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thug life

4 Aug

howdy, y’all!  since i’m nearly done mourning my aged pubic region, i figured it was time to get back online and say hi!  hi!

it’s been a super busy summer thus far.  i won’t bore you with the details but if i told you i sorted my sock drawer would you actually believe me?  what if i told you i went on a date that included gunplay?

well, for those who know me may be surprised that actually 50% of the above is true…and it’s not the socks. btw, anyone know of a good sock organizer?  asking for a friend.

as you know, my dating life tends to be a fun potpourri of weirdness mixed with more weirdness. 2016 continues to not disappoint in this regard.  The year started with a bang when i went out with someone so beautiful it actually hurt to look at him…only to find out after a while that he was born in seattle the same year Nirvana released “Nevermind”.   yes, he was so young he could’ve been the naked baby swimming on the cover.  as someone who was old enough to be his mother already an adult the first time grunge came around, i had to release the boychild back into dating pool and wash all the cougar residue off my person. but can i just say hashtag mamma still got it?!

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then there was the broody latin musician (yes another f*cking musician…insert eye roll here) who loved mezcal, frank zappa, disfunction, his upright bass, co-dependency, and coco (often in that order).  while he, too, was caught and released…i carry with me a new-found love for mezcal and musician-avoidance.

and most recently, there’s been the special agent, law enforcement guy person who isn’t 22 nor a functional alcoholic to whom i can legitimately ask, “is that a gun in your pocket or you just happy to see me?” promising, right?!

it all started in that romantic “boy meets girl on bumble” kinda way.   hot worldly boy asks awkward weird girl out for dinner.  awkward weird girl says something sarcastic and then accepts. awkward weird girl then has a lovely 5-hour dinner with hot worldly boy where she manages to not really eat a lot because she’s too busy being nervous and awkward…but don’t worry about her because she goes to the del taco drive-through after said date and inhales a ridiculous amount of meat and cheese and crunchy corn shell goodness.  clearly awkward weird girl didn’t screw up too badly because hot worldly boy asks her out again…this time to do something she mentioned she’s never done…

shoot a gun.

i’ll give you a moment to laugh and/or scream “NOOOOOO!” or run for cover.

indeed, if you’ve read more than two of my blogs or have been around me IRL for more than 86 seconds, you know i have ZERO business having anything more dangerous than a plastic spoon in my possession.  and even with a plastic spoon, i would likely find a way to break off the spoon part, trip, fall on it and poke both my eyes out.  so the idea of even being within two football fields of something as powerful and dangerous and scary as a gun is pretty ridiculous.  but hot worldly guy was clearly having a bout of temporary insanity  amused by my trepidation and was piqued to see me face my fears.  and if you happen to ever read this hot worldly boy, i swear i am NOT afraid of heights or sharks or the dark or neil diamond or tapioca pudding.

so i put on my butch-iest outfit which sadly meant i couldn’t wear cute shoes (SCOFF!). hot worldly boy told me to leave the heels at home without me even asking which means he somehow already understood my undying love of hot shoes (SWOON!).  so after dusting off my sneakers and a baseball hat, i jumped in my car to face three of my greatest fears…1) firearms 2) the 710 freeway and 3) wearing athletic footwear on a second date.

when i arrived, i almost jumped back in my car because hot worldly boy did something so horrendous that even now i have a difficult time mentioning without tears.  yes, he had the audacity to wear a boston redsocks cap (yes, aunt ellen…i know you’re crying now too..i’m so very sorry).  i immediately yanked it off his hot worldly head and threw it as far as i could.  ah, relief.

once i got over my shock and anger because everyone knows the bosox suck hard, he commenced with an in-depth firearms training.  he laid out all the disassembled parts of the gun in front of me.  he told me what they all were and how they worked and how they were put together.  i just sat there trying not to freak out as this was the closest i’ve ever been to a gun and omg SCARY SCARY SCARY! at some point i think he realized i was having a minor psychotic break and kissed me.  right out of a rom-com movie, that kiss made me pull my sh*t together and helped me feel more grounded.  so note that if you’re ever in a crisis with me, it’s probably a good idea to shove your tongue down my throat.  hashtag the more you know.

