An Unexpected Date Night

Dude.  So last night was pretty unexpectedly awesome.  The BF and I go out a lot, but mostly it is to see our friends perform in bands or to their art shows.  Rarely do we go out on a "date".  If you're asking what the difference - as he often does - the point of a date is US and spending time together vs. supporting our friends.  Last night was technically a bit of both, but I take what I can get.

We already had plans to see our friend Donato play in his band, Give Me Your Hands, at the Silverlake Lounge.  Out of the blue I decided to forego my typical jeans, boots and beanie ensemble and throw on a dress.  With all that primping I totally forgot to make supper for us so when the BF asked if we should just grab something on the way, I jumped at the chance to turn it into a date night.

We very, very rarely eat out.  When we do it is typically grabbing something like a sandwhich real fast en route to somewhere.  But sit down? Tablecloth? Metal utensils? I can probably count on one hand the number of times we've done that in our five years.  As much as I love to cook, and to cook for the BF, I effing love the eff out of food.  Love it.  So I love restaurants.  Also, I love not having to cook and clean it up afterwards.  I think the dim light and sitting side-by-side is all sweetie-pea mushiness, too.

So when he followed up the first question with "wanna run by Subway?" I waaaay too loudly replied with an emphatic "NO!" and we instead found a surprisingly cute and romantical place disguised as a hole in the wall down the street from where our friend was playing. If you're in LA, check out El Conquistador on Sunset and sit on the enclosed patio.  Bonus: you can see people run into the tricky door after having too many tequilas at the bar!  We started counting and got to six nose-smashes :-)

However, I totally lost my favorite ring (well second favorite if we include my beautiful engagement ring) at the restaurant.  I took off the chunky black onyx ring to wash my hands and accidentally left it by the sink.  I didn't realize until we were at the Silverlake Lounge later then ran down the street and crazily tore through all of our coats (I think I must have looked a little looney...or like a thief) until I remembered having taken if off.  Sadly, it is gone.  I even called the restaurant twice today to see if anyone had turned it in, but nope.  Finders keepers I guess :-(  Ahhh the prices we pay for dates.

The Fiance, Part 1

It Started with a Shirt: Kaviar & Cigarette's Kissy Fish

When I met the fiance nearly five years ago I was in a "no dating" mode.  Famous last words, eh?  My little heart had just been smashed to smithereens by a cheating jerk, and I was self-healing by hanging with homies and being a "Hollywood Party Girl".  One pre-fateful weekend I went to a local designer sample sale in downtown LA.  It is part of my hippie ethics to never buy anything new - including clothing (except for the delicates, but that is for sanitary reasons).  However, I make an exception if I am buying something from a local designer.  I have a lot of friends with clothing lines, and I really believe in supporting their art.  This said, I am also incredibly frugal (not cheap, FRUGAL), and could never fathom spending the amounts some people charge.

So when I stumbled across Kaviar & Cigarettes sample sale and saw their prices, despite my attraction to their unique and custom pieces, I just couldn't do it.  The price tags had three digits BEFORE the decimal for tops and this was a SAMPLE SALE!  If you've never been, this is when designers clean out their sample-size inventory for waaaaay cheap - like $5-50 for everything.  Then a certain t-shirt caught my eye.  Totally not my style, but something told me I had to have it, and I plonked down the 50 bones for it.

The next weekend I was lazing around the Hollywood Farmers Market with three of my party pals, sporting my new Kaviar & Cigarettes tee, when I hear "is that Kaviar & Cigarettes?"  I look up to see who asked and find myself face to face with Mr. Hotty McHotterton.  He was wearing dark and stylie shades that kept me from making eye contact, which is totally a pet peeve of mine.  Below the shades was a very stylie ensemble that told me this cat was too cool for school. "Uh, what?  Oh, yeah, yes it is" was my uuber suave reply.  Long story short he said he knew the designer and had a line himself.  He asked my name and I said "Dori" (coz that's my name).  To this he finally pulled down his shades (um, hello sexy eyes) and said "No way! My name's Jory".  Yes.  Our names are Dori and Jory.  Puke.

