Thursday, September 24, 2009

Coming Summer Two Thousand and Never

"So where do you go out?"

That's probably my least favorite question of all time.  

How do you respond to that?

"Does drinking beer by myself as I watch Gossip Girl count as going out?    Sometimes they go out to hotspots in New York, so technically I'm going with them?"

Or: "How about picking up enough sushi take-out to feed a family of four but it's all for me?  I interact with the host, who barely speaks English that has to count for something.... right?

Or am I supposed to say something like this:

"On Mondays I go to Bar, on Tuesdays it's all about Dance, Wednesdays aka Humpday I go to Grind, Thursdays is all about Thirsty, Fridays I go to The Bar, not to be confused with Bar which is a total dive compared to The Bar, do you follow? Saturdays it's Bedroom and Sundays it's Castle."

Clearly I don't say the later, and no, those are not real places, at least to my knowledge.  But I kid you not; I overheard a real person saying something like this at a club.  You know, one of those places where the Grey Goose flows, booty shows and beats and flashing lights can give you seizures…. especially if those beats are the sound of Sean Paul.  This person was either very rich or very unemployed. 

You might be wondering... how can you tell if a club is "hotspot" or not?

Well, here's how you can find out:

1.) Is it's name one word, or better yet, one syllable?

2.) Is it packed?

3.) Did you have to wait out side on line for longer than ten minutes?

4.) Does the DJ play bad, almost irritating music? 

5.) Is it filled with D-bags and or self-proclaimed gods?

6.) Do you spot a lot of fake hair, tans, eyelashes, boobs, teeth, etc?

7.) Are there D-list celebrities there? 

8.) Are the drinks over priced?

9.) Does it have a subtle but consistent theme?

10.) Do you spot a lot of wardrobe malfunctions?

If you answered, "yes" to at least five of these questions, congratulations you have stumbled into a “club”.  Persuade someone to buy you an overpriced drink, but be sure to leave before he asks for your number...

But don't worry America, you are in luck, because in my spare time I like to invent night clubs.  

Here’s what I’ve got so far:

1.) THE POST OFFICE- All the drinks would be packaged up with stamps and string and would be served to you through mail shoots.  We'd hire a mildly good actor to "go postal" every few hours, just to keep things interesting.  And every song played would have to mention something mail related, like anything by The Postal Service or songs like “Mr. Postman"… actually I’m not sure how many others songs exist about mail…so there might be a lot of repeats… what like you haven’t heard that before at a club?  And all the male staff would wear shirts that say “The Post Office” on the front and "I've got a package for you" on the back.  Okay so maybe this would be a gay bar.....

2.) SUBWAY --- this would be funny because people would get confused all the time.  You'd tell them to meet you at subway and they would be waiting for you at the place where they serve five-dollar foot longs or on an actual subway platform.   This would be a great way to stand someone up, because let’s face it, do you really want to waste your time dating some one who doesn’t know which Subway you’re referring to?  It’s like get a map!  Am I right?  The outside of the spot would look like a New York subway, we'd even hire a bum to stand in the front and ask you for change, clean your windshield wipers, or just insult you.  He could also double as the bouncer.   Inside would all be underground; all the drinks would be served in those New York Style blue and white Greek Coffee cups.   And everything would be crazy cheap.  But we could afford to do that because the sanitation is questionable.  Also ever ten minutes it would sound like a train was passing through.

3.) THE DENTIST - It would look just like a dentists office.  Soft rock would play, and outdated US Weekly’s would be everywhere.  All the drinks would be mint, cherry or bubble gum flavored.  Okay not all the drinks that would be gross... but some drinks could be that.  And you could get a "cleaning" where they would put you on a dentist’s chair and throw a shot down your throat, Coyote Ugly style.  All the drinks would be named after dentist procedures or terms like "tooth ache" "root canal" "the drill" "cavity" "plaque" "tarter" "crown" etc.   And when you left you could have your choice of a sticker or small plastic toy.  