when the lesson was done, we jumped in his car where he had special music lined up for the occasion.  when Straight Outta Compton started blaring from his speakers, i nearly cried tears of gangster joy.  my NWA brothers took all the anxiety away, and suddenly i was ready to put a cap in some paper’s a$$.  hashtag thug life

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how i thought i looked

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how i really looked

and while i nearly crapped my pants ran out of the range 1,478 times during our session, i’m very glad i stayed and shot 3 rounds. and quite well i must admit.  i can’t say i’m going to join my local gun range tomorrow or even have the desire to shoot a handgun again.  but this experience allowed me to both face my fears and put my trust in another human being…two things that i often suck at.  so thanks hot, worldly guy.  that was pretty cool.

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ps can we go to del taco next time?

yeah dating is cool…but have you ever had stuffed crust pizza?

9 Mar

hi, y’all! so what’s up with my looong-a$$ writing hiatus, huh?!!  i wish i had a good excuse like “hey i was supes busy stopping ebola and/or bill cosby”…but it’s nothing that noble.  instead, i’ve been busying myself with some narcissistic self-improvement/creative/dope-a$$ ish that was carefully curated on my extremely important 2015 new year’s resolution list (aka all the crap that i won’t actually do because i have the follow-thru of an ADHD chihuahua i’m WAY too busy).  like, for example…i don’t mean to brag, but i wrote a very special piece about life and relationships and other ridiculous things that i submitted to the LA Times’ column “LA Affairs” in january…but since it’s been 2 months, 23 days, and 6 hours since i hit the “send” button (i mean who’s counting?!) and after checking my inbox and junk mail 1,249 times for a response to no avail, i’m gonna assume that my inclusion of such references as (1) delicious ramen (2) my deep disdain for drummers, and (3) a supreme admiration for vibrators might have been a touch too “next level” for the Times.

Oh and i’ve been really busy trying to figure out how to date.

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Dating at age redacted is beyond weird no matter where you live. But doing so in Hollywood when you’re not a victoria secret model is THE WORST at best…and utterly soul-crushing at worst.  gone are the good-ole days where boy meets girl, girl falls in love with boy, boy gives her a 10-carat cartier diamond and boy and girl live happily ever after in the palisades after a few stints at betty ford (oh, and in this aforementioned scenario the boy is george clooney, duh).  instead, if you’re a single gal in LA you have to tinder and match.com and plenty of fish and wear pants not look like a shut-in crazy lady when you go to the fancy grocery store in your neighborhood and try not to fall down/talk to yourself and deal with your real fear of being abducted by your date and waking up in a tub in an undisclosed location somewhere in the valley less a kidney and pay for a gym membership that costs as much as your rent while you wear enough makeup to look not like an extra on ‘the walking dead’ but not too much where it looks like you’re a basic b*tch trying/care and pretend to be easy breezy beautiful cover girl when in fact you are neurotic bundle of weirdness loosely contained by rapidly aging skin that you now have to care about and shave your legs (all of them) which means buying razor blades which are freakishly expensive and consult your astrologist for sun sign and rising sign compatibility and date actors/doormen/musicians/other sundry poor people who are prettier than you (and know it, giving them the total f*cking upper hand) and pretend to like hiking + juice bars + quentin tarantino and answer stupid questions like, ‘omg you are perfect why are you single” when clearly you aren’t perfect because they don’t call you back after the second date.

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it’s all this bullsh*t complexity that’s led me to oscillate between a) embracing the utter hilarity of dating weirdos in a weird town at a weird age in a weird time in my life and not giving any of the f*cks and b) espousing the life of a shut-in while i watch gilmore girls (again) and order flat round carbs covered in delicious meat and cheese while i talk to my ex’s cat about how dying alone can’t be half bad except for the haunting question of “who will delete our porn gilmore girls fun facts search history?”

