Original Me

Ode to Baggage

2010-07-27T11:33:00.008-04:00

Baggage. We all have it.

Some of us carry it in a fanny pack with a tube of lip gloss.
While others have the 12-piece Samsonite tourister collection,
filled with all your carry on needs: Self-doubt, distrust, insecurity, jealousy.

Some paid full price.
Some clipped a coupon for it.
While others won it on Wheel of Fortune,
maybe back when you got to "shop the room."
(When you could ask Pat Sajak, your shopping companion,
if this "baggage" makes my butt too big.)

Some store their Baggage on the Top Shelf.
Some stash it Under the Bed
(or in the closet with the Definitive Tom Cruise collection).

Some have wheels and can easily trudge along beside you wherever you go.
Why not? It's so easily portable!
Would you like to see my baggage?
Would you like to borrow my baggage?

Some have the brightly-colored ribbon attached to it.
You don't want to mistake your baggage for someone else's.
No, you probably have enough already.

Some have logo-emblazoned luggage,
as if to say, "I'm proud of my baggage."

Some pass it down through the family.
(I'm sure Wills have been contested.)
"I want that baggage."
"I'm not taking that baggage."

But one things is for certain,
With age comes more baggage.

FORE!

2010-05-10T15:28:00.004-04:00

When fore! is not a shout from someone in plaid pants, waving white gloved jazz hands; nor an album by Huey Lewis featuring the memorable hit “Hip to Be Square” - when we know Huey wasn’t hip, because if he was he would have spelt it “Hip 2 B SQR.” Patrick Bateman did call it a masterpiece in American Psycho.

When fore! is a shout out to you dear jiminy reader crickets. I’m not blasting off golf clubs and I haven’t jumped the karaoke circuit designated nirvana. While we are on the subject of golf, no, I have not joined the Tiger brothel. It’s been five years and you’ve been through some of it but over the last few years not much of it.

While I like to stamp my foot and brat, "it's all about me," I finally feel like I'm even closer to that moment when I am actually the center of attention (the star of my own life) and everyone is cheering...

More to come...

Kickboxing Dream

2009-11-20T14:52:00.002-05:00

When you are old enough to know cause and effect, you know that “You want to go to kickboxing tonight?” translates to, “You’re gonna eat lightning and crap thunder!” And because that would make a good story to tell Al Roker (he's literal and he'll believe you), you say sign me up for the shitastrophe!

In my “softer” days, I would prefer to maintain a horizontal position on the couch, my tush comfortably nestled in the cushions, head propped up by pillows, remote control resting on my belly. Exercise would be exercising my right to not watch Two and Half Men, Big Bang Theory, or Gary Unmarried or any other ABC shitcom with a laugh track (because people need to be told when to laugh, is the way ABC sees it). I exercise my right not to laugh on cue. At least when there is no reward of a treat manufactured by Haribo. (My tongue is wagging and I answer to Bruiser by the way. Some things will never change.) So this whole get up off the couch and sweat it out brain trust that I’ve been assigned is merely a salve from the depressive (i.e., lazy) funk that has permeated my every fiber of being, comfortable as that couch may be. It answers to Lov-ah.

In preparation for the workout, I drink a glass of raw egg yolks, shadowbox up Constitution, run up the steps of the Capitol, leap in the air, and shake my fist. (Secret Service mentally taking notes of this Cool Factor to add to the boss' routine. Since the Mom jean's didn't work on the baseball field.) Theme track unfortunately drowned out by a diplomatic motorcade, because when in DC…

When I arrive at said kickboxing studio I’m reminded of a set leftover from Rocky. The ring, the Snoop soundtrack, Mike Tyson. I make a mental note to save my ears. I conclude that the gym was bought on Ebay with the advertisement: Apollo Creed v. Italian Stallion. There’s a sign in the water fountain that says, “Don’t spit in the fountain.” Because frogs, snails, and puppy dog tails will do so if you don’t give them a friendly reminder that, hey, your spittle that comes from the bowels of your stomach...is kind of disgusting. Boys.

Then I hear the laugh track, Al Roker comes out from the wings in all his jollyness, and my ear starts to feel cold and clammy. Al's asking me something about bowels and thunder and he's wearing boxing shorts. And that's no TKO my friends. That's when I wake up to a thunderstorm and my dog licking my ear. Yet, AL ROKER IS STILL PRESENT.

I change the channel and nudge my tush deeper into the cushion and coo, "Oh, Lov-ah." That is, after Al Roker was long gone.

Gluttonous Maximus

2009-08-11T17:39:00.004-04:00

"Life is a smorgasbord and most poor suckers are starving to death." — Patrick Dennis (Auntie Mame: An Irreverent Escapade)

“I guess I’m just a glutton for punishment,” she said wryly and jokingly. There was a shrug of the shoulders, a downturned corner of the mouth, and big puppy dog eyes batting Joan Crawford spider-legged eyelashes. She could have just as easily been saying, “Woe is me,” as is often the case.

So she hikes up her skirt and strolls down the information highway, Exit Online Dating (Population: Everyone) where she will be met with disappointment and heartbreak over and over and over. Nothing good EVER comes out of it, yet she has watched one too many Nora Ephron rom-coms and believes that Shopgirl will indeed some day meet her “Joe Fox” complete with a Brinkley (soon to change his name to Tom Ford) to adopt all her own.

She’ll come across “that guy” over and over. "That guy" who doesn’t follow up, "that guy" who wants one thing, "that guy" who is going to trade you in for tomorrow’s latest model, "that guy" who wants his peas, carrots, and french fries. Men and their buffets. They just can’t help themselves when their options on the menu are Everything and All You Can Eat.

On the flipside, for her, while the options are the same - everything - she is only looking for one thing: the real thing. It can't possibly be found on the buffet but the chef (i.e., God) won't let her order off the menu. Just call her Sally.

[Ed.: Our heroine is really, really hungry at this point. I've asked Sally Struthers to step in and plead her case.]

You're Leaving Fingers Crossed, Arkansas Now

2009-07-28T17:20:00.004-04:00

“I still believe in Hope - mostly because there's no such place as Fingers Crossed, Arkansas.” – Molly Ivins

Despite my uber-pessimism in all things Love and Relationships (The glass is half full? I never got a glass!), I still harbor a modicum of Hope. It’s hidden deep, sure, like in my thighs where everything else seems to congregate (French Fry meet Hope), but I know it exists.

Last week, I went on my billionth first date. At my (Golden) age, a product of wasting 7 years with a Yukkell, letting the “good guy” get away once or twice, living in DC, and low self-esteem. (Although I might argue that the low self-esteem is a product of that guy, that guy, that guy, and all those guys.) To the world, I put on the face of pessimism and say things like, “Here we go again” (eyeroll), or “He has no where to go but up” (used car man smile), and “I’m not expecting to be swept off my feet” (Mother Theresa nod).

But deep down (from the deepest regions of my thighs) I think but never say out loud, “Might this be the one?” I dare to hope.

It might be because, prior to meeting in person, we shared good rapport with a volley of sarcastic banter complete with a McEnroe helping of “C’mon!!! Are you blind?!?!”. Oh, I did throw my tennis racket and was ready to dismiss him when the line became so blurred between the Sarcasm and the Deadpan. Did he just rename my neighborhood unfavorably? A neighborhood, I would argue, he also lives in. And so I suggested a West Side Story rumble. I kindly offered to bring the choreography.

So I agreed to meet him. You know, if I must.

In the end, I was pleasantly surprised. Not because the date ended up being fun, easy, and definitely memorable. Not because he was generous with his laughter. Not because he wore good shoes. Not because he gave great hugs, affection, and a better kiss. But because he asked me out on a second date and persisted when I had to turn him down due to a prior engagement. So he rung me again and we firmed up a second date. He's cooking and I'm baking!

I can feel the squish of Hope rubbing in my thighs now.

Avoiding the treadmill for now...

Why I Carry A Tape Recorder (and not because I'm old)

2009-07-16T14:25:00.013-04:00

You know that 1-800 customer service battle cry, “This message will be recorded for training purposes,” that causes you to pause, clear your throat, and edit the delivery you rehearsed prior to calling? The one that the FCC bleeped? Given that prompt, now you might start the call with, "Jane, is it? Yes, Jane, have you lost weight? Looking good!" The Kill Them With Kindness First approach I learned in a Southern Fried Manners class. Visibility of the Complimented One not necessary.

So if you are anything like me – one who takes several takes on recording my voicemail greeting (see voice, recorded, mistaken for 6 year old) - you think that, yes, this conversation will indeed be recorded and filed away for a rainy day – like maybe your FBI file – and therefore you pat a heaping lump of sugar in your tone…or maybe you sexercise your best Jessica Rabbit voice…and add a Honey Bear where you intended B*%$&?

You see, I don’t want traces of my mania archived for later use which is why I always self-edit at the battle cry prompt because 'where is my recording being saved' and 'will it resurface years later when I’m running for office'?

“Original Me would indeed make a good candidate for President of Put Gummy Bears on the Menu! Let me submit Exhibit A in which Acme Cable Co. recorded her voice for all posterity and what we have here is a genuine Sweet Cheeks Long in the Tooth. A vote for Original Me is a vote for Gummy Bears at our dinner table and a coveted spot on the USDA's Recommended Dietary Allowance! Respect for Gummy Bears! Here here!”

Which brings me to my next point.

When you go to therapy, the customer service battle cry is trumpeted yet again. But not necessarily voiced as a warning, such as, “Hey, do you mind if I write your whine down and can I illustrate it with mocking faces because ethics require me to be stone-faced and all ears and I NEED AN OUTLET TO ROLL MY EYES?” No, permission is not asked, fellow nutters. Also, instead of a voice recording, you might get the pen to paper type of recording, the Luddites “recording.” So, yeah, a paper trail now.

This one is the hardest Recorded Message battle cry to navigate. Not for the simple fact that you are being "recorded" (and not because your sticky sweet 6-year old voice can't be soundbit either). No, it's because, this "recording" is an interpretation of your message. The fierce scribbling that causes me to pause to let the pen keep up and attempt a "looking good, pen" half-ass compliment. It’s a judgy pen, you want to make sure it likes you. So the “fly on the wall” is now my record. My tears and self-loathing left behind on pages and pages of yellow lined legal pads in some office on 20th Street, the crumbs of the shit cookie I’ve been eating from for most of my life (as revealed to me in therapy). Unhappiness, my lot.

So my “recordings” in therapy, the notes about me, I like to think of as my Handbook. It's mysterious to me too. I would love to get my hands on my “handbook.” The bird’s eye view on my "message," self-edited or not. Aside from being littered with white splotches of bird shit (bird on high), there would be everything one would need to know to properly care for your Lara. (I would love to know too.) I might slide in flag stickers so that the student could flag those very important sections like the chapter on when and what to feed your Lara (it does involve a valley of potatoes, I know this much), the chapter on intimacy and your Lara (it does involve a Vincent Price cameo, don't read it alone), and the joy of shopping with your Lara (this is the positive and only self-satisfying arc in the Life and Times of...).

You see where I'm going with this? We should all come with a Handbook. An instruction manual, if you will. That thing you slide across the table to every new date. The "bird's eye view" always a more accurate description than any false advertisement the subject is going to peddle (see Handbook, chapter on why your Lara is cynical - I'll warn you - it's OED-sized). Because folks, there should be a consequence for everything you say and do on a date with your Lara and that lie or false advertisement should be archived somewhere (such as, Payback Land).

You don't have to be another "Can you believe this one?" barstool chat with my friends.

Which is why I now like to bring a tape recorder to dates and start the small talk rolling with, "Hi! I'm Lara and I am a Taurus. I love tomatoes and black-capped chickadees. This coversation will be recorded for all sisterhood!"

"Yes, I would like for you to speak in to the microphone for the remainder of the date."

Because men, you can be different. When you hear that battle cry, you can be the guy who pauses, clears his throat, and carefully chooses his words. I might suggest, "Darlin, where've you been my whole life? I've missed you." Or you can start smaller and work your way up if you're shy. But, now, because you are recorded, you will mean it.

Stop Me if You Think That You've Heard This One Before

2009-04-02T13:31:00.002-04:00

A girl walks into a bar. Sits down next to a decent looking gentlemen. Her standards are low: pretty much two eyes, two ears, teeth, and the ability to say, "Let me get you a drink." is all it takes. Six hours later he leans in for the kiss. It was a decent kiss. But, again, her standards are low on account of not even remembering what it is like to kiss. There may have been practising on the back of the hand beforehand. Goodbye was said. Sweet dreams were had, when visions of sugar plums and fairies and unicorns told a story of a second date.

...Then came reality...

A Letter to Myself a Year Ago

2009-03-31T17:05:00.000-04:00

Dear Year Younger Me,

I'm sure you have realized by now that you always have high hopes for a "New Year" and it never lives up to those (Great) Expectations. You bet your "Dickens" this year is no different. But you will be happy to hear, the year is not going to be a total bust after all. That is, if we are looking on the bright side.

First, you are going to get a chance to relive high school. I know what you are thinking: Like I need to relive THAT phase again. But one day you are going to log into Facebook to look at who you might know (some might use stronger language like "stalk") with no intention of actually being ON Facebook. But by the next morning you will be “friended” five times by people you haven’t given a rat's ass about since high school, or even, elementary school. This will force you to post your picture, get Mav to join in on the fun, and start snarking status updates. In one month you will be knee deep in high school insecurities again. You will stress about why this person hasn’t friended you and so on and you still don't get asked to prom.

But your colossal insecurites are worth it because there is an upside to the re-connecting. You will re-connect with people that you actually end up liking a lot. Like the guy from elementary school that you will trade writing samples with. You will meet up with two high school girlfriends in NYC in October, all who happen to be single, and you will commiserate on this lonely fact and paint the town 99 shades of red. You will dance all night long literally in the Meatpacking district with some guy, who turns out to be married. You only learn this the next day while recounting the events of the nights before over hungover burgers and looking through the photoroll and seeing the blaring gold band on the man's finger. The symbol you don't notice the night before as you soak up the attention to get you through your "man" dry spell.

Speaking of men, you will spend 4th of July weekend at the beach with Hollywood, Shamrock, Disco and his wife and some extremely hot guy. You will have to share a bed with him and the first night will find you making sweet punch-drunk love but you will spurn his advances the next two nights not to mention totally shut down and turn into they shyest person this way come because of the morning after awkwardness that you can't shake. This will sink you into a depression for a whole month later stewing over why you couldn't muster the cute and the witty.

I'm sorry to say, the guy situation will be more of the same of prior years. You won't have a serious boyfriend for three years running. See making sweet punch drunk love above. You'll take it where you can get it. You're just kind of over it already. You'll get the memo, "He's just not that into you" for the millionth time over the course of the year.

But you want to know what is going to be great about this year (and I'm giddy thinking about how you don't even know it yet)? You are going to travel! Of course there is the trip to Chicago to catch up with your oldest Bestie, Martini. You will go to Lollapalooza as it has become something of a tradition for you two. You will rock out to Love and Rockets who will re-assert themselves to your personal Favorite Band lineup.

You will go to Aruba with Mav, mini-Mav, and Pierre. Mini-Mav will threaten to shove her binkie up all your asses all the time. Lots of laughing will take place. You will scuba dive for the first time and love it. And Younger Self? I am currently looking into getting you - us - certified.

You will go Ireland all by yourself. I know you are probably shocked by that. You have always hated the pseudo-Irish Americans who hijack drunk for all themselves. You have always hated Irish jigs, Celtic music, American Irish bars. But this trip kind of falls into your lap and you think it is a good time to get outside your comfort zone. So you go. And you fall in love with the country, the people, the music, the Guinness. But you know who you don't fall in love with? The tour guide. He will sexually harrass you until the cows come home, even begging you shack up in his hotel room with him.

So hold tight and take this year for what is worth, my dear.

Signed,

Year Older Me

Girl Power

2009-01-16T13:16:00.000-05:00

Going through some old Drafts. This was written last May, right around Derby time, before and after the death of Eight Belles.

*********

May 2008 -- I put on a sundress. I drank mint juleps, I bet on a horse and I bought a horse in an auction. I won actually. A few hundred. But I don't know if I can support horse racing anymore.

I've wrote about my love for the Derby here and here and here. I've always said I watch it with one eye open and one eye closed. I am opposed to greyhound racing, why shouldn't I be opposed to horse racing? Especially when the Derby is known as a grueling race to begin. Especially for a 3-year old.

I even wrote this diddy before last Friday:

This post brought to you by tampons.

If a female can bust through the sunroof ceiling and win an Indy car race,
then a little girl by the name of Eight Belles can run with the big boys in the
Derby.

A filly surround by 19 boys. Well nuzzle me jealous.

And like the little girl who gets the head start on the race track, this
filly will get a five pound weight allowance. A girl's got to maintain her figure after all. To run with the boys, you don't have to be one of the boys.

So stuff your bra, wiggle your butt to and fro, giggle coyly, and use your
sexuality. That's your advantage.

Besides, a black cat crossed Smooth Air's path so I know I am not picking him.

I went in with the feminist vote, I am going out with the animal rights vote.

Finding My Voice Again (Really...I Think)

2008-09-12T15:11:00.003-04:00

You know that feeling when you have been away from something or someone for so long and when you reunite there is so much distance that you don't know where to start - where you fill in the gaps? Yes, well, that is the way I am feeling right now. I'm not going to try to fill you in on the past year. That has been the hard part of starting to write again. So I think it is best to segueway into this by just starting anew.

For the sake of a story...

2008-08-08T14:37:00.000-04:00

January 2008, I pulled myself up by the elastic Juicy terries and said to myself, "No more. I'm not looking for love in all the wrong places, looking for love in too many faces. (Or that was a karaoke dream.) But essentially the message was this: "I'm on hiatus!"

And so it was. I had good intentions to pursue creative and athletic goals and I have sort of pursued them, if you count paint-by-numbers and Wii. You know, the pop psych momma advice to "immerse myself in myself" and not pay attention to the menfolk. No, I wasn't popping in 1990's Lillith Fair tapes, reading Simone de Bouvoire, and running to California to get hitched, but you know what I mean.

And this little plan worked. No dates since 2007. Unless you count the purely textual relationship I have with a boy from my morning metro ride to work. We were "strangers on a train" for 2 years, until we saw each other out of context. (Our usual context being my face implanted in his armpit as the morning train twists and turns and jerks out of Courthouse. Or him stalking me on the platform, waiting for me as we board the train in silence for 3 whole stops while admiring his Hugo Boss and Varvatos wardrobe.) But we had to run into each other in a bar one night and then another night. All of a sudden our context was the local Tavern. He had to go and ask for my number as homo sapiens with opposable thumbs and conversational lust are wont to do. I gave him the digits with the promise that he wouldn't "go calling me all the time, in fact don't call me, just text me. " And he took that to its literal grave. Texting me all the time, yet not asking me out. So we proceed to "get to know each other" on text messaging, as much as you can get to know someone that way. (How ws ur day? good....out of town...what r u doin? watching TC, etc.) We are going on six months now.

So between only having texting relations with the opposite sex and totally losing my shit when forced to spend Fouth of July weekend with a hot guy, I realized that it was time, Internet. Time to get back into the dating pool, if only for the stories, and this was my plan:

Saturate the Market Place

Part one of the dating game forthcoming...

It's In My Head, Filler

2008-05-16T15:28:00.002-04:00

You might know these things about me.

One, I generally don't like people in bulk (and by bulk I mean large quantities). Gummy bears should be in bulk and Charmin triple-ply toilet paper, too. Because you can never have enough of either. I like "A Person" and maybe another "Person" and maybe another but you get too many at once and its a clown car experience that I am not laughing at. There are some exceptions to the One Person Too Many rule. A Chippendale dance-off might be one where I would enjoy the more the merrier.

The other thing is that I live in my head most of the time. I am always having conversations with myself. But "you" don't see that because I am quite good at keeping the voices IN MY HEAD. So what you see is a person walking down the street, minding their own business, but with a Being John Malkovich thing happening behind closed doors, so to speak. But minding their own business to a fault because I probably won't see you or, notice you and you will take it personally when really I just might be adapting songs a la Tori Amos or William Shatner or, even, David Cook, depending on my mood. It's not personal. It's my own personal rock concert, preferred with no audience.

I have to remind myself from time to time that I do share this world with other people.

Honing into a point, I tend to be oblivious to the people around me when I am walking to work in the morning. I can't be sure what my exterior self is showing when I am IN MY HEAD. Like I think I might be smiling but it might not translate. Oh, John Cusack!

For instance, I might look intent, vacuous, crazy, joyous, or annoyed in the morning. At any moment my expression might lead you to believe that someone died, I won the lottery, I just scarfed down a baked potato with butter, or Ted from How I Met Your Mother asked ME to be the Mother.

Thus, my expression = it's a toss-up. And again, people will take it personally.

Another thing about me is I don't mess around in the morning. I'm a biped on 6-cylinder hot wheels. Vroom. Vroom. The way I see it, if everyone moved along the same speed/way as me in the morning all would be right with the world. I'm convinced we could Save our Planet, Spay and Neuter All Animals, Achieve Peace and Live as One. Bed In or Foreign Adoption not required. Instead, all would walk the escalator not ride it, I would get a seat on the metro each morning, or, as I slip into my walking dream state...I'd gallop to work on a white stallion led by a knight in shiny armor (Hi Ted! Am I the Mother?).

So we have the stress (or fear in all honesty) of people, the daydreaming, and the speedwalking all leading me to my point.

One particular morning recently there was an obstacle, in which it was not acceptable to pull the horse back, whisper a "giddy up" sweetly in his ear, and jump the barrier to great applause and British cheer. Even I know when to leave the stories IN MY HEAD. So I proceeded to go right, but...the barrier moved. I go left...the barrier got wider. Egads. I had no choice but to bust right through and go up the middle. I had a clear shot. The right and left would never see me coming, is what I thought.

To be more clear, there were two gals exchanging in an early morning gabfest, best reserved for the water cooler. Hot Topic Mondays be damned! And they spread out their space about 4 people wide, you see, perpindicular to any incoming traffic. Because it wasn't enough to only occupy the space which your mass encompasses. More space was necessary in a space barely big enough to contain them as it was. "Look, mom, no hands" became "Look, mom, I can move to and fro WHILE talking." My space, was now their space, apparently.

But I found a moment to squeeze through them (walls on both sides when we all know that only in reality I can't walk through walls, but with Ted and the horse IN MY HEAD- fuh-get-about-it). And I eked by with not contact, nary a disruption. "No harm, no foul" is what the referree would call the play had he been there. But one of them did not see it like that. She was moved enough to disengage from her very engrossing early morning chat fest, to turn her attention to me. And she clucked her head, called me unsavory names when I was only minding my own business trying to get from Point A to Point B. Life, really. She is lucky I didn't demand a red carpet (is the way my head would call it).

Ignore it, I could, but my mind wouldn't have it like that today, I'm afraid. The mind (was it John Cusack?) opened the door to let them in. The response was, "I can't help it. My equilibrium is off today."

I have no idea where that came from but, frankly, I couldn't have said it better myself.

Reason #423 I Should Not Be Left To My Own Devices

2008-04-24T19:10:00.001-04:00

Because I will embarass myself. And at the time, while "said embarassing act" is happening, I will giggle it off. Because look at me, I am ss-tt-r-ee-aa-k-i-nnn-ggggg, and, gosh, isn't it funny? It's not just for movies and your movie-watching giggles.

Said embarrassing act usually involves wine. Or beer. Or liquor. Really, whatever is handy.

And I don't know why I am even telling you this because I really am embarrassed for myself. My cool egg has been cracked. When The Internet only knows me as poised.

Sigh. Alas, I didn't go streaking. (See, e.g., Movies, Cinema, Magazines, The Occassional Celeb Car Exit.)

You know (but you really don't) how I have waxed poetically in my head because this blog has been so 2005. I haven't wanted to write about the general malaise I have experienced over the last year (or longer?). Dr. Phil didn't try bailing me out of my depression. Alas, I had to pull myself up by the Juicy sweats and off of the baked potato cloud that my butt was wedged in and say, "Really, Self, this shit has got to stop. So what if people have disappointed you. So what if life is kind of going on and all your friends are well along that ride but you can't seem to catch a break."

