“Lost in Translation,” is so seriously brilliant, I can barely stand it. I’ve never stayed in a fancy hotel like the one in the movie except I went to a prom last year at the Hyatt Newport Beach and that was pretty sweet. But more than the kickass hotel, I really got into the story of how this old guy was trying to hook up with this hot girl who was really cool and smoked in her underwear in bed and all that. Most girls probably wish that they looked like Scarlett Johansson because she’s hot and does ads for Louis Vuitton, but I connected with Sofia Coppola. This guy I waited on at work said he thought I looked like Sofia Coppola, and I had no idea who she was so I Netflixed “Lost in Translation” and watched all the DVD extras and Googled her and rented Godfather III even though it was made before I was even born and now I am so flattered. If that guy ever comes back to the food pavilion, I will give him a free strawberry lemonade even though you could get in trouble for giving away free stuff or at least that’s what they warn you about when you first get hired at Hot Dog on a Stick. I can see the resemblance between Sofia and I – I am thin and pointy-chinned, and sort of pale except when I get drunk and then I go bright red. Even though my job pays 6 bucks an hour, in my dreams I buy chic yet bohemian clothes from Barneys like I bet Sofia wears. Sofia Coppola is the fucking bomb. If I were Sofia Coppola, I’d be so cool and bi-coastal, and I’d also own homes in Europe and be like, intercontinental. I’d be so rich and could afford to go out to Mr. Chow and The Ivy every night, only why would I go out when I would have a freaking beautiful restaurant quality kitchen in my house and I would be a fantastic cook myself – the kind of cook who creates gourmet meals by tossing together odds and ends from the fridge. Only my fridge would be a stainless steel programmable Sub-Zero Pro 48 that keeps different shit on certain shelves cooler than other shit on other shelves. And my assistant would read the manual and she would program in all the right temperatures because I would have rescued her from working at Geek Squad and pay her a shitload of money to do stuff for me, like program my electronic devices and do my taxes. Not like my sister Carol who blew me off when she went to Cal Poly SLO in the fall and hasn’t returned my emails from like a month ago and who always treated me like a stupid bastard stepchild anyway. And the food I would stock in my cool fridge would be Ahi tuna marinated in olive oil imported from my own grove in Tuscany. I would throw the Ahi together with some endive grown in my terraced garden, plus fabulous heirloom tomatoes from my hothouse out back. I’d make my own bread too – I would knead the dough myself at 6:45AM after an hour long yoga practice with a real yogi to whom I would pay a ridiculous amount of money just to show up at my house every morning to run me through vinyasa flow.
Yeah.
I wouldn’t even have to call my friends to come by for dinner, they would just naturally show up at my house almost every night, and I would always have a fantastically organic yet delicious meal ready. I wouldn’t even own those pathetic IKEA card tables that my mom makes me eat on after work so I don’t dirty the kitchen table after she’s already cleaned up after my little brother and stepfather. No one put a gun to her head and told her to shack up with some guy she met on the Internet and raise his two-year-old from a previous marriage. It’s so tedious. And I would have tons of freaking cool and fabulous friends. Friends who are not whores or high school dropouts. Friends who are not too busy getting high on Robitussin to return phone calls and emails and text messages and who don’t talk about me behind my back on Facebook. Friends who dress really well, who wear those great Dianne Von Furstenberg wrap dresses that look great on everyone and are perfect for any occasion. My friends would all be creative and some of them would work in the editorial department at Vanity Fair or maybe they would have hotshot PR jobs, or they would be writers/directors/ producers/actors or whatever. They would all be so hot and quirky and smart, and my uber hip, urban yet completely environmentally friendly dwelling will always be the epicenter of everyone’s social life. And my friend Jeremy will bring along fantastic wine for dinner that could cost up to 200 bucks if you bought it retail at BevMo. His dad, who is really cool himself and young looking and a hedge fund manager will have a fucking great wine cellar filled with thousands of wines, and he’d let Jeremy take whatever wine he wanted, even though Jeremy’s only 19. He’d be the coolest Dad ever who was into skateboarding and major wind sports and would have bought Jeremy and his younger brothers really cool hybrid SUVs for their 16th birthdays and they would do volunteer work in Nicaragua together as a family during summer vacations. Jeremy would be hot and really buff with ripped abs and like a major wang but no one really knows about it because he’s so on the DL about it.
Yeah.
2 Comments
February 28, 2009 at 7:16 pm
Deb, no matter how many times I read this it still makes me laugh. It makes me want to say Yeah! at the end of all my paragraphs.
April 14, 2009 at 4:00 am
oh my god i love it so much.