They were CONES

"You are the worst wedding singer in the world, buddy!"
"Sir, one more outburst from you and I will strangle you with my microphone wire."




Look closely at this picture. Do you notice anything about it, other than a delicious little flower centerpiece and the chocolate-dipped fortune cookies?

Behold, TABLE 9. Ringing any bells? Visions of mullet-headed Robbie Hart should be flashing through your mind right now. Along with a far better rendition of Love Stinks; depressing with a hint of violence.
"Now let's cut the stupid cake because I know the fat guy's gonna have a heart attack if we don't eat again soon... And while we do that here's a little mood music for you."


Remember those guys at Table 9? The ones he included in the I-am-a-love-reject group? I believe they were referred to as MUTANTS. Which is pretty much what we felt like for a part of the evening. The wedding table of single women, where the waiters "pretended" to forget to bring us our food and fill up our waters; where the heating mushroom thing never turned on; where the wedding singers graced every other table with their presence, but one. One table. One, the loneliest number. Each of us alone. Together. At TABLE 9.


We decided that perhaps Table 9 was just not the place for us after all, so after our stomachs were full and our eyes not yet dry from Chad's speech, we patronized the photobooth. Which provided just what we needed: attention. We also received some attention from Mr. Freaky-photobooth-owner, who glowered at us every time we went to snap some more freebees. And more. And more.
And then cake. And oh just a wee bit more cake. And then WAIT JUST A SECOND. We are NOT girls who eat their feelings. And Photobooth shouldn't be the only thing here getting free shots of us. That is a service we can provide all men. So we did what we do best: DANCE.

That's right. When the dance floor was empty, S, L, myself and new-bff-Karen got DOWN on the hard wood. And boy did those wedding singers love us! Who wouldn't, really. We were practically intoxicated with the love that was in the air. And before we knew it there was a crowd, including the wedding singers and our very own Mr. and Mrs. Lau. Hair was let down, ties were removed (a salacious story you should ask me about sometime) and the pumps came off thankfully, since I had just hiked a mile in them the night before on some horror-movie-death-hike-road to a Halloween dance party.


All in all it was successful wedding. The bride didn't run out last minute, nothing caught fire, and no heads were broken. The cake was divine, the decor was classy, and the band was superb. Plus there was that couple... On the dance floor... With his tie... And lots of saucy gyrations... You get the idea. So I give this nuptial event a 9 out of 10. I can't in good conscience give it a full 10 because that requires a fine slice of masculinity to flirt with/throw myself at, and at least one embarrassing public remark made to the bride and groom. So in the almost words of Robbie Hart, "Whitney and Mike are newlyweds! Whoopee-dee-doo!"



Mr. & Mrs. Lau, if you read this, I actually had a great time at your rehearsal dinner and reception. Table 9 was actually awesome and I hope you enjoy the even awesomer pictures we put in your wedding book of ourselves. Just be thankful we spared you the one of cake in our teeth.

Public Service Announcement

Do you know what today is? Are you having trouble remembering? Probably you're not THAT good of a friend since you can't remember, but I'll tell you and then you can pretend that you knew it all along. . .

Today is my half-birthday, how nice of you to ask! I will be accepting packages and cake at any time you care to send it or drop it by. Thanks for the kind wishes. And in case you were wondering, the etiquette for half-birthdays requires WHOLE presents.

See you at my surprise half-birthday party tonight!

i'm putting this on my fridge

Have I ever told you the story about Bird and I? Probably. I tell lots of people. But I'm not going to now. Suffice it to say that it was love (Platonic, obviously) at first sight. Not only did we share love of all things book-ish, world-event-ish and all things ridiculous, we also shared a love of the Robinson family. She is one of the few humans that I feel inferior to in this world. And I was so lucky as to receive this award from her:

Yay! And in keeping with tradition, I pass this coveted award to THE REPLACEMENT FRIENDS since I almost wet myself every time I read one of their posts. Plus, they are super good looking.

Who doesn't love the Jews?

Have you ever tried to calculate the number of people in Hell? Let me help. You can check politicians, insurance agents, car salesmen and anyone remotely tied to the IRS off the list. We can also toss in outspoken celebrities and concession-stand price-setters, if you like. And just when you thought Satan couldn't take anyone else in, I am now adding a new category: the people at those kiosks in the mall who will run after you when you try to ignore them.


I know you know who I mean. They accost you in public with their false smiles and lying words. And it totally happened to me the other day. There I was, after a long day of work, strolling through the mall thinking about how much I hate Abercrombie. Bothering no one. When suddenly this guy yells something at me. It makes me jump a bit, but I start to walk faster to ignore the crazy person who obviously has a problem with me. Then I hear this freak yelp in my direction and since I'm unaccustomed to being shouted at in any place other than a construction zone, I turned around very slowly and gave him my most venomously annoyed look I could muster.


Then he asked me a question, and I dropped all hard feelings. It was that ACCENT of his. Those dang accents get me every time. And this was no foul Cockney British or stale French accent, this was Israeli. I knew it instinctively. The Jew inside me totally recognized it. Plus, he was really pretty. So I did what any Israeli-infatuated girl would do: flirt my heart out. And let me tell you guys, I gave it my all. But he was having NONE of it. Whilst I was trying to glean info on Israel out of him, he was trying to sell me this manicure crap. Hello man, I just want your digits. Or a proper Jewish greeting. I would even settle for a Jew pick-up line. But he just scrubbed away on my already polished fingernails, giving short answers to my genius witticisms.


