I love clichés

Webster defines cliché as:

cli⋅ché
–noun
1. a trite, stereotyped expression; a sentence or phrase, usually expressing a popular or common thought or idea, that has lost originality, ingenuity, and impact by long overuse, as sadder but wiser, or strong as an ox.
2. (in art, literature, drama, etc.) a trite or hackneyed plot, character development, use of color, musical expression, etc.
3. anything that has become trite or commonplace through overuse.

When I first moved to the east side of LA, I realized I was about to become a cliche. Let me see if I can map out the difference between where I live, Los Feliz, and the neighboring area, Silver Lake.

Neighborhood: Los Feliz
Known for families, Griffith Park, and the movie Swingers in 1996 (aka a million years ago).

Neighborhood: Silver Lake
According to Wikipedia is “best known as an eclectic gathering of hipsters, the creative class and a noticeable presence of LGBT people. Silver Lake is known for its bohemian vibe, mix of class levels, and neighborhood feel.”

I've recently been on the hunt for places to work out and found two classes in Silver Lake. Let's see if I can dissect how these two classes are uniquely true to the neighborhood in which they reside.

1. Pop physique.
I was almost too offended by their website to actually try the class.



I'm not sure I wanna work out at a place that hires the art director from American Apparel to do their website.


For real?

Luckily, the class was not nearly as obnoxious as the web art. Thank. The. Lord.

2. Sweaty Sundays
Sweaty Sundays was written up in NYTimes Fashion & Style Guide. Any dance class that is known for its style can only mean one thing: annoying. I had no idea that not only was I going to a dance class, but also a hip parade of vibrant spandex and lamé. Idiot = me + my Old Navy yoga pants.


The worst part about the class, was that it was amazingly fun. So, I suppose I am going to have to try and blend in. Good thing that they are all dressed in the same weird way. The formula is simple. Genuis = me + neon sweat bands.

Thank god there are 3 American Apparel stores within 3 miles.

The Perfect Morning I Didn't Have

I wake up with my hair perfect.


Enjoy a pretty latte with a foam heart.


Then I go for a run.


Walk the dog I don't have.


And then read the paper in back in bed.

TGIF

Happy Friday the 14th.

Mad for it

After you've stared at the faces of the Mad Men cast long enough, you can't imagine that Jon Hamm isn't really Don Draper. That Don Draper doesn't exist somewhere in the 50's, that he didn't really run around drinking and smoking and cheating. That if you were all dolled up and pretty and bumped into him at some hotel, that he wouldn't smile at you from across the room, he wouldn't come over and start talking to you about what a sad and private man he is. Then he would take you into the coat check and...

And then you actually do bump into him at some hotel. But you are more like t-shirt, jeans and really sweaty. And he isn't really Don Draper. But we can still pretend.

Last week my friend Sarah was in town, and as I was picking her up from her hotel, we bumped into the entire cast. And everything felt right in this old Pasadena hotel, and the cast were all in character for a Mad Men junket. Bright red lipstick on January Jones, something tight fitting and bright colored on Christina Hendricks, and Don Draper, in his tailored suit. I mean Jon Hamm. And somehow in those two seconds when our eyes connected across the lobby, and I knew that he had seen me, I felt, for a moment, not like a hot vixen but rather, my inner Peggy came out. I was a scared secretary, with horn-rimmed glasses and a flat chest, holding out coffee for him to take as he walked right on by.

It was just two seconds, but in those two seconds, I could safely say, that I could never be Don Draper's hotel coat check girl.

Jon Hamm, on the other hand ... I am pretty sure I could tap that sweet ass.

Pull your flesh out from underneath your sits bones

When working out, I am pretty no-nonsense. I want to feel the burn. I want to sweat in a manly way. I want to feel like I am going to throw up... and then swallow it.

Here are some things I don't want: I don't want anything to remind me that I am not gorgeous. I don't want to chit-chat. And I don't want to work out with celebrities, even though doing so is part of the tough truth of LA. I didn't think there was anything worse then putting on spandex leggings and a tight top then standing next to Drew Barrymore, until the other day...

I took a class with no celebrities in sight. I felt the burn, threw up and swallowed. Everything was going great. Then during cool down, as I was relaxing and stretching the instructor said, "now pull your flesh out from underneath your sits bones and stretch."

My "sits" bones? First of all, that is not a saying. Secondly, is she telling me to spread my ass cheeks? Just say that: "Spread your ass and stretch." Don't make up a phrase. Don't talk about me "pulling my flesh." That sounds even grosser than saying butt. We are adults. Just say butt.

Anyhoohaw Will Do

My best friend's mom was an aerobics instructor in the 80's. Having recently undergone a hip replacement surgery at 56, she learned the unfortunate costs of such a life. I introduced her to my boyfriend last week. She screamed, "Oh my god, he is a miracle!", and proceeded to tell us story after story using the key transitional phrase "anyhoohaw".

Being from Michigan has many perks. Anyhoohaw is one of them. Not only does it sound incredible in a Michigan accent (try it at home), it has two equally awesome meanings.

1) eh'-nee-hoo'-ha: a slight variation on the phrase 'anyway.' Not a real word.
2) 'eh-nee-hoo'-ha: any-old-vagina.

#2 is how no one intends it, but, rather, how I always hear it.

Like the popular chain's "Wahoo's" fish tacos (rude) or the simpler "Pink Taco"... Anyhoohaw is a thinly disguised vagina. And I applaud it.

Still clapping.