This just in:
"We think Hello Kitty is accepted by young men as a design statement in fashion," he said.
...so said the chap as he rode off in the sunset on a pink vintage Strawberry Sizzler bike.
Vroom vroom.
Oh. And this:
"Young men these days grew up with character goods," said Tohmatsu. "That generation feels no embarrassment about wearing Hello Kitty."
Heh.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
It's Not You It's Me
After several months of a Goldilocks-storied dating experience: “this one’s too little” “this one’s too whiny” “this one’s too wimpy” “this one’s too shady” "this one's deathly thin" “this one can’t get from point A to point B without a momma” – a too-this, too-that, not-the-one, moving-on kind of pattern, I may have stumbled into Baby Bear's bed.
But not before I questioned whether my expectations are way too high – the cookie jar that even my highest stilettos will never reach. Or, is it that I am just that non-committal and actually relish spending Saturday nights alone in my Juicy Couture with a baked potato and a bag of gummy bears and a bottle of wine? I can entertain myself after all.
But then I have that date that makes me realize that I am not an unsatisfied Goldilocks. I’m not swinging from the chandeliers, mind you. I am in no way saying that this Baby Bear is The One. I'm in no way saying that he knocks my socks off. But it is refreshing that he warrants a second peek.
But now, after that second date, I am right back to being the unsatisfied Goldilocks. I could list a million reasons why whilst lounging in my Juicy sweats and talking to the make-believe dog; or, I could push those thoughts away and go for the third date.
But not before I questioned whether my expectations are way too high – the cookie jar that even my highest stilettos will never reach. Or, is it that I am just that non-committal and actually relish spending Saturday nights alone in my Juicy Couture with a baked potato and a bag of gummy bears and a bottle of wine? I can entertain myself after all.
But then I have that date that makes me realize that I am not an unsatisfied Goldilocks. I’m not swinging from the chandeliers, mind you. I am in no way saying that this Baby Bear is The One. I'm in no way saying that he knocks my socks off. But it is refreshing that he warrants a second peek.
But now, after that second date, I am right back to being the unsatisfied Goldilocks. I could list a million reasons why whilst lounging in my Juicy sweats and talking to the make-believe dog; or, I could push those thoughts away and go for the third date.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
And my t-shirt says: I blog the mundane details of my life
July flew by without a document. So this bulleted where-ya-been post will have to do to fill in a July entry. It pains me to do this.
I started a post called N.O. I DO Get to Go, which means I did get to go. To New Orleans. It was going to be in answer to this post but I'm not feeling very sappy. The punchline was going to be something along the lines of New Orleans being more depressed than I could ever imagine to be. I know! Who needs another Original Me self-indulgent weep fest? Because the trip, the city, was not at all what I imagined it to be. Sadly.
I've been to the beach a couple times. Once with Mav and Morgan (Pierre, to you). Naturally all kinds of hilarity ensued. That led up to the post I never finished called, The One Where They Call Me John. But I have retired the John alter ego because I never really liked "that John person" anyway. That is part of the character. But that post would have been very you-had-to-be-there in an abstract way. (On second thought, that post is coming to a blog near you, as I am chuckling thinking about it. Heh.)
I ran into this guy and became a Missed Connection. Or not. I blew it though. That might warrant a story. We will call that one, Love Me Two Times, or more likely, Hate Me Today. You may not want to say to a guy you run into (whom you spent one weekend two summers ago running your fingers through his hair), "Do you have lumps on the back of your head?" as the distinguishing indentification recognition (or pickup line) when you can't remember his name. Ahh...Kevin! A day late and a bus short, indeed.
Next month: family time, Outer Banks, and a Tavern on the Green wedding.
In the meantime: looking forward to John Doe tonight, welcoming a new friend to the neighborhood on Wednesday, condo board dramatics on Thursday. and obsessively watching Flight of the Conchords over and over again.
Inspiration will come to me soon...
I started a post called N.O. I DO Get to Go, which means I did get to go. To New Orleans. It was going to be in answer to this post but I'm not feeling very sappy. The punchline was going to be something along the lines of New Orleans being more depressed than I could ever imagine to be. I know! Who needs another Original Me self-indulgent weep fest? Because the trip, the city, was not at all what I imagined it to be. Sadly.
I've been to the beach a couple times. Once with Mav and Morgan (Pierre, to you). Naturally all kinds of hilarity ensued. That led up to the post I never finished called, The One Where They Call Me John. But I have retired the John alter ego because I never really liked "that John person" anyway. That is part of the character. But that post would have been very you-had-to-be-there in an abstract way. (On second thought, that post is coming to a blog near you, as I am chuckling thinking about it. Heh.)
I ran into this guy and became a Missed Connection. Or not. I blew it though. That might warrant a story. We will call that one, Love Me Two Times, or more likely, Hate Me Today. You may not want to say to a guy you run into (whom you spent one weekend two summers ago running your fingers through his hair), "Do you have lumps on the back of your head?" as the distinguishing indentification recognition (or pickup line) when you can't remember his name. Ahh...Kevin! A day late and a bus short, indeed.
Next month: family time, Outer Banks, and a Tavern on the Green wedding.
In the meantime: looking forward to John Doe tonight, welcoming a new friend to the neighborhood on Wednesday, condo board dramatics on Thursday. and obsessively watching Flight of the Conchords over and over again.
Inspiration will come to me soon...
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Answering the Call
“My grief lies all within,
And these external manners of lament
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
That swells with silence in the tortured soul”
--Shakespeare
Five years ago, June 30 fell on a Saturday too. The night before I "inadvertently" called my parent’s home phone – I was trying to reach some friend. Who? I can’t really remember. But I mistakenly punched in "mom and daddy" in my contact list. My daddy answered, awoken from his slumber, his temperature already spiked, no doubt Death already making a bed for him at the Inn. The disorientation would happen later on Saturday, the disorientation that would prompt my mom and dad to say, "Something is not right." But my daddy answered the phone and I had one last conversation with him that went pretty much like this: “Oops! Hi Daddy! (giggle) Did I wake you? I meant to call (so-and-so). So sorry!” What I can’t remember is if I said "I love you." I often said "I love you." I hoped I did that time. I’m afraid I probably didn’t. But I just don't know. That same cell phone would be tucked away in my purse the next night, June 30. Me, oblivious to its constant ring over the evening, my family's repeated calls to tell me, "Something is not right." When I finally stumbled home I was able to retrieve the messages and talk to my brother and imagine that haunting image of my daddy, the protector, the funniest man alive, lying in a hospital bed, glazed eyes, hooked up to a respirator with no jokes to tell. I laid on my bed bargaining with...someone, waiting for my daddy to call me. After what felt like hours with no word, but was probably more like 10 minutes, I dialed my mom's number, my brother's number...No one was answering their phones....Five years later, I still wonder if that "no cell phone policy in hospital rooms" meant that my phone call attempts conflicted with the respirator's frequency that just couldn’t pump life back into him anymore. That one phone that got through to him the night before.
And these external manners of lament
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
That swells with silence in the tortured soul”
--Shakespeare
Five years ago, June 30 fell on a Saturday too. The night before I "inadvertently" called my parent’s home phone – I was trying to reach some friend. Who? I can’t really remember. But I mistakenly punched in "mom and daddy" in my contact list. My daddy answered, awoken from his slumber, his temperature already spiked, no doubt Death already making a bed for him at the Inn. The disorientation would happen later on Saturday, the disorientation that would prompt my mom and dad to say, "Something is not right." But my daddy answered the phone and I had one last conversation with him that went pretty much like this: “Oops! Hi Daddy! (giggle) Did I wake you? I meant to call (so-and-so). So sorry!” What I can’t remember is if I said "I love you." I often said "I love you." I hoped I did that time. I’m afraid I probably didn’t. But I just don't know. That same cell phone would be tucked away in my purse the next night, June 30. Me, oblivious to its constant ring over the evening, my family's repeated calls to tell me, "Something is not right." When I finally stumbled home I was able to retrieve the messages and talk to my brother and imagine that haunting image of my daddy, the protector, the funniest man alive, lying in a hospital bed, glazed eyes, hooked up to a respirator with no jokes to tell. I laid on my bed bargaining with...someone, waiting for my daddy to call me. After what felt like hours with no word, but was probably more like 10 minutes, I dialed my mom's number, my brother's number...No one was answering their phones....Five years later, I still wonder if that "no cell phone policy in hospital rooms" meant that my phone call attempts conflicted with the respirator's frequency that just couldn’t pump life back into him anymore. That one phone that got through to him the night before.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
This just in: Grown Woman With Job, Car, House, and Pretend Dog...NEEDS Her Momma
Paris Hilton recently displayed an all too familiar truth that painfully prodded me to say about a girl I seemingly have nothing in common with, sex tapes not withstanding, "I can identify with Paris Hilton."
If not for the simple, basic, carnal, inherent truth that - me and her? - we need our mommas. In her case, it's "Momm.....!!!" In my case, "Mommyy...!" It's really apples to apples. It's still ya momma.
I'm offering up no opinions on the subject of Paris Does Time, when Time isn't a beefcake offering up a night IN Paris. But I will share with you this: I did laugh a little when Sarah Silverman taunted her with prison-bars-as-penis jokes. But the laughing really stopped right there. Even as the media splashed Crybaby all over the papers.
Especially, when a grown woman, in her most hopeless state, reverted back to...
...princess leia buns on the side of her head, donning her first-class brat t-shirt and hopped on her strawberry sizzler pink huffy and trucked it down to mommy when some neighborhood girl bullied her and her butter sandwiches.
Or that's just me.
You see, I can tell my mom ANYTHING. Yep, that. And she's not even that kind of mom that tries to be your friend and asks you to smoke pot in the boy's room and five-finger some Revlon lipstick. Nope, she's Mom. And sometimes you just need your momma. She offers motherly advice, cookies and milk, and bandaids when the boo boos sting. I ALWAYS turn to my mom. And for Paris to recognize that? Finally tells me that she may be, just maybe, isn't entirely made of vapid stares, lip gloss, and hair extensions.
Very recently, when I was crying to my mom about recent troubles, my own mom offered me this: “You do need to come live with me. You need your mother.”
Paris and I know that Mom is where it's at.
If not for the simple, basic, carnal, inherent truth that - me and her? - we need our mommas. In her case, it's "Momm.....!!!" In my case, "Mommyy...!" It's really apples to apples. It's still ya momma.
I'm offering up no opinions on the subject of Paris Does Time, when Time isn't a beefcake offering up a night IN Paris. But I will share with you this: I did laugh a little when Sarah Silverman taunted her with prison-bars-as-penis jokes. But the laughing really stopped right there. Even as the media splashed Crybaby all over the papers.
Especially, when a grown woman, in her most hopeless state, reverted back to...
...princess leia buns on the side of her head, donning her first-class brat t-shirt and hopped on her strawberry sizzler pink huffy and trucked it down to mommy when some neighborhood girl bullied her and her butter sandwiches.
Or that's just me.
You see, I can tell my mom ANYTHING. Yep, that. And she's not even that kind of mom that tries to be your friend and asks you to smoke pot in the boy's room and five-finger some Revlon lipstick. Nope, she's Mom. And sometimes you just need your momma. She offers motherly advice, cookies and milk, and bandaids when the boo boos sting. I ALWAYS turn to my mom. And for Paris to recognize that? Finally tells me that she may be, just maybe, isn't entirely made of vapid stares, lip gloss, and hair extensions.
Very recently, when I was crying to my mom about recent troubles, my own mom offered me this: “You do need to come live with me. You need your mother.”
Paris and I know that Mom is where it's at.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Now Blogging In Technicolor
Well, it's about time. The 'ole blog needed a new look. Some paint on the walls and...voila! Once I mastered the smart touch sensor on my microwave in which I discovered the potato has its very own setting (after all these years), it was only a matter of time before I could get a handle on Blogger templates.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
What? You don’t like carnations? Or is there not enough “tea” in your Long Island?
The horses are on the track and, y’all….Street Sense is taking his bad ass self out of the running. It’s the Race of Champions – does he not want a double crown at least? I think we can take Curly-Que, ‘ole boy. You had him!
Alas, a Rumble is not what he wanted. Perhaps the mile and a half is too long for a smoker in a wife-beater. Perhaps he feels too pretty, witty, and gay. Perhaps he can’t get out of the West Side. Perhaps Uncle Unchie wants him to make the keilbasi. Perhaps Michael Jackson dressed up as him and sung (and rumbled and snapped his hooves) to “Beat it.” Perhaps he is dueting with Barbara Streisand. Perhaps James Dean has risen from the dead to play a role that was meant (and intended) for him. (Come back to mama and not the five and dime, Jimmy Dean Jimmy Dean.) Well, slap my ass and call me Maria!
"But when you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way," ‘ole boy! So I will forgive you this once. But first go chew some grass and think about what you have done to me. (I'll be watching West Side Story.)
What I am trying to lay out here (for them bettin’ folks and not the quittin' folks) is another round of This Is How You Do It. THIS is how you bet on the horses, in this case this weekend's Belmont Stakes. What is behind the horse's name? I'll tell you - it's turning into a race of inanimate objects and general ephemera.
But first, let’s talk refreshments! The peeps are saying that the official drink is the Belmont Breeze, which I think is just whiskey punch in a prettier costume. Whiskey doesn’t do pretty very well (at least not in high heels, just trust me on this). And I had to look this up but when I tell you about this drink, you are going to go pour yourself one in tribute because this is me tugging at your heartstrings. The head bartender of the Rainbow Room created it. Rainbow Room - of Windows on the World - of World Trade Center of - No Fucking More. I might call you a terrorist if you don’t drink that. Or un-American.
According to legend and the old-timies, the Belmont Breeze replaces the White Carnation, which has cream in it. Cream. I don’t do "cream drinks" and frankly it doesn’t have enough alcohol in it to justify frilly cream. That is one button, ruffle, or accordian pleat too many is what I'm saying. So just pour you a Long Island Iced Tea. I’ll look the other way when you say, “New York.”
OK. Now, music. Obviously, the theme song is “Georgia on my Mind.” Alright, alright. This below is about to get very “yankee”-heavy so I am just tempering it with some Southern Comfort. The theme is New York, of course – NOT New Jersey and not anything that rhymes with "bets." The key word is York - Upstate, in fact.
The song isn't - but could be - Ryan Adams’ New York, New York. If not for this lyric alone: The world won't wait and I watched you shake * But honey, I don't blame you * Hell, I still love you, New York * Hell, I still love you, New York * New York. Then consider that the video was shot 4 days before 9/11 with the NYC skyline in the background. Then punch in Ryan fucking Adams in the calculation.
