2005 Playback: Summer (Minus The Beach House)

I am beginning to wonder why I began this project. I don't believe in looking back - or atleast for 2006 that is what I believe. I am bunching all the summer months together because they go together like the Miller Lite and the coosi (seriously, how do you spell that word?). Then I am on to some other things. Because guess what I believe in 2006? Resolutions. This is new for me. Never made one in my life. So I need to tell you about my interview with Dick Clark. Also, I found a new breed of people to hate. My (maybe, almost) future in doll-making. My dilemna of whether or not to attend a wedding in Baton Rouge. I also have some announcements - a new blog! and a congratulations! And something about Peter Pan. Hopefully there will be no boo hooing going on.

But this was a great summer - memories I will have forever, until senility takes over and I'm rolling down my stockings and putting my lipstick on my eyelids. I am breaking the summer into two parts: the Me part and the beachhouse part so I can let the inside jokes fly and bound a copy for Destiny's Child. But first...

The Wedding Incident

Let's start with the "bad". (You know, it's all relative.) And it goes a little something like this..."Love me two times, babe. Once for tomorrow. Once just for today..." Or: "I just got dumped - via email - by a guy who - emphatically (as in no hesitation with the yes) - agreed to go with me [to a wedding]...And now I have to tell everyone that, well, he stood me up. And then you get those words of sympathy "Oh, sorry. He doesn't deserve you. Better you found out now what he is like. You will have fun anyway. Borrow my husband." Thanks. Yes. Yes. Yes. And, uh, no."

Ta da!

Nonetheless, I was in the wedding so obviously had plenty to keep me busy over the weekend. This was the wedding of Marrieds. Except a few girlfriends that I knew. So a gaggle of Single Girls to fight over a bouquet or run from it, which has become the modern day equivalent. ("Am passive. Am independent. See I don't care about a fucking flower. Hey, cute boy, will you send me flowers? Thus, Land of Mixed Signals.") So I cried for like 2 seconds, which is how I usually operate.

But the wedding was lovely and I ended up have a fabulous time. I danced naked on a hotel rooftop with an out of town guest - who was the ONLY single guy in attendance. And he was cute! And we had a lot of fun. And I knew I would never see him again. And, for once, I was fine with that. My, the racy life I sometimes lead. (If only.)

Family Playtime

Every year around the 4th of July which is about the anniversary of my dad's death my mom comes to visit. (My dad is buried in DC.) And it is the only time I can get her up here. She is still not used to traveling on her own. And, really, seeing her drive on the highway, the intense concentration (which, kids at home, I'm not saying you shouldn't concetrate) is like seeing Michael Jackson country line dance. Something is just not right. I mean, he can do it because he is a good dancer but something just doesn't look right about it. Maybe its the hat...but I digress as usual....So this year, she brought my lovely niece who is 7 (six at the time) but really going on 15. I kid you not. But she loves me so. I know because she writes me love notes. When I am there she passes me notes. And when I am not, she sends them in the mail. She says she loves her Ya Ya. And I love, love, love her. So I had a nice visit with them this summer. We went to a baseball game wherein Ticketgate 2005 happened. (By the way, he has still not cashed the check.) We went to the zoo and got to see the pandas - before Baby was born.

Then my family all got together for a week at the beach. It was my momma's 60th birthday. I didn't really write about the visit - so no links. But I can't believe I didn't write about the All White Picture. Well, let me push my story-telling bifocals up my nose and draw you a picture...

The White Picture

So my mom's life long dream was to - be an actress? - nope, to have one of those family portraits taken where everyone wears all white shirts and then you can choose denim bottoms or khaki bottoms. Oh my, the debate on The What To Wear On The Bottom that ensued from this. We finally settled on khaki bottoms. Then my mom got upset with me because in a "glaring Act of Rebellion" - I stubbornly whittled my way into a little flowy white skirt - all gauzy and pretty in its white puffery - BUT I methodically chose a khaki belt to tie it all together. So I felt I was complying with the Khaki Rule. Except, Momma didn't see it this way. In hindsight, I guess I was bratty - this was her picture, her dream.

So, yeah, the family is all dressed in their White Picture Taking Duds and we are to meet the photog at the studio. Except a mix-up - the first in many to come. He's not there. The 14-year old son says, "He's off on a shoot." While he is shoving a sanwich in his face.

"Yeah, but we have an appointment." Disappointment overpowering my mom's face.

Son shrugs, "I'll take you to him. Who's car should I get in?"

So we embarked on a road trip with some random 14 year old boy claiming to be a Son of a Photographer. (I think there is a song.) Anyway, we plot our way down the beach to the picture locations, locate the Double-Booked Photographer who shoos us down the beach to another location. Meanwhile the sun is setting. And all is not quiet on the Home Front.

