top 5 reasons to love hillary clinton (unofficially dedicated to K)

1. that smile... ah, hil-dawg, your smile truly is stunning. with a gesture as simple as a smile, you evoke so many warm fuzzy feelings for me, like happier times when your hottie hubby bill was in office. i remember the days under his governing when gas was cheaper; while we pay nearly $4/gallon here in the 818 today, 10 years ago, gas was free. i was in high school, and my parents paid for it. thanks for nothing, george w.

2. she's a woman... and everyone knows women are superior to men. we're smarter, more fun and popular, and we really know how to get a party started! men, on the other hand, are universally known to be lazy and slothful. who do you want in the white house: a graceful woman with brains and beauty and who can make a mean taco dip, or a doofus man whose knuckles still scrape on the ground and wouldn't know a dessert spoon from a soup spoon if it hit him in the face?

3. she's got boobs! now, be careful here; this is not an extension of the "she's a woman" argument. this point deals with one... err.... two things: boobs. it is a scientific fact that every human being - gay, straight, man, woman, bi, transgender, confused, plain ol' whoreish, whatever - finds boobs very comforting. through countless studies of brain activity, scientists have proven that when we see boobs, receptors in the pleasure and comfort sensors are activiated. if hillary's magic tits aren't the solution to peace in the middle east and ending the genocide in darfur, i'm not sure what is.

4. she used to look like this:
if a woman can go from looking that homely and dorky to running for president of the united states of america, she's got to be something special. if she survived high school without having her head flushed in the toilet, she must be a miracle worker. if she managed to snag a hottie like bill, she must be a wild, witchy woman, cuz he sure didn't fall for her looks. hilly baby, you've gotten super sexy with age, and i definitely think pantsuits are more your look than whatever that paisley monstrosity is. you've come a long way, girl.

5. in all seriousness, people, she's the best person for the job. this country is in dire need of a leader who will wear her passion and commitment to the american people on her sleeve. she's got the experience and strength to help our nation recover from what has been a difficult and often devastating 8 years. she's a woman (ok, so maybe i do find that fact totally in her favor) who has fought for what she believes in all of her life, and while some politicians shout about promising "change," her lifelong footprints reveal a path of change and progress. she is prepared to face the challenges that doubtlessly await her, and i hope to someday proudly call her "mrs. president."
for more information or to make a donation to the hillary clinton campaign, click here: http://hillaryclinton.com/

"if i wasn't pacing myself i'd be throwing up in this fucking bush right now."

momma b and i recently took a a mini-vacay to everyone's favorite bastion of sin and sex, las vegas! i went for work, and momma b decided to tag along to have some fun while i wasn't busy preparing my article for the super delish p.i.n.k. vodka (so cute!). here's a log of our adventures in vegasland.

friday, april 25

5:00 am - rachel morgan wakes up. this is not fun. it's still dark out, and for once, she is awake before lulu, the famous hair-chewing kitty.

5:05 am - rachel morgan realizes she has no choice but to get out of bed. she hops in the shower. (stop thinking about me naked, pervs.)

5:15 am - out of the shower, rachel morgan lounges on her bed for a moment, thinking that she has plenty of time.

5:20 am - rachel morgan gets out of bed and decides that it is time to pack. she packs two dresses, two pairs of tights, three pairs of shoes, a cute nightgown, three pairs of underwear, workout clothes, four headbands, two tank tops, and two purses. she will be gone for 36 hours.

5:45 am - momma b knocks on the front door. rachel morgan is wearing a towel.

6:00 am - rachel morgan is finally ready. poppa b drives rachel morgan, momma b and lulu to the airport. rachel morgan and lulu have a tearful farewell. rachel morgan loves that evil kitty.

7:00 am - rachel morgan and momma b are on the plane! momma b offers to buy rachel morgan a cocktail. rachel morgan declines, but regrets not bringing her own mini bottles of vodka.

7:10 am - rachel morgan has a moment of clarity: she is in a tin can thousands of feet above the earth. rachel morgan has a mild panic attack. she rethinks momma b's boozey offer, but decides that if the magic that keeps the tin can in the air stops working, she wants to be sober when she crashes to the earth. jesus would have wanted it that way.
8:10 am - plane lands. rachel morgan rejoices to still be alive.

8:15 am - rachel morgan and momma b stumble upon an airport slot machine. rachel morgan walks out up $3. it's all about the max bet on the triple diamond - penny slots, baby!!!

10:27 am - rachel morgan tries her luck again. looses $3 lead.

11:25 am - rachel morgan gets a little big for her britches and plays with a $20. rachel morgan looses $20.

12:00 pm -rachel morgan and momma b have lunch at todd english's olives at the bellagio. yum! they have two drinks each.

2:30 pm - rachel morgan and momma b go shopping. momma b buys them matching lingerie at frederick's of hollywood. rachel morgan wonders when her mom became dinah lohan.

3:00 pm - rachel morgan and momma b wander over to the wynn. they stop at the first bar they see and each order a drink. momma b's champagne is passable, and rachel morgan's pear martini is decent. momma b and rachel morgan are unimpressed, and vow to never step foot in the wynn again. bastards.

3:58 pm - momma b finally lets rachel morgan go into margaritaville. rachel morgan has been looking forward to this all day. they make their way to the bar, but there is only one seat available. like any good daughter would, rachel morgan lets momma b have the seat. they order a margarita and dance to jimmy buffet.

4:10 pm - rachel morgan returns from the restroom to find that the seats next to momma b are empty. when rachel morgan asks where all of the tough-looking guys went, momma b replies, "they were whiney so i beat the shit out of them. now we have their seats."

4:12 pm - rachel morgan and momma b drink a few more margs. they also befriend the fat ugly man sitting next to momma b. his name is ed, and it is his birthday. rachel morgan demands to know where his friends are, though she suspects he doesn't have any.

4:46 pm - ed shows rachel morgan his "official parrothead" business card, and rachel morgan laughs (inside. maybe.) at what a strange old man her new friend ed is. rachel morgan gives ed a birthday kiss (on the check, obv. i have super high standards).

5:19 pm - momma b tells rachel morgan to pace herself for a long night of drinking. rachel morgan responds, "if i wasn't pacing myself i'd be throwing up in the fucking bush right now."

5:30 pm - rachel morgan is in bed for a 30 minute pass out/nap.

