Today, my Weekly Tape Deck cohort & general good pal Ryan informed me about some serious bunk-ass-shit that Los Angeles county is pulling. Apparently, now you can’t “cast, toss, throw, kick or roll” anything besides a volleyball or a beach ball on LA County beaches.
DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE IMPLICATIONS OF SAID BULLSHIT?! THIS MEANS I CAN’T PLAY SMASHBALL NOW! I LOVE SMASHBALL! IT’S MY THIRD FAVORITE THING TO DO ON THE BEACH! RIGHT AFTER DRINKING & TANNING, ONE OF WHICH IS ALREADY FREAKIN’ OUTLAWED!!!
Basically, you get fined $100 for your first offense, then $200 and then $500, which is just absolutely outrageous for trying to have some good old fashioned clean fun with a football or frisbee.
Here’s the thing: you take a gamble at the beach.
There may be people having some fun
& you may have to deal with it,
just like at a park.
Are we going to outlaw pinatas in parks because of the one time a Mexican kid almost hit me with a fucking bat? I mean, is that what the world is coming to?
We going to ruin summer AND children’s birthday parties?
For the record, not only have I escaped death in Elysian Park, but I’ve also been hit in the face with both footballs and frisbees at the beach. In fact, one time, I was hit in the face with a football while on a “date” with Vince, who you may know as the bro who plays my ex-boyfriend in T&tT: The Series (yes, we “dated” and yes, he “dumped” me). Here is a photo that exemplifies our relationship, despite being taken years after we’d already decided to just be friends:
Me trying too hard & bros not giving a shit.
I was just chillin’ on a blanket, trying to crack some jokes & not get sand on my legs, hoping to score some ass later, when BAM! I get blindsided by a pigskin. Did it suck? Yes, it did. Did I still enjoy my day at the beach? Yes, I did.
Did I still get some ass? HELL YES I DID.
The county is saying this is for public safety, BUT EVERYONE KNOWS THAT IS ABSOLUTE NONSENSE.
Thanks CBS poll.
NO ONE HAS EVER DIED FROM A FOOTBALL TO THE DOME.
AND ESPECIALLY NO ONE HAS DIED FROM
FALLING INTO A SAND HOLE
DEEPER THAN 18 INCHES,
WHICH IS NOW ALSO ILLEGAL!
WHAT’S NEXT LOS ANGELES?!
YOU GOING TO BAN LOUNGING?!
SHOULD I EVEN BOTHER BUYING A NEW BIKINI?!
WHAT’S NEXT, NO RUNNING INTO THE WATER & DIVING UNDER WAVES?!
SHOULD I PUT MY SANDCASTLE BUILDING CAREER ON HOLD?!
YOU GOING TO TELL EVERYONE
TO RETURN THEIR ROLLERBLADES TOO?!
I CAN’T FUCKING BELIEVE THIS SHIT.
I’m going to do something about this but I can’t right now because I planned my whole week around today being seventy-nine degrees & rushed home after work to tan my ass & lathered on a bunch of sun tan oil & it’s fucking shady & breezy & a nice seventy-two-ish & now I have to shower because I’m leaving a Hawaiian Tropic snail trail all over my house.
Will keep you updated on my plan of attack,
WHICH I WILL HAVE, BECAUSE I WON’T STAND FOR THIS.
After countless glasses of wine & a couple off-hand shots of whiskey, I excitedly agreed to go as my friend Megan’s show & tell subject at her work. I was excited because of a number of reasons, all filed under the tab “Megan Godfrey‘s Awesome”. She has killer taste, an incredible sense of humor & a huuuge heart. On a selfish note, I also just totally wanted to see where she worked because she designs super dope clothes with Pencil On Paper (POP) Studio.
I woke up at 6:12 last Wednesday,
thought maybe I could get in 18 minutes of sleep
(who the fuck sleeps for eighteen minutes?!)
but couldn’t so showered at 6:25
& was at POP Studio with Megan by 8:30.
This is me in front of their cool screensavers & modern couch.
Please ignore my fat chipmunk face & focus on how cool my denim shirt is.
It turns out POP Studio is a creative oasis that harbors & nurtures the most beautiful & inspired people you’ve ever seen in your life. I can’t believe that I read for these people. I’m telling you, they are the most beautiful & inspired people you’ve ever seen in your life. Each of them have immaculate bone structure & perfect style, like some foreign Vogue spread without the pretension. And THEN, on TOP OF THAT, they work in this freaking like, I don’t know, some Portlandia ad agency dream where everything is all tall ceilings & bajillion foot tall windows & their “cubicles” are really “enchanting minimalist quarters of beautiful white lines”. I would seriously consider living there if all the beautiful people who worked there wouldn’t think I was a fucking weirdo for it.
Anyyyyywayyyyy,
every couple weeks, they meet for a Show & Tell.
Megan brought me & I read a tangent & talked a bit.
The gentleman next to me brought a 1965 Dynmo Tapewriter.
The next girl brought a stack of Rodarte Fra Angelico photos.
The next gentleman brought a-TO-DIE-for 1950′s typography book.
Our friend Haley showed a bunch of dope stop-animations.
And so forth, until I exploded into a cloud of confetti & clean design ideas.
