Because you deserve this as much as I did.
April 21, 2012
[Flash 10 is required to watch video]
September 19, 2011
My First “Black Tie”
EMMYS!!!
Television loves them, viewers are often let down by the surplus of industry inside jokes and awkward shmoozing between former secret lovers that have headlined tabloids while everyone else doesn’t know what the hell an even Emmy is. However, attending such an award show is a different story. There is also some sort of suitable ego that comes with going to the Emmys. You’ve made it. Sometimes it’s a childhood dream achieved, sometimes it’s that urge to feel glamorous as you strut down the red carpet or for some people it’s just a reason to hire a makeup artist, designers and limo. For me, it’s a little of all of the above.
Unless you’re not going to the Emmys. I wasn’t going to the Emmys.
Although, you wouldn’t know that by my get-up. I was going to an invite only dinner at a fancy Hollywood Mansion in the hills. VIP status achieved. It was a pretty high powered family and I could only imagine they must have accidentally invited me. I RSVP’d immediately to the invitation and even lost sleep over what to wear to this exclusive party. Funny thing about an invitation that doesn’t once mention Black Tie and you read something then INTERPRET Black Tie… and go out on an endless search for a classy dress that is black tie is you’re bound to embarrass yourself.
Check.
I was so excited for this event, I asked all my friends what to wear, left work early to go to a fancy salon for my hair and makeup. I finally had a reason to get all pampered up and pretend that I’m like the rest of the girly girls here in Hollywood. My final selection on what to wear was a black and white halter top dress with flowing black chiffon below the bust line. It was a sexy dress, topped off with a sparkly band around the midsection. My black 4 inch heels were complete with matching rhinestones on the toe and I even had a classaayy pink pedicure. I didn’t have a date but I did have a driver, which was equally as important. A black towncar pulled up to my apartment in Culver City and opened the door, I ungracefully plopped myself in the back seat and took off for my first Black Tie Hollywood Dinner Party.
Roughly 30 minutes later, I arrived to a mansion in the Hollywood Hills. A gaudy gate separated the driveway from a unaffordably huge house that overlooked downtown Los Angeles. I nervously tripped over my dress as my sweet driver, Mike helped me out of the back seat. He closed the door and I did the awkward pat down of my dress, checked my hair and grabbed my purse as I walked up to the door. The sprawling doors were propped open with nice trees accessorized with twinkling holiday lights. I confidentaly walked in and a few people mingling around in the front room, I might as well call it a lobby. Much to my surprise, those people were not in suits or dresses. Not even close. They were in khakis and collared polos and the ladies were business casual.
Goddamn it.
I clearly was that girl. I was so unbelievably over dressed it wasn’t funny. Not to mention I’m already awkward in social situations to begin with. I quickly did the math, I have two options. I can quickly duck out or I can own it. Frustrated with myself I brushed the cute hairdo from my eyes and gathered myself together. Yep, I fucked up and in typical Dierks fashion, I decided owning it would make a better story than pussing out and going home. So for the rest of the night I joked about it although secretly embarrassed I steamrolled past the awkwardness.
So I Dierks’d it up again. I showed up to a business casual dinner dressed to the nines as if I just accepted the Life Time Achievement Award.
Sigh…. One day I’ll get it right but probably not.
September 19, 2011
Rebecca Black Brought Back Friday
Apologies for the lack of self depreciating examples in my following post. Just know that I love Fridays and more often than not, I regret my desire for fun on Saturday morning.
Once upon a time a television network dedicated an entire 2 hour, 4 Sitcom block and aptly titled it Thank God Its Friday. They coined a term that would trend on twitter decades later as TGIF. People don’t write infectious songs and badass movies about this day for nothing. They write these legendary reminders because it’s by far the best day of the week. Sadly, for me it’s also the day where more often then not I bring truth to the Katy Perry lyrics and act as if scenes from The Hangover were inspired my true events.
Never the less, Rebecca Black brought back Fridays. Its true, we haven’t heard a rockin joint about Friday since Montell Jordan in 1994. Granted, Rebecca’s version may not have been the most vocally challenging song but Friday is a pretty great fucking day of the week and I think we can all agree on that. So Thank you Rebecca. Now I’m going to debate for 3 and a half minutes as to which seat I should take.
