 1 Recap

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Well, guys, this is everything I’ve ever wanted in my life in one 7 minute Youtube video (5 minutes of actual footage and 2 minutes of just dead air, which I think was a really interesting artistic choice).

Courtney Stodden, our favorite 17 year-old next door, has decided to serve us up some kiddie porn hot and fresh, in the form of her new web series, ‘Courtney’s Countdown.’

Now, just to back track for a second, I was under the impression that Courtney was going to get a real reality show with her husband on some sort of soulless network like E!, but perhaps Ryan Seacrest grew a conscience and thought better of exploiting a minor. I hope not. I hope this is just the precursor to the main event. Ice Loves Coco, but filthy and disgusting and devoid of any real emotion.

Okay, back to the recap. In the pilot episode, titled ‘My Foot Hurts,’ we open on a black screen, with only the words,

Is this a web series about a May-December romance or a Nick Cage movie? Either way, I’m in.

So in the first shot, Courtney, who has obviously been fed a steady diet of ludes by her mother, is propped up Weekend at Bernie’s style to let us know that “Courtney’s Countdown begins in 3….2….1″ proving that Court can not only count, but can do so backwards and in her underwear. I imagine this is on a similar level of difficulty as patting your head and rubbing your stomach. We’re off to a promising start.

In the next montage of clips we see our heroine, going about her daily routine- coming home from a day of shopping, cooking for her husband, not going to high school, not socializing with people within two decades of her own age, etc. – but today, something’s different. Something is off.

Courtney’s foot hurts.

In a phone conversation with her mother (the mensch of a woman we can thank for making Courtney the contributing member of society she is today), Courtney tries to solve the case of the ouch-y foot. The older and wiser Mama Stodden, suggests that it could be that really strenuous photo shoot the other day- Courtney was jumping around, it could be strained. Ice might help, but Courtney’s not buying that, no way. This was the photo shoot Mama Stodden was talking about?

Jesus has risen, y'all!

So after a tense conversation with mom about what dress to wear to her next photo shoot (‘Just do the white dress like I told yoooouuu.’ Mother-daughter relationships never change! Shucks) Courtney makes a quick wardrobe change.

Finally we are introduced to the man of the hour, Court’s 50 year old husband, Doug. In a tender moment between husband and wife (that looks a lot like a tender moment between father and daughter), Courtney confides that her foot hurts, and she thinks, nay, she’s sure that her bunny photo shoot was the culprit for that aching tootsie of hers. Doug respectfully disagrees. He thinks it might be those hooker shoes she wears to go hiking.

Courtney asks, ‘When do you think it will get better?’

‘With time,’ Doug says poignantly.

Like, it should be fine in two weeks. Like, by that photo shoot she has in two weeks.

Then, Doug realizes in a flash that he has the magic antidote:

A kiss!

One Week Later….

We come full circle with a second phone conversation with Mama Stodden. Courtney has visited the doctor, and it’s just a minor sprain. From that photo shoot. Everyone thought it was the shoes, but it’s not the shoes. It was the photo shoot.

Courtney meets up with Doug to reiterate the news from the doctor that we were told 7 seconds ago. It was the shoot. Not the shoes. We all thought it was the shoes. It was not the shoes.

“What do you think about that?” Courtney asks.

“I think I love you.” Doug replies.

And I think I love you, too, Courtney. We all love you.

If you’d like to watch this episode and experience the laughter and the tears first hand, the complete episode is right here.

And remember, only 133 more days until Courtney turns 18!!!

Things Rich People Can Do For Others (but Mostly for Me)

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1. Put together some kind of Toys for Tots drive, except instead of dolls for poor kids, you can donate your gently worn DVF wrap dresses and other designer clothing and accessories to me (who is short like a child, and poor in the upper-middle-class-suburban-white-girl-in-loads-of-student-loan-debt kind of way). Generally, I’m a size 2/4, but I can always tailor larger sizes at no cost to you.

Guuuuys, c'monnnnnn, I really want this denim wrap dressssss! Every girl should have a DVF wrap dressssss!