And it UNFORTUNATELY isn't REM's Leaving New York. Stipe considers NYC a second home and wrote this song in an airplane flying out of his beloved. (Which could be taken and re-appropriated any which way you see fit. Like Losing My Religion will always be Losing My Virginity to me.) Back o/t: the song is a tribute to New York. And, what's more, the song is even better with the Mike Mills arrangement because he is butter to Stipe's bread. Captain to his Tenille. Iggy to his Stooge. Hall to his Oates. The two of them rock a sweet melody like NO OTHER....It's pulling me apart. Change....Find it in your heart. Change....Leaving was never my proud. Excuse me while I get all tingly listening to that song. It's THAT kind of song for me.
Tiago - AKA The Brazilian
Ladies, cross your legs. A cult of pain has swept the racetrack this year. Hot wax getting all up in there. Frankly, there's not much hope for "Tiago," he's going to be busy with his legs over his shoulders, wincing in not-quite-but-close childbirthing pain. But he'll be the sexy one as he will be bare ass except for an exclamation of hair to cover his lady bit. Prediction: Guy's choice.
Curlin - AKA The Perm
I've retired the Canadian athlete bit. Our Preakness winner has reinvented himself. He took his winnings and marched over to Truvy's Beauty Parlor where the latest glamour technician gave him his current look. He's bringing perms back!
CP West - AKA The Monogram
That Monogram is EVERYWHERE. He's adorning your luggage, your clothing, your towels, your Tiffany charms. This is what you will know him by on Saturday: CWP. He makes me want to bring back the "L" for Laverne shirt.
Slew’s Tizzy - AKA The Trumpet
You take Dizzy Gillespie and Miles Davis' Bitches Brew and you've got yourself a horse! As they say: Have trumpet, will excite. This is the horse to do that. Like his "parentage," he is known for fast runs and venturing into his upper register. Is he a cool melodic improviser? Or an aggressive explosive one?
Hard Spun - AKA The TightAss
Is he uptight? Or does he have an exceptionally attractive bootie? You tell me.
Rags to Riches - AKA Little Orphan Annie
He’s the horse with the little mop of red, curly hair and will be accompanied by his ever-faithful canine companion, Sandy, tagging along beside him. Right off the gate he might be yelling, "Leapin' lizards!" as the other horses take lead. But he will pull himself up from the spoils like he knows best. He’s got spunk, street smarts, and clown hair. Don’t be surprised if he breaks into a number...the ever optimist.
What are you betting on this time?
Alas, a Rumble is not what he wanted. Perhaps the mile and a half is too long for a smoker in a wife-beater. Perhaps he feels too pretty, witty, and gay. Perhaps he can’t get out of the West Side. Perhaps Uncle Unchie wants him to make the keilbasi. Perhaps Michael Jackson dressed up as him and sung (and rumbled and snapped his hooves) to “Beat it.” Perhaps he is dueting with Barbara Streisand. Perhaps James Dean has risen from the dead to play a role that was meant (and intended) for him. (Come back to mama and not the five and dime, Jimmy Dean Jimmy Dean.) Well, slap my ass and call me Maria!
"But when you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way," ‘ole boy! So I will forgive you this once. But first go chew some grass and think about what you have done to me. (I'll be watching West Side Story.)
What I am trying to lay out here (for them bettin’ folks and not the quittin' folks) is another round of This Is How You Do It. THIS is how you bet on the horses, in this case this weekend's Belmont Stakes. What is behind the horse's name? I'll tell you - it's turning into a race of inanimate objects and general ephemera.
But first, let’s talk refreshments! The peeps are saying that the official drink is the Belmont Breeze, which I think is just whiskey punch in a prettier costume. Whiskey doesn’t do pretty very well (at least not in high heels, just trust me on this). And I had to look this up but when I tell you about this drink, you are going to go pour yourself one in tribute because this is me tugging at your heartstrings. The head bartender of the Rainbow Room created it. Rainbow Room - of Windows on the World - of World Trade Center of - No Fucking More. I might call you a terrorist if you don’t drink that. Or un-American.
According to legend and the old-timies, the Belmont Breeze replaces the White Carnation, which has cream in it. Cream. I don’t do "cream drinks" and frankly it doesn’t have enough alcohol in it to justify frilly cream. That is one button, ruffle, or accordian pleat too many is what I'm saying. So just pour you a Long Island Iced Tea. I’ll look the other way when you say, “New York.”
OK. Now, music. Obviously, the theme song is “Georgia on my Mind.” Alright, alright. This below is about to get very “yankee”-heavy so I am just tempering it with some Southern Comfort. The theme is New York, of course – NOT New Jersey and not anything that rhymes with "bets." The key word is York - Upstate, in fact.
The song isn't - but could be - Ryan Adams’ New York, New York. If not for this lyric alone: The world won't wait and I watched you shake * But honey, I don't blame you * Hell, I still love you, New York * Hell, I still love you, New York * New York. Then consider that the video was shot 4 days before 9/11 with the NYC skyline in the background. Then punch in Ryan fucking Adams in the calculation.
And it UNFORTUNATELY isn't REM's Leaving New York. Stipe considers NYC a second home and wrote this song in an airplane flying out of his beloved. (Which could be taken and re-appropriated any which way you see fit. Like Losing My Religion will always be Losing My Virginity to me.) Back o/t: the song is a tribute to New York. And, what's more, the song is even better with the Mike Mills arrangement because he is butter to Stipe's bread. Captain to his Tenille. Iggy to his Stooge. Hall to his Oates. The two of them rock a sweet melody like NO OTHER....It's pulling me apart. Change....Find it in your heart. Change....Leaving was never my proud. Excuse me while I get all tingly listening to that song. It's THAT kind of song for me.
And it is not Bob Dylan's Talking New York, one of the first songs he actually wrote. While it isn't necessarily singing the praises of New York per se, I think it truthfully represents a New York experience, and subsequently a Belmont experience. The "City" (pick a place) can kick you in the ass. Yet it is a place to go to and make your dreams happen and Bob did just that - in this song, in cutting his first record there, in making it happen. Isn't that what the horses are doing? And like 'ole Bob, they leave town after either getting beaten down or making it. So long, New York.Howdy, East Orange.
Alas, those songs are not what it is. Traditionally, the song was an old folk song from way back when old-timies existed called, Sidewalks of New York. Tripped the light fantastic on the sidewalks of New York. It has been covered many times, by the Grateful Dead for one - so I hear. But I might prefer the Duke Ellingon rendition. Alas, that song was replaced in the 90's to make room for THAT song - THE New York song. Start spreadin' the news...
New York, New York as song by...............David Hasselhoff. I kid you not. Sung to the tune of “I want a….ham…bur…ger.” (New york. Yum. New…..ham.....york.....burger.)
I did. I just messed with the Hoff. I’ll lock up the liquor cabinet.
So you got your drink and you've got the juke box humming. Or your ipod, but take the buds out of your ear and put it on surround sound because watching the horses - the Triple Crown - is a social thing.
Here we go, in post position:
Imawildandcrazyguy - AKA The SNL Catchphrase
Tiago - AKA The Brazilian
Ladies, cross your legs. A cult of pain has swept the racetrack this year. Hot wax getting all up in there. Frankly, there's not much hope for "Tiago," he's going to be busy with his legs over his shoulders, wincing in not-quite-but-close childbirthing pain. But he'll be the sexy one as he will be bare ass except for an exclamation of hair to cover his lady bit. Prediction: Guy's choice.
Curlin - AKA The Perm
I've retired the Canadian athlete bit. Our Preakness winner has reinvented himself. He took his winnings and marched over to Truvy's Beauty Parlor where the latest glamour technician gave him his current look. He's bringing perms back!
CP West - AKA The Monogram
That Monogram is EVERYWHERE. He's adorning your luggage, your clothing, your towels, your Tiffany charms. This is what you will know him by on Saturday: CWP. He makes me want to bring back the "L" for Laverne shirt.
Slew’s Tizzy - AKA The Trumpet
You take Dizzy Gillespie and Miles Davis' Bitches Brew and you've got yourself a horse! As they say: Have trumpet, will excite. This is the horse to do that. Like his "parentage," he is known for fast runs and venturing into his upper register. Is he a cool melodic improviser? Or an aggressive explosive one?
Hard Spun - AKA The TightAss
Is he uptight? Or does he have an exceptionally attractive bootie? You tell me.
Rags to Riches - AKA Little Orphan Annie
He’s the horse with the little mop of red, curly hair and will be accompanied by his ever-faithful canine companion, Sandy, tagging along beside him. Right off the gate he might be yelling, "Leapin' lizards!" as the other horses take lead. But he will pull himself up from the spoils like he knows best. He’s got spunk, street smarts, and clown hair. Don’t be surprised if he breaks into a number...the ever optimist.
What are you betting on this time?
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Avoiding Dates Like The Plague (But Not Dressing The Part)
Uh-oh. I'm thinking I might be dressed to sexy for the office.
This morning in the breakroom, a female co-worker was giving me the up-and-down-times-ten. The kind of look I get when I'm working on the corner of Two-dollah and Me-Love-You-Long-Time Streets. Not in, you know, my day job. And this contemptuous look was accompanied with, "Wow." (Not exclamation wow but ironic wow.) Believe you me, if I had a button to button, I would have buttoned it. Instead I said, "I know my heels are really high!" and kicked my leg up like a reject for the Rockettes. (Forward extension of the leg, Original Me. Forward.)
For the rest of the day whenever one of the girls in the office would give me that look (that "how much?" or "work it!" look), my insecurity would take hold and blurt out, "I know I am probably too sexy for the office." Which comes across like: I'm too sexy for this shirt (so sexy it hurts) ... too sexy for your love...and, perhaps, I am too sexy for this song. (Which did you know has a guitar riff straight from Jimi Hendrix, "Third Stone From the Sun." Just to show you I am a fact-finder and not a poster child for lycra tube dresses leaning into car windows or face down in men's crotches. In my day job.)
This morning in the breakroom, a female co-worker was giving me the up-and-down-times-ten. The kind of look I get when I'm working on the corner of Two-dollah and Me-Love-You-Long-Time Streets. Not in, you know, my day job. And this contemptuous look was accompanied with, "Wow." (Not exclamation wow but ironic wow.) Believe you me, if I had a button to button, I would have buttoned it. Instead I said, "I know my heels are really high!" and kicked my leg up like a reject for the Rockettes. (Forward extension of the leg, Original Me. Forward.)
For the rest of the day whenever one of the girls in the office would give me that look (that "how much?" or "work it!" look), my insecurity would take hold and blurt out, "I know I am probably too sexy for the office." Which comes across like: I'm too sexy for this shirt (so sexy it hurts) ... too sexy for your love...and, perhaps, I am too sexy for this song. (Which did you know has a guitar riff straight from Jimi Hendrix, "Third Stone From the Sun." Just to show you I am a fact-finder and not a poster child for lycra tube dresses leaning into car windows or face down in men's crotches. In my day job.)
Perhaps I should not have put together a new ensemble of existing pieces from my wardrobe, thrown them in my gym bag, and then dressed AT the office. You sample the recipe FIRST -you know, before you share it with the people. (Southern Living, Vol. 1, No. 1)
Is it that my silk blouse (Shakesperean-esque in its bustier-clinging empire waist and princess neckline) gives way to a cinching of my tiny-tiny little lady bits thus giving the appearance of a girl who carries the world in her bosum? (Lipstick? Check. ID? Check. Two dollar bills? Check. Small baby? Check.) The suppressed rack makes me look like, well, I have a rack. I could get on board with that. Is the pencil skirt too flirty with the little dip in the back hem? So the silhouette is more va-va-voom (and actually begs for fishnets)? Are the shoes - the shoes! - in their 3-inch platform leapard print heel too bedroom-sexy for the boardroom? I wanted to wear my hair in a bun but I needed the hair on my back since the blouse kind of dips in the back. Yeah, kinda lower than I anticipated. I don't like wearing my hair down in the office. That's street-wear.Edited to add: OK, in all honesty, after all is said and posted, I just now looked at myself in the mirror (Confidence, you know, giving myself the one-over), and it MAY appear that the blouson-effect of the princess- empire- seaming of the blouse?...yeah...I may appear pregnant. Soooo, the up-and-down body-to-shoes-body-to-shoes-body-to-shoes look MAY just have been: she-looks-pregnant-but-fuck-me-shoes-say-perhaps-not confused look of someone who may just be ready to ask: When are you due?
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Two pizzas walk into a bar...
My motto on friendship: A good friend is someone you call when you are in jail...a best friend is in the next cell over saying, "Damn that was fun!"
And so it begins.
It is the Friday of Memorial Day weekend and Mav and I can not believe we are actually in town. It is her birthday weekend after all. But after the debacle of last Memorial Day, it really isn't that bad - this being in town business. And since her and Morgan are "working from home" in some wireless environment that wasn't a bar, and I was "slaving" away at the office catching up on the music blogs and zines, it was only a matter of seconds until the three of us jumpstarted the three day weekend.
So Mav, Morgan and I settle into the glorious summer day on a deck with a grill (insert Miami joke here) and like a gazillion beers. I know, settle if we must. After all this consumption of food and I should pause right here to give that a mention. Mav WAS the grillmaster of some lovely kebabs - steak AND chicken, veggies, corn on the cob and various sausages (andouille, hot AND sweet italian). The food being swished down with the beers. But somewhere between beer number 1 and 20 (I'm not sure where as calculations were not being kept and none of us are accountants), things took a turn for the worse, as Mav suddenly found herself hanging off the deck writhing in the pain of what could only be alien babies taking over her stomach because her stomach was giving her that sign - the one that closes up shop and says, "Enough, bitch! Get this shit out of here." Except the shit - or the alien babies - whatever was terrorizing her stomach -was having a little problem finding a new home, which Mav was choosing to be a pile of leaves - her hanging off the deck, just inches from the citronella tiki lanterns.
Those buggers in her belly needed some coaxing along. Our dear friend was in pain! So good friends that we were, we each took turns holding Mav's hair back as we concocted the following story to help her along to feeling better.
So in the name of releasing alien babies, this story was born, as told by Me, Morgan and (enter stage left) Diamond who had just returned with a bottle of Moet, a birthday cake and three iPod shuffles for the gals. Best housewarming gift ever? Oh, that's right, it is his house. How about - best boyfriend/fiance ever! (Seriously awesome, Diamond!)