BEST OF ALL, THE CE-MUH’FUCKIN-O*
BROUGHT IN A BUNCH OF MIDCENTURY
HAWAIIAN ARCHITECTURE PICTURES!
ANYONE WHO IS ON MY DICK
KNOWS THAT THAT IS MY DIP!
[via my Tumblr]
This post really doesn’t have much of a point besides to tell you
that we are all miserable slaves that will probably never experience
the kind of splendid sanctuary of POP Studio
in our entire careers.
#BUMMER
That’s it. Really. I spoke in front of a group of really cool people & we’ll probably never be as cool as them. I’m sorry. I really wish I had more to say about the subject, but honestly if you’re a Los Angeles resident, be on the look out for dope shows they throw. Yes, they also have an art gallery and throw dope shows. TOLD YOU WE WILL NEVER BE THIS COOL!
*Editor’s Note: It has been brought to my attention that John Moore is the creative director & not the actual CEO but as the creative director of this blog, I feel like being creative director is kind of sort of like being a CEO, of creative things. Whatever his shit was sick.
I’m now a personal assistant. I don’t know if I ever said that here but yeah, I don’t do social media anymore, which is great. Instead, I get to run errands I wouldn’t normally run for myself because I hate them so much/run errands I only dream of running for myself.
For example…
Yesterday, I got to go pick up some goods at Paul Smith.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been to the Paul Smith store,
but HOLY MOTHER OF ALL THINGS WOOD
& WHITE & AESTHETICALLY PLEASING!
That place is just like, heaven.
It’s just magic in there. I want to live there.
Now see those book shelves in that second photo?
Alright, so I was checking out these pajamas
when I spot a book I’ve been dying to have:
THIS IS LIKE A PHOTOGRAPHER’S PREMONITION OF MY LIFE.
THIS WAS MY BIOGRAPHY BEFORE I WAS EVEN BORN TO HAVE ONE.
THIS IS EVERYTHING I STAND FOR IN A FUCKING BOOK DUDE!
Anyway, so I pick it up & look for a price, expecting a zillion dollars.
I couldn’t find a price tag though, only a small $35.00 on the inside sleeve.
I ran my little hands across the cover, gently grazing the plastic sheath like a lover’s cheek. I flipped through the pages, using all my strength not to just fingerblast the hell out of those nineteen-seventies pool scenes. I wanted to just kiss it, all over. I wanted to make love to that book right there. I wanted to worship it, and whisper sweet nothings in its ears. “You are the tightest pussy of a book,” I’d tell it. “I want to live in you. I’ll never be able to live without you. You’re so beautiful.” But I decided, for thirty-five dollars, I should just buy it & go be creepy in the privacy of my own home.
Being as this store is in the trajectory of 2014 in terms of shit I can afford, I don’t know what in hell possessed me to trick myself into thinking it was actually thirty-five dollars. I guess it was wishful thinking & also the fact that I didn’t think people would maliciously hide the price tags in the spine of page fifteen.
But that’s exactly where the real price tag was.
Please take a moment of silence
to picture & bless the look on my face
when it rang up as NINE HUNDRED & FIFTY FUCKING DOLLARS.
My mouth dropped open & I let out a silly, “Aheh…”
followed by a giggle that would have been cute on me five years ago.
And the too-fashionable-not-to-be-gay salesman says,
“Well, it is vintage & first edition!”
Apparently, vintage + first edition = more than my rent.
I held A Wonderful Time in my hot little hands for a moment longer, thinking of the ecstasy I had felt just mere minutes earlier in that back corner of the store. That hot minute I spent alone thinking about how I was going to fuck the shit out of this book with my eyes for all of eternity, how it would always be there on my coffee table just waiting to be molested with my mind, every day. For a moment, I really wondered if I could get away with it. Like if maybe I ran my debit like a credit card & then ran home & told my dad my cat was dying or something.
But then I realized that that was really stupid.
There may come a day when I actually need to lie about my cat dying
so I can get nine hundred & fifty dollars to fucking live or eat or not be arrested.
Also, I shouldn’t even be thinking about lying about my cat dying! I love my cat! What is wrong with me?! What has happened to me?!
This pool porn was turning me into a monster!
I sheepishly let out another, “Aheh…”
with an awkward smile & put the book back,
feeling totally defeated & deflated.
I gingerly stroked its cover one last time,
promising I would see it in two years
& to please, PLEASE JUST WAIT FOR ME!
I WILL COME BACK I FUCKING PROMISE!
I LOVE YOU! I FUCKING LOVE YOU!
I turned my back on it at 2:30pm
on January Twenty-Third Two Thousand & Twelve,
knowing I may never see it again
but certain the love in my heart would go on forever,
much like Celine Dion or a good designer bag.
The rest of my day felt pretty miserable,
a feeling that is still sort of lingering today,
which is kind of fucking weird since it’s A FUCKING BOOK.
I feel like a man who fell in love with an escort he couldn’t afford. He had caressed her perfect tit & was then turned away, only to dream of that single tit for the rest of his life. He would aimlessly wander Tumblr evermore & pray that perhaps one day he’d get really fucking lucky with a high-res find on a Large sized Google Image Search.
That book is my 70′s Harrison Ford in a speedo & the Parker Hotel rolled into one. It is my muse. I will have it. Mark my words, I will have that fucking book.
