Category Archives: (love) notes to celebrities

If loving Pitbull is wrong, then I don’t wanna be right

That is not me on the left.

I’m kind of in love with Pitbull. I think. I’m pretty sure.  Admittedly, I don’t know much about the guy since my infatuation is based almost completely on the single time I saw him perform, which was at the most recent MTV VMA show. The weird thing is, I felt this way in spite of the fact he was wearing a white blazer and red pants. Am I going into menopause or something?

I was able to totally get past his  pimp suit and bald head and his penchant for wearing sunglasses indoors and love him anyway.  Maybe I was listening to Ne-Yo’s sweet voice when they were showing him or something, so that swayed me,  but I was all, “Damn, Pitbull. I think I loooove you.” (The way little Michael Jackson says it in ‘ABC’) Really, Love? Really?

Really.

His voice is kind of low and gravelly and…I don’t know, this thirty-something, suburban working mom of three found herself oddly and mercilessly attracted to the guy.  For very good reasons, I try not to think about mojo because the world cannot afford to have me become a mother again, but as I watched the VMAs I thought I might consider having Pitbull’s love child.   I thought this was odd, and so I felt the logical next step was to inform my husband of my new attraction to this Pitbull character.

Now, you should be aware before we go further that a full 90% of the things I say to my husband on any given day get exactly the same response.  Statements like,  “I think I have a brain tumor”, “Our neighbor’s kid stole our ladder”, “For a second today I thought I had misplaced my Josh Groban Noel CD”, and “Do you think that brown thing in the kid’s shower is poop, or a candy bar?”  all garner the exact same, very quiet….noise.  It kind of sounds like “ugh” but without the negative emotion most of us say it with.  It’s a totally neutral response devoid of any emotion or judgment – just enough to acknowledge I said something, but not enough for me to gauge any sort of meaningful response to the statement.  I’d wager the other 9% of the stuff I say does not even warrant the noise –that is met with silence — and then the last 1% of my musings  may get a full sentence response, but he saves that for emergencies, mostly to tell me what he wants me to pick up for lunch or (I suppose) if one of our children suddenly began to seize.  I think my husband conserves words because I have such a high propensity of wasting them.  And we get along fabulously this way.

So I expected that when I announced to BD  one afternoon that  “I  really like that Pitbull guy” it would be met with the customary “ugh” or perhaps silence. I mean, like most things I tell him, there was a 99% chance I would get one of these two reactions, so no biggie.

It was not to be.

To my utter amazement, when I made the announcement my husband actually turned his eyes away from ESPN,  looked at me, and proceeded to freak out.  “Are you kidding me?! You’re kidding, right? Pitbull?!”  Whoa. WHOA. I haven’t seen an emotional outburst of such magnitude from him since 2005, the year he found out that I had thrown away the hair gel he bought in 1997 that was sitting in our shared medicine cabinet, untouched for 5 years.

“Um….yeah, I think.” I stammered, the shock and awe of his response only beginning to sink in. A millisecond later, when I noticed he did not turn back to ESPN, my fight or flight response was triggered. My senses became sharp and keenly aware.  Time slowed down. My husband had somehow just become emotionally invested in my statement about Pitbull and he was engaging me in a conversation about it.

My brain went into overdrive: “Wait? Whaaa? Is this really happening?  BD knows who Pitbull is? I didn’t even know who he was until I saw the VMAs a week ago.  Oh my god! Maybe my husband is the one with the brain tumor! Oh my god! He may have only weeks to live!”

“You do not like Pitbull.” he tried to say with certainty, trying to regain his composure. “What on earth could you possibly find attractive about that guy?”

“I don’t know. He’s just…cool. Maybe I’m suddenly interested in younger men who don’t appear to be very intelligent, may have an accent, dress like pimps, say “Hey Baby” a lot and surround themselves with scantily clad cokeheads.  What is so weird about that?”

“Who are you?” he demanded. I’m pretty sure he wanted to follow up with “and where have you taken my wife?” but he was a little flustered.  At that moment I realized that he was also in fight or flight mode and his brain was saying: “Oh my god. She actually does have that brain tumor she’s been talking about since our first date. Oh my god! And she is going to die and leave me with all of these damn kids.  This is the worst day of my life!”  Simultaneously, we were both thinking the other had gone all Charlie Sheen and that we’re about to lose each other forever.  All because of Pitbull’s irresistible sex appeal.

We probably should have hugged and kissed and been supportive of the other person’s brain tumor, but instead I said, “Whatever. You liked Christina Aguilera when she was at her skankiest! I married you in spite of that! That should count for something.”

