I put a red pen in Relationship Corner. I will also move 27 things on New Year's Day, eat black-eyed peas, and say "white rabbit" when I wake up. I will also find a way to plant some greenery in my little condo.
In your library, you may file that under: "Hippie New Age Psychobabble" or "No Wonder" and if you are nice you might just tag it OCD. But it is also OK if you just say: Poor Thing.
Because see, I am going to good-luck-charm my way into the New Year and happily kiss the sucky year that was 2006 good-bye. I should have known 2006 was tainted when - well, I didn't do any of the above - and instead spent last New Year's Eve playing Syms with Peter Pan (who had already morphed into Johnny Jerkface at the time but I was in denial) and missed the turning of the calendar, dropping of the ball, and the Second Coming of Dick Clark - not to mention, not even a smooch to be had - when this was realized at 12:22 AM. So, my first thought of the new year - after my alter-ego, Cyrus Bookbender, kicked some ass in make-believe land and married the vapid bimbo Jerkface was charicaturing - was: This blows and look, we didn't even finish the champagne.
I believe we call that: disappointment.
So this year I will drink ALL the champagne with one Dear Prudence with not a plan in the air. Maybe we will play canasta with the cat or maybe we will stumble out into the neighborhood to see where the night takes us. Maybe I will make a fool of myself and drunk text some boy. Maybe I will go out on a date with one with a southern accent, or a short one, or a teddy bear, or an author with a best seller, or a pirate, or Captain Steubing, or [fill-in-the-blank].
We are going to call that: hopeful.
So join me in raising your red pens: Here's to a Good Year, y'all! And I just checked my Past and Psychic and it revealed to me that I do so much better in odd years any way. How 'bout that?!
Friday, December 29, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Wanted: My Gums (Also Answers to "Chops")
Traits I inherited from my momma:
The Bennett nose
The Bennett sour stomach
The Bennett curse which skips a generation (hi me!)
The Bennett antiqueing gene (it's sick!)
The Bennett big feet
Bennett youthful good looks (and if you are going to put up a fight we can just go with youthful looks, party poopers)
And, P.S., I am going to go out on a limb here and point the blame on the family with this one: Bennett gums.
I am my momma's girl.
When we were younger, my brother liked to tease me in that way that little brothers do, and tell me that I was adopted. It's beside the point that he still does it, because why let an inside joke die? But back when I wore tube tops and powder blue sneakers and stood with my hands on my hips with the pouty snarl, (yes, party poopers, kind of like I still do, tube tops and all), I would believe him for a split second. But all I would have to do is look at a picture of my mom when she was younger and see myself staring back as if to say, "Yes, honey, you are Bennett and not a Barnum or Bailey."
Now my dentist does not know of my Bennett lineage. The Bennetts are a classy bunch. They get written up in the Washington Post when they want to redecorate their beach house or celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary (can't find link but - really!). They are all musical - and I guess it is possible that there is a relative who plays the washboard with spoons, but I don't know of this very cool person, while the family might think otherwise. All the ladies wear scarves and antique broaches and like their gin and tonics. These are my genes. What I'm trying to say here is: We brush our teeth, y'all. Yet, my dentist has mistaken me for a descendent of the Clampetts, and not the Bennetts.
Let's break now for an oral hygiene history!
April 1971: A few days-old baby has her first jelly bean somewhere in the valley. Baby can't figure out if big sister was trying to kill "the thing" or make nice to little sister. But since the big sister is the sweet one, historians have sided with the Making Nice theory.
Circa1970's: Mean mother of Jelly Bean-Loving Baby forces the now growing child to visit a dentist once a year. Now the Jelly Bean-Loving Baby becomes addicted to bubble gum-flavored flouride treatment. Now looks at the dentist office as possible candy shop.
1980's: Ground-breaking study reveals that you need to visit the dentist twice a year so mother ups the visits. But still lets child go outside with no sun screen. Oh, and then mother takes what has become Gap-Toothed Child to orthodondist for braces to correct a Lauren Hutton space in the front teeth.
1986: Shortly before braces were to come off, drunk-ass guy rear ends car that Brace Face was residing in. The impact propels Brace Face forward who smacks her mouth on the back of the front seat. Braces slice right through mouth and require 200+ stitches in and out of mouth. High school boys starts to call poor child Mouth. Year book from that years recorded the phenomena. On the plus side, braces saved the Mouth from losing all her teeth and being a denture patient at the young age of 15.
Circa 1987: Braces come off! Teeth are in tact and straight! Now have to wear a big black retainer every night at bed time. Looks like Darth Vader and makes you breath like Darth Vader. But I don't think Darth Vader drooled like this.
1990's: After graduating from college and getting first full-time job with benefits meant getting dropped from paren't medical coverage and being responsible for own dental care. Jelly-Bean-Loving, Bubble-Gum-Flouride-Lover, Gap-Toothed Child, Brace-Face, Mouth, Darth Vader-By-Moonlight now becomes Rebel, and skips the dentist for a few years and manage her own oral hygiene. Discovers Act flouride treatment in the meantime.
Still 1990's: After a few years of living free from dental drills and shrills and, generally, things that go "eeeee!" with no chalkboards present, Reformed patient returns with tail between legs and resumes twice-yearly exams and cleanings.
Circa 2000: Discover the glory that is SonicCare when boyfriend re-gifts you one. This replaces the water pik of childhood. Also discover a dentist in drag. This is the first time you hear that your gums are receding so cross-dressing dentist takes measurements of your gums. Also introduces you to the "night guard" which is really the Darth-Vader retainer in a "cuter costume."
November 2006: New dentist comes to Cross-Dressing Dentist's practice and wants to treat me as new patient that she will now refer to as Clampett.
So, my gums are receding y'all. By mere millimeters. In fact, after her careful measuring, it was discovered they aren't really that bad at all. So I won't need the gum graph that scrapes the roof of my mouth and implants new gums. Holy burn-the-top-of-my-mouth-from-too-hot-pizza! Except no pizza in my belly.
But she still insisted on reasons why my gums could be skipping town (one could argue they don't like her and her preachy, condescending exams).
Possible reasons by the dental book, or science, or the Clampetts:
1. Not using an electronic toothbrush.
2. Not rinsing with flouride.
3. Drinking soda.
4. Drinking red wine.
5. Hmmmm.....
I'll give her the hmm, but I brush, floss, and rinse regularly. I don't drink soda that much nor red wine. Champagne and beer, but she didn't mention them.
My retort to help the girl along in her quest to find my missing gums:
Might it be a case of the Bennett gums? See, my mom, also has this issue - and since the dentist is putting me on the defensive with my oral hygiene or what she sees as lack thereof, I offer: but she takes even better care of her teeth than me. She instilled in my good oral hygiene!
So now I started her down this path and then she offers that maybe heredity, braces, and the jilt of the car accident - and the general shifting of teeth - all could contribute to my fleeing gums.
So she decides to close the book on the case and bill me $185 for this here "flouride consultation" anyway - because I guess she can't bill me for "patient schooled me consultation" - and wrote up a prescription to an over-the-counter toothpaste that, I ask, what is in this toothpaste that can't be sold over the counter? And, will I become addicted to potent toothpaste?
I can see it now: I'm a brush away from popping squeezes of toothpaste and a stay in the Betty Ford clinic where I room with Lindsey Lohan and discover that we are long lost sisters of the Clampetts.
Must patch up with the Crest White Strip.
2007: Receding gums hold out until Cross-Dressing Dentist takes them back.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Flat Stanley
For a month now, I ignored the 3 AM text messages and his taunting of champagne. But - and it was probably the high of just seeing the Twilight Singers perform - I obliged him after the show. I mean I was just face to face with Carson in his salmon pants and Phil Collins and his sh-sh-sudio and they all left something to be desired. This little gal doesn't rue anymore. So I let him - Pompadour, that is - hunt me down that evening. It was I, after all, who turned him on to the firestorm that is a live performance by Greg Dulli.
I believed the fairy tale that he went there looking for me.
That drink in the bar turned into our usual all-night chat-fest and music-listening party and I almost succumbed to the Chimay-induced starry-eyed fairy tale again. I even romanticized that kiss on the shoulder for one moment because it felt like only someone who cared about me would kiss my shoulder.
But he won't talk about what happened or why he went hot-cold so fast. So I tossed the fairy tale aside and remembered that he doesn't love me. And then his laugh became too loud, his voice too dominating, and did he just call that guy, "bro?" Either he was trying too hard or I was over it.
Then he went in for the kiss and it was not a kiss to miss at all.
Besides his glorious pompadour was no more and I just couldn't like someone as flat as him again. Or was I just not prepared for male company?
In the end, I hid the champagne from him and will save it for another fairy tale. But I am curious to see what his next move is.
I believed the fairy tale that he went there looking for me.
That drink in the bar turned into our usual all-night chat-fest and music-listening party and I almost succumbed to the Chimay-induced starry-eyed fairy tale again. I even romanticized that kiss on the shoulder for one moment because it felt like only someone who cared about me would kiss my shoulder.
But he won't talk about what happened or why he went hot-cold so fast. So I tossed the fairy tale aside and remembered that he doesn't love me. And then his laugh became too loud, his voice too dominating, and did he just call that guy, "bro?" Either he was trying too hard or I was over it.
Then he went in for the kiss and it was not a kiss to miss at all.
Besides his glorious pompadour was no more and I just couldn't like someone as flat as him again. Or was I just not prepared for male company?
In the end, I hid the champagne from him and will save it for another fairy tale. But I am curious to see what his next move is.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Has Anybody Seen A Dog Died Dark Green?
I have a pet. He is a dog and he is on his fourth name change. First, he was named Schroeder, after Charlie Brown's sensitive piano-playing chum. But he wasn't as calm as I imagined him to be - I'm a cat person - so I renamed him Mick Jagger - to give him a rock and roll edge. Then he started to became really interested in fashion - I figured - because he kept chewing up my shoes (which explains my latest shoe-shopping craze, it's the dog's fault). So, you know what is next - he became Tom Ford. But then, just today, I heard that Snoop Dogg was designing fashion for doggies. And how cool is that? While I may be New Wave at heart, I just adore Snoop. He is the black person's John Wayne - coolness, gangsta-style.
With this new development, I called Mav this morning and excitedly told her that we had to change the little doggie's name. And she replied, "You having a dog named Snoop, is like me in leggings."
Nonetheless, I am considering Mr. Gin N. Juice. Or Huggy Bear. Because I am sick of the fashion designer moniker. I can't tell you how many Chanel's and Coco's we meet at the dog park. I am a slave to my dog, not fashion. And Tom Ford is getting sick of the little shirts, but he will always wear shoes. Hey, Britney is wearing them now. So I am going to go with Gin N. Juice for the moment.
Holy identity issues. But since Gin N. Juice is imaginary - very much like my niece's "friend", Binky, who one time got "stuck" in the sun roof, in which instance my dad apologized, opened the roof back up, and pulled Binky to safety and then we told Binky to wear his seat belt in the car for now on.
He was Elvis for Halloween. Look at this picture:
Isn't he the cutest thing?
Right about now, if I still have your attention, you might wonder what kind of dog he is. Well, first he was a Frenchie, and he was Martini's dog, Milo's, boyfriend. Milo is a girl and the kind of dog that you have to take for walks and skip happy hour for. I know! That kind of dog.
Mr. Juice is a special kind of dog. He can hold it in for weeks. In fact, sometimes I just plum forget about him. First, he was a chihuahua, then he was a poodle or something with long hair so I could braid it and ponytail it. But now he is an Italian greyhound. And the funny thing is I just did an Internet search for Italian Greyhounds and found a local group. (I know how this sounds and I know what you must be thinking: Seriously, she is taking this imaginary dog thing a bit far! Sure, crazy people, I am taking Gin on a playdate!) Seriously, I was researching the breed because some day Mr. Juice can be a reality and, weirdly, I found a guy I used to date who happens to be a member of the local IG group. He has two. And, yes, the kind of dog you have to take for walks and skip happy hour for.
And so in the words of Fred Scheider and the B-52's*:
Has anybody seen
A dog died dark green?
About two inches tall
With a strawberry blond ball.
Sunglasses and a bonnet
Designer jeans with appliques on it.
Sadly, the dog that brought Fred Schneider so much joy, Quiche Lorraine ran away.
Are you still there, reader? Great! We will be at Earth shortly.
According to Fred, even imaginary dogs can run away - because clearly he made this little doggie up (the sunglasses clued me in). Why would you do this to your fantasy? Not me. In my fantasy, this loyal Gin N. Juice AKA Huggy Bear I speak of, dog or no dog, never leaves....
*B-52's, "Quiche Lorraine" off of the Wild Planet album. (You: That is some Wild Planet alright.)
With this new development, I called Mav this morning and excitedly told her that we had to change the little doggie's name. And she replied, "You having a dog named Snoop, is like me in leggings."
Nonetheless, I am considering Mr. Gin N. Juice. Or Huggy Bear. Because I am sick of the fashion designer moniker. I can't tell you how many Chanel's and Coco's we meet at the dog park. I am a slave to my dog, not fashion. And Tom Ford is getting sick of the little shirts, but he will always wear shoes. Hey, Britney is wearing them now. So I am going to go with Gin N. Juice for the moment.
Holy identity issues. But since Gin N. Juice is imaginary - very much like my niece's "friend", Binky, who one time got "stuck" in the sun roof, in which instance my dad apologized, opened the roof back up, and pulled Binky to safety and then we told Binky to wear his seat belt in the car for now on.
He was Elvis for Halloween. Look at this picture:
Isn't he the cutest thing?
Right about now, if I still have your attention, you might wonder what kind of dog he is. Well, first he was a Frenchie, and he was Martini's dog, Milo's, boyfriend. Milo is a girl and the kind of dog that you have to take for walks and skip happy hour for. I know! That kind of dog.
Mr. Juice is a special kind of dog. He can hold it in for weeks. In fact, sometimes I just plum forget about him. First, he was a chihuahua, then he was a poodle or something with long hair so I could braid it and ponytail it. But now he is an Italian greyhound. And the funny thing is I just did an Internet search for Italian Greyhounds and found a local group. (I know how this sounds and I know what you must be thinking: Seriously, she is taking this imaginary dog thing a bit far! Sure, crazy people, I am taking Gin on a playdate!) Seriously, I was researching the breed because some day Mr. Juice can be a reality and, weirdly, I found a guy I used to date who happens to be a member of the local IG group. He has two. And, yes, the kind of dog you have to take for walks and skip happy hour for.
And so in the words of Fred Scheider and the B-52's*:
Has anybody seen
A dog died dark green?
About two inches tall
With a strawberry blond ball.
Sunglasses and a bonnet
Designer jeans with appliques on it.
Sadly, the dog that brought Fred Schneider so much joy, Quiche Lorraine ran away.
Are you still there, reader? Great! We will be at Earth shortly.
According to Fred, even imaginary dogs can run away - because clearly he made this little doggie up (the sunglasses clued me in). Why would you do this to your fantasy? Not me. In my fantasy, this loyal Gin N. Juice AKA Huggy Bear I speak of, dog or no dog, never leaves....
*B-52's, "Quiche Lorraine" off of the Wild Planet album. (You: That is some Wild Planet alright.)
Monday, November 13, 2006
Liquids On A Plane
(Or the one that puts me on some government watch list or, rather, shameless product endorsement.)
Last month, I flew for the first time since the new air restrictions on liquids were enforced. If they ever knew my extreme - X-treme! - fear of pyro-anything related, well, they would not even waste their time sifting through my liquids. I mean, just so you understand....I am afraid of the stove. I always wonder if this will be the time it blows up. And then a dog will attack me and then I get skin cancer. It's my triumvirate of phobias.
But then, the Ex-True Love of My Life, not to be confused with Summer Fling Love-of-my-Life (that's for those keeping score), blew up things for a living. Seriously. He was very important to the government and Maryland football too when he got to blow off the cannon at halftime. I think he found that more fulfilling. I stayed in the stands with the flask that we had to sneak in. Far away from the pyro-technics. So, the detail with which they were analyzing my liquids in Chicago, someone must have tipped them off to my knowing Blow-Up Guy. Because apparantly I was a suspicious Blow-Up Girl on the way home.
Or, rather, just some girl with way too many beauty products.
I can say that the trip there was easy breezy. Mav and I had plenty of time to spare...or drink... so we checked in our luggage and then hit the airport bar for bloody marys - since it was only 10:30 AM. My cosmetics apparantly breezed through the Suspcious Liquid Sniffing Dogs (or men in suits?)because we got our luggage, seamlessly, on the other end. (Courtesy Traveling Tip: Dog biscuits in your suitcase are a good distraction. Or liquor. But, really, don't try this at home.)
So we got to party it up in Chicago with all our liquids in tact.
The way home was a different story, my friends. It wasn't smooth-sailing, drunk-before-departure this time, because we just made it to the aiport and had very little time left to spare. To drink a bloody mary. So we had no choice but to bust through all the security with our liquids. I really started to worry about what would happen to some of my more, shall we say...hefty bottles at 4 ounces. Just over regulation play.
Before we could test security, we had to pass muster with Liquid (or Wicked, you choose) Queen of the Land of Ziplocs. And let me tell you, she ruled with an iron fist and a plastic bag. She didn't have her scales - no, she judged Liquids with her bare eye. And then she started tossing out liquids left and right. I let her go in her joyous lay-ups as I shrugged off losing my L'oreal makeup remover and Crest, but when she got to my brand new bottle of Kiehls - that cost $30 - well the dukes came out. Because really, if I'm going to blow up something, I'm not buying a $30 Kiehls product to do this. I think I would go with hemorhoid cream.
My dukes were up but with sugary cupcakes in peaceful offering. "You can't take that. I just bought it! It was $30 and it is only 4 ounces - can't you let an ounce go?" And I may have batted my lashes.
"NO!" A shout heard round the world.
Then she got distracted with another goody bag of toiletries and she forgot about me for one second. Meanwhile Mav is triumphantly placing all her cosmetics in her ziploc bag. She passed inspection. And I was wondering how she even fit all her products into one bag. I probably needed three. So I shove the Kiehls in my bag, zip up my ziploc, and tell Mav to scoot. I'm busting through this Ziploc aisle.
But not before Cosmetic Hater yells at me, yeah, yells at me, "Where is that bottle I told you you couldn't take?" There was a head cluck too.
Me, the Snail of Quick Thinking, hemmed and hawed, and mumbled under my breath, "I'm, um, ah, thinking about it. I'm going to go, ah, over there (I pointed to the atria ahead) and, um, um, use an ounce of it or something."
