Yes, I watch The OC. I was late to the game but I'm here now. For now. Because they are testing me. Yes, this fairweather fan is hissing at the moment because of this whole alcoholic storyline. First, why does every single show - dramas/soaps - in the history of mankind have to deal with this subject? And it is always tied up neatly in a bow. Can you really spin this anew? It's so stale. And in the case of The OC in particular? 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 saw the foreshadowing from the beginning of the season. The lone camera shot zooming in on Kirsten's wine glass as if to say, "Pay attention, folks, slippery curves ahead!" And Kirsten may drive on them! While drunk! Oh the drama.
So Kiki drinks all by her lonesome sometimes. So she can polish off a bottle of wine by herself. So she got drunk at a vineyard. So she likes a little vodka in her OJ. So she likes to come home to a chilled swig of vodka. So she got drunk at her father's funeral. Hell, I've done all this. Except at my dad's funeral. I couldn't even stomach a beer that day. So is that what actually separates me from Drunkville? In any case, I am sure I binged just as soon as I got my sea legs back.
I guess we are to believe that all her imbibing happened off camera. We saw Sandy find her bottle stashed in her purse. Oh! I see, it's called allusion. Kirsten has been drinking around the clock! At work. In the bathroom. In bed. While driving. While shopping. While tanning. Before, during, and after every meal. Et cetera. Et cetera.
Snore.
I like my primetime TV all fluff and cupcakes. That's just me. I don't want to see the shootings and the drug dealing and the dying and the blackmailing and the porn-parading. I want the mindless banter, the teenage-bickering, the comic book shenanigans, the breaking up to get back together, the shopping trips, the wife-beaters, and mall-camping. And more scenes with Princess Sparkle and Captain Oats (spinoff, anyone?) Oh, and one more thing, more Peter Gallagher singing. Thank you.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Hey Pigpen, Dirty Is Just Dirty, Put It In The Can
I am at work. I am bored. So I took a trip to the bathroom. A trip as in I am bored, I have drank enough water and tea to fill the Potomac, but yet I don't have to pee, so you know what that means, five pounds of water retention which doesn't make me feel good or, probably, look good, so let's go to the bathroom and see if just being in such a shrine to peeing and poohing will make me go, or better yet, maybe I will run into someobody to talk to, and thus relieve my boredom and water weight! So, yes, a trip.
That trip turned out to be one disgusting trip. Makes me think I need to pick new destinations when I'm bored. Because this bathroom was visited by some pooh-filled person who chose to leave their mark for their fellow employees. Lo and behold in the third stall, which is the one I prefer, there were a few "drops" floating in the toilet and a wad of USED toilet paper ON THE FLOOR next to the toilet! Ohmygross. Next time why don't you send out an office-wide communication exploiting your bathroom skills because the boys in the next room over probably missed it!
This kind of unsanitary display makes me wonder what kind of scumsucker does this? Is it that this person is so high and mighty that it is above them to clean up after themselves? My sister-in-law just told me the other day that if they won the $165 million Powerball she would make sure that I would never have to wipe my ass myself again. I thought she was metaphorically-speaking but maybe there is a whole labor pool out there of people who wipe asses and this person in my office couldn't bring them to work with them because, I don't know, office guidelines - or OSHA rules - prohibit you from bringing your own personal Ass Wiper. So, I ask, if you are incapable of doing it properly yourself, then write a letter to your Congressman asking them to let in the Ass Wipers! Or is it that this person is that that much of a slob and actually lives like this at home too, amidst dirty toilet paper, food crumbs, and sticky surfaces - oh, and that brief or book I just gave them?
Alright, admittedly, sometimes I have missed the "basket" too. Usually I'm drunk for this to happen, but I always (well I can't speak for all those drunk moments) pick up after myself. Is that so much to ask? And I always watch the toilet to make sure it flushes all the way. Sure sometimes we stop up the plumbing, and nobody wants to go tell the office manager, "Hey, I stopped up the toilet. Can you report it? Oh, by the way, here's my monthly management report." But today? This wasn't a stop-up. No, this was some dirty, dirty pigpen with no regard for cleanliness.
But this person didn't stop with the laziness in the toilet. It was like there was a trail of their scum all over the bathroom because there were about 4 wadded up paper towels on the floor of the bathroom - nowhere near the trashcan. Huh? So then I remembered the lovely Morgan who used to work in my office and her groddy bathroom encounter. This was of the explosive kind as in, let me aim my ass up to the ceiling and see how high it can fly and how wide it can spread. So you see? I have a walking Pooh-Ball carousing my office. Send help!
All this bathroom talk reminds me of a conversation I had with Manwich last Friday night about bathroom behavior. He wanted to know why guys lean against the wall of the urinal as they urinate. Is it that hard to hold yourself up? I surmised that they are probably drunk and then, yes, it is hard to hold yourself up sometimes. Or is that just me? 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. So, that guy, holding himself up? Yes, probably drunk.
In the end, my clean, pristine ass learned a few things today.
1. Every office probably has a pigpen.
2. Never take trips to the bathroom looking to overcome some momentary flash of boredom - you may get more than you bargained for.
3. The bear most certainly shits in the woods, in fact, all over the woods.
4. Some people will always think the toilet is over-rated.
5. Some people have very bad aim, and I have good aim, thus making me conclude that shitting is a sport!
That trip turned out to be one disgusting trip. Makes me think I need to pick new destinations when I'm bored. Because this bathroom was visited by some pooh-filled person who chose to leave their mark for their fellow employees. Lo and behold in the third stall, which is the one I prefer, there were a few "drops" floating in the toilet and a wad of USED toilet paper ON THE FLOOR next to the toilet! Ohmygross. Next time why don't you send out an office-wide communication exploiting your bathroom skills because the boys in the next room over probably missed it!
This kind of unsanitary display makes me wonder what kind of scumsucker does this? Is it that this person is so high and mighty that it is above them to clean up after themselves? My sister-in-law just told me the other day that if they won the $165 million Powerball she would make sure that I would never have to wipe my ass myself again. I thought she was metaphorically-speaking but maybe there is a whole labor pool out there of people who wipe asses and this person in my office couldn't bring them to work with them because, I don't know, office guidelines - or OSHA rules - prohibit you from bringing your own personal Ass Wiper. So, I ask, if you are incapable of doing it properly yourself, then write a letter to your Congressman asking them to let in the Ass Wipers! Or is it that this person is that that much of a slob and actually lives like this at home too, amidst dirty toilet paper, food crumbs, and sticky surfaces - oh, and that brief or book I just gave them?
Alright, admittedly, sometimes I have missed the "basket" too. Usually I'm drunk for this to happen, but I always (well I can't speak for all those drunk moments) pick up after myself. Is that so much to ask? And I always watch the toilet to make sure it flushes all the way. Sure sometimes we stop up the plumbing, and nobody wants to go tell the office manager, "Hey, I stopped up the toilet. Can you report it? Oh, by the way, here's my monthly management report." But today? This wasn't a stop-up. No, this was some dirty, dirty pigpen with no regard for cleanliness.
But this person didn't stop with the laziness in the toilet. It was like there was a trail of their scum all over the bathroom because there were about 4 wadded up paper towels on the floor of the bathroom - nowhere near the trashcan. Huh? So then I remembered the lovely Morgan who used to work in my office and her groddy bathroom encounter. This was of the explosive kind as in, let me aim my ass up to the ceiling and see how high it can fly and how wide it can spread. So you see? I have a walking Pooh-Ball carousing my office. Send help!
All this bathroom talk reminds me of a conversation I had with Manwich last Friday night about bathroom behavior. He wanted to know why guys lean against the wall of the urinal as they urinate. Is it that hard to hold yourself up? I surmised that they are probably drunk and then, yes, it is hard to hold yourself up sometimes. Or is that just me? 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. So, that guy, holding himself up? Yes, probably drunk.
In the end, my clean, pristine ass learned a few things today.
1. Every office probably has a pigpen.
2. Never take trips to the bathroom looking to overcome some momentary flash of boredom - you may get more than you bargained for.
3. The bear most certainly shits in the woods, in fact, all over the woods.
4. Some people will always think the toilet is over-rated.
5. Some people have very bad aim, and I have good aim, thus making me conclude that shitting is a sport!
Friday, May 20, 2005
Recipes, From My Kitsch To Yours
The Baked Manwich
1 Busy guy
1/2 Promise to go to a wedding
1 Date to see a band
1 Invitation to go to see a different band
1 Case of not showing up to see band
A sprinkle of emails
A Healthy dose of befuddlement
A Healthier dose of annoyance
Salt in the eye
Stir all the ingredients together. You need a very large bowl for this because you may find other ingredients necessary to get the right flakiness. Once the batter is the right consistency (i.e., too flaky to actually congeal), pour into trashcan. Light a match. Throw the trashcan over the balcony and watch the Manwich dissipate. Your torched culinary presentation will make Baked Alaska look like a twinkie sundae. Now pour yourself a stiff drink.
------------------------------------
The Dew Drop
A million grains of sand
40 Gajillion waves
1 House
12 Fun people
1 HUGE party
Lots and lots of alcohol
Blend all the ingredients together. Pulse for one minute. Add more alcohol as needed. Can be sipped or chugged. Just enjoy all summer long.
----------------------------------------------------------
The Fat Burger
1 Invitation to be on an Advisory Panel
4 Hours of acting the part of a Talking Head
15 Minutes of winging it
One thousand dollars
Mix all together. Bake. Try not to eat all in one sitting. Best if you store this in the freezer so it will last. Do not let anyone named Neiman Marcus eat it.
1 Busy guy
1/2 Promise to go to a wedding
1 Date to see a band
1 Invitation to go to see a different band
1 Case of not showing up to see band
A sprinkle of emails
A Healthy dose of befuddlement
A Healthier dose of annoyance
Salt in the eye
Stir all the ingredients together. You need a very large bowl for this because you may find other ingredients necessary to get the right flakiness. Once the batter is the right consistency (i.e., too flaky to actually congeal), pour into trashcan. Light a match. Throw the trashcan over the balcony and watch the Manwich dissipate. Your torched culinary presentation will make Baked Alaska look like a twinkie sundae. Now pour yourself a stiff drink.
------------------------------------
The Dew Drop
A million grains of sand
40 Gajillion waves
1 House
12 Fun people
1 HUGE party
Lots and lots of alcohol
Blend all the ingredients together. Pulse for one minute. Add more alcohol as needed. Can be sipped or chugged. Just enjoy all summer long.
----------------------------------------------------------
The Fat Burger
1 Invitation to be on an Advisory Panel
4 Hours of acting the part of a Talking Head
15 Minutes of winging it
One thousand dollars
Mix all together. Bake. Try not to eat all in one sitting. Best if you store this in the freezer so it will last. Do not let anyone named Neiman Marcus eat it.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Mistaken Identity: Case #147 and #148
You know how you can be walking along and usually you mind your own business as in wouldn't notice if Willem Dafoe walked right on by and blew you a kiss because you are la-la-laing to music in your head or thinking about your next meal or how you want to spend money or where is happy hour people? But today you are actually noticing. The surroundings. You're making eye contact. With all the people. And then out of the corner of your eye, you think you see someone you know so you do a double take because you are, you know, paying attention and since you are looking at everybody you don't want to ignore somebody you actually know. And it is all fast when you do the double take and simultaneously smile and mouth a "hi" with no vocals attached because - frog in your throat. So fast that you didn't leave time for your poor, slow brain to catch up with your befuddled excitement before realizing that no, you don't know who this person is. In fact, they look nothing like the person you thought it was. Idiot! (Me.) And so the person looks at you kind of strangely like, do I know you or are you just weird.
I totally just did that. Weirdly.
