Sloane + Ashley = BFFs Forever

Sloane Crosley is my new favorite person in this world. No big deal. She is the author of I Was Told There'd Be Cake, if you're a dork like me, you're sold after just reading the title. In fact, I would even say that I wouldn't blame Eric if he wanted to leave me for her. It would make total sense. She's pretty, thin, well-dressed, smart, hilarious, a great writer, and most importantly, she's a big drinker. God love her heart. She and I embarked upon our lifelong friendship today as I requested her friendship on Myspace and Facebook. She even wrote me back a message on Facebook after I apologized for stalking her. She SO likes me as much as I like her. She feels the connection.

In other news, it was brought to my attention that my blog is basically a depressfest, well, as far as my feelings on SLC go. So I shall attempt to talk about the good parts of Salt Lake.
1. It has only truly rained ONCE since the beginning of June.
2. I pay very cheap rent on a lovely 2-bedroom apartment. Extra space, people!
3. The mountains, when covered in snow, and when green - right before they turn brown for the summer, are quite lovely.
4. Westminster was blind enough to accept me into their MS in Counseling Psychology program.
Aaaand SCENE.
I will just let these positives marinate and not go down the path of giving each point's counter-argument. Let's just enjoy this generous moment I am sharing.

Timothy Hutton - A Dream Dashed

Over dinner with Julie last weekend, we were discussing people we'd worked for in the entertainment biz. I was reminded of one working relationship that turned quite sour - resulting in me getting fired (unfortunately, not the last time I would be given the boot.) I shall tell you the story.

I wasn't always the accomplished, successful, ball-busting business lady you know now. I too was once a young, bright-eyed, talent agent-wannabe in New York City. I had to intern at a talent agency to have any chance of getting an actual paying gig. (I really had no idea how to handle myself as an intern, but that's a story for another time.) To pay for my sad room in a lovely old apartment on the Upper West Side and my drinking, I had to take some random jobs.

One of my four roommates was a very successful nanny (she was also slightly rotund, which is what I believe to be a requirement for a good nanny), and she lovingly handed over some of her excess work to me. One day she called me saying, "Hey, I can't take care of Milo this Saturday - would you be interested in helping me out?" I didn't mind, so she said she'd discuss it with Milo's mother Aurore to make sure a substitute would be OK. Aurore Giscard D'Estaing probably hadn't eaten her only meal of the day (her daily breakfast of bread and Nutella) quite yet and therefore wasn't running on all cylinders - that's really the only explanation for allowing a strange young woman who, let's be honest, had what might even be called "disdain" for children at that point in her life, to substitute-sit for your 1-year old child. My roommate called me back and told me I was in that it was an actor that I'd be working for - "His name is Timothy Hutton" - and then she gave me the number for me to call to talk to his wife, Aurore. She gave me this info as if she were telling me about stock prices. Meanwhile, I was thinking, "SERIOUSLY?! My man from Beautiful Girls, whom I've referred to in intimate circles as, 'my future husband'?!" I played it cool, of course - I didn't want my roommate to take back this opportunity out of fear that I may be found watching Tim sleep at night (which may or may not have been an astute guess. Bygones.)

Their apartment was very spacious and very UWS - imagine Charlotte York's apartment, just a lot less pristine and more edgy. Aurore was beautiful, warm, and welcoming. I was aghast. I expected her to be French and snobby right away, but in truth, she was quite lovely. I imagine her time spent being the former French President's (Valery Giscard D'Estaing) niece taught her a great deal about manners. We talked for a while about her expectations, and she asked me a lot of questions about myself. I'm not entirely sure she listened to the answers, but I am used to being found boring, so that's OK. I had no clue how to behave with Milo, but I didn't let that stop me from forging ahead. We got along well enough, but definitely not well enough for Aurore to offer me a job as his nanny. To this day I have no idea what could possibly have made her think I'd be a great nanny for him - It certainly wasn't due to any obvious penchant I possessed for baby whispering. I am left with one guess - though she hid her snobbery well, I know that ol' Frenchie liked that I was white and educated.