These three clubs are coming to a major city near you, summer of two thousand and never.


Thursday, September 10, 2009


"Love Sucks"

Says the billboard for Vampire Diaries.  You know that new TV show that's cast looks like carbon copies of those Twilight twats?

Speaking of billboards, where is my "OMFG" Gossip Girl Billboard? Enough of this Melrose Place "Ménage-Tues" and "Tuesday is the new Hump day," I want me some Gossip Girl puns. Someone is slacking over there in publicity.  I just got word that the new season starts next Monday, and I haven't seen ONE advertisement. 

But perhaps this could be credited to the absence of Entertainment Weekly in my mailbox.  I think it's time I give it up and stop playing hard to get to EW's "GABI, we want you back" Plea-mails.

Back to the Vampires.  I think I just figured out why my love life sucks: Because I'm not dating a vampire.  

Think about it.  A vampire would make the perfect boyfriend.

Here's why:

  • Vampire's never eat: can you say "perfect dinner date?" You know he can't Bogart that delicious chocolate molten cake with vanilla ice cream you ordered for desert. 
  • Vampires are my type:  Tall, handsome, great bone structure (what ever the hell that means) and a little sickly looking... yum-my.  Also I tend to date guys with very pointy verniers.. or maybe they're really vampires?
  • Vampires sparkle:  I like sparkly things.  In the sun, vampires sparkle.  Who need diamonds if your boy sparkles like one?
  • Vampires watch you sleep:  Some might find this creepy, but I think it's adorable.  Also it shows that he's trust-worthy.  If he's watching you sleep, then you know he's not sleeping with someone else.

So it looks like I need to snag me a vampire.  Where can I find one?  V-Harmony? And how do I make my V-Harmony profile attractive to the Edward Cullen type?

Wednesday, September 9, 2009


Let's be honest.  We've all dated that asshole.  That's if you consider him buying you shots of Tequila at a bar a "date". 

Moving to a new city, I'm always excited to meet new gal pals.  We almost always seem to instantly bond when exchanging stories about our love life, or in my case the lack there of.  

I feel like I hear the same story over and over. It's either "he broke my heart", or "he won't stop stalking me”.   

Oh, and in girl talk, everything relates to a Sex & The City episode.  

"Oh he's cheating on you?  Don't worry this is totally like that episode of Sex & The City where Big cheated on Carrie and made her cry, but then they finally got married in the movie.  So, basically he's cheating on you because he wants to marry you!"

Oh yeah, that makes a lot of sense, Love Doctor.  

Then there are the dating books.  I have a friend who picks up a new self-help dating book every time her romance gets rocky. The other day, she confessed to me that she ran out of books.  I told her maybe it's not the books.  It’s the guy. 

So why do we think generic dating for dummies books and episodes of Sex & The City hold the answer to our dating drama?  

Well, I decided to come up with some easy to read self-help dating books.  On the outside: a bright sparkly cover, and inside: a simples sentence of the best advice I could give you for each dating scenario.  Some comes from my own from failures, others from my imagination.  

For example:

1.) "So, you're dating a Aires."

If you don't make him your number one priority, he'll find someone who does

2.) "So, You're Dating A Metro-sexual"

If he's prettier than you, he'll find a girl or guy more in his league, no matter how smart or "funny" you think you are.

3.) "So, You're Dating a Hipster"

Stop trying.  There's no way you heard about it before he did. No matter what “it” is.

4.) "So, You're Dating a Guy with A 'Brain Tumor'"

He's cheating on you. 

5.) "So, He Doesn't Speak English"

Do you speak his language? If not stop wasting your time. 

6.) "So, You're Dating A First Semester Well Dressed Male Freshman at Emerson College"

Gay by May.

7.) "So, He Has a Wife"

You're an idiot. 

8.) "So, You're Dating a Tween"

Stop.   That doesn't make you trendy or a cougar.