That $950 one too,
considering I just found out
that to buy that book new,
oh it’s just about a cool four grand.
This weekend I got Dudefriend to spend the best seventeen dollars he’s spent on me this year & take me to go see Beauty & The Beast 3D.
IT WAS SO AWESOME!!!
I’m not even a fan of 3D movies because they usually give me a headache & I can’t get drunk beforehand but Beauty & The Beast 3D was not like that because since it was made back in the day, its 3Dness is just like a really nice depth of field with the foreground & middleground & animated background actors. I was AGASP when they open up on the beautiful rolling hills of Belle’s poor provincial town & surrounding wind-swept meadows with tiny little pink flowers & shit. I was seriously five all over again. I smiled the whole time, except for the parts where obviously you shouldn’t smile– like when she cries about never seeing her father again or any time Gaston is on screen cause I really don’t like his attitude.
I probably hadn’t watched Beauty & The Beast
in like, a good ten or so years.
FAR TOO LONG.
But kind of awesome because I realized
something about Beauty & The Beast
THAT I NEVER REALIZED BEFORE:
THAT IT IS FUCKED UP THAT THE BEAST GOT BEASTED!!!
Look, I get it. He was an asshole to everyone & then one stormy night he was an asshole to the wrong haggard hobo that came to the door & she spelled him. But guess what? The math is pretty fucked up on this story because in the movie, first it explains via stained glass that the prince was a dick his whole life & then was beasted. Then it explains that the spell must be broken via the wilting rose by his twenty-first birthday. Then Mrs. Potts or someone says that they have been objectified (bahdumchhhh) for the past ten years.
So, basically,
via math
via my brain
via the supplied information
via the script,
THE BEAST WAS BEASTED AT LIKE, TEN YEARS OLD.
I think that the haggard hobo/beautiful enchantress should have given him a break. All ten year olds are dicks anyway and secondly, he was just following one of the top three most important rules of childhood: never let strangers in!
I can’t believe he even answered the door at night to be honest!
And I think that is the REAL moral of the story here.
DON’T ANSWER THE DOOR AT NIGHT! ESPECIALLY IF IT’S A STRANGER!
It’s still the number one way to not get beasted &/or SVU’d.
1. My Raen Alex Knost sunglasses. THE BEST.
2. Vintage Italian wallet/coin purse my sister gave me last year for Christmas that I get more compliments on than everything I’ve ever gotten complimented on ever combined.
3. Smith’s Minted Rose Lip Balm because the Olsens endorsed it once in 2006.
4. My gondola ticket from Sterling Vineyards last spring. It’s like the Disneyland of vineyards if Disneyland just had one arial tram, one guided tour & six weakly poured wine tastings.
5. A hair tie, for emergencies. I say for emergencies because those thin hair ties do nearly nothing for me, but in a tight situation it’d still work.
6. Two stray Midols. Also for emergencies. Or hangovers.
7. A Corona bottle cap that was probably from an emergency.
8. A roll of Kodak film.
9. L’Oreal’s Walk On The Beach nail polish. I just got this because I just got paid.
10. My favorite pen I stole from Dudefriend that he got at a conference. He will never see it again.
11. An open packet of Sugar In The Raw because I always feel bad opening a packet of it & only using a couple granules & then throwing it out. Just seems so wasteful, so instead I fold the packet, put it in my purse, forget about it & the sugar spills everywhere & gets stuck in my electric key & now I can’t use it, so obviously my sugar saving idea was one of my better ones.
On Saturday I performed in the Hello Giggles show at UCB.
I love doing the Hello Giggles shows because
I get to perform with some of my favorite friends/people,
and because I loooooove being on stage.
Except for everything that comes with me being on a stage
when I’m not actually on the stage.
I’ve been getting up in front of people & making an ass out of myself since I was a wee single digit and I’ve always been a total basket case about it. For most of my life, I would go through a single process: casually rehearse, procrastinate, freak the fuck out, rehearse like crazy, hate myself, trip out about having shit memorized, memorize everything, feel like Kanye, realize I’m not Kanye, freak out, pick out a great outfit, find a middle ground because at least now if I fuck up I look good, get on stage & have an awesome time and exit stage right
& vomit in the trash cans in the wings.
After nearly twenty years of this,
I am comfortable enough to not vomit
but now I just make up insane stuff to worry about,
like obsessing over what underwear I’m going to wear.
This seems deranged. And it is. I won’t dispute that. But I genuinely spend a lot of time worrying about what underwear I’ll wear because for about ten years,
I was always cast as a manish character.
I KNOW, RIGHT?! HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE WITH MY TINY FIVE INCH FACE & BARELY-THERE JAW LINE?! Fucking beats me. All I know is that on three separate occasions I have been cast as Viola in Twelfth Night. For those of you who are not familiar with Shakespeare, just know that Viola is a bitch who gets shipwrecked & upon washing ashore, dresses up like a man to get a job & this woman falls in love with her & she’s in love with the bro that’s in love with the woman who’s in love with her… anyway, yeah the point is that Viola dresses like a dude for 90% of the show.
I have like ten other examples from while I was in acting school but I don’t remember the names of the plays but just please know I cried to my teacher once about how I was never cast as anyone except a tomboy or a curmudgeon.
He replied, emotionless & hard from years of bit parts on CBS crime shows, “Master your niche, then branch out.”
