oopsie daisy

Your Tweets Bug Me

Now that Google+ has made Twitter and Facebook totally obsolete, I figured I could  finally post my list of Top 10 Things on Twitter that drive me absolutely bananas without actually offending anyone. Because, apparently, offending people is now something I care about? (No, not really.) (Also: that's how Google+ works, right? It makes all other social networks "ohmygod, sooooo yesterday?" I don't actually know because the whole thing is too much geometry for me and instead of making an effort to figure it out, I'd rather spend my free time sitting on the couch knotting friendship bracelets and watching "Pretty Little Liars" on ABC Family. Just like every other 30-something woman you know.)

Anyway, enough bragging about my amazing life, let me get to the part where I denounce yours.

See, here's the thing. I would never call my best friend and announce, “Wow, I just had the best cup of Blue Bottle coffee!” and that’s not *just* because I am not a weirdo hipster who orgasms when my coffee comes with a perfectly drawn can of PBR in the foam. No, it’s because I’m alive, and as a result, am unfortunately forced to interact with people on an almost-daily basis, and you know what I’ve learned about people? They don’t care about my coffee. Or my commute. Or my job. Or my vagina. (Okay, fine, they care about my vagina. Rather, they did before I got in a relationship and it shriveled up and died.) And yet, for whatever reason, with the invention of Facebook and Twitter, people now feel that they need to elucidate their friends and followers on the most mundane, and frankly, pathetic aspects of their lives.

Listen, Bob, we barely even spoke in high school, so I promise that I do not need to hear about how your daughter’s diaper smelled like rotting whale carcass. Also, you’re a man, so no one even believes you change your daughter’s diapers! Stop lying, Bob. Also: HIDE. UNFOLLOW. DEFRIEND.

And yes, I realize that the bitching about how people share stupid things we don’t care about (like their morning coffee) on Twitter has been done a bazillion times, but you know who hasn’t made a list of things she can’t stand seeing on Twitter? That’s right: ME. And since I follow people who bug me (NOT YOU, OBVIOUSLY) just so I can get a feeling of superiority when they tweet yet AGAIN about their emotions (Seriously, who does that? So gross.), I’m totally qualified to write a list like this.

So here goes. In no particular order.

SHIT PEOPLE DO ON TWITTER THAT THEY SHOULD REALLY STOP DOING RIGHT THIS SECOND. (PLEASE.)

1. Oh, you cleaned your apartment? Since you're tweeting about it, it appears you’ll be shocked to hear that no one cares! There's not one single soul who wants to hear how many hours you spent with a bottle of 409 in your hand unless, of course, you're tweeting about how you're trying to get the blood of a dead hooker out of your carpet. Also, why do you have carpet and not hardwood? Gross.

2. It's even grosser that you have carpet since you have a dog. And yes, I know. Your dog is cute. Your dog is silly. Your dog has really stinky farts. I get it: You love your dog. That’s awesome. But guess what? He doesn’t need his own Twitter account. SERIOUSLY. Unless your dog is actually a magic typing dog in which case, WHY ARE YOU NOT A BIZILLIONAIRE?

3. Along those lines…you love your baby. Not gonna lie, your tweets would be a lot more interesting if you couldn’t stand that thing, but since she’s over a decade away from puberty, you might as well come to terms with that fact that right now, all she can do is sleep and shit, and I promise you, no one cares. She's even less interesting than a dog!

Even worse is when you decide to speak for her. “My daddy is so great; he took me to the park today!” Listen buddy: You can tweet that your seven month old is thinking that, and you can even believe it if you want, but we all know that all she actually thinks about is her mommy’s boobs. Also, no girl ever says, “My daddy is so great,” unless he gives her a BMW for her sweet 16. That’s right, dude. Better start saving.