September 2, 2011
No, I Mean… Ah Fuck.
I hate it when I say things without thinking. In Hollywood, there’s this desire to perfect inside and out, people get offended way too easy if you mention you eat meat or love that fur hat made out of cute, furry bunny rabbit. It fulfills their need to gossip and talk shit which is funny because its the one thing people pretend they’re not doing. With that said, I’m typically very disconnected from other people allowing me to say things without thinking which normally lands me in a position of looking like a complete and utter, desensitized asshole. And most of the time I don’t give a shit, unless you’re under the age of 10.
I’m the worst about cussing around kids. Lets be real here, they’re gonna learn it anyway. I said my first cuss word when I was like 6 and my mom had to come to school and go to bat for me. I called this fucking bully, ANGELA KEEPER a bitch to her face… and you know what? I fucking meant it. She was a bitch and my teacher knew it. I hope Angela Keeper is barefoot and pregnant on welfare in some fucked up Florida trailer park cooking meth and I wouldn’t put it passed her. Fucking bitch stole my backpack, white trash whore. When my mom came to school she told my teacher I learned the word at home because we had female dogs in the house. Thanks mom.
Point is, kids are going to learn cuss words eventually. It’s not the end of the world if a speaker at their school enlightens them a little early. Heh, amIright?! I work in television with a background in radio and my radio bosses booked me to come speak to a class about working in entertainment. This can only go one way if I’m writing it to you. Remember, I’m an idiot. I’m going to fuck this up. But sure, I love kids (as long as they go home with someone else) and I love talking about my job… (I didn’t even finish college because of my career but I’ll lie to them) and I mean well but it just always backfires somehow. I dressed quite nice for once. I was very professional, I wore heels,a pencil skirt and button down shirt, I brushed my hair and put on make up then headed to the school.
The lunchroom was filled with elementary school kids that listened to the radio show in the morning and I made it 97% of the way through the appearance without cussing or calling someone retarded then a cute little boy with blonde hair and a blue Power Rangers t-shirt on raised his hand and waived it around. You know what I’m talking about, the “Oooo OO! Me, pick me!” wave. I picked him and in his adorable little, high pitched voice he asked, “Do you love your job?” My natural response, without thinking was, “Fuck yes, I love my job!” then rambled on about how awesome it was. All the kids in the auditorium giggled and I carried on as if I was Will Ferrell in Anchorman and I just told the entire city of San Diego to go fuck themselves. It didn’t even occur to me that I just said “Fuck” in front of a lunchroom full of kids, their respective parents and teachers. Oops.
I walked off stage and everyone just kind of rolled their eyes, said awkward thank yous and handshakes. I signed a couple of autographs for the kids that will never be worth anything then left. It wasn’t until I got into the car that my good old buddy told me I cussed in front of kids. Not just cussed but said FUCK. REALLY!? You’re going to wait until I’m in the car to tell me this!? I honestly have mixed feelings about my friend’s timing… there’s not much I could do. Needless to say, I have yet to be asked to speak at a school since.
But just so you perfect parents and teachers that bitched about it know: THEY’RE GOING TO LEARN IT EVENTUALLY… and I’m sorry, your kids were really cute and sweet and I’m an idiot.
August 31, 2011
I’ll See You Tomorrow
So I’m pretty sure a worst case scenario in any work situation is accidentally sexting your boss.
Wait for it.
It’s 2011, an age of constant communication. An age where your parent’s dating rules have been virtually thrown out the window along with that Nokia 8210 cell phone of theirs. The courting phase these days consists of a Thank You text immediately after the movie, an @reply on Twitter or even a Facebook request that dings immediately to your cellphone. Jesus Christ, you can google someone AT THE BAR just to see if that Law Firm story they’re bullshitting you with is real. I mean, personally I like to live on the edge and googling anyone takes all the fun out of it, but whatever, I do it anyway just in case I’m hanging out with the next Dexter victim.
The “Wait 3 Days To Call” rule is outdated and frankly, if you waited 3 days to call I assume you’re just not that into me. It’s a pleasant surprise when a guy actually picks up the phone to coordinate a date but lets just be honest, In-real-life events are mostly set up via text update. The dating game rules are changing fast and it can be so hard to keep up that I really feel there are no rules any more. It’s a fucking free-for-all, I don’t necessarily mean that in a literal tense but feel free to interpret as you wish.
