Raquel's Top 5-Things I Despise that you should hate too!

I LOVE lists!!!! I make lists almost daily and thrive on checking off my to-do's. I even compile a list for things that do not serve any purpose at all.


Here is a sampling of my Completely-Useless-MUST-Do-Soon-List:


5. Find out why people anal fist and understand how it works? Understand WHY! 
9. Find Naked Yoga Pictures with REAL yogis-preferably old and wrinkly yogis
13. Own as much lipgloss as I want!

I accomplished item #13 from this list. 

Yet, when I come across a magazine issue that features any of the following:

TOP TEN LIST of (fill in blank)
TWENTY TOP THINGS TO DO WHEN YOU (fill in the blank) 
8 BILLION THINGS TO DO WITH A USED (fill in the blank) 


I cringe and shake my head. 


These lists are USELESS, UNINSPIRED! And they always end in multiple exclamation points, like this: !!!! 


These lists were written by well-paid writers and approved for publication by high-paid editors. It is obvious that these folks ran out of ideas and think that their readers are dumb enough (some are) to get excited about a stupid list. Lists are a cop-out and cheat the creative writing process. Hey, mofos, you get  paid to be CREATIVE. Be CREATIVE!!!! 


Yet, these so called "inspired articles" that take the form of a dumbed-down list are a guaranteed win for glossy, splashy, popular magazines. 


Today, tired, cranky and irritable from reoccurring insomnia, I take a cue from the bigger publications and take a crack at making a list. Drumroll, please!!!!!


5 Things that I Despise...
That You Should Hate TOO!!


#1 Glamour Magazine
It is filled with ads, useless information and TONS of lists. Look at the cover. Lists! Lists! Lists!

589 Spring Looks REALLY? 589? 589?
8 Foods to make you beautiful AND
50 Things you should know about Love

#2 Starbucks
My hatred for Starbucks is so intense that I frequently blog blog, bitch, tweet and facebook about it. Starbucks crossed the yet another line with it's wanna-be Spanish campaign.

Suaviza el Comienzo?
Doesn't make sense! Sounds like a bad tagline for Anal Ease

Anyone who knows a teensy bit of Spanish knows that this tag line doesn't make any sense. Starbucks, now that you closed 600+ stores and you sell fake coffee, aka, that VIA crap,  please hire an Ad agency that KNOWS how to market to a Spanish-speaking audience! Fire  100 of your inept, so-called-baristas to fund your Spanish campaign! POR FAVOR


#3 Women's Work-Out Pants Crotch
The crotch area is a sensitive subject. If you are a woman wearing work-out pants and using them for their intended purpose, 8 out of 10 times, you may find yourself in 1 of 3 precarious situations.


Camel Toe Crotch

If it happened to a Willias, it can happen to YOU!

Big Ass Bulge Crotch

Taschen: I applaud your work. But my crotch better not look like that!!!

Ken Doll Crotch

At least Barbie has some curves 'down there'

I blame women's work-out attire designers. Other designers successfully created lady-like crotches on jeans, leggings, shorts, slacks and other forms of pant wear. Please share this knowledge with your retarded work-out attire designer cousins. We won't stand for this anymore!


#4 The Cold
It is useless. There is ZERO purpose for the cold. I stand by my convictions. I hate the cold. I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! Unless I can kill a bear and live in its pelt and use its blood to keep me warm, there is no reason for the cold to exist. 

Winter Wonderland? Fuck this shit!!!

#5 Insomnia
Not cool. Not fun. And creates cranky, irritable, angry, unproductive people. Our entire society is plagued with this unhealthy disease. It kills creativity, murders relationships, feeds our caffeine addictions, and marries us to sleeping pills. I do not need to say anymore on the insomnia subject! I am already cranky!

See? Lists are creative writing gone retarded. Do not support publications that feature list after list after list followed by uninspired content. Support you favorite blogger who has an occasional bout of insomnia.


