Tuesday, June 28, 2005

"When I'm At The Beach, Where Do I Put My Chew?"

Missing from Potunkville, USA:

Slightly full-figured man in shiny red man panties, commonly referred to as Speedos, with a ring of dip, probably Skoal, tucked in the left butt cheek. Last seen carousing a popular Delaware beach, carefully treading his way through innocent sunbathers. If you have seen this man, please call 1-800-SO-PCKTS* to have him removed from the premises. His back pocket is missing him and we would like to reunite them as soon as possible.

*Sew Pockets, dba SOPCKTS, is engaged in the unique business of clothing manufacturing and fashion therapy. Our staff will work with the subject to ensure he gets a pocket that fits his vacationing lifestyle. We might fashion his current Wrangler square on his Speedos, or we may delicately guide him towards a longer syle of swim trunk, like, say, a board short that coincidently already has the pockets attached. Either way, we will work to educate him on the utility of a pocket. We at SOPCKTS understand that no man should have to go very long without a can of dip in his back pocket, even when at the beach.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Not The Hip-Shaking King...The Plastic Variety

The stalker is back. I ran into him outside my building so there was no avoiding it. And in the three minute conversation we had, he managed to bring up a body part that, really, should not come up in casual conversation. Especially not in the context he was using it. [Example: Did you party your {fill-in-the-blank-with-male-body-part} off?] I mean, really. How does a girl respond? So he creeps me out.

But you know what creeps me out even more than some lustful, ogling pervert?

The King with the big, plastic, smiley bobble-head. The King of Burger King commercial fame with the advertising slogan, "Wake up with The King!" or, "Up late with The King!" Have you seen these commercials? It's this big human puppet. In bed with you when you wake up. Or he's outside your window a-knockin' when you open your currents. That painted on smile. I am sure he just wants you to forego the McGriddle, the McMuffin, and the Breakfast Burrito, for BK's own, I'm sure, equally delectable breakfast. Maybe he doesn't intend to kill you. Or does he?

Is it an indelible image of kind and sympathetic marketing? Oh, I think not.

If you have never seen these commercials then you -you lucky bastard - will forever have peaceful slumber. With birds and sweet song. Meadows. You may skip. And eat straight from a sugar jar. And never get a cavity.

But if you have seen these commercials, then you will be haunted in your dreams if you turn your tv off right at the point when the plastic-headed King comes on your screen and that is the last image you are left with before turning in for the night. Or is that just me? A conspiracy afoot? Because, if last night was any indication, the King does not like to be silenced. He will come back for more.

As all creepy creeping creepsters do.

I don't want to go to BK if there is a chance I will run into this creepo. I'll run for the Border before I run to any castle. King and my Prince be damned!

But if he taunts me in my sleep again, I may have to. Damn marketing genius. How do you do it?

So, you see, I have this aversion to puppets, dolls with the blinking eyes, and clowns. Never liked them. My mom has a few of these antique dolls, some with the blinking eyes, and they all have a spot on her bed, which is just....creepy. The oompah loompahs? Creepy. Those halloween costumes with the plastic masks? Creepy. Ronald McDonald, for that matter....creepy. And a plastic life-sized King will still scare the shit out of me!

But when anything fearsome or creepy enters my dreams - then that just crosses the line into Horror-Film-Where-I-Am-The-Victim territory. And you are the audience, screaming at the tv to GET OUT OF THERE! YOU IDIOT, HE IS RIGHT BEHIND YOU! Or is he in the parlor with the Professor and the candlestick?

Uh-oh....where is the King now?


Scared yet?

Let me give you an example of how my dreams are capable of haunting me silly. And I am not alone, my sister can attest, as she is victim too.

We were young - grade school age - and we were in a Publix (the best grocery store with the best bakery in the world, y'all!). We were horsing around as young kids forced to go grocery shopping on a Saturday afternoon will do. And we carried it too far because we dumped over a standing ashtray that - back in those days - they had standing on every aisle so you could, you know, smoke and shop at the same time. Shortly after the "Clang! Clatter! Clatter! Shwwwwiiiiiinnnnkkkl!" came a booming voice - out of nowhere - very Wizard of Oz - summoning a "Clean up on Aisle 6!" So my sister and I started giggling at this because, slap your knee, look at what we did and our parents didn't even see it! Not only are we bad-ass, we are scot-free. But! Then came the Evilist Man Of The Evilist Empire In All The Land shooting us the most evil dirty looks as he was forced to sweep up the ash and butts. In all its sooty-gag-me splendor. Then he muttered something in his "native tongue" at us - A Spell! And so for years that voice and that look HAUNTED us. In our dreams. And we always shared them with each other to let each other know that we were in this nightmare together. Which haunted us in the real world too. See, this guy happened to be of a certain ethnicity and so we just stereotyped the whole country - or the whole continent, which we didn't realize at the time - as one man. The evil Chinese Man.