He has us park at a park. Profound! (I like that as a Title actually.) And we cross 6 lanes of U.S. 1 boulevard traffic with a 2- 4- and 6-year old. All dressed the same in our white and khaki combos (and the errant all white dressed middle child). We walk through dunes of sand with prickly foot greeters everywhere and, oh yeah, coyote, or something. At the end of the day, by the time we get to the Picture Spot we had walked a mile. Practically in a cactus patch, is my point. And so, at the spot, lo and behold, what do we have here? Dopppelganger. Because there was a whole other family in their khaki + white combo. Original Family meet Original Family #2. Yeah, except they didn't have anyone in All White With A Khaki Belt.

But the real annoying part of this whole day was now that we have been through this whole ordeal over the last hour or so we now had to wait as the sun sagged ever more downhill - like my smile. So the grump. But this is my mom's life-long dream so "Smile and Say Cheese!" Which finally happened as it was our turn and the thing that brought me back to life was the fact that these photographers were going to have to make little Val, the 2-year old get his pacifier out of his mouth and make that little pie-face smile. Lord they brought out all the stops. Clown faces. Horns. Stuffed animals. The Grown-Up-Make-The-Kid-Laugh-I-Can't-Dance Dance. Which always make me laugh. The laughing at you not with you kind. Because impressions are not peachy right now.

And then my hate continued to grow when they placed us in our spots where we would forever be recorded in a glossy 20x16 Dream Picture of my momma's choosing.

Photographer: "Let's see. Mom you are the center of this family, you go in the....center? Now First Daughter you sit next to mom. Put your husband behind you. And little girl on your lap. Now, Daughter-In-Law, you sit on the other side of mom. Put your husband behind you and daughter on your lap. And grandma why don't you hold grandson."

Grandson: "Mean man. Where's Bear? And don't you dare take this pacifier out of my mouth. I will bite you."

Photographer: "Now, what to do with the other daughter. Yeah, just sit next to daughter-in-law."

So what we had was an assymetrical photo with empty space behind my mom, two pillars of family on either side of her, and then a big blob by the looks of Me to one side. Literally, I think some of my feet are chopped off in the final picture. I literally look like an afterthought, the fuck-up kid in the all-white with no family of my own, just keep pushing her off the side. "There once was this daughter...." So I can ramble and I kid but my point is the picture, I didn't feel to be aesthetically pleasing considering the price and, oh yeah, did I mention that the jackass photographer let the other family - the one before us - lollygag and frollick on the beach in the background to Our picture. Naturally he airbrushes them out, but all the proofs which are my mom's property have little white & khaki people in the background. "Hey, we are all just one big happy family!" We should have borrowed a khaki + white fella to be a stand-in to even out our photo. Inst-family = insta-photo symmetry. Then maybe my feet can make it in the picture.

Yeah, so that is the White Picture. The important part of which is, in the end and a couple thousand dollars later, my mom was pleased. She got her White Picture.

The Pants Incident

Marlene is one of my very bestest friends. I have known her since high school. Junior or senior year, I can't remember. We met in Art Class and she had me at "Cindy Crawford has aids."

Do I need to explain that? Because of course Cindy doesn't have aids. And I don't want to spread any rumours to the contrary. It's a figure of speech. Our own figure. The story goes something like this...This first time we hung out, we were out with a few other girls on a Friday night, looking for boys, probably drinking Mad Dog and Big Gulps, and subsequently getting drunk off three sips or something like that. Because from what I remember we were walking around this park (is that Where the Boys Are - I mean, we live like 5 miles from the beach, isn't that Where The Boys Are?). Anyway, we both had to go to the bathroom and we both confided that we both have weak bladders as in DO-NOT-make-me-laugh under NO circumstance whatsoever because bladder control will escape me on this here Friday night and oh, are there boys over there. So this is the worst thing - which is trying NOT to laugh, when all you can do is laugh. So we are on the ground now, crossing our legs, tears streaming down our faces (and thankfully, not from anywhere else). Then Mar juts up and very seriously and calmly says, "Wait! I have something very serious to say and this will stop the laughing." The giggling stops. Because she does sound serious. "I heard that Cindy Crawford has aids." That did it, a friendship was born. No, we didn't pee our pants that night. But we did in a Wal-Mart all because Marlene said, "Is that Johnnie Oakley." Which, we laugh about to this day, because what is SO funny about that. At the time, it probably had great significance on the Laugh Meter. Obviously. "Hi my name is Lara and I'd like to do a Depends commercial!" Seriously, it hasn't happened since (if you must know). So no Pee-ers Anonymous for us.

Anyway, that is Marlene, that crazy girl, and I went to Chicago to visit her this summer. Our task at hand was shopping and Lollapalooza. Where we got interviewed (by who, I'm not really sure but it was a big production, it looked official, they didn't ask us to take our shirts off).

"And so I am never one to let those inside jokes die. I'll find any opportunity to try it out. Even in the company of.....cameras!....And so after a hair, makeup, and sound check, we were seated in directors' chairs, legs crossed, lip-glossed, and microphone commanding. We were ready to answer some real hardcore questions. Of which we had the serious answers to....Now I am back in DC, settling back into routine. But somebody, please, for the love of Perry, please turn on the AC (100 degress?).....or I may have to take off these pants."