So I hibernated all winter long. Just like a Bear in a den (but with the benefit of a TV). It was a chore to have to go out and be social and act the part of a person who actually enjoys being around people. Imagining them as gummy bear characters wrapped in baked potato coats (winter, duh) helped. But then that gets creepy. Or fun, however you look at it. I pick fun.

Anyway, so I got really pale staying in and now it is spring and the daisies are sprung and I just want to go out all the time now. People are no longer gummy bears to me, but actually people I can converse with. They're one of me now. Don't get me wrong, I still don't want to small talk and give a weekend transcript of my comings and goings. And I still want to give out fashion citations to passers-by while sitting outside at Mexicali Blues.

And so I go out now. And I went out, in particular and for purposes of a point, last Saturday night. And this caged bird had herself some cocktails, both before I went out to have cocktails and after I came home from cocktails. So, cocktails bookending cocktails, you see?

You see where I am going with this, right? I'll tell you, far away from any respectable option, such as:

Oh, it's 1:30 AM, I am going to put my pajamas on and GO TO BED.
Oh, it's 1:30 AM, I am going to put my pajamas on and GO TO BED.
Oh, it's 1:30 AM, I am going to put my pajamas on and GO TO BED.

Yeah, that message I did not get.

So, I proceeded to pour the Heavy Pour of the bottle of wine I started earlier in the evening and I got out my laptop and proceeded to email people. Guys, really. Guys, I haven't talked to since before the Winter Hibernation. Guys I've never met in person, guys I've only went out with once, and guys who I have been doing the Metro Dance with for two years now.

While this is going on, one guy actually emailed me right back. At 1:30 AM. And I am this close to doing the, "Can he seem me?" duck behind my couch. Because it is not far-fetched to believe that computers have special powers.

The other guy, I can't even bring myself to see what I wrote to him. I don't even remember his name. I think it was Tim? I went out with him once and I wore a charcoal gray turtleneck which is so not my color and so not my fashion pick and where did it come from. He was during the Great Winter Depression and did not get the Best of Me. I'm pretty sure I curled my lip in a sneer the one time we went out and he talked about duck hunting. I also stuck 2 daisies in his eye sockets and released a dove in his name and walked around him in a circle holding a sign that said, "Ducks are People too.". But why did I email him and WHAT on earth did I say? We will never know because I can't bring myself to look at my Sent folder. Shocker that I never heard back from him.

The third one is harmless really. And he really warrants his own post. So that is forthcoming.

So, right about now, you, Dear Reader, are probably thinking, "how lame" because you were probably expecting something embarrassing along the lines of having a booger hang out of my nose on a first date. Just trust me when I say, I really didn't need to carry on like I did.

But, in the end, it is a good thing that I am at least entering civilization again and appreciating people for the people that they are and not the gummy bears that they were.

Inching Along One Flower At A Time

2008-04-21T14:12:00.001-04:00

I have never had a boy send me flowers. And you know what that translates to? I have never had a boy send me yellow tulips. I'd even settle for white. Or a dandelion. Buehler?

Heh. You'd give me the one already blown out, right?

Story of my life.

This is not to say that the Real Love Of My Life, as opposed to myriad Posers, never showed up on my doorstep with the random greenery picked from the neighbor's lawn or the carnations from the local Giant. Stolen flowers have more meaning? Because nothing says "I love you" more than a five finger discount. Bonnie and Clyde built a relationship on it.

My office is plastered with pictures and drawings of flowers. I actually had to take some down because it became a little overkill. Shrubbery.

I also spray lavender in my office a lot. As a panacea to Job Stress, a remedy according to the Feng Shui, Hippies Are Dope, Mercury Rising, Moon in Jupiter, Chakra Kundalini Express bus. It's a short bus that safely transports me througout this life. But I wish the bus driver was a little nicer to me.

One of the partners at work does actually give me flowers. On more than one occasion. He also gives me Thanksgiving presents. One of the few people who actually take the literal meaning of the word "thanksgiving." He also give mes Starbucks and iTunes gift cards. Alas, he doesn't give me anything for Arbor Day, so take your head out of the flower patch.

I am just in love with floral teas. White peony tea. Chamomile. Lavender jasmine. Honeysuckle. Yerba Mate. Hell, I even get Hibiscus sorbet. I am dying to make lavender scones, I just got to get my hands on some edible lavender. I think those would be just tasty-cakes.

Now I am into painting flowers like a Georgia O'Keefe rip-off artist.

Flowers, flowers everwhere.

Now, I just need a Garden Boy for watering purposes. Bring your own hose.

John Travolta Should Get It Over With Too

2008-04-14T15:30:00.006-04:00

It started with a date three years ago. I liked his boyish good looks. His average, boy-next-door, preppy style - benign and DC attorney-like. You know, average. We shared similar tastes in music. He was a "rock star" (for DOG's sake), fronting a college band and he even performed on stage with Paul Westerberg one drunken time in his youth. Now, that's rock and roll - not hair band rock and roll but smoke-a-pack-of-cigarettes-pop-beer-tops-with-your-mouth-punch-a-kid-in-the-mouth rock and roll. He was from upstate New York. He was apple pie.

We seemingly hit it off but for whatever reason never went out again. I guess I expected a full court press because I was popular in those days, what with the Yukkell and The Carson, et. al. He remained passive yet kept in touch over the years. I didn't pluck any "he loves me" "he loves me not" petals.

For three years we exchange very cursory emails. Small talk, if you will. I always thought he had a girlfriend and when things went bad, he would email me for some kind of male ego-stroking.

Like I said, this goes on for three years. Some bizarre online chat with some guy who, at this point now, I can't even remember what he looks like. And all I remember about him is the descriptor I gave you in the first paragraph. We literally are virtual strangers.

But this last time, he sends me a different kind of email. A drunken slur of "ohmigod I can't believe I did what I just did last night! OMG OMG. But don't ask me, I can't tell you. It's sooo embarrassing!" Of course, just like when mom said, "Don't look under the bed or in the closet for your Christmas presents", you look under the bed and in the closet. And so I bite back with "tell me more" and then he lays it out.

The story comes out in layers.
Him: I had a date with a guy I have had a crush on for awhile.
Me: Whoa! Hold the sausage. I didn't know you were gay.
Him: Oh yeah, I thought you knew.
Me: No, I don't even know who you are really, what you look like.
Him: What? This whole time? Three years?
Me: You are they guy I had drinks with at the Mayflower, right? You're a Westerberg fan?
Him: Yes, that's me.
Me: Were you gay then?
Him: No, not out of the closet yet. But I always liked your style and thought you were really pretty.
Me: [blushing]
Him: I'm actually a cross dresser and I like transvestites.
Me: Whoa! Hold the Hairspray. So you came out of the closet WITH A DRESS ON?
Him: In full regalia. I'm actually a passable woman. I never leave the house without my wig and full makeup. It feels good to be telling you this.
(The full description of his lovefest is redacted. The FCC will shut me down.)

So we remain pen pals. But now he signs off with "Luv ya hon, Betsy." And I laugh everytime.

I'm not kidding...

2008-01-17T16:13:00.000-05:00

I have a slew of coffee mugs in my office that I have received over the years from various vendors. There is 9 to be exact.

Each day as I get my green tea with rose petals, I select the mug that will match my outfit.

Still Life With Grapefruit, Cabbage Soup, and Light 'n Healthy Orange Juice

2008-01-10T15:41:00.001-05:00

As Cezanne once proclaimed, "with an apple I wish to astonish Paris", I proclaim that with a head of cabbage I hope to astonish the menfolk. And there you have it, this potato-chomping, gummi-popping, root-beer-swilling gal has put herself on the big D. When D just means a healthy way of living, a less sedentary lifestyle. Watching Golden Girl re-runs at the gym instead of the couch with one hand in the buttered popcorn bowl and an elastic waistband.

This last year has been, well, kind of sucky. When sucky isn't a giant lollipop and good ships and all that. I know. I said that about the year before. Well, don't they say that when you hit 35, it's all downhill? When downhill doesn't involve Utah powder and groomed ski trails. But the point is, I have spent most of 2007 flat on my back. When on my back doesn't entail my hands tied to the bedposts in Missoni scarves and a boom-chick-a-boom soundtrack.

Anyway, it's not so much a D---, just a healthier way of living - a more toned bod, better posture - a better spirit, a better outlook. I am getting back in touch with the artsy-fartsy me. I am sewing L's on all my shirts, using calligraphy in all my correspondences, making my own loose teas, sewing baby booties for all my friends' babies. Or. But I will paint that big canvas for my bedroom. I will be more Green. Then, maybe, I will start that children's book I want to write, where Slow Pie, the one-toothed cat gets into all kinds of shenanigans.

Do I sound too hippy-dippy? (I'm sorry, that is what happens when you go to church on Christmas day, when you haven't been in at least 3-4 years, and find out that the priest's dog is part of the Mass now. A sign to finally make Tom Ford a reality (except his name is going to be Hugo)? Or a sign that God is Dog (or Dog is God)? Play that on 33 1/3 rpm backwards, Satanic backmaskers.)

You see, Cezanne's still lifes weren't about the bulbous fruit as the object of the art. But their relation to - and place in- the space they occupy - draped cloths, jutting corners of the table tops, pitchers (or ewers, you crossworders) and background planes - as parts of a whole. And how the light bounces around and illuminates.

Mind, body, and spirit.

Honk if you love Dog.

Count This as Bloggin in '07, Be Back in '08

2007-12-28T14:37:00.000-05:00

This just in:

"We think Hello Kitty is accepted by young men as a design statement in fashion," he said.

...so said the chap as he rode off in the sunset on a pink vintage Strawberry Sizzler bike.

Vroom vroom.

Oh. And this:

"Young men these days grew up with character goods," said Tohmatsu. "That generation feels no embarrassment about wearing Hello Kitty."

Heh.

It's Not You It's Me

2007-09-21T11:22:00.000-04:00

After several months of a Goldilocks-storied dating experience: “this one’s too little” “this one’s too whiny” “this one’s too wimpy” “this one’s too shady” "this one's deathly thin" “this one can’t get from point A to point B without a momma” – a too-this, too-that, not-the-one, moving-on kind of pattern, I may have stumbled into Baby Bear's bed.

But not before I questioned whether my expectations are way too high – the cookie jar that even my highest stilettos will never reach. Or, is it that I am just that non-committal and actually relish spending Saturday nights alone in my Juicy Couture with a baked potato and a bag of gummy bears and a bottle of wine? I can entertain myself after all.

But then I have that date that makes me realize that I am not an unsatisfied Goldilocks. I’m not swinging from the chandeliers, mind you. I am in no way saying that this Baby Bear is The One. I'm in no way saying that he knocks my socks off. But it is refreshing that he warrants a second peek.

But now, after that second date, I am right back to being the unsatisfied Goldilocks. I could list a million reasons why whilst lounging in my Juicy sweats and talking to the make-believe dog; or, I could push those thoughts away and go for the third date.

And my t-shirt says: I blog the mundane details of my life

2007-07-31T16:33:00.001-04:00

July flew by without a document. So this bulleted where-ya-been post will have to do to fill in a July entry. It pains me to do this.

I started a post called N.O. I DO Get to Go, which means I did get to go. To New Orleans. It was going to be in answer to this post but I'm not feeling very sappy. The punchline was going to be something along the lines of New Orleans being more depressed than I could ever imagine to be. I know! Who needs another Original Me self-indulgent weep fest? Because the trip, the city, was not at all what I imagined it to be. Sadly.

I've been to the beach a couple times. Once with Mav and Morgan (Pierre, to you). Naturally all kinds of hilarity ensued. That led up to the post I never finished called, The One Where They Call Me John. But I have retired the John alter ego because I never really liked "that John person" anyway. That is part of the character. But that post would have been very you-had-to-be-there in an abstract way. (On second thought, that post is coming to a blog near you, as I am chuckling thinking about it. Heh.)

I ran into this guy and became a Missed Connection. Or not. I blew it though. That might warrant a story. We will call that one, Love Me Two Times, or more likely, Hate Me Today. You may not want to say to a guy you run into (whom you spent one weekend two summers ago running your fingers through his hair), "Do you have lumps on the back of your head?" as the distinguishing indentification recognition (or pickup line) when you can't remember his name. Ahh...Kevin! A day late and a bus short, indeed.

Next month: family time, Outer Banks, and a Tavern on the Green wedding.

In the meantime: looking forward to John Doe tonight, welcoming a new friend to the neighborhood on Wednesday, condo board dramatics on Thursday. and obsessively watching Flight of the Conchords over and over again.

Inspiration will come to me soon...

Answering the Call

2007-06-27T11:32:00.000-04:00

“My grief lies all within,
And these external manners of lament
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
That swells with silence in the tortured soul”
--Shakespeare

Five years ago, June 30 fell on a Saturday too. The night before I "inadvertently" called my parent’s home phone – I was trying to reach some friend. Who? I can’t really remember. But I mistakenly punched in "mom and daddy" in my contact list. My daddy answered, awoken from his slumber, his temperature already spiked, no doubt Death already making a bed for him at the Inn. The disorientation would happen later on Saturday, the disorientation that would prompt my mom and dad to say, "Something is not right." But my daddy answered the phone and I had one last conversation with him that went pretty much like this: “Oops! Hi Daddy! (giggle) Did I wake you? I meant to call (so-and-so). So sorry!” What I can’t remember is if I said "I love you." I often said "I love you." I hoped I did that time. I’m afraid I probably didn’t. But I just don't know. That same cell phone would be tucked away in my purse the next night, June 30. Me, oblivious to its constant ring over the evening, my family's repeated calls to tell me, "Something is not right." When I finally stumbled home I was able to retrieve the messages and talk to my brother and imagine that haunting image of my daddy, the protector, the funniest man alive, lying in a hospital bed, glazed eyes, hooked up to a respirator with no jokes to tell. I laid on my bed bargaining with...someone, waiting for my daddy to call me. After what felt like hours with no word, but was probably more like 10 minutes, I dialed my mom's number, my brother's number...No one was answering their phones....Five years later, I still wonder if that "no cell phone policy in hospital rooms" meant that my phone call attempts conflicted with the respirator's frequency that just couldn’t pump life back into him anymore. That one phone that got through to him the night before.

This just in: Grown Woman With Job, Car, House, and Pretend Dog...NEEDS Her Momma

2007-06-12T13:12:00.001-04:00

Paris Hilton recently displayed an all too familiar truth that painfully prodded me to say about a girl I seemingly have nothing in common with, sex tapes not withstanding, "I can identify with Paris Hilton."

If not for the simple, basic, carnal, inherent truth that - me and her? - we need our mommas. In her case, it's "Momm.....!!!" In my case, "Mommyy...!" It's really apples to apples. It's still ya momma.

I'm offering up no opinions on the subject of Paris Does Time, when Time isn't a beefcake offering up a night IN Paris. But I will share with you this: I did laugh a little when Sarah Silverman taunted her with prison-bars-as-penis jokes. But the laughing really stopped right there. Even as the media splashed Crybaby all over the papers.

Especially, when a grown woman, in her most hopeless state, reverted back to...

...princess leia buns on the side of her head, donning her first-class brat t-shirt and hopped on her strawberry sizzler pink huffy and trucked it down to mommy when some neighborhood girl bullied her and her butter sandwiches.

Or that's just me.

You see, I can tell my mom ANYTHING. Yep, that. And she's not even that kind of mom that tries to be your friend and asks you to smoke pot in the boy's room and five-finger some Revlon lipstick. Nope, she's Mom. And sometimes you just need your momma. She offers motherly advice, cookies and milk, and bandaids when the boo boos sting. I ALWAYS turn to my mom. And for Paris to recognize that? Finally tells me that she may be, just maybe, isn't entirely made of vapid stares, lip gloss, and hair extensions.

Very recently, when I was crying to my mom about recent troubles, my own mom offered me this: “You do need to come live with me. You need your mother.”

Paris and I know that Mom is where it's at.

Now Blogging In Technicolor

2007-06-10T20:05:00.000-04:00

Well, it's about time. The 'ole blog needed a new look. Some paint on the walls and...voila! Once I mastered the smart touch sensor on my microwave in which I discovered the potato has its very own setting (after all these years), it was only a matter of time before I could get a handle on Blogger templates.

What? You don’t like carnations? Or is there not enough “tea” in your Long Island?

2007-06-07T16:03:00.000-04:00

The horses are on the track and, y’all….Street Sense is taking his bad ass self out of the running. It’s the Race of Champions – does he not want a double crown at least? I think we can take Curly-Que, ‘ole boy. You had him!

Alas, a Rumble is not what he wanted. Perhaps the mile and a half is too long for a smoker in a wife-beater. Perhaps he feels too pretty, witty, and gay. Perhaps he can’t get out of the West Side. Perhaps Uncle Unchie wants him to make the keilbasi. Perhaps Michael Jackson dressed up as him and sung (and rumbled and snapped his hooves) to “Beat it.” Perhaps he is dueting with Barbara Streisand. Perhaps James Dean has risen from the dead to play a role that was meant (and intended) for him. (Come back to mama and not the five and dime, Jimmy Dean Jimmy Dean.) Well, slap my ass and call me Maria!

"But when you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way," ‘ole boy! So I will forgive you this once. But first go chew some grass and think about what you have done to me. (I'll be watching West Side Story.)

What I am trying to lay out here (for them bettin’ folks and not the quittin' folks) is another round of This Is How You Do It. THIS is how you bet on the horses, in this case this weekend's Belmont Stakes. What is behind the horse's name? I'll tell you - it's turning into a race of inanimate objects and general ephemera.

But first, let’s talk refreshments! The peeps are saying that the official drink is the Belmont Breeze, which I think is just whiskey punch in a prettier costume. Whiskey doesn’t do pretty very well (at least not in high heels, just trust me on this). And I had to look this up but when I tell you about this drink, you are going to go pour yourself one in tribute because this is me tugging at your heartstrings. The head bartender of the Rainbow Room created it. Rainbow Room - of Windows on the World - of World Trade Center of - No Fucking More. I might call you a terrorist if you don’t drink that. Or un-American.

According to legend and the old-timies, the Belmont Breeze replaces the White Carnation, which has cream in it. Cream. I don’t do "cream drinks" and frankly it doesn’t have enough alcohol in it to justify frilly cream. That is one button, ruffle, or accordian pleat too many is what I'm saying. So just pour you a Long Island Iced Tea. I’ll look the other way when you say, “New York.”

OK. Now, music. Obviously, the theme song is “Georgia on my Mind.” Alright, alright. This below is about to get very “yankee”-heavy so I am just tempering it with some Southern Comfort. The theme is New York, of course – NOT New Jersey and not anything that rhymes with "bets." The key word is York - Upstate, in fact.

The song isn't - but could be - Ryan Adams’ New York, New York. If not for this lyric alone: The world won't wait and I watched you shake * But honey, I don't blame you * Hell, I still love you, New York * Hell, I still love you, New York * New York. Then consider that the video was shot 4 days before 9/11 with the NYC skyline in the background. Then punch in Ryan fucking Adams in the calculation.

And it UNFORTUNATELY isn't REM's Leaving New York. Stipe considers NYC a second home and wrote this song in an airplane flying out of his beloved. (Which could be taken and re-appropriated any which way you see fit. Like Losing My Religion will always be Losing My Virginity to me.) Back o/t: the song is a tribute to New York. And, what's more, the song is even better with the Mike Mills arrangement because he is butter to Stipe's bread. Captain to his Tenille. Iggy to his Stooge. Hall to his Oates. The two of them rock a sweet melody like NO OTHER....It's pulling me apart. Change....Find it in your heart. Change....Leaving was never my proud. Excuse me while I get all tingly listening to that song. It's THAT kind of song for me.

And it is not Bob Dylan's Talking New York, one of the first songs he actually wrote. While it isn't necessarily singing the praises of New York per se, I think it truthfully represents a New York experience, and subsequently a Belmont experience. The "City" (pick a place) can kick you in the ass. Yet it is a place to go to and make your dreams happen and Bob did just that - in this song, in cutting his first record there, in making it happen. Isn't that what the horses are doing? And like 'ole Bob, they leave town after either getting beaten down or making it. So long, New York.Howdy, East Orange.

Alas, those songs are not what it is. Traditionally, the song was an old folk song from way back when old-timies existed called, Sidewalks of New York. Tripped the light fantastic on the sidewalks of New York. It has been covered many times, by the Grateful Dead for one - so I hear. But I might prefer the Duke Ellingon rendition. Alas, that song was replaced in the 90's to make room for THAT song - THE New York song. Start spreadin' the news...

New York, New York as song by...............David Hasselhoff. I kid you not. Sung to the tune of “I want a….ham…bur…ger.” (New york. Yum. New…..ham.....york.....burger.)

I did. I just messed with the Hoff. I’ll lock up the liquor cabinet.

So you got your drink and you've got the juke box humming. Or your ipod, but take the buds out of your ear and put it on surround sound because watching the horses - the Triple Crown - is a social thing.

Here we go, in post position:

Imawildandcrazyguy - AKA The SNL Catchphrase

He's just a Lithuanian horse who'd rather be cruising for American foxes in his tight plaid pants (with bulge of course, you know what they say about horses). He'll be the most fun to watch as he wiggles that sashay down the track sometimes slipping out of character to do his famous "happy feet" bit. The "rock star comedian?" He's the Rock Star Horse. [Credit: thanks to the genius of Steve Martin.]

Tiago - AKA The Brazilian

Ladies, cross your legs. A cult of pain has swept the racetrack this year. Hot wax getting all up in there. Frankly, there's not much hope for "Tiago," he's going to be busy with his legs over his shoulders, wincing in not-quite-but-close childbirthing pain. But he'll be the sexy one as he will be bare ass except for an exclamation of hair to cover his lady bit. Prediction: Guy's choice.

Curlin - AKA The Perm

I've retired the Canadian athlete bit. Our Preakness winner has reinvented himself. He took his winnings and marched over to Truvy's Beauty Parlor where the latest glamour technician gave him his current look. He's bringing perms back!

CP West - AKA The Monogram

That Monogram is EVERYWHERE. He's adorning your luggage, your clothing, your towels, your Tiffany charms. This is what you will know him by on Saturday: CWP. He makes me want to bring back the "L" for Laverne shirt.

Slew’s Tizzy - AKA The Trumpet

You take Dizzy Gillespie and Miles Davis' Bitches Brew and you've got yourself a horse! As they say: Have trumpet, will excite. This is the horse to do that. Like his "parentage," he is known for fast runs and venturing into his upper register. Is he a cool melodic improviser? Or an aggressive explosive one?

Hard Spun - AKA The TightAss

Is he uptight? Or does he have an exceptionally attractive bootie? You tell me.

Rags to Riches - AKA Little Orphan Annie

He’s the horse with the little mop of red, curly hair and will be accompanied by his ever-faithful canine companion, Sandy, tagging along beside him. Right off the gate he might be yelling, "Leapin' lizards!" as the other horses take lead. But he will pull himself up from the spoils like he knows best. He’s got spunk, street smarts, and clown hair. Don’t be surprised if he breaks into a number...the ever optimist.

What are you betting on this time?

Avoiding Dates Like The Plague (But Not Dressing The Part)

2007-05-30T16:59:00.000-04:00

Uh-oh. I'm thinking I might be dressed to sexy for the office.

This morning in the breakroom, a female co-worker was giving me the up-and-down-times-ten. The kind of look I get when I'm working on the corner of Two-dollah and Me-Love-You-Long-Time Streets. Not in, you know, my day job. And this contemptuous look was accompanied with, "Wow." (Not exclamation wow but ironic wow.) Believe you me, if I had a button to button, I would have buttoned it. Instead I said, "I know my heels are really high!" and kicked my leg up like a reject for the Rockettes. (Forward extension of the leg, Original Me. Forward.)

For the rest of the day whenever one of the girls in the office would give me that look (that "how much?" or "work it!" look), my insecurity would take hold and blurt out, "I know I am probably too sexy for the office." Which comes across like: I'm too sexy for this shirt (so sexy it hurts) ... too sexy for your love...and, perhaps, I am too sexy for this song. (Which did you know has a guitar riff straight from Jimi Hendrix, "Third Stone From the Sun." Just to show you I am a fact-finder and not a poster child for lycra tube dresses leaning into car windows or face down in men's crotches. In my day job.)