And last weekend when I was in a bar with six other girlfriends. Some guy came up to me and used the line (actually!)...."Do I know you from somewhere?" First of all, I am not going to critique that line because I figure; a) you got the balls to walk up to a girl standing amongst 6 other hot girls - kudos to you - so say what you want as long as it isn't something that will be blocked from my dirty spam filter at work, you dirty boy; and b) I am too paranoid - as in, 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? But really, he swore he knew me from somewhere. So he proceeds to count down scenarios in which he could have met me.
Do you play kickball on the Mall? -No.
Do you go to blah-di-blah church? -Me? No.
Did you go to Georgetown Law? -Nope.
Do you know Joe Schmo? -Ahh...no.
I didn't recognize him. So instead of letting the poor guy ramble on about my presumed doppelganger and instead of letting my paranoia lie low, I blurt out, "Maybe you've seen me on [online dating service]?" Because I'm out there. For everyone to see. Me - paranoid. He grins and says, "Yeah, no, that wouldn't be it." Because? The shame! Psshaw.
So, later, when he asked for my phone number, I said, "I can be reached online. You can contact me there."
Case closed.
I totally just did that. Weirdly.
And last weekend when I was in a bar with six other girlfriends. Some guy came up to me and used the line (actually!)...."Do I know you from somewhere?" First of all, I am not going to critique that line because I figure; a) you got the balls to walk up to a girl standing amongst 6 other hot girls - kudos to you - so say what you want as long as it isn't something that will be blocked from my dirty spam filter at work, you dirty boy; and b) I am too paranoid - as in, 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? But really, he swore he knew me from somewhere. So he proceeds to count down scenarios in which he could have met me.
Do you play kickball on the Mall? -No.
Do you go to blah-di-blah church? -Me? No.
Did you go to Georgetown Law? -Nope.
Do you know Joe Schmo? -Ahh...no.
I didn't recognize him. So instead of letting the poor guy ramble on about my presumed doppelganger and instead of letting my paranoia lie low, I blurt out, "Maybe you've seen me on [online dating service]?" Because I'm out there. For everyone to see. Me - paranoid. He grins and says, "Yeah, no, that wouldn't be it." Because? The shame! Psshaw.
So, later, when he asked for my phone number, I said, "I can be reached online. You can contact me there."
Case closed.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Giddy Up
You know what has me hyped this week? The thought of letting it all hang out in a bikini in one month? Ah...nnoooo. Let's not think about that right yet. Exposing your baby's skin soft feet to your summer shoes? Uh...holy blisters, Batman. True, my beach house summer begins in just over three weeks. I should be excited about that. Instead I am just stressed about getting my ass in gear. So my power walks are going to turn into runs now. So, no, the approaching summer at the beach isn't the source of my excitement just yet.
Oh no. It's something quite grand actually. The first weekend in May is almost upon us. The Run For The Roses. The galloping! The Derby! Yes, this time of the year "...the sun [does] shine bright in the old Kentucky home." The big hulking horsies. Little tiny wee jockeys. Mint juleps. Seersucker. Cash thrown all around. Giddy. Up.
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? Every year, I think this is the time some horse is going to bite dust. And that would break my heart. I might give up the horse races altogether if I had to witness that. So one eye open. And one eye nudging my horse - or the horse in last place - to run a little faster. Run!
I also have a love-hate relationship with horses in general. I think they are beautiful creatures. Solid. Powerful. Silky. Ponytails. And big huge eyeballs that seem to know you, if you know what I mean. Almost creepy, like that painting in the Haunted Mansion with the eyeballs that follow you. Horses seem to watch and observe. So I have this fear of them at the same time. Growing up, my friend, Christy, lived on a ranch and they had lots of horses. I loved going over there. But I was always a little afraid of riding them. I wasn't very good at nudging them along. I was always like, "you take your time, little horsie. We will go when you are good and ready. I'm not pushing you. I am your friend." So I was often left out in pasture just hanging out with the horse. Because if I nudged him, then I might have been bucked off the horse like Valerie did one time. I am pretty sure that hurt. So the fear of the horse.
I love watching the horses. I like the steeplechase races.
I like hearing the horses. The cloppity-clop of their hooves.
I love researching their names. And tracing their lineage to see how the names evolve.
And then there is the game. I love betting on the race. And I'm pretty good at it (or lucky at it, rather.) I have guessed the winner in the past three years. So listen to me people when I say -Afleet Alex. I like him for some of the reasons I liked Smarty Jones last year. He doesn't come from "royal" pedigree. He has the human interest element as in he is not trained by one of the big guys, like Frankel or Zito. And he has a good heartstrings story. When he was a baby he was kept alive by being bottle-fed because his momma couldn't produce enough milk for him. And, finally, he is not a quitter. He raced his little heart out with a lung infection - and came back to win the Arkansas Derby. I'm telling you. Alex is a winner, y'all.
But you know what I just did? I jinxed it. So let me tell you about some other fabulous horses who could win.
Bandini - He bites! Really, he has bitten another horse (although he didn't take any ear with him). And he is a black horse. So, a beauty.
High Fly - Aww...he is pretty too.
Sun King - Because of his name. Psychedelic, dude.
Bellamy Road - Because he is the favored? But, eww, Steinbrenner's horse.
Wilko - Because...Wilco! Rock on.
Noble Causeway - He keeps getting better each race. The dark horse?
See? I'm pretty knowledgeable when it comes to picking the horses. Atleast I didn't pick based on jockey outfits. So listen to me. Or don't. But really? Back to why I'm hyped. Really? It's about the cocktail. My one time of the year to savor all that is minty lucious whiskiness. Giddy up indeed.
Factoid of the Day:
Over 80,000 Early Times Mint Juleps are served over the two-day period of the Kentucky Oaks and Kentucky Derby, requiring 8,000 liters of Early Times Mint Julep Ready-to-Serve Cocktail, 2,200 pounds of freshly harvested mint, and 80 tons of shaved ice. *
*From KentuckyDerby.com re. the Early Times Mint Julep recipe.
Oh no. It's something quite grand actually. The first weekend in May is almost upon us. The Run For The Roses. The galloping! The Derby! Yes, this time of the year "...the sun [does] shine bright in the old Kentucky home." The big hulking horsies. Little tiny wee jockeys. Mint juleps. Seersucker. Cash thrown all around. Giddy. Up.
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? Every year, I think this is the time some horse is going to bite dust. And that would break my heart. I might give up the horse races altogether if I had to witness that. So one eye open. And one eye nudging my horse - or the horse in last place - to run a little faster. Run!
I also have a love-hate relationship with horses in general. I think they are beautiful creatures. Solid. Powerful. Silky. Ponytails. And big huge eyeballs that seem to know you, if you know what I mean. Almost creepy, like that painting in the Haunted Mansion with the eyeballs that follow you. Horses seem to watch and observe. So I have this fear of them at the same time. Growing up, my friend, Christy, lived on a ranch and they had lots of horses. I loved going over there. But I was always a little afraid of riding them. I wasn't very good at nudging them along. I was always like, "you take your time, little horsie. We will go when you are good and ready. I'm not pushing you. I am your friend." So I was often left out in pasture just hanging out with the horse. Because if I nudged him, then I might have been bucked off the horse like Valerie did one time. I am pretty sure that hurt. So the fear of the horse.
I love watching the horses. I like the steeplechase races.
I like hearing the horses. The cloppity-clop of their hooves.
I love researching their names. And tracing their lineage to see how the names evolve.
And then there is the game. I love betting on the race. And I'm pretty good at it (or lucky at it, rather.) I have guessed the winner in the past three years. So listen to me people when I say -Afleet Alex. I like him for some of the reasons I liked Smarty Jones last year. He doesn't come from "royal" pedigree. He has the human interest element as in he is not trained by one of the big guys, like Frankel or Zito. And he has a good heartstrings story. When he was a baby he was kept alive by being bottle-fed because his momma couldn't produce enough milk for him. And, finally, he is not a quitter. He raced his little heart out with a lung infection - and came back to win the Arkansas Derby. I'm telling you. Alex is a winner, y'all.
But you know what I just did? I jinxed it. So let me tell you about some other fabulous horses who could win.
Bandini - He bites! Really, he has bitten another horse (although he didn't take any ear with him). And he is a black horse. So, a beauty.
High Fly - Aww...he is pretty too.
Sun King - Because of his name. Psychedelic, dude.
Bellamy Road - Because he is the favored? But, eww, Steinbrenner's horse.
Wilko - Because...Wilco! Rock on.
Noble Causeway - He keeps getting better each race. The dark horse?
See? I'm pretty knowledgeable when it comes to picking the horses. Atleast I didn't pick based on jockey outfits. So listen to me. Or don't. But really? Back to why I'm hyped. Really? It's about the cocktail. My one time of the year to savor all that is minty lucious whiskiness. Giddy up indeed.
Factoid of the Day:
Over 80,000 Early Times Mint Juleps are served over the two-day period of the Kentucky Oaks and Kentucky Derby, requiring 8,000 liters of Early Times Mint Julep Ready-to-Serve Cocktail, 2,200 pounds of freshly harvested mint, and 80 tons of shaved ice. *
*From KentuckyDerby.com re. the Early Times Mint Julep recipe.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
I Like My Pastries Flaky, Not My Guys
Mixed signals or just a case of Flakiness?
1. You have tickets to see a concert. You have friends who will be at the show. So he buys a ticket. You have been out with each other a few times. You both love Westerberg. He has been talking about it for weeks now. Since he is flying in that night, you pick a meeting place at the venue. You go where he says he will be, only you never see him the whole night. You think:
A. He has died in a horrific plane crash. In fact, you contemplate calling someone who could look this up and confirm.
B. He is really in the bar but gave you a false meeting place. Secretly, he is over yonder laughing at you as you keep looking over your shoulder for Him to show up.
C. He is trying to get to me. The upstairs of the bar is filled to capacity and the bouncers won't let him up, he lost his phone and has no way to contact you. He pines for you to come downstairs to look for him. But you decide to stay put and enjoy the show from your great vantage point. He picked this spot afterall.
C. He is flaky and didn't give you a thought to call you to tell you he could not make the show - for whatever reason.
E. All of the above.
2. So you call him at 2 AM and leave him a voicemail and say:
A. "I know it's late but if you were at the show you would be awake."
B. "If you weren't at the show, then I want to make sure you didn't perish in a plane crash."
C. "I also hope that you didn't get on the wrong plane and instead are in Zimbabwe because that would suck. You missed a good show! Or maybe you didn't because maybe you were there. Were you?"
D. "Kisses!"
E. All of the above except C (although I can't be sure, it was late and I was high on rock and roll).
3. So he calls you the next morning and tells you that he was out till 1:30 in the morning the night before the concert with clients, was in meetings all day, laid down for a couple hours in his hotel room, overslept, got a later flight to DC, thought it was too late to get to the show, also very tired and wasn't up for a late night, so went home. He never mentions anything about calling you to let you know this. You certainly don't mention it because it is too soon to show him the Crazy, the Whine, the Bitching. You are cool as a cucumber about it but you think:
A. Asshole!
B. Inconsiderate asshole!
C. Flaky asshole!
D. But cute asshole?
E. All of the above.
4. So you get on the phone and call your girlfriend to, you know, analyze this a bit more. You wonder why just last week, he drove 3o minutes out of his way to go to your birthday party and meet some of your friends. Then this week give you the blow off. You conclude:
A. He likes me of course! He just has a funny way of showing it.
B. He doesn't like me. He is just being polite by attending birthdays, calling, emailing, etc.
C. It is a very busy point in his life and I just kind of blew in. Patience might be needed with him.
D. He's flaky.
E. All of the above.
Scoring: If you answered E to all of the above, then you are me. I'll send for reinforcements under the name Jack Daniels.