This little street exchange happened just as LA Fashion Week was starting.  He invited me to his show the following week and handed me a biz card, and I walked away feeling more than a little butterfly-ish.

...and that's the story of how we met: all due to a fateful t-shirt.  Though if you ask me in person I typically just say "on Hollywood Boulevard".

Stay tuned for parts 2-1,000,000...or maybe I'll condense it to like three parts...?  We'll see.  I like the dude, so talking about him is one of my top 10 favorite subjects.

Getting to Know Dopey

Hello Internets!

Now that I've posted some from the archives to break the web ice, I suppose I should say a little somethin-somthin about myself.

I'm currently 33 and I live in Los Angeles with my fiance, a former fashion designer (7Lightningbolt) who now owns a screen print shop.  We've been together going on five years and got engaged last summer in Sharm el Sheikh, Egypt...but I'll write about all of those gooey details in posts to come.

For my day job, I am the Outreach and Development Director of the non-profit Build.Create.Kenya, an organization I helped found last year with my fiance and two other dedicated volunteers and close friends.  My biggest hobby is my all natural skincare line SkIndulgence.  Those, and being a house-girlfriend, keep me pretty slammed, but when not doing either I love to crochet and make and build things for my house.

Let's see, what else...how about some simple fun facts?  I love coffee.  I swear A LOT, but I'll try to tone that down a bit for readers with sensitive ears.  I'm originally from Colorado.  I love love LOVE to travel; I've been to somewhere around 14 countries in the last few years.  The fiance and I go camping at least once a month, and I'd probably go totally crazy if we didn't.  I've been a vegetarian for 99.9% of my life.  I have two tattoos, and I plan on getting many, many more...much to the dismay of my mother.  Oh, and I was an English major in college, so I am fully aware of all of my grammatical errors and fabricated words, but I leave 'em in coz I'm a rebel like that.

I think that's enough to get us started, so now let's have some fun!

The Valley Had to Remind Me that it Sucks

One last post from the archives and I'll start in on life in 2013.  From 2008...

Over a year ago I moved out of Hollywood and into the Valley (yeah, I know) because my sis was moving here from the sticks and we needed a house with a yard in a low-key area. Well, Sis LaRue has since moved on home to Colorado, and I thought it was high time I got myself back to the city, so I am once again back in Hollywood and lovin' it. To get all sappy for a sec, lets all take a sec to say good bye to Sis LaRue and wish her well in the Rockies: Good bye Sis! We love you and wish you well, and we will miss you! K.I.T., K?!?!!?

Now on to the actual moving day...

Overall I pride myself on being pretty low key and able to easily roll with those proverbial punches; however, when I am in the midst of a move - even a move just across town - all that goes straight out the window, and my cool is lost at the drop of a hat, or box, as the case may be. I have lived in over 30 places in my 28-year life, so I consider myself to be a seasoned mover. None of that, but NONE of that experience came into play on this particular moving day.

I planned my move for Labor Day weekend so I would have three full days to move and settle into my new place. Like the great planner that I am, I made arrangements for my movers well in advance. I searched my local listings, compared costs, determined my best option, and carved in stone the appointment well ahead of my moving date. I acquired boxes and other moving supplies, and had everything packed neatly and ready to go in my living room. I called to confirm the movers. I forwarded the mail, canceled the utilities, informed my bank, my auto loan people, and my auto insurance. I called to confirm the movers. I sold all my major appliances that I will no longer need now that I am out of a house, and took boxes and boxes to Goodwill. I called to confirm the movers. I crossed all my t's and dotted all my i's.

Sis LaRue shipped out the day before my big move, and after she drove off into the sunset I got a tad emotional. Ok, so I got pretty damn emotional. Friend Devin said she would come over and help me put those final pieces of tape on my boxes and whatnot, so after sitting on my kitchen floor for a while crying I phoned Devin up to choke out "where the [sob] heck are [sob] you???" She arrived shortly thereafter and we finished neatly stacking the boxes and cleaning the house as the movers would be there at ten sharp the next morning.