“I was young then. That was years ago!”

Fortunately, before things got way out of control and my husband missed more than five minutes of the game, our seven year old son, aware for the first time in his life that his parents were engaging in an emotional conversation with each other that wasn’t about the true nutritional value of frozen pizza or the absurdity of this year’s college football uniforms, stepped in to end the madness.

“Pitbull sucks, Mom.”

And that was that.  BD nodded solemnly. I reminded our son that “sucks” is not an appropriate word to use in our house, and then I left the scene, devastated.

Not only because one or both of us clearly has a brain tumor, but now my chances of getting tickets to the Pitbull show for Christmas are pretty much nil.  Damn.

Did I mention I’m a life coach?

This is me coming out to you, Internet.  Over the past year I’ve been cooking up my next move because even though I finally got a job with an awesome company (for now), I still cannot depend on corporate America to satisfy my emotional, spiritual and intellectual needs, even if it does take pretty good care of my financial ones.  Also, my brand of Awesomeness cannot be safely contained within the confines of any public company. It’s kind of like trying to fit Pamela Anderson’s boobs in my little training bra.  It is extremely unsafe and ill-advised.

So, in addition to my corporate sales responsibilities, mothering three children and a dog, being my husband’s dream come true, and writing random blog posts wherever I’m allowed,  I am now also a practicing life coach.  I even have clients to prove it.  They call me and we talk and hopefully when they get off the phone they feel better and they become insanely productive, joyful and successful.  Usually because they had the Awesome to begin with, and then they somehow forgot it or lost it and then I reminded them and helped them pull that shit out! Well, and then they got off their ass and did something about it. Unlike writing this blog, I get paid for this, people.  Pretty sweet, right?

So if you regularly read (Love) Notes,  you might be wondering how a person like me winds up as somebody’s life coach.  Well, because none of them are aware of this blog.  That is probably the first and most important reason that I have clients, so don’t tell them or I am ruined.  They might actually read this or this and beg PayPal to get their money back.  Secondly, people who are Awesome like other people who aren’t afraid to tell them something straight up.  I’m good at that. Like the way I tell Oprah on this blog just what I think in a way her sycophant producers aren’t capable of because they are under O’s magical Harpo spell. I’m not like that at all.  See, I was born with a condition where I can’t not tell somebody what I really think, and that happens to be extremely helpful in life coaching, and not as much in corporate America which I have learned the hard way, over and over and over.   Finally, inspiration fuels my life. My clients inspire me. Sometimes even more than Oprah and Take 5 bars and those little blue papers you put on your face to get the oil off, which is kind of huge.

But I have chosen my clients wisely.  I don’t have time to help the masses, so they have to be special. Here is the criteria:  they know they have the Awesome in them.  They know the life they are living is not honoring their Awesome.  They need someone to help them tell their current life to fuck off and to start a new life of delirious joyfulness.   And they would like me to be that helper because sometimes being able to drop F-bombs about what is holding you back feels great.  These people? Are going to make a big difference in this world and I get a front row seat, which is amazing.

So I know what you’re thinking: “What gives anybody the right to call themselves a life coach – especially you, Love?” Well, the answer is that anybody has the right at any given moment right now since the practice is not actually regulated in any of the 50 states, so if you feel like a life coach and you have the wherewithall to print up some business cards that say so – viola! – you’re a life coach.  And a lot of people do that.  But not me. I’m a little more legit than that because I also built a very shitty website and I have a special email address with my own company name on the end of it, so I can command much higher prices.  Okay, and yes, I did actually get trained by Oprah’s life coach (I KNOW, RIGHT?!)  but the point is that you don’t have to.  Which is why you should be very careful when you hire a life coach.  It could be Lindsay Lohan working under a pseudonym. Or an anonymous blogger who has had very strange and wonderful things happen to her that she likes to swear about.

Speaking of LiLo, the other thing people usually go off on about life coaches is about how every life coach they’ve ever met is the most fucked up person they know, like they are some big joke.  Like if Kim Kardashian all of a sudden announced that she was a life coach. Actually, that would make for some great television… but  I don’t understand this mentality.  We elect people to Congress all the time who are more fucked up than anybody we know.  So why do people discriminate against life coaches?  If you’re one of these people, go call up whoever is ‘representing you’ in Congress and once they get done uploading pictures of themselves naked to a porn site, they may give you a call back.  What they are charged with is kind of a big deal, so get mad at them for not being perfect.  Leave your judgement of your local neighborhood “life coach” at the door.  Sure, some of them are really fucked up, but there is a market for that! Some people will feel better if they can feel superior to their life coach. They’ll finish every sessions saying,  “Hell! If this crazy bitch who kisses her dogs full on the mouth with her delinquent kids and her drug addiction can be a coach, maybe I should too!” and that is inspiration right there. A win-win if you ask me.

