begin

october 17, 2006

Help Us Help You

Maybe it's the weather, but the creative juices are not flowing like
they should be. I've got nothing, but I don't want anyone to suffer from
blog withdrawl.

Here's an update on the brothel business plan. The porn guy and I have
been working hard to come up with a name to really set us apart in the
already overcrowded prostitution market. The name should really sing!

As potential customers of our little Costa Rican Sex Shack, we have
decided to be democratic and let the people have a voice. Give us your
feedback. Hell, pass the day at work and try to figure out who came up
with what name.

* Stelie's Sex Shack (We felt the combination of Steve and Julie
reflects our dedication to building our brand)

*Steve's Sex Shack

*Julie's Jumpin Jubilation

*Crotchatorium

* Lizard Lounge

*The Iguana Cave ( We like this name, but we're leaning torwards naming
this for our upscale wing)

* Humpin Pumpkin

* Bananas & Papayas

* Casa La Pudenda

* Ripe and Ready Slut Factory (We really like this name because we can
be nicknamed the "R n R". This way husbands and boyfriends can tell
their significant others that they are going to Costa Rica for some "R n
R" and be truthful. No one would be the wiser....smart huh? )

There were tons more names but my cell phone deleted all the texts.
C'est la vie!

november 1, 2006

Pressure to Be Clever

Even the Tibetan monks are praying that I come up with a decent blog
soon. I imagine the Tibetan prayer cards that came in the mail was
their subtle jab of saying "Get with it girl!". I fear that Allah and
Krishna might get in on the act too. I might crack under all this
pressure. Johnny O already gave me the business last night.

I got nothing people! Nothing!

It's not easy to be clever. Especially when I don't have flying 30
pound umbrellas crashing into my skull. I need new material. I've got
some titles like "The Anti-Catch" and "The Curse of the Pink Pig", but
the words and humor isn't there. Does this mean I have writer's block?
Or am I in need to get a life?

Perhaps it really is the curse of the pink pig. Ever since my
grandmother gave me this pink velour piggy bank that makes the jolly
whooshing noise every time a deposit is made things have gone terribly
wrong. It started in Miami where I was surprised to discover that the
meeting that I organized to take place that day was forgotten by
everyone who was supposed to attend said meeting. Next, I once again
proved that I am too dim to live by showing up for my flight one hour
after it took off.

I was given strict orders from my grandmother to transport this jolly
pig home as if it was my first born. I carefully packed "la pig" in my
tote bag and gingerly carried it on my person. As reward for this
pampering treatment, the pig responded by making its jolly whooshing
sound at the most inopportune times. Try explaining to a roomful of
strangers why an adult single woman has musical pig sticking out of
her tote bag.

That pig is nothing but trouble. I blame the pig for my blogging woes.

                                 november 7, 2006

The Ghetto Fabulous Lunch Date

In two weeks it will be Thanksgiving. After that the holidays and New
Year's will be quickly approaching which means we will get bombarded with
"The Year in Review", "The Best and Worst of 2006", and similar
countdowns reminiscing about the happenings of 2006. This Sunday my
partner in crime, La Lucia and I were out for post-yoga omelets. The
conversation quickly turned from downward dogs to the usual topic of boys
and being all around unlucky in love. This in turn led to our own dating
synopsis of 2006. One of the highlights for me had to be "the ghetto
fabulous lunch date". Not so much the date itself, but the man behind the
taco.

Picture this, it's January 2006. I am where I can usually be found, my
office checking myspace. I get an unsolicited message from a stranger. My
usual inquiries tend to be from gentlemen with gravely unfortunate looks
and poor grammar. Honestly, the key to my heart is a the ability to form
a grammatically correct sentence. It's a rare man that can conjugate
properly.

It's with great trepidation that I open this new piece of mail from the
myspace stranger. I am immediately pleased to see that he's not that
hideous. Plus, he's obvioulsy read my profile because he asks a witty
question about it. This is a positive start. I reply with the requisite
amount of wit and sass, and then it's on. He then remarks about my blogs.
Now punctuation may get you in the door, but overt gushing about my blogs
will get me naked. That's just the way it is. There's nothing more
satisfying than hearing that my blogs are "some good shit". I'm easy.
Really.