We feared the Chinese Man.

Dad: We are going to Chinese Restaurant tonight.
Me and Sister: No! No! We are sick! We are sick!
Dad: ???
Me and Sister: Chinese Man will be there. Chinese Man wants us dead.

We got over that eventually and have since come to love the Chinese Man. In fact, we love all Man. We always vote a Liberal ticket. Our hearts bleed. We are cool like that. And I have dated a Japanese guy - by our little girl scared-shitless standards he would have been Chinese Man.

So, you see? Our own mind creates and conjures icons of fear. Or is that just freakishly me? The mind she is wild - and mine just happens to run, run, run. I would make a plea to BK to kill the plastic-headed King but we know that the monsters never die. They always come back.

And so I go to Burger King.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Because She Needs To Be Put In Check (And Wears A Size 9)

Guess what? I'm imposing a Boy Talk Moratorium. You might be asking, will she have anything else to talk about? I can always talk about shoes, clothes, makeup, the bathroom, phobias, pet peeves, or the crazy little things I do. Check the archives! You might still be bored.

But y'all will agree on this: Too many boy crazy posts lately! Grow up!


What has become of me? You'd think I retrograded back to the age of 14 when I was realizing boys but not allowed to go on dates yet. Because 20 years later? My world is very similar. I am realizing boys for the first time in like six years after being marooned in Non-Commital, Manic-Depressive, Drunk-In-A-Bad-Way, Let-Me-Dump-You-For-Ex-Girlfriend-Who-Looks-45-And-Has-Four-Kids-And-Needs-Me-To-Be-A-Provider-And-She's Toothless-And-Shaped-Like-A-Bunny-Rabbit Guyville. So now I am back in the real world and, lo and behold, the guys are everywhere. Look around you! They are ringing me up in the coffee shop. They are taking my bags at the hotel. They are on the metro. They are in my building. They are at the beach. They are in my drink. It's madness! And it has to stop.

Lest you think I am a slut...because I am so not. And that is the truth. When all is said and done, I really can't take credit for any notches in the bedpost. I think that "holding out" makes them respect me and piques their interest. Well, apparently not. What is the secret? I have done the hard-to-get. I have done the be-yourself. I have done the easy-breezy. I have done the what-the-hell. All? Not working. Should I do Ho? Should I do Stalker?

No, mom, not to worry, I won't go that route.

This weekend - even at the beach - I am on VACATION. No talk of any Very Cute Boys. I will not "meet" anybody. I will not flirt with anybody. I certainly will not kiss anybody. And I most definitely will not be passing out my phone number.

The Internet has permission to kick my ass if I come back in love again, ranting about some VCB* and oh-my-gosh how awesome is this one. This girl is toughening up. Stone cold it is.

So Future Husband Or Guy Who Is Going To Love Me Forever And Ever: You need an icepick to crack me open. Sorry to make you work so hard but these things do not come easy. Trust me, I will be worth it.

So what cleaned my clock? A picture from the wedding. In this recent group of photos there were various pictures of me and my "wedding date" - or the latest VCB from last weekend - hugging and posing. And looking very sweet together if I must say so. But the very last picture taken on this digital "roll" of 98 pictures is me, sitting on a barstool in my "princess" dress and my hair all wedding-ized. My shoe had fallen off and "my wedding date" bent down on one knee and put my shoe on my foot ever so delicately. Then he kissed my foot. My friend snapped this moment and wrote this caption to go with the photo,

"Prince Charming slides the glass slipper on Cinderella's foot."

That, my VCBs, is all I am looking for. Nothing more. Nothing less.

*Very Cute Boy, duh

Thursday, June 16, 2005

For Better Or For Worse

This weekend is the wedding. The Wedding Of The Marrieds In Which I Have No Date. I know, I know, woe is me. I even considered asking the Very Cute Boy from last weekend but for some rarely sane moment of reason opted out of that. (Digression: Did I mention that he is moving back to the West Coast very soon? Yes, well, he is, so I don't even want to start something up for that reason. I don't do long distance and we wouldn't have enough time to get to know each other before. And he lives in a sketchy neighborhood so he could walk out of his front door and die any day. And, yes, the question of the hour is, "Do you find excuses to be single?" Maybe. So I don't end up getting in over my head too soon and end up a heartwreck? So, I see, a psychoanalytical topic for another time...But, right now, I am enjoying singlehood and plan on playing it out for the summer. If VCB wants to come along for the ride, hop in. Dr. Freud, your hour is up. Get off my couch.)

The not having the date thing - really is tongue-in-cheek. I don't care that I don't have a date. Really. What does irk me a tad is the fact that I *did* have a date that canceled on me at the very last minute. And the fact that I told everyone I was bringing him. Big mouth strikes again. And now I have to tell everyone that, well, he stood me up. And then you get those words of sympathy "Oh, sorry. He doesn't deserve you. Better you found out now what he is like. You will have fun anyway. Borrow my husband." Thanks. Yes. Yes. Yes. And, uh, no.

