Friday, February 29, 2008

Happy-hour, Heels, Hell.

Everything looks more disastrous when you're in heels. If someone in tennis shoes is frantically running, you figure disaster (or running) are part of their every days. They probably carry frozen lunches in their purse, and "office shoes", and they surely own a scrunchie in some cabinet at home. BUT, when you see some chick in heels and a pin skirt, running, a chick who looks like she probably waxes, spends too much money on accessories, and meets people for "drinks", you know shits gone awry.
To add insult to injury, there was no way in hell you were going to catch me in a coat, even if it was bone-chilling below zero. Puffy Northface ski gear would have made my outfit look, fucked. Why don't you just throw a pair of muck lucks on me too?

There's a certain skill, a certain knee bend, purse clutch, hair flip, that goes along with running in damn heels. Oh, not to mention the toe clutching that happens inside the heels.
My personal belief about running is that I should only have to if someone is chasing me, with a chainsaw. I would take on a bat, maybe even a machete.....but a chainsaw? My ass is gonna run like I'm on fire.

So, when I had an interview with a VP at a seriously important company (that if I gave you the name of, you would surely know of it) today in regards to future, employment/internships/direction/whatev's and in the writing/entertainment field... the address I cabbed to....was the wrong, damn, address. I even Googled it. Apparently, you can't Google everything. I would marry Google if it were a person that's how much I love"Googling"...I am a faithful Google maid, today however, Google cheated on me.

"I'm here to see BLANK"

Oh shit, the doorman's expression is not good...why is he looking at me like that? Do I have a bugger hanging off of my nose ring? "I'm sorry miss, ("MISS" makes me feel like a five year old at a tea party, by the way. )BLANK is no longer at this building, they moved...."

Naturally, he had no clue where they moved to.

This is where the heel tapping comes into play, the frantic, one click click click.....which is really all the heels were good for today, or maybe ever- unless you are not moving, or standing. Heels are only a nice idea.
I'm making phone calls, flipping pages in my planner...looking for "answers" of course, or magic.... when FINALLY. I got a hold of someone with the CORRECT info....and. I start the fucking running, again.

The atmosphere: Times Square, a cluster fuck of tourists with their heads towards the sky, looking for the top of the building maybe? and running into me and in all my coiffed, tailored perfection- with their fucking fanny packs and 300 pound lenses- taking pictures of glittery McDonalds signs. MOOOOVE, 'lady on the verge' coming through, the verge of a meltdown or the verge of greatness is a fine line my friends.

Can we also talk about the snarky cab drivers who don't want to let you pay with your credit card, because the "machine doesn't work." Ok, you fucking liar- you just like the sweet feeling of dollar bills in your hand, but don't we all...

The cab stops at an ATM, the running begins again....due to the half-off, happy hour margaritas that I had, four of, last night, the magic that SPANX would usually work, didn't have the same power on my ass. Not to mention, the sunlight just hit my calves and I DEFINITELY forgot to shave the back of me legs...and oh no, you could see it, no one's touching my legs at the moment so they've been neglected and it's cold....I've needed the extra fur. Don't judge.

I finally made it. It went well (so now we wait?), the office was perfectly- swankyesque, my feelings are that any place that can afford to have white floors, look nice, is a good company.

I kept my composure and didn't cry in any cabs....I had way too much eye makeup for crying today. However, when I got HOME, a ridiculous case of queasiness took over my body like an alien and I have been in bed-sick all. damn. day. Maybe some insomnia cookies would make me feel better.....have you heard of these guys?? The deliver cookies. 24. hours. a. day. That sounds like danger to me, daaanga! but, oh so tasty.

And in closing....after my (very strong) margaritas last night, I went to Amadeus' show (the composer from the bookstore has a band- I found out from Googling it)....what is my obsession with musicians, is there a medication to help me kick that, that's stronger than previous musician induced heartbreak?? I fucking wish. Maybe he'll be sweet....but not as sweet as the cookies I'm about to order.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Filling "THE WELL"

I filled "The Well" today.

No, not the water hole where ladies in peasant dresses schlep buckets through the prairie to bring clean water to their husbands who spent a day chopping lumber (this is my personal imagery that comes along with a well).

I filled MY WELL. The Well is that little inner place that runs a bit dry sometime after childhood; when you start carrying a planner and have "budgets", when you forget pleasure and lack "time" for leisure, when you allow pressure over ease, when you live in lack instead of indulgence.

The Well is doesn't have a watch, or a bottom, an end or a form. The Well picks up a paintbrush, takes time to read though books at a bookstore, and "do" rather than mulling over when to do. The Well has ideas. The Well is inspired. The Well notices peoples faces and is attune to conversation, it doesn't judge or disapprove, it doesn't worry or cling from fear of loss.

It is FULL, when you decide to fill it. Full of flavor, of words, of light, of richness and energy. And it has to be full in order to feel that you are fulfilled.

It was tempting to not stay in bed all day on my day off. I was lacking motivation to jump in the shower, or even brush my teeth. But instead, I picked out my favorite outfit- not because I thought anyone would see it and that is specifically why...I wanted to feel good for me. I wore my favorite underwear, and listened to music while I took the time to put eyeliner on...just because.

I was taking myself on a date, I was going to feed my date, my art, my passion and my soul as it had been starved to near death. Work, or internships, planning, or worrying, were not on my agenda at all....impressing my date was.

Instead of carrying my phone in my hand to check the time, or answer immediately- I decided I only answer to me what pulls me, to my body when it says: GO, eat, skip, stay, keep going-whatever.

My body naturally wanted bruschetta and white wine, SO- I filled my well with bruschetta and wine. I filled my well with truffle oil egg toast, spicy pepper and asparagus. I filled the pages of my journal over cappucino. I filled my well with intrigue at Three Lives Bookstore as I eavesdropped on a young, wild haired, composer (Did I mention Amadeus is my favorite movie of all time?), which naturally- filled my well with a slight dash of lust. I filled my well with mozzarella and tiramisu, rich marscarpone, fresh basil and crusty bread. I filled it with ink and the sound of scribbling, with the sound of friends catching up, or after work dinner dates whispering lowly over tea lights.

