Those bitches on "The Hills"

I'm not hating, really I'm not. Well, I guess I am. But those spoiled 19-year-old bitches have way better lives than I do, damn it all to hell. An internship at Teen Vogue, a fabulous apartment in LA, and your biggest dilemma in life is whether or not to shack up with your boyfriend in his ridiculously expensive beach house for the summer (yeah, he so didn’t pay for that himself) or go to Paris for an internship with Vogue. Stupid lucky annoying rich spoiled stupid girls. I hate them, yet I want to call them up and hang out with them because they are so much cooler than I am.

Now, before you go judging me because I watched this stupid show, I never ever not even once watched Laguna Beach. Had I not been confined to my comfy couch all day Saturday with a Vomit Migraine from Hell, I would never have entered the "Hills" world. Unfortunately, it was a marathon and I cannot resist a marathon. All day. I had to watch the next one and the next one and the next one. I had to see how Heidi's first day working for Bolthouse Productions would go. And let me tell you, I got the ultimate payoff when she went to her boss, on day one, and said she didn't think work would be this boring.

How does this dumb 19-year-old girl get a job at one of the biggest event planners in LA, as a 2nd assistant? And then, how does said dumb girl get called away from her game of Solitaire at her desk, into the boss’s office, and get promoted?? HOW?? These bitches are already rich and they aren't ugly, but how do they get to go to LA and make it at the age of 19? Will they have to work for anything?

Now I'm officially hating. Because I'm 27 years old, at the top of my career here in AZ, (which isn't that high, let me tell you) and I'm so jealous I can’t even stand it.

Bitch Fit

It's been one of those days. The ones where all you can say is ..@$&^õ. Dammit. I woke up late and had to take a "hooker's bath" because I went tanning last night and the burnt skin smell from hundreds of other asses was stuck on mine. Then it rained on the way to work. Normally that wouldn't be any unusual problem, but alas, my windshield wipers are hanging on by a thread, and I mean that literally. The stupid little blade thingies flap around like wet noodles while the metal scrapes dirty little streaks across my field of vision.

Then the fucking guy in the fucking Mercedes decides he doesn't need to wait for his green light to enter the freeway from the on-ramp like the rest of the little people and has to go the same time I do. Bastard.

The highlight of my morning was the fact that Tracy on "War of the Roses" didn't cut in on the phone call too early and we got to catch her boyfriend Jackson cheating on her and sending those flowers to a girl she didn't even know about! Bastard. He actually said that he loved her so much it scared him and he was confused and needed to get the cheating out of his system. Seriously. What an ass.

“War of the Roses” is one of my guilty pleasures. They devised it up on one of these local morning radio shows where they do more talking than playing music. (Since Howard Stern had switched to satellite radio so long ago, that guilty pleasure was out of the question and I needed something to amuse me on my way to work.) So a girl calls them up if she thinks her boyfriend/husband or whoever is cheating on her. She gives the details, if she has any, about the person or persons she thinks he is cheating with.

Then the girl DJ calls the dude up and says she’s from some new Phoenix flower shop and as a promotion they are offering to give him a free dozen roses, send it to anyone he wants, with no strings attached. The girl DJ (I will say her name is Katy) is a very good salesperson. Not one person has hung up not wanting the roses. The whole time the girlfriend/wife is listening on the other line and supposed to be quiet. Then it comes time for the guy to say who he wants the flowers sent to, and most of the time after he says the name of some other girl, the one that’s supposed to be quiet on the other line always butts in and freaks out before Katy can get any real information out of him, which completely ruins “War of the Roses” for me until next week. I don’t know why they don’t just put the girlfriend on Mute.

Katy is amazingly good at getting information about the other girls and how long he’s been seeing her and whatnot. Even if he sends the flowers to his girlfriend/wife or his mom or sister, Katy will offer him another free dozen, just to totally entrap him. And 9 out 10 times they are cheating. It’s so great when the girl is quiet and the dude digs himself a hole so deep he can’t really think of anything to say so he hangs up. Then the DJ’s call him back and try to get some answers out of him. The guys threaten lawsuits and all that stuff but no one ever says any last names.

It’s deliciously evil. I love it.

A few things I learned this week...

1. No matter how much I hope, pray and practice my walk in the longest runway-like part of my miniscule apartment (from the sliding glass door in the living room to the far wall in the dining room), I will never reach my dream of becoming a runway model.

I participated in a photo shoot (I use the term photo shoot loosely here) last evening and I discovered that my eyes twitch when I am having make up applied to them and no matter how hard the make up artist tried, liquid eyeliner hates me. In every picture taken, I either look drunk, high or the fat pockets on either side of my face, otherwise known as cheeks, make me look like, "Oh, bless her heart, the little chunky girl think she looks so perrty..."

2. Investing in real estate is not for the amateur beginner with a few thousand to kill. And I didn't really have a few thousand to kill. I just had a few thousand. And now I got crap, dammit all to hell.

3. Mexico is the devil. You will not come back the same person you were when you left. You will either be minus something you need (like flesh on your legs, all your money, or your boyfriend) or plus something you really don't need (like the CLAP or Flesh Eating Disease or a boyfriend.)