AshleyFlys.com - tales of travel, torrid affairs, and a hatred for DELTA » Random Stuff.

Sonas Denim Commercial

Ashley — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 22:53:07 +0000

Initial editing pass on Sonas, check back for a new update in a few days.

Alchemy Pictures teamed up with Sonas Denim for a whimsical beach short / viral video.

Exec Producers: Sonas Denim / Gerry Kelly
Co-Producer: Xun Xiang
Directed & Produced by: Ashley Avis
Director of Photography: Nathan Haugaard

Starring Ashley Avis & Rob Browning.

Also, a few photos from the set of our commercial shoot by Chris Willard in Malibu, CA (with Rob Browning).

The Cynical Life – Teaser

Ashley — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 02:51:57 +0000

The Cynical Life is in post production, and we’ll be finalizing a premiere date within the next few weeks! For the moment, our editor has put together a quick teaser to satiate until an official trailer can be released.

Check it out – starring Ashley Avis, Camille Cregan, Gerry Bednob, David Ballam, Chelsea Rae Bernier, Janna VanHeertum, Justin Taite, Alex Ashbaugh, Kayley Gable, and Jensen Daggett. Full cast here: www.imdb.com/title/tt1990064/

Sonas Denim Campaign

Ashley — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 02:44:40 +0000

… a whirlwind few months between Cynical Life post production and L2 Living pre-production (a cast which includes Social Network’s Mariah Bonner, Torchwood’s Shawn Parsons, and a flurry of other talented folks).

In between the inane shooting schedules (Kevin Huie, I owe you a large fruitbasket)… I’ve become the face of a kickass new denim company called Sonas (seen at the Emmys, and soon to be featured at the Grammys and Sundance 2012). Eco-friendly, awesome bring-back-the-60s flare patchwork jeans.

Check out some of the first shoot images, by Paolo Mascatelli.

www.sonasdenim.com | www.paolomascatelli.com

Ten Reasons Why Not to Fight a Viking in an Elevator

Ashley — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 03:40:43 +0000

Last night, I was the lucky purveyor of a gigantic fight outside my apartment building. Now, when I say apartment building — I mean live/work commercial spaces for (relatively sane) creative professionals. Generally people are, you know, sleeping, throwing parties, having ‘bedroom interactions’ … at four o’clock in the morning on a Saturday. Not at L2* Living, where your next door neighbor could be a serial killer or… in this case, a Gigantic $&@!-ing Viking.

So in the midst of … ahem, a mixture of Pinot-consumption and ‘bedroom interactions’ … The Boyfriend and I hear a loud CRASH from what we assumed were our Crazy Swinging Neighbors invading our roofdeck again. As we (naked, naturally) ran up the spiral staircase to confront them for shagging on our orbit lounger – we found the two of them, shockingly (mostly) clothed, hanging over the lip of the roof, eyeballing the scene below.

The Female Swinger looked over her shoulder, waving.

“Hey Ash! Don’t worry, we’re not having sex on your patio, we’re on the roof part this time!”

“… okay!” I half-smiled, not sure how to address that sex on top of our apartment … anywhere … was kind of theoretically Not Cool in my mind, but …

“But there’s a SWEET FIGHT downstairs!” she called, before turning her attention to the obvious scene below.

Fight! I mentally chimed, always in the mood for viewing a healthy altrication. I ran downstairs with Boyfriend, sprinting to our sliding glass doors. Flinging them open, I suddenly realized I needed to clothe.

Boyfriend, who already had some pants on, watched the figures downstairs roll about on the concrete, punching each other, while I found some jeans and a sweater, and — stuffing a snowboarding cap on my post-bedroom hair, I bounded back to the balcony so we could watch the action.

“There is no lamb For the LAZY WOLF!” bellowed the larger dude below, who was blonde, very pale… and physically GIGANTIC.

“Did he just quote some Viking lore?” I whispered excitedly to Boyfriend, who shook his head quizzically.

Pretty sure that he had, I immediately determined the fellow’s ancestry. He probably had a ship somewhere, but had been banned from it for pillaging villages and causing Loads of Unnecessary Death.

“Help!” called the Annoying College Guy. Gigantic Viking turned his head, staring down the Tiny Ninja Security Guard who had begun creeping up toward the scene. I imagined him gnashing his teeth, or using his Viking powers to hypnotize the fellow… because our security guard literally took one look at the dude, grabbed his walkie, and RAN.

