Raging Out At... Bus Driver Trickery

It has been brought to my attention that the shady renegade vans I take into Manhattan daily are run by thieves and liars. And no, I did not see that coming.

Every morning, I take the renegade van into work instead of taking NJ Transit. The reason for this is three-fold. One, I was once hit by a NJ Transit bus, so screw them, am I right? Two, it costs two dollars with a ticket instead of an unreasonable 4 dollars. And third and most importantly, I am HELPING the economy by providing income to something other than the monopoly that is NJ Transit. Ok, it's mostly the saving 2 dollars thing, but still. I'm a patriot if you think about it.

There is actually a method to these renegade vans. I'm not just hopping on a random piece of public transportation hoping to get where I'm going. I know better than that. (I could end up on this random Peanuts-decor rape van I saw over the weekend. ) Now I am aware there's a language barrier between the driver and I most of the time but I follow the rules, people. Not always my strong suit.

Actual rape van spotted on Manhattan street

All the vans cost 2.50 without a ticket, but if they go to Gate 51 you can buy a ticket for 2 dollars. That dollar a day it saves me is totally helping me save up to buy this. Most of the vans that don't go to Gate 51 will still accept your ticket as they're always desperate to fill up with passengers. Being the responsible consumer that I am, I always ask the drivers before getting on the van. And they ALWAYS say yes.

And then you arrive in Manhattan where the drivers turn into said thieves and liars. This morning (not for the first time, may I add), I hand the driver my discount ticket only to have him inform me that he does not accept tickets and I need to hand over 2.50. Hell no, dude. We already had this discussion. It's practically like an iron-clad written contract. I'm not getting swindled out of 50 cents. You don't get to just corner me and humiliate me in front of the other passengers. I'm not easily embarrassed and plus, who carries cash anymore, anyway?

So instead of starting my day peacefully, it inevitably turns into warfare and I'm not backing down. He threatens to take me all the way back to New Jersey and I tell him to go right ahead. If he does that, he's only wasting space that could be taken up with another passenger he can hoodwink out of their 50 cents. Go right ahead, dude. I don't even want to go to work anyway.

Ultimately, I win the battle but I'm still losing the war. I'm up my 50 cents until this evening's humiliation rolls around. It's only a matter of time before every NJ resident regards me as the miser.

moon's attempt at "raging out at... people thinking alcohol poisoning is a thing"

This is going to be a “rageout” written on BEHALF of stars but by moon.  We have decided that it would be a great experiment to see how well I (moon) can effectively tell a story from stars’ point of view with stars’ voice and tone.  She has edited it and all of her additions are italicized and all of her omissions are... well... omitted via strikethrough.  Here we go...

-  -  -

So, the other night I was informed that someone I know whom I already find to be of dubious character got alcohol poisoning.  And had to have, and I quote, “an ambulance called on her.”  Not even by someone who knew her… nope, nope, nope… by a random.  And it dawned on me first that that is the most embarrassing, ridiculous thing ever.  What do you even have to DO to get alcohol poisoning? And furthermore, what the hell kind of hijinx were you participating in to force someone to call said ambulance on you? I could give a few examples of my drunken behavior, but I feel the FBI would show up at my door within minutes of posting if I did.  Realistically, if you’re drinking that much, the body’s normal reaction is to throw up.  I wouldn’t even know how to GET alcohol poisoning because I’ve sure as hell tried. taken my body weight down in vodka and never achieved a state of poisoning. 

So then I realized that this is not a thing.  Alcohol poisoning is just seriously not a thing!  It’s not real and it’s not a damn thing.  So stupid.  (Here I’d ask you to “allow” me to explain, but I don’t really give a rat’s ass if you’ll allow me anyway [Two points to Moon for acknowledging how little I care]):

There are nights I’ve drank myself into a coma, a legit "how did I wake up with half a pizza on my shoulder?" coma.  If alcohol poisoning were a thing, I’d have it biweekly.  If I have not gotten it yet to have my stomach pumped, it is not a thing 100% fictitious.  If moon has not gotten it, it is not a thing either then it really and truly is not a thing.  Surely musical lawyer, who actually coined the phrase "losing time," would have gotten it at LEEEEAST once if it were actually a thing.  I mean, realistically there are nights I’ve easily put back 20 drinks.  PLUS shots!!  And I’ve never gotten alcohol poisoning.  Hence... it is not a thing.

I have legitimately seen moon put a way a BOTTLE of Jameson.  Did I have to call an ambulance on her?  Absolutely not.  It did not even enter my mind.  And despite how I can often be a questionable friend, I am perfectly willing to call an ambulance on a friend if need be. There are nights where I’ve seen moon drink so much and oh my god, that she could be considered legally blind in most states. she is practically BLIND.  No ambulance.  All this does is make us want a nice sandwich and an extra large bloody mary for breakfast.

There was a night not too long ago when I left moon on the lower east side and ended up at home (albeit, after several attempts).  I had to go to Port Authority to do so and I have legit no recollection of how I got there.  I may have walked.  I may have taken a cab.  You could tell me that I took a goddamned stupid thing with the bikes that guys bicycle you around in with William Baldwin and I’d believe you because I have 100% no idea how I got there. This night was also filled with screaming at a garbage boy, denying my inebriation (the #1 sign that someone is hammer towned), and losing a boot in MY APARTMENT that I still have not managed to locate.

And NOOOOOO one had to call an ambulance on me.  Hence, not a thing.  Alcohol poisoning = not a thing.  Believe me… I’ve been inadvertently TRYING for YEARS.  There’s just no way it’s a thing. 

It makes me furious that people get this thing that is not a thing.  Not.  A.  Thing.

-stars

-   -   -

I’d like to add that during the conversation between stars and myself during which these points were made, I said something hilarious which I could not incorporate into a blog from stars’ point of view, so I’m appending it here.  It was:

“You know what… I walked into this conversation thinking that it was a thing.  Because if people tell you that something is a thing enough, you start to believe it’s a thing.  But now I just don’t think it’s a thing.”

-moon

raging out at... looking unassuming

Why is it that, without fail, no matter how many empty seats there are on a bus, the next person to get on will always sit right next to me? I would always prefer no one sit next to me, but I can live with it on a crowded, rush hour day. But as I write this, there are approximately 20 open seats on the bus and of course some man eating a sandwich and speaking Spanish at 135 decibels on his cell phone is directly next to me squashing me into the window.

Screw off, bastards of public transportation.

-stars

raging out at... buying birthday gifts

Maybe it's just me, but why is it a million times more difficult to buy a man you're involved with a birthday present? Women are far simpler in at least this one respect. If you've been romantically involved for a long time, you're always safe with diamond earrings. If it's a relatively new relationship or she's a good friend you're hoping for more with, you can always order flowers or some gift basket of lotion and body products. Everywhere practically online delivers these things (in most cases, you can even pay extra if you wait until the actual day you need it). It requires no effort other than having an internet connection and a credit card number.