And I went back and forth with this lady behind a card table with a box of ziploc bags in her hand. She wasn't an aiport screener. No, she was just the lady with the ziplocs. For all i know, she was also pedaliing Girl Scout cookies for her 12-year old daughter, who was sitting at home watching Laguna Beach.
Finally, she got distracted by some other confused passenger, like myself. "What? I can't bring my Rogaine on?"
She has no compassion.
So I broke free from her shackles. Because, really, who was she?
And then I got the real aiport screener, she of nice-hood, who could have been my mom. And if I didn't already have a great mom, I would have totally adopted her. Or a celebrity. Because this fine lady took out my Kiehls and told me she had to go around the corner and check on whether this is passable. "Hey, lunch bag lady said it wasn't," is what I didn't tell her. So while she was gone and I put my clothes back on (because we are one step away from naked screening where they will just pour the liquids on you and, hey, airports become the new porn), I resigned myself to the possibility that it wasn't meant to be with this $30 soap. Let the airport screeners have the clean face. I will be dirty face. (Sulk.)
Well, nice lady came back and asked me if this was doctor prescribed and I think she may have winked.
And again the Snail of Quick Thinking that I am said, "No. But I have these bumps on my forehead and the lady at the Kiehls counter in Barney's said this would be good for it."
Again, with a wink, "So you would say that your doctor prescribed this right? right?"
Ding ding ding. We have contact with the Brain! "Yes, my dermatologist did."
And she let me and my Kiehls go.....to blow up the plane --- JUST KIDDING. Remember, it would be the hemorhoid cream and I left that at home. (Just so you know, I hated making that joke but for purposes of this story as it is Hollywood big budget and the producers control the purse strings and this writer's pen - well, gratuitous violence is necessary - it sells tickets. I don't bite the hand that feeds or they might put snakes on my plane. And I would ask, is John Travolta available? Vinny Babarino-John Travolta.)
And that is the story of how a 4.4 bottle of Kiehls facial soap defied liquid restrictions and safely traveled back to DC and, in the end, wreaked no havoc whatsoever on the plane.
So, chick-flick.
Last month, I flew for the first time since the new air restrictions on liquids were enforced. If they ever knew my extreme - X-treme! - fear of pyro-anything related, well, they would not even waste their time sifting through my liquids. I mean, just so you understand....I am afraid of the stove. I always wonder if this will be the time it blows up. And then a dog will attack me and then I get skin cancer. It's my triumvirate of phobias.
But then, the Ex-True Love of My Life, not to be confused with Summer Fling Love-of-my-Life (that's for those keeping score), blew up things for a living. Seriously. He was very important to the government and Maryland football too when he got to blow off the cannon at halftime. I think he found that more fulfilling. I stayed in the stands with the flask that we had to sneak in. Far away from the pyro-technics. So, the detail with which they were analyzing my liquids in Chicago, someone must have tipped them off to my knowing Blow-Up Guy. Because apparantly I was a suspicious Blow-Up Girl on the way home.
Or, rather, just some girl with way too many beauty products.
I can say that the trip there was easy breezy. Mav and I had plenty of time to spare...or drink... so we checked in our luggage and then hit the airport bar for bloody marys - since it was only 10:30 AM. My cosmetics apparantly breezed through the Suspcious Liquid Sniffing Dogs (or men in suits?)because we got our luggage, seamlessly, on the other end. (Courtesy Traveling Tip: Dog biscuits in your suitcase are a good distraction. Or liquor. But, really, don't try this at home.)
So we got to party it up in Chicago with all our liquids in tact.
The way home was a different story, my friends. It wasn't smooth-sailing, drunk-before-departure this time, because we just made it to the aiport and had very little time left to spare. To drink a bloody mary. So we had no choice but to bust through all the security with our liquids. I really started to worry about what would happen to some of my more, shall we say...hefty bottles at 4 ounces. Just over regulation play.
Before we could test security, we had to pass muster with Liquid (or Wicked, you choose) Queen of the Land of Ziplocs. And let me tell you, she ruled with an iron fist and a plastic bag. She didn't have her scales - no, she judged Liquids with her bare eye. And then she started tossing out liquids left and right. I let her go in her joyous lay-ups as I shrugged off losing my L'oreal makeup remover and Crest, but when she got to my brand new bottle of Kiehls - that cost $30 - well the dukes came out. Because really, if I'm going to blow up something, I'm not buying a $30 Kiehls product to do this. I think I would go with hemorhoid cream.
My dukes were up but with sugary cupcakes in peaceful offering. "You can't take that. I just bought it! It was $30 and it is only 4 ounces - can't you let an ounce go?" And I may have batted my lashes.
"NO!" A shout heard round the world.
Then she got distracted with another goody bag of toiletries and she forgot about me for one second. Meanwhile Mav is triumphantly placing all her cosmetics in her ziploc bag. She passed inspection. And I was wondering how she even fit all her products into one bag. I probably needed three. So I shove the Kiehls in my bag, zip up my ziploc, and tell Mav to scoot. I'm busting through this Ziploc aisle.
But not before Cosmetic Hater yells at me, yeah, yells at me, "Where is that bottle I told you you couldn't take?" There was a head cluck too.
Me, the Snail of Quick Thinking, hemmed and hawed, and mumbled under my breath, "I'm, um, ah, thinking about it. I'm going to go, ah, over there (I pointed to the atria ahead) and, um, um, use an ounce of it or something."
And I went back and forth with this lady behind a card table with a box of ziploc bags in her hand. She wasn't an aiport screener. No, she was just the lady with the ziplocs. For all i know, she was also pedaliing Girl Scout cookies for her 12-year old daughter, who was sitting at home watching Laguna Beach.
Finally, she got distracted by some other confused passenger, like myself. "What? I can't bring my Rogaine on?"
She has no compassion.
So I broke free from her shackles. Because, really, who was she?
And then I got the real aiport screener, she of nice-hood, who could have been my mom. And if I didn't already have a great mom, I would have totally adopted her. Or a celebrity. Because this fine lady took out my Kiehls and told me she had to go around the corner and check on whether this is passable. "Hey, lunch bag lady said it wasn't," is what I didn't tell her. So while she was gone and I put my clothes back on (because we are one step away from naked screening where they will just pour the liquids on you and, hey, airports become the new porn), I resigned myself to the possibility that it wasn't meant to be with this $30 soap. Let the airport screeners have the clean face. I will be dirty face. (Sulk.)
Well, nice lady came back and asked me if this was doctor prescribed and I think she may have winked.
And again the Snail of Quick Thinking that I am said, "No. But I have these bumps on my forehead and the lady at the Kiehls counter in Barney's said this would be good for it."
Again, with a wink, "So you would say that your doctor prescribed this right? right?"
Ding ding ding. We have contact with the Brain! "Yes, my dermatologist did."
And she let me and my Kiehls go.....to blow up the plane --- JUST KIDDING. Remember, it would be the hemorhoid cream and I left that at home. (Just so you know, I hated making that joke but for purposes of this story as it is Hollywood big budget and the producers control the purse strings and this writer's pen - well, gratuitous violence is necessary - it sells tickets. I don't bite the hand that feeds or they might put snakes on my plane. And I would ask, is John Travolta available? Vinny Babarino-John Travolta.)
And that is the story of how a 4.4 bottle of Kiehls facial soap defied liquid restrictions and safely traveled back to DC and, in the end, wreaked no havoc whatsoever on the plane.
So, chick-flick.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Screaming Blue Iguanas
[Internet General's Warning: Put down the sandwich. Seriously. You do not want to be eating your lunch while reading the following I've-Got-Nothing-Else-For-You post from a dried up blog. Original Me, you are a has been. Oh, sorry, we found somebody more dried up than you. So no food. But wine is strongly encouraged. That way, this might be a little entertaining. And now....the Internet is drunk. This message has been FDA-approved.]
A couple weekends ago Dear Prudence and I bellied up to a bar one rainy Friday night. But in securing these cozy seats for the night we had to entertain some chap who gave them up for us. Nice guys finish last indeed (i.e., standing up in the main thoroughfare of the bar only to be elbowed en route to the bathroom - constantly). So in the goodness of our appreciative thirsty little hearts we "let" him tell us in painstaking and barbaric detail about a trip to Honduras in which he ate endangered iguana eggs and how this came to be: He didn't want to die (i.e., starve to death) hence his "when in Rome" justification (of eating the sweet little innocent baby doll eggs).
Coming to a restaurant near you.
So since we had to hear his story of endangered cuisine and the finger-licking lip-smacking of such a delicacy and mostly because I am THAT NICE (I know! Thank me in champagne!), I will share his meal with you!
We ate it - the story - and that didn't taste good. So, I warned you. Remember put down the sandwich - for the next day or two and digest this.
Now coming to Foodtv.
This story comes with a character and his name is, Gentle Ben. Gentle Ben used to work for the Peace Corps and longs for the days when he wasn't working for the man, he stiffs the bartender a quarter every time he orders his stout, and he frequently strokes his bushy beard while he shares his tale of barbarous woe.
Gentle Ben leans in between DP and I, hand in V formation within his nest of facial hair stroking the words along, and carefully selects his descriptor like any of the best food critics I could imagine,
"Iguana eggs are fluffy."
(NOT) Coming to Bob and Ediths! But foodtv is still interested. Maybe there is a Semi-Homemade cocktail in the works.....
I know you must be famished right now since you have been forced to go without your sandwich for the lunch hour while you read this mouth-watering tale of apparently-ethnic cuisine because see, as Gentle Ben says, "Dude, this is how they survive, by eating the iguana." How many ways can you skin a cat? How many ways can you filet an iguana is what the natives (according-to-Gentle Ben) ask. Seriously, would you order a hamburger at a Mexican restaurant? OK, Gentle Ben, point made.
How To Hunt Iguana, as told by Gentle Ben with help from Me
Shake the cute little guy from the tree.
Dive into the water after him.
Bring him to the cooktop.
Filet the iguana with an incision down the belly.
Munch on the legs at the movies.
Cut the eggs out of the body.
OK, CUT, CUT!! (Or even bad choice of words - no more cutting - stop this Gross Fest!!) Seriously, no more. I am having horrific flashbacks to when I was in junior high and I forgot to skip school on Frog Disection day. And what were we supposed to learn anyways on that day? I'll tell you what I learned: Frogs have sex. And my kermit had lady parts because she was "in that way." Only to be found out after the incision and all the little black eggs (a la caviar) exploded out of her belly onto my lab table. And to this day, I can not try caviar. (But I am sure there are other factors involved in that decision too and they have to do with: gross and eww and a Taco Bell palette.) Alright. That's it. My kid is skipping school on Frog Disection Day. I will send a note: "Susie will have to miss out on your little experiment because she would like to eat caviar SOMEDAY, what with the expensive tastes of her mother. Taco Bell. We'll be at the border."
Gentle Ben says: MMM, tasty iguana tacos.
A couple weekends ago Dear Prudence and I bellied up to a bar one rainy Friday night. But in securing these cozy seats for the night we had to entertain some chap who gave them up for us. Nice guys finish last indeed (i.e., standing up in the main thoroughfare of the bar only to be elbowed en route to the bathroom - constantly). So in the goodness of our appreciative thirsty little hearts we "let" him tell us in painstaking and barbaric detail about a trip to Honduras in which he ate endangered iguana eggs and how this came to be: He didn't want to die (i.e., starve to death) hence his "when in Rome" justification (of eating the sweet little innocent baby doll eggs).
Coming to a restaurant near you.
So since we had to hear his story of endangered cuisine and the finger-licking lip-smacking of such a delicacy and mostly because I am THAT NICE (I know! Thank me in champagne!), I will share his meal with you!
We ate it - the story - and that didn't taste good. So, I warned you. Remember put down the sandwich - for the next day or two and digest this.
Now coming to Foodtv.
This story comes with a character and his name is, Gentle Ben. Gentle Ben used to work for the Peace Corps and longs for the days when he wasn't working for the man, he stiffs the bartender a quarter every time he orders his stout, and he frequently strokes his bushy beard while he shares his tale of barbarous woe.
Gentle Ben leans in between DP and I, hand in V formation within his nest of facial hair stroking the words along, and carefully selects his descriptor like any of the best food critics I could imagine,
"Iguana eggs are fluffy."
(NOT) Coming to Bob and Ediths! But foodtv is still interested. Maybe there is a Semi-Homemade cocktail in the works.....
I know you must be famished right now since you have been forced to go without your sandwich for the lunch hour while you read this mouth-watering tale of apparently-ethnic cuisine because see, as Gentle Ben says, "Dude, this is how they survive, by eating the iguana." How many ways can you skin a cat? How many ways can you filet an iguana is what the natives (according-to-Gentle Ben) ask. Seriously, would you order a hamburger at a Mexican restaurant? OK, Gentle Ben, point made.
How To Hunt Iguana, as told by Gentle Ben with help from Me
Shake the cute little guy from the tree.
Dive into the water after him.
Bring him to the cooktop.
Filet the iguana with an incision down the belly.
Munch on the legs at the movies.
Cut the eggs out of the body.
OK, CUT, CUT!! (Or even bad choice of words - no more cutting - stop this Gross Fest!!) Seriously, no more. I am having horrific flashbacks to when I was in junior high and I forgot to skip school on Frog Disection day. And what were we supposed to learn anyways on that day? I'll tell you what I learned: Frogs have sex. And my kermit had lady parts because she was "in that way." Only to be found out after the incision and all the little black eggs (a la caviar) exploded out of her belly onto my lab table. And to this day, I can not try caviar. (But I am sure there are other factors involved in that decision too and they have to do with: gross and eww and a Taco Bell palette.) Alright. That's it. My kid is skipping school on Frog Disection Day. I will send a note: "Susie will have to miss out on your little experiment because she would like to eat caviar SOMEDAY, what with the expensive tastes of her mother. Taco Bell. We'll be at the border."
Gentle Ben says: MMM, tasty iguana tacos.
Screaming Blue Iguanas
[Internet General's Warning: Put down the sandwich. Seriously. You do not want to be eating your lunch while reading the following I've-Got-Nothing-Else-For-You post from a dried up blog. Original Me, you are a has been. Oh, sorry, we found somebody more dried up than you. So no food. But wine is strongly encouraged. That way, this might be a little entertaining. And now....the Internet is drunk. This message has been FDA-approved.]
A couple weekends ago Dear Prudence and I bellied up to a bar one rainy Friday night. But in securing these cozy seats for the night we had to entertain some chap who gave them up for us. Nice guys finish last indeed (i.e., standing up in the main thoroughfare of the bar only to be elbowed en route to the bathroom - constantly). So in the goodness of our appreciative thirsty little hearts we "let" him tell us in painstaking and barbaric detail about a trip to Honduras in which he ate endangered iguana eggs and how this came to be: He didn't want to die (i.e., starve to death) hence his "when in Rome" justification (of eating the sweet little innocent baby doll eggs).
Coming to a restaurant near you.
So since we had to hear his story of endangered cuisine and the finger-licking lip-smacking of such a delicacy and mostly because I am THAT NICE (I know! Thank me in champagne!), I will share his meal with you!
We ate it - the story - and that didn't taste good. So, I warned you. Remember put down the sandwich - for the next day or two and digest this.
Now coming to Foodtv.
This story comes with a character and his name is, Gentle Ben. Gentle Ben used to work for the Peace Corps and longs for the days when he wasn't working for the man, he stiffs the bartender a quarter every time he orders his stout, and he frequently strokes his bushy beard while he shares his tale of barbarous woe.
Gentle Ben leans in between DP and I, hand in V formation within his nest of facial hair stroking the words along, and carefully selects his descriptor like any of the best food critics I could imagine,
"Iguana eggs are fluffy."
(NOT) Coming to Bob and Ediths! But foodtv is still interested. Maybe there is a Semi-Homemade cocktail in the works.....
I know you must be famished right now since you have been forced to go without your sandwich for the lunch hour while you read this mouth-watering tale of apparently-ethnic cuisine because see, as Gentle Ben says, "Dude, this is how they survive, by eating the iguana." How many ways can you skin a cat? How many ways can you filet an iguana is what the natives (according-to-Gentle Ben) ask. Seriously, would you order a hamburger at a Mexican restaurant? OK, Gentle Ben, point made.
Take us back to Honduran cuisine.
How To Hunt Iguana, as told by Gentle Ben
Shake the cute little guy from the tree.
Dive into the water after him.
Bring him to the cooktop.
Filet the iguana with an incision down the belly.
OK, CUT, CUT!! (Or even bad choice of words - no more cutting - stop this Gross Fest!!) Seriously, no more. I am having horrific flashbacks to when I was in junior high and I forgot to skip school on Frog Disection day. And what were we supposed to learn anyways on that day? I'll tell you what I learned: Frogs have sex. And my kermit had lady parts because she was "in that way." Only to be found out after the incision and all the little black eggs (a la caviar) exploded out of her belly onto my lab table. And to this day, I can not try caviar. (But I am sure there are other factors involved in that decision too and they have to do with: gross and eww and a Taco Bell palette.) Alright. That's it. My kid is skipping school on Frog Disection Day. I will send a note: "Susie will have to miss out on your little experiment because she would like to eat caviar SOMEDAY, what with the expensive tastes of her mother. Taco Bell. We'll be at the border."
Gentle Ben says: MMM, tasty iguana tacos.
One can only take his word for it. And now after such lovely bar conversation I can't even bring myself to eat a regular American chicken egg anymore.
But I think I will still be good go with the Cadbury eggs come Easter time. Yep, no babies on board in those.
A couple weekends ago Dear Prudence and I bellied up to a bar one rainy Friday night. But in securing these cozy seats for the night we had to entertain some chap who gave them up for us. Nice guys finish last indeed (i.e., standing up in the main thoroughfare of the bar only to be elbowed en route to the bathroom - constantly). So in the goodness of our appreciative thirsty little hearts we "let" him tell us in painstaking and barbaric detail about a trip to Honduras in which he ate endangered iguana eggs and how this came to be: He didn't want to die (i.e., starve to death) hence his "when in Rome" justification (of eating the sweet little innocent baby doll eggs).
Coming to a restaurant near you.
So since we had to hear his story of endangered cuisine and the finger-licking lip-smacking of such a delicacy and mostly because I am THAT NICE (I know! Thank me in champagne!), I will share his meal with you!
We ate it - the story - and that didn't taste good. So, I warned you. Remember put down the sandwich - for the next day or two and digest this.
Now coming to Foodtv.