1. You have tickets to see a concert. You have friends who will be at the show. So he buys a ticket. You have been out with each other a few times. You both love Westerberg. He has been talking about it for weeks now. Since he is flying in that night, you pick a meeting place at the venue. You go where he says he will be, only you never see him the whole night. You think:
A. He has died in a horrific plane crash. In fact, you contemplate calling someone who could look this up and confirm.
B. He is really in the bar but gave you a false meeting place. Secretly, he is over yonder laughing at you as you keep looking over your shoulder for Him to show up.
C. He is trying to get to me. The upstairs of the bar is filled to capacity and the bouncers won't let him up, he lost his phone and has no way to contact you. He pines for you to come downstairs to look for him. But you decide to stay put and enjoy the show from your great vantage point. He picked this spot afterall.
C. He is flaky and didn't give you a thought to call you to tell you he could not make the show - for whatever reason.
E. All of the above.
2. So you call him at 2 AM and leave him a voicemail and say:
A. "I know it's late but if you were at the show you would be awake."
B. "If you weren't at the show, then I want to make sure you didn't perish in a plane crash."
C. "I also hope that you didn't get on the wrong plane and instead are in Zimbabwe because that would suck. You missed a good show! Or maybe you didn't because maybe you were there. Were you?"
D. "Kisses!"
E. All of the above except C (although I can't be sure, it was late and I was high on rock and roll).
3. So he calls you the next morning and tells you that he was out till 1:30 in the morning the night before the concert with clients, was in meetings all day, laid down for a couple hours in his hotel room, overslept, got a later flight to DC, thought it was too late to get to the show, also very tired and wasn't up for a late night, so went home. He never mentions anything about calling you to let you know this. You certainly don't mention it because it is too soon to show him the Crazy, the Whine, the Bitching. You are cool as a cucumber about it but you think:
A. Asshole!
B. Inconsiderate asshole!
C. Flaky asshole!
D. But cute asshole?
E. All of the above.
4. So you get on the phone and call your girlfriend to, you know, analyze this a bit more. You wonder why just last week, he drove 3o minutes out of his way to go to your birthday party and meet some of your friends. Then this week give you the blow off. You conclude:
A. He likes me of course! He just has a funny way of showing it.
B. He doesn't like me. He is just being polite by attending birthdays, calling, emailing, etc.
C. It is a very busy point in his life and I just kind of blew in. Patience might be needed with him.
D. He's flaky.
E. All of the above.
Scoring: If you answered E to all of the above, then you are me. I'll send for reinforcements under the name Jack Daniels.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Some Guy's Got A Great Story To Tell At The Water Cooler Monday Morning
Imagine this. Paul Westerberg Friday night at 9:30 Club. It's a late show - it's rounding 1:00 AM and he has been playing a solid 2 hours now and slowly disintegrating into mayhem. A Paul Westerberg show is alway unpredictable and always entertaining to say the least. So Paul decides to lay down. In a fetal position behind the drum set. While the band is still playing.
What would you do if you were front and center? Go up on stage is what you would do! Grab the mic and sing your heart out until the bouncers throw you out in the rain. Was it worth it? Those 10 seconds of American-Idol-karaoke-minutes-of-fame-blah-di-blah. Hell, yeah! Because the band decides to call you back. Seems Paul decides he's going to stay behind the drumset. He is on his back now with a guitar strapped to him. So the band asks you to step in and play the part of rock star. For two songs! You do air guitar. You sing the wrong lyrics in delirium. You hand the mic over to some people in the front row to help you sing along. You plead for Paul to return because this is just surreal, man.
Some people in the audience don't like you. Some are probably jealous. Some think they could sing better than you. Some didn't pay $30 to hear No-Name-Joe-Schmo sing some of the more popular 'Mats songs.
What would you do if you were front and center? Go up on stage is what you would do! Grab the mic and sing your heart out until the bouncers throw you out in the rain. Was it worth it? Those 10 seconds of American-Idol-karaoke-minutes-of-fame-blah-di-blah. Hell, yeah! Because the band decides to call you back. Seems Paul decides he's going to stay behind the drumset. He is on his back now with a guitar strapped to him. So the band asks you to step in and play the part of rock star. For two songs! You do air guitar. You sing the wrong lyrics in delirium. You hand the mic over to some people in the front row to help you sing along. You plead for Paul to return because this is just surreal, man.
Some people in the audience don't like you. Some are probably jealous. Some think they could sing better than you. Some didn't pay $30 to hear No-Name-Joe-Schmo sing some of the more popular 'Mats songs.
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.
The disintegration of the last half hour in a 2 hours and 40 minutes set exemplified the genius that is Paul Westerberg. The 8 minutes singing on a stage shared with Westerberg & Co. epitomized a Guy Named Andrew's best rock and roll fantasy.Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Crafting is, like, sooo crafty! And dangerous!
Craft Corner Deathmatch. Has anyone seen this show on the Style network?
I think people are celebrating it as Martha Stewart Living meets Mad Max Beyond Thunder Dome, American Gladiator, and the Iron Chef. In fact, this, from their website: "...home ec as extreme sport...and someone's about to get the craft kicked out of them." Well, with a slogan like that you know you are in for a solid half hour of entertaining TV time.
And it is just that.
I am not going to sit here and review all the dynamics of the show. It's rather game-shjow formulaic in that you have two contestants (in this case, two fist-pumping DIYers), a panel of judges (craft "experts"!), a gothic and solemn "Vanna White", a charismatic host (yum, more on him later!), and a rowdy audience that gets a lot of airtime (they are jeering and cheering and enclosed behind a fence to, you know, shield them from a flying glue gun, mobile, or paper airplane). Really. You either get the picture or you are living under a rock. Seriously, get thee to the show immediately! You won't regret a single moment.
I like the show for two reasons. I like crafting and I like boys. Let me explain.
First, I am a crafter myself. I have been cross-stitching, quilting, purse-making, doodling, knitting, decoupaging, glue-gunning, duct-taping, etc. for years. Here is a walk down "crafting" memory lane.
The first time I got creative with scissors was with Barbie. First, it started with cutting hair. I had the Donnie and Marie dolls and, well, they weren't Barbie. So I cut Marie's hair. In a bob. Then my sister and I each got a Ballerina Barbie, so we agreed we could make one "ugly." We cut her hair too. Then Donnie we just made gay. Because he had the purple nut-hugging outfit. Then we had a Darcy doll. And, well, she wasn't Barbie either - and she was bigger, more voluptous. So she was the sexy Mom. Who stole all her daughters' Kens.
Then I started cutting up old clothes and vintage (gasp!) aprons to make Barbie clothes. I was a Barbie fashion designer. I made wraps. I'd put on snaps. I would overlay fabrics. Playing With Barbie became Designing For Barbie. This carried on into high school when I met my bestest friend, Martini. But not with Barbie. No, we were dressing and designing ourselves. We canvassed the thrift stores weekly. Great days were "Bag Days", when you got a hodgepodge of goods. You never knew what gem would be in your bag. Then we would reconstruct the clothes. One time I made a green blue and red paisly long-sleeve shirt into a skirt. Sigh. This was back in the late-80's before thrifting became so trendy and marked-up.
I remember a time in high school, going to a party and meeting Schmitty. Schmitty was an odd duck (seriously, think Duckie from Pretty In Pink). He was just sitting at this party where lots of beer-drinking and acid-dropping occurred. What drew me to Schmitty was the fact that he was just sitting there.....knitting. So I got him to get his lesbian mom to teach me how to knit.
I remember taking a quilting class in high school. Then I became competitive with some other girl in my class to see who could crank out the most "Quilt-In-A-Day" quilts in the year. I made six but I think she won. But that's ok, because I got the boy. We were an early day Craft Corner Deathmatch.
In college, I had Saran Man. Saran Man was inspired by my friend, Katie. Katie took some wire hangers and fashioned a "little man." Then wrapped him up in your favorite color of saran wrap. We all had one sitting in the back seat of our cars because one time Katie's Saran Man got her out of a speeding ticket. Seriously, the cop was not the least bit creeped out or weirded out by a "little man" just hanging in the back seat. So he left her off for her "creativity." Who knew? So, Saran Man then served as our guardian angels.
I watch HGTV. I like craft shows. I could spend a lazy Sunday watching nothing but. Which is ironic if you think about it. If I like crafting so much, shouldn't I be spending that lazy Sunday doing so? Sometimes I do. But I like watching other people's ideas too. The traditional craft shows are so sweater-tied-around-the-neck, this-is-how-my-grandma-did-it, whiskers-on-kittens, blah-di-blah. So rote. But Craft Corner Deathmatch is a craft show that doesn't take itself too seriously. I like to see how two different people approach something as outlandish as making shoes out of wallpaper, boxes out of cards, or pins out of candy.
But let's get to the real meat of this. Should I be embarrased to admit that I have a crush on the host? Yes, people, Jason Jones is kind of hot. He's a blisteringly-animated, overly-anxious, smack-talking, trouble-raising, shrieking maniac! He's as menacing as my purring two-toothed cat who runs from the vacuum. And when he did that V formation with his arms right at unit level, with the slightest thrust, when he was talking about "kahunas." Well, I might be a little in love with him.
So, in the end, I got no point. But I got a message: Competitive Crafting is the new crack. And I'm admitting it here: "I'm addicted."
I think people are celebrating it as Martha Stewart Living meets Mad Max Beyond Thunder Dome, American Gladiator, and the Iron Chef. In fact, this, from their website: "...home ec as extreme sport...and someone's about to get the craft kicked out of them." Well, with a slogan like that you know you are in for a solid half hour of entertaining TV time.
And it is just that.
I am not going to sit here and review all the dynamics of the show. It's rather game-shjow formulaic in that you have two contestants (in this case, two fist-pumping DIYers), a panel of judges (craft "experts"!), a gothic and solemn "Vanna White", a charismatic host (yum, more on him later!), and a rowdy audience that gets a lot of airtime (they are jeering and cheering and enclosed behind a fence to, you know, shield them from a flying glue gun, mobile, or paper airplane). Really. You either get the picture or you are living under a rock. Seriously, get thee to the show immediately! You won't regret a single moment.
I like the show for two reasons. I like crafting and I like boys. Let me explain.
First, I am a crafter myself. I have been cross-stitching, quilting, purse-making, doodling, knitting, decoupaging, glue-gunning, duct-taping, etc. for years. Here is a walk down "crafting" memory lane.
The first time I got creative with scissors was with Barbie. First, it started with cutting hair. I had the Donnie and Marie dolls and, well, they weren't Barbie. So I cut Marie's hair. In a bob. Then my sister and I each got a Ballerina Barbie, so we agreed we could make one "ugly." We cut her hair too. Then Donnie we just made gay. Because he had the purple nut-hugging outfit. Then we had a Darcy doll. And, well, she wasn't Barbie either - and she was bigger, more voluptous. So she was the sexy Mom. Who stole all her daughters' Kens.
Then I started cutting up old clothes and vintage (gasp!) aprons to make Barbie clothes. I was a Barbie fashion designer. I made wraps. I'd put on snaps. I would overlay fabrics. Playing With Barbie became Designing For Barbie. This carried on into high school when I met my bestest friend, Martini. But not with Barbie. No, we were dressing and designing ourselves. We canvassed the thrift stores weekly. Great days were "Bag Days", when you got a hodgepodge of goods. You never knew what gem would be in your bag. Then we would reconstruct the clothes. One time I made a green blue and red paisly long-sleeve shirt into a skirt. Sigh. This was back in the late-80's before thrifting became so trendy and marked-up.