Fuck that. My niche is not “bad attitude in wide legged pants”.
In some weird not-so-subconscious effort to combat my insecurities about always being cast as a lesbian, I make an effort to wear dresses while performing.
WHICH GETS US TO THIS WHOLE BUSINESS WITH THE UNDERWEAR!!!
Because my biggest fear is eating shit on stage & my theory is that yes, I could eat shit, face plant & have my dress come up around my waist, showing off my half-in-shape ass & my underwear. That’s so possible! BUT! I know in my performer’s heart of hearts, I would get up & laugh it off & all would be okay but I want to make sure that if that ever happened, at least someone would be like, “Wow, I can’t believe Marissa Ross ate shit like that but did you see her underwear? They were so cute & totally matched her dress! For being a clutz, she is soooooo put together!”
So, I spend like a week figuring this shit out.
Three days to find the actual outfit,
four days figuring out what underwear is the best.
Cause I mean, you could go like super-matchy OR you could go quirky OR you could just go neon! And do you do thong or boy short? What about the ones with the arbitrary bows your boyfriend makes fun of but you swear someone out there must think are sexy? Does your dress show lines? Is your ass tan? Is that one dimple you’ve been trying to get rid of for eight months still there? Could your creepy ex-boyfriend possibly be in the audience? Could a future creepy stalker be in the audience? What about a creepy television executive!?!
THERE ARE JUST SO MANY VARIABLES!!!
And this is how I think.
Like a completely psychotic person.
Why are you even reading this?!
Anyway, my underwear was exactly the color of my dress on Saturday.
With some black lace trims/accents & some super cute bows
that my boyfriend thinks are fucking stupid I’m sure.
But I think, they’re maybe in my top three cutest underwear.
I recently got them at Victoria’s Secret, so you know I’m not playin’.
I put them on & was like,
“DAMN! IF I FALL TONIGHT EVERYONE’S GOING TO KNOW HOW FLY I AM!”
Here is me backstage, to give you a visual on my color scheme.
But here’s the thing!
I didn’t fall on my face!
So now I almost feel like I wasted my outfit/underwear combo but you can just go ahead & ignore how sorta unstable & relatively masochistic I am.
Hey everyone, just wanted to let you know I saw Mischa today. Living in Echo Park, seeing Mischa is a pretty normal thing. Like, for the most part, you kinda can’t go out without seeing her. But when you see her, you’re usually like, “Whoa, that looks like a fat Mischa Barton!” and then you feel super bad because, it is a fat Mischa Barton. Or, alternatively, you’re like, “Whoa, that looks like Mischa Barton on drugs!”
and then you feel super bad because, it is Mischa Barton on drugs.
All this time I’m like,
I just want Mischa to be happy!
Where is Mischa’s happy place?
You know, where she looks like
a healthy person who doesn’t hate herself?
Well, you guys, I have great news!
Today, Mischa looked so good!
And she was like, just in yoga pants with her dog!
She wasn’t like done up or anything!
And she looked the best ever.
I’m very happy for her. I never watched the OC because I was far too emo & “cool” for that, but I always thought she was super pretty & always just wanted the best for her. All these years I’ve watched her at the grocery store check-out lines & really was just like, “C’mon. You’re so pretty. You can do this!”
And now she is. It’s really inspiring when you think about it.
It’s not like, Kristen Wiig inspiring or anything.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s still just Mischa Barton.
But then again, [whispers] she’s Mischa Barton.
My father recently bought a king size bed he didn’t end up using because it didn’t fit in the room he bought it for & it has been sitting in storage. He offered it to Dudefriend & myself, and I was kinda like,
“No, it’s cool, I like my bed.”
Of course Dudefriend was like,
“Are you kidding me?
WE’LL TAKE THE BED.”
Not to say I don’t want a new bed,
but I’m having a hard time
giving up my bed.
I love my bed.
I’ve had it since I was 18.
This is apparently the grossest thing ever to everyone besides me but I’m sorry, it’s a perfectly fucking awesome bed that is really fucking comfortable! It’s beyond comfortable! Everyone who has ever slept in it had commented on how comfortable it is & how they wish they’d never have to leave it! That is a fucking fact! A fact I have woken up every morning for seven years to confirm!
The only reason everyone is freaking out is because they’ve all slept in it
& probably didn’t realize I’d had it since I was 18
& now they’re like, “EWWW! DEAD SKIN CELLS & SEX JUICES!”
like I’m a whore that doesn’t use fucking sheets.
Like that I’ve been servicing men on a plain old mattress
with only a fleece Christmas-patterned blanket
from the 99 Cent store
to shelter me from the
harsh Southern California winters.
I LIVE FOR SHEETS.
ORGANIC ONES.
PLUS!
I’M A CLEAN,
NON-WHORISH PERSON.
MY MATTRESS IS FINE!
IT’S MORE THAN FINE!
IT’S MY FRIEND!
That bed has been with me through the best & worst times & thinking of it just hanging out on the sidewalk waiting to be trashed along with the ACTUAL disgusting mattresses of Los Angeles county is such a bummer.
But then again, it is 2012–
the year my whole life gets upgraded.
So, I must accept that this is the circle of life.
One comfy-ass queen must be let go
in order to get a bangin’ pillow-topped king.
My bed has served me well.