But not so much for men. Today I'm struggling because every single factor that could come into play to make gift-giving difficult has arisen. I know everyone is beyond excited for me to list all these factors, so please wait no more and allow me.

1. Confusing Ambiguous Relationship Status
I am sure at some point you've attempted to buy a gift for a person you're kinda sorta seeing but is definitely not your boyfriend/girlfriend but has seen you naked and still talks to you so you're not off the hook. Is that sentence confusing? Good, because that embodies exactly how confusing it is to buy this person something. You can't go overboard with the gift because then you look like you're reading more into things than are actually there. But if you're totally thoughtless, you may give off the vibe that you don't care. Fantastic. Does anyone know a website for thoughtful yet nonchalant and breezy gifts?

2. For The Guy/Gal Who Has Everything
It's been said time and again, but truly, what in the holy balls do you buy someone who has everything? Back in the day, it was always relatively simple to buy my broke ass part-time waiter college boyfriend something. There was always some video game or random item he desperately wanted but was too busy spending his 4 dollar paycheck on beer to buy. Not exactly romantic but always much appreciated when I picked it up for him. But as you get older and you start to date not-pothead-waiters, it's much more difficult. If you land yourself a good dude with a great job, you may have hit the life jackpot, but it's the whammy of gift giving - especially if you're anything like me and a good chunk of the American population and are broke as hell. I can see it now. "Hey rich boy, I reached into the depths of my brain and bank account and pulled out this Barnes and Noble gift card for $18.34. No need to thank me, you enjoying 2 and a half magazines is all the thanks I need." Ugh.

3. Not Knowing Someone Quite Well Enough
This actually is only a minor issue, but an issue none the less. Not knowing someone well enough eliminates gag gifts (who knows how they will react?) and tiny gifts that, while inexpensive, are something so perfect for the person that the cost is a non-issue.

4. Birthday On A Sunday
This really sets me off. Inevitably, when you wait until the last minute, you can still have something delivered. Unless, of course, the gift receiver in question's birthday lands on a Sunday. In that case, you're screwed. Nothing says "hey I hope maybe you and I turn into the real deal" better than a box of Snookie's Cookies that arrives a day too late. Outstanding, so now not only does my gift suck but it sucks belatedly.

Well, I should perhaps leave you all with that last one. It is Sunday, after all, and I still haven't bought a gift.

-stars

rageful grievance: quitting... AND THEN BEING FIRED!!! (another moon and stars collaboration)

Moon/Stars: We have a little story to tell. We will tell it together.