I went to sleep and awoke at 8:00 am fully pumped and rip-rearin' to go. I headed over to the ATM to get enough cash for the movers then to the grocery store for a quick and easy bite to eat and by 9:55 am I was perched eagerly on my kitchen counter, eyes peeled for a moving van.

10:00 came and went...

10:15 came and went - they probably just got lost. Yeah. That's it. Not everyone is as obsessively punctual as you, Dopey, relax!

10:25 - Alright! Time to call. Dial. "Hello! You have reached the voicemail for..." GRRR! Leave a message. "Hi! This is Dori, and we had arrangements to move me to Hollywood this morning at 10. It is coming up on 10:30 now, so I just want to make sure you are not lost or anything." Repeat the procedure at every single phone number I have for him.

10:35 - Where the fu....

"RIIIIIIING" Sweet! That's him!

"Hello? This is Dori"

"Hi Joy* this is Lame-O-Movers. Hey listen, the latch on my truck broke yesterday so I am just gonna move you in my pick up, cool?"

"Come again? So, [stay calm] what you are telling me is that I agreed to pay you by the hour to move my life in what should be one trip in the secure, enclosed moving truck you advertise, but now you want to move everything I own in what will most likely be at least four trips in your open, my-stuff-flappin'-in-the-breeze pickup truck and you are asking me if that is cool???? NO! If that is what I wanted I would have called a friend!"

"So...you want me to come or what"

"How far away are you even? You were supposed to be here over half an hour ago!"

"Yeah, I can probably leave here in about half an hour"

Click

As my phone snapped shut it dawned on me that I had cancelled all my utilities so I would have no Internet connection to search for alternate movers, and that it was Labor Day weekend, the end of the month - a time when most people do their moving, and the day of my move so chances are finding another moving company were about as great as me marrying Keanu Reeves anytime soon (i.e. not good). To add to that, BMF was helping another friend move this same day and couldn't be there to help, not to mention the fact that his cell phone decided to hate me and break so I couldn't even get a hold of him.

This is when my relaxed persona was stomped to death in a hissy fit that could rival the most spoiled of My Super Sweet 16ers. I didn't have to unpack a mirror to know that it wasn't pretty. "OK, self" I said to myself. "Looks like your only option is to find a U-Haul and yank a few day laborers off the street." Seemed like a simple enough plan to me and I patted myself on my back for being so quick on my feet under the circumstances. Even so, I called BMF to leave a message informing him of the change of plans in the off chance he would get my telepathic cries and be able to check his messages.

Turns out he did. Also turns out that he wasn't as impressed with my idea as I was, "Can you HEAR yourself, Dopey??? That is the DUMBEST idea I have ever heard! Listen to what you are saying! GRRR! Just try not to do anything stupid and I will call you back in a minute." We really do communicate like an old married couple...or a couple of sibling-rivalry-addled kids, but it is all out of love. Really. Five minutes later BMF calls back, "There is a dude coming at three with a big truck and two helpers. Good guy; helps a lot with [BMF's place of employment]. Tip him big; this is a huge favor." Thanks duder.

As I had a couple of hours to kill I headed over to Home Depot to pick up some paint as I had to return my slate-blue bedroom walls to boring white before vacating. Picked up some primer, paint, and extra rollers and headed to the checkout. Where I discovered my ATM card was gone. Lovely. I pay for my packages, run out to my car and proceed to throw yet another tantrum. I am finally able to convince myself that it is far more productive to call the bank than to freak out in a parking lot. The bank is actually able to help me surprisingly fast. We made sure no fraudulent charges went through, cancelled my card, and reissued another within five minutes. I even had enough time to run to the nearest bank branch to pull out cash before they closed for the three-day weekend.

Back home from the bank with paint in hand, it really seemed like the day was back on track. But because my body couldn't deal with things going well, it decided to start purging the contents of my stomach, as it is apt to do when I am under pressure. So now I am vomiting. Violently. And out of my nose, too. Lovely, eh? Thought you'd like that. This was the last kink, though, and everything went decent after that. I painted my walls, the movers came, we relocated me, I went back and finished cleaning my old house, and was in my new place and completely unpacked by the time I returned to work on Tuesday.