We worked out a schedule that allowed me to intern at the talent agency a few days out of the week. During my time with Milo, I was to feed him, play with him, and I took it upon my hard-working self to nap with him as well. Aurore also insisted that I take him out in the 10-degree weather for walks and visits to Central Park. Yes, it was those moments I cherished most as I walked Milo in his cozy fleece-filled stroller, equipped with three wheels capable of scaling mountains, and watched as my hands turned an exquisite shade of purple as I simultaneously held on to the stroller and umbrella that was fighting the snow attacking me from all directions. Mayhaps you won't be surprised that instead of taking him to the "park", I'd take him to "my apartment" where we could both avoid certain death, and he could play with my roommate's dirty cats. Aurore would use this time to do what she referred to as "work", which was allegedly illustrating children's books, but your average American would call it, "online shopping."

I shall be the first to admit that my nannying skills could've used some work in those days, but that maternal instinct just hadn't kicked in yet. And it didn't help that Milo also only spoke French and seemed to have only slight understanding of English. My time spent studying developmental psychology wasn't for naught - what that teaches us, ladies and germs, is that Milo clearly had very little interaction with his English-speaking father. This will come as no surprise after I tell you that it turns out my future husband didn't behave very husbandly. He had his own "office" equipped with a phone and a couch and a tv, and he stayed in his bathrobe in this "office" most of the day. He, like Aurore, wasn't big on eating. You should've seen Aurore during the rare occasions when he'd emerge from his honeycomb hideout. She would leap up from her immersion in "work" and into his arms. It was obvious that she ached for his attention. They would both completely ignore Milo during these brief moments. It's also worth noting that if Tim were to talk to me, I admit, I lost all abilities to speak like an intelligent human and instead preferred to speak like a high school girl from the universal "valley." And I smiled a lot. And laughed at everything he said. I believe Aurore once told my roommate that I acted "different" when Tim was around - she was being kind.

Time went on, and Milo and I came to an understanding. He would leap for me when I'd walk through the door, impressing his mother, and in return I'd not allow him to freeze in the tundra. One day I arrived ready to take Milo out, and Aurore, Tim's assistant, and I got to chatting. She pointed out the bump on Milo's head and told us how it got there, adding playfully that she didn't want Tim to find out.

She wasn't being quite as playful as I'd perceived.

I returned to their apartment after our play time in Siberia, and Aurore and I noticed that the bump on Milo's head had gotten slightly larger. We pondered over it for a bit, but we decided it was normal.

Later that evening Tim gives me a call and wants to know about the bump on Milo's head. It was clear he assumed I had caused it. Aurore was on the line. She didn't back up my explanation of events, instead she chose to let me take the fall for the bump on his head. I then got defensive, and I most likely descended into the worst self-defending argument ever uttered by a human. All I know is that the conversation ended with Tim saying, "I don't trust you with Milo ever again." Look, I am well aware that I wasn't the most Mary Poppinsest of nannies, but I didn't deserve to be fired for that.

I analyze the situation this way: Aurore and Tim have a pretty shitty relationship, one that doesn't even allow Aurore to tell Tim when she's had an accident with Milo. It was clear she felt awe, lust, fear, and maybe even love for Tim, but she didn't trust him or trust herself with him. For Tim Aurore was a prize - she was beautiful and French and had a powerful lineage behind her. He didn't love her like a husband should, or I would've seen a lot more of him. And he didn't love Milo like a father should, or I would've seen a lot more of him. He knows that about himself. He knows he's a bad father, and he knows he's not a great actor - two things that make for one very insecure person. So, unfortunately, when he saw an opportunity to prove he was a good father, he took it out on me. And when Aurore saw a chance to be close to her husband and unite behind a cause, she wouldn't ruin it by telling the truth. I don't know that I blame her for that.