Jew: So, you interested in this set? I give you a good deal.


Me: It's not the set I'm interested in. . . (insert: huge smile and wink)


Jew: I can give you a good Christmas deal.


Me: Or you could buy it for me for Yom Kippur. It's going on right now, you know.


Jew: (silent)


Me: You know, a friend and I wanted to live on a kibbutz. But now I think I have to go if all the men are as handsome as you.

Jew: (snort-chrortle-sneeze-gag)

Awkward... Awkward...

So I took that as my que, threw him some deuces, and traipsed off without a backward glance. My pride was a bit wounded, I confess. And come on - one of my fingernails was missing paint. As if I didn't already feel like an idiot. I almost turned around and said, Good luck finding someone who loves your people more than I do! But I refrained. Instead I have decided to chant PLO mantras whenever I walk by that Kiosk. Which will hurt me, because as everyone knows I love that gutsy little Israel. I will also declare to every salesman I encounter from now on that I have sworn off buying ANYTHING because of a Jew that broke my fragile heart when he used me to sell some faulty nail product.

Perhaps a bit dramatic, but you know what they say - Hell hath no fury . . .

Who needs money?

I know I've been all, Poor-me-i-need-to-find-a-job-even-though-i-have-a-good-one-right-now-that-suits-me-just-fine lately, but yesterday I decided to do something about it. And action calls for reward, so tonight I am treating myself to some Golden Spoon (pumpkin flavor) and a good 80's flick. Which is what I do every night now that I think about it. Whatever. That's not the point. The point is that I have actually sent out applications and my resume to multiple places! I know that might not be that impressive to you over-achievers, but baby steps ya'll. I hope you are raising the roof right now. And get this: I've only applied to international positions! Okay that's not entirely accurate because I applied for jobs in D.C. as well. But hello this could potentially maybe if I'm lucky be huge.

I'm also doing something I never really pictured doing: applying through the military. No worries, I won't go all GI Jane over everyone (no promises), because it's not just the military but also the government I'm ravaging thru for jobs. I usually thought me + government job = nuclear disaster, but I think I am reconsidering. Because I definitely applied for a position in the US Treasury. And for some in the RAF, and for some lame low-income jobs in cool cities.

I sort of feel like that grease-ball guy with four teeth and a fatty gold chain who smells like diesel fuel when he tells you that he is going to find a girlfriend who looks like Gisele, and you're like -Dude look in the mirror: that ain't NEVER gonna happen. But we can have our dreams, right? No matter how far-fetched they are, and how under-qualified I am.

Hiroshima to my heart

As in many situations in life, there is a certain level of conflict one feels about one's current arrangement. A kind of borderline-greatness, if you will. Example: October. The holidays are approaching, the leaves will shortly be changing, and I can begin to unbox my sweaters and jackets for fall prep. Except I CAN'T. Mainly because it's still Hades heartland right now and I get over-heated just wearing a cardi. But I also can't lovingly hang my fall wear because I live in a shoebox, not a room. You think I exaggerate? Come over sometime and I'll show you.



Don't get me wrong - I love having a cook/laundress. Who wouldn't want a maid? And I love hanging out with the sibs. (Usually). But besides the feelings of complete failure and insipidity that comes with moving back in with mom and dad, there are two MAJOR problems with living back at home:



1. ZERO space. Half of my wardrobe has to be folded and stacked! Yes, that includes dresses. Oh the horror. AND I have to toss my shoes into baskets at the bottom of my closet. I mean, really. How would you feel to be cast off like, ahem, an old shoe? Tragic. They deserve better than that.



That is bad enough, but then compound it with this:



2. NO TV! The parents cut the cable a few years ago, but I am just now feeling the horrible effects. I don't know when it happened (though my suspicion is that it came from living with Laquina), but I turned into a TV lover. Before college I didn't care to watch anything, but now I NEED my shows. They have become an addiction, nay - a necessity; like air, like water, like chocolate/peanut butter Golden Spoon. How did this happen? Who knows and who cares. What I do know is that I heart Netflix and the internet now more than ever. Without them I couldn't watch the staples: Gossip Girl, Sunny in Philadelphia, Mad Men, Pushing Daisies, Fringe, Heroes, 30 Rock, The Extras, and my highly anticipated Absolutely Fabulous which is a bit old school and I can't wait to get it in the mail.



Really though, can you blame me for such guilty pleasures? I imagine not, because I have a sneaking suspicion that you, female or male, wants a piece of that Bass (Chuck, obviously).

YUM. Remember the days when I was innocent and sweet and wanted a blend of Mr.Knightly/Capt. Winters/Curly-from-Oklahoma/Mr. Darcy? Yeah, well those days are over. I want me some of that womanizing sketchiness that is CB.

I suppose the solution to my dilemmas would be to find a new job and move out and gain my self-respect back. So if you have any offers of British Parliament externships or London house-sitting opportunities, you know where to find me: on the couch.