Witness my neurosis for the weekend....

When slow-dancing comes on - hide! So I can always borrow a friend's husband or boyfriend to twirl me around the dance floor. But the thing is - I don't really like to slow dance. Missing that "chick gene." I have a problem with following. No, I don't always need to be in control. On the contrary. Maybe it's impatience. Maybe it's because I can't do it perfectly. But I always end up wanting to take the lead. I don't want to anticipate when he will call me or when he will ask me out, oh, sorry, ahem, I mean, where we will twirl next. So dancing with me often leads to the Stepping On The Toes or the Falling Down (hi floor!). So I end up on the sidelines (read as: The Bar) - watching. And I see the looks people give me. Poor, poor single girl, drinking herself silly, envying the Dancing Twosomes. So when the slow-dancing comes on, I will go for a smoke break (and I don't even smoke on a good day).

Do not take on any extra-special responsibilities that I didn't sign up for, wasn't consulted about, and didn't practice for. Namely, I hope I don't have to hold the book that the priest reads from during THE WHOLE CEREMONY. Wait. Let me start that one over. I hope that I do not have to stand in front of 200 or so people in a very quiet church, showing my rear side, on camera and video, holding a book like a book stand would usually do. But I guess I could say if called upon to be the Book Stand again, I am a pro. Really. Everyone told me so. Really. They said I looked pretty standing up there. I didn't know how to take this. How does one get to be the Book Stand, you may ask? Or, you may be asking, how do I avoid being the Book Stand? Well, my original responsibilities started off innocently enough. First, the Miller Brewery tour. OK, so it was a self-imposed responsiblity, nonetheless, it had to be done. Then I went from Beer Garden Denizen to Program Girl. Really. I changed in a phone booth. Or I clicked my heels and counted to five and poof. No. Really. For the amount of time we had in between the Very Important Beer Outing to the Very Important Passing Out of The Programs, I needed some magic superpowers. But I worked with what I had. Being human is the pits sometimes. Anyways, I thought I was doing a lovely job with the passing out of the programs and all. I got to chat with a few people. Direct people. Cut people off who were taking advantage of free programs. Who knew passing out programs required so much authority and responsibility. But then - and here is where you need to learn from my mistakes (because you should totally go to the Miller Brewery and I realize it has nothing to do with my point but I will tie it in at every seam I can). So, if the priest - no matter how lovely and charming and pious he may be - and no matter how much you may fear the wrath of God - even if you have to repent, or atone, a million times over - if he asks you to help him out, immediately become ill or mute or die (but not really this one). Because this is what might happen.

Sweet Little Old Priest: You look like a nice young lady. Would you do me a favor?
Unsuspecting Soul: Sure Father! What can I do for you? [Am a very good Ass Kisser in the eyes of God.]
SLOP: You must hold this book for me.
US: Sure! You want to do a practice run, don't you? I have a fear of speaking in front of large crowds and I practice, practice, practice!
SLOP: No, nice young lady. I need you to hold it for me during the whole ceremony. You will stand up in front of all 200 people. You must stand there with your backside to the crowd. Holding the book in front of you. You will come up when I motion for you. It's easy.
US: But - don't I get to practice first?
SLOP: No time. We are on now. Walk next to me and follow my cues.
US: But I have to confess, Father. I was at the Miller Brewery earlier. I am sure that is a sin.
SLOP: No, nice young lady. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can head to the reception and drink. Now follow me!
US: Yes, sir. *gulp*

So I was in the procession with the priest and the altar boys. I sat at his right hand side. I jumped when he said jump. I held the book with no problems. I had a starring role in the ceremony. I had more airtime that the bride and groom. I never got the hiccups. It was a ground-breaking performance for me. So I am good at the Book Holder thing (hold the librarian jokes). I just hope I am not typecast. Because I have so much more dimension.

Turn phone off to avoid drunk phone calls from friends. Well, I know that I won't get a call from "Ty" asking me what I am wearing. Which he has done on many occassions and, once, at a wedding. But he will be at the wedding. You may ask - why even bring your cellphone to a wedding, you yuppie, am-so-connected, am-so-popular, techno-dependent? For the very reason why I have a phone. Poor me is all alone, the phone is my safety call when help is needed. Ever since my dead cell phone saved me from some nefarious cab driver taking me on some random back streets of Arlington, I never leave home without it. I took it out, saw that it was dead, but acted like it worked - because I was quick-thinking which doesn't happen all the time. I told the phantom callee where I was, what cab I was in, etc. Needless to say, the cab driver immediately turned around and dropped me home and didn't ask for money. Weird.

