A Princess Can Not Peel Oranges

He likes to cook for me. I like that he likes to cook for me. I think I am a terrible cook. (Except scones! I bake yummy scones!)

"What do you want for breakfast?"

"What are our options this morning?"

"There might be ingredients to make waffles. Eggs. Potatoes?"

"Potatoes! Yes, like hashbrowns or breakfast potatoes." My eyes were now glazing over with spuds dancing their little potato dance. Potatoes!

"Your favorite."

It's true. I love potatoes. Cooked any which way but loose and the french fry being my least favorite kind of potato and I love a french fry - so, you see, I have never met a potato I didn't like. Unless it has sour cream sitting on it. Then that just ruins it for me. The Love Affair will be OVER. Desert island food? Potatoes. Desert island drink? Champagne. Desert island dessert? Gummy bears. Desert island man? James Dean. He is alive during the time I am on the desert island. You didn't say when I was going to be on this desert island or that there is any time continuum so Alive James Dean will accompany me in this fantasy. So I am going to eat fried potatoes, drink champagne, pop gummy bears, and kiss James Dean until somebody gets me off this desert island. No rush.

So he shreds the potatoes. Shreds. With a little shredder tool that I know I have but never use. I think to myself, can we not afford the extra two bucks to buy the potatoes already shredded? (Perhaps that is 2 dollars towards a shiney Christmas present that I don't REALLY want (of course) so I should let it go.) But he likes to grate his own cheese too. Which, um, the store already does it for you too! Oh really, Grocery Store, you shouldn't have! His argument - and my sister's - and my father's - is that it is "fresher this way." How much fresher can it be? I certainly can't tell the difference. But Kitchen People, AKA People Who Can Cook, know better so I should just sit still and beam, "He is shredding a fucking potato for me! Be happy girl." So while he is frying those up he is preparing the eggs, cracking them one by one in the bowl. And whisking and whisking and whisking. And? (Whisking.) When I make eggs for myself I just crack them in the pan and run a wooden spoon through them? Is that OK?

So I am sitting there useless. I offer to help many times, but he saw me try to shred the cheese one time and he heard about my whisking and I chipped one of his very expensive plates (don't ask) and I made the most disgusting fajitas you would every encounter so, The Thinking Guy, he tells me to sit there and relax. He'll do "all the work."

I know what you are thinking. Or I don't. But Version Smart Me point 0 is thinking, "Great! I am princess. This is my castle. You are my servant. Shred my potatoes, pluck the egg from the chicken coop and prepare me a feast, young lad. I will repay you in butterfly kisses in my princess chambers. Then you will go back to your servant duties. I'll ring when I need you again." But Smart Me is nowhere to be found. In fact, I'm not sure she entirely exists. Instead there is just Little Ol' Me Who Will Always Find Trouble point 00002 and a half. I flip through the owner’s manual for the vintage car that he keeps laying around the kitchen. Feeling helpless. Until he asks me if I want a smoothie too.

Holy fruity concoction jackpot! Visions of oranges and bananas dance in my head. Or a carton of orange juice. But, this is My Guy, who shreds, peels, and cores for his meal. And so I grab the orange. To help.

Except. The no cooking thing? Kind of correlates to All Things Kitchen. (Except scones! I bake yummy scones!) Peeling oranges doesn't always come easy to a kid like me. And the Peeling Orange gene most definetely left the building this morning. I should have just said from my perch on high, very princess-like, "That is ok, I do not feel like doing anything for the breakfast preparation. I would like my servant to peel this orange."

So I proceed to peel. Because who can't peel an orange, right? I think princesses do not. And that may or may not be Me. But I forget. So how does the peeling go? Well, you know how sometimes the peel comes off in nice big pieces and there is very little white left on the orange? It is the Perfect Orange Peel Job. Medals should be handed out when this kind of perfection happens. Well this wasn’t happening this morning as is usually the case with me and the kitchen and me. It was coming off in these tiny little pieces and what I ended up with were ends that were deeply embedded in that pesky orange. So in my hand was this mostly white round semblance of an orange with Jammed Ends. Princess be damned! I was going to be helpful at this here breakfast. So as I was mumbling about the Jammed Ends in my orange all crybaby (not really!) I thought of a brilliant idea. [Not so brilliant. --My Guy] I proceeded to open up the orange from the center. You know, just pick a random spot right in the center of the orange slices and pry that baby open. Orange juice was squirting everywhere. But not my eye! I was a Determined Orange Peeler that was not going to let the Jammed Ends get me down.

And so my Knight in Shining Armour comes over to save the damsel in distress, She of No Kitchen Skills, from the Land of I'll Just Bring Home the Bacon, But I Won't Fry It Up In the Pan. (Except scones! I bake yummy scones!) And this knight, with the best of intentions - I'm sure because he is nice, nice, nice - whisks the orange from my juicy, sticky, once-princess hands and says, “Wait. Is that how you open an orange?”

OK. I was prepared to have him muscle his way at that thing. To save a princess. A little he-man tug of those Damned Jammed Ends. But this kind of insulted me at this point. I may not be Chef Originale Moi. But intelligence insulted just a little here.

So I snap back in a very Lara The Brat kind of way (that mostly only my family knows), "Um. Excuse me? There is no right or wrong way to OPEN AN ORANGE! I was doing the best I could. Normally the ends come right out for me. But you buy all this food that you have to kill the goat and skin a hide for. I live in the 21st century where grocery stores do that for me!"

Well, I didn't really say all that exactly. But I did snap at him because I DO believe that there is no right or wrong way to peel a damn orange! Am I wrong on this? But I guess the whole point IS: To retain the juices because that is what will make a good smoothie. Again, I would just add more orange juice. But orange juice is different from orange juice. Apparently. One is fresher.

So I will not try to find something to do in the kitchen anymore. I wll sit on my perch, princess that I am, ordering My Guy as he muscles his way through the kitchen for me. You know, if that makes him happy.

But I have one question. Given that I can't peel an orange, should I not attempt to make Beef Bourgignone for Christmas Eve supper*? I can just follow directions, right? They don't look hard.

*I NEVER say supper but when I re-read my post I saw that I did in fact say "supper" so I left it in anyway because what does that mean? I was raised dinner-style.

Battle Of The Sexes

I love games. Board games. Card games. Trivia games. Drinking games. A combination thereof. You name it. But it is not the competitiveness aspect of games that I like. I could care less about winning. If the game is not neck and neck, I will probably give hints to help you along and I expect you to do the same. Admittedly, I sometimes suffer from Alex Trebekitis - Gatekeeper of Answers, All-Knowing Answer Card Holder. Like Epstein in Welcome Back Kotter - "Ew! Ew! Ew! Me! Me! I know this! I know this! Mr. Kott-ah! Mr. Kott-ah!" And so when you have the answer card it is power - you feel like you just might know everything in the world. See? We gave Alex Trebek too much power and he grew right out of those britches. Therefore, I hate when the Answer Keeper says, "Oh come on, you know this." And you don't so you feel like The Idiot because you don't know who was buried in Grant's tomb. I'm not Alex Trebek - I can't know everything! Help a player along.

So no, it is not about winning. Instead, what I really like about games is the social aspect. I like the friendly flexing of the mind - or liver. It's for the advancement of my intellect or tolerance - for better or for worse. Apparently. And, well, whenever I get together with my sister and brother-in-law – then the games and the drinking always transpire. Most recently, Thanksgiving. My sister doesn’t remember making the dinner. I don’t remember eating it. But I'm sure there was dinner. It was probably turkey. Just a hunch.

And so this past Saturday when My Guy asked me what I wanted to do I knew I had to let him into my life more. There was some talk about this. He is slowly dismantling that wall I put up to keep out Ghosts of Past Mistakes. My Knight. So I declared that we were having "game night." Ooooh fun!

So, kids, here is my recipe for a rip, roaring Game Night:

1. Start with a dinner of Negro Modelos and tacos that you prepare together. Most definitely do not make fajitas with some kit you buy from the Giant. Just so you know, the "chipotle" sauce tastes like lighter fluid sauce. Stick with the tacos and all will be well.

2. One roaring fire that your guy has to kindle because you are AFRAID of the fire. [People, I can not express the fear of fire enough! --Phobia Compartment in my Mind]. For a special twist, ask your guy to take off his shirt while he does this. Guys, if your girl does not have the fear of the fire, then ask her to kindle! Don't be surprised if he thinks you are joking. But don't get distracted anyway because you have a Game Night to partake in. The excitement builds...

3. One bottle of Knob Creek - or, as we determined, 3/4 will probably be enough. Feel free to substitute a liquor of your choice. Bottles of wine and/or cases of beer have been known to work in the past. But for this special Game Night we decided to class it up with the bourbon.

4. The XM "eclectic Christmas music" channel where you get to hear jems like Little Drummer Kid, about the kid with the drum that he "rum-pa-pum-pums" on all the live long day, driving his parent's crazy, and joining up with another kid with a guitar to form a garage band, or, my favorite, The 12 Drinks of Christmas which by the time the "singer" gets to the "twelfth drink" he can't remember the others. Sing along the rest of the night and into the morning. "Four black-what are those people?" "Russians." "And five Roy Robs?" all the way down to the "tree with the....bird" finale.

5. And the main incredient is a board game of your choosing. We happened to pick out a lovely one at the Target that day by the name of.....Battle of the Sexes. And, hell, invite Alex Trebek.