I filled my well by slowing walking, observing instead of letting the rainy weather keep me inside. I filled my well by skipping through a park. Yes, I fucking skipped like something you see in a romantic comedy.

I thought about my grandparents, I thought of the "signs" that reminded me of them and I wondered if I slowed down more often if I'd notice that I wasn't as alone as I felt most of the time.

While I was throwing little gems of inspiration into my well from everything I saw, tasted and heard...I noticed a shift. A lightness even. Then it hit me, that I wasn't angry, I didn't notice how angry I was until I wasn't...I wasn't angry at "the ex" anymore, I even considered picking up a nice thank you note on thick stationary and writing words of gratitude for allowing me to have this day- a day I wouldn't have had, had I been sitting in his house eating frozen pizza and having subpar sex. I wasn't angry at "the universe" for its "plans" that surely didn't match up to the ones I had made. I wasn't angry at my bank account, at my uncertainty, at my thighs, or my loneliness.

I was full. And at this point, both physically and spiritually.

Time has a way of making you ignore you "Well", stress makes you ignore it, obligation, occupation and hustling all team up so you can ignore The Well.

It's hard to fill an inner part of your life, when you're so consumed filling the outer- an outer that much of the time, doesn't serve you, as much as it does everyone else.

So today, in all of my "indulgence", I relished in the things that make ME feel good. Its hard, but you have to remind yourself to not ignore the well and I'll surely strive for keeping it full each day, until it is Tuesday again...and I can wake up at noon....with nothing on my agenda other than taking my inner well on a lavish date.
What would you fill your well with??

Monday, February 25, 2008

WORKIN WORKIN day and night. Thanks Michael for the theme song.

You know you've been working a lot when:

-You're drifting off to sleep, you've finally found a peaceful moment, and BAM! The heat come on and you scream, "Turn off the copier!!!!" .....?

-You look forward to popping blisters, so much better than zits, by the way.

-The guy who you get take-out from knows more about your life that your friends. When you had friends.

-Bagels become the foundation of your food chain, and you think it's "ok." Hello, bagels? No, bagels are death. Luckily, I'm too lazy to walk half a block to dunkin- doughnuts or I would definitely be in trouble, or cardiac arrest.

-It takes a few hours to shift out of work mode, and not answer the phone like you're a damn robot. "Good afternoon.Chelsea Talks Smack, how can I direct your call??"

"Chelsea, its MOM." "Hi Mom, how can I help you?"

-You start to forget what daylight looks like. Then, on your day off you're like a fucking vampire, scared, excessive blinking- so your eyes can adjust, and pasty. pasty. skin. Thank the heavenly people over at Jergens for that firming/tanning lotion.

-You call into radio shows to "chat". Since DJ's are the only voice from the "outside world, " they're like a beacon of hope, that there is life "out there".

-You forget what you look like.

-.....that happens shortly after you stop caring about looking "good."

- And drumroll :: Is it tacky to bring a cute little flask in my purse?::

As you can see, as noted above....."The Man" is TAKING OVER. The man is gettin' me dowwwn. However, no matter how strong a hold "it" may have on my sanity, I've managed to explore the city a bit- after hours.

*VYNL- very delish, and there's pumpkin cheesecake, cute bathrooms (is this as imperative to you guys as it is to me??) and even better: good lighting.

*Blockheads- big. ass. burritos. and big ass. margaritasssssss.

*Beauty Bar- cheap drinks, Aquanet, and happy hour....You can get a manicure too, hey yo! I'd like to shake the hand of the drunk Avon lady that came up with this magnificent idea.

*Cake Shop- buy a record, see a show and eat a cute little vegan pastry. It can get a big trippy however, some random chick gave me a homemade chapstick, called Clockwork Orange Creamscicle. Yeah.

* ...and Home on Cornelia St. which has ridiculously good wine, small cozy atmosphere...and definitely rivals Cafeteria's mac&cheese. :)

More foodie, whiney-hungry working girl blogs to come (I promise, I'll be all funny and shit soon). Anywhere you'd like me to hit up in Manhattan??? Let me know and I'll give you a bit of a review, plus, I'd love to keep exploring.....when I have time.......

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Feminism doesn't mean lesbianism.

Never tell a man you're a feminist at a bar on "bluegrass" night.

You'll spend the next three hours explaining that feminists are not lesbians. Nothing can shoot down a nice buzz like being looked at like you're some enraged "man hater" and then taking on the insecurity of looking like a huge lez. I love lesbians (Ellen call me, let's do lunch.), I'm just not one.

For men, this is extremely hard to understand, seeing as they think their gender could do no wrong, and the only reason we'd feel the need to be "as strong as" is if we are big bull dikes.

Feminism has such a negative connotation attached to it, not only to men but to women as well. Rather than seeing the positive, empowering beliefs a feminist would embody, they see it as small minded, angry, aggressive and exclusive.

What is so wrong about being a strong woman, it's fine if you say I'm a "strong woman" because it sugar coats: feminist. It's much easier to swallow than, "the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes."

I can see why men would feel that we would knock them off of their pedestal slightly, so that we're on the same platform. Threatening? Maybe. Beneficial and progressive? Absolutely.

But we parry the WORD, feminist because the word is has so much mystery and foreign power behind it. With that said, it's just a WORD. A word that should be packed with power not intimidation.

So, I say never tell a man you're a feminist in a bar....... but maybe that's exactly what you should tell a man in a bar.

Yes-I had crimson lips, yes- I was swirling a glass of white wine, yes- I happened to be alone for a bit, yes- I was wearing chiffon and heels, yes- my hair smells amazing, yes- I'd like to lick Matthew McConaughey's abs, and YES, heels and all I stand on my beliefs, and I am unshakeable. Doesn't sound like the stereotypical vision of a feminist does it?