4. Oh no! Thoughts of expensive BMWs keeping you up at night? Can't fall asleep for the life of you? MAYBE IT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE PLAYING WITH YOUR PHONE INSTEAD OF LYING IN BED WITH YOUR EYES CLOSED. Next time I can’t sleep, I think I’ll send a singing telegram to your house, which isn’t actually a parallel experience, but will definitely be super annoying—just like your 3 a.m. insomnia tweets.

5. Frankly, it's a little weird that you can't fall asleep, since you were home at 10 p.m. to watch "Top Chef" just like you are EVERY Wednesday night, but I'm not going to judge you. (Lie.) I do, however, want to be very clear that I swear to god, if you post who got kicked off immediately after the show airs one more time, I am going to move to the East Coast so I can see it before you and then invent teleportation so that I can come back to San Francisco at 9:58 p.m. your time and stand outside your home with a megaphone blurting out the name of the person who got sent home. And yes, I get that it might be hard to invent teleportation, but even if it takes me the rest of my life, it will be time well spent in order to punish you for doing something as egregious as putting a spoiler in your tweet.

6. And sure, I get it. You don't care what I think about your constant barrage of reality TV spoilers because you have real friends who are THE BEST! You’re the luckiest person in the whole world because ohmygod, they're the most amazing friends in the whole wide world. They totally get you and you just feel so close to them right now. BFFs 4EVA! You know what else? YOU’RE WASTED. Stop tweeting and do another shot.

7. And yes, I get it you don't even have to pay for the shot because, yet again, you’re at a super exclusive invite-only event and it’s the most amazing thing ever. You can’t believe you got to meet [C-list celebrity] and how awesome the goodie bags are! I mean, sure you already have a [highly coveted tech item] because you got one the day it came out because you’re you, but you can totally use another one that you'll put in a drawer and forget about. No, you should definitely keep tweeting about it because I’m pretty sure everyone loves a showoff. And don’t forget to mention that right after this, you have to hop on the red eye to fly to [exotic place] for work, but it’s fine because you totally got upgraded to first class. I know it’s super hard to imagine this, but some of us are always smooshed in the middle seat between a fat person and a drunk guy with a cold, so we definitely want to hear more about your free champagne. No seriously. GO ON…

8. Oh, go on? You don't mind if you do! Because, guys! Something amazing just happened. It’s so exciting! You couldn’t be happier! Life as you know it is probably going to change forever. But, "Oops, I can't actually tell you what it is!"

Here’s a tip: if it’s a secret, then shut the fuck up and stop tweeting vague hints that scream, “You should totally ask me what happened because my parents didn’t give me enough attention when I was a child.”

9. Speaking of attention: No one cares if your email in-box is at 6 million or six. We get it. You get a lot of email. So do we all. Sure, most of mine is from Neiman Marcus and Shopbop, but that still totally counts as email and yet you never hear me bitching about it. So don't bother announcing to all of your followers that you finally got your inbox down to zero, because I promise no one is going to show up on your doorstep with a bottle of Veuve and a cookie.

10. And finally! Now that you got all of that email out of the way, why not go on a run? A five mile run! Or yoga every single day for a month! Better yet, get up at 5 a.m. to meet with your trainer. Okay okay, I get it! Not only are you smarter and more efficient than I am, you're also in better shape! Good for you. Honestly, I hope you kick ass in your marathon. Just please don't make me read about it over breakfast while I'm dipping my donuts (plural) in coffee (Irish). Thank you for all that you do.

God, that felt good. Probably the only thing left to do is hit "publish" and then go tweet about it!

The Bicycle Diaries: When good things go wrong and then a stranger gives you strawberries.

When I was a kid, I got a blue ten-speed for my birthday. Owning a bicycle was a requirement in my family since we seriously did things on the weekend like mandatory family bike rides across the Golden Gate Bridge to get ice cream in Sausalito (It sounds far more well-adjusted than it was; I promise). But then I turned fourteen, my mom sent me off to boarding school in Connecticut, and my ten-speed never left the storage room again. And I never owned another bicycle again.

