I heart iTunes

I got my biggest thrill of the week yesterday: Sexyback was FINALLY on iTunes!

I've logged on to the music store every day since July looking for it. Rock Your Body, Cry Me A River, f'n Seniorita. No! What the hell took so long?!

"I'm bringing sexy back. Yah!"
"Them other boys don't know how to act. Yah!"

I'm probably going to get murdered for saying this, but I pretty much hate that song. I previewed the video for 20 seconds and it looks lame, too. Who can understand what they say? "Go ahead, be done with it?" What are they talking about? "Take it to the chorus." Weak. But people at the clubs LOVE it. They jump and scream when it comes on and then they rock out with their you-know-whats out.

I am fake dj-ing my friend's wedding and my gay date -- so what if Kenny's the closest thing I have to a boyfriend -- insisted over email in huge font that "Sexyback by Justin Timerlake HAS to be on the list." Since then, I have been petrified to show my face in Wareham because I couldn't find it on iTunes anywhere! I have been a Sexyback failure. Until today.

Tomorrow, I'm bringing sexy back to Wareham. I'm going straight to Benny's on Cranberry Highway and buying a boom box to carry on my shoulder. Then, I'm going to strut up and down the sidewalks of High Street blaring JT's new smash hit on level 10 like I wrote it myself and made millions. Get your sexy on, bitches. I did.

Be You

Last night I went to see the Red Sox play the Angels in Anaheim. Go Sox!

I was excited to go because my brother, his girlfriend and my four year old nephew drove up from San Diego to join me. They had never seen them play live before (well, my brother went to Fenway about a decade ago). So it was fun for me and for them, being from the woods of Mississippi, it was maybe the most exciting thing they've ever seen. I'm not sure.

The Sox remind me of my life in Boston and I'm proud to identify with such a passionate group as the Red Sox nation. However, I'm not passionate about the team. Yes, I got drunk when they won the World Series and yes, I will watch them when they're on TV or when they come to town. But, when all is said and done, I'm in it for the fans.

I love Boston boys. While I can appreciate the sleek, mature style of European men in black slacks and have been known to eye the hip, trendy style of Los Angeles metrosexuals in treated Sevens, show me a guy wearing baggy Aeropostale jeans, white sneakers and a faded Sox hat and I immediately hear "Dream Weaver" and see sky rockets a la Wayne Campbell and Peter Brady. Is it nature or nurture? Who knows.

Whatever it is, it's my personal phenomenon and I've worked it into my five year plan. Here it is: meet someone who lives in LA (or Socal, really) but who is originally from Beantown. Yes, I like the way they dress. But there's more depth to my shallowness. Dating a Boston boy also means I won't have to waste any precious time going to B.F., Wyoming for Thanksgiving to visit some lame-ass family who doesn't realize that Wyoming is for people without imaginations. One trip. One destination. Logan Airport or bust. I see my parents; he sees his parents -- one stop shopping. Maybe one day we'll move back so our kids can have the same horrifying accents as us. But, I'm getting ahead of myself...

Cut to me at the stadium, walking up the stairs to use the ladies when I hear a man's voice, "BU?" I am alone and I have on my BU hat, so I spin around to see cute Boston guy four rows ahead of us that I had assigned a check plus to earlier.

This was my chance! I have gone to many a game hoping for this scenario. Usually, the guys who pipe up are drunk and/or ugly. This one was sober and cute!

I am so awkward. I told him I graduated from BU "in the year 2000." Not in a funny, cool Conan O'Brien skit tribute way, like you may think. No. In the "I don't talk to people much" nerdy, cringe-for-days-after-you-say-that way. "I graduated from BU in the year 2000." What? Boo! Then, I told him I live "in Playa Vista... I mean, Playa Del Rey." Geek! No witty exchange. No flirty comments. It was a verbal belly flop. I was so embarrassed that I slinked away and smoked a cigarette.

In my defense, he was very awkward, too. He didn't spit game to me. He told me where he lives and where he's from. He said, "I saw the terrier on your hat." Nothing funny or even smiley. He called for my attention -- face unseen. But there was an unexpected attraction. I didn't imagine it. Maybe we were both in a romantic trance. Cupid's spell, if you will. It's a theory; it's probably wrong.

