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Holiday Detritus

December 20, 2011

Things I could do without during the holiday season:

“Grill Wreaths”: Wreaths affixed to the front of a car, usually an obnoxious pre-hybrid era SUV, American model station wagon or God forbid, a mini-van. It aint cute. It might catch on fire. Don’t even get me started on “car antlers.” Why?

that vanity plate: insult to injury. (ps: follow me on IG)

Salvation Army Bells Ringing: Well, Jimmy Stewart, a lot of angels seem to be getting their wings right now, because every time I step out the damn door all I hear is bells. Can a bitch buy a bottle of $9 champagne at Safeway without busting out her ear drums? A tube of toothpaste at Walgreens? Come on. How do these holiday jingle janglers keep it together? It’s deafening. And maddening.

Winter: The season that houses the holidays. I live in California so, ok, I’m a pussy, but it gets dark at 4pm here too!

Family Newsletters in Holiday Cards: Suzy loves her new horse Gizmo, Joey made honor roll and was MVP of the golf team. Greg came out of the closet. Tim and I are looking forward to celebrating our 35th in Tuscany. Wait, Who are these people again?

Political Correctness in Corporate Decor: Check out this gargantuan tree with 20 million LED lights! Oh, and there’s a 6ft tall menorah around back. No one cares about Hanukkah, not even Jews, don’t even bother.

10 bucks says he thinks that's the "candle stick" from Clue.

Adults in Santa Hats: It’s made of some material derived from fiber glass, you bought it at CVS, there is no way that thing is keeping you warm. It only serves one purpose: making you look like an elf in a serious identity crisis. Plus, you’re wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. Extra hate points to NFL branded santa hats. OH. MY. GOD.

Naughty Santa Accessories: Come on. It’s just wrong. Mistletoe belt? Is that supposed to make soliciting the entire bar for a BJ, “cute?” Santa Neglige? Um hi, Santa is a diabetic, obese dude who qualifies for the Senior Citizen rate at participating locations, is he really qualified to advise the Victoria Secret design team? I blame Cole Porter or Mother Goose, or who ever came up with ye olde world christmas traditions for instituting the “naughty list”, giving 21st century pervs an excuse to tie each other up with velveteen sashes and use candy cane ball gags.

I gotta put this on my MYSPACE page!

Xmas Cards From Companies: Self explanatory. Waste of paper. And, do you really think you’re fooling me with that “Lucidia Handwriting” font “signature?” Not to mention, I only got dental surgery once, 10 years ago, and I hope I never need it again. Give up.

Starbucks Holiday Drinks: Coming from someone who drinks regular coffee purely to be a half-way tolerable in the mornings, these froo-froo drinks in fancy cups just hold up the line. And why do people feel so fancy and festive drinking them? It’s Starbucks people, not Cristal. And let’s cool the Facebook status updates about those too: “OMG JUST GOT MY FRIST GINGERBREAD SANTA NUTMEG PEPPERMINT HOLIDAY MOCHA FRAPPE OF THE SEASON!” (dislike)

oh, America.

Eggnog: Each to his own, but serious BARF.

Of course, there are some things I like about the holidays, seasonal beer, the smell of pine, the lights on the side of the Embarcadero Center, the fact that my BFFs come back to SF and their parents cook for me, Home Alone playing on loop on network TV. Oh, and of course this song:


Love In This Club (and by club I mean the supermarket)

November 30, 2011

Finding a soul mate in the supermarket. Sounds like a tag-line for worst RomCom ever. But seriously, why have people collectively decided over the years that ________(insert name of local grocery chain here) is a fertile breeding ground for love?

Growing up in Georgetown in Washington, DC I remember my mom making jokes to my Dad about the guy who tried to flirt with her in line at the “Social Safeway,” which was the nickname given to the Safeway by our house. Georgetown is a breeding ground for yuppies, and during the dark ages, before people got all romantic on the internet, I figured the supermarket was the best you could do in terms of meeting other singles, better than the bus, I guess.

But it wasn’t just a phenom. in the Capital City, when we moved to San Francisco, lo-and-behold…Dateway! Otherwise known as the Marina Safeway. If there was a fly-tape you could hang up for white yuppies (sidenote: are there any other kid of yuppies?), the Marina neighborhood in San Francisco would be that fly tape. Even now, in the golden age of online dating, bitches are STILL putting on a little extra rouge and a new LuLu Lemon headband to ensure that checkout, check-out. See what I did there? And, those bachelor-for-life types who are pushing 50, they’re posted up next to the California cabs., just waiting for those single ass-cheeks in expensive yoga pants to cruise by, baskets empty, save for a bag of romaine hearts and a small tub of greek yogurt, in need of a suggestion for a good half-bottle (dinner for one.) Boom. Done. It’s a jungle out there.