I can argue just as fiercely about my beliefs on feminism as I can about my belief that cupcakes are in fact, better than muffins (I had this conversation as well, with a nice Irish boy named Patty who resembled Jude Law and thought muffins were better. Was he fucking mad? Who doesn't like frosted mini cakes? Irish people?)

So what's so terrible about that? NOTHING. If I were a man, if anything, I'd find it incredibly sexy.

There are so many beautiful, intelligent, funny, women who shouldn't be afraid to define themselves in that way, in order to work towards abolishing the negativity and confusion so many people have towards it. Squelch the fear towards fierceness my friends. BAN THAT SHIT.

So that next time I'm in a bar and I say something about feminism I don't receive this response,

"Sooo, are you like, attracted to chicks???"

Or maybe I was just getting hit on my an extremely douchey dullard. Your call.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Who said BANGS were a good idea??

I stumbled upon a wellspring of models the other day.

Male models. Male models are confusing for a few reasons: Are they gay? Or are they foreign? and if they're foreign, it's ridiculously hard to tell if they're gay. Accents are the perfect cover up to gayness. I can never tell. Accents are also the perfect addition to a studly, gladiator of a man. With the face of God.

Unsurprisingly, when I should have been looking like a super babe, I was sitting at a deli- facing the window stuffing my face with a Santa Fe chicken wrap dripping with grease and chedder cheese.

Grease dripping down my chin and water dripping from my bangs made me the image of disastorous single woman feeding her stomach, in lieu of feeding her sexual appetite.

While I stared dreamily out the window as models came pouring en massssssse (WITH NICE ASS) from a door adjacent to the deli, one of them made eye contact with me.....then scurried like a scared mouse at the site of a starved cat.

I, then caught a view of my reflection in the window and wanted to run like hell too.

You know what doesn't work in the city?? Fucking BANGS.

Wind= bad for the bangs.

Rain= bad for the bangs.

Sweat, from walking six thousand blocks= bad for the fucking bangs.

This is no Lipstick Jungle my friends....where that cute designer girl has perfect bangs. What the fuck is that about?? That's false advertisement. And so are heels, feet were bleeding today from wearing tattered uggs.

Had I been wearing stilettos.....someone would have had to report finding 10 toes, scattering the streets from 15th to SOHO. Like a crime scene, a trail to the toeless girl at the coffee shop.

That would be the outcome of heels.

So Lipstick Jungle, Sex and the City, Cashmere Mafia, I loved you, I had faith in you, and now.....I have wet bangs and blisters.

I also stumbled (from weak knees) past about 8 of my future husbands, if ONE could work out that'd be great....I believe I was on Broome?....if any of you men are reading my blog, I was the girl who stared at you open jawed, through wet bangs. But, with a really "bangin'" cute outfit.....since, ya know, men give a shit about that sort of thing.

NO, they care about boobs and bangs....but i'm too eskimo WRAPPED in 12 layers for them to see my boobs. So, they better care about the damn bangs.

You know who doesn't mind if I have wet bangs and pesto stuck in my teeth?? TwentySomethings (I love her.) and Exposed NYC (so sweet)....who have both met me for coffee/drinks this week and I can fairly say I have two new amazing friends in the city.

Cheers to that....drenched, calloused and sweaty.
THE MISSION: If I could find time for A MAN in the mix....that'd be GOLDEN.
I work 6 days a week, not including the freelance work, the magazine is great, work is tiring, I RUN AROUND A LOT and I can remain looking sexsamatastic, IF I take a cab.
Now, when I get home at night, it'd be nice to have someone to get in my jami's with, watch movies and have some make-out sessions. That's the goal.
As long as I don't introduce myself as, "Hi, I'm Chelsea Talks Smack, desperate for lovin' AND I'm fucking great. Take me out." It's never good when you could get to a point where that could accidentally slip out of your mouth.....wish me luck. I think I'm on the right track....

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Are you afraid of the dark???

Fear has never been my "thing."

Scary movies were only appealing to me when it was an excuse to cuddle up next to a boy, who I would usually be too afraid to touch. Axe murders make clutching to sleeves with sweaty palms and fluttering hearts, completely acceptable.

I can only recount about one time when I've slept with a knife next to my bed and only once have I needed a friend to come rescue me (that was when the mafia visted, seriously. But that's another blog)

Earlier in the year when I was planning a year long trip overseas, people would say, "Oh GOODD, aren't you afraid??"

Call me naive, but I'm pretty sure statistics say I am much more safe in Europe, than walking down Hollywood Blvd everyday after school and even then, I wasn't afraid. Parking half a block away from my apartment in L.A. and sprinting to my front door every night, keys gripped in my hand,white knuckles and breathless speed- wasn't so safe either.

Fear is an incredibly powerful emotion. Fear can create something, out of nothing. Like most children, I had monsters under my bed and I would have sworn on the Bible that they reached through the bed springs and grabbed my ankles a few times. Fear has the power to create something that real. I've mentally created footsteps following me, jiggling door handles, booming voices of intruders and "The Boogey Man."

On the same hand, people being afraid for you, is just as powerful.

SO, every time someone says, "Well, I worry about you......" I want to say, "PLEASE STOP SENDING ME THAT TOXIC ENERGY."

Then I usually get some sort of response like, "Don't stick your head in the sand, blah blah." Well, my head is surely not in the sand, if it were, I wouldn't own two industrial sized cans of mace.

However, It cannot be my focus. If fear is your focus, then paralysis is your outcome. This is partially the reason why half of the time I watch the news, it's on MUTE.

It'd be much easier to sit inside all day, to stay in one place, to drive down the same road, to keep quiet and on a different fear based level: to avoid risk. To make pro's and con's list before every action and let a balance of "con's" outweigh a possible balance of, opportunities.

So when people say, "Aren't you afraid?" I say, "I don't do fear."