But I do still hold out hope for them to send me a check for the last week of services I provided - they have consistently refused, but I'm pretty sure after this they'll lovingly send out a check to me tout de suite. Meanwhile, go rent Beautiful Girls. You'll see why I was so devastated to realize we would not be a great match after all.

Friday Musings

Compliments
A good compliment is rare but so very very fulfilling. Last night my boo gave me a compliment that reminded me of why I'm marrying him, not that I needed reminding.

As I sit here 14 hours later basking in the glory of the great compliment, I recall a time in my adolescence when I was forced to go on a Youth Retreat with the teens at my church. Let me start by saying that pretty much since birth, church functions have made me about as comfortable as watching a dog get beat by its owner. At this stage in my life, they serve as reminders of how upon taking my last breath, I shall take my seat in between George Bush and Tommy Lee on the Straight To Hell Express. However, up until about 21 years of age, the reason for my discomfort was different. At the time of the youth retreat, church functions meant one thing: I was going to have to speak about personal things in front of a large group. I couldn't understand why that had to be the case, and I still don't. Usually our youth meetings went as such: the youth pastor would tell us some story from the Bible and would try to relate it to us in a meaningful way...then usually we'd have to go around the room and give some sort of personal reflection. As I sat there waiting for it to be my turn with a scowl on my face, I was usually thinking three things:
How freakin' dumb is this youth pastor.
This is preposterous.
What humorous one-liner can I give to distract the group from the fact that I won't be saying anything real?

I don't know why I continued with that plan of attack - I was usually subsequently begged to say something substantive...to which I would roll my eyes and say something brilliant like, "I don't know." I was the epitome of eloquence even then, it's true.

Going on a youth retreat meant we go to go to St. Simons and stay in a lovely dilapidated cabin on the beach. Much to my indignant 12-year-old self's chagrin, we would have daily meetings of the sort described above. So, as I'm sure I don't have to tell you, it was a RIOT. Anywhore, this brings me to the point of the story - on our final night there, things finally got interesting...mainly because there was some focus on my awesomeness...FINALLY. We sat around this little campfire on the beach and had what the ridiculous but well-meaning youth pastor called an "Affirmations" session. In this particular version of an affirmations session, we were to go around and give compliments to everyone in the circle. My compliments given to others were totally lame, yet somehow tear-filled (what is wrong with me?) And the compliments given by my fellow teens weren't much better - we mainly repeated the compliments given by others. But hey, being told 7 times that I had a lot of spunk turned my world upside down. So my official point is this: let's not be stingy with our compliments - if you have something positive to say, SAY IT. Lately I've been frustrated by people close to me from whom I only seem to hear negative things. I don't believe it's because they don't think positive things, but I do think there's a certain vulnerability involved in complimenting (I refer back to the difficulty I felt during the affirmations sessions). So I say to them - Be strong! Compliment me, damnit! We humans aren't mind readers, and if we aren't reminded that we have likable qualities, we will forget and only focus on the negative ones. Let's remember to be kind, people.

Meanwhile, Denise Richards is currently lighting up my life in a Lifetime "Original" movie. I quote "Original" because they are using the term quite loosely - this 2004 movie is a blatant rip-off of The Wedding Planner - don't act like you don't know it - the one with J-Lo and Matt Mac'. They even go so far as to have her involved in an accident where she hurts her ankle, and Superman, aka Dean Cain, leaps to save her. So, for those interested in knowing what B-list celebs get paid to star in Lifetime movies, their fees combined are apparently less than what it would've cost Lifetime to just friggin' pony up the dough to buy the rights to air the original. You're welcome for the info.

I heart brunch.

I wrote this once about a day I had in NYC. It was a great day. I miss those days.

A night out can’t compare to a Sunday that starts with brunch…and ends with you having accomplished at least 8 fruitful hours of bar-hopping. Some of my best brunches in Manhattan began at Essex, a hipster institution on the Lower East Side, located on…Essex. Brilliant. One outing in particular occurred on a beautiful spring day – Mother’s Day, in fact. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate motherhood.

Essex is the best place for brunch in the city for several reasons.