You know how people say sit-coms aren't real because problems aren't solved that easily or quickly? More often than not it seems like they really are. Oh, and my new place totally rocks, but that is another post.

*This never ceases to amaze me. Just how in the heck is it possible for SO many people to hear "Joy" when I say "Dori"? I inevitably and reluctantly end up saying "like the fish...yeah..."

80s Hair Bands: Useful for SO Many Reasons

One more from the archive...

80s Hair Bands: Useful for SO Many Reasons...but I am only gonna talk about one.

My big sis and I are two veeeeeery different beans, indeed. Like, in pretty much every way possible: looks, likes, dislikes, music, etc. If she is digging on something, chances are I am bound to hate it, and vice versa. She hates on my beloved Marilyn Manson and I bag on her electronic/gush-gush "music" (I totally just put that in quotes to mess with/irritate her, hehehe). We also live together. This makes life interesting.

However, this weekend big sis (in this blog we call her "C" because I am all cryptic and secretive like that) did the sweetest thing EVER and gave me the very bestity best of birthday* presents: tickets to the San Francisco Ballet's Nutcracker. A lot of you know that I started dancing right around the time they cut the umbilical cord and just stopped a few years ago when the warranty expired on my knees...and hips...and ankles. This particular ballet is extra special to me because not only did my sis and I dance in the Nutcracker for years and years and years, but the San Fran Ballet was always the company I wanted to dance with the mostity most. All together now: AWWWWWWWW!!!! So the ballet was SO beautiful and it was SO great to see it (I seriously cried all the way through it since I am such a little bitch). It was also super specialness to see my God Ma and her family when we stayed with them Saturday night...and if this blog was all about sentiment, I would just focus on these things...but I don't dig on mushiness, SO back to my point...

It was the getting there and back that had me worried. As much as we heart each other, my sis and I DO live together and we ARE sisters...so, you know, we tend to bicker...and 12 hours in a car together made me just a teensy weensy bit apprehensive. Especially because we simply cannot agree on music and who can drive without music!!?!?!? But then I dug deep in the depths of my Caselogic and out came Skid Row. And Guns & Roses. And Whitesnake. And Poison. And these 80s Metal Gods showered us with sweet salvation. What followed was some intense headbanging bonding sisterly love (not like that) action. And it was good. Oh yes. We totally rocked Interstate 5, my friends. I don't want to point fingers, but one of us (it wasn't me) might have even been inspired to flash a Greyhound bus.

It IS the holidays, and a lot of you might be seeing family. I know I am not the only one who doesn't hail from Cleaverville, so this Christmas, I invite you all to discover the bonding powers of Sebastian Bach and Bret Michaels. You'll thank me later.

*It's next Tuesday, ya'll...yeah, Christmas. Yes, it IS Christmas Day, OMG!

It Was in the Stars...and they aren't too nice

Another from the Dopey archives, circa 2008...

The horoscope I read this morning:
It's a good day for you to try something brand-new, especially if it relates to helping other people.

What happened after I read the horoscope this morning:
While driving to work this morning I stopped at a red light (because that is the law) and looked to my right to see a car rolling slowly, the door open, an unconscious woman roll to the street, and the car keep driving. My initial thought is "whoa, they are totally dumping a body"* which led me to question the intelligence of doing so at 9:45 am in a busy intersection. So then I looked up at the driver in order to provide a description to the 5-0 later...only there wasn't a driver. Which is when I realized that the unconscious woman WAS the driver..and I was about to get hit by a driver-less car. I avoided that catastrophe and the car proceeded across the aforementioned busy intersection, miraculously unscathed, before a tree was kind enough to stop it. So I flip a bitch, pull over, grab my cell phone and run to the lady who was, by this point, semi-conscious, and call 911. Apparently what happened is she had some sort of seizure or something. She was fully conscious by the time the paramedics came and didn't appear to be altogether too hurt, thank God.