Fear has no place in my house.

Now, I'm not a complete warrior; I do get the willies, I do get nervous, I do get anxious (I get anxious, sort of a lot.), I do get uneasy (I've gotten really good at following my gut, even if my uneasiness seems ridiculous and unjustified.), and all of those other low energy emotions. I am HUMAN, so I do have them....Some things that have given me the heebee jeebees lately:

-Piles of Garbage...I envision rats leaping at full speed towards my face.

-Trench coats- come on, Trench coats are fucking scary...and people who wear them, try to look "scary."

-my newfound love for Destiny's Child, "Cater to you....." Since its the most demeaning, powerless song written by a woman ever. And it's on repeat on my ipod.

-Running out of peanut butter.....hi, terrifying.

-Losing my Metrocard from a sudden gust of blustering wind.

And, right now...that's about it.

Fear has to be consciously controlled and though it is a constant effort, and I believe: a choice, it is worth it to be unafraid, it is empowering, enabling and bold.
How much power does fear have in your life????

Friday, February 15, 2008

Let's talk about love baby.

Cupid, dear cupid, what did I do? I've been so devoted and faithful to you, I'd rub your sweet belly (oh, wait, do him and Buddha fall into the same catergory with the belly thing?), I'd fall for you tricks, and I wouldn't get pissed if you shot me a kiss. So please shoot an arrow- straight to my ass, I really love men and all of there sass. Cupid, dear cupid, this is entirely stupid, but send me some lovin' before I get all......nothing rhymes with stupid as much as: dried up like a prune.

I know I'm a day late and intentionally so, I would like cupids full attention.

Lets talk about LOVE, since it's as mythical to me as a damn unicorn:

1. Best thing about Valentines Day- Little Debbie Valentines heart cakes.

2. Worst thing: Oh, I don't know, existing?

3. Did anyone else think is was so endearing when grill busted Amy Winehouse said, " To my Blake incarcerated" Incarcerated is an adorable word when you have a cockney accent. And incarceration must = true love?

4. The first boy I ever pecked was in 1st grade. I kissed him on the shoulder. He had no idea.

5. The first guy I ever slept with broke my heart- before I slept with him. That would never happen now, I've upped my standards a bit.

6. The only "date"(meaning, acquaintance, friend of a friend who asked me out, picked me up and took me out to Indian food) I've actually enjoyed was with a guy who ommitted the info about his GIRLFRIEND. In Brazil. A hot, bikini model girlfriend.

7. Swedish guys are fun. I know first hand.

8. An Italian guy once told me he "loved me" after only brief outings with broken conversation. If I spoke Italian, I probably would have loved him too. He was badass guitar player with pretty hair.

9. The only Valentines day that I enjoyed was in a hotel with; sex, chocolate cake, red wine, The Notebook AND pasta. Sex and cake are my favorite.

10. My first real kiss tasted like bananas. And bananas now remind me of kissing.

11. I have a goal to one day have a reason to wear a diamond bra like a fucking Victoria Secret's Angel. Maybe next V-day?

12. You know who's a weird couple? Jake Ghyllenhaal and Reese Witherspoon. Weird why? Because he's my other half. On one side anyways- I reserve room for the likes of David Beckham on the other side.

13. I fell for a guy once who asked me on a date to the Labrea Tarpits followed by a dinner of late night hot dogs. Turns out he LIVED with his ex-girlfriend. That didn't fly for long.

14. My dad is my only true, consistant, Valentine.

15. I once liked a guy named Franz, he liked my best friend.

16. One guy I dated was later arrested for stealing lunch meat and a forty. This embarressing, and true.

17. I once liked a guy who was a 25 year old virgin. I was clearly confused, he was clearly gay.

18. I once liked a guy who ended up living in a van on Venice Beach. He was a poor hippie.

19. I once dated a guy who would go on "secret golfing dates" with my dad. He wanted my family to adopt him.

20. I once got a love letter with GOGGLES attached to it. The goggles were my admirers most "prized possession." They freaked me the fuck out.

21. The only rose I ever received was from a checked out yoga instructor.

22. I've never had "a song" with someone, but there are ENTIRE genres of music I cannot listen to because they remind me of my ex.

23. I once went on a "non-date" date, to a Christmas party where the boss was wearing a kilt and kept slapping my ass.

24. My friend tried to hook me up with Kevin Federline, I politely declined.

25. I have secret crushes on baristas at Starbucks ALL THE TIME. It's part of the corporations evil plan to get me to come back.

26. One of my ex-boyfriends goes to Juilliard on a full ride, and wrote a song for me. Why did we break up again?

27. Ugh, "I can't make you love me" by Bonnie Raitt makes me want to sob in a bottle of vodka.

28. I slept with on of my best guy friends while watching "Ong Bak" the Thai warrior. Then was all whiney when he didn't want to date me. He's still one fo my best friend.

29. "There's girls, then there's 'Chelsea'...." I've been told this....A LOT. I don't really know how to respond to being seperate from the "girls" catergory?

30. I used to think I loved Prince William, until he didn't grow into his teeth.

31. Wine makes me frisky.

32. Close talking leads to kissing, thats the only thing they got right in all those teen movies. John Hughes is the master of the close talk/kiss.

33. After reading my list, I need to SERIOUSLY WORK ON WHO I DATE.

Would you like to add any of your love musings or former mishaps??

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

*Ball-busting since birth*

God, I love this city. Can we talk about seeing Andy Samberg and the ball-busting, self control I had to exercize in order to not jump on his back and ask him to be my "Valentine."

Speaking of balls, it was the one moment where I wished I could say, "You know what I'm giving my Valentine?? A dick in a box." Then we would have gotten chummy and high fived each other in revelry over the gift of "the penis." BUT, I just walked past him in my ice princesss non-chalance. Though, he totally checked it.