Moon: So about seven and a half months ago, I got fired from my bartending job and was still very much in a place in my life where I NEEDED to have a bartending job to pay my bills. It was shocking and sudden and all of my connections fell through. I ended up getting a job at a smoking bar/hookah lounge on the lower east side via craigslist, whose name I will omit because this blog will indubitably be horrendous. I mean, stars, we do "do" pretty "weird" and "awful," no? Writing this together, our "doing horrendous" will be magnified, I think.
Moon: now you say something lol
Stars: lol sorry was getting a smoke
Moon: lmao that is crucial.
Moon: i'm actually going include that part lmao
Stars: We have absolutely been known to do weird, horrendous and disrespectful more often than not.
Moon: So, in any event, I spent a couple of months working at this bar. Making zero money (even when adjusting for the recession) but loving the crap out of all of my coworkers. Then my bestie, stars, moves back and needs a quick fix for money while scoping out jobs, so I brought her ass in and got her a job. What exactly did you get hired to do, stars?
Stars: Well, the bar in question started out dicey for me. I came in agreeing to do a handful of shifts checking patrons' IDs with the understanding that I would then be moved to cocktail waitress or bartend. The managers swore they just needed help for those few shifts. So despite my résumé making me qualified to have the majority of the staff there working under me, desperate for cash, I agreed.
Moon: So together we worked in this ridiculous place, making close to no money, but compensating for it by getting really ridiculously hammered and being rude to people.
Stars: Yeah, when working for little to no money (often I made barely more than what the commute to the place cost), we compensated by saving the money we would spend on a night out drinking. And were we awful to people? No question. But before anyone jumps to conclusions, the vibe of the place wasn't exactly "the customer is always right."
Moon: And you often punched people, no?
Stars: Yes, sometimes I punched people. In my defense, it was usually an accident... that does not mean I didn't find it hysterical.
Moon: I'm going to an open a bar CALLED "The Customer is Always Wrong."
Stars: I would go there every day because I am always wrong.
Moon: And I will hire you and their first exposure to the place will be you punching them at the door.
Stars: There's actually a bar in Asia where you can beat the holy hell out of the employees. This would be like that in reverse. It would get press.
Moon: I love that you know that. In any event, stars had been getting into several altercations-via-text a week with one of our managers. And he was losing them all.
Stars: Which I find laughable as the boss should never lose an argument, unless they were born without a pair. Is that too mean? Don't answer because I don't care.
Moon: You never care. In any event, they'd been kind of dicking stars around, giving her shifts, taking them back. And well... me... I have no defense. I just have no regard for rules whatsoever. We're not allowed to drink at work. I like to drink. You can see the incumbent conundrum.
Stars: Hey I found the link! http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/china/2006-08/07/content_658196.htm
Moon: You would.
Stars: No, I don't ever care nor did they give me a reason to change my usual behavior. On top of being jerked around for shifts, they also had me come in for unpaid bartending training only to inform me afterward that there were no available shifts. I don't like wasting my time nearly as much as moon likes drinking.
Moon: And I not as much as you. (That's completely extraneous for the story but felt it necessary to use that ridiculous sentence structure 'cause it's funny.)
Stars: I approve of inserting any inane sentence structure at any given moment. Approved.
Moon: Thank you for approval. Not that I care. So, getting back to what happened... a couple of months ago I got a REAL job (don't yell at me, bartenders) using my degree (Political Science) and stuck it out with the bartending for a bit to put a bit of a dent in my accrued college debt. This weekend, I decided I was far too burnt out and "over it," so I put up on Facebook that everyone should come visit me because it'd be one of my last bartending shifts. My manager saw this and pleaded with me to not quit because "everyone loves you" and offered me any shift I wanted, etc. (This is important because [well, I guess you already know due to the title of this] of what ended up happening.) But I essentially gave my "two weeks' notice." Stars, how did you handle giving in your two weeks'?
Stars: Unfortunately, in the case of dueling "notices," the Facebook status update ends up being the classier one.
Moon: Eh... what're ya gonna do?
Stars: This past weekend, I was relegated back to checking IDs after my oh-so-awesome promotion to checking coats. I know, I know, hold your applause. The bouncer I was working with was one I didn't know and a total dick from hell, let's not mince words. He seemed to want to instruct my every move, despite the fact that no one has ever needed a degree in ID Checking. I, of course, complained. My manager begged me to let him think that. I got upset and said I would do no such thing and he could consider this my notice.
Moon: So, while that was going on, I was pretty busy getting HAMMERED and hanging out with my friends... oh yes, that's right about 25 of my (our, actually) friends came in that night to celebrate our friend, Mike's, birthday. So not only was I drinking, and drinking boldly, but I was drinking on camera. And doing a lot of it. And taking a lot of breaks to give relationship counseling to (I swear to God) multiple friends.
Stars: Yes, you did have your hands full that night. I, on the other hand, was trapped in the hallway, missing my friend, Mike's, birthday despite having asked for the night off to enjoy my friend's day.
Moon: So... stars, you're really going to have to take it from here for a little while, because most of the rest of the night is a bit blurry for me. Thanks, Patron. ... and Jagermeister. ... and Jameson. Good ol' Jame-o.
Stars: Well, in all fairness, my sobriety was out the window pretty early on. But long story short, I quit more than once, then was offered moon's Saturday night "money making" shift if I would agree to stay.
Moon: "Money making." (Wry laugh.)
Stars: Seriously. Our post on the economy (raging out at... the economy) was written a day after pulling in cash during one of these big money shifts.
Moon: Touché.
Stars: Regardless, the night ended, though filled with animosity, with both moon and I both having been begged to stay and being promised all kinds of excess if we would not abandon the bar.
Stars: And with both of us having stood firm on our 2 weeks' notices.
Moon: N.B.: I walked out with less than a hundred dollars.
Stars: On a Saturday night?
Moon: On a Satur-goddamned-day night.
Stars: That's pathetic.
Moon: So, on Monday morning, while I was at work, I got a text from a friend who also happens to be one of the managers (however not the aforementioned manger with whom stars was waging war) saying essentially that I'd been FIRED due to drinking at work. FIRED. I'm sorry, but the whole "you can't fire me... I quit" aphorism? Yeah, like, that actually HAPPENED. I immediately shared this news with stars who thought, as did I, it to be the most hilarious thing that had ever happened. Especially because I had acted in no way different on that night than I had for the last seven months and by that I mean, well, ok, umm, I guess, err, I may have a mild drinking problem.
Stars: Ha! Yes, this is a point I hadn't thought of before. Despite our terrible behavior, it was no worse than anything we had done prior. I would even say, without revealing any more, that there were even certain horrible activities that I often partake in that I did not do this past weekend.
Moon: So, no one even technically "fired" me. I had to BBM (Blackberry Messenger message) my "manager" and I swear to the HOLY HEAVENS this is how the conversation went:
--
Moon: Hey, so should we get on with this?
Manager: ?
[Seriously with the question mark? C'mon.]
Moon: Aren't you supposed to, like, "fire" me?
Manager: Lol I kindof am, but I guess you already know that :)
[Seriously? A smiley face?]
--
This was all after he called you, though, no, stars?
Stars: Unbelievable. Yes, it was. The "manager" and I had a talk that went something like this:
--
Stars: Hey "manager," you called? What do you want?
Manager: Just want to let you know we are not going to be doing your shifts this week.
Stars: Great, so I am fired. Fabulous. When can I get my money?
--
I basically had to fire myself.
Moon: I got a good ol' "well, your shifts are covered from now on." I even said "DON'T YOU HAVE TO FIRE ME OR SOMETHING?" Nothing. ANNNNNND I'd already quit. You. CAN. NOT. make. this. shit. up.
Stars: I don't even think my wild imagination could have invented this. I was also told they were unhappy with "some other stuff." No mention of what said stuff was, just... stuff.
Moon: So, in conclusion... I quit and then I got fired. Is that a good summation of what happened to you? ... ON THE SAME DAY? ... FROM THE SAME PLACE?
Stars: Yep, that paragraph can be quoted VERBATIM for me. What the hell is wrong with these people?
Moon: It can't be us. We are way too awesome.

This is a picture of us from that very night with a caption (via stars) about how no one dares to say a word to us:


-moon/stars

raging out at... commuter nightmares

Yes, living in one of the U.S. metropolises whose residents commute to and from their destinations via public transportation can be considered a luxury. During my years in the sunny metropolis of Los Angeles, I can't tell you how many times I cursed the heavens, begging for a subway as I sat on the 405 picnicking on the hood of my car. Or how often I threw my car insurance bill in the trash and pretended that I instead would be using the PATH train to head on over to the paparazzi haven of Wilshire and Robertson.

Well, I take all those pleadings with God and delusional transportation desires back. Every last one. I've been back in my formerly-beloved NY exactly 3 months today and I'm over it. I would sell all the wondrous pizza and bagels and 4am bar debacles to have my old (often stolen) Nissan Altima back.

In the three months since I've been back, in addition to the pushing and shoving and generally foul body odor of other commuters, I have run into every one of the 5 commuters I despise. (Now here comes the part where I describe each and tell you just why they're a disgrace to humankind.)

#5 The Horrific PDA Couple
Let me state for the record that other than the occasional drunk lapdance I give a friend, I'm generally pretty opposed to PDA on a whole. I can live with your hand-holding and occasional smooching (unless I'm in a tumultuous boyfriend catastrophe of my own... in which case, those people can go to hell), but beyond that is a travesty and a bit of a nightmare. En route to some lower east side dive bar last week, my new roommate C and I were subjected to an absolutely vulgar display. On a very crowded PATH, the girl who may-or-may-not-have-taken-ecstasy was giving her boyfriend/fuck buddy/guy she just met a very blatant handjob. No one wants to see that. And plus, handjobs shouldn't be given over the age of 15. They're embarrassing. They're the Dungeons and Dragons of sexual acts.

#4 Friends Who Elect to Sit a Few Seats Away From Each Other
Now frankly, I don't care if you don't want to sit next to your buddy on the train. I need a break from some of my pain-in-the-ass friends sometimes, too. But do not elect to sit a distance apart when there are seats available next to each other and then scream a conversation about how the girl your brah' screwed last night may or may not have been cross-eyed. I will tell you what. I sat there and stared at said brah' and I can tell you she most definitely had to have been cross-eyed and also unbelievably blackout drunk.