I just wish we didn’t have to say goodbye.
• Take my self-awareness to the next level & stop stressing myself out so much when I don’t need to because I do that all the time when I really don’t need to & I should be at a point in my life where I can tell the difference between shit worth stressing myself out about versus being stoned.
• Work out at least three times a week, because I am a woman & obviously I can’t start a new year– ha, let alone a day!– without being unsatisfied with my body.
• Drink more water. Duh.
• Write at least one page on my typewriter a day, whether it be a journal entry or a contribution to my fictional novella no one will actually believe is purely fiction as it will no doubt be about Los Angeles, lust, and a bunch of lazy, licentious losers who want to be writers or pursue some career that is equally creative & contrived, just like me! I mean, but it’s fiction.
• Stop using my phone while driving, even if I’m drinking iced coffee & being super brilliant & can’t wait to Tweet.
• Listen to more music. I’ve really fallen off.
• Hope that everyone stops shortening “gorgeous” to “gorg”. It takes a word that means “beautiful” & abbreviates it into this ugly, stupid sounding thing, thus defeating all the sentiments you’re trying to express on my Instagram photos.
• Stop talking shit on people who’ve wronged me, even though I fucking hate them with relatively good reason & wish my friends would too.
• Forgive people who’ve wronged me & not just be like, “I’m over it, it’s fine… I mean, I think they’re really rude but it’s cool… I just feel like she’s kind of a stupid fucking c-word, but whatever… No, really, it’s cool…”
• Not to take it personally when people meet me a bunch of times & we’re always really friendly & they refuse to follow me back on Twitter. I do that all the time! I shouldn’t care! I mean, not everyone is going to think I’m a really pretty genius. And some people are going to hate me for being a really pretty genius. Both totally okay things! Besides, lest us not forget Kelly Slater follows me, so whatever… it’s cool… no, really.
• Hope that spec script I spent two months writing does something besides collect dust. If anyone who can help me get somewhere in the world wants to read it, let me know! I’m open for jobs or just social climbing!
• Transform from “Manic Pixie Dream Girl” into “Hooker With A Heart Of Gold”, cause I feel like the quirky brunette market is kinda tapped right now and IDK, I like the alliteration of “Hooker With A Heart Of Gold”. I feel like I could pull that off without actually being a hooker, just like I’ve pulled off this MPDG without being a fucking idiot.
• Hope to find Beetlejuice on DVD while wandering around Target one day.
2011 is coming to an end, and I can honestly say it has been one of the best years of my life. This time last year, I was just let go from my job and started working at an ocarina company. Yes, ocarinas, as in the things from The Legend Of Zelda. I talked to 13 year olds on the internet about Zelda all day for a paycheck. It was an incredibly dark time with very little promise to propel me forward. I was the most broke I’d been since moving to Los Angeles (the brokest time of my life) and was quickly shredding through my savings. But, I persevered! I continued forth, immersing myself in my delusional optimism knowing that eventually, something would happen. I wrote blogs and scripts like a mad man and now here we are.
I am very proud to say that in 2011, I was able to write for one of the internet’s most popular websites, I wrote/starred/basically produced my own web show, got a great job working for one of my heroes, met so many incredible people that I have admired, even met someone who wants to put me on television as the millennial poster girl for wine (cross those fucking fingers, bitches), finished my first pilot script that features characters that are not “Marissa A. Ross” AND Kelly Slater followed me on Twitter.
If it sounds like I’m showboating, I’m not meaning to but also, I really don’t give a shit if it comes off that way. I am just genuinely grateful and excited to be where I am right now and to be starting 2012 in the place I am. If the world ends next year, I’m going to be able to say I went after my dreams and I even got damn close to achieving them.
And this is where I have to thank anyone who’s ever read this blog or any of my articles, ever followed me on Twitter, ever subscribed to my Tumblr and especially, everyone who watched my web series and Wine Time. Because honestly, none of what’s happening would be possible. All my opportunities have stemmed from working on this ridiculous piece of internet real estate and I can’t thank you enough for supporting it and me, some random-ass brunette with a penchant for bitching and wining [bah-dum-chhhhhh].
So, thank you– yes, you, right now you– so, so very much.
Special thank you’s to Bennett Smith, Molly McAleer, Sophia Rossi, Zooey Deschanel, Mindy Kaling, Kashy Khaledi, Jennifer Still, Kimberly Gordon, my close friends who should know who they are and most of all’s: my best friend Meredith Leyerzaph, my sister Valerie, my Grandma and Papa (RIP) and my insanely, incredible boyfriend Benjamin Blascoe. Each of them have been beyond good to me and every day I am reminded to be appreciative for what they have brought into my life this year.
My only real regret this year was not writing here more.
And I really hope to get back to that in the new year.
The truth is, blogging is hard when you’re busy & happy.
So thanks for sticking with me.
My best wishes to you & yours.
I hope each of you work hard,
do shit for free & never give up.
2012 is going to be fantastic.
Can’t wait to kill it with you.
And remember,
summer only ends if you let it.
xoxoxo
I’ve got this question in my [Tumblr] inbox six times now, so I feel I should just answer it.
