Saturday, January 24, 2004

Eclipsed

So I get to share oxygen with Gary "Damn I Look Good In Goggles" Stevens this week. We shall breathe together, bless his left-handed whipping little heart, at the Eclipse Awards.

The Awards, for those of you not up on your black tie Thoroughbred racing awards ceremonies, are the Oscars of the racing world. Best horse! Best jockey! Larry King-Merv Griffin-Chris McCarron Interview Most Likely To Make You Wish For Death! Best Ninety-Seven-Year-Old At the Crappy Neighborhood Track Who's Been Handicapping Since Horses Were Domesticated And Yet Somehow Still Sucks At It!

I work in the Thoroughbred racing media, and if you work in the Thoroughbred racing media, the Eclipse Awards are totally the place to be. They are the high-school-quarterback's-parents-are-out-of-town kegger. They are Dish City. They are the rich old white people's version of the infield party at the Kentucky Derby, only richer and older and whiter.

The Eclipse Awards are such a big deal ("Have fun with the Rich and the Short!" my friend Gail told me) that I'm breaking out the Victoria's Secret Body Slimmer. When you're digging through the lingerie drawer for something from Vicky's that you don't necessarily want anybody to see you wearing, you are running with some seriously swank company.

I haven't attended a black-tie event since--- um, never, which meant I had to go dress shopping, which made me happy, because dresses involve sparkly things, and sparkly things are better than anything in the whole entire world including orgasm. I actually forewent the Junior department for a grown-up girl dress shoppe. I don't think I've ever handed over my credit card in an actual "shoppe" before; apparently there is some sort of ranking system at work here determining which dress stores gets to be a "shoppe" and which stores rate as "boutiques" and so forth. It seems to have something to do with providing individual dressing rooms the size of Albania and possessing the moral authority to charge $574 for a shoe dye job.

Like everything else in my life, dress shoppe-ing immediately became hideously complicated. I found a gown that actually did not make me look like a German transvestite on holiday, but it was too long.

"Well," the salesgirl sighed, "you could get it altered" (chingchingchingching) "or, you could just wear a nice set of stilettos."

I looked at her. "Honey," I said, "I'm gonna be in a roomfull of jockeys."

But still: $180 and a new set of errands and getting stuck in the ankle by a series of small sharp objects versus.... an excuse to go shoe shopping.

My new shoes are very nice.

They also have the added benefit of raising me to a height at which my excellent rack will be precisely at eye-level, if you're a jockey. So this could be worse.

It really is a beautiful ensemble (I can call it an "ensemble," seeing as it came from a "shoppe") and I even have one of those utterly gorgeous, completely useless tiny beaded purses that I totally have to remember to hide the tags on before Monday. I have a sinking feeling I will never use this purse for anything else but carrying one or two TicTacs to the Eclipse Awards, because I ain't fitting anything else in there. Even Gary.

The dress pretty much the most formal thing I've ever owned, outside of the gloves I made my sister add to my maid of honor uniform in exchange for making me wear something so mind-blowingly boring in front of every single person I knew at the time. My Horse Oscars dress is pewter (shiny gray, for you straight men out there) with a black tulle overlay and silver beadwork so delicate I'm afraid to breathe on it directly. I am going to look so elegant as I step out of my '97 Corolla.

I'll be driving down a day early because if I get lost, which I can pretty much guarantee I will seeing as this afternoon at lunch I actually got lost in a bathroom stall, I'll still have 36 hours or so to make the awards. I'm hoping to make it in time to see Sunday's card at Gulfstream, which will include Funny Cide's jockey, Jose Santos. I plan on asking him about coming in within a couple furlongs of winning the Triple Crown, because I bet nobody ever, ever mentions that to him.

I also plan on doing some very serious people-watching. I know you wish you were my date so you had an entire evening of "Look, there's Ryan Fogelsonger!" "Look, there's Julie Krone!" "Look, there's-- oh wait, it's just an unusually short waiter" to look forward to.

The awards will take place at the Westin Diplomat Resort and Spa (motto: "Well La-Di-Da") in Hallandale. The Diplomat has its own marina. And probably those cool-ass stamp thingies that leave the logo of the hotel in the gravel of the standing ashtrays. So.... yeah, I'll be staying at the Holiday Inn across the street. I was offered a "promotional rate" since I am with the Eclipse Awards, but one night at the "promotional rate" still equaled the GNP of several small Central American nations.