2. A rich family from Los Angeles could take me in as their foster child. I’ll happily set up an air mattress in your walk in closet or laundry room. Again, I look young enough to be a minor, so I’m sure this is a tax write-off.

Lissssaaaaa, let me live in your closetttt! You won't even know I'm theeeerrrre!

3. Donate money to me via Paypal. Or maybe we can set up a Kickstarter for a single mom. Or we can just keep giving money to college kids wanting to make short films. Whichever.

Obviously, I’m joking around, unless you’re into any of these suggestions, in which case, you can email me at the address listed under the ‘Contact’ tab. Thanks!

7 Bits of Advice for Young Girls

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1. You don’t need to dress up to go to the mall. You don’t need to be loud and draw attention to yourself at the mall. When you get older and see little mall rats in belly shirts it will make you question whether you ever want children. Seriously, I don’t think you guys understand how annoying you are at the mall.

{I know you think this is what you look like when you dress up to go to the mall, but Rachel McAdams was 26 or 27 right there…. you probably don’t look this good. Sorry.}

2. There’s no reason for you to take a picture of yourself or your friends in the bathroom. This includes on the toilet and in a mirror.

3. If you get into a good college and your dummy boyfriend doesn’t, don’t go to his crappy school because you want to be with him… Seriously, I’m gonna kill you if you do that.

{Don’t you remember? Topanga gets into Yale, but doesn’t go cuz Cory doesn’t want her to. Good one, ABC.}

4. This next bit of advice is c/o my mother, which can be applied to everyone, but particularly Young Girls: Don’t write anything down/take pictures of/record anything you wouldn’t want everyone to see. This includes nudie texts and facebook statuses.

5. That Bob Marley poster makes you look like an a-hole. Take it down. You’re a white girl from the suburbs (I’m assuming), and you have no idea what you’re talking about. We get it, you smoke weed sometimes when people offer it to you for free at parties. Relax.

6. Here’s some advice from my dad, which also applies to everyone, but particularly to Young Girls with punk-y/ugly boyfriends they keep around just so they have a boyfriend: don’t rely on a boyfriend or girlfriend to make you happy. You have to make yourself happy, (get a hobby or something, jeez) and then a significant other becomes a nice  compliment to your life. If you can do this, then you won’t feel the need to date every moron who comes around still wearing the sticker on his hat’s visor.

7. You don’t need to dress like a slutty ________ on Halloween. We’ve all done it, but from experience, you’ll stand out more if you make your own cool costume.

{My friend Michelle and me, Halloween circa 2009. We did not get much attention for our costumes: Under Dressed Circus Master and Under Dressed Mardi Gras Attendee}

{2011… we got a lot more compliments on these homemade costumes… and free drinks! Young Girls, you can still get free drinks whilst fully clothed}

There you have it, Young Girls. Advice you should take if you’d like to some day look back on your adolescence and not cringe. Should I get involved in Big Brothers/Big Sisters? I’m that good, right?

Nudie Texts

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I think my blog is a pretty good resource for any guy who would like to date me. I mean, just go back in the archives and you’ll find some solid advice on how to win my heart. If there are any stalkers out there, I would suggest that you print out my posts, make a binder, and study that like it’s finals week. One day, you can pretend to bump into me at Barnes and Noble, know exactly how to impress me and win my heart, then just when I let my guard down you can skin me alive and wear my face as a jaunty little hat.

With that said, I have another piece of helpful advice to add:

Don’t ever ask me to send you a nudie text. I won’t do it. And then I’ll think you are a predator.

The reason for this– and this is not to slut shame anyone, because you know I’m all about feminism and doing you– but I want to be B-list famous, and don’t you forget it. If I have some nudie picture floating around in some guy’s SIM card, I would think and obsess about it every day. I would probably marry this guy just for a solid confirmation he wouldn’t sell it to TMZ when I hit it medium.

