I don’t have time to write the complete story – but I HAD to share my wakeup call because it was so bizarre.
According to Forbes, I live in one of the wealthiest counties in America.A benefit of living among the rich is that they throw quarters at you instead of rocks.Last night my neighbor chucked a rainbow of quarters at me and my dog, Butters, while the two of us were on our late-afternoon walk.
“That’s for your two sense!” he slurred, waving a fist in the air.
After getting over the initial shock of being pelted with the quarters, I assumed I was simply a part of some weird European Independence ceremony… I mean, the 4th of July is fast approaching and Brian, my neighbor is European.Accordingly, Butters wagged his entire ass and I started picking up the quarters.
“Thanks!Happy Independence Day!” I shouted, waving my fist in the air as well.
“What the fuckkkk??It’s all your fault!” he pointed at Butters.
"Huh?"
"You two!!! Fuck you both!!!!"
I pocketed the change and tugged Butters along, who was still wagging his tail and willing to give psycho German drunk neighbor man a chance to throw some double cheeseburgers at us.
“It’s your fault!AND whoever asked YOU for your two sense, bitch?!” he slurred after us.
Frightened that he had really tried to stone me to death with quarters, I called the police.
The police wanted to know when the last time I spoke with him was and how the encounter went.
“Well, he used to spy on my boyfriend for me.He would let me know when girls stopped by at 4 AM… he often allowed these girls to spend the night at his house.The last time this happened was maybe 3 months ago… that was the last time we talked.”
The police drove over, reprimanded my inebriated neighbor and told him to remain in his house. Apparently he did not listen.
I went to bed hugging a baseball bat and piggy bank.... and woke up to:
(I posted a photo of him on a stretcher, being lifted into an ambulance... but didn't want everyone to be able to track down my address)
I regret to say that I will not be posting stories as often. In an attempt to become a real writer, I sent out a query letter to several literary agents and received an overwhelming positive response (at least compared to what I was told to expect). Accordingly, I am going to dedicate the time I usually reserve for eating Snickers while cruising Craig's List for a future husband to working on my book. Please try to be understanding. Wish me luck!
In the meantime, I will be posting some of the craziest dating exchanges I've saved over the years. Enjoy!
XOXO,
Vanessa
Dr. R is an extremely attractive surgeon. We met in a bar and exchanged #s and email addresses. I have a serious case of ADHD and have a lot going on in my life, so his texts and phone calls went unanswered. When he was unable make contact, he shot me the below email referencing all of my FAVORITE things: God, illegitimate children and gypsies. --------------------------------------
My Dear Vanessa,
Ahhh…the plot thickens
Hello my little tortellini… I haven’t heard from you, soooo…
My keen spider senses tell me that, being the future nation owner that you are, you must have done your research and found out a few things about me. Once I was able to coordinate and integrate my mind powers in overcoming , for a moment, the LUST FACTOR I possess for you…(which by the way has to be a given in the click department)…I was able to recognize that I really felt something for you J. I'm actually very happy to have this opportunity to let you know more of my true self, so here goes...
First off, I AM a Gypsy. Imagine that!! I’m SURE you haven’t come across too many Gypsy doctors in “your” line of work!! (My stomach is hurting that’s how I’m laughing right now). But yes…I am, and no…I’m not a scam artist is any exponential way, shape , or form. Lucky? Yes I am- very. “Many are called but few are chosen”. And this of course is MAJOR CONFIRMATION to me, as a testament to the testimony of my movie…which, by the way, is titled CONFIRMATION. A testament because right off the bat, I have to defend and clarify who I am, and being PROUD of who I am, perhaps a lesson to Miss Haraszkiewicz.
Yes…for sure, not ALL Gypsies are scammers, and double for sure, not ALL scammers are Gypsies. I actually have a scene sequence to enlighten the world to what I am about to lay on you. It involves yours truly, looking my dapper self as usual, attending a party at a pretty wealthy casual acquaintance of mine, accompanied by, at the time, my crew of degenerates. Yes…some of Vegas’ finest. Let’s see… There were “The 3 Johnnies”- Johnny The Hood, Johnny Black, and Johnny Steak Knife- ITALIANS, of course. Then there was Whitey…This guy was WHITE WHITE! Even his eyelashes were white! He being the albinic POLISH addition to the gang. Frankie Wheels, a mutt CZECH, also my bodyguard and driver, and Korey 4am, the JEW from Chicago. Also, finishing off the bunch, was my cousin, Alan, to witness the madness. Anyhow, we are all at this party, and we all immediately recognize that the guy, Dean I think his name was, was weak. His wife was psychotically inebriated and obviously starving for a nice strong session of you know what, and he a guy who had it all but had nothing, was suffering a slow ignorant death. Anyhow, having to evade this horndog, Dean’s wife’s repeated attempts at brushing up on my cock, I proceeded to the patio to enjoy a Marlboro Red. (I smoke occasionally, but trying to quit) Now the crew and I are overlooking Dean’s pool and his fancy boat he has spotlighting the overall “scenic” view he wanted to display. Now, mind you, the Spirit is talking to me through the whole segue…So, we are all out there and within about 12 seconds, the crew members have the whole situation sized up and begin their rant. Beginning with the fact that Dean doesn’t have the crookproof lock on his gate and on the trailer carrying his boat, the talented group they are, they proceed to each contribute to how they would first rob the guy’s boat and belongings. Then they each exercised their vivid imaginations on how they would rape Dean’s wife, and all the various scenarios around which they would skillfully humiliate him with. This as Dean brings over a platter of bacon wrapped scallops with pineapple chutney for us to enjoy. The point is…I realized very early on that I was different from the crowd, and the Spirit was pointing this out to me in a crystal clear manner at this moment. This was a time of note though since I became aware of myself aware of myself, a precious MOMENT, if you will, as an important ingredient of God’s Will for me was being revealed as well as the responsibility that I would have to Him in return was being realized. Do you somewhat get the picture of the gravity involved?
