Happy Birthday, STGD!

Happy birthday to STGD, my super powerful cosmic twin, armpits sweating and rosacea in full bloom! With his discerning eye for aesthetics and the kind of mad skills that would never require a cover letter like this, he's the best graphic designer on the planet - even Perezzers thinks so! His rapier wit is always entertaining (by which, I mean, clutch your side and gasp for breath), and his tender heart makes for an ever present help in trouble - like when you're barfing in the bushes in rural South Carolina. May you have the best of birthday, my fierce gay husband!

Much Love & Cleavage,
Ash

P.S. For your birthday, I got you this tiny paper tuxedo and a weekend trip to the Inner Banks.

Flower Power

So I'm at work, eating my lunch at my desk (lest you think I'm blogging on company time - I am a good girl) and checking out the latest posts on Perez. The Sex & the City movie premiere was last night in London town (sighs), and the ladies showed up dressed thusly:


Everyone is taking potshots at Sarah Jessica Parker for her over-the-top headgear. But, really? I kind of love it. Isn't that what we all thought was awesome about Carrie Bradshaw? That she wore hot pants, white heels and a gold lame belt pack and somehow made it cool? There are a lot of fashions throughout the six seasons that I personally couldn't pull off, but they dared, and that was what made it wonderful. And honestly? Kristin Davis' dress is a snoozefest, and Kim Cattrall looks like she's wearing a red slinky. I'll give Cynthia Nixon props for her clavicle-bearing black dress, but I'm not sure that it accentuates her best features.

All in all, even though I might not rock a giant green flower tower on my head, I give SJP credit where credit is due - she takes the risks and she works the carpet. You don't get to be a fashion icon by playing it safe in basic black.

Mayer's Manners

Wow. John Mayer's latest blog entry. I kind of...does this...sort of make John Mayer a little bit of a stand up guy? I'm just asking...and p.s., I totally sent a tip to Perez Hilton.

DON'T EX WITH TEXAS

Dear Dallas and Surrounding Areas,

This isn't a sports blog, and it isn't a publicity stunt. (but have at me if it feels right.)

This is about doing what I think is right as a person, in this case speaking my mind.

I have never known anyone to have more pride in their home state and their upbringing in it than Jessica Simpson has in Texas. I don't really follow sports, but I have played some of my biggest and best concerts in your state, and having witnessed how dynamic the spirit there is, I'm betting emotions are running high right about now.

All witty barbs, blogs, and fashion policing aside, that girl loves Texas more than you know. It's one of her most defining traits as a person. So please don't try and take that away from her. (You probably wouldn't be able to, but it's less work for all involved.)

I just thought it would mean something coming from the guy who has the absolute least to gain from this. And if I'm out of line in having written it, too bad. I can spare a Wednesday's worth of bad press if it means sticking up for a good soul.

JM

She is 16 Going on 17

Yesterday, I debated about whether or not to post about the ongoing media maelstrom surrounding the Spears family and its latest announcement that its youngest (and most wholesome) member of the family is pregnant. At 16. But I just can't help myself.

As everyone knows by now, unless you live under a rock, Jamie Lynn Spears is pregnant with her 19-year-old boyfriend's baby. A fact she and Mama Spears decided to disclose to the world on the cover of OK!.

All day as the headlines rotated on Yahoo! and the news tidbits appeared on Perez Hilton, I couldn't muster any snark at all about the situation. In fact, it made me almost sick to my stomach. While I don't want to sit here and judge her, I felt weird about seeing her on the cover of a magazine making her teenage pregnancy announcement and somehow making it seem normal?

When I was looking for a photo to post with this, I found the pregnancy story with a comment thread. One girl had written that she was happy for Jamie Lynn and that she thought she seemed responsible and would make a good parent. And I wondered - and it's impossible to really know - if I would've thought anyone would've made a good parent when I was sixteen. And now that I'm older, I know how very silly and stupid you are when you're sixteen. Though STGD pointed out that JLS has lived in the spotlight and probably does have a slightly elevated maturity, it can't be discounted that she still is just 16.

Maybe this is going to be the new norm. Maybe we're going to get all Victorian and go back to settling down before turning into old maids at the ripe old age of 18. Man, I am a spin-ster.

Getting a Sense After Eight Weeks

Mouthing off: jargon deciphered - noodle, offline, sidebar, inoculate, POD, pman; the correct company name when I answer the phone (even though I want to say the old one)

Noise, noise, noise: high hat notification on The Exotic's email (that drives me mad), dumpster emptying on Fridays, click-clack of the overhead fans, sonar beep of The Goofball's phone, music on The Rockstar's computer that I can barely hear but often sounds like electronica chanting at the end of the day

Taste buds: Peaches for fried chicken, green beans and mac & cheese (listed as a vegetable), chi-chi new dive by the art house theatre serving up overpriced prosciutto and grass clippings doused in olive oil, pastries from Black Forest Bakery, free(!) Maggiano's one day in ATL, only French vanilla creamer for coffee, Grape Laffy Taffy and Aztec Punch Starburst from the candy dish

Sniff: occasional chicken odor drifting from nearby poultry operation, stale sweat from the Dirty Film boys despite cooling weather, odd smell of cabbage in the ladies' which The Violinist and I determined was highly abnormal in the bathroom, old wood and machine oil from the freight elevator, Italian bistro cranking up for dinner every night when I leave

I Spy: my picture on the website (ick), other people reading Perez Hilton during the day, very drab blue background on the laptop I warily use each day, a growing number of folders on my desk containing information that I'm supposed to understand, three stalls in the ladies' but I will only use two of them - the third to me...well, it's just off limits for no apparent reason, red brick out the window, hope for me yet(??)