So anyway, now you’re in on my Second Act.  I’m still getting a corporate paycheck, but my practice is going to grow and soon Oprah will be calling me up to have my own show on OWN and dole out advice with Suze, Mehmet, Phil, Nate and the sex doctor lady.  Actually, I don’t want my own show, so I’ll have to turn her down, but I hope that later she’ll describe it as one of her most profound a-ha  moments.  All I want is to be known as the coach behind some of the most incredible transformations the world has ever seen and who also writes F-bomb laced self-important stories about herself on this website. Okay and I also want Oprah to validate me by offering me a show I need to turn down because like she always says, “What I know for sure is that all people want is VAL-EH-DAY-SHUN”.  And also I would like Tina Fey to subscribe to this blog and not because she is making fun of it. So I mean, that’s all.

Dream big, I say! (That’s what I tell my clients.)

My day will come. I can feel it. (That’s what I tell myself.)

Happy Thanksgiving, bitches! (That’s what I tell my best friends. You’re welcome.)

I (heart) pathological liars. Except when they are oncologists.

UPDATE, INTERNET. This girl is back on FB and is stalking me to be friends again. Please read this post I wrote for her a couple of years ago. What say you? Should I accept?

Pathological liars are the best. Except if you have one as an oncologist. Then that could suck. Balls.

But I happen to know this girl from high school that has to take the pathological lying cake, so obviously I really liked to hang with her. She is not an oncologist. Lets just call her “Jenny”, because that is her real name.  She would regale me with stories about how she had a friend who knew the New Kids on the Block and could totally get her into their hotel or a concert whenever they came through Chicago.  I was 14 and this was big time currency in 1991.  Donnie Wahlberg and I were totally soul mates from 1990 to 1993 – he just wasn’t aware of it yet – and then I think Oprah took his place in 1994 and remains my soul mate to this day. The only difference is that Oprah knows it and just won’t accept it. Oprah is clearly not living her best life.

I digress.  So anyway, my crazy ass friend Jenny would talk constantly about her friend “Lisa” who worked at Ulta3 and was like, totally BFF with little Joey McIntyre and one day as we were perusing Bop* and Tiger Beat she was telling me how she and Lisa were going to their upcoming show and then hanging out with them afterward, and naturally she invited me along too.

Isn’t it weird that pathological liars always give you a chance to totally catch them lying?  So they’ll be like, “I’m totally Rob Pattinson’s lover, do you want to have a threesome with us?” Now, there is only one good answer for this and that is “yes”.  Not because you want the threesome (even though you know you do) but because if you say “no”, then you don’t even get to find out what kind of additional, outrageous lies they will tell to get them out of having to prove that they are fucking Rob Pattinson.  So I always say “yes” whenever a pathological liar wants to prove to me they aren’t lying, because its so damn amusing.

Curse you, ADD! (Love is looking angrily to the sky) Can I get through one fucking story without going off on a tangent!?

Okay, so of course I’m like, “I would love to go! Can I invite my little cousin who has leukemia because she is totally into Jordan and wants to put her little radiated fingers through his stiff, sticky hair and touch one of his silky vests before she dies.” (pathological liars deserve to be lied to) and Jenny is like, “TOTALLY! Me and Lisa will set it up!” and I’m like, “Awesome. I’ll let her know she can die fulfilled because you are totally going to hook us up.” Luckily I was aware my friend was totally full of shit and this is how:

1) She is of Asian descent.  But not a smart Asian (does coming to America make you dumb?).  I think this is really bad if this happens to you.  I imagine its like if you’re black, but you dance like Elaine on Seinfeld. Its just mostly impossible and completely unacceptable.

2) She is 5’2″ (this will become important later)

3) In high school, she was not that attractive and she wasn’t rich.

4) She is the oldest of three kids and her mom was a working single mom. I don’t know what her dad’s story was, but he was out of the picture.

So the likelihood of her fucking a New Kid was equivalent to John Tesh’s chances of being named People’s Sexiest Man Alive.

Okay, so we’re back in 1991. The NKOTB show is coming to Chicago, and my friend Jenny is like BFF with Joe McIntyre’s BFF, which happens to be a 17 year old named Lisa that works at Ulta3 in a suburb of Chicago. I know, right? So, its the day before the show that we are going to where we supposedly have backstage passes, and front row seats, and all access to the New Kids on the Block, who are expecting us and cannot wait to fucking meet our 14 year old asses (and my cousin with cancer).