These experiences have testified of my being- “As wise as the serpent but as harmless as the dove”. I take the time to justify because I really want to see you naked, and as I said, I FEEL something very passionately about you AND my God has NEVER led me astray with my feelings.
Secondly, I have three beautiful and brilliant children that I love dearly. Ava, my eldest, is 18 and lives in California. She is an accomplished musician and singer/songwriter slash model/actress with quite the resume, yet she is humble and well mannered in all respects, and a pleasure to be around. God has answered my prayers recently in the discovery that she now wants to pursue a career in medicine. (Happy Happy I am!) And then there are my two boys, Benjamin 7, and London 6, who live here in Vegas with their mom. They are all quite entertaining and a complete blast to hang with. They are my buddies. I think that’s what happens. As you have children, they become your best friends as your youth is surpassed by wisdom. I know you can dig that understanding, considering your relationship with yours. I am still very good friends with my ex, who is a former Playmate, Jennifer Allan.
So, here we are… and oh yeah, I’m actually 43, not 35. As I am writing this letter, the song…Are You Going With Me by Pat Metheny (MUST HEAR WITH ME ON REPEAT FOR SEVERAL HOURS) is playing.
So…Are You Going With Me?
Love and Peace on all sides to you,
Dr. R “King” of the Gypsies (Haha) --------------------------------
The only place this dude is going is to the Betty Ford clinic.
I have been slacking lately... but figured out a way to make it up to you all. I am dedicating this entire week to Online Dating! I will post nice little exchanges and reviews from dating sites, etc. First up is my experience with Dr. F from Match.com.
A little background information:
I went on ONE date with an anesthesiologist, who I will refer to as K. Let me first say that by most girls’ standards, it wasn’t even a date. We met for a single glass of wine and appetizers. He did try to feed me some shit, which should have been the first red flag. I mean, I’m not handicapped. I have two working hands (which I should have used to give him the Bear Claw). I can feed myself.
The second red flag occurred the end of our little meeting, when he announced: “I am canceling my date tomorrow night. I don’t want to date anyone except you.” I shrugged it off thinking he was half joking and wanted a reaction from me… I mean, most guys pull that shit to show you that they are desirable. Also, there is a big difference between wanting and actually doing. I want to have a hot make out session with Brad Pitt… I want to make a living by doing absolutely nothing. These things just aren’t realistic. Neither is dating me exclusively after the first date.
The next day he sent me a message inviting me to some hospital event and warned/informed me that he was going to introduce me as his “girlfriend.” Ok, so for those of you who don’t know me, there is NO chance I’m going to assume the title of “girlfriend” after a month, let alone ONE date. I abhor only a few terms: boyfriend, girlfriend, relationship, and anything along those lines… These epidemical little words make an official breakup necessary. After you bust out one of the above terms, you can no longer pull the Fade Out or end things over the phone or AIM or email. Not cool. This = drama, tears, arguments, etc… Anyway… so in response, I sent back a little explanatory email about my feelings and thoughts on the term “girlfriend” and decided to pull the Fade Out; for unstable individuals, The Fade Out is preferable to abruptly ending things.
K called me the next day. I am not big on chatting on the phone, so we covered the basics of “I am not your girlfriend. You are not my boyfriend. We went on one date,” and I told him I had to go and would talk to him later. I had to give a debriefing to my good pal Angie, so I dialed her up and proceeded to do so. Approximately 15 minutes into our conversation K called. I hit IGNORE. 30 seconds later he called again. IGNORE. 15 seconds later he called again. IGNORE. The annoying, incessant beeping reverberated in my ear for at least 40 missed calls. Right around the 40th missed call I freaked out, hung up on Angie and answered K’s call. On the verge of tears (out of frustration) I screamed: “Quit calling my fucking phone, asshole!!!!!” and hung up. He called back another two times. One of the times he left a voicemail message: “On a scale of 1-10, how angry are you? Awww… I thought you would think it was cute that I missed you.” MKAY, you missed me? After one date? No more Fade Out, time to cut off all contact and ignore, ignore, ignore. This went fairly well for almost two weeks, until this morning, when I received the following note:
I think it's funny what people see and don't see.
When I see you with my eyes open: beneath the make-up you refuse to ever take off, or the boob job that really is too big for your body, you are pretty. However, what I find pretty isn't what you think and it's not your cranium size. I like that your right eye is slightly lower than your left, your nose is slightly off center and you have the cutest chipmunk cheeks. As it's these things that make you unique.
When I see you with my eyes closed, despite your excessive bitchiness, it's cool that: you're willing to help your brother by letting him use your car, you really aren't all that high maintenence, we've read a lot of the same books and use the same catch phrases, that you actually have a great sense of humor, and probably the main reason I'm sending this email despite your bitchiness is that I just like the sound of your voice.
ok bye.
PS. I also find it very wierd/interesting that you've read and probably memorized "The elements of style" so forgive my grammatical errors.
---------------------------------
You met me ONCE. God, you're so deep. You totally unearthed this side of me no other guy has every acknowledged. Most guys only like me for my stunning good looks – I mean, according to you I look like I got hit in the face with a shovel, yet you see me for more than my appearance… hummmm… I suppose I can deduce that men like shovel faces? Just a little tip: describing a girl as Quasimodo is NOT going to win her back.
Furthermore, I do take my make-up off; I take it off when I sleep... which you will NEVER experience. Ass. Thank god too, because I tried to cop a feel when you hugged me goodnight, and ummm NOTHING. That would make sense though. You have small carnie hands; small like cabbage. Lastly, here is some more "excessive bitchiness" for you: I am NOT interested in you.... and I think my Daddy really does know best, especially when he said:
"The guy brings people near death for a living. He doesn't know where you live, does he? Do not go out with him again... he's going to *injection motion into my neck* BAM, and you're dead."