But once that awkward, lawless courting phase has blossomed into a loosely titled relationship the flirty, sexy texts begin and if you’re lucky maybe you’ll even get a flattering angled photo of your current flavor. Which leads us to my story.
Spoiler alert. I tried to sexy text and failed. MISERABLY. I sexted my boss. That my friends, is a text you can not unsend. Can’t take that shit back. I feel like Dj Kool as I clear my throat before I share this story with the world… And it goes a little something like this:
I met a boy, a nice boy. We hit it off and he was not my cousin, thank you. We live across the country and our friendship blossomed into a relationship. Being long distance, you are forced to get creative with your means of communication and since there is a camera wedged into every fucking piece of technology accessible, this makes “getting creative” easy. Yes, the sexy text or “Sext” as the 24-hour hard hitting news networks are calling it these days helps keep relationships alive.
I was a couple drinks in, one thing lead to another via text message and taking a sexy photo and sending it to the boy sounded like a good idea at the time, and it probably would have been. I was on the bed in my skivvies and half covered in blankets and snapped a winner. I checked it to make sure I didn’t have a doublechin or crazy eye and set that winner into the ether. Unfortunately at the other end of that ether was not said Boy but said Boss. I didn’t realize until minutes later when my boss wrote back with a simple, “?”
My heart literally stopped. In fact I think I may have thrown up a little bit in my mouth.
Are you kidding me? Did I REALLY JUST TEXT MY BOSS!? FUUUUUCK. The look on my face must have been one of complete shock and horror as if the Tower of Terror elevator continued to plummet to the rotting pits of hell. My first reaction was to freak out and go into immediate damage control but I took a couple of breaths and I just told myself to play it cool. I simply wrote back, “Oops! so sorry, wrong text.” Autocorrect felt the need to help me out a little probably because my hands were shaking so bad and my fatty Mcfatfat fingers couldn’t hit the right goddamn buttons. Instead, I hastily hit send and “Oops So Susie wongs sex” was sent to my awesome boss. Autocorrect is like that annoying aunt that cares too much and kept you on life support because you weren’t technically dead. I don’t need the help just let me die in peace you asshole. My awesome autocorrect mishap was followed by a string of fucks and god damn its to which he replied, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And he did see me the next day. We exchanged awkward eye contact, I laughed at myself a little, he acknowledged the misfired text then we carried on our day.
So that happened.
August 31, 2011
One Take Wonder
In this day and age taking photos is easy. There is a tiny camera literally shoehorned into every handheld device on the market. You can immediately reminisce and make sure that stealth photo of David Beckham you just awkwardly snapped at the stoplight isn’t too blurry or just confirm you don’t have lemon pepper jammed in your teeth. Every now and then however, you only have one shot to take a photo. And sometimes it just so happens that photo is going to follow you for the rest of your adult life. Sometimes you nail it, most of the time you immediately regret zoning out and pondering how drive-up bars in Texas are legal or thinking about the cute guy you met at the post office or more importantly, who still goes to the post office?
Let me just start by saying, if you weren’t aware, I live in Hollywood. The city is littered with beautiful people, vegan food and a high turn over of trendy weird places. Sitting at the DMV is like a sitting in the lobby of a casting agency for a summer chick flick starring Reese Witherspoon. Women prep in their compacts to make sure when the light from the flash hits their lips it sparkles just at the right angle. Men try to pretend their not trying to look good but just before the in house photographer snaps the photo they strike their best Zoolander.
For me, I’m not that lucky. Why would I be? I can only imagine how AWESOME it would be to have a GOOD license photo. I don’t think I’m in the minority in campaigning that I should be able to submit my own photo for my license; that shit would look like Glamour Shots. It would be nice, for once, to show my ID at the door and not receive a back handed compliment from the bouncer along the lines of, “Wow, You look much better in person.” Thanks, Dick. I hope you get a paper cut on your ball sack.
While I’m on the topic of bad photos I think the worst bad photo of all is the mid blink. It can make anyone look unreasonably ugly. The mid blink can take a Victoria’s Secret Model on runway night and miraculously downgrade her to Sloth. You want to be completely turned off by a shirtless Josh Holloway? Mid Blink Photo. Perhaps you have a thing for Pippa Middleton, not after a mid blink photo… unless you’re into Sloth, then you’re in luck and I’d like for you to check my ID at the door.