Yeah, so the "pants" - you can read the background of that and our interview - if you so desire - here. All because some kid asked if someone was gay because of his purple tight pants. We found this hilarious. Teach the kid that, no that is wrong? Break down the stereotype. Hell no, make a joke about it. All weekend long. And on camera too. And when we went shopping and came home, the boys asked, "did you by pants?" When the sales people asked if we needed help. "do you have anything in a pant?" Waste not want not. The joke was not lost.

The Year of the Vacuum

Just had to say that as an fyi like it's nobody's business, I bought 2 vacuums this year. Seriously, it is like they are disposable razors. This isn't working anymore, throw it out, and start anew.

"In the end, the splurge on The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap ended up costing me a vacuum and not the unifying scented soaps, or the economy jug, or the "in season" scents the clerk was pusing. Nope. A vacuum. Or, that is how I rationalized it in my head. That clerk had some all-mighty powers that transcended my "shopping scents." Damn. He's good."

And finally,

The Drunk Dialing Escapade Disguised as the Pants Hemming Project (either way you look at it)

Not much more to say about this that hasn't been said before. But it is never a dull moment with Mav. Needless to say, "Last night, Mav and I discovered that sleeping in your clothes is not just for the beach house anymore. Neither is drunk dialing."

We may have gotten into trouble with the drunk dialing one other time - but that was at the beach and will have to be filed under my next post...

2005 Playback: Train Wreck In May

Warning: May is a train wreck. Or is it June? Close your eyes. No look! Close your eyes. No look!

But first, I went to a concert. Well, come to think of it - this is part of the train wreck. Because I did get stood up at said concert. Which was weird to say the least. His excuse was weird. He got in too late from a business trip. You know, that proverbial place where they have No Phones. (So many guys go to No Phone Island for business trips. And some just work there all the time. And actually some just live there. Hmm.) So I had to do a little Q&A with myself to answer the question of "Is he into me?" "I like my pastries flakey, not my guys." Yet I was hopeful-delusional-I mean, hopeful? [Delusional. --The Masses] But the show was enjoyed by Me nonetheless. (So don't feel too sorry for me!) And I did know some people there so I was not alone. This was my rock star review of the evening despite being stood up: "A Paul Westerberg show is always unpredictable and always entertaining to say the least.....It was a show teetering on the edge of insanity and sheer brilliance. And that is a fine line. It was rock and roll. Pure and unassuming." [Woo hoo! --Some Rock Chick]

But in the end, STILL, this is what I told myself. I think I told myself that he was sending me mixed signals: "He is interested he just either has too much going on right now or is just always going to be too complicated. Sit back." [Silly girl. Um, he's just not that into you. --Pop Culture]

I kept toying with the idea of doing Match. I remember thinking that I didn't want him to see me online because then he would think I wasn't interested in HIM. Did you read that? I didn't want HIM to think I wasn't interested in HIM. "I started obsessing on the possibility that he has seen my profile online. Not as in posing, or leaked home videos, mind you. But rather innocent hi-I'm-single-looking-for-love-in-cyberspace-tap-tap-is-this-thing-on presence?"

Oh boy. But it wasn't all about the boys in May. There was the Kentucky Derby of course which I always go ga ga over every year so there was a party..."The big hulking horsies. Little tiny wee jockeys. Mint juleps. Seersucker. Cash thrown all around. Giddy. Up. [But] every year, I watch the race with one eye open. Lest one of the horsies collides and falls while they are hoofing it down the track. And for what? More oats in his breakfast than Mr. Ed down the stall?"

And you know what Kentucky Derby parties turn into once you drank from the nectar of the Horse Gods, The Minty Julep? Well the games begin..."Things I lost this weekend....A Ms. Pacman tournament, right after I boasted about my fabulous Ms. Pacman gameability."

And in May, things weren't so hot in the office. Well, in the bathroom to be more specific because I felt the need to share with the Internet our own little Mr. Hanky. [Christmas in May! --Mr. Hanky, the Christmas Poo] "I have a walking Pooh-Ball carousing my office."

"For the most part, I try and keep my contact with bathroom fixtures and walls to a minimum. I am a pro at the Flush The Toilet With The Foot Move, While Drunk. Which turns into Balancing On One Foot, While Drunk. Which can turn into Leaning Against Stall Walls While Zipping Up Clothing, While Drunk."

And then The OC pissed me off - and The OC is supposed to be all good. "...So, so forced. Me, "forcing" myself into my skinny jeans - hopping and stuffing my ass into them (and laying down flat to zip them), has nothing on The OC and Kirsten's Drunken Plunge Into Shameful Intoxification. Bad Kiki, bad." [You didn't like our drunk story line? Wasn't it fresh enough? --Fox Network]

But the girl - as in, The Author - was STILL delusional folks. "I am holding my breath and just kind of wading in still waters. When I come up for air, I will let you know whether I ride the dolphin (no pun intended, really) or jump ship. Or I guess the ship could still leave port without me." [Wasn't the aquatic hyperbole sooo last month? --Cliche Police]

Chugga chugga chugga chugga CHOO CHOO.....