Perhaps I should not have put together a new ensemble of existing pieces from my wardrobe, thrown them in my gym bag, and then dressed AT the office. You sample the recipe FIRST -you know, before you share it with the people. (Southern Living, Vol. 1, No. 1)

Is it that my silk blouse (Shakesperean-esque in its bustier-clinging empire waist and princess neckline) gives way to a cinching of my tiny-tiny little lady bits thus giving the appearance of a girl who carries the world in her bosum? (Lipstick? Check. ID? Check. Two dollar bills? Check. Small baby? Check.) The suppressed rack makes me look like, well, I have a rack. I could get on board with that. Is the pencil skirt too flirty with the little dip in the back hem? So the silhouette is more va-va-voom (and actually begs for fishnets)? Are the shoes - the shoes! - in their 3-inch platform leapard print heel too bedroom-sexy for the boardroom? I wanted to wear my hair in a bun but I needed the hair on my back since the blouse kind of dips in the back. Yeah, kinda lower than I anticipated. I don't like wearing my hair down in the office. That's street-wear.

Edited to add: OK, in all honesty, after all is said and posted, I just now looked at myself in the mirror (Confidence, you know, giving myself the one-over), and it MAY appear that the blouson-effect of the princess- empire- seaming of the blouse?...yeah...I may appear pregnant. Soooo, the up-and-down body-to-shoes-body-to-shoes-body-to-shoes look MAY just have been: she-looks-pregnant-but-fuck-me-shoes-say-perhaps-not confused look of someone who may just be ready to ask: When are you due?

Two pizzas walk into a bar...

2007-05-26T13:06:00.000-04:00

My motto on friendship: A good friend is someone you call when you are in jail...a best friend is in the next cell over saying, "Damn that was fun!"

And so it begins.

It is the Friday of Memorial Day weekend and Mav and I can not believe we are actually in town. It is her birthday weekend after all. But after the debacle of last Memorial Day, it really isn't that bad - this being in town business. And since her and Morgan are "working from home" in some wireless environment that wasn't a bar, and I was "slaving" away at the office catching up on the music blogs and zines, it was only a matter of seconds until the three of us jumpstarted the three day weekend.

So Mav, Morgan and I settle into the glorious summer day on a deck with a grill (insert Miami joke here) and like a gazillion beers. I know, settle if we must. After all this consumption of food and I should pause right here to give that a mention. Mav WAS the grillmaster of some lovely kebabs - steak AND chicken, veggies, corn on the cob and various sausages (andouille, hot AND sweet italian). The food being swished down with the beers. But somewhere between beer number 1 and 20 (I'm not sure where as calculations were not being kept and none of us are accountants), things took a turn for the worse, as Mav suddenly found herself hanging off the deck writhing in the pain of what could only be alien babies taking over her stomach because her stomach was giving her that sign - the one that closes up shop and says, "Enough, bitch! Get this shit out of here." Except the shit - or the alien babies - whatever was terrorizing her stomach -was having a little problem finding a new home, which Mav was choosing to be a pile of leaves - her hanging off the deck, just inches from the citronella tiki lanterns.

Those buggers in her belly needed some coaxing along. Our dear friend was in pain! So good friends that we were, we each took turns holding Mav's hair back as we concocted the following story to help her along to feeling better.

So in the name of releasing alien babies, this story was born, as told by Me, Morgan and (enter stage left) Diamond who had just returned with a bottle of Moet, a birthday cake and three iPod shuffles for the gals. Best housewarming gift ever? Oh, that's right, it is his house. How about - best boyfriend/fiance ever! (Seriously awesome, Diamond!)

The Perfect Storm (Or I Licked The Tongs)

Two pizzas walk into a bar. (And not just any bar, it's Jay's Elbow Room.) Meat Lover Pizza says to Anchovy Pizza, "J'u wanna pizza me?" And Anchovy P. responds, "I'll slice you a new one, Meat Head!"

The Pizzas could go on all day talking like this, this was their song and dance. But today was unlike no other because just when Sausage, the bartender (Hot Italian) - pipes into the bad joke gone awry with, "I'll blow a casing if you guys don't stuff it!" a Raw Chicken Breast Cutlet walks into the bar and saddles up in between the two pizzas rubbing against them as breasts will do. One could say she might be flirting. Others might call her "easy." Hot Italian Sausage Bartender offers them up a round of shots. That dirty fella - Anchovy P. - wants the Buttery Nipple and Meat Lover wants the Three Kings. So two shots they do.

The Breast gets on top of the bar top and does the chicken dance to nobody's interest but Mr. Peanut from the peanut bowl. Then the Marlboro Man rides in on...a horse? A Harley (on account of Memorial Day in DC)? No - he chooses a dirty ashtray as his magic carpet ride. And he rides into the Elbow Room in a cloud of smoke as only the Marlboro Man can do. He looks around the Elbow Room and then flicks his lit cigarette which gets embedded in the breast that is the raw chicken which slowly cooks her to...a Southern. Fried. Chick. Which, incidently, cures the dirty whore of any disease she was walking around with.

But the Salmonella is out there. The Pizzas and her didn't use protection and certainly didn't wash up afterwards. And Raw Chicken really got around this evening in the Elbow Room. At this point, the pizzas are not feeling so hot as Salmonella has opened up a Disco ontop of Meat Lover Pizza and a Third World Country on Anchovy P.

But now Chicken Breast is Smoking Hot. This is when the illegal immigrant working in the back of the Elbow Room - Del Taco - decides to get him some of that Breast now that she's all warmed up. Only he has no arms and no legs, him being a taco. So he pours a stream of tequila on which he slides into the Elbow Room. Southern Fried Chick jumps off the bar, excited for her third drink of the evening, swims into the tequila, and slides into the fold of the taco. The cigarette butt still stashed in her breast.

While a disco inferno is brewing on the pizzas and Marlboro Man is pulsating to the beat of the disco music in his dirty ashtray, Sean Connery walks into the bar. He is hungry and sees the taco and takes a bite. A bite that has the lit cigarette.

Well, the combination that is the Hotness of Sean Connery (we had to scratch Louie Anderson for this very important plot development) and the burning butt caused Sean's head to BLOW RIGHT OFF. But he is still hungry so a headless Sean Connery sits on the Pizzas. Hot Italian Sausage has backed into the corner - he doesn't want to be anywhere near that region, even if it is Sean Connery. He takes off for the Sausage Factory. Mr. Peanut, dancing across the bartop, ditches his cane and heads for the Peanut Gallery. And the Marlboro Man goes up in a puff of smoke - the Big C finally taking him over and leaving tobacco lobbyists without a job.

End scene: It's closing time in Jay's Elbow Room and Jay sweeps up the reamins of the day....sausage bits, pizza crusts, taco shells, peanut shells, and the town drunk with no head (little does Jay know he has a movie star in his dust pan). To Jay, it's just another day in the life of the Elbow Room...

The end.

An hour and half later, the story came to a close, but not until Mav had finally released a stomach's worth of discontent all over the back yard. More fodder for the dust pan at Closing Time. The story was a successful means to that end, Dear Friend.

Selfless Acts Of Love Will Get You A Seat Right Behind Your Ex and His Wife

2007-05-22T16:34:00.000-04:00

"You can't control an independent heart, Can't tear the one you love apart" -- Sting on If You Love Someone, Set Them Free...“Free, free, set them free…” Just like Sting said.

On being the bigger person...

The Yukkell – not the guy who drove me to drinking, but to blogging actually - was my best friend/confidante/lover for five years. Our relationship was not traditional by any means but you could hardly say we were on-and-off. Barely a day went by when we didn't talk. But sure, you could say we were up-and-down. He picked me up, he put me down, but he was always THERE and I knew he would always be there. Or something like that.

One night in January of 2005, he called me to give me the kind of news you sit down for. I was sitting on my kitchen counter and not the crapper, which is where the shitty news should have gone. (But, remember, I am being the bigger person.) I don’t know what I was prepared for, perhaps I assumed he was going to say that he met someone. I never expected it was going to be what it was. The-One-Who-Got-Away (herinafter TOWGA) came a’knockin’ after – what? – ten years. The story unravels – details aside, and in my opinion they don’t put TOWGA in a good light and this isn’t TOWGA bashing so details omitted. But the relevant punchline is that she is now widowed with four tiny little girls, one barely a year old.

We spent the weekend together talking about all this. I knew a good deal about her already - more than she probably cared for me to know. But the situation needed hashing and slicing and dicing. I was doing what I did best by him - offering unwavering support. His perspective that weekend was just to help her from a professional standpoint (i.e., a legal standpoint).

As the days rolled on, TOWGA pushing the Hopeless card (and not to fault her on that), wants him to come see her. He doesn’t want to and tells her as much. His work can be done by afar. I nudge him to reconsider. I was buying that she needed him. It was He, himself, who told me much later on in this story: She needs me more than you do.

"Run South then, darlin'." But the day before he goes I panic and tell him what I am most afraid of happening at this point, which is that I don’t want to lose him.

He smiled that way and looked me straight in the eye and said, "You won’t ever lose me."

That wasn't going to prove to be true. Up until that moment he set foot on her swamp turf, he needed me. In fact, up until our last conversation when he was at the airport on some layover and reminded me that he doesn’t even want to be doing this. "Remember??" Being a cheerleader paid off, as I poured on some fake charm in the form of a you-can-do-it rah, built him up as I always did. I think he was most afraid of what was going to happen which was what did happen. They rekindled. And he knew that if he opened that door, he would never be able to close it again. Not on her situation being what it was.

I won't lie. I cried all night as being the bigger person was proving to be difficult.

We continued to talk but not every day now. He talked to her every night. We went on like this for a couple months up to our last weekend we were to spend together as a couple. He told me that she was pushing for him to marry her and had picked a July date. Yes, folks, we are still in 2005. He was pushing for me to say something...

"What do you say about that?" taunting me with his you-or-her torture. His own torture.

I couldn’t put myself down that path of "Pick Me." THIS wasn’t about me at all. And THIS wasn’t about her either. This was about HIM. I always put him before my own happiness and I wasn't going to start now, it seems. And why did I put him first? For things in his past that haunted him and made him the unhappy person he was. His demons is what he liked to call it. Sure, he loves her. Friends, he did say, “I loved her no more than I loved you.” And, “If this was you in this situation, I’d do the same thing for you.”

THIS was about him righting a wrong that happened – independent of her and independent of me. Something that has haunted him. His story that I will keep with me. But it was about him taking responsibility. Being a father. A part of me thinks I could have fought for him. I considered it. But I couldn't offer him the panacea he needed to deal with his past, his guilt. I always prayed for something to release him from his demons. I was not enough. Who knew it was to be the TOWGA and the ready-made family?

I had to be the bigger person.

They didn't get married that summer, but they did a year later. We ceased communication after that weekend - to the point where he would blatantly avoid me - the equivalent of crossing the street if he saw me coming.

Except one time. I got to see him a year ago at a mutual friend’s birthday party. We had a nice private chat. And he started that whole song-and-dance with me again. Trying to coax something out of me that I couldn't give him. It's not romantic love that I feel for him. It’s more soulful. It's selfless. It's the love of a good friend. A best friend. THAT person I would take back any day of the week, no matter where I was.

So he’s married now. We don't talk. I don't know whether he is happy. Knowing him, I think it might be possible, but then I also think it might not be. Did he bring the demons with him? Or do the cherubic faces he now fathers slay them? I hope so.

This past weekend, I had the distinct displeasure of sitting directly behind Him and Her in a church as we watched our mutual friends get married. The spurned lover in me wanted to tear her apart in critique and showcase my smoking ass that he loved so much right in front of his face. The discarded friend in me wanted to tie a friendship bracelet around his neck and pull tight on the ends.

But, alas, I want to be the bigger person.

We shared no more than a "hi." When she is around, he won't talk to me. He avoids me. (I have had one other distinct displeasing occasion to be in the same room.) I don't know if it is out of respect for her, or because he simply does not care anymore, or because he is afraid of getting sucked back into the attraction. Most likely they are his issues or their issues and I have moved on so I don't worry my pretty little head over the details.

Nevertheless, in one awkward moment on the dancefloor, she came right up to within my circle, right next to me, to join in the dancing. And for one moment, I thought she might not be as lifeless and sad as she appears. Maybe she really is a good person. The moment was right there. I wanted to turn to her and offer my hand as an introduction. I wanted to tell her that I am glad that they found their way back to each other - her being "the one who got away." I thought that maybe we - as two people who love this man dearly - could share a moment. Maybe we have more in common than I think. Maybe we would share a laugh as we tore around the dancefloor. Maybe we would actually like each other. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Or I wouldn’t?

I couldn’t be that big of a person.

Run for the Black-Eyed Susans…or the Bourbon...sometimes it just is about the bourbon

2007-05-17T13:22:00.000-04:00

I’ve said it before: I get into the Triple Crown. I read about the horses, I study them, and then I make my little chump change bet based on those statistics and the horse’s underdoggedness quotient (i.e., the blind horse is getting my vote or the one with "chips in his hoof".)

Taking the science out of it, the one thing I really like about the horses is the names -- born of lineage and a play-on words...and kitsch. Based on this art, now you can rank them on the cuteness factor.

Let me lay it out for you,* by post position:

Mint Slewlep – AKA “The Drunk”

He started drinking at the derby and, frankly, never stopped. And I haven’t researched him yet but I am guessing he is a product of Seattle Slew (which is another fun game to guess the lineage, see?). He gets his words mixed up and he is always fun and he takes his drink in a collins glass. He missed work for this bender.

What he will be wearing: A jersey with the following written upside-down: If you can read this, pick me up, and put me back on my barstool.

XChanger – AKA “The Cyberpunk”

He likes stories about giant robots and dreams of a world of fantastical structures and weapons. Blade Runner is his favorite movie. He might apply time travel to everyday life.

What he will be wearing: He is made of steel and he has bionic prosthetics.

Circular Quay – AKA “The Parrothead”

He moved to Key West to live the life of leisure and become the beach bum persona for which he aspired to when he first heard “Margaritaville,” in a parking lot. Count on him to blow off a flip-flop, for lyric's sake.

What he will be wearing: A Save the Manatees jersey and flips flops.

Curlin – AKA “The Canadian Jock”

Not the one with athletic prowess, but strategy and skill instead, much like a game of chess. He gets the good sportsmanship award as nobody is a loser, and if he wins, he is buying you a drink...because that is the spirit of the game.

What he will be wearing: The team uniform and carrying a broom.

King of the Roxy – AKA “The Club Kid”

He does his business after dark. He associates socializing with elaborate lighting systems that throb to the beat of the music, smoke beams, a disco ball, podium dancers, and girls get in free night. He always makes it past the doorman. He is music mixed by a dj and dancing mixed by alcohol.

What he will be wearing: A Jean Paul Gaultier knock-off.

Flying First Class – AKA “The Socialite”

He is not shy about publicity...does he love or hate his picture taken? I can’t tell. He is not known for any artistic merit or intellectual genius, but only known by his less-tangible ability to dominate the social scene and use personal charisma to achieve prominence.

What he will be wearing: God knows, but he will have a dog in a pink shirt and a Cartier-encrusted collar.

Hard Spun – AKA “The Knitter”

He is missing the craft fair for this, kids. He has a blog about knitting, called KnitWit or The Happy Hooker, where people can share tips and techniques, run competitions, and share their patterns. He also participates in chat groups as a means for social networking with like-minded crafters. Non-essential craft my ass.

What he will be wearing: A beanie, some mittens, a scarf, and wrapped in an afghan.

Street Sense – AKA “The Gang Member”

Well, gang member but not in the pejorative sense. Think a Jets/Sharks face-off, facing the other horses, nuzzle to nuzzle, and rhythmically snapping his fingers. That's how this horse rumbles. Even better if he breaks into song.

What he will be wearing: Hopefully a wife-beater.

C P West – AKA “The Preppie”

He attended an elite college preparatory school. His motto is "Choose Juicy." He will be heard asking the other horses where they summer. You can call him "Chip."

What he will be wearing: A button-down Oxford cloth shirt, cuffed khakis, and cordovan loafers.

Who will you be rooting for?

*I assure you, no stereotypes were hurt in the making of this list.

On Being Vulnerable...It'll Get You Hugs

2007-05-11T15:06:00.000-04:00

Lately, I’ve been bopping around my life...happily. And after the past few months of the doldrums that have battened down my hatches for a cold winter’s nap – it was most welcome and refreshing. The pony tail swings now as opposed to a little constricted bun at the nape of the neck, y'know? Last Saturday, I even stopped into a neighborhood bar all by myself (there was a pull of a sound check and some guy with a guitar, gets me all the time) on my way home from watching the horses. After a few rounds of eye contact, I was striking up a conversation with a James Dean look-alike. Damn hot. I proceeded to share a few beers with him and then mysteriously disappeared into the night. Or maybe he didn't notice. He hasn't filed a Missed Connection yet.

So...happy with and by myself. Right?

But then something happened to slap my happy face into Fuck! This sucks! all over again. [Cue: Violins. Crickets. And an annoying harmonica. All in black and white.] This week was enough to remind me that I DO need that hug at the end of the day because hugging yourself is only fun when someone is watching you from behind.

This week I was selected to report for jury duty. And out of the 70-or so people reporting that day, I was actually selected with 6 other people to sit on a jury. We were hearing a drunk driving case.

I thought the odds were against me. Especially after I was questioned on being a law librarian and my training to that end. I explained my legal research training and general law librarian code of ethics (I left out the geekiness of that line) that does not in any way, shape, or form allow me to interpret the law. So: clueless. AND after I admitted to being rear-ended by a drunk driver when I was 15. I left out the severity of the accident and when questioned on this, I admitted that I could, in fact, remain impartial. (This proved to be true.) I also had to admit to driving under the influence at times. We all did.

Damn, I wish I would have fought harder for dismissal - the excuses were there for me. Because in the end, I – along with my fellow jurors – had to send some guy who made a really bad decision one night to get behind the wheel of his car to jail. For 10 days. It is two days later and THAT still sits with me.

We listened to this case for 2 days and we deliberated on it for 3-ish hours. I won't talk about the specifics of the case, because there were dynamics. It wasn't cut and dry, yet it was. The defense could have had a case but had no hard evidence to dispute the one piece of evidence that stood - which is the guy blew a .24, three times the legal limit. But there was no reason not to believe that result given all the evidence (of which there was none) and witnesses (of which there were none) that the defense presented. YET, it took me that long to get on board. I wanted to cut the guy a break. I wanted to bring it down to just a DUI. But in the end, I had to check the (bleeding) heart at the door – the compassion that believes in the general good of people, good being redeemable, and the ability to make mistakes and correct it and learn from it and give-a-guy-a-break philosophy. Looking at the issue objectively, resulted in a conviction. Objectively, there was no other way to rule.

Yeah, he was wrong. But it did not feel good. I was emotionally invested in that case. At the end of the day, I went home and sobbed into my pillow. I hated that. It felt hypocritical to say, yeah, I've been there dude, but nanny-nanny-boo-boo you got caught so go sit in the corner for 10 days and think about it. What high horse am I on? See? THAT doesn't sit right with me. [Disclaimer: I don't do that anymore. I, thankfully, live in walking proximity to watering holes, cabs, and metro and Mav is marrying our Designated Driver when locations take us yonder.]

I was emotionally-invested and, as such, I got emotionally-attached to one of the jurors. (Which I didn't even notice at the time.) He was cute but that is really besides the point. I didn't see Cute. I saw strength. He was smart (very) and he helped me, in his way, find where I needed to go with this. I guess I identified with him. He thought like me, but more rationally. He helped me wrap my mind around where it should have been. He had that kind of presence. Something I haven't seen since my dad. It was something I could buckle to. So somewhere between conflicted emotions, vulnerability, and being scared shitless, I approached Needy territory (or what felt like neediness). Something I never thought was "pretty." I would never show a guy - who didn't know me - THAT. I felt like I wasn't having a big girl moment. I should be confident! And sure! And tough! But in succumbing to something so innate to my being - some vulnerability - I saw what it could get me. Because as we were walking out of the courthouse, His Sweetness reached out to me and gave me a hug. And it wasn't a gratuitous hug. He reached for it, he meant it. He asked me if I was going to be alright. I said, I would be. He assured me that we did the right thing. I trust that.

A Friday Night Date

2007-05-04T20:07:00.000-04:00

I came home from work, put on a low-cut sundress, slid my feet into new summer sandals, layered some necklaces, squirted my signature scent, Angel, on my neck, and brushed a coat of lip gloss. I smacked my lips, did a double take in the mirror (someone's got to give me second glances, the cat's dead and even then she just gave me those evil stares plotting my death).

There was a kick in my step. Where did this newfound....what is it...not necessarily happiness...but contentedness, yeah? ....where did THAT come from.

I don't know but I am going with it.

I picked a bouquet of flowers, a rotisserie chicken, pilaf, greens, chocolate mousse, raspberries, a red, a white, a champagne, a Chimay. Just some accessories to a good date.

I thought the wine sampler guy was flirting with me so I tried all six then went back to the Zin for another swig. He was buying.

I put the pilaf on simmer, settled into a bath, glass of wine in hand.

After dinner, I dipped some raspberries in "vegan" chocolate mousse. Finished the bottle. And called it a night.

Tomorrow I have a date with a horse.

Wedding Registries: The Good and Bad of It

2007-05-04T09:35:00.000-04:00

This post has been a long time coming. Born from that awesome day much like our parents may have experienced circa 1960’s (before the Beatle invasion) when Mav picked me up from the office in a Prowler (yes the Betterman’s PT Cruiser). The car upstaged us. Hell, we could have been the British Invasion by the attention we were getting.

I’ve said it before: Wedding Registries – I don’t get them. Well, I get them in theory. It’s like not showing up to a party without a bottle. The people want to bring you something for your hospitality. Because this one bottle I bring you? I am going to double my profits at your kitchen bar. This – you know, getting the “idea” of a registry - is just my little disclaimer for when I do get married because then I will register for things I really need – that third car…vacation home…an orphan in Malawai. Because isn’t that what people are really waiting for after you exchange vows before Elvis or at least before I exchange vows before Elvis? (I did just get back from Vegas. Just so you know.)

…OK, so registries…

People in their mid-thirties – professional working people in their mid-thirties, with homes and cars and pots and pans and turkey basters – STILL insist on registering for things our mom and dad’s registered for when they were teenagers and "starting their home." Registering for the "basics" - much like tossing the bouquet to spinster single chicks in tafetta and letting the men seduce a woman’s leg, the words “honor and obey” really just “cop a feel” – is (or should be) an antiquated practice slowly dying a vanilla-frosted cake-in-your-face death.

My thoughts are if you live in THIS WORLD and breath 30-year old air and put yourself to bed every night without your mama tucking you in and take yourself out for steak every once in a awhile, then you might have the following:

China...Because isn’t that just NOT paper plates? Grandmas have china and should be passed down. And even better if it's got nicks and mismatched - you know I love.

Measuring spoons...seriously, they're maybe 4.99 at Target.

Baking sheets, baking pans, bundt pans...Perhaps that is what marriage does to people – drives them straight to pineapple upside down cake.

Wine glasses...How are you drinking your wine already? All grown-up drinks have a context. As such, a proper container from which to serve is pertinent to the enjoyment of the beverage, be that champagne, margarita, Long Island, martini, wine. There is a glass for it people! I have pilsners and pints and 99 bottles of beer on the wall...doesn't everybody?

Sheets...And would you like me to throw some mood lighting and Barry White in too? 8MM film? Because I like THAT thankyou note: Thanks for the sheets! Mr. and I enjoy rolling in them! (See: turkey baster below.)

Casual china...Which are really just paper plates, right? Plastic Ronald McDonald plates? I eat the chicken out of the bucket.

Salt and pepper shakers

Turkey Baster...Honey, that is not a kitchen utensil. ooh la la, is all I'm saying. This is universal, isn't it? (See: sheets above).

Salad spinners...do we still spin our salad? I thought that was a 70’s concept, much like polyester, the hula hoop, the Village People, the AMC Pacer (bubble car!), and betamax (i.e., better "technologies" now). If I can't push a button, I'm not making it. I blame that on Y2K.