-Raquel


Photo credits: Glamour Cover, Glamour Magazine; Starbucks poster, bloggers own; Williams Camel toe, could not find photographers name; Taschen Book, Taschen; Ken Doll Bulge;  http://www.zug.com/pranks/barbie/index02.html; Winter Wonderland, unknown; Insomnia Walrus, unknown

From Behind the Bar...

Three months ago, I scored! I got a side gig at a wine bar to satisfy the food-nerd-slash-gourmand in me. 

It's a pretty sweet deal: I learn about beer and wine, while tasting the offerings of California's top vineyards. In short 3 months, I have learned a bit about wine, more about beer, and tons about people who drink wine, namely:

• Drunks hang out in wine bars to feel sophisticated. Honey, your drunk trailer park ass is still trashy, especially in that Juicy Couture Tracksuit. 
• 50-year old divorcees make out like 16-year olds, regardless if their bar wench (me) is an arm's distance away and can hear them mack-out. 
• Inevitably, there is always going to be the "weird guy" at the bar

As Winter in So Cal goes, with a daily average of 75 degrees Fahrenheit, many a surfer dude, slaps his board atop his Prius and heads out to the beaches to 'hit the waves'. 

Ladies, Gents and everyone in between, allow me to introduce you to Surfer-Dude-Wanna-Be-Wine-Connoisseur. Let's call him Surfer Dude for now. 


Surfer Dude swaggers into the sacred grounds where I bar wench with a confidence that a man wearing crocs, khaki shorts, a pony tail and a stained white Tee should not possess. 

As Surfer Dude walked into MY bar, little bits of sand lightly sprinkled the bar floor. I pride myself as being a person who is open and welcoming to all humans, even humans of the khaki short persuasion. More power to you, if you can pull it off with elegancia! 

Alas for Surfer Dude he quickly transitioned from Surfer-Dude-Wanna-Be-Wine-Connoisseur into Weird Ass DRUNK Dude at a bar. He promptly drank himself into utter-stupidity. 


I had to play referee between my pretty female guests, and one party promptly left. As the last party of pretty female guest closed up their tabs, Surfer-Dude, now, WEIRDO, noticed that I, gasp! had tatas and well, lady bits. 


YIIIIIIIIIKEEEEES!!!!


In his highly inebriated mind, it made utter sense that he commence trying to woo me, by name dropping all the wineries and sommeliers (yeah right) that were his "CLOSE AND PERSONAL FRIENDS". 


His surfer swagger turned into utter sloppiness after 2 glasses of cab, one glass of Pinot and TWO Belgian Beers. He was sober enough to get it that I was not impressed by his name-dropping and occasional belching.


Surfer Dude committed the ultimate offense: he let his hair down. 


Literally, took his hair out of the pony tail and swished it around a la Fabio.

I, stone-sober and utterly irritated at all man-kind, could not let this one go. 


Me: “Wow. Your hair is long. Why did you let it out?”

Sloppy drunk Surfer dude: “I’m just letting it dry out.”

Me: “Oh. Wow, It’s still wet after 3 hours?”


He promptly left and stiffed me a tip. 


Fuck your sloppy, drunk ass and your Fabio locks. 

-Raquel 


P.S. I am still sweeping up sand from the floorboards of the hallowed grounds upon which I bar wench.

Going on a BENDER...ball

To loosely quote Hank Moody from Californication “I don’t even have time to get fucked up anymore!”

I have had a girl-boner for him since the X-files

Due to recent changes in my life, my martini and extra-curricular activities budget has been slashed. Actually, it has been eliminated. As in: *Delete* *Delete* *Delete*! I have found myself in a conundrum, unlike Hank Moody, I have time, but can’t afford to even think of getting fucked up anymore!

My yoga studio offers classes that nix yoga and blend resistance training with cardio. Classes that deliver pain that produces GAIN. 