“YOU PLAY MUSIC LOUD! NIGHT TIME! MY CHILDREN SLEEP!” yelled the Viking, who apparently housed some offspring in our massive loft building. I knew his unit layout, too — it was a one room loft — I mused for a moment where he kept them. Perhaps in the bathroom.

Gigantic Viking continued to pummel College Guy. Boyfriend quietly dialed the police, before grabbing a beer and leaving the house.

I nabbed a cold one as well before returning to the window, just in time to see Gigantic Viking take his Gigantic Foot … raise it like a radiation-bombed Karate Kid … and SMASH through the all glass front door of College Guy’s apartment.

“AAAAAHHHHH!” the kid wailed, seeing his floor to ceiling glass windows come tumbling down in shards. He crumbled into our pseudo-grass, staring at the Viking (who was surely about to kill him), his ruined house, and his utter lack of door. Viking began approaching, slowly, and College Kid knew in that moment… he was about to die.

As if by pre-determined Fate-or-Something timing, The Boyfriend came strolling casually around the corner with his beer. Viking turned. His body lowered slightly, as if he was about to go into a full on Viking sprint –

“LAPD!” came a bullhorn, and sirens flashed. As if by magic (perhaps Gigantic Viking was also part… vampire or something…) the humongous Beanstalk of a man disappeared. College kid wandered around in a circle for a moment, before collapsing on the ground.

The police eventually took care if it, but not before (further) beating up College Kid (they thought he did something), hitting on me from the Balcony (“Don’t jump, Juliet! But if you do, I’ll catch you!), playing chess on our gigantic outdoor chessboard, and sitting by the communal hottub for half an hour.

They finally made some reports, and as of today — after Viking cornered me in the elevator (thank goodness a tiny little workman was in there with us, or I fear I would have had to fight him with my pruning shears) — Management has officially kicked him out. About an hour after our elevator altercation, movers were on the premises throwing his $!#% into the back of a truck.

I have come to the following conclusions about Vikings after this experience.

1) Vikings are $*@!-ing huge.

2) Vikings want to eat your soul.

3) Vikings will mash you between hairy knuckles and feed you to the whales.

And now… I’m going to go consume some Sherry and reflect. That, and hide from the Viking Children that will one day shoulder the L2 Management / College Guy / White Hat Chick injustice for the rest of their Freakish Viking lives.

I said I’d give you ten reasons… but? Time for some well deserved inebriation. That is all.

Regards,
Ashley

Why I Hate Crackheads Who Buy My Shit Off Craigslist

Ashley — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 05:18:51 +0000

Sunday morning started like any other Sunday morning. The slightly delirious post-Guiness inspired dream… the shuffling down the spiral staircase toward the gigantic industrial-size coffee maker… the Dad-just-shot-my-pony, AHHHH! feeling of horror upon discovering a lack of CREAMER…

As I ritualistically — much like I’d imagine a Cherokee medicine woman, or Senior Starbucks lifer Barista would — poured my French Roast into a coffee cup… I eyeball observed my OCD perfect apartment.

The white couches were in place, perfectly L shape arranged, the happy fluff of the (white) shag carpet impeccably vaccumed. The (white leather) ottomans were arranged in a communal, come drink (white) wine upon us setting around the (mostly white) calfskin. The Riedel glasses (not white, but clear, thus passable) were configured on the bar a meticulous half-inch apart. I smiled into my annoyingly milk-less mocha, mostly content until –

The “SHIT BOOKCASE” reared up from behind the stairs, horrific and terrifying in all its not-completely white un-glory. I stared at it, hard, willing to set fire to it with my mind.

The shit bookcase was the result of one “I’m going to make this pretty!” statement of defiance and one very, very bad Craiglist pickup. A coat of paint later, it was now exiled to lurking behind the base of my metal spiral like… the Less Favored Child named… Earl in a… Quaker “Rhythm Method” family of twelve. YES. So while Earl still kinda looked like everybody else, he wasn’t as attractive, or as smart, or nearly as athletic… so while the family tolerated Earl, they secretly wanted him GONE.

Yep. Earl was our freakin’ bookcase. The ugly white shabby chic “shit” bookcase that we hid behind our staircase.