6:30 pm - momma b and rachel morgan dine at MIX, a chic new restaurant, and order the pairings menu. that's 4 more drinks each, but rachel morgan makes momma b drink hers, as she's trying to pace herself.

9:30 pm - rachel morgan and momma b hiccup into a cab to go see LOVE at the mirage.

10:00 pm - LOVE begins. momma b begins to cry.

10:00 pm - 11:00 pm - rachel morgan and momma b dance, sing, laugh, cry and cheer throughout LOVE. the people sitting next to them look like braindead zombies and do not even crack a smile. they were NOT fun.

11:15 pm - rachel morgan and momma b weave through the mirage, draped in pink crepe paper that fell from the ceiling at the end of LOVE. momma b keeps ranting about the "boring geezers" next to her, and rachel morgan is thoroughly enjoying pretending to be a jellyfish with the crepe.

11:30 pm - rachel morgan achieves her lifelong dream of partying aboard the cleopatra's barge at caesar's palace. unfortunately, neither rachel morgan nor momma b wanted to party anymore, and the band sucked.

12:15 am - rachel morgan and momma be retire, exhausted after their big vegas adventure!

the end.


your man is ugly

i must say that what you're about to read is a long time coming, so this might turn into a bit of a rant. throughout my life, i've doubtless spent countless hours ruminating on the topic at hand, and i'm pretty sure i'm not the only one. so without further ado, let's get to it: uneven couples.

what is an uneven couple? simply put, an uneven couple is one in which one party is significantly better looking than the other. you know you've seen them; they're everywhere! based on my very scientific observation of this phenomenon (please see pie chart below), in the overwhelming majority of uneven couples, the fugly one is the man.

for some reason, women who are cute, have a lot to offer, have big boobs, dress really well, use deodorant, etc..., have no problem dating men who are fat, pigeon-toed, have boils on their faces, constantly reek of gross hairy man smell, and are just all-around unattractive. WHY, ladies, WHY?? sure, he may be a "nice guy," but that doesn't make up for the fact that he gets complimented on his quasimodo costume every halloween even though he's not wearing one and it to him it's just another day being ugly!

the simple truth is that women are typically less concerned with their partner's looks than men are, and that women take other factors into consideration when searching for a partner. i'm sure that this has something to do with evolution (cave women sought men who could kill the biggest mammoth, not men who lounged around the cave all day looking hot and putting sabre tooth tiger jizz in their hair to get optimum spikiness), but ladies, that is some serious BS right there. we should be just as shallow and superficial as men are (lord knows i am. an ugly man with a gimpy arm and a droopy eye once asked me on a date. i spit in his eyeball and kneed him in the balls for his impudence. take that!)!

in order to combat this growing epidemic (even the film industry has capitalized on this trend. now they make movies like knocked up, where a short fat jewish guy bangs and wins the hot tall blonde. ew.), i propose that women raise their standards STAT. it is time that we look in the mirror, recognize our hotness*, and refuse to let whomever we're screwing drag us down. fight the fug! viva la resistance!!!

so, ladies, the next time some turd-faced douche tries to seduce you with "wit," "charm," "intelligence," "money," or "trustworthiness" (lame), throw your drink in his face (glass and all - scars might improve his look) and tell him, "i'm hot. you're not. now get out of my sight, you peasant."

* fugly girls: this does not apply to you. you can date the fugly dudes. xo!


a play in one act: stranger danger

the scene: SR and rachel morgan's housewarming party. guests are mingling, drinking, talking and eating. everyone is having a great time. suddenly, the door opens. a strange man walks in carrying two heavy bags of ice. momma b follows and shuts the door. rachel morgan recognizes the man instantly. the party goes silent. cue crickets.

RACHEL MORGAN (nervous): hiiiiiiiiiii.... thank you so much.......

WEIRD-BLEACH-BLONDE-FOREIGNER: you're welcome! having a party?

RACHEL MORAGN (uncertain. does she invite him to stay?): yep........ well, thanks again!

weird-bleach-blonde-foreigner leaves. the party is silent for a moment after he shuts the door. momma b and rachel morgan erupt into giggles.

RACHEL MORAGN: ok, who reads my blog? that's the weird-bleach-blonde-foreigner!

PARTYGOERS, WHO ALL READ RACHEL MORGAN'S BLOG BEACUSE IT'S THE BEST: omg! i knew it! he does have really weird and ridiculous bleached hair!


special thanks to: momma b, for being easily recognizable as shoshanna's mother, and for inviting the foreigner in. xo!

toot toot

not to toot my own horn, but i looked super hot the other day. i mean, i generally like to think that i didn't fall out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down, but sometimes, i know i'm looking extra fine. how do i know, you might ask? well, there's the obvious healthy dose of self-confidence (which is possibly slightly exaggerated in my case sometimes), but there's really nothing more ego-boosting than other people letting you know you look good (there are definite exceptions to this rule. the next time some asshole looks me up and down and calls me "sexy" as i walk into jury duty at 9:00am, i'll stab him in the heart with a prison-style shank fashioned from a toothbrush).

sit back and let me regale you with my tale of ultimate hotness...

first, there was chuck at bevmo. as i approached chuck, i was just trying to get some info quickly. i did not strut, saunter or shimmy towards him, and i was wearing an outfit that is tame for me (while i usually prance about in miniskirts and tight sweaters, i really butched it up that day with a cute cowgirl shirt and some jeans), so i was surprised when his attention turned flirtatious. sometimes, you just can't keep down the sexy.

chuck complimented me as a great customer, then asked how my day was and what i do for a living. i was there to check about keg availability, so i followed him to the walk-in refrigerator, where he warned me i might get cold. we stood inside, discussing my options for a few moments, and i apologized for making him stand in the cold while i made a decision. he responded: "oh, it's ok! at least we're alone in here." ummmmmmmmmkkkkaayyyyy? is that a line? i wasn't sure what to say, so i giggled, made a quick decision and hurried out of there before chuck attempted to act on some bizarre keg/walk-in refrigerator fantasy. he asked for my name to reserve the keg, then sadly told me he wouldn't be there when i picked up the keg in the morning. sad face. i said that maybe we'd have better luck next time, and he told me he hoped so. ok, so chuck wanted me, right? i know! he was practically begging for a piece.