Of course, Jenny couldn’t give me and my cancer-ridden pretend cousin our tickets or passes because you have to get those at the show. So the night before she calls me to say that Lisa called her and there was some terrible mix-up and they only had Lisa down for two tickets, so she wasn’t sure if me and my cousin could still go. So I  was like “well, can’t Lisa just call Joey Joe and explain the problem? I’d be happy to meet him at the hotel to pick up the tickets. I’m sure my dad won’t have a problem driving me.” She’s like, “I didn’t even think of that! Of COURSE Lisa could do that.” So she hangs up the phone and sits idlely for 8 minutes calls Lisa to find out and calls me back and says, “Joey has a photo shoot to do right before the show, so they won’t be at the hotel, but he said maybe he could give them to Big Rob (the bodyguard) to give to you.” So naturally I exclaim, “Oh, Jenny! You’ve just made all my dreams come true. And my cancer ridden cousin too.  Where should me and Big Rob make the big exchange?” And she fucking gives me an address and time to meet Big Rob the bodyguard.  There are so very few limits.  So then she calls the day of the concert to say that Big Rob totally has strep throat and can’t make it and yada, yada, yada. She will go on to tell me she went to the show, hung out with all the New Kids and “Donnie is so cool!” and she has pictures. Do I want to see?

Yes. Definitely.

But aw, shucks! She explained a day later that when she brought the film in for processing that everything got erased.  All she can think of is that there were metal detectors backstage and the fucking things somehow erased all the 35 mm film in her camera.  And it totally sucked because she was on Joey’s lap and everything.  I won’t even go there…

“But surely Lisa has photos?” I say. No, Lisa’s photos got erased too.

Fucking metal detectors. (Love shakes fist at the sky)

Okay, so flash forward to a lovely day in March of this year.  I’m trolling Facebook for the 34th time that day and trying to think up a clever status, when suddenly I’m told that someone named Jenny Df wants to be my friend.  Df? Is that a last name? I don’t know who this person is…until I see the personal message accompanying the invite. Ah yes, its my good old friend Jenny. Her last name has changed. To a last name that surely exists nowhere in the world. How I had missed her!! I wanted to know EVERYTHING about what I missed the last 15 years, but mostly whether she was still the biggest-fucking-not-hot-dumb-ass-Asian-liar-of-all-time.

Since we had parted ways somewhere around 1994, she told me that she went to New York and was a Tom Ford model for many years.  Years in which she made best friends with Rhea Durham and Gisele Bundchen. Okay, so admittedly I know nothing about modeling…except that I think you have to be an inch or two over 5’2″ and you have to be good looking and you have to have big boobs, like my sister.  But she did have a profile picture which showed her in a Glamour Shots-like pose with fake boobs and nasty ass extensions. She reported that she made so much money as a runway model and she invested that money so wisely, that she is now retired and now she spends all of her time volunteering to work with animals.  Her husband is an incredibly sexy, extremely talented actor that I just haven’t heard of yet.  They live in Hollywood Hills.  She was currently trying to figure out whether or not she should take the job as one of the “Deal or No Deal” girls.  I didn’t mention it, but I thought that such an intellectual pursuit might actually blow her mind, since she had been retired for so long and all. She must have tacitly agreed, for she wrote:  “The doggies need me more than the pubic (sic) right now”. I am not fucking making this up.  There’s more…

So then as the weeks go by and I’m checking Facebook 234 times a day as usual and I see her statuses every few days that go a little something like this, “Jess, it was so good to see you and Tony the other night. I’m trying to get our schedules to sync so we can be out in Dallas for the next game!”  and “So happy for my dearest friends Tom and G! Congratulations! Give little Johnny a kiss for us” and “Audrina, I’m so sad I missed you last night at the awards. We totally have to catch up again.”  and finally, “Does anybody have a good cleanse? I have a Hawaiian Tropic shoot tomorrow and I don’t want to look too fat :(”  It doesn’t even end there. She started a chat with me one night on Facebook and I swear to God, she tells me that she and Rhea Durham are BFF from their NYC modeling days and she remembers I liked Donnie Wahlberg and her dearest Rhea is with Mark Wahlberg and now its so weird because they hang out ALL THE TIME and Mark is such a sweetheart!

