La Rosa Knows

When I was home for Thanksgiving, I happened to catch the PBS documentary of Woody Allen and couldn’t help but notice that his biological son, Ronan Farrow, was never mentioned. Being that it was 11 p.m. in Florida and I had nothing to do but stare at my cats… I looked into that.

Turns out that Ronan is a fucking HOTTIE. Like, BANANAS. He took after Mia (woo hoo!), and is a genius. I’m not just saying that, he really is a genius. All in all, I spent a good hour combing the interwebs and, like a moth to the celeb-child flame, am now very much deeply in love.

Here are reasons why you should be too.

1. He’s a stone cold fox.

2. He’s the product of Woody Allen and Mia Farrow

3. He’s a Rhodes Scholar-elect for 2012.

4. New York Magazine named him a “New Activist” of the year in 2009, and said he was on their list of individuals, “on the verge of changing their worlds.”

5. He’s a published author!

6. When his father had an affair with Soon-Yi, Ronan stated:

He’s my father married to my sister. That makes me his son and his brother-in-law. That is such a moral transgression. I cannot see him. I cannot have a relationship with my father and be morally consistent… I lived with all these adopted children, so they are my family. To say Soon-Yi was not my sister is an insult to all adopted children.

7. His full name is: Satchel Ronan O'Sullivan Farrow. That’s amazing.

8. He graduated from college at age 15, and was accepted into Yale Law School at 16.

9. He’s goofy on the Twitterz.

BEHOLD!

My holiday dream/wish/GIMME list. After going over it I realize it may come off to some of you as sad/depressing/god-never-let-me-be-Erin. To those people I say, “Take pity on me! Buy me all of these things!”

The END is near… “Sip at Your Own Risk” Tumbler for $15.99

Oh, hello Woodland Creature Ring Set! Size 6, folks. ($19.99)

A Personal Assistant Organizer for all your… crap. ($13.99)

Ice Age Tray for $9.99

Yum nums. This Chocolate Pie Chart is just $20.

Welcome to my new duvet, only me.

Don’t Fur-Get to Write pad for $18.99

These Cream Crinkled Driving Gloves are perfect for punching bitches.

For all the book nerds… A “Marks the Plot” Coaster set for $24.99

Red Velvet Kitty slippers to sink my tootsies into! ($28)

This Lulu Frost bronze number necklace is GOING ON MY NECK.

Because I can’t be any more of a cat lady: the “Paw Me a Cup” Tea set for $45.99

You may have tried to forget a little film that came out last year aptly titled, VALENTINE’S DAY. It starred about a million mostly C-list actors (cough cough, Jessica Biel), some non actors (looking at you, Taylor Swift), and some folks I was confused about because they are either incredibly desperate or have the WORST agents in the world ( i.e. Anne Hathaway).

In my heart of hearts, I’d like to say that this god-awful film about nothing TANKED. But, alas, it didn’t. It cost $52 mil to make, and grossed $217 mil in total.

Okay, so, apparently WE the American public are idiots. We go to shitty movies, we buy popcorn, we get fatter and dumber by the minute. And you know what Hollywood is giving us in return for our stupidity?

NEW YEAR’S EVE!

That’s right bitches. From the director of fucking VALENTINE’S DAY. You know what else these two films have in common - aside from titles being based on holidays? The incomparable, Ashton Kutcher, and the egg-shaped witch doctor who tricked Justin Timberlake into a relationship, Jessica Biel.

SO! What have we learned here? If you pay to go watch shit, you will be rewarded with shit*. Because if the producers of the world think there’s some kind of kooky formula to earn millions of dollars, they will squeeze the life out of it until all of the money they can get is piled into their mega mansion swimming pools.

Please, I beg of you, do not pay good money to go see NEW YEAR’S EVE. I know that Seth Meyers is in it, and he’s about as nerd-sexy as it gets. He’s also featured in the previews– which may make it seem like he’s the star. But he’s not. You know who the stars are? Let me give you some hints:

Jon Bon Jovi

Ryan Seacrest

John Stamos

Ludacris

I wish I was kidding with this cast list, but I’m not. I’m serious when I tell you that this film will be bad. It’s formulaic, and predictable, and not funny. How do I know this? LOOK AT THE DAMN POSTER! It’s insultingly similar to Valentine’s Day!