This story comes with a character and his name is, Gentle Ben. Gentle Ben used to work for the Peace Corps and longs for the days when he wasn't working for the man, he stiffs the bartender a quarter every time he orders his stout, and he frequently strokes his bushy beard while he shares his tale of barbarous woe.
Gentle Ben leans in between DP and I, hand in V formation within his nest of facial hair stroking the words along, and carefully selects his descriptor like any of the best food critics I could imagine,
"Iguana eggs are fluffy."
(NOT) Coming to Bob and Ediths! But foodtv is still interested. Maybe there is a Semi-Homemade cocktail in the works.....
I know you must be famished right now since you have been forced to go without your sandwich for the lunch hour while you read this mouth-watering tale of apparently-ethnic cuisine because see, as Gentle Ben says, "Dude, this is how they survive, by eating the iguana." How many ways can you skin a cat? How many ways can you filet an iguana is what the natives (according-to-Gentle Ben) ask. Seriously, would you order a hamburger at a Mexican restaurant? OK, Gentle Ben, point made.
Take us back to Honduran cuisine.
How To Hunt Iguana, as told by Gentle Ben
Shake the cute little guy from the tree.
Dive into the water after him.
Bring him to the cooktop.
Filet the iguana with an incision down the belly.
Munch on the legs at the movies.
Cut the eggs out of the body.OK, CUT, CUT!! (Or even bad choice of words - no more cutting - stop this Gross Fest!!) Seriously, no more. I am having horrific flashbacks to when I was in junior high and I forgot to skip school on Frog Disection day. And what were we supposed to learn anyways on that day? I'll tell you what I learned: Frogs have sex. And my kermit had lady parts because she was "in that way." Only to be found out after the incision and all the little black eggs (a la caviar) exploded out of her belly onto my lab table. And to this day, I can not try caviar. (But I am sure there are other factors involved in that decision too and they have to do with: gross and eww and a Taco Bell palette.) Alright. That's it. My kid is skipping school on Frog Disection Day. I will send a note: "Susie will have to miss out on your little experiment because she would like to eat caviar SOMEDAY, what with the expensive tastes of her mother. Taco Bell. We'll be at the border."
Gentle Ben says: MMM, tasty iguana tacos.
One can only take his word for it. And now after such lovely bar conversation I can't even bring myself to eat a regular American chicken egg anymore.
But I think I will still be good go with the Cadbury eggs come Easter time. Yep, no babies on board in those.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
If I Got My Dating Advice From The Bachelor
Someday my prince will come and now thanks to ABC I know how to nab him!
I might be able to win him over if I am royalty myself! Or, you know, "kind of like royalty" because my daddy is rich and, look, my mom is actually Barbie. And just to give him a visual, I will don my tiara on our "first date" so that he can see that I am fit to be his princess. And on second thought, I will leave the fur at home "because of animal rights and all." I can be a princess with a conscience!
Or I just might have to get really, really drunk. Because I am in my 30's and all these 23-year olds think I am over the hill, but they say I look good for my age. And, you know I have, like, genetics to thank for that! Yeah, I am soooo ddr8n5k!
Or perhaps I will hug a tree. I mean, you haven't had a "connection" with someone until you have hugged a tree together. It just might get me the sparkly earrings! I'll bet no trees were hurt for these dazzlers! So go hug a tree today.
Or I could impress the Italian prince with my own Italian heritage. It took me forever to learn how to say, "Nice to meet you, Italian Stallion!" and "Large pie hold the anchovies!" Oops. Prince Lorenzo, you don't know any Italian, oh prince of Italy?
"Gelatto."
"Ciao! Lorenzo, over here, I'm a local and ABC nabbed me off the street to add some spice to the party. And guess what? Italian is the only language I can speak so I can't understand a word you say. I'll just toss my hair around and giggle at everything you say. Did he just say, "Do you like to hunt people?" Oh, silly prince (giggle). Yes! I'll accept the rose! I am looking forward to getting to know you better. Don't you think words are so overrated?"
But why don't I just show him one of my many talents? Miss America does it. I could serenade him an opera aria from the balcony. Thank god for karaoke! It really works those pipes. Or I could always bust out with the dance moves. Doesn't every guy want to see you rock your body, you know, when there is no music on. And what kind of party doesn't have music? Oh, the all-night-kind with no food and lots of booze. Have you cut off the drunk 30-year old? OK. Maybe I should just tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue. Has anyone done that one? [Season 7! --diehard Bachelor viewer (of the not me kind!)]
I should also demonstate the sacrifices I have made to meet my prince: I'm a virgin and I am saving myself for him! I sold my car for him-TV-him! But I put y'all to shame, I just flew coach for him.
When all else fails I should really find some commonality with the prince:
"You went to college in Fla! No way! I am from Florida!"
"You are a prince! No way! I am a princess or at least that is what my mom tells me!"
"You live in New York! No way! I watch Sex and the City!"
"You sell makeup! No way! I wear makeup!"
"You've got a blue tie! No way! I've got a blue dress!"
And the real card up the sleeve is Jon fucking Bon Jovi. Or The Olive Garden. But find that common ground because the tiara is only going to get you so far and you can't hug trees while in a gondola.
But there is one thing I learned from past seasons and I should never ever tell him that I want to bear his prince and princess babies because my biological clock is ticking away. But where is he going to stand when he finds that I have written our names with hearts in red lipstick on every bathroom mirror in that damn Borghese castle?
God, I can't wait to watch another Bachelor trainwreck.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
The Proof Isn't In The Pudding, It's In My Thighs
I am having a love-hate relationship with food - nope, scratch that - with sugar and carbs - at the moment. Gloominess is triggering the indulging or the indulging is triggering the gloom. I'm not sure of the whereabouts and that is why I can't seem to find my way out of the deep forest of Overeating where oompah loompahs are the ideal and YOU, my friend (and by "my friend", I mean "me"), are the Oddity.
Fact #1: My diet (i.e., cravings) are really dictated by what is going on at any given day in my life. And so each day is unlike the next. Will I stymie cravings easily with the "Get Lost" tea and "Fit and Slender" water drops? Or will I forget I have these placebos in my possession, decry their "false advertising," and yearn for the Dr Pepper, potatoes, rice, and chocolate bars as Must-Do-Or-Die? (Please send all pies to I dot M dot Pig at originalme dot com, the architect of my own private Chubby-O. Heh.)
Case in point: One day last week I popped over to the "greek deli" for lunch. Anyone who works in my neighborhood knows the greek deli and knows it as mm-mmm-good-eatin'. Think Seinfeld, Soup Nazi. Store-front, loooong lines, and terse (tonge-in-cheek) service. When I go here, I am just about the only girl in line. (In a galaxy far, far away, Shamrock would accompany me.) In fact, I think all the men in the city culminate here for lunch. (Ladies, forget match.com, looking for men in DC? Put down your salad and your computer and hit the Greek deli!) Anyway, on this particular visit, and amongst the distraction of all these men, I panicked at the counter because I WAS going to order the chicken soup which is lemony and delicious - and broth-based - so I could be on par with my salad sisters. But, like I said, I panicked. So..."I'll have the heathly, delicious, yummy broth and hold the bread!" instead came out like,...."I'll have the big greasy slab of meatloaf with a mound of orzo, throw a few potatos on the side, don't forget the buttery bed and, hell yeah, wrap up the chocolate chip cookie with a sugar kiss!" And so I lugged the overflowing styrofoam container back to my office holding steady with two hands because of a) the sheer weight of all this food and b) the girth of container to hold said linebacker meal. And as I sat in my office and caught up on some blog reading enjoying the sheer genius of this greek feast, not once thinking about my thighs swishing together or my snap busting to break free UNTIL an email popped up on my screen from some heretoforementioned jerk by the name of Pompadour asking what I was up to that weekend. (Well, he segued into that, but the point...) And instead of hitting delete on Mr. Fly-By-Night I lost all appetite for the meatloaf, put it in the refrigerator for a rainy day (i.e., Must Eat All Fat In The Vicinity Day), perked up and ate an apple for lunch instead and plotted what outfit I would wear on the "implied?" champagne date. ("what are you doing this weekend? I owe you champagne!" Hence the implication?)
And so just like that I went from Ms. Piggle Wiggle, The Little Ball of Pudge, to Miss Piggy Get-Me-Some-Kermit.
And then when the weekend went by and there was no word from him (wtf? or, rather, yeah, I fell into that trap), I opted right back to the Sunday movie popcorn (with lots of butter!), a bagel (with lots of butter!), a baked potato (with lots of butter!), and not one, but two(!), Dove chocolate candy bars in the course of a day. Alright, I exaggerate, but I did have two candy bars, I didn't get butter on my popcorn, but I did have a fat baked spud with tons of butter. No bagel was actually involved in this pig fest.
And so NOW just like that I went from salad and fruit and whole grain and free-love to a stick of butter, a stick of butter, and a pound of sugar and self-loathe.
So it is the same cycle and I can not consistently get into a groove of healthy eating. And it is really not that I eat a lot, because I really don't. It is just that my choices are not the most healthful. Hey! Have I ever told you how much I love potatoes and gummy bears? (Please, I beg of you to send all pies to I dot M dot Pig at originalme dot com.)
And now on top of my own Self-Critiqueing and Mirror Bashing (I am not what I see in the mirror is what I tell myself to which myself responds: Yes, hon, that is all you), I am now paranoid that everyone else sees what I do.
Case in point #1: The other day I was in a dance shop buying ballet shoes and I decided to get a leotard too. The salesperson recommended a large for me because, as she said, "..don't worry because they run really small! Do not take offense to the size. It's like a bathing suit." "OK," I thought, "but I wear a size 4 or 6 in bikini. Have I changed that much since 4 weeks ago?" So I took her advice and pulled a size large off the rack and held it up to me. So for old times sake, I grabbed a medium too. And while I don't like the way the leotard looks on me, the medium will do just fine. In fact, the large was way too big. [Yes, editor, that should be an emphasis on "way", thank you.]
Case in point #2: There is this guy at work. (For those keeping score at home, Snow White's Ex.) He is a super nice guy and the other day he stopped by my office to chat which doesn't happen very often. We chatted about mutual friends. I blabbed about my new house. You see, what I thought was a chatty conversation. I had much to say! And then the next day, he came by my office again and started the conversation with, "You don't have to answer this if you don't want...." Which, holy Freddy Kreuger, scares the living daylights out of me with all the possibilities of that kind of preface coming from a very good friend's ex-boyfriend. But he was merely asking me if everything was ok with me because I seemed a little "down" yesterday. Which is weird, but then again, not so weird. He was the one person who really helped me after my dad died as he had just lost his brother the year before I lost my father and he is just one of those people you find it so easy to talk to. So he is just that kind of guy. But, my point - and remember I am not always the most rational formula in the math book - is I automatically assumed he meant that I looked like I packed on 30 pounds and was headed down a path of self-destruction. Dare I ask him if this is an overeating intervention?
Case in Point #3: When I told a friend the other day that I was taking ballet, she responded with, "You're taking ballet??" Emphasis on "you're" in a very questioning tone punctuated with double question marks, exclamations, and cookies and pies. Then that makes me paranoid that what she was thinking - what everyone is thinking - is "How absurd, you don't have a dancer's body, what are you doing in Petite and Limber Land?" And I would just respond, "Apparently stick figure was not a requirement for the class."
So, you see, when you are in a funk as I am, the food trap I have described as my own personal journey of despair leads to negative (irrational) body issues. I can almost see how eating disorders come about. In all seriousness.
My lawyer's want me to point out that I am not poking fun at food addictions, eating disorders, or the Overweight. All opinions are my own and relate to my own personal body space - my own personal issue - which is about 10 pounds heavier than I would like to be. Do you know how much 10 pounds is?! That is the weight of my Greek Deli fare (see: above) that I did in fact find a rainy day to empty said contents into my "dancer's body." 10 pounds later! In which I pose a question to my lawyer's: Can we sue the greek deli as the sole responsible party to my overindulging as they knew (not me!) that by eating 10 pounds worth of their, albeit yummy, food that I would gain 10 pounds too? That 10 pound styrofoam take-out should post a box with the surgeon general's warning that the "contents will cause pudge." Or, should we sue Pompadour and men of his ilk who drive poor little ole me over the ledge of overeating and into the arms of greek deli meatloaf and chocolate chip cookies to overcome the sting of their rejection? Is that the root of the evil? Because I am not responsible for my own actions, oh no, I am not!
Ok. Ok. With all this Living in Chubbyville talk, you, dear reader, might be yelling at your screen right now. Don't worry, I have heard those shouts and I saw those eye rolls (which makes me very self-conscious so if you can look away when you do that you might not hurt my feelings). So I should point out that I do get off my butt. I have been a little more active than shoveling food in my mouth (arm curls), catching gummy bears in my mouth (basketball), and walking to the Food Store to replenish the cupboard/belly (so, equivalent of say, the marathon?). In fact, Dear Prudence and I have been walking to work every morning which is a 2.5 or 3 mile walk. I've got the ballet going on. Trying to do a little Pilates in the evening as I watch the boob tube. Plan to start my laps at the pool again real soon. Plan to start running. (Did you catch that? I went from "doing" to "trying" to "plan to"....the thought that counts!) Anyway, I understand the importance of exercise. So there's that.
But mentally I just can't get it all together. And that is where I am folks. There's got to be a better way of coping. One that doesn't involve eating all these pies somebody keeps emailing me.
Fact #1: My diet (i.e., cravings) are really dictated by what is going on at any given day in my life. And so each day is unlike the next. Will I stymie cravings easily with the "Get Lost" tea and "Fit and Slender" water drops? Or will I forget I have these placebos in my possession, decry their "false advertising," and yearn for the Dr Pepper, potatoes, rice, and chocolate bars as Must-Do-Or-Die? (Please send all pies to I dot M dot Pig at originalme dot com, the architect of my own private Chubby-O. Heh.)
Case in point: One day last week I popped over to the "greek deli" for lunch. Anyone who works in my neighborhood knows the greek deli and knows it as mm-mmm-good-eatin'. Think Seinfeld, Soup Nazi. Store-front, loooong lines, and terse (tonge-in-cheek) service. When I go here, I am just about the only girl in line. (In a galaxy far, far away, Shamrock would accompany me.) In fact, I think all the men in the city culminate here for lunch. (Ladies, forget match.com, looking for men in DC? Put down your salad and your computer and hit the Greek deli!) Anyway, on this particular visit, and amongst the distraction of all these men, I panicked at the counter because I WAS going to order the chicken soup which is lemony and delicious - and broth-based - so I could be on par with my salad sisters. But, like I said, I panicked. So..."I'll have the heathly, delicious, yummy broth and hold the bread!" instead came out like,...."I'll have the big greasy slab of meatloaf with a mound of orzo, throw a few potatos on the side, don't forget the buttery bed and, hell yeah, wrap up the chocolate chip cookie with a sugar kiss!" And so I lugged the overflowing styrofoam container back to my office holding steady with two hands because of a) the sheer weight of all this food and b) the girth of container to hold said linebacker meal. And as I sat in my office and caught up on some blog reading enjoying the sheer genius of this greek feast, not once thinking about my thighs swishing together or my snap busting to break free UNTIL an email popped up on my screen from some heretoforementioned jerk by the name of Pompadour asking what I was up to that weekend. (Well, he segued into that, but the point...) And instead of hitting delete on Mr. Fly-By-Night I lost all appetite for the meatloaf, put it in the refrigerator for a rainy day (i.e., Must Eat All Fat In The Vicinity Day), perked up and ate an apple for lunch instead and plotted what outfit I would wear on the "implied?" champagne date. ("what are you doing this weekend? I owe you champagne!" Hence the implication?)
And so just like that I went from Ms. Piggle Wiggle, The Little Ball of Pudge, to Miss Piggy Get-Me-Some-Kermit.
And then when the weekend went by and there was no word from him (wtf? or, rather, yeah, I fell into that trap), I opted right back to the Sunday movie popcorn (with lots of butter!), a bagel (with lots of butter!), a baked potato (with lots of butter!), and not one, but two(!), Dove chocolate candy bars in the course of a day. Alright, I exaggerate, but I did have two candy bars, I didn't get butter on my popcorn, but I did have a fat baked spud with tons of butter. No bagel was actually involved in this pig fest.
And so NOW just like that I went from salad and fruit and whole grain and free-love to a stick of butter, a stick of butter, and a pound of sugar and self-loathe.
So it is the same cycle and I can not consistently get into a groove of healthy eating. And it is really not that I eat a lot, because I really don't. It is just that my choices are not the most healthful. Hey! Have I ever told you how much I love potatoes and gummy bears? (Please, I beg of you to send all pies to I dot M dot Pig at originalme dot com.)
And now on top of my own Self-Critiqueing and Mirror Bashing (I am not what I see in the mirror is what I tell myself to which myself responds: Yes, hon, that is all you), I am now paranoid that everyone else sees what I do.
Case in point #1: The other day I was in a dance shop buying ballet shoes and I decided to get a leotard too. The salesperson recommended a large for me because, as she said, "..don't worry because they run really small! Do not take offense to the size. It's like a bathing suit." "OK," I thought, "but I wear a size 4 or 6 in bikini. Have I changed that much since 4 weeks ago?" So I took her advice and pulled a size large off the rack and held it up to me. So for old times sake, I grabbed a medium too. And while I don't like the way the leotard looks on me, the medium will do just fine. In fact, the large was way too big. [Yes, editor, that should be an emphasis on "way", thank you.]
Case in point #2: There is this guy at work. (For those keeping score at home, Snow White's Ex.) He is a super nice guy and the other day he stopped by my office to chat which doesn't happen very often. We chatted about mutual friends. I blabbed about my new house. You see, what I thought was a chatty conversation. I had much to say! And then the next day, he came by my office again and started the conversation with, "You don't have to answer this if you don't want...." Which, holy Freddy Kreuger, scares the living daylights out of me with all the possibilities of that kind of preface coming from a very good friend's ex-boyfriend. But he was merely asking me if everything was ok with me because I seemed a little "down" yesterday. Which is weird, but then again, not so weird. He was the one person who really helped me after my dad died as he had just lost his brother the year before I lost my father and he is just one of those people you find it so easy to talk to. So he is just that kind of guy. But, my point - and remember I am not always the most rational formula in the math book - is I automatically assumed he meant that I looked like I packed on 30 pounds and was headed down a path of self-destruction. Dare I ask him if this is an overeating intervention?