Professional working people owning city condos, driving imports, drinking imports, and shopping at the NOTWal-mart must have all this stuff already, eh? I have all this shit and the nice shit to boot. I bought the Williams Sonoma cake can, cookie sheets, the spring form pan, and three different colored spatulas when I went on a baking kick a few Christmas' ago. Yet, I do not own a baby blue KitchenAid mixer that I do covet but I can't ask my guests to buy me a $300 piece of machinery. (See above: bring one measly bottle of wine to party, drink four in return.)

I don’t look at marriage as an excuse to get shit. Well, just the things I need (see above: 3d car, 2d home – oh, we are combining properties so 3d home (my bad), and 2.2 orphans).

YET, I say all this and just so you know...I DO believe in the gift-giving. Of course! And for each wedding I go to, I happily buy the roasting pan or blender (because that is a gift that keeps on giving..margaritas on deck and I'm the houseguest that never leaves) for the lovebirds. If that is what you want. A lot of this is JUST ME because, like I said, I happen to have most of this stuff - and quality stuff too because I happen to buy myself really nice things. If I can, why can't I, said the girl who owns all these kitchen gadgets yet doesn't even cook. And quality is not over-rated, my friends. I can get behind that. So, you should have a nice set of measuring spoons (and only a girl or the Ace of Cakes will get that). But I do admit to sometimes tweaking the gift. If you want a cutting board, I might go to Torpedo Art Factory and get you an artist-crafted one. Is that acceptable?

There is a reason why guys dread Registry Day - it's domesticatingly BORING. Their wig doesn't flip for some measuring spoons. But when I see the turkey baster on the registry, I just nod my head in recognition. Yeah...please send the turkey baster.

Doppelgangers...Real, Imaginary...Find Them On The Internet (or Whole Foods)

2007-05-02T21:41:00.000-04:00

I’m obsessed with this idea of doppelgangers lately. My intro into what exactly is a doppelganger was care of a Lifetime movie starring Melissa Gilbert (Half Pint! times 2! And I’ve left the joke book on that one at home, folks. Fill in your own punchline). I guess in true definition – and what the movie projected – a doppelganger is a shadow-self that only the self can see…so it has mystical or spiritual, namely devil-backed, connotations – as evil incarnate, a portent to death, etc. But in keeping with the light and fluffy and spreadable (and off the horror screen and any kind of Witch’s Brew), my definition of a doppelganger is merely a resemblance of oneself (either in spirit, characteristic, or physical form). And since I believe that all living creatures are inherently good and redeemable, my mind, wander as She may, can not go THERE, devil boy.

So doppelgangers are gooooood.

For example, when I say someone is a doppelganger of someone I used to date, I am inferring that the named doppelganger is actually perhaps the Good Twin because he is not tainted by the Past and Whimsy of the particular Copy, who was merely posing as the Original. As it relates to guys I have dated (read: Past, Unwanted), the doppelganger is the essence of what this person SHOULD have been or what I imagined him to be. (Who said Imaginary Boyfriends weren’t acceptable? I don’t think Dr. Phil has touched this one.) So I might build this Unknown Twin up to what should have been. So you know what happens next? Cyber-stalking is in order, Webbers! Because I really have to give him more context than: the Asst Manager at Whole Foods, in Chucks, who looks like Pompadour with a better hair cut. I like to call it: Dating at a Distance. I would argue that this is actually healthier, Heartbreakers and Breakees.

But let me expound on one obsession at a time.

I vaguely remember years ago someone claiming to know my dad from somewhere. “He looks just like you, everything about you.” Well, there was no way in hell these people knew each other unless my daddy had a double life and appeared at dinner every single night of my life growing up as a hologram. (What's good for Elvis is good for my daddy. But he shouldn't have to suffer Celine. I'm just saying.)

I tuck that way as my daddy having a doppelganger. And if anybody should be cloneable, it shouldn’t be a cow named Dolly, but it should have been a Pollack named Ski. And this is not After Death or In Retrospect talk – or Polish propaganda. (For that I would just say: Go stuff a sausage. Pass the pigs. And fly the Polish flag.) So I find myself looking for my dad wherever I go. Sometimes I just imagine what it would be like to see him walking down the street - looking lost, of course, because he can’t find us - as me, my brother, my sister, and my mom all live at new addresses, new cities…new states, even. Perhaps it is unhealthy and too psychologically-revealing to tell you that a huge factor in why I stayed renting at my old place for so long – was so he could find us. To flash the sanity card and stave the straight jackets, I will tell you that I mean that in the spiritual sense. And it is also why I don’t understand why people wouldn’t want an open casket funeral (unless gruesome circumstances demand not) because I had to see his body otherwise I would never have believed that he just didn’t exist in this world anymore. And, y’all, it took me a long time to actually say it like that: exist in this world. Because, doubters, and I was one of them, there has got to be a silver lining to death – there has to be. So keep a girl hopeful and don’t tell me otherwise.

While I have never seen his doppelganger, per se, I do see my dad in people – not as in "i see dead people" see, mind you - it might be in an expression, emotion, a look. An indescribable. Recently, I’ve seen him in a baggage handler at Raleigh International. I’ve seen him in a guy on House Hunters. And in a saxaphonist in Wynton Marsalis' band. All these people looked nothing like him, yet, there was something familiar. Even he has seen a dopelganger. I remember one time sitting on a bar-chartered bus (bar to ballpark, ballpark to bar, because that is how he rolled) coming back from a Chicago Cubs game and him talking about this old lady sitting a few rows ahead of us. He thought she, eerily, reminded him of his mom: my dear grandma, who incidently died too young too. I wondered what it was about her that got his mind wandering There. But now I know, you never let it go. It's impossible to forget. You wonder (and you wander). But you can change your address because he will be everywhere, if nowhere.

So, seeking out doppelgangers….it keeps me believing, see?

An off-shoot of this theme (that try as I might to steer otherwise, brings this back to dating blog material), is lately I have been seeing double of Pompadour. That guy in the pool in Vegas. That guy walking over the Key Bridge last week. The manager at Whole Foods. Hell, in Blakissey even! And why? The shoes? The hair? An expression? An Indie Posturer? I have let IT go because I have had the "he's just not that into you" kick in the ass and puddles of tears that I just can not go through AGAIN. But yet...there he is. But this He is the Good Twin. In theory, at least. And in Whole Foods. Hey, they can't all be corporate cowboys.

And so, where does cyber-stalking fit into this? Yeah, well, I'll just say, I'm good at my job, which equates to: finding information. And, it sometimes seeps into my personal life. It's like the porn star who likes it dirty at home too. It's not just all there in your briefcase or your crotchless panties, it's in your blood. That is why you do what you do and you do it good.

So let me show you how this works.

I'm doing some grocery shopping, trying to mind my own damn business, and I see this guy with dark, shaggy hair lingering somewhere between Organic and Recycled - or Romanticized and Doppelganging, in the Land of Writerly Metaphors where Cheese most always abounds. Can't. Help. It. So this is all I know about him: He works in Whole Foods, wears an apron, and roams the aisles. One time near Dairy. And one time near Yoga Supplies. That's all we know, kids. Not even a name. Well, that was 2 hours ago. Because what I just did was this:

1. I went to the Whole Foods homepage.
2. I just took a wild guess that he could be the Assistant Manager, soley based on name, which is a cute boy name and my very first, 3d grade boyfriend's name who showered me with his sister's stuffed animals.
3. I googled him.
4. Common name so I googled my neighborhood with his name.
5. I found a myspace page to confirm.
6. I never said library science was rocket science.

From which I learned: He is from a southern town I think is pretty cool, he write/plays music, he blogs on his page and is a great, witty, insightful writer, and he loves his job. See? That right there tells you that he is the Good Twin of Pompadour (or, as I like to call him now, G-Top). This unknown blows the reality away. And I'd like to stop right there because this is a guy I could "stalk." You know, if that was part and parcel to being a Cool Chick. But then I also found this out: He drives an Xterra, goes on three week hiking trips, and has a girlfriend who doesn't shave her armpits. Alright, let's go back to the beginning -and add that to the mix now...he loves working at Whole Foods. See? There might be a crunch to G-Top's step which might not match up to the clicking of my heels. He might not be the closet rocker I desire.

So I will continue to scan the doppelganger lineup. Believing. I think I'm getting very comfortable being alone. Accepting it even.

And in topic and for the subscribers at home: If Brad Pitt's doppelganger were writing a blog, it might go like this.

The New It Couple: It's Your Bearthday

2007-04-25T16:03:00.000-04:00

I left behind a weekend of celebrating Mother Earth and the horror of a possible world of only One. Square. To. Spare. [Edited to add: Oh...thank god!...she was kidding. Jokes, Sheryl's got 'em. Resume to your regularly scheduled wad of TP.]

I left behind a weekend of my annual 29th birthday, also known as Stop Talking About Tequila Day, by celebrating with Mav, Morgan, and DP in appropriate fashion that consisted of me dipping my toes in a very deep fountain. I'd like to think it was the Fountain of Youth.

Soon, I will leave for Vegas. I will be in the company of good friends. I will lie in a pool by the Eiffel Tower. The rest as "they" say Stays.

It's the New Beastie Boys' Album, Check Your Citation

2007-04-20T13:30:00.000-04:00

Perhaps it is because I am a librarian that proper and correct citation is always essential, no matter the setting. In person - alright, use your air quotes (and hand parantheses if you must) - but it should go like this:

"Hey, hey, hey....it's [whoever just entered stage left]!" (you know, as One may say in everyday conversation) should really be, "As Fat Albert says, "Hey, hey, hey....!"" or more correctly, "As Bill Cosby wrote in the character of Fat Albert says, "Hey, hey, hey....!""

...if one where being Bartlettian about it. Sticklers, there's one in every happy hour crowd.

But more seriously, it kind of tousled my librarian's bun the other night watching American Idol when Blake (He of Morrissey-esque pouty singing mouth) picks a “Tim McGraw” song. [Ed. note: The quotes here representing sarcasm - the favored use of the accessory actually.]

Blakissey could have named any Tim McGraw song and I would have kept my head in my (citation) book because what are the chances I am going to know a Tim McGraw song. But when I heard the song title, “When the Stars Go Blue.” Well, I pushed my glasses up my nose and had to adjust my rabbit ears - and the TVs - because that song title sure sounds like a lovely little ballad by one Ryan Adams. And sure enough there he drawls, "Dancin' when the stars go blue..."

My ears half smiled as I was reminded of how beautiful that song is.

He (Blakissey) did a lackluster delivery of the song - his performance was too affected. That song needs to be soft, the lyrics coaxed gently. For that, Tim can leave the big band at home and The Corrs can dump Bono in the trashcan. (I am reminded of their version, although better than Tim's, but Bono get out of my ear buds already.) And apparently some One Tree Hill kids sing a version too but I'm sick of this already.

I'm not here to bash karaoke! I'm here for citation purposes.

That song is Ryan Adams, originally sung by and penned by. It should be properly cited as such, don't ya' think, Idol?

What's next? Are you going to have Gwen Stefani sing her song, "It's My Life"?*

*It's Talk Talk circa 1984.

Dust Bunny Hunt

2007-04-10T16:25:00.000-04:00

I spent Easter Sunday nursing squished toes and cursing the shoes that hated them so on Saturday night. I made a mental note that those shoes are only meant for sleeping. Certainly not for trying to get your be-bop, seagull-in-a-flock, goody-two-shoin', rebel-yellin' on for an 80's cover band. The toes have threatened to jump ship to someone without a high heel shoe fetish. (They hear Naturalizer is making cute shoes now.) So I gave us the Easter treatment - a dye-job for the piggies and a chocolate egg for me. Everyone is happy these days.

I went with that feeling (of happy feet...cue the tap-dancing penguin, if you must) and opted not to go to the baseball game of which I had tickets to. You know, it snowed the other day so not feeling the baseball park vibe just yet. Yet instead of doing my part to ponder Nothing, work my thumb muscles on the remote, and rest my eyes every two hours in typical Sunday fashion, I took it upon myself to....clean.

Like any Good Housekeeping devotee, I did my annual top (of the refrigerator) to bottom (of the floorboard) home-cleaning ritual. I tore through my closets and filled a lawn-size bag with clothes for Goodwill. I moved some furniture around in my sunroom. Mopped the wood floors. Organized some papers.

I can say there is a place for everything now. For now, I went with that good feeling of the day - this Easter - and danced around my house to the new Kaiser Chiefs, admired my toes some more, and rewarded myself with another chocolate egg.

What The Funk?

2007-03-30T16:59:00.000-04:00

I have been in a little funk lately, tempered only by the occassional tryst with Pompadour. I become blinded by the champagne and drowned in the music.

The space in between is Anxiety. That birthday is looming and for the very first time in my life I have actually thought it would be pretty cool to have a little minnie Me. This tells me that aside from my general lack of self-esteem I must like myself somewhat and, hey, I might be kind of cool to hang out with. And I never wanted children before but lately I picture a little girl with Princess Leia buns on the side of her head and a shirt that says, "Anarchy in the Pre-K."

I don't know, the stars are not aligned or is this some pre-mid-life crisis? Am I going to go out and buy a PT Cruiser, carry a paisley duffle bag for a purse, and put ice cubes in my wine?

I'm the first to admit that my occassional dance with depression is rather self-indulgent, knowing this I guess keeps me sane. But I still have to muster up some charm for lunch with III tomorrow...

Panic! At The Blog

2007-03-23T13:04:00.000-04:00

When I first set out to pen my little insipid drabble, very few knew about it. Slowly, I started to share with some of my friends and family - and still only some. Not because there is anything to hide. I just really don't think about it unless it comes up in conversation and then it's like: "Blog?" Blog!" "I blog" "Can I read it?" and then the address is forwarded.

Yet, I go back and forth. On one hand, I want lots of people to read but only if they play nice. Feelings hurt, ya'know. And on the other hand, I cringe at some of the things I write when I should just look back at it and shrug: Well, it was the 1960's, times were different, and we were all on drugs.

Luckily, I have always been careful not to say anything hurtful about anyone I know. Because when you walk into a bar and your friend says, "Hey! I've been enjoying your blog!" you panic just a little. Then you frantically go back and make sure nothing hurtful was said about anyone he may know. Then when you consider he is good friends with the Yukkell, well, then you cringe because some of the early shit is out there. Then, you squirm in your stilettos knowing that one of your Guy Pals - who you drink beer and watch sports with (sometimes in camoflauge sneakers) has access to some of your tragically hopeless inner-most thoughts (and fashion fixations, but you had to already know that, huh?).

Then after the paranoia settles, you think it's pretty cool that he is on board because, hello!, it's the Bear. Say hi to the Bear. The Bear is a cuddly little ilk. I mean, he impregnants people by just being in their presence! True story I mean if your idea of "true" is "not really." Sound people are of the mind that it takes two to tango (and cash).

Then it is even doubly good that he is in on Blog when you realize you can capitalize on the sheer comedian that the Bear is and the late-night trouble he gets himself into. His stories involve hospitals, the grocery store, bathrooms, "couples" therapy, oh to name a few. But I'm not spilling the beans, Bear! So perhaps he will oblige me an interview someday. Cause for celebrity. And I think I can hear the Bear chime in with: "It's a celebration!" But maybe he should say it 30 more times in 30 minutes just for nails-down-a-chalkboard effect! Ha!

I know I don't write anymore so maybe this is just for the crickets in the back.

Patheticicity

2007-03-09T23:05:00.000-05:00

How did Friday night come to this?

Drinking a bottle - or two - of wine and cyberstalking and buying furniture online. I even rode out to Loehman's so I could pick up new pajamas for such a night. Well, I intended on finding some cute outfit but the only draw were leopard print pj bottoms and a pink tank-nightshirt.

So here I am...in all my leopard/pink glory, cruising the guys online.

Mav says I have given drunk dialing a whole new meaning.

Don't get me wrong...I looked forward to a night at home, playing with my new computer, fixing my blog, transfering music to the new computer, and cyber-stalking guys I don't know.

SWF Deletes Phone Numbers

2007-02-02T13:47:00.000-05:00

ARLINGTON, FEB. 2 -- In a defiant act of protest to Relationships, Lack Thereof, and Annoying Cellphone Rings, SWF deletes all past loves and lovers out of cell phone.

It is unprecedented in this household because SWF (name withheld due to an abstract restraining order) is a hoarder. She collects die-cast pencil sharpeners, scarves, and gummy bears, but she is not about the add phone numbers to the clutter.

SWF was not available for comment but we were able to reach her psychiatrist, Dr. Ima Ginary, who stated, "It is a good day in the world. My patient was hiding behind the argument that having these phone numbers meant that she could identify them when they called and thus have control of the situation. By screening her calls, she thought she could better address the situation. But see, some of these guys hadn't called her in over a year and I wondered what this was doing to her psyche. You know the saying, 'A watched pot never boils'? It's just basic Psych 101." He further went on to add, "If all girls would get on board with this we could have peace and democracy in the Middle East. "

We were also able to meet up with her Feng Shui consultant and astrologer to the stars, the legendary, Madame Karma Comelately, who made us fork over $5.95 per minute (the first minute of advertisements being free), before speaking with us. Luckily she accepted Paypal. She was able to share with us the cleansing affect this could have on SWF, "SWF was hanging on to these numbers and, let me tell you, she had numbers of guys who she couldn't even identify out of a lineup of turnips. By releasing the bad energy and tidying up her communication corner, she will relinquish all control these misfit men have over her."

Then in an interesting turn of events, the normally media-shy phone was spotted walking down Rodeo Drive sporting nothing but numbers of friends and families and a shiny piece of red floss tied around the antenna. Normal sights are red bows on pooches, but red bows on phones? We caught up with a color consultant on the meaning behind this. "Red symbolizes love and passion, by tieing a red ribbon around your phone, you are sending out those energies to the world. Similar ways to accomplish this might be to wrap it in red felt. You know the saying, 'If you build it, they will come?' "

Now the buzz on the street is that Tom Ford is incorporating the look into his spring runway fashion shows this year. Skinny phones wearing nothing but red ribbons or coats of red felt and not fed any bullshit phone numbers. Less controversial that overly-skinny models strutting the runway in red floss. Tyra Banks plans on chatting with Larry King on this very topic. In her bathing suit - but she will bring along her own cameras since bad camera angles can add poundage.

World peace and fashion trends, all with the press of "delete." That's the real skinny, girls.

Just Another Dating Story

2007-01-31T17:36:00.000-05:00

I usually have good dates. Even when there is no chemistry, if there is liquor involved, you can count on having a good time with me. [Just tootin my horn, y’all! Honk-a-honk-a. And did I just pimp myself out?]

Sometimes I make a friend out of the deal. A lot of times I do get my heart tossed in a blender.

The one bad date that I can think of lasted only 10 minutes because I wasn’t going to sit around with some uptight pretentious dandy who rolled his eyes at me and tainted my little galaxy hut and it's BYOB (Bring-Your-Own-Boy) glory. As quickly as you taketh boy there, you can removeth. My final words to him were: "I'm so glad I didn't waste a Friday night on you." I think I had pig-tails and my trapper keeper on my hip when I said this.

Sometimes the dates might be a little boring and you know this is the case when you recite all the ways you love the potato. Sweet love, my little spuds! Oh wait, my archives just pinched me in the butt to remind me of the Princess and Ugly Stepchild Date, or how two people can go on the same date but have a remarkedly different experience – it’s the champagne vs. the miller high life lite date. Hee hee. That post still makes me laugh because it was really that bad. [Now time for another Phil Collins joke: He was no easy lover.] OK. So aside from that, no horror stories.

So last night was just another dating story...

I showed up five-ten minutes late, which is probably rude but he was unsure whether he would be minutes early or minutes late from our agreed upon time as he was at metro’s mercy. And she has hated me lately – cold weather go away so I can start walking to work again. I like the guy arriving before me anyway – I like to see how he is going to handle the whole drink/chivalry thing. He did well. First he commented on my beautiful smile [Honk if you like me!], got me a drink - actually a pitcher!, and took my coat and hung it up for me. Good, right?

So a pitcher of sangria turns into dinner which then turns into shooting pool. Now if I had a dime for every time a guy tells me over the course of a date that I might be "the coolest chick" or "a dreamgirl" or "can't believe you are not taken yet" or just propose to me on the spot, well then I’d have $42.30 in my pocket and then I’d march over to sephora and empty those pockets on a lovely new potion. He said something along these lines probably because we have had lengthy exchanges on football, I know how to play pool, I drink beer, blah blah blah – you know, the guy’s girl thing was overpowering the pretty pink package in stilettos. [Another toot for me! I'm my own one-man band.] Then a dime fell from the sky. And we know how that story ends.

Just another dating story until...

I forgot that pool was an opportunity for dudes to ogle the sweet ass and cleavage. And so my rump and stumps were on show and apparently free game for commentary from the peanut gallery. He surmised that I probably had really nice legs because "ballerinas are hot." In which case, I had to remind him again that I am hardly a ballerina. If you could be a fly on a wall in that class - oh boy! I spend half the class cracking up at myself. He also proceeded to inquire about my underwear. ETc. He was also getting a little too touchy feely.

Apparently he brought his own horns along to toot because he told me that I really must see him without his shirt on. He promises that I would be impressed. I should tell him that I am easily impressed in that department. I mean, you usually get me at Forearms. He also asked me to go back to his place for just a half hour so we could make out because I'm an awesome kisser. [Ten horns a tootin! One big fat egg.] And is this high school? Seven minutes in heaven?

And because I like to believe the best in people, I am going to attribute these actions from what was an otherwise polite gentleman in the first half of the date (really), to a case of Too Much Alcohol (TMA). TMA can make you do very bad things. I know because when I got home at 12:30 last night, I sent a text message to Sham-oo (who incidently has been the subject of my cryptic last two posts) and because I was secretly hoping he wouldn't respond, I refused to look at my phone until my friend, Snow White, made me. He replied with a cryptic message of the blah! Blah!!! blah! kind. The boy likes his exclamation points!!!!! So TMA can have very strange effects on people. Have you ever seen Blind Date, the movie?

To further support the Gentleman Persona, at the end of the date, he put me in a cab and paid my cab fare. So I am not sure what to think.

The question is: Do I go out with this guy again?

Do I Have To Go On Another Date?

2007-01-30T17:48:00.000-05:00

Indications that you are so OVER IT:

--You eat a big greasy hamburger and french fries from five guys followed up by a candy bar and root beer the night before the date. [Normal practice: You hit the gym and feast on carrot sticks and yogurt to fit in your skinny clothes.]

--You don't wash your hair the day of and you actually contemplate dying it with that semi-permanent dye you got over the weekend. [Normal practice: You NEVER experiment with hair color! And you wash your hair with the $20 Frederik Fekkai apple cider shampoo.]

--You wear an outfit you don't particularly like: the pants are baggy, the shoes matronly, and the top too frou frou. [Normal practice: You buy something new.]

--You don't use a Whitestrip. In fact, you don't even brush your teeth before you leave the office. [Normal practice: Multiple whitestrips! And brush your teeth, dirty mouth.]

--You wear your highest heels - even though they pinch your feet - knowing he is 5'9" - which means you will be taller tonight. [Normal practice: Wear the cute leopard print ballet-like shoes that you have been wearing a lot lately because the ballet and pilates is paying off.]

--You plot how you are going to work into the conversation your distaste for the gym and all things outdoors, and your love of five guys knowing that he is a serious gym rat, camper, and self-proclaimed veggie lover. [Normal practice: Would tell him about the one time that I did go camping and it wasn't so bad after all. I still would ask him if we could hire out someone to build the fire.]

--You contemplate how you are going to get home in time to see American Idol. [Normal practice: Fuck AI!]

--You might curse online dating. [Normal practice: Endorse it - tell him about the friends you have made from it and the friends who have married.]

Essentially I plan on being my own little Debbie Downer.

Edited to add: Shit, I just flat-ironed my hair and put a bobby pin in the left side - code for: pulling out the big guns. If only I had time to go buy a new outfit!! (Some things will never change around here.)

When There Is Fish

2007-01-26T16:31:00.000-05:00

Me: Well, you know he is a Pisces.
Mom: I told you there is something weird about Pisces.
Me: They are fish, you know, they-
Mom: Are spineless?

I'm glad it didn't work out.

I would have been a country club wife living in some very rural Virginia town with nothing but a golf course and an ATV. I might have fallen off that ATV. I could have a broken leg.

