Once upon a time in a land we will call The Beach in a time circa the Not-So-Distant Past, three girls tore up that shoreline with their own agenda (“Is that part of the program?" or "Let's add this to the program!"), their own jokes (“Sweet. To the left. You know who is going to love this?”), and their own posse (“The circle of trust. You in or out?”). We walked to the beat of our own drummer – one who played bagpipes.
Enough with the inside jokes, right? Well, let me just say we weren’t the only Self-Indulgent Humor Whores this summer. Other people had their own gimmick going too. There was the Guy who looked like Brad Pitt In Disguise, who later became Porn Star Joe, who wore a certain necklace that I am not giving name to. He worked it. There was Doogie, or NPH. He stayed at our house! Poor Doogster had no choice - we gave him his gimmick. We gave him celebrity. Otherwise, he was just some guy with a really bad underbite. And on any given weekend, it was not abnormal to see people in full costume either. You know, like it was Halloween. There was the guy in the Bunny Rabbit costume offering his carrot up. ("I'm not bitin'.") Or those whose costume was really the lack of costume, like the guy with the British Flag bikini bottoms. ("Let's keep it clean.")
And so, Mav and I had a term for this phenomena: The Freak Show. With each new oddity, one of us would just look at the other and laugh. Our code for, “Yep, a freak show.” And we meant this in the most fun-loving way. Our own little Cast of Freaks was any person with the balls and comic instinct to pull off a costume and who works and dies by the motto, "The joke is on me." So each new oddity became a new character in our Cast of Freaks. And we could pull mention of one at any point during the summer and anybody in the House could get it. To this day, you may hear one of us ponder, "Is Joel the Grillmaster?" The Grillmaster being one such Character. They became part of Our Joke. (And just so you know, one time Mav wore her Foxy Cleapatra wig. So Mav as Foxy Clea became one such character. As an example. See? The joke is on us too.)
OK. All that to get to the Meat of this post. One such character we threw into the Cast of Freaks was the Guy in the Cougar costume who drank his beer through a straw because, you know with that cougar head the law of physics state that, "Costume Heads will Get in the Way of Drinking." And Home Ec taught him that, "Straws aren't just for the Kool-Aid!" This Cougar was a Problem Solver. So this costumed character crawled the bars for the weekend dressed like that. Do you stop for a second to wonder Who would wear such a costume? Is it the guy who sat in the back of class cracking jokes, disrupting class - the guy who spent his afternoons in detention and now does the open mic comedy circuit in hopes of getting discovered? Or is it some shy introverted type who needs to be in character to emote? Is this the guy who thinks he is funny and who his housemates egged on to ridicule him behind his back? Or some damn goofy guy who is all about having a good time and making laughing - at yourself - the main goal? Or maybe you don’t even give person to this Character. He is just that – a character in the Joke Book. Another character gone on record. So if I say to Mav one day, "Let's drink like the Cougar would." She knows to drink with a straw.
And she also Gets It when I call her and leave this message circa sometime late Saturday Night: "Guess what? The Cougar? I'm drinking with him. That's my date. He has been unmasked. Ha ha ha. Bye."
And I thought this stuff only happened in the movies.
Damn. A Character has now been given Person.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
About Last Night...
Did you see the truck that ran me over? Because I didn’t see it coming. I mean, I should have known it was coming. The signs were there. When I get a call from Mav saying, “Meet me here at this time. We are going out tonight.” Well, you have no choice really. Especially when we realize that we haven’t had a Mav-Boa outing in something like 2 weeks. Withdrawals happen. You need the fix. So you do the math. THAT is where that truck came from.
Ka-plow!
But, um, why are my fingernails BLACK? Not painted black in a gothic style. Not black-from-fungus black either. They look like I just got back from finger painting class – with india ink. Either that or I was working on a car last night. But that is unlikely. I’m the girl who looks under the hood and says, “OK. Which is the engine?” And I didn’t just get back from Calligraphy class either.
I remember: I was at a classy bar, drinking red wine with Mav and emergency room doctors. I remember Mav falling on her ass. Did I say “classy”? Well, I certainly didn’t mean to imply that WE were classy. Remember, we were Mav and Boa – The Stuff That Makes Stories. Whether you like it or not. Or whether we like it or not. It's the story of the Black Grungy Fingernails. I don't want the starring role.
Because, you know what? The Mystery Black will not come off! I have tried nail polish remover and I have tried scrubbing my fingers to nubs with a loofah. All to no avail. And I have a date tomorrow night. Otherwise, I could care less. I don't feel the need to be perfectly Dolled Up, in the least. But trust me when I say it looks really dirty.
So I can’t believe I am uttering this out loud but: I think I am going to have to get a manicure now. You think: What, pray tell, is wrong with that? Nothing if that is what you like. But me? I HATE manicures. First, I don’t like color on my fingers. So you say: Paint nude or get a French! To which I retort: The black!! Need to cover the black. So now I have to get color. Not to mention that every time I get a manicure, the paint chips within the first 24 hours and my cuticles end up looking like shredded lettuce. And it takes weeks of nail therapy to correct. And I just had them looking pretty. Until the BLACK.
Now my disdain for mannies does not affect my toes, however. Pedies – I love. Well, that’s a lie. I like the end product – what the pedie means at the end of the day. I like to look down and see little pretty moons of color. And that one time I had the flower painted on my big toes was the bomb! But the actual act of a Pedie – I hate. Am I the only one who doesn’t find them enjoyable or relaxing? First, I am very ticklish so hee-hee-hee-do-you-HAVE-to-touch-my-feet? And filing toenails – to me – is the equivalent cringe performance of fingernails down a chalkboard.
So – for me - pedies are just a necessity because I love pretty toes. I wait as long as possible before I have to re-cure the feet. And I just had them done, like last week so the toes are pretty right now so I don't want to re-do them. Because as I just said: I hate GETTING the pedicure. You say: Why would you have to re-do them? To which I reply: Um, they are kind of purple. A purple that looks pretty on my toes but will NOT translate into pretty on my fingers. It goes against My Rule of Color: The Nails Version. (Another Rule in this series is The Car Version. I will never have a car that is a primary color - secondary is OK. So no TRUE red, blue, or yellow. But a shade thereof is OK - for example, burgundy.) So it's Anything Goes on the feet. Even though I usually just do Ballet Slippers white. But this last time I HAD to venture out and get all crazy with the purple. But the hands are the important part of the Rule. And herein lies the problem. They can only be red or white. Red won't go with the purple. White won't cover the black.
Ka-plow!
But, um, why are my fingernails BLACK? Not painted black in a gothic style. Not black-from-fungus black either. They look like I just got back from finger painting class – with india ink. Either that or I was working on a car last night. But that is unlikely. I’m the girl who looks under the hood and says, “OK. Which is the engine?” And I didn’t just get back from Calligraphy class either.
I remember: I was at a classy bar, drinking red wine with Mav and emergency room doctors. I remember Mav falling on her ass. Did I say “classy”? Well, I certainly didn’t mean to imply that WE were classy. Remember, we were Mav and Boa – The Stuff That Makes Stories. Whether you like it or not. Or whether we like it or not. It's the story of the Black Grungy Fingernails. I don't want the starring role.
Because, you know what? The Mystery Black will not come off! I have tried nail polish remover and I have tried scrubbing my fingers to nubs with a loofah. All to no avail. And I have a date tomorrow night. Otherwise, I could care less. I don't feel the need to be perfectly Dolled Up, in the least. But trust me when I say it looks really dirty.
So I can’t believe I am uttering this out loud but: I think I am going to have to get a manicure now. You think: What, pray tell, is wrong with that? Nothing if that is what you like. But me? I HATE manicures. First, I don’t like color on my fingers. So you say: Paint nude or get a French! To which I retort: The black!! Need to cover the black. So now I have to get color. Not to mention that every time I get a manicure, the paint chips within the first 24 hours and my cuticles end up looking like shredded lettuce. And it takes weeks of nail therapy to correct. And I just had them looking pretty. Until the BLACK.
Now my disdain for mannies does not affect my toes, however. Pedies – I love. Well, that’s a lie. I like the end product – what the pedie means at the end of the day. I like to look down and see little pretty moons of color. And that one time I had the flower painted on my big toes was the bomb! But the actual act of a Pedie – I hate. Am I the only one who doesn’t find them enjoyable or relaxing? First, I am very ticklish so hee-hee-hee-do-you-HAVE-to-touch-my-feet? And filing toenails – to me – is the equivalent cringe performance of fingernails down a chalkboard.
So – for me - pedies are just a necessity because I love pretty toes. I wait as long as possible before I have to re-cure the feet. And I just had them done, like last week so the toes are pretty right now so I don't want to re-do them. Because as I just said: I hate GETTING the pedicure. You say: Why would you have to re-do them? To which I reply: Um, they are kind of purple. A purple that looks pretty on my toes but will NOT translate into pretty on my fingers. It goes against My Rule of Color: The Nails Version. (Another Rule in this series is The Car Version. I will never have a car that is a primary color - secondary is OK. So no TRUE red, blue, or yellow. But a shade thereof is OK - for example, burgundy.) So it's Anything Goes on the feet. Even though I usually just do Ballet Slippers white. But this last time I HAD to venture out and get all crazy with the purple. But the hands are the important part of the Rule. And herein lies the problem. They can only be red or white. Red won't go with the purple. White won't cover the black.