In fact, other than a few beach cruisers here and there (only one of which I fell off of due to severe intoxication—twice, fine! three times), I haven’t really ridden a bike since I was thirteen.

But when I spotted my first PUBLIC bike—the clean lines, the fun colors, the elegant design—I knew I had to have one. Am I a “cyclist?” Hell, no. Do I like pretty things? Absofuckinlutely. Am I basically comparing a bicycle to a handbag? Yes. But a handbag with magical transportation powers!

Campfriend surprised me with the super-fanciest of PUBLIC bikes on my birthday. It was the first time in my life I was ever rewarded for being patient because if I’d bought it on my own, I definitely would have gone for the one that was half the price. I was excited, but also nervous. So nervous, in fact, that the bike just leaned casually (on its kickstand!) in my living room for almost two weeks. And yes, I love that my bicycle has a kickstand; I mean, isn’t that one of the best features of a bike? It’s so James Dean.

Eventually though, I realized that Campfriend probably wanted me to, you know, actually RIDE the bike, so we set out on an adventure through Golden Gate Park. And then we rode through the oldest redwoods in the world. And then by the Truckee River in Tahoe. Turns out the bike wasn’t just pretty, but it was fun. And practical! Like a vacuum cleaner, but BETTER.

Despite all our adventures, however, two months had passed and I still hadn’t ridden the bike (how to say this without sounding like a kindergartener?) without adult supervision. (Shit. Failed.) So when my dinner plans on Tuesday night were in a neighborhood with horrible parking and just far enough away that I didn’t want to walk, it hit me: That’s a place a bicycle could go!

So I looked up the flattest route on BikeMapper, grabbed my helmet and lock, and rode the 1.2 miles to the restaurant. ALL. BY. MYSELF.

And yes, I had to text my brother and Campfriend to find out how I was supposed to lock the bike. And yes, I basically panicked the entire dinner because I couldn’t see it and why WOULDN’T someone try to steal it. And if they didn’t steal IT, wouldn’t they probably try to steal my adorable red bell that perfectly matches my brake cable? And, fine, when I left and a pedestrian complimented me on my bike as I rode across the intersection, I *may* have said, “Thanks! It’s the first time I’ve ridden it alone!”

Who’s a big girl now? WHO IS?

But it was actually fun. And efficient. And so much faster than driving.

So when I went to meet my friend Matt for dinner the next night at a restaurant that was only 1.7 miles away from my house, I decided it was time to take my bicycle out for our second night of alone time. Yup, I move fast. Which probably isn't something I had to tell you since you *are* reading my blog.

Riding to the restaurant was easy. A ton of downhill, very little traffic, and the only issue I had was when I realized that because I’m on a bicycle, I now talk to strangers. For example: to the man rushing to jaywalk in front of me: “Oh! Don’t worry! I won’t hit you!” because the thing about riding a bike is, you're flying down the street, the wind is in your hair (that is obviously mostly covered with your helmet) and it just feels good and that makes me super friendly. Who knew? Also: awkward!

After a delicious dinner during which I found out that I’d been holding a serious grudge against Matt for something that never even actually happened (oopsie!), I got back on my bicycle, waved at Matt and rode away while literally yelling, “LOOK AT ME! I’M RIDING A BIKE!” 

Thirty seconds later? BAM! A car rear-ended me while I was at a complete stop at a red light and I flew off of my bicycle and slammed onto the pavement.

Yup, that’s right. I rode my bike all by myself TWICE and was hit by a car.

The police and fire engine were there within minutes and, luckily, the bicycle’s injuries were far worse than mine. I was shaken up, pretty sore, and crying like I’d just found out they cancelled “My So-Called Life,” but ultimately, I was going to be okay.

Police reports were filed, information exchanged, and Gina, the woman who hit me, even gave us two baskets of organic strawberries she’d just picked. Apparently, in San Francisco, getting hit by a car comes with party favors. I love this town! 

