If you were a raccoon who also happened to be a raconteur, it would be tough to come up with anything pithy to call yourself. Perhaps this is why raccoons make such boring company.
Author Archive | Alison Rosen
At the gym; Red Eye party report
Greetings my little tortillas, I’m back on the bike after half an hour on the elliptical machine where I didn’t blog for all the reasons I listed yesterday. So it occurs to me that I’m overdue for giving you the exhaustive run down of Wednedsay’s Red Eye party which someone here asked for. Of course I will deliver this, however my hands are sweating something fierce and my little blackberry is sliding all around. It’s almost as if I’m getting ready to hold my own hand for the very first time.
Anyway, the party was held at a sleek downtown boite. I almost couldn’t find it because I was looking for a chic dowtown loft and well, I had my boites and lofts confused as one will do. Anyway, the guest list was quite exclusive as you can imagine. I was numbers one to twenty of the three hundred and I spotted myself in a number of situations running the gamut from surprising to dowright indecent! I was a veritable who’s who of the television elite. Also, I was shorter but even more beautiful in person. Blind item alert! Blind item after the jump!
[Whee!] (I just jumped)
Blind item! (I’ll wait while you cover your eyes) okay, what known canoodler was seen canoodling with a canoodle while canoodlers canoodled? Allegedly?
Send in your best guesses! In other news I overheard myself talking in hushed tones excitedly about things. The drinks were flowing which made the names bolder. My middle initial may have made out with my last name! Quelle gumption!
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Clips from Red Eye on May 1
The editing in this video isn’t amazing. I’ll have to bring that up to my videographer whose name is Alison Rosen but clearly it’s some other Alison Rosen, not this one, because this one is far too busy being important. (Also, yes, Greg had something on his face. It was makeup from a joke about Red Eye now broadcasting in HD.)
Thoughts I have while working at home during the day
If my window is open and I hear someone in another apartment across the way sneezing, should I lean my head out and yell “bless you”?
At the gym: heroin
Well here I am on the bike and I’m not even going to tell you what I’m working on because I think its quite clear I’m working on my valvolines, my trundle beds and my knapsacks. See, I was taking a break from the bike because I was getting this weird pain in my lower back that was strangely sharp and wet feeling. Were I back on the space station I would wonder if I’d wet myself, or worse, if I were hanging out with Doug, the drunk astronaut who was always spilling his freeze dried and then reconstituted mai–tais, as well as wetting himself. In fact we used to joke about how he’d ‘reconstitute’ anything freeze dried you gave him, if you know what I mean. But sadly I’m earthbound for awhile and so I could rule out the idea of the wetness being space mai–tais or urine. But there was pain and half of me half expected (that’s about a quarter expectation rate) that I’d reach back there and find blood. Have I been literally stabbed in the back, I wondered? Et tu, LifeFitness 95ri? But there wasn’t blood. No backmata or backcarriage or backstruation. Clearly I’m still working on that one.
Anyway, I decided to take a break for a day, which I did yesterday and maybe also the day before? Yes! And then I came here and did the elliptical machine for awhile and the did the stairclimber for less than awhile because that shit is hard and boring, like scrabble. Oh yes, I went there. I don’t like scrabble very much. I know this will surprise you because people expect I would be good at it, and oh I am, but I don’t enjoy it.
Right so the thing about the other machines is that you really can’t blog on them because you might fall off so all you can do is count forwards and backwards in your head in other languages and then you can count out the drum beat of whatever song you’re listening to in your head and then you can play drums in your head along with the music. My friend told me that while working out, men fantasize about calamity hitting the gym and then saving all the women at the gym. What about the animals, I ask? Man, what kind of humanitarian wouldn’t build an ark? But that’s where I came into all this, I was emailing at the gym and he said it sounded dangerous and I said I would die of boredom otherwise, as I did on those machines today. Those other machines.
So now I’m back on this bike. It’s like heroin only if I try to inject it and there’s an air bubble, I won’t die from the air bubble, I’ll die from the huge piece of exercise equipment I just shot between my toes. Truthfully I never thought I’d get to this point, stealing giant spoons (really they’re more like industrial ladle shaped forklifts. Do those exist? I need a joke intern asap), wrapping bikes in tin foil and smuggling them out of the gym.
Whoa, where am I? I felt like I touched God and also like I was in the womb and also like I was glowing and just warm. You know? And tired, so tired.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Laying low
Because of my recent much publicized scandal, I decided to lay low last night. An appearance at the Time 100 gala would not be good for me right now, I announced to my fleet of flacks, ducks, handlers, personal assistants and the horse vet I keep on retainer in case I get a horse (equine health is not something to be taken lightly). They were disappointed, as they thought they’d get the night off and apparently they’d booked a private karaoke room, but as I told them when they were hired and forced to sign a multi-page confidentiality agreement, “[ … ]!”