Some crazy freaking morning, eh???

ADDITIONAL NOTE: Just realized - I was there until the paramedics took her away and the scene was totally cleared...but no one took the car away; it remained in someone's front yard resting comfortably against their tree...that's gotta be a weird one to come home to, eh?

*Which, no shit, really happened once. Well, it has probably happened a lot, but I mean, in my vicinity when some dudes offed a tranny prostitute, rolled her up in a rug, and threw her body in my garage in Hollywood and was discovered by my next door neighbor..."everyone who comes to Hollywood has a dream - what's your dream?"

Dating Sucks (Spits)...or...How I learned to Stop Worrying and Dump That NSYNC Bobblehead Collection Guy

This is another post from DopeyLaRue from 2007...

Right? Not all the time, I will give you that, but we gotta go on a lot of stinkers to get to that good one. Me? I am still waiting. Take this one, for instance...

K - so I meet this cute little southern, and yada yada (not like that), we decide to go for coffee. So we go for coffee and he is mad charming and old school and whatnot and is all "yeah, I think girls need to be courted"...so...I am hooked, right? So once the obligatory pre-date coffee was done, we went to dinner. Again, super sweet, super charming, super old fashioned. Then comes our first "Saturday Night Date". This is the real deal, right? Yeah, that's what I thought, too. So Saturday rolls around and I spend the afternoon doing all of the things we girlies do to to primp and powder and whatnot to look oh so beautified for you guys. Dude said that he would plan it, and just to meet up with him and he would take over from there. After I was properly assured that these plans had absolutely nothing to do with a hacksaw and the Hollywood Hills, I agreed. So I show up, all dressed up for a night out. I am greeted by someone slightly resembling the dude I have been seeing (you will soon see was very different indeed), who leads me to his car, and this is where the night took a very wrong turn. Please note that any one of these acts, if done independent of the others, would have been easy to overlook (well, some of them anyway), but...all together...just, so, so wrong...and we're off:

1. Dude doesn't open the car door for me. I am not necessarily old fashioned in all areas, but c'mon guys, open the freaking door already! OH! And clicking your little unlock remote thingamabobber is SO not the same thing!

2. Dude informs me he needs to go get gas; while filling up he stands outside the car and doesn't speak to me. I just spent a few hours getting ready, and I am willing to bet it didn't take him nearly as long since he neither wears makeup (thank god, I really can't handle another of THOSE), nor does much to his hair, so, REALLY, he coulda taken a few minutes to do this beforehand...or at least spoken to me during the fill up.

3. Dude's car is filled with Britney Spears, NSync, other pop music of same form. Just take a look at my music tastes in my bio section then try to imagine how this passed muster with me. When I teased him about it, he says "don't front, you know you like it". No, no I don't. At all. I think it is everything that is wrong with the music industry. I am pretty freaking serious about my music. Sidenote, when I was telling my pops about this afterwards, I asked "Pops, do you think I am too harsh about judging the music people listen to!?!?!" His response "Hell no! It is THE number one way to tell who someone is". Go Pops!

4. After planning to take me to somewhere in the OC, Dude abandons the idea because of traffic and gets off the freeway in South LA without an alternate plan and asks me if I had planned anything. I will be the first to admit that I am an uuber princess sometimes, but when a dude asks me out, he had better have a plan. It is my ultimate annoyance, and a sure fire way to never get another date when you ask me "so what do you feel like doing?" Aside from that, this is LA! OF COURSE there is traffic! It, like, DEFINES us as a city!

So dude decides to stop in Pasadena to walk around and perhaps eat....

5. Dude will not stop trying to PDA me on the street. Yuck. Hand holding and the occasional peck WITH A STEADY BOYFRIEND is as far as I will take the whole PDA situation. I am not generally a prude, but yeah, I think making out on the street is classless and tacky and just makes me go "ick".

Here's the kicker. You ready? You SURE you're ready?