This is what the doctor ordered for a girl on a 'deleted' entertainment budget. 


Fuck chanting, teeth shattering OM’s, while instructors teach non-violence and acceptance. Instructors with voices that gently chiding me to “relaaaaax into the pose”. Screw it. This girl needs a class where Drowning Pool's “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” is less of a soundtrack and becomes the mantra. 

A 90-minute workout where Metallica is pumped into the room, while the instructor shouts “You don’t know what you can do until you DO IT!”. Everyone glares as angry calories get punished and unknown muscles scream with Dante-Inferno-like cries of agony.

Introducing the Bender Ball.

What the????

Who cares? When you are on a budget and your gym offers a class listing equipment with a name slightly reminiscent of a weekend with Charlie Sheen, you take it!

My imagination tends to run amok. I entertained  visions of blowing-off some steam during a fun & intense work-out that might just might lead to me getting me picked up by a black Town Car with equally dark, tinted windows. This same imaginary town-car would whisk me away to the Hills, to a Hollywood party. C’mon, peeps! We ALL know why those actor-types are so freaking skinny.

I had a lil extra energy (I always do) and my usual 'fuck-the-world' attitude. I dressed for the class with my best cut up Skull T-shirt, added a lil extra black eyeliner, and took off to my resistance/cardio class.

Ladies/Gents & everyone in between, I have the honor to introduce you to this little guy...

Innocent lil fucker, huh?

Not as intimidating as a coffee table full of blow and a couple of high-paid Estonian hookers.

BULL SHIT!!!! This lil fucker is not so innocent after all. 

This fucker did things to my body that gave me the hang-over of a lifetime. Mister Slinky* had to roll me over in bed because moving to the left or the right was officially TOO MUCH for me. I know for a fact that Charlie Sheen feel better after his 36 hour bender than I did after spending 90 minutes with Bender-Ball.

So fuck you, Bender Ball, my hangover would have been much more pleasant partying in the Hills with Estonian hookers, than what you did to my ass twice this week.

-Raquel

P.S.: 
I can’t to go back and go on a BENDER...ball! A shout-out to Allison, my bad-ass instructor!


*Mister Slinky is my hunny.

I don't have the emotional energy to write this blog......bitches

I was having lunch at work the other day with these two girls. Before hand, I asked one of them if they are going to spend all lunch talking about boys, shoes, make-up and trashing other girls. She laughed at what was obviously a joke.

So, about 20 minutes into lunch, and 19.5 minutes into their conversation about boys and the new boots tall blond girl was wearing, they started talking about Tall Blond Girls friend. I hadn't said a word up to this point, which is a miracle if you have ever spent 20 minutes with me, but I had to jump in.

She said she was talking to her friend and told her friend "I don't have the emotional energy to deal with you right now". Enter my part of the conversation with "Guys never say stuff like that to each other".

Honestly, it never comes up. There is no scenario, ever, when one guy has to say to another guy something like this. So we talked about that for a little bit and she came to the conclusion that this must be what guys have to deal with when putting up with girls. I simply told her that we do it EVERY DAY OF OUR LIVES and she had to do it for 15 minutes.

If one of my guy friends is being an asshole, I can just say "Don't be a dick" and it's resolved. If he is being a douchebag, I can just say "step away from the spray tan or I will punch you in the balls", then I get to punch him in the balls, buy him a beer and it's resolved. It's simple.

Or rather, it was simple. It has recently come to my attention that more and more guys are acting like girls, and these time honored traditions don't work for all of them. If you are friends with one of the guys that this doesn't work on, or dating a guy that says he "doesn't have the emotional energy to...", unless the next words he uses are 'make his own sandwich so you need to make him one', then dump him. Men need to be men, and this post is about the kind of men that you know can reliably get an erection without sobbing apologetically for disrespecting you as a woman by bringing a penis into your presence.