Okay, okay. I’m calming down. I won’t let this stress me out any more than it already has. But let me just say this one last thing… YOU WON’T LIKE ME WHEN I’M ANGRY!

(*Ashton Kutcher)

To rent a house in Santa Barbara for a week. I would stay in it with my fine ass Man and a puggle we rented. I’d call him Oswald.

Oswald, man, and I would be carried down to the beach by our house staff. They would wear gold lamé shorts and we’d be wrapped in snuggies, because there’s a chill in the air and we’d rather be hot than die alone and cold.

We’d sit in matching beach chairs under an umbrella built for three. Oswald would dine on sea bass with the full head and eyes still attached. But he’d be mildly allergic to it, and Man and I would laugh and laugh as Oswald sneezed and ate.

I’d tie little puppy ribbons by each of Oswald’s ears, and Man would hold him still while I placed a sparkly purple ballerina dress around his fat, puggle body.

In the afternoons we’d all travel to the local stores for wine tastings. Once there, Man and I would sip on rich Merlots, and dry Rieslings, and when Oswald would finally become sick from all the sea bass he’d ate, he’d vomit on the sommelier. We’d all have to run out of the store, hand-in-hand, as we listened to the fancy wine man scream at us in the distance.

Man and I would retire to a nice long tub come the end of the evening, and Oswald would collapse by the fire, trying to ignore our passionate sounds of bubble bathing.

This cycle would repeat daily for a week without interruption. Except for mid-week when a dump truck filled with money and snickers bars would come to the driveway and deposit the booty, leaving us to swim in our treasure like Scrooge McDuck.

The week would end. Oswald would be returned to the pound. Man and I would drive back to LA in a convertible. And because I want a happy ending, we actually swing by the shelter and take Oswald home with us. Our little allergic-to-sea bass monster.

I went hiking with a friend yesterday at Runyon Canyon, as you do in Los Angeles, and the subject of dating younger men came up. My friend had just been on a date with a 22-year-old, making their age difference just four years. But even after this one date, which went well – he paid, they made great conversation, little sparkles flying, etc. – she felt incredibly self conscious.

“I mean… he’s young,” she said.

Yes he is technically younger than her 26-year-old self, but does that really matter?

When I was 22, fresh out of college and living in NYC, I was a fucking mess. I landed my first job at Random House and was terrified out of my mind by my then boss. I lived in the Financial District with three other girls whom I met off Craigslist. We lived in a two-bedroom converted into a four-bedroom, my closet was in the hallway. My diet consisted solely of bagels and coffee. Most weekends were spent with my cousin, because he was in finance and would pay for my cabs home from the bars at 5 a.m. I got fatter and sadder when winter came around, and whenever it snowed I cuddled up with an electric heating blanket and watched Arrested Development episodes on DVD. I was immature and inexperienced and living in a city I didn’t deserve.

Then I met Christopher. It was Thanksgiving weekend and I was flying home to Florida on a 6 a.m. flight. I had been out the night before, hadn’t gone to bed, and was wearing what I will lovingly describe as “hooker boots.” When I got to the airport I put on my headphones and slept until I was forced to board the plane.

I had the middle seat. He had the window. I put my head down. He offered me a piece of gum. Two hours later we had landed at Tampa International, and he asked for my number as we waited for our parents. He texted immediately, and I ignored because I WAS VERY BUSY AND IMPORTANT, okay?!

Then I found him on Facebook and learned three very important things: 1) Christopher was a republican and this future relationship was doomed, 2) He was twenty years old, and 3) He looked like Taylor Hanson and that was enough for me to go on a date with him. And besides, we met on a plane! Who does that?! It had to be fate! It would be an amazing story to tell our kids! My life was a romantic comedy!

