Kiki Just Had To Take To The Bottle

Yes, I watch The OC. I was late to the game but I'm here now. For now. Because they are testing me. Yes, this fairweather fan is hissing at the moment because of this whole alcoholic storyline. First, why does every single show - dramas/soaps - in the history of mankind have to deal with this subject? And it is always tied up neatly in a bow. Can you really spin this anew? It's so stale. And in the case of The OC in particular? So, so forced. Me, "forcing" myself into my skinny jeans - hopping and stuffing my ass into them (and laying down flat to zip them), has nothing on The OC and Kirsten's Drunken Plunge Into Shameful Intoxification. Bad Kiki, bad.

You saw the foreshadowing from the beginning of the season. The lone camera shot zooming in on Kirsten's wine glass as if to say, "Pay attention, folks, slippery curves ahead!" And Kirsten may drive on them! While drunk! Oh the drama.

So Kiki drinks all by her lonesome sometimes. So she can polish off a bottle of wine by herself. So she got drunk at a vineyard. So she likes a little vodka in her OJ. So she likes to come home to a chilled swig of vodka. So she got drunk at her father's funeral. Hell, I've done all this. Except at my dad's funeral. I couldn't even stomach a beer that day. So is that what actually separates me from Drunkville? In any case, I am sure I binged just as soon as I got my sea legs back.

I guess we are to believe that all her imbibing happened off camera. We saw Sandy find her bottle stashed in her purse. Oh! I see, it's called allusion. Kirsten has been drinking around the clock! At work. In the bathroom. In bed. While driving. While shopping. While tanning. Before, during, and after every meal. Et cetera. Et cetera.

Snore.

I like my primetime TV all fluff and cupcakes. That's just me. I don't want to see the shootings and the drug dealing and the dying and the blackmailing and the porn-parading. I want the mindless banter, the teenage-bickering, the comic book shenanigans, the breaking up to get back together, the shopping trips, the wife-beaters, and mall-camping. And more scenes with Princess Sparkle and Captain Oats (spinoff, anyone?) Oh, and one more thing, more Peter Gallagher singing. Thank you.

Hey Pigpen, Dirty Is Just Dirty, Put It In The Can

I am at work. I am bored. So I took a trip to the bathroom. A trip as in I am bored, I have drank enough water and tea to fill the Potomac, but yet I don't have to pee, so you know what that means, five pounds of water retention which doesn't make me feel good or, probably, look good, so let's go to the bathroom and see if just being in such a shrine to peeing and poohing will make me go, or better yet, maybe I will run into someobody to talk to, and thus relieve my boredom and water weight! So, yes, a trip.

That trip turned out to be one disgusting trip. Makes me think I need to pick new destinations when I'm bored. Because this bathroom was visited by some pooh-filled person who chose to leave their mark for their fellow employees. Lo and behold in the third stall, which is the one I prefer, there were a few "drops" floating in the toilet and a wad of USED toilet paper ON THE FLOOR next to the toilet! Ohmygross. Next time why don't you send out an office-wide communication exploiting your bathroom skills because the boys in the next room over probably missed it!

This kind of unsanitary display makes me wonder what kind of scumsucker does this? Is it that this person is so high and mighty that it is above them to clean up after themselves? My sister-in-law just told me the other day that if they won the $165 million Powerball she would make sure that I would never have to wipe my ass myself again. I thought she was metaphorically-speaking but maybe there is a whole labor pool out there of people who wipe asses and this person in my office couldn't bring them to work with them because, I don't know, office guidelines - or OSHA rules - prohibit you from bringing your own personal Ass Wiper. So, I ask, if you are incapable of doing it properly yourself, then write a letter to your Congressman asking them to let in the Ass Wipers! Or is it that this person is that that much of a slob and actually lives like this at home too, amidst dirty toilet paper, food crumbs, and sticky surfaces - oh, and that brief or book I just gave them?

Alright, admittedly, sometimes I have missed the "basket" too. Usually I'm drunk for this to happen, but I always (well I can't speak for all those drunk moments) pick up after myself. Is that so much to ask? And I always watch the toilet to make sure it flushes all the way. Sure sometimes we stop up the plumbing, and nobody wants to go tell the office manager, "Hey, I stopped up the toilet. Can you report it? Oh, by the way, here's my monthly management report." But today? This wasn't a stop-up. No, this was some dirty, dirty pigpen with no regard for cleanliness.