The emails continue, and a connection of some sort starts to develop. We
exchange proper email addresses, and new questions on a much more
personal level are asked. On my myspace profile, I have a picture of
myself from Belize which is considered quite tame by myspace standards,
but can be risque in certain circles. Basically, I'm just covered in mud
with some strategically place fig leaves and flowers. This is the type of
picture that can pique someone's interest. Naturally, my new admirer
wants more info about said picture, and if other salacious pictures are
in existence. Apparently word gets around about the full blown money shot
hanging on my wall of narcissism.

This guy is a perfect stranger, so I'm not so keen on forking over some
of my more personal moments over the internet. I mean isn't this how
Paris Hilton got into trouble? The flirtation continues, and I succumb to
the request. All of Belize is bared. It's all part of the game, but I
expect an equal exchange.

Well, ask and you shall receive. I was unprepared for the onslaught of
proud male genitalia that flooded through my inbox. This was a penis that
should be on Broadway. This penis deserves to have its own one man show.
Not because it was so exceptional or noteworthy, but because each shot
was so dramatic. One could easily tell that this was no mere polaroid.
Each shot was so meticulously art directed and so painstakingly posed.
Shadows and light were carefully constucted to highlight the best
features. Seriously, this was not a bored Saturday afternoon endeavor!
I'm quite sure a makeup artist was involved. There were many different
moods of the penis too which were accentuated by the different colors of
boxer shorts and the tightening and loosening of his grip around the
shaft in the different shots. I've never seen anything like this. Belize
doesn't even come close to competing. Once again god mocks me.

As a typical exhibitionist, he immediately asked for my opinion and was
quick to boast about how impressed I should be. Frankly, one should never
self-proclaim their own greatness. It never fails to backfire. but let's
be real. It's New York City. I'm single and nearing 30. It's not easy
being a spinster. He asked me to lunch. I accepted.

Manhattan Mall Food Court. It doesn't get any more ghetto fabulous than
this. I am nothing if not ghetto fabulous. I love the camp factor
involved. Sadly, a love connection over Taco Bell was not meant to be
that day. Besides having disturbing facial hair, a theatrical penis and a
strong desire to have sex with anything that moves and breathes, he was a
neo-conservative with quite strong opinions. I have issues with people
having too many issues.

The moral of this story is to never send risque pictures of body parts
over the internet. They will find a way to come back and haunt you. And
haunt you they will. You can't make these stories up.

november 14, 2006

Fairly Odd Parent

My father is a strange guy. I say that not because of the series of
unfortunate events that caused us to have a tense and estranged
relationship. But because he really is a strange guy. He works for the
post office which is not exactly the breeding ground for mental stability.

The man drives what I like to refer to as "the terrorist mobile" because
of it's vintage, boxy shape and uncanny likeness to something a Libyan
terrorist may have driven back in the 80s. He also counts among his
friends a gentleman who in all seriousness believes he is a Ninja Turtle.
Yes, this gentleman works for the post office too. Which Ninja Turtle he
will be is decided by the particular T-shirt worn that day. Somedays it
could be Donatello and other Raphael. Between both parents, I'd like to
believe my genes skipped a generation and I have been spared the oddness.
Lie to me. I'm way too fragile to handle the truth.

The other day I check my voice mail to hear my father's typical greeting.

"Hello Child. How are you?"

Why doesn't he just call me 7 of 9? Although in my case it would be 2 of
2. Anyway, he proceeds to tell me that he mailed me a letter. I should
treasure it and save it for prosperity.

Wow. This must be some letter.

It's not.

You see the letter in question does not exist. It's the envelope and the
post mark in question that has some sort of value. Apparently, the Newark
post office is closing. Mail will never be shuffled through this office
again nor marked with that Newark stamp. My father is taking the high
risk that this envelope will one day be worth millions or rather one
dollar. Perhaps it could serve as a future down payment on a house? Well,
I'm sure it will be worth something among certain social circles. You
know the ones that include the Unabomber and Pogo the Clown.