Have you seen this game? Better - have you played it? Gloria Steinem is disappointed. Rush Limbaugh wants to play. And John Gray is selling more books. "Mars and Venus Go Shopping!" "Mars and Venus Pick Out Paint Colors!" "Mars and Venus in the Kitchen!" Essentially, as one could surmise, the males have to answer the female cards which consist of “girly” questions that presumably only girls can answer. These fall into the general categories of sewing, cooking, and weddings. Because all girls want to fix a man, hence sewing buttons on their shirt, all girls like to cook for their man, and all girls just want to get married. And the male cards have questions for the women in the general categories of sports, fishing, and motorcycles. Because only men howl at the moon, sweat, wrestle, and get tattoos.

We had a friendly battle of sugar and spice vs. frogs, snails and puppy dog tails. Get your boxing gloves and aprons on! Because we are going to rumble and bake. Hot.

Actually the questions weren't so bad because really are we that divisive? My guy can sew a button himself, is better in the kitchen than me, and seems to have more interest in marriage than me. And I know what ball goes to what sport, can throw a football, and drink a beer. But the component of the game that one could find offensive - or amusing if you don't take it seriously - are the wild cards that you can not avoid. The wild cards will have things like, "You wash the car in your bikini, move forward 2 spaces." or "You used the wooden chair he made you into firewood, lose a turn." or for him: "You ask her to get you a beer during The Game, go back to start." or "You buy her diamonds, you win!"

Keep drinking the bourbon.

And this is kind of how the game went. Battle of the sexes? We did some total probing of Mars and Venus alright.

Me: What is the main ingredient in tequila?
Him: It's not the worm?
Me: It's liquor, honey, you know this answer.
Alex Trebek: All Knowing Card Holder? That is my job! Let me see it!
Him: Just because I drink it, doesn't mean that I know all the ingredients. And I don't really like tequilla.
Me: What!? No tequila? That is crazy. I hate when people say they don't like the tequila because of one bad experience with cheap tequila in college. We are in our 30s - buy the good stuff. Start again! Besides, my specialty is margaritas. I make the best margaritas! Now you won't drink my margaritas?
Him: Well, I wouldn't know that because you have never made them for me....
Me: Right. I'll get on that. But the game! I'm going to help you out here. Why don't you go pull the bottle and check it out. I'll let you look over the ingredient list.
Him: (running to the liquor cabinet, reading the ingredients which by the way, did not indicate the answer)
For those playing at home, the answer is....Agave. Who besides Alex Trebek knew?

Him: Oh! You know this one!
Alex Trebek: So do I! I know all the answers!
Him: What is the [something] that does [something] on a motorcycle called?
John Gray: Venus' eyes will glaze over when the parts of a car or motorcycle are uttered by a Martian. She will not remember the words she heard the next day.
Me: Hmm...Can I go out to the garage to look?
Him: What? At the ingredient list?
Me: There might be some clue. I'm sure if I just look around the bike.
Him: Honey, it's not a picturebook.

Him: What does trinitrotoluene stand for?
Me: Not a science question!
Him: Give up?
Me: Can I phone a friend?
Him: Who would you phone?
Me: You. You are the science guy.
Him: Give up?
Me: Yes.
Him: TNT
Him: I still can't believe you are afraid of fires. If you only knew the things I did building my airplane engines.
Me: Right. Don't tell me. And don't EVER show me.
Him: So you never even played with, say, sparklers as a kid?
Me: NO! I hated those too. All that fire sparkling all over your hand. Ow. And besides they can start fires you know. They are not as innocent as people presume. When my grandfather was a little boy he threw the sparkler up on the roof of the house and the roof caught fire.
Him: Well, you don't throw them.
Me: He was a kid. He was a little boy. Boys experiment. He was probably told that sparkler "can't hurt you." Therefore, my kids will NOT be allowed to play with them.
Him: Well, if this is OUR children, then yes they will. I'll teach them proper safety.
Me: Well...thennn...why don't you just let them ride the Harley to the fireworks store then?

Him: Oh you probably won't know this.
Him: What sport has facemasking as a penalty?
Me: Are you kidding?
Me: I won't know this?
Me: Are you kidding?
Me: You know I know sports don't you?
Him: Well, no, you have never shown that side of you to me.
Me: Honey, this game is teaching you so much about me.
Him: Or you have just been closed off to me and are now starting to open up.
Me: You are crushing me.
Alex Trebek: American football!
Alex Trebek: What? I thought you were giving up. I know the answer. I know all the answers. (fading out)

With that, I picked the card that would crush me. I forgot to buy beer at the store and the guys were coming over to watch the Big Game. Apparently a huge faux pas in the Battle of the Sexes. Because, girls, just so you know, the boys like to drink the beer.

The Little Woman is in the kitchen mixing up a batch of margaritas he tells me he wants to taste. Sigh. A woman's work is never done.

People To Hate: Metro Riders

This installment of People I Hate is brought to you by the HOV lane - the only time three is never a crowd - and inspired by Michael Stipe who reminds us that "...the train conducter says take a break. Driver 8 take a break..."

Today I am pointing my Hate Stick at.....Metro Riders. For the love of God, you Crazy People!

It is true. Just by virtue of being on the same over-crowded rush hour train, I am not going to like you for that short ride on the rails. It's nothing personal (I might like you again when we get off). But we are in competition for prime real estate. I mean, you can be the difference if I have a seat, if I have a pole to hold on to, or if I will be swinging from the overhead bar like a monkey. And we all want to be the first one off, the first one up the escalater, the first one at the turnstile. I will think you are the devil if you run off before me and stand on the escalater. Everybody knows the escalaters are for People Moving. Fast people moving.

Some of you are probably nice people. In fact, we may enjoy a beer together. Or a walk in the park. We could even exchange friendship bracelets. But just by being there - breathing my same air, riding the metro at the same time as me - well, you kind of suck at the moment. Unless you follow the rules and do not become any of the following Hated Riders.

There are the obvious Hated Riders who do not step off the train to let people off or the ones on the platform who barge the train before people can get off. There are the tourists who mostly have no clue - which I usually cut them some slack. But they should be banned from riding the hours of Rush Hour.

Then there are these characters:

You have your Mad Hatters. They only come out of the Rude Coccoon during the Rush Hour and when the trains are running on an abbreviated schedule, hence less trains equal more people. And I hate All Those People in All One Place. And apparently everyone else does too because it brings out the Mean. The Mad Hatters are the people who must be late for a very important date. They cram onto an already jammed train. And then choose to order the people that are already crammed in on where to stand. When they do this, this is what I hear, "There is room under the seats, people. Kindly crouch yourself down into a fetal position and stuff yourselves. Look you can fit two people under that one seat. That is how it works, people!" They are not happy unless you are pressed together - "skin on skin! hut, hut!" Like they read "Metro Rules of Order" - they know how to organize The People. Hey, I understand the hurry. I'm probably in one too. Nobody likes waiting more than 5 minutes for a train. But sometimes you need to. Deep breathing techniques help me.

Now I realize that there are the people that these Mad Hatters are yelling at that probably do deserve it. No, they DO deserve it. They are the other annoyance in an already Too Crammed train. They are the Spacesavers. These are the people who do not utilize the space efficiently and do leave empty space. Can't they see that it is a packed platform? Let the people on. Move in. Move around. Share. These people either have no clue or the world revolves around them. It can go either way with the Spacesavers. Oh, but if you are saving space for your "imaginary friend" well, then, me and the fellow travelers will give you that space. In that case.

Both of these breeds annoy each other the most and frankly, they both annoy me. Spacesaver wants to be by the door and Mad Hatter just wants to be on the train. But one time I got accused of being a Spacesaver. Me! A Mad Hatter got on board. Wait, no, he didn't "get on board." He pushed, squeezed, and shimmied his way onto that train and then chose to lecture me on where to stand because what he saw was a bunch of empty air between me and the million other people surrounding me. You know, we did not have skin-on-skin contact. But what Mad Hatter didn't see....was the seeing eye dog laying on the floor below my feet. It's like I was playing a game of Twister, contorting my body to fit the available space which was not in direct relation to the foot space - my right arm was on the silver pole behind me, left foot at dog's behind in front of me, right foot three feet to the left, left arm - well, I wasn't sure where my left arm was at that moment. It may have been on the that blue circle in the very corner under Joe's knee. I don't know. Needless to say, everybody in the vicinity put Mad Hatter in his place. "Atleast the girl is Twister-proficient!" and "Dogs are people too!"

But my least favorite Metro Commuters are the Sack Of Potatoes. There's one on every car. The train stops at a station. People get off. People get on. Sack of Potatoes sit contently in their seats and watch all the poor commuter peasants cramming into the train fighting for valuable pole space or that one seat that is vacant. That is their right. First come, first serve. Except! They wait until the train takes off and just as it does, they get up. First, don't they know that once the train moves - the people standing have to maintain their plant? When the train is in motion - it is crucial. Oh, I have tested this. AND, if you knew you were getting off at the next stop and you NEED to get in your Ready Set position, then get up when the train is in a station turning over more Hated Riders. It's win-win for everybody that way, Sack of Potatoes. I will not move for these people. Not even to get the seat which is second - at this point - to winning The Annoying Award.

Then, it is no wonder that Sack of Potatoes are also sometimes part of another group of Hated Rider. The Pushpins. These are the people who make their way to the doors while the train is moving all the while saying "excuse me, excuse me" all the way. Gunning for the doors. People, where are we going to move? I am already hanging from this pole like a chimpanzee, if I jump down now then I will lose my balance and fall. Besides I may be getting off too. In which case, you will get off behind me. It is the logical flow of the train - the people in front get off first to make it easier for the people in the back to follow suit. When they come near with their "excuse mes" I just put my fingers in my ear and "la-la-la-I-can't-hear-you!"