Back to "ball-busting." Last night I had a dinner with a friend of my mom's, who could possibly be a potential employer. We started off friendly, since, I'm not always a crazy feminazi (to quote the last guy that I "dated") to men, then naturally after the gift of a second glass of wine, both feeling bold and inebriated, we turned political. Cause, fuck, I cannot help myself.

"I have framed photos of George Bush in my OFFICE! He is the smartest man ALIVE....."

I almost dropped dead from choking on a piece of shrimp. This man must be a joker. He has been hired to "punk" me, or pull a "boiling points" stunt, where I'll win 300 dollars if I listen to his narrow minded ignorance.

Needless to say, I wouldn't have won the money had it been a prank. I'm too much of a loudmouth to play up apathy.

We continued for three hours with banter of fierce political ping-pong, he managed to offend me on various levels: " Artists are not smart." etc. and I did the same. I wasn't worried about potential employment, but my words and opinions exist for the purpose of voicing them....

I was sure I blew it.

Wrong, I win again. He offered me a job this morning. I suppose it's more attractive on either spectrum to have an opinion on SOMETHING rather than nothing. Even if I find you to be a tyrant and your politics to be inhumane.

I took the job, it'll be a great job. And...he already knows where I stand. Football fields away from him.

Thus far, I have: Eaten mac&cheese at Cafeteria (thank you NicoleAntoinette, you were right!), had brunch at Cornelia St Cafe, landed a well paying job!, fallen in love over and OVER again with my apartment, been asked on one date, turned down one date, found my favorite bar, and flirted with a new man on every street corner. Ha, that's probably the most hooker thing I've ever said.

The concensus: this move was a BRILLIANT idea. Successsssssssssssss!!!!!! Cheers to me.

More ball cracking stories to come.....

Monday, February 11, 2008

Stripping: The way to a mans soul.

Our mothers lied to us. Oh, dear deception!

Ha! Food! The way to a mans heart is through his stomach? Um, I'm sorry, the way to a man's heart is through his groin.
Through his crotch. Through the pants snake. And of course our mothers said it was because of her casserole, cause SHIT- she didn't want to say, "Well, I really got him when I did a full routine to 'Hot For Teacher' followed by a remix of Welcome to the Jungle Oo! You should've seen his face!"

Yeah. So casserole and lasagna was the way to go.
Now, I say stripping because....the music says so. And I always follow the music.

Many hours have been spent in the recording studios specifically to create the: Ode to the Stripper.
Bills have been folded, and tapped on the ends of stages, college funds have been dipped into and elaborate "poker night" lies have been devised. All, for, the stripper.
Not for the baby mama, not for the dance recital, not for the softball game or the family reunion. THE STRIPPER.
Which hey, ladies go on and do your thing...if I had nicer boobs- meaning BIGGER, since they're nice and small, (often non-exsistant depending on how much bread I eat)I'd strip. Amatuer night here I coooomme!!! Neon lycra thongs? Oh, I would buy them in a rainbow of colors and get my initials tattooed on my ass. In Old English writing.

I'm about to board a plane to NYC...My move is now offical. My angels were working tricks like gangbusters up there and the apartment panned out. At least for awhile, I'll be staying in a friend's loft in Chelsea. Chelsea in Chelsea. Holla.

So I leave you with this- some strip songs.
Since, ya know, it's almost Valentines Day...and we've all wanted to buy a pink feather boa robe to seductively shimmy off, and whip at our man in FULL STRIPPER SEDUCTION. Don't deny it. With matching heels even, you know the kind.
So ladies, go work on your routine. Fuck chocolates and a nice dinner....that was all a sham. He wants you to get naked. slowly.

For your disrobing convenience, I have provided you with a soundtrack. Godspeed.

Paula Cole (block out the hairy armpits if you will)-"Feelin' Love"

Justin Timberlake & 50Cent-"Ayo Technology"

Snoop Dogg- "Sensual Seduction" I had to do the obvious.

Sweet Chaarity- "Big Spender"

T-Pain-"I'm in luv with a stripper"- not LOVE, but luv.

ZZ Top- "Leggs"

Usher- "That's what it's made for"

So, I may not be on for a couple days while I get settled in the city (hit me up if you're in NYC!) so...I expect full reports on your stripper success. I promise, it'll be a SUPERB V-day.
What are YOUR stripper tunes????

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Would you punch Granny???

"If I gave you a million dollars would you slap Granny across the face??" My uncle Bobby cracks open a Coors Light and we play the "What would you do for a million?" game.

"Um, I'd do it for ten grand." No hesitation there.

"AND, I would be mad at you if you didn't!!" My grandma responds without haste over a glass of red wine.

This is precisely why I love my family. We have Sunday dinner, every Sunday...since as long as I can remember. Usually it's Italian food, since- we're Italian. But we mix it up with taco/margarita nights, and often pizza. Since, pizza fucking rocks, and everyone likes a good excuse to quench their thirst with a frosty glass of beer.

And honestly, it's the thing I miss the ABSOLUTE MOST when I'm away, not the beer, the family. I don't miss the full pantry of food, I don't miss the security so much, I don't miss my bed, I miss my family. I miss Sundays. My favorite day.

I miss "Family Olympics" let's just say we're a competitive bunch, so we like to challenge each other to games like pole-vaulting with tree branches, and trivia. My mother is convinced she is the smartest person alive, so things often get loud. We debate, we talk over each other, we disagree, we cook together, we're uncensored, we kiss each other's foreheads and gush over how we happen to be the GREATEST FAMILY EVER, who totally deserve a reality show. (MTV, Get in contact with my people.)
And every time I decide to flee, they get me a farewell cake and wrap me in hugs of encouragement, strength and send me with a shot for road.

The red wine flows like water. Purple teeth and lips grin widely and laugh loudly. We get entirely inappropriate, and they still manage to accept me when I have a glass too many and confess my trashy lapses in judgement, and for good measure they offer me their stories too:

Granny, when my mom found her bong as a teenager,"OOOOHHHHH...I was just keeping it for my friend!!!" Though, she's also the one who had a pet raccoon named, Cocaine Sadie. A fucking RACCOON. I couldn't make that up, I'm not that good.