So I am facing possible Manicure AND Pedicure Time.
But I found a business card for some cab driver named, Goddy, in my purse this morning.
Mav, we spoke to God last night?Monday, September 26, 2005
A Saturday Night Date
He said, “I can’t wait to meet you. You seem like a lot of fun.”
I slammed half a bottle of wine before I met him at the bar. His Great Expectations fueling my Insecurity. The pressure to drink. Can I measure up?
Within five minutes he was calling me "beautiful" - and not in a Creepy Guy or Cheesy Come-on kind of way. Sometimes compliments embarrass me, but This was comfortable.
It was Saturday night after all. And I was on a date. I was also having a Good Hair Day. A girl will take that when she can get it.
Several martinis later I found myself curled up in the bathroom of this guy’s house. And he sat patiently on the other side of the door talking to me. I told him I needed a tampon so he retrieved my purse.
Alright. I’ll let him put his arms around me. It's not Beautiful. But let me just open the door.
Later, as he caressed my face, my hair no longer in the midst of a Good Day, my makeup faded, my stomach bloated from cramps, my head throbbing in gin-soaked beats, he says, “God, you’re adorable and so charming.”
In my book, that is right there next to "endearing" in How I Like To Hear A Guy Describe Me As.
So much better than Beautiful.
I slammed half a bottle of wine before I met him at the bar. His Great Expectations fueling my Insecurity. The pressure to drink. Can I measure up?
Within five minutes he was calling me "beautiful" - and not in a Creepy Guy or Cheesy Come-on kind of way. Sometimes compliments embarrass me, but This was comfortable.
It was Saturday night after all. And I was on a date. I was also having a Good Hair Day. A girl will take that when she can get it.
Several martinis later I found myself curled up in the bathroom of this guy’s house. And he sat patiently on the other side of the door talking to me. I told him I needed a tampon so he retrieved my purse.
Alright. I’ll let him put his arms around me. It's not Beautiful. But let me just open the door.
Later, as he caressed my face, my hair no longer in the midst of a Good Day, my makeup faded, my stomach bloated from cramps, my head throbbing in gin-soaked beats, he says, “God, you’re adorable and so charming.”
In my book, that is right there next to "endearing" in How I Like To Hear A Guy Describe Me As.
So much better than Beautiful.
Friday, September 23, 2005
The Dating Game: Let's Meet The Contestants
Guess what? I'm talking about boys and dates again. Just doing my best to jinx my bum luck in that department. Because - suprise, surprise - I'm not complaining this time, y'all. Yeah, I realize anytime I give life to a guy – it never works out. This is sure to make them run for the hills. However, I just can’t shut up. I'm usually shy and a little introverted but that has kind of waned with age really. And when I feel comfortable with someone then I will blab all the live long day. So I must feel really comfortable with you. Of course I do, you are my friend.
So while I've got a hold of a few, let's share! They will be presented to you in the order they buzzed in.
Bachelor number one is Dr. Too Busy. Dr. Too Busy comes from Bethesda and works in the "Medical, Dental, Vetrinary" line of business. Dr. Too Busy does not elaborate on this. Secretly, me thinks he is a Dog Walker because he is busy at all hours of the day. But, for his sake, I hope he is a doctor and is "too busy" saving lives - that would be a good explanation for his excuses not to write. But he takes time to write to tell me that he is too busy to write. Let me give you an example. "Hi! You're cute. Thanks for winking back at me. I have bee sooo busy this week. Will write more later..." I take that to mean: I will write more later. So I waited and the next day, I got this message, "Hi! Sorry again. This has been a crazy week. Will write more later..."
Let's break right now for some of my self-imposed Rules for this game. (And no, I don't succumb to "rules" and "game-playing" in the dating field. AT ALL. My cards are always on the table. Look where it has got me. A thirty-something singleton with cat that - I'm convinced - will never die and will end up being pregnant at the mature cat age of 20 - then I will be saddled with kittens - which I hate - and all the kids on my block will call me the cuckoo Crazy Cat Lady who carries her flask to the mailbox. And I will wipe their ball when it lands in my yard because I put some special lawn fertilizer on it that I read about in Senior Weekly. And I will roll my knee-high stockings down because this August weather is hot! and have to wear orthopedics because I have no man to rub my feet at the end of the day. Then I will get a little doggy named, Fu, and will spend all my days trying to find him a bitch to mate so I can sell Fu puppies and the Town Drunk will bang on my door late at night for some lovin' and hell, I'll take it when I can get it. But he still won't rub my feet. But he will steal me bottles of Vodka from the bar he bartends.) SO I am trying things differently. It's my new passive-aggressive stance, remember.
1. They will make the first move to meet in person. I hate the long drawn-out email bit. Bore. In the past, I have always intitated the "let's meet" move. There is nothing wrong with intiating it at all. But I am just going to be easy, breezy and wait. Just trying it differently.
2. I will not write back a guy who writes a book which screams Canned Speech. Personalize the damn thing. And it doesn't take much to do that. If you are writing me there must be something in my profile that piqued your interest.
3. This kind of goes with rule 2, but show some creativity or personalization in your email. Something relative, something foreign, just go out on a limb.
4. Gentlemen, try to keep all your girlies separate. Remember our email string. Remember things I have told you. I have organized you guys into folders so as not to confuse you. Can you try something similar maybe? You might just suggest meeting to save yourself the confusion and give some context.
I realize you may be thinking? Silly girl, how the hell can you be so picky, darlin'? You who will be the first to whine that wah, he has not called me back. No second date, blah-di-blah. Because you know this is how it will play out.
"Um, because?"
So after Round One, Dr. Too Busy, is faltering. Maybe it is just a faulty buzzer. But he is the guys who appears to be trying but can't get the buzzer to work. The repetitive click is not connecting. I might throw him a bone. But he is breaking rule 3. Can he not pick one thing? Because what I am reading from this is he IS really super busy and, well, I have been there with Wedding Date Canceler Jerk Boy. Or he is just a tad boring or uncreative. Which won't work out with me in the long run either.
Bachelor number two is Little Drummer Boy. You guessed it, he drums but works by day in the IT field. Our emails aren't the scoping-each-other’s-background and what-do-you-do-for-a-living kind of thing. I don’t really care about that stuff at the moment. I need to see if there is an attraction first. So the witty email banter is good. We talk about the inane, the mundane. I like.
Little Drummer Boy is the guy who rings in every time but he is not phrasing his answers in question format. So he is kind of missing the beat. Translation: Ask me out already! We can talk about stupid shit. Let's move you along to Round 2. But, remember, I can't make that happen.
Bachelor number three is John Doe. For some reason, he piques my interest the most. We seem to have a lot in common. But I'm not going to elaborate on him just yet. He is John Doe because I don't know his name. And I am purposely not asking. I am going to see how long I can go without knowing it. Maybe even through the first date.
John Doe is in the lead by far. He buzzes in every time with the right answer. He got the bonus question when I got the 2 AM email from him after he had been out drinking with friends. I like that I was thought of at that moment. Yeah, I do. OK and there is a date set for Saturday. So, yeah, he is by far in the lead.
Finally, bachelor number four is Dark Vader. Dresses in black, very artsy. A painter and software designer. I like artistic guys, but the Crazy Artist thing doesn’t work for me. And he may be playing that up too much. Anyway, he may have dropped out already.
This isn't even including the 29 yr-old who has sent me two Canned Speech emails (i.e., the same email) about how I must be inundated with emails because I am "so pretty" and "can't we just be friends with benefits." If only. And the myriad 40-somethings that for some reason just creeps me out, especially when they are closer to my mom's age.
Contestant searches are still being conducted....
So while I've got a hold of a few, let's share! They will be presented to you in the order they buzzed in.
Bachelor number one is Dr. Too Busy. Dr. Too Busy comes from Bethesda and works in the "Medical, Dental, Vetrinary" line of business. Dr. Too Busy does not elaborate on this. Secretly, me thinks he is a Dog Walker because he is busy at all hours of the day. But, for his sake, I hope he is a doctor and is "too busy" saving lives - that would be a good explanation for his excuses not to write. But he takes time to write to tell me that he is too busy to write. Let me give you an example. "Hi! You're cute. Thanks for winking back at me. I have bee sooo busy this week. Will write more later..." I take that to mean: I will write more later. So I waited and the next day, I got this message, "Hi! Sorry again. This has been a crazy week. Will write more later..."
Let's break right now for some of my self-imposed Rules for this game. (And no, I don't succumb to "rules" and "game-playing" in the dating field. AT ALL. My cards are always on the table. Look where it has got me. A thirty-something singleton with cat that - I'm convinced - will never die and will end up being pregnant at the mature cat age of 20 - then I will be saddled with kittens - which I hate - and all the kids on my block will call me the cuckoo Crazy Cat Lady who carries her flask to the mailbox. And I will wipe their ball when it lands in my yard because I put some special lawn fertilizer on it that I read about in Senior Weekly. And I will roll my knee-high stockings down because this August weather is hot! and have to wear orthopedics because I have no man to rub my feet at the end of the day. Then I will get a little doggy named, Fu, and will spend all my days trying to find him a bitch to mate so I can sell Fu puppies and the Town Drunk will bang on my door late at night for some lovin' and hell, I'll take it when I can get it. But he still won't rub my feet. But he will steal me bottles of Vodka from the bar he bartends.) SO I am trying things differently. It's my new passive-aggressive stance, remember.
