After our kickball team's Halloween game. I'm a bunny rabbit. She's ...
Something that makes me sad. Hmmm, besides the amount of time the 30 Blogs challenge is taking my currently overwhelmed ass to complete? And, besides the fact I woke up with a lovely head cold Monday morning? Well, that would leave only one thing. My girl Knochers is doing like Nicholas Cage and Sheryl Crow before her did. She’s leaving Las Vegas.
Actually, she left Las Vegas. She’s officially waking up every morning in a log cabin in the snowy woods of Colorado. No, she hasn’t been kidnapped by Kathy Bates. She moved in with her best friend and plans to start a new life in Denver. I think she just went through all the available men over 21 in Vegas, but she denies that, insisting there were at least three she never got her hands on.
Here’s what. I have a theory that me and this girl would’ve done some serious damage if I’d met her in my single days. I’m talking some Thelma & Louise, Snooki and tequila, New Orleans and Katrina kind of damage. If I were a lawyer trying to prove my case, I’d present her going away party as Exhibit A. Look, I love my toilet and all, but not enough to bear hug it until my neighbors are collecting the newspapers from off their porches. So, maybe it’s best we met when we did.
The Get Back after First Friday in Downtown Vegas. The Get Back performs in Denver after Third Friday -- that doesn't even sound right!
When was that, you ask? Two years ago when our girl Asian Spice did what she does best and connected us — via the blogosphere. After reading and commenting on each other’s blogs we met at the restaurant that would soon become our (Asian Spice, Knochers and I) lunch spot, Sammy’s Wood Fired Pizza. Shortly after that we started the movie dates and Get Back groovin’ that eventually led to the phenomenon known as Benetton. That’s right, yellow, white and brown coming together as one. As soon as Asian Spice’s baby (OMG, she’s prego!) arrives, we’ll take a real Benetton photo with all of us nude from the shoulders up, extending our arms to hold a Chinese-Filipino-Brazilian bundle of ethnic joy. Can’t wait for that.
Katy Perry, Sookie from "True Blood" and the first ever Latina polygamist, AKA Benetton on Halloween.
Here’s the thing. In the last few weeks Knochers was in Vegas, we shared some great girlfriend moments. She let me use the shoulder of her sweater as my personal hanky. She came over to my house once only to discover that we were both shockingly wearing performance fleece from Old Navy AND brand spanking new jeans from the GAP that had been purchased the same day. We made a trip to Smashburger on Christmas Eve that turned into a long session of ”Oh my God, this one time …” which was inevitably met with ”Shut the hell up!” We discussed her future as a trend forecaster after her prediction that 2011 would be the “comeback year of the ballerina.” We discovered a mutual affection for Nicki Minaj. And, soon after that, we realized we’d both been working for the Kanye West campaign in which we found ourselves calling all our friends, associates, former schoolmates and anyone else to make sure they listened to “My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy.”
That’s when Knochers promised to come back to Vegas, not just for my bachelorette party and wedding, but for her, Jake and I to watch Kanye perform the insanely dope songs on that album live and in person. And, now that it’s on Starts with an X, it’s official, Knochers. As soon as those concert dates are announced, you know the deal.
And, this says it all.
Until then, I’ll continue being sad about a frienship that bloomed and then bounced. That’s not to say I don’t understand. As someone who’s left her best friends in Utah more than once, I definitely do. But, now I’m on the other side and it kinda sucks. You all know I’ve struggled to find girls who “get me” in Vegas. It’s tough to make good friends once you’re an add-ult. With Asian Spice having a little one on the way and all, I know that friendship’s going to change. And, now that Knochers is long-distance I kinda feel like I’m back to square one in the 702 friendship department. But, as the saying goes, it’s better to have Benetton’d and lost, than to have never Benetton’d at all.
So, who’s this blog for? It’s for my girlfriend. It’s for my BFF (Benetton Fucking Forever). … And, as Jake would say, don’t Knoch it ’til you try it!