(I'm getting tired.)

2005 Playback: April Showers

Carrying on the 2005 Playback Project. Find the rules here.

Ah, April is my birthday month so there may have been some celebrating and - at the same time - some bemoaning of this fact. You can also count on some dating (i.e., some more letdown). But spring is in the air which means summer is around the bend. And I have a feeling there are good times to be had in summer...but I am getting ahead of myself. You know? It's tough to write about the past, when you already know the future - or is it the present?

So I found myself treading water, testing the waters, and swimming in liquid gratification during the Month of April. And just to carry on the Annoying aquatic hyperbole (because: theme!)...put on your life vest because there may some bumpy water ahead. (heh heh)

You say it's your birthday? Well, it's my birthday too!
"While we are not quite at the "39 and Holding," "40 is the New 30," or "I Don't Get ID'd Anymore" age yet, we are creeping up on it." [You turned 34 this year. That is old, geezer. --Reality Police.]

OK. So I am starting to feel like Age is catching up to me. The funny thing is everybody I meet thinks I am much younger than I am. (I think this is based on looks, but I wonder now...) Everybody tells me I look 27 - well, I have been saying that for a couple years now so maybe I look 29 now. My point is I finally know that I can't eat whatever the hell I want. Metabolism is sloooowing down. It has made the pass to the slow lane. So I want to preserve my "good looks" (Thank you, Me!) and this month I found a way: "Cosmetic trickery! The Lip Plumper(tm)! They say it will smooth the wrinkles and create a mild "swelling of the lip tissue" and it doesn't involve painful injections. It's genius really. Because every aging beauty needs big lips. Yes, we are starting small on the body beautification. Baby steps. Next year - maybe Crest Whitestrips?"

So it is funny how I start the month all happy and sane:
"I happily turned that clock forward last weekend. Who needs an extra hour of sleep anway? There are shrubs to be hedged!"

And so there were dates. Some good and some bad...well, they were all pretty bad.

Especially when you have a stalker. Who, by the way, I still bump into from time to time. "I shrugged it off as drunk - I know drunk - I have compassion for drunk....And, by the way, silly boy, it takes way more than three beers and a shot of whiskey to get me 'liquored up and in bed'."

"Golly, I was having a fine time so bartender pour me another Belvedere Soda and another and another and another and another. Oops...hiccup...giggle...giggle...time to stop, time to go home." [Always stop at the Giggly Hiccup Dance. --Old Wise One.]

"And so, what is the one thing you should probably never ask a guy on a date? If he would like to lay on the kitchen floor with you? Yes. That would be it. You know what I did? I asked him if he would lay on the kitchen floor with me." [And all your friends said that line would never work...who knew some Guy would actually find it "charming". Just wait for September. --The Future.]

You see where this is going? Only I don't in April so for the month of April - I am OBLIVIOUS. [He's gay! --Mav] I am confused as to why he won't find this cute and charming?!?

"In the morning, I woke up with a skinned knee, a bruise on my hip bone, and only one eye washed of make up. And I'm sure my hair was all over the place. I chuckled to myself thinking lucky for him he only got to see last night's act."

"But I did manage to spill beer all down my arm, in front of him. Something to do with not having enough hands to open a gift, open a card, and hold a beer. I guess the right thing would be to put the beer down on the bar. But, that would get in the way of actually drinking and opening and talking - which I so can do simultaneously. So the beer just poured out like a stream of water from a hose, all down my arm."

So, in the end - April? The message of which is, gosh, you are clutzy, or drunk, or nervous, or trying too hard, but you are not sitting home alone. Key! You are eating out alone. It's a good place to be right now. Even if you don't quite realize it yet...: "Eating alone is lonely. Eating out in public alone is humbling....And yet, I politely order my food. I don't want any funky kitchen scrap or bodily excretion ending up in my food on account of some sassy attitude. It's key. Restaurant staff can treat me like shit, I am always going to treat them like gold." [Rule 101 of Table For One.]

I know you didn't ask, but to be continued...

2005 Playback: A March Of Madness

I've seen this "meme" floating around in various forms. One says to take the first sentence from the first entry of each month and copy and paste. Another says to take the last sentence. The general idea is that this would be a summary of your year. I decided to read back through every one of my posts and select sentences I liked or that had some significance for that month. It is kind of hard for me to pick just the beginning sentence, or the last sentence, or just one sentence in particular because - let's face it - I hardly write in complete sentences. The grammar police are on to me. And instead of just re-gurgitating, I decided to make this an exercise. I will recycle the old content with new commentary to give it new life and try and make this a semi-cohesive post while I reflect on the past year. This might get all piebald on me. Strap in.

The story begins in March....