Hope I don't get overcome with coughitis. I have been suffering from some kind of respiratory infection for weeks now. I have been to the doctor. I have taken the antibiotics but I can't shake the sore throat (which comes and goes) and the cough. So, I hope I don't have a coughing attack during the middle of the ceremony. You know coughing fits always happen at the most inopportune moment. Speak now or forever hold your peace. *cough, ack, cough, ack, cough, ack, ack, ack, cough, cough* I'm sorry. Was that a cough of dissidence? Then the whispers in the church.
Poor, poor single girl, bitter because she is single. Can't these single people be happy for people that find true love?

Hate the "traditions" - no, wait, embrace them if you can. Typically I tend to embrace traditions, customs, etc. And I believe in superstitions. Something borrowed, something blue, etc. I also lift my feet at train tracks. I don't step on cracks. I say "rabbit foot" at the first of the month. And I knock on wood. But all the hokey wedding traditions? The father has to be the one to walk you down the aisle. Father's first dance. Throwing the bouquest to all the poor Unweds (i.e., ladies in waiting). The whispers. Poor, poor single girl, the only one to catch the bouquest. Doesn't that negate the "luck"? While the guys get to be racy with the garter - ooh la la, give me your leg, baby, and let me cop a feel. (Seriously, I haven't been to a wedding where they have done the latter two in a long time.) Then the ceremonial cake-cuttiing. And the feeding of each other. Keep it behind closed doors.
But now, I would give anything to have some of those traditions. I'm here to say that not every little girl dreams of what "her" day will be like. I never had this image of a wedding day because I never thought of it as my day. I always expected that The Man I Marry will dream the dream with me to make it our own day together. But now I would give anything to have my father walk me down the aisle. To have that father's dance. I want him to "give me away." I think about it now. When it is too late. I usually get choked up during these moments at weddings. Not at being dateless, but fatherless. But I am hoping that maybe this time I will be able to smile a little dream for daddy.

I won't end on that note. I think the concept of a wedding is a beautiful thing. However you do it. Pomp and circumstance or down and out. Traditional or non-conformist. Anyway you do it, it is joyous and it is an occassion to drink. For the most part I will be doing just that.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Cut Me Off A Slice Of Heaven

It's just a typical weekend at the beach...or, to all the guys I loved before, fuck off.

In boring play-by-play fashion....

1. Patiently sit in traffic on New York Avenue, on 50, on the Bay Bridge, and over the Bay Bridge.
2. Suddenly realize it is going to take you 4 hours to get to the Fun in the Sun.
3. Uh-oh...you are driving down alone.
4. Decide to prank call your friends!

5. Oh yeah. Realize the whole caller ID thing kind of makes this impossible.
6. So have your 31/2 year old niece entertain you.
7. Hear about her "foe-fee" she got in "bow-way".
7. Listen to her tell you about the "grandpa who lives next door with the balloon in his belly."
8. Have your sister-in-law translate: "A trophy for ballet recital" and "The neighbor in his 60's with the big beer gut."
9. Look down to make sure you do not have a balloon in your belly.
10. Decide to add this phrase to your vocabulary.
11. You are very bored now.
12. But spot Route 1!
13. Make a beeline to the liquor store for 2 cases of beer and 2 cans of pineapple juice for mixed fruity beachy drinks on Saturday afternoon.

14. Sit out on the deck, beer in hand, waiting for the rest of the Friday evening crowd to roll into town.
15. Gather everyone and hit a bar.
16. Have your friends push you into the cutest boy in the bar.
17. Giggle like the 12-year old girl you feel like and run off.
18. But the cute boy follows you.
19. Regain your composure and exchange some small talk.
20. Find out that the cute boy is now Very Cute Boy and is also Very Interesting and Very Funny.
21. Oh, so, what the hell...

22. Invite him back to the house for a slice of pizza and more beer.
23. Stay up all night talking, laughing, and making out.
24. Wake up in his arms the next morning - fully clothed - but carrying on the giddy giggling from the night before.
25. Then spot the elephant in the room.

26. Retrace the events of the night.
27. Learn that you have a sleep-walking housemate.
28. Hear Sleep Walking Housemate comment on how sweet the two of you look engulfed in a pretzel-like embrace, cooing and giggling.

29. And he is sincere about this. Umm...
30. Sleep Walking Housemate bows out TO HIS OWN BEDROOM.
31. Thank Sleep Walking Housemate for leaving.

32. Uh-oh. Discover a problem with your hazy memory.
33. Fess up.
34. Ask Very Cute Boy his name.
35. (Only girls can get away with this.)
36. So conceal the asking in joke form.
37. Stay in bed until noon talking, laughing, and making out some more.
38. Keep your clothes on because, you know, you have morals.

39. Get a phone call from Mav who is on her way to the Fun in the Sun.
40. Answer the phone and tell her you have Very Cute Boy in your bed.
41. (And he is a good sport about this.)
42. So Mav tells you to keep him there until she arrives.
43. He is under your spell, he is not going anywhere.
44. Now get a phone call from Goose.
45. So answer, of course, because you are going to miss her this weekend.
46. Very Cute Boy gets on the phone.
46. (Did I mention how he is such the good sport?)