Case in Point #3: When I told a friend the other day that I was taking ballet, she responded with, "You're taking ballet??" Emphasis on "you're" in a very questioning tone punctuated with double question marks, exclamations, and cookies and pies. Then that makes me paranoid that what she was thinking - what everyone is thinking - is "How absurd, you don't have a dancer's body, what are you doing in Petite and Limber Land?" And I would just respond, "Apparently stick figure was not a requirement for the class."
So, you see, when you are in a funk as I am, the food trap I have described as my own personal journey of despair leads to negative (irrational) body issues. I can almost see how eating disorders come about. In all seriousness.
My lawyer's want me to point out that I am not poking fun at food addictions, eating disorders, or the Overweight. All opinions are my own and relate to my own personal body space - my own personal issue - which is about 10 pounds heavier than I would like to be. Do you know how much 10 pounds is?! That is the weight of my Greek Deli fare (see: above) that I did in fact find a rainy day to empty said contents into my "dancer's body." 10 pounds later! In which I pose a question to my lawyer's: Can we sue the greek deli as the sole responsible party to my overindulging as they knew (not me!) that by eating 10 pounds worth of their, albeit yummy, food that I would gain 10 pounds too? That 10 pound styrofoam take-out should post a box with the surgeon general's warning that the "contents will cause pudge." Or, should we sue Pompadour and men of his ilk who drive poor little ole me over the ledge of overeating and into the arms of greek deli meatloaf and chocolate chip cookies to overcome the sting of their rejection? Is that the root of the evil? Because I am not responsible for my own actions, oh no, I am not!
Ok. Ok. With all this Living in Chubbyville talk, you, dear reader, might be yelling at your screen right now. Don't worry, I have heard those shouts and I saw those eye rolls (which makes me very self-conscious so if you can look away when you do that you might not hurt my feelings). So I should point out that I do get off my butt. I have been a little more active than shoveling food in my mouth (arm curls), catching gummy bears in my mouth (basketball), and walking to the Food Store to replenish the cupboard/belly (so, equivalent of say, the marathon?). In fact, Dear Prudence and I have been walking to work every morning which is a 2.5 or 3 mile walk. I've got the ballet going on. Trying to do a little Pilates in the evening as I watch the boob tube. Plan to start my laps at the pool again real soon. Plan to start running. (Did you catch that? I went from "doing" to "trying" to "plan to"....the thought that counts!) Anyway, I understand the importance of exercise. So there's that.
But mentally I just can't get it all together. And that is where I am folks. There's got to be a better way of coping. One that doesn't involve eating all these pies somebody keeps emailing me.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Cock(y) And Bull(shit)
Today.....could it be? Can it be? Shield thy eyes. We got sunshine! Pick up your jaws and wipe your lenses, because, yes, sunny-come-lately, we are witnessing our first sunshine in one whole week! Which, a week with cloudy/rainy weather is a sad, depressing state for yours truly. But I think I am slowly coming out of my funk that has a lot to do with nothing and a little to do with everything.
You see, I have not been excited about anything lately. Slightly depressed? Yeah, probably. The only thing that keeps me away from going to a doctor is my fear of The Drugs. Don't get me wrong, I'm not all Couch Jumping Crazy about it. But I do believe that what works for one may not work for another. My blood bleeds tie-dye. I have always chosen more natural remedies for my ailments. And when I do have to take an antibiotic, I'm pretty paranoid about what it is doing to my body. But, dude, pass the Crisco! My arteries are fine! You know what they say about a spoonful of sugar! And, as they say, Chug! So, really, it is just something for my handbook.
So what am I doing about my sad state of affairs? (Which I am really being melodramatic as I am prone to be and, well, for purposes of this post. Translation: There are no razor blades in my medicine chest.)
1. Drinking champagne this weekend! You may be thinking, chickie, lay off the alcohol, and, well, I say, read above!! Bubbles fall under natural remedy - sad head and achey heart needs effervescence to perk it back up! Dr. Me says so. And I know just the person who will oblige me the champagne this weekend. And his name is NOT Pompadour.
2. Ballet! I have signed up for a ballet class with Dear Prudence and we had our first class last night. I am sure I can plie and entendre my way to happiness. And get kick ass legs to boot. Rockettes here I come.
3. Back to knitting!
4. And, well, Saturdays in the fall, you can find me in some bar with 55 TVs blaring every gosh darn college football game in the universe. You really should check out the Mars Orangemen. They glow in the dark! Ha! That, with no drugs. Yes, I'm coming out of the funk just fine here, folks. Laughter follows, or, halts.
So, alright, I know you have just sunk back into your seat with relief that slitting my wrists isn't on the list. Are you crazy?!?
But, to bring it right back around to what has haunted me in the past few years: What am I doing? Where have I really been? Where am I heading? So I have been assessing the "mistakes" I keep making since the Yukkell....not to say he wasn't a bit of a mistake himself. And, by golly, I found the common denominator among the past 3 guys that I would say "wrecked" me (again, with the drama, to which I say: It is my stage!) in the last year.
Last Friday night as the rain poured down hard in our nation's capitol, I whined to Mav about being lonely (she - and my mom - have had to put up with my whiney ass all week, so a medal of friendship to her! will you settle for a ML, Mav? Oblige me the champagne??) And good friend her carried her ass over to my house in the pouring rain so we could polish off some beers and rant. I would like to point out for the record, that friendship is a two-way street and while she was doing something for me, I'd like to think I was also helping her out of a precarious situation. So we helped each other that night. In different ways. But then I pushed her right back into it later that night. Oh boy. But not the point! Or not my story to tell!
So, the topic turns to Pompadour and as we are hashing what went wrong, she confesses, "I got to be honest, Boa. I didn't really like him. He was a bit cocky and could never be serious. What was he hiding? Always the center of attention and just full of himself. Who orders egg white omelets in a diner and cottage cheese in a market in a redneck Delaware town and gives both people a hard time about not being able to serve these items? And actually being rude about it. But I didn't want to say anything to you because you liked him."
And then she tells me that Hollywood didn't like him for the same reasons - the only two people in my life who had a chance to meet him. And, well, that tells me something.
Eureka! That one word - cocky - was the common thread between, what I am now calling, My Cock-A-Threes (in ascending order): Pompadour, Johnny Jerkface, and the Wedding Date Canceler, hereinout, simply, Carson. (And I will refrain from his last name because he would be That Guy who googles himself on a daily basis because he is pretty big shot in his career and pretty much all over the Internet.) So they were all a bunch of cocky, conceited, self-proclaimed bigshots. And that is not the sooth-saying ginger and Bitter talking. But you can pour me another drink. It is really just the facts.
Because when I sat on Freud's couch, he was like, "It is not you, pretty sweet fun little brat, oops, I mean, girl. Did I say that out loud?" And then I was like, "My parents fault...they spoiled me rotten. Truth. I blame my parents for giving me everything I ever wanted. And if my dad had Donald Trump's money, the world would hate me, and Paris and I would be best frenemies, because I would be Queen Bitch. And only chihuahas with diamonds would like me. Because I'd have to, literally, buy my friends." And then Freud is like, "Try to stay on topic, lunatic." So then I remembered the seed that planted my attraction to cocky guys. Freud wanted to know more.
The second grade. The first guy I ever fell for. His name was Scott Basso and I just thought he was the bee's knees because he walked around the schoolyard rapping, "My name is Scott Basso. That rhymes with asshole."
Only my dad cussed around me! (Special to Freud: See, parents fault again!!) So I thought Scott was uber-cool for school. Like, I'm sure his bike would have fire decals on it and he didn't have a bell, but like, a frog horn attached. And he ate bugs and he tattooed his cereal decal from the Count Chocula cereal box on his forearm everyday. And dude he went to jail, i.e., the principal's office, a lot. He was That Guy. And I had a crush on him. Actually.
But, to him, I was always the Girl Who Ate Butter Sandwiches. And I was terribly shy back then.
So I am done with that type of guy. Seriously! Check back in a future date. And as I wonder what happened to The Cock-A-Threes, Mav put the Missing Pompadour Case to a close today as we were having this conversation about Baby Suri. Which, really? I'm still not convinced she exists.
Me: The question of the day: Is that a toupee on Baby Suri? [Ed. note: Seriously, I am not even straining to be funny here. That seriously looks like a toupe if ever I have seen one.]
Mav: It sure is. That, or a pompadour.
Me: That's funny!
Mav: Yeah, at least you know what happened to him!
Aside to Freud, did I just date Baby Suri? Or did that guy get the biggest role of his life?? Did he have Tom Cruise syndrome? Because he was kind of intensely "all over my shit."
We will leave Freud to contemplate that doozy! But I think we are on to something!
You see, I have not been excited about anything lately. Slightly depressed? Yeah, probably. The only thing that keeps me away from going to a doctor is my fear of The Drugs. Don't get me wrong, I'm not all Couch Jumping Crazy about it. But I do believe that what works for one may not work for another. My blood bleeds tie-dye. I have always chosen more natural remedies for my ailments. And when I do have to take an antibiotic, I'm pretty paranoid about what it is doing to my body. But, dude, pass the Crisco! My arteries are fine! You know what they say about a spoonful of sugar! And, as they say, Chug! So, really, it is just something for my handbook.
So what am I doing about my sad state of affairs? (Which I am really being melodramatic as I am prone to be and, well, for purposes of this post. Translation: There are no razor blades in my medicine chest.)
1. Drinking champagne this weekend! You may be thinking, chickie, lay off the alcohol, and, well, I say, read above!! Bubbles fall under natural remedy - sad head and achey heart needs effervescence to perk it back up! Dr. Me says so. And I know just the person who will oblige me the champagne this weekend. And his name is NOT Pompadour.
2. Ballet! I have signed up for a ballet class with Dear Prudence and we had our first class last night. I am sure I can plie and entendre my way to happiness. And get kick ass legs to boot. Rockettes here I come.
3. Back to knitting!
4. And, well, Saturdays in the fall, you can find me in some bar with 55 TVs blaring every gosh darn college football game in the universe. You really should check out the Mars Orangemen. They glow in the dark! Ha! That, with no drugs. Yes, I'm coming out of the funk just fine here, folks. Laughter follows, or, halts.
So, alright, I know you have just sunk back into your seat with relief that slitting my wrists isn't on the list. Are you crazy?!?
But, to bring it right back around to what has haunted me in the past few years: What am I doing? Where have I really been? Where am I heading? So I have been assessing the "mistakes" I keep making since the Yukkell....not to say he wasn't a bit of a mistake himself. And, by golly, I found the common denominator among the past 3 guys that I would say "wrecked" me (again, with the drama, to which I say: It is my stage!) in the last year.
Last Friday night as the rain poured down hard in our nation's capitol, I whined to Mav about being lonely (she - and my mom - have had to put up with my whiney ass all week, so a medal of friendship to her! will you settle for a ML, Mav? Oblige me the champagne??) And good friend her carried her ass over to my house in the pouring rain so we could polish off some beers and rant. I would like to point out for the record, that friendship is a two-way street and while she was doing something for me, I'd like to think I was also helping her out of a precarious situation. So we helped each other that night. In different ways. But then I pushed her right back into it later that night. Oh boy. But not the point! Or not my story to tell!
So, the topic turns to Pompadour and as we are hashing what went wrong, she confesses, "I got to be honest, Boa. I didn't really like him. He was a bit cocky and could never be serious. What was he hiding? Always the center of attention and just full of himself. Who orders egg white omelets in a diner and cottage cheese in a market in a redneck Delaware town and gives both people a hard time about not being able to serve these items? And actually being rude about it. But I didn't want to say anything to you because you liked him."
And then she tells me that Hollywood didn't like him for the same reasons - the only two people in my life who had a chance to meet him. And, well, that tells me something.
Eureka! That one word - cocky - was the common thread between, what I am now calling, My Cock-A-Threes (in ascending order): Pompadour, Johnny Jerkface, and the Wedding Date Canceler, hereinout, simply, Carson. (And I will refrain from his last name because he would be That Guy who googles himself on a daily basis because he is pretty big shot in his career and pretty much all over the Internet.) So they were all a bunch of cocky, conceited, self-proclaimed bigshots. And that is not the sooth-saying ginger and Bitter talking. But you can pour me another drink. It is really just the facts.
Because when I sat on Freud's couch, he was like, "It is not you, pretty sweet fun little brat, oops, I mean, girl. Did I say that out loud?" And then I was like, "My parents fault...they spoiled me rotten. Truth. I blame my parents for giving me everything I ever wanted. And if my dad had Donald Trump's money, the world would hate me, and Paris and I would be best frenemies, because I would be Queen Bitch. And only chihuahas with diamonds would like me. Because I'd have to, literally, buy my friends." And then Freud is like, "Try to stay on topic, lunatic." So then I remembered the seed that planted my attraction to cocky guys. Freud wanted to know more.
The second grade. The first guy I ever fell for. His name was Scott Basso and I just thought he was the bee's knees because he walked around the schoolyard rapping, "My name is Scott Basso. That rhymes with asshole."
Only my dad cussed around me! (Special to Freud: See, parents fault again!!) So I thought Scott was uber-cool for school. Like, I'm sure his bike would have fire decals on it and he didn't have a bell, but like, a frog horn attached. And he ate bugs and he tattooed his cereal decal from the Count Chocula cereal box on his forearm everyday. And dude he went to jail, i.e., the principal's office, a lot. He was That Guy. And I had a crush on him. Actually.
But, to him, I was always the Girl Who Ate Butter Sandwiches. And I was terribly shy back then.
So I am done with that type of guy. Seriously! Check back in a future date. And as I wonder what happened to The Cock-A-Threes, Mav put the Missing Pompadour Case to a close today as we were having this conversation about Baby Suri. Which, really? I'm still not convinced she exists.
Me: The question of the day: Is that a toupee on Baby Suri? [Ed. note: Seriously, I am not even straining to be funny here. That seriously looks like a toupe if ever I have seen one.]
Mav: It sure is. That, or a pompadour.
Me: That's funny!
Mav: Yeah, at least you know what happened to him!
Aside to Freud, did I just date Baby Suri? Or did that guy get the biggest role of his life?? Did he have Tom Cruise syndrome? Because he was kind of intensely "all over my shit."
We will leave Freud to contemplate that doozy! But I think we are on to something!
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wedding Etiquette Among Friends, Or, Party Of One, You Loveless Loser
Alright. I admit I have never been one of "those people" who has visualized her wedding day. And I very much doubt that if that day ever comes, I will be a bridezilla. The day may come and I'll be like, "Where am I supposed to be? And who am I marrying?" I see my friends doing spreadsheets and religiously watching/reading The Knot and participating in chat groups, snapping at each other, and generally stressed about it all. I guess the spreadsheet thing makes sense since most of my friends pay for the wedding themselves now (my parent's wouldn't be able to give me the $30,00-40,000 it requires to throw a decent DC wedding). But I'm not that good with the "budget thing" so if my guy wants to tally away - be my guest!
But let's be clear on what I DO know will happen at my wedding:
1. Lots and lots of booze.
2. Late night partying with my favorite people.
3. Music all night long.
4. A very pretty dress for me and the girls and two shoe changes!
5. The best photographer that money can buy.
Here is where I am fuzzy:
1. Where? Destination? Or a little chapel on the beach? The church in DC my parents married in (which I, admittedly, have always thought about as a little girl)?
2. The walking down the aisle thing...my momma?
3. The groom!!!
Alright. Alright. From the sounds of this post you might think I have wedding bells queued on my ipod, or that some dashing young man is promising to make me an honest woman and give me back rubs for the rest of my life, or, quite simply, that love is in the air (like my previous posts and my absence might imply).
Wrong!! Because...
Love stinks.
I hear no wedding bells anywhere - I only hear bagpipes.
And there is no nice young man with strong arms and a strong heart within my galaxy. Can I come over to yours?
So I'm just going to say it now so we are all up to speed on Boa's Crash and Burn Version 26.2 and a half. But I am not going to give an explanation and I am not going to wax on....but Pompadour...is finito. Off like a dirty shirt. And that is all that we need to know going forward. Great! More posts about decorating!
And so, I am standing on my bar stool, vodka in hand (and not the gay stoli O and soda, but Belvedere), scanning the room, shouting, "Next!"
[Ed. Note and Mel, Alice and Flo's instructions too: Do not go to a diner and order an egg white omelet and get mad if they can't oblige you. Honey. You do not want to see the greasy-shirted, pot-bellied, spatula-waving reason why!]
So, I was on the subject of my fantasy wedding.....where for art thou Husband? Just kidding! Seriously, I am thinking of getting a dog. Seriously. [We can't get a dog! -- Mav.] So what if it cramps my lifestyle. I am ready for a new chapter in my life that entails hanging out with my friends in my house - or their house; maybe playing dj; maybe playing Trivial Pursuit, Scrabble, or Charades, hell, I'm even willing to keep playing I Never or Asshole; and drinking lots of wine and champagne and giving Miller Lites a rest [That's crazy talk! --Mav and Dear Prudence.] All of this with a little lap dog in a pink shirt at my feet, who follows me around and needs my undying attention. (And all my friends can make fun of me. Great!) Who can not live this world without me and he just might have a little quirk. Like maybe one eye is missing or his legs are deformed and he has to scoot around on his butt. Bottom line: He needs me!
OK. Maybe I do need a man. Oh! Did I mention Pompadour - the guy a week ago I was calling "sweet boy" - is now a ripped out page of Boa's Book of Love. There are only 3 pages in that book and one of them is even taped back in!
Alright. There I go with the tangential Me-talking and, oops, I talked about what I said I wasn't going to talk about anymore.
So...what I stepped up on this pulpit for was to share some very annoying wedding invitation I recently received. That's how I started out with the wedding jabber. Because it is simple, folks. What I DO know about "a" wedding is this: IT IS A PARTY....A CELEBRATION....SHARED WITH FRIENDS AND FAMILY. Do we agree on that? Great! Here is where we might start disagreeing - because if you are my friend whose wedding invitation I just received - you would be disagreeing. And you'd be wrong and I'd talk about you. First, MY goal at MY wedding is to make sure my guests are happy. Isn't that what you do when you throw a party? So since this is the biggest party you are probably every going to throw in your life what is the smallest thing you can do to make sure your guest will have a great time? Make sure they are comfortable! And since you most likely will not be able to hold their hand and rub their feet and carry them to the bathroom when they get drunk, maybe you should let them bring a date. Or not. Maybe they will choose not to but you should give them that option. I mean, we are 30-fucking years old.
Can you tell I'm mad? That is the only time I swear, I swear. Heh.