#3 iPod Bastards
Headphones were made for a reason... so everyone else in the world doesn't have to sit and suffer through your playlist of various Miley Cyrus music, gangsta rap and bachata tunes in a language I do not speak. And without fail, I always end up next to these people at an obscene hour. Last week, I was next to bachata girl who was not only blaring the music but shimmying in her seat at 4am when I was hammered and trying my best not to put the remnants of a margarita all over her lap. Or this morning, some charmer listening to all kinds of Ride or Die when I had woken up at the obscene (for me) hour of 7am. I want these people to die.

#2 Psycho Man in Suit Who Is Whacking Off
Let me address the attire anger first by saying I do not enjoy anyone who likes to whack off on a train I am in, regardless of what they happen to be wearing. A few weeks back, in the midst of basically the worst week of my life, I was on a train heading to the fabulous and fun doctor, so clearly I am already joyful. On a moderately crowded train, I notice a man out of the corner of my eye with his hand down his pants. I silently prayed that he was just making a really public reorganization of his package situation. Yeah, not so much. Slowly but surely, this well dressed man unzipped his clearly expensive designer pants and went to FULL ON BUSINESS with his mini designer wang. I almost vomited and definitely teared up a little. And if you're exhibiting this behavior while wearing designer duds, I am definitely sure you are a serial killer. And I don't think I'm alone in not wanting to share a train with a goddamn serial killer.

#1 (And I have just decided these are in no particular order as I hate whackoff man the worst)
Bastards Who Will Not Move When It Is Your Stop
The subway makes multiple stops. This isn't a surprise. Nothing (again, besides whackoff man) angers me more than these people. On many occasions, I have had to forcibly shove people out of the way so I can get off at my goddamn stop . There have even been times when I have missed my stop because of people's inability to get the hell out of my way. I know it pains you greatly to let go of your germ-infested metal pole for even a second, but let me the hell off when it's my turn! I don't want to be around any of you nightmare commuters for one second more than I have to.

In closing... fuck the hell off, subway and PATH train.

-stars

raging out at... unexpected marriages

This affliction is a particularly nasty one. I myself experienced it about a year ago, but in light of it affecting 3 of my friends in the past few months (2 in the last 24 hours!), I feel compelled to speak out against it.

There are a few different things I will categorize as unexpected marriages and different degrees to which they cause pain. I'd like to present mine and my beautiful (and all single) ladies' dealings to show you all the four different types. All names and identities have been altered to protect the heartbroken.

Code Green: The Loss of a Killer Fuck Buddy
Code Green is the demon that I had to face. You may remember a gentleman from "raging out at... inappropriate ways of finding out information," the man who was a random guest speaker in the class I TAed. We will call him the Sexual Predator, or SP for short.

SP and I had a relationship of sorts over the course of a few years. I could always count on him to hook me up with tickets, be around when I was single and lonely or angry and wanting revenge on a cheating boyfriend, and to basically traumatize me in the best way possible with his complete and utter sexual deviance. (Or perhaps he traumatized me in the worst way possible, as all subsequent boyfriends have looked upon ME as the deviant. C'est la vie.)

Regardless of the fact that I never had any real feelings towards SP other than gratitude and horror, when I found out he had gotten married, it stung. And the worst part of it was the news was delivered by a particular cheating ex-boyfriend whom I had needed SP to work through. Double goddamn whammy and a loss that left a gaping hole in my need to be absolutely vile in the boudoir.

Code Orange: The Loss of Your First Time
One of my favorite ladies, Vanessa, lost her virginity a little later in life than most of my other slutty friends. She finally gave it up to a British man named Thomas. Tommy and V were never officially a couple but they carried on their affair on the regular for over a year. Then one day Tommy met Pigerella (her real name- Scout's honor!) and it was a wrap for V and Tommy. V, like your pal Stars, never had any kind of deep-rooted feelings for Tommy so she plowed past that one pretty quickly. Frankly, I think if Thomas hadn't been her first, it may not have affected her at all. But he was and so it did.

And so yesterday she gets a phone call from a friend who works in Tommy's office, telling her that the rumor around the water cooler is that Tommy and V are in Hawaii and he's planning to propose on Valentine's Day. As if Valentine's Day isn't crummy enough, did V need to deal with that? And to add insult to injury, this tattletale friend of hers isn't exactly her favorite person on Earth and the kinda friend who likes to think that every single person is jealous of her relationship. Awesome times.

Code Red: The Ex-Boyfriend Who Marries Someone New 2 Weeks After Breakup
This is where we start to get into some really hairy territory. My gal Lauren suffered one of those particularly devastating heartbreaks recently. She and Alex hadn't dated for a very long time, but it was one of those intense relationships that moves fast and furious. It ended far before Lauren was ready for it to be over. When the news of his marriage broke, she was still in the crying and screaming and plotting to get him back stage of the breakup.

And what was truly rubbing salt in the wound of this catastrophe (as if doing it a mere 14 days post breakup wasn't bad enough!) was that he married a brand new girl... not an old friend or a rekindled ex. A BRAND NEW GIRL.

And how, you might ask, did Lauren find out about the nuptials? Via the internet. Via the goddamn internet. I would certainly hope if I were going to do something like that to that unbelievably recent of an ex, I would have the balls to let them know and not let them find out in some roundabout way. 'Though I suppose if you are classless enough to pull a stunt like that, the proper social etiquettes are probably far beyond your realm of understanding anyway.

Code Blue: Loss of the Man You Dated For 9 Years
And this one may sting worst of all. I think at this point, we can all agree that the news of a former flame getting married is never a pleasant experience. Sure, sometimes it's more annoying than painful, but it is never fabulous news to hear, especially when you have not yet taken the plunge. And sometimes it is just the worst news of all.

My friend Violet dated Andrew for 9 long years. Their relationship was one of the most tumultuous I have ever witnessed (albeit second hand), but they loved each other. Andrew was the kind of guy who would buy Violet dresses for their unborn (and not even yet conceived) daughter. They had a tendency to make up and break up a lot, but Violet always assumed that when she one day walked down the aisle, it would be Andrew waiting for her at the other end.

When Violet found out the news, she and Andrew had been apart for about a year and a half. Long enough for her to have moved on and found a new boyfriend, but Violet, being the old romantic that she is, had still never fully given up hope on Andrew. Maybe that's her fault, but that's just who she is.

In a play from the Stars playbook, Violet stumbled across their wedding website while Googling Andrew's name. On top of the news, she was also subjected to photos, the proposal story and a million other details no one should ever have to live with. I think we all hate the internet.


The point is, this sucks. People get married and people move on from their past relationships. If we never moved on, I would still be pining over a dude who is now a semi-professional wrestler with GREEN HAIR. (Man, I have dated some real gems.) So we will all take the bad of this and hope that someday, we do the same to crappy exes of ours. Moral of the story here is perhaps a little courtesy would be nice. If we broke up two weeks ago, dated for 9 years, had sex within the last 2 months or if I am just gonna hear about it anyway, it would be a lot better coming from your mouth. Or maybe there is no moral and I am grumpy and bitter.

