Good for: Anyone longing to have an illicit office romance with a handsome rake
For the "favorite person" challenge at picspammy:
I was jeans shopping, and I tried on a brand of jeans called People’s Revolution, another pair from Citizens for Humanity and a brand called True Religion. Finally I was like, 'Are these jean brands or Al Qaeda splinter groups?'
As much as I admire the Lower East Side, I will go on record as saying that it is not my scene, (um, my scene is like, Nordstrom at the Grove), but I really tried to think of my stay as a colorful adventure, and I, a plucky explorer. My room was really nice, with a large terrace that would’ve been great for a drug binge with some cool band, but I don’t know any bands and I don’t know how to access drugs. I was haunted though - I kept thinking about how in the 1910’s, the hotel was probably a tenement and the suite I was in was probably home to a family of 70 or something. My friend who visited told me he thought countless murders and rapes had probably occurred on the very floor we were drinking absinthe and bopping to Vampire Weekend (just kidding you guys, oh my god, you think I’d ever do something that douchebaggy? That was a test! And you failed.).
When I was a kid, like 11 or 12, I used to keep a list of my favorite SNL sketches on an index card in my wallet. It was really important for some reason, like if the topic of favorite SNL sketches came up in conversation, I could refer to this master list. Weird.
I have really shoddy wireless internet in my new house. And instead of getting on the phone and fixing it, I like, get all preachy to myself and am like, "Well, this is God's way of telling me to get offline and go be creative" or something, and then I go to Milk on Beverly and sample gelato all afternoon.
Like I've said on numerous occasions, girls should wear Osh Kosh B'Gosh overalls until they're 16 years old, and not be allowed to date until sophomore year in college (freshman year is for figuring out who you really are).
When I feel guilty about spending money, it's mostly on shoes.
"This could be 30 yogilates classes." I say, or "This could be a year long membership to MOCA" or "This could be vaccinations for Third World children." (I live a very glamorous, artsy, altruistic life).
I am going to New York for the week of Valentines Day, and I hear it's a mausoleum of ice and wind. I'm terrified.How am I going to wear my adorable little Nave dress and walk down Grand Avenue?
Good for: Women, not girls. (Girls should wear kick-ass sparkly Nine West shoes. These are shoes for sexually active women. Sorry).
In winter time, everyone wears a black coat. I get it. It’s the fastest way to look “dressed up”. And for going to fancy things, it’s indispensable. But every girl should one coat in a bright color, preferably yellow. Why? Because people will think you’re a balls-out badass, or like some cool Parisian teenager. They’ll think: “Where does she get off, thinking she can pull off yellow?” and be all jealous and think you’re Emma from “Emma”. Wearing a bright color (a solid one) is the fastest way for people to think you have a playful point of view. Also, it makes you seem young, which is something I’m not worried about since I’m 19.
And if you're a decadent It Girl who has a New Years Eve date with Bruce Wayne (and you kinda maybe think he might be Batman already), it really behooves you to borrow a grand from your parents and buy these gems.
I've hesitated writing about the strike, because while I believe passionately that we striking for a good reason, I didn't want to incur the contempt of non-writers or fans of the show.
Why? It's simple. I may be the single worst person on this planet who could speak out for the writers plight, because: 1) I am an adult who is lucky enough to have enough disposable income that I literally have a website talking about how I fritter away money on stupid shit. I'm doing fine. and 2) I'm a comedy writer, not a politician or even a person known to make persuasive arguments. I've solved most of my conflicts by crying or threatening to kill myself. Opponents of the strike could point to this URL as the reason why writers are the worst form of overpaid greedbags, the way al Qaeda shows "The Anna Nicole Show" to recruit people to suicide bomb Western places.
When the concept of Sour met Sweet, it was like when Paul McCartney met John Lennon. Then when Sour and Sweet met Chewy, it was like they ran into Mick Jagger at the post office and had one long jam session. When Sour and Sweet and Chewy met Cherry, it was like the cops came to break up the jam session and the sheriff was Michael Jackson in 1981 and he like moonwalked all over the place.
About a year ago, Carolinehope, Jen and I were drinking coffee and discussing "Sherrybaby" at Buzz Coffee. We were super depressed. That is a depressing-ass movie. (Alas, it had been my choice. I don't know why I didn't make us see "The Holiday" or something...I think I was trying to flex artsy). Anyway, we were really down in the dumps when Jonah Hill ambled over. In a few short minutes he had cheered us up with his winning smile, his A+ personality and his pretty eyes. He's so funny and great. Also, he was kinda the best thing in three of the biggest summer comedies this year (Evan Almighty, Superbad and Knocked Up). What a fucking cute motherfucker. With German-engineering type comic timing.
(For the record, one of my biggest goals in life is to be name-checked in a Jay-Z song. Not a big surprise there, I know. But still, I am telling you about my HOPES and DREAMS.)
Anyway, my figure was so lost in billowing material that my boss Greg actually asked me: "What's the deal with these frocks? What happened to East Village Mindy?", which is, for the record, totally innapropriate. But since my per day innapropriate comment number far exceeds nearly the entire staff, I said nothing.
The pics are from all over (mostly google image search), and the quotes are almost entirely from things I bought that I love (Mindy's awesome blog). Except the first one; it's a joke she told during a comedy show.