We would have had a yappy little dog - who wouldn't be Tom Ford - but instead named after some newly-retired football player who wouldn't fetch your slippers and let you paint his toenails. He wouldn't sit at my feet. Instead he would stand with paws in the air on the command of "touchdown." I would tire of "touchdown Tiki" on a daily basis.

I would be alone a lot because who is going to visit me out in that town nobody has heard of - 40 miles outside of the city. He would mysteriously disappear on the weekends. He would still insist on keeping up pictures of the Redskin cheerleader and recite the story of "When I dated a Redskin Cheerleader" over and over when asked, "Who is that hot girl in all your pictures?"

We would have to board employees of his "management trainee program." We'd probably be audited by the IRS. I would get tired of paying for everything with cash and the places I frequent would not be able to cash my $100 bill.

I'd get tired of his humongous feet.

But boy am I glad I never have to hear him say, "sat-uh-dey" again.

Alter Egos: Reality Or Make Believe

2007-01-12T17:17:00.000-05:00

This week's visit to the couch assigns me the nametag: Hi! My name is...Little Miss Drama.

You see, it is probably no surprise to those still on board (and you got your own name tags, don't you?) that I tend to have an overactive imagination. Along those lines, I will romanticize a guy here and there. If there is a spike to his hair - he has a pompadour! White sweat pants - he's a pervert! Serenades me with the guitar - he's a bad boy! Wears a velvet jacket, like my own - he's gay! All of those together? Whoa - Rock-and-Roll-hall-of-fame-Tom-Cruise-IS-gay-Elvis-has-not-left-the-building-and-most-certainly-did-not-die-on-the-can-while-my-guitar-gently-weeps! So a kiss on a shoulder, a gaze in the eye, karaoke with broken zippers, drunk texts, lint-rolling - it's all for romance, isn't it?

And so I might just build a guy up - perch him up on that pedestal. Because it's usually better than the reality. And then when the reality is really that - Real Pedestal Romance and sweet and tingly - then I can't go up with it. So I will find fault with the littlest thing (like, say, an accent) and if I can't find the fatal flaw I go and create a whole alter ego of an unsavory nature for the chap because my own little make-believe that I - and I alone - participate in will protect me from what I am afraid of and something that has been so alien to me for a very long time now: a real, live good-to-me man. Who is cute, funny, successful, happy, kind, and has a dog that I have been given free reign to decorate!

A Walk In The Woods (smitten!) turns into a Walk In Space (cu-cu!) turns into a Walk In The Bookstore (support for the cu-cu!) because what I am doing in my own head and sparing you the details of - is actually fodder for kiddie lit. I have recently discovered the children's SkippyJoe Jones books centered around a siamese cat whose head and ears are too big for his body (thank you Mr. Illustrator! and I have my own bone to pick with my own illustrator - does my butt really have to take up so much room on the page - really? and can't you just give me the Ashlee Simpson nose? contract negotiations are in order or I may walk to Mickey Mouse, he's offering me lots of cheese). So this mighty charming character believes that he is really a chihuahua. So he (I'm not sure, but I think with the author's help - reality-make-believe-line-blurred) creates this whole alter ego around this image in which he becomes Skipito Friskito and he fights crime or something of the sort. Banditos be damned! So charming! Sign me up for the fan club.

And so my point? If only to remind you that, no, I am not dating a crime-fighting endearingly fucked-up cat. But, I might think I am on the verge of something a little more real. So my inner dialogue leaves me to kill his alter ego off in a climactic blow-up scene that would make Quentin Tarantino proud and an endorsement from McDonalds and is really too violent for these pages anyways (gun control). (Details withheld due to: Sharing is so 2006 and 2005 Jinx and the Crazy Has Left The Building.)

Is it the Real Thing or something Make Believe?

In due time, banditos...

On Red Pens

2006-12-29T12:57:00.000-05:00

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?!

Wanted: My Gums (Also Answers to "Chops")

2006-12-20T15:40:00.000-05:00

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.

Flat Stanley

2006-11-21T12:29:00.000-05:00

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.

Has Anybody Seen A Dog Died Dark Green?

2006-11-17T15:33:00.000-05:00

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.)

Liquids On A Plane

2006-11-13T13:08:00.000-05:00

(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.

Screaming Blue Iguanas

2006-10-18T17:15:00.000-04:00

[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.

Screaming Blue Iguanas

2006-10-18T16:49:00.001-04:00

[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.

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.

If I Got My Dating Advice From The Bachelor

2006-10-05T13:14:00.000-04:00

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.

The Proof Isn't In The Pudding, It's In My Thighs

2006-09-27T12:38:00.000-04:00

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.

Cock(y) And Bull(shit)

2006-09-07T17:42:00.000-04:00

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!

Wedding Etiquette Among Friends, Or, Party Of One, You Loveless Loser

2006-08-31T17:36:00.000-04:00

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?]

Bringing Sand To The Beach

2006-08-23T09:37:00.000-04:00

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....

Cheap Thrills To Be Found South Of The Border

2006-08-16T13:48:00.000-04:00

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!"

XYZPDQ

2006-08-11T14:03:00.000-04:00

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.

Pink Bubbles

2006-08-08T16:44:00.000-04:00

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.

Smooth Operator

2006-08-04T10:42:00.000-04:00

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?

That Guy: Take Two

2006-08-02T15:19:00.000-04:00

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.

Tie A White Ribbon Around The Blue Box

2006-07-27T08:40:00.000-04:00

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.]

When Books Attack

2006-07-26T12:35:00.000-04:00

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?

The Hills Are Alive So Talk Dirty To Me

2006-07-21T10:18:00.000-04:00

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?

Marry Me Warts And All

2006-07-20T14:32:00.000-04:00

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.

That Guy

2006-07-19T14:04:00.000-04:00

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.

When Bitter Is Sweet

2006-07-18T12:46:00.000-04:00

...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...

A Thursday 13 List: My Childhood Memories

2006-07-13T16:53:00.000-04:00

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.

It Takes Two To Make A Thing Go Right

2006-07-12T15:04:00.000-04:00

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.

Overheard At The Beach

2006-07-10T15:59:00.000-04:00

"What's your name?"
"Blair."
"Of Jo-Tootie-and-Natalie fame?"

"It's part of being a playa. There is bound to be some casualties."

"Mom!
Dolphins!
In the ocean!"

"I'm wearing your pillowcase."

"...the guy with the jean shorts."
"Jean shorts?! Where'd he get them?"

"I have a thing for brunettes."
"You have a "thing" for asians, latina, or redheads - blondes even. Nobody has a "thing" for brunettes."
"Damn right they can."
"Well lucky for you I'm a brunette then. And lucky for me I have a thing for pilots."

"I'll leave your ass here. Don't think I won't."
"I'm getting a dog then."

"What can I do for you?"
"Words every girl likes to hear."

"We'll take 2 miller lites."
"Bud lites?"
"No, miller lites."
"But bud lites are on special."
"2 miller lites, please."

In front of an 8-year old kid: "I want to be tied to the bedpost."
"That was an earmuff moment if ever I heard one."

"I live on Dagworthy."
"Of course you do."

"I don't like the Rudder. I only went there for you."
"Of course you did."

"From here on out, he is known as the Red Barron."
"Of Snoopy fame?"

Home Improvement Project Circus Tent

2006-07-06T08:49:00.000-04:00

This post is brought to you by my art degree. I don't "use" it, it doesn't make me any money, and now my bathroom looks like shit.

My condo was pretty much move-in ready. There are beautiful hardwood floors that gleam as the sunlight hits them. (But I'm sure those will deteriorate in due time.) I have one year-old stainless steel appliances that have more buttons than my remote control. When will I ever use the warmer on the stove? The walk-in closet has a great closet organizer already in place.

Yet I thought that the first thing I would change - just because I can - would be the kitchen counters. They are white counters. I imagined some faux granite or limestone but now I like those white counters - so they are not going anywhere. I don't want too many modern touches. So I have settled that they are "vintage" which is pretty much what I call anything that isn't shaped like a spaceship, doesn't come in a stainless steel, and is so-last-year. We had a beer coosie at the beachhouse that was from one of the bars two years ago in a color - yellow - they don't make anymore. Under my terms, this coosie was vintage.

So now I like my vintage counter tops.

Now the paint colors the previous owner chose are beautiful - for the most part. The kitchen is a real dark olive greenish-brown. This is also a reason to keep the white counter tops. Good design in a room - in my opinion - has light, medium, and dark tones. That is why I don't have matching furniture. So the kitchen is pretty with the very dark colors on the wall, the light of the counters and cabinets and the medium tone with the stainless.

(I'm accepting donations to the camera fund.)

The foyer-living area is a really light neutral color and I just put the color in the furnishings. The bedroom is a sage green and I have always wanted a pink and green room. The sunroom is brick. So I was safe on all the colors in the house. that is, with the exception of the bathroom. It is a pale gray and every two inches is a white 2-inch stripe and then in each stripe is a thin yellow stripe, navy blue stripe, or hunter green stripe.

Y'all - pretty much - it's ugly. My mom hit it on the head too when she said, "It looks like a circus tent."

So I knew that this had to be my first project. First, I was gong to paint it all over in an apricot - the inspriation being the bottle of Coco Mademoiselle on my vanity. And they are saying that orange is the new black. But upon closer inspection, I have discovered that the stripes are tape of some sort. And it won't peel off with my bare hand. So I got the bright idea to work with the existing stripes because I thought that gray with the white and thin black stripes would make for a nice neutral background and I could accessorize in whatever color.

So Monday after I put my mom on sucky Amtrak against my better judgment and sure enough she sat next to a serial killer. And before Mav and I drank a 30-pack of Miller Lites, grilled up some hot links and corn on the cob and crashed the party two rowhouses down and entered into a few rounds of Flip Cup with the kids there, we went to Home Depot. She just moved into Logan Circle so she has been busy with her own home improvements too. So our weekends have been spent at the Home Depot and we have only been down to the beach once this summer so far. (Woe is me.)

Anyway, I picked up a little can of black paint and on Tuesday while America was barbecueing burgers and dogs and waving star-spangled banners and getting caught in torrential down pours if you were in DC (rain, rain go away), I was taping up each and every stripe in that bathroom. Then I painted away. It took a couple coats to cover up the colored stripes with a solid black line. Well this morning when I peeled away the tape - the black had bled underneath some and now I have runny lines of black down my walls. Obvious in some places and not in others. (I wonder: what is painter's tape for??) And only about half of the stripes were tackled so I have have circus tent, half runny black lines.

Y'all its a bigger mess than before. And frankly, this kind of "mess" upsets me and will stress me out until it is fixed. I can't live with the bathroom!

So either I try to paint over the white now and potentially make more of a mess or I try to find a way to peel the tape off which is what I am leaning towards now. If only it could be that easy. Because then I would have a neutral palette to work with, pick out a funky paint color, call Mav's painter, pay him, and call it a day. Or I might get some white paint.

So I am off to the Home Depot for the hundredth time. I figure I should get something out of all my time spent there. Because in my dreams, Home Depot was going to be filled with lots of Hot DIY Guys and as I was mulling over the aerators, flappers, and scorers I'd fall in love with a DIYer and he would do all kinds of "projects" for me. I would be design and he would be installer. And maybe we would have an inside joke about the nail gun. I don't know. Instead, the Home Depot is dusty, smelly, and filled with annoying couples - pushing me to the ground as they are reaching for the Eggshell paint card. He wants ecru, she wants eggshell.

Because, of course, they don't make a color called "circus tent."

To be continued....

My Momma Dearest

2006-06-29T11:18:00.000-04:00

Switching gears for a Hallmark moment. It's got to be done.

................

This Friday, June 30th, will mark the fourth anniversary of my dad's death. I will spend that day(s) with my mom and we will do "dad" things. It's our little ritual and I couldn't imagine spending the day any other way. My dad was a dear, sweet - not to mention hilarious - father and I feel blessed for that. The memories of that weekend haunt me and I guess in a way I still struggle with the loss. But time does put distance and soften the blow.

So on this anniversary I want to pay tribute to my momma. I am blessed to have her in my life as my mom and as my friend. I feel like she sometimes gets lost in the shuffle of our own grief - our own lives. My mom as an independent woman, living her life on her own - while it is something my parents raised me to be, it is just not something she knew herself. I struggle with this too. The picture of my mom carrying all her suitcases and travelling alone or driving off all by herself is part of my grief.

..............

As a child she was sheltered. Her parents sent her to an all girl Catholic school. Her mother made most of her decisions for her, up to and including what she would major in while attending college. It was a traditional household. Father worked hard and came home to awaiting slippers and a newspaper and Mother did the child rearing. It was a loving household, but not an expressive one.

She saw herself through her mom's eyes.

And then she met Val. The night she met him, she knew he was The One. There was something about him. And they couldn't be more opposite. He was wild. She was more reserved. He was a partier. She had the occassional party. He was the life of the party. She was the heart of the party.

Even though she was on a date with another, he confidently asked her out for a spin in his brand new 1967 Corvette. She gushed just a little. And they went out. You knew it was love when she insisted he put the top up because she just got her hair done and he obliged her - his first day in the car. His first day under her spell. They married eleven months later.

She saw herself through his eyes.

They had three children. The children grew up in the center of their world. Together they sacrificed so much so that their kids could have the best education, the best clothes, the best friends, and the best times. They provided a loving, supportive, and expressive home. The children always felt their love and lived by their example.

To raise her family, she gave up her dreams of becoming a nurse. But she has helped people heal throughout her life. She is warm and inviting and people are automatically drawn to her. She is interested in people as individuals. It is easy to see. And she has many friends because of this.

What she doesn't realize is how strong she is. She has always lived her life dependent on others. First, her parents, then her husband. She happily took on this role. But her years of dependency flipped suddenly - unexpectedly - in one fateful night when she lost Him - the love of her life - and had to make the phone calls to the children.

"He's gone. He's gone."

She says she doesn't know what to say in troubled times, she says that He was the one who knew what to say. But she said the only words she could.

Her children showed her how to pump gas and work the ATM machine and drive on the highway. Her brother helped her figure out her finances. And she put together funeral arrangements with poise and grace. She showed everybody how to heal by just being herself. Completely selfless.

Now she stands on her own two feet. She never had the confidence before. She was always grounded by love. Her children settled into their own lives with their own families and she set out on a new future for herself. Very different from what she imagined. Very different from what she wants. But she is finding a new way to live.

I know that she still cries herself to sleep many nights. I know that she keeps his slippers by the bed. I know that she wears his and her rings. I know that she talks to him. I know that she misses him every single day.

I want to punch the Well-Meaning People who insenstively speak, "I don't know how you do it. If [love of my life] died I just don't think I could go on." It's called Life people and it never goes the way you exactly want it to and you can rue the why all the live long day. But in the end, you are still here for a reason and so you live it the best way you know - the only way you know how. Even if you have to re-learn it.

I bet she would never think that she was strong and willful. But she is. She was the pillar that held up her family after this tragedy. Her selfless example inspires. And if you believe in the soul then I know that my daddy is proud of her too.

Maybe that is why he went first. Maybe he would not have been able to find a way.

So now she has entered the phase of Independent Linda. I hope that she will find peace with this.

I hope she will see herself through my eyes.

Gag Me With A Big Rock, Or, Some Notes For My Future Fiance, Also Al Roker Sucks

2006-06-26T16:44:00.000-04:00

The other morning I had the Today show on in the background while I was getting ready for work. With the syrup of Katie gone they needed to fill in some sap. So some dude proposed to his lady love right there on NBC. It wasn't enough that she had to know how much he loved her, he wanted all of the American viewing public to witness this. Romantic moment gone public.

Because it's a show after all. Giving the engagement ring is now a show and not a private pledge of everlasting love. It's I-want-my-fifteen-minutes-of-fame! Ooh! I hope Fox is picking up on this and that will be their next installment in bad (and by bad I mean good) reality TV. "How Public Is Your Love?" I hope they get Chuck Woolery to host it. Lingo isn't his best work.

Why do so many people feel it necessary to choose a public forum - like sky writing, the baseball stadium screen, the airplane? You want to know why? So Al Roker - or someone else - can go on and on about it. It's stroking the male ego. Ladies, your private moment has become a Monster Truck show and you are just the stick shift.

"Let me see that ring!"

"Would you look at that ring?!"

"That's such a big ring!"

"Congratulations!"

"Really, would you look at that ring!?"

"Ah, the ring!"

Said Al over and over and over again. Never mind that that is what he does. He's the guy who laughs at his own jokes and then has to say it over and over again because he got chuckles from the crew. What he doesn't realize is the one clown in the crew (voted Class Clown of his 2005 graduating class) has created a laugh card FOR the crew - or they have some drinking game when Al gives "that doofus look" - drink. So they are all drunk. I just want to throw my flip-flop at the TV screen. I may have done this. (By the way, why is he not sticking to the weather and chasing diners across America? Who gave him his own segments with no babysitter?)

Anyway, my point: he kept making a big deal about the ring. But that is what we do.

"Let me see the ring!"

Honestly, I could care less what the ring looks like. (Believe it.) I am more interested in the romantic moment of when/how he asked. Because I am a cheesy romantic at heart. I love tearjerkers of The Way We Were proportions. (And yet, I haven't seen The Notebook. 99 Things To Do Before I Die.) So, I ask, "How did he propose?" or "Were you expecting it?" Dammit there better be a special moment - and it could take place over a carton of sechuan noodles for all I know - if that had some significance between the TWO OF YOU and not the TRILLION OF US.

Note to future fiance: Make sure Al Roker is not in the room.

Because not only is the way in which he gives you the rock a show a la The Today Show, but the size of the rock must be proportionate to the size of....his wallet...his love for you...or is it his cock? (Frankly, I think this would be a better gauge. Not to mention make for better TV. So Al Roker can wink,wink at the girl and just mouth the words, "Congratulations!" Oh, but it's Al so he will just scream it over and over again. And wink, wink then wink, wink, then wink, wink. Al really is a broken record, have you noticed? And my record is broken too. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Scratch.)

Note to future fiance: Um, OK, I'll take the Big Ring if by the size you mean "size". Wink, wink.
And so with all this attention of how "well" this dude did with the Big Gesture and the Fancy Rock, he got to pull his britches up a notch. He knows he won't be seeing a "dog house" for a long time - until exactly one year from now when he forgets the anniversary of the day he proposed, not to be confused with the anniversary of when he said "I love you," the anniversary of their first kiss, the anniversary of when he thought about proposing....Remember it all dammit! Because then he is just a big idiot.

My mom has a modest-sized diamond that my dad bought when they were young. In fact, a lot of my friend's parents have just that - a modest-sized diamond. That was back when people got married before they made the "big bucks". In today's world, my dad would have bought my mom a football ball-sized ring and proposed on SportsCenter or something. I'll tell you the Chris Berman commentary would BLOW Al Roker away.

Note to future fiance: Let's talk. For Berman, I could reconsider this whole anti-TV proposal stance.

But the modest-sized ring was all he could afford at the time - you know, after he bought the Corvette. Seriously. But the point is, years later, they could have "upgraded." But she never wanted to. Even when they changed their settings to gold. She still kept her original rock. And one time, she lost it (only to be found a week later in the closet). My mom was so upset, she cried for days. My dad didn't understand, he tried to console her with, "No big deal. We will get a new one." I'm sure she gave him the look of daggers. The rock could have been an edible jelly bean but she was sentimental for that particular diamond - the one in which he pledged his undying love.

But see? The guy doesn't have the sentimental attachment. Giving it is the production and when the tape stops rolling, they bow. And then the show is over ladies. That ring is now your show. And don't expect your guy to tour Broadway with you. What do you care? It's you and your rock. I have friends who just got engaged and she told me that she just can't stop staring at the ring. See? It's her show now. He washes his hands of the spotlight and starts salivating for his bachelor party.

And the parade of the ring begins. Your left-handed now! What better way to see the rock. You shake hands with your left hand and, ouch, did that rock get in your way. Oh, yeah, I'm engaged! "This 'ole thing just gets in the way of living, y'all!" And now your friends want to try the damn thing on all the time. When do you get to wear it?

I joke, of course. I'm happy for my Friends With Rock. I get the sentimental attachment to the ring. I do. It embodies something a camera can't capture.

So, for the love of God, leave Al Roker at home.

The author really just wants Al Roker to go back to reading weather charts because that is "his neck of the woods." Besides she is really getting drunk off that drinking game.

On Love, Religion, And Water Bottles

2006-06-22T16:29:00.000-04:00

I am pretty sure you never discuss religion on a first date. And I am pretty sure you never discuss religion after twenty-some beers. I'm also pretty sure you never discuss religion at 4 AM. As my dad used to say, "Nothing good happens at 4 AM. " So I am pretty sure if all of these scenarios coincide, nothing good can come of it. In fact, all hell might break loose. You know, if you believe in heaven and hell.

Now I'm not religous so this isn't a diatribe on religion. This is nothing more than a silly love story, with a little bit of violence - of the Pulp Fiction kind, not the gratuitious Terminator kind, mind you. So girls can bring their guys to watch this chick flick!

Mav and I went to the beach house last weekend and took along Dear Prudence - of plumber fame. (I'm sure she loves that endorsement!) The weekend was off to a great start Friday as we lunched on Nico Bolis and a couple pitchers. We also got some beach time where we got to watch Napolean and Pedro build a sand castle. Such love the kids gave each other. But that's another story. Oh, and the fact that they were "affiliated" with our house is a whole other story that can not be squeezed into my love story.

On Friday night we put our jeans and flip flops on and hit the bar. As I was doing my tour of all the bars (within the larger bar) looking for a coosie (how do you spell that by the way?), I had a moment. Aren't "they" always saying, "There she goes again. Boa falls in and out of love every weekend at the beach." And they would be right. But as I was standing shoulder to shoulder with a guy on my right, we both turned at the same time. Locked eyes. And of course I did my standard smooth move, I ran away. But I still recognize that as a "moment."

A couple minutes later Mav is informing me that "love of my life" is here. Here! I got excited for like 10 seconds until I remembered how that played out. What do they say? The opposite of love is indifference? Yeah, well I was indifferent.

"I don't care about him. But let's go say hi."

So we went over and said "hi." He and I exchanged a few pleasantries, "Do you still work at XYZ?" "You haven't moved back to CA yet?" "Did you lose my number?" ....And then I looked over to the person next to him and there He was. My first crush of the summer, "Love of my life's" best friend (hereinafter called BF), the guy I just had the moment with! Eek. I remember him from last year now. But why did I not see him until just now?

So we had another moment right there. It is like nobody else is around and you don't need to say anything and we probably stood like that for like 30 minutes. Or it could have been.

So I had to get away from them because the love was no longer there for "love of my life" but I couldn't go with the best friend? Or could I? He kept following me around. Everytime I turned he was handing me a beer. He pulls me in to dance with him. And that look in his eyes suckered me in. The moment.

So Friday night Mav, me, and Dear Prudence split up. We all had our romance to chase. Mav with the smallest "chip" of the bunch. Dear Prudence with her myriad of men, I seriously lost track which one she was with.

Needless to say, we met up with the boys Saturday afternoon for a little Jam. I was so over being uncomfortable with the dynamic. I purred as I talked to the BF that afternoon and listened to the band. Yep. 100% smitten. It's been awhile. I deserve it.

Now fast forward to Saturday night after a long day. It's just me, the BF, love of my life, Dear Prudence, Mav, and The Sleeper sitting around the patio table. Oh, and Lex Luther. Who nobody knew. He was just some guy walking by who joined the party. We are appraching 4 AM.

What do grown-up professionals who had been drinking all day at the beach do at 4 AM? Pop open their lap top? Take an Advil? GO TO SLEEP? No, they play Spin the Bottle and I Never. And drink more beer. After a few hours of this (which is actually now 4 AM) we carry the conversation to more lofty things like....religion.

This is where our love story reaches a crescendo. In hindsight, I should have interrupted the discourse with my lovely joke about the pizza.

But then we wouldn't have had this:

Mav: I am going to raise my kids Catholic because that is how I was raised and that is what I identify with.
The BF: Why do you identify with it?
Mav: I believe in the 10 Commandments.
Boa: [Quiety thinking of all the ways Mav has broken the 10 commandments over and over. But think better about calling hypocrite because I see her point.]
The BF: That's a civil code.
Boa: Ahh, he is cute and smart too!
Mav: That is what Christianity is based on!
[Voices are getting much louder. Much.]
The BF: Oh and I guess you are going to say that you believe the world was created in 10 days too!