- stars

raging out at... the economy

No, this is not going to be an extensive blog about the dismal state of affairs of our current economic climate. You all know, you're all probably living it. I really just want to share the conversation that moon and I just had.

Moon: Dude, I just bought a drink in quarters. Cool economy.
Stars: Dude, I just had half a Chunky for lunch. Outstanding economy.
Moon: Thank god I have 3 more dollars on my Metrocard. Hooray! I can get home! Dodged a bullet there.
Stars: Mine has $1.75.

Ok what the hell is that? And how is that conversation not even been subjected to the usual stars' exaggeration and still looks like that?

I may be licking my Chunky wrapper for dinner.

-stars

raging out at... passwords

Well, well, well.. welcome back to my own blog, ladies and gentlemen! My deepest apologies for the prolonged absence. My time away from you all had nothing to do with a lack of things to rage about (I can always find something!), but rather with the launching of a new site. So of course, the self-promoter that I am, I urge you to go check out Ladies' Locker Room when you're done absorbing everything over here.

The reason I bring up my other site and how terribly busy and important I am (besides the face that I am shameless) is that it led me to today's topic: Passwords. I understand the importance and need for passwords, I do. But sometimes they make my life just a little more difficult.

It all started simply enough. About 12 years ago, when my family first got America Online (saying I didn't have internet 'til I was a teenager is going to age me badly one day). I used the same password for everything. As the years passed, I began to accumulate more and more sites and programs that required a password. Eventually this led to everyone on the planet knowing the information to access virtually anything of mine. My mom, my brother, my friends, random people I've met once... even now I am sure 9 out of 10 people who have ever met me could tell you how to log onto my Facebook. This is not in my best interest.

So over the last year or two, I have been using a variety of passwords. It still amounts to about 3 different passwords, which equals out to about 7 out of 10 people who know me can log on to everything I have. Still no problem there. Perhaps I should stop giving people my account information.

The problem now becomes my inability to remember what passwords I used where and if I invented a new one for any specific reason. This problem is made exponentially worse by the wonderful browser feature that allows your computer to remember your passwords. Of course, I use this function, regardless of the fact that I will let anyone in the world use my computer... my brand spanking new pink laptop, that comes to me courtesy of one of my favorite people on earth.

This weekend, as I decided that the Internet Explorer that the computer comes pre-programmed with is a low-class piece of shit, I decided to download Firefox. Fantastic. All my passwords are stored in IE. I decide to log on and write a rageout about Betty White (I will treat you all to that later). Turns out I have virtually no idea what my password is. I hadn't typed it in so long thanks to these password memory programs that it took me SEVENTEEN TRIES to log in. SEVENTEEN.

Brutal.

You would think I learned my lesson but as soon as Firefox asked me if I would like them to remember the password, I of course accepted their assistance. Some things never change.

-stars

raging out at... my own arrogance

Driving to work today, I was a bigger hazard to the road than usual thanks to my uber-strained biceps, bruised left hand and scraped up fingers. And why, might you ask, do I currently have the upper body of a refugee? Simply put, I refuse to concede defeat.

When I was younger, like most people with brothers and sisters, I engaged in what was generally normal sibling rivalry. However in the Stars household, instead of this causing world war level fights, it created something much different. It caused both my brother and I to become completely convinced we were absolutely awesome at everything. And I mean EVERYTHING.

I remember being a kid and the America's Cup being on T.V. After a brief discussion, Brother Stars and I figured we could man a boat just the two of us and victory would be inevitable. Papa Stars tried to explain the concept of teamwork and how we would need a team. We were not having any of that. Why would we need a lesser boat racing talent to bring us down? Keep in mind, neither of us had ever even been on a sailboat. That apparently made no difference. It still doesn't. I remain firmly rooted in the belief that, even now, if there's something I'm not good at, it's because I haven't tried. The instant I have even one attempt, I will become the greatest golfer/comedian/cross-stitcher the world has ever seen.

Which brings me to the reason for today’s debilitating injury. It was brought on by stupidity times 3 – sprinkled with equal parts Arrogance, Ineptitude, and Stars Loves JD. My Googled God was around last week for 4 days of amazingness. It was a week filled with dinners and movies and hand holding and all sorts of wonderful "gheyness" that still has Stars in a good mood. (No simple feat considering how easily enraged I am!) It was a pile of whipped perfection, minus one small argument that has now escalated to epic proportions.

I think I can hit a JD fastball. Even writing this now, after standing in the batters' box against him for hours and not hitting so much as a foul ball, I am still positive I can rope him right over the fence. Major league regulation distance. Despite my not only not being able to hit the ball, but it being an accomplishment when I would even remain in the batters' box, JD has agreed to a rematch. He feels pretty certain that my method of swinging the bat as I run away will pretty much assure I never make contact with the ball.

So I spent waaaaayyy too much time at the batting cages yesterday perfecting my swing. The gentlemen at the cages thought I was insane when I asked to be put in a cage against 90 MPH baseball throws. But I did it. And I only ran away a few (hundred) times. And of course in the process, I managed to greatly injure myself between sore muscles from holding the bat too long, bruises from getting hit by the ball, and a bunch of scrapes from running into the fence as I scampered away from pitch after pitch.

I was with myself against JD and again in the batting cages. I saw the extent of my non-accomplishments and yet I am still convinced I am going to crush pitch after pitch the next time he throws to me. I have no problem with self-assuredness and a great confidence, but perhaps it becomes a problem when it starts getting you hurt. One day I am going to try to race in America’s Cup by myself and end up awash on a deserted island. And I will still think I am the best sailer this world has ever seen.

-stars

raging out at... obligations

Do you remember when you were in high school and you HAD to read Great Expectations? And you hated it because it was obligatory? But you picked it up on your own later and realized it was a beautiful story that you unfairly judged then started to sob hysterically in fear that you would turn into Miss Havisham except you probably wouldn't even have an Estella to take care of you and you'd rot to pieces in that old, never-used-for-its-purpose wedding dress? Okay, maybe the last part is just me, but I think it's a universal truth that no one likes doing something because they have to. Obligations suck and can ruin what should otherwise be a good thing.

Case in point: my new side project promoting a night at a bar in Hollywood. How can I possibly make this bad? Well I can and I have. Promoting requires creative night planning, going out to meet new people and begging your friends to come hang out. I'm a self-ordained creative girl who enjoys new people and her current friends (usually). So my job is essentially to get people out, having a good time, to drink for free and to get paid for it. And I hate doing it. Telling me I have to go out multiple nights a week and I have to be in party mode every Monday night is tantamount to torture for me. The second you tell me I have to go out and have a good time, the only thing in the world I want to do is stay home and be miserable. (And maybe watch cheesy movies but that's another issue altogether.)