I know what you’re thinking: “Claire, that stuff is for rich, conservative, white dudes in hedge funds and girls with family money, and golden retrievers to walk during the day, and gym memberships. Girl, that aint me! I drink whiskey and eat at food trucks! Where’s MY love waiting?

Fear not, young, hip, part-time barista, the same shit goes down at WHOLE FOODS!

First, wait till people are looking before you lock your custom bike up outside, a sick paint job is a great conversation starter. Ladies: make sure your bangs are in order and your lips look like Zooey Deschanel’s, if you have tats, who am I kidding, OF COURSE you have tats, make sure to wear something to show that line-work off. If you’re a guy, pull down that beanie, button up that flannel and head straight to the coconut juice, bitches fiend for that ‘ish!  And remember, it’s not just the other shoppers you should keep your eye out for, the employees are equally as enticing. Dude behind the butcher counter is actually a vegan like you, and O.M.G., I think he works as a bouncer at your favorite piss-and-PBR scented dive bar on Saturday nights, ya, he totes does! What about the guy building a pyramid of clarified butter in the dairy section… ew, wait, not him, you winked at him on OkCupid once and he did NOT wink back. Maybe you should still ask him about milk substitutes for baking, you look like a completely different person in your profile pictures so he probably won’t put the pieces together. Plus, he HAS to talk to you this time, it’s his JOB. 

Love in a grocery store, apparently it’s a tried and true method. And I guess everyone’s so sober, it just might work.




“does this peanut butter make me look fat?” 

“babes dig marshmallows.”

Thoughts on Halloween

November 1, 2011

Halloween is an endless source of fodder, especially when living in San Francisco, where some people choose to celebrate their own personal Halloween 365 days a year.

This year Hallows Eve fell on Monday, which made the previous Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday leading up to the big day very precarious for revelers. There’s always going to be that 20 or so percent of the population who just can’t help but jump the gun on the whole dressing up thing. I was a little caught off guard when I took the last remaining seat on the work shuttle bus Thursday evening and found myself sitting next to a 300lb bumble bee. This is happening already?! Really? Friday made a little bit more sense…but still, Halloween was a full 3 days away, keep it in your pants guys! Not to say that it isn’t endlessly entertaining to be at a bar in your plain-clothes while a giant, over zealous hot dog tries to strike up a normal conversation with you like it aint no thang. What’s the worst though, is when you see that lone Jedi or glam rocker making his way to a party somewhere, hailing a cab out in the middle of the street all alone.

This year, in certain parts SF, I noticed a slight wrinkle in the good ‘ol Halloween Whore trend, I call it the “Hipster Slut Costume,” and it basically consists of outlandish bits of thrifted clothing thrown together to create some sort of risque, runway look “costume.” By far the most popular in this category was Little Red Riding Hood, followed closely by emaciated sex zombie. With all these pseudo gothic and “native” trends “en vogue,” it was no doubt super easy to dress in hipster-slut costume using one’s day-to-day wardrobe of knee-highs and garters, black lace up booties, blood red lipstick, healing-crystal pendant necklace and hooded poncho. OMGSOCUTE. Annoying, but undoubtedly better than that tried and true, store-bought, slutty nurse costume manufactured in Taiwan that causes severe static cling and is made out of the same shiny fabric as those flame-retardant pajamas for kids.

I think my favorite part about Halloween has to be getting into character. Once the liquor starts flowing I tend to prefer method acting for the entire night. For example, this year as ZZ TOP we delighted fellow party-goers with twangy accented details of our residency at Thunder Valley Casino, one of California’s premiere tribal gambling destinations. However, some people push this whole “not breaking character” thing to the limits, like the soldier who was over-using corny military euphemisms in effort to get girls to dance with him, talk about secondhand embarrassment.

It’s a well known fact that the freaks come out at night, and on Halloween it’s ten-fold. By far the most terrifying thing I encountered this year was a dude who’s costume could best be described as vomit-stained-black-out-wasted-zombie on a skateboard, a boom box affixed to his back provided the perfect Slayer soundtrack and his fully functioning taser gun was the icing on the cake. Pretty safe to say that after Saturday night he only has one functioning testicle.