From here on out the yelling is quite blurry. But it could have gone something like this:

Mav: I didn't say that.
BF: Yes you did.
Mav: Shut up.
BF: No you.
Mav: You're a poopeyhead.
The BF: Welll your a doo-doo.
Boa: [giggle, giggle]

And here is where Mav decides that actions will speak much larger than words. I like to call it performance art. Mav was acting out. Because she dramatically jumped on top of the table and whacked the BF upside the head with an empty water bottle. Just like that. Some people might sit in a tree for 10 days to GET THEIR POINT ACROSS. As if to say, "listen to me." But Mav dialed into the Bronx and raged.

And if the water bottle action wasn't enough, she came back to backhand all of the 40 beer cans sitting on the picnic table - backhanded them with one swoosh - right into the corner that the BF was now cowered in. And kicked him out of the house.

Mind you I am silent through all this. Frankly, didn't know what to do and seriously I am the daisy in the barrel of the gun. Can't we all just get along?

But The BF turned to me and wistfully said, "I'm so sorry Lara." I'd like to think there was a tear shed. And just like that I knew this was the end of this love story. We weren't going to make it after all. That water bottle would have always been in the way. In the name of God.

Plumber's Crack

2006-06-13T16:00:00.000-04:00

Home ownership equals plumber's crack.

Apparently things break. Murphy's Law says it will happen right when you buy a house or right when you pay your car off. Luckily Mr. Murphy started "lite" my first month into the new place. "He" cracked his whip at me as if to say, "Don't get too smug little girl. You are responsible now. There is no Handy Man at your beck and call." And ironically, when I rented and did have a handy man at my beck and call nothing ever broke - in 6 years.

However, Week #2 in my new place, the toilet went kerplunk. Well it didn't shut down completely. On Sunday afternoon it started "running." That is the short version that apparently the masses understand for what I was calling, "After-I-flush-the-toilet-it-flushes-properly-but-then-it-starts-dripping-not-literally-but-you-can-hear-it-and-when-you-look-in-the-tank-the-water-goes-down-and-when-it-reaches-a-certain-point-it-automatically-flushes-and-the-whole-process-starts-again-so-my-toilet-is-constantly-flushing-and-um-that-means-it's-not-working-right?"

And that is when I learned my first home improvement word of the day. Say it with me: F-L-A-P-P-E-R. Flapper.

My runny toilet was in need of a new flapper.

I learned this by calling my friend who lives in my building who has owned her place for probably about 3 years so I guess you learn a thing or two about home repairs as you go along. I called her to get the name of a handy man I could call and when I explained my drawn-out winded description of my runny toilet she cut me off immediately because she knew what my problem was and - best of all - she knew how to fix it!

Minutes later (this is Sunday evening) she was down at my door with her Home Depot book. Not for her. For me. And there is where I saw the interworkings of my toilet tank. Not much to it. Some chains. That ball-cock thing. And the flapper! Y'all? Chains? Ball cocks? Flappers? Is there a hose in there? This give new meaning to "plumber's crack" indeed. But I digress as usual.

So the flapper replacement. You might be thinking, "Silly girl, flapper replacement is so kindergarten. I can change that with my eyes closed."

Well good. I'm apparently passing Home Improvement Kindergarten because that is exactly how I - we - had to do it. You see - my tank is located directly underneath a vanity ledge so you can't see into the tank. In fact, you can barely fit your arm into the tank. I just measured my forearm and it is a little over 3 inches at the fatest part so that means that the opening is only 3 inches wide - barely. So I squeezed my arm in and now my arm has this big bruise right at the inside of my elbow. It looks like I have done a sufficient amount of shooting up.

Plumber's crack? Plumber's elbow.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. My friend, S (she is getting a name this weekend as she accompanies Mav and I at the beach - you can't escape the nickname), diagnosed the problem and put her arm in to feel around the flapper. She pushed it down to temporarily stop the leaking and came up with black goo all over her hand. And this is where I learned that black goo means one too many Chlorox bleach tablets dropped into the tank (which ironically I had just dropped one in that morning) which leads to corroded flappers.

And that corrosion of black gooey tar DOES NOT LEAVE. It is now imbedded in my nail beds. It is in every crevice and pore of my fingers now.

Plumber's crack? Plumber's dirty dirty hands. Hmm. My black hands reminds me of this post. (Digressions...)

So I spent the rest of the night trying to replicate her "fix" and the damn broken flapper would not seal for me.

Horse whispering? Flapper cursing!

So I had to get creative unless I wanted to listen to:

Drip
Drip
Drip
Drip
Flush - on repeat - ALL NIGHT LONG. I opened up my drawers of kitchen gadgets that are never used and settled on the knife sharpener as Band-Aid. And she worked! I was able to wedge it down onto the flapper and it fit flush right up against the vanity top.

The phantom flushing was not going to be going on all night long.

12:30 in bed and asleep.

The next morning I started to doubt my plumbing attempt. I stopped by to talk to our building manager and he gave me a flapper and assured me it was easy to replace. Another vote of confidence! This plumbing thing is a whole world I never knew anything about. Because apparently everyone knows about the flapper. I talked to Mav that morning and relayed the problems with "my can" and she too said, "Oh yeah, that's your flapper." The world is opening up.

That night, after I got home from speaking on tax resources at a conference in Baltimore, I went to work on the toilet. Public speaking? Plumber's crack? I'm not sure which I feared most at that point. But I wanted to be able to do this myself.

I put on my Magic Numbers CD (loooove) and, even though I was wearing a little sundress, I said, to no one in particular (because there is not even a cat to talk to now), "Don't mind my plumber's crack." It somehow seemed called-for. Or, rather, I'm that corny. I turned the water supply off. Took out the old flapper in its black gooey splendor and swapped in the new. With my eyes closed. The thing was easily snapped into place. Ta fucking da. I was proud of myself!

Until the flush. It won't flush. Damn. I took my plumber's crack self off the floor and rang up S. I needed the reinforcments after all. Thankfully she was to be home in an hour and would swing by my place to check out my handiwork. My apprenticeship was in question.

But not for long! Again, S knew the problem immediately. I just needed to adjust the chain length. The new flapper chain was too long and just like that....my can was fixed!

The Best Is Yet To Come

2006-06-09T16:54:00.000-04:00

The Move She is OVER. Hip hip fucking hooray.

Don't get me wrong. I would say it went rather swimmingly as moves can go. (But who wants to that again any time soon?) They showed up ten minutes early and moved my stuff in a little over 3 hours. And they gave me four guys! And only one of them was a prison escapee. And I got an imaginary boyfriend for the day. Money well spent.

My bonus dollars were for the fact that I - correction: we - were Making House. It could have been the lack of sleep, a week in Miami without seeing one remotely non-gangsta being, and operating on very little sustenance in the belly over the past few days. The caustic combo may have contributed to the thoughts of a make-believe boyfriend. In any case, he was the good-boyfriend variety because he catered to my every whim. Our conversations went like this:

"Where should I put this?"

"Should I move it over an inch?"

"Let me do that for you."

"How is this for you?"

Sexually-charged is right. All that we were missing was a nice pat on the ass and a term of endearment. OK. I called him Muscles. I don't think he minded.

I also tried to get him to drink a beer with me - just to firm up calling it a "date." I think he turned me down because he didn't want me buying. And then just like that he left. I guess it was time to be somebody else's boyfriend.

Boyfriend-for-hire: And he'll move your shit!

She won't love him like I did.

After Muscles was gone and no Puss'n'Boots to talk to (wah), I was alone amidst the boxes of my Material World. And the reality of all this hit me. Y'all I have this huge mortgage tied to my name. What if I lose my job? What if the hot water heater breaks? How will I afford that? How do I change the air filter? What if my plumbing gets clogged? How do I change those damn lightbulbs in that funky track lighting in the kitchen? Should I just not use the kitchen lights?

Who will help me when something breaks? Muscles took off in a dusty path!

Then I let those worries go (for now because this is what I do - worry) when Mav came over to break in the place with a bottle of champagne and the discovery of my new neighborhood bar across the street with "kitty" - appropriately - in the title. Now endearingly called, "Sophie O'Shea's."

At the end of the night, I was inviting the whole bar over to my new house. There were only about six people - one of which may or may not have been Tom Arnold. Luckily for me, Mav had the sense to nix that idea. "You have boxes everywhere! Where are people going to sit? You can't have people over, Boa."

But you see, I am in a happy place right now. I want to have YOU over. I want to talk about my house. I went to lunch with the Flirt the other day and I was rambling on and on about my color schemes and decor, etc and his eyes may have been glazing over - but I DIDN'T CARE. Aside from the fact that he lost favor with me big time circa my birthday, but I simply want to talk house with everyone.

I ordered new checks at the bank with my new address and I made them change it. I wanted it to say "Unit" instead of "Apt." and I explained to the bank teller why it was important that it say unit since I am "owner" now and I want my damn checks to reveal this. To everyone.

I had to tell all the Goodwill employees, that I have been donating many very nice miscellaney to over the years, that I will now be taking receipts because "I'm a howeowner and I can itemize now!"

I found a way to tie my "condo talk" into a conversation with one of my account reps who lives in Boston - because, y'all - that is where the lady I bought the house is moving to! Coincidence?

My mom has gotten the play-by-play of the whole house. Square foot by square foot - where I am putting everything - what color everything is. By the time she visits me in a few weeks she will have a good mental image before even seeing the place. My momma lets me ramble. I love her so.

I know, you want me to shut up already. I want me to shut up.

But, you see, I am just happy about this decision to plunge the DC market - insane as it is. Finally, I am happy with where I am at my age. Good job. Great friends. Supportive family. No boyfriend? For now? So.....My Own Home.

There is something so fresh about moving too. Routines are changed. My medicine chest is on the left hand side now. The shower head is on the other side of the shower. I enter my bed from the left. My pots and pans and dishes and silverware are all in different spots. In the new place, as you go to each of these new spots your movement is more deliberate because you have to THINK about what exactly you are doing, where you are going, and where That is. As opposed to Old Hat. An old hippy art teacher I once had would say that I am being Mindful.

I opened up my medicine chest today - a medicine chest I have been opening a couple times a day for the last week - and only this morning did I see this little note taped in the corner in very small lettering,

"Don't give up. The best is yet to come."

I think about the person who had to post this affirmation in a place they were going to go to everyday. What were they going through? Or did they leave it for me in some kind of karmic sharing?

Or did Muscles leave it for me to remind me that it's not make believe....The Best might just be right around the corner from My New Home.

We Were Not In On The Joke

2006-06-06T12:36:00.000-04:00

Where did I leave things? Oh yeesss....the vacation.

Do you think I was:

A) Lying in the sun
B) Being served drinks poolside
C) Falling in love every single day
D) None of the above

The correct answer would be "D." And if you answered this correctly, you were in on the joke.

And if I were to start at the beginning of the story....

I awoke on the early side of Wednesday morning to catch a 7 AM flight. I groggily pulled my shit together and got on an airline that I had never been on before. And admitedly never heard of. I relied on Mav's mad booking skills to get us a dealio.

Once I am on the plane and look around I half expected Spike Lee to jump out of the director's chair and yell, "Cut!" It was a scene of the pants belted down below the ass. The baseball caps on crooked. The swagger. The girls squeezing into too-tight, too-small, too-short clothing encased like sausages. I was the token white chick in this Spike Lee cinematic feature. So I brought out my iPod and put on my white girl music.

Once I arrived at the Fort Lauderdale airport where Mav and I were meeting up I had to ask her, half-jokingly, "What kind of ghetto airline did you book me on?" She didn't understand because she flew out earlier in the week for business. Apparently everyone on her flight had their pants pulled up and their baseball caps on straight.

This should have been Clue #1.

We grab a shuttle to our hotel. We even chat up with some nice local girl who gave us tips on what bars to go to. Thanks nice girl! And we are two giddy girls thinking, "This trip is going to be fun! Wee!"

We walk into our hotel and it is - again - a ghetto scene. Spike Lee is following me?

This should have been Clue #2.

We settle the room debacle at the front desk because the clerk only reads what's in her computer and when there are two identical reservations she goes on the blink. We rebooted her and all worked perfectly. We get to our hotel room and The Count has sent us a bottle of Cristal to partake on Mav's birthday. This bottle will - appropriately - loom large over the weekend as "the Cris."

This should have been Clue #3.

Since the sun is not out we head out to "sight see" but not before we make ourselves a big helping of Sapphire and Soda in a to-go cup. Waiting for the elevator we chat up a fellow hotel guest. A Spike Lee extra. He had a grill* with his name inscribed in each tooth. t-y-r-o-n-e.

We asked him where he was from? And he slanged out, "Na-uhsh-villlle." Followed up with, "It's great down here and I didn't even know there was no beach here!"

The way he said it was like he was just given a buy-one-get-one-free deal. BOGO. It is catchy.

Yet we thought nothing of this urban denizen holding his pants up but not too much so you could get a nice helping of the boxers in view. These crazy kid's style! Spike Lee, where is Wardrobe?

This should have been Clue #4.

We ventured out down the pier to walk into South Beach. At every pier corner there were hip hoppers staking out their corners. It was a friendly pier-corner-type loitering. Spike Lee left the violence at the door.

This should have been Clue #5.

So that night we feasted on the best steak of my life at a gentlemen's steak house. Dark paneling. Cigars. Men with credit. Surprisingly no hip hoppers. Spike let us out of character for the night.

And so for that night we forgot about the weird Twilight Zone we had passed through over the course of the day. The crowd here looked respectable so we sat at the bar, of course, so we could meet and chat up our neighbors. And that we did. Some nice CIA and/or FBI gentlemen. Locals. One happend to be a hotty and when he asked for my phone number, I gave him my work phone number. Who does that? Stupid Me does. But Mav is savvy enough and passed out her cell to one of the gentlemen.

When they called the next night to ask us over for a barbecue I mouthed to Mav, "Say no." See, what I was thinking was that we don't want to tie ourselves down to the first guys we meet here. No on our first night. We still have 4 more days! Let's go out tonight and meet some others!

It's that always-looking-for-something-better deal or let-me-just-see-what-else-is-around-the-corner - that the guys do anyway.

This is when Karma bit us in the ass big-time. Because there was not going to be anything remotely akin to meeting anybody "better." Because this is when we learned the big secret.

To my dismay we were not in a Spike Lee movie. We were in the midst of "Hip Hop Weekend." Every Memorial Day - apparently - South Beach shuts down. The locals leave and Lindsey Lohan certainly doesn't show up. Have you seen how pasty that girl is?

The hot spots that are usually The Place To Be, were dead to all in the world but two silly little girls looking for a good time. We stayed away from the clubs. Not into that scene. We dined rather well. Reservations weren't really necesarry. The bartenders and waiters and waitresses chatted us up usually starting the conversation with, "What are you girls doing in town?"

My best response for this?

"We were not in on the joke."

I failed to mention throughout this timeline that it is STILL RAINING! So sunbathing was out of the question DURING THE WHOLE FIVE DAYS too. (Well, there was one window of opportunity on Saturday.) And our hotel - in character - was ghetto as we had no hotel bar so each day was an adventure. The challenge of finding a bar to saddle up to. We met a bunch of interesting characters. The Judge and his mistress. Even the one 22-year old puppy dog who wanted to ditch her friends - who were down for Hip Hop Weekend - and hang with us because, "..ohmygod, I can't believe you guys are in your 30's - you are so cool [we were walking around with our gin flasks] - and you guys look so great too [like you let yourself go in your 30's]."

In the end, I needed the proverbial 'vacation from my vacation.' But, oh yeah, I still had to move.....

*Spike Lee says your teeth are called grills.

Vacation, Had To Get Away

2006-05-23T11:49:00.000-04:00

I have hit the crossroads of Mental Exhaustion Avenue and Irritable Street. Between buying the house, losing my assistant at work, and putting my sweet little puss-n-boots to sleep, I have been extremely busy and emotional. So I have been eating a lot of potatoes and not exercising. And my dating life has been on hold as in I can't stomach any one guy right now. Except Willem Defoe...where has he been?

So that's the silence.

And when the going gets rough, you realize you need an attitude adjustment to get you out of this funk. So what am I doing about it? Heading south. Miami. South Beach to be exact. And I hope that the recipe of a very long Memorial Day weekend plus tanning in the sun plus drinking Sapphire martinis plus eating fruit and salads plus celebrating Mav's Birthday will hopefully be the catharsis I need to snap out of the depressive funk. Because I don't want to take a pill.

I will be penniless and drunk for the next 6 days.

But before I go and work on an attitude adjustment, I have some things to get off my chest....

People, always let the people OFF the elevator before you barrel in.

Please God, let Barabaro get better, not be in pain, and not have to be euthanized.

Shut up people who think that it is a peaceful death. Because it is not. Besides they need to fix him so he can make some babies. His stud fee will be penniful and he could sire an Einstein.

Hence, I am trying a vegetarian diet this weekend.

I miss my cat very much.

Next time I look up in the sky, please $10,000 fall on my head.

Brangelina, have your baby already.

Movers, please show up on the 31st and like, not take 7 hours that you are telling me you need to move 25 boxes, an armoire, a bed, a chair, a dresser, and a desk only a block away. Because I will ride your ass to get you people moving. I'm in no mood.

Yukkell, please get over yourself already. I don't really give a damn if you use my friend as your real estate agent and it doesn't bother me one bit that you are getting married. You are so 1999-2005. It died.

Bathing suits, please look good on me this weekend. Please look good on me this weekend. Please look good on me this weekend.

So I hope to be back in June slimmer, tanner, and happier. I will be a homeowner come May 30th so that is a start.

God, I can't wait to lay on a Florida beach.....home.

Have a great Memorial Day weekend!

Look What The Snow Storm Brought In

2006-05-12T09:04:00.000-04:00

The time was circa 1992. I was in college. And the forecast was calling for a record-breaking snow storm to bombard the entire east coast - pretty much down to northern Florida. Snow in Florida and, oh yeah, it's Spring Break. Mukluks and bikinis!

I was an "old married girl" at this time living in sin with my wee bit older boyfriend who was long gone out of college. Instead he had a job. And he was sweet as pie. And probably the only guy I ever dated who actually "got me." We dated/lived together for most of 3 years. Ironically, my college romance was the most mature relationship I probably ever had. We actually talked about things. And he was an artist type - a damn good writer - so sometimes he would go into his shell when he needed to dip deep into the well to regenerate. Kindred. In fact, the only time he ever really annoyed me was when he was "blocked" and would play the harmonica to blues tracks. This annoyed me about him and I remember thinking at the time, "I can't live with this forever!" - knowing I was never going to commit to him long-term. Now I put up with much worse than harmonicas - the "sound of settling"? (but that is beside the point.)

His name was Pete.

This particular blustery Spring Break we decided to rent a car and drive all the way to Fort Wayne to visit my parents. They were living so far away at the time and I only got to see them a few times a year. Pete knew how much I was looking forward to this trip. And he loved my parents too. In fact, we were so damned determined that we were going to make it there, we ignored the blizzard warnings thinking there is no way Georgia was going to get that much snow and by the time we hit the more northern states, it would be long gone. Our plan was golden.

Were we ever wrong.

By the time we hit Georgia we were definitely driving in blizzard conditions. Sensible and patient Pete carefully maneuvered the highway as we crawled our way up 95. The carrot at the end of the stick - my momma and daddy. Well it finally got so bad that they were closing the highways down and forcing people off the road. The one exit we had to get off at had only one hotel and, oh, about a million people in our same predicament. I bundled up my "winter coat" - which was some flimsy suede jacket I got in a thrift store and had no lining. I was praying for a warm bed and - if I may push the envelope a little here - some cable tv. We weren't in line 15 minutes when the hotel turned on the No Vacancy light, with ne'er a care for the momentarily homeless.

"Shoo people. There's no room at the inn," said the Inn Keeper.

And I said, "Dammit!" The stress of the day and the disappointment welled up inside me. I knew we could not sleep in the car that night. We would freeze. I could feel the tears forming and a patented Lara temper tantrum starting to take shape.

When lo and behold Desperation and a Plan B appeared before my watery eyes when a young guy probably my age - college student - spoke up, "Hey I have a room - with two beds - and it is only me - if anybody wants to share."

To put a brand-new-in-2006 romanticized spin on the story....he was looking at me when he said this. Why, our souls connected. And yes, it was love at first sight! (So in the made-for-tv version of my life make sure that we reconnect years later and fall madly in love. That will make a nice Lifetime Original.)

I pushed Pete forward and yelled, "We do!" I was going to fight and claw my way if I was faced with competition. Heck, at that point, I could have starred in Indecent Proposal. His Redford to my Demi. (And Pete was a Woody, come to think of it.)

So that is how I spent the night in some northern GA hotel in a blizzard with some absolute stranger. I can't remember much about our Hero that night. I do remember he had to call his parents too. I can't even remember what I told my dad. But he knew I was with Pete so he probably didn't worry as much. I had the weirdest dreams that night that I was sleeping with some Ted Bundy. Pete, I know, slept with one eye open.

Alas morning came. And we were alive. And warm. And very tired. And the sun was shining!

BUT - to rain on my morning sunshine parade - there was lots of cleaning up to be done and Tennessee decided that they were going to barricade their lovely state from any other vehicle messing with their plans to plow. The TN border was closed. And they didn't anticipate it opening for a long while. Our options were to (a) wait in the small town at least all day and where nothing was open or (b) turn around and go home. We made the decision to go home.

I cried most of the way home.

And I didn't perk up until Pete said, "Well, I have the whole week off work anyway. How about we go the shelter first thing and get a cat?"

And this came out of the blue. I don't really remember us ever talking about getting a cat. But somehow, at this moment, it seemed like the best idea I had ever heard. Like, duh...this is going to make the crybaby feel better. I knew it. On any other day, I probably would have brushed off the idea. But, see, Pete knew me. And he always knew - even before I did - what was going to cheer me up.

The carrot at the end of the stick now....a little fur ball of my very own!

So the next day we drove to the shelter and when I walked in I was immediately drawn to this one fat sultry looking momma cat just kind of laying there nonplussed by all the people oohing and aahing over her competition, the kittens. Lindsey Lohans to her Meryl Streep. Amateurs. She wasn't playing up to anyone.

I looked at Pete and said, "That's Sophie."

Well, actually her name was Muffin. That was what the cage said. But she certainly didn't give off "Muffin air." It also said that she hated children and other animals and she liked to be the center of attention. It was a match made in heaven - I knew we could be fast friends! And when I held her in my arms I knew that from that day forward I was now going to shelter her from the snow storms.

On that day, I gave her a second chance at life. I learned that my little Miss Grumpy was going to be put to sleep the next day as she had overstayed her welcome at the Inn. If it wasn't for that snow storm....

It's fourteen years later and I had to make the very difficult decision to let her go yesterday morning. Her health failing, there wasn't anything I could do for her anymore. Deep down I know it was the right thing but it doesn't feel right. I made the mistake and stuck around the vet's office until it was over and I will never forget the bellowing I heard from her room. They say she went in peace but I doubt that. That breaks my heart.

I cried all the way home and through the night.

I wonder what Pete would say or do to cheer me up now....

RIP Little Miss Sophie Mae
c. 1987 - 2006
"...I'll show you in spring
It's a treachorous thing
Miss you
Kiss
The Lovecats..."
--The Cure

Line Dancing

2006-05-09T06:43:00.000-04:00

"Don't stand in line!" -- Ian MacKaye, Al Jourgensen (as Pailhead)

Mav and I don't wait in lines. We like to call it "bucking the system."

I don't remember when it started but I remember a fine show of it. St Patrick's Day 2006. We walked over to an Irish bar - I say "a(n)" because there are about 564 of them in my neighborhood now. And all 564 of them had lines with about 564 people in them. So we decided to go next door and eat mexican food because the Mexican aren't Irish so NOBODY was home. I ask, are we original or unoriginal?

After margaritas sans green, we had the fuel to power through the line and so we walked up to two random guys towards the front of the line. And I say "we" because it was really Mav's doing. All I could think was, "Who is going to beat me up for "cutting"?" I was momentarily transported to 3rd grade and Huston was tugging on my braids as he always stood behind me in line (or I always cut in front of him). And then he would act like he didn't do it. And I'd be all coy about it. That might be when I first learned how to flirt with the boys. Anyways, snap back to 2006, nobody is tugging at my hair so we succeeded with the line cutting....And then, you know, with it being St. Patrick's Day, the Irish bar is allowed to have a cover charge. Mark-ups. Hate them. Well, we must have been walking high on power because we walked right by that Money Taker like we were royalty and, well, it worked. Nobody chased us down.