As night fell, the fire truck drove away, I shook hands with the police officers, and, finally, it was just the three of us—me, Matt, and Gina—waiting for my brother, Todd, to come pick me up. I was still sniffling, Gina was still apologizing profusely, and Matt? He turned to Gina and said:

“I have to say: A lot of Daisy’s friends want to ram her in the ass, but I never thought I'd see a stranger just go ahead and do it.”

And then he popped a strawberry in his mouth and said, "Wow. These are delicious." Which, to be fair, they were.

Spin: The Bottle.

Ever since Tom's departure, I've been struggling to find a spin class I truly love. There's Danny, who upon finding out that I was a Tom-devotee, told me he would neither yell at me or flirt with me. (Um, then what's the point?)

There's Shermineh who thinks of her class as a bar mitvah with a spring break rave theme, sings "Welcome to Ibiza!" into her microphone, and bends over a lot so that every person in the room is sure to see her neon thong, which, of course, perfectly matches her skimpy sports bra.

And then there's Jorge.

I found myself in Jorge's class earlier this week, despite the fact that in previous classes he screamed "PUSH! PUSH! PUSH! PUSH!" for the entire 50 minutes. (Jorge: I'm spinning, not giving birth.)

This class was no different. Lectures about how "It's 80% food and 20% exercise" abounded. "If it's on your body, it's because you ate it!" "Summer is here! Don't you want to look HOT in your shorts and tank tops?" (Jorge: we live in San Francisco. What are these "shorts" things of which you speak?)

And then, my personal favorite:

"Put those sexy asses back and PUSH and PUSH and PUSH and PUSH."

Over. And over. And over again.

I went along with the class. I pushed. I put my sexy ass back. I even marched with my arms when he made us.

But when he yelled for everyone to whip her towel over her head, I just couldn't do it. We're not at a night club. We're not at a baseball game. We're at spin. Sorry Jorge, but even I have to draw the line somewhere.

After the towel-rave, towards the end of class, Jorge gave us another lecture burning fat and not muscle (something to do with when you consume food blah blah blah). Then he screamed into his microphone asking, "What are you going to do after class?!"

A chorus of blond girls in cropped pants and skin-tight tanks verbally orgasmed, "EAT!!!!"

But then there was one voice that rose above the crowd. One voice that seemed like it should have a hard time being heard over music, but suddenly was loud and forceful. One voice that bellowed:

"DRINK!!!!!!"

If records were still a thing, one definitely would have scratched.

I looked around the room to see who'd said it. Clearly there was at least one girl in this room with whom I had a kinship. One girl I'd commiserate with after class in the locker room. One girl who also kept a bottle of vodka under her pillow at night, just in case.

But then I realized everyone was looking at me.

That I was the girl who'd yelled to the room about how she couldn't wait to get drunk. That instead of mass-climaxing to the mere thought of a tuna sushi roll, I'd shot my load, loudly and unapologetically, over an ice-cold bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

Jorge looked at me slowly, his eyes moving up and down over my body, and finally said, "Well, at least you're honest."

And then I remembered.

Three weeks prior, as class was winding down, Jorge had opened up to us about his struggles. With weight. With self-esteem. And, last but not least, with alcoholism.

"Waiter, another bottle, please."

I'll Try Anything Once: Dressing Like Lady Gaga At A Baseball Game | xoJane

via www.xojane.com

And then THIS happened.

Just Call Me Dr. Feelgood

If you were at the concert of a lifetime, a concert you’d been looking forward to for months, and suddenly your boyfriend turned to you and said, “I’m in a lot of pain; I think I’m going to have to go to the Emergency Room,” what would you do?

OKAY WAIT. DON’T ANSWER THAT.