The Pizzas could go on all day talking like this, this was their song and dance. But today was unlike no other because just when Sausage, the bartender (Hot Italian) - pipes into the bad joke gone awry with, "I'll blow a casing if you guys don't stuff it!" a Raw Chicken Breast Cutlet walks into the bar and saddles up in between the two pizzas rubbing against them as breasts will do. One could say she might be flirting. Others might call her "easy." Hot Italian Sausage Bartender offers them up a round of shots. That dirty fella - Anchovy P. - wants the Buttery Nipple and Meat Lover wants the Three Kings. So two shots they do.
The Breast gets on top of the bar top and does the chicken dance to nobody's interest but Mr. Peanut from the peanut bowl. Then the Marlboro Man rides in on...a horse? A Harley (on account of Memorial Day in DC)? No - he chooses a dirty ashtray as his magic carpet ride. And he rides into the Elbow Room in a cloud of smoke as only the Marlboro Man can do. He looks around the Elbow Room and then flicks his lit cigarette which gets embedded in the breast that is the raw chicken which slowly cooks her to...a Southern. Fried. Chick. Which, incidently, cures the dirty whore of any disease she was walking around with.
But the Salmonella is out there. The Pizzas and her didn't use protection and certainly didn't wash up afterwards. And Raw Chicken really got around this evening in the Elbow Room. At this point, the pizzas are not feeling so hot as Salmonella has opened up a Disco ontop of Meat Lover Pizza and a Third World Country on Anchovy P.
But now Chicken Breast is Smoking Hot. This is when the illegal immigrant working in the back of the Elbow Room - Del Taco - decides to get him some of that Breast now that she's all warmed up. Only he has no arms and no legs, him being a taco. So he pours a stream of tequila on which he slides into the Elbow Room. Southern Fried Chick jumps off the bar, excited for her third drink of the evening, swims into the tequila, and slides into the fold of the taco. The cigarette butt still stashed in her breast.
While a disco inferno is brewing on the pizzas and Marlboro Man is pulsating to the beat of the disco music in his dirty ashtray, Sean Connery walks into the bar. He is hungry and sees the taco and takes a bite. A bite that has the lit cigarette.
Well, the combination that is the Hotness of Sean Connery (we had to scratch Louie Anderson for this very important plot development) and the burning butt caused Sean's head to BLOW RIGHT OFF. But he is still hungry so a headless Sean Connery sits on the Pizzas. Hot Italian Sausage has backed into the corner - he doesn't want to be anywhere near that region, even if it is Sean Connery. He takes off for the Sausage Factory. Mr. Peanut, dancing across the bartop, ditches his cane and heads for the Peanut Gallery. And the Marlboro Man goes up in a puff of smoke - the Big C finally taking him over and leaving tobacco lobbyists without a job.
End scene: It's closing time in Jay's Elbow Room and Jay sweeps up the reamins of the day....sausage bits, pizza crusts, taco shells, peanut shells, and the town drunk with no head (little does Jay know he has a movie star in his dust pan). To Jay, it's just another day in the life of the Elbow Room...
The end.
An hour and half later, the story came to a close, but not until Mav had finally released a stomach's worth of discontent all over the back yard. More fodder for the dust pan at Closing Time. The story was a successful means to that end, Dear Friend.
And so it begins.
It is the Friday of Memorial Day weekend and Mav and I can not believe we are actually in town. It is her birthday weekend after all. But after the debacle of last Memorial Day, it really isn't that bad - this being in town business. And since her and Morgan are "working from home" in some wireless environment that wasn't a bar, and I was "slaving" away at the office catching up on the music blogs and zines, it was only a matter of seconds until the three of us jumpstarted the three day weekend.
So Mav, Morgan and I settle into the glorious summer day on a deck with a grill (insert Miami joke here) and like a gazillion beers. I know, settle if we must. After all this consumption of food and I should pause right here to give that a mention. Mav WAS the grillmaster of some lovely kebabs - steak AND chicken, veggies, corn on the cob and various sausages (andouille, hot AND sweet italian). The food being swished down with the beers. But somewhere between beer number 1 and 20 (I'm not sure where as calculations were not being kept and none of us are accountants), things took a turn for the worse, as Mav suddenly found herself hanging off the deck writhing in the pain of what could only be alien babies taking over her stomach because her stomach was giving her that sign - the one that closes up shop and says, "Enough, bitch! Get this shit out of here." Except the shit - or the alien babies - whatever was terrorizing her stomach -was having a little problem finding a new home, which Mav was choosing to be a pile of leaves - her hanging off the deck, just inches from the citronella tiki lanterns.
Those buggers in her belly needed some coaxing along. Our dear friend was in pain! So good friends that we were, we each took turns holding Mav's hair back as we concocted the following story to help her along to feeling better.
So in the name of releasing alien babies, this story was born, as told by Me, Morgan and (enter stage left) Diamond who had just returned with a bottle of Moet, a birthday cake and three iPod shuffles for the gals. Best housewarming gift ever? Oh, that's right, it is his house. How about - best boyfriend/fiance ever! (Seriously awesome, Diamond!)
The Perfect Storm (Or I Licked The Tongs)
Two pizzas walk into a bar. (And not just any bar, it's Jay's Elbow Room.) Meat Lover Pizza says to Anchovy Pizza, "J'u wanna pizza me?" And Anchovy P. responds, "I'll slice you a new one, Meat Head!"The Pizzas could go on all day talking like this, this was their song and dance. But today was unlike no other because just when Sausage, the bartender (Hot Italian) - pipes into the bad joke gone awry with, "I'll blow a casing if you guys don't stuff it!" a Raw Chicken Breast Cutlet walks into the bar and saddles up in between the two pizzas rubbing against them as breasts will do. One could say she might be flirting. Others might call her "easy." Hot Italian Sausage Bartender offers them up a round of shots. That dirty fella - Anchovy P. - wants the Buttery Nipple and Meat Lover wants the Three Kings. So two shots they do.
The Breast gets on top of the bar top and does the chicken dance to nobody's interest but Mr. Peanut from the peanut bowl. Then the Marlboro Man rides in on...a horse? A Harley (on account of Memorial Day in DC)? No - he chooses a dirty ashtray as his magic carpet ride. And he rides into the Elbow Room in a cloud of smoke as only the Marlboro Man can do. He looks around the Elbow Room and then flicks his lit cigarette which gets embedded in the breast that is the raw chicken which slowly cooks her to...a Southern. Fried. Chick. Which, incidently, cures the dirty whore of any disease she was walking around with.
But the Salmonella is out there. The Pizzas and her didn't use protection and certainly didn't wash up afterwards. And Raw Chicken really got around this evening in the Elbow Room. At this point, the pizzas are not feeling so hot as Salmonella has opened up a Disco ontop of Meat Lover Pizza and a Third World Country on Anchovy P.
But now Chicken Breast is Smoking Hot. This is when the illegal immigrant working in the back of the Elbow Room - Del Taco - decides to get him some of that Breast now that she's all warmed up. Only he has no arms and no legs, him being a taco. So he pours a stream of tequila on which he slides into the Elbow Room. Southern Fried Chick jumps off the bar, excited for her third drink of the evening, swims into the tequila, and slides into the fold of the taco. The cigarette butt still stashed in her breast.
While a disco inferno is brewing on the pizzas and Marlboro Man is pulsating to the beat of the disco music in his dirty ashtray, Sean Connery walks into the bar. He is hungry and sees the taco and takes a bite. A bite that has the lit cigarette.
Well, the combination that is the Hotness of Sean Connery (we had to scratch Louie Anderson for this very important plot development) and the burning butt caused Sean's head to BLOW RIGHT OFF. But he is still hungry so a headless Sean Connery sits on the Pizzas. Hot Italian Sausage has backed into the corner - he doesn't want to be anywhere near that region, even if it is Sean Connery. He takes off for the Sausage Factory. Mr. Peanut, dancing across the bartop, ditches his cane and heads for the Peanut Gallery. And the Marlboro Man goes up in a puff of smoke - the Big C finally taking him over and leaving tobacco lobbyists without a job.
End scene: It's closing time in Jay's Elbow Room and Jay sweeps up the reamins of the day....sausage bits, pizza crusts, taco shells, peanut shells, and the town drunk with no head (little does Jay know he has a movie star in his dust pan). To Jay, it's just another day in the life of the Elbow Room...
The end.
An hour and half later, the story came to a close, but not until Mav had finally released a stomach's worth of discontent all over the back yard. More fodder for the dust pan at Closing Time. The story was a successful means to that end, Dear Friend.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Selfless Acts Of Love Will Get You A Seat Right Behind Your Ex and His Wife
"You can't control an independent heart, Can't tear the one you love apart" -- Sting on If You Love Someone, Set Them Free...“Free, free, set them free…” Just like Sting said.
On being the bigger person...
The Yukkell – not the guy who drove me to drinking, but to blogging actually - was my best friend/confidante/lover for five years. Our relationship was not traditional by any means but you could hardly say we were on-and-off. Barely a day went by when we didn't talk. But sure, you could say we were up-and-down. He picked me up, he put me down, but he was always THERE and I knew he would always be there. Or something like that.
One night in January of 2005, he called me to give me the kind of news you sit down for. I was sitting on my kitchen counter and not the crapper, which is where the shitty news should have gone. (But, remember, I am being the bigger person.) I don’t know what I was prepared for, perhaps I assumed he was going to say that he met someone. I never expected it was going to be what it was. The-One-Who-Got-Away (herinafter TOWGA) came a’knockin’ after – what? – ten years. The story unravels – details aside, and in my opinion they don’t put TOWGA in a good light and this isn’t TOWGA bashing so details omitted. But the relevant punchline is that she is now widowed with four tiny little girls, one barely a year old.
On being the bigger person...
The Yukkell – not the guy who drove me to drinking, but to blogging actually - was my best friend/confidante/lover for five years. Our relationship was not traditional by any means but you could hardly say we were on-and-off. Barely a day went by when we didn't talk. But sure, you could say we were up-and-down. He picked me up, he put me down, but he was always THERE and I knew he would always be there. Or something like that.
One night in January of 2005, he called me to give me the kind of news you sit down for. I was sitting on my kitchen counter and not the crapper, which is where the shitty news should have gone. (But, remember, I am being the bigger person.) I don’t know what I was prepared for, perhaps I assumed he was going to say that he met someone. I never expected it was going to be what it was. The-One-Who-Got-Away (herinafter TOWGA) came a’knockin’ after – what? – ten years. The story unravels – details aside, and in my opinion they don’t put TOWGA in a good light and this isn’t TOWGA bashing so details omitted. But the relevant punchline is that she is now widowed with four tiny little girls, one barely a year old.
We spent the weekend together talking about all this. I knew a good deal about her already - more than she probably cared for me to know. But the situation needed hashing and slicing and dicing. I was doing what I did best by him - offering unwavering support. His perspective that weekend was just to help her from a professional standpoint (i.e., a legal standpoint).
As the days rolled on, TOWGA pushing the Hopeless card (and not to fault her on that), wants him to come see her. He doesn’t want to and tells her as much. His work can be done by afar. I nudge him to reconsider. I was buying that she needed him. It was He, himself, who told me much later on in this story: She needs me more than you do.
"Run South then, darlin'." But the day before he goes I panic and tell him what I am most afraid of happening at this point, which is that I don’t want to lose him.
He smiled that way and looked me straight in the eye and said, "You won’t ever lose me."
That wasn't going to prove to be true. Up until that moment he set foot on her swamp turf, he needed me. In fact, up until our last conversation when he was at the airport on some layover and reminded me that he doesn’t even want to be doing this. "Remember??" Being a cheerleader paid off, as I poured on some fake charm in the form of a you-can-do-it rah, built him up as I always did. I think he was most afraid of what was going to happen which was what did happen. They rekindled. And he knew that if he opened that door, he would never be able to close it again. Not on her situation being what it was.
I won't lie. I cried all night as being the bigger person was proving to be difficult.
We continued to talk but not every day now. He talked to her every night. We went on like this for a couple months up to our last weekend we were to spend together as a couple. He told me that she was pushing for him to marry her and had picked a July date. Yes, folks, we are still in 2005. He was pushing for me to say something...
"What do you say about that?" taunting me with his you-or-her torture. His own torture.
I couldn’t put myself down that path of "Pick Me." THIS wasn’t about me at all. And THIS wasn’t about her either. This was about HIM. I always put him before my own happiness and I wasn't going to start now, it seems. And why did I put him first? For things in his past that haunted him and made him the unhappy person he was. His demons is what he liked to call it. Sure, he loves her. Friends, he did say, “I loved her no more than I loved you.” And, “If this was you in this situation, I’d do the same thing for you.”
THIS was about him righting a wrong that happened – independent of her and independent of me. Something that has haunted him. His story that I will keep with me. But it was about him taking responsibility. Being a father. A part of me thinks I could have fought for him. I considered it. But I couldn't offer him the panacea he needed to deal with his past, his guilt. I always prayed for something to release him from his demons. I was not enough. Who knew it was to be the TOWGA and the ready-made family?
I had to be the bigger person.
They didn't get married that summer, but they did a year later. We ceased communication after that weekend - to the point where he would blatantly avoid me - the equivalent of crossing the street if he saw me coming.
Except one time. I got to see him a year ago at a mutual friend’s birthday party. We had a nice private chat. And he started that whole song-and-dance with me again. Trying to coax something out of me that I couldn't give him. It's not romantic love that I feel for him. It’s more soulful. It's selfless. It's the love of a good friend. A best friend. THAT person I would take back any day of the week, no matter where I was.
So he’s married now. We don't talk. I don't know whether he is happy. Knowing him, I think it might be possible, but then I also think it might not be. Did he bring the demons with him? Or do the cherubic faces he now fathers slay them? I hope so.
This past weekend, I had the distinct displeasure of sitting directly behind Him and Her in a church as we watched our mutual friends get married. The spurned lover in me wanted to tear her apart in critique and showcase my smoking ass that he loved so much right in front of his face. The discarded friend in me wanted to tie a friendship bracelet around his neck and pull tight on the ends.
But, alas, I want to be the bigger person.
We shared no more than a "hi." When she is around, he won't talk to me. He avoids me. (I have had one other distinct displeasing occasion to be in the same room.) I don't know if it is out of respect for her, or because he simply does not care anymore, or because he is afraid of getting sucked back into the attraction. Most likely they are his issues or their issues and I have moved on so I don't worry my pretty little head over the details.