I remember a time in high school, going to a party and meeting Schmitty. Schmitty was an odd duck (seriously, think Duckie from Pretty In Pink). He was just sitting at this party where lots of beer-drinking and acid-dropping occurred. What drew me to Schmitty was the fact that he was just sitting there.....knitting. So I got him to get his lesbian mom to teach me how to knit.
I remember taking a quilting class in high school. Then I became competitive with some other girl in my class to see who could crank out the most "Quilt-In-A-Day" quilts in the year. I made six but I think she won. But that's ok, because I got the boy. We were an early day Craft Corner Deathmatch.
In college, I had Saran Man. Saran Man was inspired by my friend, Katie. Katie took some wire hangers and fashioned a "little man." Then wrapped him up in your favorite color of saran wrap. We all had one sitting in the back seat of our cars because one time Katie's Saran Man got her out of a speeding ticket. Seriously, the cop was not the least bit creeped out or weirded out by a "little man" just hanging in the back seat. So he left her off for her "creativity." Who knew? So, Saran Man then served as our guardian angels.
I watch HGTV. I like craft shows. I could spend a lazy Sunday watching nothing but. Which is ironic if you think about it. If I like crafting so much, shouldn't I be spending that lazy Sunday doing so? Sometimes I do. But I like watching other people's ideas too. The traditional craft shows are so sweater-tied-around-the-neck, this-is-how-my-grandma-did-it, whiskers-on-kittens, blah-di-blah. So rote. But Craft Corner Deathmatch is a craft show that doesn't take itself too seriously. I like to see how two different people approach something as outlandish as making shoes out of wallpaper, boxes out of cards, or pins out of candy.
But let's get to the real meat of this. Should I be embarrased to admit that I have a crush on the host? Yes, people, Jason Jones is kind of hot. He's a blisteringly-animated, overly-anxious, smack-talking, trouble-raising, shrieking maniac! He's as menacing as my purring two-toothed cat who runs from the vacuum. And when he did that V formation with his arms right at unit level, with the slightest thrust, when he was talking about "kahunas." Well, I might be a little in love with him.
So, in the end, I got no point. But I got a message: Competitive Crafting is the new crack. And I'm admitting it here: "I'm addicted."
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
On A Date, I Am A Class Act...Always
So I had the date on Friday, which, going into, I was very nervous about. It was with a guy I briefly dated about a year ago. I blew him off at the time - a case of possible right guy, definitely wrong time. As in, my heart was foolishly somewhere else. But now I am in such a better place. So I contacted him a few weeks ago and after a couple emails, I suggested meeting for a drink. Surprisingly, he agreed.
We were meeting after work - at a bar I had never been to nor heard of. Instead of believing that a guy maybe did want to see me - and maybe even happily - I instead went through all these revenge-seeking scenarios he was going to seek against me. Like...Does this bar really exist? I have never heard of it. Is he sending me on a wild goose chase? Or will he throw a drink over my head? So then do I take my new sizzling leather jacket off before I sit down? He can take my dignity but not ruin my wardrobe. Maybe he will just do the tried and true and stand me up? Maybe he plans on berating me - and all his friends will be in attendance? Everyone will laugh at me. Maybe I will show up naked, forgetting to put on my clothes. Maybe I will have to stand on the bar and recite the Declaration of Independence or sing a Celine Dion song a capella. Whoops...you see, I got creative with these scenarios and they were taking a turn into Scary Things Than Could Happen and my Fear of Public Speaking. So, I got back on track and decided to focus on the outfit - carefully chosen. But by the time Friday 6:00 rolled around my stomach was in a tangled knot of nerves.
I cabbed over and was anxiously propped on the bar stool by 6:15. So the bar did exist! And it couldn't be more perfect. Then he came sauntering out from the back. He couldn't be more relaxed and this made me more relaxed. We jumped right into conversation and didn't stop talking or drinking all night. So I escaped having a drink poured over my head! 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. Yes, it was time to call it a night and he kindly offered to drive me home.
The poor dear. Because somewhere between drink #1 and drink #60, I took a nosedrive into the Outer Limits of Coherence - where wacky hijinks can be had. Here is where the fun really begins.
Things I did on the date I was trying to impress:
Had him pull over so I could throw up on the side of the road. Wait! I'm prone to motion sickness. I throw up on airplanes with the faintest bit of turbulence. I am not drunk. But then again, I started to think that maybe I was. Yep, I think I am. Pull over!
Ran right out of the car, never said "bye" or "thanks" or "let's do this again". Nope, just split. I ran right up to my apartment and laid down on my kitchen floor because nothing says drunk like that.
Then the phone rings...it is him! Downstairs, he wants to come up. I want him to come up! But for the life of me, I can not remember how to buzz him up. I am pushing "pound"..."nine"...is it "three"...don't know how I finally got the door to buzz open, but he made it. Heellllooooiieee...(and there may have been two or three of him).
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. Beauty. What would his answer be? "Well, no, but I will lay on the living room floor with you." It's got carpet! Good idea...I like smart men! Poor guy, he was just obliging me. So I think in the middle of making out there, I excused myself to throw up again. I know what is happening here - I had no food. In hindsight, he should have fed me. Purrr...(my behavior is kind of kitty-like tonight).
And at the end of the night, when he probably decided he had enough of my drunk ass, I capped off his good night kiss with a roll...of the lint brush. The poor dear was covered in cat hair. So I rolled him.
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.
He has called and we laughed about it. So I don't think I scared him away. Besides, I really do not think I could be with a guy who couldn't appreciate the wackiness that will sometimes follow me and a few cocktails.
Although, I regret not being able to remember the kiss. I want a replay. And eventually I'd like to be able to ask him into my bed and not my kitchen floor.
We were meeting after work - at a bar I had never been to nor heard of. Instead of believing that a guy maybe did want to see me - and maybe even happily - I instead went through all these revenge-seeking scenarios he was going to seek against me. Like...Does this bar really exist? I have never heard of it. Is he sending me on a wild goose chase? Or will he throw a drink over my head? So then do I take my new sizzling leather jacket off before I sit down? He can take my dignity but not ruin my wardrobe. Maybe he will just do the tried and true and stand me up? Maybe he plans on berating me - and all his friends will be in attendance? Everyone will laugh at me. Maybe I will show up naked, forgetting to put on my clothes. Maybe I will have to stand on the bar and recite the Declaration of Independence or sing a Celine Dion song a capella. Whoops...you see, I got creative with these scenarios and they were taking a turn into Scary Things Than Could Happen and my Fear of Public Speaking. So, I got back on track and decided to focus on the outfit - carefully chosen. But by the time Friday 6:00 rolled around my stomach was in a tangled knot of nerves.
I cabbed over and was anxiously propped on the bar stool by 6:15. So the bar did exist! And it couldn't be more perfect. Then he came sauntering out from the back. He couldn't be more relaxed and this made me more relaxed. We jumped right into conversation and didn't stop talking or drinking all night. So I escaped having a drink poured over my head! 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. Yes, it was time to call it a night and he kindly offered to drive me home.
The poor dear. Because somewhere between drink #1 and drink #60, I took a nosedrive into the Outer Limits of Coherence - where wacky hijinks can be had. Here is where the fun really begins.
Things I did on the date I was trying to impress:
Had him pull over so I could throw up on the side of the road. Wait! I'm prone to motion sickness. I throw up on airplanes with the faintest bit of turbulence. I am not drunk. But then again, I started to think that maybe I was. Yep, I think I am. Pull over!
Ran right out of the car, never said "bye" or "thanks" or "let's do this again". Nope, just split. I ran right up to my apartment and laid down on my kitchen floor because nothing says drunk like that.
Then the phone rings...it is him! Downstairs, he wants to come up. I want him to come up! But for the life of me, I can not remember how to buzz him up. I am pushing "pound"..."nine"...is it "three"...don't know how I finally got the door to buzz open, but he made it. Heellllooooiieee...(and there may have been two or three of him).
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. Beauty. What would his answer be? "Well, no, but I will lay on the living room floor with you." It's got carpet! Good idea...I like smart men! Poor guy, he was just obliging me. So I think in the middle of making out there, I excused myself to throw up again. I know what is happening here - I had no food. In hindsight, he should have fed me. Purrr...(my behavior is kind of kitty-like tonight).
And at the end of the night, when he probably decided he had enough of my drunk ass, I capped off his good night kiss with a roll...of the lint brush. The poor dear was covered in cat hair. So I rolled him.
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.
He has called and we laughed about it. So I don't think I scared him away. Besides, I really do not think I could be with a guy who couldn't appreciate the wackiness that will sometimes follow me and a few cocktails.
Although, I regret not being able to remember the kiss. I want a replay. And eventually I'd like to be able to ask him into my bed and not my kitchen floor.
Friday, April 08, 2005
I Don't Want To See You Again
Dear Perv,
I gave you the benefit of the doubt and went out with you. Even when I first met you at the bar and you were drunkity-drunk-drunk-drunk and saying very sexually-oriented things. I shrugged it off as drunk - I know drunk - I have compassion for drunk.
So I agreed to go out with you. We hadn't finished one beer yet and you were begging me for a sleepover (back down, Sparky). Then you disgustingly pondered my 91-year old great-aunt's sex life (file that under NOT INTERESTING). Did you not start to notice the one-sided conversations? I'm really not that shy and coy, buddy. Then I mistakenly obliged you and peripherally entered a conversation on sexual experiences and positions. But then you had to go and take it a step further and "enlighten" me on "how 'it' should be done." Here is a tip, never criticize a girl's ex-boyfriend's bed manners.
I could not be more turned off by you at this point. 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."
And so I got rid of you and sent you on your way. Then you started calling me, emailing me, and text messaging me again and again and again. And always drunk. I never called you back. But you kept calling still.
This past week, you tricked me with the "202" area code. I answered. You questioned me on why I never called you back. And I told you it was because my phone didn't work for a while and I must have missed the calls. And I've been busy. And, yes, I realize I am at fault for not being forthright. So I started to feel bad. And then...you went there again. You had to wax on about penis straws and whether or not I like to "drink from them." I suddenly realized you were no longer talking figuratively. You were doing that gross-me-out thing again.
Then this conversation happened:
You: I hate work. Someone here is making my life hell.
Me: ...
You: I am going to crack.
Me: ...
You: Do you ever feel that way?
Me: What do you mean, "crack"?
You: You know - just explode.
Me: Define. Like scream you head off and punch a pillow crack? Or walk out on your job suddenly crack? Or bring a gun to work crack?
You: The first two.
Me: Ok. I think those might qualify on the healthier side of cracking. I vote number one.
You: Actually all three, because they are all one form of cracking.
Me: ???
Me: ooookkkaaayyy...Got to go!
So you see? Now you were doing the creeping-me-out thing.
Now you tell me you are moving back to DC next month and can't wait to see me again. I wonder, how can you even think I'm fun? I'm not very nice to you. But I know what I need to do. I need to be blunt. I realize that you do not understand that I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN. I realize that you do not get that my saying "we'll see" or "I don't know" in response to seeing you again is not the same as NO. (My inability to say "no" is my problem.) So, know this, the next time you do call, I will answer, and I will tell you, "I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN."
Signed, Someone Who Doesn't Want To See You Again
I gave you the benefit of the doubt and went out with you. Even when I first met you at the bar and you were drunkity-drunk-drunk-drunk and saying very sexually-oriented things. I shrugged it off as drunk - I know drunk - I have compassion for drunk.