By the time Monday rolled around, I was simply Halloween’d out, I only actually dressed up on Saturday, but just seeing the costume parade drag on for nearly 5 days was exhausting and dis-orienting. The highlight of Halloween proper was when my co-worker’s brought their babies in all dressed up to trick-or-treat around the office. When one of the toddlers wasn’t looking I pick-pocketed her jack-o-lantern basket for a Reeses. I feel horrible about it.

Well, that’s that, another one in the books. Can’t wait for next year when the spook-fest falls on a Tuesday, which just means I’m gonna have to line up like 6 different sets of animal ears and matching booty shorts! Sigh.

Aint Nothin' But a Z Thang Bay-bay.

Maiden Voyage on Virgin.

October 7, 2011

I’m blogging from 30,000 feet somewhere above….probably Kansas. I’m drinking a six-dollar bottle of “vapor distilled water” with “minerals added for taste” out of a “petroleum free bottle made from 100% plants” and watching a Real Housewives of New Jersey Marathon. If i wanted to, I could order an edamame, eggplant, tofu wrap, right from the touch pad in front of me, and I wouldn’t even need to interrupt the Housewives! I’m so “now” it makes me sick.

Sarcastic apologies to all those futuristic humanoid tech-bots out there who aren’t STILL completely blown away by the fact that you can Gchat, blog, watch videos of baby goat stampedes (see below) and hell, you could watch porn in-flight. But seriously, if someone next to me was watching porn I would definitely press that “flight attendant assistance” button next to the reading light. Have you ever noticed that they totally scare you into not using that feature? Kinda like an emergency exit where half the time, I guaruntee, an alarm would NOT sound. Anyways, I feel like pervs watching porn would be an appropriate circumstance for pressing it. I also feel like upon being ratted out, that perv might get citizen-tackled in the aisle, underwear bomber steez. God bless America.

Also—excuse me, but kids and technology is TERRIFYING. I’m having a slight panic attack. ME and technology is terrifying enough, but how about the teenaged brother and sis in my row on their matching Macbook Air’s? About twenty minutes into our flight they gotta whip out the brand-new iPad’s. Macbook on the tray table, iPad in the lap playing some fantastical Medieval war game, that’s how fourteen-year-old’s roll, son! Multi-tasking Lords of ADD! Just wait till those fools hit the workplace. Hide ya kids, hide ya wife. And, apparently, after a stroll down the cabin to the bathroom, four-year-old’s roll in a similar fashion, I shit you not, I literally saw a child who probably just learned how to walk playing Angry Birds with mad skill on an iPhone. Those E-trade babies aren’t such a non-funny joke anymore, now are they?!

Just a quick “novelty” hello from the friendly skies—we’re making our final descent into the Big Apple— but isn’t it comforting to know that flying doesn’t have to be the equivalent of a beige bath mat or a worn down VHS tape anymore? Although, despite the alien babies, day-trading on their iPhones, I’m pretty sure I’m still breathing recycled air from 1988.

Sweet Tweets!

September 20, 2011

Twitter is an interesting beast. When I first started an account years ago ( a.k.a. I was on twitter before you so… COME AT ME BRAH! I AM the internet. WHAT?) it was slim pickins’ on who to follow, so, naturally I clogged my feed with anybody and everybody who advertised with an @ before his name. Then Twitter started recommending other “celebrities” based on my “preferences,” and who was I to shun it’s intelligence? I was content sending 140 characters about crazy homeless people on the bus out into this void where no one would ever read them. My twitter account just grew and grew like a cancerous hell-beast, and my follower list grew too, full of spam-bots and porn-bots and doctor-bots and basically any -bot you can think of. This being said, my twitter feed sucks more nuts every day, but there is nothing to be done, it has snowballed into something bigger than me. I think I need to hire an intern to streamline my account or something. That’s like a social media, digital community manager, assistant role, right?