That right, I’ve got an award winning mid blink license photo to follow me around for the rest of my Californian life. Mid Blink with sex head and an awkward smile. I swear to God I did not look like a Sloth fucked Snooki mashup when I left the house… out of no where I have a lazy eye and Snooki-just-had-sex hair. What the fuck DMV? Did you have the “Full Retard” filter on? And why THE FUCK would you NOT have me retake my photo?!!
I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t you just go back to the National Geographic Photographer, politely insult her intelligence and ask her to retake the photo? I would have except in the glorious, fucked up and bankrupt state of California you have to wait 6-10 WEEKS to get your license. Until then, they just fuck your drinking life up by giving you a shitty piece of paper meaning it’s freshman year all over again and I have to actually TRY to look old enough to buy alcohol. I wind up walking into the liquor store looking like Mimi from the Drew Carey Show. And yes, I was denied purchase of Alcohol TWICE yet the TSA didn’t have a problem letting me on multiple direct cross country flights. They didn’t even give me extra security pat down. But I got denied Alcohol twice.
Point is, it wasn’t until what wound up being 12 weeks later did I have a much anticipated envelope in my mailbox. Since you weren’t there, my reaction to the ID went like this: An “Are you fucking kidding me?” reaction, a giggle, then a facepalm. I didn’t even bother getting mad, it’s just too ridiculous. So now until the end of time my full retard license photo will just have to do. I’ll be damned if you think I’m going back into the DMV and go through what wound up being a 3 month debacle of waiting for my new state ID.
And If after reading this you still want to go on a date, just please don’t ask to see my ID…. Unless you’re into Sloth.
August 29, 2011
Birthday Shoes
I bought stripper shoes.
They’re sparkly and they have rhinestones on them and they’re fucking 6 inches high. That makes me 6 feet tall when I wear them. Why the fuck do I need to be 6 feet tall? Because I bought sparkly stripper shoes. That’s why. Eat it.
I bought them for my birthday. My birthday wound up being a glorious, self absorbed weekend in which I forced all my friends to acknowledge that I’m just like the rest of the 6 billion people on earth that have also been born. So like most self-absorbed, arrogant Hollywoodians I made my friends indulge themselves in multiple days of debauchery that are vaguely remembered as a reason why Katy is too fucking old to wear those shoes.
I’ll save you the average “Katy is an idiot” drunk stories leading up to Saturday night because Saturday night is when fate took it’s hypothetical, sexy shit-kickers straight to my face. Prince was playing at the Forum. Fucking Prince!! What shoes do you wear to a Prince show? Birthday shoes. Why? Because it’s fucking Prince and it’s your fucking birthday.
Sparkly Birthday Shoes and all, my friend Christi and I roll up to The Forum and strut on into the big show. We asked where our seats were and much to our surprise our seats were on the floor. That’s right, floor seats to fucking Prince. The one thing about floor seats to Prince is there’s no actual sitting involved as there are no actual SEATS on the floor… unless you’re literally going to sit on the floor.
Despite the incredible “seats” I think I knew immediately that this was not going to end well. About 10 minutes into waiting for the show to start I embarked on my journey for beer. Luckily just left of the stage behind a few rows of cables on the floor there was a beer tub. I remember thinking, “Really? a labyrinth of cables on the floor next to a beer tub? Probably not the best idea but hey, it’s fucking Prince.” Double fisting beers, I skip my birthday shoes back to where we were standing (front row). I was pretty sure my feet were still attached to my ankles but I couldn’t actually feel them. The doors opened at 7 and the show started at 8 with a surprise show from Mary J Blige. The show didn’t wind up starting until 9 but I wasn’t mad because it was Prince and Mary J and they can do whatever they want.
A few beers and Mary J songs later, Prince came on. I don’t exactly remember which hit he played first but I remember repeating “pain is only in your mind” and hoping my shoes wouldn’t be the death of me. I tried not to look like a baby lamb as I walked to fill up my beer… again. Prince played for 3 and a half hours. Almost 4 hours. If he can kill it for almost 4 hours I can stand here and rock out in my painful but awesome shoes. The show was amazing and before last call my attempt at not looking like a baby lamb was failing miserably but I went to fill up my last beer anyway. This sounded like a good idea at the time, but on the way back that labyrinth of cables to the left of the beer tub claimed a life.