1. Reasonably priced - $20 (including tip) for all brunch essentials - lovely brunch dish of your choice, great rolls, and 3 drinks (mimosa, screwdriver, or bloody mary). Every drink after that is only $3, which is what most Manhattanites would classify as “free.”

2. The hostess is usually this lovely-faced but bitchy woman. One might think this would work against the establishment, however, in a place like that, it actually serves to make one feel better about themselves. When we do finally get seated, we feel as if we’ve won the cool lottery and suddenly doing your hair and wearing those large sunglasses indoors all feels worth it…and logical.

3. The décor is minimal but interesting enough. There are what seem to be tennis balls painted white all along the wall. Perplexing? Sure. But after 3 screwdrivers at the buttcrack of noon, they might as well have been placed there by Michaelangelo.

4. People-watching – as you look around the multi-leveled but open space, you see three types of dining groups: couples that will be repeating the one-night-stand that just occurred; couples that will certainly not be repeating the one-night-stand that just occurred (signaled by their inability to actually look at each other); and groups of single guys and gals.

So, my friends and I waited at the bar for our table. We had made a reservation…which allows you to wait one hour instead of two. Remember, people, as my high school bff said as he rode the procrastination train into his seventh year of college: failing to plan, is planning to fail. Anyway, the aforementioned waitress (who seemingly woke up from the bed of her one night stand, pulled her tousled hair back, haphazardly slapped on some lipstick, and rolled into work) graciously led us to our table. I knew it was going to be a good day when I saw we were being placed next to the mimosa station – this most certainly would mean we would get free refills, well past our 3 drink limit. I wasn’t let down, and by the end, my two friends, Megan and Jessica, that didn’t really like each other, merely tolerated, were practically swapping spit.

Brunch ended, but the rest of the day began with an illegal margarita-to-go procured at El Sombrero. We made our way to Thomson Square Park where we sat in the shade and feasted on three very attractive men playing Frisbee. As the one in the group usually unafraid to approach men, I was being begged by Meg and Jess to introduce myself to them. I fought back saying that it would be a much less garish approach if Jess would just ask one of them for a light. This worked like a charm, and soon we were walking with Josh, Aaron (whom we insisted referring to as Alex until we learned, much later in the day, that was not his name), and some other guy (who barely spoke, so time has taken its toll on my memory of him) to 7B – a dive bar located on, what do you know, 7^th and B. Again, brilliant.

After we had some PBR and Josh had administered a Jungian test on us regarding our sexual preferences, we moved on to Crocodile Lounge where a free pizza was given with every drink. Hard to believe, but oh so deliciously true. At the Croc, there was also SKEE BALL – Meg, we would soon learn, was a world champion skee baller not opposed to propositioning random male strangers to a game. If they lost, they’d owe her a beer. This tactic earned her a long line of beer – literally, beer after beer was lined up on the bar. A line so long, in fact, that she started giving them away. God bless her. The Croc also boasts an outdoor “garden” – a term used loosely in Manhattan, usually denoting a smallish outdoor concrete patio. The scene at the Croc is a wonderful mixed bag – likely due to its location close to Union Square. The bartenders are always very friendly, and they seem to always recognize anyone that returns a second time. They wear hats that I’m sure are meant to evoke the likes of Crocodile Dundee…and hey, what says Australia better than a straw hat?

The night ended with me up on the roof. Not sure how I got there – all I know is I was following Aaron and Jessica. I had no business following Aaron since he was a marine and likely had at least a modicum of roof-climbing/dwelling-while-inebriated-skills.

Keep this in mind when trying this at home - no matter how sober you feel when you get home, you’re going to be hungover the next day – turns out, my body doesn’t actually run on alcohol. Weird.

The Utah 'Do

I realize that my hair is mayhaps less than desirable to many ladies out there. It’s dyed white/platinum blonde, the upkeep is intense, and I wouldn’t exactly call it “Jermack bounce back, beautiful hair” as I once did when I was young and had long lustrous brunette hair and enjoyed my Jermack products enough (and, admittedly, was dorky enough) to constantly pretend I was doing my own commercial. As such, I’m not exactly a spokesperson for “natural” hair. But what is WITH the Utah Tease hair do?