So, being as how my job is boring and uses exactly 0.00002% of my brain, I started thinking about all of the crazy shit that women say to men and NEVER to each other. Now, I don't know first hand, but I assume that women don't say these things to each other.

Short disclaimer: It's not that we don't have feelings, or even that we never talk about them. It's just that we express things far differently and much less confrontationaly than women.

First, we NEVER say, the phrase "emotional energy". We don't even know what that means, so if you say it to us, then we just stare blankly. I mean really. I know what energy is and if you say that you are too tired to deal with this shit, I understand. Your body has one energy type. Either you have it right then or not. Some things burn it out faster than others and some things replenish it better than others, but you are not compartmentalized into different kinds of energy that get used at different rates. If you are too tired to talk about something, then you are too tired. Don't blame the "feelings you get from talking about this" on the fact that you stayed up until 4am getting drunk last night and this friend called you at 7am to talk about stupid shit.

We never say "What are you thinking" unless it's in regards to something very specific. If I am standing in front of a sofa that needs to be moved into a house with a door too small for it to fit in and my friend says "what are you thinking?", I know what he means. We NEVER just randomly ask that shit. That would be like waking someone up from a nap and saying "so which way should we turn now". Makes no fucking sense at all.

If you ask me what I am thinking be prepared to hear a very long diatribe about one of the following topics:
The ballistic coefficient of various bullets and how to correctly manipulate them using the firearms I own.
Summer Glau's ass and what it would feel like to have her legs wrapped around my face.
How much I like steak.
The possible combinations I have yet to explore in movement possibilities of Capoeira and how efficient they would be at breaking someones ribs.
Knives and swords.
Ways to make money that wouldn't make me want to stab my left testicle repeatedly with an ice-pick.
Christina Ricci's awesome body and how much I have wanted to fuck her since she played Wednesday Addams.
How to get a hot Asian girl to do dirty dirty things to me.
Chocolate.
Pipe Tobacco and pipes.
If you are hot and NOT being annoying, I am also probably thinking about what you look like naked, or what dirty dirty things I want to do to you. If you are hot and BEING annoying, I'm thinking about how I want to do dirty things that would get you to shut the fuck up at the same time.

So as you can see, I am probably not thinking about anything you really want to discuss. I am not dumb enough to believe that you genuinely want to know. I know that you really want me to ask YOU what YOU are thinking, but you can't just come out and tell me, because you are a girl and girls are fucking insane.

Men also NEVER ask another man if they look fat in something. We might say "how does this look" on occasion, but never "Does this make me look fat".

Men don't say "We need to talk". In the immortal words of Eric Cartman, "When a chick says we need to talk, you might as well start punching yourself in the balls, dude." That is code for "If you were happy before, you might as well stop being happy right now because this is going to suck for you".

Here is another one I have a problem with. Girls say that they just want us to be honest, but really, you don't. You want me to lie to you in order to validate what you think I should be saying. If that sentence sounded confusing then you are on the right train of thought because girls are fucking confusing.

Here is an example. Don't ask how you look in something unless you want me to either lie, or tell you the truth. The truth may very well be that you have some fat rolls coming out of the top of that strapless dress and those shoes show off how fat your legs got. The truth may be that you clearly gained 10 pounds in your ass since you bought those jeans and the bra you are wearing hasn't fit you in 5 years, so now you have double boob going on. Maybe your skirt shows how much fupa now have. Whatever it is, you don't want to hear it.

Another area is the "would you.....". If you ask me "would you have sex with that girl", you are clearly telling me that I am supposed to say no. But chances are that if I were being honest the answer is yes. Even the girls on Jerry Springer get laid. This is because guys would fuck pretty much anything. Get over it.

How about "Is she prettier than me". Now unless you are like, the most insecure hot girl ever (and I've met the worlds most insecure hot girl), the answer is probably yes. If she is on T.V. or in a movie, the answer is probably yes. If you ask me "do you think that 18 year old girl in the tiny bikini with the smooth rock hard body is prettier than me?" you are expecting me to say no, but she probably is.