The last purchase I made — and I’m talking, like, a couple hours ago — is inside this lovely pink bag. Ladies, I don’t need to tell you what that bag means. Well, mostly because it’s written on the bag in big letters, but I don’t need to tell you what I went through to bring that little bag of goodies home.
The Victoria’s Secret Semi-Annual Clearance Sale for women is kind of like March Madness for men. The deeply discounted bras are the games. So damn many you can’t contain your joy. The cutthroat competition is the battle you have with the woman holding the other strap of the Very Sexy Push Up Bra in Satin Nude that you just yanked out of a shallow box. The defeat is trying on that bra in the fitting room only to realize some idiot stuck a 34B in the 36C pile! The victory is walking out, three fitting room visits, 7 box digs, 45 minutes and one long mother effing line later with THREE new beautiful bras and FIVE new pretty panties.
But, what’s the ultimate reward? Even better than climbing a ladder to cut the net? Well, that would have to be holding up the NCAA trophy while Dick Vitale shouts “baby” into the mic an eye-rolling number of times, of course. For me, that was handing over a $100 VS gift card and reaching into my wallet to pay a grand total of $1.50 for, allow me to repeat it for emphasis, THREE new beautiful bras and FIVE new pretty panties.
Here’s the best part. Jake’s mom gave me that gift card for Christmas a year ago. I missed the sale last year at this time. And AGAIN in the summer. I wasn’t about to walk into VS and spend $50 on a bra, so I held out and waited an entire damn year to do my padre proud and get my money’s worth, dammit!
Last tit-bit, er tid-bit. Have you seen the padding in the Miraculous Push-Up Bra yet? Where the hell’s the cup? It looks like they designed those things expecting to use them in case someone jumps from the ledge of a tall building: NOTHING BUT PADDING! I was so astounded by this contraption that I held it up and showed it to the chick next to me in a “can you believe this shit” gesture. To which she giggled nervously and moved toward the boxes at the next table. Gimme a break. It’s not like I held it up while raising my eyebrows up and down in a quick motion. Maybe she was more appalled by my ignorance of the Miraculous Suicide-Saving Push-Up Bra?
So, I gave it a go. And now I know what a mammary neck brace looks like. No, it didn’t make it into the little pink bag. Yes, I’m sure.
This is it, kids. No makeup. And this isn’t the Hollywood version of no makeup, either. This is the real deal. You know how Allure magazine and People’s Most Beautiful People issue both showed us “bare-faced” celebrities last year? I’m sorry, but that’s not what Cindy Crawford looks like without a stitch of makeup. I know some people were just blessed, but come on. You know damn well she had a concealer clause in that contract.
I don’t understand why some women make such a big deal out of it, honestly. I’m now talking about your everywoman, not former supermodels trying to prove that you, too, can be ageless. Just your Average Janes. The ones who refuse to leave the house without digging into their cosmetic bag of tricks first. Why does it matter if the lady taking your coupons at Albertson’s sees you without the benefits of your Great Lash mascara? Who cares if your son’s soccer coach knows you have a little discoloration going on underneath that Laura Mercier foundation? Unless a dude with a camera is going to pop out from behind a bush, snap your photo and sell it to Us Weekly, then, um, get over your damn self.
Here’s the thing about me and makeup. I never thought I looked THAT different without it, but I once had a softball teammate introduce himself to me at a social function and ever since then I haven’t been too sure. You will never find me wearing makeup while doing something in which I know sweat will exude from my pores. Those chicks at the gym with their freshly-applied lipgloss and MAC powdered cheeks? Douche baguettes, I tell you. Oh, and MAC powder plus the elliptical machine equals 1-800-PROACTIV.
But, back to the softball teammate at the social function. I arrived to all our games wearing our team shirt, cutoff sweats, cleats and my game face. My makeupless game face. So, I do that for an entire season with the same group of guys and a handful of chicks. A few months after the season ends, I go to a little gathering where a few of the old teammates happen to be. My hair’s did and my makeup is, too. One of the dudes that I used to regularly shoot the shit with between spits of sunflower seeds walks right up to me, shakes my hand and asks my name. Um, HELLO, I played softball with you, I tell him, annoyed as all hell. He flinches and then says something that makes me see his flinch and raise him a gasp: ”Yo, did you get a makeover?!”