-Pops
--------------------------------------------------------------
So, just to be fair and to show you I can be a lunatic as well, I thought I would draft a little response to you. Here is my mirrored letter, to you, my sweetheart:
I too think it's funny what people see and don't see.
When I see you with my eyes open: beneath the dork squad glasses you refuse to ever take off because you’re convinced they make you look smart, or little paws of hands that are really too small for your body, you still really are rather unattractive. However, what I find unattractive isn't what you think and it's not your diminutive stature, small hands, geeky glasses, or even your poor sense of style. I hate that you’re a condescending twit who denigrates U of M because you couldn’t get in… I hate that you call my phone incessantly and leave me creepy voicemails about missing me, and I hate that you think you’re worthy enough to be referred to as my “boyfriend.” I also hate how you think you know me after spending only a few hours with me. You’re not as clever as you think you are; you said things would end well between us. I really hope you realize what a waste of space you are one day and *BAM* inject yourself with a lethal dose of tubocurarine chloride. In no way are you unique; you are just another deluded Herman Webster Mudgett wannabe (the first documented serial killer, who happened to be a doctor). Perhaps you too will be expelled for stealing cadavers?
When I see you with my eyes closed, despite your excessive pyschoness, it's cool that: I can simply unfriend you on facebook, block your calls, and respond to you in this public forum. “Skill-set” is NOT a “catch phrase.” Many people use it; you should have no trouble finding someone else to stalk.
Just so you know, the main reason I'm posting this note despite your obsessiveness is that I did not want have to speak to you via phone, because I abhor the sound of your voice.
ok fuck off.
PS. I also find it very weird/interesting that you’re supposed to be smart, but you can’t take fucking hint.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.
When it comes to punishment, I don’t possess the patience for rehabilitation and lack the self-control for judicious assessment. As an Old Testament type of gal, I embrace the idea of proportionate punishment – an eye for an eye – to satisfy the victim’s resentment, but lack the restraint to properly employ “proportionality,” which requires the level of punishment be scaled relative to the severity of the offending behavior. It takes a lot to satisfy my resentment. Accordingly, I’m an advocate for extreme, excessive and swift punishment. For example, a previous boyfriend asked me: “How do you feel knowing every girl in the room wants your boyfriend?” He followed that up by informing me I wasn’t universally pretty; I was lucky he found me attractive. I broke up with him and subsequently appeared in FHM magazine, in which I attacked and exposed his conflicting sexual and religious practices. My revenge is usually immediate and cruel. Unfortunately, I’m at a complete loss as to how to handle my latest transgressor. Anything less than torture by Spanish boot – a leather boot-like device drawn over the feet and legs, in which boiling water is poured over, eventually soaking through the leather and eating the flesh away from the entrapped limbs – seems insufficient.
Most recently my boyfriend used spyware to obtain the passwords to all my social networking and email accounts.
In response, I broke into his accounts and fired off some offensive messages on his behalf. With the expectation that he would retaliate, I changed all of my passwords except my MySpace password, thereby leaving him free to monitor any MySpace communication. Finally, I replied to Playboy’s inquiry for me to pose via MySpace. I informed them I would be honored to work with them and pose for their magazine.
My boyfriend had a panic attack, deleted the message and blocked Playboy.
I chastised him and for invading my privacy AGAIN, then packed my belongings and left to stay with my parents for the weekend, thereby giving him the opportunity to win me back via grand gesture.
Instead, he vanished. I received one call. At 3:33 AM. No message.
Suspicious of his lack of communication during our separation, I implemented a full-fledged investigation. My boyfriend claimed he spent the night from 8 PM until 3:30 AM at the Black Finn bar with his best friend, Chris. His best friend’s girlfriend assured me she spent the night with Chris. She and Chris never met up, saw or spoke with my boyfriend. After ascertaining he lied about his whereabouts and company, I broke into his facebook account again and followed up with our neighbor.
His Facebook account revealed messages to a female with the alias Rockin’ Robyn at 2:30 AM and 3:30 AM. He included his phone number and signed them “Big Kiss!”. Since normal people don’t use stage names on Facebook, I assumed she was a prostitute.
Our neighbor, Brian, offered more insight.
“Hi, Brian, lovely day, isn’t it?” I smiled.
“Yep. What’s up?” Brian crunched up his face and canvassed the area behind me with paranoid eyes.
“So, Brian… Have any strange girls been coming around?”
“Well, before you moved in, that,” he pointed to our front door, “looked like the entrance to a brothel.”
“Ok. Whatever. What about lately? Like within the last few months?”
“Oh boy… yeah… I mean, I shouldn’t say anything, but I kinda want my pants back,” he pulled at his left earlobe.
“Your pants?”
Brian informed me an intoxicated girl did indeed pound at my door at approximately 4 AM Mid-March. Her incessant pounding woke him up, so he asked her if she needed anything.
“Cocaine? Do you have any coke? Can I crash here?” she slurred, pushing past him into his house.
Brian informed her he did not have any cocaine. He then provided her with a cocktail and sweatpants. She took a swing, dropped the glass on his living room table, fell back on his couch, struggled out of her clothes and rolled around for a while in just a “g-string.”
“She was pretty trashy. I mean, I saw the broad naked... titties and all… and didn’t even know her name. Then she started bitching about your boyfriend and so I asked her why she was stopping by if he was such a jerk and she said because he’s a really good fuck.”
“She said that?”
“Yep.”
“Did you ever get her name?”
“Robyn. I went through her purse after she passed out. Do you think you can get my pants back for me?”
“Have you seen her before?”
“Oh man, I just really want my pants back!” He hesitated for three seconds then sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Girl used to come around weird hours. All the time… but before he started dating you.”