Nevertheless, in one awkward moment on the dancefloor, she came right up to within my circle, right next to me, to join in the dancing. And for one moment, I thought she might not be as lifeless and sad as she appears. Maybe she really is a good person. The moment was right there. I wanted to turn to her and offer my hand as an introduction. I wanted to tell her that I am glad that they found their way back to each other - her being "the one who got away." I thought that maybe we - as two people who love this man dearly - could share a moment. Maybe we have more in common than I think. Maybe we would share a laugh as we tore around the dancefloor. Maybe we would actually like each other. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Or I wouldn’t?
I couldn’t be that big of a person.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Run for the Black-Eyed Susans…or the Bourbon...sometimes it just is about the bourbon
I’ve said it before: I get into the Triple Crown. I read about the horses, I study them, and then I make my little chump change bet based on those statistics and the horse’s underdoggedness quotient (i.e., the blind horse is getting my vote or the one with "chips in his hoof".)
Taking the science out of it, the one thing I really like about the horses is the names -- born of lineage and a play-on words...and kitsch. Based on this art, now you can rank them on the cuteness factor.
Let me lay it out for you,* by post position:
Mint Slewlep – AKA “The Drunk”
He started drinking at the derby and, frankly, never stopped. And I haven’t researched him yet but I am guessing he is a product of Seattle Slew (which is another fun game to guess the lineage, see?). He gets his words mixed up and he is always fun and he takes his drink in a collins glass. He missed work for this bender.
What he will be wearing: A jersey with the following written upside-down: If you can read this, pick me up, and put me back on my barstool.
XChanger – AKA “The Cyberpunk”
He likes stories about giant robots and dreams of a world of fantastical structures and weapons. Blade Runner is his favorite movie. He might apply time travel to everyday life.
What he will be wearing: He is made of steel and he has bionic prosthetics.
Circular Quay – AKA “The Parrothead”
He moved to Key West to live the life of leisure and become the beach bum persona for which he aspired to when he first heard “Margaritaville,” in a parking lot. Count on him to blow off a flip-flop, for lyric's sake.
What he will be wearing: A Save the Manatees jersey and flips flops.
Curlin – AKA “The Canadian Jock”
Not the one with athletic prowess, but strategy and skill instead, much like a game of chess. He gets the good sportsmanship award as nobody is a loser, and if he wins, he is buying you a drink...because that is the spirit of the game.
What he will be wearing: The team uniform and carrying a broom.
King of the Roxy – AKA “The Club Kid”
He does his business after dark. He associates socializing with elaborate lighting systems that throb to the beat of the music, smoke beams, a disco ball, podium dancers, and girls get in free night. He always makes it past the doorman. He is music mixed by a dj and dancing mixed by alcohol.
What he will be wearing: A Jean Paul Gaultier knock-off.
Flying First Class – AKA “The Socialite”
He is not shy about publicity...does he love or hate his picture taken? I can’t tell. He is not known for any artistic merit or intellectual genius, but only known by his less-tangible ability to dominate the social scene and use personal charisma to achieve prominence.
What he will be wearing: God knows, but he will have a dog in a pink shirt and a Cartier-encrusted collar.
Hard Spun – AKA “The Knitter”
He is missing the craft fair for this, kids. He has a blog about knitting, called KnitWit or The Happy Hooker, where people can share tips and techniques, run competitions, and share their patterns. He also participates in chat groups as a means for social networking with like-minded crafters. Non-essential craft my ass.
What he will be wearing: A beanie, some mittens, a scarf, and wrapped in an afghan.
Street Sense – AKA “The Gang Member”
Well, gang member but not in the pejorative sense. Think a Jets/Sharks face-off, facing the other horses, nuzzle to nuzzle, and rhythmically snapping his fingers. That's how this horse rumbles. Even better if he breaks into song.
What he will be wearing: Hopefully a wife-beater.
C P West – AKA “The Preppie”
He attended an elite college preparatory school. His motto is "Choose Juicy." He will be heard asking the other horses where they summer. You can call him "Chip."
What he will be wearing: A button-down Oxford cloth shirt, cuffed khakis, and cordovan loafers.
Who will you be rooting for?
*I assure you, no stereotypes were hurt in the making of this list.
Taking the science out of it, the one thing I really like about the horses is the names -- born of lineage and a play-on words...and kitsch. Based on this art, now you can rank them on the cuteness factor.
Let me lay it out for you,* by post position:
Mint Slewlep – AKA “The Drunk”
He started drinking at the derby and, frankly, never stopped. And I haven’t researched him yet but I am guessing he is a product of Seattle Slew (which is another fun game to guess the lineage, see?). He gets his words mixed up and he is always fun and he takes his drink in a collins glass. He missed work for this bender.
What he will be wearing: A jersey with the following written upside-down: If you can read this, pick me up, and put me back on my barstool.
XChanger – AKA “The Cyberpunk”
He likes stories about giant robots and dreams of a world of fantastical structures and weapons. Blade Runner is his favorite movie. He might apply time travel to everyday life.
What he will be wearing: He is made of steel and he has bionic prosthetics.
Circular Quay – AKA “The Parrothead”
He moved to Key West to live the life of leisure and become the beach bum persona for which he aspired to when he first heard “Margaritaville,” in a parking lot. Count on him to blow off a flip-flop, for lyric's sake.
What he will be wearing: A Save the Manatees jersey and flips flops.
Curlin – AKA “The Canadian Jock”
Not the one with athletic prowess, but strategy and skill instead, much like a game of chess. He gets the good sportsmanship award as nobody is a loser, and if he wins, he is buying you a drink...because that is the spirit of the game.
What he will be wearing: The team uniform and carrying a broom.
King of the Roxy – AKA “The Club Kid”
He does his business after dark. He associates socializing with elaborate lighting systems that throb to the beat of the music, smoke beams, a disco ball, podium dancers, and girls get in free night. He always makes it past the doorman. He is music mixed by a dj and dancing mixed by alcohol.
What he will be wearing: A Jean Paul Gaultier knock-off.
Flying First Class – AKA “The Socialite”
He is not shy about publicity...does he love or hate his picture taken? I can’t tell. He is not known for any artistic merit or intellectual genius, but only known by his less-tangible ability to dominate the social scene and use personal charisma to achieve prominence.
What he will be wearing: God knows, but he will have a dog in a pink shirt and a Cartier-encrusted collar.
Hard Spun – AKA “The Knitter”
He is missing the craft fair for this, kids. He has a blog about knitting, called KnitWit or The Happy Hooker, where people can share tips and techniques, run competitions, and share their patterns. He also participates in chat groups as a means for social networking with like-minded crafters. Non-essential craft my ass.
What he will be wearing: A beanie, some mittens, a scarf, and wrapped in an afghan.
Street Sense – AKA “The Gang Member”
Well, gang member but not in the pejorative sense. Think a Jets/Sharks face-off, facing the other horses, nuzzle to nuzzle, and rhythmically snapping his fingers. That's how this horse rumbles. Even better if he breaks into song.
What he will be wearing: Hopefully a wife-beater.
C P West – AKA “The Preppie”
He attended an elite college preparatory school. His motto is "Choose Juicy." He will be heard asking the other horses where they summer. You can call him "Chip."
What he will be wearing: A button-down Oxford cloth shirt, cuffed khakis, and cordovan loafers.
Who will you be rooting for?
*I assure you, no stereotypes were hurt in the making of this list.
Friday, May 11, 2007
On Being Vulnerable...It'll Get You Hugs
Lately, I’ve been bopping around my life...happily. And after the past few months of the doldrums that have battened down my hatches for a cold winter’s nap – it was most welcome and refreshing. The pony tail swings now as opposed to a little constricted bun at the nape of the neck, y'know? Last Saturday, I even stopped into a neighborhood bar all by myself (there was a pull of a sound check and some guy with a guitar, gets me all the time) on my way home from watching the horses. After a few rounds of eye contact, I was striking up a conversation with a James Dean look-alike. Damn hot. I proceeded to share a few beers with him and then mysteriously disappeared into the night. Or maybe he didn't notice. He hasn't filed a Missed Connection yet.
So...happy with and by myself. Right?
But then something happened to slap my happy face into Fuck! This sucks! all over again. [Cue: Violins. Crickets. And an annoying harmonica. All in black and white.] This week was enough to remind me that I DO need that hug at the end of the day because hugging yourself is only fun when someone is watching you from behind.
This week I was selected to report for jury duty. And out of the 70-or so people reporting that day, I was actually selected with 6 other people to sit on a jury. We were hearing a drunk driving case.
I thought the odds were against me. Especially after I was questioned on being a law librarian and my training to that end. I explained my legal research training and general law librarian code of ethics (I left out the geekiness of that line) that does not in any way, shape, or form allow me to interpret the law. So: clueless. AND after I admitted to being rear-ended by a drunk driver when I was 15. I left out the severity of the accident and when questioned on this, I admitted that I could, in fact, remain impartial. (This proved to be true.) I also had to admit to driving under the influence at times. We all did.
Damn, I wish I would have fought harder for dismissal - the excuses were there for me. Because in the end, I – along with my fellow jurors – had to send some guy who made a really bad decision one night to get behind the wheel of his car to jail. For 10 days. It is two days later and THAT still sits with me.
We listened to this case for 2 days and we deliberated on it for 3-ish hours. I won't talk about the specifics of the case, because there were dynamics. It wasn't cut and dry, yet it was. The defense could have had a case but had no hard evidence to dispute the one piece of evidence that stood - which is the guy blew a .24, three times the legal limit. But there was no reason not to believe that result given all the evidence (of which there was none) and witnesses (of which there were none) that the defense presented. YET, it took me that long to get on board. I wanted to cut the guy a break. I wanted to bring it down to just a DUI. But in the end, I had to check the (bleeding) heart at the door – the compassion that believes in the general good of people, good being redeemable, and the ability to make mistakes and correct it and learn from it and give-a-guy-a-break philosophy. Looking at the issue objectively, resulted in a conviction. Objectively, there was no other way to rule.
Yeah, he was wrong. But it did not feel good. I was emotionally invested in that case. At the end of the day, I went home and sobbed into my pillow. I hated that. It felt hypocritical to say, yeah, I've been there dude, but nanny-nanny-boo-boo you got caught so go sit in the corner for 10 days and think about it. What high horse am I on? See? THAT doesn't sit right with me. [Disclaimer: I don't do that anymore. I, thankfully, live in walking proximity to watering holes, cabs, and metro and Mav is marrying our Designated Driver when locations take us yonder.]
I was emotionally-invested and, as such, I got emotionally-attached to one of the jurors. (Which I didn't even notice at the time.) He was cute but that is really besides the point. I didn't see Cute. I saw strength. He was smart (very) and he helped me, in his way, find where I needed to go with this. I guess I identified with him. He thought like me, but more rationally. He helped me wrap my mind around where it should have been. He had that kind of presence. Something I haven't seen since my dad. It was something I could buckle to. So somewhere between conflicted emotions, vulnerability, and being scared shitless, I approached Needy territory (or what felt like neediness). Something I never thought was "pretty." I would never show a guy - who didn't know me - THAT. I felt like I wasn't having a big girl moment. I should be confident! And sure! And tough! But in succumbing to something so innate to my being - some vulnerability - I saw what it could get me. Because as we were walking out of the courthouse, His Sweetness reached out to me and gave me a hug. And it wasn't a gratuitous hug. He reached for it, he meant it. He asked me if I was going to be alright. I said, I would be. He assured me that we did the right thing. I trust that.
So...happy with and by myself. Right?
But then something happened to slap my happy face into Fuck! This sucks! all over again. [Cue: Violins. Crickets. And an annoying harmonica. All in black and white.] This week was enough to remind me that I DO need that hug at the end of the day because hugging yourself is only fun when someone is watching you from behind.
This week I was selected to report for jury duty. And out of the 70-or so people reporting that day, I was actually selected with 6 other people to sit on a jury. We were hearing a drunk driving case.
I thought the odds were against me. Especially after I was questioned on being a law librarian and my training to that end. I explained my legal research training and general law librarian code of ethics (I left out the geekiness of that line) that does not in any way, shape, or form allow me to interpret the law. So: clueless. AND after I admitted to being rear-ended by a drunk driver when I was 15. I left out the severity of the accident and when questioned on this, I admitted that I could, in fact, remain impartial. (This proved to be true.) I also had to admit to driving under the influence at times. We all did.
Damn, I wish I would have fought harder for dismissal - the excuses were there for me. Because in the end, I – along with my fellow jurors – had to send some guy who made a really bad decision one night to get behind the wheel of his car to jail. For 10 days. It is two days later and THAT still sits with me.
We listened to this case for 2 days and we deliberated on it for 3-ish hours. I won't talk about the specifics of the case, because there were dynamics. It wasn't cut and dry, yet it was. The defense could have had a case but had no hard evidence to dispute the one piece of evidence that stood - which is the guy blew a .24, three times the legal limit. But there was no reason not to believe that result given all the evidence (of which there was none) and witnesses (of which there were none) that the defense presented. YET, it took me that long to get on board. I wanted to cut the guy a break. I wanted to bring it down to just a DUI. But in the end, I had to check the (bleeding) heart at the door – the compassion that believes in the general good of people, good being redeemable, and the ability to make mistakes and correct it and learn from it and give-a-guy-a-break philosophy. Looking at the issue objectively, resulted in a conviction. Objectively, there was no other way to rule.
Yeah, he was wrong. But it did not feel good. I was emotionally invested in that case. At the end of the day, I went home and sobbed into my pillow. I hated that. It felt hypocritical to say, yeah, I've been there dude, but nanny-nanny-boo-boo you got caught so go sit in the corner for 10 days and think about it. What high horse am I on? See? THAT doesn't sit right with me. [Disclaimer: I don't do that anymore. I, thankfully, live in walking proximity to watering holes, cabs, and metro and Mav is marrying our Designated Driver when locations take us yonder.]
I was emotionally-invested and, as such, I got emotionally-attached to one of the jurors. (Which I didn't even notice at the time.) He was cute but that is really besides the point. I didn't see Cute. I saw strength. He was smart (very) and he helped me, in his way, find where I needed to go with this. I guess I identified with him. He thought like me, but more rationally. He helped me wrap my mind around where it should have been. He had that kind of presence. Something I haven't seen since my dad. It was something I could buckle to. So somewhere between conflicted emotions, vulnerability, and being scared shitless, I approached Needy territory (or what felt like neediness). Something I never thought was "pretty." I would never show a guy - who didn't know me - THAT. I felt like I wasn't having a big girl moment. I should be confident! And sure! And tough! But in succumbing to something so innate to my being - some vulnerability - I saw what it could get me. Because as we were walking out of the courthouse, His Sweetness reached out to me and gave me a hug. And it wasn't a gratuitous hug. He reached for it, he meant it. He asked me if I was going to be alright. I said, I would be. He assured me that we did the right thing. I trust that.
