Papa don't preach

Dear Diary,

Lately, my life has been a continuous acid trip. And not the good kind where you feel inspired and find yourself writing incredible songs à la John Lennon. No. It has been unsettling, nauseating even. 

Just today, Laura sat me down after a long session at the gym and told me she had some important news. The last time she told me she had important news was a week ago when she declared she was pregnant so I was bracing myself for the worst. In fact, even before we went to the gym, I could sense she had some grave stuff in store because she was wearing a headband. Laura only ever wore headbands when she wanted to look serious because the pressure from the pinch made her face scrunch up and look quite pensive. I guess it's easier than actually growing some brain cells. 

Anyhow, Laura has decided she is keeping the baby. Cut to me with my Taylor Swift surprised facial expression. Seriously? Who did Laura think she was? Bristol Palin? I didn't want to sound unsupportive or anything but any comforting words would be specious crap. She had to hear the truth. Cut to Laura telling me I am a superficial bitch who deserves a Louboutin up her ass. After a couple weak fashion-related insults, Laura left the room ripping off her headband and slamming the door behind her. I had an inkling at that moment that we weren't going to be friends anymore. And I was right. The snide little hussy had made it official and deleted me from her friends list on facebook.

When I got home, William had made dinner and even cleaned the house a little. Sweet of him. Lately, William and I have been getting along superbly. William is a wonderful cook and I am a wonderful eater. He is also a great listener too. Well, that or he just doesn't have much going on in his own life, which is really what a good listener is, right? 

Halfway through dinner, Alistair came barging through the door with his chest heaving. Apparently, miss baby bump had gone and told my boyfriend I had been 'mean' to her. As you know, every couple is somewhat defined by their first fight and this here was ours. Aside from the obvious fact that our first fight was sullied by its revolving around someone else, it was a pretty good argument. Hands flew up, shoulders were given chilled, and doors were slammed. William tried to play mediator but eventually gave up. Alistair finally yielded when I played the 'support me, jackass, I'm your girlfriend' card.

Fyi, if you're wondering how my 'budget' is panning out, I have been living on a meager two thousand per week. I mean, I've found myself forced into a this OR that mentality. As any sassy black character on a racially exploitative sitcom would say, that ain't right! Ladies of the Upper East Side are trained to think in a this AND that psyche. Take that away and the only point of difference between us and common folk are that we're good looking, well educated, well spoken and never have bad breath. Oh woe is me! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and spread some truth-based fabrications about my former friend, Laura.




C'est la vie

Dear Diary,

Laura is pregnant. She says she doesn’t know who the father is and doesn’t care to find out. After all, she is going to get an abortion stat. I’ve always been known for my rapid fire manner of speech, but when Laura announced she was knocked up, I really did not know what to say. What do you say to your 21 year-old best friend when she tells you she is with child? I mean, no offence, but Laura would be a terrible mother. Her smoking habits would put Bette Davis to shame, and a record of her romantic partners would make Dante’s Divine Comedy look succinct.

In fact, I cannot think of a single person scanter on maternal instincts than my dear Laura. And I don’t mean to insult her – it’s a compliment if anything. Maternal instincts are so overrated. If you think of people who you consider to have ‘maternal instincts’ I bet you they’re covered in peanut butter and have globs of jelly entwined in their hair. What’s the point of being good at looking after someone else when you can’t take care of yourself? Also, you don’t need to have maternal instincts nowadays if you want a child, that’s what your Mexican nanny is for.

And onto a much more pressing issue, my father has decided to adorn himself with unjust cruelty by putting me on – dare I say it – a budget! My god, the only time I ever hear this abominable word is when the annual budget is announced on C-Span. A budget?! Father has not yet provided me with the specifics ­– no doubt hideously deformed in their lack of zeros. He has told me, however, that the budget will begin effective next week and is a result of my superfluous spending habits. Superfluous?! I ask you this, is a $900 pair of to-die-for Louboutins that make your feet look immortal excessive? Oh, those that wear flat shoes lack both heel and compassion!

Well, that is all for today. Pregnant best friends and budgets. My life could not possibly be more odious right now.




Ex-boyfriend, new friend?

Dear Diary,

Although Laura was not able to make it to last night’s GRE study session, my spirit was not dampened in the least bit for the special Gorgonzola dip I prepared to accompany the crudités was an immense success. And without Laura there, Jane Halsey, my token plus size friend, felt quite free to show her love for the hot wings by wolfing down every single one.

This morning, I woke up at 6am and went for a light jog. I heard somewhere that joggers in New York City had worse lungs than those who did not run at all due to the city’s air pollution, but until I see a study that tells me the average jogger is fatter than their non-jogging counterpart, I’ll keep on running until my soles wear out and my lungs are black. When I got back from sullying my lungs, I found Julian McAlister sitting on my sofa, while William gave him a glass of orange juice.