47. And you like him a little bit more for this.
48. So include him in your plot to kidnap the little dog out back named Fu.
49. He repays you by smothering you with kisses and tickles.
50. It's now noon.
51. So your housemates join you in your room to make sure you are alive.
52. (Gosh darnit if he is still a good sport!)
53. Mav arrives, jumps in bed, and tells Very Cute Boy that, yes, he is very cute boy.
54. You reclaim him.
55. Then send him off so you can spend the day on the beach with your housemates.
56. You know, talking about him.
57. Burn a little.
58. Pray you don't succumb to pre-mature aging AKA Leatherface and skin cancer AKA Death.
59. Oh yeah. Forget to take your sunglasses off.
60. Decide you might be a tad hungover.
61. So go to a bar to drink.
62. Get a drink with whipped cream because - when in Rome...
63. Run into pseudo-Brad-Pitt-in-disguise.
64. Mav can't resist this so says, "Hey Brad."
65. He can't resist Mav so returns with, "Hey baby."
66. Spot Fu across the bay running with the Big Dogs and swimming! Atta boy!
67. Miss Goose.
68. Get back to the house to watch the Belmont Stakes.
69. Because you knew that Afleet Alex was going to win.
70. Finally shower and kiss the soap.
71. Clean now!
72. And reddish.
73. Hungry.
74. Order Chinese Food.
75. Hungry. Want it now.
76. Determine that the Chinese Food people are dumb because they do not know the main road in town.
77. Curse the Chinese Food people.
78. Drink.
79. The Directionless Chinese Food People take two hours to deliver the food.
80. Too long.
81. For this you are ungrateful.
82. But finally get food.
83. Finally eat.
84. (The drinking never stopped of course.)
85. Dance with your housemates at the house before heading out to the bar.
86. Meet up with Very Cute Boy at the bar.
87. Watch your friends fall in love with him.
88. Take him home again.
89. Feel him hug you so tight it takes your breath away.
90. " Shit."

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Shopping Scents

I like shopping by myself. I am not an impulsive shopper, usually. If I am heading out to a store, I usually have an intended purchase in mind. Sometimes other things will wind up in my cart, draped over my arms, or in my driveway (??), but generally I think through my purchases. I will mentally tally up my bank account minus the purchase. I will pair it up with things in my closet (or where it will go in my house). I will dream about other accessories I need to buy to complete the purchase. But this all takes place in my own head. If I need to rationalize something, I will call for help. I'll call my friends, my mom, my sister, my brother. With all due respect, I almost never seek the opinion of the salesperson. They're biased.

But sometimes you get the overzealous salesperson who thinks they know you better than you know yourself. They think they know how you decorate your home. Yes, these chili pepper Christmas lights will add that something-something your home is missing. They think they can dress you better. They think they are Coco Chanel and you are a KMart Special. Personally, if you want to wear the purple with the green with the orange with the pink - then color away! If we all wore that outfit off of the mannequin in the front window we'd be rather ordinary.

Unless I am shopping in territory I am unfamiliar. In that case, help will be needed by the salespeople. I'll find you. Let me ask the questions. When I am in Home Depot and looking at the power tools or getting keys made or in a nursery deciphering the green and flowering and what I will or will not eventually kill, I will ask for some help. I know when the Shopping becomes too big for me to handle. By the way, shopping for a car? Been there, done that, on my very own, thank you very much. And most certainly when I am in any clothing, general retail, department, fabric, or liquor store, I can almost always hold my own.

So over the weekend, I went to this lovely store to pick up three things that I use all the time: my very favorite hand soap, my very favorite Dishwashing Soap and a waterless hand sanitizer ("The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap"). All three different brands (and three different scents apparently, you'll see). Here, I encountered one of those overzealous salespeople.

Going into this conversation imagine the Clerk as Jack from Will and Grace. Flitting about with a sing-song voice. The exclamations are necessary. Imagine me deadpan, not cracking. It's Super Shopping Deameanor, A Force To Be Reckoned With. Learn, kiddies.