after beating chuck off with a stick, i made my way to ralphs as part of the great pomegranate hunt of 2008 (screw you, pomegranate, for not being "in season"). while in the checkout line, the bag boy (man? calling him a bag man sounds like he is homeless? like the male version of a bag lady?), turned to me, smiled, and said, "my you're beautiful." sure, he was 60 years old, cross-eyed, had a band aid on his forehead and left me with the distinct impression that he was a few chromosomes short, but he thinks i'm hot! there's no stopping this caboose! it's goin' all the way to sexy town!

later, i joined K and E for lebanese in hollywood (no, that's not some sort of lesbian joke. lebanese. like the food. from lebanon.), where our waiter continued the inexplicable trend of rachel morgan flattery. when he was going over our order, he referred to me as "the lady," and then invited me to a party when he cornered me on the way back from the bathroom. riding high on the wave of "everyone thinks i'm hot," i may have shamelessly flirted back (just for fun), and waiterboy soon joined the ranks of my ravenous romeos. i was hot shit, and everybody knew it.

it's been three days since i was the sexiest single in los angeles. no one has thrown themselves at me since, but i have faith that the flattery and flirting will pick up again. after all, when you're hot, you're hot!


stalker school 101

it has come to my attention recently that a large portion of the general public is in severe need of being educated on stalker technique and etiquette. far too often, i see a stalker get caught, hung up on, cursed out, slapped, kicked out, and even arrested. stalkers of the world, take heed! rachel morgan is here to the rescue with her patented "6 Steps to Stalker Success." follow these simple guidelines and you'll be stalking better than ever!

step one - who is a stalker?
anyone can be a stalker! yes, even you with your gimpy leg, snaggle tooth and smells-like-a-skunk-died-and-shat-in-your-armpit BO! worried about your boyfriend's wandering eye? you can stalk him! tired of fantasizing about that girl with the great ass at the gym? stalk her! met a great girl in a chatroom, but worried about meeting her face-to-face? it's time to turn off the computer, grab some night vision goggles, put on a mask to hide all that hideousness, and START STALKING! all it takes is a little confidence! you can be a stalker - and a great one at that! if you work hard enough, focus, and train every day, you could even become a stalker superstar.

step two - what should i stalk?
well, since we already know that anyone can be a stalker, doesn't it make sense that anyone/thing can be a stalkee?! while most stalkers prefer to stalk someone with whom they come into contact during their daily lives, there is a growing trend within the stalker community to stalk celebrities. although this is a hot fad right now, i must urge burgeoning stalkers to leave the big name stalkees to experienced and professional stalkers. if you're just getting started in the world of stalking, but aspire to obsess, agonize over and stalk britney spears (been there, done that... trust me, the hot tranny mess is worth it. you're my girl, brit!), i suggest that you start with a D or C list celebrity, like breckin meyer (scoff not: his career may be on a decline these days, but remember how cute he was as the slacker skater in clueless?), or tara reid (but if you choose tara as your subject, please keep in mind that the paparazzi love her and are constantly trying to snap pictures of her pissed-drunk and vomiting in her purse, or gallivanting on the beach and showing off her freakish stomach). start with the little fish, and you'll be tackling the sharks in no time flat.

step three - when can i stalk?
traditionally, stalking is a nighttime activity. the most important (and surprisingly tricky for newbie stalkers) reason we stalkers prefer to chase our prey under the veil of darkness is that it is harder to see a stalker during the night than during the day. lost? allow me to explain: imagine that you are your target... you silently and seductively undress in your bedroom at night, peeling layer after layer of your catholic school girl uniform off. suddenly, you hear a noise outside the window; you look, but only see tree branches swaying in the night. relieved, you begin to stretch and rub oil all over your naked body in front of the window. now lets flip the scenario to daytime: you're still undressing, but this time when you hear a noise and look out the window, you see a man, standing behind the tree, videotaping your every move. ten minutes later, another stalker bites the dust (shout out to my homey, ben, who was dumb enough to be caught during the day! we will stalk again when you're out of jail, buddy!).

step four - where can i stalk?
the beauty of stalking is that it's a hobby that can be practiced almost anywhere. you can stalk on the phone, you can stalk on the street (following your target as they go about their day-to-day lives is a great way to get exercise while you stalk!), and thanks to modern technology, you can even stalk on the internet! social networking websites like facebook and myspace have become increasingly popular stalking stomping grounds in recent years, and offer a safe forum for beginner stalkers to refine their skills. with just a few clicks of the mouse, stalkers can find out personal information, the subject's likes and dislikes (which are particularly important if the stalker is harboring romantic feelings for the stalkee. a friend of mine once wooed a lover by stalking her on facebook and when he found out the target was a yoga aficionado, went to every yoga studio in the city until he found her there. they do their downward facing dogs together now. if that's not a classic love story, i don't know what is.), and enough photos to jerk off to for weeks!

step five - why do i stalk?
simply put, everyone stalks for different reasons. some of us are obsessively in love with the target, others passionately hate their prey and stalk in hopes of finding the key to their destruction (you may not know this, but the famed evil mastermind skeletor fell into this category. he stalked he-man, constantly seeking his weakness, but never prevailed due to he-man's indestructible pecs and loincloth woven from jesus' hair). personally, my stalking tends to be motivated by a narcissistic belief that i'm entitled to transform whomever i want into a friend or lover. that's pretty much how every relationship i've ever had has started, and it's why i'm confident that within two weeks, my current target will be mine. yes... all mine.

step six - how do i stalk?
every stalker needs to discover his or her own signature technique in order to make the most out of their time spent tailing the target. my friend MG prefers to use the internet to do her celeb stalking (she is particularly gifted; i've never met someone so committed to getting the information she needs!), while my friend CQ once memorized her prey's schedule and happened to "bump into" him around every corner. i try to attack from all fronts by doing some digging online and by initiating physical contact with my target. just be confident, thorough, careful, and follow these lessons; you'll be sniffing tom cruise's panties in a jiffy!

i hope you found this lesson informative, my stalker students! now, stalk on!



an educational tour of america part deux

Due to the overwhelming demand that I continue shaping the minds of the youth of America through my educational tour of state slogans, I've decided to post the second installment now! I'd do anything to make my fans happy. Except perform sexual favors. Or pose for photographs. Or sign autographs. Regardless! To my many, many fans, I must say, I love you all and please - enjoy! xoxo! rachel morgan.