A picture of me on Perez Hilton would be my nightmare because:

1. I’m not an orphan.

2. Tina Fey would be so disappointed in me.

Is this insight into my psyche and how my thought process works kind of terrifying? Or, like, charming? In the sense that I think this far ahead into a hypothetical future where Tina Fey takes me on as her mentee because she wants a red headed protege that finally makes her proud… Ughhh, I think I answered my question. That I’m adorable.

Henry the Chiweenie, Underwear Model

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I hesitated broadcasting this because I am literally airing my dirty laundry, which is exactly as gross as it sounds. I decided to just go forward with it though, since it’s probably one of the funniest things I’ve seen in a while, and I’m a stage mom and want my little Henry to be famous.

So, the other day I’m doing my thing around the house: Nate Berkus on TV while I eat  breakfast, a little Jillian Michael’s 90 Day Revolution work out, mall, blog, and general maxin’ and relaxin’. I went back into my room and found Henry, my chihuahua and dachshund mix, out cold on my bed, wearing my underwear as a necklace.

Stop. How can I even be mad at this?

A Day in the Life: Sephora and Churros

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Date: 3.31.12 (a Saturday)

Morning: This day started in the same way all my days start when I have to go to work later– a total blur of complaining until everything goes dark and then I eventually come to, wearing head-to-toe black standing in a grocery store or a restaurant.

2pm: On this particular day I woke up in the newly renovated wine aisle at Market Basket. For 3 hours I stand at a table hanging out wine samples while I fake laugh at middle aged people until I can’t remember what real laughter feels like and I wonder if I’ll ever smile with genuine happiness again. Then I calculate how much I owe in student loans bills and then I realize that I probably would have been qualified enough to pass out wine at the grocery store with or without a bachelor’s degree.

5pm: My dad picks me up from work and we meet my mom at a Mexican restaurant for dinner (and if you’re one of those people who’s wondering, “Dara why do your parents still drive you to work at 23 years old,” or “Gee, Dara, you seem to spend a lot of time with your parents,” ya, I get it. Keep it to yourself).

5:15pm: This starts making the rounds through my bloodstream–

5:45pm: And another…

6:00pm: Churros in my belly.

6:45pm: We go to the mall, and my dad and I go to Burton’s for a drink… but Burton’s is full! No bar chairs! I don’t stand around at a mall restaurant bar.

6:50pm: We try Red Robins… we see all the ladies wearing jeans with no back pockets and men in Tapout shirts and realize we just can’t do it and turn right on back around.

6:55pm: Finally. Unfortunately. We head over to Joe’s American Bar and Grill, which I worked at for a hot second but then quit 15 minutes before my waitressing test. I didn’t want to run into any employees I knew, but times were desperate, and so I popped my collar, messed my bangs in front of my face, put my head down, and b-lined to the bar. Luckily, no one still worked there from when I worked there, except for one manager that I effectively eluded. Dad and I drank our margaritas in peace.

8pm: I make my way to Sephora for some Super Market Sweeps style shopping. When I was a kid I always wanted to go to Toys R’ Us and run through the aisles with a cart for 5 minutes picking out everything I wanted (I think I saw kids do that on Nickelodeon) (Babysitter’s Club dolls for daayyyyz). The closest I’ve come to doing that is every once in a while when my dad get’s a bonus, he lets me and my mom go to Sephora and buy a bunch of stuff. I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks. The margaritas were just a prelude to the main event.

{A little sample of what I got: NARS The Multiple stick, Bare Essentials bronzer, Anastasia eyebrow pencil, Benefit under eye highlighter, Sephora liquid eye liner, Make Up Forever HD foundation}

9:05pm: I finally finished shopping, and paid for it with my dad’s credit card while he and my mom got pretzels (going all out).

9:10pm: I realize I ‘forgot’ (3 margaritas make you very forgetful) to use my 15% off coupon. Sephora was closed, so I scratched on the door like a cat until they let me back in, and I apologized profusely through tequila breath while they returned all my make up, and then rang it all back up again with the discount.

Thanks for the fun date, daddy and mommy!