I always want them to know how much I love and adore them. We express it openly, but I want to tattoo my face with their names to show my gratitude.
I would clean their toilets for the rest of eternity, I would pay their taxes and take them to trips in Tuscany, if I could. I would take on a wild pack of hyena's with my bare hands if it would make them more content.

Anything I could do to make their lives better, I would do- they're the most important thing to me in the world, and for all of the dysfunction families can have, all of the differences and "faults", I am proud to put a stamp on them all and call them mine.

So, when my uncle asked if I'd punch my Granny in the face for a million dollars, when she was sitting across the table....Of course I said yes, cause I'd give the entire million back to her after the hit.

Ok, maybe not THE WHOLE million.
Would you punch your Granny??

Saturday, February 9, 2008



"Lean with it, rock with it" blares over the radio station and my hope crashes to the floor, with a shattering outcry of...Fuuuucccck.

"What?! What's wrong?! Are you okay?!"

"Oh, yeah. Sorry mom, I missed the Cash Cow "Jam of the day" and I really needed to win a grand. Fuck."

Ok, you know you're in desperate need of money when you waste an hours worth of gas, driving out of the way, all day long, waiting for the song of the day to come on. My finger on the dial, ready to call in, I even practiced my scream of JOY. Complete jubilation. Eh, lost cause.

So I failed to win money, but what did I not fail at??? Oh, taking the ACT today.
Yes, I said ACT. I realize that I'm five years late. I should've done it when I was 18, but instead I said "fuck school, I'm too busy trying to be famous." and actually, I was. The ACT wasn't even a thought, there was no consideration, studying, planning, etc.

Until now that I'm taking classes in May, at a four year university. I had vowed, I would NEVER ever, go to school. Not because I didn't love school, the actual process of learning, but because it didn't seem to fit in my 18 year old version of a "life plan."

So today, 8 am- number 2 pencils in tow, a baggie of Teddy Grahms, and BAM. ALL of that high school insecurities I had managed to ward off (since I was 15, I began homeschooling at 15) came flooding back like a fucking tsunami.

Fidgiting fingers, hair smoothing, unnecessary throat clearing, feeling complete judgment when walking into a room of 20 teenagers who look like they want to jump you for your lunch money, and girls who are evaluating what type of eyeliner you use and if you're elligible for future boyfriend stealing, or gossip topics.

I did NOT miss this bullshit. I didn't miss the industrial toilet paper that hurts your ass, the teachers with scowling faces, fleece jackets and scrunchies. I didn't miss self doubt, even if its a constant, as you grow it's manageable. I didn't miss the bad lighting or the rules.

Though being an adult comes with a slew of responsibilty that I'm completely aware, I am still unqualified for, it also comes with a sense of self assurance.

An assurance that I think only comes when you've decided to come into your own, live in your skin- even if it's blotchy, blemished or uncomfortable.
An assurance that doesn't mind a room full of strangers but sees it as an opportunity to connect and observe personalities different from your own. An assurance that doesn't hunch or pray to go unseen, that doesn't immediately question what their wearing if it isn't the standard jeans and tee. An assurance that has a voice seperate from the school body as a whole, and a voice that they aren't afraid to use- even if it's different from everyone elses.

I throw my hands to sky with clenched fists when I miss the "song of the day" because, I don't want to be chased by the IRS in April when I'm struggling to pay taxes, but would I trade that to revert back and take on the crippling sense of insecurity, dependance and to contort myself to fit into the mold of adolescence??

What's the best quality you've gained since leaving school?

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

The luckiest bitches in show biz....

....maybe they all share the same Guardian angels?? I'm not sure.

The fame that these people have aquired is TRULY. Magical. They must descend from voodoo practitioners, or have insanely stellar karmic pasts. They assisted in the underground railroad or saved children from Nazi's. Maybe they gave out full candy bars at Halloween?? Something.

Other than that. Or maybe a stash of four leaf clovers kissed by Irish saints, they have stumbled into unjustifiable....luck based, and entirely unnecessary, fame.

*Can we talk about Ashlee Simpson? I think we should.

She, is an identity stealer. Straight ninja. Someone should tell her to please...find yourself, go on a fucking retreat, instead of overthrowing Ashley Olsen's identity and then discarding it for that barely famous Fine Frenzy girl's image. I miss the squealing "LALA" Ashlee who shamelessly ate pancakes and looked scrubby on national television. Put the Stepford Wife back into the closet, we're here for you. And pick up a box of L'oreal hair dye at Rite Aid on the way.

You must be incredibly grateful, and you should lick your sister's platforms for treading out a path that you could drunkenly skip down with boys who like rhinestoned hoodies and eyeliner.

*Dear Heidi Montag,

I'm embarrassed for even knowing your full name, but not nearly as embarrassed as I am about the VIDEO you just made.

Just because you have money, and you know some men with one syllable names (J, Trey, C, D, followed by fizzle, izzle, and money.) who have expensive beat makers- that does NOT make you a singer. And fake boobs do NOT make you a pop star. Blonde, does not make you "hot" and beach frolicking- Britney did it better.

Chelsea Talks Smack
P.S. I'd take up knitting, baking, Kegel exercizes and other housewife duties since, you know, you date a chauvenist.

Who makes these decisions? What executive is sitting behind his desk and starts letting his little head think for his big one when "butta face" Heidi walks in and asks for a record deal?

Who wrote a check for millions and passed it across his cherrywood table, in his office with a view, to fund the careers of the Jonas Brothers and Miley Cyrus?? And did he think of anything other than his forthcoming "black card" when he/she spoon fed all of America's youth, trash? Thus, sending them into a future of "sheep-ple" syndrome, a syndrome that will buy anything, will sticker their notebooks and paint their faces with the only options available and call it talent.