Sadly the designer of my outfit, Hanes, didn’t get the credit for whipping me up one of his fabulous beefy T confections—this one with body of a bikini model air brushed right onto the oversized white shirt itself—and for that I do feel bad. I also feel badly, but that’s because these oven-mitts I’ve taken to wearing around the house really diminish feeling.
I suppose I’m going to need to return the genuine diamonelles I borrowed for the occasion, which is really a disappointment, because canary yellow suits me and really brings out the gold tones in my hair extensions. And I suppose I’ll need to be returning these canaries as well. One of them looks sick anyway.
I may need a bit of help out of these shoes though. Galoshes were a terrible idea—they hardly go with this T-shirt—and they smell likes tires. Plus when I try to pull them off they get stuck. I may as well be wearing two pickle jars on my feet.
Okay fine, you found me out, I was drunk and I shoved my feet into pickle jars and then I thought that I could fool you by calling them “galoshes.” Admit it, I had you going? Clearly you’re too clever for me though, so if we could just get past this and if you could just hold that right there and I’ll just…
Whoa. Are you okay? I should have warned you about that but obviously pickle jars are made out of glass and I don’t think, with both of us now sitting here bleeding, you obviously worse than me, that we really need to be arguing about this. In fact, I’ve had enough of you. I’m going to be needing my own private ambulance with security detail so if you could just clean up this mess and please arrange that right now, I would appreciate it. That will be all.
upsetting/disgusting
The following is upsetting and kind of disgusting and also sad, so if you don’t like those things, quit reading right this minute!
So I’m walking along and I see something on the street that catches my eye enough that although I’ve passed it, I go back to take a closer look. Is it a deflated balloon? Mucus? A weird blob of especially shiny possibly chewed food? Gum? As I get closer I realize it’s a baby bird, or something that one day would have been a baby bird. I can make out the darkness of the eye and the tiny little beak and the very very tiny little featherless wings. It had one foot sticking straight up in the air but it was so little it was easy to miss. And then there was a lot of brown blobby spherical action on the lower part, so I don’t really know what it was or how this happened or whether this little bird abortion ever hatched or if it was just about to hatch or if something pecked all its feathers off, which seems the least likely.
This is not a metaphor.
But it is strange considering all the bird talk on this blog. I mean, it was so small I couldn’t even poop into its mouth.
That will only make sense to those who’ve been regularly reading.
To anyone else: I’m sorry.
I'm getting old
As you may or may not know, my birthday is Sunday, so I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about things like how old I am and also just me and what a gift I am and continue to be to this world. But I’ve also noticed there are things I’m beginning to do which are indicative of my advanced age. Embarrassing things. A list of them? Sure, why not:
Things I’m embarrassed I now do:
1. automatically glance at the ring finger of whatever guy I’m talking to
2. think about my 401K
3. find it harder to concentrate if there’s music or TV blaring in the background
4. put my teeth in a cup
5. wish my children called more often, even though I don’t have any
6. wonder where my pince-nez are when they’re right on my nose!
7. know what pince-nez are
8. talk about how stuff was “in my day”
9. wear a bumper sticker on my motorized wheelchair that says “I’m spending my grandchildren’s inheritance!”
10. it’s next to the bumper sticker that says “my other car is a temper-pedic”
11. and right above the one that says “I brake for Chick Hearn”
12. appreciate the complexity of flavors in applesauce
13. war bonds!
14. think about my eggs
15. deviled egg joke here!
16. I just don’t get facebook like I get myspace and I’m sure that’s age related
17. feel flattered when I get carded
18. except for when I find it annoying
19. dread my bday
20. fondly recall my time aboard the Lusitania
21. sometimes I switch to decaf because why drink that extra caffeine, you know?
22. talk about how my long hair used to bring all the boys around when I was just a village girl before I was sold into white slavery
23. it’s a grim story
24. sometime I’ll tell you. when you’re older.
Oh gmail, you're too much!
So you know how gmail puts those little one line ads at the top of your email inbox window which somehow relate to your email content? Maybe you don’t know, but that doesn’t matter. Please try to keep up. Anyway, this is what was just adorning the top of my inbox:
Bird Poops In Mouth – www.SuperDeluxe.com – Watch the infamous video and story. Only at Super Deluxe.
It’s funny… because I was just talking about pooping in mouths, but where do the birds come in?!?!?!?!?!?!?!
UPDATE: See, it’s funny because I was actually talking about birds recently, not pooping in mouths. Just wanted to clarify although not sure it’s necesary.