Finally, there is a group of people I like to call the Pole Dancers. Sounds....entertaining? Hardly. Pole Dancers are the people who lean against the pole with all their body like it is their business. Five people could hold onto that pole and not each other unless a Pole Dancer hugs it. Why don't you rub up and down it? Because I didn't get The Show. Or Pole Dancers can be the people who share the pole but whose hand keeps slipping....onto yours. Is it not obvious? Grab the pole and keep your grip people. It doesn't take much concentration. But usually these people are holding a newspaper with their other hand and ambidexterity does not come easy. So either way they are doing the "pole dance."

So Metro Commuters annoy me. I am sure you have encountered one of these or even a new breed before? If so, alert me so I can properly hate them too.

Going With The Flow? Shit, I'm Just Drunk

"Are you nervous to meet my parents?" he whispers in my ear, squeezing me tight.

{Gulp} on so many levels. Sometimes he can take my breath away.

"Let's have a cocktail first?" I half ask, half demand.

"Ahh....you are nervous!"

"Me? No. Of course not. But let's start with the martinis before the cab gets here."

So there you are a couple martinis and several Blue Drinks later - blue drinks that left its mark in a Very Blue Kind of Way - on your tongue...(you felt like the kid who got caught sneaking chocolate out of the candy cabinet evident by the Ring Around The Mouth. "What do you mean Grandma? I wasn't in the chocolate." Your chocolate-rimmed mouth says otherwise)....And so your blue tongue is your Mark of We Are All Drunk and the debate of what is in this blue drink. Vodka? Or tequila? You know, your typical First Conversation for Meeting The Parents. So the group of the Blue-Tinged Tongues dance. He twirls me around the dance floor. The family thinks you need saving from your little John Travolta but the Blue Drink masked the Dance Floor Timidness - you are doing your best Ginger to his Fred. And then when you are done at the fancy function the parents drop the kids off at an Irish bar because you need to chase down the blue drink with hops or something....which, you know, is always a good idea.

....Meeting Of The Parents #1: Drunk!

Then the next morning you are stuck in a car driving around DC - trying to get out of DC - but the damn Marine Corp marathon closed off all access to Northern Virginia. You spent the majority of the morning in that car. So the car sickness fueled by that damn Blue Drink. The blue tongue may be gone but the blue drink is in your blood now trying to escape. It's fighting for control of your stomach. It is pounding in your head. It's the midst of a Blue Drink Hangover. Come one, come all! But you finally get to Northern Virginia by way of Pennsylvania or something like that. And so where do you go? Mom and Dad's of course.

....Meeting Of The Parents #2: Hungover!

Then when you have recovered from this a few weeks later, and the two of you have been touring a couple vineyards in the country one beautiful fall Saturday, getting drunk on the road, it is always a good idea to stop by the parent's house and ask them if they want to help you drink all the bottles you picked up. To which they say, "Oh terrific, we have more bottles!" So hours and hours later you end up....crashing at the parent's house!

And so the parent's marched us around the house to show off the bedroom options. Very game show host-like..."and behind door number 1 is...." complete with cue cards telling me when to "ooh" "aahh" and applaud. And when you answer your bedroom choice please frame it as a question. "This one?" "Umm.....here?" Because you wonder what is the right answer when you are sleeping over at your brand new boyfriend's parent's house with no overnight bag...

Option #1 is the bedroom with the twin beds and the window with the view of the Potomac. Let me tell you it is spectacular. The view. And apparently the wildlife like the view too. The Outside-Looking-In kind of view. Because that same window is their own personal viewing screen of your naked ass lying in bed. Or could be. So far, I wasn't keen on this option as it would freak me out to awake to a deer staring in the window at me. I mean, I got scared when I first slept over at his house and - not quite sure of my surroundings yet - opened the door in the middle of the night and shrieked at the bust of Augustus Caesar. Yeah, forgot about the life-like bust waiting outside the door. So the deer that wander to the windows...most certainly would Freak Me Out!

Option #2 is the guest suite with the bedroom with the queen bed, the master bath with the big soaking bathtub, the adjoining living area, and the kitchenette stocked with coffee maker, coffee, and two bottles of root beer. A home away from home. Oh, and there are His and Hers pajamas. Clearly set up for guests.

Now this tour is being conducted by his mom and dad, pointing out all the perks of the bedrooms. Whether it is the view or the amenities. I was seriously worried that I might get, "...and then when you turn this switch here, the bed starts a-rocking." Or, "The condoms are in the nightstand, cover up, son." In any case, the parents wouldn't leave until we decided on our resting spot. He wouldn't stand for the "honey you sleep here, I'll sleep in the other room" routine that I was trying to rationalize for the parent's show. In the end, all the wine told me it was OK to sleep in the queen bed of course. I made sure we at least made it look like we slept in the His and Her pajamas the next morning. "Wear this for five minutes and roll around in the bed or something."

....Meeting Of The Parents #3: Drunk! And slutty!

And then one Saturday night his sister has a wine party in which you "taste" 12 glasses of wine by the end of the night and your mission is to match the wine to their appropriate descriptions, thus naming the wine. A drinking game! And we think alike because we matched 8 out of the 12 wines identically. So when we are being all schmoopy about how cute and freaky that is, they announce that I am the actual winner for the evening. And so they gift me with a big fancy bottle of champagne. As if to say, "Girl, you just go get drunk again, okay?" And well, when you have 12 glass of wine plus pre-cocktails and some hard cider to chase some of the wine down well you....crash at the sister's place too! But there were various bodies passed out throughout the house so nobody gives you the Sleeping Arrangement tour. You can duck into your bedroom unnoticed. This time you brought an overnight bag.

....(is it any wonder?) Meeting Of The Parents #4: Drunk!

Until the next morning and you face the music again. Oh, it's not over. The next morning over a breakfast of eggs and Canadian bacon and mimosas - you end up skipping the orange juice at some point in the afternoon and drinking champagne ALL DAY LONG with the mom and sister. Next thing you know it is dinnertime five bottles of champagne later. So you share another meal with them.

....Thus, Meeting Of The Parents #5: Drunk again!

I ask you, will this ever end? With this crowd - no. This is a retired couple who bought a house in New Orleans specifically because they like the atmosphere of Bourbon Street. They are not the usual Traditional Parents of Boys I Usually Date. I am told they like me...they think I am easy-going and they are impressed at how adaptable and flexible I am in all these situations.

"She just goes with the flow."

I am just doing my best to make Mom and Dad like me. One might think that this should be a piece of cake given their Love Of The Party. But I am probably even more nervous around them because it's such a fine line. They still are The Parents! I think I will just keep on sipping that drink that they keep pouring.

My Own Private Turret's, Idaho

I have this little problem. It’s my own little "Private Turrets, Idaho." Population: Me. I don’t have the physical problems that go along with Turret's. I don't have uncontrollable appendages or involuntary spasmatic limbs. So you don't have to worry about me socking you in the face or convulsing into an epileptic scene. My "turret's problem" is more mouth-related because I am prone to blurt out things involuntarily.

Like, I could be walking down the street replaying or planning a conversation in my head. Over and over. I'm a ruer. As I think of new ways to express myself in this conversation in my head (woulda, coulda, shoulda), I get lost in this world. Next thing you know, I may start mouthing the words. Some people call this Talking Out Loud. Whatever - this isn't a real concern for me. Don't we all talk to ourselves occassionally? If you don't, try it. And tell yourself I said "hi."

Or, my problem surfaces while I am sleeping. Some may call this "talking in your sleep." But I think it is related to my sickness of Blurting Out Loud. It's just another degree. But this has gotten me in trouble in the past because one time in college I awoke in the middle of the night and shouted out, “Dave!” Now, I had a serious boyfriend at the time....sleeping right next to me. Oh, and, yeah, his name most certainly was not even remotely anything like Dave. So this screaming-out-loud-of-guy's-name-who-wasn't-my-serious-boyfriend-of-a-year awoke Serious Boyfriend Of A Year too.

"Who is Dave?!?"

“Huh?”

"You just blurted out 'Dave'!"

"I did?"

"Yes! Who is Dave?!"

"I don't know."

And then there was an emphatic tug of the covers as he turned his back to me. It took him about a week to get over it (really) and accept that I really didn't know where the Dave reference came from. Seriously, who the fuck was Dave? [Dave was that lead singer of the hardcore band you lusted after. --Devil on my shoulder] Oh.

So people tell me all the time that I talk in my sleep. Mostly it is non-sensical rumblings with the occassional Dave sprinkled in, I'm sure. But herein lies my problem and the root of my fear: Now that I am sharing a bed with My Favorite Guy Ever, I have these fears of my own Private Turret's, Idaho rearing its ugly head. Manifesting in one of three ways.

First, Blurting Out In My Sleep. Especially as he shows up in some of my dreams. In my case, when does the dream become reality and I start talking it out loud?

A few weekends ago I had a series of weird dreams that all took place in his house. There was a dog that opened the front door and let himself in. I am sure it was a Family Guy reference. (Although he would love it if Brian came to dinner and made himself a martini.) Then there was the dream of him sitting on the floor by the foot of the bed while I am laying on my stomach on the bed facing down at him. He reaches up to me and says, “I am falling in love with you.” I say, “What did you say?” He says it again. “I am falling in love with you.” Then I woke up.

Surely I didn't yell out, "I'm falling in love with you." Because how do I explain that? No, honey, really, in my dream you were falling in love with me. Why was I dreaming that? Well, it's not "falling in love" in the literal sense, don't you see? But rather losing control, blah-di-blah...

It gets better. I could start acting it out loud.

This past weekend I had a dream I farted - in front of him. But there was some other noise simultaneous to the fart so - in the dream - I was able to disguise it. I awoke soon thereafter and then got scared that perhaps I acted that part out in real life. Because I heard it. And we all know that there will have to come a time when I fart in front of him.

And fear treads on.