Friday, May 04, 2007
A Friday Night Date
I came home from work, put on a low-cut sundress, slid my feet into new summer sandals, layered some necklaces, squirted my signature scent, Angel, on my neck, and brushed a coat of lip gloss. I smacked my lips, did a double take in the mirror (someone's got to give me second glances, the cat's dead and even then she just gave me those evil stares plotting my death).
There was a kick in my step. Where did this newfound....what is it...not necessarily happiness...but contentedness, yeah? ....where did THAT come from.
I don't know but I am going with it.
I picked a bouquet of flowers, a rotisserie chicken, pilaf, greens, chocolate mousse, raspberries, a red, a white, a champagne, a Chimay. Just some accessories to a good date.
I thought the wine sampler guy was flirting with me so I tried all six then went back to the Zin for another swig. He was buying.
I put the pilaf on simmer, settled into a bath, glass of wine in hand.
After dinner, I dipped some raspberries in "vegan" chocolate mousse. Finished the bottle. And called it a night.
Tomorrow I have a date with a horse.
There was a kick in my step. Where did this newfound....what is it...not necessarily happiness...but contentedness, yeah? ....where did THAT come from.
I don't know but I am going with it.
I picked a bouquet of flowers, a rotisserie chicken, pilaf, greens, chocolate mousse, raspberries, a red, a white, a champagne, a Chimay. Just some accessories to a good date.
I thought the wine sampler guy was flirting with me so I tried all six then went back to the Zin for another swig. He was buying.
I put the pilaf on simmer, settled into a bath, glass of wine in hand.
After dinner, I dipped some raspberries in "vegan" chocolate mousse. Finished the bottle. And called it a night.
Tomorrow I have a date with a horse.
Wedding Registries: The Good and Bad of It
This post has been a long time coming. Born from that awesome day much like our parents may have experienced circa 1960’s (before the Beatle invasion) when Mav picked me up from the office in a Prowler (yes the Betterman’s PT Cruiser). The car upstaged us. Hell, we could have been the British Invasion by the attention we were getting.
I’ve said it before: Wedding Registries – I don’t get them. Well, I get them in theory. It’s like not showing up to a party without a bottle. The people want to bring you something for your hospitality. Because this one bottle I bring you? I am going to double my profits at your kitchen bar. This – you know, getting the “idea” of a registry - is just my little disclaimer for when I do get married because then I will register for things I really need – that third car…vacation home…an orphan in Malawai. Because isn’t that what people are really waiting for after you exchange vows before Elvis or at least before I exchange vows before Elvis? (I did just get back from Vegas. Just so you know.)
…OK, so registries…
People in their mid-thirties – professional working people in their mid-thirties, with homes and cars and pots and pans and turkey basters – STILL insist on registering for things our mom and dad’s registered for when they were teenagers and "starting their home." Registering for the "basics" - much like tossing the bouquet to spinster single chicks in tafetta and letting the men seduce a woman’s leg, the words “honor and obey” really just “cop a feel” – is (or should be) an antiquated practice slowly dying a vanilla-frosted cake-in-your-face death.
My thoughts are if you live in THIS WORLD and breath 30-year old air and put yourself to bed every night without your mama tucking you in and take yourself out for steak every once in a awhile, then you might have the following:
China...Because isn’t that just NOT paper plates? Grandmas have china and should be passed down. And even better if it's got nicks and mismatched - you know I love.
Measuring spoons...seriously, they're maybe 4.99 at Target.
Baking sheets, baking pans, bundt pans...Perhaps that is what marriage does to people – drives them straight to pineapple upside down cake.
Wine glasses...How are you drinking your wine already? All grown-up drinks have a context. As such, a proper container from which to serve is pertinent to the enjoyment of the beverage, be that champagne, margarita, Long Island, martini, wine. There is a glass for it people! I have pilsners and pints and 99 bottles of beer on the wall...doesn't everybody?
Sheets...And would you like me to throw some mood lighting and Barry White in too? 8MM film? Because I like THAT thankyou note: Thanks for the sheets! Mr. and I enjoy rolling in them! (See: turkey baster below.)
Casual china...Which are really just paper plates, right? Plastic Ronald McDonald plates? I eat the chicken out of the bucket.
Salt and pepper shakers
Turkey Baster...Honey, that is not a kitchen utensil. ooh la la, is all I'm saying. This is universal, isn't it? (See: sheets above).
Salad spinners...do we still spin our salad? I thought that was a 70’s concept, much like polyester, the hula hoop, the Village People, the AMC Pacer (bubble car!), and betamax (i.e., better "technologies" now). If I can't push a button, I'm not making it. I blame that on Y2K.
Professional working people owning city condos, driving imports, drinking imports, and shopping at the NOTWal-mart must have all this stuff already, eh? I have all this shit and the nice shit to boot. I bought the Williams Sonoma cake can, cookie sheets, the spring form pan, and three different colored spatulas when I went on a baking kick a few Christmas' ago. Yet, I do not own a baby blue KitchenAid mixer that I do covet but I can't ask my guests to buy me a $300 piece of machinery. (See above: bring one measly bottle of wine to party, drink four in return.)
I don’t look at marriage as an excuse to get shit. Well, just the things I need (see above: 3d car, 2d home – oh, we are combining properties so 3d home (my bad), and 2.2 orphans).
YET, I say all this and just so you know...I DO believe in the gift-giving. Of course! And for each wedding I go to, I happily buy the roasting pan or blender (because that is a gift that keeps on giving..margaritas on deck and I'm the houseguest that never leaves) for the lovebirds. If that is what you want. A lot of this is JUST ME because, like I said, I happen to have most of this stuff - and quality stuff too because I happen to buy myself really nice things. If I can, why can't I, said the girl who owns all these kitchen gadgets yet doesn't even cook. And quality is not over-rated, my friends. I can get behind that. So, you should have a nice set of measuring spoons (and only a girl or the Ace of Cakes will get that). But I do admit to sometimes tweaking the gift. If you want a cutting board, I might go to Torpedo Art Factory and get you an artist-crafted one. Is that acceptable?
There is a reason why guys dread Registry Day - it's domesticatingly BORING. Their wig doesn't flip for some measuring spoons. But when I see the turkey baster on the registry, I just nod my head in recognition. Yeah...please send the turkey baster.
I’ve said it before: Wedding Registries – I don’t get them. Well, I get them in theory. It’s like not showing up to a party without a bottle. The people want to bring you something for your hospitality. Because this one bottle I bring you? I am going to double my profits at your kitchen bar. This – you know, getting the “idea” of a registry - is just my little disclaimer for when I do get married because then I will register for things I really need – that third car…vacation home…an orphan in Malawai. Because isn’t that what people are really waiting for after you exchange vows before Elvis or at least before I exchange vows before Elvis? (I did just get back from Vegas. Just so you know.)
…OK, so registries…
People in their mid-thirties – professional working people in their mid-thirties, with homes and cars and pots and pans and turkey basters – STILL insist on registering for things our mom and dad’s registered for when they were teenagers and "starting their home." Registering for the "basics" - much like tossing the bouquet to spinster single chicks in tafetta and letting the men seduce a woman’s leg, the words “honor and obey” really just “cop a feel” – is (or should be) an antiquated practice slowly dying a vanilla-frosted cake-in-your-face death.
My thoughts are if you live in THIS WORLD and breath 30-year old air and put yourself to bed every night without your mama tucking you in and take yourself out for steak every once in a awhile, then you might have the following:
China...Because isn’t that just NOT paper plates? Grandmas have china and should be passed down. And even better if it's got nicks and mismatched - you know I love.
Measuring spoons...seriously, they're maybe 4.99 at Target.
Baking sheets, baking pans, bundt pans...Perhaps that is what marriage does to people – drives them straight to pineapple upside down cake.
Wine glasses...How are you drinking your wine already? All grown-up drinks have a context. As such, a proper container from which to serve is pertinent to the enjoyment of the beverage, be that champagne, margarita, Long Island, martini, wine. There is a glass for it people! I have pilsners and pints and 99 bottles of beer on the wall...doesn't everybody?
Sheets...And would you like me to throw some mood lighting and Barry White in too? 8MM film? Because I like THAT thankyou note: Thanks for the sheets! Mr. and I enjoy rolling in them! (See: turkey baster below.)
Casual china...Which are really just paper plates, right? Plastic Ronald McDonald plates? I eat the chicken out of the bucket.
Salt and pepper shakers
Turkey Baster...Honey, that is not a kitchen utensil. ooh la la, is all I'm saying. This is universal, isn't it? (See: sheets above).
Salad spinners...do we still spin our salad? I thought that was a 70’s concept, much like polyester, the hula hoop, the Village People, the AMC Pacer (bubble car!), and betamax (i.e., better "technologies" now). If I can't push a button, I'm not making it. I blame that on Y2K.
Professional working people owning city condos, driving imports, drinking imports, and shopping at the NOTWal-mart must have all this stuff already, eh? I have all this shit and the nice shit to boot. I bought the Williams Sonoma cake can, cookie sheets, the spring form pan, and three different colored spatulas when I went on a baking kick a few Christmas' ago. Yet, I do not own a baby blue KitchenAid mixer that I do covet but I can't ask my guests to buy me a $300 piece of machinery. (See above: bring one measly bottle of wine to party, drink four in return.)
I don’t look at marriage as an excuse to get shit. Well, just the things I need (see above: 3d car, 2d home – oh, we are combining properties so 3d home (my bad), and 2.2 orphans).
YET, I say all this and just so you know...I DO believe in the gift-giving. Of course! And for each wedding I go to, I happily buy the roasting pan or blender (because that is a gift that keeps on giving..margaritas on deck and I'm the houseguest that never leaves) for the lovebirds. If that is what you want. A lot of this is JUST ME because, like I said, I happen to have most of this stuff - and quality stuff too because I happen to buy myself really nice things. If I can, why can't I, said the girl who owns all these kitchen gadgets yet doesn't even cook. And quality is not over-rated, my friends. I can get behind that. So, you should have a nice set of measuring spoons (and only a girl or the Ace of Cakes will get that). But I do admit to sometimes tweaking the gift. If you want a cutting board, I might go to Torpedo Art Factory and get you an artist-crafted one. Is that acceptable?
There is a reason why guys dread Registry Day - it's domesticatingly BORING. Their wig doesn't flip for some measuring spoons. But when I see the turkey baster on the registry, I just nod my head in recognition. Yeah...please send the turkey baster.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Doppelgangers...Real, Imaginary...Find Them On The Internet (or Whole Foods)
I’m obsessed with this idea of doppelgangers lately. My intro into what exactly is a doppelganger was care of a Lifetime movie starring Melissa Gilbert (Half Pint! times 2! And I’ve left the joke book on that one at home, folks. Fill in your own punchline). I guess in true definition – and what the movie projected – a doppelganger is a shadow-self that only the self can see…so it has mystical or spiritual, namely devil-backed, connotations – as evil incarnate, a portent to death, etc. But in keeping with the light and fluffy and spreadable (and off the horror screen and any kind of Witch’s Brew), my definition of a doppelganger is merely a resemblance of oneself (either in spirit, characteristic, or physical form). And since I believe that all living creatures are inherently good and redeemable, my mind, wander as She may, can not go THERE, devil boy.
So doppelgangers are gooooood.
For example, when I say someone is a doppelganger of someone I used to date, I am inferring that the named doppelganger is actually perhaps the Good Twin because he is not tainted by the Past and Whimsy of the particular Copy, who was merely posing as the Original. As it relates to guys I have dated (read: Past, Unwanted), the doppelganger is the essence of what this person SHOULD have been or what I imagined him to be. (Who said Imaginary Boyfriends weren’t acceptable? I don’t think Dr. Phil has touched this one.) So I might build this Unknown Twin up to what should have been. So you know what happens next? Cyber-stalking is in order, Webbers! Because I really have to give him more context than: the Asst Manager at Whole Foods, in Chucks, who looks like Pompadour with a better hair cut. I like to call it: Dating at a Distance. I would argue that this is actually healthier, Heartbreakers and Breakees.
But let me expound on one obsession at a time.
I vaguely remember years ago someone claiming to know my dad from somewhere. “He looks just like you, everything about you.” Well, there was no way in hell these people knew each other unless my daddy had a double life and appeared at dinner every single night of my life growing up as a hologram. (What's good for Elvis is good for my daddy. But he shouldn't have to suffer Celine. I'm just saying.)
I tuck that way as my daddy having a doppelganger. And if anybody should be cloneable, it shouldn’t be a cow named Dolly, but it should have been a Pollack named Ski. And this is not After Death or In Retrospect talk – or Polish propaganda. (For that I would just say: Go stuff a sausage. Pass the pigs. And fly the Polish flag.) So I find myself looking for my dad wherever I go. Sometimes I just imagine what it would be like to see him walking down the street - looking lost, of course, because he can’t find us - as me, my brother, my sister, and my mom all live at new addresses, new cities…new states, even. Perhaps it is unhealthy and too psychologically-revealing to tell you that a huge factor in why I stayed renting at my old place for so long – was so he could find us. To flash the sanity card and stave the straight jackets, I will tell you that I mean that in the spiritual sense. And it is also why I don’t understand why people wouldn’t want an open casket funeral (unless gruesome circumstances demand not) because I had to see his body otherwise I would never have believed that he just didn’t exist in this world anymore. And, y’all, it took me a long time to actually say it like that: exist in this world. Because, doubters, and I was one of them, there has got to be a silver lining to death – there has to be. So keep a girl hopeful and don’t tell me otherwise.
While I have never seen his doppelganger, per se, I do see my dad in people – not as in "i see dead people" see, mind you - it might be in an expression, emotion, a look. An indescribable. Recently, I’ve seen him in a baggage handler at Raleigh International. I’ve seen him in a guy on House Hunters. And in a saxaphonist in Wynton Marsalis' band. All these people looked nothing like him, yet, there was something familiar. Even he has seen a dopelganger. I remember one time sitting on a bar-chartered bus (bar to ballpark, ballpark to bar, because that is how he rolled) coming back from a Chicago Cubs game and him talking about this old lady sitting a few rows ahead of us. He thought she, eerily, reminded him of his mom: my dear grandma, who incidently died too young too. I wondered what it was about her that got his mind wandering There. But now I know, you never let it go. It's impossible to forget. You wonder (and you wander). But you can change your address because he will be everywhere, if nowhere.