Because March was the birth of the blog! And the demise of a "relationship" that lasted six loooong years - too long. Relationship is what we call it. It was on and off - a friends-lovers-confidantes-punching bag kind of thing. Nobody really understood it. I think we did. But it ended rather bizarrely. The ingredients of which are: One Non-Committal guy, a desperate haggard mom, visions of money bags, years of Guilt, lots of miles between, kids!, unaccepting family, and a quick wedding (that hasn't happened yet). The Mud Pie is not complete. But what I think of his Hell is my Paradise. Because it didn't take long to figure out that Letting Go was a blessing in disguise. I probably cried for like 3 threeks. Then I put the wheels in motion to Trucking On.

And it went something like this:

"I have had this Old Worn Shoe for the past six years........This week I opened my closet to put on Old Worn Shoe, but it was gone." [Who really needs old worn shoes anyway - high time to upgrade! --Jimmy Choo] [Who is Jimmy Choo? We love you! --DSW Shoe Warehouse]

See? I was "dumped" for an ex-girlfriend. Ouch. But how do you get over getting dumped? Well, it might look something like this your first couple weeks: "Spending all day Saturday in a bar where people are dressed as Guinness bottles and cans.....At what point in the day did I lose all feeling in my ass?"

At about this time, you come up with some real insightful observations: "The Dive Bar is the heart of a real drinking culture."

And of course there is no substitute for retail therapy: "Because you can never have enough, I bought new blue jeans!"

Then you try and throw yourself into your hobbies, your interests, a blog(?): "I was an Art History major in college so occasionally it creeps back into my life.....If I were ever brave and cool enough to own a snake, I am sure I would name him Modigliani." [Artsy-fartsy, I try. Brave-hearted, I'll never be. Perhaps a goldfish named Sausage would be more my speed.]

So you are keeping yourself busy and avoiding Him but it is March. And in March The Cold will not go away. And frankly you are tired of it at this point. My feeling is if you get The Bitter Cold - you should have some snow with it. It's like beer in a can and a coosy (sp?) - it just makes it a tad more enjoyable. If anything for show. But alas, the snow never came...."I even went out this year and bought snow-appropriate trend-wagon Uggs in anticipation of burying my luxury-wrapped sausages deep within your fluffy, powdered purity. Instead all I got were puddles and my Uggs are like, "fashion victim." It's like driving an SUV in the city. Utilitarian? I think not. Aesthetics."

And look at this, sometimes I actually sound like I have had therapy: "I know change isn't going to happen unless you drag your pity-ass off the couch and do something about it. So I have put those wheels in motion.....I am "dating" again....And I won't look back because I know from experience that in order to move on permanently, you have to move on emotionally."

But then again, I become all school girl lovesick, instead of patient [Spoiler: Rampant theme this year.] And in March, I encountered my first (proverbial) frog of the year: "Like the skeptical fan from the sideline, declaring "it's over" when the other team has a substantial lead over your team. You throw the towel in. You call it for what it is. Impending defeat. So I am going to call this game right now.The sexy-but-not-obviously-or-conceitingly-sexy boy I met on Friday night - and who gave me one of the best kisses of my life by the way - will not call." [Girl, so not the best kiss. --Hindsight.]

And then I get all anlaytical about "What Is Wrong With Me"...boiled down to one very over-rated technology: "I hate the phone. The phone surely hates me. It is the bane of all my relationships. Since this is a blame-seeking culture, I am placing the blame on the demise of any potential relationship on my lack of Phone Presence. I don't have it. In fact, the next time some guy asks me for my phone number, I am giving him a friend's number, so that she can mediate the Call That Will Inevitably Bust All Hope."

"I needed another martini to stay in the game or my mind was taking a long walk off a short pier. I needed to blame it on alcohol." [The Calling Card of Drunks-R-U. --Anonymous]

But I think I found some peace at some point this month: "...so I put away the martini shaker, grabbed my quilt, and laid down on the bathroom floor. For that moment there were birds singing in my head. One was dancing, one was finishing the vacuuming, and one was in the corner drinking."

Oh yeah, and this was my Skinny Month....good times...
"So maybe I will just roam the Easter candy aisle instead and remember what that chocolate bunny tasted like. Because memory is still always sweeter than the candy will ever be."

So this is what March looked like. The message of which is, let go, drink, buy yourself another pair of $160 blue jeans, and bank on the men you meet this month to never call you back.

But you are back in the saddle....

Christmas Stockings Are Overrated Anyway

Truthfully, I am glad the weekend - the Christmas holiday - is over. As I mentioned, I stayed behind and spent the holiday with my boyfriend's family. I still feel like an outsider to the family which means I am very soft-spoken and shy around them. It is not that they aren't friendly, because they are. And they know how to have a good time. But we have only been dating three months - and there is nothing like Christmas - or a family holiday - to make you feel like the outsider you are. Sometimes I can sufficiently participate in the grown-up conversation but all the familial holiday hubbub just made me even more introverted than usual.