Clerk: You know you have three different scents going on here! *smile*
Me: Yes. I do.
Clerk: So these aren't all for you then! Oh, I love giving gifts! I'll just wrap them up for you! *smile* {Clerk rummaging under counter}
Me: No-not necessary. They are all for me.
Clerk: But you have three different scents! *frown*
Me: Yes? *blink*
Clerk: Hmmm...well what are you using them for? *quizzical look*

Me: *blink*
Me: Well, they all have three different purposes. I am not using them simultaneously, if that is what you are asking. It's kind of like buying a deodorant, a perfume, and a hair gel - they don't need to match, now do they? {Inner Me: Good one!}
Clerk: Oh honey - mine do! *smile*
Me: *blink*

Clerk: Let's go take a look at some of the other scents - maybe we can get you in the same scent family! *smile* {Turns and assumes a running start to the dish soaps.}
Me: No-really-this is what I want today. Thanks for your concern though.
Clerk: OK. *frown* {Yes, disappointed he is but he finally begins ringing up the purchases of The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap.}

Clerk: {But not satisfied to stop there with this stubborn customer.} Oh. *frown* You were at our Clearance Table. You know this Dishwashing Soap is their Holiday Scent? {Takes his glasses off now to give me a good looking down upon.}
Me: Well, I kind of gathered that since it is Pumpkin Spice.
Clerk: Oh! So you are going to save it for next Thanksgiving! *smile*
Me: No. I will use it today when I get home. I like the smell. And it is on sale.
Clerk: Yes, we put it on sale because it is ssoooo last season. *tsk, tsk* We have some other more spring-like scents. Shall we go look? {Starts the sprint to the Clearance Table.}
Me: I like pumpkin in the spring. In fact, I am going to go home and bake a pumpkin pie. {Inner Me: Good one!}

Clerk: *frown* {Proceeds with the ring up of The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap.}
Clerk: *aha!* OK. Now this Hand Soap you bought - you haven't used it before now have you? *pursed lips*
Me: Actually, it is all I use. I have been using it for five years now. {Inner Me: No lie!}
Clerk: Then you should buy the economy jug! *smile* Let's go look! {Starts the sprint back to the soap.}
Me: I don't want the economy jug. {Now smarting to his next move.} Sure, I understand in the long run, I would probably save money that way. But I have nowhere to store it and I am fickle and may decide I don't like the scent in 6 months and I prefer to buy the new pretty bottle everytime.
Clerk: They make this one in a different scent too. What is it called- *perplexed*
Me: Don't want that.
Clerk: Umm...what is it called...umm..... *perplexed*
Me: *blink* {
Inner Me: Doonn'tt wwaaanntt iittt.... }
Clerk: I'll be back-

Me: That won't be nec-
Clerk: {Darts off faster than a speeding bullet, jumps display tables in a single bound.}

Clerk: {Running back.} Fruits and passion! Fruits and passion! *smile, smile, smile*
Me: Yeah, thanks. Still don't want it.

Clerk: *frown* {But proceeds with the ringing up.}
Clerk: OK. Now this hand sanitizer... {Takes off glasses again.}
Me: *sigh* What about the hand sanitizer?
Clerk: You know they make it in a bigger size?
Me: Yes, I want this size.
Clerk: You'll go through it pretty fast.
Me: I need it for my purse so I need that size.
Clerk: *frown* {Finishes ringing me up.}

Clerk: {Hands me the bag.} Enjoy your soaps! *smile*

In the end, I got out of there with my intended purchase: The Soap, The Soap, And The Other Soap. And when I got home I squirted them all over the sink together to break the scents in and boy did it smell like lemon, roses, pumpkin, cinnamon, verbena, lavender, sugar and spice and everything nice. *sniff, sniff* Smell that? An olio of scents. My nose was loving it.

So does my stubborn proclivity to my own shopping scents make me a good consumer or a bad consumer?

Cash Register: Ka-ching!
Apartment: I can't breathe. If I eat another thing I will explode.
Closets: Can you move out some of the derelicts in here?
Cat: Bags! Yeah, let me put my head in here and breathe. Let's play! Uh-oh. Yak. Yak.
Carpet: Dirty! Clean me!
Vacuum: Sick. Cough. Cough. Dying. Dying. Dy.....sssssssssssss...
Nose: Eww. What happened to the "olio of scents"?! Smells like someone is burning plastic.
The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap: Squirt us! Squirt us!
Carpet: Still dirty! Don't invite anyone over. I'm ashamed to have anyone see me like this.
Vacuum Store: Oh, you need my help, huh? We have special vacuums for people like you. That will be one million and sixty-two dollars. And it will die in a year. See you next year!
Wallet and Bank Account: Feed me.
Credit Card Company: Will you marry me?
Clerk who sold me The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap: Bitch! *smile*

In the end, the splurge on The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap ended up costing me a vacuum and not the unifying scented soaps, or the economy jug, or the "in season" scents the clerk was pusing. Nope. A vacuum. Or, that is how I rationalized it in my head. That clerk had some all-mighty powers that transcended my "shopping scents." Damn. He's good.

Monday, June 06, 2005

Great, Who Will Be My Wedding Date Now?

Occurrence: I got dumped by my wedding date.
My reaction: Wow! This dating thing is fun!

Occurrence: I got dumped because he would rather see his tailor.
My reaction: Yes, friends who warned me, the signs are pointing to Gayville.