Alabama - "Share the Wonder." Hmmm. Alabama. Using the word "wonder" here is a very clever move on your part. The word "wonder" typically carries very positive connotations. You know, Disneyland, Christmas, birthday parties with Shetland ponies and an ice cream bar... Yet somehow, when I think of Alabama, the images that pop into my head probably wouldn't fall under the "wonder" category. Lets see. When I think of Alabama, I think of: race riots, church bombings, scary hicks with bad teeth waving a confederate flag in one hand and a gun in the other, and that Neil Young song, "Alabama." Now I'm as much for Neil Young as the next guy, but what kind of "wonder" are you trying to share with the rest of the country? Is it contagious? Do I need to be vaccinated against your "wonder" before I enter the state? Am I going to suddenly find myself in desperate need of orthodontic work? If you're trying to convince people to actually COME to Alabama, I'd go with, "Alabama: Where Race Riots Are a Thing of the Past."

Arizona - "The Grand Canyon State." Arizona, I'm slightly disappointed in you for this craptastic slogan. I feel very confident in saying that any fourth grader could probably identify Arizona as the home of the Grand Canyon, so why on earth are you bragging about it? Your slogan might as well be, "Arizona: The Sky Is Blue Here." Now, I've spent quite a bit of time in Arizona, and I know that you have more to offer than just a big crack in the ground. You have some awesome malls. I love Fashion Square! Instead of just pointing out the obvious, try playing to your strengths. Try, "Arizona: It May Be Hot Outside, But Our Malls Are Huge and Air Conditioned!"

Arkansas - "The Natural State." I'm a bit confused by this one because there are so many ways to construe this statement. Are all Arkansians living life like Adam and Eve, running around naked and unshaven as in the "natural state" of mankind? Do Arkansas women not dye their hair or wear makeup because they prefer to go au natural? Is nature so bountiful in Arkansas that all trappings of urban life are left behind? If any of the above interpretations are true, Arkansas, I'm not coming to visit. I hate nature and women with hairy armpits. Ew.

California - "Find Yourself Here." As a native Californian, I'm going to have to admit that this slogan does our fine state no favors. I've discovered that people outside of California have a tendency to think of Californians as stoned, new age-y hippies who buy into metaphysical bullshit while doing yoga and eating granola. And the slogan, "Find Yourself Here" buys right into that stereotype. Yes, come to California and you will embark on an intense and spiritual journey that will help you "find yourself" on the path to enlightenment. Puh-lease. In California, the only place you'll "find yourself" is at a plastic surgeon's office picking out your new boobs. Or shopping. Or eating sushi. Now that I think about it though, I might not be giving California enough credit. Maybe in Central California people embark on spiritual journeys that lead to self-discovery. But that's the yucky part of the state and I don't think anyone wants to go there.

Colorado - "Enter a Higher State." Ok, this one is seriously just begging to be made fun of. Yes, we all get the allusion to the Rockies and the heightened elevation.. but its sooo much more tempting to go with the drugs joke. All I can picture is some half-brained snowboarding instructor saying, "Yeah, come to Colorado, get high and shred some sweet slopes, dude!" If Colorado really wanted to capitalize on this state slogan, it would lobby for legislation that legalizes marijuana. I have no doubt that the tourism board would be pleasantly surprised with a sudden surge in tourism and that the economy would benefit greatly from the influx of stoners who need pads to crash in and munchies to snack on. Awesome.

Connecticut - "Full of Surprises." If all of the states gathered for a family reunion, Connecticut would definitely be the rich snobby aunt that shows up and condescendingly brags that her son just accepted a full scholarship to Yale, despite Princeton and Harvard banging down his door. But when your crazy snobby aunt gets sloppy drunk on one too many vodka martinis and spills on her perfectly pressed button down shirt (worn under a cashmere crewneck sweater, naturally), that's where the surprise comes in. When she then continues to spill family secrets... SURPRISE! Uncle Bobby is gay! Try as you may, Connecticut, we know you're not as perfect as you'd like the rest of us to think.

Delaware - "Its Good Being First." I feel kind of sorry for Delaware. For those of you who don't quite remember your US history, this slogan refers to the fact that Delaware was the first state to ratify the US Constitution. Again, for those of you who aren't good with dates (or math, for that matter), this glorious event happened well over two hundred years ago. And they're still bragging about it? Poor Delaware! Two hundred years and that's still your only claim to fame? I mean, Delaware, the other original twelve colonies also ratified the constitution - its not like you were the lone bastion of democracy amongst rebel anarchists! Delaware, I'm glad you're proud of your role in the creation of our glorious nation, but I think you're giving yourself a wee too much credit. I'd try a more humble statement like, "Delaware: The Second-Smallest State."

Florida - "Visit Florida." When people think of Florida, they think of partying, old ladies and hot bodies tanning on the beach. Now, I'm not going to say that Floridians are stupid (because I have immense respect and love for two UF graduates and because I am obsessed with Dexter), but I'm not exactly surprised that the best they could come up with is "Visit Florida." The entire tourism board was probably too busy getting wasted on the beach to come up with anything better, and when spring break was over, they were too hungover to notice how crappy their slogan was. Try: "Florida: We're Hammered!"

Georgia - "Georgia on My Mind." Don't get me wrong - this is a great song. But you don't see California using, "California Dreaming," or Oklahoma using, "Oklahoma: Where the Wind Comes Sweepin' Down the Plain." Are you just too lazy to come up with an original slogan? Northerners always picture people sitting on porches in the South, sipping mint juleps and talking with that slow, languid drawl. I always assumed this was an unrealistic stereotype, but with a slogan as unoriginal as Georgia's, I'm beginning to buy into the lazy Southerner label. Why not fess up to it and go with, "Georgia: Where All Your Southern Stereotypes Come True."