If you’ve never had the distinct pleasure of seeing this delightful breed of hair, allow me to explain. Everything starts out fine in the front – usually some sort of swooping action with the bangs. Hair is straight. Lengths vary, but one thing is the same – the masterful bird’s nest that was skillfully teased into existence atop the crown of the girl’s head….reaching heights averaging roughly 4 inches above natural level. The nest is covered with a fine sheath of straight hair – imagine a waterfall flowing over the rocks beneath. You still see the rocks underneath the water, right? Likewise, ladies, the problem is that we all know what’s hiding up under there, and we all know it’s not a naturally sloped skull. Look, I get it, we all want that height and volume - Lord knows I was always looking for a way to get it with my fine virgin-hair back in the day – but unless you’re willing to go the bleaching route whereby your hair will just naturally start folding in on itself and hating you like mine does me and has no choice but to be a nest atop my crown, please do us all a favor and give your poor hair a break.

SLC: Killer of Happiness

Salt Lake City: Killer of Happiness

When I moved to Salt Lake City from New York City last year, I thought Utah and I could be good friends, but you keep taking away all that is pure and holy and happy in my life. By “pure and holy and happy” I of course mean booze.

Incident 1. SLC. I was on the road with my boyfriend for roughly 36 hours straight as we headed across the country to move into our new digs in Salt Lake City. More than sleep, we figure what we really need is a margarita to relax. We are sternly informed by the formerly chipper waitress at a Mexican restaurant that it is against the law to serve alcohol to patrons not actually eating in the restaurant. Phew! I was worried I’d have to decide for myself whether I had a stomach full enough to handle a margarita – it was so nice to learn that I wouldn’t have to make, nor was I capable of making, that adult decision during my time in Utah.

Incident 2. SLC. Thanks to my boyfriend’s brother, I had been hanging with “Straight Edgers” and other non-drinkers all weekend. They’re not bad guys, but they are scary, and they are judgmental, God love their hearts. All I wanted was a steak and a bottle of wine (a weekend with them turned me into Mr. Big, apparently). Where does one go for their convenient one-stop shopping needs? Wal-Mart. Don’t judge me. This is when I learned that people aren’t capable of buying wine and beer when out shopping for good deals on cameras and toilet paper, so I was grateful to learn that Utah had taken that out of my hands and was only allowing me buy wine at the state liquor stores. Beer may be bought at grocery stores, but it may only contain 3.2% alcohol by weight if not sold at the state liquor store. Again I said phew!

Incident 3. SLC. I am an obsessive fan of Muse, so getting to see them live was expected to be the highlight of my meager existence. It was the first concert I attended in Utah, and I quickly learned that A. unless it’s an 21+ show, there shall be no drinking, and B. the average Mormon male has a great deal of aggression to get out, and it usually is released in the form of moshing at absolutely any type of concert. For those Jessica Simpson or Yanni fans out there – you are not immune. It seems that concert workers aren’t capable of utilizing the wristband system that the rest of the country has for differentiating between those who are and are not of age, so once again Daddy Utah has stepped in to take care of that problem by simply outlawing alcohol to be present in the room with the under-agers. Meanwhile, I was left to endure the teenage aggression completely sober. I can’t help but think that alcohol would’ve helped all of us in that situation.

I will leave Utah in a few months. I liken it to a child having to flee from the overprotective parent. Look, Utah, I know you want what’s best for me, but in a lot of ways you’re doing more harm than good. How can I hone my drinking skills and learn the responsibilities associated with alcohol if I am so sheltered? And quite frankly, SLC is not a city than can afford to have its citizens so very sober all the time – it doesn’t have the architecture, culture, beauty, and charm to sustain a citizenry with no escape to substances that assist in appreciating the world around them. Why won’t you let us be happy?!