Occurrence: So now I have no wedding date.
My reaction: *blink* *rubs eyes*

Occurrence: EVERYONE else has a date.
My reaction: OK, normally don't care. Very independent, never bring date just to bring date. But...everyone but me? Wah.

Wait. Let me repeat this for my own understanding. I just got dumped - via email - by a guy who - emphatically (as in no hesitation with the yes) - agreed to go with me, who knows the bride and groom, and who assured me - when I asked if he needed to check his schedule before he so "emphatically" agreed - that he was indeed free the whole weekend and was looking forward to it, especially the overnight aspect because we had not taken our "relationship" that far yet. And the Dump Email came after not hearing from him for 2 weeks in which I finally sent him a Hello Email and his reply was not "hello back" but Dump. What's with The Mean? Was he ever going to tell me?

My real reaction: Asshole! Yes, OK, not that into me. Got that. He's not flaky anymore, he's transparant. Fine. But he could have handled the let down quite differently. At the very least a "sorry, but..." would have probably been sufficient. Not the blunt, "Can't go, going to the tailor in NYC now. Won't be back in time. Period." So, I...delete his contact information from any recording of it, contemplate sending an "oh, thanks a lot email in response" but decide to just ignore and not respond and write him off. Sometimes silence is the loudest response. And now moving on, dateless.

So, a plea!

One dateless, very pretty (I have professionals working on me that day who plan on making me pretty), smart (or I can pretend to be), and sassy (I will probably fall at some point in the evening) girl in a yellow dress SEEKING a flake-free, date-free, gay-free, hilarious and unassumingly handsome man (who will pick me up when I do fall, by the way, or fall down with me) to be Wedding Date. And can you wear a pink shirt with your suit? I kind of have a thing for pink button-down shirts. We will drink, dance, and maybe sing. Surely, we will laugh a lot?

I've seen movies about this kind of thing. On Lifetime and in the theaters. It works for them.

Mom, you'd be proud of me pimping myself on the 'net.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Dear Diary: You Had To Be There

Memorial Day Weekend 2005...The kickstart to a summer of Fun.
1 Beach House + 11 House Mates + 11 Cases of Beer + 4 Days + 4 IPods + 4 Bars Within Walking Distance = A GoshDarn Good Time

It is hard to describe it and I tend to shy away from giving a play-by-play diary recap of my weekend doings because, frankly, I'm sure you care. There were just so many hilarious moments of the weekend that tend to be of the you-had-to-be-there variety. Really. Case in point: At one point over the weekend, I was making eye contact with a cute boy. Mav and Goose were both talking to boys. I thought of something and shared it with Mav, Mav told Goose, and then the three of us were literally doubled-over with laughter. The something I said could only be funny to the three of us because it had to do with an inside joke we had working all weekend long that NEVER got old. Never. The inside joke came about kind of piecemail - everything that happened or that we encountered kind of contributed to it - and it stuck.

So now the evidence of the Not Funny. The cute boy took this as his opportunity - us sprawled together cracking up - to move in.

Cute Boy: What is so funny?
Me: {chuckle, snort, chuckle}
Cute Boy: You just made these girls crack up? What is so funny?
Me: I said - {chuckle, gasp} - I said - Wait! - You really won't think this is funny. Trust me.
Cute Boy: Try me.
Me: OK. So, I told my "mom" that I feel like the stepchild of the family and blah-blah-blah (Note to readers: trust me on this, not funny to you so edited to spare you.)
Cute Boy: ????
Me: And- (And he is not laughing.)
Cute Boy: Yeah. That wasn't funny. {Turns away, then turns back.} Oh, and tell that guy standing behind your friend to turn his collar down.
{Once Cute Boy turns and walks away into the darkness. His switch went out but he just set off another lightbulb of hilarity in my head. Time to share with the girls!}
Me (turning to Mav and Goose to tell them what he said because if only he knew how funny that was because he just touched on another inside joke): He said...
Me, Mav, and Goose: {Doubled-over yet again in laughter while the Guy With The Collar Up is still standing behind Mav}

Once Cute Boy became a contributor. And this is really how the weekend went. Funny on the inside, but probably not funny on the outside. The Unfunny will be our Funny. You may just shrug your shoulders and walk away too. But the Guy With The Collar Up Who Keeps Standing Behind Mav is gone now, so let's go with this...

The Car Drive Down, Friday. With my old friend, Mav, and my new friend, Goose. Just three girls zipping east in a shiny, pretty car, packed to the floorboard and ceiling, trunk to front seat, in beach towels, coolers of beers, beach chairs, and stereo equipment, while listening to Mav's Playlist in which she streamed the best party tunes a girl could want. The weekend was off to a good start. I love these gals.