If only you could pick your parents!

november 28, 2006

The Knowledge Tree

Quality writing at absolute bargain prices! What does it cost the dear
reader? Nothing! What does it cost me, the author? Besides my soul, it's
just another way to let go of ego and share my bumblings with the world.
If you can't laugh at your shortcomings, you'll just cry. Honestly, I'm
tired of tears.

Today's lesson is "Always keep your home in pristine condition as if
Architechtual Digest is coming to photograph it". Why? Because you are
your enviornment, and your belongings are a huge glimpse into your inner
psyche. Although appearances can be deceiving.

After a miserable day among dentists at the Javits Center, I went to
drown my sorrows at one of my favorite places and visit my good friend
the Bartender. I filled him in on the various happenings of the Dental
Convention including a grown man in a cardboard box advertising a
mysterious substance called "Cube Lube", and a woman giving me an endless
supply of canker sore cream. I guess I have that herepes kind of look.

The night wore on and he caught me fumbling through my bag. It's really
not unusual for me to have strange things in there. A boot, a stuffed
pink pig, etc. Anything goes really. Out pops my book. I'm taking a break
from the rather literary "100 Years of Solitude" to the decidedly more
interesting "Belle du Jour- The Diary of a London Call Girl". I just hate
it when my trashy literary choices come back to haunt me. The Bartender
mentally checks the title, and we continue our conversation about
pantomimes.

Our conversation is particularly fascinating and leads us back to my
apartment. I have clearly forgotten that my apartment is not in its usual
visitor ready condition. I live in a small studio. I have a sofa but it's
just for show. Everyone sits on my bed. It's like Romper Room. I look
around my apartment and try to imagine what the Bartender's perception
might be.

To my horror, I realize there are a plethora of sex toys and a book about
the art of fellatio prominently displayed on my nightstand. Couple that
with my prostitution book and the seductive paintings of nude females
around my apartment, I have to think that this guy must think I am some
sort of depraved, deviant nymphomaniac. He says nothing. I certainly say
nothing on the slim chance that he has very poor eyesight and did not
notice a thing.

There happens to be a very innocent explanation for everything. Beginning
with I was much too lazy to tidy up the joint this week. My very good
friend The Porn Guy paid me a visit on Thanksgiving. The perks of being
Porn Guy include all the free sex toys in any shape, size, or the variety
that anyone could ever want. He brought over some of the most
ostentatious ones so we could have a nice giggle which we did. I then
neatly stacked them beside my bed and never gave them a second thought.

I will fully admit to owning a blow job book. I'm a single girl in New
York City. There's a lot of competition out there and I'm not 22. You've
got to have a gimmick. I'm not that engrossed by the book that I must
routinely scour each chapter by bedtime. The book made it's way off my
bookshelf simply because Some1 Dangerous and I were chatting amicably
about various topics the other day, and he wanted to hear some of the
great knowledge this book possessed. I slipped it off the shelf. Turned
to page 154. Read a passage and again left it by the bed to never be
thought of again. See, perfectly innocent.

I'm not going to defend my art collection because I don't have to. Art is
subjective and I collect what I like. In my case it happens to be naked
people. The circumstances just totally tainted my Wolff masterpiece.

I implore everyone to please learn from my mistakes. No matter how lazy
you feel. No matter how lazy you are and how useless it may seem. Always
and I can't stress this enough always keep your apartment clean. Or at
the very least hide the evidence. It's not easy to change a first
impression!

december 11, 2006

West Palm Beach Breeds Bad Dancers

This weekend I escaped the cold of home. I ran away to Florida for some fun in
the sun and to visit my best friend the Neo-Floridian. Due to contractual
obligations, I am not allowed to comment on the West Plam Beach nightlife. All I
will say is that I had a fabulous time.

Saturday, around 3am, the Neo-Floridian and I were returning home after visiting
one of the premiere nightspots on Clematis Street. We were quite close to home
when I spotted a man lying unconscious halfway between the street and the
sidewalk. I inquire to the Neo-Floridian about what I believe I just saw, and
she affirms it is a gentleman in questionable condition sprawled out in the
gutter. We drive on by.