9.) "So, He Went to Comic Con and You Still Haven't Heard From Him And It's Been Two Months And You're Wondering What Happened"

He's over you.

10.) "So, He's Not Responding To Any Of Your Phone Calls, E-mails, Tweets, Or Texts, But You Know His Phone Works Because He Changed His Twitter Picture To A Shot of Him Looking at His iPhone"

Yes, he's ignoring you, move on. 

Any other suggestions?

Tuesday, September 8, 2009


On an interview I was asked if I read books.  I broke into a cold sweat.  

"Of course!  Who doesn't read books?" 

I laughed awkwardly.

"Right.  So what books do you read?"

The last books I read flashed through my head:

"He's Just Not That Into You"

Yeah, Gabi that sounds sane.

"Think Like A Guy"

Again, stop it with the self-help dating for dummies books. 

"Are You There Vodka, It's Me Chelsea"

If they laughed at you when you asked for it at Saint Marks Bookshop: An Independent Book Store, they're sure as hell are going to laugh at you now. 

“All The Gossip Girl books”

What are you a tween?  Grow up.

See here's the thing.  I do read.  Just online, I blame the Internet. 

Sometimes I'll go into a Barnes & Nobles just to browse the jackets of books, so I can feel “well read”.  Just being inside that store makes me feel smart.  The classical music, the shelves upon shelves of books on topics I've never heard of, the aroma of espresso, and most importantly, lots of people wearing glasses. 

Ah glasses, the universal sign of intelligence.  I always wanted glasses, but every time I got my eyes checked my vision was 20/20.  Perfect eyesight.  I would leave the doctor's office heart broken.

Then I went to Emerson College, where I realized that not only did I want glasses, I needed them.  My popped collars, schoolgirl skirts and Pocahontas boots made me stick out like a soar thumb amongst the sea of Punks, Emos and Hipsters.  I needed to wear something that people would take me seriously in. 

So, I started wearing glasses without lenses.  It worked like a charm until I was a camp counsler and one of my nine year old campers asked me:

"Gabi, why do you wear glasses without lenses?"

Oh, kids!  You can always count on them to point out your flaws.

So I did what any hipster would do.  I went to Urban Outfitters and got glasses with lenses and no prescription.  

But apparently fake glasses make you need real glasses.  Junior year of college I was having trouble reading the board in classes and the teleprompter on air.  I got my eyes checked and finally my dreams came true.  I was vision impaired.  I got a prescription, which I held with pride like a golden ticket to Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory.  I got my trendy pair of glasses and at last, people were starting to take me seriously. 

Like the other day, I was drawing on the sidewalk with chalk.  To promote the boutique's sale, of course.  I was wearing in a pencil skirt, lots of layers and of course my Tina Fey/ Sarah Palin glasses. Suddenly, this lady stopped above me.

"Your glasses are just beautiful"

"Psh, it's not the glasses, it's just me"

Nope, didn't say that.  I have been living in LA for two months but my head is not that big.  Yet.  Instead I told her what any normal glasses wearing person would say:

"Thanks!  I need these because I can't see distance!"

She looked at me like I had two heads.

But you know what?  This whole not being able to see distance thing is a real handicap. Perhaps this is why I am such a bad driver?  

I have a hard time seeing people walk towards me on the street.  Like the other day, I parked my car and headed to work.  Then a mini cooper pulled up next to me and the driver, a girl with over sized sunglasses yelled at me:

"Hey!  Wanna ride?"

I froze.  Who the hell was this person? Do I really look like a hitchhiker? Mother always said never take rides from strangers, this is how you get kidnapped.

"No.. thanks.. I'm good.

The girl's jaw dropped.  

"Wait, what?! Are you for real?  Gabi, it's me.  Lindsey"

Shit.  That's my boss.

Luckily she has a sense of humor and laughed at it with me.  But it was embarrassing at the time.  

And sometimes my glasses give off the wrong impression.