My exhaustive investigation revealed my boyfriend never met up with his best friend. Rather than sulk, send me flowers or do anything productive for our relationship, he spent his 48 hours of freedom getting blackout drunk, paying strippers to grind his cock and booty calling an old hook-up who has no problem disrobing in front of and spending the night with a total stranger. He does not deserve a clean break-up; he deserves to be crucified. Unfortunately, even though I firmly believe I could happily munch on popcorn while watching him suffer through hours of intermittent partial asphyxiation and searing pain as tissue tore from his lacerated back, I doubt I could handle the jail time sure to follow. I hate living with women, hate manual labor and hate any type of authority. What to do, what to do?
----------------------------------- Email me your ideas!
Sarah C. of Pretty Wicked infuriates me. I've never had anger issues, but am developing some just from VIEWING her antics. If you're going to do anything, do it well - that includes lying! Let’s take a moment to exam Sarah’s ridiculous claims.
“I went to Saint Xavier and had a 4.0.” I looked her up at Saint Xavier… where she had a 0.0 because she NEVER went there.
I can respect a well-crafted fabrication. Unfortunately, Sarah's statements contradict one another. She initially claimed she was 3 classes short of a Bachelor's, then later at elimination claimed she dropped out after completing her Associate's degree. Who knows? Maybe she earned a 4.0 in Underwater Basket Weaving? She clearly didn't take any acting or math classes.
“I haven’t cried in 10 years.” Oh REALLY? She alleges she hasn't cried since… oh wait, she lied about her age, so this is going to be difficult to calculate… Let's see, first she was 23 and then she was “underage.” Finally she admitted to being 26. So she hasn't cried since she was 10, 13 or 16… whatever, in any case she's full of shit. She cried multiple times a day on a reality show!! Also, she needs to stop lying about being able to count to 10. Bitch can't count that high.
“I tried to kill my brother 8 times.” She's not locked up, so this is obviously false. I’m not even going to refute this further…
“My boyfriend is 40.” More like her boyfriend's SON is 40!!! Too bad she didn’t tell Pat O’Brien how she blew the dude guarding her padded room at Chicago’s University of Illinois hospital so he would let her out to troll the geriatric ward for a boyfriend.
Sarah C.: You don't need a reality show; you need a straight-jacket and a lithium drip!!!
Furthermore, I thought this show was about INNER BEAUTY?!!! If so, why are the contestants posing in bikinis???!!! In addition, how the hell is Actual Reality Pictures (not Oxygen... I feel sorry for them and think they need to ask for their money back) hire Pat O’Brien – a man fired by Access Hollywood for voicemail messages to a coworker in which he tried to coerce her into blowing a dump truck of cocaine while having a threesome- JUDGE these women? THEN President Perv AWARDS Sociopath Sarah for lying. I pray for another twist, because I'm physically ill. I just vomited up my Kung Pao chicken.
Someone needs to shoot Sarah C. and fire the show's writers if there isn't a twist to rectify the contradictions.
*My explanations of Sarah C's lies are based on the contradictions of Sarah's statements and my vivid imagination only. I conducted no actual research.
*I didn't understand the entire reality TV process until recently. The production company wrote, directed and basically created the entire show. Oxygen purchased the show from the production company. Accordingly, Oxygen needs to get a refund. --------------------------------
*Do you think there is another twist? If so, email me at vharaszk@umich.edu and I'll post your theory! Anonymous: I think Oxygen paid Sarah C. to be an actress on the show. She's not a real contestant!! Doubtful. If the network paid her to act, they need to ask for a refund. She can't even keep her lies straight.
Caryn: The show is really about who is the most manipulative. No one is going to hire Pat O'Brien to judge inner beauty. I hope you're right... but I have a feeling this isn't the case.
Josie: Maybe the judges didn't get to see the footage of what was REALLY going on... maybe they really thought Sarah C. was honest. We'll see... but someone edited and approved the footage to air... if this was the case I doubt they would edit it to victimize Qui and villainize Sarah C. I have no idea... ---------------------------------
Sarah's response: first of all that was completely uncalled for. I did go to St xavier university from 2004 to 2006. i will gladly send you my transcripts. i am going there tomorrow to pick up a copy. i am posting them up everywhere and i am taking it up with oxygen's legal department about your slander of both me and the network. i find it funny that you are the first one to write me about a blog that does not even say anything bad about your personal life and then you can just go ahead and just make up bs about mine. you do not know me and or a thing about me. I never even had a conversation with you. i do not believe i even sat in the same room with you alone once nor did you ever even ask me a thing about myself. i can not believe you would just go about posting all that false info. did i really ever even give you one good reason to start shit? did i ever once do anything to you? did i ever even talk to you and or about you? you have some serious issues....and i would like to know where you exactly looked into this whole my school issue???? really???? because i was there!!!! for two fucken years.....and why the hell would you even care????? i would love to know what exactly it is that you get out of posting such nasty shit????? does it make you feel better about yourself???? i am sooooo glad you bacame such a better person. you really have gone about this in a mature and classy matter. i seem to recal watching a few clips of you saying that you do not want to be viewed in an unclassy way......well way to pump up the class. i hope you are proud of yourself. and the thing that really gets me!!!!!! i actually liked you!!!!! and watching the show made me like you more. you seemed like one of the girls that actually had her shit together. i guess i was as about as wrong about you as you were about me.....and i really am picking up the transcripts tomorrow...where exactly would you like them sent? or perhaps i could talk oxygen into blasting them as the front cover of their site. i bet you could then finally sleep peacfully. the big huge burden of sarah c's school will be off your shoulders. wow vanessa i just do not even know what to say....for as sick as i might have made you i believe you have just made me ten times more sick......oh look and i even had the consideration to come to you and write you directly instead of publically blasting shit about you that i do not even know is true. i guess you are just lucky i am not a person that lashes out on revenge. i could have easily made a whole bunch of shit up about you, but instead i chose to come to you directly! however, i will be speaking to a lawyer tomorrow as well. and the worst part is.....i actually heard about it from a fan. i got an email on myspace asking if i checked out your blog.....i didnt even know you had a website....and now i seriously wish i didnt even get that email.....incase you cant tell....ha ha ha it actually bothered me!!!!