Then after boredom at that bar, we ventured over to another bar of a non-Irish denomination. It's A-muhr-a-kah afterall. And, well, the drunks were out because there was a line there. This time, all it took was a phone call to a friend inside who kind of "owns" the bar. (And by "own" I only mean he spends 564 days of the year there thus giving them about 564 dollars a day (and this is where I am - seriously - not exaggerating) and so he is kind of like a preferred customer and can call some shots or something like that, one of which is pulling pretty ladies out of line.)

Thus, we spent St. Patrick's Day in no lines. I'll wait while you do an Irish jig.

And so, this past weekend we worked our Line Cutting magic again as we went to Gold Cup. For those not in the know, Gold Cup is steeplechase horse races but that is peripheral to what the day actually is. It entails showing up at a bar at 9 AM. Drinking. Hopping a 45-minute bus ride to The Plains while drinking. Spending the whole day drinking. Trying not to miss bus ride home drinking. Back to the bar drinking. Rinse lather repeat. If you really feel it necessary. It's your liver.

So we bellied up to the bar, partook in some bloody marys and then filled up our jugs of beer in take-home jars. Finally, a to-go cup! And I'm not in the South! We got our cups, our jug and lo and behold. A line! Long lines of people just standing there waiting to get on the buses. About 564 people's worth. So Mav and I were having none of that. We sauntered to one of the buses with the door open and plopped our fannies there. And seriously thought, "Why is nobody doing this?" We watched out the window as people shivered in the early morning breeze, dew forming on their limbs. The bus driver eventually came on cranked up some country tunes and then - I think a little embarrased because he was probably 564 seconds away from boot-scootin' boogeying - noticed us in his rear view mirror with a chuckle.

So we sat there for another 5 minutes in the company of the bus driver and country music until they loaded the bus with the Line Waiters.

And that is how we line dance.

I Could Be Working In A Rodeo Taunted By A Red Cape

2006-05-08T10:43:00.000-04:00

Confession: I'm an astrology-geek. It just goes with my whole metaphysical, karmic, feng-shui fascination and my grounding in Yippie 101. The teachings are based in turquoise, Volvos, and Easy Spirits. I only received mildly passing grades on account of the Easy Spirits because they don't have anything in a stiletto so I am kind of a rebellious student like that. Or a failure. Perspective.

So I occasionally read my horoscope and when it says this: "Your people are there for you just when you need them most, and it will feel great just to know they're on your side. Make sure they know you'll support them when the time comes," I look at the ways this is true and it's right on, skeptics! My people are there for me. Because I have a friend who is my real estate agent. A friend who is my lender ("Mother Goose is giving me money.") And Mav who is my counsel. So I trust with this HUGE home purchase that these people are not screwing me. And believe me, when there are talks of money and interest rates, etc., I am dumbed down quite a few notches. I already know that I want to do something for each and everyone of them. So see? Horoscopes have some merit!

Alright. One can argue on the prognosticating element of astrology. I'll give you that platform but I may not agree with you. But one can not argue on the traits of the signs. Because I am a Taurus and it is a pretty spot on description of my personality. Stubborn? Check. Likes emotional and material excess? Check. Change freaks her out? Big check. But, of course, it is never to a tee and that is because of moons and suns and eclipses and birth times and pink hearts, yellow moons, green clovers, and blue diamonds.

For instance, I recently found this description of "me" in terms of a career:

Taurus is well suited to any career in which patience, consistency, and values are important... [Hmm...sounds pretty generic, if true.] ...Of all the signs of the Zodiac, Taurus is probably the most dependable and easygoing employee... [True.] ...They aren’t temperamentally suited to life in the fast lane, but you can count on them to get the job done. They tend to choose careers that pay well and have good job security... [Hell to the yeah!] One of the most determined signs, they are not overly ambitious... [Like I would never want to be the Librarian of Congress. Holy responsibility Batman.]

I chose a safe career. Librarian. I chose to work in corporate/law libraries. Financial security. And I run the whole show, like I have a national title. Does that make me ambitious? Not really because it is still pretty comfortable. I could probably push the glass ceiling a little more but I like the flexibility I have now. So from a general personality perspective, this is for the most part right on.

Then the article went on to suggest and describe jobs that "I" would be good at based on my resemblance to a bull, a la earth sign. This is what "the stars" came up with:

(And the stars are a little silly.)

Gardener/Groundskeeper:This is the sign with a classic green thumb and dirty hands. They would like nothing more than spending their days cultivating roses and pruning scrubs. Taurus can be found running greenhouses, working in garden centers and flower shops, and working for companies who supply plants for businesses. The lucky ones can work at an ostentatious estate, taking care of larger, more complex gardens and dreaming of being the owner.

Well this would be true if I liked to dig in the dirt. And I don't. If I had a yard, I would hire that out. Besides, I am so down on "the flower" right now for my own pity party reasons that have to do with the words none and ever. And furthermore and perhaps more importantly, I kill plants. Not on purpose. Except bamboo. My bamboo is alive and kicking. But most importantly why this career is not suitable for me? I don't really care to tend to somebody else's yard and have them reap the benefits. And this is a classic Taurus trait.

She's charging.

Landscape Designer:The Landscape Designer deals with plant material and other elements on a larger or more complex scale. This profession requires several years of education, a talent for design and architecture, and vision. Taurus has an innate sense of aesthetics, and a love of living things, which make them perfect for this career. Instead of creating a building like an architect, they are able to build a small part of the world instead.

Now we're talking! This might make better sense to me. I get to design AND have other people do the dirty work. And I must say I do have an "innate" sense of aesthetics. I think of everything in aesthetics. For example, I sit on a yearly tax advisory panel for a big legal publisher and just today at our meeting I informed them that they might want to change out these blue binders for a series of texts they publish. It's aesthetics and one might look at the flimsy 3-ring binder notebook as inferior to their competitor's leather-bound compression binder with embossed writing (instead of peel and stick letters). But there is a chevron design and I told them that was cool. (Give them a postive before the negative.) This is why they have me on the panel with the "old timers." My "fresh" perspective?

I'm all about aesthetics. I'll design your garden.

Perfume/Cosmetics Developer:Taurus loves the finer things in life. They have finely-tuned senses and are acutely aware of beauty and elegance. If they have training in chemistry, they can then work in the world of perfume and cosmetics. Finding just the right blend of light and airy floral, with an exotic musk, would engage them on a fascinating quest. Following the latest consumer research they will find the combination of scent that will make crowds flock to their product. They flagrantly disregard scent-free policies.

Holy heck yeah! I have a very acute sense of smell. Too much so sometimes. This mostly gets in the way on the metro when you can smell all peoples. And mostly that is not pleasant when you have the sweat, alcohol, and fried food smells co-mingling. I believe everyone should smell good, scent-free policies can kiss my ass. I could be a catalyst for a beautifully-scented world where we all smell pretty and all the men smell like Chanel Allure. But there is one problem. I SUCKED at chemistry or any science class for that matter. This might hurt me. But they could use me for my nose and I could have someone else do the dirty work (again). We could insure my nose for millions of dollars.

Call me the girl with the million dollar nose.

Model:Taureans are often very beautiful individuals and some might want to venture into modeling. Most Taurus natives love to eat, which may concern those who wish to model. However, they should not let their weight stop them because the Plus-Size Model market could be literally tailor-made for them. Since the population is growing in more ways than one, this field is probably opening up. The money is probably plus-size too.

Oh keep talking..."beautiful"....aahh shucks, thanks.....wait...I'm chubby? Well, I certainly do feel chubby these days. I don't even know how I still fit into my size 4 pants today. And then I read that I am made for plus-size modeling. In that case, see you at Five Guys. And double fry my order.

Hubba chubba to you.

Winery Owner:This venture would appeal to many sides of Taurus. First of all they would have to grow the grapes and harvest them. Then, they would have to make the wine over a number of years, taking the time to get things just right. They are very patient people and will insist on quality and a full-bodied taste. The best part of this business would be the continual quality control and tasting. Finally, they may want to open the winery to the public and entertain, enjoy a glass of the finest with guests.

Ding dong! We have a winner. Who was it that said "winos" were the classiest of alcoholics?

Security Guard:Security is very important to Taurus and this job would probably appeal to them. It would be even more of a bonus if they were on the night shift at a quiet location. They would probably opt for the postings that had the least likelihood of ever being robbed or disturbed. It would be an excellent chance to relax, watch TV, wear a uniform, and be of service. They need to be careful not to let the power go to their heads.

Wh-security guard?! Are you joking? I'm beginning to think "the stars" don't know me at all, after all. I still sleep with a night light. I hear sounds and see shadows in the dark. And why on earth would I ever wear a uniform? Dress like everybody else? And defend OTHER people? That I probably hate anyways. I'd just have to get power-hungry. "No badge, no access." That could be fun.

Yeah, I'm the security guard cowering in the corner securing nothing. Slide the paycheck very carefully to me. Don't make any sudden movements. Don't scare the security guard!

Surveyor:This career is interesting to Taurus because they get to work for the government, but outside in the fresh air. The location could be anywhere from a city lot to a country road. Some of their time is spent driving to and from locations and marking points on the terrain. This job is technical but will allow them to work close to nature. Unless the work is done near the freeway or downtown, most of the time they will be away from major distractions. And, if they take a thermos and a lunchbox, they won’t miss their scheduled breaks.

Let's get this straight. I do not eat out of a lunchbox. If so, I'd have a holster for that thermos.

Pastry Chef:Taurus is very comfortable in the kitchen and this career would appeal to their penchant for quality, fine foods, and, of course, their sweet tooth. Only the best ingredients and the richest creams and butters will suffice. The best part of this job, for a Taurus, is sampling the wares. They will take great pride in turning out a delicious and artfully arranged product. They love working with their hands by rolling out dough and decorating the wares.

You better believe I'd be good at this job. Would I ever. First order of business is stealing Publix's buttercream frosting recipe and then I'd eat the "work." I can only thank god I can have a career as a plus-size model.

I'm liking this career arc.

Park Ranger:In many ways this career is well suited to Taurus. The work is largely outdoors in a park setting. They are in charge of taking care of nature and are concerned with the welfare of the people and animals in its realm. The beauty of this role is that it is a government job with good pay and benefits and is steady work. Taurus, of course, looks very fine in a uniform and they will strut their stuff for all to see. Smokey the Bear has only good things to say about Taurus.

Apparently I have this big thing for the outdoors. I'll have to look into that as my usual contact with the outdoors only consists of the sun and a drink with an umbrella, a pinot grigio, or cerveza in hand. Never sticks, kindling, soup in a can, tents, bug spray, or hiking boots.

Smokey the Bear is my friend.

Loan Officer:The next best thing to working outside is having a desk job and handling financial transactions. A career in the banking industry would make a Taurus rather pleased. There is longevity, room to grow, and the chance to process lots of beautiful money. They get to work with people, solve their financial concerns and then find ways that they can buy more and more stuff. Meanwhile, they benefit from a good job with long-term prospects.

Not bad except I'm not really good with money. Like at all. I spend all that I have. I would not be a good candidate for "handling" money and solving anybody's financial concerns.

Where's librarian on this list? I think it suits me well. I have an almost obsessive relationship with order (there is a logical place for everything), a curious desire to find the arcane (and for that my stubbornness or steadfastness comes in handy), and a love of repetitive tasks (in a mentally therapeutic sense).

So ole!

My Pen Pal

2006-05-03T12:29:00.000-04:00

I'm working on a few posts but seem to not be able to get them to work. I chalk it up to WAY too much things going on.

What's troubling me this week? In no particular order:

First, coordinating 3 points of the actual move. First, I have to schedule the movers. Second, I have to reserve a time slot in my current residence in order to use the freight elevator. Third, I have to reserve the freight elevators in my new home too. Now I thought this would be the easiest so I saved it for last. It is a smaller building and it is condo so I figured there would be less people moving in and out. Wrong. This is the sticking point. Someobody already has the elevator reserved for that day. And they won't let you move in after 5 so as not to disrupt the homeowners. Conversely, the apartment building I am in now could care less. I could move out at midnight if I wanted to. So this has my thoughts preoccupied this week as I work out the kinks.

On top of this, I have to call the vet to put the cat to sleep. This is hard. It's time and I'm not a very "motherly" type but it is still hard considering I have had the cat for 15 years and even then she was "older."

Finally, I still have not researched the horses for the Derby this weekend. I'm so behind on that. I'm pretty lucky on the horses. Funny. Unlucky with men. But lucky with the horses. Hmm.

So, in the meantime, I have a guest blogger post because this girl is so darn creative it kills me.

There is nothing like getting love letters from your 7-year old niece.

It started when I was visiting Easter weekend and she passed me this note during Easter brunch at her momma's, where she set the table and made the seating chart and strategically placed the potatoes next to me and the sausages next to her so we could be surrounded by the best of the b(r)unch. Everybody else had to settle for the eggs and the toast residing next to them. I did share the potatoes. (I know I have waxed on about how I believe in a potato-ful world.)

Bye Yaya, hope
you get home safely.
When you get
home please[scratched out] run &
get paper and a pen
along with a envelope [sic]
becuase [sic] I really[scratched out] want some mail.

Thus a pen pal was born. So I sent her a thank you letter as soon as I got home as she made me a very cute little kitty coin purse.

She followed up that with this letter:

Thank you for
the letter. I'm
glad you could
find a useful
thing to do
with your change
purse. I made a
song for you

I miss you, I want
to kiss you, why
Oh why can't
I kiss you
We are like
two twins & when
I see you
I will spinnnn!

Beautiful.

A Story About A Girl Who Is Growing

2006-04-25T16:36:00.000-04:00

Ch. 1 On Getting Old

I had a milestone birthday. In fact, I am so old I am surprised AARP isn't knocking on my door yet. Honestly, it does bother me. Mostly because of the way people behave about age. Like I have this friend who just turned 33 but still tells everyone that he is 32. He even lied on his Match profile so that his age reflects 32. I wonder what he thinks about me being two years older? However, perhaps something will transpire to make me accept my age more gracefully. [Hint: That is the author's lazy attempt at foreshadowing...might there be an important plot development to come?]

So I thought it best to avoid AARP if they came a'knockin' so I celebrated for five days straight. Y'all I clearly was on a bender. It started with me taking the Flirt out on Wednesday. Yes, you heard me correctly, I took HIM out. Let's not talk about that yet. If at all. Not really sure at this point if he is going to make this book. [Might this appear in Chapter 3? Oooh, the plot development is hair-raising.] Then I third-wheeled it on Thursday with Mav and Count Chocula while we took in some wine at the wine bar and the "other" band at the ballroom. Swing dancing indeed. But there were big fat folded ponytails bopping around in my face and girls that can't dance and lots of short people. Then Friday was the best happy hour in my honor where people kept buying me champagne, martinis, shots, and the ubiquitous beer. How did I get home even? Then Saturday - I really can't remember anything after the 5 shots I did in the early evening. Again, how did I get home?

Turning 21 is so fun! I get to go to bars!

Ch. 2 On Growing Up

Title sarcasm? No. From the looks of Chapter 1, one might assume that I am not growing up by any means. But you would be wrong. Because in the midst of my 5-day birthday bender I just made the biggest transition to adulthood ever.

I bought a sweet little condo. Home ownership. This kid is growing up. Instead I'll be the one telling the "kids" at the party, "I got a big day tomorrow going to Home Depot maybe looking at countertops. Maybe Bed Bath & Beyond to get some pillows. World Market for an elephant. And Target for some shabby chic."

So this next month is jam-packed with all kinds of activities not to mention all the money poured into the home purchase right now so I am officially broke. I thought I was living paycheck to paycheck before. I am literally paycheck to paycheck for the next month and I am going to have to turn down all kinds of social invitations because I can't afford to pay for myself, let alone all my dates that love mooching off me. [That is some genuine plot development.]

Ch. 3 On Giving It Up

Double entendre. I gave it up and now I am giving it (him) up.

I am giving up dating for now. Flirt - finis. Too much going on to let even one disappointing, flakey, boundary-setting guy in the picture. Because who needs that?

I don't have time to think about how much the Flirt hurt my feelings on my birthday. I can't even think about the conversation with Yukkell and all the ways I still care for him. I don't even want to email all the potentials who are emailing me because all I can only think about are my Tiffany blue couch and coordinating funky chair I designed that will arrive at my doorstep in 2 whole months because I had to be all picky and not be happy with what the store had on hand. I am thinking about my glass crystal and wrought iron chandelier I am going to hang over the dining area. (And also wondering what handyman I know who can hang it for me.) I am thinking about the new faucets and glass door knobs and little accessories for my sweet little pad that will be all mine.

So my character development - what I have learned at the end of the day - is that my own place to call home is going to give me so much more than the average cheap and immature DC guy will.

And the moral of the story? I found out that what I have been looking for - which has always been a soft place to land at the end of the day - isn't going to be found in a man right now. It' s in what I can give myself. A place to call my own.

A Wee Senstitive Little Girl

2006-04-13T02:25:00.000-04:00

I am uber-sensitive. Especially in my relationships. That is why I like a guy who takes the lead and takes me along for the ride. I can grab hold of coat tails with a mean grip. If you are nice, hot, and funny enough I will probably fall for you. What I can't be is the Head. I'm a Behind kind of girl. When I have to call even a few shots, I question whether he "is just that into me." It is a big deal - or rather, it takes a lot for me to ask a guy to "go with me..."

....like, to dinner.

Because when it happens - my showing some initiative and plunging into "I'm the girl with a plan" mode - and then he agrees. Well, then I get confident! I ask again! And he goes again! Then I take that "yes" ball and run with it tucked under my arm. I never expect the yes ball to deflate. To flat NO. It's then when I feel chubby, gross, and fugly. Because the minute he does turn one of my invitations down, I take it personally.

"He's just not that into me" is what it always boils down to in my book because why would he ever have something more important to do than see me? And what I am is just disappointed.

So in the interest of weepy Senstive Me, I will look into everything for the "he's not into you, ya dumb bitch" result that inevitably will come up. Recently, this is what has me stirring:

When we are having a conversation about architectural styles and I say I prefer older over contemporary and then give one of my dorky references: "I'm more Flintstone than Jetson, ya'know?" And he responds, "I know you are doll." I look into that.

When I ask him to go see a band he loves and has seen with me before but he turns me down because he has to clean his apartment because his mom is coming in town the next day? I look into that.

When he says he is going to look into housing for jazz fest for me and my friend at his own provocation and then never follows through with it. I look into that.

When he invites me over on Saturday night for dinner and a personal concert and I have to decline because I have a previous engagement but invite him to come along and he turns that down? I look into that.

When I text him because I am in his neighborhood - actually in his building - and he calls me four hours later because he was at happy hour in the neighborhood when I texted - yet didn't invite me over when he received the message? I look into that.

Sure he's there. He sends me "good morning" messages. He serenades me. He vents about his frustrations to me. He talks to me on a daily basis. He meets me for lunch. He has me help him shop for clothes. We go out one night a week. He waits until 8 on Friday night to see what I am doing (no, I don't answer unless I'm on a bad date). He makes me laugh.

Yet he never asks me out, takes me out, or winds me up for that matter.

And then it hit me: Duh, we are friends. Harry and Sally kind of friends. He is just not that into me LIKE THAT.

OK, I'll be sure to remember this next time he kisses me and pats my lovely behind.

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

2006-04-11T10:49:00.000-04:00

It's not enough that Johnny Jerkface essentially broke my heart with the coming on strong courtship morphing into the Disappearing Freak. A patented act of the average 12-year old. ("Done with the new girl, what else is out there? If I ignore her, maybe she will go away.")

It is also not enough that he had to put on the whole Making Out With Bimbo Show for my own personal viewing pleasure in a bar that one night he was supposed to be thinking about our relationship because he didn't want to lose me or something like that.

But NOW he has lurked on over into Mav's world. Because, HE HIT ON MY FRIEND by way of an online wink - a friend HE HAS MET BEFORE and not to mention I am actually IN ONE OF HER PICTURES. Am I that distant of a memory that he couldn't even recognize me?

I think it is that he is just that into himself that he probably looked at a few of her pictures saw "fun" thrown around her profile and thought, "This chick will love me."

Um, he would be wrong.

And so I wonder what he thought when she responded with, "Are you f-ing kidding me?!" Did he put two and two together or did he just get his ego slapped down a peg as in "do you really think I would ever go out with someone like you?" Either way, embarrassment or blatant rejection -well - he walked right into that one. Smug and cocky as he is.

Mars Needs Guitars

2006-04-07T14:54:00.000-04:00

What is sexy to me?

When a sweet boy calls me at 11 just to play/serenade a song for me that he just taught himself to play on guitar. It is all the more cool when that song has the word "dirtbag" running rampant. And he wanted me to hear it first.

I likey.

All guys should be armed with guitars.

The Princess And The Very Bad Date

2006-04-04T14:53:00.000-04:00

Apparently I have wee-bit princess tendencies because it may appear I am so demanding of my dates. Apparently. So since I have declared myself princess, these are things that will irk a princess off when you are courting her. All courtesy of some Friday night date with a Phil Collins impersonator. This princess is no "easy lover."

Do not ask the princess out on a date and then leave the actual planning of the date to the princess.

Our subject was off to a fine start when he asked the princess to attend a lovely Friday evening baseball game. This particular princess just so happens to be on the Nationals bandwagon and kind of likes the scruffiness of RFK - it is the dive bar of all baseball stadiums. It's vintage. It's very apple pie and not commercially-endorsed. Yet. So you are not asking your date to go to the Krispy Kreme Stadium. It's the 'hood. And it's named after a Kennedy.

And the subject rode that high horse of one good thought and thought his work done. Because he sends the princess an email late Friday morning asking her what the plan was for the evening. When he responded to the princess' deference to the male lead, he shrugged his shoulders. So the princess took the reins and galloped to her own tune. See, the princess has a very busy dance card as it is, so she met the fair-haired pregnant Princess Snow for a little afternoon siesta at a local watering hole. (The baby is already developed so stop your judging ways. And she didn't actually drink.) Then the princess agreed to meet the suitor afterward at a bar that she knew that the very popular Princess Mav was going to be on her own special courtship. It could be a match double date! (And this princess wasn't the one with the prince or the court jester.)

The suitor agreed to the princess' plans because he didn't have an original thought in his head anymore. He was all thought out. But he did insist on meeting at the metro so as to "find the bar together." Whatever. He needs his hands held. "Fine," the princess thought.

Then dark clouds starting stirring overhead....

Do not leave a princess waiting at the Eastern Market metro for 25 minutes.

A princess will stick out like a sore thumb. And she is not in her element. She will get hit on. She has had bad run-ins with sketchy crazy people in the past. But, most importantly, don't leave somebody waiting that long. Period. And if you do, it is totally redeemable - by way of apology. Simple. This princess is very forgiving. But I guess she was already annoyed with the suitor who takes the lazy approach to courting. Especially when....

If you are meeting a princess, dress the part.

Which simply means, do not wear the same exact thing you wore on your first date with the princess. Never wear sweat pants. Never wear all black. And, please, burn the Tevas. And, the hat with the bird on this particular Friday night, no. Princess says, no.

Do not let the princess open her wallet. Yet. Certainly not for the first round of drinks.

When drinks are ordered at the bar AKA the pre-party with Princess Mav and her suitor, Duke Red, step up, shift your cahones and treat the little lady to her miller lites. The proper thing to do is slapping your credit card down and opening up a tab. A running tab so the princess can quench her thirst without having to rummage through her purse for those dollar bills, y'all.

And the clouds are still forming, rumbling is heard in the background....

This just goes back to the planning of the date (recurring theme), but do not ask the princess how you are going to get to the stadium.

Again, shift those cahones, call on a calvary, brigade, Tonto - the princess does not want to worry her pretty little head with logistics. Thank god, we had Duke Red in our party. The man with the guts to declare, "We will cab!" But this peasant felt it would be economically-suitable to metro. Whatever. This princess only metros for work purposes. And so a cab was called....