Yup, I ate it. Hard.
So hard that security came RUNNING over. I was on all fours on the ground with blood running down my chin onto my WHITE shirt and covered in beer. I looked up only to see the hottest security guy I had ever seen. Seriously, hottest man alive. Really? Come on!! I was a little dazed and confused but what I knew for sure was that I had officially just become THAT GIRL. Yep, I was the drunk girl wearing the sparkly stripper shoes that just WIPED THE FUCK OUT.
As I’m being carted out, I specifically remember 15,000 people starring at me. Obviously they weren’t but it felt like they were. The hot security guy carried me down a tunnel that seemed never ending because I still had my dumb birthday shoes on, he sat me next to a padded table in front of an even hotter paramedic guy. WHAT THE FUCK!? I have been going to concerts since I was 12 and I had never seen a hot guy WORKING the concert. I was mortified. Also, I should note my phone was dead so my sober sister and DD Christi has now lost her Birthday Shoe’d friend. I remember closing my eyes so hard hoping that when I opened them the embarrassment would go away but it didn’t. I was in a tunnel where the paramedic guy strapped his gloves on and cleaned me up. He dabbed an alcohol swab on my chin and it hurt like a mother fucker but I didn’t want to cry in front of two hot guys that just saw me embarrass myself in front of an entire stadium of people. Much to my surprise, after they fed me some water and bandaged up my chin they let me back into the show for the big finale. I don’t know why they thought that was a good idea but I did beg hot security guy and hot paramedic guy to please please please let me see Purple Rain… and they did. Idiots.
Hot security guy walked me back into the show and let me loose to find my BFF Christi. Somehow, in a twist of fate, I found her. I was barefoot, covered in blood, beerless with a gauze square taped to mine chin. Classy, Dierks. Just then my world was set straight again. The lights fell, Prince ripped into the first 2 chords of Purple Rain and those 15,000 people that just saw me bloody and being carted off, opened up and the house went wild. As the lights came up, Prince was so close I could see the sweat beads dripping from forehead, he points to myself and Christi in the front row and belts out, “I never meant to cause you any sorrow…..”
I strapped my birthday shoes back on as a dance party accompanied the epic performance as purple confetti fell from the ceiling and filled the floor. Somehow, even with a bloody shirt wreaking of beer it was still the best concert I’ve ever been to. I rallied so hard that even with a bandaged up face I still got to see Prince perform Purple Rain from the front row. All the pain was somehow worth it because it was fucking Prince and I was still in my awesome sparkly shoes that got a nod from the stage. It was awesome.
…… And yes, I tried to give hot security guy my phone number……
I was promptly rejected.
August 26, 2011
How Do You Know the Groom?
I’ve reached the age when there is a clear distinction that this mythical “wedding season” I’ve been hearing about since my early 20s does actually exist. Every fall for the next 5 years my labor day weekends will most likely be booked with the electric slide, bouquet tossing and *hopefully* an open bar and I’m okay with this. I love seeing friends and family and most of the time it just gives me another golden opportunity to completely embarrass myself. This past weekend was absolutely, above and beyond everything else, one of these opportunities and I really committed to the cause.
I flew direct from Los Angeles to Philadelphia and due to a complete clusterfuck trying to get a new picture ID from the state of California I had to hire a car service pick me up and take me 30 miles outside of Philly. I look like fucking Driving Miss Daisy. It’s bad enough I live in Hollywood, now I have to pull up in a town car, late and in the middle of the rehearsal dinner. I stuffed an Auntie Anne’s pretzel in my face as Gustov, my German driver pulled up to a sprawling, northeastern style, two-story home in the not-so-humble suburbs of Morrisville, Pennsylvania. It even had pillars!! Little did I know there was a scheduled torrential downpour from the car to the house that did not coordinate with my white tank top.