So I am not to bring a soul and I am to sit at a table with all our friends who are in relationships so they are invited with their significant others. I find it insulting. I have toyed with the idea of not going but I think I will - it is somewhat local (but way out in the suburbs) - and making them pay for my $20-30 plate - and that is all I intend on spending on the wedding gift. Because on top of this, I atttended the shower this past weekend and when the bride opened my gift, she paused on the name and had to look around the room of 12 to figure out who "Lara" was. Which is just WEIRD. I mean, I have known her for years. Bizarre.
And don't even get me started on who they didn't invite.
It is moot now because I am not bringing the Pompadour and I would never bring a random. But brides get to do what they want. The argument is that they are paying for your head to attend. But I am buying them some $100 wedding gift of something they already have because when you are in your 30's you already have sheets, wine glasses, and measuring spoons! Or is that just me? Because I haven't visualized my wedding? These might be people who have visualized their wedding AND their wedding gifts. Sent off to college: "Do not buy me sheets, I will get them when I get married!"
So I'm going to start visualizing now. But I am taking baby steps...I am just now visualizing the bartender, the KitchenAid mixer, and a pug named, Tom Ford For Gucci (pretentious) or Thurston Moore (rock and roll) or, simply, Clara Sophie (a namesake), if it is girl. Oh, and this just came to me: a champagne honeymoon in France!
Sigh. Sometimes I am just happier in my dreams...
[Editor's other note: And Pompadour hates France. Oh and he likes Bill O'Reilly. For being so rock and roll....Alright...talked out of him now, Loveless Loser?]
But let's be clear on what I DO know will happen at my wedding:
1. Lots and lots of booze.
2. Late night partying with my favorite people.
3. Music all night long.
4. A very pretty dress for me and the girls and two shoe changes!
5. The best photographer that money can buy.
Here is where I am fuzzy:
1. Where? Destination? Or a little chapel on the beach? The church in DC my parents married in (which I, admittedly, have always thought about as a little girl)?
2. The walking down the aisle thing...my momma?
3. The groom!!!
Alright. Alright. From the sounds of this post you might think I have wedding bells queued on my ipod, or that some dashing young man is promising to make me an honest woman and give me back rubs for the rest of my life, or, quite simply, that love is in the air (like my previous posts and my absence might imply).
Wrong!! Because...
Love stinks.
I hear no wedding bells anywhere - I only hear bagpipes.
And there is no nice young man with strong arms and a strong heart within my galaxy. Can I come over to yours?
So I'm just going to say it now so we are all up to speed on Boa's Crash and Burn Version 26.2 and a half. But I am not going to give an explanation and I am not going to wax on....but Pompadour...is finito. Off like a dirty shirt. And that is all that we need to know going forward. Great! More posts about decorating!
And so, I am standing on my bar stool, vodka in hand (and not the gay stoli O and soda, but Belvedere), scanning the room, shouting, "Next!"
[Ed. Note and Mel, Alice and Flo's instructions too: Do not go to a diner and order an egg white omelet and get mad if they can't oblige you. Honey. You do not want to see the greasy-shirted, pot-bellied, spatula-waving reason why!]
So, I was on the subject of my fantasy wedding.....where for art thou Husband? Just kidding! Seriously, I am thinking of getting a dog. Seriously. [We can't get a dog! -- Mav.] So what if it cramps my lifestyle. I am ready for a new chapter in my life that entails hanging out with my friends in my house - or their house; maybe playing dj; maybe playing Trivial Pursuit, Scrabble, or Charades, hell, I'm even willing to keep playing I Never or Asshole; and drinking lots of wine and champagne and giving Miller Lites a rest [That's crazy talk! --Mav and Dear Prudence.] All of this with a little lap dog in a pink shirt at my feet, who follows me around and needs my undying attention. (And all my friends can make fun of me. Great!) Who can not live this world without me and he just might have a little quirk. Like maybe one eye is missing or his legs are deformed and he has to scoot around on his butt. Bottom line: He needs me!
OK. Maybe I do need a man. Oh! Did I mention Pompadour - the guy a week ago I was calling "sweet boy" - is now a ripped out page of Boa's Book of Love. There are only 3 pages in that book and one of them is even taped back in!
Alright. There I go with the tangential Me-talking and, oops, I talked about what I said I wasn't going to talk about anymore.
So...what I stepped up on this pulpit for was to share some very annoying wedding invitation I recently received. That's how I started out with the wedding jabber. Because it is simple, folks. What I DO know about "a" wedding is this: IT IS A PARTY....A CELEBRATION....SHARED WITH FRIENDS AND FAMILY. Do we agree on that? Great! Here is where we might start disagreeing - because if you are my friend whose wedding invitation I just received - you would be disagreeing. And you'd be wrong and I'd talk about you. First, MY goal at MY wedding is to make sure my guests are happy. Isn't that what you do when you throw a party? So since this is the biggest party you are probably every going to throw in your life what is the smallest thing you can do to make sure your guest will have a great time? Make sure they are comfortable! And since you most likely will not be able to hold their hand and rub their feet and carry them to the bathroom when they get drunk, maybe you should let them bring a date. Or not. Maybe they will choose not to but you should give them that option. I mean, we are 30-fucking years old.
Can you tell I'm mad? That is the only time I swear, I swear. Heh.
So I am not to bring a soul and I am to sit at a table with all our friends who are in relationships so they are invited with their significant others. I find it insulting. I have toyed with the idea of not going but I think I will - it is somewhat local (but way out in the suburbs) - and making them pay for my $20-30 plate - and that is all I intend on spending on the wedding gift. Because on top of this, I atttended the shower this past weekend and when the bride opened my gift, she paused on the name and had to look around the room of 12 to figure out who "Lara" was. Which is just WEIRD. I mean, I have known her for years. Bizarre.
And don't even get me started on who they didn't invite.
It is moot now because I am not bringing the Pompadour and I would never bring a random. But brides get to do what they want. The argument is that they are paying for your head to attend. But I am buying them some $100 wedding gift of something they already have because when you are in your 30's you already have sheets, wine glasses, and measuring spoons! Or is that just me? Because I haven't visualized my wedding? These might be people who have visualized their wedding AND their wedding gifts. Sent off to college: "Do not buy me sheets, I will get them when I get married!"
So I'm going to start visualizing now. But I am taking baby steps...I am just now visualizing the bartender, the KitchenAid mixer, and a pug named, Tom Ford For Gucci (pretentious) or Thurston Moore (rock and roll) or, simply, Clara Sophie (a namesake), if it is girl. Oh, and this just came to me: a champagne honeymoon in France!
Sigh. Sometimes I am just happier in my dreams...
[Editor's other note: And Pompadour hates France. Oh and he likes Bill O'Reilly. For being so rock and roll....Alright...talked out of him now, Loveless Loser?]
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Bringing Sand To The Beach
There are two sayings at the beach.
1. "Don't bring sand (i.e., a boyfriend or girlfriend) to the beach."
2. "What happens at the beach stays at the beach."
I didn't write them. And I like to break the rules. I always write about the adventures at the beach and I don't think I really leave anything out. There is not much talk this year about it mainly because I am just not going all that much on account of: Burnt Out.
So this past weekend I, happily, broke rule number one and brought some sweet boy I have been hanging out with as of late. He tugged at my heart just a little last week when he sent me an email the day after we went to see the band, X, that said: "Let's run away together and follow X for the rest of our lives."
Things like that will win me over.
And then one night last week when I was out with Dear Prudence, we were trying to dodge the "advances" of Bespectacled and Fleur-de-Lis and rushed into another neighborhood bar and as I was making a beeline to the restroom I look up to a smiling troll-like Johnny Jerkface waving and mouthing "hi" to me. Just like that. Just like we ended things on "good" terms. Just like we even ended things. Last I checked we were on a break - the break-up he didn't want. So technically we are on an 8-month strong break here, folks! I love that boyfriend! He lets me have an open relationship and date others!
In the bathroom, I told DP what was up. Her thoughts were, "Let's go." But I decided we should stay and we should stomp our feet to the other end of the bar and not budge. And so we did. And JJ and his friends kept staring and I kept laughing and carrying on with those around me. Because, well, my stalker showed up. And then things got even weirder as JJ's friend came over - whom I wasn't sure if I ever met - because JJ didn't have but 2 friends that I knew of and never met. (Yes, should have been a sign. I've already met a few of Pompadour's friends.)
Me: Do I know you?
JJ Tool: Noooo?
Me: Am I supposed to know you?
JJ Tool: I don't think so.
Me: Do you know me?
JJ Tool: Nooo?
Me: Have I seen you somewhere before?
See, we are playing 32 questions, is what we were doing. Then we started bantering back and forth in all silliness. Which I enjoy. And then he probed me on my Miami trip (??), "where I live now?", and "do I go to Dewey?", and other miscellany probing question. Was he tape-recording the conversation?
So I played along, never giving him a straight answer, never giving him a truth. Then he ended the conversation and returned to JJ and then me and DP hightailed it out of there. Things were too weird. And I had to leave on a high note because, I'll admit, I was 1 beer away from walking up to JJ.
And that was my JJ run-in. I knew it had to happen some time and it wasn't as bad as I imagined it in my head. You know, he'd be with some beautiful goddess, I'd be ashen begging for alms on the street corner. But I hope I handled it with just enough class but also just enough snub. Too bad Mav wasn't there because she is going to spill beer on him next time she sees him.
And, so, as I tucked myself into bed that night recounting the events of the evening and what JJ's friend (or JJ himself) were up to, I got a text from Pompadour telling me "good night."
Now THAT will get me every time.
Then the next day Pompadour calls me at work and we are talking about me going to the beach and how he wants me to stay in town with him but I need to be there for my friend and he understands this. So I, half-jokingly, tell him to bring his friend, Animal, and come on down. Without missing a beat he asks me if I'm serious because he would like that very much. Now this is a guy who hates that beach.
And so that got me a little.
So the two cute boys came down and we had a fine time but now I am starting to panic. What is going on? Is it too soon to tell? Do I really want to put all my eggs in his basket? (heh.) Sure we talk every day but is he going to drop me once he has me? Is he a serial dater? Is he a liar? Is he going to break my heart like JJ? Does he believe in breaks? Does he wear white sweat pants?!?
See what I'm doing? I'm turning into Neurotic Me.
And so I have my guard up a little. I'm not swinging from the rafters exalting in this feeling. I'm tempering it with a little bit of reality because, y'all, these things never work out the way I imagine them.
Yep, if my past record is accurate, he's going to break my heart. So I'm going to hold onto it for a little bit longer.
But it sure was fun bringing Sand to the Beach....
1. "Don't bring sand (i.e., a boyfriend or girlfriend) to the beach."
2. "What happens at the beach stays at the beach."
I didn't write them. And I like to break the rules. I always write about the adventures at the beach and I don't think I really leave anything out. There is not much talk this year about it mainly because I am just not going all that much on account of: Burnt Out.
So this past weekend I, happily, broke rule number one and brought some sweet boy I have been hanging out with as of late. He tugged at my heart just a little last week when he sent me an email the day after we went to see the band, X, that said: "Let's run away together and follow X for the rest of our lives."
Things like that will win me over.
And then one night last week when I was out with Dear Prudence, we were trying to dodge the "advances" of Bespectacled and Fleur-de-Lis and rushed into another neighborhood bar and as I was making a beeline to the restroom I look up to a smiling troll-like Johnny Jerkface waving and mouthing "hi" to me. Just like that. Just like we ended things on "good" terms. Just like we even ended things. Last I checked we were on a break - the break-up he didn't want. So technically we are on an 8-month strong break here, folks! I love that boyfriend! He lets me have an open relationship and date others!
In the bathroom, I told DP what was up. Her thoughts were, "Let's go." But I decided we should stay and we should stomp our feet to the other end of the bar and not budge. And so we did. And JJ and his friends kept staring and I kept laughing and carrying on with those around me. Because, well, my stalker showed up. And then things got even weirder as JJ's friend came over - whom I wasn't sure if I ever met - because JJ didn't have but 2 friends that I knew of and never met. (Yes, should have been a sign. I've already met a few of Pompadour's friends.)
Me: Do I know you?
JJ Tool: Noooo?
Me: Am I supposed to know you?
JJ Tool: I don't think so.
Me: Do you know me?
JJ Tool: Nooo?
Me: Have I seen you somewhere before?
See, we are playing 32 questions, is what we were doing. Then we started bantering back and forth in all silliness. Which I enjoy. And then he probed me on my Miami trip (??), "where I live now?", and "do I go to Dewey?", and other miscellany probing question. Was he tape-recording the conversation?
So I played along, never giving him a straight answer, never giving him a truth. Then he ended the conversation and returned to JJ and then me and DP hightailed it out of there. Things were too weird. And I had to leave on a high note because, I'll admit, I was 1 beer away from walking up to JJ.
And that was my JJ run-in. I knew it had to happen some time and it wasn't as bad as I imagined it in my head. You know, he'd be with some beautiful goddess, I'd be ashen begging for alms on the street corner. But I hope I handled it with just enough class but also just enough snub. Too bad Mav wasn't there because she is going to spill beer on him next time she sees him.
And, so, as I tucked myself into bed that night recounting the events of the evening and what JJ's friend (or JJ himself) were up to, I got a text from Pompadour telling me "good night."
Now THAT will get me every time.
Then the next day Pompadour calls me at work and we are talking about me going to the beach and how he wants me to stay in town with him but I need to be there for my friend and he understands this. So I, half-jokingly, tell him to bring his friend, Animal, and come on down. Without missing a beat he asks me if I'm serious because he would like that very much. Now this is a guy who hates that beach.
And so that got me a little.
So the two cute boys came down and we had a fine time but now I am starting to panic. What is going on? Is it too soon to tell? Do I really want to put all my eggs in his basket? (heh.) Sure we talk every day but is he going to drop me once he has me? Is he a serial dater? Is he a liar? Is he going to break my heart like JJ? Does he believe in breaks? Does he wear white sweat pants?!?
See what I'm doing? I'm turning into Neurotic Me.
And so I have my guard up a little. I'm not swinging from the rafters exalting in this feeling. I'm tempering it with a little bit of reality because, y'all, these things never work out the way I imagine them.
Yep, if my past record is accurate, he's going to break my heart. So I'm going to hold onto it for a little bit longer.
But it sure was fun bringing Sand to the Beach....
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Cheap Thrills To Be Found South Of The Border
When To Turn Down A Beer
If you are on a very crowded deck, on a Saturday night, singing along to a band, where girls walk around with buckets of beer, and you happen to be holding an empty coosie when some guy comes up behind you and first asks you your name and then asks if you would like a beer, and you say, yes....what do you owe the guy?
What if he looked like he swallowed a small child? He gave new meaning to beer gut is what I'm saying.
Well if you are me, you endure him tapping your ass for about 4 songs, which was enough time to finish the beer. And then you move, because you realize you can afford the $4 beer without a Small Child Eater slapping your ass.
What To Do When You Don't Know The Words
Karaoke finds me. And it is getting a little scary. I don't even like singing that much. But the world is strange these days. Dare I say, things are falling into place? No, I didn't say that. God, please take that off the record. Woe is me, hail mary, I'm deeply indebted to you.
This weekend at the beach, there were instruments and microphones and lots of music and a makeshift stage in the little friendly house out front. At 1 AM Mav and I took to the stage. All night long until 4AM.
So when you find yourself not remembering the words, because, oh, it's late and you should be in bed and not opening a miller lite at 3 AM, insert "mexican hat" EVERYWHERE in song.
Since you been gone
You got a mexican hat, yeah-yeah
I'm in over my head
With a mexican hat
Going downtown in a mexican hat
Girls just wanna have fun
Oh, girls in a mexican hat just wanna have fun
Don't wanna be an american idiot
(in a mexican hat)
You get the picture.
And so when someone asks you the next day how the Mexican Hat song goes, you can answer: "Like every song you have ever heard before!"
If you are on a very crowded deck, on a Saturday night, singing along to a band, where girls walk around with buckets of beer, and you happen to be holding an empty coosie when some guy comes up behind you and first asks you your name and then asks if you would like a beer, and you say, yes....what do you owe the guy?
What if he looked like he swallowed a small child? He gave new meaning to beer gut is what I'm saying.
Well if you are me, you endure him tapping your ass for about 4 songs, which was enough time to finish the beer. And then you move, because you realize you can afford the $4 beer without a Small Child Eater slapping your ass.
What To Do When You Don't Know The Words
Karaoke finds me. And it is getting a little scary. I don't even like singing that much. But the world is strange these days. Dare I say, things are falling into place? No, I didn't say that. God, please take that off the record. Woe is me, hail mary, I'm deeply indebted to you.
This weekend at the beach, there were instruments and microphones and lots of music and a makeshift stage in the little friendly house out front. At 1 AM Mav and I took to the stage. All night long until 4AM.
So when you find yourself not remembering the words, because, oh, it's late and you should be in bed and not opening a miller lite at 3 AM, insert "mexican hat" EVERYWHERE in song.
Since you been gone
You got a mexican hat, yeah-yeah
I'm in over my head
With a mexican hat
Going downtown in a mexican hat
Girls just wanna have fun
Oh, girls in a mexican hat just wanna have fun
Don't wanna be an american idiot
(in a mexican hat)
You get the picture.
And so when someone asks you the next day how the Mexican Hat song goes, you can answer: "Like every song you have ever heard before!"
Friday, August 11, 2006
XYZPDQ
I went out with the Pompadour last night and can I just say, "That man is lovely." And can I ask, "Why is this man not a stand-up comedian?" And can I critique, "I couldn't dress him better myself."
I'm thinking of changing his moniker in my cell phone from Pompadour to his real name. But let's not get ahead of ourselves here.
We went to my little neighborhood hipster joint for chimays and the weekly karaoke hour. (When did I start doing the karaoke circuit?) This week, taking to the big stage, were:
The Girl Who Absolutely Can Not Sing But Really Believes In Her Heart Of Hearts That She Can. And so you feel for her as she starts out all shy with her hands in her pockets as she belts out Pat Benetar then morphs into this little pop princess with the moves - the leg slide, the breast stroke, and the hair flip - AND the elephant in the room. Wardrobe malfunction. Because if she were on television, the black bar would cover up her crotchal region because I am pretty sure zippers are supposed to be in the upright position. For FCC purposes. But in a "galaxy" far far away - zippers away! If only she were singing Tom Petty, "Into the great wide open....a rebel without a clue." Then one could say, "Oh, I get it."
The Guy In The Suit Drinking Scotch Wearing A Wedding Band And Belting Out Judas Priest. He even asks for air guitar participation, fist-pumping, and stage-jumps. Y'all, he was awesome! And he was "breaking the law! breaking the law!"