Election Day 2008: I was walking down Boylston Street with my navy skirt suit, hair in a mullet (poof/business on the top, curls/party in the back), and my glasses.  I was feeling like a real classy broad until someone shouted:

"Hey! Look!  It's Sarah Palin!"

And that's the last time I dress like that.  Ever.

Hold on someone is calling my name from far away.  I can't see them.  I need to get my glasses.  








Monday, September 7, 2009


Essentially we're celebrating the official end of summer.  

Why are we celebrating this?  The end of summer means back to school, back to work, and no more white apparel.  The last depresses me the most.  Who came up with the "no white after Labor Day rule”?  I'm guessing it was a New Yorker.  Do you know how hard it is to sell white skinny jeans in September, even when they're on sale for only $48 from an original $175?  It also saddens me that it’s no longer appropriate for me to sport my light denim jean jumper.  This rule needs a little more explanation.  No white what? Shoes?  Dresses? Jeans?  Hot pants?  Spandex?   Is off white okay?  How about cream?  What about winter white? And how does this rule pertain to LA?

Another issue I have with Labor Day is this whole important things being closed.  What an inconvenience.    To quote my friend Dara's clever tweet earlier today, "It's called LABOR day, not Do Nothing Day."

Okay, I get it people need a day off.  But at least keep the important businesses open ... like nail salons.

I start a new job tomorrow, and for the past few days my mom has been bugging me, "Gabriella make sure you get your nails done before your job." To her this is the most important thing I could do before my job.  So I did it, partially to make my mom happy, and also because my hangnails were starting to hurt and the dirt under my nails were becoming offensive. 

After having a very difficult time parking, what else is new, I rushed up to my salon only to discover…….it's closed.  I almost cried.  Then I called eight different salons near my apartment, thank you iPhone.  Only to discover all were closed too.  Finally I found another salon, only to discover there was an hour wait.  Seriously?! You have less of a wait for a Sunday brunch than that.  I was starting to feel rejected. 

This felt a lot like Saturday night when I drove through four drive-throughs on the hunt for a shake, only to discover that two Carl Jr’s, A Jack In The Box and a McDonald's shake machines were all "broken".  I tried to fight it, but it didn't work. So, I went home and made a half-baked Quesadilla on whole wheat tortilla.  It definitely did NOT hit the spot.  I was not going to let these closed nail salons turn my nails into a half-baked quesadilla, which is what my nails would look like if I did them myself. 

After walking up and down Main Street for a solid twenty minutes in the hot sun, I finally found an open salon.  Thanks a lot Labor Day.   

Perhaps this Labor Day resentment comes from the realization that this is my first Labor Day in 18 years that doesn't mark the start of school.   This is the first year I haven't gone back to school shopping or had mandatory summer reading to finish, which I of course left to the last minute.  But what saddens me the most is this is the first time I haven't gone back to school supply shopping.  I love office supplies. I go gaga for a vast variety of brightly colored post-its in different sizes and shades of neon.  And don't even get me started on pens, pencils and highlighters, oh my!  

Do you know what's on my shopping list at the moment?  

"Swiffer wipes"

How depressing is that?  I am officially an adult.  And worst, I'm my mother. Because I swifter my floor 2-3 times a day, even though nobody sees it but me.

So I guess this is the "real world".

Saturday, September 5, 2009


Okay I'm obsessed with making theme playlists.


I make one for every season, mood etc.  I am a huge nerd.


The other day during savasina  (the rest after a yoga class) the teacher played Alexi Murdouh's Orange Sky, which made me think of Nick Drakes Pink Moon, which made me think I should make a rainbow playlist.


Here's the deal:  Make a playlist that's titles of the songs are color coordinated in rainbow order (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple).  Indigo doesn't count.  It's not really a color.


Here's Mine: 


"Red House"- Jimi Hendrix 

"Orange Sky" - Alexi  Murdoch 

"Mellow Yellow" - Donovan

"Another Kind of Green" - John Mayer Trio

"Blue" - Joni Mitchell

"Purple Haze"- Jimi Hendrix 


I think the Hendrix bookends works nicely.