1. They will make the first move to meet in person. I hate the long drawn-out email bit. Bore. In the past, I have always intitated the "let's meet" move. There is nothing wrong with intiating it at all. But I am just going to be easy, breezy and wait. Just trying it differently.
2. I will not write back a guy who writes a book which screams Canned Speech. Personalize the damn thing. And it doesn't take much to do that. If you are writing me there must be something in my profile that piqued your interest.
3. This kind of goes with rule 2, but show some creativity or personalization in your email. Something relative, something foreign, just go out on a limb.
4. Gentlemen, try to keep all your girlies separate. Remember our email string. Remember things I have told you. I have organized you guys into folders so as not to confuse you. Can you try something similar maybe? You might just suggest meeting to save yourself the confusion and give some context.
I realize you may be thinking? Silly girl, how the hell can you be so picky, darlin'? You who will be the first to whine that wah, he has not called me back. No second date, blah-di-blah. Because you know this is how it will play out.
"Um, because?"
So after Round One, Dr. Too Busy, is faltering. Maybe it is just a faulty buzzer. But he is the guys who appears to be trying but can't get the buzzer to work. The repetitive click is not connecting. I might throw him a bone. But he is breaking rule 3. Can he not pick one thing? Because what I am reading from this is he IS really super busy and, well, I have been there with Wedding Date Canceler Jerk Boy. Or he is just a tad boring or uncreative. Which won't work out with me in the long run either.
Bachelor number two is Little Drummer Boy. You guessed it, he drums but works by day in the IT field. Our emails aren't the scoping-each-other’s-background and what-do-you-do-for-a-living kind of thing. I don’t really care about that stuff at the moment. I need to see if there is an attraction first. So the witty email banter is good. We talk about the inane, the mundane. I like.
Little Drummer Boy is the guy who rings in every time but he is not phrasing his answers in question format. So he is kind of missing the beat. Translation: Ask me out already! We can talk about stupid shit. Let's move you along to Round 2. But, remember, I can't make that happen.
Bachelor number three is John Doe. For some reason, he piques my interest the most. We seem to have a lot in common. But I'm not going to elaborate on him just yet. He is John Doe because I don't know his name. And I am purposely not asking. I am going to see how long I can go without knowing it. Maybe even through the first date.
John Doe is in the lead by far. He buzzes in every time with the right answer. He got the bonus question when I got the 2 AM email from him after he had been out drinking with friends. I like that I was thought of at that moment. Yeah, I do. OK and there is a date set for Saturday. So, yeah, he is by far in the lead.
Finally, bachelor number four is Dark Vader. Dresses in black, very artsy. A painter and software designer. I like artistic guys, but the Crazy Artist thing doesn’t work for me. And he may be playing that up too much. Anyway, he may have dropped out already.
This isn't even including the 29 yr-old who has sent me two Canned Speech emails (i.e., the same email) about how I must be inundated with emails because I am "so pretty" and "can't we just be friends with benefits." If only. And the myriad 40-somethings that for some reason just creeps me out, especially when they are closer to my mom's age.
Contestant searches are still being conducted....
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Put This In Your Mailbox And Stamp It First Class
Why must I tell you this? Why must I share acts of stupidity in the Life of Me? Just so you can feel smarter than the average bear? Well, I'm no average bear, as you will see. So I don't know what it will get you. But let me just say, there is something to be said for a stress-free job. Apparently I traded in common sense for it and this will dumb you down a couple rungs on the corporate ladder. It seems.
Background. We have this vendor from whom I order a lot of publications. One particular publication comes daily and it is Big News to the firm. Meaning everyone reads this "Big News Daily" before they start hanging out at the water cooler. Otherwise you have nothing to talk about. Sometimes people forget this.
"How are you doing today, Joe?"
"Today, blah-di-blah, shelter penalty, blah-di-blah, tax relief package, blah-di-blah, IRS task force, blah-di-blah, no flat tax, blah-di-blah, estimate budget effects, blah-di-blah, depreciation rules, blah-di-blah...."
"Whoa, Joe, haven't even got my coffee yet. How 'bout them Skins?"
Joe was too busy catching up on his WEEKLY reading, let alone his Daily News, so he didn't even know it was football season already. "Didn't I just file my tax return?" wonders Joe, "Wonder how Spurrier will do this year?" See, Joe is working! Joe's not sporting - or slacking off on the job! So Joe turns to the Next Guy to share, share, share what he has learned today!
I.e., We get a lot of fucking news that all says the same shit but we have to read it all, just in case.
Aside. Now, I wouldn't be carrying on with this story if we all could join 2005 and read a newspaper online. But tax geeks are often really Dinosaurs or, rather, Paper Museum Curaters in disguise. ("Over here, we have page 5 from H&D from October 1, 2004 when Congress passed the eight-month highway funding extension....remember that day? Oh memories....You read it here first!")
Scene. So the vendor uses a particular delivery company to deliver this daily to the local subscribers. The problem is that we have had ongoing problems with the delivery company off and on over the years. Because apparently there is a monopoly and Everyone in DC uses this delivery company so therefore they don't have to do their "job," as most monopolizers do (or is it don't?). Anyway, I, INaffectionately, like to call them the Deliver As We Feel Like It Company (“DAWFLIC”).
So over the last 2 weeks, this particular All Important News Daily has NOT been getting delivered most of that time (2 out of 3 IS BAD). I have talked to the manager at DAWFLIC and he maintains their innocence. MAYBE our delivery problems stem from our very own Mailroom downstairs who works by the motto, “We only collect the mail, we don’t deliver it.” So that is not far-fetched. Hell, for all I now, they could be doing their corporate duty and taking the news daily to Breakfast at McDonald's - "see and be seen. I'm working."
In any case, we have a problem with delivery.
Climax. So, the other day, I called my rep at the vendor who publishes the All Important News Daily to complain about the delivery company that they use. The conversation went a little something like this:
Professional Me: "Hi vendor! I am having problems with DAWFLIC getting this pub delivered."
Vendor: "Yes. Sorry. We have had some complaints from others."
Professional Me: "Oh. Well, in that case, is there any other delivery service we could consider?"
Vendor: "Yes. It’s either them or First Class Mail."
Professional Me: "First Class Mail! I have never heard of them. Tell me more!"
Vendor: "Umm…..really?"
Professional Me: "Yes. I have never heard of that delivery service."
Vendor: "Well, it’s run by the USPS. You know...the mail? You have seen mailboxes, haven't you?"
Then you pretty much see me shrinking in my chair to the size of a Big Stupid Idiot. And Big Stupid Idiots can be very small. What the hell was I thinking? And what glue was I sniffing? And the rep really wasn't even trying to make me feel less small. I drowned in that phone conversation. There really was no way out of that one. I tried to play comedian, “Oh, THAT delivery service. (hee hee.) Are they still in business? (hee. hee.) Do they have a website?” Hee hee?? Buehler?
My brain-freeze-disguised-as-joke did not go over with the audience. He saw through it. It was cringe-worthy.
Well, deliver me to Mars. And make it First Class Mail.
The End.
Background. We have this vendor from whom I order a lot of publications. One particular publication comes daily and it is Big News to the firm. Meaning everyone reads this "Big News Daily" before they start hanging out at the water cooler. Otherwise you have nothing to talk about. Sometimes people forget this.
"How are you doing today, Joe?"
"Today, blah-di-blah, shelter penalty, blah-di-blah, tax relief package, blah-di-blah, IRS task force, blah-di-blah, no flat tax, blah-di-blah, estimate budget effects, blah-di-blah, depreciation rules, blah-di-blah...."
"Whoa, Joe, haven't even got my coffee yet. How 'bout them Skins?"
Joe was too busy catching up on his WEEKLY reading, let alone his Daily News, so he didn't even know it was football season already. "Didn't I just file my tax return?" wonders Joe, "Wonder how Spurrier will do this year?" See, Joe is working! Joe's not sporting - or slacking off on the job! So Joe turns to the Next Guy to share, share, share what he has learned today!
I.e., We get a lot of fucking news that all says the same shit but we have to read it all, just in case.
Aside. Now, I wouldn't be carrying on with this story if we all could join 2005 and read a newspaper online. But tax geeks are often really Dinosaurs or, rather, Paper Museum Curaters in disguise. ("Over here, we have page 5 from H&D from October 1, 2004 when Congress passed the eight-month highway funding extension....remember that day? Oh memories....You read it here first!")
Scene. So the vendor uses a particular delivery company to deliver this daily to the local subscribers. The problem is that we have had ongoing problems with the delivery company off and on over the years. Because apparently there is a monopoly and Everyone in DC uses this delivery company so therefore they don't have to do their "job," as most monopolizers do (or is it don't?). Anyway, I, INaffectionately, like to call them the Deliver As We Feel Like It Company (“DAWFLIC”).