Second, Blurting Out In A Moment Of Passion. This is a true story that happened to a friend of mine. So, not my story. But it could very well happen to me given my neurosis. They were laying in bed, and had been dating only a few months (about the same time we have). He is kissing her and says, “God, you are so beautiful…..all of you.” See where this is going...“all of you”...“olive you”....or, “I love you”. So she blurts out, “I love you too!” Only he confessed that that was not what he said at all. She was mortified but there is a happy ending as they are getting married next October.

What is to stop me from blurting my feelings out during fireworks - or even more tender moments? Because there are plenty of both.

Thirdly, Blurting Out Drunk Thoughts. Lord knows I can get myself into trouble this way.

Last Friday night, we tied one on. Eight cosmopolitans later and who knows how many hours later until I actually came to and I awoke alone in his spare bedroom. I used the bathroom then proceeded to follow the trail of clothes upstairs to his bed where he is sprawled out. As I crawled into his bed, he turned away from me.

He turned away from me?! (He's mad at me? I have no recollection of some of the night.) "Why are you here and I am down there?"

Silence. "Uggh...Don't you remember?"

Panic sets in. (Did I become mean?) "No! What did I say?"

"Uggh..." Then the rest of the sentence is jumbled.

"What?! You've got to tell me. Because I really like you and if I did something while I was drunk well that just doesn't count. Tell me, please!"

"The Germans invaded Poland in 1939. 1939 to be exact." And he passed out.

"Oh, I get it now." Alas, My Guy was still adorably drunk.

As far as I can tell, in recent history, I have not blurted out any of these:

Dave!
I am falling in love with you.
{fart}
All of you.
I love you.

Yet. Thank god David is his middle name!

Who Is Afraid Of The Boogeyman?

Once a week I read to a little girl in a reading program at an elementary school in D.C. Today the book she chose to read had a title something like, "The little old lady who was not afraid of anything." The story is about this little old lady who is walking back to her house through the woods after a day of berry-picking. As it gets darker and darker, she keeps encountering articles of clothing that are trying to scare her. It starts with a pair of shoes that "clomped, clomped" behind her and continue all the way up to a pumpkin head that would go "boo boo." They all followed her home. And still, she stoically maintained her I'm-Not-Scared stance. They even knocked on her door late at night, floating as a person, begging to scare her. Alas, she was not to be scared even then. I'm not sure what the moral of the story was - or atleast I did until the ending when all the articles of clothing fashioned themselves into a person and ended up working as a scarecrow. All at the lady's suggestion.

Perhaps face your fears? Or crows will ALWAYS be scared.

I thought, "That is some tough cookie. If only I could be that unphased by Those Things That Scare You." I mean, these pieces of clothing were the spitting image of the....Boogeyman. Yes, that one who hid under your bed or in your closet as a child. For that, I slept with the closet opened. This is the same boogeyman that was in my parent's bathroom as a child - he was always hiding in that bathroom. My sister taught me how to karate chop the shower curtain everytime you entered the bathroom in order to kill said boogeyman.

Is the little old lady telling me I need to look him in the eye and say, "I'm not scared of you."? Is the boogeyman nothing more than a bully? Easier said than done, Old Lady!

Rewind to yesterday. I was walking to my metro station at the end of the work day. Well, it was 4:30 which is a little earlier than I usually end my day - with the exception of Fridays (you know, happy hour) and when there is something better to do - two to three times per week. (I'm working for my weekends and my weeknights!) So, I guess not so early. So I did the DC Urban Yuppie March, which is IPod socked into ears - tuning out the stodgy political climate and Cheney's motorcade which roars, bangs, and whistles up 20th Street when he is in town (and it is not only his Pacemaker) - and instead tuning into hipster cool. Because, yeah, it is not Cheney. It's about the guitar, man. I don't see you, or hear you, and I will cross the street without looking because pedestrians rule (unless I am driving and then I have to remember that I am not playing Grand Theft Auto and can't actually run you over). When you are walking this cool you tend to ignore your surroundings. All your senses are impaired for that awesome song that accompanies your Commutter Strut to the Metro.

Never again will I partake in the DC Urban Yuppie March. It's simple. There is a reason you pay attention to your surroundings. It's the boogeyman. I learned yesterday that he is still out there and it is always YOU he wants.

I know that - not only, but especially - in the city, you need to PAY ATTENTION. Who is around you. Who is passing you by. Who is following you. You make eye contact with the people - and those Big Mean People, especially - you pass by to show that you are AWARE. So yesterday? I may have been neglecting my Big Brave Girl Don’t Fuck With Me Bravado because I was being followed. Apparently. I ignored the signs at first. At 19th and L I was aware of someone behind me - but there were people all around so I dismissed it. Then as we walked toward K Street I noticed a person walking the same speed behind me. Again, I dismissed this as That Annoying Person Who Walks The Same Pace As You or That Annoying Person Who Drives The Same Speed In The Next Lane Over. But at the red light at the intersection of K and 19th my music changed songs and I heard him.

“I am following you. I have been, pretty girl. You can’t run from me. Pretty Girl. You’re mine.”

That was not a joke. [This author is FOR REAL! --Reality Police] I quick shut the music off and turned around and stared the Boogeyman in the eyes but not long enough to actually See Them. I didn't want to See Those Eyes. They were supposed to be behind the shower curtain. He flashed me the creepiest smile and whisperered, “I’m talking to you, pretty girl. You won't get away.”

(What I should have said? "Oh honey, you must be joking. I didn't wash my hair this morning and it is all windblown and snarly from flapping in convertible wind that my Jackie O headband could not control. That is why it is greasy and pulled back in a very messy ponytail. I slept late this morning. And no makeup and I am well aware that these pants make me look fat. So I know you aren't talking to me. Talk to me like that when I actually do look pretty. Which is only Some Days even.")

But those thoughts don't come to you quite at This Moment. Would the Boogeyman even laugh?

All joking aside, I am kind of creeped out. In fact, I am very creeped out. I looked around to see if anyone standing around noticed this Lunatic. I couldn't tell if people were just kind of, "Sorry Charlie, he's YOUR boogeyman not mine" or if they really had NO IDEA. It's the city, people keep to themselves - minding their p's and q's and their own damn self. No, Toto, we are not in the South or the Midwest. This was Rush Hour - similar to "this is your brain on drugs", "this is your brain on rush hour." Yeah, they had their iPods plugged in too. Or the cell phone. And is that Cheney and Posse that just passed me by? Oh, I'm not a business interest.

So finally the light changed and I took off. So did the boogeyman just a pace behind me. I was in Panic Mode. I threw the iPod in the purse to show this guy that I WAS AWARE NOW. (If I had read the book a day earlier I would have confronted him with, "I'm not scared of you!" but I didn't know the little old lady's advice just yet. Remember, this is the past. Circa yesterday.)

I contemplated my choices. Do I cut through the International Square building like I always do? No. In hindsight, there is "security" in there but not the gun-toting kind and frankly I wanted Rambo just about now. Uzis. [The author is all talk, she most certainly would have stuck a flower down the barrell. --Reality Police] I opted to truck up K Street, thinking there would be more people around. I weaved through people with the Boogeyman still in hot pursuit. And I can still hear him laughing and rambling that "...I can’t get away from him. I'm right behind you. Pretty girl. You will never escape me." So I started a really fast walk, almost a jog and so did he. Dignity and Image is out the door at this point. I turn into a full-on run, shouting out, "Help me!" (Caw! Caw!) And I didn't look back until I reached 18th Street and I turned around and saw that he gave up the run for a walk. So he is old. I found the Achilles' heel - he can't keep up. So I continue running down the one block to the metro. And I continued running into and through the station until I safely made it on my train without the Boogeyman. I made sure.

There were no karate chops. No stomping of my foot and an "I'm not scared" declaration. Just fear. Pure fear! I'd like to be brave-hearted. But for now, I will just run as fast as I can. Because, who am I kidding? I'm like those crows who flap away from the the "scarecrow" - I will ALWAYS be afraid of the Boogeyman.

The Match Game Isn't So Bad Afterall

This summer my 3 year old niece put on her Dora swimsuit for some fun in the sun, admired herself in the mirror, and then proclaimed to her mommy that she "MUST get a bathing suit just like me. With Dora." Being 3 years old, she was dead serious - they don't know how to be ironic.

I told my sister-in-law, "Honey, please promise you won't be one of Those Mothers." Those Mothers who dress their kids like themselves or vice versa. You know in Laura Ashely or Lily Pullitzer. No worries there, she has no intention of wearing the Dora-kini. But might consider an Ariel suit - va-va-voom!

I've never supported Matching Outfits. Even at the cost of relationships.

I remember my summer in between high school and college. I started dating this boy. I knew him for a very long time - since grade school, but in high school he went away and then he came back. It just so happened that he came beating down my door and he was hot so I answered. He was a sponsored surfer with a very sun-kissed chiseled body. Hot hot hot. Girls went crazy for him. And he liked me. I think it was because of some childhood crush he had on me in the 4th grade when he tried to look down my pink too low-cut Lightning Bolt t-shirt and I would never give him the time of day. You know, he had a callick or something in the hairline that I just couldn't ignore in my 4th Grade naivete. Or his Trapper Keeper wasn't cool enough or something. So I was always the girl he couldn't have. Or the first girl who flashed him a boob. But that summer I buckled.