Lest you think I’m a pathological liar, I am not. I would have copied and pasted directly from Facebook and told you guys to go ask her to be your friend so your life would be full of amusement like mine, but when I just went to do so, I realized she is no longer my friend. And no longer on Facebook. Unless I just can’t find her because I’m blocked or something. I would write her little comments like “Jenny, you are SOOOOOO lucky to be friends with Jessica Simpson. I am SOOOOOO jealous”. and “Jenny, you look so pretty and wonderful these days. I’m SOOOOO jealous. See you when I get to LA!”  She was lapping that shit up. But somehow much to my dismay I am either blocked or she left Facebook. I don’t know how I let this ridiculously amusing friend leave my life again because its hard to find dumb Asians who are pathological liars and don’t head up North Korea , but I’m sure she’ll turn up somewhere else. Perhaps as Dean of Harvard Law or as a United Nations Ambassador.

God, wherever you are Jenny Df, I heart you.  Next time you see Tom and Gisele, punch her in the face (not the stomach) and tell her to stop pretending that Bridget Moynihan’s kid is hers. Thanks.

*OMG, I just remember that I was listed (with my picture) in Bop as one of those kids you can be penpals with. How fucked up is that? Now I see that the Bop pen pal pages where were all the future MySpace pedophiles began their journeys.  I got seriously like 200,000 letters one month from that.  Where the fuck were my parents? I would give my right arm to have a copy of that issue of Bop now. I bet it is creepy as all hell.  Good Lord.

Bitch, Pleeze!

Here is the link an interview that my sister sent today with that bitch person who “lived Oprah” for the year and then wrote a book about it. You need to watch it. It’s like 5 minutes of the worst TV I think I’ve ever seen.

Have you watched it yet? Yeah, now you know why I am understandably incensed about this on multiple levels.

A) That should have been my idea because I live Oprah anyway.

B) How dare she question Oprah’s taste in footwear?

C) If that bitch bought everything Oprah told her to, it would add up to a lot more than $4700.  So she cheated.

D) Oprah made her do good for others, like provide books to female felons and save a cat’s life – what’s not to love? What sort of ingrate bites the hand that feeds the world?

E) Finally, when has Oprah ever ruined any normal person’s marriage or sex life? Well….I take that back. Forget point E.

F) She said people view Oprah like their BFF in a way which suggested that somehow that was crazy.  I didn’t dedicate my life to making Oprah realize I’m her soul mate so this dumb broad could come along and ridicule me.  I swear if I ever see her on the street, I’m going to give her a really mean look. Like, seriously mean. And then I’ll report her whereabouts to Gayle, and you can bet Gayle will give her the beat down she deserves.

That is all I’m going to say about this topic, which has wounded my soul very deeply.  If she can’t see Oprah for the omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent spiritual healer and teacher who wears really good shoes most days, then she clearly doesn’t understand her subject matter and should be revealed to the world as the charlatan she is. You know who she reminds me of? Debbie Mathers. Eminem’s mom. When she made up that song about him to get rich just because she was mad that he has spent most of his professional life telling stories about how she was the worst mother of all time. I just don’t like when other people try to get famous off the back of someone with the Awesome in them.

I just hope when Eminem isn’t on the phone getting drug counseling from Elton John, he’ll reach out to Oprah to provide some support.

And I would ask that my loyal readers, though none of you like Oprah, light up your cell phones, wave them slowly in the air and watch Eminem’s “Cleaning out my Closet” video I’ve provided access to here:

Now you have just a little taste of the rage I have and the angry poetry that I’m about to write about this woman and her dumb book and send to Oprah and her producers in a beautiful laminated album. If you have any worthy submissions, I will consider them, but they have to be really good. I mean, really Oprah-worthy.

“That’s it. I’m done!” (Ben Affleck, Boiler Room)

Help me make up my mind – is John Mayer as much of a d-bag as I think he is?

I don’t like grey areas.  I’m a person who is only comfortable if I hold a strong opinion on something that goes one way or the other. So I think in binary – 0 or 1 (shit, its painfully obvious now that I once was a programmer), off or on, for or against, night or day, black or white (except in Obama’s case, in which a mix between black and white is incredibly delicious).  This isn’t really a trait I’m all that proud of, but hey, it is what it is. Obama rocks my world. McCain? I used to love him when I had to pick between him and any other Republican. But when juxtaposed with Obama? Oh sweet Jesus, are you kidding? (I must take a moment to compose myself – the lust overwhelmed me for a minute there).

So I have some really nagging issues that will not resolve themselves. I just don’t know where I stand and its making me crazy. I know where I stand on everything. Except these incredibly critical, highly thoughtful and earth-shatteringly bold questions. So what better way to formulate a “for sure” opinion by asking The Internet?  Okay, so here are the most pressing questions I have for you, wise Internet friends*.