My Response: 1. I never claimed to have "changed" on the show. I thought the "changing" expectation was bull shit and left. Do you remember my "Goodbye" message? I said the only way I would regret leaving is if you won. They cut that out, but I'm sure you remember. I left mostly because of YOU, not Reena.
2. I was alone with you. You told me you were an English major, like me. If you would like other personal details about yourself, let me know. However, this is irrelevant, since all of my opinions were based on the last episode that aired. I wasn't there... perhaps they edited you to look like a poor liar? If so, take it up with Oxygen, oh wait, no, the production company for creating an episode that made 80 some odd percent of viewers polled think you're full of shit.
3. Maybe you did go to Xavier for two years. You still lied about having a 4.0, being a few credits from Bachelor's and a million other things. I really don't care about your educational background either way. I was using hyperbole to make a point: you are a liar. My blog is not slander. If anything it would be libel, but it doesn't even meet the requirements for that. Again... If you have a beef, talk to Oxygen or the production company for airing an episode that made 80 some odd percent of viewers polled think you're full of shit.
4. I'm all for you or anyone winning anything on a reality show via lying, cheating and manipulation. Isn't that the point of reality TV? I'm more disgusted you were rewarded for ridiculous, inconsistent lies. I'd pat you on the back for securing immunity through guile if you made any sense doing it! I don't care if you lied or what you lied about... I just wish you weren't so transparent.
Whenever I pack my Kate Spade rollaway and embark on a new adventure outside state lines, I suffer a mugging, theft or some other catastrophe.In fact, I plan to limit future travel to the state of Michigan since my latest travel-related incident turned out even more horrific than the L.A. knifing or Dallas robbery.I’ll just honeymoon at Greenfield Village, have deceased out-of-state family members shipped to Detroit and host the annual Girls’ Vegas trip on 8 Mile instead; both locales boast prostitutes, pimps and clubs named Pure anyway.No more exotic vacations or foreign getaways.Far worse than 15 stitches or a stolen identity, the latest police report listing me as a victim suggested my fashion-sense is more reminiscent of RuPaul than Jean Paul Gaultier.
I flew to Scottsdale for All-Star weekend and met up with my gorgeous jersey chasing friend, Jill.Being more interested in Jewish attorneys than rap stars and professional athletes, I spent my time pursuing as many open bars as possible, while Jill handed out Future Husband Applications.This eventually led us to crashing a Lebron James party.Unfortunately, fellow partiers received me, the only girl with blonde girl, with kidney punches and shoves instead of the admiration I anticipated.It was so crowded I actually had difficulty getting to the open bar, never mind actually getting a drink.Jill was also disappointed since she had hoped teaming up with a blonde girl would attract a diverse group of celebrities.She quickly reevaluated my use.
“Can you dance?” she asked.
“I can’t even find the beat in a song.”
“Do you know who that is?”She pointed to a really black man.
“A celebrity?”I guessed.
“No shit, which one?”
He was surrounded by a bunch of women in wearing Lover’s Lane outfits.“Lebron?”
“Wrong.Akon.”
Since I was the only girl devoid of an ass, rhythm and rap star radar, Jill labeled me a hindrance, fired me as her “wing-woman” and propped me up against a 12 foot tall space heater.I spent the remainder of the night unnoticed, guzzling a bottle of cheap wine red wine I swiped from the bar and cursing myself for not wearing something that offered more coverage than a cocktail napkin.Luckily, the vast majority of my peers sipped on Hennessey and Remy, which left my preferred alcoholic beverage quantity unlimited.Accordingly, I overcompensated for my lack of clothing by consuming more booze than was safe or reasonable as the temperature continued to drop and as the hours wore on.
4 AM left the Last of The Mohicans scrambling for after party plans and me wobbling around wrecked, wasted and wine-stained.Jill finally left for round 2 with some actor about as tall and famous as herself, who made promises of a really good soiree, and I grabbed a cab back to the resort.
I thanked and paid Solomon then stumbled up to my room, where I noticed my Louis Vuitton mules looked like they lost a Michael Vick dog fight.Even worse, a mix of cabernet, merlot and pino noir added to the rainbow of colors on my new Alice and Olivia shirt.I stripped, gathered all of my dirty clothing and tossed it in the resort’s laundry service bag.
After milking my hangover with Gatorade Glacial Freeze and about 15 Tylenol until 5 PM the following day, I met up with Jill, who had nothing exciting to report.“Really good soiree” translated to mansion with stripper poles that rise out of the ground, topped with 100% nude escorts.Not surprisingly, the following 3 days played out like a broken record of rappers, Flavor Flav reality stars and basketball players.Finally, on Sunday while packing for home, I realized housekeeping never returned my clothes.Assuming it was an oversight, I moseyed down to the front desk to inquire.
“Hola!Me nombre es Vanessa.Como esta?I need me ropa.”It was Arizona, after all.
“We speak English.What can I do for you?”
I explained the situation to the Front Desk Manager, Maria, who feigned ignorance.
“Call laundry service, then.I need my clothes.I have to catch a plane,” I prodded.
Maria’s face fell and next thing I knew, she went ghost on me.I took a seat in the lobby.
“Ms. Vanessa?”Maria returned 15 minutes later.
“There seems to have been a mix up.”
“I figured that much.Can I just get my clothes back, please?”
“Well, you’re going to have to wait until someone turns them in…”she trailed off.