So I agreed to go out with you. We hadn't finished one beer yet and you were begging me for a sleepover (back down, Sparky). Then you disgustingly pondered my 91-year old great-aunt's sex life (file that under NOT INTERESTING). Did you not start to notice the one-sided conversations? I'm really not that shy and coy, buddy. Then I mistakenly obliged you and peripherally entered a conversation on sexual experiences and positions. But then you had to go and take it a step further and "enlighten" me on "how 'it' should be done." Here is a tip, never criticize a girl's ex-boyfriend's bed manners.
I could not be more turned off by you at this point. 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."
And so I got rid of you and sent you on your way. Then you started calling me, emailing me, and text messaging me again and again and again. And always drunk. I never called you back. But you kept calling still.
This past week, you tricked me with the "202" area code. I answered. You questioned me on why I never called you back. And I told you it was because my phone didn't work for a while and I must have missed the calls. And I've been busy. And, yes, I realize I am at fault for not being forthright. So I started to feel bad. And then...you went there again. You had to wax on about penis straws and whether or not I like to "drink from them." I suddenly realized you were no longer talking figuratively. You were doing that gross-me-out thing again.
Then this conversation happened:
You: I hate work. Someone here is making my life hell.
Me: ...
You: I am going to crack.
Me: ...
You: Do you ever feel that way?
Me: What do you mean, "crack"?
You: You know - just explode.
Me: Define. Like scream you head off and punch a pillow crack? Or walk out on your job suddenly crack? Or bring a gun to work crack?
You: The first two.
Me: Ok. I think those might qualify on the healthier side of cracking. I vote number one.
You: Actually all three, because they are all one form of cracking.
Me: ???
Me: ooookkkaaayyy...Got to go!
So you see? Now you were doing the creeping-me-out thing.
Now you tell me you are moving back to DC next month and can't wait to see me again. I wonder, how can you even think I'm fun? I'm not very nice to you. But I know what I need to do. I need to be blunt. I realize that you do not understand that I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN. I realize that you do not get that my saying "we'll see" or "I don't know" in response to seeing you again is not the same as NO. (My inability to say "no" is my problem.) So, know this, the next time you do call, I will answer, and I will tell you, "I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN."
Signed, Someone Who Doesn't Want To See You Again
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Spring Forward
Time is a funny thing. Springtime breathes new life again. The birds are chirping. The trees are bloating. The leaves are brightening. People are opening their windows. People are alive. Losing that extra hour arouses life anew and propels us forward.
Some people live their whole life looking back. Memories can be sweet and memories can be painful. Sometimes the painful ones eventually turn sweet. But only because of time.
Some memories are neither painful nor sweet - they are stepping stones along the way to Me (or You). It is those memories to learn from and to spring from. They do not linger in any real sense - but only abstractly. Hopefully, they make you a better person.
Some people become bogged down by their memories. And use them as excuses - to not move forward. It stews. I have been guilty of this. I spent six years "with" someone who I knew would never committ emotionally. I rather liked it this way. I thought, "I can't get hurt this way." Because I had been devastated by an old relationship that didn't work out and I didn't want to get too close again. So after that hurt, I found someone with the same fear of getting too close. Together, we stayed - for the friendship, for the attention, and for the understood wall that neither of us was ever going to penetrate. I was hiding behind it. He'd break it down and I'd bust through ocassionally, but we always went back to our respective corners. We understood our place.
Throughout the six years, I did try going out with others. But I always looked for flaws immediately and never gave anybody a chance to get to know me. I always ran back to the arms of Him, knowing that there would never be any pressure. Never any chance to mess up a good thing because it wasn't a "good thing". Most certainly, never any chance of loving each other the way two people should love each other - tenderly, undoubtedly, and unconditionally. And passionately, because there really wasn't any passion come to think of it. In any case, I call it my Chasing Claude complex. (Modeled after a character in a book by Nancy Lehman, Lives of the Saints.) Chasing Claude is a collision course for disaster. It proved to be. I eventually crashed and burned.
See, that was no wall. That was a fucking barbed-wire fence - somewhat penatrable and very prickly.
And so you learn. I am not Chasing Claude anymore. I'm not dwelling on what could have been. It is what it is. And I am better for it. The memory of him isn't painful. It isn't sweet. It just is. It is shaping a new Me.
The new Me called up one of those guys I never gave a fair chance and, surprisingly, he agreed to meet me for drinks. I also have agreed to go out on a date with a friend of a friend. The Match thing is starting to pick up again too. Who knows? But I do know, I will be open-minded and not bogged down by past mistakes that never amounted to anything more than a fleeting memory now.
I happily turned that clock forward last weekend. Who needs an extra hour of sleep anway? There are shrubs to be hedged!
Some people live their whole life looking back. Memories can be sweet and memories can be painful. Sometimes the painful ones eventually turn sweet. But only because of time.
Some memories are neither painful nor sweet - they are stepping stones along the way to Me (or You). It is those memories to learn from and to spring from. They do not linger in any real sense - but only abstractly. Hopefully, they make you a better person.
Some people become bogged down by their memories. And use them as excuses - to not move forward. It stews. I have been guilty of this. I spent six years "with" someone who I knew would never committ emotionally. I rather liked it this way. I thought, "I can't get hurt this way." Because I had been devastated by an old relationship that didn't work out and I didn't want to get too close again. So after that hurt, I found someone with the same fear of getting too close. Together, we stayed - for the friendship, for the attention, and for the understood wall that neither of us was ever going to penetrate. I was hiding behind it. He'd break it down and I'd bust through ocassionally, but we always went back to our respective corners. We understood our place.
Throughout the six years, I did try going out with others. But I always looked for flaws immediately and never gave anybody a chance to get to know me. I always ran back to the arms of Him, knowing that there would never be any pressure. Never any chance to mess up a good thing because it wasn't a "good thing". Most certainly, never any chance of loving each other the way two people should love each other - tenderly, undoubtedly, and unconditionally. And passionately, because there really wasn't any passion come to think of it. In any case, I call it my Chasing Claude complex. (Modeled after a character in a book by Nancy Lehman, Lives of the Saints.) Chasing Claude is a collision course for disaster. It proved to be. I eventually crashed and burned.
See, that was no wall. That was a fucking barbed-wire fence - somewhat penatrable and very prickly.
And so you learn. I am not Chasing Claude anymore. I'm not dwelling on what could have been. It is what it is. And I am better for it. The memory of him isn't painful. It isn't sweet. It just is. It is shaping a new Me.
The new Me called up one of those guys I never gave a fair chance and, surprisingly, he agreed to meet me for drinks. I also have agreed to go out on a date with a friend of a friend. The Match thing is starting to pick up again too. Who knows? But I do know, I will be open-minded and not bogged down by past mistakes that never amounted to anything more than a fleeting memory now.
I happily turned that clock forward last weekend. Who needs an extra hour of sleep anway? There are shrubs to be hedged!
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Table For One
Eating alone is lonely. Eating out in public alone is humbling.
I don't mind dining out alone. But for the experience to be dignified, you have to plan for it and you have to have contingency plans. Even the most seasoned Table For One sometimes messes up and vows never to return.
The first rule of dining alone is to bring a distraction (i.e., reading material). So you look busy - at least too busy to be bothered with company. You are in control and content in your own skin. But my decision to dine out on Saturday afternoon was an afterthought really so I didn't have any reading material with me. Aha! But the restaurant has a City Paper. That would be perfect. Except...there were no more papers to be had. I had no reading material! I decided I would persevere anyway. It was early enough and the restaurant was empty enough. I thought I could be in and out rather quickly.
So I amble to the hostess' counter and meekly say, "Just one, please." She looks at me then proceeds to talk to the other hostess. Huh? I stood there for a good whole minute before another girl - a third hostess - comes over and asks if she can help me. I say again, more confidently this time, "Yes. Table for one, please." She seats me. And she gives me a choice. It was a difficult one. I could sit right in view of the front door. Or by the window - away from the eyesight of the door or passerbys on the main street. This choice is crucial. I was going to need scenery (what with no reading material). I could stare at the front door and people watch. Or I could select the window area - which is more secluded. I select the window. Again - I was going to be in and out quickly....right?
No.
Nobody is taking my order....I have been sitting here for - what - five whole minutes! (When you are a Table For One With Nothing To Read, that can seem like an eternity.) I didn't even need to look at the menu. I said I was ready to order right away. So I wait. Minute after minute. For someone. Anyone. To take my order. My drink order? Hello? Water. Thhhirsssty. De-hy-dra-ted. No one. There are three waitresses (or are those the hostesses?) huddled at their post. I try to wave their attention. Nothing. Bitches. Ten minutes later, I make eye contact and ask if I can order. They nod. Two minutes later, a completely new girl goes to the table behind me to take their order. Their whole party wasn't even seated! So she mosies my way. 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.
In hindsight, I should have ordered it to go. Because - horror of horrors - what does a Table For One With Nothing To Reading NOT want more than anything in the world? A Table Of Three sitting ON TOP OF THEM.
And so the bitches (who clearly hate me) sit a Table Of Three at the table right next to me. When there are about 30 other tables - the whole restaurant really - where they could have sat. This table is ON TOP OF ME. Really. They are so close I could reach out and butter their bread. Or stick a finger in their eye. Now, why? And why didn't they just say, "Could we have this table over here?" Why did they have to sit right ON TOP OF ME? If I enter a very empty restaurant and they want to seat me right ON TOP OF another person. I politely ask to sit somewhere else. It's called personal space.
So, as I am waiting for my food, I am just staring into space because again, I am Table For One With Nothing To Read. I would like to look around. But Table Of Three is, like, blocking my view of the whole restaurant so I would just be staring at them. I thought that might seem impolite. Or stalkerish. So I decide to just sit there and mind my own business - get my chopsticks ready. Look in my purse. Fiddle with my napkin. Take sips of my Coke. You know - general time killers. And then you know what Table Of Three does? They look my way - out the window - right over my head and through my head. And started talking about the weather. And looking outside. La la la. Looking outside. Through my head. While I just stare at the phantom person across the table. (And we are telepathically telling Table Of Three - LOOK AWAY!)
So forget it Table Of Three. You sat ON TOP OF ME. You stared my way for eternity. I'm listening in!
Conversational themes I heard from the table ON TOP OF ME:
Food is my friend!
Guy #1: I just eat when I get hungry. And then I stop when I'm full.
Girl: Me too! I never eat that much so that I get that full feeling. I know when to stop.
I want spicy but not spicy!
Girl to waitress: What should I get? I want noodles. I want spicy. But I can't do Rendang. This indecision is killing me.
We are vegetarians!
Guy #2: I'm vegetarian.
Guy #1: I am too!
Girl: We are all vegetarians! Waitress we are vegetarians - no meat products can touch our plate or in the vicinity of our meal.
{Waitress brings me my meal.}
Table for One: Singapore PORK Fried Rice. Yum! Hi Table Of Three! Maybe you should have taken one of the other 30 TABLES in the restaurant! Bon appetit!
You see, I wasn't alone after all.
I don't mind dining out alone. But for the experience to be dignified, you have to plan for it and you have to have contingency plans. Even the most seasoned Table For One sometimes messes up and vows never to return.
The first rule of dining alone is to bring a distraction (i.e., reading material). So you look busy - at least too busy to be bothered with company. You are in control and content in your own skin. But my decision to dine out on Saturday afternoon was an afterthought really so I didn't have any reading material with me. Aha! But the restaurant has a City Paper. That would be perfect. Except...there were no more papers to be had. I had no reading material! I decided I would persevere anyway. It was early enough and the restaurant was empty enough. I thought I could be in and out rather quickly.