Cause for Alarm

1) Perez Hilton is reporting that John Mayer is now dating Cameron Diaz.

2) I have been called in to the *new* office tomorrow to begin orientation, dispelling my sense of security about having three more days before finding out that I can't actually hack it.

3) I just found out that Jennifer Ehle, portrayer of the beloved Miss Elizabeth Bennet in the BBC version of Pride & Prejudice, is from Winston-Salem, NC.

Pereztel Hearts STGD

Congrats to STGD for being featured on the Gossip Gangster's site!!! STGD sent a fun photoshopped image to Perez about a month ago and received a thanks email (which we thought was pretty awesome). Today it popped up on the Perezzer's Thank You post about reaching an all-time traffic high. I am just one degree separated from Perez. Awesome.

Nerd Alert

As if the spate of Harry Potter posting didn't tip you off, I'm going to seal the bargain: I am a nerd.

For the past few weeks, I've been watching Simon Schama's The Power of Art on PBS, which comes on a couple of hours after my mother's weekly dose of Antiques Roadshow. The Power of Art is like Behind the Music: Classical Art. Each one is about the rise to heady success, the onset of arrogance, the downfall, and the death in utter disgrace. It's kind of addictive. And I'm mildly in love with Schama, an affable British historian who possesses something of a Tim Gunn air about him. He strolls through galleries in the same open-collar white button-up and black tailored jacket in each episode and tosses out pithy, almost gossipy information about each of the artists and their masterworks. Like Bernini, a sculptor who committed adultery, only to find his brother was doing the same with the same woman, and therefore sent a servant to slash his mistress's face with a razor blade.

I'm no art critic, and, in fact, have very little real understanding of the meaning of most art. But Schama makes these artists into the rock stars of the day, celebrities mingling among the rich and powerful until they decide to make a scandalous statement with their work. It is his exploration of their work that I find so fascinating. The way he talks about it, wandering through the veriest details, it is so captivating that suddenly I can see why David's The Death of Marat is unholy and beautiful and transcendent and treason. And after he raptured about the exquisitely fine line between reverence and revelry in Bernini's The Ecstasy of St. Therese, I hope I get to see it firsthand before I die.

There are only eight episodes, and I'm sorry to say I missed three of them - Van Gogh (featuring Andy Serkis as Van Gogh!), Picasso and Caravaggio. I saw Bernini, Rembrandt and David, and still have Turner and Rothko to go. The show is an absolute culture clash in my mind: art deemed so great that it demanded reverence and an explication of it the brings in all the messy passion and rebellion and irreverence. It is art historian meets Perez Hilton. And I can't get enough.

DUMPED!

I can't help myself. This from Perez Hilton kind of makes me laugh. Sorry, Jess.

Leaving: Part Three - The Office

This little paperweight sat on the small conference table in my boss's office. It was a Magic Eight Ball of sorts for the business types with answers like "Buy" and "Fire Someone." I used to sit at the table in her office and spin it and spin it while we were talking, letting my finger fall in the grooves to slow it down. On my last day, I went in to take a picture of it, and it just happened to be right on the line between "No" and "Go For It" which I thought was an ironically perfect answer to the question of me leaving.

I have been known, on occasion, to complain about my job. But I suppose that's par for the course if you're human and employed. The reason everyone loves The Office and Office Space is because in some way, we can relate to the horrors of the 9-to-5 existence. While I complained about whatever was going wrong that day, that week, that year...I still really loved my job. And I loved my office - including the carnival tent painting that my boss bought at an auction after I fell in love with it and was gracious enough to let me have in my office. And I loved the beautiful, beautiful iMac G5 (seen below). I had a marvelous time sitting in that chair - especially when I had visitors in the chairs opposite mine. (STGD, Susan, Allison, Lauren - that means you.)

I got my job by the allignment of Venus and Mars when Saturn was in the 7th house. I simply called all of the firms listed in the Yellow Pages and was invited to send my resume to this particular firm. I can remember the day I interviewed, and I was standing on the opposite side of Princess Street and talking to my mom on my giant Nokia cell about how petrified I was. Particularly because it felt like I'd been looking for a job forever, and I was two seconds from considering Hooters. My boss called to offer me the job on a Sunday, and I started Monday week - October 29, 2001. I worked part time during grad school, and then moved to full time after I graduated.