“Explain.”
“Well, apparently laundry service gave your clothes to another guest.”
“Ok, which guest?Let’s call him and get my clothes back.”This all seemed very logical to me.
“Well, it’s not that simple.Myra, the lady in charge, said a gentleman came down to get the clothes before she could deliver them, so we aren’t sure which room he’s in.She thought he was your boyfriend.”
Turned out Myra failed to ID and validate whether or not the gentleman in question was a registered guest.
“So some random person could be walking around in my clothes right now?” I asked.
“I’m sure she gave the bag to a guest.She thought it was your boyfriend …”
“How can you be sure?I want to see the security tape.”Believe nothing of what you hear or read and only half of what you see!Also, I wanted to see what type of guy Myra envisioned me with.
“I can’t let you view the tapes.You’re just going to have to wait.Or I can call you when someone turns them in.”
Apparently Maria had the IQ of a dump truck.She didn’t know the difference between “lost” and “stolen.”She didn’t understand Customer Service 101; rather than apologizing, she shooed me away.And her wardrobe consisted of an unflattering grey, shoulder padded suit and boyfriend cut jeans; she could not possibly understand my loss.
“I am not going to sit waiting for my clothes to show up indefinitely.I mean, really, what do you want me to do?Sit around until someone mugs me or steals the shoes off my feet?No thanks.A resort employee gave my clothes away.You need to fix this!Hand me the phone.I’m calling the police.”
Maria refused to let me call the police from the resort’s phone, so I dialed 911 from my cell.Unable to argue with the law, Maria begrudgingly handed over the security tapes to very charming Officer Hernandez who arrived within an hour.
According to the police report, a homeless man stole my clothes from an upscale Scottsdale resort’s laundry service and rode off on a bike.I’m not sure which I find more offensive: Myra mistaking a homeless man for my significant other or a homeless man happily sporting my wardrobe.Apparently I look like a drag queen who dates men who order takeout from dumpsters and vacation in refrigerator boxes.The resort offered no form of restitution.
I have a Shakespearean quotation tattooed to my ass. I majored in English. I appreciate fine literature as much as the next person; however, I do not enjoy reading the same book twice. Accordingly, if stranded on a deserted island and forced to choose between a book and a mirror, I would choose looking at myself for the next 20 years over repeatedly reading the same novel. Besides, mirrors can withstand the test of time much better than a dead tree and some ink.
OXYGEN’S “PRETTY WICKED” LADIES GET TRUE DOSE OF REALITY WHEN THEY MUST AUCTION OFF PERSONAL ITEMS TO BENEFIT
April 6, 2009 by J!-ENT
Episode Premieres Tuesday, April 7 at 10pm ET/PT
New York – April 6, 2009 – The claws come out on this week’s episode of “Pretty Wicked,” premiering Tuesday, April 7 at 10pm ET/PT, when the ladies are forced to sell off prized possessions to benefit Los Angeles’ Midnight Mission homeless shelter.
In an effort to humble some the “Pretty Wicked” ladies, judge Dr. Jenn Berman sends them to the “skid row” area of Los Angeles to serve the homeless and get a first- hand account of those less fortunate than themselves. However, the sentiment gets lost when Vanessa admits if she had to choose one item she could not live without, she would choose a mirror over a book.
Once they are back at the loft, Vanessa and the other ladies are challenged to face their materialistic ways when host CariDee English announces they must auction off some of their personal items to benefit the homeless shelter they visited. Split into three teams, the ladies auction items ranging from gift cards and massages to Vanessa’s most prized possession – her $800 Louis Vuitton shoes. After the winning team is announced, it’s revealed some of the ladies lied about the items’ authenticity … causing a screaming match between widely hated, Ana, and the no-holds barred Sarah R.
Chaos erupts to another level as the ladies unleash their true feelings about each other, prompting Amber to abruptly quit the competition and leave the loft. Can the girls convince her to stay? Will Ana and Sarah R.’s fight win them a spot in the bottom three for elimination?
My favorite Pretty Wicked side-effect is connecting with new, interesting MySpace friends.
My favorite fan is Chilito, a 17-year-old YouTuber comedian from AZ. He is going to do a weekly video about the Pretty Wicked girls... and since we can laugh at ourselves I will share them with you all!
What's your favorite part of your body? My soul. Nevermind! I lost it in a bet.
What's your least favorite part of your body? My mouth. It's always getting me into trouble… I’m working on a blog entry about Boobies and Blow J*&s…
Do you use your looks to get what you want? I try. However, I find psychokinesis is more effective.
Have you ever cheated on a partner? It's not cheating if you're not exclusive... and I'm not an advocate of exclusivity. Seriously though, I’m a loyal person. I’ve done a lot of wicked stuff but have never cheated.
What songs do you listen to make you feel sexy? I'm really not into music. I can't dance... I mean, I really can't dance. I can't even clap along to "Hail to the Victors." Accordingly, music just makes me feel uncoordinated...unless I'm lit up on wine or vodka. THEN I dance like one of the Fly Girls.
What's the most outrageous thing you've done for attention? I had my breasts augmented. Also, I humiliated my ex in FHM. I wanted to be heard. I went on a reality show...and I would do it all again!
Personal words to live by? Marilyn Monroe: "It's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring." And I made this one up myself: "Being underestimated is one's greatest advantage in life."
After you're long gone, what do you want people to remember about you? I will never be "long gone." I plan to achieve immortality through my writing. However, if that doesn't pan out and metaphorical immortality is not an option, I'll pursue literal immortality by being cryogenically frozen whenever contemporary cosmetic surgery is no longer able to sustain my fabulousness.
What are you looking for in a partner? I don't believe in "types"...However, I do need someone with intelligence, ambition, humor, etc. etc.
