This is what happens when you eat a piece of moldy candy

... you sign up to receive Gwyneth Paltrow's weekly newsletter.

***

To be fair, I can't entirely blame the moldy chocolate for why I signed up for GOOP, because if you read my previous post about GOOP, you'd see this was very out of character for me (which actually does make a case for some sort of poisoning, now that I think about it).

(I did accidentally eat a moldy truffle today and so did a co-worker and although we're not really ill, the mental anguish and imaginary visuals we're going through is not pretty. I'll spare you the details of how such a thing happened.)

After downing the unfortunate truffle, in order to distract myself, as though my dinner last night was not enough for producing stomach ache inducing food issues this week, I had to read the Fug Girls' post about their addiction to Gwyneth's weekly newsletter.

This was the paragraph that sold me on GOOP:

"But little by little, GOOP's relentless obliviousness sneaks up on you and becomes oddly charming. Once you realize you're reading it not for the information, but for the peek into how Gwyneth ticks, it becomes hilarious — not annoying — when Gwyneth blithely exalts rare hibiscus-flavored Majorcan salt, or recommends giving someone a $1,400 leather weekend-getaway bag for Christmas. You react with an amused, "Of course" when a pal of the woman who once evangelized macrobiotic living produces a recipe called "Dino Meat," made of unappetizing lumps of obscure meat substitute served with mushy grains arranged in the shape of a cow (the awesome photo of which single-handedly validated our continued membership). Entertainingly, even the tongue baths Gwyneth gives to the celebrity pals she’s roped into contributing feel like she thinks they're cute insider dish. Christy Turlington is an “amazing mother” who recommends Jane Austen... There's something endearing about the image of Gwyneth sitting in a garret somewhere banging out a few paragraphs about the butt exercises she does when her trainer goes on tour with Madonna, or nagging Steven Spielberg to boost our cultural education with a list of his favorite flicks. (That he actually did it is also rather sweet.) Indeed, as vanity projects go, at least Gwyneth's intentions are good, if perhaps condescending — like when she had Deepak Chopra proffer tips on how to be grateful at Thanksgiving, as if we Philistines couldn't figure that out otherwise. On the other hand, obviously Deepak is one of her go-to gurus; we're actually shocked the Dalai Lama has escaped her reach."

I mean, who can resist a PR job like that? And it's free, which means I can save up for my Gwyneth-inspired trips to the Ritz in Paris and my stash of hibiscus-flavored Majorcan salt.

Actually, the real reason I signed up is that it might give me more opportunities to hone my Dorothy Parker skills, and/or use GOOP as fodder for future posts (sorry, but it's true). I should give the gal some props though, because in looking through the past issues of GOOP, it's apparent that she must write the thing herself.

And for all of us busy busy bloggers, we know it's a hard thing to come up with something new to say even without the demands of stardom. I have a hard time coming up with ideas and I just have a regular office job. I'm not even close to being friends with Madonna.

So despite the fact that I may or may not have ergot poisoning means that you are the possible beneficiaries of some GOOP wisdom in the relatively near future.

Because good things should be shared, I think.

And snarky things are even better to share. Bring it on, Gwyneth. I need to know more about "nourishing the inner aspect" because I am quite sure that I am not be doing that part correctly. And god knows I could probably do with some butt exercises.

Seriously, you guys are going to get me fired.

First of all, I want to say helllloooooooo to all of you new visitors to tangobaby via Blogs of Note.

I love you all. I'm totally blown away that you're here.

Secondly, I am guessing that this shout-out from Blogger is randomly generated (although I am super grateful all the same) because I don't know what I've done of late to be noteworthy. A year and a half ago, I didn't even know what a blog was. But don't get me wrong, this is cool! Thank you!

Thirdly, I hope you'll come back to visit me again and not just this one time and I'll try to visit you all and not be some sort of blog diva who is stuck up and snobbish.

But fourthly, I am probably going to get fired because of this. I seriously have not done any work today and have been totally distracted and just sent a co-worker out to buy me a BLT just so I could write this post.