Hawaii - "The Islands of Aloha." First of all, Aloha, much like the Hebrew Shalom, means like ten thousand things. Are the Hawaiian Islands the "Islands of Hello" AND the "Islands of Goodbye?" Or am I misinterpreting this translation of aloha, and the slogan is really the "Islands of Love?" What the hell, Hawaii? Secondly, Aloha isn't even English. Welcome to America, Hawaii, where the de facto official language is ENGLISH. Now, I know that you're kind of far away from the mainland, but that is no excuse to go gallivanting around with this foreign (native, whatever) language. Get with the program and come up with a translation that all Americans will love. How about: "Hawaii: Vacationland for Wealthy Mainlanders."


just call me regina george, mean girl

when i was in 7th grade, i had a sweet posse (i was the alpha female, natch. ). we were definitely not the "popular girls" who let the boys feel them up in the school's garden (slizzzuts! you know who you are!), but we rolled six deep and thought we were pretty darn cool. i know that i rocked the babydoll dress and doc martins look, and really, it didn't get much hipper than that in 1994-1995 (even though my mom wouldn't shell out for the top-of-the-line docs and mine weren't quite as cool as everyone else's. all i wanted were the cute high tops with the yellow stitching around the soles, and instead got sorta-cute maryjanes, which i liked but could never fully get behind. not that i harbor any resentment about my sub-par docs 14 years later....).

halfway through the year, my posse and i reached a unanimous decision. one of our gang, DH, had to go. she was totally dragging us down with her dorky clothes (she didn't own any doc martins!), and she didn't listen to any of the cool bands i loved, like silverchair, pearl jam, and the cranberries (there was a lot of teenage angst going on at that point in my life.) ugh, what a loser! i could barely stand to be seen in public with her (at the time i probably thought she was ruining my game with all the cute boys. years later, i realized i never had any game with any of the cute boys), so i implemented a smear campaign by talking nonstop shit about her to the rest of the posse. they totally agreed that DH was popularity poison. i tried giving DH the cold shoulder, hoping that my comrades would follow, but every time she sat at our table for lunch, they happily made room for her generic-brand-jean-wearing butt (not wearing gap jeans? blasphemy!).

one day, while in PE with my posse, we were learning how to throw and flip people in wrestling (everyone had to either take wrestling or gymnastics. i clearly prefer to wrestle than try to be balanced, coordinated or flexible in a leotard). we were paired up, shown the proper technique, and then had to practice flipping our partner over our shoulder and on to a cushy, two-foot-thick mat. as awesome as it was to totally manhandle my partner while i threw her over my shoulder (i'm a badass. want to fight?), it was even cooler to be the one being thrown. it was actually kind of fun to fly through the air, landing comfortably and safely on the mat!

when it was DH's turn to be thrown, she scrunched up her face, whined, and said that she didn't want to do it because she was scared. suddenly, it was like everything else around me disappeared. all i could see was this dorky girl who was lame and wanted to be my friend! didn't she know i was way too cool for her? i snapped.

"you're such a baby, DH!" i screamed. "why do you have to be such a loser? don't you know we don't even like you?!" her face crumpled. the rest of the posse stood frozen, shocked. in the cruelest tone i could muster, i sneered, "why don't you go cry about it," before turning my back on DH and spending the rest of PE in triumphant silence. i couldn't wait to go to lunch and laugh with my friends about the dumb look on DH's face! but when we met up later, there wasn't a "way to go, rachel morgan!" or a "you're so cool! why can't i be as pretty, smart, funny and popular as you" to be found. DH didn't join us, but nobody seemed to celebrate her absence except me.

as the rest of the year wore on, none of my friends turned their backs on DH. they didn't turn their backs on me either, but i couldn't understand why they chose to try to remain friends with someone they'd told me they didn't like. why didn't they just grab their balls and tell her to get lost? didn't they want to be popular and get felt up in the garden? i was confident that i did (dear god, what an awful aspiration. tacky!) , so while they were all dancing the night away at DH's bat mitzvah, i sat at home alone, happily thinking that her party was probably a lamefest anyway, and convincing myself that i was glad to not be there.

by the time we graduated high school, DH and i had not spoken in years. i wasn't friends with anyone in my posse anymore either, and i still wasn't one of the popular girls who got felt up in various places on campus. i never regretted saying what i said to DH, but i did learn to feel like a bitch for the way i treated her. the problem is, i kinda like being a bitch. i'm proud that i say what's on my mind and refuse to take shit from anyone (you should really consider a new deodorant, by the way. i can smell you from here, and that is rank!). yes, i feel bad for publicly humiliating a 12 year-old girl (i'd already had practice traumatizing a 10 year-old girl, DK. oopsies!), but i refuse to make apologizes for being who i am.

i'm sure that DH has grown into a wonderful, successful and intelligent woman. but let's face it: i'm a better bitch.

it's 2am... do you know where your daugher is?

as i lay in bed in my usual state of insomnia, tossing and turning while pretending to sleep, my "slumber" was interrupted by the rudest of alarm clocks: some whorish neighbor of mine serenading me with the sounds of her wild monkey sex. it's 2am... do you know where your daughter is? if she's the one getting railed, please tell her that i could do without all the heavy breathing, "oohs" and "oh! yesses."

dear god, they're back at it again.

now she's clearly faking it. honey, if i can tell from across the courtyard, that's not good.

note to self: courtyard amplifies every sound to an echo in the middle of the night.

thank the lord; the turboslut's seemingly insatiable appetite has been quelled. well done, manskank neighbor/possible random dude doing my neighbor. now that i think about it, the he-whore could be my neighbor, and the vocal vixen could be a random?

OMG AGAIN? seriously people. can you both please just be done with it already?

it's 2:47am in sherman oaks. somebody's daughter just got laid.


forever is a long time

at a recent dinner out with my mother, while discussing my friend's relationship, momma b encouraged my friend to not rush into marriage with her boyfriend of four years because, "forever is a long time." she continued to explain that she met poppa b when she was 18, and they've been together for the past 35 years (i'll save you the effort of getting the calculator. she's 53. she'll also love that i just told everyone how old she is. that's right, mom. oh, and you said you were telling all your friends to read my blog! they all know how old you are now! oops!! see you next tuesday!).

momma b continued to explain that when faced with the prospect of spending the next 35 years of her life with my dearest poppa b, "forever" is just far too long. well, as you may imagine, i didn't like the sound of that one bit. doesn't she know that she and poppa b are stuck together for the rest of their lives? they're my parents, and they're forced to be in love, damnit! but as crazy as momma b's comments about her future with poppa b were, she did have a point. forever is a long freakin' time.