So over the last 2 weeks, this particular All Important News Daily has NOT been getting delivered most of that time (2 out of 3 IS BAD). I have talked to the manager at DAWFLIC and he maintains their innocence. MAYBE our delivery problems stem from our very own Mailroom downstairs who works by the motto, “We only collect the mail, we don’t deliver it.” So that is not far-fetched. Hell, for all I now, they could be doing their corporate duty and taking the news daily to Breakfast at McDonald's - "see and be seen. I'm working."
In any case, we have a problem with delivery.
Climax. So, the other day, I called my rep at the vendor who publishes the All Important News Daily to complain about the delivery company that they use. The conversation went a little something like this:
Professional Me: "Hi vendor! I am having problems with DAWFLIC getting this pub delivered."
Vendor: "Yes. Sorry. We have had some complaints from others."
Professional Me: "Oh. Well, in that case, is there any other delivery service we could consider?"
Vendor: "Yes. It’s either them or First Class Mail."
Professional Me: "First Class Mail! I have never heard of them. Tell me more!"
Vendor: "Umm…..really?"
Professional Me: "Yes. I have never heard of that delivery service."
Vendor: "Well, it’s run by the USPS. You know...the mail? You have seen mailboxes, haven't you?"
Then you pretty much see me shrinking in my chair to the size of a Big Stupid Idiot. And Big Stupid Idiots can be very small. What the hell was I thinking? And what glue was I sniffing? And the rep really wasn't even trying to make me feel less small. I drowned in that phone conversation. There really was no way out of that one. I tried to play comedian, “Oh, THAT delivery service. (hee hee.) Are they still in business? (hee. hee.) Do they have a website?” Hee hee?? Buehler?
My brain-freeze-disguised-as-joke did not go over with the audience. He saw through it. It was cringe-worthy.
Well, deliver me to Mars. And make it First Class Mail.
The End.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Try This Red Pepper On For Size
I went to lunch the other day with a very polite British chap. And let me just say - he is a Quiet Talker. I was straining to hear every word out of his mouth. In fact, he was so quiet that apparently at some point during the meal the waitress dropped a fork down his back. I'm guessing. And when this happened, he never exhibited any kind of emotion of the ah-fork-spiraling-down-my-back kind. He never even flinched. So I never knew that a forkful of food somersaulted down his back. Because if he would have let me known - let someone known - we could have avoided this:
On the walk back to the office, SEVERAL people pointed out to him that he had a big red pepper stuck to his back. And he did! It was the length of a finger. So he had a red pepper finger hanging out on the back of his solid light-colored shirt. And when you see a food particle of this size lounging backside you crack up silly - almost to the point of Uncontrollable Bladder. Because the people pointing it out - who mean well - are laughing too. Then when you finally control the laughter, somebody new points out the mark left by the red pepper finger. It's a blood red stain on your solid light-colored shirt now. You have people ask you if you are bleeding. Because nobody considers for a moment that maybe you just had a red pepper finger stuck to your back. Your front, maybe, but your back, no. The laughter starts all over and the Inside Joke is understood by all those on the walk back to the office.
On the walk back to the office, SEVERAL people pointed out to him that he had a big red pepper stuck to his back. And he did! It was the length of a finger. So he had a red pepper finger hanging out on the back of his solid light-colored shirt. And when you see a food particle of this size lounging backside you crack up silly - almost to the point of Uncontrollable Bladder. Because the people pointing it out - who mean well - are laughing too. Then when you finally control the laughter, somebody new points out the mark left by the red pepper finger. It's a blood red stain on your solid light-colored shirt now. You have people ask you if you are bleeding. Because nobody considers for a moment that maybe you just had a red pepper finger stuck to your back. Your front, maybe, but your back, no. The laughter starts all over and the Inside Joke is understood by all those on the walk back to the office.
"Hey! It's the Red Pepper Shirt Guy!"
Needless to say, my sides were in stitches each and every time someone new pointed out the stain. They had no shame. I had no shame. At the street corner, on the sidewalk. The charitable inquiry of do-you-know-that-is-there, seemed to justify the Laughing At Other's Bad Luck. See? The laughing was contagious. Poor chap. But through it all, the poor chap was laughing too. Because what else can you do?
So, friends, when the waitress drops a forkful of food down your back, speak UP, because those people on the street will not be shy about pointing out the food stuck to your back. Or laughing at you. Because Red Pepper is NOT the new Black.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Dyslexic Mind
So I am rejoicing – swinging from the rafters and singing from the hilltops like Julie Andrews. The hills are alive.
No, the Boy Situation via Online is still the same. But wah-wah, what are you going to do? One guy I thought was half way decent - can’t remember anything from my last email. And I can tell that his last email to me was actually intended for somebody else because he started it off with, “I’m glad you are not afraid of canines.” Huh? As in teeth? Or dog? Because, actually, I am afraid of both chomping down on me all the time. I see a chihauha, I think he is going to bite me. I see a three year old, I think he is going to bite me. (Yeah, I have already considered changing my blog to Neurotic Me.) Anyway, he is not a dentist so I don't get that one. Is this some witty joke/line that I am too dumb to grasp? And then he asked me questions that I have already answered. And I hate people that don't read or don't remember for sake of First Impression. It's called Trying. And then he asked for my personal email which....no. And I'm totally blind because he has no picture up. Which I have problems with right there. But I only responded because I am trying to keep an open mind and his initial email to me was pretty funny. So, I gave him a chance but now I have decided to "delete" him.
Ha. All my dating experiences are now going to be reduced to computer jargon. If they are really bad, they get CTR + ALT + Delete. Currently, I have no “Favorites.” And there is a “virus” out there that latched on to my profile and Mav's. And it is the Wedding Date Canceler, He Who Swore Never To Go Online Again. (I don't feel like finding the link in my archive but I wrote a lot about him in Apr-May.) But he is online. He looked at my profile too so I clicked on him to let him know that, yeah, I saw that.
But all the 42- and 44- year olds in the DC Metro area are still emailing me. And I just have to say that I don't even look 34. People always tell me that I look 27 and not a day over 30. (Unlike my ex-boyfriend's soon-to-be-wife who is 37 and looks 44. Really.) And I am young at heart. My biological clock has yet to tick - I'm not even sure it ever will. So why are they even attracted to me? So I lowered my “age requirement” to 38. I had 40 as my top bracket and I was being generous with that. I think that the 42 year olds figure - what’s a few years? When do you decide to cut off - at 36 or 37 or 38? When is it random? It seems like it should be five year increments. But I'm 34 and 36, 37, 38 is not too old for me. I don’t understand the 32-year old who won’t date a girl over 31. When does a 32 year old establish that 32 - in a woman - is too old for him? And I don't understand the 34-year old guy who is looking for a 21-year old girl. In any case, I pay attention to the guys' age ranges. I think it says a little about the guy.
So, needless to say, the ranting and whining will probably continue. Sorry. I hate being negative. It's just a rough patch right now. We will get through it. It's my own Ophelia lingering on my shore. Eventually she will break up and push back out to sea.
But I got sidetracked anyways. What I am really happy about is that my iPod, Formerly Known as #$%!@*#, is fixed! Up and running and restored with all 2037 songs. I love her! And just for cooperating we are celebrating. We will go for long walks this weekend and she most certainly will talk my ear off – and sing as loud as she wants. Yes, I do have the Sound of Music soundtrack. And maybe I will feed her some more songs. The new Stellastarr CD is out. Or that Trees song by Marty on Rock Star: INXS. (Love that Marty! Love that song.) Nothing's too good for my baby.
But there will also be a treat for me.
Witness firsthand how mentally dyslexic I am. How I approach logic backwards. I almost was desperate enough that I was going to shell out $50 – 100 on the Apple Help Desk for them to tell me to put it in disk mode and that would solve all my problems. Information I found freely on the Internet. So I am happy that I "saved" $100. So now I feel completely justified to go out and buy those $180 Versace sunglasses that Mav and I spotted last weekend. See, in my mind, I am saving money. That is what I tell myself. And I am an emotional spender. Like the time I spent $300 at the vet - hyperventilated - then had to go out and buy $600 worth of clothes at French Connection and Nordstrom's. You see why I don't own my house? I spend my mortgage on clothes, shoes, purses, and beauty products. I am girl, hear me roar.
So I am rejoicing because my iPod is fixed and I am "getting" the Versace sunglasses. To invert a Husker Du song title my lovely little iPod randomly played for me this morning - Everything Blue Turns Pink - or Happy, eventually. Right?
No, the Boy Situation via Online is still the same. But wah-wah, what are you going to do? One guy I thought was half way decent - can’t remember anything from my last email. And I can tell that his last email to me was actually intended for somebody else because he started it off with, “I’m glad you are not afraid of canines.” Huh? As in teeth? Or dog? Because, actually, I am afraid of both chomping down on me all the time. I see a chihauha, I think he is going to bite me. I see a three year old, I think he is going to bite me. (Yeah, I have already considered changing my blog to Neurotic Me.) Anyway, he is not a dentist so I don't get that one. Is this some witty joke/line that I am too dumb to grasp? And then he asked me questions that I have already answered. And I hate people that don't read or don't remember for sake of First Impression. It's called Trying. And then he asked for my personal email which....no. And I'm totally blind because he has no picture up. Which I have problems with right there. But I only responded because I am trying to keep an open mind and his initial email to me was pretty funny. So, I gave him a chance but now I have decided to "delete" him.