The Artsy-Hipster Guy In A TIGHT Vest Who Is With Girl Who Can Not Sing Most Likely Meeting Her In A French Enlightenment And The Modern Citizen Class. He does a lounge-type act and gets all Vegas by unbuttoning his shirt and sashaying. Not to mention making a little pass at Pompadour. Who could blame him? He was the hottest guy in school.
The Drunk Frat Boy In Possession Of Sunglasses At 10 PM Which Means Drinking Since The Afternoon. Why does everybody want to high five my date?
After our hour of this fun and after we agreed that that Chris Isaak song IS, in fact, sexy, Pompadour tells me that he wants to go somewhere else for some face time so we can chat. Oh, and this is after he already locked in a date for next week. It's a beach weekend.
And at the end of the night, he opened the car door for me and after I was safely tucked in, shut it. Start to finish. Because it's those little things after all.
That Pompadour is chivalrous too.
I'm thinking of changing his moniker in my cell phone from Pompadour to his real name. But let's not get ahead of ourselves here.
We went to my little neighborhood hipster joint for chimays and the weekly karaoke hour. (When did I start doing the karaoke circuit?) This week, taking to the big stage, were:
The Girl Who Absolutely Can Not Sing But Really Believes In Her Heart Of Hearts That She Can. And so you feel for her as she starts out all shy with her hands in her pockets as she belts out Pat Benetar then morphs into this little pop princess with the moves - the leg slide, the breast stroke, and the hair flip - AND the elephant in the room. Wardrobe malfunction. Because if she were on television, the black bar would cover up her crotchal region because I am pretty sure zippers are supposed to be in the upright position. For FCC purposes. But in a "galaxy" far far away - zippers away! If only she were singing Tom Petty, "Into the great wide open....a rebel without a clue." Then one could say, "Oh, I get it."
The Guy In The Suit Drinking Scotch Wearing A Wedding Band And Belting Out Judas Priest. He even asks for air guitar participation, fist-pumping, and stage-jumps. Y'all, he was awesome! And he was "breaking the law! breaking the law!"
The Artsy-Hipster Guy In A TIGHT Vest Who Is With Girl Who Can Not Sing Most Likely Meeting Her In A French Enlightenment And The Modern Citizen Class. He does a lounge-type act and gets all Vegas by unbuttoning his shirt and sashaying. Not to mention making a little pass at Pompadour. Who could blame him? He was the hottest guy in school.
The Drunk Frat Boy In Possession Of Sunglasses At 10 PM Which Means Drinking Since The Afternoon. Why does everybody want to high five my date?
After our hour of this fun and after we agreed that that Chris Isaak song IS, in fact, sexy, Pompadour tells me that he wants to go somewhere else for some face time so we can chat. Oh, and this is after he already locked in a date for next week. It's a beach weekend.
And at the end of the night, he opened the car door for me and after I was safely tucked in, shut it. Start to finish. Because it's those little things after all.
That Pompadour is chivalrous too.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Pink Bubbles
Girl Pad hosted her first mail suitor. She was put to the test: Is there room for the frogs, snails, and puppy dog tails in all this pink cupcake?
Remember how I got the new place and I decided to go very girlie with it - but really just French Country or Shabby Chic. There is no trace of a man in the house. Maybe I'm making a statement, maybe I'm reverting to the Holly Hobbie room and pink Strawberry Sizzler bike (not to be confused with Strawberry Shortcake) of my youth. I have never been into contemporary or minimalist design. So you look around and it is....just that....Girl Pad.
And so when Man comes over to Girl Pad, and you haven't had a chance to guy-proof it, He sticks out like a sore thumb.
But I was waiting for the right guy to bring over to test out Girl Pad's charm. And last Friday at 3 AM after hanging out at a friend's backyard deck with this lovely man you call Pompadour - whom you happen to find irresistible and whom passes the Mav test - well, you invite him back to your house for a $60 bottle of champagne you were saving for a special occassion.
Special occassion, definied: I met a guy who loves the champagne as much as me and made me laugh all night long. So at 4 AM it sounded like a good idea to open up that bottle of Veuve while he nibbled my shoulder. We finished the bottle watching the sun go up with Pixies playing in the background.
Then the next day when we finally came to at 1 pm, he put Girl Pad to the test with his stand-up comedy routine because - as he said - "There is so much material in here."
So only Pompadour could capture the essence of Girl Pad in a joke that started with a Thigh Master and included birth control pills, a book called Bachelor Boys, a lotion called Maybe Baby, pink floral sheets, and my boa that drapes over my bedroom door.
Time to stock up on the bubbles but maybe I'll just get some $10 bottles this time.
Remember how I got the new place and I decided to go very girlie with it - but really just French Country or Shabby Chic. There is no trace of a man in the house. Maybe I'm making a statement, maybe I'm reverting to the Holly Hobbie room and pink Strawberry Sizzler bike (not to be confused with Strawberry Shortcake) of my youth. I have never been into contemporary or minimalist design. So you look around and it is....just that....Girl Pad.
And so when Man comes over to Girl Pad, and you haven't had a chance to guy-proof it, He sticks out like a sore thumb.
But I was waiting for the right guy to bring over to test out Girl Pad's charm. And last Friday at 3 AM after hanging out at a friend's backyard deck with this lovely man you call Pompadour - whom you happen to find irresistible and whom passes the Mav test - well, you invite him back to your house for a $60 bottle of champagne you were saving for a special occassion.
Special occassion, definied: I met a guy who loves the champagne as much as me and made me laugh all night long. So at 4 AM it sounded like a good idea to open up that bottle of Veuve while he nibbled my shoulder. We finished the bottle watching the sun go up with Pixies playing in the background.
Then the next day when we finally came to at 1 pm, he put Girl Pad to the test with his stand-up comedy routine because - as he said - "There is so much material in here."
So only Pompadour could capture the essence of Girl Pad in a joke that started with a Thigh Master and included birth control pills, a book called Bachelor Boys, a lotion called Maybe Baby, pink floral sheets, and my boa that drapes over my bedroom door.
Time to stock up on the bubbles but maybe I'll just get some $10 bottles this time.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Smooth Operator
I hope I've got a tune going through your head because this is the background music to this post which has everything to do with my smooth ways with the boys. Heh. Because that background music is a record playing and each time the song starts there is that point, kind of near the beginning, where someone dramatically yanks the needle and so, you are singing along all "smooooth opera[sccraaatcch]." And you never get to the ending. That's my theme.
The next paragraph is just band chatter before the song starts, setting up the song so Johnny Six String can go find his guitar pick because he keeps giving them to the ladies. So don't sing that song yet!
This tangent all started because Mav has this t-shirt that says “smooth operator” and she wore it this weekend so that song has been mulling around in my head needing immediate release. And this is how it is done. But Sade and I go way back. It all started with a dream. Because I once dreamed that Sade was my mom and she didn’t like me playing in the backyard because the alligators could eat me. That Sade was a good ma. My own ma could care less if I played with the alligators. But luckily for her and the child protection services evasion, ducks were more my speed. I kid you not, my sister and I adopted the neighborhood ducks and Tuna actually gave birth in our front yard. I would have walked them on a leash if I could. Y'all it's Florida, we lived on a swamp so there really was an alligator out back but he didn't bother anybody. Not even the dog. Because once Lady the Dog got out - she was a wee little shnauzer poodle (a poozer?) - who sometime sported a pink tube top or a pink ribbon around her neck - depending on the weather. Well, one time we saw Lady on the other side of the pond (sans tube top!) - remember it's Florida and it's flat and there are no trees (i.e., an ugly place except for the sandy beaches). And I'm telling you that alligator didn't want her. Because she should have been dinner what with putting her little meaty self out there. So we had good alligators, Sade just didn't know any better.
Cue music:
"Smooth operator.....Smooth operator....."
First, like I said there was a ringing of the phone bells from this guy however I got WAY ahead of myself. WAY. As in call the wedding announcement off, bride-nowhere-to-be.
See the music is playing along nicely as this text conversation transpires. [Note: In the interest of brevity and anonymity and my own damn privacy you will not got the verbatim transcript of the convo, just the gist of it.]
Him: Hey you! A question. Btw, this is Pompadour…we met at….
Me: Hey there! The answer. Now my question.
Him: The answer.
Me: Acknowledge the answer. Mention the evil drink. Then mention an inside joke.
Him: Acknowledge inside joke. Asks what is evil drink?
Me: Tasty beverage with shots floating on top…it’s trouble…better you didn’t find that.
And then the needle is yanked from the record because THAT WAS IT. He didn’t follow that up with, uh, anything. But why would he have even called to begin with? Oh, I'll tell you why. It took some sleuthing but now I have to tell you this other thing which I really didn't want to tell anyone about because, why boa why? See, long story, but the punchline is: I opened my profile on that online dating service thingie for a 72-hour trial period/research - I needed to feel loved. Well, I just finished my research and shut down my profile this morning but went in and looked at the "who's viewed you and then spit you out because you are not worthy of their wink" and - big AND here - Pompadour opened up my profile! BEFORE he sent the text.
I'll tell you why he called:
He is one of those online trolls (my apologies to you online guys to whom this not apply-no one). So he only called (i.e., texted) when he realized he opened my profile so knew that I would see that and then be like, "Jerk, why he no call, Jerry?" So he looks like a good guy by calling like he said he would and then he can just drop the ball and continue trolling the hotties online hoping for the bigger fish. He's an Shopper: I'll put you in the cart but I might put you back if I find something better.
Turned off by THAT GUY now.
Then Wednesday night Dear Prudence and I headed out on the town. Why we left the comfort of air conditioning, is anyone’s guess. We went to open mic night, then hit another bar and saw Couching Tiger – on a date – so had to exit. This is where you get a story within a story because inquiring minds are like who is Couching Tiger and what relevance does he have to Smooth Operator. Because you are still singing along, right?
Well, I can’t claim him. But DP can as she went out with him a few times – few as in maybe two times and he was already “I want to be your boyfriend. Don't take that job in Philly. I want to be your boyfriend!” And DP was like “Can I just have my earrings back?” So she had to go out with him a third time just to get the earrings. Easy tiger.
And then there is the couch part of the story. Remember I was moving a few months back (ugh-a-bug) and I was getting rid of any furniture that was not pretty (i.e., a muted color or floral) because I was going to create Girl Pad 2006: Dark Colors Are For Boys And Puppy Dog Tails. As it turned out, Couching Tiger needed some furniture as he just moved in the neighborhood from Seattle. (Remember Seattle, it's relevant.) So DP hooked us up and well, I was going to sell the shit on craig’s list and take a few bucks for it or not deal with that and have salvation army pick it up and get the tax write-off. Because I'm an Itemizer now, woo-hoo. (Take the standard deduction and shove it up your ass Uncle Sam!) So he took the couch which was in great condition by the way. Fabulous condition it just happned to be moss green and didn't go with Girl Pad's color scheme. I also gave him a mission-style coffee table and another end table of some sort.
And then we had this conversation:
CT: Do you want any money for this stuff?
Me: Well, I was going to ask for a couple hundred on Craigs list but then I was just going to give to the Salvation Army. So I don’t know what price to put on it.
CT: Great! Hey, do you like coffee?
Me: [Thinking we are into small talk now.] No. I’m a tea drinker. Oh you are from Seattle. I bet you like good coffee.
CT: Yep. Bye!
And he didn’t give me anything. After talking to DP he had asked her if he should get me a gift certificate to Starbucks. I guess by me saying I don't like coffee he didn't feel the need to offer me anything. Dude, I drink the Chai and eat the pound cake. Couching Tiger, Hidden Wallet (with a nice couch and coffee table).
Back to the pick-up of last night.
I had been making eye contact with this guy all night – he was with two buddies and they had that we-just-got-off-the-golf-course look. Polos, khaki shorts, and flip flops. I actually have a thing for Mr. Preppy (oh, and guys with pompadours, depends what mood I'm in I guess).
So this other group of young guys (we'll call them The Kids) start chatting us up and they were nice and I always say kudos to boldness. But the Golfsters start to pay their tab so here's my chance. I went up to the one I had been eyeballing and said this:
[Smooth operator....smooth operator.....]
"Do I know you from somewhere? Er, I mean, you look familiar to me. Do I look familiar to you? Oh hell, what's your sign?"
I wooed the friends at least. I think I was wooing him because I then said after a few rounds of small talk, "So you guys were getting ready to leave." And he answers, "No, things are looking more promising now. We are staying." So more rounds were ordered.
[Smooth operator....smooth operator....]
Anyways things are going pretty well. And they are going well for DP as she is really connecting with Potato Chip. I have a good feeling about those two. [So special to DP: When you are married to Potato Chip, remember I called it here.] But then the music snob in me was disturbed by this conversation.
Someone: Who sings this song?
DP: Depeche Mode!
The Third Guy: I thought it was Flock of Seagulls.
Me: Wh-wh-what? How do you make that disconnect?
My guy: Who is the Flock of Seagulls?
How many shades of wrong is that to a girl who likes her 80's college radio. People, it's what Duwop was to our parents. You were schooled on it, if you are in your 30's and, well, we were the exact same age. Hence, his nickname now is Don't Feed The Seagulls.
But then he got my attention when I learned he was The Jock (and I'm equal opportunity in that I like the rock star and the preppy jock) and he is a really good golfer (I like when my guy kicks the other guy's asses in Guyville) and so alright I’ll date the quarterback. If I must.
But we may be too different. He is not geographically desireable in that he doesn't fall within my 5-mile dating radius (hey, I'm not single for nothing, I bet you're thinking); he didn't believe that my tan is only from 3 weekends at the beach (really I am not that tan, he should have seen me this time last year but are we already dealing with trust issues?); and he thought my shoe straps on my wedges were band-aids (but he was concerned for my feet, so that is sweet, right?)
Anyway he did ask for my digits and I gave him my business card and said, “But don’t fax me. The fax number is wrong.” And he even took out a pen and crossed out my fax number. I like!
What is going to happen with Don't Feed The Seagulls and The Pompadour?
Sade?
Casey Kasum?
Hey, who turned the music off?
The next paragraph is just band chatter before the song starts, setting up the song so Johnny Six String can go find his guitar pick because he keeps giving them to the ladies. So don't sing that song yet!
This tangent all started because Mav has this t-shirt that says “smooth operator” and she wore it this weekend so that song has been mulling around in my head needing immediate release. And this is how it is done. But Sade and I go way back. It all started with a dream. Because I once dreamed that Sade was my mom and she didn’t like me playing in the backyard because the alligators could eat me. That Sade was a good ma. My own ma could care less if I played with the alligators. But luckily for her and the child protection services evasion, ducks were more my speed. I kid you not, my sister and I adopted the neighborhood ducks and Tuna actually gave birth in our front yard. I would have walked them on a leash if I could. Y'all it's Florida, we lived on a swamp so there really was an alligator out back but he didn't bother anybody. Not even the dog. Because once Lady the Dog got out - she was a wee little shnauzer poodle (a poozer?) - who sometime sported a pink tube top or a pink ribbon around her neck - depending on the weather. Well, one time we saw Lady on the other side of the pond (sans tube top!) - remember it's Florida and it's flat and there are no trees (i.e., an ugly place except for the sandy beaches). And I'm telling you that alligator didn't want her. Because she should have been dinner what with putting her little meaty self out there. So we had good alligators, Sade just didn't know any better.
Cue music:
"Smooth operator.....Smooth operator....."
First, like I said there was a ringing of the phone bells from this guy however I got WAY ahead of myself. WAY. As in call the wedding announcement off, bride-nowhere-to-be.
See the music is playing along nicely as this text conversation transpires. [Note: In the interest of brevity and anonymity and my own damn privacy you will not got the verbatim transcript of the convo, just the gist of it.]
Him: Hey you! A question. Btw, this is Pompadour…we met at….
Me: Hey there! The answer. Now my question.
Him: The answer.
Me: Acknowledge the answer. Mention the evil drink. Then mention an inside joke.
Him: Acknowledge inside joke. Asks what is evil drink?
Me: Tasty beverage with shots floating on top…it’s trouble…better you didn’t find that.
And then the needle is yanked from the record because THAT WAS IT. He didn’t follow that up with, uh, anything. But why would he have even called to begin with? Oh, I'll tell you why. It took some sleuthing but now I have to tell you this other thing which I really didn't want to tell anyone about because, why boa why? See, long story, but the punchline is: I opened my profile on that online dating service thingie for a 72-hour trial period/research - I needed to feel loved. Well, I just finished my research and shut down my profile this morning but went in and looked at the "who's viewed you and then spit you out because you are not worthy of their wink" and - big AND here - Pompadour opened up my profile! BEFORE he sent the text.
I'll tell you why he called:
He is one of those online trolls (my apologies to you online guys to whom this not apply-no one). So he only called (i.e., texted) when he realized he opened my profile so knew that I would see that and then be like, "Jerk, why he no call, Jerry?" So he looks like a good guy by calling like he said he would and then he can just drop the ball and continue trolling the hotties online hoping for the bigger fish. He's an Shopper: I'll put you in the cart but I might put you back if I find something better.
Turned off by THAT GUY now.
Then Wednesday night Dear Prudence and I headed out on the town. Why we left the comfort of air conditioning, is anyone’s guess. We went to open mic night, then hit another bar and saw Couching Tiger – on a date – so had to exit. This is where you get a story within a story because inquiring minds are like who is Couching Tiger and what relevance does he have to Smooth Operator. Because you are still singing along, right?
Well, I can’t claim him. But DP can as she went out with him a few times – few as in maybe two times and he was already “I want to be your boyfriend. Don't take that job in Philly. I want to be your boyfriend!” And DP was like “Can I just have my earrings back?” So she had to go out with him a third time just to get the earrings. Easy tiger.
And then there is the couch part of the story. Remember I was moving a few months back (ugh-a-bug) and I was getting rid of any furniture that was not pretty (i.e., a muted color or floral) because I was going to create Girl Pad 2006: Dark Colors Are For Boys And Puppy Dog Tails. As it turned out, Couching Tiger needed some furniture as he just moved in the neighborhood from Seattle. (Remember Seattle, it's relevant.) So DP hooked us up and well, I was going to sell the shit on craig’s list and take a few bucks for it or not deal with that and have salvation army pick it up and get the tax write-off. Because I'm an Itemizer now, woo-hoo. (Take the standard deduction and shove it up your ass Uncle Sam!) So he took the couch which was in great condition by the way. Fabulous condition it just happned to be moss green and didn't go with Girl Pad's color scheme. I also gave him a mission-style coffee table and another end table of some sort.
And then we had this conversation:
CT: Do you want any money for this stuff?