Sipping at my disgusting concoction of lack-of-milk Roast, and waving to our obnoxious “I STARE. AT YOU.” chain-smoking neighbor across the way, I opened up The List.

______

*** Absolutely DELIGHTFUL white shabby chic bookcase, 7 feet tall !!! $20***

Is your life absolutely, utterly incomplete without an abundance of slightly imperfect, blissfully worn, hap-happyily shabby chic furniture? This is the post for you… we have a one-of-a-kind, hand painted bookcase that will add delight to any room!

Seven teetering feet tall, a foot and a half wide, and just adorable. Come by to Marina del Rey and pick it up for just $20 today!

______

I assumed someone would want this piece of crap (hey, I had hand painted it… one coat counts, right?) for twenty bucks. A college kid. A person with vision who’d hack it apart and use it for a “modern art piece”. Someone who just needed a shitty bookcase.

Within twenty minutes my iPhone “binged” with an email. “I LOVE IT!!!! I can have a friend come by tonight to pick it up! Please tell me it’s mine!”

Raising my still sleep-deprived eyebrows, I called the chick back at the number she listed… three times… and told her that her “buddy” could come by before seven.

“But not a moment later,” I advised, “I’m throwing my significant other a surprise birthday party this evening, and I cannot tarry!”

“He’ll be there!” she chirped.

Eight hours roll around, and the clock is nearing 7.30. I prepare to escort The Boyfriend out to hide him while his friends came over.

Riiiiing! Riiiing!

The random “friend” the weird I Love Your Shit Bookcase chick was sending over had finally arrived.

“Hello?”

“Huuuurrr… ‘lo. I’m by your buildin’.”

“You’re… by it? Or, in it?”

“By it.”

“Okay… where are you?

“Not sure. By 4500 Bluewoods.”

“Er, we’re 4533 Bluewood*. The Live/Work Lofts”.

“Oh. I’m there then. Is it a little house?”

“Um… no…”

Twenty minutes later I finally somehow get this crackhead INTO the appropriate address (obnoxious leasing signs abound down the street, you can’t NOT find our infamous lofts), and he calls again.

“Where are you?”

“We’re on the fourth floor.”

“Oh,” (long pause), “where’s that?”

“… UP! ELEVATOR!”, I attempt to not-yell, forcing myself to hang up before I added, “GET INVOLVED WITH ONE!”

Standing there, waiting for this dude to navigate my building, mentally crossing off doing my hair… or makeup… or anything remotely feminine for the party I was throwing in order to have time to obtain, you know, a CAKE… I waited for Crackhead to find my unit number.

A limp-writsted knock finally alights on my door. I sprint to it, opening.

“Hullo.”

“Um… hi…”

An extra from Deliverance wanders into my apartment. I silently observe his pockets, looking for knives, a gun, mustard gas. He looks clean. I show him in.

“Nahce plaaaa-y-ce,” he scoffs, obviously annoyed at its maniacal perfection.

“… thank you.”

I drag the shit bookcase out from behind the spiral stairs. Crackhead bobs his head.

“Huh! Didn’t see it thur.”

“Nope… it… uh, doesn’t really “go” with the rest of our furniture, so…”

“Right. Merryl’ll take it, I guess.”

He fishes around in his pocket for something… finally extracting a crumpled twenty. I’d have almost felt bad taking it from him, had he been less of an silently seething asshole. He could get… like… a haircut with that, you know? Trim up that mullet a little?

He stands there, looking at shit bookcase, then looking at me.

“Uh… do you need… help with it?”

“We-helll… you could offer to get the DOOR for meh,” he states, irked that I’ve just actually accepted the proffered money… for the item that I’m SELLING. Picking up the bookcase, he stomps off down the hallway.

As requested, I open the door for Crackhead. He glares at me as he exits. “Fuckin’ maze in this place!”

Smiling, I close the door, his weird psycho man-killer energy wafting out with him. I lock it. 8:15… guests were arriving in less than an hour.

As I began hustling The Boyfriend to get his shoes on, my cell phone rings. It’s the Strange Woman who sent Crackhead.

“Hello?”

“Um… hi,” she began, “um… so, the bookcase, I just bought… I hear it’s not all that, um… it’s not what I thought it was going to be.”

“… yeah. Usually a good idea to actually LOOK at the stuff you, you know, buy.”