Now, I don’t have to tell any red-blooded female that the sight of your douchebag ex sitting on your sofa with a smug mug is not how you want to start the day. Just looking at him brought back nauseating memories of that moment when I walked in on him having sex with the French girl the day I got back from my trip to Paris. A quiet Alanis Morissette part of me wanted to giggle about how ironic it was that we had both ventured into France. I quickly got rid of the thought and Julian began his third mea culpa.

This time, however, he seemed to be serious. Cupping his strong broad hands against his chiselled face, he sighed and declared he could never forgive himself until I forgave him. Then, he came a bit closer and announced it was time for us to heal and that he wanted us to be friends, real friends. He smelt spicy and repentant. I turned to him and without glancing at his face, casually agreed that I wouldn’t mind having him as a friend. After all, now that I had a real boyfriend, what did I care if he nailed every Gallic lass under the sun? If he screwed around, it was none of my business any more, but he was right, it would be nice to be friends.

Not to give him any other ideas, I swiftly rid him from my house and immediately called Sarah Walsh. Tonight, Anne and I were to attend a local fundraiser for underachieving Christian children, and Sarah would be there with her boobs pushed up to the high heavens and wearing a mini that could double as a belt. See, I have a gut feeling that underneath this feigned piety, Anne Beeker has it in for slutty types. I would be introducing Sarah as a friend who was looking for ‘direction’ and all that will be left to do after that is let Sarah seduce the nutjob and get some photographic evidence of Anne’s inclination. Well, I will let you know how it goes tomorrow. Right now, I have coffee with Laura where I’ll have to berate her for leaving me with Plain Jane and Dippy Tippy last night.



Sakéd up

Dear Diary,

My head is still throbbing from last night. Alistair took me to Nobu’s and then we went to a little Sake bar where I had more than a little to drink. This morning, I had deep purple craters under my eyes and when I stumbled out of my room, cheeks pillow-marked and hair matted, William looked at me as though he had just seen a ghost. Of course, I reacted in the same way since William never got up before noon and would only deign to arise in the morning, if there had been a nuclear holocaust and he had hoped to celebrate being the lone survivor.

William is an enigmatic type and I often resent his lack of willingness to conform to society’s labels. He isn’t an outright hottie, or a nerd, or a hipster. His interests range from cars to cuff links. What do you do with someone who refuses to be stereotyped? I mean, it’s positively indecent.

Speaking of indecency, I called Anne Beeker today to extend an olive branch. If you’re shocked that I would try to mend my relationship with a homophobic, obese, rehab-prone, closet case piece of filth, rest assured that it’s all simply part of my plan to out Miss Beeker. It’s terribly clichéd but also frighteningly true that you ought to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. By keeping on good terms with Anne Beeker, I’ll be able to devise a plan to get her to meet my good friend and proud lesbian, Sarah Walsh.

To get an image of Sarah, let go of every connotation you associate with lesbians. Yes, that includes the unflattering crew cuts, the political activism, and even plaid. Sarah Walsh is a bubbly, big bosomed blonde who hasn’t two grey cells to rub together, with a will as malleable as damp clay, and she just happens to like the V. If Anne Beeker really was a big old lesbo, Sarah would be the best person to find out.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to prepare the crudités for my GRE study session. Oh, and I almost forgot, I need to go buy some hot wings. Laura has recently developed an insatiable appetite for these disgusting things and gobbles them down even with vanilla ice cream. It’s positively gag worthy but hey, they don’t called me Benevolent Beth for nothing. Well, they don’t at all. But in the biopic Aaron Sorkin will inevitably do of me, I’ll make sure it’s mentioned somewhere…




Brunch at Country Café

Dear Diary,

Don’t you think that brunch is the most delightful way to start a day? Breakfast is simply too early and so archaic. I mean, who has breakfast nowadays? Only people with unforgivably boring lives whose biggest accomplishments are getting to bed before midnight and drinking eight glasses of water per day. Oh, you know the type.

So Miller and I went to brunch at Country Café, a cute little spot on Thompson St with scrumptious French food and smoking hot waiters. Our waiter turned out to be tall, with a chiselled face like a young Paul Newman and a smooth creamy voice. He was also my ex.

Julian McAlister and I had met in freshman year at the Young Democrats society. Back then, he was quite a catch; his father was a successful business analyst and the whole clan was loaded. We began seeing each other and everything was going smoothly until I found out he was cheating on me with a hairy French girl who wore ironic tee shirts and ate too much cheese. I broke up with him and three days later, his dad went to jail for embezzlement (it’s all the rage nowadays with white collar folk) and his family’s fortune went kaput. Karma is a bitch as they say.