6. DUDE SPITS IN MY HAND. Yeah. Read it again. You were right the first time. After stopping for coffee (which, btw IS another no no in my book to get coffee BEFORE eating), Dude says "let me see your hand", and after holding it up questioningly, dude bows his head and spits his gum into my hand. Since I am totally NOT a fifth grader on the playground, I found this utterly revolting, disgusting, rude, crude, classless, tackless, and just plain dumb.

And that was probably when I should have asked to have been taken back to my car...but...I was hungry...? I don't know. I was trying to see past all of it...? Yeah. But it went on. So despite the fact that we were in a place where every other establishment was a restaurant, Dude suggests we go get some pizza and take it back to his apartment. I am not dumb, I know exactly what that means. But, you can pretty much convince me to do just about anything with pizza. Unless....

7. Dude bypasses many independent, New York style pizza joints, and pulls up to Domino's. Is that even pizza? Where he hands me the box to carry. Nice.

So then I ate my pizza-ish-flavored soggy bread and was ready to say "so long, fair well, good night"....when...

8. Dude says "So [enter name] is gonna croak soon, huh" referring to one of my besties who is currently on chemo.  I don't think I even need to explain why this is the most disgusting statement of all time.  With a look that I hope whithered his nether-regions, I turned on my heel and walked out.

I was going to NOT write about this in the off-chance that Dude was a reader; I just didn't wanna hurt feelings like that. However, about a week later Dude IMs me saying he would like to see me again. I respond with "yeah, that's totally not gonna happen". After he refused to take my polite refusals and pushed the issue too far, I gave him this list. His response was that I just needed to tell him these things, but since I am not the boyfriend school (or the school for class) I moved on. So...now the story is no longer copy written, and I can publish it here for all of you to enjoy! So...ENJOY!!!

p.s. I don't know how I almost forgot, but Dude also had a complete Nsync (or N*Sync or *NSYNC or whatever lame way it is spelled) bobblehead collection on display in his apartment. I am totally serious. On display. Without irony. Because he just likes them THAT much.

Un-Writing the Rule of Perfection: A Meditative Epiphany

This is an exerpt from an essay I wrote on, well, myself I guess, in 2007...

I am a perfectionist. As a perfectionist, when I sat down to write this, my conditioning to be perfect at all things and times tempted me to open with “Webster’s Dictionary defines perfection as…” But I was too tired to look it up. I am just so tired…of…perfection. Of a constant smile on my face despite what I am feeling inside. Of a stick-straight back and squared shoulders. Of holding my head at a perfect angle. I am just…tired. I want to relax and sprawl out and get comfortable, but I fear falling off this pedestal I have forced myself up onto.

Do I really feel perfect? Was it worth it? I mean, lets be honest here. Do I really feel perfect? Do people look at me and say “Wow. She really is perfect”. Is it even about “people”? Nobody forced me up here, you know. I did the climbing myself. Each step up saying “You will never touch me! You will never judge me! Most importantly – you will never pity me my faults because I will be flawless. I will be perfect.”

I won’t lie. For a while I was pretty pumped to be up there. Every sleepless night spent studying was redeemed when I received that perfect grade. But it was never about the grade; it was the looks of admiration and envy and even frustration and self-hate on the faces of everyone around me. I was that girl. I was that girl that was in every activity. I was that girl that took Advanced Calculus as an elective. And, oh yeah, I was the girl that still found time to bring freshly baked cookies to class. I thought that was the answer. The big secret to happiness. What is happiness worth if you can’t share it with someone? Perhaps if I hadn’t isolated myself from everyone, someone might have tapped me on the shoulder and told me that my biggest imperfection was my quest for perfection.

I have recently realized that what I have always thought of as a pedestal has really been my prison. My innate ability to romanticize everything meant that this was a medieval cell high up in a tower with a huge rusted lock on a solid wood door. But when I stopped distracting myself with the décor of the place, I realized that this was the loneliest place in the whole world, and I didn’t want to be there.

I thought that meditation would help me find the key that would fit that rusted lock. That if I was just able to “do it right”, my cell would open and I would run into the world shouting “I’m free!” We are told every week in here to just stop thinking. But, since I am so perfect, and I always know what’s best, I didn’t do that. I would go into meditation, both in class and at home saying “where the f*ck is that key?!?!?” Needless to say, I didn’t find it.