I don’t love or hate Lana Del Rey. I feel about Lana Del Rey how I feel about most things: it’s fine. She’s fine to exist & I’m fine with her existing. She has two songs I enjoy & she has a bunch of songs I don’t care for, so I don’t listen to those songs. Am I going to hate her because she got her lips done? No. Does it bother me that she presented herself in a rather deceitful manner (re: that first P4k interview)? Of course. Am I going to waste my time acting like this shit doesn’t happen everyday? No fucking way. Entertainers— both mainstream, independent, hell myself even— even in the slightest manner, have images & acts. Some of those images & acts involve fake names, plastic surgery & feigned dialects. The only reason this conversation is happening about Lana is because a bunch of pretentious tastemaking assholes feel like they were fooled. Who fucking cares? We’re fooled every fucking day and you’re an idiot if you think otherwise.
The bottom line about Lana Del Rey is, despite the hype & all the shit & all the shallow, petty nonsense of it all, she can sing. At the end of the day, isn’t that what really matters?
I’ve been trying to replace “my jam” with “my dip”.
I decided to do this because quite frankly,
it’s a better fucking choice.
I am guessing– with confidence– that on average, people love dips more than jams. I mean, I threw myself an entire birthday party around dips where I did not ask for presents, I asked for everyone to bring a dip. My “David Putty Party” was a serious success that I don’t think a “jam party” would have been. Jams are great, don’t get me wrong, but I feel like they’re more for bread and Brits. (Right, tea time? Am I just being a dick right now or does anyone else feel me on that?)
Dips are for everyone!
Ranch dip, bean dip, artichoke dip, sour cream & onion dip, SEVEN FUCKING LAYER DIP, spinach dip, guacamole, chile con queso, straight up salsa, cheddar ale spread, jalepeno crab dip! AND THAT’S JUST OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD! IF I SPENT AN EXTRA FIVE MINUTES ON THE INTERNET I COULD BLOW YOUR FUCKING MIIINDS WITH THE SORT OF DIPS I COULD FIND! NOT TO MENTION, FRENCH ONION!
(I don’t like french onion really, so please to the four people who brought it to my David Putty party, can three of you bring more 7 layer dips next time? Thanks.)
Unfortunately, despite all reasonable logic
& my immaculate enunciation
(when I’m not drunk),
everyone keeps thinking I’m saying,
“DAMN, THAT’S MY DICK!”
Which is, painfully, not the same as “my dip”.
“Dip” is better than “jam”,
but “jam” is better than “dick”.
I am sullen, but not defeated.
I will be a trendsetting slanguist one day.
A weak spirit would have been crushed by the shocking storm of circumstances, set-backs & general annoyances I’ve weathered in the past two days. They haven’t been the worst days of my life, but they have been incredibly tedious. And by “tedious”, I of course mean,
“WHY DOES THE WORLD WANT ME TO COMMIT SUICIDE?!”
I woke up Wednesday feeling great.
I got up early & worked a little,
then I exercised, cleaned the kitchen
& even got in a quick shower.
I pranced out to my car in a long, flowing tye-dye skirt. I was in such a good mood. I was going to go to the coffee shop & was envisioning my personal rendition of that opening sequence with Belle in Beauty & The Beast– you know, in which I am the incredibly popular but totally oblivious girl-about-town who is into books & all the hot dudes fawn over me. It’s cool.
The wind was blowing & I felt like I looked straight of an Urban Outfitters catalogue, which is a confusing thing to feel. No one wants to look like everything they own is over-priced & peddled to overeager nineteen year olds; but then again, they do have great catalogues. No matter, even if I did look more contrived than a confused college student, I was feeling great & I was confident the day was mine.
It was at this moment
I began to back out of my drive way
& immediately feel
the indisputable symptoms
of a flat tire.
My flat tire turned out to be the catalyst for what those of feeble character may have called “a fucking apocalypse”. From there, it all went downhill. Just, ev-er-y-thing. I was late. I couldn’t get cell phone service anywhere. I got bruises all over my arm from trying to break into my friend’s house through the mail slot after forgetting my keys at home. I had to file police reports. I was super hung over (OK, totally my fault) & out in public in sweatpants (also, my fault) & I started my period (damn, also not my fault, fuckin’ nature). I was stuck in traffic from the west side for nearly three hours. You know, just all the really annoying things that usually happen spanned out over weeks, not a matter of hours.
But here’s the cool thing:
MERCURY IS IN RETROGRADE!
Now I can just save all that energy one would normally spend looking for someone to blame/murder for the series of unfortunate events! More importantly, I don’t even have to fret my pretty little head contemplating my own responsibility in my life! No, I can blame a planet instead!
Headache? Retrograde.
Step in dog shit? Retrograde.
Forget to pay a parking ticket? Retrograaade!
Run a red light while texting & rear end a Bentley?
YOU’VE BEEN RETROGRADED!
It’s all very freeing you know,
absolving yourself from your life’s liabilities.
It’s like, do I really believe
a planet has that much control over everything?
I’m not sure.
But will I believe it anyway
just so I don’t have to wonder
why the universe just shit all over me?
Of course!
I’m just going to focus on the good things that happened this week, ya know? For example… let’s see… well, last night, a married bartender who purposefully doesn’t wear his ring bought me a drink. So, that’s cool! I’ve still got it!
“It” of course being “my innate & effortless ability to attract assholes”.
Yeah, it’s been a rough one.
It’s going to be okay though.