Worst pick up line you've ever heard? "That shirt's very becoming on you. Of course, if I were on you I'd be coming too." Simply offer me a drink or a business card, NOT a sperm bath!
Describe your perfect date: Aren't dates the things you eat when you're constipated? Or are those prunes?
Describe the worst date imaginable: One where I'm paying!
Worst fashion trend you've seen? Ugg boots and skinny jeans on fat girls. They aren't called "fat jeans" for a reason. Reena from Pretty Wicked loves them so I finally broke and purchased a pair while she and I were in Scottsdale. I look like a Dorito in them.
What do you wear to draw attention to yourself? Apparently anything that’s inappropriate and gossip worthy. I thought the show was about being a diva… so I dressed outrageously for the first day. Note that I don’t do that again for the rest of the show. Diva to demure… Some people have also asked if Oxygen provided my outfit; nope, I managed to look like a hooker all on my own.
Who's your celebrity crush? Sacha Baron Cohen and Britney Spears... I still heart her.
In the movie of your life, who would you want to play you? My goal in life is to become a blonde Jewish author/late-night talk show host, so Chelsea Handler because she's blonde, Jewish, writes hilarious books and has her own late-night comedy talk show.
Give or Receive? I receive and I give to receive.
Love or Lust? I lust many and love few.
Do you have women as friends? I have a blowup doll named Molly. If she upsets me, I just deflate her and store her under the bed. No, really, I'm fortunate enough to have some very confident, intelligent, fun girlfriends.
Do you think you are a "bitch"? Not after living with some of the sociopaths from Pretty Wicked. I think I'm fabulous.
In the movie of your life, who would you want to play you? My goal in life is to become a blonde Jewish author/late-night talk show host, so Chelsea Handler. She's blonde, Jewish, writes hilarious books and has her own late-night comedy talk show.
We all know I’m an “ugly, fat, stupid, tranny hooker,” so I have nothing to lose by sharing this with you all… I hope you all can laugh at me making a complete and utter fool of myself.
Vanessa from Pretty Wicked on E!'s The Soup Clip of the Day.
Having a blind boyfriend would free up approximately 2 hours a day, 14 hours a week and 730 hours a year. Rather than curl my hair and spackle my face with MAC, I could theoretically run 146 marathons to benefit charity, earn $73,000 to donate to charity or use the extra money to sponsor 173 children from Uganda. Instead of battling wrinkles and humidity, I could battle cancer, HIV and AIDS. Accordingly, as reported by Variety.com, on Episode 1 of Pretty Wicked, I announce: “Maybe a blind boyfriend is what I need? Do you know how much time that would save me?”
I may be infuriating and it may be infuriating, but men are primarily visual creatures. They don’t have the eyes of eagles, but any Doberman will tell you that men see better than they smell or hear. Accordingly, I’m of the mindset: attract him with your beauty and keep him with your brain.
Well, attracting him with beauty is time-consuming and arduous. Different men are attracted to different things. Some men are ageists, some are fatists, some prefer blondes and some prefer brunettes. To play it safe you must look 21 years old, wear a size 2 and sport blonde hair with lowlights or brunette hair with highlights. Even then you’re not going to please the men who prefer chubby redheads. Appearing universally attractive is more difficult than predicting the stock market.
As a result, the only way to ensure a man focuses on your inner beauty rather than initially judge you based on your physical beauty is to poke out his eyes with shish kabob skewers! Deprive him of sight; deprive him of his superficial predisposition.
Therefore, dating a blind man could circumvent aggravated assault and battery charges as well as free up some time for philanthropy. I stand by my offensive statement. Having a blind boyfriend would be fabulous.
Channel 4 just informed all of Detroit’s junkie teenagers and unemployed how to legally get high without spending more than $12.No glaucoma diagnosis needed.
Salvia divinorum.It’s stronger than marijuana and LEGAL in Michigan.
Called nicknames like Sally-D, Magic Mint and Diviner's Sage, salvia is generally smoked, and is a hallucinogen that gives users an out-of-body sense of traveling through time and space or merging with inanimate objects.
I’ve never even smoked a cigarette, so my ears didn’t perk up until that last part about traveling through time.Coincidentally, ever since Dan Cherry wrote a rude newspaper article about me, I’ve complained that I’m going to have to legally change my name since I don’t have a time machine.Changing your name costs approximately $100.An ounce of salvia leaves sells for around $12 on the Internet.I investigated further.
Turns out this cost-effective, modern day time machine can also be chewed or made into tea and drunk.
No smoking, no DeLorean and no misdemeanor required.Finally, a reason to attend “Tea Time”??
Channel 4 referenced the Web site, Salviadragon.com, which claims salvia users report experiencing:
Leaving Their Body & Traveling Across The Astral World
Lucid Out of Body Experiences
Traveling Back or Forward in Time
Feeling Weightless and Flying Over the Astral Landscape
Seeing or Feeling Through Another Beings Perspective
Finding Hidden Answers and Secret Knowledge
Meeting Entities And Other Non-Physical Beings
A Feeling of Oneness and Peace With The Universe
Apparently the content provider at Salviadragon.com is too busy soaring the astral landscape to learn possessive grammar.
Anyway, after my experience with Oxygen and Dan Cherry at the Telegram, I really believe nothing that I hear or read and only half of what I see, so I turned to YouTube.com.
Sweet baby Jesus!The user never even attempted his U-Turn!In addition, none of the users in any of the videos I watched report remembering what occurred during their high.They all blacked out.
If my research is any indication, Salviadragon.com is as reliable as the tabloids. I experienced several wine induced “blackouts” during college.The only G-d I remember was the porcelain G-d at 6 AM.A blackout is referred to as a blackout because the victim doesn’t remember anything. Doing salvia is a good way to make a complete asshole out of yourself; even if you do have a good time you're going to have to have YouTube or your pals fill you in. So although salvia is cost-effective and legal, so is a bottle of wine from CostCo.