Ha. All my dating experiences are now going to be reduced to computer jargon. If they are really bad, they get CTR + ALT + Delete. Currently, I have no “Favorites.” And there is a “virus” out there that latched on to my profile and Mav's. And it is the Wedding Date Canceler, He Who Swore Never To Go Online Again. (I don't feel like finding the link in my archive but I wrote a lot about him in Apr-May.) But he is online. He looked at my profile too so I clicked on him to let him know that, yeah, I saw that.
But all the 42- and 44- year olds in the DC Metro area are still emailing me. And I just have to say that I don't even look 34. People always tell me that I look 27 and not a day over 30. (Unlike my ex-boyfriend's soon-to-be-wife who is 37 and looks 44. Really.) And I am young at heart. My biological clock has yet to tick - I'm not even sure it ever will. So why are they even attracted to me? So I lowered my “age requirement” to 38. I had 40 as my top bracket and I was being generous with that. I think that the 42 year olds figure - what’s a few years? When do you decide to cut off - at 36 or 37 or 38? When is it random? It seems like it should be five year increments. But I'm 34 and 36, 37, 38 is not too old for me. I don’t understand the 32-year old who won’t date a girl over 31. When does a 32 year old establish that 32 - in a woman - is too old for him? And I don't understand the 34-year old guy who is looking for a 21-year old girl. In any case, I pay attention to the guys' age ranges. I think it says a little about the guy.
So, needless to say, the ranting and whining will probably continue. Sorry. I hate being negative. It's just a rough patch right now. We will get through it. It's my own Ophelia lingering on my shore. Eventually she will break up and push back out to sea.
But I got sidetracked anyways. What I am really happy about is that my iPod, Formerly Known as #$%!@*#, is fixed! Up and running and restored with all 2037 songs. I love her! And just for cooperating we are celebrating. We will go for long walks this weekend and she most certainly will talk my ear off – and sing as loud as she wants. Yes, I do have the Sound of Music soundtrack. And maybe I will feed her some more songs. The new Stellastarr CD is out. Or that Trees song by Marty on Rock Star: INXS. (Love that Marty! Love that song.) Nothing's too good for my baby.
But there will also be a treat for me.
Witness firsthand how mentally dyslexic I am. How I approach logic backwards. I almost was desperate enough that I was going to shell out $50 – 100 on the Apple Help Desk for them to tell me to put it in disk mode and that would solve all my problems. Information I found freely on the Internet. So I am happy that I "saved" $100. So now I feel completely justified to go out and buy those $180 Versace sunglasses that Mav and I spotted last weekend. See, in my mind, I am saving money. That is what I tell myself. And I am an emotional spender. Like the time I spent $300 at the vet - hyperventilated - then had to go out and buy $600 worth of clothes at French Connection and Nordstrom's. You see why I don't own my house? I spend my mortgage on clothes, shoes, purses, and beauty products. I am girl, hear me roar.
So I am rejoicing because my iPod is fixed and I am "getting" the Versace sunglasses. To invert a Husker Du song title my lovely little iPod randomly played for me this morning - Everything Blue Turns Pink - or Happy, eventually. Right?
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
I've Taken A Turn To Negative Town
I am stumped, baffled, puzzled, and soo over this.
While I was at the beach over Labor Day with Mav and the rest and getting our asses kicked by Irish Car Bombs, discovering homemade donuts for the first time (Reese's donut, anyone?), finding a bar where you can get 120 ozs. of beer for 12 dollars (yes, 120 and it was under our nose the whole time - apparently, so secretive it is), and getting chased by 24-year old boys (Mav got the quarterback - freshman, so in her case, much younger), an email popped up in my inbox unbeknownst to me at the time.
It was from a guy I went out with over a year ago on one date. One date and I can't really remember any good reason why we never went out again. We didn't hate each other. We liked the same music. He was funny. In the end, I'm pretty sure I dropped the ball. There was the Yukkell still in my life - haunting me - and the Wedding Date Bailer so I have never been a very good Serial Dater so my poor little head probably got confused. So, needless to say, I wasn't unhappy to hear from him. So we started the emailing back and forth about what we have been up to, etc. Then he threw in the question, "Seeing anybody?" to which I responded with a "No." Then you know what? I never heard from him again. It's been over a week since the last communication and before, it was everyday. What gives Gentlemen? Just a little bird keeping tabs on me? I mean, why even pop up? We were probably only in each other's life for a total of three weeks and mostly via email. Hardly a substantive "relationship." Anyway, I discussed this with a guy friend of mine and he said - and he is very close to proposing to his girlfriend - that he is always interested in what his exes are up too and will regularly "check in." And it makes him feel good when they are single. Wwhhaatt?!? Greedy. I mean, I can't get a date to save my life, don't rub it in. In any case, I can't believe that this is what this particular guy was up to. But...oh, I'm confused.
Needless to say all this negativity still did not stop me from signing up for some online dating service AGAIN. Can't say I'm not trying. So I rewrote my profile. I put all new pictures up. Problem is the most recent pictures of me are mostly in variations of this pose:
Don't worry, I'm not in pain. I'm laughing. I'm falling. I'm resting. I am trying to maintain bladder control. Couldn't really go with those photos.....the other half of the pictures consist of me posing - blatantly posing. Like this: 
No, I don't plan on pimping myself out this way. "Hey, look at my back [or insert butt, boobs, feet?, etc. here]." Because there are all those pictures. I look like a prima donna.
While I was at the beach over Labor Day with Mav and the rest and getting our asses kicked by Irish Car Bombs, discovering homemade donuts for the first time (Reese's donut, anyone?), finding a bar where you can get 120 ozs. of beer for 12 dollars (yes, 120 and it was under our nose the whole time - apparently, so secretive it is), and getting chased by 24-year old boys (Mav got the quarterback - freshman, so in her case, much younger), an email popped up in my inbox unbeknownst to me at the time.
It was from a guy I went out with over a year ago on one date. One date and I can't really remember any good reason why we never went out again. We didn't hate each other. We liked the same music. He was funny. In the end, I'm pretty sure I dropped the ball. There was the Yukkell still in my life - haunting me - and the Wedding Date Bailer so I have never been a very good Serial Dater so my poor little head probably got confused. So, needless to say, I wasn't unhappy to hear from him. So we started the emailing back and forth about what we have been up to, etc. Then he threw in the question, "Seeing anybody?" to which I responded with a "No." Then you know what? I never heard from him again. It's been over a week since the last communication and before, it was everyday. What gives Gentlemen? Just a little bird keeping tabs on me? I mean, why even pop up? We were probably only in each other's life for a total of three weeks and mostly via email. Hardly a substantive "relationship." Anyway, I discussed this with a guy friend of mine and he said - and he is very close to proposing to his girlfriend - that he is always interested in what his exes are up too and will regularly "check in." And it makes him feel good when they are single. Wwhhaatt?!? Greedy. I mean, I can't get a date to save my life, don't rub it in. In any case, I can't believe that this is what this particular guy was up to. But...oh, I'm confused.
Needless to say all this negativity still did not stop me from signing up for some online dating service AGAIN. Can't say I'm not trying. So I rewrote my profile. I put all new pictures up. Problem is the most recent pictures of me are mostly in variations of this pose:
Don't worry, I'm not in pain. I'm laughing. I'm falling. I'm resting. I am trying to maintain bladder control. Couldn't really go with those photos.....the other half of the pictures consist of me posing - blatantly posing. Like this: No, I don't plan on pimping myself out this way. "Hey, look at my back [or insert butt, boobs, feet?, etc. here]." Because there are all those pictures. I look like a prima donna.
Or you've got me in total Crack Up Mode, holding on to something or someone for dear life - playing in a playground, pouring sand on Mav's head, or hugging signs. Most people just stand by the sign and pose. But, no, I have to do something like this:
I'm trying to convey maturity, and at the same I want to show who I am - that I am quirky and like to have a fun time. But these particular photos are not what I want to throw out there on first impression. The pictures do ask the question, "Can you make me laugh like Goose and Mav?" But in the end, I went with face shots, smiley faces, and wholesome images. I tried to convey the humor in the writing. To be honest, I am somewhat happy with what I came up with.
Want to know how it is going?
Sucky, that is how.
This is what it has gotten me so far: in 5 days, 60 or so winks and emails from guys either:
....in their 40's and I am 34 so I will only date within my decade at this point;
....geographically undesirable, who live in Richmond, Annapolis, Canada, Japan;
....African American; or
....any combination of 2-3 of the above.
So, I am annoyed. At Cupid. Why am I doing this online dating? Because I take it way to personally. Did you know that you can see all the people who open up and look at your profile? So I can look at the 650 people who have surfed my profile and said, "Thanks, but no thanks." Rejection cuts me like a knife, Bryan Adams.