Me: Well, I was going to ask for a couple hundred on Craigs list but then I was just going to give to the Salvation Army. So I don’t know what price to put on it.
CT: Great! Hey, do you like coffee?
Me: [Thinking we are into small talk now.] No. I’m a tea drinker. Oh you are from Seattle. I bet you like good coffee.
CT: Yep. Bye!
And he didn’t give me anything. After talking to DP he had asked her if he should get me a gift certificate to Starbucks. I guess by me saying I don't like coffee he didn't feel the need to offer me anything. Dude, I drink the Chai and eat the pound cake. Couching Tiger, Hidden Wallet (with a nice couch and coffee table).
Back to the pick-up of last night.
I had been making eye contact with this guy all night – he was with two buddies and they had that we-just-got-off-the-golf-course look. Polos, khaki shorts, and flip flops. I actually have a thing for Mr. Preppy (oh, and guys with pompadours, depends what mood I'm in I guess).
So this other group of young guys (we'll call them The Kids) start chatting us up and they were nice and I always say kudos to boldness. But the Golfsters start to pay their tab so here's my chance. I went up to the one I had been eyeballing and said this:
[Smooth operator....smooth operator.....]
"Do I know you from somewhere? Er, I mean, you look familiar to me. Do I look familiar to you? Oh hell, what's your sign?"
I wooed the friends at least. I think I was wooing him because I then said after a few rounds of small talk, "So you guys were getting ready to leave." And he answers, "No, things are looking more promising now. We are staying." So more rounds were ordered.
[Smooth operator....smooth operator....]
Anyways things are going pretty well. And they are going well for DP as she is really connecting with Potato Chip. I have a good feeling about those two. [So special to DP: When you are married to Potato Chip, remember I called it here.] But then the music snob in me was disturbed by this conversation.
Someone: Who sings this song?
DP: Depeche Mode!
The Third Guy: I thought it was Flock of Seagulls.
Me: Wh-wh-what? How do you make that disconnect?
My guy: Who is the Flock of Seagulls?
How many shades of wrong is that to a girl who likes her 80's college radio. People, it's what Duwop was to our parents. You were schooled on it, if you are in your 30's and, well, we were the exact same age. Hence, his nickname now is Don't Feed The Seagulls.
But then he got my attention when I learned he was The Jock (and I'm equal opportunity in that I like the rock star and the preppy jock) and he is a really good golfer (I like when my guy kicks the other guy's asses in Guyville) and so alright I’ll date the quarterback. If I must.
But we may be too different. He is not geographically desireable in that he doesn't fall within my 5-mile dating radius (hey, I'm not single for nothing, I bet you're thinking); he didn't believe that my tan is only from 3 weekends at the beach (really I am not that tan, he should have seen me this time last year but are we already dealing with trust issues?); and he thought my shoe straps on my wedges were band-aids (but he was concerned for my feet, so that is sweet, right?)
Anyway he did ask for my digits and I gave him my business card and said, “But don’t fax me. The fax number is wrong.” And he even took out a pen and crossed out my fax number. I like!
What is going to happen with Don't Feed The Seagulls and The Pompadour?
Sade?
Casey Kasum?
Hey, who turned the music off?
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
That Guy: Take Two
Wow, I was kind of talking abstractly but I actually came up against THAT GUY in the flesh and blood. Y'all, he knocked my socks off.
This is actually how the story goes.
He's not the one you notice first when you are in a crowded bar, 4 miller lites into the day. I mean, there is that hot guy at the other end of the bar with the aviators that so reminds you of the Red Barron. But then some guy winks at Mav and you are me (and I can't hear) so you stand there and nod and smile with this guy.
And then something happens. Because this guy all of sudden knocks you down with his quirky good looks that sneak up on you when he opens his mouth because he is That Guy who makes your belly hurt from laughter and promises never a dull day in his presence. And that reminds me of my daddy. So then you blast your hearing aid because you can't let a word this guy says go over your head.
And when he puts your Diors on, he looks a little like Elvis.
And so I am intrigued by That Guy.
I need more of him because 30 minutes in his presence just didn't quench my desire for more. Who is this guy?
And this is where he kisses the top of your head, brushes the hair out of your face, and asks you where the fuck you have been. OR. Rather. This is what I heard when he simply asked for my phone number "old school" style.
And, y'all, he rang. And, when you are me, and you spent last night crying over the abstract That Guy and all those other guys and cursing Flo who is just really fucking with your head and making you all weepy and needy like she likes to do once a month, you get THIS kind of giddiness by way of a cheesy post about some dude who probably just wants down from this pedestal I propped him up on.
This is actually how the story goes.
He's not the one you notice first when you are in a crowded bar, 4 miller lites into the day. I mean, there is that hot guy at the other end of the bar with the aviators that so reminds you of the Red Barron. But then some guy winks at Mav and you are me (and I can't hear) so you stand there and nod and smile with this guy.
And then something happens. Because this guy all of sudden knocks you down with his quirky good looks that sneak up on you when he opens his mouth because he is That Guy who makes your belly hurt from laughter and promises never a dull day in his presence. And that reminds me of my daddy. So then you blast your hearing aid because you can't let a word this guy says go over your head.
And when he puts your Diors on, he looks a little like Elvis.
And so I am intrigued by That Guy.
I need more of him because 30 minutes in his presence just didn't quench my desire for more. Who is this guy?
And this is where he kisses the top of your head, brushes the hair out of your face, and asks you where the fuck you have been. OR. Rather. This is what I heard when he simply asked for my phone number "old school" style.
And, y'all, he rang. And, when you are me, and you spent last night crying over the abstract That Guy and all those other guys and cursing Flo who is just really fucking with your head and making you all weepy and needy like she likes to do once a month, you get THIS kind of giddiness by way of a cheesy post about some dude who probably just wants down from this pedestal I propped him up on.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Tie A White Ribbon Around The Blue Box
The circus left town and the tent went with it. I painted it to oblivion. Martha Stewart is applauding all the while giving me pointers on how to pack a suitcase. For some RANDOM unconnected reason. And Ringling Brothers is homeless. But that's ok because I have never liked clowns AT ALL. I see nothing wrong with doing a little good deed. Operation Save The Children From Nightmares I Suffered As A Child When My Parents Took Me To Circus World And Painted My Face And Scarred Me For Life.
But first: You want an update on my love life? Well, it's summer so there are many boys of summer. (And those who have seen a lot of me this summer, Mav and Dear Prudence, are like, "Chickie, you got no boy." Well, they'd be right. But there is that guy on the metro I see every morning. We are going to get married.) But, really, it is so fucking hot in DC right now a boy on my arm would be one layer too many. In fact, right now I am sitting in my office and I am wondering if I can take off my shirt.
(Holy Record Tangents: Two paragraphs in and I have already managed to mention the weather (small talk!); my lack of a love life; the fact that I hate clowns (Hate!); a Martha Stewart episode I watched the other day where she had Matt Lauer on to show us how to pack a suitcase which was really disguised as: "Step off, Matt, let me show you how it's done," and then she turned to the audience and said, "Dumb Matt doesn't know how to pack. Ha ha ha," while Matt sat in the corner really no more animated than her cooktop; AND gratuitous nudity. You must know, I really tried my damndest to sneak mention of Willem Dafoe in there.
Mind you, this is a post about painting my bathroom.)
Soooo, back to the intended post.
This weekend, I performed a critical step in Operation Dismantle Circus Tent: Die Die Die My Darlin. I got out my painter's pants, brushes, and tape and transformed my lovely little bathroom into a Big Blue Tiffany Box.
But first, that consisted of a lovely stop to the Home Depot which I have come to loathe. Seriously, I need to find the Lowe's. Because the Home Depot is dirty and nobody is really helpful. Nor cute. If I have to be among sawdust and tools, for the love of god give me some hunky eye candy. Otherwise it is just sawdust and tools and these pretty eyes will glaze over until you flash something shiney like that sparkly little chandelier over there. Yep, in the Home Depot. For the love of girlie.
But I got out of the Home Depot with my Behr Embellished Blue, primer, and other sundries that the Guy At The Paint Counter, who was well aware of what I was up against, swore would be the weapons needed to undertake such a heroic feat. Dragon slayers be damned. I totally got him on board with my Die Circus Tent pitch. He wants Before and After photos. Who knew? Home Depot, my cheerleader. Perhaps I shan't give up on them.
So I did the shopping one night last week and Saturday was to be The Day. But first, Friday happy hour.
Cut to Saturday morning, the phone rings. Its Mav.
"What are you doing?"
"Taping the circus tent. Remember. It's the day the circus LEFT town."
"I know, but after last night, I thought you'd be on the couch for the day." [Mav and Boa Vocabulary: "on the couch" = hungover all day.]
But see? Nothing was going to get in my way. I told her to be worthwhile too and study for her umpteenth bar exam. Mav's tagline: Barred in eight states! Not to be confused with "banned in eight states." Semantics.
So I spent the morning and very early afternoon covering up the fugly stripes with a solid and vibrant color. And, at some point, I sat in the paint can. Hey, every slayer needs a battle scar.
And when it is all said and done, she looks pretty. My eyes get all starry-eyed when I enter my bathroom like I should be getting some pretty silver bean or tear drop or rather, The Tiffany Atlas® pendant. Diamonds, .18 carat total weight, color grade G, clarity grade VS; eighteen karat white gold. 16" long. Not that I really, really want that or anything.
Then to celebrate, Dear Prudence popped open a bottle of bubbly in what we are dubbing the Girl's Dorm, and then we ventured out in the 'hood, where I met someone I am giving the longest name possible: Honey, You Are Going To Drive Me To Drinking If You Don't Stop Driving That Hot Rod Lincoln. Sigh. And then I texted Mav: I'm in love with a Lincoln. And she got it because she replied with 'how we talk': As in Abe?
Here's to passing tests, the Girls' Dorm, guys with 18-word nicknames, other guys, champagne, and one little blue box - white ribbon and all - that you can actually shit in.
[The author promises that no tigers or elephants or tamers were hurt during the Circus Tent Death. Although she is mum on those damn creepy clowns.]
But first: You want an update on my love life? Well, it's summer so there are many boys of summer. (And those who have seen a lot of me this summer, Mav and Dear Prudence, are like, "Chickie, you got no boy." Well, they'd be right. But there is that guy on the metro I see every morning. We are going to get married.) But, really, it is so fucking hot in DC right now a boy on my arm would be one layer too many. In fact, right now I am sitting in my office and I am wondering if I can take off my shirt.
(Holy Record Tangents: Two paragraphs in and I have already managed to mention the weather (small talk!); my lack of a love life; the fact that I hate clowns (Hate!); a Martha Stewart episode I watched the other day where she had Matt Lauer on to show us how to pack a suitcase which was really disguised as: "Step off, Matt, let me show you how it's done," and then she turned to the audience and said, "Dumb Matt doesn't know how to pack. Ha ha ha," while Matt sat in the corner really no more animated than her cooktop; AND gratuitous nudity. You must know, I really tried my damndest to sneak mention of Willem Dafoe in there.
Mind you, this is a post about painting my bathroom.)
Soooo, back to the intended post.
This weekend, I performed a critical step in Operation Dismantle Circus Tent: Die Die Die My Darlin. I got out my painter's pants, brushes, and tape and transformed my lovely little bathroom into a Big Blue Tiffany Box.
But first, that consisted of a lovely stop to the Home Depot which I have come to loathe. Seriously, I need to find the Lowe's. Because the Home Depot is dirty and nobody is really helpful. Nor cute. If I have to be among sawdust and tools, for the love of god give me some hunky eye candy. Otherwise it is just sawdust and tools and these pretty eyes will glaze over until you flash something shiney like that sparkly little chandelier over there. Yep, in the Home Depot. For the love of girlie.
But I got out of the Home Depot with my Behr Embellished Blue, primer, and other sundries that the Guy At The Paint Counter, who was well aware of what I was up against, swore would be the weapons needed to undertake such a heroic feat. Dragon slayers be damned. I totally got him on board with my Die Circus Tent pitch. He wants Before and After photos. Who knew? Home Depot, my cheerleader. Perhaps I shan't give up on them.
So I did the shopping one night last week and Saturday was to be The Day. But first, Friday happy hour.
Cut to Saturday morning, the phone rings. Its Mav.
"What are you doing?"
"Taping the circus tent. Remember. It's the day the circus LEFT town."
"I know, but after last night, I thought you'd be on the couch for the day." [Mav and Boa Vocabulary: "on the couch" = hungover all day.]
But see? Nothing was going to get in my way. I told her to be worthwhile too and study for her umpteenth bar exam. Mav's tagline: Barred in eight states! Not to be confused with "banned in eight states." Semantics.
So I spent the morning and very early afternoon covering up the fugly stripes with a solid and vibrant color. And, at some point, I sat in the paint can. Hey, every slayer needs a battle scar.
And when it is all said and done, she looks pretty. My eyes get all starry-eyed when I enter my bathroom like I should be getting some pretty silver bean or tear drop or rather, The Tiffany Atlas® pendant. Diamonds, .18 carat total weight, color grade G, clarity grade VS; eighteen karat white gold. 16" long. Not that I really, really want that or anything.
Then to celebrate, Dear Prudence popped open a bottle of bubbly in what we are dubbing the Girl's Dorm, and then we ventured out in the 'hood, where I met someone I am giving the longest name possible: Honey, You Are Going To Drive Me To Drinking If You Don't Stop Driving That Hot Rod Lincoln. Sigh. And then I texted Mav: I'm in love with a Lincoln. And she got it because she replied with 'how we talk': As in Abe?
Here's to passing tests, the Girls' Dorm, guys with 18-word nicknames, other guys, champagne, and one little blue box - white ribbon and all - that you can actually shit in.
[The author promises that no tigers or elephants or tamers were hurt during the Circus Tent Death. Although she is mum on those damn creepy clowns.]
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
When Books Attack
Is it wrong that I wanted a book to fall on someone's head today?
It's like the waitress or chef who spits in your food ("the secret ingredient") or the mechanic who doesn't really give you an oil change ("See ya in 3 months for that new engine you are going to need."). Well, when you are a librarian, the equivalent is dropping books a la an "oops, darn slippery book!"
Today I took it so far as to ponder: Should the foot or the head be the target?
Well, since she was sitting down underneath me while I leaned against her and around her just to get to the books while she sat there and watched me take down eight very thick and heavy looseleaf binders one at a time, not once offering, "Let me help you with those," or even, you know, moving; well, I'd aim for the head in that case.
If I was that kind of person.
But sometimes I just live in my head and this is how it played out there:
Me: Here are your eight very big binders, all updated.
Her: Hmmph. [Proceeds to scoot chair over a smidgen and open up the overhead cabinet where she motions. Words don't come easily to this person.]
Me: [struggles with books...heavy books....high to reach up here...uh-oh, oh-no, I can't catch that book...it is falling....falling....SPLAT]
Me: Did I say oops, because I meant to?
Her Head: OWWWWIEEE....
Me: Yeah, sorry about that. Occupational hazard.
Her, stars floating around her head in a halo: No, I am the one that is sorry. I should have helped you. Instead I sat here like an idiot while you labored just so I can have my very own books. Heaven forbid I use the library. We still have one of those? And you were doing me a favor and I just sat here. I won't do that again. Books hurt!
Me: You know, that is what everyone keeps saying.
What's your occupation ammo?
It's like the waitress or chef who spits in your food ("the secret ingredient") or the mechanic who doesn't really give you an oil change ("See ya in 3 months for that new engine you are going to need."). Well, when you are a librarian, the equivalent is dropping books a la an "oops, darn slippery book!"
Today I took it so far as to ponder: Should the foot or the head be the target?
Well, since she was sitting down underneath me while I leaned against her and around her just to get to the books while she sat there and watched me take down eight very thick and heavy looseleaf binders one at a time, not once offering, "Let me help you with those," or even, you know, moving; well, I'd aim for the head in that case.
If I was that kind of person.
But sometimes I just live in my head and this is how it played out there:
Me: Here are your eight very big binders, all updated.
Her: Hmmph. [Proceeds to scoot chair over a smidgen and open up the overhead cabinet where she motions. Words don't come easily to this person.]
Me: [struggles with books...heavy books....high to reach up here...uh-oh, oh-no, I can't catch that book...it is falling....falling....SPLAT]
Me: Did I say oops, because I meant to?
Her Head: OWWWWIEEE....
Me: Yeah, sorry about that. Occupational hazard.
Her, stars floating around her head in a halo: No, I am the one that is sorry. I should have helped you. Instead I sat here like an idiot while you labored just so I can have my very own books. Heaven forbid I use the library. We still have one of those? And you were doing me a favor and I just sat here. I won't do that again. Books hurt!
Me: You know, that is what everyone keeps saying.
What's your occupation ammo?
Friday, July 21, 2006
The Hills Are Alive So Talk Dirty To Me
Whose idea was the karaoke last night?
Between Yukkell getting married, Operation Die Circus Tent, and dodging the Red Barron et al in my quest to be oh-so-mysterious (another blog post that needs more material first), I was ready to let loose. Apparently.
It all started innocently enough: margherita pizza, nice dinner salads, and a carafe of wine (not to mention the hefty glass I had before I ventured out to dinner) and then my dining companion, Dear Prudence suggests, “Let’s stop by [insert my favorite neighborhood bar here and no, its not Kittys]. Its karaoke night.” I thought this might be fun to watch. Ain’t no way I’m participating.
The extent of my singing career consists of me and my bestie friend, Martini, back in high school, cruising A1A and the neighborhoods off, windows down, music turned off, belting out - and I mean belting out - The Sound of Music in it entirety. It became a ritual. If someone made the cue to kill the music and roll down the window, you know that you had to step up and give your best, "The hills are alive...." We were pretty serious about it. We emoted hard on that song. And we'd start over if our voice cracked or we broke into laughter. There was lots of starting over so I said we sang it in its entirety but we never got that far. But our heart was in the right place.
But then I recall the couple weeks back in February or March when Mav and I accompanied the lovely Morgan - who, by the way, is a Singing Machine meaning she is actually GOOD - on some karaoke adventures. Why didn’t anyone blog about that? Probably because I woke up the next morning and said, “Wait?! I sang THAT? Why?! And who thought that was a good idea?” Mav. The instigator. Or so I thought. Apparently you get a few cocktails in me and I think I am Celine Dion. Or I just think I am much cuter than I am. And then I like to bop around on stage.
Therefore it doesn’t take much to drag me up there. Because the next thing you know, two miller lites into the bar and I was up on stage with a complete stranger belting out, “Talk Dirty To Me.”