After going out for a few months, he took me to DisneyWorld for a day trip. In hindsight, I should have known he was turning into a cheeseball when he popped in the Air Supply in the tape deck on the way. When you are 18 A.S. is NOT the music to make me "all out of love" without him. But believe it or not, he sincerely liked A.S. It really wasn't some cheesy move to impress upon the ladies ("Am sensitive man. Momma raised me to 'preciate the ladies with the Ballads."). I am fairly tolerable - but an 18 year old listening to Air Supply AND Richard Marx in the 1980's when we had all the best college radio to listen to (R.I.P. WFIT 89.5). Are you kidding me? All signs are there to step away from the Cheese and The Ball but would you look at that body?! So I was willing to overlook his music selection. So we get to the park, and do you think you would run right to Space Mountain, or maybe you want to go to the Pirates of the Caribbean or the Haunted Mansion....no, my hot boyfriend wants to go to the souvenier shop to buy MATCHING Mickey Mouse sweatshirts. No! Him, "I'm buying!". Me, "No!" Him, "Please!" Still, "No!" So Mr. Air Supply solemnly brought it up ALL DAY LONG. He simply could not believe my aversion to the idea of us walking around this park looking like every other Bobsey with our matching Mickey Mouse sweatshirts. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

(I know what you are thinking.) I should have ended the relationship on the music technicality but instead I waned in his eye because I would never be the girl who would wear Matching Mickey Mouse Sweatshirts. We ended shortly thereafter.

So I suprised myself this weekend when I went to some fancy function with My Favorite Guy Ever. Which ended up being a Meet The Parents event and Meet The Rest Of The Family while we are at it. Wearing that Mickey Mouse sweatshirt at DisneyWorld didn't seem all that bad anymore. But I had to find a frock that would fit the attire of "creative cocktail" and Sensible, Classy to Meet The Parents. It's a fine line. So the stress of How To Dress. Luckily My Favorite Guy Ever takes an interest in my likes and fears and was more than willing to help me choose. So I brought every fancy cocktail dress and accessories in my closet over to his house. In the end he liked them all but we based the final call on what he was wearing. Since he had his outfit planned already - yes, I'm dating a guy who likes his clothes almost as much me - we worked off of that and settled on a simple classy black dress that is flattering yet not too sexy. My creative flair - which, by the way, was his fabulous idea when it should have been mine was....drum roll, please......my accessory of choice.....a feather BOA! And we looked so great we got our picture taken for some DC magazine.

For this guy I would wear the matching Mickey Mouse sweatshirt.

Well, in theory.

Teach Your Children Well

I don't have to tell you that kids are impressionable and that you have to be careful with what you say around them. Because they will pick it up and make it their own. I’m not talking about the curse word they are going to hear at some point in their life. Hell, I grew up with a dad who bandied curse words around like they were a prayer. My house sounded like this: #%*^!!@#$%!!!!! Amen. And I am still pretty clean-mouthed. But what you have to be mindful of in the presence of children are what you project about your own body and self-image.

Goose, Mav, and I have this retort when one of us asks, “How do I look?”

“You don’t look ugly.”

This year – more than any other year in my life - I have been panicking. I know that I am 5 pounds – 10 pounds? – heavier than I have ever been. Chalk it up to the Summer That Could, boredom, or metabolism, or just plum eating like a pig. Because I did that. I used to be really good about saving Pig Outs for only one day of the week – usually Saturday or Sunday. But over the summer it was a vicous never-ending cycle. Must. Put. Food. In. Mouth. Or will die, probably. Because I acted like food was going out of style.

Over the summer, my mom and my 6 (now 7!) year old niece came up for a visit over “summer break.” (Wait unil she gets older and going to Aunt Ya Ya’s place is not so cool anymore and she begs to go to Aruba.) Anyway, she likes to come visit me – and she loves her Grammy. So we spent a week together and I guess I made a few comments probably while getting dressed. “I’m fat. My clothes are tight." "No more food for me today, I’m fat.” "Can't eat that. I'm fat." And so on and so on. Which is just absurd because I don't want to be one of *those girls* who lament every bite as a calorie that sticks. I hate those girls. And I am only fat by Hollywood standards which, come on! Let's be real here. I don't look ugly!

And so, what does Stella do when she gets home? She starts repeating some of my laments. Six-year old skin-and-bones saying *that* has too many calories, "I don't want to get fat", yada yada.

She got that from me!

But she heard postitive reinforcement too. During her visit, we ate at a Mexican restaurant and our waiter talked with a sexy accent, “How can I, uh……..hellllp yuh?” Everything rolled off his tongue. We will call him Don Juancito. And Stella, who is already taking after me (and her mom) with the picky-ordering-off-the-menu kind of thing, wanted her chicken prepared a certain way and Don Juancito says, “For the-uh pretty ladeee, uh……..anything, uh…..muh dear.” To which I respond, "Work it, Stella." That is what she should remember every day. So I remind her.

"Stella, what did Don Juancito say to you?"

"He called me 'pretty lady'."

"Yes, my sweet little niece, you are not ugly. Now own it!"

Blame It On Mav

So my friend, Mav, recently had a stressful time what with being a partner in a law firm and having to file her taxes by the 15th and accounting for all her receipts and bank statements and such. And, simply put, well the girl is no Organizational Dream. So she was frantically trying to get the bank to cooperate and find receipts from - oh, yesterday. She finally comes to the conclusion that she has to get her shit together. But not before she places blame. Because, of course, someone is at fault.

She calls her mother.

"Mom, the fact that I am in this mess is all your fault."

"Why is it my fault?"

"For never making me clean my room as a child."

People To Hate: Please Advisees

This so begins my series of People I Hate. Or a nicer way to put it, Pet Peeves. But I prefer to hate. This installment is brought to you by The Flip Chart, "All your ideas magnified."

Me: "For the record, I am not taking this discussion "offline" and I am not going to "put it to bed" until we "face the issues at hand" and come up with a "gameplan" to dismantle "said" phrase."
Population-at-large, which at the moment is really just You: "What phrase, pray tell, would that be?"
Me: shudders...."Please advise."

No offense, but if you use it: Please stop. In fact, I ADVISE you to stop. Isn't that what you want to hear?

By itself, it appears innocent enough. "Please advise." I mean someone is imploring your Great Wisdom. Seemingly, they can not get through this task - this problem - this request - without an almighty edict from you, All Knowing Adviser. You might be saying, "Gallop that high horse, Tonto! Run with it!" But there are some people abusing this phrase - and that is what I want to stop right now. The tone is usually bossy and condescending when this irksome little phrase is preceded by an order like, "Do this! Please advise!"

Let's look at an example of when this phrase is misused and break it down on all levels of wrong.

Outlook Inbox: Remove Joe from the Very Important Tax Daily. Please advise.

First, what does "please advise" have to do with an order? Don't you see that it is just extraneous verbiage disguised as fancy email-speak? What are The Please Advisees thinking? That if you don't tag on the "please advise" at the end of your email, it nulls your request? That I might ignore your plea altogether and you will be stuck in corporate limbo - somewhere between passive and aggressive? In person, you wouldn't tag on the "please advise" and tap, tap, tap your foot. Or would you?

Or do you just think that you sound more authoritative and professional and therefore the exclamation of "please advise" at the end will surely "get things done?"

"I will not be ignored!" the Please Advisee triumphantly shouts from his/her mount - the plastic ergonomically-impaired chair that is held together by rubberbands. I'm pretty sure they have mumbled, "Or be damned!" at the end -0nce or twice.

It is this kind of bossy tone that I absolutely can not stand. As such, I hate emails that begin with a verb. "Send..." "Get me..." "Do...." I have never responded well to bossy types. When I was very little and the television spoke to me and told me to "don't go anywhere, we will be back after this short commercial break!" I spoke back and said, "I'll go away if I want to."

Or am I reading it all wrong and the "please advise" is intended to tone down the bossiness - you know, the professional symbol for the always-friendly smiley face ":)". If that is the case, then I prefer the smiley face with the nose ":-)".

In my experience, it is always the administrative assistants who use the "please advise" phrase - and use it like it is going out of style. I think that they must have all taken some kind of office lingo seminar that teaches them the language that gets-things-done. You don't have to be all business talky with me. See? I use phrases like "business talky." We are all peers here. Like sometimes my black bra strap shows and you tell me. I hate that too but you are not below me to point out my office fashion misstep. Because I can't advise you then, I'll be too busy fixing my black bra straps.

Let me re-write the email.

Hi! I love your black bra - you are starting a new fashion statement there, girl! In the 60's they burned bras, in the 00's they show their bras - black ones at that! So Joe does not want to get the Very Important News Daily anymore. He says that his carpal tunnell has healed and he can click the mouse away and read it online now. Got to love therapy - it clears the mind, if you know what I mean. Heh heh. But if his hand buckles up again, you will be the first to know! Oh, and I went to this office seminar last week and they told us that we should end our email always with "please advise." That seems silly, don't you think? But here goes...Where can I get a black bra just like yours? Please advise. :-)

Edited to add: OK...this whole rant is really just directed to one or two people I come in contact with who seriously use the phrase as in the example above. Of course, there is an appropriate context for the phrase and I salute the people who use it accordingly!! See, I love too! And obviously by throwing in black bras in this rant, I am completely in my own head. Crazy like that.

The Color Red

Where the hell have I been? Well busy. And not here mostly. But I am finally settling into fall and bought a few sweaters to get me started. And this has nothing to do with my post. And then none of these paragraphs are related to the other but I am tieing them all together by the color RED! Because it is fun to do. So what has happened in the last few weeks brought to you by the color red.

Red started here....

The color red is the color I choose to wear.
A few weeks ago I accompanied Mav on a blind-ish date (a boy she met online). I was the tag-along and he was bringing his own tag-alongs. First, I had to convince crazy Mav that Date was hott. In his red shirt. The red shirt became my focus for the night. He ended up taking his red shirt off - crazy kids with the layering these days. But when he lost the red shirt he lost his edge on the pool table. So Mav tied the red shirt around his shoulders a la Preppy Skippy. But we got the red shirt back and sniffed it. You would have sniffed it too. Nobody saw us. We made sure. Mav ended up wearing the red shirt that night and is on to Date #3 with the Red Barron. [Aside to Mav: I didn't tell you this, but when you were doing your little strut with the pool cue, he turned to me with a chuckle and said, "She's a piece of work, isn't she?" And I replied, "Only the best."]