I was a bit skittish as I walked up to a house I hadn’t seen since I was 5 hoping A) it’s the right house and B) I recognize my family. My Aunt Melissa has since re-married to a guy I’ve never met while my really, really, ridiculous smart, Ivy League cousins and aunts and uncles have spent their time being really, really ridiculously smart and Ivy Leaguers. I awkwardly stood in the garage, dripping wet and looking for my Aunt… I was wearing some douchey, trendy, torn up Hollywood jeans, obnoxious sneakers and this story wouldn’t be complete without my pink bra bleeding through my drenched white tank top.
My Aunt’s new husband/my new Uncle noticed I was clearly lost and uncomfortable and lead me up to change into dry clothes. I changed then headed back downstairs and ventured into the backyard that was housing over 200 people. It was a nice mix of hot 20 something friends of the groom (my cousin) and middle aged Italian Jews. Lucky for me, the bar has a couple kegs of beer so I fill up and attempt to pick out family members I really only talk to because we’re related by coincidence. Lucky for me the Dierks side of the family, all the cousins, aunts and uncles were all at one table with a cute stranger sitting next to my cousin.
We all briefly caught up then myself and said-cute-stranger, John, chatted it up. He just finished 2 tours in Afghanistan and a tour in Iraq and looks like a young Bradley Cooper. We joked all night and traded stories, not once asking, “How do you know the groom?.” I think to myself, Hmm? He’s cute and smart… Maybe? Nah… well, maybe? We’ll see, stay tuned. The night ended everyone leaves, my awesome aunt and cousins lit up their bongs and puff, puff, passed with the groomsmen. They’re hippies and they’re rich, eat it.
The next day, a select few (including my new, hot friend, John) gathered at my Aunt’s house and we road tripped into Philly. Myself and John awkwardly shared photos on our iphones and cracked more jokes during the drive. The wedding was a classy one held in a perfectly groomed park on the outskirts of Philly. Once we arrived, John and I found the hidden wine and beer bar at the ceremony and promptly doubled up on Coors Light (Because we’re American and I didn’t want imported beer. Don’t judge me damn it). After a classy ceremony, we gathered in a beautiful rose garden, mingled with friends and family, took photos with the beautiful bride while family members made a few heartfelt speeches.
Then, that’s when it happened. That’s when my facepalm moment kicked me in my proverbial balls.
Talking to my cousins, Rachel and Talia along with and my new friend John, my Aunt sprinted over smiling with her camera and said, “Oh it’s so great to see all the cousins together!!! PHOTO!! All the cousins together! You guys look so great, I’m so happy you’ve all met!!”
Wait… What?
John and I looked at each other as if we just admitted some sort of chemistry. Inside, I wanted to puke, outside I turned smiled at the camera. Well, THAT’S unfortunate.
Turns out we have the same Aunt and cousins and we just never met each others side of the family. After this awkward family photo, we split. Later at dinner, we were seated next to each other where we beelined it passed the awkwardness and got wasted, laughed at the middle age white men doing the white man dance and avoided the dance floor at all possible costs.
Towards the end of the night a handsome man pulled up the chair next to me and introduced himself to which I replied, “Hi, I’m Katy… So, how do you know the groom?”
August 26, 2011
Everyone is an Idiot.
We’ve all done it.
We, as a human race are built to react. For better or for worse it’s the moment when you’re not thinking… you’re naturally yourself. Your guard is down and your natural instinct takes over… and that’s when it happens. That’s when you launch lemon vinaigrette all over your shirt in front of the hot bartender or accidentally spill your coffee all over your future boss’ brand new blouse.
For me, this seems like it’s an everyday occurrence. Look, I’m smart and confident but I’m just an idiot. I don’t know what it is, I just always do something silly that just naturally breaks the ice. Sometimes its walking straight into a glass door, sometimes it’s mispronouncing NUCLEAR in front of a room full of military officers. It’s NU-CLEAR NOT NUC-ULEAR, you southern dumbass (a facepalm immediately followed the enlightenment). All of the stories on this blog are really just an outlet to laugh at the absurdity of myself, Hollywood and myself trying to function properly in Hollywood.
It’s the raw moments in life that remind us we’re not perfect and that behind all the clothes, makeup, botched plastic surgery and under the sun-faded, white trash, baseball cap with a beer opener on the brim, we’re human… and we’re funny. Sometimes you realize the moment of idiocy immediately, sometimes it’s not until days later you have a revelation that yup, you’re an idiot.
RSS feed: http://comicallydierks.com/rss