Who listened to a proposal, read a script, talked over "lunch", and conferenced via webcam, to fund movies like "Over Her Dead Body" and "Honey"; then instead of making the money useful they attempted to trick us with beautiful women to camouflage a shitty script. Wasting their money, their time, and insulting our intelligence thinking we'd "buy it."

Given the opportunity to sit behind "the desk", what lapses in judgment have been made, that YOU would have been able to foresee as failure????

You're aren't allowed to say the movie "Glitter".

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

Did you read the label on that??

Most things that we ingest into our body we can find out exactly what it is we're ingesting: ingredients, calories, chemicals, possible side effects, etc.

This is for our safety. For our judgement, so we can say, "Hey, I don't feel like popping that pill to get rid of a back ache and trade it in for a bleeding ass hole." or, " Hey, I don't want to feed my baby high fructose corn syrup and chemicals tested on rats, since, my baby is not a rat, yet."

We're given the proper information so that we can decide whether we want to put our bodies through the effects of things that could be harmful.

Now, it seems to me that when the "big man" was making US, you'd think the same rules would apply, no?

For instance, when it comes to matters of the heart we're not given the option of a disclaimer to make an intelligent, fact based, decision on whether giving your most valuable organ to someone is a good idea.

But, when I have a flaming headache- I can pick up a bottle of Advil and risk facial swelling, hoping it all lands in my lips rather than my eyelids.

So if I were to be created again, possible suitors would see this handy little thing- a warning label:

Often "too busy", not the best cook but will give it a valiant effort, hates blow jobs, likes to travel so often that you're not always invited, sassy, short fuse, unafraid of fighting in public, will not let you touch her feet, likes to argue, a stickler about promptness, a bit messy, thinks picking her nose is fun, competitive as all hell, challenging- most of the time, easily bored, loves babies, could kick your ass at beer pong, will instantly make friends with your grandma, ruthless when it comes to ex-girlfriends, instant road rage while bickering, will tell you that you have horrible taste in film making if you enjoyed War of the Worlds.

Then of course you could find the extended version in small print somewhere on the internet. But, the warning label would give you just enough info on whether or not....I'm date worthy, whether you should ingest me into your life.

The question is, would I have chosen differently had I seen THIS warning label:

Runs late, smokes more than he should, has a victim mentality, nothing is ever good enough, not so adventurous, no desire to see the world, wouldn't be able to kick ass in a dark alley, say's he never lies and is lying, thinks you owe him, prefers one position, low earning potential, too quiet in social outings, walks with his head down, selfish, apathetic about current events, lacks spirituality, uses guilt as a tactic, hates Panda Express, lacks loyalty to friends, easily offended, cheater, low moral fiber, 5 minutes max, and will ultimately break your heart.

Eh, I think I'll have a V-8.

It only makes SENSE to print these labels somewhere on our body- the side effects are far more altering subconsciously and physically. AND come on, pumping a stomach is a much easier task than mending a heart.

What are some things you wouldn't have swallowed had you known their effects??

Any warning labels you would have kept on the shelf???

Monday, February 4, 2008

GAH. A new word for the ovulating.

Gaaah!! Gah is a word I use when I'm too lazy to just add the D at the end of God. It turns into GAAAH. and I'm only too lazy to use consonants when I'm either; pms-ing, sleepy, sad, stressed, or hungry. I happen to be all of the above.

I turn into a Neaderthal and use mostly vowel sounds- Ah, eh, eeeee, oh. and GAH. I'd only use OO if I were maybe talking to a baby or something magical happened, like I could move my fucking pen through telekinesis across the room. I'm in true caveman form and it's fairly simple to understand. Straight to the point, minus all the babble.

I was supposed to teach voice lessons today and GAAAH, I left my keys- in my Mothers car. She left before I could figure that out, so I had to cancel all of my lessons, lost out on some much needed cash AND am confined to my home. all. day.

Confinement does not make me productive. Rather than writing, reading, doing a Yoga tape, or perusing CNN or other informative sites to keep up on current events. I procrastinate, do random sets of wind sprints from my fireplace to the microwave while making hot cocoa, and most dangerous of all.....I window shop. Window in the computer sense.

Right now I have: Nordstroms, Urban Outfitters, Lucky, Sephora, Marc Jacobs, and InStyle, open in windows on my screen. Literally, plastering the screen behind this one making a collage of pretty little things I currently cannot afford.

This, I understand, is materialistic and vain and probably some strange form of torture that should have a name.....Who do you contact when naming new forms of torture that you think are Webster worthy?? Mr. Webster?

So here are the things I would like to buy using my imaginary bank account:

Shiny Shoes. Since, hey, I like my shoes to be as bright as my future.

Dear Marc Jacobs,

You. are. a snobby, snobby man. $748.00 dollars?! WHAT. DO YOU THINK THE REST OF US PAUPERS DO?? I am not royalty, and I do not think I am royalty like Paris Hilton, BUT, I would appreciate these shoes far more than the people who can afford them. These shoes will become sad, abandoned footwear in 4 months, in the back of some heiresses closet, with dusty Louis Vuitton bags and your previous fall collection. Work on your prices.
Sad Consumer Chelsea Talks Smack

I like my shoes so shiny in fact, that when I wear these T-shirts, I could either be mistaken for The Lord himself, or I can scream my political views at you without risking damage to the chops.

I've also found out- through my time sucking, black hole of internet "shopping", that pleating is coming back. Pleats?! NO. I am not, nor have I ever been a fan of the school girl/tennis player chic. You will not find me in pleats. ever. I'd rather Hammer Pants come back than pleats.

And in closing, the perfect little pouch for carrot sticks, change and condoms:
Photobucket Bustboobtique
However, if you hand me a chicken wing I will not deny you.

Sunday, February 3, 2008

Super Bowl days make me listen to rap music and act as spokeswoman for Doritos.