Before you answer, imagine that this was a concert you were so giddy with anticipation about that you basically stopped being productive at work weeks before it even happened. A concert you’d been dreaming about since you were 12. Um, did I mention that the concert was Poison and Mötley Crüe? And that, like, well who cares: POISON! AND MÖTLEY CRÜE! Together! Despite the fact that a long time ago, Nikki Sixx said, “No way in fucking hell” that Mötley “would ever, ever tour with a fucking band like Poison,” ’cause “That would be the death of us… I will not be attached to that kind of fake bullshit.”

I KNOW, RIGHT? POISON AND MÖTLEY CRÜE. TOGETHER IN SAN FRANCISCO. ONE NIGHT ONLY!!!

So anyway, you’re two songs into Poison and they’ve just played (well, who can really remember the order of the songs after drinking that much vodka? But something like) “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” and you’re having the best time of your life (YOUR LIFE!) and your boyfriend comes up to you and says, “I’m having really bad pain in my abdomen. I think I have to go to the ER.”

WHAT DO YOU DO?

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Silly, Daisy. Like there’s even a choice.”

So yeah. DUH. You tell him to call you when he gets there and that you’ll leave the concert the second Mötley Crüe has played their (very) last song (which you really hope is “Kickstart My Heart”). Probably, you know, no more than a couple of hours from now.

And then he leaves to go to the ER or wherever and OHMYGOD, ARE THEY PLAYING “FALLEN ANGEL?” You die. You die! And then you do the dance you made up to that song in 6th grade. Because, well, mmmmmm VODKA. AND POISON!

SO THERE YOU ARE, MANY VODKA DRINKS AND POISION AND CRÜE SONGS LATER AND YOUR PHONE RINGS AND…

It’s your boyfriend. From the actual Emergency Room. Which, sure, you kind of knew he was going to, but shit. Really?

And so you stumble outside (BEFORE THE ENCORE, FOR THE RECORD; IT’S NOT LIKE YOU’RE TOTALLY HEARTLESS) and see that there aren’t any taxis except that one that those people are about to get into and so you do what any polite person who basically waited two hours to be with her probably-about-to-die boyfriend would do:

“MY BOYFRIEND IS IN THE HOSPITAL! I NEED THIS TAXI. PLEASE!”

And then you go to the ER and you’re very drunk and you’re definitely wearing an off-the-shoulder tee and a bright pink tank and giant hoop earrings and sparkly wrists cuffs and okay fine, your hair is DEFINITELY crimped, like A LOT. But you don’t care (yet) because holy crap, your boyfriend is getting rolled into a room for a CT and no, you cannot stay in the room and watch and take pictures, and oops! He ripped a blood vessel open and has internal bleeding in his abdomen and now the hospital is holding him hostage and it’s really hard to sleep in a chair, but you do it anyway because that’s what you do as a girlfriend. You ignore your boyfriend when he says he’s going to the Emergency Room and then make it up to him by sleeping next to him in a chair with a hospital blanket over your head that you don’t take off even when the six doctors come into the room to examine him and tell him if he’s going to live or not.

But guess what? That chair is not your punishment. No no no.

There’s a special punishment for you, selfish girlfriend who picked Bret Michaels and Tommy Lee over the love of your life (or whatever it is you call your boyfriend, you sappy weirdo). You now have to rock your Mötley Crüe /Poison outfit, replete with greasy crimped hair for the next TWENTY HOURS while you wait to find out if your boyfriend needs surgery.

Which, you find out two days later, lucky you (and by “you” obviously I mean “him), he does not.

Anyway, the reason I wrote this is that I know you may be harshly judging you for staying at the concert, but I just want to say, and everyone knows I’m totally qualified to make statements like this because I’m super good at things like dating and, well, dating, but…don’t you worry your pretty little (crimped hair) head off:

YOU TOTALLY DID THE RIGHT THING.

But if this ever happens again? Well…

Oh who are we kidding? This will never happen again. If Skid Row and Guns n’ Roses decide to tour next summer, he’s totally not invited.