“… right. So, I don’t really… um, want it? So… can he just… like, bring it back?”

Boyfriend at this point is halfway through the sock process.

“You know what, Mildred, or whatever your name is? You can totally just HAVE your twenty bucks back. We’re headed out to “dinner” right now… so feel free to stop by tomorrow…. and just KEEP the bookcase. Or throw it on the side of the road. Frankly, I don’t care, but I have to go–”

“Well… I need the twenty dollars back now.”

“Well, you just purchased something from NOT a store, had a very strange individual show up an hour LATE, and we’re on our way out to dinner. So feel free to swing by tomorrow –”

“That’s not going to work for me –”

I hang up on Mildred or Minnie or whatever the hell this woman’s name is — Boyfriend has his SHOES on, and I’m not risking any more random delays over Shit Bookcase… my god, I mean, seriously, it’s a (completed) twenty dollar CRAIGSLIST purchase!!!

Boyfriend begins putting on a dinner jacket. My cell phone rings again.

“I told you, tomorrow –”

“I-yum waitin’ outside your DOOR until you come OUT with the MUN-HEE.”

Crackhead. Startled, I wander over to my peephole, looking outside. I don’t see anyone. Unnerved, I steadied my voice…

“Dude, we’re already on our way out the door to dinner, so you can come by tomorrow –”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Jumping, I creep up to the door again. Crackhead and his weird Crackhead eyes are STARING right back at me. He’s holding the shit bookcase like it’s freakin’ ransom.

One thing I don’t like, besides Hitler — besides eggplant — is an individual I HAVEN’T INVITED trying to SURPRISE stalk me at my HOUSE. I suddenly began channeling an African American mama –

“Oh no you DIDN’T–”

I put a hand on the door, about to swing it open to face Crackhead –and out of nowhere, Boyfriend pushes me back, a crisp twenty in hand.

“Ash, just let me handle this –”

“OH NO HE DIDN’T –”

“ASH.”

He literally picks me up and puts me in the living room. Opening the door to Crackhead, he hands him the twenty, then goes to close it.

“I told yooo I’d wait!!!” Crackhead spits, trying to push Shit Bookcase through the opening. Boyfriend pushes back, closing the door on the guy. Crackhead begins POUNDING on it.

“Wayyyy-ting!!!!”

Boyfriend rolls his eyes, moving to the other room to re-collect his jacket. Not one to be idle when there’s confrontation, I grab my purse, rushing the door.

Swinging it open, Crackhead nearly falls over the bookcase as the pounding surface is removed — I grab a handful of dollar bills (don’t ask me why I had these readily available, but I did), and fling them into the air.

“You want more money? Here’s more! Here’s twenty FIVE dollars, shithead, now take Earl and leave us alone!”

I don’t know if it was the sudden shower of crumpled cash or the humanizing of the shit bookcase — but Crackhead went still, widened his eyes at me, grabbed the money, and literally RAN.

I watched him sprint down the hallway for a few moments before sighing, and looking down upon the now broken and additionally ugly shit bootcase, which lay — finally ready for death — at my feet.

“I’m so sorry, Earl.”

And with a final eyeball recon gaze to make sure Crackhead was absolutely out of our lives forever, I strapped on my three inch heels, grabbed my evening bag, and dragged shit bookcase down the hall and into the elevator… my silent tuxedoed Boyfriend standing next to me, not telling me so… and flung it into the basement garage cubicle from whence it (probably) came.

From now on, I stick to reconstructing NOT shit furniture when I’m bored.

At least until this experience dulls a little.

Or I mix Whiskey with my coffee again.

Goodbye Earl.

Nothing Important. Manhattan Coffee Shop.

Ashley — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 02:51:21 +0000

I have this amazing ability to frequent a Manhattan coffee shop, order a cup of regular, and allow it to go perfectly cold before ever touching it. Each time this happens, I wonder why I’m surprised.

O’Reiley’s Irish Pub at 31st and Broadway. 2:51pm. Also surprised why, out of all the Irish Pubs in Manhattan, I come here when I need to hole up somewhere and work. Especially when I know The Boyfriend (during The Separation) brought the only person on the globe I actually — and vehemently — hate here. She gave him a love note, then. He kept it.

I like to pretend she has wall-eye.

Sigh.