Though I have evolved musically in th past 10 years, there are still times when I catch myself brazenly acknowledging the fact that, I indeed- know the lyrics to most rap songs.
My day to day listening is more indie oriented,I connect more with it, obviously since I'm dramatic and from the 'burbs, but sometimes, I simply feel like bouncing to mindless sugary beats rather than crawling inside my introspective cave that has a special cozy corner in my brain.
So I feel, as a closet listener, or often (in an altered state of mind) not such a closet listener (HELLO DRUNK KARAOKE. CLASSY.), that I'll give back to rap community with translations for the rest of you indie folk. And beyond. Rap community, here is my version of a bake sale, I would like to offer my time as translator;

From the brain of Flo Rida, "Make it rain, I'm makin it snow
Work the pole, I got the bank roll" Translation: The more naked you get, the more dollars you get. He's letting you know, he's got the cash to stick in your crack. After you hit the 'flo (FLOOR.)

From the genius of Lupe Fiasco, "Kick push, kick push, coast." Translation: White boys with dirty skater shoes, this is for you. Pull out your vans and your best Tony Hawk impressions and become one with your connection to LUPE.

Two brains are better than one with Bow Wow and Omarion, "Her jeans be riding low
Homies breakin they neck,Just to see how far they go down down" Translation: Ladies, these are both ASS MEN. Thats all you need to know, and don't worry their necks are fine.

Oh Fiddy, you're more like a dolla' holla',In 21 Qestions, 50 is feeling a bit insecure; " If I didn't smell so good would you still hug me? If I got locked up and sentenced to a quarter century,
Could I count on you to be there to support me mentally?" Translation:
The answers to these questions should be NO AND NO. I don't like smelly ballsacs or convicts. He's got more where that came from, hello...."magic stick" anyone?

Chris Brown needs to ENUNCIATE- "She want that lovey dovey (lovey dovey)
that kiss kiss (kiss kiss)" Translation: Who else was convinced he was saying Laffy Taffy?? I was going to attempt translating that but it made no fucking sense.

Cassidy f Swizz Beats are drinkin' and two steppin , "The whip sittin on two-sixes, the lip's chromed. My money used to be immature now my shit grown" Translastion: Cassidy has a nice ride. Ride= car. Apparently he used to spend his money on bubblegum and action figures, now he's GROWN, so the dollars are reserved for shiny things and bitches.

Busta Rhymes would like some applause, "Make it clap" Translation: Put your hands down. Get off the stairstepper. Grab a piece of fried chicken. This is no peanut gallery and no need to say Bravo, let those cheeks flap away, and if you have a moment I would consider referencing this entire song for true lyric genius.

At the Holidae Inn (this must be a different chain than the usual HOLIDAY) with Chingy he'll tell you, "Ya that's me, Ching-a-ling equipped wit much ding-a-ling" Translation: His mother forgot to tell him the "big boy" word for penis.
If you ever find yourself at this Holidae Inn, the beer is in the bathtub and the Hennessy is down someone's pants. Weed is welcome if you bring shawties= chicks.

And to the late Biggie Smalls,"Pull the truck up, front, and roll up the next blunt, So we can steam on the way to the telly, go fill my belly A t-bone steak, cheese eggs and Welch's grape" Translastion: Only TRUE legends can reference Welch's and remain "Big Poppa". Ladies Biggie liked ass, but he really just wanted a nice piece of meat. Literally.

Feel free to contribute to my rap community service with your translations......

::updates on my move to NYC to come::

Friday, February 1, 2008

My equations=politically incorrect

I 've never been good at math, but hell, let's give it a shot.

Maybe= Probably not.

Fine= fucking terrible. Fine is a pussy choice of wording for those who refuse to say- bad.

Caffeine= shaky pinky fingers

Melted cheese= pure joy

Superbowl= melted cheese and a hang over

Hangovers= an intense desire for greasy IHOP



Debates= I still can't make up my damn mind.

Hilary wearing blue stone earrings= Did she have girl talk about her jewels with a friend, or did she hire a stylist?

*These thoughts= So, Hillary is a chick,meaning she has to enjoy shoes and "CHICK-Y things" somewhere in her politically robotic mind and a dude.
My question is, between his stance on healthcare and his strategy on exiting Iraq, during his pauses and frequent "uh's" is he thinking about sex every 7-10 seconds like the rest of the male population?? Or is he too much of a robotic polical genius? "Roboma"....Poses the question, does the "sex mind" of a man have an on/off switch during important events like debates and law making??? Please, talk amongst yourselves.

Ryan Gosling= serious physical arousal.

Sex=yes, please. My man brain is on high today. Full power. Full out, high speed. David Beckham sex power.

Valentines Day= what day?? Denial is key. Though, I freely accept a nice Whitmans Sampler.

Drinking alone= a multitude of bad decision making. Doing squats in heels while listening to "Body Languge" with a cell phone in one hand and a bottle of wine in another, is a bad. idea.

Butter= no flavor. I literally, cannot taste butter.

Business cards= networking powerhouse. Indeed I will be getting some made this week- Chelsea Talks Smack *writer*singer*eternal bad ass mo' fo'* followed by my contact info and fax #. Fax me on bad ass lesson "how to's".

Jumping jacks= sore tits. sore tits of all sizes. Jumping jacks are tit torture.

Torture= "Move your body like a cyclone"....ENOUGH. Strippers all over the world have done enough damage "tornado-ing" about the stage. enough.

"And frankly..."= saying something I probably shouldn't.

Practicing gang signs when songs come on that say, "Throw your DUBS in the air" = Finger gymnastics. Gangsters need seriously limber phalanges to throw down.

My sister saying, "I have three crushes....wait, NO, Two." Me: "What happened to the third guy?" HER: "Oh, he got a haircut." = Longing for when "love" was as simple as a haircut. If I could choose love or lust based on; shaggy, buzz or 'fro, dating would be cake.

"Can't have your cake and eat it too"= what's the point of a mother fucking cake if you can't eat it?

What are your equations my lovely bloggy friends???