There's nothing like being obligated to do something to assure that it's the last thing in the world you'd ever want to do. I think if I were Ryan Gosling's personal masseuse, I would still dread going to work every day. That's just not okay. Why is it that I can't separate the actual body of work/event/fill-in-the-blank from the fact that it's a requirement?

And now that I know I have to finish writing this blog, I don't wanna.

-stars

raging out at... drunken behavior

If you've been paying attention, it is pretty apparent that I enjoy a good cocktail. I even enjoy a mediocre cocktail that's a little watered down from the ice melting in it. Hell, I doubt I would turn down a bad cocktail if the mood struck and it was the only thing available. I don't mind when others drink around me if I'm not drinking, but factor in ridiculous drunken behavior and I'm fit to be tied.

Now ridiculous drunken behavior doesn't encompass being silly or getting a little rowdy or even when your vocals get above a decibel I care to listen to them at. That's par for the course and while I don't necessarily enjoy all that behavior, I can live with it. What does burn me up is the "Did you actually just do/say/think about that" kind of behavior. And I apparently am just surrounded by friends who have the most deplorable conduct imaginable when their BAC rises just the slightest; people whom it would serve well to maybe lay off the sauce for a bit.

So if you want to spend any time around me and grab a drink with me, may I present to you "Stars DOs and ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOTs of Drinking."

DO... Be mindful of your own tolerance. No one who is above the average American college age should be throwing up in the street or blacking out or falling all over themselves. I accept this behavior early on in your drinking years, but come on. How many times do you have to vomit on the club's bouncer before it clicks that maybe 16 gin and tonics is more than you can handle?

ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT... Ask me for money when you are drunk. It is not my responsibility to fund your extracurricular activities. Unless I choose to buy you a drink or I owe you money, my cash stays in my wallet. You are not entitled to it because you are drunk and out of cash. Not my problem. And ESPECIALLY do not ask me for money if:
1)You paid for parking when I said I would walk: too bad for your lazy butt; or
2) You need it to buy marijuana which I am not going to smoke: just don't ask.

DO... Put your cell phone away before you do something you will regret with it. It's your life and for the most part, what you choose to do with it does not affect me. However, when you drunkenly call your ex-boyfriend or text a friend to tell her off, I have to hear about it all day the next day. I am not interested. Don't be stupid. Perhaps this DO should be amended to: If you're going to use your cell phone while inebriated, ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT talk to me about what you did the next day. I will never in life have any sympathy for it. Suck my non-existent balls.

ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT... Tell people things I have told you in confidence and then either attribute it to your intoxication or claim to not remember. You did it to be "funny and cool" at the time. So being disloyal and a shitty friend makes you cool... hope whomever you told likes you now, because I don't anymore.

DO... feel free to go home when you've had enough. I would never look down on you for not making it out to last call. I only look down on you when you act like a Grade-A Jackass.

ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT... ever come near me if you're one of THOSE drunk people.

Writing this blog has made me realize my new found respect for straight edge folks... and not for their willpower to not get themselves tanked, but for their remarkable ability to put up with the rest of us stupid drunk idiots whilst sober. Hats off to you, Straight Edgers of America - I am contemplating moving over to your ranks.

-stars

raging out at... internet findings

So I'm in love. Again. Just for this week. Or for all time. I have no idea. The only thing I truly know is that Google is severely impairing my ability to have any semblance of a "normal" relationship with "normal" progression. Not that normalcy has been my strong suit historically. I'm babbling. Allow me to rewind.

So being single and with the nonsense of past relationships behind me for now, I've been fully ready to move on and perhaps find that elusive nice guy for once. So bored one night and admittedly on a MySpace binge, I happen upon the older brother of my adorable buddy Pierre (names have been changed to protect the innocent who don't want their business on blast on the internet.) JD, Pierre's brother, is, not to mince words, smoking hot. In the immortal words of Moon, he is just "holy bananas." So being the crazed, freshly recovered single gal that I am, I shoot him a message to the super smooth and charming effect of “Hey, I’m a buddy of Pierre’s so I thought I would shoot you a message. Sweet pictures.” Yeah, I’m good, I know. What man wouldn’t be falling at his feet with such delicately placed words?

So, many exchanged e-mails, texts, and a few phone calls later, I am fully hooked on JD… despite having never met him. Ahh, the age of the internet, where love matches are made based on a few pictures taken at our best angles and a handful of well-worded emails that frankly could have been penned by the entire writing staff of 30 Rock for all we know. But we want to believe and so we do. And sometimes everything we hope for turns out to be true. But none of that risk-taking with potential for meeting a frog you thought was a Prince Charming bothers me. What I am pissed at is my ability to Google anyone.

Now JD is a special case as he is probably a little more publicly profiled than your average internet love affair. He certainly isn't some giant celebrity, but suffice it to say when you're a professional athlete, even one of the lowest common denominator, there's a lot of information about you on the internet. So now only mere days into the beginnings of my new found love and never having met the boy, what do I know about him? I could tell you his height, his weight, how much money he makes, what the inside of his apartment looks like, his Guitar Hero ranking (I am completely mortified about knowing that one), and most importantly, what he looks like shirtless.

Okay, what?? How in the hell am I supposed to progress normally and slowly when I already have a good 4 months of relationship information in my head? Some of my best friends I have known for YEARS probably couldn't tell you all that information about me. I certainly don't know Moon's Guitar Hero ranking. Or if she even has one. But once I set off on an innocent Google of JD, I couldn't stop myself. And now I know too much. And now it's making things awkward.

Example 1:
JD:
"Man, I had a rough day. You would win the day if you came to give me a massage."
Stars Internal Monologue Dilemma:
"Poor baby, his team lost today. He did have a trying day. Wait, shit, how do I answer that? If I acknowledge I know why he had a bad day, am I a stalker for checking box scores? I can pretend I didn't go to ESPN.com. But then do I look like I don't care enough to even see how his team did? Or like I'm not a sports fan and maybe that's a turn-off. Dear God, help me!!!"
Stars' Final Answer:
"Aww, honey. I wish you weren't so far or I would. Too bad phone massage doesn't have quite the same effect as phone sex."
Crisis averted. Stars' sanity moves just out of her range of vision.