I had fun last night. All it took was miller lites and a little dirty talk.
Who knew I was THAT easy?
Between Yukkell getting married, Operation Die Circus Tent, and dodging the Red Barron et al in my quest to be oh-so-mysterious (another blog post that needs more material first), I was ready to let loose. Apparently.
It all started innocently enough: margherita pizza, nice dinner salads, and a carafe of wine (not to mention the hefty glass I had before I ventured out to dinner) and then my dining companion, Dear Prudence suggests, “Let’s stop by [insert my favorite neighborhood bar here and no, its not Kittys]. Its karaoke night.” I thought this might be fun to watch. Ain’t no way I’m participating.
The extent of my singing career consists of me and my bestie friend, Martini, back in high school, cruising A1A and the neighborhoods off, windows down, music turned off, belting out - and I mean belting out - The Sound of Music in it entirety. It became a ritual. If someone made the cue to kill the music and roll down the window, you know that you had to step up and give your best, "The hills are alive...." We were pretty serious about it. We emoted hard on that song. And we'd start over if our voice cracked or we broke into laughter. There was lots of starting over so I said we sang it in its entirety but we never got that far. But our heart was in the right place.
But then I recall the couple weeks back in February or March when Mav and I accompanied the lovely Morgan - who, by the way, is a Singing Machine meaning she is actually GOOD - on some karaoke adventures. Why didn’t anyone blog about that? Probably because I woke up the next morning and said, “Wait?! I sang THAT? Why?! And who thought that was a good idea?” Mav. The instigator. Or so I thought. Apparently you get a few cocktails in me and I think I am Celine Dion. Or I just think I am much cuter than I am. And then I like to bop around on stage.
Therefore it doesn’t take much to drag me up there. Because the next thing you know, two miller lites into the bar and I was up on stage with a complete stranger belting out, “Talk Dirty To Me.”
I had fun last night. All it took was miller lites and a little dirty talk.
Who knew I was THAT easy?
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Marry Me Warts And All
One guy marries someone else because he is "...too far into it now."
Another guy marries someone else because "she" fits the dream on the surface. The Made in China kind.
Then there is the guy who wants to marry you because of that freckle under your eye.
Another guy marries someone else because "she" fits the dream on the surface. The Made in China kind.
Then there is the guy who wants to marry you because of that freckle under your eye.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
That Guy
He's not the one you notice first. Maybe his friend is hitting on you.
He's the one that knocks you down with his quirky good looks and his quiet mystery.
He makes your belly hurt from laughter.
He kisses the top of your head, brushes the hair out of your face, and asks you where the fuck you have been.
He's the one that knocks you down with his quirky good looks and his quiet mystery.
He makes your belly hurt from laughter.
He kisses the top of your head, brushes the hair out of your face, and asks you where the fuck you have been.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
When Bitter Is Sweet
...When an old love tell you that it is still hard to say goodbye to you and he still thinks about you. He thinks that you do the same.
You don't. For someone who once knew you so intimately, time passages have made you strangers now.
You give him your blessing.
...Knowing that you will always love that old coot. Evenso...
You don't. For someone who once knew you so intimately, time passages have made you strangers now.
You give him your blessing.
...Knowing that you will always love that old coot. Evenso...
Thursday, July 13, 2006
A Thursday 13 List: My Childhood Memories
I got this idea from Virginia Belle and, well, I like an assignment that gets me thinking. That and the office is quiet. And maybe I'm a copy cat. So this is a list of 13 Things That Remind Me Of My Childhood. There were a lot of (obvious) things that were part of my childhood (barbies, matchbox cars, various books, Donna Summer) but then there is these 13...
1. The beach – My parents loved the beach and we went all the time when I was little. My dad, being a contracting engineer, could arrange to work at projects for months and my parents were kind of nomadic when we were very little so we had a few summers we spent on the beach (before they decided to just move there already). One memorable summer was in St. Augustine and we shared this big beach house with two other families and I remember the grown-ups always laughing it up (and boozing) on the back deck. (I grew up to be just like them.) And then when I was in 3rd grade we moved about 10 minutes from the beach and before we moved into that house we lived right on the beach in a hotel for a few months waiting for our house to be ready. Every day after work my dad would take us out in the ocean. I remember hanging on my daddy’s arm jumping through the waves. That is why I love the beach so much because I always remember that carefree childhood and the safety of my dad's arm.
2. Jordache Jeans – This is the first time (and not the last) my parents succumbed to the "but everybody has them" argument. (Later it would be Guess jeans.) Yet I was only allowed one pair and I thought, "How unfair! Mean parents." But I loved those jeans. If I ever have a little girl I am making her wear the Jordache jeans. In fact, are they back in style yet? Anyways, the Jordache jeans represent a time when I started to recognize such a dirty little thing called "cliques." Those Jordache put me in the cool girl crowd. Now, I abhor cliques but I do love jeans.
3. Twizzlers – remind me of the fact that my parents fully supported Friday night treats. (And I like to carry on that tradition.) Every Friday we could pick out our own bag of candy. My sister and I would often get strawberry soda and the Twizzlers and then bite the ends off them to make a straw to sip the sugary sweetness. I loved having a dad who loved candy but I blame him for my sweet tooth.
4. Green Peas (yech) – Anytime I see a helping of peas you might hear me utter, "Did I ever tell you about the time...." because when I see them, I can't help but remember this story. One time my parents went out and we stayed at friends of theirs, The Peacocks. Why the friends weren’t out with them I don’t remember since they always went out and partied together. But for dinner, Mrs. Peacock served a side of peas and my brother, sister, and I despised them equally. Our parents never made us eat them. If we tried something and we didn't like it, we were not forced to eat it. (I support that logic but I am a very picky eater...) So being the stubborn souls that we are, we all refused to eat them. They're gross! Well, she would not let us leave the table until we finished them. So, we sat at that table for hours - I mean hours - and, yet, we never ate them. I remember wanting my mom and dad so bad because THEY wouldn't make me do this. At least my brother, sister and I were a team. She finally got mad and sent us to bed. To this day, I still don't like the peas. And I don't think my sister and brother do either.
5. Paddington the Bear – My aunt Liz always sent us books for Christmas. And they were always hardbound and more literary choices. No glossy paperbacks for us. I blame her for why I do not go to the library or borrow books. I want a never-before opened book. I don't want to share. (Yet I think everyone ELSE should support your local libraries.) Anyways, one time she sent me a Paddington the Bear book and I became obsessed with him. He had me at "please look after this bear."
6. Love’s Baby Soft – I loved this scent (what girl didn't?). It represents all that is little girl. Which now is reminding me of the Oingo Boingo song, "I Love Little Girls." Why was Danny Elfman never arrested for that one? Because they knew he was destined for great things, like the Simpsons theme (among many awesome scores)?
7. Vintage aprons and napkins – My grandma had a collection of them and she gave them to my mom at some point. My sister and I and our friend’s Debbie and Tracy would play restaurant. I loved being the waitress and putting one of those very cool aprons on. When I am antiqueing and come across vintage aprons I remember those times, trying them on, and probably starting my love for vintage clothing.
8. My mom’s piano that my uncle has now – I remember summers going to visit my grandfather and every morning of the week we spent there, my sister and I (sometimes we’d let my brother join) would get up and bang on that piano every morning. We never had lessons but we sure pretended like we could read the sheet music and channel Chopin. We would wake the whole house up. My uncles who were in their late teens through college during these years would never complain about us little brats. When I went to graduate school and lived with my uncle I ended up taking lessons on that piano. I looove that piano. My mom took lessons on it when she was little. I aim to get it someday. Today, I love the classical piano and would love to start lessons again.
9. Little kid learning to ride a bike or tie a shoe - Whenever I see a kid trying to ride a bike, I remember how hard it was for me. I was (probably still am) a timid child. Probably a little prissy so I was afraid of falling down. However when my brother - who is 2 years younger - was riding his bike before me, well, that gave me the impetus to just get on that bike and take a chance. (I'm a dip-my-toes-in-the-water-first and a you-dive-first kind of girl.) Also, it took me forever to learn how to tie my shoe. I'm not sure what that means....so whenever I see a kid try to learn one of these things I think about my own struggles that I had with, really, a lot of things.
10. A Red Baseball Mitt- My daddy loved baseball, he played on softball teams and he had us in sports once we could walk. In fact, I don't remember a year in my childhood not being part of some athletic pursuit, whether it was softball, soccer, basketball, tennis, swimming, even cheerleading. But when we were very little I most remember our nightly softball games in the backyard. Daddy as pitcher and two siblings were a team on defense, the third the batter. He taught us teamwork and healthy competition. Probably why to this day I think every game should end in a tie. (Unless you are FSU, TN, USF, Nationals, TB Bucs, Steelers and if my money is on you - then you better win.) But getting to the red mitt, my dad gave me his red mitt that he had for years. (Yeah it was vintage so I liked that. I really am an old soul.) I played every year with that in organized softball leagues until the one day I lost it and I cried for days. It sill upsets me. I sometimes see a red mitt and think, "Could that be it?"
11. Barry Gibb's ugly mug - Y,all, I was in love with him as a child. We had this huge poster and I used to kiss it even! And my parent's didn't think that was weird? He was old even back then. Probably why I like older men? Damn Barry Gibb! But I do like to imitate him. The Bee Gees remind me of childhood no doubt.
12. Gowno (he polish word for "shit") - My grandma was cool teaching me those dirty words. Sorta. My Polish grandma lived with us in Florida for a few years and she did a lot of cooking for us so my mom could work. I remember always asking her what was for dinner and she would snap, "Gowno." I would ask her, "What does that mean?" and she would respond, "Nothing. It means nothing." This same conversation was on replay. I liked her response. For years I thought it really meant "nothing." Until I was corrected. I wish I had the opportunity to tell her I really know what it means. So, I intend to pass this word down for many generations in response to "what's for dinner?"
13. Orange Gumballs - Before we moved to Florida, we lived in Connecticut. One time, my dad went down to Fla for an interview and we all waited up for him to get home late one night. He got the job and he brought me, my brother, and sister little orange gumballs to represent "the move to Florida" This is very symbolic as Fla is where most of my childhood memories began.
1. The beach – My parents loved the beach and we went all the time when I was little. My dad, being a contracting engineer, could arrange to work at projects for months and my parents were kind of nomadic when we were very little so we had a few summers we spent on the beach (before they decided to just move there already). One memorable summer was in St. Augustine and we shared this big beach house with two other families and I remember the grown-ups always laughing it up (and boozing) on the back deck. (I grew up to be just like them.) And then when I was in 3rd grade we moved about 10 minutes from the beach and before we moved into that house we lived right on the beach in a hotel for a few months waiting for our house to be ready. Every day after work my dad would take us out in the ocean. I remember hanging on my daddy’s arm jumping through the waves. That is why I love the beach so much because I always remember that carefree childhood and the safety of my dad's arm.
2. Jordache Jeans – This is the first time (and not the last) my parents succumbed to the "but everybody has them" argument. (Later it would be Guess jeans.) Yet I was only allowed one pair and I thought, "How unfair! Mean parents." But I loved those jeans. If I ever have a little girl I am making her wear the Jordache jeans. In fact, are they back in style yet? Anyways, the Jordache jeans represent a time when I started to recognize such a dirty little thing called "cliques." Those Jordache put me in the cool girl crowd. Now, I abhor cliques but I do love jeans.
3. Twizzlers – remind me of the fact that my parents fully supported Friday night treats. (And I like to carry on that tradition.) Every Friday we could pick out our own bag of candy. My sister and I would often get strawberry soda and the Twizzlers and then bite the ends off them to make a straw to sip the sugary sweetness. I loved having a dad who loved candy but I blame him for my sweet tooth.
4. Green Peas (yech) – Anytime I see a helping of peas you might hear me utter, "Did I ever tell you about the time...." because when I see them, I can't help but remember this story. One time my parents went out and we stayed at friends of theirs, The Peacocks. Why the friends weren’t out with them I don’t remember since they always went out and partied together. But for dinner, Mrs. Peacock served a side of peas and my brother, sister, and I despised them equally. Our parents never made us eat them. If we tried something and we didn't like it, we were not forced to eat it. (I support that logic but I am a very picky eater...) So being the stubborn souls that we are, we all refused to eat them. They're gross! Well, she would not let us leave the table until we finished them. So, we sat at that table for hours - I mean hours - and, yet, we never ate them. I remember wanting my mom and dad so bad because THEY wouldn't make me do this. At least my brother, sister and I were a team. She finally got mad and sent us to bed. To this day, I still don't like the peas. And I don't think my sister and brother do either.
5. Paddington the Bear – My aunt Liz always sent us books for Christmas. And they were always hardbound and more literary choices. No glossy paperbacks for us. I blame her for why I do not go to the library or borrow books. I want a never-before opened book. I don't want to share. (Yet I think everyone ELSE should support your local libraries.) Anyways, one time she sent me a Paddington the Bear book and I became obsessed with him. He had me at "please look after this bear."
6. Love’s Baby Soft – I loved this scent (what girl didn't?). It represents all that is little girl. Which now is reminding me of the Oingo Boingo song, "I Love Little Girls." Why was Danny Elfman never arrested for that one? Because they knew he was destined for great things, like the Simpsons theme (among many awesome scores)?
7. Vintage aprons and napkins – My grandma had a collection of them and she gave them to my mom at some point. My sister and I and our friend’s Debbie and Tracy would play restaurant. I loved being the waitress and putting one of those very cool aprons on. When I am antiqueing and come across vintage aprons I remember those times, trying them on, and probably starting my love for vintage clothing.
8. My mom’s piano that my uncle has now – I remember summers going to visit my grandfather and every morning of the week we spent there, my sister and I (sometimes we’d let my brother join) would get up and bang on that piano every morning. We never had lessons but we sure pretended like we could read the sheet music and channel Chopin. We would wake the whole house up. My uncles who were in their late teens through college during these years would never complain about us little brats. When I went to graduate school and lived with my uncle I ended up taking lessons on that piano. I looove that piano. My mom took lessons on it when she was little. I aim to get it someday. Today, I love the classical piano and would love to start lessons again.
9. Little kid learning to ride a bike or tie a shoe - Whenever I see a kid trying to ride a bike, I remember how hard it was for me. I was (probably still am) a timid child. Probably a little prissy so I was afraid of falling down. However when my brother - who is 2 years younger - was riding his bike before me, well, that gave me the impetus to just get on that bike and take a chance. (I'm a dip-my-toes-in-the-water-first and a you-dive-first kind of girl.) Also, it took me forever to learn how to tie my shoe. I'm not sure what that means....so whenever I see a kid try to learn one of these things I think about my own struggles that I had with, really, a lot of things.
10. A Red Baseball Mitt- My daddy loved baseball, he played on softball teams and he had us in sports once we could walk. In fact, I don't remember a year in my childhood not being part of some athletic pursuit, whether it was softball, soccer, basketball, tennis, swimming, even cheerleading. But when we were very little I most remember our nightly softball games in the backyard. Daddy as pitcher and two siblings were a team on defense, the third the batter. He taught us teamwork and healthy competition. Probably why to this day I think every game should end in a tie. (Unless you are FSU, TN, USF, Nationals, TB Bucs, Steelers and if my money is on you - then you better win.) But getting to the red mitt, my dad gave me his red mitt that he had for years. (Yeah it was vintage so I liked that. I really am an old soul.) I played every year with that in organized softball leagues until the one day I lost it and I cried for days. It sill upsets me. I sometimes see a red mitt and think, "Could that be it?"
11. Barry Gibb's ugly mug - Y,all, I was in love with him as a child. We had this huge poster and I used to kiss it even! And my parent's didn't think that was weird? He was old even back then. Probably why I like older men? Damn Barry Gibb! But I do like to imitate him. The Bee Gees remind me of childhood no doubt.
12. Gowno (he polish word for "shit") - My grandma was cool teaching me those dirty words. Sorta. My Polish grandma lived with us in Florida for a few years and she did a lot of cooking for us so my mom could work. I remember always asking her what was for dinner and she would snap, "Gowno." I would ask her, "What does that mean?" and she would respond, "Nothing. It means nothing." This same conversation was on replay. I liked her response. For years I thought it really meant "nothing." Until I was corrected. I wish I had the opportunity to tell her I really know what it means. So, I intend to pass this word down for many generations in response to "what's for dinner?"
13. Orange Gumballs - Before we moved to Florida, we lived in Connecticut. One time, my dad went down to Fla for an interview and we all waited up for him to get home late one night. He got the job and he brought me, my brother, and sister little orange gumballs to represent "the move to Florida" This is very symbolic as Fla is where most of my childhood memories began.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
It Takes Two To Make A Thing Go Right
It is getting hard to look this good on my own. Ha. I am one fashion casualty (and relationship) away from pullover knit tops and polyester pants pulled up to my armpits. With no zippers. Elastic-waistbands all the way man.
See this morning I was having zipper issues. A brand new skirt I bought down in North Carolina months ago and hadn't tried on yet. I didn't even try it on at the store and there is a reason you try things on. Because had I tried it on, I would have discovered that the zipper was broken.
Instead I found out this morning all alone in my house.
I struggled all morning to save the skirt's life but in the end, I had to cut the skirt right down the center just to get out of it.
A fashion casualty. And it was one of those oh-so-trendy bubble skirts that is going to soon be banished to the Land Of Fashion That Will Never Make A Comeback. Acid-wash denim has a high-rise there.
All that I needed this morning was another (with opposable thumbs so it is not an argument for the dog that I also want) to yank on that thing. If there was that one guy with strong hands in my house (in my life) at the time, the skirt's (very short as it is) life could have been saved.
Guys, I'm not asking for much...just someone to ease my zipper.
See this morning I was having zipper issues. A brand new skirt I bought down in North Carolina months ago and hadn't tried on yet. I didn't even try it on at the store and there is a reason you try things on. Because had I tried it on, I would have discovered that the zipper was broken.
Instead I found out this morning all alone in my house.
I struggled all morning to save the skirt's life but in the end, I had to cut the skirt right down the center just to get out of it.
A fashion casualty. And it was one of those oh-so-trendy bubble skirts that is going to soon be banished to the Land Of Fashion That Will Never Make A Comeback. Acid-wash denim has a high-rise there.
All that I needed this morning was another (with opposable thumbs so it is not an argument for the dog that I also want) to yank on that thing. If there was that one guy with strong hands in my house (in my life) at the time, the skirt's (very short as it is) life could have been saved.
Guys, I'm not asking for much...just someone to ease my zipper.
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