***

I have some questions about my being discovered (which is funny since I just wrote something about Lana Turner a few days ago--is this the blog equivalent of being a Sweater Girl? Probably not. I don't think I get to quit my day job). Up until this morning, I was just minding my own little bloggy business and cajoling my friends into looking at my photography on flickr and JPG.

Is there some sort of blog guru who selects us? To whom do I say thank you?

Can I quit my day job now? Does this mean I am an expert at something?

Am I going to have to start moderating comments because now I'm going to get all of these spam comments about erectile dysfunction? I would really hate to do that.

***

Just so you know a few things:

I love my little blog. But it's very very random, even to me. If you can make sense out of the myriad brain stuff here, then I applaud you. I just read over my whole list of tags and I'm covering a lot of bases in a very shallow manner. Although if you love old films (especially noir and silents), dance (especially Argentine tango), San Francisco, photography, eating yummy food until you have to unbutton your pants, quoting Monty Python, Dorothy Parker and Carl Sagan, keeping your passport in your wallet just in case and then once in a while having a philosophical moment, then I think we'll get along just fine.

And swearing. Sometimes I swear.

***

I am having a hard time keeping up with the comments (and was even before this explosion of attention) so please be patient with me (I'm older than you think) and just know that I am thrilled you're here even if you think you hear the crickets chirping on my end. I'll try to write back. I just have to not get fired from my day job until I get a call from my new agent.

Thanks for making my day. Now I don't hate my outfit as much.

xoxo

ps.: If you are a new reader here, then I should tell you that I never have a movie reference on the blog just willy-nilly. There are too many good movies that people don't know about and I'm just doing my share to be bossy and make sure that you see them.

Above is a photo for the noir Fallen Angel, which is a great flick and Linda Darnell is H-O-T. Hot hot hot and so is Dana Andrews. So rent it.

Holiday Tizzy

"I misremember who first was cruel enough to nurture the cocktail party into life. But perhaps it would be not too much too say, in fact it would be not enough to say, that it was not worth the trouble." ~ Dorothy Parker

***

I don't blog about work much. I'd really like to because I think you'd find the stories entertaining and we would be one of your better soap operas/fabulous reality shows, but right now I am just super-duper happy to have a job at all and I don't want to screw that up.

I know I have mentioned the whining, though. People here are expert at this. I cannot even begin to tell you about the rigaramole that has cropped up about our Holiday Party, but let me say that if someone complains about it at this point, the results could be dire (for them) because I had the unique distinction of jumping through all of the hoops by myself this year and am the sole Creative Party Planner and Go-To Festivity Organizer Person this time around.

Since I can't go into details, I will placate you by sharing the menu because if I tell more, I'll never stop tattling and then that would be bad for my economy.

***

Hosted Premium Bar and Reception Station

Antipasto: Select Artisan Cured Meats, Marinated Summer Vegetables, Marinated Olives, House Cured Wild King Salmon House Made Sea Salt Crackers & Grissini

Winter Buffet Dinner

Organic Young Carrot Bisque
Young Forni Brown Lettuces, Garden Herbs and Champagne Vinaigrette
Chef's Choice Vegetarian Pasta Dish
Bloomsdale Spinach Salad, Caramelized Onions, Applewood Smoked Bacon
Organic Heirloom Chicory Salad with Dry Cured Olives and Fresh Mozzarella
House Cured Wild Salmon, Young Lettuces, Fresh Shelling Bean Salad
Garlic Chive Crepes, Local Wild & Cultivated Mushrooms
Stuffed Baby Heirloom Squashes & Eggplants
Wood Roasted Young Chicken with Endive, Frisee and Goat Cheese
Roasted Sonoma Coast Lamb Leg, Garden Herb Crust
Devils Food Cupcakes with White Chocolate Ganache
Organic Apple Confit, Gingersnap Crumble and Vanilla Chantilly Cream
Pear and Huckleberry Tarts

***

Christina, did I do good? It sounds fancy shmancy. I just hope they have enough drinks beforehand to be happy campers. I threw darts at the wine list.

Vintage coolness and the photo I swiped come from Vintage Martini.