Kids:Stay off drugs and stay in school!If you really want to screw up your lives, wait until you’re 21 and booze it up or try out for reality television!
Here's a dose of reality about reality television: Things aren't always what they seem to be.
Jackson-area native Vanessa Haraszkiewicz learned that when she was cast in cable network Oxygen's first reality competition series, "Pretty Wicked." The show, which premieres at 11 p.m. Tuesday, features 10 "prima donnas (competing) to see who is the most beautiful on the inside for a grand prize of $50,000."
Pretty Wicked advertisements are everywhere: CNBC, NBC, Bravo, Oxygen, the subway in NYC, bus stops, www.realityshows.com, MySpace, Star Magazine… and now in what most people would consider nightmares…
Last night I dreamt I was on a date with a jerk named Mike Goldstein. He picked me and my dog, Butters, up and went back to his place to drop Butters off and have a glass of wine before attending a party together. The glass of wine was the high point; he didn’t open my doors and he picked his nose, kept trying to touch my leg, talked about himself the entire time, didn’t ask me any questions, wore Sketchers and drank excessively without offering me any juice. Also, the party was in a middle school gymnasium! I must have picked him up on Jdate or something and failed to conduct a google background check. He agreed to take me out, so he obviously didn’t conduct one on me. Maybe google doesn’t exist in dreams?
Anyway, I cut things short and we went back to his place to pick up my dog. He left me in the car to pout while he went inside to get Butters before taking me home. Anxious to glue my ass to the couch and break open a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, I went in after Mike when a half hour went by and he still hadn’t returned.
I walked up Mike’s staircase and entered the living room, where he was bound and gagged with duck tape on the floor. Butters started whining, which alerted the robber, who was munching on a ham sandwich in the kitchen.
The robber charged me, trapped me in a corner and put a gun to my head.
“Hurting me isn’t necessary. I’m on your side. I wanted to do the exact same thing to Mike all night long. What’s your name? I’m Vanessa.”
“Joey.” I shook his leather gloved hand and thought of OJ Simpson. I looked down at Joey’s shoes: Bruno Magli. I’m pretty that in Vanessa’s Dreamworld, that meant he killed Nicole or something.
“I guess I won’t gag you or tie you up…. But I’m going to have to hold you hostage.”
“That’s cool. Do you mind if I use Mike’s computer while we wait?”
I didn’t want for him to respond.
“Ohh Goody!” I booted up Mike’s computer while he continued to struggle like a live insect pinned to a Riker Mount waiting to be dissected. “Come here… we can look at Pretty Wicked ads while we wait!!”
The armed robber/assholeknapper and I spent the next hour or so trolling the Internet for Pretty Wicked ads. I made him watch videos, view photos and write nice comments on the Oxygen site. I woke from the dream with a smile and sense of contentment.
I joke about having NPD, Narcisstic Personality Disorder, but am disturbed to think I may need to seek actual help; my subconscious is more concerned with reality show advertisements than the well-being of a hostage.
DSM criteria for NPD and how it relates to me A pervasive pattern of grandiosity, need for admiration and lack of empathy present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by 5 (or more) of the following:
Black denotes behaviors I do not display. Day Old Mustard denotes behaviors I may or not display. These are debatable and TBD. Red denotes behaviors I display.
Has grandiose sense of self-importance Probably, but I’m unable to accurately answer this if I do suffer from NPD, since I would view any level of self-importance, even “grandiose,” as reality. Since “Mike” would objectively “check this box,” I will too. One point red.
Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty or ideal love Mixed. Quite the opposite in some respects. Specifically, I feel very powerless and stupid for becoming a reality TV asshole. Maybe a little preoccupied with beauty and ideal love; however, I spent the last 3 days un-showered and glued to the couch… which isn’t very attractive. This one is debatable. I’ll leave it day old mustard.
Believes that he or she is “special.” If by “special” they really mean the State should revoke my license and make me ride the short bus, then yes. Seriously though, I am ashamed to say I do feel a little special when I see the ads. Conversely, Dan Cherry’s newspaper article left me researching “Internet Cyberspace Bullying.” If dreams are reflections of our subconscious, my subconscious would say A LOT special. *CRINGE*… So two points day old mustard.
Requires excessive admiration I haven’t required anything resembling admiration or even human contact since I locked myself in my parents’ basement and started spending my days making fun of other people who live in their mother’s utility closet. At least I have a bed. Thank god mom and dad served me with a 24 hour eviction notice yesterday. Back to the city I go… One point black.
Has a sense of entitlement Check. Check and check. Two points red.
Is Interpersonally exploitative Not lately. If it’s just me, the couch and Butters, I can’t exploit anyone. Black.
Lacks empathy I’m full of empathy… but for celebrities, so I’m not sure if that counts.
Is often envious of others or believes others are envious of him or her I think everyone loves me and the people who say they don’t really just want to be me. Joking! Seriously, if people could experience an iota of the frustration, humiliation and stress I have over the last month, envy would be their last emotion. On the other hand, who wouldn’t want to super cute google ad of themselves? Nonetheless, I’m wearing a sash that says “So Fake” in the ads, and since I’m pretty sure no one is donning one of those voluntarily, another point for black.
Shows arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes Although I’m usually joking, I do display these behaviors… especially when I poke fun at the idiocy of the haters and search for myself online while someone is hog tied in front of me. Red.
After waking with a smile from a vivid dream involving Pretty Wicked ads and armed robbery, I fear I’m one step closer to an actual, full-blown disorder. 3 points black, 3 points day old mustard and 3 points red. In all probability, I exhibit at least 1 of the 3 debatable behaviors without realizing it, so I’m teetering right on the edge of needing to upgrade Couple’s Therapy to Psychotherapy.