But this person didn't stop with the laziness in the toilet. It was like there was a trail of their scum all over the bathroom because there were about 4 wadded up paper towels on the floor of the bathroom - nowhere near the trashcan. Huh? So then I remembered the lovely Morgan who used to work in my office and her groddy bathroom encounter. This was of the explosive kind as in, let me aim my ass up to the ceiling and see how high it can fly and how wide it can spread. So you see? I have a walking Pooh-Ball carousing my office. Send help!

All this bathroom talk reminds me of a conversation I had with Manwich last Friday night about bathroom behavior. He wanted to know why guys lean against the wall of the urinal as they urinate. Is it that hard to hold yourself up? I surmised that they are probably drunk and then, yes, it is hard to hold yourself up sometimes. Or is that just me? For the most part, I try and keep my contact with bathroom fixtures and walls to a minimum. I am a pro at the Flush The Toilet With The Foot Move, While Drunk. Which turns into Balancing On One Foot, While Drunk. Which can turn into Leaning Against Stall Walls While Zipping Up Clothing, While Drunk. So, that guy, holding himself up? Yes, probably drunk.

In the end, my clean, pristine ass learned a few things today.
1. Every office probably has a pigpen.
2. Never take trips to the bathroom looking to overcome some momentary flash of boredom - you may get more than you bargained for.
3. The bear most certainly shits in the woods, in fact, all over the woods.
4. Some people will always think the toilet is over-rated.
5. Some people have very bad aim, and I have good aim, thus making me conclude that shitting is a sport!

Recipes, From My Kitsch To Yours

The Baked Manwich

1 Busy guy
1/2 Promise to go to a wedding
1 Date to see a band
1 Invitation to go to see a different band
1 Case of not showing up to see band
A sprinkle of emails
A Healthy dose of befuddlement
A Healthier dose of annoyance
Salt in the eye

Stir all the ingredients together. You need a very large bowl for this because you may find other ingredients necessary to get the right flakiness. Once the batter is the right consistency (i.e., too flaky to actually congeal), pour into trashcan. Light a match. Throw the trashcan over the balcony and watch the Manwich dissipate. Your torched culinary presentation will make Baked Alaska look like a twinkie sundae. Now pour yourself a stiff drink.

------------------------------------
The Dew Drop

A million grains of sand
40 Gajillion waves
1 House
12 Fun people
1 HUGE party
Lots and lots of alcohol

Blend all the ingredients together. Pulse for one minute. Add more alcohol as needed. Can be sipped or chugged. Just enjoy all summer long.

----------------------------------------------------------
The Fat Burger

1 Invitation to be on an Advisory Panel
4 Hours of acting the part of a Talking Head
15 Minutes of winging it
One thousand dollars

Mix all together. Bake. Try not to eat all in one sitting. Best if you store this in the freezer so it will last. Do not let anyone named Neiman Marcus eat it.

Mistaken Identity: Case #147 and #148

You know how you can be walking along and usually you mind your own business as in wouldn't notice if Willem Dafoe walked right on by and blew you a kiss because you are la-la-laing to music in your head or thinking about your next meal or how you want to spend money or where is happy hour people? But today you are actually noticing. The surroundings. You're making eye contact. With all the people. And then out of the corner of your eye, you think you see someone you know so you do a double take because you are, you know, paying attention and since you are looking at everybody you don't want to ignore somebody you actually know. And it is all fast when you do the double take and simultaneously smile and mouth a "hi" with no vocals attached because - frog in your throat. So fast that you didn't leave time for your poor, slow brain to catch up with your befuddled excitement before realizing that no, you don't know who this person is. In fact, they look nothing like the person you thought it was. Idiot! (Me.) And so the person looks at you kind of strangely like, do I know you or are you just weird.

I totally just did that. Weirdly.

And last weekend when I was in a bar with six other girlfriends. Some guy came up to me and used the line (actually!)...."Do I know you from somewhere?" First of all, I am not going to critique that line because I figure; a) you got the balls to walk up to a girl standing amongst 6 other hot girls - kudos to you - so say what you want as long as it isn't something that will be blocked from my dirty spam filter at work, you dirty boy; and b) I am too paranoid - as in, I started obsessing on the possibility that he has seen my profile online. Not as in posing, or leaked home videos, mind you. But rather innocent hi-I'm-single-looking-for-love-in-cyberspace-tap-tap-is-this-thing-on presence? But really, he swore he knew me from somewhere. So he proceeds to count down scenarios in which he could have met me.
Do you play kickball on the Mall? -No.
Do you go to blah-di-blah church? -Me? No.
Did you go to Georgetown Law? -Nope.
Do you know Joe Schmo? -Ahh...no.