Having a tough time with the homelessness (please note I’m not sleeping on a bench, but rather don’t have a solidified lease and am presently bouncing around aimlessly), and The Boyfriend’s inability to realize that I’m smarter than him.

Not in a pompous way, mind you. But after starting several companies on my own which I’m happy to have The Boyfriend involved with (as mentioned, The Boyfriend is very supportive, a good kisser, and generally wonderful to have around) — The Boyfriend has taken to thinking he knows better than me about things. We had a discussion yesterday that has now rendered us… well, discussion-less — for more than 24 hours.

I may have also told The Boyfriend to go fuck himself and learn PHP coding, then talk to me. Considering his lack of computer background, we might not be speaking for awhile.

Interesting… the tendencies of relationships. When things are good — when money isn’t a directly pressing issue — when you’re actually having life-is-great-intercourse on a regular basis — you wonder how anything could ever go wrong, how anything could possibly infringe upon your unrealistic snowglobe of bliss.

Until some clepto finds it and flings it against a marble wall.

I’m only twenty three. Sometimes I wonder where I’m going.

Coffee’s cold again. *@#$.

– Ashley

Random Fan-mail is the Best – Unless Someone is Trying to Voodoo You.

Ashley — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 20:27:15 +0000

Random fan letters are the best. I recently received (via my manager, as I try to keep my personal-personal email hidden from the world, stalkers, and Bill Clinton at all costs) a letter from a Mr. Thomas:

Hi Ms. Bluestone,

I am very sorry to take up your time. I am a big fan of Ms. Avis and think she is such a beautiful actress! Could you please let me know how I could obtain an autograph picture of Ms. Avis. Does she have a fan mail address that I could mail a self-addressed stamped envelope to? I truly appreciate any help that you could provide. Thank you so much for your time!

Aloha,
John Thomas

Now, my first instinct is to be insanely flattered and send this John Thomas a fruit basket. However, the inner cynic in me has a few questions first:

How and why are you a fan?
What have I done that deserves any accolades, really?
If it is accolade-relevant, what are you a fan of?
– My writing and firing from Nielsen?
– The borderline interesting indie film work?
– The Miss Teen Universe pageant at sixteen by which I walked the runway [in a rhinestoned bikini] with an accidentally self-induced concussion?
Why is your name the most stereotypical thing on the planet besides Bob Smith, and CLEARLY not Hawaiian?

Perhaps John really is a random cult-like groupie (and, trust me, I’d love to have a gaggle of random cult-like groupies who want my signed headshot), but I just can’t seem to shake that this email is written stylistically similar to those “You’ve inherited 430 million dollars from an estranged uncle, so please send a mere $1,000 via Western Union to Africa to claim it…” emails from third world country scam artists.

Then again, what is my signed headshot worth… really? Perhaps this really is a fan. Named John Thomas. Who was adopted by an American family who’s simply crazy about free healthcare. Or perhaps it’s one of my maniacal webdesign clients, who’s just Amazon.com’ed a book on voodoo.

Regardless, signing one of my freakin’ headshots, here we come.

– Ashley

Take Me to "The Wilhelmenia". No, Because You're 35, Ugly, and have a Bad Attitude.

Ashley — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 17:28:42 +0000

You know what I dislike? Worse than eggplant, radical Democrats, or Hitler?

Fake 35 Year Old Models from Hungary That Give Shit to The Boyfriend Because They Book a Fashion Shoot and (Surprise!) Look Old.

This past week we’ve been trotting around Manhattan doing a flurry of backed up fashion shoots that The Boyfriend has had scheduled for months. Wiping the slate clean for March. Getting crazy people out of our minds and inboxes.

Enter: The Former TV Star That Wants to Have a 3-Some. He’s a former client that shot with The Boyfriend nearly a year ago, and takes every opportunity imaginable to fish and re-fish our interest in having “a party” with a certain iRobot star. Wife swapping, man. Sounds great (and theoretically very flattering) but not… er, not really our style.

He settles into becoming a somewhat regular client, and shoots us an email during our busy shooting week.

“Have a friend coming from London, can you squeeze in / lookbook shoot?”

Sure thing, Former TV Star. Of course we can squeeze in a referral for you!

We find out she’s a model from Hungary, 5’11, startlingly blonde, and she’s coming over with her hunky cousin who won The Most Awesome Model in the Ukraine or something of the like. We schedule them for a rainy Tuesday afternoon, the day before we fly back to Los Angeles.