I was hoping to regale you with stories of Love and Wine and Roses. I want to believe in the Phone Call The Next Day. I want to feel butterflies. I want to get sweaty palms. I want to anticipate that First Kiss. I want to feel that hand on the small of my back, guiding me, or is it following me? I want to talk in whispers. I want to go back and be able to answer that question, "Seeing anybody?" with, "Yes."
I'm convinced that The One For Me died in a gun fight at the O.K. Corral. Or he sailed the Seven Seas and got lost.
And on top of ALL MY HATRED at the moment, my fucking iPod is - most likely - broken. The computer erased her and won't accept her back. She's trying to connect but it won't let her. I'm convinced my computer is an Evil Guy. The computer is most definitely against me.
Hate, for now. Check back later for Happy Face.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Secrets Of A Cover Band Groupie: Part One
Friday night, I stayed in…it was one of those days you want to hide from. I received sad, sad news and I had to go home and weep. For my friend. So I settled in on a rare, lonely Friday night at home, put on my pajamas, grabbed my bag of Haribo gummies, and turned on the tv for some kind of entertainment. To get me out of my own head. But then the benefit concert for Katrina victims and sufferers was on and there is Neal Young. His voice soothes me at the same time. I could live hearing nothing but that voice. If only I was HIS groupie. Hell, I'd be his caddy. I'd carry his sheet music. His guitar. His guitar pick! That piano he was playing. I'd get him coffee. But then the images from NOLA awoke me, brought me back to that space in my head I wanted to escape, and made me sadder and good god can this day end already?
I am a Crybaby.
Saturday night, I headed out to meet Goose and Mav for dinner. After dinner, we had plans to see Our Favorite Band Of Summer. So a Destiny’s Child reunion was born. They started drinking before dinner and had to drive down my way since that is where the band was playing. I was walking to the restaurant. My phone rings. This is the extant of the conversation: “Ha ha ha ha tee hee.....cigarettes....hee hee...buying!” To which I instantaneously translate and respond, "I can stop on my way." We kind of have our own Morse Code - Child-speak, if you will - of communication that is punctuated by laughter (laugh laugh [noun] laughter [verb] laughter laughter laughter).
But they insisted on the immediacy of their nicotine addiction. So I visualize them traversing downtown. Their eye on the Prize. Wait. Didn't Goose quit? And wasn't Mav giving up the smoking and chain-drinking? Oh, the crazy talk we sometimes spew. The girls haven't changed a bit.
So I walked the five blocks to the restaurant in my high heels and pseudo-slutty dress leftover from the summer wardrobe. And I was starting to feel out of place, really. I forgot I am not at the beach anymore, I am in conservative DC where fashion has no name, unless your name is Ralph, Tommy or even some chap named Talbot. And so I am an eyesore or from the sound of it an eyeful (va-va-voom) as I got the occassional "woo hoo" shouted from passing cars because this particular direction on the street has no pedestrian traffic.
I am a Street Walker.
So we meet up at the restaurant for Outside Seating. Greetings from the girls: "We're drunk!" How can the non-drunk respond but, "Table for Three!" So our special "outdoor seating" was The Back Patio. The equivalent of the kiddy table at Thanksgiving. I once dated a guy in my real early 20’s whose parents always put us at the kiddy table when I was over for dinner. I mean he had a big family but it was weird. Didn't they want to get to know me? It was even more egregious when we had my sister and her husband over and they STILL put us at the kiddy table. And then they had my parents over and and put THEM at….no, just kidding. But my dad did "nod off" a little during cocktails on their back porch. My mom had to nudge him with a subtle get-the-fuck-up! And he wasn’t falling asleep because it was bedtime. Heh heh. I am sure it was the hundredth story about their maids and slaves that they had working for them during their illustrious military career in the lap of luxury. It was a class-defined household. "You are our Fuck Up Kid's Girlfriend. You get the kiddy meal. And wash these dishes."
I am a Kid.
So we are on the back patio, catching up with Goose. I hadn’t seen her in a few weeks and that girl is IN LOVE and I am soooo happy and, good god, that guy is HOTT. And he is big and strong and he doesn’t malfunction at the finest hour. Most important he makes our little Mother Goose happy. I mean, she is dancing-to-Marvin-Gaye-in-the-bathroom kind of happy. I know they played it just for her. Love is in the air. So we drink more wine at dinner – they need help, so I polish off their glasses.
I am a Drunk.
And Goose was too - too much - so she decided to bow out of the Destiny's Child reunion tour. Mav and I tried some very special bargaining techniques with her.
Mav and Boa: "Don't go home, you Drunk!"
Goose: "Honey, I have to. Billy Bob is not here to save me this time."
Mav and Boa: "No!"
Mav: “It’s Jefe!”
Boa: “And don’t forget the Other Guy.”
Mav: “Love that Jefe.”
Boa: “Love that Other Guy.”
Then we just got sidetracked with the mental images. Apparently Goose wasn't seeing the same thing because she stood by her Going Home stance. In hindsight, we should have given her the Lead Vocals for a change but Mav is so Beyonce. So, no Goose. Pajamas and Home were her tonic so in comes Charley. Good friend, that Charley. She drove a half hour (more?) in her pajamas to pick her up. So Goose joined the Pajama Party but not before she had an encounter with Johnny Law. Seems that our Mother Goose walked out of the restaurant with her glass of water. A glass. From the restaurant. Enter a Cop. The restaurant called the Cop? But really, is it no suprise that the cops came after us yet again? I don't want to sound like a Ten Most Wanted - Two Finger Louie - or a criminal mastermind - but this is the fourth encounter with the law this summer, people. Oh, we got off every time and not even with a slap on the wrist. No, we made friends with them. Once was because some jealous bitch didn't like Mav and I front-stooping it at HER house with HER housemates. The cops....laughed when they discovered the absurdity of her jealousy. Then there was the time we got pulled over in the cornfields. The cop took pity on us because we were "lost" and headed to that funny beach, Rehobeth. "You girls have fun. Wink wink." Then I had the very young cop - in fact, he was on foot patrol he was so young he couldn't drive yet - stop me for "jaywalking." He was sweet. And now this. We really will have to start thinking about keeping them around full-time. You know, for security detail.
So we ended up making friends with the Cop. I don't think he really wanted to take the glass. It's a job. Ain't it a bitch? So a photo op with the Cop ensued. See? Another friend. The law is your Friend. That is why Mav litigates it.
So Goose and Charley go off on their own adventure. Their quest to Get Home ended up with a side trip to the Ritz (not a gas station, not a mini market, not a supermarket, not a drugstore, and not even somebody's house) but the Ritz. To pee. Pajamas and all. I'm guessing she didn't take any glasses with her this time. Can you see the Pajama Party at the Ritz?
Mav and I had our own party to attend. Little did we know it was to be the Band Party.
I am a Party Girl.
This is what two "party girls" who love the band in a nostalgic and cute-boys-to-boot kind of way do; two professional girls by day with enough degrees between them but you would never have believed that they didn't graduate from the University of I-Don't-Want-To-Grow-Up. Or this is just what 15-year old girls do at a John Mayer concert.
1. Elbow our way to the front of the line. Front and center to the stage.
2. Scream!!! (OK. This may or may not have happened. But the rest, I promise you.)
3. Sing along with the band because they play every cover song imaginable. And it never gets old.
4. Tell them what to play next. I don’t know if they were listening to our advice really or if we could just divine what they were going to play next since we have heard them play the same songs ALL SUMMER LONG.
5. Request beers from the band while they are still playing. Since we had these awesome “seats” front row, we couldn’t possibly leave to go get new beers so the real 15-year olds could confiscate. So we motioned to the guitar player the drink-to-mouth move that says “get me a beer, I need a beer.” And guess what he got us? A beer.
6. Get a souvenier from the band when The Other Guy gave Mav his guitar pick. Must be the equivalent to Courtney Cox getting pulled on stage in the Born In The USA video. I'm almost sure of this.
7. Get invited to the After Party when the lead singer kneels down after the show and says, “Hey! You guys want to come to the after-party at our hotel room?” "Giddy up."
8. Call Goose to tell her what kind of story she is missing out on. Pajama party or not.
Most definitely I am a Groupie. For a cover band.
So the plan is to go to this "after party" at the dive hotel down the street but show up fashionably late. That is what groupies do! So we mingle with the crowd letting out of the bar. Some guy tried to buy us beers at the bar but last call was so 5 minutes ago so Mav just decided to make out with him. Then apparently there was some guy I absconded earlier and he either liked Mav or me but I think he liked Mav but settled on me when she started making out with Pseudo-Beer Buyer. But then some guy told me I had beautiful legs and not in a creepy kind of way. He was kind of cute. But it was all very confusing. Mav is making out. There is this guy. There's the Leg Admirer. What to do?
"Let's go stalk the diner. My head hurts."