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stay tuned for the rest of 2015 while the above-mentioned two realities wage war in “livin la vida coco.’  will she actually wear yoga pants AND actually go to yoga?  does she like her date enough to actually consider shaving ABOVE THE KNEE?   will she actually order a veggie pizza for once (who are we kidding…I NEED THE F*CKING BACON DAMMIT!)? will she avoid “that’s what she said” jokes until the 3rd date? you will just have to watch this space…

Just like i’m watching the white space on my ceiling while i wait for that hot guy at whole foods who weirdly just asked for my number even though i looked like i had just rolled out of bed (because i totally had) and might have had pizza crumbs on me and definitely was buying only wine and really expensive hippy toilet paper…

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P.S.

Amy Schumer for President!

californication

16 Nov

sh*tballs.  i can’t believe its only 11 days away from the ole birthday.  when the last one stared me in the face, i was surrounded by strippers! just kidding aunt nancy. hey, everyone else: it’s kinda true about to begin a new decade and end a two-year relationship. weirdly, i was optimistic.  giddy even.  change is f*cked up and scary and did i mention f*cked up? but it’s also trés invigorating.  i liken it to eating at a delicious, exotic restaurant that all of a sudden-like you notice has a B health safety rating.  that warm feeling in your tummy could signal either wonderful food satiation OR an epic case of impending sharts salmonella…and only time will tell you which one it’s gonna be.

11 months and three weeks later, the poker dealer of life has shown his cards. and he had a full house whereas i got a hand akin to a long episode of watery diarrhea without the resulting skinniness.  uh yeah.

to be brutally pathetic honest…i think the hardest thing about entering this new age number thingy is that i’m doing it single.

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maybe it has something to do with the fact that i recently found out that the ex has moved on before me (translation:  i should be the first one to find someone else because i’m clearly a vindictive b*tch  the better person).

don’t get me wrong, i haven’t been a nun…although black and white is very slimming on me. i’ve had periodic bouts where i feel like i’m living an episode of californication and i’m a slightly milder, less drunk/snort white powder off a slutty girl’s a$$ version of david duchovony (again, just kidding work/family members/any nuns that might be reading this).

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and then there was the time when even allowed myself to feel a little bit of the feelings except it wasn’t related to buying shoes but was actually connected to a living, breathing human male person which was weird and horrible and strange and stuff.  and i’m a freakishly independent lady who likes to be her own boss (translation: i need to have the freedom to binge-watch gilmore girls in my pjs while i eat bacon pizza without judgement or interruption).  and i’ve never needed a man to define my worth cuz i can look at my bank account all by myself and see that i’m worth at least $186.78 once my rent check clears.

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when i share with my friends about my frustration in my search for mr. right, they usually respond with a sweet, “just focus / work on you”.  and it’s that advice that makes me become a raving lunatic (translation: even more of a raving lunatic than usual).  that’s because for a long time i’ve worked on me. i’ve done A LOT of work, and i continue to do the work.

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and while i’m far from perfect, i’m pretty proud of the girl that i see in the mirror.  she works hard.  she loves hard.  she’s honest and sometimes brave and usually kind (unless you go by ‘mrs. clooney’).  she doesn’t rob banks or shoot up heroin or eat delicious donuts far too often (there might be one lie buried in this sentence…so much for honesty!).  but i fear that if i continue to look too long and hard on “me” i’ll become a selfish c*nt.

yes, i’m prone to be excessively hard on myself and like to get all judgey-pants on my perceived poor progress on achieving level:beyonce. but when i really think about it, i have a lot to be proud of this year and beyond and even more to share with george clooney the right person.  i mean, when i come up with funny/dirty puns or trip over my own feet yet manage to not break an appendage or find my way to somewhere without my gps, i wanna share it with a hunky, shirtless man with a big d*ck heart who finds it endearing that i’m such a spaz. is that too much to ask?