9 a.m., Tuesday, Studio. We’re in the middle of setting up… when two GIGANTIC individuals of ridiculously oversized appendage-proportions attempt to fit themselves through the standard-height studio door. This chick is not 5’11. She’s about 6’3, wearing five inch stripper heels a la Jessica Simpson, and looks about 40 years old. Her blonde extensions are Rupunzel-flung down to her butt.

Tossing her head haughtily, she looks around the studio with unnecessary scrutiny.

“This where shoot takes place?”

“I hope so, considering I have all my equipment here,“ chuckles The Boyfriend, looking at me and briefly bulging his eyes. She glares at us. I immediately simmer. We’re not only giving this “chick” a severely discounted shoot as a referral from an [eccentric] buddy of ours, but renting out extra studio space to even do the session with her! And not only is she unattractive and of no use to The Boyfriend’s portfolio… but she she thinks she and her 3rd world Botox are the #*!@.

“I suppose is fine,” she finally states, sauntering over to the window like she’s lost a hip joint. I raise an eyebrow.

“I am here for Ford, and The Wilhelmenia,” she says, gazing out at the rain — attempting emotional depth or Method or… whatever it was, I nearly snorted into my Starbucks.

“I have friends at The Wilhelmenia,” I mention lightly, walking over to the iPod player and restraining myself from subjecting her to The Greatest Hits of Cher and telling her it was Boyfriend’s required mood music.

“Gooood…” she turns, attempting a pose, her eyes flashing in sudden I-Can-Possibly-Use-You,-Little-Person interest. “You invite me to see them? I am very good at catwalk and posings in my country.”

Really. So your country employs over-the-hill, annoying, FAT, gargantuan Amazon women to flaunt ripped size 2s?

Not to be mean. Even with her height, this woman was like 180, easy. Considering runway models are 15 years old, underdeveloped, and weigh less than a stack of Staples copy paper…

“Of course.” I smiled. I actually did have a friend at Wilhelmenia. And she would put this chick in her place.

Twenty minutes later — the shoot proceeds to ‘happen’, and Ursula or Paprica or whatever the hell this woman’s name was pulls out tiny tanktop after tiny tanktop — I <3 New York tees — anything found in the Junor’s aisle at Macy’s — and poses like the mom on The Graduate would if she were a stripper and just recently tried LSD.

Three hours later — we finish, she pays (only after the assurance that she would be heading to Park Avenue directly after), and The Boyfriend and I are left in silent, disturbed wonder. We review the photos a few hours later — and surprisingly, The Boyfriend has managed to capture some really good stuff, all Paprica’s non-model factors considered.

The next morning, we receive a text message from her gargantuan cousin. ”We are very disappoint with the images, and no sign with Wilhelmenia” he states, “What happen now? Refund?”

We stare at the phone. Not only did Paprica not send the message (she gets her familial minion to), but we actually got GREAT IMAGES of this UGLY, FREAKISHLY LARGE CHICK, dealt with her personality for three hours, gave her a discount, and she’s still not happy?

The Boyfriend (being an artist) is distraught. I assure him it has nothing to do with his shooting style… but the fact that this… woman… could have booked the body double for Benicio del Toro in The Wolfman. Post transformation.

I’ve never been so annoyed or had such a severe distaste in my mouth for stupid, ungrateful, bitchy women who are old, unattractive, physically humongous, and should head back to the jungles of Hungary ASAP.

Wanna be a fashion model?

– Go back in time 15-20 years

– Get rid of your under-chin jowls and bad attitude.

– Get some lipo, buy conditioner for your knockoff Great Lengths

Then go talk to The Wilhelmenia.

Time for coffee.

– Ashley

I Vomited Next to You in 4th Grade, But…

Ashley — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 05:13:14 +0000

I love it when random people you haven’t seen, heard of, or spoken to since the FOURTH GRADE suddenly get bored one day and Facebook stalk you.

Within the course of twenty five minutes, they’ve suddenly friend-requested, messaged, and subsequently IMed you (I would like to spit venom at the person who developed the IM capability of Facebook, by the way — more access to me when I just want to drink wine and eat cookies? Leave me alone!)