So I amble to the hostess' counter and meekly say, "Just one, please." She looks at me then proceeds to talk to the other hostess. Huh? I stood there for a good whole minute before another girl - a third hostess - comes over and asks if she can help me. I say again, more confidently this time, "Yes. Table for one, please." She seats me. And she gives me a choice. It was a difficult one. I could sit right in view of the front door. Or by the window - away from the eyesight of the door or passerbys on the main street. This choice is crucial. I was going to need scenery (what with no reading material). I could stare at the front door and people watch. Or I could select the window area - which is more secluded. I select the window. Again - I was going to be in and out quickly....right?
No.
Nobody is taking my order....I have been sitting here for - what - five whole minutes! (When you are a Table For One With Nothing To Read, that can seem like an eternity.) I didn't even need to look at the menu. I said I was ready to order right away. So I wait. Minute after minute. For someone. Anyone. To take my order. My drink order? Hello? Water. Thhhirsssty. De-hy-dra-ted. No one. There are three waitresses (or are those the hostesses?) huddled at their post. I try to wave their attention. Nothing. Bitches. Ten minutes later, I make eye contact and ask if I can order. They nod. Two minutes later, a completely new girl goes to the table behind me to take their order. Their whole party wasn't even seated! So she mosies my way. 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.
In hindsight, I should have ordered it to go. Because - horror of horrors - what does a Table For One With Nothing To Reading NOT want more than anything in the world? A Table Of Three sitting ON TOP OF THEM.
And so the bitches (who clearly hate me) sit a Table Of Three at the table right next to me. When there are about 30 other tables - the whole restaurant really - where they could have sat. This table is ON TOP OF ME. Really. They are so close I could reach out and butter their bread. Or stick a finger in their eye. Now, why? And why didn't they just say, "Could we have this table over here?" Why did they have to sit right ON TOP OF ME? If I enter a very empty restaurant and they want to seat me right ON TOP OF another person. I politely ask to sit somewhere else. It's called personal space.
So, as I am waiting for my food, I am just staring into space because again, I am Table For One With Nothing To Read. I would like to look around. But Table Of Three is, like, blocking my view of the whole restaurant so I would just be staring at them. I thought that might seem impolite. Or stalkerish. So I decide to just sit there and mind my own business - get my chopsticks ready. Look in my purse. Fiddle with my napkin. Take sips of my Coke. You know - general time killers. And then you know what Table Of Three does? They look my way - out the window - right over my head and through my head. And started talking about the weather. And looking outside. La la la. Looking outside. Through my head. While I just stare at the phantom person across the table. (And we are telepathically telling Table Of Three - LOOK AWAY!)
So forget it Table Of Three. You sat ON TOP OF ME. You stared my way for eternity. I'm listening in!
Conversational themes I heard from the table ON TOP OF ME:
Food is my friend!
Guy #1: I just eat when I get hungry. And then I stop when I'm full.
Girl: Me too! I never eat that much so that I get that full feeling. I know when to stop.
I want spicy but not spicy!
Girl to waitress: What should I get? I want noodles. I want spicy. But I can't do Rendang. This indecision is killing me.
We are vegetarians!
Guy #2: I'm vegetarian.
Guy #1: I am too!
Girl: We are all vegetarians! Waitress we are vegetarians - no meat products can touch our plate or in the vicinity of our meal.
{Waitress brings me my meal.}
Table for One: Singapore PORK Fried Rice. Yum! Hi Table Of Three! Maybe you should have taken one of the other 30 TABLES in the restaurant! Bon appetit!
You see, I wasn't alone after all.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Plump Up The Volume
One of the best things my brother ever did was marry who he did.
It was a fast courtship. It was also a long distance one. So when you are talking on the phone every night for hours and living hundreds of miles away, what do you do? You get married! Or rather, you elope to a very far away land where nobody will know you. And that is what they did. They hitched their fingers together and jumped to Italy - just the two of them. The pictures sure were pretty. And when they got back, the fun didn't stop! They got married by a justice of the peace to make sure it was legal in the eyes of America. They also did a church ceremony to make sure it was sacred in the eyes of the Lord. And they had receptions everywhere, with this part of the family, then that part of the family. It was a matrimonial whirlwind really. So when you ask me when their anniversary is - I just don't know. My head hurts trying to do the math.
But they did things their way. And it worked. They produced two of the three most beautiful children nearest and dearest to me. They love each other. Very much. Or they are very good actors.
I remember the first time I got to meet my new sister. Mom and Dad had already met her and loved her. But my first time meeting was going to be as sister-in-law. So I had to like her because she was here to stay and I couldn't give my little brother shit about it. So, in my mind, I was going to try my best to like her regardless.
Turns out I didn't have to try, I just did. She was so likable. Easy-going. Warm. Vivacious. Sweet. I felt like I had known her forever. We jumped right into conversation like one we had been carrying on for centuries. I loved her instantly.
She has fabulous taste. She is a great decorator, a terrific cook, and a devoted mom, daughter, sister, wife.
But you know what my favorite thing about her is? She is older than me - by 19 days. So she checks out the age before me. She dips her foot into the water. Shakes it off. Then we hold our breath and dive in together.
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. We regularly bemoan our aging bodies and how we have to work harder at it. So this year we need a plan. And I think we found it. Cosmetic trickery! The Lip Plumper! 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?
Pucker up, Gina!
Happy Birthday, girlie!
It was a fast courtship. It was also a long distance one. So when you are talking on the phone every night for hours and living hundreds of miles away, what do you do? You get married! Or rather, you elope to a very far away land where nobody will know you. And that is what they did. They hitched their fingers together and jumped to Italy - just the two of them. The pictures sure were pretty. And when they got back, the fun didn't stop! They got married by a justice of the peace to make sure it was legal in the eyes of America. They also did a church ceremony to make sure it was sacred in the eyes of the Lord. And they had receptions everywhere, with this part of the family, then that part of the family. It was a matrimonial whirlwind really. So when you ask me when their anniversary is - I just don't know. My head hurts trying to do the math.
But they did things their way. And it worked. They produced two of the three most beautiful children nearest and dearest to me. They love each other. Very much. Or they are very good actors.
I remember the first time I got to meet my new sister. Mom and Dad had already met her and loved her. But my first time meeting was going to be as sister-in-law. So I had to like her because she was here to stay and I couldn't give my little brother shit about it. So, in my mind, I was going to try my best to like her regardless.
Turns out I didn't have to try, I just did. She was so likable. Easy-going. Warm. Vivacious. Sweet. I felt like I had known her forever. We jumped right into conversation like one we had been carrying on for centuries. I loved her instantly.
She has fabulous taste. She is a great decorator, a terrific cook, and a devoted mom, daughter, sister, wife.
But you know what my favorite thing about her is? She is older than me - by 19 days. So she checks out the age before me. She dips her foot into the water. Shakes it off. Then we hold our breath and dive in together.
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. We regularly bemoan our aging bodies and how we have to work harder at it. So this year we need a plan. And I think we found it. Cosmetic trickery! The Lip Plumper! 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?
Pucker up, Gina!
Happy Birthday, girlie!
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Call Waiting, It's Irritating
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.
Seriously. Let's take a look at the facts. I have been accused of sounding aloof, indifferent, and even ditzy on the phone by many boyfriends. Definitely by every boy I have gone out with on more than three dates. Some just gave up after our First Phone Conversation. And then I had to do the pursuing and later they would confess their reason for never calling me back. The reasons are always of the same theme, "You just sounded disinterested."
Lest you think I am being overly sensitive, obsessive, and insecure, it turns out I do have a history of Bad Phone Presence. I can look back on every relationship, courtship, etc. and each First Phone Conversation has always been just - AWKWARD. For me. There might be several reasons for this.
First, I have never liked talking on the phone in the first place. Even with girlfriends. As a teenager, I never even wanted a phone in my room. When I did have a need for it, I would take the phone from my parents room that had a 50-yard extension cord and bring it into my room. Shut up. I'm old. We didn't have cordless phones back then. Why yes, I did walk uphill to school. Both ways.
Second, I am hard of hearing. I need to get that checked. (Wait. I am old. Is hearing the first to go? Or your bladder? Or is it your mind? I think I have proved my Crazy previously. Thankfully, I still have bladder control. Unless you make me laugh really hard, then forget that. So - old? Check then.) But I digress. I can read lips better than I can hear. I'm visual like that. So, the phone? I am always saying "what" into it. This also is why I almost never hear my cell phone ring. But now, I keep that on vibrate. I'm tactile also. But auditory - forget it. Too many rock concerts as a kid. And loud car radio playing. But I'll never learn.
Third, I am soft-spoken, for the most part. The flipside of not hearing? The other person can't hear me half the time either. They are always saying "what" too. So, a typical conversation with me might go like this:
Me: I bought some new shoes today.
You: You fought the Vishnu away?
Me: Where'd you get that?
You: What'd you say?
Me: What? When?
You: Just now.
Me: What?
Which brings me to my fourth problem. I bring up inane shit because I panic. First of all, anybody who knows me knows that I buy shoes ALL THE TIME. Ain't a news flash. But they know you so they think you have more substance than Shoe Buyer, Mistress of DSW. So they think you must be telling something newsworthy - like fighting Vishnu. Only, not. But what guy wants to hear that I bought new shoes today? I might mention it to fill in some empty space or the panic sets in and I might mention it at the most inopportune time, like he could be telling me that he just broke his foot and I'll think, foot = shoes = I bought some. Something in common! So I will blurt "I bought new shoes today!" Until he is like, "Gotta go!"
Fifth, I try too hard to be Cool Breezy Chick. "Oh, you are calling me back." "Great." "Whatever." "Whenever." "If you do you do, if you don't you don't." "I don't care." "Maybe, maybe not." "OK." "I might." "See ya!" Breezy turns into a fucking windstorm of Confusion. You see? It always ends up backfiring and I end up being aloof and uninteresting. Classic story of Girl sits by phone. Phone never rings. Girl ponders what went wrong. Cool Breezy Check morphs into Irate Insecure Freak.
Finally, First Phone Conversations demand my full, undivided attention. That means no noise or visual stimulus. I turn the TV off. I unplug the humming refrigerator. I shut the windows. I'll cut off the A/C. Muffle my cat. Sit in a corner and stare at a bare wall. You get the picture. Concentration. Right. I did say I can't hear. But really the undivided attention is necessary for me not to blurt out something stupid like, oh I don't know, say "I love you!" People, I have this unhealthy fear that I will blurt out "I love you" at the end of the call! See? I am a freak. Who does that? Nobody, right? But I am afraid I will be that person.
Or, can my Bad Phone Presence and the subsequent demise of any Second Phone Conversation be boiled down to Karmic Justice? For all the times I never call back boys I am not interested in. I have been smited for my bad ways.
So they never call back. Atleast not the ones that I want to call back. But the ones I don't care about? I am probably Cool Chick on the phone. Which brings me to today. The boring guy from coffee last week called and asked me out again. Unenlightened Me would just not return the call, thinking that is much nicer than calling him and telling him, "Thanks, but no thanks." But let's try to turn the karma around in my favor. I will call him back and politely decline. But only after I put my hearing aid in, clear my voice, and write a script. Maybe it will start with, "I bought new shoes today." And end with, "I love you." That should lose him over, right?
Seriously. Let's take a look at the facts. I have been accused of sounding aloof, indifferent, and even ditzy on the phone by many boyfriends. Definitely by every boy I have gone out with on more than three dates. Some just gave up after our First Phone Conversation. And then I had to do the pursuing and later they would confess their reason for never calling me back. The reasons are always of the same theme, "You just sounded disinterested."
Lest you think I am being overly sensitive, obsessive, and insecure, it turns out I do have a history of Bad Phone Presence. I can look back on every relationship, courtship, etc. and each First Phone Conversation has always been just - AWKWARD. For me. There might be several reasons for this.