If interested in learning more about Utah liquor laws:

http://www.alcbev.state.ut.us/Liquor_Laws/liquor_laws_affecting_visitors.html

All I really need to know I learned from watching reality tv

People, aka ignoramuses, scoff at reality tv, but I am here to heroically, if i do say so myself, stand up for those of us that know the intrinsic value of shows like Real World, Run's House, The Bachelor/Bachelorette, and The Hills.

Real World New York (season #1) changed my life forever all those years ago. The fact that there wasn't a script BLEW MY MIND, and rightly so. Eric Nies was a goober and always will be, but I've learned more than that throughout the seasons - namely, black people are reactive and angry...and how else would I have ever known that southern girls from Alabama are naive and prone to stereotypes or that gay people exist? That's right, I wouldn't have, and I'm just not sure I want to be the kind of person that doesn't know how to have sex completely under the comforter so as to avoid being caught on camera (but seriously, how do they breathe under there, what with all the shenanigans and tomfoolery going on?) And Eric, god love his heart, did work my ass out for a few years with his posse of white hip-hopping Grinders. So, in a way, I owe my physique that landed me my boyfriend to the Real World and Eric Nies. Thanks, Eric, and you're invited to the wedding - Vegas, October 18th, pirate ship, can't miss it.

Run's House taught me that the Rev is my hero and that I want the father of my children to be like he is with his own chirrens. And I want my husband to be a multi-millionaire musician who is OK with me not doing much more than putting out, raising his children, and spending his money. The American Dream.

The Bachelor taught me how I should never act with a man unless I am trying to earn his disdain. And most recently on The Bachelorette, I learned what I wish I'd known during the dating portion of my twenties - how to let a man down with dignity.

I love The Hills for the fantasy element, but I love it more because it teaches me the shame in being boring on national television.

See, if you use reality tv (RTV) properly, it can be a tool for learning about yourself, others, and what you want out of life. As such, to those of you who like to prance your RTV-pretension about as if you're in the Winner's Circle at the KY Derby: Know this - I am better than you.

Here I Reluctantly Go...and Katy Perry Kissed a Girl and I Liked It.

Urged strongly by my dear dear boyfriend, I am jumping on the blog bandwagon. I apologize in advance for anything I might say that offends others. This is my feeble attempt at filling up a small portion of my uncrowded day with something somewhat constructive. You see, I was recently fired for, what I and others may call, "bullshit" reasons. Pardon my Parisian. As such, I have a large chunk of time on my hands. So, much to the dismay, I'm sure, of a blog-saturated world, I am inculcating you with what can only be called brilliant daily musings.

My beau actually started this "SLCFU" blog, but he chose to have a life and not continue with it after one posting. Thus my inheritance of the name. We do share the SLCFU sentiment. SLC is, in a word, stoopie - an eloquent term coined by aforementioned beau. God bless him. I shall discuss more on this sentiment from time to time - I won't bore you with all the riveting ways in which I dislike this city all at once - have to keep you wanting more.

On an unrelated note, Is it so wrong that I actually rather enjoyed Katy Perry's perf on So You Think You Can Dance last night? If I'm being completely honest, enjoyed isn't even the proper word - I mean, I had goosebumps, people. Don't judge me. Here's a girl who kissed a girl just to try it. She's a role model.

Finally, Lesson 1 on how Utah is ridiculous: A local news correspondent's name is "Arikka." Aka Erica. Discuss.

Origination and Purpose

And so begins my blogging journey. I decided that the best post for this first, initiatory blog, would be one that describes the purpose and intent of my having one. Also to explain SLCFU before too many people get offended. Both people who are going to read this, will need to know the truth.

First and foremost, SLCFU does mean what you think it does, however, it does not necessarily depict my current sentiments towards the great capital city of Utah. This brings me to the purpose of this blog. I am posting this as a way of keeping current events current, keeping those who care informed of my life, and the occasional rants and raves that can only be brought on by living in Salt Lake City.

So with that, I shall see you at my next posting.