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so i’m putting out in the universe via blog because i’m 100% sure that whomever is in charge of destiny TOTES reads livin la vida coco, duh.  so here it goes: i’m ready.  my abs still suck and i still behind on my laundry and let’s not talk about my need for a pedicure…but i’m ready if you are. sweet, wonderful, sexy, non-convict* you!

and since it’s FINALLY cute boot weather here in LA, this means you won’t have to see my ratchet toenails, mr right.  a coincidence?  i think not.  thanks, universe!  let’s do this thang!

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* but if you’re this hot convict, i’ll make a ‘no-convict” exception.  also, pls excuse all the penal jokes in advance.

i’ll be here all week…try the veal

13 Oct

happy october, people!  i’ve been keeping myself busy doing really important things like deciding what sorta slutty-something i’m gonna be for halloween, free-basing all the pumpkin spice realnus abound, and omfg are you kidding me THIS KID!!!

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thinking of being a slutty ghost writer this year

oh and i did standup.

yup.  you read that correctly. weird right?!

many many years ago last year when i was in my twenties, some friends were trying to get me to be in the rose of tralee pageant.  um, yeah, coco in a pageant. let’s just pause to consider how bad of an idea this really was…

um yeah…

it was the last year i’d be eligible due to age restrictions and my amigos were lobbying hard.  and when i was talking to my work peeps about the impending decision, one of my colleagues asked me with 50% sarcasm and 50% truth, “but what would you do for the talent portion…a powerpoint presentation?”  while i usually appreciate a good dose of sarcasm at my expense because HAVE YOU MET ME?!, something about her words stung.  i think it was because even though i’d always been considered a nerd academically, i had always had a creative side, spending most of my young life being an a$$hole on stage in theatre productions, making people’s ears bleed with my saxophone-playing or chorus sanging, and writing really bad poetry because it was the 90s and i had all the feels.  so to think that only a few years later people perceived me as a corporate d*ck devoid of any artistic flare sucked hard.  and ever since, i’ve been painfully aware that to thrive, i need to be artistic, i need to create, i need to have a means to express myself through things that aren’t available in the Microsoft Office suite.

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oh and i should add that thank god i didn’t enter the pageant because HAVE YOU MET ME?!!

and truth be told i can still get caught up in life and work and powerpoints and forget to let art coco go out and play.  the last few months might have one of those times (unless you count that hilarious email thread with my coworker that integrated 90s hip hop/r&B lyrics for 2 weeks straight because it’s not easy talking about a grant report and somehow elegantly weaving in r kelly in three separate instances…if that’s not considered art i don’t know what is).

so when i got an email from my friend C who’s a pretty ridiculously funny professional comedian asking if i’d ever considered doing standup, i kinda freaked out.  he said something about my blog and social media nonsense being kinda funny and that i should try my hand at stand-up and i don’t remember the rest because OMFG SOMEONE THOUGHT I WAS ACTUALLY FUNNY!  and let’s be honest, i’ve always thought my propensity to tell fart jokes and fall down a lot TOTALLY makes me comedian-material, duh.

well, long story short, i wrote one joke, then another, then two more.  then i was told i had enough for a set (that’s what real comedians call it…fancy, right?!).  then i did a open mic.  then i did a small show.  all in a matter of a week.  i can’t say i was exceptionally good…but you know what?  i did it.  i told silly stories and might have said “d*ck” at least 3 times (sorry mom).  and miraculously…no one threw sh*t at me nor did i sh*t my pants. and i held my silly coco head up high.  and most importantly i went outside my comfort zone and took a chance on me.  and it felt pretty level:beyoncé (without the obscene talent and amazingly luscious hair and legs that don’t quit, of course).

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so now i’m a professional comedian (not really), i’m gonna tear sh*t up y’all on the comedy scene! oh and mindy kaling and i are totes gonna become besties and braid each others hair and i’m totes gonna be on the mindy project and then write my livin la vida coco book and she’s gonna write the foreword because she’s my bestie duh.