This happens to me this evening. I’m enjoying exactly the aforementioned delights — WINE and COOKIES. I get the annoying “tock!” sound, like someone popping a finger in their cheek or whacking a small hammer against a block of slightly damp wood:

“Hi Ashley!”

A message from Frank Trundlemuffin*. My boyfriend from (literally) the FOURTH GRADE. We both went to Catholic School together. I remember holding hands during mass one day after school — then throwing up in a pew.

Vomit-induced memories aside… WHY are you contacting me NOW?

We begin chatting, and I grow more and more frustrated that my attempt to watch The Dutchess is being foiled by having to answer random questions from someone — not to be mean — but someone that exactly doesn’t catch any light in the facets of my existence anymore.

I answer politely, concisely, and attempt to end the conversation. I contemplate signing out of Facebook. But Frank seems far too excited to be chatting about Life together. He asks about my parents. I “ask” about his. I watch more Dutchess, grinding my Ginger Snap with increasing irritation.

FINALLY — after a long inquisition (paralleling my observation that Kira Knightly has a serious underbite) as to what I’m doing with my life (answer: not stalking people I used to trade “Do You Like Me, Check Yes or No” notes to, but that’s just me). People with too much time on their hands, man. Or perhaps I’m just way too cynical. Probably both.

Time for more wine. Goodnight!

– Ashley

Facebook is Retarded (Disclaimer: So Is This Blog)

Ashley — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 15:53:28 +0000

Wednesday, 10:07. The Boyfriend’s Sister’s Brooklyn Apartment.

Minutes since waking up: 12. Sips of Coffee: 19.

This morning, I was awoken by the weight of a large, odorous object being slowly lowered down across my abdomen. Startled, I waited a few seconds in calculated, ridged stillness… then shot straight up — flinging the offending Thing far away from my expensive Victoria’s Secret purchase-clad-body.

I forgot. I was in Brooklyn. The Boyfriend’s Sister has a dog.

The Boyfriend also happened to be up. As the film of sleep cleared from my eyeballs, I came to realize he — and Sister — were both standing in the bedroom-area of her graciously lent Studio, silently wondering at my odd behavior, and her recently flung mammal.

Ugh.

As they brewed coffee and conspired in muffled tones (as I lay in bed, awkwardly, wondering how to get out as I was barely covered in anything but lacy lingerie), I pretended to fall back asleep. As I did, I unintentionally listened to the conversation that ensued:

Sister: I am so hungover, man.

The Boyfriend: Why?

Sister: Wanted to Piss Bob* off. Came home at 2:30 waaasted. He’s pissed. Yes.

I mulled over this logic. Understood it. Had implemented similar strategies in the past.

When The Boyfriend finally left to go shoot some woman in her underwear all day (fashion model from Holland, great), and Boyfriend’s Sister left the apartment to go walk The Mammal, I extracted myself from her [wonderfully fluffy] Pottery Barn sheet set, threw on respectable clothing, and shuffled over to the Krups Coffee Making Wonder.

As I brewed, I pondered. The things we women do to in relationships.

Now — I’ve been with The Boyfriend for close to three years. Granted, we had The Separation for a few months (realistically, weeks) last year… but we’ve been going strong for quite awhile.

This is going to sound absolutely, undeniably, irrefutably retarded — but it bothers me that The Boyfriend still lists his relationship status on Facebook as “Complicated”.

I know I know I know how that just sounded. And I feel like my IQ has been forcibly dropped several points for just admitting it out loud. And more on the Retard Scale of Life? After finally voicing that it was kind of odd a week or so ago…. after The Boyfriend kept loudly wondering why (upon coming back to New York for a few weeks) women from his past kept sending him messages about getting drinks… going to dinner… hanging out…

“Because you ‘read’ single on Facebook,” I stated bluntly, over carefully taken bites of a Cheerio.

“Oh. I don’t even check that,” stated Boyfriend, “and it’s good to look kind of single for apperances.”

Whatever. I told him to do what he wanted. I used to play that game, too, and I did it wonderfully well.

But now? I’m spending my Morning Coffee Time to actually write A BLOG as I’m contemplating — just to tick Boyfriend off and additionally reprove him not not noticing my awesome lingerie for the past WEEK — whether to change my status, too.

AND in actually writing that — I’m going to go take a cold shower and remove the #&$@-ing Facebook app from my iPhone. Sweet jesus.

Good morning!

– Ashley