So we walk across the street to hang at the diner. I think this is what groupies do. And That Guy is still with us. The diner is packed. There is a guy in line - in line at the diner at 1 AM - with his jeans pulled up to his armpits and his belt squeezing the living daylights out of him. Mav had to confront him on this fashion choice. She is not shy. Then Mav finally gets her to-go-cup of diet coke (and not in a glass so we know that the cop will not hunt us down since we have a warning on our record of Abetting a Glass Stealer aka Goose). Enough time has passed. Groupies can show up now! The Guy who's been tagging along finally asks for my number so I give him the cheesy business card because I don't feel like dealing with the fucking phone anymore.
This is how the Groupie scenario played out:
Arrived at the Band's After Party in a cab. Even when it is a two block walk. As groupies, we are Laid-Back Cool not Giddy Screaming Spazzes...Showed up at the hotel room and did not act surprised when the "after party" consisted of the band and two girls hanging ON The Other Guy. Hopes and dreams of a Cover Band Groupie (temporarily) dashed......So this allowed some banter with the Drummer wearing the apron. You know, for fashion. He's NICE so take his picture. Tell him how much you hate that Other Cover Band. Butter them up. Groupies give the Love.....And then get invited to their New Year’s Eve party. And then - you have to - leave on that note. As groupies, our work was done for now.
To be continued....
I am a Crybaby.
Saturday night, I headed out to meet Goose and Mav for dinner. After dinner, we had plans to see Our Favorite Band Of Summer. So a Destiny’s Child reunion was born. They started drinking before dinner and had to drive down my way since that is where the band was playing. I was walking to the restaurant. My phone rings. This is the extant of the conversation: “Ha ha ha ha tee hee.....cigarettes....hee hee...buying!” To which I instantaneously translate and respond, "I can stop on my way." We kind of have our own Morse Code - Child-speak, if you will - of communication that is punctuated by laughter (laugh laugh [noun] laughter [verb] laughter laughter laughter).
But they insisted on the immediacy of their nicotine addiction. So I visualize them traversing downtown. Their eye on the Prize. Wait. Didn't Goose quit? And wasn't Mav giving up the smoking and chain-drinking? Oh, the crazy talk we sometimes spew. The girls haven't changed a bit.
So I walked the five blocks to the restaurant in my high heels and pseudo-slutty dress leftover from the summer wardrobe. And I was starting to feel out of place, really. I forgot I am not at the beach anymore, I am in conservative DC where fashion has no name, unless your name is Ralph, Tommy or even some chap named Talbot. And so I am an eyesore or from the sound of it an eyeful (va-va-voom) as I got the occassional "woo hoo" shouted from passing cars because this particular direction on the street has no pedestrian traffic.
I am a Street Walker.
So we meet up at the restaurant for Outside Seating. Greetings from the girls: "We're drunk!" How can the non-drunk respond but, "Table for Three!" So our special "outdoor seating" was The Back Patio. The equivalent of the kiddy table at Thanksgiving. I once dated a guy in my real early 20’s whose parents always put us at the kiddy table when I was over for dinner. I mean he had a big family but it was weird. Didn't they want to get to know me? It was even more egregious when we had my sister and her husband over and they STILL put us at the kiddy table. And then they had my parents over and and put THEM at….no, just kidding. But my dad did "nod off" a little during cocktails on their back porch. My mom had to nudge him with a subtle get-the-fuck-up! And he wasn’t falling asleep because it was bedtime. Heh heh. I am sure it was the hundredth story about their maids and slaves that they had working for them during their illustrious military career in the lap of luxury. It was a class-defined household. "You are our Fuck Up Kid's Girlfriend. You get the kiddy meal. And wash these dishes."
I am a Kid.
So we are on the back patio, catching up with Goose. I hadn’t seen her in a few weeks and that girl is IN LOVE and I am soooo happy and, good god, that guy is HOTT. And he is big and strong and he doesn’t malfunction at the finest hour. Most important he makes our little Mother Goose happy. I mean, she is dancing-to-Marvin-Gaye-in-the-bathroom kind of happy. I know they played it just for her. Love is in the air. So we drink more wine at dinner – they need help, so I polish off their glasses.
I am a Drunk.
And Goose was too - too much - so she decided to bow out of the Destiny's Child reunion tour. Mav and I tried some very special bargaining techniques with her.
Mav and Boa: "Don't go home, you Drunk!"
Goose: "Honey, I have to. Billy Bob is not here to save me this time."
Mav and Boa: "No!"
Mav: “It’s Jefe!”
Boa: “And don’t forget the Other Guy.”
Mav: “Love that Jefe.”
Boa: “Love that Other Guy.”
Then we just got sidetracked with the mental images. Apparently Goose wasn't seeing the same thing because she stood by her Going Home stance. In hindsight, we should have given her the Lead Vocals for a change but Mav is so Beyonce. So, no Goose. Pajamas and Home were her tonic so in comes Charley. Good friend, that Charley. She drove a half hour (more?) in her pajamas to pick her up. So Goose joined the Pajama Party but not before she had an encounter with Johnny Law. Seems that our Mother Goose walked out of the restaurant with her glass of water. A glass. From the restaurant. Enter a Cop. The restaurant called the Cop? But really, is it no suprise that the cops came after us yet again? I don't want to sound like a Ten Most Wanted - Two Finger Louie - or a criminal mastermind - but this is the fourth encounter with the law this summer, people. Oh, we got off every time and not even with a slap on the wrist. No, we made friends with them. Once was because some jealous bitch didn't like Mav and I front-stooping it at HER house with HER housemates. The cops....laughed when they discovered the absurdity of her jealousy. Then there was the time we got pulled over in the cornfields. The cop took pity on us because we were "lost" and headed to that funny beach, Rehobeth. "You girls have fun. Wink wink." Then I had the very young cop - in fact, he was on foot patrol he was so young he couldn't drive yet - stop me for "jaywalking." He was sweet. And now this. We really will have to start thinking about keeping them around full-time. You know, for security detail.
So we ended up making friends with the Cop. I don't think he really wanted to take the glass. It's a job. Ain't it a bitch? So a photo op with the Cop ensued. See? Another friend. The law is your Friend. That is why Mav litigates it.
So Goose and Charley go off on their own adventure. Their quest to Get Home ended up with a side trip to the Ritz (not a gas station, not a mini market, not a supermarket, not a drugstore, and not even somebody's house) but the Ritz. To pee. Pajamas and all. I'm guessing she didn't take any glasses with her this time. Can you see the Pajama Party at the Ritz?
Mav and I had our own party to attend. Little did we know it was to be the Band Party.
I am a Party Girl.
This is what two "party girls" who love the band in a nostalgic and cute-boys-to-boot kind of way do; two professional girls by day with enough degrees between them but you would never have believed that they didn't graduate from the University of I-Don't-Want-To-Grow-Up. Or this is just what 15-year old girls do at a John Mayer concert.
1. Elbow our way to the front of the line. Front and center to the stage.
2. Scream!!! (OK. This may or may not have happened. But the rest, I promise you.)
3. Sing along with the band because they play every cover song imaginable. And it never gets old.
4. Tell them what to play next. I don’t know if they were listening to our advice really or if we could just divine what they were going to play next since we have heard them play the same songs ALL SUMMER LONG.
5. Request beers from the band while they are still playing. Since we had these awesome “seats” front row, we couldn’t possibly leave to go get new beers so the real 15-year olds could confiscate. So we motioned to the guitar player the drink-to-mouth move that says “get me a beer, I need a beer.” And guess what he got us? A beer.
6. Get a souvenier from the band when The Other Guy gave Mav his guitar pick. Must be the equivalent to Courtney Cox getting pulled on stage in the Born In The USA video. I'm almost sure of this.
7. Get invited to the After Party when the lead singer kneels down after the show and says, “Hey! You guys want to come to the after-party at our hotel room?” "Giddy up."
8. Call Goose to tell her what kind of story she is missing out on. Pajama party or not.
Most definitely I am a Groupie. For a cover band.
So the plan is to go to this "after party" at the dive hotel down the street but show up fashionably late. That is what groupies do! So we mingle with the crowd letting out of the bar. Some guy tried to buy us beers at the bar but last call was so 5 minutes ago so Mav just decided to make out with him. Then apparently there was some guy I absconded earlier and he either liked Mav or me but I think he liked Mav but settled on me when she started making out with Pseudo-Beer Buyer. But then some guy told me I had beautiful legs and not in a creepy kind of way. He was kind of cute. But it was all very confusing. Mav is making out. There is this guy. There's the Leg Admirer. What to do?
"Let's go stalk the diner. My head hurts."
So we walk across the street to hang at the diner. I think this is what groupies do. And That Guy is still with us. The diner is packed. There is a guy in line - in line at the diner at 1 AM - with his jeans pulled up to his armpits and his belt squeezing the living daylights out of him. Mav had to confront him on this fashion choice. She is not shy. Then Mav finally gets her to-go-cup of diet coke (and not in a glass so we know that the cop will not hunt us down since we have a warning on our record of Abetting a Glass Stealer aka Goose). Enough time has passed. Groupies can show up now! The Guy who's been tagging along finally asks for my number so I give him the cheesy business card because I don't feel like dealing with the fucking phone anymore.