I didn't recognize him. So instead of letting the poor guy ramble on about my presumed doppelganger and instead of letting my paranoia lie low, I blurt out, "Maybe you've seen me on [online dating service]?" Because I'm out there. For everyone to see. Me - paranoid. He grins and says, "Yeah, no, that wouldn't be it." Because? The shame! Psshaw.

So, later, when he asked for my phone number, I said, "I can be reached online. You can contact me there."

Case closed.

Giddy Up

You know what has me hyped this week? The thought of letting it all hang out in a bikini in one month? Ah...nnoooo. Let's not think about that right yet. Exposing your baby's skin soft feet to your summer shoes? Uh...holy blisters, Batman. True, my beach house summer begins in just over three weeks. I should be excited about that. Instead I am just stressed about getting my ass in gear. So my power walks are going to turn into runs now. So, no, the approaching summer at the beach isn't the source of my excitement just yet.

Oh no. It's something quite grand actually. The first weekend in May is almost upon us. The Run For The Roses. The galloping! The Derby! Yes, this time of the year "...the sun [does] shine bright in the old Kentucky home." The big hulking horsies. Little tiny wee jockeys. Mint juleps. Seersucker. Cash thrown all around. Giddy. Up.

Every year, I watch the race with one eye open. Lest one of the horsies collides and falls while they are hoofing it down the track. And for what? More oats in his breakfast than Mr. Ed down the stall? Every year, I think this is the time some horse is going to bite dust. And that would break my heart. I might give up the horse races altogether if I had to witness that. So one eye open. And one eye nudging my horse - or the horse in last place - to run a little faster. Run!

I also have a love-hate relationship with horses in general. I think they are beautiful creatures. Solid. Powerful. Silky. Ponytails. And big huge eyeballs that seem to know you, if you know what I mean. Almost creepy, like that painting in the Haunted Mansion with the eyeballs that follow you. Horses seem to watch and observe. So I have this fear of them at the same time. Growing up, my friend, Christy, lived on a ranch and they had lots of horses. I loved going over there. But I was always a little afraid of riding them. I wasn't very good at nudging them along. I was always like, "you take your time, little horsie. We will go when you are good and ready. I'm not pushing you. I am your friend." So I was often left out in pasture just hanging out with the horse. Because if I nudged him, then I might have been bucked off the horse like Valerie did one time. I am pretty sure that hurt. So the fear of the horse.

I love watching the horses. I like the steeplechase races.

I like hearing the horses. The cloppity-clop of their hooves.

I love researching their names. And tracing their lineage to see how the names evolve.

And then there is the game. I love betting on the race. And I'm pretty good at it (or lucky at it, rather.) I have guessed the winner in the past three years. So listen to me people when I say -Afleet Alex. I like him for some of the reasons I liked Smarty Jones last year. He doesn't come from "royal" pedigree. He has the human interest element as in he is not trained by one of the big guys, like Frankel or Zito. And he has a good heartstrings story. When he was a baby he was kept alive by being bottle-fed because his momma couldn't produce enough milk for him. And, finally, he is not a quitter. He raced his little heart out with a lung infection - and came back to win the Arkansas Derby. I'm telling you. Alex is a winner, y'all.

But you know what I just did? I jinxed it. So let me tell you about some other fabulous horses who could win.

Bandini - He bites! Really, he has bitten another horse (although he didn't take any ear with him). And he is a black horse. So, a beauty.
High Fly - Aww...he is pretty too.
Sun King - Because of his name. Psychedelic, dude.
Bellamy Road - Because he is the favored? But, eww, Steinbrenner's horse.
Wilko - Because...Wilco! Rock on.
Noble Causeway - He keeps getting better each race. The dark horse?

See? I'm pretty knowledgeable when it comes to picking the horses. Atleast I didn't pick based on jockey outfits. So listen to me. Or don't. But really? Back to why I'm hyped. Really? It's about the cocktail. My one time of the year to savor all that is minty lucious whiskiness. Giddy up indeed.