So stop saying you want us to be honest, because that's a lie. Stop asking us stupid ambushing questions because you don't have the guts to just fucking say what you want to say in the first place. Stop using terms that make no sense just to be more confusing and complicated than you already are.

Fuck I wish I could be gay, but instead I have to put up with crazy ass shit all the time. I don't think I'm the first guy to ever say this, nor am I the first guy to be frustrated by this, but getting this info out there might just help one girl to be less crazy to one guy on one occasion, and that would make it all worth it.

Oh, and if we ask "what's wrong?" and you say "Nothing", we know you are lying. We didn't really want to know in the first place, but you made it clear that you want us to ask and now you are playing the "nothing is wrong" bullshit when that's clearly a lie. If we pretend like nothing is wrong after that and it turns out to be "the incorrect response", it's your fucking fault and don't be surprised when we fuck your sister.

Oh well, that's why they call them bitches.

Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland

I sat down this evening to watch the newest version of Alice in Wonderland. I love almost all things Tim Burton. And I will watch almost anything with Johnny Depp-who doesn't?. This film is by Disney, and sorry to all of you who don't like Disney, but they have the resources and the power to make amazing movies. Like Satan-we all know Disney made a pact with the devil...have you ever been on "It's a Small World"? CREEEEEEPY....More on that later.

Did you watch Alice in Wonderland, the cartoon? WHO doesn't love the cartoon?  I do!  Happy, dancing, singing flowers have been my favorite since childhood. Come on! Painting the roses red? How fun! (Which makes me wonder, why did they have to paint the roses red, aren't they red already???)

Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland is the follow up to the original story. Alice goes to back to Wonderland as-an adult to save it from the Red Queen. The stunning visual effects don't hurt this movie at all-although Helena Bohnam's GIANT head might stop some from watching it. She plays the "Queen". But I think what turns me on about this movie the most is Alen Rickman as the Blue Caterpillar. That man has a voice I can listen to all day and all night with very sweet dreams (wink wink).

This movie is light, beautiful and so much fun to watch, much like the cartoon. Not so much singing and a twinge of darkness that we associate with all of Tim Burton's movies.

Thanks to good ole Tim, you will find his cast of friends....Johnny Depp, Helena Bonham Carter. Through in ethereal Mia Wasikowska as Alice and sexy-voice Alan Rickman, and you have a well-played and thought out movie that the whole family can enjoy. This was a joy to watch.

FUCKING GIANT MOTHER FUCKING GIANT HEAD 

This movie took me back to my childhood. All those childish, giddy  feelings of watching a Disney movie over and over again. The ones that you can only rent once or twice a year (only because it drove your parents CRAZY!)

My suggestion, watch it if you like Tim Burton. If you don't like Tim Burton, then watch it with Disney in mind. If you can't do either one, then something is really, really wrong with you.

Margot!

Ps. I am not telling you how it ends, but its a Disney movie, so you should just assume that good prevails.

Hotel-Germophobia by Marta from www.projectpeeve.com

It was a dark and rainy night. Seriously, DARK and RAINY. I am from So-Cal. We pay higher rent so we don't have to deal with "dark and rainy"! My fiance, Larry, and I hopped into his truck and drove off to Carlsbad in the beginning of a full-blown Winter storm.

I packed all my mini-vacay essentials: a few select outfits, heels, make-up toothbrush, work-out clothes and of course, Lysol wipes!

Hallelujah!

I consider Lysol wipes  an 'essential' for my stay at a Hotel. Over the years, my Hotel-Germophobia has gotten worse. There are things I can deal with, like plates and utensils at a restaurants. And there are things that I cannot deal with, like fuzzy blankets on an airplane.

My fear of hotels rooms seems to have increased. This has been a problem since childhood and is getting progressively worse. Last summer, I started washing hotel toilet seats. And I still hover over the toilet after I meticulously clean it.