so with no end in sight for eternity, why is everyone in such a rush to sign up for forever these days? why is it that every time i log on to facebook, i see another person i know engaged or married? am i the only one who thinks anyone my age getting married is insane? am i the only one who thinks anyone getting married younger than me must be under the imperius curse and i that i must have suddenly been transported to harry potter world? (in which case i would be in heaven, because then i could join dumbledore's army and help defeat voldemort. rad). am i the only one for whom the thought of committing to a lifetime of, well, commitment, seems a bit drastic? can't you love someone, want to be with someone and live with someone without running to the nearest preacher, shoving a ring on your partner's finger and proudly calling yourselves "mr. and mrs?

call me a naysayer, call me unromantic, call me a murderer of love, but i just don't get what the big rush is. if you've really got forever with this person, would it hurt to wait a few years before getting married? and that's where momma and poppa b got it right. they may have fell in love when they were 18, but they didn't get married until they were 28. they had 10 years together to learn each other's annoying habits, criticize each other's flaws, hate each other, learn to love each other again, and know (not think) that they wanted forever.

and that's when i told momma b that i had the perfect way to keep them together forever. after momma and poppa b both kick the bucket (future R.I.P. mommy and daddy i love and miss you), i will have their bodies cremated together so that their ashes merge and become one. i will then have their ashes mixed into a cement block, which i will drop into the marianas trench, the deepest point in the ocean. now that's forever.


thank the sweet baby jesus lying in his manger in heaven, swaddled and smelling of baby powder, lordly holliness and angel farts.

after a month apart, i have finally been reunited with my love! i am thrilled!! i've missed her terribly, worse than the deserts miss the rain, even. while we were apart, i frequently longed for her, and thought about the many gifts she's given me. i couldn't have lived without her much longer, and now that we're back together, i feel like myself again; she makes me whole. yes, i'd like to proudly welcome you back into my life, television.

as the cable man plugged you in, i saw you spark to life, and it was like coming home after a long night of drinking buckets of Miller Lite. my soul soared at the first hints of your dulcet tones; i swear i nearly cried when i heard the familiar (and deeply missed in your absence) "ba-da-da-da-daa" of the mcdonald's commercial. if there's one thing i'm loving, it's having you back in my life, baby.

as i felt your smooth remote slide into my hand, an overwhelming ecstasy came over me. i slipped. i spun. i swooned. and you knew just what to do. as i pushed your buttons, you pushed them right back. mmmmm... america's next top model marathon. oooooh.... lockup:raw! YES! america's best dance crew! dear god, you know how to turn me on, television! i can't remember when i was last this excited!

i know we were meant to be, tv. we're two peas in a pod; a perfect match, like the slow and lumbering giant robot elephants used by the reupublic in the return of the jedi and real-life elephants, which are equally lumbering but probably faster, and have the disadvantage of being made out of flesh rather than made-in-the-future-supermetal. i bet it's a lot easier to blow up a real elephant than a robot elephant.

anyway, television, i'll never leave you again. it's you and me forever, baby. we'll just have to keep it down at night so the neighbors don't complain. if they do, they're just jealous and probably not getting any.


have a nice life

recently, a friend of mine (in what was obviously a moment of insanity, because i'm perfect), got upset with me and told me, "have a nice life." this threw me for a loop because i'm pretty sure she wasn't telling me to have anything "nice" at all. in fact, i got the distinct feeling that what she meant was "fuck you." this got me started thinking: why don't we just say what we mean?

why do we, when asked how we're doing, automatically respond with "fine" or "good?" i know that half the time, neither of those words describe how i feel, and that a more appropriate response would be something like "hungry," "annoyed that i have to be here talking to you," or "terrified that the spider i saw in my room earlier crawled into my shoe when i wasn't looking and is now biting my toe, infecting me with poisonous venom." why are we so hesitant to tell people what's really on our mind?

i think we should all make an effort to be more open and honest with those around us. perhaps we ought to take a cue from my homeless friend (http://sparkleize.blogspot.com/2008/04/sparkleize-your-life.html), who proudly showed me how much he hated me. imagine that this could be you: you're tired, you're hungry, you've been stuck in traffic for hours, and when you walk into a restaurant, your waitress is a 12 year old girl with acne, brightly-colored braces, and the most obnoxious voice you could've imagined. when she squeaks, "hi, how are you?" wouldn't it be nice to respond, "i'll be a lot better once you get me a drink and some fried food to distract me from that whitehead on your forehead and that nails-on-chalkboard thing you call a voice. now get out of my face before i punch you in the ovaries and make you infertile so you cannot possibly produce spawn that would doubtlessly be as annoying as you are."

doesn't that sound like a great world to live in? have a nice life!

hamburger hater

i have a confession to make. you're going to respond like everyone else when i say this, so i'm prepared to accept your dismayed gasp, but i want you to understand. this is just who i am. i was born this way, and i will always be this way, so please just love and accept me as i am. yes, the rumors you may have heard are true: i, rachel morgan, am a hamburger hater.

i know what you're thinking - i must be out of my mind, i'm a disgrace to the human population, i'm so evil that i probably eat babyburgers instead of hamburgers, blah blah blah - but just hear me out. i have never had a hambuger. ever. in my life. ever. (nor have i had a babybuger. i sniffed at one once, but decided the aroma was alltogether too sweet for my taste). allow me to explain...

before rachel morgan was even a glint in her parents' eye, poppa b and momma b were some serious hippies. they lived in sin, traveled the country in a van, lived in a tepee, wore native american jewelery, did things that i'm certain they don't want mentioned here, had long scraggly hair and were, of course, vegetarians. by the time little baby rachel morgan came screaming (for ice cream, magic nursery dolls and patent-leather mary janes) into their lives, momma and poppa b were eating poultry and fish, but they hadn't strayed from their "peace and love" roots enough to bring home the beef (or pork or lamb for that matter).

therefore, little rachel morgan and her little brother b were raised knowing the taste-bud-tempting of turkey, the caresses of chicken and the delight of duck, but there wasn't a sliver of steak or a piece of pepperoni to be found in their lives. rachel morgan knew that her eating habits made her different than the other kids at school, who excitedly ordered up hamburger after hamburger. but she didn't care; she held her high, ordered a chicken sandwich, and went to town.

years later, when little brother b was in junior high, he was a scrawny little thing. his arms looked like toothpicks, ready to snap, and his beautiful long blonde hair made him look like a delicate little princess of a girl (seriously, he was so adorable, and i always took evil delight when people would ask my parents how old their "daughters" were). momma and poppa b had only one solution: he needed to beef up with some red meat.