Instead of un-following Martha Stewart and Lauren Conrad and Kim Kardashian (worst tweeter in the world) and DJ Pauly D (better than Kim K. but still…) I have made vain attempts at overshadowing their shit-storm of sponsored tweets for Xenadrine and cellulite cream by rapidly following local comedians and regular comedians and members of the Upright Citizen’s Brigade, but the thing is, real people, with funny shit to say, they just can’t tweet fast enough to keep up with the evil robot tweeting about protein shakes for Vanessa Manillo. It’s honestly just insulting to anyone with a 6th grade education to think that any “digital marketing professional” would assume a poorly written sentence with the #sponsored tag after it might motivate me to lift half a finger to find out about the product…I don’t think I would even want to use toilet paper anymore if Brody Jenner endorsed it: “Dude, I love wiping my ass with @quiltedangelsoft! I’m doing it now! #sponsored”


Don’t get it twisted, I really like Twitter and I agree that it has changed the way we transmit and receive information. (Comm. 101 textbook talk right thurr) I got mad respeck’ for the shit! It’s a tool of the FUTURE! All I’m saying is once you trash your Twitter account there’s almost no turning back. Despite my struggle I still chirp at my 254 followers, even though probably less than 10 are listening.

I always like to capitalize on a captive audience, so I’ve shared some of my recent twitterings below, and since there’s no character limit on this B, I’ve taken the liberty of adding some context:

SERIOUSLY! Skinny people are too serious…that’s why you were funny…because you were fat…like Star Jones…she got skinny and shit got weird…she married that gay dude and started fighting Barbara Walters on The View. I don’t care how tight that tummy tuck is honey! NO ONE PUTS BABS IN A CORNER! Not to mention fat to skinny celebs all look weirdly sunken-in and droopy-dog-like.

Just a truth bomb. Too bad it’s 2011. Oh well, the world is gonna end in a year anyways, right?

Before you could secretly waste money alone in front of your computer you could secretly waste money alone on your couch, in front of your TV, on the phone: Chia Pets, Muzzy, Thigh-Master (BTW: I’ve always wanted one of those) etc. etc.

Still waiting on an answer to that one…if you watch the reunion specials you’ll know what I’m talking about! I thought body oil was exclusively found on the sets of low-budge porno, get it together, BRAVO.

Not ALWAYS true…you can know the person pretty well…but you totes wanna M.O. (apologies if i’ve recently “liked” your boyfriend’s status on Facebook…you probs need to stop being so literal anyways.)

My personal favorite because it elicited a response from a random asshole! YES! Well, EvilGenius1000, you’re right, I am alone. But at least I’m not giving some nerd in a Dorito-crumbed Eagles jersey head on a moldy couch while he accidentally dribbles salsa off his chip into my hair and searches Twitter for tweets about “football jerseys.” Just saying.

Livin’ Rent Free With The ‘Rents.

September 15, 2011

The other day I realized that I could probably afford to move out of my parents house if I just stopped spending money on anything but life essentials: like tampons…and rice-a-roni. So theoretically, I could be sitting in some moldy studio apartment with one window eating rice-a-roni and watching youtube videos on my iPhone.

Welp, that sounds SHITTY. I’d rather invest my greenbacks on Kardashian Kollection sunglasses at Sears (yup.)

i look JUST like a Kardash!

Moving back in with my parents was one of those double-edged sword decisions. But, I shouldn’t give myself TOO much credit, free food and cable pretty much seals any deal with me. The reason they make all those movies like Grandma’s Boy is because it’s totally TRUE. You move back in with your parents “temporarily” but then you get comfortable and six-months turns into a year and pretty soon you’re coming up on the 3 year mark…fuck. Time flies when you’re livin’ rent free, let me tell you.

When faced with this living situation you realize how to navigate your relationship with your “roommates” and you tell yourself all the time that it isn’t THAT BAD. In fact, in some cultures children are SUPPOSED to live with their parents until they are 30! But, then again, you aren’t Filipino so that’s not really a rationalization. You forget the little things that made living on your own worth the price of a monthly electric bill…like taking bong rips on your couch….in your underwear. Or cleaning the house to gangsta rap on blast….in your underwear.

Living with your parents is kinda like becoming accustomed to living with one leg after you’ve had two your whole life. It’s less convenient and you have to figure out new systems to get the same shit done but it’s do-able, and you’ll get by. I also think it’s great preparation for marriage, having to live with someone who you don’t always like, having to sneak your shopping bags into the house after spending money you are supposed to have been saving, trying (and failing) at appearing sober upon arriving home post wino lunch with the girls…or, way more likely in my case, a sunday beer picnic.

just like the good 'ol days!

The day I left for college my Dad pulled the ‘ol “turn your room into an office” move. Better luck next time, homie. These days it’s hard to imagine life any other way than eating “your food”, getting lectured on Sunday mornings for the drunk-cooking mess I have no recollection of making in “your kitchen,” fighting over “your TV” (you want the U.S. Open and Obama and I want Bad Girls Club and Real Housewives), getting scolded for leaving my laundry in a pile by “your washing machine” or the time you wouldn’t talk to me for 3-days because I attempted to put a leash on “your cat” and take her for a walk. Never a dull moment! Despite being completely absurd at times, I really think living together as adults has had it’s precious moments…almost as precious as those dolls, not quite.

accurately precious.