We just have to stay strong through the 12th guys!
Then we’ll have like another three months
before Mercury gets bored & decides to ruin our lives again.
There is only one thing that comes close to how much I love Summer
& that is HOW MUCH I FREAKING LOVE THE HOLIDAY SEASON!
I love Thanksgiving, I love all of December, I love decorating shit, I love making ornaments, I fucking love love love Christmas music, I love themed cocktails, I love wearing big coats over tiny dresses, I love being wished a thousand happy Hanukkahs, I LOVE Christmas & I sort of love New Year’s.
But I hate shopping during the holidays.
That’s the fucking worst idea ever.
Especially when you don’t know the person well.
You’re like clawing your way through the mall,
navigating through a Disneyland crowd on PCP.
How are you supposed to see that perfect gift
while you’re busy getting struck head-on by 4-wheel drive strollers?!
So, in the spirit of the season, I decided to make a Holiday Gift Guide so that moms, dads, friends & unacquainted cousins could get an idea as to what to get that very special, weirdly sophisticated dumb asshole that drinks too much in their family for Christmas/Jewish Week this year.
So, press play on this delightful Dent May holiday jam & get to reading! You only have like, 26 days left to figure out how to get all this shit under my tree.
Bandit Cabernet $8
Wine in general is a good idea but a personal affordable favorite is Bandit boxed wine. It’s delicious & more eco-friendly so you can drink it & pretend you’re not such an asshole. Also: there is 33% more wine because it’s in a box. Also: great for Ross testing!
Give your spritely little friend the extra five inches she’s always dreamed of with these incredibly cute, chic & incredulously comfy Jeffrey Campbell’s. If we’re going to be real here, these shoes have changed my life & I have been stomping around in them for weeks acting like I’m the queen of something.
I was recently introduced to this stuff when my hairdresser used it for my last photoshoot. Contrary to popular belief, I actually have very thin hair, just a lot of it. This volumizing powder not only gave me the perfect amount of poof, but also gave my hair that awesome just-outta-the-ocean feeling & I didn’t have to wash it for days (which means a lot to hustlers with little time on their hands).
I don’t know what you people want from me. I will continue to rave about this book for forever. Buy it for someone this holiday season. You have to. Not gifting this to a lovely lady is a fucking crime against humanity.
Okay. OK. These are actually just on my Christmas list since @etoilee8 tweeted them at me this morning & I was just like, “DAMN. SOMEONE BETTER GET ME ONE.” Like, for real. A beach scene. That I can put stuff in. What more could I possibly want in the universe besides a ranchion?! (Note: A ranchion is a ranch-mansion, which is like a mansion but a little more cozy & welcoming.)
Since you pay weekly, this could be either pretty cheap or really expensive but anyone who reads me on the reg’ knows I’m obsessed with Community Supported Agriculture. I rep them so hard on the internet & in real life. Basically, for $25 a week you get two bangin’ big ass bags of local, organic produce. That is so much cheaper than buying it at the grocery store! And $3 of every purchase goes to your local school district. Plus you just pick it up. I’ve heard that this is best in California where we grow tons of stuff year round, but I know my friends in New Mexico love it too! Great for parents. They will think you’re looking out for your own health & not drinking yourself to sleep on a regular basis.
Did you read the thing? Hello, duh, yeah, this is for Marissa A. Ross’. It’s very reminiscent of my favorite HST quote plus I live in Wildfox because I’m a spoiled bitch & it’s the best. Give your favorite spoiled bitch this shirt so we can be spoiled bitches together (until I steal this from her & we’re mortal enemies).
Herbal Ecstasy $20
I just got this in Santa Cruz at the Happy High Herbal Store. They specialize in “legal party alternatives”. As someone who has enjoyed (not saying I condone!) recreational drug use in their day but doesn’t have the time to deal with a three day depletion of serotonin, I was intrigued. Does it work? No idea. I haven’t tried it yet but who cares? Even if you don’t orgasm off sucking on Skittles & rubbing Vick’s Vapo-Rub all over your face, at least you will be putting a good laugh in someone’s stocking.
I just think these are really versatile in the fact that they could go from seduction-to-snuggle. First, you have them on with some pumps & a cute dress. After everyone loses interest in clothing & disregards their shoes & ruffle some sheets, you can throw on a comfy sweater & your cute undies & hit the couch in these. They’re like pants but sexier.
Who knows? Maybe this is the comfy sweater I was talking about! I just think every girl needs a good black sweater they could wear everyday if they wanted to. I like to buy mine a size or two too large & feel like I’m swimming in warmth.
Wool Blanket around $30
I’m sure I’m being totally not politically correct in calling these wool blankets “Mexican Blankets” but I feel like you totally know what I’m talking about now. I got this amazing one in my favorite color at my local hipster “general” store. I keep it on my couch where I snuggle it for hours while watching Storage Wars.
It’s like being at the beach all year round! Okay, so this stuff doesn’t smell like coconut but it does smell like your mom’s Hawaiian Tropic from the late eighties which I LOVE. All you’ll need is one of those one pieces that barely covers your crotch & completely misses your hips & you’ll be set.
Hennessy $35
Because all us egomaniacal fiends really want to be rappers on the inside (sometimes).