The color red is the color of my eyes from The Crying.
I may have experienced the most touching father-daughter moment outside of movie-watching. It started with my flight down to Charlotte last weekend and this sweet 16-year old girl, on the same flight, for some reason befriended me. I learned that this was her first time on a plane and at the end of that plane ride she was being reunited with her father who she hadn't seen in 5 years and was going to live with because apparently she is really smart and they (divorced parents) want her to go to Duke. Anyway she was nervous. She tried to disguise it as fear of flying but the more we talked the more I learned that she was nervous about seeing "dad." So when we finally arrived her dad was waiting at the gate with flowers, a teddy bear, and open arms. They recognized each other immediately and embraced with that do-not-ever-let-me-go-again-oh-I'm-not-letting-you-go embrace. There was not a dry eye in the terminal. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to hug this man too. I wanted this girl to keep in touch with me so I could be sure she was doing fine. But I had to move on. I think she is going to be fine. But this moment really touched me in a way that I need to explore more...

The color red is the color of Lisa's jacket.
I just spent five days staying with my sister-in-law while my brother was whooping it up on the client's dime. We had our own fun with our new favorite pasttime. You too can enjoy the fun! All you need is a couple bottles of wine (then Coronas when that runs out) and QVC. First make sure the kids are in bed and asleep. Then drink your bottles and turn on Lisa, ubiquitous host extraordinaire (seriously, that girl is always on QVC). Drink every time she says one of her exclamatory words like "that's fatulous!" or something like "holy cow!" Crack up when her sales pitch for some $12 metal hooks is, "This would be a great gift for someone in a nursing home," or for the olive handbag which looks more like evergreen (or pinetree the drunker you get), "It is soo roomy you could fit four wallets in here!" Seriously contemplate one's need for four wallets and the problems that would occur. Then kick up the excitement a notch and call QVC to have the cameraman pan in on the red jacket Lisa is wearing because you really can't see the stitching as good but what we really want to see is crazy Lisa's hair.

The color red is the color of my lipstick now.
Hold it! I have, um, uh.......a boyfriend? How on earth did I get a guy who is not playing any games and seems to be making his number one priority me and my happiness. Is it freaking me out? A little but not as much as I thought is would. I mean he is sweet and kind of exciting. Because soon I will be able to talk about a ride in an open cock-pit airplane, a ride on the back of a Harley, and the drive in the country in his vintage car. Oh, and there is a house in New Orleans. And he is building me a fire tonight and giving me bottles of wine and everyone who knows me knows that I am AFRAID of fires but love bottles of wine. But he is a guy and he likes to build and fix things and I find it terribly sexy. He is a science geek and he is creative. To quote Lisa, "That's fatulous!" So he is taking me to black tie events, concerts, nice dinners, and comedians. I will have to repay him by taking him to Jay's. Thought I was going to say the color red is the color of love or my heart or some sappy metaphor? Nope, I've got Chanel Portofino plumping up my pout because I am doing a lot of kissing these days..........sigh, I just love the color red!

A Second Date

The guy called like he said he would. This is the guy who didn't flinch when I ran up to one of his WWI model planes that he built from scratch shouting, “Oh, a toy!” The guy who watched me curl into a ball on his bathroom floor – the guy who I kicked out of the bathroom so I could be "left alone." The guy who still draped a comforter over my sorry self. The guy who stayed up for 2 hours watching TV while I slumbered in his bathroom. The guy who still checked on me every so often.

And he still called me enchanting.

My favorite dates are always the "flawed" kind. Seemingly flawed, that is. But in their imperfection or mishap, they are memorable. Most people will look at their significant other and boil it down to one endearing moment. Maybe it is on the first date or maybe it comes later. I remember one particular first date where I ended up getting "locked" out of my house. It was February and the door lock was frozen shut and we had to scale a back deck in order to climb through a second-story kitchen window. It was my Spiderman date and we laughed about it for three years. There was the other date who let my cat out the balcony and she had her own Spiderman adventure and she traversed the edge of an 11th story balcony to find her way down two apartment balconies. It took me a half a day to find her. It was everything to get her to come back once she found a balcony with furniture. We still laugh about the Lost Kitty Episode. And I have had those dates where the guy just didn't GET IT - the moment was only in my head. Like this date. Or this guy from the beach. To them I say, "Lighten up!" And then there are many dates I simply can't remember at all. I think we went to dinner and, oh yeah, we ate dinner. I think we met for coffee and, oh yeah, we drank coffee (which I don't even drink!). But I want to create a story - a backstory - and when you meet someone online it doesn't happen by just meeting for dinner or coffee or small-talk.

I have always wanted a guy who GETS IT. And so he did. In fact, I think my "charming" drunk ass is what did him in. Heh heh. If we had a boring vanilla let's-talk-about-what-you-like-to-do-for-fun-rather-than-show-you-what-I-like-to-do-for-fun kind of date - well, he and I would be bored out of our mind. And I am not sure there would be any attraction on my part.

So we talked about our first date on our second date. He wanted to know how I felt about it. I was honest.

“Heh. I’m surprised you called me.”

“You kidding? There was no question in my mind that I wanted to see you again.”

So we had a very nice dinner at a very nice Georgetown restaurant.

He wanted to know why we have never run into each other before. We live about a mile from one another. We frequent the same bars. We both did a beach house this summer. But I am a fatalist and I don't think we would would have connected this way had we met, say, over the summer even though I was "charming" drunk all the time and he was in character. But I was doing my own thing and my attractions this summer were of the purely physical kind. My attraction to him is very different. The physical is underneath - and after - everything else.

So the second date has since turned into a third date – lunch. A fourth date – dinner, a hockey game, and a Mav double date (!). And a fifth date – dinner at his place and a movie. So for those keeping score, that is five dates in two weeks with the SAME GUY. A guy who seemingly GETS ME. So I am starting to do the Freak Out Thing. Over-analyzing because past history dictates that One Should Not Get Carried Away. One Should Not Get Too Far Ahead. One Should Look In His Closet AND Under His Bed for His Skeletons. Because they are there. They have to be. Because, y’all? Quite simply put, I am being courted.

And how do I - the Cursed Dater - respond to this little development - of A Guy Who Does Everything Right? First, I get so excited I go out and spend $300 on lingerie. It's been a while. But now panic sets in because the credit card bill AND the fact that, of course, this will jinx it. Remember, I am superstitious (i.e., I never read my horoscope ahead of time). And then I call my girlfriends to analyze every excruciating detail of our last date to understand why it took him three days to call and not the usual two and when he doesn't make a plan for our next date I start to question whether he really likes me and when he put his hand on my leg he stroked it in a counter-clockwise motion instead of the usual clockwise and he didn't end our kiss with a soft one on the left cheek - or is the right cheek that he ends on....and -- my gosh, WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?! Then I go eat a whole meatloaf and a cheesecake and THEN I am looking at my new lingerie and thinking "my thigh goes in there?" and "I thought this was more flowy in the store" and "boy, that thong DOES really go up the crack." [Men, you really have no idea what goes on behind the scenes!]

So Mr. Second Date, calm a girl down and, um, keep doing everything right. What - you don't know what "right" is? Well, I can't tell you that - that is what my girlfriends are for.

N.O., I Never Got To Go

I have this fascination with the South. Southern accents. Southern food. Southern men. Southern comfort. In my eyes, New Orleans was quintessential South. The food, the revelry, the architecture, the music, the culture.

The ex, who I mean-spiritedly refer to as Yukkell™, was from the South. Louisana to be exact. He spoke with a slight southern twang. It was distinctive and was only apparent with certain words. Like he pronounced, McDonald’s, as MacDonald’s. I liked his pronunciation - or enunciations. For years I heard him talk about his ex-girlfriend by the name “Till.” Only when she came back into the picture and trumped me as Girl Who Has His Heart, I learned that her name is actually pronounced as “teal.” Yeah, like the fucking color. What I once thought was his charming accent, I now think of as his hillbilly accent. Yet it was his best friend, in an attempt to cheer me up one night, refer to Yukkell as the Bayou Boob. Heh.

But he embodied part of that Southern Myth that I was (am?) so attracted to for years.

The night my father died, Yukkell and I were in one of our Off Moments. We were either On or Off and it was ALWAYS based on HIS mood, which side of Gemini I got to deal with. Jekyll or Hyde. Let’s just say he was being a jerk. Until he got the frantic call from me telling him my dad was in the hospital, hooked up to a ventilator. I think he really thought it was going to be alright when he told me so.

Well, you know how the story ends. It wasn’t alright. When I called him the next morning to tell him so, he cried. In the days following, he was There for me. I guess. He came to the funeral. He spent the next day – the 4th of July - with what was left of my family. I mean, Mom without Dad was weird. The next week I spent with my mother in Philadelphia trying to take care of her – my sister and I did. I certainly could not have done it without my sister. And Yukkell insisted on talking to me everyday. We would stay up late talking on the phone. The Sadness that was surrounding us all in that house I tried to escape from with those nightly phone calls. He said that it pained him to see me hurt so badly. And he wanted to do something for me. So – knowing my fascination for The South - he promised to take me to New Orleans. As some kind of consolation. This did cheer me up. But I told him I wasn’t ready to enjoy it just yet but maybe in a few months. A trip to New Orleans became my light at the end of the tunnel. My beacon of hope that one day I would be ready to release the pain of grief - strong enough to do so. My goal was to take that trip to New Orleans when I was ready. And he was always reminding me of the Trip We Were Going To Take.