Dad, you are totally gonna miss me when I eventuallyyyyy fly the coop.

Is This Real Life? Dinner Cruise Edition.

September 14, 2011

A few weeks ago I went on a “lavish” dinner cruise on the San Francisco Bay. These cruises run about 90 bucks, which is why I obviously made sure my maiden voyage was comped courtesy of a good friend who just so happens to snap the “professional” photos of all the overdressed lovers in front of a fake buoy as they board. I’m always convinced that these types of photos are not only souvenirs, but they also serve as documentation, just in the event that this seemingly unsinkable buffet barge were to go down and everyone on board perished.

Date Night?

Romance was in the air....


It was PMA (pretty much amazing.) And by PMA, you know what i’m getting at: like the tackiest wedding EVER of the people you hope never to know.

It still boggles my half-J.A.P mind (thanks a lot DAD) that some people actually go on these things with a night of true romance in mind. Trust me, they do! We had the pleasure of joining about 50 couples ages 21-81 on their anniversary nights (and two bachelorette parties in the mix for good measure) Trust me again, the DJ, a goofy looking 50-something year-old dude in a Hawaiian shirt who goes by possibly the worst emcee name in history: DJ MR. SPIN, announced these happy occasions before playing the romantic song dedications (read: Goo Goo Dolls and Tim McGraw) In between these odes to true love he announced the OSHA rules and regs. for the buffet, which really gets me in the mood.

"please, for health reasons, use a fresh plate each time you visit the buffet"

We were seated at table 12, for two. To our right was the bridge and tunnel romance fest, and behind us, the bachelorettes and their nautical themed bridal parties were obnoxiously giggling while taking pictures with the Mexican buffet staff (it’s part of a scavenger hunt!) We “daintily nibbled” on the decadent buffet and took in some of the most amazing people watching I have ever been privy to:

There was this one couple straight out of Sixteen and Pregnant (minus the pregnancy part…but that probs. became part of the equation later that night.) She was dressed to the nines in Forever 21 couture and 6 inch stilettos, when she got chilly, he offered her his oversized sport coat as they both awkwardly sipped on a bottle of Moet. This dude pulled out the STOPS. My idea of 21 year old romance was a five-dollar pitcher of Bud Light at trivia night, but then again I’ve always had questionable standards. Icing on top: when they did a solo turn on the floor as the DJ played “their song”: it’s just meeee and youuuuu…and all of the people…with nothing to do…nothing to lose…(by Lifehouse, I just had to google that. Ew. I feel dirty.) They probably had their first kiss to it in his Ford Explorer in the parking lot of the football stadium after homecoming. Ok, I have to stop because my bitterness is becoming apparent.

So, then there was the middle aged double date next to us, which seemed tame enough, minus the bedazzled kitten heels and Kate Gosselin c. 2006 hair-dos. It was all pretty PG until they ordered a few more rounds of Cornoas and DJ MR. SPIN decided to turn the beat around. Once he flipped the switch on his multi-colored disco light and pumped up Beyonce’s “Single Ladies,” I knew shit was about to get weird. I have never seen, nor did I ever think I WOULD see a 60-year-old straight man, who looks like he coaches football at some high school in the ‘burbs, grind with his wife to this song. Just a note to all potential suitors out there reading this: you’ll never have to do that for me to keep the spark alive. ever.

If you like it then you should'a put a ring on it boss!

After a bottle of wine and a full plate of chocolate covered strawberries (all you can eat, baby!) I didn’t think things could get MORE hilarious…ohhh but they did. The dance floor flooded with the most bizarre mixture of people when “Apple Bottom Jeans” came on (DJ MR. SPIN kills it.) There were Filipino grannies tootin’ it and bootin’ it next to thugged out homies and their girls getting hella low, next to the 60-year-old should-be football coach who was casting an invisible fishing line out to one of the bachelorettes who caught it in her mouth….and then….the Electric Slide started…and obviously at this point we were in no position to fight it anymore, so we got up…and we did it. And it was magic.

The dance floor, life's equalizer.

Bottom line—Buffets will never be romantic, but the buffet level of the California Hornblower might truly be the only JUDGEMENT FREE ZONE left on earth.