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?]
Thursday, August 31, 2006
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.
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