That could only translate to one of two things for me. Either he thought I looked about as unattractive on the field as a line drive from a greasy pot-bellied dude named Hank when you’re least expecting it OR he thought I looked about as attractive at that party as a cold six-pack looks to a greasy pot-bellied dude name Hank when he’s least expecting it. I went with option A.
The bad news: That probably makes me about as secure as the mascara lady at the grocery store or the foundation lady at the kid’s soccer game. The good news: Unless she’s fresh off the set of a daytime talk show, that dude will probably never utter the word makeover to another woman again.
Man, this is a real tough one for me. I honestly can’t think of something off the top of the dome that I can’t do, but REALLY wish I could. Like, singing? I don’t really care that I can’t sing. If some dude in an alley led me to a trunk full of the ability to sing, I wouldn’t exactly turn it away, but I’d do some hardcore negotiating, which happens to be one of my many talents.
Why? I think I’m just happy with the talents I do have. Like, really happy. In fact, I wanna play a little game of make-believe right now. I wanna make-believe that I’ve just received a beautiful gold trophy for, well, my multitude of talents. There’s a mic in front of me and I’m on a stage with a guy holding a sign that says “wrap it up” a few feet away while Kanye’s in the ”ready, set, go” position next to his seat in the audience. Alright, here it goes.
Um, wow, this thing’s heavy. Hey, everyone. (Waving to the camera) Hi, Ama. Hi, Apa! … Uh, hey Kanye, listen, I may have agreed with every word that came out of your mouth the last time you did this, but I’m gonna tell you right now that I AM NOT Taylor Swift, alright. (Removing the mic from the stand and now holding it like a weapon) Try that shit, I dare you. … (Watching the back of Kanye West as he returns to his seat) Alright, cool. Hey, I wanna have your new album’s baby, by the way! (Giving him the thumbs up) Love those sneaks, too!
Anyway, um, I want to thank my parents for using faulty condoms. I want to thank Jake for having such amazing hair. And, I wanna thank my brother and sisters, without whom I would’ve been a happy only child whose Barbies had actual Corvettes, not shoe boxes pretending to be Corvettes. And my cheerleading costume that one Halloween probably would’ve had two pom-poms, not one! You know what? Never mind about thanking the siblings. You can edit that out, right?
Uh, let’s see, I wanna give big ups to the W.V.C. Thank you for being so ghetto for Utah that I merely had to say I was from there to make Park City girls cry.
What? Wrap it up, are you serious? OK, OK. Seventh and foremost I want to thank God for making me far less than a klutz with most any ball, but the big orange one and for making me far less than an idiot with a pen and for making me far less than awkward when I act out the big scene and for making me far less than clumsy on a dance floor and for making me far less than, um, modest? Yes, thank you for all that! You’re the man, God! Er, you’re the God, man!
(Music starts playing me off and I go into a long “thank you” ramble a la Cuba Gooding Jr. circa 1997 that includes every hampster I ever owned, my babysitter when I was 4 years old, the babysitter who once had to fill in for that babysitter and the lunch lady who always gave me extra large helpings.)
Alright, here’s the truth. I wish I could paint. I really do. Sometimes, when I can’t explain something with words, I can see the perfect painting that would describe what I mean. That’s when I want to grow out my mustache, pencil on a unibrow, throw the hair into old Mexican-style braids and channel the Frida in me. ‘Cause I know she’s in there.
I actually can draw pretty well when I put my mind to it. If I would’ve had proper training, I’d be a dope painter. I feel the same way about playing the piano, ballroom dancing, snowboarding, archery, fencing, yodeling, unicycling, ventriloquism and clogging. If I wanted to do it, I’d be doin’ it and, like that chick in L.L.’s song, I’d be doin’ it well. And, there I go with the modesty again.
Your turn. I wanna hear what talents YOU wish you had.