so one day, momma and poppa b brought home some nice, thick, juicy steaks. horrified, rachel morgan watched her onetime poultry-loving mother tenderly tenderize the meat. she sat aghast, watching the bloody juice drip down her parents and brother's happily carnivorous chins. when they waved a chunk of meat past her nose, rachel morgan said "no way" (it smelled worse than the babyburger), and ate her turkey dog in solitude.

as she grew older, more and more people tried to tempt rachel morgan to give in to her carnal impulses, but she always stood her ground firmly. the dreaded red never passed her lips (except on one drunken occasion on which she mistakenly took a meatball to be a chocolate ball of deliciousness. its an easy mistake to make if you drink enough, trust me. and in case you were wondering, she didn't swallow), and rachel morgan always explained that she was just not interested. it was just who she was.

well, that's my story. it feels so nice to get that off my chest, and finally be out and proud about my distaste for beef. I LOVE CHICKEN! i could scream it from the rooftops. save a cow, eat a chicken.

an educational tour of the united states of america

a few years ago, while spending a lonely insomniatic hour browsing the internet, something spurred me to look up the slogans for our 50 wonderful states. instantly, i needed to make fun of them: the states, their residents, and most of all, their ridiculous slogans. here's part one of the series: enjoy!

alaska - "beyond your dreams, within your reach." first of all, i understand where they are going with the whole "beyond your dreams" thing (ie unparalleled natural beauty), but i must say... this just sounds stupid. its something straight out of some power ballad in which some long haired 80s rocker dude laments losing his awesome chick. the lyrics would be something along the lines of, "baby, you were beyond my dreams/girl, you were within my reach." sounds like a number one hit to me!

idaho - "great potatoes. tasty destinations." i'm pretty confident that 99% of my friends would mention potatoes within five seconds of being asked to tell me what they know about idaho. don't get me wrong, i love a great idaho potato. but is that seriously all the state has to offer? it kinda makes me sad that potatoes get top billing and that the entire rest of the state just falls under the generic "tasty destinations" canopy. you poor idahoians!

louisiana - "come as you are. leave different." this slogan implies that louisiana will somehow change your life. however - the tone is so imperative that it almost seems to command that the visitor make some sort of drastic, life changing decision. i'm sorry. i've been to louisiana, and let me assure you that all i did was leave poorer and drunker (i heart new orleans). its a wonderful state, but it could benefit from a swift kick in the ass based on this lameo slogan.

michigan - "great lakes, great times; more to see." michigan, michigan, michigan. i will not be too harsh on you because you've given me many wonderful years in ann arbor. but, seriously. yes, we all know you have great lakes. and yes, i can attest to the fact that great times abound in michigan. but what is this more to see bullshit? it just seems like such a desperate ploy, like the state tourism board sat around and said, "who could turn down the lure of the unspecified MORE?!?!" just pick something specific! "great lakes, great times; michigan fotball." thats my new suggestion, people.

nevada - "wide open." ok this one was just asking for it. as we all know, nevada is home to the wonderful city of las vegas, where there are many things "wide open." strippers' legs. hookers' legs. showgirls' legs. drunk tourists' legs (and wallets). obviously, "wide open" is a delicate allusion to the mass quantities of drunken hooker sex that goes on in this state, all while vieled as a comment about the desert landscape. i think they shoud just be honest and up-front about the whole thing. i perfer, "nevada: come get fucked here!"

north dakota - "legendary." FOR WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

south dakota - "great faces. great places." this slogan makes the list for two reasons. 1) south dakota totally ripped off south carolina's slogan, "smiling faces, beautiful places." way to not use any imagination, south dakota. 2) i was not aware that south dakota was the hotbed of breeding beautiful people with "great faces!!" i must have forgotten about all of the supermodels from south dakota! seriously - at least south carolina was smart enough to claim that people there just smile a lot... you don't hear them making false claims about their attractive citizens!

wisconsin - "stay just a little bit longer." is this a slogan or a pathetic pick up line? wisconsin, are you just trying to get me in bed by whispering sweet nothings in my ear? do i look like the kind of girl who puts out?? what exactly do you think will happen if i "stay just a little bit longer?" this slogan might as well say, "nice pants. they'd look better on wisconsin's floor."

thats all for now. i hope you all enjoyed learning a little bit more about the wonders of our distinguished and proud country!

pps: i love you. yes, you.

those crazy foreigners

my roommate, SR, and i moved into our new apartment nearly a month ago. specifics about the apartment aren't important to this story, so i won't bore you with detailed descriptions of the raddest oak tree you've ever seen or stories about the insane things my cat does on the stairs (seriously, she is like a mildly-retarded, poorly balanced acrobat cat. it's endlessly entertaining). however, it is important to know that our small apartment building has a quiet courtyard, over which one bedroom in each unit overlooks.

as SR and i moved in, carrying our worldly possessions in overstuffed arms for trip after seemingly-endless trip from the car, we began to notice our neighbors. the young couple across the courtyard have a cute puppy and seem nice. the people who live on one side of our apartment are vampires, and only walk the earth during the witching hours of the night (seriously, i have never seen these people, their shades are always drawn and i hear them making spooky noises during the night. someone call buffy. i'll get the stake.). the people who live on the other side of us are even more evil than the vampires and complain about any little peep they hear coming from our apartment. more on those bastards later.

anyway, the neighbors who stood out to us the most were the people we simply dubbed "the foreigners." the first time i saw the foreigners, i was walking to my door, nearly toppling over from the combined weight of 10 miniskirts, one small pink tinsel christmas tree and a painfully heavy box of books. as i walked through the courtyard, they were sitting there: four men, smoking cigarettes, speaking in an unintelligible language and staring at me. "how much you pay rent?" brusquely asked weird-bleach-blond-foreigner. i told him how much we pay (although a classy lady like myself finds it tacky to publicly discuss issues of finance), hoisted up the slipping box of books and hurried to the safety of my apartment.

from then on, we encountered the foreigners nearly every day. they were always there, congregated in a group of at least three, smoking and talking (in foreign speak, of course). and every time, they had a comment for me. "hi how are you?" "nice weather today." "what are you doing tonight?" "going to work?" each time, i was polite; i smiled, responded to whatever ridiculously unwelcome comment or question they'd posed to me, put my head down, and hurried on my way.