I have even started bringing my own towels and pillows to hotels. And occasionally, I ponder whether or not I should bring my own sheets. I believe my Hotel-Germophobia is essentially an extension of my fear of anything fuzzy that was not originally purchased by me.

courtesy of SNUGGIE!

I honestly don't like anything fuzzy. I hate fuzzy blankets! A fuzzy blanket feels gross on my creamy skin. Fuzzy textures make me cringe. And then, you add the fact that the very same fuzzy blanket has been used by utter and complete strangers, well, that is enough to send me into convulsions! I cannot bear to have my skin touch the fuzzy chair that has been sat on by strangers, who could severly lack impeccable personal hygiene. In my head, fuzzy things absorb germs and a plastic chair does not. Now, add in a hotel room, where the carpet, the blankets and furniture are fuzzy-I welcome you to my personal nightmare!

Getting back to my trip with my fiance, Larry. After a 3-hour drive in a Southern California winter rain storm, we make it into the hotel. As soon as we enter the room, Larry, takes his shoes off and walks barefoot into the bathroom. *CRINGE* I can't watch him, as I am getting slighly nauseous. Instead, I immediatly whip out my Lysol wipes. I wipe down all traffic spots. I wipe down the TV remote, the light switches, the controller and all the door handles. I do not bother with the dresser, because, let's face it, I am NOT putting my clean clothes in there!!! And last, but not least, I wipe down the toilet seat and essentially, the entire bathroom.

You would be amazed at black and dirty the used Lysol wipes are!!! I tear off the comforter is. I crumple it up and stick it in the corner of the room. And to my complete horror, the fuzzy cover that hotels use under the comforter is NOT safely tucked in between two perfectly, clean sheets. This hotel has only ONE sheet! 

I look at Larry and point to the blanket in utter dispair. He automatically knows what to do. He balls it up and says: "Hey! Marta!" I turn, and my sweet, loving, husband-to-be pretends to THROW it at me! Of course, he instantly dies of laughter. I am frozen in horror. Larry thinks my Hotel-Germophobia is hilarious! I give him an evil stare and put on my flip flops to walk from the bed to the bathroom. My flip flops will never leave my feet in any hotel room unless I am safely tucked in between clean sheets, in bed.

I realize that this may sound completely insane to you, but I can't help my Hotel-Germophobia! It runs in the family. Every Harris has some type of germophobia mixed with a little OCD. The degree of craziness differs from generation. My degree of craziness seems to be going up.

Marta
Founder of http://www.projectpeeve.com/

"Santa was a Creeper" by Taylor

I knew my initial instincts about Santa were right.  When I was a baby and my parents took me to see Santa, I promptly started screaming the second the fat man started ho ho ho-ing at me.  Then, as I got older and understood that he gave out presents, I was still very nervous about the fact that this big red sack of jolliness was going to squeeze his fat-ass down my chimney.  What if he broke it?  Let’s just face it the chimney is not that big.  Then around age 4, it dawned on me, Santa was Breaking and Entering! You can’t tell kids not to talk to strangers and then expect them to be okay with it once a year when a giant stranger breaks into their house and gives them presents!!! I am just not that materialistic.  I was finally at ease when I found out there was NO Santa and my sleepless Christmas Eve's where because of excitement-not terror.

But seriously, what grown man wants to be Santa at the mall?  What man wants to dress up in a fur trimmed suit and have child after child sit on his lap? A creeper, that’s who! A creeper who probably sits there hour after hour hoping for  a group of teeny bopper blonde girls who  think it would be funny to sit on Santa’s lap. Who is Santa?  An old, fat man trying to buy your love and get into your stockings, that’s who!  I think we need a change in customs.

-Taylor.

after a million babies, Santa gets lucky and gets a blonde to sit on his lap. BAM SHAKA BAM BAM