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

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

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

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

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

Ode to the Asshole Starbucks Guy

Ashley — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 02:53:54 +0000

Okay. So if I’m sitting in a Starbucks, holed up IN THE CORNER with my laptop — brow furrowed in intense, I’ll-eventually-need-Botox-screw-you concentration – obviously, quite obviously, I don’t want company. Communication of any kind. My angry black leather jacket and body language, in any way you Star Magazine slice it, reads LEAVE ME ALONE.

But no. As I’m in the middle of Photoshopping the graphic for my newest entrepreneurial venture — and only halfway through the coffee that will eventually render me remotely civil to the rest of Starbucks kind — some rejected extra from the 80s version of Gulliver’s Travels saunters up.

My eyes barely flicker from the toolkit of CS4. Go. Away. Asshole. I silently chant to myself.

Keep in mind The Boyfriend is presently out shooting someone (fashion versus killing spree), and I have this woman’s crap around the Starbucks table and my feet. You actually had to STEP OVER half of the contents of her Studio apartment to access the other chair.

Gulliver stands there for a good five minutes, shifting his weight indecisively and occasionally clearing his flem-filled throat. Finally, just as I’m in the middle of a one-pixel-wide effort to remove an under-eye bag, he speaks.

“Eafreuahm. Can I… fish, sit?”

What the fuuuuck, I silently yell at myself. I look up. Once, and briefly. ”Uh…”

Manhattan Ashley kicks in. I continue working.

He keeps shifting.

“Menh… yes! May I sit? I— fish.”

I’m so confused at the antics of this odd human being that I look up, again, and stare at him in the face.

“Sure.” I stated, flatly. Nobody sensical would have sat. I might as well have said “I’m going to murder you in your sleep with a fork.”

He bobbed his head, taking a large step over the three pieces of luggage that formed a moat around my solace. Nearly tripping on a large blue hat box, he sat.

He looked at me. I glared back at him, and — without blinking — slowly slid my computer toward me with only my forefingers.

“You don’t — ehaiifahg (cough) — have to mouv’it.”

I didn’t answer. I looked down, and continued working. I allowed my fingers to ram the keyboard with every stroke.

None of the hints worked. He continued sitting there for THREE HOURS, attempting to make small talk to the front of my head as I silently ignored him, built things in PHP, and wrote some stuff. I went through four Green Teas (did you know Starbucks now charges you $2.45 for a teabag and WATER?!) before I finally gave up and called The Boyfriend.

The shoot promptly ended. The Boyfriend came to the rescue, his client in tow. She carefully extracted her hat box from beneath Gulliver’s knobby (still immobile) legs.

It wasn’t until I got up to go to the bathroom, leaving The Boyfriend and Boyfriend’s Client standing over the table — that the guy finally put down his crossword, slowly ripped the black and white box parts from the paper — and placed them over my open laptop. His number was scrawled in each box. Roses littered the margins.

He then got up, and left.

Jesus. If I knew I’d attract men by killing them slowly with my mind while sipping overpriced Chai, I’d have stayed single for longer.

Time for a cup of wine.

– Ashley Avis

The Boyfriend = Good for Coffee, Sex, Insulting My Enemies…

Ashley — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 16:29:09 +0000

February 20th. 10:51am. Minutes after waking up: 4. Gulps of coffee: 1

Woke up about four and a half minutes ago to something utterly and extordinarily delightful. Usually I’m like dealing with one of those petstore Feed The Mouse to the Snake rodents in the morning. Confused by the light, two seconds away from biting you, and infused with an understandable immortal cynisism.

One thing awesome about my morning, however — as I stumbled into the kitchen, glaring at things — was the realization that it’s pretty awesome to have The Boyfriend. I mean, just in general. The Boyfriend does stuff for you sometimes. The Boyfriend has a practical application to everyday, make-things-easier Life.

For example. This particular morning I threw on my gigantic purple ski socks, shuffled past the coffee maker, and it was as if Edgar Poe himself reared up from the half-empty Starbucks bag an announced that his Raven would be personally concocting my Mocha.

The Boyfriend had brewed coffee. The Boyfriend is useful.

List of Other Things The Boyfriend Is Useful For:

Making coffee
Sex
Petting my hair when I eat MSG.
Fighting with gigantic bouncers when I get drunk and belligerant and insult them
Kissing
Telling me when my outfits look like Star Wars
Insulting people I don’t like by sending them singing telegrams
Proof reading my It’ll-Make-Me-Feel-Better I HATE YOU, DUMBASS!! emails to clients / employees / etc.
Sexy stuff.
Pretending to be my assistant when I’m actively avoiding creditors

Yeah. The Boyfriend is pretty cool. I’m going to go jump on his bed with my coffee and wake him up now. Good morning, Saturday.

– Ashley