Except, we never took the trip. For whatever reason. As time went on, he talked about it less. And since I built the trip up as some kind of prize for overcoming Grief, was it guilt that disallowed my accepting it? My holding on to the grief, as my way of holding on to Daddy? Yet I know that you have to let go of the pain and just let Love resonate.

So I remember one night, we were at the computer poised to book the flights and the computer…CRASHED. Me and my superstitions and conspiracy theories - I took this as a sign. Doom. Deep down, I knew all along We were doomed. But I didn’t know that this beloved City I Had Never Been To But Loved Anyway, this City in which I held such romantic notions of Southerness, was doomed too.

There are some who think the city will never recover. I hope not. I’d like to think that not all my loves are the Doomed Kind.

Meeting Celebrity After The Fact

Once upon a time in a land we will call The Beach in a time circa the Not-So-Distant Past, three girls tore up that shoreline with their own agenda (“Is that part of the program?" or "Let's add this to the program!"), their own jokes (“Sweet. To the left. You know who is going to love this?”), and their own posse (“The circle of trust. You in or out?”). We walked to the beat of our own drummer – one who played bagpipes.

Enough with the inside jokes, right? Well, let me just say we weren’t the only Self-Indulgent Humor Whores this summer. Other people had their own gimmick going too. There was the Guy who looked like Brad Pitt In Disguise, who later became Porn Star Joe, who wore a certain necklace that I am not giving name to. He worked it. There was Doogie, or NPH. He stayed at our house! Poor Doogster had no choice - we gave him his gimmick. We gave him celebrity. Otherwise, he was just some guy with a really bad underbite. And on any given weekend, it was not abnormal to see people in full costume either. You know, like it was Halloween. There was the guy in the Bunny Rabbit costume offering his carrot up. ("I'm not bitin'.") Or those whose costume was really the lack of costume, like the guy with the British Flag bikini bottoms. ("Let's keep it clean.")

And so, Mav and I had a term for this phenomena: The Freak Show. With each new oddity, one of us would just look at the other and laugh. Our code for, “Yep, a freak show.” And we meant this in the most fun-loving way. Our own little Cast of Freaks was any person with the balls and comic instinct to pull off a costume and who works and dies by the motto, "The joke is on me." So each new oddity became a new character in our Cast of Freaks. And we could pull mention of one at any point during the summer and anybody in the House could get it. To this day, you may hear one of us ponder, "Is Joel the Grillmaster?" The Grillmaster being one such Character. They became part of Our Joke. (And just so you know, one time Mav wore her Foxy Cleapatra wig. So Mav as Foxy Clea became one such character. As an example. See? The joke is on us too.)

OK. All that to get to the Meat of this post. One such character we threw into the Cast of Freaks was the Guy in the Cougar costume who drank his beer through a straw because, you know with that cougar head the law of physics state that, "Costume Heads will Get in the Way of Drinking." And Home Ec taught him that, "Straws aren't just for the Kool-Aid!" This Cougar was a Problem Solver. So this costumed character crawled the bars for the weekend dressed like that. Do you stop for a second to wonder Who would wear such a costume? Is it the guy who sat in the back of class cracking jokes, disrupting class - the guy who spent his afternoons in detention and now does the open mic comedy circuit in hopes of getting discovered? Or is it some shy introverted type who needs to be in character to emote? Is this the guy who thinks he is funny and who his housemates egged on to ridicule him behind his back? Or some damn goofy guy who is all about having a good time and making laughing - at yourself - the main goal? Or maybe you don’t even give person to this Character. He is just that – a character in the Joke Book. Another character gone on record. So if I say to Mav one day, "Let's drink like the Cougar would." She knows to drink with a straw.

And she also Gets It when I call her and leave this message circa sometime late Saturday Night: "Guess what? The Cougar? I'm drinking with him. That's my date. He has been unmasked. Ha ha ha. Bye."

And I thought this stuff only happened in the movies.

Damn. A Character has now been given Person.

About Last Night...

Did you see the truck that ran me over? Because I didn’t see it coming. I mean, I should have known it was coming. The signs were there. When I get a call from Mav saying, “Meet me here at this time. We are going out tonight.” Well, you have no choice really. Especially when we realize that we haven’t had a Mav-Boa outing in something like 2 weeks. Withdrawals happen. You need the fix. So you do the math. THAT is where that truck came from.

Ka-plow!

But, um, why are my fingernails BLACK? Not painted black in a gothic style. Not black-from-fungus black either. They look like I just got back from finger painting class – with india ink. Either that or I was working on a car last night. But that is unlikely. I’m the girl who looks under the hood and says, “OK. Which is the engine?” And I didn’t just get back from Calligraphy class either.

I remember: I was at a classy bar, drinking red wine with Mav and emergency room doctors. I remember Mav falling on her ass. Did I say “classy”? Well, I certainly didn’t mean to imply that WE were classy. Remember, we were Mav and Boa – The Stuff That Makes Stories. Whether you like it or not. Or whether we like it or not. It's the story of the Black Grungy Fingernails. I don't want the starring role.

Because, you know what? The Mystery Black will not come off! I have tried nail polish remover and I have tried scrubbing my fingers to nubs with a loofah. All to no avail. And I have a date tomorrow night. Otherwise, I could care less. I don't feel the need to be perfectly Dolled Up, in the least. But trust me when I say it looks really dirty.

So I can’t believe I am uttering this out loud but: I think I am going to have to get a manicure now. You think: What, pray tell, is wrong with that? Nothing if that is what you like. But me? I HATE manicures. First, I don’t like color on my fingers. So you say: Paint nude or get a French! To which I retort: The black!! Need to cover the black. So now I have to get color. Not to mention that every time I get a manicure, the paint chips within the first 24 hours and my cuticles end up looking like shredded lettuce. And it takes weeks of nail therapy to correct. And I just had them looking pretty. Until the BLACK.

Now my disdain for mannies does not affect my toes, however. Pedies – I love. Well, that’s a lie. I like the end product – what the pedie means at the end of the day. I like to look down and see little pretty moons of color. And that one time I had the flower painted on my big toes was the bomb! But the actual act of a Pedie – I hate. Am I the only one who doesn’t find them enjoyable or relaxing? First, I am very ticklish so hee-hee-hee-do-you-HAVE-to-touch-my-feet? And filing toenails – to me – is the equivalent cringe performance of fingernails down a chalkboard.

So – for me - pedies are just a necessity because I love pretty toes. I wait as long as possible before I have to re-cure the feet. And I just had them done, like last week so the toes are pretty right now so I don't want to re-do them. Because as I just said: I hate GETTING the pedicure. You say: Why would you have to re-do them? To which I reply: Um, they are kind of purple. A purple that looks pretty on my toes but will NOT translate into pretty on my fingers. It goes against My Rule of Color: The Nails Version. (Another Rule in this series is The Car Version. I will never have a car that is a primary color - secondary is OK. So no TRUE red, blue, or yellow. But a shade thereof is OK - for example, burgundy.) So it's Anything Goes on the feet. Even though I usually just do Ballet Slippers white. But this last time I HAD to venture out and get all crazy with the purple. But the hands are the important part of the Rule. And herein lies the problem. They can only be red or white. Red won't go with the purple. White won't cover the black.

So I am facing possible Manicure AND Pedicure Time.

But I found a business card for some cab driver named, Goddy, in my purse this morning.

Mav, we spoke to God last night?

A Saturday Night Date

He said, “I can’t wait to meet you. You seem like a lot of fun.”

I slammed half a bottle of wine before I met him at the bar. His Great Expectations fueling my Insecurity. The pressure to drink. Can I measure up?

Within five minutes he was calling me "beautiful" - and not in a Creepy Guy or Cheesy Come-on kind of way. Sometimes compliments embarrass me, but This was comfortable.

It was Saturday night after all. And I was on a date. I was also having a Good Hair Day. A girl will take that when she can get it.

Several martinis later I found myself curled up in the bathroom of this guy’s house. And he sat patiently on the other side of the door talking to me. I told him I needed a tampon so he retrieved my purse.

Alright. I’ll let him put his arms around me. It's not Beautiful. But let me just open the door.

Later, as he caressed my face, my hair no longer in the midst of a Good Day, my makeup faded, my stomach bloated from cramps, my head throbbing in gin-soaked beats, he says, “God, you’re adorable and so charming.”

In my book, that is right there next to "endearing" in How I Like To Hear A Guy Describe Me As.

So much better than Beautiful.

The Dating Game: Let's Meet The Contestants

Guess what? I'm talking about boys and dates again. Just doing my best to jinx my bum luck in that department. Because - suprise, surprise - I'm not complaining this time, y'all. Yeah, I realize anytime I give life to a guy – it never works out. This is sure to make them run for the hills. However, I just can’t shut up. I'm usually shy and a little introverted but that has kind of waned with age really. And when I feel comfortable with someone then I will blab all the live long day. So I must feel really comfortable with you. Of course I do, you are my friend.

So while I've got a hold of a few, let's share! They will be presented to you in the order they buzzed in.

Bachelor number one is Dr. Too Busy. Dr. Too Busy comes from Bethesda and works in the "Medical, Dental, Vetrinary" line of business. Dr. Too Busy does not elaborate on this. Secretly, me thinks he is a Dog Walker because he is busy at all hours of the day. But, for his sake, I hope he is a doctor and is "too busy" saving lives - that would be a good explanation for his excuses not to write. But he takes time to write to tell me that he is too busy to write. Let me give you an example. "Hi! You're cute. Thanks for winking back at me. I have bee sooo busy this week. Will write more later..." I take that to mean: I will write more later. So I waited and the next day, I got this message, "Hi! Sorry again. This has been a crazy week. Will write more later..."