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or at a minimum, i’m gonna keep telling the nice korean lady at irv’s burgers my favorite knock-knock jokes that i’m pretty sure she doesn’t understand but she still laughs.

regardless, whatever i do, this is how i’m gonna do it:

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and if it happens to be in front of a crowd, hopefully folks won’t walk out before i’m done…

xoxo

gett off, partt ttwo

31 Jul

click here for PARTT 1

omg i totally left y’all with a major cliff hanger!  so naughty of me to keep you waiting!  feel free to spank me!

so as i was telling you last week, my dear, patient, sexay reader…i’ve been obsessed with PRINCE for forever and a day.  yet all-of-a-sudden-like my life was turned on its head when she came into my life. btw, i tried to use another tense of ‘came’ so i could spell it like ‘cum’ because that’s what prince would do. but alas i couldn’t figure out how to make it work because while dirty is easy, grammar/verb tenses hurt my head.

so as i was saying, it’s really imperative that you know that prince is soooo thirty years ago…and that my heart now belongs to her:

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because when you find out there’s a PRINCE COVER BAND FRONTED BY MAYA FREAKIN RUDOLPH YOU GOTTA FREAK THE F*CK OUT AND LOSE YOUR FREAKING MIND AND CRY PURPLE TEARS AS YOU GRAB YOUR CROTCH ALL PRINCE-LIKE BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO FREAKING CHOICE, Y’ALL!!!

when my girl R first told me about maya rudolph’s PRINCE cover band last year, we swore to all things sacred (aka my raspberry beret and my purple rain cassette) that we’d have to see her no matter what.  even a sharknado or end days or a george clooney stalker-tunity wouldn’t stop us! we can’t stop!  we won’t stop!

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and we waited patiently. days passed.  weeks passed.  seasons passed.  and no PRINCESS.  we’d nearly given up on her when BOOM!  an email announced that they’d be playing not one but TWO SHOWS IN LA!!!! oh no LET’S GO!!!!

i jumped on ticketmaster faster than solage on jay-z in an elevator.  and just like that, our dreams were SHATTERED!!!  CRUSHED!!!! OBLITERATED!!! in a matter of an nano-second, both shows were sold out.

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heartbroken, R and i talked about each selling an kidney on the black market in exchange for tickets….because no one would dare take my liver.  we even considered offering to purify people in the waters of our own personal lake minnetonkas if-ya-know-what-i-mean-wink-wink if they’d give us some tix.  but alas, we began to come to terms with the fact that we would miss PRINCESS and that our tears would fall like purple rain till the end of our sad, unfulfilled, PRINCESSLESS lives.

the day of the show was like most saturdays. there might have been a moderate hangover.  there was most definitely a FELICITY marathon and a pizza delivered to my apartment because my sads got all hongray. and i did my best to distract myself from the realization that i really had zero reasons to go on.

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and then, all-of-a-sudden-like, the text that changed my life popped up on my phone.

“mmm someone just emailed me saying she has 2 extra princess tix… (i had put an ad on craigslist) sorta feel like maybe we need to carpe diem? let me know what you think!”

yup, my girl totally got alpha on the issue and put an ad pleading for tix…and didn’t tell me because she feared to get my hopes up only to squash them yet again.   but two hours before showtime this nice random lady saw our craigslist post and totally offered to sell us her extra tix!  and when the sellers name was a combination of my girl R’s car knickname combined with the last name of my newest political crush (yes, i’m pretty sure i’m going to be a state senator’s wife…but that’s a whole ‘nother blog), we both knew this was divine intervention at work.

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so i wiped off the pizza grease dried my eyes, and we put together our best prince-inspired outfits because there was gonna be a costume contest duh! and we looked pretty freakin hot, y’all.  i chose a raspberry beret (double-duh) and some slutty apollonia 6-inspired lace tights…whereas my girl went full throttle in head-to-toe GOLD LAMÉ FTW!!!

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i knew the show would be better than double rainbows and unicorns and free shoes.  but when maya and her pal gretchen announced that a) it was PRINCE’S BIRTHDAY!! b) the 30th anniversary of purple rain c) that they would be performing PURPLE RAIN IN ITS ENTIRETY OMFG I GOT THE VAPORS AND DYYYYYYIIIIIIIING!!!!