I got one of these a couple years ago & I love it. They’re super stylish plus they come with speakers built in! Sure they kind of suck in terms of speakers but awesome when you don’t want to throw down for a whole sound system/want a gift for a girl who probably doesn’t give a shit about sound systems anyway.
The Doors, Self-Titled on vinyl $8+
I’m sure there are people out there frowning on this choice, but seriously, fuck you. It is not my fault that you have never been drunk on a hot summer day in Los Angeles. Anyone who doesn’t “get” The Doors, that’s all they need to do. Get super wasted in the heat of LA & suddenly The Doors make sense. I know this because everyone in LA is not from LA and they’re like “WTF” until I show them the light. This is my personal favorite Doors album. It’s so classic, super sexy & mad fiendish. I just want to get into a bottle & a bunch of trouble with it. Another great choice: Waiting For The Sun.
I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT THIS! It’s my favorite lipgloss in the world. It’s not too dark with the quintessential amount of glimmer & tons of shine. Only downsides: it will ruin wine glasses & the faces of those you’re making out with. Oh well. Occupational hazards exist, ya’all.
Do you know how many times people like me are in situations where they need a corkscrew but left the travel one from the Hilton in their other clutch? ALL THE TIME. That’s why this is a really affordable & smart gift!
Family Members’ Left Over Pharmaceuticals
For you broke, soulless types with access to your elderly-people relatives’ medicine cabinets or recent wisdom-teeth-losing younger siblings who haven’t discovered the recreational uses of Vicodin yet.
So, that’s it!
Unless you know where to get a bikini made of a hundred dollar bills?
I’m not arrogant enough to believe
that everyone in the world thinks I’m great
but also, I was pretty sure
I didn’t have any real enemies.
But now, now I know that my ego
has once again forsaken me,
for I have at least two known enemies.
One, a UPS delivery person
& two, a FedEx delivery person.
I’ve never met either one of them, nor am I sure what it is they hate so much about me, but from what I can tell, they fucking hate me. They want me to suffer greatly. They want me to make me bleed & fuck up my new Jeffrey Campbell’s.
Something they effectively achieved
by throwing my packages into the fucking cactuses.
WHO PUTS PACKAGES AMONGST FUCKING CACTI?
Like honestly, I still am not sure if these people really hate me but they must. Why else would they put my packages in such a precarious place? I mean, obviously I was going to get fucking stabbed retrieving them. We’re not talking about the kind of succulents you find on Tumblr, I’m talking about a five foot prickly bastard that could– and did– leave me punctured.
I don’t like thinking there are people out there who want me stabbed though, so in case any of them are these delivery people who want to harm me, I’ve decided to make some public apologies:
• The Girl We Used To Call “Crotch Picker” in Grade School
I didn’t even remember that we did this until my best friend reminded me & I felt super bad, but I also remembered she used to pick her crotch a lot so maybe we helped her in the long run, you know, show her that this isn’t socially acceptable to dig your shorts out of your labia in public. Anyway, Girl We Used To Call Crotch Picker, I’m really sorry. I seriously don’t remember calling you that, but it’s fucked up & this is my public apology. Also, really hope you still don’t pick your crotch because although mean kids say it to your face, grown ups just talk about it on GChat.
• Loren
This is a girl who was really cute & all my guy friends wanted to fuck & I hated her for it. I hated her so much for it because no one cared that I could talk about books & movies & super obscure Broken Social Scene tracks. She would prance around in super short-shorts in the rain & jerk-off dudes in the backseats of cars, all the things that appeal to twenty year old boys. No one wanted to volley When Harry Met Sally quotes with me & I took it out on her at parties after I’d drink too much whiskey. Loren, I’m sorry I’d constantly try to belittle & humiliate you, if it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure it just made everyone like you more, and me seem like a lame, wordy bitch. Who calls people “slatternly slags” in real life anyway? Me. And other losers.
• People Who Hate Me For Wearing Super Short-Shorts
As I hated Loren, I’m sure there is someone out there who hates me for wearing short-shorts all the time. To you people, I’m not fucking sorry. Get a grip & some self-esteem, assholes.
• My Ex Boyfriend
He definitely wants to stab me but…
yeah, no, I’m not going to apologize for shit.
Hmmmm…
Yeah. I don’t think I have anyone else on the list? I mean, aside people I’ve already apologized to. Like, I’m pretty sure my friend Shawn has forgiven me for the time he had a crush on me & I knew about it but proceeded to makeout with the captain of the soccer team in Shawn’s sauna sophomore year. Shawn is also in NYC now so I feel like it’s not him. He also helped me get jobs… yeah, I don’t think he put my packages in the cacti. I think we’re just friends!
There is a good possibility that these delivery people have nothing against me & are just idiots, in which case, I hope they fucking pick up a book or go to a botanical garden one day & figure out that a patch of cacti is a terrible place to leave things.
But then again,
why on Earth would I start thinking
the world doesn’t revolve around me now?! LOL
Anyway, I'm Marissa A. Ross, a writer who graduated from acting school to make a living as an internet addict. Just another American Dream, drinking too much & putting shit on the internet.
I also dig music, which makes me really original.
You can also catch me at Hello Giggles, where I write things that might make you think I'm not a such jackass.
never plan your whole week around a 79° day to tan your ass in february. it'll be 72° & your courtyard will be shady. :( #californiaproblems21 hours ago