Over the years, I worked in three different offices with more than 50 clients and almost 25 different people. There was a little turnover problem, and then some of those people are still at the office, picking up where I left off. Maybe one of them is in the club chair on the right, which sits in the lobby (I wrote "our" lobby and then revised) . It's a good place to sit if you need a little sound advice from Miranda. You could find me there at some point during every day. And on the wall is Wilbur/Ferdinand - a happy pig smelling the tulips. I loved that pig. And the lamp that STGD turned on every morning because no one else would and the bowls of candy. When I first started, I remember telling Mom, "There's always chocolate in the office!"

And really, in the end, you have to consider what your send off is like, and I couldn't have had a better one. A photo of me from karaoke was turned into the Ashleypalooza graphic (and thanks to STGD, I look foxy!). It was applied to t-shirts (including one for the office dog!) which everyone was wearing when I arrived at the party. If you ever want to feel a little famous, I suggest getting a group of your friends to wear your face on a t-shirt. There were daiquiries and hula hooping attempts and lots of photos taken. There was the copy of the funny quotes we keep in a book for me to take away. And the beautiful scrapbook of photos and memories. I've looked at it about 50 times since I left.

The goodbyes at the end of this party were among the hardest I had to say. I spent more time with these people over the past few years than I spent with my own family. Every day. Coffee, lunch and sometimes dinner. They were my family away from family. It was an unforgettable experience - all almost-six years of it. And they are unforgettable people. And the end of the party was the first "big ugly" cry I had during the leaving weekend.

I've still been doing some work for them during the transition. And every time I call, I feel a little sad that I'm here and not there. Not getting my second cup of coffee. Not yelling at my boss from my office. Not sitting across the desk from STGD starting out working and ending up looking at Perez Hilton. But I like to think a little of me is left behind. A little ghost of me making too much noise and bad puns and piling up papers and draining the coffee pots and coercing everyone into quitting their diet for the day to go to Chic-Fil-A. Typically, that's what I did.

Ouchie

I confess. This hurts me. How am I going to feel when the next album comes out and there's some syrupy love song that I know is about Jessica Simpson? It's bad enough that "Your Body is a Wonderland" was written about Jennifer Love Hewitt.

Don't Go Breakin' My Heart!

I go out of town for a week - one week! - and stop reading the celebrity gossip sites while I'm getting a little r-and-r, only to come back and find that Perez spent New Year's Eve with John Mayer and...Jessica Simpson? Quelle horreur! I can't believe it! I have staunchly defended his honor, assured people that the previous rumors of their togetherness were all hype generated by her camp. And now I have been betrayed. What is he thinking? I mean, I know she's not as dumb as she pretends to be, but she's still no Einstein. And I know you could say, "Well, look at her" but somehow her stupidity (pretend or real) totally diminishes her attractiveness to me. But who am I to say? I just can't believe that John Mayer - my beloved John Mayer - is dating a breathy-singing witless wonder who peddles hair extensions and edible makeup. This will put a temporary kabash on my love of Continuum.

Zombiefied (or Separated by J. Lo)

A few weeks ago, Kim mentioned that she had seen John Mayer on the cover of a tabloid and mistaken him for Marc Anthony. I was totally appalled that something like that was being said about my dear sweet John. Until I saw this picture on his blog yesterday. John, sweetheart, eat a cookie or something. You're looking a bit drawn. And greasy. And ditch the pseudo-facial hair. What happened to my All-American rock n' roller?

Fed-eral Matters

Amidst the earnestness of election day, the rallying cry of democracy rising from the monumental political machine, I thought it important that someone post about Britney Spears filing for divorce from that charming, well-dressed model citizen Kevin Federline. You know she breathed a big ol' backwater Southern sigh of relief that her handlers hollered we want pre-nup. And let this be a lesson, ladies. Pink track suits on your bridesmaids is apparently bad luck. (Brilliant Fed Ex photo courtesy of Perez Hilton.)

Enough Already!

Dear Celebrity Gossip Queens:
You are truly one of the highlights of my day. I know this is a very sad confession, but it's true. Every day, I come home and turn to my laptop for my daily dose of celebrity oopses and uh-ohs and no-nos and brilliance. And that is why I must say enough already with the Matthew McConaughey/Lance Armstrong/Jake Gyllenhal workout coverage. This is not newsy, juicy, or even interesting. And frankly, Matthew's looking a little skeevy these days (i.e. NOT SEXY). I really cannot figure out what all the fuss is over.

So please. Let's turn our attention to the impending birth of the Federspawn or disparaging Tara Reid's latest dreadful fashion choice. I can't take any more cycling/rowing/running/surfing photos. That's why I watch Celebrity Fit Club 4. Duh.

XO,
Ash

Separated by My So Called Life

So Almost Famous is on TNT tonight. Seen it before. But tonight...I couldn't help notice that the little star Patrick Fugit looks remarkably like Claire Danes. Am I right? And if we want to play Six Degrees of Billy Crudup...Fugit starred with him in Almost Famous and now Danes dates him. Do you think Crudup felt strangely attraced to Patrick Fugit during filming?