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the next two hours just flew by as i scream-sang every single word along with maya and gretchen and am pretty sure our excitement was less infectious and more scary for those seated around us and i might have pulled a muscle during “i would die 4 u” which seemed fitting.  it was beautiful and amazeballs and epic and i just stood there wondering if maya would be my best friend forever.

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and just as we thought the show was over, they reminded us that they still had the costume contest. oh hell yeah!  and of course my girl crushed it in her gold lamé and she won one of the top prizes.  then the rest of us who got dolled up in Prince-inspired garb were invited on stage to sing PRINCE happy birthday.  ARE YOU F*CKING KIDDING ME…ONSTAGE WITH MAYA RUDOLPH?!!!! i don’t really remember much after that but if i knocked you down to get the spot and microphone right next to maya i’m really sorry.

so knowing this was my whitney houston national anthem moment in time (less the kicky white bandana), i started singing like my life depended on it. and i don’t mean to brag, but happy birthday just happens to be my jam! when it was time for the big finish, i decided to get all brave and looked maya straight in her beautiful eyes and belted out the final stanza as loud heartfelt as possible. and when i finished nailing that last “to youuuuuuu”, i expected her to say to me “gett off“…as in get off stage.  but instead, she looked right back at me, gave me an approving nod, and proclaimed, “niiiiiiice!”

so now that i’ve been given the best compliment in the world by one of my comedic idols, i’m pretty sure i’m going to quit my job, start a band where i only sing happy birthday in cute prince-y ensembles, and convince maya to let me open for PRINCESS.  until then, i’ll be practicing my vocal runs, applying eyeliner, and dry-cleaning my ruffly shirts.  hope you cum to my shows!

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xoxo, coco

 

WWDJD aka what would derek jeter do?

6 Jul

happy july, people!  do you know if groupon’s offering a liver + skin transplant two-fer anywhere, cuz, like, i might be dying.  and i’m not sure if you can get cirrhosis of the entire body, but i’m pretty certain that’s exactly what’s going on.  and let’s not talk about the REALLY weird orifices that i managed to sunburn.  and HEY, HOUSE, YOU’RE A D*CK STOP SPINNING!

so as you’ve likely gathered, i was either a) invited to a lohan family bbq or b) actually left los angeles for TWO WHOLE DAYS AND MY FREAKISHLY PALE BODY SAW SUNSHINE AND I ONLY CHECKED WORK EMAIL ONCE AND I WENT ON A BOAT AND OMG I DRANK ALL THE ALCOHOLS AND DID I MENTION I LEFT LA FOR LIKE AN ENTIRE FREAKIN WEEKEND?!!!

after last year’s 4th of july ebola outbreak, i wasn’t gonna let anything get in my way of enjoying a long weekend in a place that wasn’t my apartment.  and if that meant free-basing emergen-C and mainlining allergy medicine while i snorted ground-up vitamins, so be it. so when i woke up butt-early this friday and i was actually (over-)packed, the car actually had more than three teaspoons of gas, and i didn’t have the bubonic plague or tuberculosis, i could help but to high-five myself for being ready for my mini-vacay.

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you see, my girl B and her fam have this place by a lake in a far away place i’ve never heard of and she was silly nice enough to invite coco to join in their annual 4th festivities.  and because i haven’t been on a trip since the industrial revolution and since the last 6 months can suck my right nut, i was more than stoked to get away.  and when she said something about “fast boats” and “LOTS OF BEER” i’m pretty sure a singular tear fell down my cheek and i hugged her for an inappropriately long time.

it was a four-hour trek to the lake house that included 1,230 pee breaks, 50 hundred billion espresso drinks (note aforementioned pee breaks), 1 gas stop, and the realization that if i’m ever feeling bad about myself, i should just spend 5 minutes oogling the really weird people who frequent rest stops. when i finally rendezvous’d with everyone up there, i might have been so excited i nearly drove over a curb because i’m an a$$hole a big believer in making a memorable entrance.

everyone on the trip was super nice and young and skinny and hot and tan and not-awkward. basically the search results of when you google, “coco, antonym”.  but since i brought booze and didn’t do anything too stupid in the first 60 seconds, they let the weirdo who just kept gleefully muttering “boats and beer” and apparently wore cute inappropriate boat shoes hang with them.  and for that, i’m so very surprised grateful.

but while it may have appeared to be nirvana for the coco upon first blush, there were two BIG problems:

1) there were LOTS of activities that required hand-eye coordination/not falling over.