I wanted to ask him if he'd be there again for tonight's game, but we never even made eye contact again. Plus, I was playing with my nephew, so he probably thinks I'm a baby momma.

If he's there again tonight, I'll know it's fate. I'll force the issue. If not, I'll be ready with my game face on to search for my elusive Boston bow...

Yankees suck!

Hollah!

When you take a dance class, you're supposed to watch yourself in the mirror so you can improve.

I don't. My eyes don't leave my hip hop instructor's reflection for the entire hour. I pretend to follow along -- one and two, three and four, pop pop hit. Everyone else looks at herself and thinks about how hot she looks. Not me. I'm there to watch the instructor. I think about how he would look doing that move in my room. I think about how fabulous we would look together on the dance floor of a steamy night club. I think about how the class would react if I jumped up onto his little stage and clung to his back.

I know how he would react -- with glee. "Finally!" he would exclaim.

Then I catch a glance at myself dancing in the mirror and it all comes crashing down. I don't look anything like he does when he dances, nor like any of the sports bra-only girls who clearly don't have a thought in their heads except dancing and looking cuter than me. I realize that every time he looks to his left, he's not, in fact, monitoring my sexiness. It's just a fantasy.

He knows almost everyone else's name in the class and even calls people up to the little stage to do the routine for the class. He doesn't know my name. I never get called up. But that's okay with me; I can admire from afar.

Until last night. It got personal last night, people. I was on the treadmill before class when I first saw her walking with him on a tour through the gym. A sports bra-only with abs that should be illegal. Fake boobs. Blonde hair. And, when I walked into class -- front and center. Bitch. She was living my dream!

We started our routine and of course she dances great. I know because I watched her the whole time instead of watching him. We practice over and over. She asks him what song this is and is ear to ear with smiles. I am deflated and annoyed. I mess up and half-ass the routine. I notice a lot of the other regulars are doing the same.

Then, greatness. Instructor points out another new sports bra-only. "Girlfriend is groovin in the back," he says. He goes over to her and dances behind her -- not in a creepy or suggestive way. In a supportive, you're-doing-great way. But not to front and center. She is PISSED.

I danced the rest of the routine with my eyes squarely planted on my own, smiling reflection. Screw those sports bra-only girls. They're a dime a dozen. Pop pop hit.

Obrigado!

"If you do not go out on Friday night, then you must drink all day Sunday."


The jury's out on this one for me. Granted, we drank mojitos in the rooftop "poozi," while listening to an albino steel drummer and then ate tappas for dinner and danced with hot Brazilians thanks to this creed, but today I feel like shit.


This morning started with the wretched sound of the alarm clock screeching at me like I killed its first-born -- why is it even set? Hmm, because it's MONDAY MORNING! Panic. What is the exotic name of the guy next to me? Why is there so much sand in my bed? How the hell did I get into the house without my keys? Where is my car, toothbrush, blackberry? Do we have time for another round of capoeira before I get fired?


Luckily, this morning the answers arrived without third-party assistance. I called Sean and he let me in -- but not before Marcio and I tried to climb the great wall of China to break in and not before I rang the doorbell one million times at four a.m. to wake him up. Also, Amber's first day of work was today. I'm sure they're thrilled to have me in their lives. And, they don't even know that Marcio was with me because I made him hide in the garage until Sean went upstairs...

His name is Marcio. Not Mario, not Marcello. Right? Right. I think... Luckily, he put me on the spot and asked me point blank if I knew what it was. Phew! Marcio. Hot Brazilian from Sao Paulo whose interests include soccer, international commerce and making out with me on the beach at 2:30 a.m. on Monday. Me likey.


So that's the sand (which is still in my ears!). Betty (the car) is in Manhattan Beach at Shade in the parking lot -- along with all my stuff. Hopefully Raine left my suitcase at the front desk before she left to drive to San Diego this morning since I passed up the chance to spend the night in the penthouse to frolic with said foreigner -- did I mention his accent?


Now I'm dizzy and at work. I ate a crumbled meatball sub with enough cheese to feed a small village. Thank God nobody here gives a shit about me! Hooray vodka.