SR and i began to wonder endlessly about them behind closed doors. we wondered if they could be gay? we never saw women there, just an indistinguishable (except for weird-bleach-blond-foreigner; he's always stuck out as the head foreigner and was usually the one asking questions. and his hair is seriously ridiculous looking) group of men. we quickly realized that they weren't gay - they were just foreign! its a common mistake, i think. we then began to ask each other, "how many people live there?" it was impossible to tell. there was always such a large and random assortment of men that we never knew who was in fact, our neighbor. i envisioned the inside of their apartment to look like a refugee camp, with cots covering every inch of the floor, and chickens clucking around the men's ankles.

last week, SR and i decided to have a quiet evening in rather than going out. we made margaritas, had dinner, popped in a dvd, laughed, painted our nails, braided each other's hair, had a pillowfight... you know, typical girl stuff. ok well i lied; we didn't do all of those things, but we definitely did the margaritas. and then wine, because everyone knows that nothing washes down a nice blended margarita better than a bottle of wine... or two. needless to say, we were pretty schnockered by 8:30. but SR and i had a craving. we had a need, a burning desire, a gaping hole in our lives that could only be filled by one thing: more margartias, obviously!

on a quest for more tequila, SR and i hopped on our trusty steeds, ShimmerStar and Princess, the pretty unicorns i got for my birthday last year (if this part of the story seems to deviate from the truth, you're wrong. after two bottles of wine and several margaritas each, SR and i would never think about driving to the liquor store. we obviously took the unicorns). ShimmerStar and Princess galloped as quickly as they could, and before we knew it, we were parking them in the parking lot, and happily headed back to our apartment.

lo and behold, the foreigners were in the courtyard. it was the largest group of them i'd seen, and i imagined that there must be an exciting party going on inside the refugee camp that night. right on cue, weird-bleach-blonde foreigner attempts to strike up conversation. in my innebriated state, i was delighted to talk to them! SR went inside to make more margaritas, while i engaged the men in conversation. with all eyes on me, they asked my name. i told them. i probably didn't ask their names; i had more important issues to discuss.

"where are you from?" i slurred. "israel." "ooooohhhhhhh," i said, sober enough to internally kick myself for not even coming close to recognizing the language i'd been forced to study for seven years. "i'm a jew!" i happily announced. well, let me tell you; if they liked me before, they loved me now. "she's a shiksa?" they asked of SR, who realized that she ought not leave me with a bunch of strange men and had come to my rescue. the foreigners invite us in. too drunk to think that we should say no, we happily agreed and entered the refugee camp. to my dismay, there were no chickens and not even one cot. rather, there was an average looking apartment with a living room full of irritated-looking women and rambunctious children.

we sat at the dining room table with the men, ate the cake they gave us, and drank the mystery wine they handed us in small plastic cups. "who lives here?" i demanded (SR later told me that i asked that question at least ten times. i still don't know who lives there). they asked me if i had ever been to israel (yes) and if i was single (yes). They then introduced me to the two guys there around my age and told me i should date them (at which point SR erupted in hysterical giggles). they asked me where i went to temple, and i told them that i don't (i'm strictly a cultural jew). they asked if i used to go to temple, and i said yes; when i told them where, they started speaking in hebrew, laughed and said, "rich girl."

while i was attempting to remember hebrew (my mastery of the following words make me an ideal isreali tourist: mom, dad, yes, no and rainbow), SR began having a sword fight with one of the kids. the women remained seated on the couch, silent and with their arms crossed (in retrospect i realize that they clearly hated us for stealing their men) the entire time we were there. SR disappeared with the oldest foreigner, taking him to our apartment to discuss furniture (i'm going to start a rumor that there was some hanky-panky going on because, lets face it, that makes this story much more interesting), and after a few minutes of feeling the women's eyes burning the words "get out" on the back of my head, i thanked our hosts and retired.

the next day (after SR kicked the old foreigner out of her bed), we were both a little fuzzy about what had happened. did we really go hang out with the foreigners? did we really drink mystery booze that they handed us? yes, we did all of those things. i woke up with one of their business cards in my pocket. proof.

its been a week, and seeing the foreigners in the courtyard is worse than ever now that they think we're friends (psh! i drunkenly make friends all the time! they're not special!). now when i walk past, they call me "shoshanna" and ask me if i liked their cake. i wonder if i told them my name was shoshanna? it's a possibility. i lie and tell them that their cake was incredible. they tell me to come over for more cake anytime. i wonder how i can avoid the foreigners for the next 11 months.


sparkleize your life

a few weeks ago, i was getting off the 405 S at the wilshire E exit (you know, the ramp that makes a big loop to dump you back out onto wilshire), and as i approached the end of the ramp, where there is a crosswalk, i noticed that there was a man walking E on wilshire, so i slowed to a stop. there were no cars in front of me; just me (in my shiny big SUV) and the guy (walking down wilshire). ok, it was more like me (in a nice mercedes) and the guy (who was homeless, filthy and batshit crazy).

as i stopped to let him cross, the homeless guy decided to let me know how he really felt about my existence. he turned to face my car, sneered at me like i was the scum of the earth, maintained his best crazy eye and flipped me off. with both hands, as he walked past.

i was momentarily torn; was this hilarious, or frightening? how did i really feel about being put in my place by a man for whom the street lamp is an excellent conversationalist and for whom the phrase "cleanliness is next to godliness" is a totally forign concept? of course, a large part of me pities the guy and knows that he probably used to be a relatively normal dude until drugs, alcohol or mental illness got to him. however, WTF, man? i didn't do anything wrong! why did he have to go and make me feel like some sort of bad person for having a car, a nice bed to sleep in and a toothbrush?

so i decided that what he really needed was to SPARKLEIZE his life. everyone needs a little sparkle in their lives sometimes - he was just in dire need at that exact moment! sadly, i didn't come to this realization until recently, so i haven't been able to offer him a cute headband to keep his long locks out of his face or a nice eye cream to help reduce those pesky crows' feet. i now keep a stash of sparkleizing products/items/accessories in my car at all times, ready to throw them at my newfound friend.

so if you see a pissed-off looking homeless dude giving you the stinkeye, just smile and give him some gum. sparkleize his life!