What's your rainbow playlist?

Friday, September 4, 2009


No seriously, I am disabled when it comes to spelling.

I'm not sure how. I was never hooked on phonics.  My private catholic school probably thought Jesus would teach us phonics or something, so I never learned.  Then when I moved to Westport they were more concerned that I pronounced, "ask" as "axe" due to my New York accent.  I would often “axe” my friends, "Hey can use axe your mother if you can come ova after school?" This is what happens when your Brooklyn-ese Grandmother who calls a waffle ice cream sandwich a “light snack” raises you.

They wanted to put me in speech therapy for being "too New York" for Fairfield County.  My parents flipped a shit and taught me "ask” sounds like "task" and within seconds my accent was cured.  

Back to phonics, I was looking back at my posts with embarrassment noticing how I misspelled the simplest words. Note to fellow bloggers, blogger does not have the best spell check.  Be sure to triple check in Word.  So glad I discovered this 50 posts in.

Of course my mother realizes this as well.  My mother notices everything.  The nearly invisible stain on my shirt, lint on my pants, even uneven make-up.  I never forget the day my mother told me my blush was too bright as she stared up at me in her bright coral lipstick.  Love you Mom.

While my mother will point out my flaws (which are many) she also tries to make me feel better.  She thinks this comes by comparing me to Kim Kardashian.  In her e-mail to me she writes: 

Hey Gabi,

You are right up there with Kim Karadishian!

She twittered how much she loves to Mediate and everyone should mediate.

E News said " we all should Mediate...  Kim you should check your 'spell check'

before you twitter!  It's Me d i t a t e.!"

Gabi, she left out the " T " ...Meditate! Thought this was funny after we talked last night!

You are a great writer and all great writers can't spell because they think faster than they write!

So Gabi, you're normal and a funny and great writer, too... so there E news!

Loved your BLOG!!!


I’m right up there with Kim?  Is that a compliment? Last I checked the only thing “great” about her was her ass. 

The sad thing is, I had to read that twice to realize "meditate" was spelled wrong.  And I do yoga. Kinda…


Spelling is hard!  Am I alone on this?

Thursday, September 3, 2009


"Some of the greatest geniuses of all time were misunderstood"

Said the man in the navy blue wool fedora to his friend.  This dapper dude caught my attention a block a way.  Tall and slender, ripped jeans resembling the ones we sell at the boutique, beat up boots and a roughened "vintage" AC/DC shirt.  Just looking at him I could tell he was not the type who rocked out to "You Shook Me All Night Long".  It was obvious that he chose the shirt because of the color pallet, and not his taste in music. 

He sat next to a bright-eyed girl with a face caked with makeup.  They split a "this tastes just like New York's" pizza. First off that was not a New York Pizza.  New York pizzas are the size of your face, and if you were a true New Yorker that greasy but delicious slice with the perfect ratio of sauce to cheese and a dough so savory it makes your mouth water would be consumed at 4AM for that much needed fourth meal, and you sure as hell would not be splitting that sensational slice for "lunch," you manorexic.  

CPK my ass.  LA does not make pizza like New York City. But LA can make one hell of a taco.   Going to a Taco Bell in LA is like going to a Pizza Hut in New York. 

Okay I confess.  I was basically eavesdropping, but how could I not?  I was sitting on the bench first, eating my lunch and minding my own business. Then they just sat right next to me on MY bench, even though there was an empty bench next to me.  I felt that earned me the right to overhear this conversation. 

The manorexic turns to his groupie who hangs on to his every word.  She never adds to the conversation. She just smiles and nods.  I wonder if she even speaks English.  Ever so often she'll nibble on her slither of not New York pizza.  Mid bite he looks her deep in the eyes as says:

"I'm just weird and misunderstood.  But that means I'm a genius.  Think about it, some of the greatest minds were considered weird.  Einstein, Jesus, Jim Morrison."