The weekend started off late afternoon Christmas eve at the sister's home. We all participated in a little family Cranium competition. And the family is pretty competitive. And - I don't know - it could be because there was no drinking involved - and this is a game that involves lots of drinking because you are going to be acting and whistling and humming and spelling backwards (which only a stiff drink can accomplish). So here is where my first bout of shyness surfaced. And it made me hesitant with all my responses for fear of sounding like an Educated Idiot. This backfired because I looked even more stupid for not getting The Obvious. Example: My boyfriend had to act out the famous person on the card only through verbal communication. I was the "guesser" because frankly he is good at impersonations. And he did nail this one. He started it off with the "politician-thumb-to-bent-forefinger-point" very accurately impersonating, "I. Did not. Have. Sexual relations. With...." I paused. I hemmed and hawed. Because Bill Clinton, right? But, I don't know, what if I was wrong and there was someone I was missing. Who else could it be?! (Kobe Bryant? Jude Law? But the voice!) So I doubted myself and thought carefully before I FINALLY answered. We ended up winning the game. Somehow. But this whole game-time wasn't relaxing for me.

Eventually they started pouring the champagne and wine. I managed to come out of my shell a little more. Then we dressed for dinner, which was a Black Tie affair. Look at me with the sparkles. Needless to say, I managed to be over-dressed. Who knew? Then we did a little Pollyanna gift exchange. And kept taking turns blowing into a breathalyzer. All in all Christmas Eve was fun. Who knew a breathalyzer could be such fun? [Only in these circumstances. Do not get in the car. --The Cops] I managed to muddle my way through conversation. Then the uncle's partner started in with how I looked like Tiffani Thiessen. Which, strangely, I have heard many times. I still never see it. So there was some analyzing of the merits of this resemblance. But drinks were poured and laughter was echoing through the house. And the stockings were hung by the chimney with care.

I kind of wish I could have ended the weekend right here. On what I felt was a good note.

Because what came first: the chicken or the egg? Or, what came first: my own Self-Imposed Bad Mood or a series of events to set off my Bad Mood?

It was agreed that we would stay over at the sister's house on Christmas Eve. The Breathalyzer was not letting us go anywhere anyway. Then - according to his plan - we would partake in the present opening the next morning, brunch, and then head out. Later that evening The Boyfriend (he'll get a name in the new year) would return to the parent's house for Christmas dinner. I was going to be given a "pass" on that. He was concerned that it would be a lot of family time for me. And I agree. However, dinner is easy. I knew the hard part was going to be the Present Opening that ALL the family was going to be doing. With nothing for me to do but sit there and watch. (I know, woe is The Lonely Soul.) In any case, this was the part I wanted out of. For my own reasons.

First, the family has a lot of money so very expensive presents were being opened all around me. They spend a couple thousand dollars a piece - easily. I could tell by the Louis Vuitton, Hermes, cashmere, and diamonds that was in abundance. Who needs - who gets! - two Louis? Therefore, I felt like his family's gifts trumped mine. Sure they were more expensive - mostly clothing from London and Paris. I know that Expensive doesn't make The Better. But they were things he specifically asked for. Things he wanted. Things I couldn't get for him because I didn't/couldn't jet to London to Christmas shop for him. Is there something wrong with wanting to buy him his favorite present?

The Ferragamo wallet I got for him - which is not shabby by any means - was something he desperately needed. On like our third date he mentioned that he needed a new wallet as he had just ran his through the wash. (I made a mental note of that at the time.) And it was falling apart. And it was a tri-fold. Nobody carries tri-folds anymore. Nobody even makes them anymore. So I thought I was gold with this gift. Because what guy goes out and buys and expensive wallet for himself? But then the sister got him a wallet too (as one of many gifts). Hers happened to be brown (and not as nice - or expensive - as she pointed out) so he was ever the diplomat and said that it was great that he had a black one and a brown one and he could interchange them. Who does that? So, my present seemed cliche and insignificant now.

Then I couldn't shake the feeling of Outsider - the outside-looking-in kind of thing. To nobody's fault. But I kept thinking this is not my family. Maybe this was too soon in the relationship to be a part of all this. Silly, maybe. Because they certainly made me a small part of it. After all, I am the girlfriend and who knows if it will amount to anything more. Why should they get attached to the Idea of Me? I don't want to be that girl they talk about next Christmas. "Remember that girl from last year - who was so quiet? We love your new girlfriend!" But they kept thanking me for being a part of their Christmas. And when the mother asked me about traditions and I told her about keilbasi on Christmas Eve, she replied that had she known she would have made sure we had some. How sweet is that? And the mother got me a beautiful sterling silver champagne icer with glasses that I love. Because she knows I like The Champagne. And the sister got me some beautiful earrings. From Neimans. So this was all very thoughtful. So you see, they tried to include me. Still did I mention there were lots and lots and lots of presents. And my boyfriend is Present Opening Upper Savorer. One by one - sloooooowly. One. By. One. The Grown-Up's Present Opening Extravanganza lasted a couple of hours easily.