Example 2:
Stars is sitting around, eating leftover pancakes and singing loudly to AFI. Phone rings.
Stars:
"Oh Jesus, JD!"
Minor and brief panic attack ensue. Composure regained. Opens up phone.
Stars:
"Hi love, what's going on?"
JD:
"Hi beautiful girl. Are you listening to AFI?"
Major panic attack sets in.
Stars Internal Monologue Dilemma:
"Crap, fuck, crap, fuck hell! (My internal monologue indeed does have Tourette's.) Shit!!! I know one of his favorite bands is AFI. Did he tell me that or did I read that? I most likely read it. Is he going to think I'm listening to it because he likes it? Is the jig up? He's going to know I Googled him! This is a nightmare. Why, oh why, did I have to be listening to AFI? I do like other bands! This is so not a big deal, who cares, right? Oh no, it's been way too long since I've said anything."
JD:
"Stars? You there?"
Stars:
"Yeah, sorry. Was turning the music down. Having an iPod Shuffle of a night."
Crisis again averted, although why couldn't I just acknowledge I was listening to one of my favorite bands? He doesn't own them. Now I'm mad at JD for my own stupidity. Calm down, crazy girl.

Example 3:
This is not so much an example as my deep burning desire to point something out. JD has pictures of himself on the internet where he is deeply and meaningfully shirtless. Some dudes should never go without a shirt and some guys I don't mind if they do. JD, in his professional athlete glory, does the world a great injustice when he puts a shirt on. To put it in perspective... we all know my love of Sawyer from Lost. If I could only enjoy one shirtless man for the rest of my life, I wouldn't hesitate to choose JD over Sawyer every day of the week. It's that good.
Actually now that I think about it, this is an example. Knowing the hotness that lurks there, I am infinitely more nervous talking to him than I would be without that information. Generally, I'm not ogling a man I am dating in all his shirtless glory until he is allowed to see me shirtless as well. And usually by the time that happens, I am largely past the point of being fully nervous around him. This is simply not fair.

Example 4:
Google search? Check!
YouTube search? Check!
Scouring through MySpace comments? Check!
Drooling over shirtless pictures? Check, check, and dear God, check again!

So, in conclusion (and thanks to all of you for trudging through this post and making it this far with me... Stars in love is a crazy Stars indeed!), I am never ever looking anything up on the internet again. I don't need that much information until it is presented to me. I don't need to make myself more nervous and more psycho than I obviously already am. Hopefully, I can meditate on this and reach an inner peace and calm before I screw this whole thing up. If not, I wonder if I can sue the entire internet for destroying my relationship?

-stars

raging out at... un-hilarious money

Ok, Ok, I know this blog is supposed to about things we are mad at, but today I discovered something so beautiful and joyous that I had to share the glory that is... "chucklebucks."

It all began with this...



An assault on Abe Lincoln. You may remember from a previous post that I wish to kick Abe in his long deceased gonads. So that was a victorious beginning for "chucklebucks," which are simply, as the name states, currency that makes me laugh.

So I then began to hunt around for other most hilarious bills. Here is what I found:



Now this isn't really that funny minus the fact that not only did some idiot give my old friend AJ (I am cool with him as opposed to Abe) Romanesque gear but felt the need to label it Sparta. The artist made certain I couldn't pretend it's Andrew Jackson masquerading as Mr. T so now I hate him. (You knew I had to put a wee bit o' rage somewhere in here.)



I used to think origami people were taking part in a useless hobby until today when I saw that majestic dollar bill folded into a stingray. Winner.



Classic Schrute buck. 'Nuff said.



I have no idea who this jerk on this bill is but he is actually so horrifying to me that his mere existence qualifies him as a "chucklebuck."



Ok, I know there's no funny drawing or clever saying and this is a run of the mill 50 dollar bill. Just wanted to point out Ulysses' beard. I hate it.



Apparently the marketing for the new Batman movie has run so rampant that they've even managed to reissue Joker Washington dollar bills. (My joke was not funny. I do not care. In your face, reader.)

And finally...



Just pointing out that when one googles hilarious drawings on money, you are treated to this old classic friend.

Feel free to submit your favorite "chucklebucks" in the comments.

-stars

raging out at... the coachella edition

Before I begin my usual rant on the finer points of suckage, I will first concede that Coachella is amazing. People are friendly; they just invite you to crash in their giant mansions upon meeting you. There are so many amazing and really strange things to see (and I'm not even talking about the bands). There's great music and tasty snacks. What's not to love? Well, you can always count on your old pal stars to find something to be pissed about. Or truth be told, some things.

1) The Impossibility of Finding Anyone
I haven't seen my friend Chris in over a year. He's back on the east coast and we seem to keep missing each other every time I'm back. We spent an entire weekend just a few hundred yards from each other and still couldn't manage to hook up. And it actually took nearly a full 24 hours for me to find my friend Erica who* I was STAYING with. Although I did get the consolation prize of the century with a David Hasselhoff sighting.

2) Shoddy Cell Phone Service
I am absolutely one of those people that is useless as a human when I'm without a cell phone. Seeing the evil "X" or no bars on my phone makes me want to spit venom especially when I am trying to meet up with someone, a la point numero uno. But the cell phone service at Coachella has an even more annoying factor to it. All weekend, my phone lied to me and told me I had full coverage but somehow just couldn't send or receive texts without some absurd multi-hour delay.

3) Pass "Situations" and Rude Security Guards
Much like Orion hates security guards who wield power just because they can, I too have a vendetta against evil, power-hungry security. Can someone explain to me why my sidestage pass that would allow me to actually go onstage would not let me into the VIP tent where approximately 2,500 people were allowed? Yeah, I can't either. According to the good folks at Coachella, I had permission to go backup dance during Prince's set, but could not share in the VIP beer? Height of rudeness.

4) Annoying Security Gripe Part Deux
They like to make you walk certain paths where there is all sorts of human pileup. Why? I don't know. Allowing people to use the whole road instead of a fenced in dustbowl would probably create less congestion. But what do I know?

5) VIP Parking
In an attempt to not come off as elitist, preferred parking is hard to come by unless you are actually handicapped. My lovely and wonderful Amanda took care of special parking for me. However, this special parking was actually farther away than the general public parking. I saw press people carrying 25 pound cameras and crazy amounts of equipment the half mile to the venue. I appreciate the idea of being able to park close when you are physically incapable of walking far (although if you are incapable of walking that far to the venue, you honestly probably shouldn't be at Coachella where everything is a solid quarter mile away from everything else in the first place) and I do understand that maybe I am a spoiled brat about being able to park where I want, but these press people were seriously fucked. So much for being VIP.

6) My Pink Hair
Okay, this is perhaps not a Coachella problem, but it certainly came to light in the drug-friendly environment that Coachella has come to be. My hair is currently a shockingly bright shade of pink and this somehow apparently screams to crazies that I am a drug dealer. For the record... I do NOT have ecstasy on me nor can I sell you some meth. And honestly wouldn't any drug dealer at a festival like that try to carry themselves with a little more discretion and maybe not have glow-in-the-dark hair? Just a thought.