First, I have never liked talking on the phone in the first place. Even with girlfriends. As a teenager, I never even wanted a phone in my room. When I did have a need for it, I would take the phone from my parents room that had a 50-yard extension cord and bring it into my room. Shut up. I'm old. We didn't have cordless phones back then. Why yes, I did walk uphill to school. Both ways.
Second, I am hard of hearing. I need to get that checked. (Wait. I am old. Is hearing the first to go? Or your bladder? Or is it your mind? I think I have proved my Crazy previously. Thankfully, I still have bladder control. Unless you make me laugh really hard, then forget that. So - old? Check then.) But I digress. I can read lips better than I can hear. I'm visual like that. So, the phone? I am always saying "what" into it. This also is why I almost never hear my cell phone ring. But now, I keep that on vibrate. I'm tactile also. But auditory - forget it. Too many rock concerts as a kid. And loud car radio playing. But I'll never learn.
Third, I am soft-spoken, for the most part. The flipside of not hearing? The other person can't hear me half the time either. They are always saying "what" too. So, a typical conversation with me might go like this:
Me: I bought some new shoes today.
You: You fought the Vishnu away?
Me: Where'd you get that?
You: What'd you say?
Me: What? When?
You: Just now.
Me: What?
Which brings me to my fourth problem. I bring up inane shit because I panic. First of all, anybody who knows me knows that I buy shoes ALL THE TIME. Ain't a news flash. But they know you so they think you have more substance than Shoe Buyer, Mistress of DSW. So they think you must be telling something newsworthy - like fighting Vishnu. Only, not. But what guy wants to hear that I bought new shoes today? I might mention it to fill in some empty space or the panic sets in and I might mention it at the most inopportune time, like he could be telling me that he just broke his foot and I'll think, foot = shoes = I bought some. Something in common! So I will blurt "I bought new shoes today!" Until he is like, "Gotta go!"
Fifth, I try too hard to be Cool Breezy Chick. "Oh, you are calling me back." "Great." "Whatever." "Whenever." "If you do you do, if you don't you don't." "I don't care." "Maybe, maybe not." "OK." "I might." "See ya!" Breezy turns into a fucking windstorm of Confusion. You see? It always ends up backfiring and I end up being aloof and uninteresting. Classic story of Girl sits by phone. Phone never rings. Girl ponders what went wrong. Cool Breezy Check morphs into Irate Insecure Freak.
Finally, First Phone Conversations demand my full, undivided attention. That means no noise or visual stimulus. I turn the TV off. I unplug the humming refrigerator. I shut the windows. I'll cut off the A/C. Muffle my cat. Sit in a corner and stare at a bare wall. You get the picture. Concentration. Right. I did say I can't hear. But really the undivided attention is necessary for me not to blurt out something stupid like, oh I don't know, say "I love you!" People, I have this unhealthy fear that I will blurt out "I love you" at the end of the call! See? I am a freak. Who does that? Nobody, right? But I am afraid I will be that person.
Or, can my Bad Phone Presence and the subsequent demise of any Second Phone Conversation be boiled down to Karmic Justice? For all the times I never call back boys I am not interested in. I have been smited for my bad ways.
So they never call back. Atleast not the ones that I want to call back. But the ones I don't care about? I am probably Cool Chick on the phone. Which brings me to today. The boring guy from coffee last week called and asked me out again. Unenlightened Me would just not return the call, thinking that is much nicer than calling him and telling him, "Thanks, but no thanks." But let's try to turn the karma around in my favor. I will call him back and politely decline. But only after I put my hearing aid in, clear my voice, and write a script. Maybe it will start with, "I bought new shoes today." And end with, "I love you." That should lose him over, right?
Friday, March 25, 2005
How Is This For Wasting Your Time?
It is nice to see what the Internets think of me (via Googlism).
Lara is so cool.
Lara is certain of being able to break many world athletic records and so sees no challenge in this herself.
Lara is here to sizzle.
Lara is a limited edition cold.
Lara is further proof that she is too much a force of nature to be contained within the game world.
Lara is seen running through the air.
Lara is out there.
Lara is hot.
Lara is facing exactly north.
Lara is enabling a new generation of innovative applications.
Lara is a beautiful woman that can jump.
Lara is in kindergarten and she loves school.
Lara is a first grader now.
Lara is currently accepting new training horses in anticipation of her new inside barn.
Lara is in Ireland with her friend Alex Stewart.
Lara is synthetic does not lessen her appeal.
I'd like to thank Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft for making my name's internet stock go way up.
Lara is so cool.
Lara is certain of being able to break many world athletic records and so sees no challenge in this herself.
Lara is here to sizzle.
Lara is a limited edition cold.
Lara is further proof that she is too much a force of nature to be contained within the game world.
Lara is seen running through the air.
Lara is out there.
Lara is hot.
Lara is facing exactly north.
Lara is enabling a new generation of innovative applications.
Lara is a beautiful woman that can jump.
Lara is in kindergarten and she loves school.
Lara is a first grader now.
Lara is currently accepting new training horses in anticipation of her new inside barn.
Lara is in Ireland with her friend Alex Stewart.
Lara is synthetic does not lessen her appeal.
I'd like to thank Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft for making my name's internet stock go way up.
A Movable Feast
Easter. It is all about the candy.
I plan on eating lots of it this weekend.
...Cadbury Caramel Eggs...Cadbury Mini Eggs...Jellybeans...Peeps...Malted MilkEggs...Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs...Solid Milk Chocolate Easter Bunny...
{Sigh}
To be a kid again...and to not have to worry about those eggs going straight to my thighs.
To be a kid again...and have my basket of delight hidden for me to find.
To be a kid again...and put on my Easter dress that my grandma handstitched.
To be a kid again...and have my Dad make keilbasi for dinner.
To be a kid again...and smell sauerkraut and keilbasi stinking up the house.
To be a kid again...and trade and barter candies with my brother and sister.
To be a kid again...and eat my chocolate bunny in stages - ears first.
To be a kid again...and not have to worry about that bunny going right to my own cottontail.
A million and one people don't lie: "I'm getting older. My metabolism is not what it used to be." Yeah. Slowed Down Metabolism is a bitch.
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.
I plan on eating lots of it this weekend.
...Cadbury Caramel Eggs...Cadbury Mini Eggs...Jellybeans...Peeps...Malted MilkEggs...Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs...Solid Milk Chocolate Easter Bunny...
{Sigh}
To be a kid again...and to not have to worry about those eggs going straight to my thighs.
To be a kid again...and have my basket of delight hidden for me to find.
To be a kid again...and put on my Easter dress that my grandma handstitched.
To be a kid again...and have my Dad make keilbasi for dinner.
To be a kid again...and smell sauerkraut and keilbasi stinking up the house.
To be a kid again...and trade and barter candies with my brother and sister.
To be a kid again...and eat my chocolate bunny in stages - ears first.
To be a kid again...and not have to worry about that bunny going right to my own cottontail.
A million and one people don't lie: "I'm getting older. My metabolism is not what it used to be." Yeah. Slowed Down Metabolism is a bitch.
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.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Cleaning For Holiday...Scratch That, Cleaning For Crazy
I took a Mental Health Day yesterday. Most people might spend that day shopping or lazing around and reading a book or watching tv. Not me. You know what I do? I clean.
The kind of cleaning I am talking about is floor-to-ceiling, corner-to-corner cleaning. I move the furniture so that I can vacuum underneath and not just around. I clean out my closets to make room for the new clothes I keep buying. I scrub the inside and top of the refrigerator and get rid of anything that smells or breathes. And I put the oven that I never use on self-clean. Whenever I feel uneasiness in my life, I find that head-to-toe cleaning of my living space has some kind of calming effect on my psyche. Cleaning out my shit to get on with my shit.
Let me present to you the gloriousness of My Day Off.
Drinking in the AM! I took a break from cleaning to watch The View and they were talking their "hot topics" so I felt the only way I could properly participate in dishing was with drink in hand. So I made a martini. I'm a social drinker. But the episode was from January and they were talking about the "upcoming" Super Bowl and discussinig Nipple-gate AGAIN - a year later. So they weren't live and I no longer felt I was drinking with The Girls. So I drank fast.
Dancing! I did the at-home-whilst-raining-dance all damn day. Literally. It involves a lot of tail-wagging, some John Travolta a la Saturday Night Fever, some Beyonce, and a lot of Billy Idol fist-pumping. So as I was trying out all these moves in one tandem routine, I decided to try out The Upside-Down Microphone. It involves a Power Ballad, holding the mic upside down while you sing to the sky, or in my case, the Rain Gods. Then I wished I was at Karaoke. Cuz all these great moves were being wasted. Then, 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.
Lot of exercise! Besides the cardio-burning dancing and general laughing my ass off, I know that vigorous house-cleaning also counts as cardio-exercise. You can burn 250 calories an hour! Who knew? Plus there was a lot of strength-training in there (furniture moving, vacuum pushing and mopping, and martini shaking) and some stretching (reaching up to the top of the fridge and closets, etc.).
All this exercising paved the way for guilt-free indulging. So I ate a pint of Dulce de Leche and four Peppridge Farm Nantuckets and a bowl of popcorn. And probably another martini.
At the end of the day, the best need for the clean house is that my bathroom floor is sparkly, shiny, lickety clean. So I can sleep on it. Which I totally do when I am drunk. Which is often. But I knew I wouldn't appreciate this truth when the opportunity came, 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.
Y'all I cleaned myself to crazy.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Ennui: Not So Far To Go
[Cue: harmonica. Oh, and make yourself a jack and coke.]
I am trying to think of something to write about. The fact of the matter is that I am bored. In both my professional and personal life. I'd like to put a funny story up here but all the funny is happening to everyone else these days. I realize I am just experiencing one of those ruts I think we all experience from time to time. 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 looking for a new job. I certainly can't complain about my job. I feel appreciated and I know I am compensated fairly. It is just that there is not much work these days to keep my days busy. I feel so intellectually stationary right now. Must do more crosswords. I seriously feel like I am seconds away from being Milton from Office Space. Using my office as storage space, using my office as the supply closet, and eventually relocating me to the basement. And holding up my paycheck. So until I find a new job that challenges me I will try to keep busy by journaling. Hello blog - you are my occupation (of mind and time). Stapler, anyone?
I am "dating" again. To those who know me, it is no secret that my heart was broken by the Bayou Boob. I could certainly whine about the fucked-up life he is heading towards. (What a lovely meal of bitter. Pass the salt!) Instead, I am going to take care of myself. And I won't look back because I know from experience that in order to move on permanently, you have to move on emotionally. So I am testing the waters of online dating. But...I had a date on Sunday and I wish I could say YEAH or PSHAW, but all I can muster is a grunt of MEH. BLAH. YAWN. It wasn't a bad date. It just was just...boring. See the theme here?
So I am in a rut y'all.
Nothing a stiff drink, buckets of money, and a GOOD MAN can't turn around. Can I skip ahead to that page? Because this story seriously needs to move along...
I am trying to think of something to write about. The fact of the matter is that I am bored. In both my professional and personal life. I'd like to put a funny story up here but all the funny is happening to everyone else these days. I realize I am just experiencing one of those ruts I think we all experience from time to time. 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 looking for a new job. I certainly can't complain about my job. I feel appreciated and I know I am compensated fairly. It is just that there is not much work these days to keep my days busy. I feel so intellectually stationary right now. Must do more crosswords. I seriously feel like I am seconds away from being Milton from Office Space. Using my office as storage space, using my office as the supply closet, and eventually relocating me to the basement. And holding up my paycheck. So until I find a new job that challenges me I will try to keep busy by journaling. Hello blog - you are my occupation (of mind and time). Stapler, anyone?