Resting on Laurels I Don't Have

An idea not coupled with action will never get any bigger than the brain cell it occupied. ~Arnold Glasow

***

"So, why are you still working here?"

That is what one of my coworkers asked me today. She was very direct. She even had her hands on her hips, in an insistent stance. She meant the question in a nice way, though.

As much as I might complain and whine about my job sometimes, I do work with some very talented, bright and very funny, cool people (except for one, and that's all I'll say about that). For almost two years, I have played jokes on some, shared snarky emails and daydreams of where the nearest Sugar Daddy store is in town, and gone out for drinks, movies, lunches and dinners with even more. When I would walk in a little late in the morning, looking frowsy from a late night of tango dancing, some one would always ask with a smile, "Oh, tango again last night?" Or when I had my flamenco skirt and shoes in my bag and was on the way out the door, people would want to know, "How's that flamenco coming along?"

It's nice to be noticed.

Now, when they see me with my camera around my neck, maybe having just come in from lunch, they say, "Take any good pictures today?" And they mean it. I get little congregations at my desk to see one of my latest achievements. It's very sweet of them.

I've already sold seven books at work.

So someone who hadn't seen my book yet came over with a copy in her hand. Three of them had been pow-wowing at another's desk, and she had been flipping through it. She marched back to my desk and said, "So why exactly are you still working here? I can't believe you took these pictures! You should be in a gallery. You should be selling these books all over town!"

I babbled. "Wha..wah...wh--"

And another one piped up on the other side of my desk: "You need to get a grant. Seriously. Apply to the Getty Foundation and get out of here."

They already have all of these ideas. Go to this store. This museum. This hotel. Oh, the tourists here. And here. My head was spinning and my insides were saying, oh please, can't you do this part for me?

So now I have to give myself a little bit of a kick in the pants. I made my book, and I adore it. I figured out how to make prints I like and I can sell them, too. I show my book around and people love it. I have copies sitting on my desk (the stack is dwindling rapidly), all with the idea that I will take them into shops and hotels and show them and see if I can drum up some orders, and instead I've done nothing so far.

I'm resting on laurels I don't have. I need to cut this crap and get out there and show my stuff. But then I think about me trying to apply for a grant with the Getty Foundation and my mean little Dorothy Parker self just laughs (Just learned to use a camera at Easter, this year, for god's sake! Still uses the Auto function on her camera because she doesn't even know all of the settings yet. Who does she think she is, anyway?!).

This post is not a pity party for me and I know what I have to do. But I still want to have the world come to me, to be like Lana Turner at the soda fountain at Schwab's and get discovered and instantly become a star (even though that story isn't true, isn't it what we all want?). Isn't that what reality tv is all about? Someday I'll be discovered? That diamond in the rough, the one that only needs a little facet here and a little polish there and voila! Now I can show them all I'm not a total phony?

Wake up, tangobaby. You've got to hit the pavement and get to work.

Please help kick me in the pants. I need more feet.

***

Just so you know, up top are what the MOO cards look like, what I was telling you about here. They are insanely cute and I think all of you should get MOO cards. (See, I'm so good at promoting other people's stuff.)

On the other side, they say:

julie michelle
photographer

Okay, MOO cards. I know.

One More Thing

And then I am going to drop the whole issue completely.

I am not applying for the job as the Dorothy Parker of the Tango scene. The blogosphere has one of those already, and she is perfect. (Although if there was an Algonquin Round Table of Tango, I would certainly wish to be a part of it.)

I have no problem with sitting on the sidelines and watching those dancers who are drool-worthy, especially followers. I enjoy it just as much as dancing. But I only saw one follower last night who had it down. I've been to Nino Bien and I understand floorcraft when it comes to dancing in crowded/limited floorspace, trust me. I admire good technique and I know it when I see it.

So, ladies, please, do me a huge favor, if I am going to be sitting out inning after inning and watching you on the floor instead. Keep your thighs together when you dance. Dancing with your legs looking like you and Trigger just got done with a long day of wrangling cattle is not attractive. Thank you. Oh, and stop sticking out your butt. That's not attractive either.

Okay, now I can eat my blueberry muffin and get on with my day.