This is how the Groupie scenario played out:
Arrived at the Band's After Party in a cab. Even when it is a two block walk. As groupies, we are Laid-Back Cool not Giddy Screaming Spazzes...Showed up at the hotel room and did not act surprised when the "after party" consisted of the band and two girls hanging ON The Other Guy. Hopes and dreams of a Cover Band Groupie (temporarily) dashed......So this allowed some banter with the Drummer wearing the apron. You know, for fashion. He's NICE so take his picture. Tell him how much you hate that Other Cover Band. Butter them up. Groupies give the Love.....And then get invited to their New Year’s Eve party. And then - you have to - leave on that note. As groupies, our work was done for now.
To be continued....
Monday, September 12, 2005
What I'm Reading Right Now
Story to come starring Mav, Goose, and, yours truly, Boa, with a special guest appearance by Charlie....but first check out my sister's blog. I love it.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Witchy Woman
It is always hard to come back to work after vacation. And I have been on vacay pretty much all summer. When I'm here, I'm not here. A favorite line from this summer at the beachhouse: "Yeah, I live here, occassionally I go to work."
So I am at work and I am thinking, "What was it that I am supposed to be doing again? Hmm..."
I look out my office to the right and there are stacks and stacks of books. It's coming back to me now. I do something with books. Smart cookie that I am. But I'm not reading them...so...Actually, my favorite line when I tell people I am a librarian is: "How did you end up doing that? Do you like to read?" Which is just nonsensical to me. Because I am not getting paid to read. And I really didn't shop on career day for something in a book. "Hey Mr. Guidance Counselor, I like to read. Do you have something in that?" With the exception of children's librarians or public librarians who probably do read a fair deal for their jobs, but I digress...
So, right, my job. But then I get confused all over again because when I look straight ahead there is a balcony. I am so important here that they give me a balcony with a view. I must be the Boss. I think that I could set my beachchair out there. The sun is shining. I could work on my tan. Pull up a cooler of Lites. Is THIS the vacation and THAT SUMMER was work? But, no. "What happens at the beach stays at the beach." (Unless I blogged about it and told some dirty secrets.) So confusion rears its ugly head...
So when I look out my office to my left there is a....dead plant. So I know that I need to water it because the gardener hasn't been to the office in awhile now. (Maybe he's at the beach. I checked the balcony, he's not there.) I am an Earth sign. And I was born on Earth Day. And it is nice to be gosh darn useful. So I water those luscious spiney appendages in all their splendor and then start to think that while I have the water bucket I should just resume to watering my own plants. I stop by a few offices around here and ask them if they need it too. I am just offering my best "librarian" services. So people should now ask me, "Why'd you become a librarian? What - do you like to water plants or something?" It's all about changing the image, people.
So I realize that I do have some plants in my office that need some TLC. I have a lovely fern-type one with clover-shaped leaves in the most beautiful shade of green. Nice. I have a sweater that shade of green. (As I will always bring everything back to clothing, people.) This plant lives in the sky. Why yes, I do have a sky and grass in my office, that is why I ALWAYS take my shoes off in my office. I like to feel the grass on my bare feet. Seriously, am I still on vacation? But this lovely little plant resides on top of my upper cabinets and has a long stalk climbing down the bookshelf wrapping its arms around "Small Library Cataloging." (Hey, somebody has to wrap its arms around it. I haven't read it. I'm just the librarian.) But that little kid is growing. I remember when he was a wee thing. But I am starting to look at it as an accessory. (Clothing, people. They don't call me Boa for nothing.) Moving along...I also have some bamboo plants given to me by a friend. They are supposed to bring me good luck. Hmm. They are tied with a red string too. Red represents love. Some feng shui thing going on, I'm sure. So should I be putting those in relationship corner? I look over at relationship corner and I see dried flowers. Dried flowers, people. That's a problem. Is that why all these crushes never survive a week? Because that is about the lifespan of a flower? It' s making sense now.
So - my job this week? After all this....is re-arranging the chi in my office. Moving it around and stopping the poison arrows in my lovelife. How lucky am I to have TWO bamboo plants - not one - because I am looking for my other ONE. Heh heh. So I am focusing on fixing the chi in the office. People next to me can't even have dead plants. Because, you know, office = work = lovelife. I spend a lot of time here. It has to be the explanation for this involuntary sabbatical from a Good Man in my life.
And I'm not kidding. I'm a bit of a superstitious person. I always pick up my feet at railroad tracks. I always get out of bed on the same side that I went in on. I say "rabbit foot" at the first of the month. I loved playing with a Ouija Board as a kid and I am still looking for Cliff Stargon - the boy it said I was going to marry. I have frozen boyfriends in the freezer. In representative form, mind you. And I have put them in honey. And when I am sick, I like to wear yellow. And I spraypaint my cat black. (Not really, just reeling you in.) In fact, my ex sometimes called me a witch. Heh heh. If only Yukkell, if only.
So really when I went to Career Fair as a kid what I asked was, "Mr. Guidance Counselor, do you have something in a spell, maybe?" And he pulled out a book. Perhaps I misunderstood.
So now when people ask me what I do, and I say, "Librarian! Librarian!" like an incantation, they will most likely respond, "What? You couldn't hack it as a witch?"
So I am at work and I am thinking, "What was it that I am supposed to be doing again? Hmm..."
I look out my office to the right and there are stacks and stacks of books. It's coming back to me now. I do something with books. Smart cookie that I am. But I'm not reading them...so...Actually, my favorite line when I tell people I am a librarian is: "How did you end up doing that? Do you like to read?" Which is just nonsensical to me. Because I am not getting paid to read. And I really didn't shop on career day for something in a book. "Hey Mr. Guidance Counselor, I like to read. Do you have something in that?" With the exception of children's librarians or public librarians who probably do read a fair deal for their jobs, but I digress...
So, right, my job. But then I get confused all over again because when I look straight ahead there is a balcony. I am so important here that they give me a balcony with a view. I must be the Boss. I think that I could set my beachchair out there. The sun is shining. I could work on my tan. Pull up a cooler of Lites. Is THIS the vacation and THAT SUMMER was work? But, no. "What happens at the beach stays at the beach." (Unless I blogged about it and told some dirty secrets.) So confusion rears its ugly head...
So when I look out my office to my left there is a....dead plant. So I know that I need to water it because the gardener hasn't been to the office in awhile now. (Maybe he's at the beach. I checked the balcony, he's not there.) I am an Earth sign. And I was born on Earth Day. And it is nice to be gosh darn useful. So I water those luscious spiney appendages in all their splendor and then start to think that while I have the water bucket I should just resume to watering my own plants. I stop by a few offices around here and ask them if they need it too. I am just offering my best "librarian" services. So people should now ask me, "Why'd you become a librarian? What - do you like to water plants or something?" It's all about changing the image, people.
So I realize that I do have some plants in my office that need some TLC. I have a lovely fern-type one with clover-shaped leaves in the most beautiful shade of green. Nice. I have a sweater that shade of green. (As I will always bring everything back to clothing, people.) This plant lives in the sky. Why yes, I do have a sky and grass in my office, that is why I ALWAYS take my shoes off in my office. I like to feel the grass on my bare feet. Seriously, am I still on vacation? But this lovely little plant resides on top of my upper cabinets and has a long stalk climbing down the bookshelf wrapping its arms around "Small Library Cataloging." (Hey, somebody has to wrap its arms around it. I haven't read it. I'm just the librarian.) But that little kid is growing. I remember when he was a wee thing. But I am starting to look at it as an accessory. (Clothing, people. They don't call me Boa for nothing.) Moving along...I also have some bamboo plants given to me by a friend. They are supposed to bring me good luck. Hmm. They are tied with a red string too. Red represents love. Some feng shui thing going on, I'm sure. So should I be putting those in relationship corner? I look over at relationship corner and I see dried flowers. Dried flowers, people. That's a problem. Is that why all these crushes never survive a week? Because that is about the lifespan of a flower? It' s making sense now.
So - my job this week? After all this....is re-arranging the chi in my office. Moving it around and stopping the poison arrows in my lovelife. How lucky am I to have TWO bamboo plants - not one - because I am looking for my other ONE. Heh heh. So I am focusing on fixing the chi in the office. People next to me can't even have dead plants. Because, you know, office = work = lovelife. I spend a lot of time here. It has to be the explanation for this involuntary sabbatical from a Good Man in my life.
And I'm not kidding. I'm a bit of a superstitious person. I always pick up my feet at railroad tracks. I always get out of bed on the same side that I went in on. I say "rabbit foot" at the first of the month. I loved playing with a Ouija Board as a kid and I am still looking for Cliff Stargon - the boy it said I was going to marry. I have frozen boyfriends in the freezer. In representative form, mind you. And I have put them in honey. And when I am sick, I like to wear yellow. And I spraypaint my cat black. (Not really, just reeling you in.) In fact, my ex sometimes called me a witch. Heh heh. If only Yukkell, if only.
So really when I went to Career Fair as a kid what I asked was, "Mr. Guidance Counselor, do you have something in a spell, maybe?" And he pulled out a book. Perhaps I misunderstood.
So now when people ask me what I do, and I say, "Librarian! Librarian!" like an incantation, they will most likely respond, "What? You couldn't hack it as a witch?"
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