I am "dating" again. To those who know me, it is no secret that my heart was broken by the Bayou Boob. I could certainly whine about the fucked-up life he is heading towards. (What a lovely meal of bitter. Pass the salt!) Instead, I am going to take care of myself. And I won't look back because I know from experience that in order to move on permanently, you have to move on emotionally. So I am testing the waters of online dating. But...I had a date on Sunday and I wish I could say YEAH or PSHAW, but all I can muster is a grunt of MEH. BLAH. YAWN. It wasn't a bad date. It just was just...boring. See the theme here?
So I am in a rut y'all.
Nothing a stiff drink, buckets of money, and a GOOD MAN can't turn around. Can I skip ahead to that page? Because this story seriously needs to move along...
Friday, March 18, 2005
A Girl And A Car
Last night I saw a Karmann Ghia. Rare in DC, but where I grew up, not so rare. I have always had a crush on this car. I think about the person who drives it - and what kind of person would drive it. I'd like to meet that person. Might it be somebody like Art?
High school.
Art crushed me.
Was it his beautiful, perfect face? The surfer hairstyle he sported - side-parted, swept over his eye? His flawlessly-chiseled and bronzed face? His beautiful teeth and gorgeous smile? The single smile that always knocked me down.
Or was it his charming ways? Like the time he signed my yearbook, bluntly and youthfully writing that I was "...super hot, pretty, fine, etc." I wasn't "sweet", I could be desirous. And the time he gave me his phone number to "call" him over the summer. A phone number memorized but never called.
Or was it because he always paid attention to me, even though I was Am's little sister? Like the time he came over to my house when my parents were out of town and word got out around school that my sister was throwing a party. Only she wasn't even home. But I was and I was in my bedroom drawing. He came back into my room and sat down on my bed for a bit and liked what I was drawing and talked with me before his friends begged him to leave. He was in my bedroom.
Or was it because he always made me feel special? Like the time time I was broken - physically and mentally - after a car accident. When my braces ripped right through my bottom lip and I had 200+ stitches holding my bottom lip together. I was 15. I felt ugly. I couldn't move my mouth to smile. Art stroked my head. The compassionate smile and the tender look in his eye said I was pretty.
Or was it because he had great taste in music? We liked the same bands, went to the same shows. Did it help that he had a band in college that came back to play at my high school reunion party? Rock star points will get you everywhere.
Or was it the day he drove to school in his new car? A beautiful emerald green Karmann Ghia.
I don't know. I never got to ride in the Karmann Ghia.
High school.
Art crushed me.
Was it his beautiful, perfect face? The surfer hairstyle he sported - side-parted, swept over his eye? His flawlessly-chiseled and bronzed face? His beautiful teeth and gorgeous smile? The single smile that always knocked me down.
Or was it his charming ways? Like the time he signed my yearbook, bluntly and youthfully writing that I was "...super hot, pretty, fine, etc." I wasn't "sweet", I could be desirous. And the time he gave me his phone number to "call" him over the summer. A phone number memorized but never called.
Or was it because he always paid attention to me, even though I was Am's little sister? Like the time he came over to my house when my parents were out of town and word got out around school that my sister was throwing a party. Only she wasn't even home. But I was and I was in my bedroom drawing. He came back into my room and sat down on my bed for a bit and liked what I was drawing and talked with me before his friends begged him to leave. He was in my bedroom.
Or was it because he always made me feel special? Like the time time I was broken - physically and mentally - after a car accident. When my braces ripped right through my bottom lip and I had 200+ stitches holding my bottom lip together. I was 15. I felt ugly. I couldn't move my mouth to smile. Art stroked my head. The compassionate smile and the tender look in his eye said I was pretty.
Or was it because he had great taste in music? We liked the same bands, went to the same shows. Did it help that he had a band in college that came back to play at my high school reunion party? Rock star points will get you everywhere.
Or was it the day he drove to school in his new car? A beautiful emerald green Karmann Ghia.
I don't know. I never got to ride in the Karmann Ghia.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Let The Madness Begin
I'm a girly-girl. I think most of my friends would agree. But I love sports. And I take issue with the phrasing of that declaration, self. "But?" Girly-girls can't like sports? Of course we can! And I'm here to tell you about it.
I'm sure it started very young, probably in the womb. But my earliest memory of playing "ball" was when we lived in Connecticut and I was maybe 6-7. My dad was a real hands-on kind of dad and when he got home from work, it was all about us kids. That is when he started our weekly ball games. He was the pitcher, two of us would field and one would be the batter, and my brother, sister, and I would play against each other. But we also supported each other in the field, so we would have to work together. It was a good combination of team-playing and healthy competition. We anxiously awaited daddy coming home to continue The Game.
Then we moved to Florida and my parents immediately signed us up for every sport that was available. I played soccer, softball, basketball (short-lived), and swam competitively. My dad was often the coach for one of our teams. He taught us the game. He showed us the game. He would share stories of his own experiences playing as a kid. You knew how every position worked - and how they worked together as a team. It was never really about winning but doing the best you can, enjoying yourself, and making sure everyone had a fair chance. In fact, we were often - but not always - the losing team when my dad coached because he believed in nuturing everyone's natural ability. He figured if you were there to play, then play you will. All's he expected from you is that you try your best. His believing in you inspired a desirous effort to do the best you can. Years later, when my dad would run into a kid he had coached 10-20 years earlier, they still affectionately referred to him as "Coach Ski". He loved that.
Not only did we play, we watched sports. Even my mom. I always admired that my mom could chat sports with their friends. And we always went to see the Los Angeles Dodgers spring training games in Vero Beach, where I developed this insane crush on Steve Garvey. I had posters of him and one time I remember, in particular, Dodgertown was hosting fan appreciation day so my dad took me to get my picture taken with Steve and have him sign my mitt. Well, he was swarmed with fans and I couldn't get close enough. I was probably 8 and my dad took me up on his shoulders - or maybe he picked me up - but I was at a high enough height that I could get his attention. I yelled out his name, "Steve!...Steve!..." He looked up and....winked at me! But not only that he called me and my dad over and posed for a picture with me. My first crush on an athlete - and an older man.
There was no escaping the world of sports. And it may sound like it was forced on us. It wasn't. It was a natural existence and one I didn't mind. We were always allowed to make our own decisions about playing or not playing. When I delved into the world of art and gave up sports for a couple years, my parents were fine with that. It was all about passion. Find your passion. And the only way you will find your passion is by trying new things. So then they went out and bought me the best paints, pastels, pencils, paper, and art supplies any young budding artist should want.
I think the best story to sum up how my dad's love of sports impacted how my brother, sister, and I approached sports involves my brother. My bro, The Jock. The Jock excelled at every stinking sport he played (MVP, MVP, MVP, college scholarship, etc.) But it was a particular award he received while playing football in high school that touched my parents deeply. It wasn't an award for the best athlete, which he would undoubtedly deserve. But this award was for the best all-around player. The player, who in addition to being a great asset to the team, always gave 110 per cent (even though Coach Cornball sucked). The player who inspired his teammates. The player, really, with the most heart.
So, really, it is this kind of Spirit of the Game that excited my dad and that he passed on to his kids. He loved March Madness and I do too. It's got a whole hell of a lot of Spirit. That is true with college sports. Professional sports - which I do watch - are tainted with greed (bloated salaries), glorified "all-star teams" (hi Yankees), and altered strength (steroids). Its athletes are also too perfect - the game too polished. But college sports still has the Heart and thrives on the imperfections of young athletes. The college game is more fresh. Sure, there are under-the-table incentives, the occasional envelope stuffed with cash, ethical lapses, questionable conference reshuffling, recruiting scandals, the BCS debate, Wide Right, etc. It is what it is. It's an athletic competition, but one still rife with home-grown rivalries, alumni loyalty, tradition, pep bands, and the cutest mascots (I'm looking at you Uga). Give me the thrown visers, dadgummits, College Gameday, and the pageantry of The Big Dance any day.
So, daddy, this tip-off is for you. I hope you are watching.
I'm sure it started very young, probably in the womb. But my earliest memory of playing "ball" was when we lived in Connecticut and I was maybe 6-7. My dad was a real hands-on kind of dad and when he got home from work, it was all about us kids. That is when he started our weekly ball games. He was the pitcher, two of us would field and one would be the batter, and my brother, sister, and I would play against each other. But we also supported each other in the field, so we would have to work together. It was a good combination of team-playing and healthy competition. We anxiously awaited daddy coming home to continue The Game.
Then we moved to Florida and my parents immediately signed us up for every sport that was available. I played soccer, softball, basketball (short-lived), and swam competitively. My dad was often the coach for one of our teams. He taught us the game. He showed us the game. He would share stories of his own experiences playing as a kid. You knew how every position worked - and how they worked together as a team. It was never really about winning but doing the best you can, enjoying yourself, and making sure everyone had a fair chance. In fact, we were often - but not always - the losing team when my dad coached because he believed in nuturing everyone's natural ability. He figured if you were there to play, then play you will. All's he expected from you is that you try your best. His believing in you inspired a desirous effort to do the best you can. Years later, when my dad would run into a kid he had coached 10-20 years earlier, they still affectionately referred to him as "Coach Ski". He loved that.
Not only did we play, we watched sports. Even my mom. I always admired that my mom could chat sports with their friends. And we always went to see the Los Angeles Dodgers spring training games in Vero Beach, where I developed this insane crush on Steve Garvey. I had posters of him and one time I remember, in particular, Dodgertown was hosting fan appreciation day so my dad took me to get my picture taken with Steve and have him sign my mitt. Well, he was swarmed with fans and I couldn't get close enough. I was probably 8 and my dad took me up on his shoulders - or maybe he picked me up - but I was at a high enough height that I could get his attention. I yelled out his name, "Steve!...Steve!..." He looked up and....winked at me! But not only that he called me and my dad over and posed for a picture with me. My first crush on an athlete - and an older man.
There was no escaping the world of sports. And it may sound like it was forced on us. It wasn't. It was a natural existence and one I didn't mind. We were always allowed to make our own decisions about playing or not playing. When I delved into the world of art and gave up sports for a couple years, my parents were fine with that. It was all about passion. Find your passion. And the only way you will find your passion is by trying new things. So then they went out and bought me the best paints, pastels, pencils, paper, and art supplies any young budding artist should want.
I think the best story to sum up how my dad's love of sports impacted how my brother, sister, and I approached sports involves my brother. My bro, The Jock. The Jock excelled at every stinking sport he played (MVP, MVP, MVP, college scholarship, etc.) But it was a particular award he received while playing football in high school that touched my parents deeply. It wasn't an award for the best athlete, which he would undoubtedly deserve. But this award was for the best all-around player. The player, who in addition to being a great asset to the team, always gave 110 per cent (even though Coach Cornball sucked). The player who inspired his teammates. The player, really, with the most heart.
So, really, it is this kind of Spirit of the Game that excited my dad and that he passed on to his kids. He loved March Madness and I do too. It's got a whole hell of a lot of Spirit. That is true with college sports. Professional sports - which I do watch - are tainted with greed (bloated salaries), glorified "all-star teams" (hi Yankees), and altered strength (steroids). Its athletes are also too perfect - the game too polished. But college sports still has the Heart and thrives on the imperfections of young athletes. The college game is more fresh. Sure, there are under-the-table incentives, the occasional envelope stuffed with cash, ethical lapses, questionable conference reshuffling, recruiting scandals, the BCS debate, Wide Right, etc. It is what it is. It's an athletic competition, but one still rife with home-grown rivalries, alumni loyalty, tradition, pep bands, and the cutest mascots (I'm looking at you Uga). Give me the thrown visers, dadgummits, College Gameday, and the pageantry of The Big Dance any day.
So, daddy, this tip-off is for you. I hope you are watching.
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