So, seeking out doppelgangers….it keeps me believing, see?
An off-shoot of this theme (that try as I might to steer otherwise, brings this back to dating blog material), is lately I have been seeing double of Pompadour. That guy in the pool in Vegas. That guy walking over the Key Bridge last week. The manager at Whole Foods. Hell, in Blakissey even! And why? The shoes? The hair? An expression? An Indie Posturer? I have let IT go because I have had the "he's just not that into you" kick in the ass and puddles of tears that I just can not go through AGAIN. But yet...there he is. But this He is the Good Twin. In theory, at least. And in Whole Foods. Hey, they can't all be corporate cowboys.
And so, where does cyber-stalking fit into this? Yeah, well, I'll just say, I'm good at my job, which equates to: finding information. And, it sometimes seeps into my personal life. It's like the porn star who likes it dirty at home too. It's not just all there in your briefcase or your crotchless panties, it's in your blood. That is why you do what you do and you do it good.
So let me show you how this works.
I'm doing some grocery shopping, trying to mind my own damn business, and I see this guy with dark, shaggy hair lingering somewhere between Organic and Recycled - or Romanticized and Doppelganging, in the Land of Writerly Metaphors where Cheese most always abounds. Can't. Help. It. So this is all I know about him: He works in Whole Foods, wears an apron, and roams the aisles. One time near Dairy. And one time near Yoga Supplies. That's all we know, kids. Not even a name. Well, that was 2 hours ago. Because what I just did was this:
1. I went to the Whole Foods homepage.
2. I just took a wild guess that he could be the Assistant Manager, soley based on name, which is a cute boy name and my very first, 3d grade boyfriend's name who showered me with his sister's stuffed animals.
3. I googled him.
4. Common name so I googled my neighborhood with his name.
5. I found a myspace page to confirm.
6. I never said library science was rocket science.
From which I learned: He is from a southern town I think is pretty cool, he write/plays music, he blogs on his page and is a great, witty, insightful writer, and he loves his job. See? That right there tells you that he is the Good Twin of Pompadour (or, as I like to call him now, G-Top). This unknown blows the reality away. And I'd like to stop right there because this is a guy I could "stalk." You know, if that was part and parcel to being a Cool Chick. But then I also found this out: He drives an Xterra, goes on three week hiking trips, and has a girlfriend who doesn't shave her armpits. Alright, let's go back to the beginning -and add that to the mix now...he loves working at Whole Foods. See? There might be a crunch to G-Top's step which might not match up to the clicking of my heels. He might not be the closet rocker I desire.
So I will continue to scan the doppelganger lineup. Believing. I think I'm getting very comfortable being alone. Accepting it even.
And in topic and for the subscribers at home: If Brad Pitt's doppelganger were writing a blog, it might go like this.
So doppelgangers are gooooood.
For example, when I say someone is a doppelganger of someone I used to date, I am inferring that the named doppelganger is actually perhaps the Good Twin because he is not tainted by the Past and Whimsy of the particular Copy, who was merely posing as the Original. As it relates to guys I have dated (read: Past, Unwanted), the doppelganger is the essence of what this person SHOULD have been or what I imagined him to be. (Who said Imaginary Boyfriends weren’t acceptable? I don’t think Dr. Phil has touched this one.) So I might build this Unknown Twin up to what should have been. So you know what happens next? Cyber-stalking is in order, Webbers! Because I really have to give him more context than: the Asst Manager at Whole Foods, in Chucks, who looks like Pompadour with a better hair cut. I like to call it: Dating at a Distance. I would argue that this is actually healthier, Heartbreakers and Breakees.
But let me expound on one obsession at a time.
I vaguely remember years ago someone claiming to know my dad from somewhere. “He looks just like you, everything about you.” Well, there was no way in hell these people knew each other unless my daddy had a double life and appeared at dinner every single night of my life growing up as a hologram. (What's good for Elvis is good for my daddy. But he shouldn't have to suffer Celine. I'm just saying.)
I tuck that way as my daddy having a doppelganger. And if anybody should be cloneable, it shouldn’t be a cow named Dolly, but it should have been a Pollack named Ski. And this is not After Death or In Retrospect talk – or Polish propaganda. (For that I would just say: Go stuff a sausage. Pass the pigs. And fly the Polish flag.) So I find myself looking for my dad wherever I go. Sometimes I just imagine what it would be like to see him walking down the street - looking lost, of course, because he can’t find us - as me, my brother, my sister, and my mom all live at new addresses, new cities…new states, even. Perhaps it is unhealthy and too psychologically-revealing to tell you that a huge factor in why I stayed renting at my old place for so long – was so he could find us. To flash the sanity card and stave the straight jackets, I will tell you that I mean that in the spiritual sense. And it is also why I don’t understand why people wouldn’t want an open casket funeral (unless gruesome circumstances demand not) because I had to see his body otherwise I would never have believed that he just didn’t exist in this world anymore. And, y’all, it took me a long time to actually say it like that: exist in this world. Because, doubters, and I was one of them, there has got to be a silver lining to death – there has to be. So keep a girl hopeful and don’t tell me otherwise.
While I have never seen his doppelganger, per se, I do see my dad in people – not as in "i see dead people" see, mind you - it might be in an expression, emotion, a look. An indescribable. Recently, I’ve seen him in a baggage handler at Raleigh International. I’ve seen him in a guy on House Hunters. And in a saxaphonist in Wynton Marsalis' band. All these people looked nothing like him, yet, there was something familiar. Even he has seen a dopelganger. I remember one time sitting on a bar-chartered bus (bar to ballpark, ballpark to bar, because that is how he rolled) coming back from a Chicago Cubs game and him talking about this old lady sitting a few rows ahead of us. He thought she, eerily, reminded him of his mom: my dear grandma, who incidently died too young too. I wondered what it was about her that got his mind wandering There. But now I know, you never let it go. It's impossible to forget. You wonder (and you wander). But you can change your address because he will be everywhere, if nowhere.
So, seeking out doppelgangers….it keeps me believing, see?
An off-shoot of this theme (that try as I might to steer otherwise, brings this back to dating blog material), is lately I have been seeing double of Pompadour. That guy in the pool in Vegas. That guy walking over the Key Bridge last week. The manager at Whole Foods. Hell, in Blakissey even! And why? The shoes? The hair? An expression? An Indie Posturer? I have let IT go because I have had the "he's just not that into you" kick in the ass and puddles of tears that I just can not go through AGAIN. But yet...there he is. But this He is the Good Twin. In theory, at least. And in Whole Foods. Hey, they can't all be corporate cowboys.
And so, where does cyber-stalking fit into this? Yeah, well, I'll just say, I'm good at my job, which equates to: finding information. And, it sometimes seeps into my personal life. It's like the porn star who likes it dirty at home too. It's not just all there in your briefcase or your crotchless panties, it's in your blood. That is why you do what you do and you do it good.
So let me show you how this works.
I'm doing some grocery shopping, trying to mind my own damn business, and I see this guy with dark, shaggy hair lingering somewhere between Organic and Recycled - or Romanticized and Doppelganging, in the Land of Writerly Metaphors where Cheese most always abounds. Can't. Help. It. So this is all I know about him: He works in Whole Foods, wears an apron, and roams the aisles. One time near Dairy. And one time near Yoga Supplies. That's all we know, kids. Not even a name. Well, that was 2 hours ago. Because what I just did was this:
1. I went to the Whole Foods homepage.
2. I just took a wild guess that he could be the Assistant Manager, soley based on name, which is a cute boy name and my very first, 3d grade boyfriend's name who showered me with his sister's stuffed animals.
3. I googled him.
4. Common name so I googled my neighborhood with his name.
5. I found a myspace page to confirm.
6. I never said library science was rocket science.
From which I learned: He is from a southern town I think is pretty cool, he write/plays music, he blogs on his page and is a great, witty, insightful writer, and he loves his job. See? That right there tells you that he is the Good Twin of Pompadour (or, as I like to call him now, G-Top). This unknown blows the reality away. And I'd like to stop right there because this is a guy I could "stalk." You know, if that was part and parcel to being a Cool Chick. But then I also found this out: He drives an Xterra, goes on three week hiking trips, and has a girlfriend who doesn't shave her armpits. Alright, let's go back to the beginning -and add that to the mix now...he loves working at Whole Foods. See? There might be a crunch to G-Top's step which might not match up to the clicking of my heels. He might not be the closet rocker I desire.
So I will continue to scan the doppelganger lineup. Believing. I think I'm getting very comfortable being alone. Accepting it even.
And in topic and for the subscribers at home: If Brad Pitt's doppelganger were writing a blog, it might go like this.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
The New It Couple: It's Your Bearthday
I left behind a weekend of celebrating Mother Earth and the horror of a possible world of only One. Square. To. Spare. [Edited to add: Oh...thank god!...she was kidding. Jokes, Sheryl's got 'em. Resume to your regularly scheduled wad of TP.]
I left behind a weekend of my annual 29th birthday, also known as Stop Talking About Tequila Day, by celebrating with Mav, Morgan, and DP in appropriate fashion that consisted of me dipping my toes in a very deep fountain. I'd like to think it was the Fountain of Youth.
Soon, I will leave for Vegas. I will be in the company of good friends. I will lie in a pool by the Eiffel Tower. The rest as "they" say Stays.
I left behind a weekend of my annual 29th birthday, also known as Stop Talking About Tequila Day, by celebrating with Mav, Morgan, and DP in appropriate fashion that consisted of me dipping my toes in a very deep fountain. I'd like to think it was the Fountain of Youth.
Soon, I will leave for Vegas. I will be in the company of good friends. I will lie in a pool by the Eiffel Tower. The rest as "they" say Stays.
Friday, April 20, 2007
It's the New Beastie Boys' Album, Check Your Citation
Perhaps it is because I am a librarian that proper and correct citation is always essential, no matter the setting. In person - alright, use your air quotes (and hand parantheses if you must) - but it should go like this:
"Hey, hey, hey....it's [whoever just entered stage left]!" (you know, as One may say in everyday conversation) should really be, "As Fat Albert says, "Hey, hey, hey....!"" or more correctly, "As Bill Cosby wrote in the character of Fat Albert says, "Hey, hey, hey....!""
...if one where being Bartlettian about it. Sticklers, there's one in every happy hour crowd.
But more seriously, it kind of tousled my librarian's bun the other night watching American Idol when Blake (He of Morrissey-esque pouty singing mouth) picks a “Tim McGraw” song. [Ed. note: The quotes here representing sarcasm - the favored use of the accessory actually.]
Blakissey could have named any Tim McGraw song and I would have kept my head in my (citation) book because what are the chances I am going to know a Tim McGraw song. But when I heard the song title, “When the Stars Go Blue.” Well, I pushed my glasses up my nose and had to adjust my rabbit ears - and the TVs - because that song title sure sounds like a lovely little ballad by one Ryan Adams. And sure enough there he drawls, "Dancin' when the stars go blue..."
My ears half smiled as I was reminded of how beautiful that song is.
He (Blakissey) did a lackluster delivery of the song - his performance was too affected. That song needs to be soft, the lyrics coaxed gently. For that, Tim can leave the big band at home and The Corrs can dump Bono in the trashcan. (I am reminded of their version, although better than Tim's, but Bono get out of my ear buds already.) And apparently some One Tree Hill kids sing a version too but I'm sick of this already.
I'm not here to bash karaoke! I'm here for citation purposes.
That song is Ryan Adams, originally sung by and penned by. It should be properly cited as such, don't ya' think, Idol?
What's next? Are you going to have Gwen Stefani sing her song, "It's My Life"?*
*It's Talk Talk circa 1984.
"Hey, hey, hey....it's [whoever just entered stage left]!" (you know, as One may say in everyday conversation) should really be, "As Fat Albert says, "Hey, hey, hey....!"" or more correctly, "As Bill Cosby wrote in the character of Fat Albert says, "Hey, hey, hey....!""
...if one where being Bartlettian about it. Sticklers, there's one in every happy hour crowd.
But more seriously, it kind of tousled my librarian's bun the other night watching American Idol when Blake (He of Morrissey-esque pouty singing mouth) picks a “Tim McGraw” song. [Ed. note: The quotes here representing sarcasm - the favored use of the accessory actually.]
Blakissey could have named any Tim McGraw song and I would have kept my head in my (citation) book because what are the chances I am going to know a Tim McGraw song. But when I heard the song title, “When the Stars Go Blue.” Well, I pushed my glasses up my nose and had to adjust my rabbit ears - and the TVs - because that song title sure sounds like a lovely little ballad by one Ryan Adams. And sure enough there he drawls, "Dancin' when the stars go blue..."
My ears half smiled as I was reminded of how beautiful that song is.
He (Blakissey) did a lackluster delivery of the song - his performance was too affected. That song needs to be soft, the lyrics coaxed gently. For that, Tim can leave the big band at home and The Corrs can dump Bono in the trashcan. (I am reminded of their version, although better than Tim's, but Bono get out of my ear buds already.) And apparently some One Tree Hill kids sing a version too but I'm sick of this already.
I'm not here to bash karaoke! I'm here for citation purposes.
That song is Ryan Adams, originally sung by and penned by. It should be properly cited as such, don't ya' think, Idol?
What's next? Are you going to have Gwen Stefani sing her song, "It's My Life"?*
*It's Talk Talk circa 1984.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Dust Bunny Hunt
I spent Easter Sunday nursing squished toes and cursing the shoes that hated them so on Saturday night. I made a mental note that those shoes are only meant for sleeping. Certainly not for trying to get your be-bop, seagull-in-a-flock, goody-two-shoin', rebel-yellin' on for an 80's cover band. The toes have threatened to jump ship to someone without a high heel shoe fetish. (They hear Naturalizer is making cute shoes now.) So I gave us the Easter treatment - a dye-job for the piggies and a chocolate egg for me. Everyone is happy these days.
I went with that feeling (of happy feet...cue the tap-dancing penguin, if you must) and opted not to go to the baseball game of which I had tickets to. You know, it snowed the other day so not feeling the baseball park vibe just yet. Yet instead of doing my part to ponder Nothing, work my thumb muscles on the remote, and rest my eyes every two hours in typical Sunday fashion, I took it upon myself to....clean.
