Know your audience.

Who said that? Someone right? Or maybe not, in which case I am nabbing it for my own and copyrighting it. Anyway it's not something of which I have been terribly guilty. Knowing your audience I mean, since I have more than a million times blabbermouthed my way into being entirely inappropriate which would have resulted in me hating myself if such a thing were ever possible. Still, know your audience. Some people do indeed have this gift - Hereitype and I recently witnessed a stampede to the dancefloor of tsunamiesque proportions when an extremely well-endowed DJ slapped "Come On Eileen" onto a wedding tuntable. Nicely done, oh Hottness.

Last night at a rather boring Thievery Corporation "gig" - what are these things called these days - NPR has neglectfully failed to keep me up to date with street lingo - I gazed down from my exulted position at the teeming masses as they nodded their heads and failed to work up any enthusiam for dancing. What a lot of them were actually doing instead of enjoying themselves was taking photos with cell phones and then sending them to friends. Or just texting friends. What are you doing poeples? I screamed to them from inside the Aladdin's cave which is my head. Just freaking dance! (If the music was anyway half decent and this was possible, I mean). My companions were finding all this geekiness rather entertaining and therefore I turned to the gentleman to my right and said into his ear, "You know I bet there are at least six people here live-blogging this." "What?" he said. "Live blogging" says I. "What?" he repeats.

And then I just thought, Jesus you saddo cliquey blogger. Also, I think I owe SAC money which is even more depressing.

Like you didn't know...

I get irritated quickly. I can't stand food between my teeth. So much so that I can turn certifiably crazy after eating corn. I usually, therefore, try to avoid it. Steak between my [is it I or eye?] tooth will ensure that I claw my way to the bathroom to remove it. And once there the sheer praticality of pierced ears comes into effect. Sweet, sweet relief. Jab jab and the half cow which was trying to snuggle up against my beautiful porcelain crown is free. I have on occasion been caught wearing impractical ornaments in my ear which has resulted in me breaking a social code of acceptable behavior and opening up the bathroom cabinet of my host.

This, I have been told, is bad form which is precisely what makes it so irresistible. I love the sneak peak. "Oh my God she has Creme de la Mer! Oh my God, La Prairie!" All this for me is purely magical. "Oooooo that's a lot of prescription medication...." And it's all usually so neat. Unlike the hell hole of my bathroom cabinet. I have nail varnish which is over ten years old and traveled in three continents with me and has long since refused to allow me to open it. Yet still I have it and it has survived four moves. I have a Princess Marcella Borghese mud face pack which is at least as old. God knows what's living in the radio active fango these days. Everything is covered in dust. Even a rusty can of Athletes Foot spray. MMmmmm. I should leave that next to the condoms, I reckon.

If you did open my cabinet you would see a million slightly used anti-frizz hair products. I still labour under the illusion that if I use a million things at once on my hair this will stop me looking like candy floss. Likewise with the vast quantities of pore minimizing potions and anti-wrinkle creams.

And then there is my callus melting lotion. That stuff actually is radio active. My bathroom is not child friendly.

What does this tell me about me, I thought this evening. Ah yes. I am an optimistic hoarder. With arthritis in my big toes. How hot is that?

“Are you visiting from New York?”the waiter asks me.  How could he possibly know?  I am in disguise, sitting here  by the pool all dressed in black, just out of the sun, a large floppy sunhat from Jack Gomme protecting my microdermabrasioned skin.  And yet still sitting by the pool.  So close but so far.   My paleness amazes all and requires them to wear shades to look at me,
 
Ah LA, it’s nice to be back.  I had begun to be complacent about natural boobs and grey hair.  Un-orange skin and no make-up.  But I shouldn’t bitch too much.  I haven’t even left the hotel yet since I am carless as the car is in meetings.  I could walk to the Mall but for what?  Our room is fabtastic and I want to be in it.  Alone and with my ritulin for which I am straining at the bit (I threw that metaphor in in honour of the Kentucky Derby and to which I went two years ago and had a blast – thank you once again, Sarah .)  Thank you also to Lyndsey as giver of the coolest birthday present ever, a title she holds jointly with D-Nasty.  Maybe I will finally get shit done or else die alone in a Century City hotel.    Whatever, I will rock you.
 
Anyway where is the damn waiter?  Too busy California dreaming to tend to my needs, no doubt or maybe just acting at being a waiter.  It’s outrageous only in that I am unable to signal to the staff through the tinted and mirrored doors to the restaurant and they are unable to help me because they are undoubtedly laughing so hard.  I am signing crab and chardonnay and I know full well that they understand.  I require service of the above-mentioned items forthwith.  Single ladies are impatient people, if not just a little desperate.
 
I am wearing sandals and my feet are freezing.  Help me.  SoCal.  So cold.