  1. John Mayer writes great fucking songs. “Comfortable”, “Daughters”, “Say”? Awesome. The work of a truly sensitive, sexy, intelligent genius. Okay, but I read Us Weekly like the bible and that guy appears to be a total douche, unable to even fathom the emotional intelligence to write these songs.  So my question is: Is John Mayer a douche bag or what?

  2. UPDATED: Polldaddy doesn’t show you guys the “other” answers people put in. So I will. Other answers Love loves: “yes, but he’s so damn hot” and “yes in public; no in private. The guy is a media hound”.

  3. Michael Jackson. MJ. The King of Pop. I didn’t realize until he died and they did those video retrospectives on VH1 how fucking cool he was. I mean, I own almost all his shit, but not until he died did I just freak out about how cool he was. I made my 5 year old and 2 year old sons sit down and watch all his videos with me. I think that accounts for most of their nightmares these days, but I felt it was imperative that they knew who MJ was.  I mean, how else will they ever grow to understand their mother?  On the other hand, some say this guy a child molester. In my humble opinion, child molesters should be killed upon a guilty verdict being rendered. I’m sorry, but I have compassion for anybody else in this world, but not pedophiles. Ever. Never. Now, MJ was acquitted of that stuff, but so was OJ but everybody knows he did it. Yet, every famous person that ever met the guy swears he was the coolest dude on the entire planet and I kind of hope he was.  Now, I’m taking a big risk since Oprah’s episode on MJ airs tomorrow and Oprah may reveal her true thoughts on this subject, which will count for a lot.  But I’m going to trump Oprah and ask the Interent. My question is: Was Michael Jackson a pedophile or what?

  4. You may have read my last post about men being sex addicts. All of them. So my question is this: if you marry a professional athlete or rock star, who many women want to fuck on contact and who you are away from very often, do you seriously, honestly believe and expect that your husband will remain faithful after you marry the dude? Is that even realistic?

UPDATED: Other answers Love loves: “Depends on the dude. I doubt Herschel Walker would” and “Don’t give a shit as long as I’m married to a rock star”

I would provide a fourth question, but I have a very strong opinion on whatever other question you may throw my way. Try me – and I’ll give it to you just the way I think it is.  It’s just these three that have me totally baffled.

Oh wise Internet, what do you say?

* Nel and Belle’s answers count x5 since they have read all of my posts and know the very essence of my soul.

This post is not about gay sex or your sister’s boobs. It is about Oprah, as all my posts are, dammit.

I’m new to the blogosphere ala WordPress. I have another blog on Blogger, but that is a nice, clean family blog where I am a good mother and I write about how hilarious my sons are pretty much for the benefit of their grandparents.  That one I disabled from showing up in any searches and now I’m glad I did. At WordPress they tell you what search terms people used to find your blog.

May I take a minute to tell my loyal readers how people find this blog? Below is a list, in no particular order, of the exact search terms that found (Love) Notes to Self:

  1. gay women looking for straight women
  2. all he took were pictures off (sic) my breasts
  3. how to ask ur sister to show u her boobs
  4. sex gay teens
  5. gay men vagina
  6. dumb republicans
  7. lopsided breast
  8. oprah vision board
  9. picture of my sisters boobs
  10. bowlcut
  11. teaching my sister boobs
  12. my sister’s boobies
  13. lesbians

I’m really disturbed by this.  I mean, not ONE SINGLE PERSON who searched for “oprah” or “how i plot to make oprah my bff” or “loving constructive criticism of oprah” or “oprah, bitch pleeze” or “oprah should politely dismiss gayle and be friends with Love” or even “Oprah sister boobs”  found my blog.  This blog is primarily about Oprah. I have not written a single post (except the first) that did not include my dear Oprah in it. I take my devotion to Oprah very seriously, so I’m shocked and offended that the only people who find my blog are miscreants looking for their sister’s boobs.  Or gay women.  I guess I think a lot wrote about both of those things, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t write about gay men’s vaginas (WTF?)  so I can’t really explain that one.  I write about OPRAH.  And all of my writing about other things are an unfortunate side effect of my self-diagnosed ADD. People should find my blog whenever and wherever they want to read about my scintillating thoughts on Oprah. And they aren’t.  My voice is being silenced – drowned out by The Man….Oprah and all her media outlets.

(Love shakes fist at sky) Dammit, Oprah! Why do you resist me?