And then they did the whole presentation of their stockings. Which, I don't know, I felt like they could have just thrown one in for me. I could have brought mine from home. A BYOS party! Because their stockings were a bottomless pit of toys and presents - not the Story Book Life Savers from my past. The mother gave me some Mardi Gras beads with pink duckies on them - again, to make me feel included. Again, sweet. But there is everybody - my boyfriend, his mom, dad, sister, brother-in-law, and uncle and his "partner" - all carefully inspecting the huge array of gifts from their stocking. Even the dogs had stockings. Bottomless stockings. Since I was without, I tried to take an interest in my boyfriend's stocking - which he is sloooowly savoring. He practically read a whole book. I'm not kidding. It wasn't a novel - so, possible. He interpreted my interest - my need to Do Something besides sit there and ooh and aahh - as impatience.

"So do you just tear through your gifts?" (And I don't!) But I shut up and shut off. Because...family all around. He didn't mean anything by it, but at this point, it just rubbed me the wrong way.

Then he says to me - twisting the knife a little deeper - although not intending to, I'm sure, "Did your parents send you your presents?"

At that point, the insenstitivity of that "slip-up" almost sent me to tears. I curtly reply, "You mean my mom?" He knows my dad is dead. He shouldn't have to walk on eggshells but it kind of hit me...not in a good way. Not for the fact that my dad is no longer here but for the simple thoughtlessness with regard to Myself - who I am and where I come from. He caught the slip-up, he apologized, but I kept thinking, "Is he just making small talk with me?" Who am I?

Typically, he is a thoughtful and sweet guy, so am I being overly-sensitive? Perhaps. It has been known to happen on occassion. But that one little comment - or the culmination of the whole morning - or the fact that I missed being part of my own family - shut me up for the rest of the day. Literally. I didn't have the heart or strength to partake in conversation. I entered my shell. Which can only be broken open with alone time. But I still had to sit through a very long brunch and preparation of the brunch. I'm afraid I barely said a word. I drank my water with bottles of bottles of champagne surrounding me, taunting me, bubbling, "Drink me." So now I think that his family - who once liked me - probably now think that I am a Bore or a Bitch. I could also be putting way too much thought into this. Again, that has been known to happen on occassion.

But it is all over. I can't dwell on how charming I woulda, coulda, shoulda been. But, I'll tell you, I was finally thankful - and felt more like myself - once I got to my own home and called my family as I spent the rest of Christmas Day alone on the couch. Until I looked over at my own lonely little stocking hanging on my fireplace.

If you can't be with your own, someone else's family is not a bad place to be.

Fire, Baby, You're To Blame

I am pyrophobic. When I was younger I was always going behind my family and turning burners off. Now I have a gas stove and although I force myself to use it - it scares me every time. I watch my water boil. (Trust me, it eventually boils.) I won't turn my oven on over 375. I will never flambe or bombe anything. I always make sure my stove/oven is turned off every time I leave the house even if I hadn't used it in 2 days. (Although that may be a whole different set of quirk of the OCD kind.) I sit a good distance from fireplaces and each time it cackles and pops, I ask, "Is it supposed to do that?" Every time. I would NEVER work a grill. In fact, I do not "hang out" by a charcoal grill when it is being fired up. I do not light matches - that is why I could never be a smoker. I try it occassionally but it gets so frustating asking people to light it for me. From their own mouth. (Its been known to work as a pickup line.) If I light a candle I never leave it lit for more than an hour so I can cut the wick down. And I never have a candle burning in any room I am not in. Even for a minute. I hate the 4th of July. And I curl up in a ball during lightning storms.

I don't know where it comes from. But I will break out in sweats. Panic. Think horrible things if I feel "threatened" by a flame.

So when someone with this - admittedly - unnatural fear witnesses a car ablaze right outside her office window while at work - we are talking flames bursting in the air. She runs through the office yelling, "Fire! Fire! Fire!" Really. She did. Luckily, the fire brigade came in about 2 minutes and cute muscley firemen hosed it down - that was nice. The fire never jumped from the car and didn't have a chance to reach the back of the car, thus, the fuel tank which - and I'm no fire professional - but potentially explosive? Right? Oh, I thought about this. That is why I was huddled in a corner in the back of the building - away from the windows.

This may or may not be embarrassing.

But I think my office is grateful because for 5 minutes I acted as our office's Virtual Fire Alarm because our own fire alarms were out to lunch. It was 1 PM. Perhaps Sizzlin Express had a special going on.

Home For The Holidays

My Christmas present to myself this year is a Travel Free Holiday. I will not be stuffing US Air, Independence, or BP/Amoco's stocking this year with my annual Holiday Travel Dollars. Because I am kicking it back DC-style. With My Guy. Who specifically requested we spend Christmas together. Well, it turns out, with him and his family. At the House That Will Be Christmas This Year. A mini-Disney-style extravaganza with 4 professionally-decorated Christmas trees (or one that will have the "homemade" ornaments that will be hidden in an upstairs landing). A Bigger-Than-Life-Size snow globe in the yard and who knows what other "lawn ornaments". A house totally re-arranged for Christmas decorations. Furniture hauled out. Ivy and red velvet brought in. A decorated house to rival any Better Homes and Gardens centerfold. A Semi-formal sit-down dinner. And, well, lots of booze. Which you need at this point really, right?