7) Prince
He is overrated and garbage.

Sorry, Coachella, for making you the subject of my rageout. I truly had a lovely time and fully appreciate the tan you provided me! Until next year...

-stars

*whom

raging out at... the puppy store

Rewind: Christmas Eve 2005 (Or: My Sweetest Mistake).

At about noon on Christmas Eve, a little over two and a half years ago, my brother and I decided it was probably due time for us to begin (and finish) our holiday shopping. My mother wasn't what you would call. pleased with us, as our day of marathon shopping meant we wouldn't be around to help her with, or really get in the way of, Christmas preparations. Matt and I swore up and down that we had made a finely. tuned list as to what we needed and where we needed to procure it. After my brother swore he wouldn't again let me punch anyone whilst. fighting through an overly packed crowd of last minute shoppers, my. mother had no choice but to relent.

So off we went.

Our first stop was at the pet store to pick up gifts for all the extended family pets. (The Stars Family has a tendency to overdo it. Shocking.. While picking out a variety of toys, I spied the rowdiest Jack Russell Terrier with the sweetest face. Way too much money later, we had an addition to the Stars Family and a debacle of a Christmas shopping nightmare. All worth it.

Fast Forward: Yesterday.

I was strolling along Melrose in L.A. with a few of my favorite boys. (If there's anyone reading who has yet to check out Lights Resolve, do it). We stopped in The Puppy Store before the fantastic fun of haircut appointments was to begin. I spotted an amazing miniature French Bulldog and felt that another Christmas '05 moment was upon me.
I can't resist a sweet puppy face. I asked the Dr. Spock lookalike if I could please see the pup. Well, ladies and gentlemen, apparently Pretty Woman was based on fact and I was Julia Roberts. "Spock" gave me the attitude of the century and told me he would only take the dog out for customers who were serious.

Ok, what? I do not look like a homeless vagabond nor do the boys whom I was there with. despite their "rock band" status; I would gladly let any one of them babysit my child (if I had one). They look clean and respectable. And I have never once received money for sexual favors. (And NO, jerk, if you're reading this... cab fare and a t-shirt does not count.) So why the attitude?

I'm sorry that this blog has to again come crashing down on servicelology(thanks for the term, moon), but this was pure and total garbage. We
live in a world where "new money" is rampant. People like the dudes
from Jackass and thugged out looking rappers and porn stars can buy most of us out ten times over, so who is some Star Trek lookalike to assume
I'm not serious about a purchase? And, I live in LOS ANGELES where
there's an exponentially greater chance that any random on the street is some big-time movie producer's kid than in, say, Kenosha, Wisconsin.

Point is, though I'm none of those things, everyone deserves to be treated with a little bit of respect and not have assumptions made based on physical appearance. And I know if that was me wielding the very minimal power of being able to TAKE PUPPIES OUT OF THE CAGE (cool job, by the way, "Spock"), every time I busted an attitude, I'd be afraid I was pissing off Spielberg's daughter.

-stars

raging out at... the shape of teeth

I don't think dentists should hang up giant teeth replicas in their offices. They resemble too greatly the ghosts from PacMan and the receptionists have too great an attitude when you inquire as to why they would hang up Inky. Then a bigger attitude when you apologize and say, "or perhaps it is Clyde."



-stars

raging out at... "appointments"

As I sit here fanning the flames of someone else's rage, I'm finding myself getting increasingly worked up over an issue that hasn't presented itself to me in quite some time. This particular issue, however, is so infuriating that even if it's been 12 years since you've encountered it, it is likely to cause a surge of anger so great that you render yourself immobile.

I'm talking of course about doctors' office "appointments." Right now (and probably for the next 17 days), my friend Riana is sitting in the doctors' office waiting for an appointment that was scheduled for approximately last Tuesday. Why is it that the concept of appointments is just a far-fetched ideal for doctors? And has anyone ever been taken in at the time they were scheduled for? I've even gone so far as to make the first brutal 7am appointment of the day and somehow they're still backed up. How?? I'm the only one in the office!

I'm so pissed. Post your thoughts and prayers for Riana in the comments section.

-stars

raging out at... "fix-it" tickets

Somehow it seems whenever I am minding my own business and trying to have a nice day, the police take that as a sign to bust me for absolutely no reason. It's rude. I don't interfere with them trying to enjoy a nice time and I would really appreciate the same respect.

The other day I was driving back from my old boss, and current business partner, Laura's house in Santa Monica. The weather was L.A.-perfect. We held our meetings as we walked along the beach in early March. I, being a born and bred Northeasterner, still can't get over mid-January ocean romps and walking to the store in shorts mid-winter. I love everything about it.

So yeah, the day was bright and beautiful. I was filled with good news and fresh hope on new plans. So why wouldn't the stupid Los Angeles 5-0 pull me over to burst my shiny little bubble? And so the fiasco begins...

Enter Officer Yu and his flashing lights. It took me about 3 blocks to even pull over because as I was doing NOTHING wrong, I assumed they were trying to get around me. I finally pull to the side of the road after their loudspeaker blares out, "Miss, in the silver Nissan, we are flashing at you. Stop driving like we are going to forget. Pull over!" I, of course, glanced around for other women in silver Nissans and when I found none, pulled my car to the side of the road.

Par for the Stars course, I don't have my license, registration or non-existent insurance in my car. So Officer Yu takes pity on me and doesn't impound my car but gives me 3 different "fix-it" tickets.

"Fix-it" tickets are total trash. He sat there in his stupid little squad ensuring that I did in fact have a valid driver's license and a valid registration. But now I have to go to court and show them the actual paperwork and the tickets will be considered null and void. Now, if the state isn't going to make any money on these tickets once I can prove I'm valid, why waste the taxpayers' money and my time by sending me to court? I'm so mad.

-stars

raging out at... 5am

5AM can officially blow my ass. It is never a pleasant experience, no matter from which side I hit it. 5 AM either means I'm exhausted or a few short hours away from a fierce hangover.

Today's 5AM is particularly evil. What's so particularly vile about this early morning terror? Well, let's take into account the fact that I moved 2 days ago so my sleep has been infrequent at best. (Especially when you add the facts that I consistently interrupted my packing to get drunk, go to shows, and watch Season 2 of Dexter [a little disappointing] into the equation.)

But getting up at 5AM to drive 4 hours to Las Vegas to attend a high tea... I have no words. I don't even know what high tea means, but I have no doubts it's nearly as intoxicating as it sounds.

Also currently rageful that Moon saw Hillary last night and Stars did not.

-stars