So while i was busy obsessing over the “beer” and “boats” part, i guess i missed the whole part when my girl B talked about all the water skiing and swimming and volleyball and wiffle ball and beer pong and corn hole and… since i have the athletic prowess of carol channing and i’m as outdoorsy as the olsen twins, i was faced with showing a large number of awesome people how NOT to do sporty things.

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these people could waterboard behind the boat like they were in the olympics…all the while, i couldn’t even sit on the boat without incident.  i found myself squealing every time (a) the cold lake water splashed on me (because nature and non-chlorinated water is scary!), (b) we hit any type of wave (because waves are scary!), and/or (c) we had to walk more than 2 feet on the boat (because walking is scary!).  i recused myself from the volleyball matches later and instead challenged myself in a solo game of “drink as many beers as possible then go throw yourself on (and subsequently break) the kids slip-n-slide”, which i clearly won. after that, i caught exactly zero balls while playing wiffle ball (but did manage to surreptitiously drink someone else’s delicious margarita in-between missing every play).  and i’m pretty sure i’m the first person in their beer pong tournament history who was thrown off a team for being the worst ever.  but they let me stay all weekend and be awkward, un-athletic me and for that, i’ll be forever grateful.

coco playing wiffle ball

coco playing wiffle ball

2) we were being hosted by my baseball nemesis.

i forgot to mention that my girl B’s dad is a retired MLB player who i grew up loathing.  he played for not one BUT TWO OF MY LEAST FAVORITE TEAMS EVER UGH GROSS.  and as a girl who was practically born wearing the yankee pinstripes, i was pretty sure my aunt ellie might disown me if she found out i was under the same roof as our enemy.  so i was torn..the promise of boats and beer vs my yankee pride.  what to do?!  i could shank him in his throwing arm then spray paint ‘BRONX ZOO RULEZ’ all over his boat as i scream-sing New York New York.  or i could take this lil girl’s approach.  but both seemed a bit extreme (can you tell i’ve softened up after being away from NY?).  i was conflicted.  confused.  lost.  so i did what i often do…i asked myself, “WWDJD: What Would Derek Jeter Do? ”

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ask and you shall receive. i called up to God…aka derek, and said, “hey derek, can you help a coco out?!” and that sexy Jeter voice called down to me through my 6-beer haze and said, “hey girl.  drink all his delicious wine that appears to be A LOT nicer than your usual charles shaw, smoke all his delicious cigars, relentlessly tease him about his love of smooth jazz, and make sure he’s forced to be on your wiffle ball team.” ah yes, derek.  this was a perfect plot, indeed.  revenge is a dish best served with a lot of really nice free wine.  poor guy.  GO YANKEES!

so now that i’ve had my fill of wine and cigars and smooth jazz and boats and beer and being around really amazing people, i’m ready to pass out until wednesday then check myself into cedars for a blood transfusion. hashtag the struggle is real.  hope y’all had a great 4th!

xoxo

put the lotion in the basket

10 Feb

happy february, y’all!   since 2014 seems to be flying by faster than an eight-ball in rob ford’s pocket, I’VE GOT TO DO THINGS, PEOPLE!  for some reason i’ve been all obsessive about my 2014 resolutions and who cares if they’re totally silly or unrealistic or expensive or require self-disciple or george clooney’s address/gate code.  but since i’m starting the new year as a single gal (yeah, we’re really not ready to talk about this right now….i can, however, report that i’ve completed the “watch an excessive amount of felicity episodes while i eat donuts and ugly sob-cry when i hear any katy perry song” phase and have emerged into the far healthier “i gotta stop eating donuts for dinner get single-vindictive-hot-skinny and i’m almost at peace with realizing i have to comb my hair and wear real pants when i leave the house again and i’m totally NOT gonna say stupid things to hot guys and NO MORE musicians for f*cks sake” era.