I now know why the caged bird sings what it is like to be a misunderstood like Carrot Top and TomKat. I may have to rethink my whole blog and its mission.  Internet, I implore you — if Love writes a blog that fellow Oprah cult members fans cannot find, is it really a blog at all?

I (heart) pathological liars. Except when they are oncologists.

Pathological liars are the best. Except if you have one as an oncologist. Then that could suck. Balls.

But I happen to know this girl from high school that has to take the pathological lying cake, so obviously I really liked to hang with her. She is not an oncologist. Lets just call her “Jenny”, because that is her real name.  She would regale me with stories about how she had a friend who knew the New Kids on the Block and could totally get her into their hotel or a concert whenever they came through Chicago.  I was 14 and this was big time currency in 1991.  Donnie Wahlberg and I were totally soul mates from 1990 to 1993 – he just wasn’t aware of it yet – and then I think Oprah took his place in 1994 and remains my soul mate to this day. The only difference is that Oprah knows it and just won’t accept it. Oprah is clearly not living her best life.

I digress.  So anyway, my crazy ass friend Jenny would talk constantly about her friend “Lisa” who worked at Ulta3 and was like, totally BFF with little Joey McIntyre and one day as we were perusing Bop* and Tiger Beat she was telling me how she and Lisa were going to their upcoming show and then hanging out with them afterward, and naturally she invited me along too.

Isn’t it weird that pathological liars always give you a chance to totally catch them lying?  So they’ll be like, “I’m totally Rob Pattinson’s lover, do you want to have a threesome with us?” Now, there is only one good answer for this and that is “yes”.  Not because you want the threesome (even though you know you do) but because if you say “no”, then you don’t even get to find out what kind of additional, outrageous lies they will tell to get them out of having to prove that they are fucking Rob Pattinson.  So I always say “yes” whenever a pathological liar wants to prove to me they aren’t lying, because its so damn amusing.

Curse you, ADD! (Love is looking angrily to the sky) Can I get through one fucking story without going off on a tangent!?

Okay, so of course I’m like, “I would love to go! Can I invite my little cousin who has leukemia because she is totally into Jordan and wants to put her little radiated fingers through his stiff, sticky hair and touch one of his silky vests before she dies.” (pathological liars deserve to be lied to) and Jenny is like, “TOTALLY! Me and Lisa will set it up!” and I’m like, “Awesome. I’ll let her know she can die fulfilled because you are totally going to hook us up.” Luckily I was aware my friend was totally full of shit and this is how:

1) She is of Asian descent.  But not a smart Asian (does coming to America make you dumb?).  I think this is really bad if this happens to you.  I imagine its like if you’re black, but you dance like Elaine on Seinfeld. Its just mostly impossible and completely unacceptable.

2) She is 5’2″ (this will become important later)

3) In high school, she was not that attractive and she wasn’t rich.

4) She is the oldest of three kids and her mom was a working single mom. I don’t know what her dad’s story was, but he was out of the picture.

So the liklihood of her fucking a New Kid was equivalent to John Tesh’s chances of being named People’s Sexiest Man Alive.

Okay, so we’re back in 1991. The NKOTB show is coming to Chicago, and my friend Jenny is like BFF with Joe McIntyre’s BFF, which happens to be a 17 year old named Lisa that works at Ulta3 in a suburb of Chicago. I know, right? So, its the day before the show that we are going to where we supposedly have backstage passes, and front row seats, and all access to the New Kids on the Block, who are expecting us and cannot wait to fucking meet our 14 year old asses (and my cousin with cancer).

Of course, Jenny couldn’t give me and my cancer-ridden pretend cousin our tickets or passes because you have to get those at the show. So the night before she calls me to say that Lisa called her and there was some terrible mix-up and they only had Lisa down for two tickets, so she wasn’t sure if me and my cousin could still go. So I  was like “well, can’t Lisa just call Joey Joe and explain the problem? I’d be happy to meet him at the hotel to pick up the tickets. I’m sure my dad won’t have a problem driving me.” She’s like, “I didn’t even think of that! Of COURSE Lisa could do that.” So she hangs up the phone and sits idlely for 8 minutes calls Lisa to find out and calls me back and says, “Joey has a photo shoot to do right before the show, so they won’t be at the hotel, but he said maybe he could give them to Big Rob (the bodyguard) to give to you.” So naturally I exclaim, “Oh, Jenny! You’ve just made all my dreams come true. And my cancer ridden cousin too.  Where should me and Big Rob make the big exchange?” And she fucking gives me an address and time to meet Big Rob the bodyguard.  There are so very few limits.  So then she calls the day of the concert to say that Big Rob totally has strep throat and can’t make it and yada, yada, yada. She will go on to tell me she went to the show, hung out with all the New Kids and “Donnie is so cool!” and she has pictures. Do I want to see?