The Bay Bridge. Poor Goose can not drive over the Bay Bridge. She is embarrassed about this but I don't think she should be. I am not afraid of heights and I find the Bay Bridge terrifying. My dad would never drive over it, so I understand it. Mav drove then. Goose in the backseat with a pillow over her face: "Is it over yet?" Me and Mav in the calming voice, "Almost over, honey. Hang in there." Until...the car accident that we just missed involving a PT Cruiser and a golf cart. Yes, a golf cart. How fast do those things go? So we were temporarily held up at the top of the bridge. We eventually made it over and Goose survived. We were ready for the Double Arches now.

The KMart KeyMaker, The KMart Gift Card, And The KMart Bathing Suit. Two trips to the Big K over the weekend. One to get keys made by someone who may or may not have worked there and another to return said keys. Because they DIDN'T WORK. So the return amounted in a lovely $44.80 gift card to which Goose replied to the Customer Service rep in her sweetest, "motherly" voice, "Oh, honey, I'm not coming back here." The girl has never been in a KMart before. Do they even have any in DC? Also in KMart, Mav was able to score a "delightful", shimmery, flourescent, turn-the-lights-down, day-glo, glistening and blinding and - you get the picture - swimsuit because she packed for the BEACH and went to the BEACH with NO SWIMSUIT. In the store, we were like, "Oh, that's cute, that'll do." On the beach the next day, we were like, "Damn, what were you thinking buying that thing? Who told you that looked cute?" Friends. That red bathing suit then became a House fashion show staple, modeled by Goose over her lovely Soccor Mom sweathsirt.

The Crazy Old Lady Who Lives Out Back With The Big Beautiful House That Semi-Blocks Our View. She's crazy. Bipolar maybe. Or drunk. Or sad. Crazy Old Lady likes to come out back and yell up at our deck while it is still light out about how we need to get to the bars and she will call the cops on us because our voices are too loud and our laughs are too much. The next day she was all sunshine in her conversation with us, asking how our night was. It was like the movie Groundhog Day because we witnessed the same conversation and the same Crazy every night.

Backyard Entertainment. Some in the house got to witness Crazy Old Lady's Late Night Drunken Gentleman Caller banging on her door, "Leett mmee iinn!! I wwoonnn'ttt ddiissaappppooiinntt youuuu!" That plea was repeated all weekend long. It never got old.

A Dog Named Fu Manchu AKA Fu. Crazy Old Lady's dog. We have photo evidence of the Crazy Old Lady screaming up at our balcony in her mumu and poor little Fu looking the other way as if to say, "Who is this Crazy Old Lady? I don't know her. Send help." Goose promises to kidnap Fu by the end of summer and have Fu drive over the Bay Bridge for her because he the Little Dog AKA Fu.

A Game Called Dance Moves. That never got old either. It involved lot of butt-shaking and The Pants Dance and The Ear Muffs. And lots of forgetting of who's move was whose.

House Underwear. Emblazoned with the logo, "Open 24 Hours." The best 99 cents I ever spent. Worn over clothing by many people in the house. Mav even wore them out in public under the Red KMart Bathing Suit and over gray yoga pants. Fashion Maverick, that girl.

The Photo Ops. Many, many photos of the sleeping posing with various objects, including lit cigarettes, stacks and stacks of beer bottles, Soy Chips bags, hats, and the blow-up swordfish that turned into the Where's Waldo of the weekend because he showed up in many pictures. His home is now above the mantel because he was hooked and blown up for our very own house. It's a 20-pounder, I tell ya!

Trashy Beach Reading. Including an article from Cosmo about the "new" "positions" you just must try. Notably one involving a Krispy Creme donut. Donut on a stick, anyone? And one involving saran wrap and humming. I'm guessing they don't mean humming something like, "Cuts Like A Knife" or "The First Cut Is The Deepest." Others involved a lot of right to left, no left to left to right, leg to knee to shoulder, then flip and then stand at a 35 degree angle. And don't breathe. You would need cue cards to follow along.

Random Characters. Remember the "it's Brad Pitt in disguise" story that ran about a year ago where it was supposedly him with the long hair, hat, straggly beard in cognito? Well That Guy was at the beach. Except he really wasn't That Guy. There was also the guy in the British flag skivvies, strutting his stuff, not shy in the least. Also, the Big Burly Branded Black Guy who told Goose he would do her all night long any way she wanted. And, the Guy With The Cracked Head, who took a dive over the ledge into the water and cracked his head open on the rocks. Owww.

Words Of The Day. It's "delightful." "What a delight it is to still smell your scent on my clothes." "Outstanding." "He's a Fu." "Holla(back)." And finally, "I hate people."

Hooch, My Weekend Boyfriend. {Sigh} Good kisser. I think he was cute. Doctor. Phone number demander. He will never call.

Road Rage On The Car Ride Home. The crazy family of four that would not let us in at a merge, the father grimacing all stone-faced shaking his fist in the air, the two daughters in the backseat flicking us off, and the mother all Mrs. Cleaver there-there-family about it. So we took photos.

Bed At 8:00 On Monday Night.

See? Wish you were there.