Factoid of the Day:
Over 80,000 Early Times Mint Juleps are served over the two-day period of the Kentucky Oaks and Kentucky Derby, requiring 8,000 liters of Early Times Mint Julep Ready-to-Serve Cocktail, 2,200 pounds of freshly harvested mint, and 80 tons of shaved ice. *

*From KentuckyDerby.com re. the Early Times Mint Julep recipe.

I Like My Pastries Flaky, Not My Guys

Mixed signals or just a case of Flakiness?

1. You have tickets to see a concert. You have friends who will be at the show. So he buys a ticket. You have been out with each other a few times. You both love Westerberg. He has been talking about it for weeks now. Since he is flying in that night, you pick a meeting place at the venue. You go where he says he will be, only you never see him the whole night. You think:

A. He has died in a horrific plane crash. In fact, you contemplate calling someone who could look this up and confirm.
B. He is really in the bar but gave you a false meeting place. Secretly, he is over yonder laughing at you as you keep looking over your shoulder for Him to show up.
C. He is trying to get to me. The upstairs of the bar is filled to capacity and the bouncers won't let him up, he lost his phone and has no way to contact you. He pines for you to come downstairs to look for him. But you decide to stay put and enjoy the show from your great vantage point. He picked this spot afterall.
C. He is flaky and didn't give you a thought to call you to tell you he could not make the show - for whatever reason.
E. All of the above.

2. So you call him at 2 AM and leave him a voicemail and say:

A. "I know it's late but if you were at the show you would be awake."
B. "If you weren't at the show, then I want to make sure you didn't perish in a plane crash."
C. "I also hope that you didn't get on the wrong plane and instead are in Zimbabwe because that would suck. You missed a good show! Or maybe you didn't because maybe you were there. Were you?"
D. "Kisses!"
E. All of the above except C (although I can't be sure, it was late and I was high on rock and roll).

3. So he calls you the next morning and tells you that he was out till 1:30 in the morning the night before the concert with clients, was in meetings all day, laid down for a couple hours in his hotel room, overslept, got a later flight to DC, thought it was too late to get to the show, also very tired and wasn't up for a late night, so went home. He never mentions anything about calling you to let you know this. You certainly don't mention it because it is too soon to show him the Crazy, the Whine, the Bitching. You are cool as a cucumber about it but you think:

A. Asshole!
B. Inconsiderate asshole!
C. Flaky asshole!
D. But cute asshole?
E. All of the above.

4. So you get on the phone and call your girlfriend to, you know, analyze this a bit more. You wonder why just last week, he drove 3o minutes out of his way to go to your birthday party and meet some of your friends. Then this week give you the blow off. You conclude:

A. He likes me of course! He just has a funny way of showing it.
B. He doesn't like me. He is just being polite by attending birthdays, calling, emailing, etc.
C. It is a very busy point in his life and I just kind of blew in. Patience might be needed with him.
D. He's flaky.
E. All of the above.

Scoring: If you answered E to all of the above, then you are me. I'll send for reinforcements under the name Jack Daniels.

Some Guy's Got A Great Story To Tell At The Water Cooler Monday Morning

Imagine this. Paul Westerberg Friday night at 9:30 Club. It's a late show - it's rounding 1:00 AM and he has been playing a solid 2 hours now and slowly disintegrating into mayhem. A Paul Westerberg show is alway unpredictable and always entertaining to say the least. So Paul decides to lay down. In a fetal position behind the drum set. While the band is still playing.

What would you do if you were front and center? Go up on stage is what you would do! Grab the mic and sing your heart out until the bouncers throw you out in the rain. Was it worth it? Those 10 seconds of American-Idol-karaoke-minutes-of-fame-blah-di-blah. Hell, yeah! Because the band decides to call you back. Seems Paul decides he's going to stay behind the drumset. He is on his back now with a guitar strapped to him. So the band asks you to step in and play the part of rock star. For two songs! You do air guitar. You sing the wrong lyrics in delirium. You hand the mic over to some people in the front row to help you sing along. You plead for Paul to return because this is just surreal, man.

Some people in the audience don't like you. Some are probably jealous. Some think they could sing better than you. Some didn't pay $30 to hear No-Name-Joe-Schmo sing some of the more popular 'Mats songs.

It was a show teetering on the edge of insanity and sheer brilliance. And that is a fine line. It was rock and roll. Pure and unassuming.

The disintegration of the last half hour in a 2 hours and 40 minutes set exemplified the genius that is Paul Westerberg. The 8 minutes singing on a stage shared with Westerberg & Co. epitomized a Guy Named Andrew's best rock and roll fantasy.