"Maybe he's dead" I say.

"Maybe" counters the Neo-Floridian.

Although the possibilities are endless to what may have happened to this man,
the most plausible scenario is that he is a drunk that decided the isolated
street at 3am would be an ideal place for a nap. We still have fun playing the
"Guess what happened to the dead man?" game. We also debate whether we should be
concerned citizens and check to see if he's ok. Afterall, he could be dead.

Ms. Neo-Florida turns the car around to embark on our new 3am adventure. It's
like "Stand by me" "Thelma and Louise" style. I furiously check around the car
looking for something remotely stick-like to poke the man with.

We cautiously and slowly approach the man lying in the gutter. He's completely
sprawled out on the street. One shoe is on. The other is off and 6 inches away
from the rest of his body. His cell phone is open and blinking in the moonlight.
He appears to be sleeping peacefully. However, don't all dead people have that
appearance too?

"Is he dead?" I ask. "I really think we should poke him."

"He's breathing and fine" replies the Neo-Floridian.

Since she won't let me find a stick and poke him or toss my water bottle at him,
I roll down the car window and shout, "Are you ok?"

The response is rhythmic peacful breathing that solidifies Ms. Florida's opinion
that he's just fine and "sleeping it off". He's simply a sloppy drunk put on
this earth to give us a great 3am giggle for the ride home.

We continue the ride home, and I'm given permission to write about this
experience and only this experience. Nothing else about the evening regarding
West Palm Beach nightlife shall be mentioned. Curiously, our pal the drunk was
gone in the morning. Don't you wonder what he was thinking when he woke up in
the middle of the gutter that morning?

december 21, 2006

Miss Robbins presents: The 2006 Diary

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. The year was 2006, and these
were my merry adventures:

*Climbed to the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro

* Was held hostage at the Zanzibar airport.

* Went 36 hours without a cent to my name in Nairobi, Kenya

* Bonded with the Masai

* Was told my feet were unfeminine

* Had a 30 lb. umbrella crash into my skull at the Corner Bakery in Denver
resulting in a concussion

* Had my belly dance debut and finale all in the same night

* Was kenuffled

* Had a fabulous co-birthday party with Superstar G

* Went to my 11 year high school reunion

* Won a free weekend at the W Times Sq

*Went skinny dipping

* Had a fabulous 3 hour Thai yoga massage by CJ

* Finally ate fried chicken and waffles albeit not a Roscoe's

* Purposely went to a cockfight

* Discovered In-n-Out Burger has a secret menu

* Ate a deep fried pickle

* Got into fisticuffs with a Newark cabdriver

* Was tricked into a date with an 18 year old

* Was the star celebrity at the Mrs. Alabama and Texas beauty pageants

* Was fetaured in the June/July issue of Teen Vogue

* Established Supper Club

* unofficially launched my website www.tragicallyflawed.com

* Ate an entire pizza by myself

* Participated in a hippie drum circle after smoking copious amounts of pot

* Qualified for Starwood Hotels Gold Membership

* Arrived for my flight from Miami to return home one hour after it departed

* Bought a super fabulous and sexy DVF dress

* Discovered my inifinite love for Cold Stone ice cream

* Have my own personal on-line submissive

* Got a free facial in San Antonio, TX

* Stood next to Stephen Colbert and had a conversation with Paul Rudd at a party

* Reminisced with the ex-boyfriend who broke my heart at age 15

* Went wine tasting in the Napa Valley

* Realized if you can survive having diahrea at 4300 meters above sea level, you
can conquer anything

* Reunited with much missed long lost friends

* Went to an Ashtanga yoga retreat

* Finally mastered "crow" pose and standing on my head

* Officially have 16 subscribers to my myspace blog and almost 4,000 hits on said
blog from anonymous myspacers!

(subscribe people! it will make me happy!)

* Finished my Holiday shopping and about to finish the list of potential goals
for 2007.

Happy Holidays!