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and i don’t mean to brag, y’all…but i’ve gone 3 WHOLE days without that powdery sugary fried dough goodness, i’ve shaved my legs TWICE in one week, and  i’ve stopped talking about my cat in mixed company.  f*ck yeah,  coco!  and yes, well, there may have been that time my friends had to practically sit on me when i started picking out my wedding china making drunk eyes at a drummer-person who freakishly looked like the ex.  and fine…i might have talked to him about my cat’s litter preferences and my razor burn.  oh well, rome wasn’t built in a day.

so now that i’ve got more time on my hands since i’m done watching all four seasons of felicity back in the mix, i’m carpeing that f*cking diem and doing all those things i’ve always wanted to do.  for example, guess who’s going to get heat stroke among 12-year olds in the desert with bands i’ve never heard of coachella for the first time????! and you know who’s decided she’s going to produce her first short documentary??!  and guess who’s gonna start taking sax lessons again?

(oh by the way, the answer to all of the above is ‘coco’ 🙂

you see, 2014 is all about making sh*t happen.  scary sh*t.  epic sh*t.

things like losing my korean spa virginity.

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as an advanced-level Angeleno-in Training, i should be far more adept in all-things Koreatown at this point.  however, i’ve largely neglected this part of the syllabus, turning my attention to the easy, sleezy breezy beach towns  of west side LA.  i mean, now that i’ve mastered beach curls without burning my face off, it makes complete sense.  but no more.  now i’m obsessed with taking koreatown by the short and curlies and getting all up in its awesome korean grill.

and the first order of business was facing the ever-scary korean spa.

going to the spa shouldn’t fill someone with dread and fear.  but this is coco we’re talking about.  the girl who falls over a lot. the lass who was voted “most likely to inadvertently start an international incident”. a gal who has the propensity to do dumb sh*t at exactly the worst possible moment.

so going into a place with hot steam and rocks and weird elixers and foreign languages and general, hardcore asian realnus seemed like a recipe for coco disaster.  i’m not sure anyone’s ever been blackballed from koreatown, but i’m sure i’ve got the stuff to be the first.  but because 2014 is about throwing common sense caution to the wind, i decided to let my friends peer-pressure convince me to face my spa-fears.

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thanks to a groupon, my girl N and i got ourselves a tasty deal at this well-reviewed spa.  and after spending 2,345 hours trying to figure out how to download the groupon from my phone because i’m clearly 134 years-old, we made our way to the inner depths of the spa.  And as i took it all in, i played it totally cool. And by cool, i’m sure i looked like my mom when i take her to bad parts of the big city.

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miss jay impersonating miss coco

and then there was the whole, awkward, “do i leave my underwear on” conversation.  thankfully my girl N is level:korean spa expert AND she has the patience of the entire city of toronto, ergo she seemed unfazed by my general stupidity and unfettered obnoxious nervous laughter/ yelps/ cries/ whoopsidaisies.  she calmly told me to keep my knickers on if i so desired, shared when i should and shouldn’t wear my robe, showed me where to lie (or more importantly where not to lie), how to not hyperventilate in the MARS HOT ROOMS, and to eschew those so-last-year gangnam-style jokes.  it actually was a pleasant experience and i made it through all the steps (we never found step 2 but i think it’s because it’s god’s way of making sure i’m less linear) without serious incident.  i even found a rogue pube during step 4 and calmly handled the incident without screaming like nathan lane in birdcage fanfare. and while my korean language knowledge is limited two words (kimchee and sojuu), i’m pretty sure i never heard anyone say, “put the lotion in the basket”.  how do you say, “winning” in korean?

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happy early valentine’s day, my lovelies.  lots of love in your face!!

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