When we got back to New York we arranged for a date. He came to pick me up at my building and had a small, stuffed animal shark waiting for me because we had discussed my love of Shark Week on the plane. He took me to a restaurant that was so expensive they didn’t list the prices on the menu and, because he looked so dashing in his bomber jacket, they didn’t I.D. him when he ordered us a bottle of wine. He attended an Ivy League school, was sophisticated enough to open doors and stand when I left a table, and at the end of the night he gave me a really nice kiss.

Everything was great!! Fireworks!! I can’t believe someone kissed me!!

We spent the next two months gallivanting around New York, and I LOVED it. He had more impressive friends than I did – i.e. sons of ambassadors, and some chick who went to an art school and took us to a warehouse party where there was absinthe and pot brownies. He was my ticket into a world I had never experienced before, and I felt like I had struck some kind of social gold. It became enough of a thing that my friend turned to me one day over our Sunday brunch of omelets and mimosas to say, “I feel like you’re in Cruel Intentions and it’s scaring me.”

Yes, everything was very new and shiny and sparkleeee. For a while. Then things started happening. Like, Christopher telling me that he wanted to bring me up to his frat house for formals. We would all drink from a keg, or whatever, and it would be great! Or, when he would talk about what bars we couldn’t go to because “They totally i.d.”

The little things kept wadding up until they had formed a massive ball like the one in Indiana Jones and I just had to run run run as fast as my legs would carry me…

Did I say dating younger men is a good idea? Yeah, I take that back. It’s an awful idea. Run for your fucking life if you see one approaching.

It’s no secret that Michael C. Hall and I have shared many a lustful moment (READ: He is a famous A-list star, and I watch him on repeat until he is burned into my dreams). But… I’ll admit that in season one of DEXTER I formed a small, delicate flame of love for his brother Rudy, aka “Biney,” aka actor Christian Camargo.

He may have played a sociopath on screen, and I could tell he was thin and had light acne scarring, but that didn’t deter me. This dude was SEXY. What does that say about me as a person? Oh, probably plenty that a psychologist would love to dissect!

But since my current therapist is this blog, let me just say that I was equal parts thrilled and confused at his reappearance in tonight’s episode. Here are my thoughts/questions/concerns. Feel free to comment and help a gal out!

-Can’t Dexter Morgan be “bad” on his own without his brother? Why did Biney HAVE to be there?

-I think we’re all sick of the voices in Dexter’s head, no? I’d rather he just do him without the dad on his shoulder.

-Is Biney dead?

I know that no one really gives a flying fuck what I do when I get up in the a.m. But god DAMN did I spend way too much time this morning staring at a blank screen and waiting for inspiration to come.

Gahd dayum!

-the fuck is this??? The Eastwood kids are deliriously attractive??

Scott Eastwood is smoking hot, no?

Not gonna sugar coat it: I hate sick people. Or, more specifically, I hate it when people I work with come into the office, hover around my desk, and cough while asking how my weekend was.

For starters, that is nasty. You could cough anywhere; into a tissue, at a biodome, the Dollar Store, Michelle Obama’s belly button, an ice skating rink, the dishwasher, a Children’s Hospital, your bedroom, in a neighbor’s shower, the Pop music aisle at Target, on a butterfly, a Glamor Shots studio, on the Twister game mat, into a bag of movie popcorn, on your collectors edition copy of The Little Mermaid, at a McDonald’s drive-thru, in Italy, at the water fountain of your local park, at the pajama store, on a scooter, in the GAP, over your plate of eggs Florentine, at the public restroom where George Michael solicited sex, at the Beverly Hills Hilton across the street from that bathroom, into your own shirt, onto your pet cat “Snarfles,” or while swimming at the YMCA. The point is, I don’t give a shit where you cough, just don’t do it on my damn desk.

The reason is fairly simple, and that is that I’m a hypochondriac. And, as a result of my coworkers sniffling, sneezing, runny nosing, all around my person, I have now convinced myself that there is a breach in my immune system.

My plan is to load up on enough Vitamin C to kill a baby, or five of them, I don’t care so long as it pulverizes whatever disgusting thing that has been passed onto me.

I’m a bitter sick person, did I mention that?