Like any Good Housekeeping devotee, I did my annual top (of the refrigerator) to bottom (of the floorboard) home-cleaning ritual. I tore through my closets and filled a lawn-size bag with clothes for Goodwill. I moved some furniture around in my sunroom. Mopped the wood floors. Organized some papers.
I can say there is a place for everything now. For now, I went with that good feeling of the day - this Easter - and danced around my house to the new Kaiser Chiefs, admired my toes some more, and rewarded myself with another chocolate egg.
I went with that feeling (of happy feet...cue the tap-dancing penguin, if you must) and opted not to go to the baseball game of which I had tickets to. You know, it snowed the other day so not feeling the baseball park vibe just yet. Yet instead of doing my part to ponder Nothing, work my thumb muscles on the remote, and rest my eyes every two hours in typical Sunday fashion, I took it upon myself to....clean.
Like any Good Housekeeping devotee, I did my annual top (of the refrigerator) to bottom (of the floorboard) home-cleaning ritual. I tore through my closets and filled a lawn-size bag with clothes for Goodwill. I moved some furniture around in my sunroom. Mopped the wood floors. Organized some papers.
I can say there is a place for everything now. For now, I went with that good feeling of the day - this Easter - and danced around my house to the new Kaiser Chiefs, admired my toes some more, and rewarded myself with another chocolate egg.
Friday, March 30, 2007
What The Funk?
I have been in a little funk lately, tempered only by the occassional tryst with Pompadour. I become blinded by the champagne and drowned in the music.
The space in between is Anxiety. That birthday is looming and for the very first time in my life I have actually thought it would be pretty cool to have a little minnie Me. This tells me that aside from my general lack of self-esteem I must like myself somewhat and, hey, I might be kind of cool to hang out with. And I never wanted children before but lately I picture a little girl with Princess Leia buns on the side of her head and a shirt that says, "Anarchy in the Pre-K."
I don't know, the stars are not aligned or is this some pre-mid-life crisis? Am I going to go out and buy a PT Cruiser, carry a paisley duffle bag for a purse, and put ice cubes in my wine?
I'm the first to admit that my occassional dance with depression is rather self-indulgent, knowing this I guess keeps me sane. But I still have to muster up some charm for lunch with III tomorrow...
The space in between is Anxiety. That birthday is looming and for the very first time in my life I have actually thought it would be pretty cool to have a little minnie Me. This tells me that aside from my general lack of self-esteem I must like myself somewhat and, hey, I might be kind of cool to hang out with. And I never wanted children before but lately I picture a little girl with Princess Leia buns on the side of her head and a shirt that says, "Anarchy in the Pre-K."
I don't know, the stars are not aligned or is this some pre-mid-life crisis? Am I going to go out and buy a PT Cruiser, carry a paisley duffle bag for a purse, and put ice cubes in my wine?
I'm the first to admit that my occassional dance with depression is rather self-indulgent, knowing this I guess keeps me sane. But I still have to muster up some charm for lunch with III tomorrow...
Friday, March 23, 2007
Panic! At The Blog
When I first set out to pen my little insipid drabble, very few knew about it. Slowly, I started to share with some of my friends and family - and still only some. Not because there is anything to hide. I just really don't think about it unless it comes up in conversation and then it's like: "Blog?" Blog!" "I blog" "Can I read it?" and then the address is forwarded.
Yet, I go back and forth. On one hand, I want lots of people to read but only if they play nice. Feelings hurt, ya'know. And on the other hand, I cringe at some of the things I write when I should just look back at it and shrug: Well, it was the 1960's, times were different, and we were all on drugs.
Luckily, I have always been careful not to say anything hurtful about anyone I know. Because when you walk into a bar and your friend says, "Hey! I've been enjoying your blog!" you panic just a little. Then you frantically go back and make sure nothing hurtful was said about anyone he may know. Then when you consider he is good friends with the Yukkell, well, then you cringe because some of the early shit is out there. Then, you squirm in your stilettos knowing that one of your Guy Pals - who you drink beer and watch sports with (sometimes in camoflauge sneakers) has access to some of your tragically hopeless inner-most thoughts (and fashion fixations, but you had to already know that, huh?).
Then after the paranoia settles, you think it's pretty cool that he is on board because, hello!, it's the Bear. Say hi to the Bear. The Bear is a cuddly little ilk. I mean, he impregnants people by just being in their presence! True story I mean if your idea of "true" is "not really." Sound people are of the mind that it takes two to tango (and cash).
Then it is even doubly good that he is in on Blog when you realize you can capitalize on the sheer comedian that the Bear is and the late-night trouble he gets himself into. His stories involve hospitals, the grocery store, bathrooms, "couples" therapy, oh to name a few. But I'm not spilling the beans, Bear! So perhaps he will oblige me an interview someday. Cause for celebrity. And I think I can hear the Bear chime in with: "It's a celebration!" But maybe he should say it 30 more times in 30 minutes just for nails-down-a-chalkboard effect! Ha!
I know I don't write anymore so maybe this is just for the crickets in the back.
Yet, I go back and forth. On one hand, I want lots of people to read but only if they play nice. Feelings hurt, ya'know. And on the other hand, I cringe at some of the things I write when I should just look back at it and shrug: Well, it was the 1960's, times were different, and we were all on drugs.
Luckily, I have always been careful not to say anything hurtful about anyone I know. Because when you walk into a bar and your friend says, "Hey! I've been enjoying your blog!" you panic just a little. Then you frantically go back and make sure nothing hurtful was said about anyone he may know. Then when you consider he is good friends with the Yukkell, well, then you cringe because some of the early shit is out there. Then, you squirm in your stilettos knowing that one of your Guy Pals - who you drink beer and watch sports with (sometimes in camoflauge sneakers) has access to some of your tragically hopeless inner-most thoughts (and fashion fixations, but you had to already know that, huh?).
Then after the paranoia settles, you think it's pretty cool that he is on board because, hello!, it's the Bear. Say hi to the Bear. The Bear is a cuddly little ilk. I mean, he impregnants people by just being in their presence! True story I mean if your idea of "true" is "not really." Sound people are of the mind that it takes two to tango (and cash).
Then it is even doubly good that he is in on Blog when you realize you can capitalize on the sheer comedian that the Bear is and the late-night trouble he gets himself into. His stories involve hospitals, the grocery store, bathrooms, "couples" therapy, oh to name a few. But I'm not spilling the beans, Bear! So perhaps he will oblige me an interview someday. Cause for celebrity. And I think I can hear the Bear chime in with: "It's a celebration!" But maybe he should say it 30 more times in 30 minutes just for nails-down-a-chalkboard effect! Ha!
I know I don't write anymore so maybe this is just for the crickets in the back.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Patheticicity
How did Friday night come to this?
Drinking a bottle - or two - of wine and cyberstalking and buying furniture online. I even rode out to Loehman's so I could pick up new pajamas for such a night. Well, I intended on finding some cute outfit but the only draw were leopard print pj bottoms and a pink tank-nightshirt.
So here I am...in all my leopard/pink glory, cruising the guys online.
Mav says I have given drunk dialing a whole new meaning.
Don't get me wrong...I looked forward to a night at home, playing with my new computer, fixing my blog, transfering music to the new computer, and cyber-stalking guys I don't know.
Drinking a bottle - or two - of wine and cyberstalking and buying furniture online. I even rode out to Loehman's so I could pick up new pajamas for such a night. Well, I intended on finding some cute outfit but the only draw were leopard print pj bottoms and a pink tank-nightshirt.
So here I am...in all my leopard/pink glory, cruising the guys online.
Mav says I have given drunk dialing a whole new meaning.
Don't get me wrong...I looked forward to a night at home, playing with my new computer, fixing my blog, transfering music to the new computer, and cyber-stalking guys I don't know.
Friday, February 02, 2007
SWF Deletes Phone Numbers
ARLINGTON, FEB. 2 -- In a defiant act of protest to Relationships, Lack Thereof, and Annoying Cellphone Rings, SWF deletes all past loves and lovers out of cell phone.
It is unprecedented in this household because SWF (name withheld due to an abstract restraining order) is a hoarder. She collects die-cast pencil sharpeners, scarves, and gummy bears, but she is not about the add phone numbers to the clutter.
SWF was not available for comment but we were able to reach her psychiatrist, Dr. Ima Ginary, who stated, "It is a good day in the world. My patient was hiding behind the argument that having these phone numbers meant that she could identify them when they called and thus have control of the situation. By screening her calls, she thought she could better address the situation. But see, some of these guys hadn't called her in over a year and I wondered what this was doing to her psyche. You know the saying, 'A watched pot never boils'? It's just basic Psych 101." He further went on to add, "If all girls would get on board with this we could have peace and democracy in the Middle East. "
We were also able to meet up with her Feng Shui consultant and astrologer to the stars, the legendary, Madame Karma Comelately, who made us fork over $5.95 per minute (the first minute of advertisements being free), before speaking with us. Luckily she accepted Paypal. She was able to share with us the cleansing affect this could have on SWF, "SWF was hanging on to these numbers and, let me tell you, she had numbers of guys who she couldn't even identify out of a lineup of turnips. By releasing the bad energy and tidying up her communication corner, she will relinquish all control these misfit men have over her."
Then in an interesting turn of events, the normally media-shy phone was spotted walking down Rodeo Drive sporting nothing but numbers of friends and families and a shiny piece of red floss tied around the antenna. Normal sights are red bows on pooches, but red bows on phones? We caught up with a color consultant on the meaning behind this. "Red symbolizes love and passion, by tieing a red ribbon around your phone, you are sending out those energies to the world. Similar ways to accomplish this might be to wrap it in red felt. You know the saying, 'If you build it, they will come?' "
Now the buzz on the street is that Tom Ford is incorporating the look into his spring runway fashion shows this year. Skinny phones wearing nothing but red ribbons or coats of red felt and not fed any bullshit phone numbers. Less controversial that overly-skinny models strutting the runway in red floss. Tyra Banks plans on chatting with Larry King on this very topic. In her bathing suit - but she will bring along her own cameras since bad camera angles can add poundage.
World peace and fashion trends, all with the press of "delete." That's the real skinny, girls.
It is unprecedented in this household because SWF (name withheld due to an abstract restraining order) is a hoarder. She collects die-cast pencil sharpeners, scarves, and gummy bears, but she is not about the add phone numbers to the clutter.
SWF was not available for comment but we were able to reach her psychiatrist, Dr. Ima Ginary, who stated, "It is a good day in the world. My patient was hiding behind the argument that having these phone numbers meant that she could identify them when they called and thus have control of the situation. By screening her calls, she thought she could better address the situation. But see, some of these guys hadn't called her in over a year and I wondered what this was doing to her psyche. You know the saying, 'A watched pot never boils'? It's just basic Psych 101." He further went on to add, "If all girls would get on board with this we could have peace and democracy in the Middle East. "
We were also able to meet up with her Feng Shui consultant and astrologer to the stars, the legendary, Madame Karma Comelately, who made us fork over $5.95 per minute (the first minute of advertisements being free), before speaking with us. Luckily she accepted Paypal. She was able to share with us the cleansing affect this could have on SWF, "SWF was hanging on to these numbers and, let me tell you, she had numbers of guys who she couldn't even identify out of a lineup of turnips. By releasing the bad energy and tidying up her communication corner, she will relinquish all control these misfit men have over her."
Then in an interesting turn of events, the normally media-shy phone was spotted walking down Rodeo Drive sporting nothing but numbers of friends and families and a shiny piece of red floss tied around the antenna. Normal sights are red bows on pooches, but red bows on phones? We caught up with a color consultant on the meaning behind this. "Red symbolizes love and passion, by tieing a red ribbon around your phone, you are sending out those energies to the world. Similar ways to accomplish this might be to wrap it in red felt. You know the saying, 'If you build it, they will come?' "
Now the buzz on the street is that Tom Ford is incorporating the look into his spring runway fashion shows this year. Skinny phones wearing nothing but red ribbons or coats of red felt and not fed any bullshit phone numbers. Less controversial that overly-skinny models strutting the runway in red floss. Tyra Banks plans on chatting with Larry King on this very topic. In her bathing suit - but she will bring along her own cameras since bad camera angles can add poundage.
World peace and fashion trends, all with the press of "delete." That's the real skinny, girls.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Just Another Dating Story
I usually have good dates. Even when there is no chemistry, if there is liquor involved, you can count on having a good time with me. [Just tootin my horn, y’all! Honk-a-honk-a. And did I just pimp myself out?]
Sometimes I make a friend out of the deal. A lot of times I do get my heart tossed in a blender.
The one bad date that I can think of lasted only 10 minutes because I wasn’t going to sit around with some uptight pretentious dandy who rolled his eyes at me and tainted my little galaxy hut and it's BYOB (Bring-Your-Own-Boy) glory. As quickly as you taketh boy there, you can removeth. My final words to him were: "I'm so glad I didn't waste a Friday night on you." I think I had pig-tails and my trapper keeper on my hip when I said this.
Sometimes the dates might be a little boring and you know this is the case when you recite all the ways you love the potato. Sweet love, my little spuds! Oh wait, my archives just pinched me in the butt to remind me of the Princess and Ugly Stepchild Date, or how two people can go on the same date but have a remarkedly different experience – it’s the champagne vs. the miller high life lite date. Hee hee. That post still makes me laugh because it was really that bad. [Now time for another Phil Collins joke: He was no easy lover.] OK. So aside from that, no horror stories.
So last night was just another dating story...
I showed up five-ten minutes late, which is probably rude but he was unsure whether he would be minutes early or minutes late from our agreed upon time as he was at metro’s mercy. And she has hated me lately – cold weather go away so I can start walking to work again. I like the guy arriving before me anyway – I like to see how he is going to handle the whole drink/chivalry thing. He did well. First he commented on my beautiful smile [Honk if you like me!], got me a drink - actually a pitcher!, and took my coat and hung it up for me. Good, right?
So a pitcher of sangria turns into dinner which then turns into shooting pool. Now if I had a dime for every time a guy tells me over the course of a date that I might be "the coolest chick" or "a dreamgirl" or "can't believe you are not taken yet" or just propose to me on the spot, well then I’d have $42.30 in my pocket and then I’d march over to sephora and empty those pockets on a lovely new potion. He said something along these lines probably because we have had lengthy exchanges on football, I know how to play pool, I drink beer, blah blah blah – you know, the guy’s girl thing was overpowering the pretty pink package in stilettos. [Another toot for me! I'm my own one-man band.] Then a dime fell from the sky. And we know how that story ends.