Let's break right now for some of my self-imposed Rules for this game. (And no, I don't succumb to "rules" and "game-playing" in the dating field. AT ALL. My cards are always on the table. Look where it has got me. A thirty-something singleton with cat that - I'm convinced - will never die and will end up being pregnant at the mature cat age of 20 - then I will be saddled with kittens - which I hate - and all the kids on my block will call me the cuckoo Crazy Cat Lady who carries her flask to the mailbox. And I will wipe their ball when it lands in my yard because I put some special lawn fertilizer on it that I read about in Senior Weekly. And I will roll my knee-high stockings down because this August weather is hot! and have to wear orthopedics because I have no man to rub my feet at the end of the day. Then I will get a little doggy named, Fu, and will spend all my days trying to find him a bitch to mate so I can sell Fu puppies and the Town Drunk will bang on my door late at night for some lovin' and hell, I'll take it when I can get it. But he still won't rub my feet. But he will steal me bottles of Vodka from the bar he bartends.) SO I am trying things differently. It's my new passive-aggressive stance, remember.

1. They will make the first move to meet in person. I hate the long drawn-out email bit. Bore. In the past, I have always intitated the "let's meet" move. There is nothing wrong with intiating it at all. But I am just going to be easy, breezy and wait. Just trying it differently.

2. I will not write back a guy who writes a book which screams Canned Speech. Personalize the damn thing. And it doesn't take much to do that. If you are writing me there must be something in my profile that piqued your interest.

3. This kind of goes with rule 2, but show some creativity or personalization in your email. Something relative, something foreign, just go out on a limb.

4. Gentlemen, try to keep all your girlies separate. Remember our email string. Remember things I have told you. I have organized you guys into folders so as not to confuse you. Can you try something similar maybe? You might just suggest meeting to save yourself the confusion and give some context.

I realize you may be thinking? Silly girl, how the hell can you be so picky, darlin'? You who will be the first to whine that wah, he has not called me back. No second date, blah-di-blah. Because you know this is how it will play out.

"Um, because?"

So after Round One, Dr. Too Busy, is faltering. Maybe it is just a faulty buzzer. But he is the guys who appears to be trying but can't get the buzzer to work. The repetitive click is not connecting. I might throw him a bone. But he is breaking rule 3. Can he not pick one thing? Because what I am reading from this is he IS really super busy and, well, I have been there with Wedding Date Canceler Jerk Boy. Or he is just a tad boring or uncreative. Which won't work out with me in the long run either.

Bachelor number two is Little Drummer Boy. You guessed it, he drums but works by day in the IT field. Our emails aren't the scoping-each-other’s-background and what-do-you-do-for-a-living kind of thing. I don’t really care about that stuff at the moment. I need to see if there is an attraction first. So the witty email banter is good. We talk about the inane, the mundane. I like.

Little Drummer Boy is the guy who rings in every time but he is not phrasing his answers in question format. So he is kind of missing the beat. Translation: Ask me out already! We can talk about stupid shit. Let's move you along to Round 2. But, remember, I can't make that happen.

Bachelor number three is John Doe. For some reason, he piques my interest the most. We seem to have a lot in common. But I'm not going to elaborate on him just yet. He is John Doe because I don't know his name. And I am purposely not asking. I am going to see how long I can go without knowing it. Maybe even through the first date.

John Doe is in the lead by far. He buzzes in every time with the right answer. He got the bonus question when I got the 2 AM email from him after he had been out drinking with friends. I like that I was thought of at that moment. Yeah, I do. OK and there is a date set for Saturday. So, yeah, he is by far in the lead.

Finally, bachelor number four is Dark Vader. Dresses in black, very artsy. A painter and software designer. I like artistic guys, but the Crazy Artist thing doesn’t work for me. And he may be playing that up too much. Anyway, he may have dropped out already.

This isn't even including the 29 yr-old who has sent me two Canned Speech emails (i.e., the same email) about how I must be inundated with emails because I am "so pretty" and "can't we just be friends with benefits." If only. And the myriad 40-somethings that for some reason just creeps me out, especially when they are closer to my mom's age.

Contestant searches are still being conducted....

Put This In Your Mailbox And Stamp It First Class

Why must I tell you this? Why must I share acts of stupidity in the Life of Me? Just so you can feel smarter than the average bear? Well, I'm no average bear, as you will see. So I don't know what it will get you. But let me just say, there is something to be said for a stress-free job. Apparently I traded in common sense for it and this will dumb you down a couple rungs on the corporate ladder. It seems.

Background. We have this vendor from whom I order a lot of publications. One particular publication comes daily and it is Big News to the firm. Meaning everyone reads this "Big News Daily" before they start hanging out at the water cooler. Otherwise you have nothing to talk about. Sometimes people forget this.

"How are you doing today, Joe?"

"Today, blah-di-blah, shelter penalty, blah-di-blah, tax relief package, blah-di-blah, IRS task force, blah-di-blah, no flat tax, blah-di-blah, estimate budget effects, blah-di-blah, depreciation rules, blah-di-blah...."

"Whoa, Joe, haven't even got my coffee yet. How 'bout them Skins?"

Joe was too busy catching up on his WEEKLY reading, let alone his Daily News, so he didn't even know it was football season already. "Didn't I just file my tax return?" wonders Joe, "Wonder how Spurrier will do this year?" See, Joe is working! Joe's not sporting - or slacking off on the job! So Joe turns to the Next Guy to share, share, share what he has learned today!

I.e., We get a lot of fucking news that all says the same shit but we have to read it all, just in case.

Aside. Now, I wouldn't be carrying on with this story if we all could join 2005 and read a newspaper online. But tax geeks are often really Dinosaurs or, rather, Paper Museum Curaters in disguise. ("Over here, we have page 5 from H&D from October 1, 2004 when Congress passed the eight-month highway funding extension....remember that day? Oh memories....You read it here first!")

Scene. So the vendor uses a particular delivery company to deliver this daily to the local subscribers. The problem is that we have had ongoing problems with the delivery company off and on over the years. Because apparently there is a monopoly and Everyone in DC uses this delivery company so therefore they don't have to do their "job," as most monopolizers do (or is it don't?). Anyway, I, INaffectionately, like to call them the Deliver As We Feel Like It Company (“DAWFLIC”).

So over the last 2 weeks, this particular All Important News Daily has NOT been getting delivered most of that time (2 out of 3 IS BAD). I have talked to the manager at DAWFLIC and he maintains their innocence. MAYBE our delivery problems stem from our very own Mailroom downstairs who works by the motto, “We only collect the mail, we don’t deliver it.” So that is not far-fetched. Hell, for all I now, they could be doing their corporate duty and taking the news daily to Breakfast at McDonald's - "see and be seen. I'm working."

In any case, we have a problem with delivery.

Climax. So, the other day, I called my rep at the vendor who publishes the All Important News Daily to complain about the delivery company that they use. The conversation went a little something like this:

Professional Me: "Hi vendor! I am having problems with DAWFLIC getting this pub delivered."
Vendor: "Yes. Sorry. We have had some complaints from others."
Professional Me: "Oh. Well, in that case, is there any other delivery service we could consider?"
Vendor: "Yes. It’s either them or First Class Mail."
Professional Me: "First Class Mail! I have never heard of them. Tell me more!"
Vendor: "Umm…..really?"
Professional Me: "Yes. I have never heard of that delivery service."
Vendor: "Well, it’s run by the USPS. You know...the mail? You have seen mailboxes, haven't you?"

Then you pretty much see me shrinking in my chair to the size of a Big Stupid Idiot. And Big Stupid Idiots can be very small. What the hell was I thinking? And what glue was I sniffing? And the rep really wasn't even trying to make me feel less small. I drowned in that phone conversation. There really was no way out of that one. I tried to play comedian, “Oh, THAT delivery service. (hee hee.) Are they still in business? (hee. hee.) Do they have a website?” Hee hee?? Buehler?

My brain-freeze-disguised-as-joke did not go over with the audience. He saw through it. It was cringe-worthy.

Well, deliver me to Mars. And make it First Class Mail.

The End.

Try This Red Pepper On For Size

I went to lunch the other day with a very polite British chap. And let me just say - he is a Quiet Talker. I was straining to hear every word out of his mouth. In fact, he was so quiet that apparently at some point during the meal the waitress dropped a fork down his back. I'm guessing. And when this happened, he never exhibited any kind of emotion of the ah-fork-spiraling-down-my-back kind. He never even flinched. So I never knew that a forkful of food somersaulted down his back. Because if he would have let me known - let someone known - we could have avoided this:

On the walk back to the office, SEVERAL people pointed out to him that he had a big red pepper stuck to his back. And he did! It was the length of a finger. So he had a red pepper finger hanging out on the back of his solid light-colored shirt. And when you see a food particle of this size lounging backside you crack up silly - almost to the point of Uncontrollable Bladder. Because the people pointing it out - who mean well - are laughing too. Then when you finally control the laughter, somebody new points out the mark left by the red pepper finger. It's a blood red stain on your solid light-colored shirt now. You have people ask you if you are bleeding. Because nobody considers for a moment that maybe you just had a red pepper finger stuck to your back. Your front, maybe, but your back, no. The laughter starts all over and the Inside Joke is understood by all those on the walk back to the office.

"Hey! It's the Red Pepper Shirt Guy!"

Needless to say, my sides were in stitches each and every time someone new pointed out the stain. They had no shame. I had no shame. At the street corner, on the sidewalk. The charitable inquiry of do-you-know-that-is-there, seemed to justify the Laughing At Other's Bad Luck. See? The laughing was contagious. Poor chap. But through it all, the poor chap was laughing too. Because what else can you do?

So, friends, when the waitress drops a forkful of food down your back, speak UP, because those people on the street will not be shy about pointing out the food stuck to your back. Or laughing at you. Because Red Pepper is NOT the new Black.