I was jeans shopping, and I tried on a brand of jeans called People’s Revolution, another pair from Citizens for Humanity and a brand called True Religion. Finally I was like, 'Are these jean brands or Al Qaeda splinter groups?'
As much as I admire the Lower East Side, I will go on record as saying that it is not my scene, (um, my scene is like, Nordstrom at the Grove), but I really tried to think of my stay as a colorful adventure, and I, a plucky explorer. My room was really nice, with a large terrace that would’ve been great for a drug binge with some cool band, but I don’t know any bands and I don’t know how to access drugs. I was haunted though - I kept thinking about how in the 1910’s, the hotel was probably a tenement and the suite I was in was probably home to a family of 70 or something. My friend who visited told me he thought countless murders and rapes had probably occurred on the very floor we were drinking absinthe and bopping to Vampire Weekend (just kidding you guys, oh my god, you think I’d ever do something that douchebaggy? That was a test! And you failed.).
When I was a kid, like 11 or 12, I used to keep a list of my favorite SNL sketches on an index card in my wallet. It was really important for some reason, like if the topic of favorite SNL sketches came up in conversation, I could refer to this master list. Weird.
I have really shoddy wireless internet in my new house. And instead of getting on the phone and fixing it, I like, get all preachy to myself and am like, "Well, this is God's way of telling me to get offline and go be creative" or something, and then I go to Milk on Beverly and sample gelato all afternoon.
Like I've said on numerous occasions, girls should wear Osh Kosh B'Gosh overalls until they're 16 years old, and not be allowed to date until sophomore year in college (freshman year is for figuring out who you really are).
When I feel guilty about spending money, it's mostly on shoes.
"This could be 30 yogilates classes." I say, or "This could be a year long membership to MOCA" or "This could be vaccinations for Third World children." (I live a very glamorous, artsy, altruistic life).
I am going to New York for the week of Valentines Day, and I hear it's a mausoleum of ice and wind. I'm terrified.How am I going to wear my adorable little Nave dress and walk down Grand Avenue?
Good for: Women, not girls. (Girls should wear kick-ass sparkly Nine West shoes. These are shoes for sexually active women. Sorry).
In winter time, everyone wears a black coat. I get it. It’s the fastest way to look “dressed up”. And for going to fancy things, it’s indispensable. But every girl should one coat in a bright color, preferably yellow. Why? Because people will think you’re a balls-out badass, or like some cool Parisian teenager. They’ll think: “Where does she get off, thinking she can pull off yellow?” and be all jealous and think you’re Emma from “Emma”. Wearing a bright color (a solid one) is the fastest way for people to think you have a playful point of view. Also, it makes you seem young, which is something I’m not worried about since I’m 19.
And if you're a decadent It Girl who has a New Years Eve date with Bruce Wayne (and you kinda maybe think he might be Batman already), it really behooves you to borrow a grand from your parents and buy these gems.
I've hesitated writing about the strike, because while I believe passionately that we striking for a good reason, I didn't want to incur the contempt of non-writers or fans of the show.
Why? It's simple. I may be the single worst person on this planet who could speak out for the writers plight, because: 1) I am an adult who is lucky enough to have enough disposable income that I literally have a website talking about how I fritter away money on stupid shit. I'm doing fine. and 2) I'm a comedy writer, not a politician or even a person known to make persuasive arguments. I've solved most of my conflicts by crying or threatening to kill myself. Opponents of the strike could point to this URL as the reason why writers are the worst form of overpaid greedbags, the way al Qaeda shows "The Anna Nicole Show" to recruit people to suicide bomb Western places.
When the concept of Sour met Sweet, it was like when Paul McCartney met John Lennon. Then when Sour and Sweet met Chewy, it was like they ran into Mick Jagger at the post office and had one long jam session. When Sour and Sweet and Chewy met Cherry, it was like the cops came to break up the jam session and the sheriff was Michael Jackson in 1981 and he like moonwalked all over the place.
About a year ago, Carolinehope, Jen and I were drinking coffee and discussing "Sherrybaby" at Buzz Coffee. We were super depressed. That is a depressing-ass movie. (Alas, it had been my choice. I don't know why I didn't make us see "The Holiday" or something...I think I was trying to flex artsy). Anyway, we were really down in the dumps when Jonah Hill ambled over. In a few short minutes he had cheered us up with his winning smile, his A+ personality and his pretty eyes. He's so funny and great. Also, he was kinda the best thing in three of the biggest summer comedies this year (Evan Almighty, Superbad and Knocked Up). What a fucking cute motherfucker. With German-engineering type comic timing.
(For the record, one of my biggest goals in life is to be name-checked in a Jay-Z song. Not a big surprise there, I know. But still, I am telling you about my HOPES and DREAMS.)
Anyway, my figure was so lost in billowing material that my boss Greg actually asked me: "What's the deal with these frocks? What happened to East Village Mindy?", which is, for the record, totally innapropriate. But since my per day innapropriate comment number far exceeds nearly the entire staff, I said nothing.
The pics are from all over (mostly google image search), and the quotes are almost entirely from things I bought that I love (Mindy's awesome blog). Except the first one; it's a joke she told during a comedy show.