I look forward to my stay at the Holiday Inn, however. They have a tiki bar.

Friday, January 23, 2004

Hello in there!

So apparently this was this scene last Sunday at my sister's parish during the homily:

PRIEST (after reading the Gospel excerpt which told the story of the Wedding at Cana): I bet Joseph was at the wedding at Cana, and I bet he wasn't feeling to well afterwards. Perhaps Mary said to him, "Joseph, can I do anything for you?" And Joseph probably said, "Well, a glass of water would be nice, but don't let it anywhere near that kid."

CONGREGATION: (polite laughter)

TAUFLING: KICK KICK KICK KICK KICK

Yes, we're into kicking now. My brother-in-law could see my sister's clothes fluttering. I'm glad this happened after my favorite Gospel reading (oh, you KNOW you have your own very favorite Gospel reading! Come, let's share and have fellowship and all that happy Jesus shinola.) I referenced this story when I toasted Taufling's parents at their wedding Mass. It has everything you could possibly want in a Gospel: Advice from Mom ("Do whatever He tells you"), freaked-out apostles, wine, the big JC breaking out the miracle bling-bling. No whiny prodigal sons or camels in sight. You don't always need moneychangers and big ol' leper to have a good time with your Gospel.

Yeah, that Taufling... that Taufling has class. That's MY godchild.

Email Taufling's godmother at: blondechampagne@hotmail.com

Thursday, January 22, 2004

Oh.

My internet access at the Blonde Bachelorette Pad has been down for two days, and I have done nothing about it because I have the type of crack service provider where if your access goes out and you do nothing about it for a little while, more often than not it will reappear as magically as it left. It's kind of like taming a wild horse-- if you hover somewhere in the distance and make no sudden movements, the treasure you seek shall come unto you.

But when I was still getting demands from AOL to create a new account this morning, even after I set out an entirely new bucket of oats, it was clear that the 404 Fairy would not be approaching anytime soon. So I called tech support, which as always exceeded my expectations for advisement concerning the complex network of metal, electricity, and microchips that is my laptop.

"Try turning it off and back on again," they said. (This is also how NASA fixed the Mars Rover.)

I was, as you can well imagine, absolutely stunned when this did nothing to bring Drudge unto me, so I called back and was placed on hold for fourteen minutes. There was much clicking of keys on the other end. I checked my cable, my plug-ins, and my power supply again. What kind of minute technical glitch was keeping me from my beloved inbox?

"Okay, I think I see the problem here," said the advisor. I braced myself for a complicated set of instructions concerning ping rates, reloadings, network connections, and error messages.

"Your account has been suspended," he said. "We're showing a balance of ninety-seven dollars and twenty four cents." Oh.

Wednesday, January 21, 2004

What I Wish The President Had Proposed Last Night

"I think we should destroy any country that has big pictures of its leader. Have you ever seen demonstrations in those countries? When you see those huge pictures, do you think, 'Well, that's a friendly country'? I don't even know where you'd get a frame that big. These people don't even have electricity, but they've got giant pictures of Saddam Hussein."
-Glenn Beck

Tuesday, January 20, 2004

YYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!

Here's my Official B.A. in Political Science Take on Dean's giga-freakout last night: Oh. My. God.

Did you SEE that? (Go here, if not. Scroll about a quarter of the way down the page to the "You Decide" section. A must-see.... a must-mock.) I kept waiting for Dean to break a folding chair over Kucinich's head. Or, at the absolute least, dive into the audience for a nice, dignified Presidential crowd-surf.

When the CNBC feed switched from the speech to the studio, the entire panel of talking heads were all pressed back into their seats with this frozen, horrified expression, as if they'd just been strafed by an Imperial Star Destroyer.

I enjoy this new tactic of Dean's. "Maybe if I SCREAM THE NAMES OF ALL THE STATES LIKE MEG RYAN FAKING AN ORGASM IN A DELI, they'll vote for me!" Best Iowa Caucus Moment ever.

Monday, January 19, 2004

I (Heart) The Elevator

You know what my favorite thing is? My VERY FAVORITE THING?! When ONE assclown holds the elevator for ONE person and, like, the entire starting lineup for the Green Bay Packers floods on. It is just so great when that happens.

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