I didn’t know what to say to Julian. He had gone from interning with the Mayor of New York to serving platters of camembert. The man obviously had a thing for downgrading. He, however, didn’t seem to think this situation was awkward at all and actually gave me a hug. Why on earth do exes think that after they’ve thoroughly made a douchebag of themselves, you would still find it in your heart to acknowledge their existence? All I wanted to do was order my onion soup, not talk to my dickwad ex.
After several minutes of rolling my eyes and checking my iphone, Julian got the point and scurried away to chop up onions or whatever it was that waiters did.

God, I feel so blessed to have Alistair. He is sensitive, funny, honest, and takes me to lovely restaurants as opposed to serving at them. Now, I’m even more excited about our date tonight. Alistair has been uber busy lately with studying and searching for a good summer internship. It will be nice to see him.

On a side note, what’s up with Demi Lovato going to rehab? I always knew she was a less pretty / more gap-toothed version of Selena Gomez but I never thought she would drunkenly stumble down the same knickerless road as Lindsay Lohan. Disney stars. Well, I’ve got to go primp and preen.



Starbucks, Lesbians and Barney's

Dear Diary,

For the first time in several days, I saw William walking out and about in the living room. It was such an eerie sight to see him out of his bedroom that I thought it was a ghost at first. When he caught sight of me, he looked surprised and mumbled ‘hello’ and then shuffled back into his room. Bizarro!

At 9.30am, I left the apartment and went to Starbucks for my morning caffeine hit, and who should I see but fatso McBitchly Anne Beeker. Seeing her walk through the door and navigating around innocent coffee lovers was like watching a rendition of the Stay Puff man from Ghostbusters trudge through Manhattan’s clustered buildings. When she got to the counter to order her chocolate frappuccino with extra cream or whatever it was that fed those generous love handles, she leaned over and twirled her hair. She was flirting. With the Starbucks girl. Oh my god.

Anne Beeker is a lesbo?

Before I let my head spin wildly with ideas for sinister projects, I decided it was wise to do a little more research first and snoop around for more clues. I needed more concrete evidence that proved Anne Beeker was in the closet. But alas, a different sort of closet desperately required my attention – my own.

You see, I hadn’t been shopping in a week and a half and my wardrobe was fast becoming dated. I called upon Laura for a little girly shopping expedition along with some serious gossip and we headed straight to Barneys. After four hours of dedicated consumerism and debating whether Anne liked girls, I found a lovely Chanel clutch, two pairs of Louboutins, a Lanvin dress and decided project Anne Beeker would begin tomorrow. I would be lying if I told you I was not looking forward to it.

By the way, does the fact that Anne wears plaid corroborate my argument or is that just a blatant unfounded stereotype? I’m not sure if plaid even belongs to lesbians anymore considering how Brooklyn hipsters don’t seem to wear any other type of upper garment. I think it’s a shared domain. Anyhow, I’d better start planning this outing and I need a good night’s rest as I have a romantic date with Alistair tomorrow!

Until then,


Homophobic, Fat, and Prone to Violence

Dear Diary,

Is it worthier to be liked or to be honest? You cannot be both. People always tell you they want the truth but that itself is a total lie. Most people prefer cheap fondant falsities to the raw truth. Today, I went to a party hosted by Anne Beeker. Anne and I have known each other since kindergarten, yet we’ve never really been friends mainly because when I was drinking bottles of coke, she was doing lines of it. Her party today was in celebration of her new post-rehab coke-free persona.

Before Anne went to rehab, she had a reputation for throwing amazing parties that were gossip queen fodder for at least the following week. Anne was what my mother would term a hell raiser and she looked like a slightly less whorish Taylor Momsen. So you could imagine my surprise when I laid eyes on post-rehab Anne, a born-again evangelical Christian carrying about twenty more pounds than she had before and I’m not including that gigantic bible she totes around.

Although Anne’s mind had often been a little murky when she was ‘powdered,’ she was never unpleasant. And she was definitely never fat. When I arrived today at Anne’s party with Miller on my arm, Anne leaned over to a girl next to her with awful hobo hair, and whispered not so quietly that she was surprised I was still friends with that fag. Fag? Unless she was a time warp from the wrong side of the civil rights era, she had no grounds to use that word.

So was it so awful of me to say very loudly that Anne Beeker was better off as a cokewhore? That rehab had made her disgustingly fat and intolerant? Anne, of course, heard this and instead of quietly plotting a way to exact passive aggressive revenge as any Upper Eastside girl worth her Jimmy Choos would do, she walked straight up to me and slapped me in the face. My god, it was like being hit by a paddle made of stale jelly. Miller stepped in and pulled me away, but I could totally have smacked that bloated chipmunk-cheeked biotch.

Of course, I was totally ladylike about the situation and I didn’t even lay a finger on that girl. Plus, to be honest, a girl with a body that would make a sumo wrestler drool would probably kick my ass in a fully-fledged fight. No, patience is a true virtue when it comes to merciless revenge and without tooting my own horn, I’m pretty good at that sort of thing. You wait and see.

Ciao babs,