I love how Morrison is on the same level as Einstein and Jesus.  I'm surprised he didn't say Brian Johnson (lead singer of AC/DC).  And yes, I agree you are weird sir, you are wearing a wool hat in 90 degree heat. 

Then I started to wonder: where did this self proclaimed genius come from?  What did he do?  What was he too much of a genius for?  

"Abercrombie just couldn't handle this unique mind."

Of course, fedora fellow who just compared himself to Jesus, Einstein and Jim Morrison is a former Abercrombie & Fitch employee.  That explains the ripped jeans.

Just the thought of Abercrombie & Bitch makes me smell that...scent.   You know that sweet and musky aroma that reeks each store and floats down the halls of the shopping mall mixing with the scent of egg rolls, hot pretzels and "tacky".  That scent is a time capsule.  Every time I smell that Abercrombie aroma I flash back to the new millennium when we thought the world was going to end and all technology was going to crash.  But it didn't.  All we got was boy bands, Britney Spears and Bush for president.  The smell of Abercrombie takes me back to Mitzvah season.  Sixth grade.  Being 12 when everyone else was 13.  Getting yelled at by a rabbi at temple for not being able to follow along in Hebrew because I was the only non Jew in Westport.

Abercrombie was the smell of the Mitzvah dance floor smothered in a sea of boys in that classic bright cobalt blue dress shirt who "grinded" to the "Thong Song" with the skinny "popular" girls wearing Steve Madden platforms, Kate Spade box bags, Betsy Johnson dresses, who sparked in their braces, Tiffany's chains and shiny pin straight hair.  As I watched on in the fat corner, thinking I could never fit in because not only did I not own a thong, but worse, I sported high waist Fruit of the Looms because my Mom still bought my underwear.  

Back to the fedora fellow, this story only gets weirder.  Later that night I was out in Venice with a friend who took me to this hip-hop bar.  It had everything I could ask for in a bar,  good music, packed with straight looking men (a rarity in LA), funky decor, and Blue Moons.  Okay, the Blue Moons were not on tap, but they did serve it with an orange, which is key.   Oh, and there was a chandelier in the bathroom, which of course is necessary because nothing says "class" like a chandelier above the urinal.

The bar was packed, which was strange because it was a Tuesday night.  For an explanation I did what I do best: eavesdropped:

“Robby Krieger is playing”


 “One of The Doors. You own a freaking Doors shirt and you didn't know that?"

 "I own it because it's vintage"

 "Yeah, but do you know anything about the band?"

 "I know I like the shirt".

Robby Krieger is defiantly one of my top three favorite alive members of The Doors.   I'm assuming Robby is like the Ringo Starr of the Doors, because he's the last listed member on Wikipedia.  But this still thrilled me.  I saw 1/4 of the Doors, one Door perform live.  I love LA.

And Robby was quite a hottie for a wrinkly old man. Skin like worn in leather and a patch of bright red hair, which obviously wasn't natural because there was crusted hair die around his bald cranium. 

I researched the Robster.  Turns out he's listed as number 91 on the Rolling Stones greatest guitarists of all time.  That's a fun fact.  

Then I got to thinking, I wonder how many chicks Robalicious has laid and if "I knew Jim Morrison" still works as a pickup line in 2009. 

Anyway, halfway through “Riders On the Storm,” I'm trying to peak over the absurdly tall girl in front of me who is wearing heels, how rude.  And out of the corner of my eye I spot a familiar face.  The dapper dude.  I knew it was him because he was still sporting that navy blue wool fedora, and it was basically a sauna in the packed bar.  

Well Jim Morrison said it best, "people are strange."

I'd like to leave you with these lyrics:

People are strange when you’re a stranger

Faces look ugly when you’re alone

Women seem wicked when you’re unwanted

Streets are uneven when you’re down

When you’re strange

Faces come out of the rain

When you’re strange

No one remembers your name

When you’re strange x3