Um, make sure the princess is safely in the cab (i.e., not one leg in, one on the street) before you are safely in and before the cab driver starts to take off.

It is just gentlemanly to not jump into the cab before the princess can gather her frock around her waist and saddle in all her layers of taffeta. Because you know what happens? The cab driver will take off and this princess will have to yelp a "what about me?" skinned-knee and all. Just see the princess in.

Do not try to be something you are not, which is generous and forth-coming with money.

When the cab driver took the little party on a tour of the seedier parts of DC where no man - let alone princess - should even go. We saw gangs. Guns. Word. Because the cab driver - get this - had never heard of RFK Stadium. Seriously? And so the 30 minute tour of what should have been a 10 minute cab ride took us over a bridge over a bridge over a bridge and over a bridge. Y'all it was the same bridge back and forth. But the three who had tongues made the most of it, blabbing and joking as princesses and Dukes do. But the lowly suitor in the front seat kept his trap shut the whole time never a peep until we got out of the cab and Duke Red passed his second edict of the night, "I will not give that idiot money!" And this princess is kind of bleeding heart and feels for the man making an honest living and, seemingly, honest directional mistakes. Or he was on crack. One can't be sure (especially a princess). But this princess voiced her concern and compassion for the man (even though she was fearful of her life while in his hands and lord knows her suitor didn't have the cahones to defend her.) But the suitor told her not to worry her pretty little head because he took care of it. See, it seems he slipped the guy a $10. Nobody witnessed that. One can't be sure but it's doubtful. (Given that later in the evening on the way back from the game, he didn't offer up any money for the cab driver. Duke Red had the cashroll. This princess was just tired of taking in and out of her wallet what with opening and shutting it and counting the ones and fives, etc. It was too much for a Friday night.) Yet, the suitor, I fear, was still trying to charm the increasingly-annoyed princess. (Who by the way, openingly displays "I'm annoyed" on her sleeve. Very bitchy-like, she is capable.) And so....

Do not guilt the princess out of eating and make her go home hungry.

Alright suitor is it that you are just a cheapskate? By complaining about not having enough money at the hot dog stand, the princess feigned satiety. She was embarrassed when she looked over at Princess Mav and Duke Red admiringly as they were ordering "the works!" so she opted out of buying her own hot dog because, frankly, she was saving her cash for beer at this point. She didn't know how much it was going to take to get through the remainder of the evening nor how much she was going to have to provide for the cheapskate. Her stomach did not thank her at all, yet, understood a little, and so kept its growling to a minimum. The princess even made up some story about motion sickness, cab ride, blah-di-blah, to mask the angry stomach and lack of sausage.

Now the black clouds are raining because isn't that what always happens when you have to pee, the water rushes in uncomfortably, therefore....

Try to subject the princess to as little lines as possible because her little princess bladder doesn't like that.

So while Princess Mav and Duke Red whisked their way into the stadium with ne'er a soul to brush up against because Duke Red is a season ticket holder and was already in possession of tickets, this little princess and her suitor had to wait in cattle call. (OK, the only thing I am giving him tonight, not entirely his fault. However, if we go back to the "planning the date" issue he could have planned for a Will Call line and suggested, hey, how about we get to the game before it starts - anticipating a crowd. So, yes, actually, his fault. Point made. And theme retained!)

Once inside the stadium, the lines never stopped coming because, remember, the no cash laments? Right. Well, the Unplanned Suitor needed an ATM just to keep the princess in diamonds, I am sure he thought. But the princess had no patience for the non-alcoholic boredom that had ensued since Princess Mav and Duke Red, AKA the only fun in the house that evening, had left. So the princess opened up her change purse to buy another round of the expensive ballpark drafts. Wait. Who's courting who?

And then on top of that, a gentlemen would have suggested the princess sit her little tush down comfortably in their seats (remember little miss muffett down on her tuffett, eating...not happening for this princess tonight) while he attended to his business of cash-wrangling. Instead he made her suffer yet another line.

Then when you FINALLY get settled in your seat about half way through the game at this point....

DO NOT spend the whole game texting your friends on the status of the game.

First of all, can we say, um, pre-season game? It doesn't matter!! Also, it is not an inter-league game, right? And it is just baseball! Isn't there like a game every day? And they pretty much all go the same. Somebody scores. Lots of time nobody scores. Boys run around. A ball sails through the air. Pitchers get booed. Basically, text me when the dugout is emptied and there is a rumble on the field. Otherwise, I'll read about it in the paper. This isn't the World Series.

But, most importantly, while on a date, it is rude!! Probably the rudest part of the evening and so the princess saw no problem in responding to one of her own texts at this point. A text from her beloved, Duke Flirt. So she spent an inning or so carrying on her own little text relations and she even firmed up a date for the next evening. And then, thank god, Princess Mav asked us low-lifes to rejoin the fun party. Dorks optional. Because this princess needed to kiss her tiara and dead weight goodbye and and have some fun at this point....

And so, most importantly, never ever ever talk smack about any of the princess' friends.

It is not appropriate to question the princess on her friends. Do not ask, "Geee. Is she always like this?" "Gee, Duke Red sure does talk a lot. Does he ever shut up?" "How long has she been drinking?" These are all along the lines of judge-wudgy was a bear / Phil Collins has no hair.

And so the princess takes to her little snapping turtle mode (and she can have a nasty snap) turns her back on the ill-fated suitor for good. And so, is it any wonder, at this point....

Just go home!

This princess is fine being a third wheel on the Mav and Red outing. But the suitor was still trying to make nice with the princess by trying to entice her with his tight-ass ways, dangling the (literal) carrot in front of the hungry princess.

Mav and Red: Let's go to a bar!
Phil Collins: Want to go to that mexican restaurant? We can eat queso and cheese quesadillas.
This princess: Not a selling point! I hate cheese! Want bar!

Yet the suitor followed and the princess was getting increasingly-disgusted by his company. And so in the piano bar with the albino Stevie Wonder as Princess Mav is twirling around the room, Duke Red is buying drinks, the Ugly Suitor turns down a beer (probably because he didn't want to reciprocate the buying and his frequent buyer card was probably pointing to "my turn") - this princess turns her back on the ugly suitor one last time. Because why even try to be sacharine sweet to a sourpuss at this point?

And so he did. And everybody in the party was like, "Thank god." He was like Debbie Downer. That bad.

Oh, it's not over because.....

After all this, it is really not necessary to send a "follow-up" email letting the princess down.

But if you feel the need because "I don't think we are the best match," is music to the ears of a princess who has suffered the misery of one Friday night in your company. A princess doesn't like breaking the hearts of the insufferable.

P.S. Please stop stalking the princess online.

It is not necessary to keep looking at the princess' profile everyday. It creeps her out.

Ex-Why-Zee Period

2006-03-31T14:39:00.000-05:00

Can this town get any smaller? It's official. I have dated anybody I am ever going to date here. Until the new boys move in town. Case in point. The two guys I am tossing around these days (translation: seeing) both just moved to DC in the last 4 months. And, yet, only one of them is southern. Although the other one has been in Austin for the past several years. I am giving him a pass. I like southern boys. Maybe that is what I am doing wrong. Maybe I need a good midwest boy. [Let's reel her back in because this post is getting very regionalist and she's not like that really --say the voices in my head]

And so when you have gone out with all the guys you are going to for now, you run into the old ones. I have no problem running into them per se. Unless I am in my yoga pants and no makeup and ratty ponytail in line at the CVS buying a pound of chocolate and In Touch magazine and batteries. Or, worse: UNLESS THEY ARE WITH A GIRL. Um, it's all about me, don't you know? They are supposed to be pining away for me. Certainly they shouldn't have lost 15 pounds. And they shouldn't be, like, president of their firm now. And not buying $1 million houses. And they shouldn't be mauling a tacky bottled-blonde. And they shouldn't come up in my online matches. And they MOST CERTAINLY shouldn't be getting married.

I have secretly wished them all to gain 50 pounds, lose their jobs, move in with mom and dad, and date their hand - or forever stay in the closet. Gay as some may be.

But apparently this isn't the case as I learned from recent brushes with death - er, the past.

Run-in #1: Let's start with this guy. Who was also this guy. And then ended up as this guy.

Brief history: Met in June '04. Dated casually for three months. He is extremely successful. Very metro-sexual. Climbs mountains. Very knowledgeable with indie music and 80's college radio. We could talk for hours trying to stump each other with "bet you never heard of [this band]." We stopped seeing each other because I-don't-know but it had something to do with me still being hung up on The Yukkell (see below). I couldn't let him go so I let the guy go. Fast forward to a year ago, April '05 when things were FINALLY over for good (as in 100% out-of-my-life) with The Yukkell, I called him back up. We met up and just never geled this time. I made the mistake of telling him about The Yukkell. Perhaps he didn't like being second best. So we fizzled a month later when he canceled on going to a wedding with me a week before it was to happen on account of a date with a tailor in NY. Or, more apt, a case of just-not-that-into-me.

Close encounter of the I'm-A-Loser-He's-The-Gloater Kind: Wednesday night show at 9:30. A venue we last saw Gang of Four play back in May. But Wednesday night, it was Stellastarr - a band I know he isn't a big fan of. "They're rip-offs," so says the critics. Whatever. And the Editors (great band! but don't they sound a lot like Interpol so I would argue all music is converging as it usually does - so-called-indie music is saturation overload and 80's derivative anyway, but I digress as usual) - so the Editors - a band I knew he would be into these days.

So, of course, there was a possibility he would be there. I went up to the spot that he taught me as being the best spot to stand - upstairs center stage. If he was there, I was prepared for him to be with a buddy or alone. I wasn't prepared that he would be with another girl. I mean, we all thought he was gay. And not just because he would be late to pick me up because he couldn't break from "What Not To Wear." And not because he flew to London to have his clothes made. And not because he loved to watch golf on tv only to see the "ensembles." And not because it took him 7 dates to kiss me. But here he was with a girl and they were very close. Touching. Intimate. They threw off the we've-been-in-bed-all-day-threw-on-clothes-because-oh-my-god-look-at-the-time-we-have-tickets-let's-not-make-the-bed vibe. It was the baseball caps and t-shirts that gave it away. What I saw: Him: happy. Me: alone. My posse wasn't yet there. Our eyes locked. I brushed past him alone. He held my stare and then I did my whole freaking out looking away and running away thing. Nothing to do anyway. I don't owe him a thing. Then I put my glasses on and stood over in the corner cowering behind some guy so he wouldn't see me. Alone. And who cares anyway? But I hope I looked hot.

Afterthought: I kind of missed him. Something about him. I was really sad over the night and all day until something (to come below) snapped me out of it. But he looked really good. He clearly lost 15 pounds and he was dressed so casual. No tailor made that windbreaker for him. And sneakers! He looked relaxed. Something I never got to see. And he was with a girl wearing a baseball cap and t-shirt. It was so not the guy I knew. With me, he was always over-the-top with his pocket squares, drinking his Makers. Did he put on airs with me then? He's the one living in a million dollar house.

Postscript: Several months ago - about the time I started seeing Peter Pan - I was having drinks in "his bar." I asked the bartender about him with just this, "Has Carson been in here lately?" And the bartender immediately recognized me and said, "Oh, you're the girl - the wedding - wait - I can't say any more. He just gave me a bunch of Hugo Boss suits." So he stopped talking. I always wonder what that was about.

Run-in #2: The infamous Yukkell (the guy who drove me to blogging)

Brief history: God, where do you start with this one? All I can say is we were best friends, moreso than boyfriend/girlfriend, for 5+ years. We were in each other's life practically every day over that period. We shared a lot. Our intimacy was mostly on an emotional level. We both went through a lot together. When my dad died, he was there. When his mom died a year later, he turned to me. When he lost his job, he took it out on me. He was emasculated and so that is when the emotional abuse started, or was it alwasy there? (water under a bridge now) He confided a lot of pain in his life and only I know some of the depths he has sunk to, things he has endured. I understood him better than people could understand why I stayed with him. Sure, I probably gave more than he gave.

OK? So how did it end? Well, his ex-girlfriend (college girlfriend) called him after 10 years for "legal advice." See, her husband just died and left her with four little girls and she needed "help." She pulled out all the stops (without getting into specifics because it really is none of my business and obviously very personal business). He never treated her very nice in their relationship so his guilt got the better of him. I think he wanted to be needed afterall. His friends, family - everyone - told him he was making a huge mistake in helping her. YET, I was the one person who supported him and told him to explore their relationship again. I "let" him go.

So, this is why I don't understand this coming from him...

Run-in of the Not-Exactly-A-Run-In Kind: Because, um, he runs from me. Literally. A month or so ago I was at a bar (go figure) one Saturday afternoon. A couple hours later he and his whole posse of friends entered bar. The majority of the guys came over to sit at my table to chat. He went to their "regular" table with others in his crowd and then when he saw me on the other end of the bar he hightailed it out of there. Seriously. And the past few weekends he has avoided our mutual friends gatherings to watch the LSU games. His beloved home state. He has told his friends he doesn't want to see me.

Afterthought: Why is he avoiding me? The last time I saw him was a little over a year ago and I look fondly on that weekend. It was very intimate (not sexually in the least or at all). He was trying to get me to beg him to choose me. Conversation was interesting. Between us. I miss him solely as a friend. And that is it. For my own reasons, I will always have this huge part in my heart for him. Yet, he avoids me. I see only a couple reasons why: 1) he thinks I am going to cry cry sob and beg for him back (as he is moving to houston in a few weeks and marrying the girl and being daddy) - in which case he would be so wrong - I've got enough men in my life these days - and I will ALWAYS wish him the best; 2) he doesn't want to see me as the girl who has moved on because as long as he has known me I have been faithful supporter to him putting him on a pedestal and maybe he wants his last memory of me to be a sweet one - like our last weekend; or 3) he can't control himself around me (he never could) he was just as fixated on me as I was with him. But really, I know him, he makes a decision and never looks back.

I really mourned him like a death. I will never see him again...

Run-in #3: Peter Pan who is now the Johnny Jerkface.

Brief history: Is that necessary really? Because aren't you sick of it? I am, but the progression went something like this. And this. And this. And this. And this. And this. And then sputtered here. To here. Crashing here.

Run-in of the Trolling Kind: He is online now! I am waiting for him to show up in my matches like he did before. So I guess things didn't work out with the bimbo I saw him hanging on when we were on a "break." But I stumbled across his little profile on a fluke. I have been periodially typing his username in not really expecting to see it because I thought that perhaps his disappearing act was attributable to another girl. But when I typed it in the other day his ugly mug popped up on my screen and my reaction was a yelp, I slammed my laptop shut and jumped out of my seat. Knee-jerk reaction, I know. Over-reaction, I know. I mean, he can't really see me, right? Wrong. I probably just showed up in his "who's viewed you" log. Lovely.

And yet,

Afterthought: Smug retribution because he is back to square one too and apparently still in the closet.

Kids, Stay Out Of The Sun Or You Just Might Get An X-Rated Post

2006-03-30T13:25:00.000-05:00

I grew up in Florida never using sunscreen and living very near a beach. So I have spent a lot of time in the sun. Sure, my mom slathered sunscreen on me when I was younger but as I got older it was probably my responsility to attend to my own sun blockage and, well, that went by the way-side. In fact, I would use the tan accelerator. Caribe made a good one or a bottle of canola oil would work just as well.

I'm not proud to admit that I still use very little (translation: none) sunscreen. Last summer at the beachhouse? Never used sunscreen. And I do know better. I read Natural Health and Self and they are telling me, "Sun badddd!" I know it. The wrinkles and the cancer risk. I know it. Yet it just goes with my live-for-the-moment thinking that disallows me to look anywhere in my future for an impact of what today may have on it. Therefore, sun tanning only equals olive complexion. That is as far as I can see it. For the most part. Because it does weigh on me slightly. So I do my part and get my moles checked every couple years and that hard lump 0n my arm too. I am told all my moles and freckles are no concern right now so that is good news but I always have the most interesting visits to the dermatologist.

My first visit a couple years ago - I ended up being a medical case study. A class project. Folks, I was a lab rat.

It started with the usual walk back to a little room with the nurse informing me of protocol. "Put the robe on, opening in the back. Strip down to your underwear."

Then a young female doctor in a white coat entered the room followed by two very young-looking gentlemen sans coats with clipboards. Female Doctor let me in on the jig, "Would you mind if these Georgetown medical students observe?" And what do you say to that? At that point another doctor - the older, wiser, gray-haired one who was actually doing the mole check entered the room.

And he got down to business.

"Drop your gown."

So there I am in just my girly britches (thong, of course) with four people looking on. Yes, those interns had clipboards and were intently following the doctor along on his probe of my body. Because there is the Gray-Haired Doctor on all fours (literally!) starting at the bottom, circling me on all fours working up my legs with a blue pen circling suspect and/or of-student-interest marks. He continues to work his way up my body, pausing to inform the students of the varying sun marks. He's teaching a class, y'all and I'm the blackboard apparently. And for that dark black one right smack in between my boobs? The Old Doctor asked the interns to take a "closer look."

There I am in all my nakedness girly britches, pocked with blue circles, and eight eyeballs scanning my body. And all I can think about are my own self-image issues. Are they seeing what I am seeing?

It was horrifying. For that reason, I will never agree to interns sitting in on any kind of doctor appointment in the future.

Today's visit was not as horrifying but had its own brand of awkwardness.

First of all, the doctor looked like he had a bad sunburn and some red splotches on his face. I thought, "This is my dermatologist?" And then I thought that was good because I knew he was not going to chastise me about all my freckled sun damage. And he didn't.

Oddly, he wore this miner helmet with a headlight to scan my body. ["Are you looking for the mother lode?" --Pixies] And he had me lay down. He started at the top, ruffling through my hair and as he worked his way down my body he tore away my gown, shining th eheadlight as he went. Ripping a little here and there. So there is that and then there is the conversation to go with that. He chooses to talk about "what I do." He is very curious about librarians and librarians in law firms and are they using books anymore, etc. So while I am justifying my career I also feel I need to justify suspicious moles (i.e., my reason for being here).

So while I am trying to be cordial and talk "shop" I am really pointing out all the moles I wonder about and subsequently bringing his attention back to me and my naked body with a light scanning it. On second thought, let's talk about libraries, Doc! In the end, he thought everything on me was peachy. There were no blue circles this time.

So, if nothing is suspect, I began to question why I go to the dermatologist. Why I continually put myself through these horrifying experiences. Why I choose not to use sunscreen. Is it really worth it? Because I am practically getting felt up by my dermatologist.

Against All Odds

2006-03-24T12:29:00.000-05:00

Tuesday night I met up with Jon Jon and all I could think about during the whole date was, "How did I end up on a date with my uncle?"

Wednesday night I met up with M and all I could think about during the whole date was, "How did I end up on a date with (a younger) Phil Collins?

Thursday night I met up with The Flirt (and Mav) and all I could think about during the whole date was, "How did I end up on a date with Jack Tripper? Three is company."

I am starting to feel that tug towards The Flirt but it is not strong enough to make me all doe-eyed schmoopie. I've got the big girl goggles on. We have a lot of fun together, moreso than any guy I have probably ever dated. And the more time I spend with him, the sexier I find him. Peter Pan and I had some fun but with him it was Grand Gesture Dating. Formal. Staid. I was courted. But to be perfectly honest, I like the ease and banter I have with The Flirt. It's No Pressure Dating. No games. I can text him at any point just to say "hi." And he will do the same. But the deeper I fall, the more I might miss romance. So perhaps he is not what I am looking for? But he does his own Pixies concerts for me and I get to do Kim's vocals. That is fun.

On Wednesday night, I was proposed to by M within 45 minutes of the date. I think it went something like this, "Your beautiful. You have the sexy librarian thing. You drink High Life. You have impeccable music taste. Now if you tell me you like sports I will have to ask you to marry me."

"Well get down on bended knee, darlin, because I do like sports. I called LSU over Duke. Who said it couldn't be done?"

And so he proposed and all I could think was, "Phil Collins just asked me to marry him."

That night, The Flirt texted me to tell me goodnight.

Tables Turned

2006-03-20T12:28:00.000-05:00

Guy and girl hang out.
Guy cooks girl dinner.
Guy burns her many CDs of music she will like.
Guy serenades.
Guy emails thoughtful links throughout the day.
Guy drives her all around.
Guy always comes her way.
Guy would like to see her more.

Girl is kind of indifferent to guy.
Girl thinks guy is funny.
Girl has fun with guy.
Girl doesn't think she is attracted to him.
Girl thinks she only likes him as friends.
Girl and guy continue to hang out.

Then something happens.
Girl sees guy in a new light.
Or is it the effects of March Madness and alcohol?
Girl might see something in guy.
Girl finally asks guy to stay the night with her.
Guy turns her down.
"Not like this."

Now girl might like guy "like that."

I've Always Liked The Piano

2006-03-17T13:21:00.000-05:00

I haven't been talking about my dates as of late. Trying to be church mouse about it. It has been steady. There have been some dates - none, horrific, and none, rocking my socks off. I have said it before - it is my lackadaisical approach. It is not a choice. It can't be helped.

But I will venture out now - because I got a big mouth? - no, just because one "date" is party to the following story.

Remember the guy I call The Flirt? Well it is interesting. He is actually more shy than his emailing and texting forwardness would have me believe. He calls me, emails me, or texts me everyday. Yet, I am just not that into him. I see him more as a friend. A friend that I kiss so I am possibly sending him mixed messages. Or maybe he will grow on me? Nonetheless I have gone out with him a few times. Most recently, Wednesday night.

The night is best summed up as follows:

Bon Jovi As Lounge Act

The Flirt emailed me late afternoon Wednesday to see if I would like to get together. Now, I'm not big on going out during the week, especially when I had been out Monday night and had plans for a late night on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. But because of recent stress I wanted to get out. And male attention is not a bad thing.

I agreed to a drink. Two martinis later I agreed to dinner. So off we went to a little Vietnamese restaurant. Saki was sipped. And then I found myself agreeing to having a beer. So off we went to the little piano bar across the street.

At the piano bar, there is a.....Piano Man! A guy with a piano with a schtick because Piano Man was doing his best gruff Tom Waits voice. Some may find that annoying but I kind of like a guy who doesn't actually "sing." Like The Flirt was doing (and does on most of our dates). I always get these "creative types" who hold professional jobs by day so they let out the creative spirit tenfold. For some reason, I hate guys singing from front to end, i.e., the whole song! That's fine - sing along softly, sing the chorus, sing a line in my ear. Just don't do your own performance. We've got Piano Man for that! I think The Flirt was doing his own little lounge act.

Before you ask, yes, Piano Man did play....Piano Man. Cliché police arrest that man - or me. At this point The Flirt leans into me and says something about singing this song related to something about when he played his guitar for me last week. (I was serenaded! Still, only a teensy bit of me minded the singing. Because it was accompanied by the guitar afterall. It was no a capella car-singing gig. And there is little sexier than a guy with a guitar.) Anyway, because I can't hear EVER, much less in a crowded bar I said, “Oh, is this a song you played for me?” Because there were many songs he serenaded me with. He took requests. See? It was a gig.

“No, silly, this is a piano song.”

“Big deal. That might be kind of cool to play on the guitar. Irony? Tori Amos did it with Nirvana songs. Therefore, I think you should learn it.”

I don't think he thought it possible. But I know there is a whole world of possibilities with which to reconstruct music. Take it outside its normal boundaries. I know, because I witnessed the following that night. I quite possibly saw it coming because he had just played The Band - on piano. This guy was on a roll with re-contextualizing songs. Into lounge form.

Piano Man informed the drunk sing-alongers that he was going to leave for a 10 minute break. But before he broke, he gave the crowd a teaser, “When I come back I will play something from New Jersey!”

Just like that. So the guessing began. The Flirt says that is has to be Bruce. I pipe in with the “but what about bon jovi” idea. The Flirt considered this but thought that Bruce was the more appropriate artist. His music being more translateable to a piano.

After the 10 minute break, Piano Man takes his position as Wednesday Night Lounge Act in Georgetown. Singing for dollars and pleasing crowds. Fame and glory or dashed dreams. Anyway, he started that little diddy "...from Jersey."

My friends, it was, in fact, “Living on a Prayer.” The piano version. As only a lounge act with a schtick knows how to play.

Of course, this was sung out loud. By the whole bar.

Lah-dah-diddy-dah