There was a moment when there was a ceasefire of the civil war in my head – we’ll call it an “epiphany” because I’ve always wanted to have one– where I found an answer. My answer was this: there is no key, because there is no lock, because there is no cell keeping me apart from everyone. I put myself there, I held myself there, and only I could let myself out. All at once I was very aware of my heartbeat, and I realized that this is the answer – this is what connects me to every other person on this planet. And because I am big into visuals, I saw a web connecting everyone, and when I looked down I saw a web grow out from my own body and connect me to every other being. I felt supportive and supported and loving and loved right back…and I wasn’t tired anymore.

It was a really rough day when I realized that I wasn’t perfect, and that everyone already knew that, but it was, nothing short of glorious when I realized that I was just like everyone else.

My Exploding Breasts

I originally posted this on DopeyLaRue in, maybe, 2008-ish when I was still a worker bee for the man.  It was a reader favorite at the time, so I thought it would be a good "gettting to know all about you" post for this new url :-)

Did I ever tell you guys about the time my fake boob exploded during a staff meeting? NO?!!? How could I not have???? Well, ready everybody? Here we goooooooooo!

I am Flatty McFlatterton in the chestal region. I mean, seriously, when you are a 95 pound twig such as myself, large chesticles just aren't even a remote prayer...that is unless you pay for them. So I did. Not the $10,000 kind that require a highly trained professional to install or anything; mine are of the $30 chicken-cutlet variety from Frederick's of Hollywood. 'Coz ordinarily I kinda love being inverted, say, when working out or when running up or down stairs or when trying on a slinky top. It is just that, every so often, there comes an outfit which I feel could be enhanced, so to speak, with an extra cup size. You know, just to sort of balance everything out. And, of course, by "balance" I mean "tip the scales in favor of the top".

I think I had these babies for about a year, and had definitely gotten my money's worth out of them, when "the incident" occurred. You guys are already well aware of my monthly staff meetings at my day job because you read every line I ever write. So there I was at one such meeting, sitting directly across from the president, feigning interest in his every word on percentage increases of blah-did-di-blah-blah when I felt it - an odd sorta warm-ish, greasy, liquidy feeling spreading across my top. I looked up from doodling on my notepad to see all of my work homies [all male, of course, as that is my luck] stiffling laughter and glancing at my chest every other second.  Not wanting to be too obvious, but wanting very much to figure out wtf was going down, I stole a discreet look down and adjusted my top. And that is when I saw it. My very obvious deflated half-chest and a sopping wet shirt-full of silicone. THAT, my friends, is what I like to call "class".

*That title totally got your attention, didn't it? Yessssssss!

Intro

Thinking of kickin' this blog old school.  I used to have this blog, DopeyLaRue, that I started way back when blogspot was brand new.  Back then narcissists wrote blogs and voyeurs read them.  I'm a bit of both for sure.  Then when blogs started to be about making a ton of money or transforming into a novelist, I don't know, I felt that DopeyLaRue should have a direction.  I deleted about 3/4 of my content, and created the tag "The City Through my Silly Eyes".  Rather than just writing about myself, I felt I could only write the silly things.  Since I am an actual human being and I have more than one emotion, this totally cut out a lot of writing material!

Then I lost someone...and I got sad.  For a really, really long time.  And Dopey disappeared into the blogosphere.  Literally.  Someone hacked my shit and it is gone and I am SOOOO not techie enough to even begin to know how to get it back.  And I figure it is better that way.

Now we are close to five years since the demise of Dopey, and I feel like I wanna throw some more self indulgent dribble out there.  I think what it is, is that I work from home now.  I LOVE working from home, don't get me wrong.  But I am one chatty chica, and with no one but my animals to talk to all day until the other half gets home, I get a little lonesome.  So, from now on, when I am feeling the chatters coming on and I need to spill some dirt, I'll log on and bend the ear of the internets...