But this "gift" I've bestowed upon myself (which last year, by the way, was a tiny sapphire band from Tiffany) does not come without some mixed emotion.

When he first asked me I thought that perhaps we would have our own Christmas on, say, Christmas Eve. A deux. I was going to spend the day cooking and baking. For My Guy. Which "Come One, Come All, The Freak Show is in the Big Top. Tickets are going fast. You have to see it to believe it!" But there is an interesting turn of events that my head is now privy to after I already concocted this Special Holiday for me and him in my own head. See, his family has "events" planned. Christmas is an Event. That consists of something like a Formal Dress Sit-Down Dinner on Christmas Eve at the parent's "rental home" on the Potomac, as in River. Gift Exchange at 9 AM Christmas morning, followed by Christmas Brunch. And another Dinner Extravangza. With happenings in between. Or something like this. I have yet to get the details and I am not sure all that I am going to be part of. Frankly, I don't want to partake in all these festivities. Give me a bucket of chicken and a six-pack and I'll curl up on my couch in my treeless home. Isn't it supposed to snow?

The Christmas I am used to is quite different. First of all, Christmas - for my family - has never been in the same spot and doesn't always include all of us. That is what happens when you grow up - move away - move around - and build your own families. Christmas is wherever we feel like it, whoever feels like having it, and whoever feels like going. Sometimes we are all together and sometimes we aren't. So with that, I hate the stress of picking whose house I stay at. Both my sister and brother have been married for years now so they have their own stress of where to spend the holidays. Home or in-laws? But I am the Spinster Sister. (Well, I know they don't think that but my dad's side of the family thinks that.. Questions have been asked like: "What is wrong with her?" What's her problem?" and "Why is she so selfish?" They don't send me Christmas cards because I do not have family. To which I reply, "Single People are People too.") So since my dad's passing I have the stress of staying with my mom, staying with my sister, or staying with my brother. In this situation I would pick my mother and everyone wants mom so this just means triple travel time for me - from my home to my mom's home to my sister's home to my brother's or any other direction. So I don't think my family blames me for having an option to spend the holidays travel-free, spinster that I am.

But this decision does not come without a degree of guilt. Quite simply, I'll miss my family and what I remember as Christmas. Which is different depending on whose house it is at but there are some things that warm my heart with Christmas cheer and what I remember from various Christmas Pasts: The dress code is Pajamas. All day long. The tree is never perfect but filled with sentimental ornaments - all handmade - in the second grade. Can you say green paper Christmas tree with a picture of my brother circa 2nd grade pasted on - off center? So, a tree with character, nonetheless. The garland is in pieces - a new beautiful 25 foot long strand is never bought. So there are sections of garland tucked into the tree. There is no train under the tree but there are a million old-looking Santa Clauses parked throughout the house. Just move the one off the toilet when nature calls. And the tree is always taken down the day after - if not the night of - Christmas. My mom wanted her house back in order. But there is always a big breakfast with nothing off the No-Fattening menu. Plenty to eat all day long. We drink lots of beer. We probably fight. And we never get to open anything on Christmas Eve. THIS is Christmas. THIS is what I know. THIS is what I am going to miss this year.

I won't get to eat keilbasi on Christmas Eve. I will miss seeing my nieces' and nephew's faces when they open their presents. I will miss tasting whatever new beer my brother-in-law has discovered. I will miss my momma. I will miss her talking about my daddy - she will want to share stories - to which my brother will leave the room because his eyes will well up. I will miss trying to make a joke about that. I won't get to see my mom's wrapping job this year which gets worse and worse every year. (She is the reason gift bags were invented.) I will miss this.

Instead I will be at the House That Will Be Christmas This Year which will be oozing a different kind of Christmas cheer. I will be a visitor to this Wonderland because it is not My Family. Decorating perfection is not comfortable to me. (Eclectic, imperfection, and kitsch is more my comfort zone and one could argue - lawn ornament - kitsch. I might not argue.) Yet I am excited to spend time - to spend the holiday - with my boyfriend - family and all. And they are fun in spite of their making Christmas an event where pajamas are prohibited. They pour plenty of booze which hopefully will stifle any insecurity or shyness I have. [Hmmm...Will she excuse herself to use the bathroom then reappear in her pajamas? --Inquiring Minds] Silly, drunk people make me feel s-m-r-t. Seriously, I am enjoying getting to know them better. I am flattered that after only three months of dating it was important to him for me to be there. He says that he enjoys family-time much better with me by his side. I think I know what he means.

So in preparation for the Christmas This Year I am practicing the following line, "I love the snow globe!" so it doesn't come out like, "What the #$%&*$# is that!? Your house has been hijacked by Blow-Up Lawn Ornaments R Us."

Peace on Earth
Goodwill to Men, Women, Some Children, Airplanes, and Holiday Lawn Ornaments
Happy Holidays to You and Yours and any In Between

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.