Yes. Definitely.

But aw, shucks! She explained a day later that when she brought the film in for processing that everything got erased.  All she can think of is that there were metal detectors backstage and the fucking things somehow erased all the 35 mm film in her camera.  And it totally sucked because she was on Joey’s lap and everything.  I won’t even go there…

“But surely Lisa has photos?” I say. No, Lisa’s photos got erased too.

Fucking metal detectors. (Love shakes fist at the sky)

Okay, so flash forward to a lovely day in March of this year.  I’m trolling Facebook for the 34th time that day and trying to think up a clever status, when suddenly I’m told that someone named Jenny Df wants to be my friend.  Df? Is that a last name? I don’t know who this person is…until I see the personal message accompanying the invite. Ah yes, its my good old friend Jenny. Her last name has changed. To a last name that surely exists nowhere in the world. How I had missed her!! I wanted to know EVERYTHING about what I missed the last 15 years, but mostly whether she was still the biggest-fucking-not-hot-dumb-ass-Asian-liar-of-all-time.

Since we had parted ways somewhere around 1994, she told me that she went to New York and was a Tom Ford model for many years.  Years in which she made best friends with Rhea Durham and Gisele Bundchen. Okay, so admittedly I know nothing about modeling…except that I think you have to be an inch or two over 5’2″ and you have to be good looking and you have to have big boobs, like my sister.  But she did have a profile picture which showed her in a Glamour Shots-like pose with fake boobs and nasty ass extensions. She reported that she made so much money as a runway model and she invested that money so wisely, that she is now retired and now she spends all of her time volunteering to work with animals.  Her husband is an incredibly sexy, extremely talented actor that I just haven’t heard of yet.  They live in Hollywood Hills.  She was currently trying to figure out whether or not she should take the job as one of the “Deal or No Deal” girls.  I didn’t mention it, but I thought that such an intellectual pursuit might actually blow her mind, since she had been retired for so long and all. She must have tacitly agreed, for she wrote:  “The doggies need me more than the pubic (sic) right now”. I am not fucking making this up.  There’s more…

So then as the weeks go by and I’m checking Facebook 234 times a day as usual and I see her statuses every few days that go a little something like this, “Jess, it was so good to see you and Tony the other night. I’m trying to get our schedules to sync so we can be out in Dallas for the next game!”  and “So happy for my dearest friends Tom and G! Congratulations! Give little Johnny a kiss for us” and “Audrina, I’m so sad I missed you last night at the awards. We totally have to catch up again.”  and finally, “Does anybody have a good cleanse? I have a Hawaiian Tropic shoot tomorrow and I don’t want to look too fat :(”  It doesn’t even end there. She started a chat with me one night on Facebook and I swear to God, she tells me that she and Rhea Durham are BFF from their NYC modeling days and she remembers I liked Donnie Wahlberg and her dearest Rhea is with Mark Wahlberg and now its so weird because they hang out ALL THE TIME and Mark is such a sweetheart!

Lest you think I’m a pathological liar, I am not. I would have copied and pasted directly from Facebook and told you guys to go ask her to be your friend so your life would be full of amusement like mine, but when I just went to do so, I realized she is no longer my friend. And no longer on Facebook. Unless I just can’t find her because I’m blocked or something. I would write her little comments like “Jenny, you are SOOOOOO lucky to be friends with Jessica Simpson. I am SOOOOOO jealous”. and “Jenny, you look so pretty and wonderful these days. I’m SOOOOO jealous. See you when I get to LA!”  She was lapping that shit up. But somehow much to my dismay I am either blocked or she left Facebook. I don’t know how I let this ridiculously amusing friend leave my life again because its hard to find dumb Asians who are pathological liars and don’t head up North Korea , but I’m sure she’ll turn up somewhere else. Perhaps as Dean of Harvard Law or as a United Nations Ambassador.

God, wherever you are Jenny Df, I heart you.  Next time you see Tom and Gisele, punch her in the face (not the stomach) and tell her to stop pretending that Bridget Moynihan’s kid is hers. Thanks.

*OMG, I just remember that I was listed (with my picture) in Bop as one of those kids you can be penpals with. How fucked up is that? Now I see that the Bop pen pal pages where were all the future MySpace pedophiles began their journeys.  I got seriously like 200,000 letters one month from that.  Where the fuck were my parents? I would give my right arm to have a copy of that issue of Bop now. I bet it is creepy as all hell.  Good Lord.