Just another dating story until...
I forgot that pool was an opportunity for dudes to ogle the sweet ass and cleavage. And so my rump and stumps were on show and apparently free game for commentary from the peanut gallery. He surmised that I probably had really nice legs because "ballerinas are hot." In which case, I had to remind him again that I am hardly a ballerina. If you could be a fly on a wall in that class - oh boy! I spend half the class cracking up at myself. He also proceeded to inquire about my underwear. ETc. He was also getting a little too touchy feely.
Apparently he brought his own horns along to toot because he told me that I really must see him without his shirt on. He promises that I would be impressed. I should tell him that I am easily impressed in that department. I mean, you usually get me at Forearms. He also asked me to go back to his place for just a half hour so we could make out because I'm an awesome kisser. [Ten horns a tootin! One big fat egg.] And is this high school? Seven minutes in heaven?
And because I like to believe the best in people, I am going to attribute these actions from what was an otherwise polite gentleman in the first half of the date (really), to a case of Too Much Alcohol (TMA). TMA can make you do very bad things. I know because when I got home at 12:30 last night, I sent a text message to Sham-oo (who incidently has been the subject of my cryptic last two posts) and because I was secretly hoping he wouldn't respond, I refused to look at my phone until my friend, Snow White, made me. He replied with a cryptic message of the blah! Blah!!! blah! kind. The boy likes his exclamation points!!!!! So TMA can have very strange effects on people. Have you ever seen Blind Date, the movie?
To further support the Gentleman Persona, at the end of the date, he put me in a cab and paid my cab fare. So I am not sure what to think.
The question is: Do I go out with this guy again?
Sometimes I make a friend out of the deal. A lot of times I do get my heart tossed in a blender.
The one bad date that I can think of lasted only 10 minutes because I wasn’t going to sit around with some uptight pretentious dandy who rolled his eyes at me and tainted my little galaxy hut and it's BYOB (Bring-Your-Own-Boy) glory. As quickly as you taketh boy there, you can removeth. My final words to him were: "I'm so glad I didn't waste a Friday night on you." I think I had pig-tails and my trapper keeper on my hip when I said this.
Sometimes the dates might be a little boring and you know this is the case when you recite all the ways you love the potato. Sweet love, my little spuds! Oh wait, my archives just pinched me in the butt to remind me of the Princess and Ugly Stepchild Date, or how two people can go on the same date but have a remarkedly different experience – it’s the champagne vs. the miller high life lite date. Hee hee. That post still makes me laugh because it was really that bad. [Now time for another Phil Collins joke: He was no easy lover.] OK. So aside from that, no horror stories.
So last night was just another dating story...
I showed up five-ten minutes late, which is probably rude but he was unsure whether he would be minutes early or minutes late from our agreed upon time as he was at metro’s mercy. And she has hated me lately – cold weather go away so I can start walking to work again. I like the guy arriving before me anyway – I like to see how he is going to handle the whole drink/chivalry thing. He did well. First he commented on my beautiful smile [Honk if you like me!], got me a drink - actually a pitcher!, and took my coat and hung it up for me. Good, right?
So a pitcher of sangria turns into dinner which then turns into shooting pool. Now if I had a dime for every time a guy tells me over the course of a date that I might be "the coolest chick" or "a dreamgirl" or "can't believe you are not taken yet" or just propose to me on the spot, well then I’d have $42.30 in my pocket and then I’d march over to sephora and empty those pockets on a lovely new potion. He said something along these lines probably because we have had lengthy exchanges on football, I know how to play pool, I drink beer, blah blah blah – you know, the guy’s girl thing was overpowering the pretty pink package in stilettos. [Another toot for me! I'm my own one-man band.] Then a dime fell from the sky. And we know how that story ends.
Just another dating story until...
I forgot that pool was an opportunity for dudes to ogle the sweet ass and cleavage. And so my rump and stumps were on show and apparently free game for commentary from the peanut gallery. He surmised that I probably had really nice legs because "ballerinas are hot." In which case, I had to remind him again that I am hardly a ballerina. If you could be a fly on a wall in that class - oh boy! I spend half the class cracking up at myself. He also proceeded to inquire about my underwear. ETc. He was also getting a little too touchy feely.
Apparently he brought his own horns along to toot because he told me that I really must see him without his shirt on. He promises that I would be impressed. I should tell him that I am easily impressed in that department. I mean, you usually get me at Forearms. He also asked me to go back to his place for just a half hour so we could make out because I'm an awesome kisser. [Ten horns a tootin! One big fat egg.] And is this high school? Seven minutes in heaven?
And because I like to believe the best in people, I am going to attribute these actions from what was an otherwise polite gentleman in the first half of the date (really), to a case of Too Much Alcohol (TMA). TMA can make you do very bad things. I know because when I got home at 12:30 last night, I sent a text message to Sham-oo (who incidently has been the subject of my cryptic last two posts) and because I was secretly hoping he wouldn't respond, I refused to look at my phone until my friend, Snow White, made me. He replied with a cryptic message of the blah! Blah!!! blah! kind. The boy likes his exclamation points!!!!! So TMA can have very strange effects on people. Have you ever seen Blind Date, the movie?
To further support the Gentleman Persona, at the end of the date, he put me in a cab and paid my cab fare. So I am not sure what to think.
The question is: Do I go out with this guy again?
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Do I Have To Go On Another Date?
Indications that you are so OVER IT:
--You eat a big greasy hamburger and french fries from five guys followed up by a candy bar and root beer the night before the date. [Normal practice: You hit the gym and feast on carrot sticks and yogurt to fit in your skinny clothes.]
--You don't wash your hair the day of and you actually contemplate dying it with that semi-permanent dye you got over the weekend. [Normal practice: You NEVER experiment with hair color! And you wash your hair with the $20 Frederik Fekkai apple cider shampoo.]
--You wear an outfit you don't particularly like: the pants are baggy, the shoes matronly, and the top too frou frou. [Normal practice: You buy something new.]
--You don't use a Whitestrip. In fact, you don't even brush your teeth before you leave the office. [Normal practice: Multiple whitestrips! And brush your teeth, dirty mouth.]
--You wear your highest heels - even though they pinch your feet - knowing he is 5'9" - which means you will be taller tonight. [Normal practice: Wear the cute leopard print ballet-like shoes that you have been wearing a lot lately because the ballet and pilates is paying off.]
--You plot how you are going to work into the conversation your distaste for the gym and all things outdoors, and your love of five guys knowing that he is a serious gym rat, camper, and self-proclaimed veggie lover. [Normal practice: Would tell him about the one time that I did go camping and it wasn't so bad after all. I still would ask him if we could hire out someone to build the fire.]
--You contemplate how you are going to get home in time to see American Idol. [Normal practice: Fuck AI!]
--You might curse online dating. [Normal practice: Endorse it - tell him about the friends you have made from it and the friends who have married.]
Essentially I plan on being my own little Debbie Downer.
Edited to add: Shit, I just flat-ironed my hair and put a bobby pin in the left side - code for: pulling out the big guns. If only I had time to go buy a new outfit!! (Some things will never change around here.)
--You eat a big greasy hamburger and french fries from five guys followed up by a candy bar and root beer the night before the date. [Normal practice: You hit the gym and feast on carrot sticks and yogurt to fit in your skinny clothes.]
--You don't wash your hair the day of and you actually contemplate dying it with that semi-permanent dye you got over the weekend. [Normal practice: You NEVER experiment with hair color! And you wash your hair with the $20 Frederik Fekkai apple cider shampoo.]
--You wear an outfit you don't particularly like: the pants are baggy, the shoes matronly, and the top too frou frou. [Normal practice: You buy something new.]
--You don't use a Whitestrip. In fact, you don't even brush your teeth before you leave the office. [Normal practice: Multiple whitestrips! And brush your teeth, dirty mouth.]
--You wear your highest heels - even though they pinch your feet - knowing he is 5'9" - which means you will be taller tonight. [Normal practice: Wear the cute leopard print ballet-like shoes that you have been wearing a lot lately because the ballet and pilates is paying off.]
--You plot how you are going to work into the conversation your distaste for the gym and all things outdoors, and your love of five guys knowing that he is a serious gym rat, camper, and self-proclaimed veggie lover. [Normal practice: Would tell him about the one time that I did go camping and it wasn't so bad after all. I still would ask him if we could hire out someone to build the fire.]
--You contemplate how you are going to get home in time to see American Idol. [Normal practice: Fuck AI!]
--You might curse online dating. [Normal practice: Endorse it - tell him about the friends you have made from it and the friends who have married.]
Essentially I plan on being my own little Debbie Downer.
Edited to add: Shit, I just flat-ironed my hair and put a bobby pin in the left side - code for: pulling out the big guns. If only I had time to go buy a new outfit!! (Some things will never change around here.)
Friday, January 26, 2007
When There Is Fish
Me: Well, you know he is a Pisces.
Mom: I told you there is something weird about Pisces.
Me: They are fish, you know, they-
Mom: Are spineless?
I'm glad it didn't work out.
I would have been a country club wife living in some very rural Virginia town with nothing but a golf course and an ATV. I might have fallen off that ATV. I could have a broken leg.
We would have had a yappy little dog - who wouldn't be Tom Ford - but instead named after some newly-retired football player who wouldn't fetch your slippers and let you paint his toenails. He wouldn't sit at my feet. Instead he would stand with paws in the air on the command of "touchdown." I would tire of "touchdown Tiki" on a daily basis.
I would be alone a lot because who is going to visit me out in that town nobody has heard of - 40 miles outside of the city. He would mysteriously disappear on the weekends. He would still insist on keeping up pictures of the Redskin cheerleader and recite the story of "When I dated a Redskin Cheerleader" over and over when asked, "Who is that hot girl in all your pictures?"
We would have to board employees of his "management trainee program." We'd probably be audited by the IRS. I would get tired of paying for everything with cash and the places I frequent would not be able to cash my $100 bill.
I'd get tired of his humongous feet.
But boy am I glad I never have to hear him say, "sat-uh-dey" again.
Mom: I told you there is something weird about Pisces.
Me: They are fish, you know, they-
Mom: Are spineless?
I'm glad it didn't work out.
I would have been a country club wife living in some very rural Virginia town with nothing but a golf course and an ATV. I might have fallen off that ATV. I could have a broken leg.
We would have had a yappy little dog - who wouldn't be Tom Ford - but instead named after some newly-retired football player who wouldn't fetch your slippers and let you paint his toenails. He wouldn't sit at my feet. Instead he would stand with paws in the air on the command of "touchdown." I would tire of "touchdown Tiki" on a daily basis.
I would be alone a lot because who is going to visit me out in that town nobody has heard of - 40 miles outside of the city. He would mysteriously disappear on the weekends. He would still insist on keeping up pictures of the Redskin cheerleader and recite the story of "When I dated a Redskin Cheerleader" over and over when asked, "Who is that hot girl in all your pictures?"
We would have to board employees of his "management trainee program." We'd probably be audited by the IRS. I would get tired of paying for everything with cash and the places I frequent would not be able to cash my $100 bill.
I'd get tired of his humongous feet.
But boy am I glad I never have to hear him say, "sat-uh-dey" again.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Alter Egos: Reality Or Make Believe
This week's visit to the couch assigns me the nametag: Hi! My name is...Little Miss Drama.
You see, it is probably no surprise to those still on board (and you got your own name tags, don't you?) that I tend to have an overactive imagination. Along those lines, I will romanticize a guy here and there. If there is a spike to his hair - he has a pompadour! White sweat pants - he's a pervert! Serenades me with the guitar - he's a bad boy! Wears a velvet jacket, like my own - he's gay! All of those together? Whoa - Rock-and-Roll-hall-of-fame-Tom-Cruise-IS-gay-Elvis-has-not-left-the-building-and-most-certainly-did-not-die-on-the-can-while-my-guitar-gently-weeps! So a kiss on a shoulder, a gaze in the eye, karaoke with broken zippers, drunk texts, lint-rolling - it's all for romance, isn't it?
And so I might just build a guy up - perch him up on that pedestal. Because it's usually better than the reality. And then when the reality is really that - Real Pedestal Romance and sweet and tingly - then I can't go up with it. So I will find fault with the littlest thing (like, say, an accent) and if I can't find the fatal flaw I go and create a whole alter ego of an unsavory nature for the chap because my own little make-believe that I - and I alone - participate in will protect me from what I am afraid of and something that has been so alien to me for a very long time now: a real, live good-to-me man. Who is cute, funny, successful, happy, kind, and has a dog that I have been given free reign to decorate!
A Walk In The Woods (smitten!) turns into a Walk In Space (cu-cu!) turns into a Walk In The Bookstore (support for the cu-cu!) because what I am doing in my own head and sparing you the details of - is actually fodder for kiddie lit. I have recently discovered the children's SkippyJoe Jones books centered around a siamese cat whose head and ears are too big for his body (thank you Mr. Illustrator! and I have my own bone to pick with my own illustrator - does my butt really have to take up so much room on the page - really? and can't you just give me the Ashlee Simpson nose? contract negotiations are in order or I may walk to Mickey Mouse, he's offering me lots of cheese). So this mighty charming character believes that he is really a chihuahua. So he (I'm not sure, but I think with the author's help - reality-make-believe-line-blurred) creates this whole alter ego around this image in which he becomes Skipito Friskito and he fights crime or something of the sort. Banditos be damned! So charming! Sign me up for the fan club.
And so my point? If only to remind you that, no, I am not dating a crime-fighting endearingly fucked-up cat. But, I might think I am on the verge of something a little more real. So my inner dialogue leaves me to kill his alter ego off in a climactic blow-up scene that would make Quentin Tarantino proud and an endorsement from McDonalds and is really too violent for these pages anyways (gun control). (Details withheld due to: Sharing is so 2006 and 2005 Jinx and the Crazy Has Left The Building.)
Is it the Real Thing or something Make Believe?
In due time, banditos...
You see, it is probably no surprise to those still on board (and you got your own name tags, don't you?) that I tend to have an overactive imagination. Along those lines, I will romanticize a guy here and there. If there is a spike to his hair - he has a pompadour! White sweat pants - he's a pervert! Serenades me with the guitar - he's a bad boy! Wears a velvet jacket, like my own - he's gay! All of those together? Whoa - Rock-and-Roll-hall-of-fame-Tom-Cruise-IS-gay-Elvis-has-not-left-the-building-and-most-certainly-did-not-die-on-the-can-while-my-guitar-gently-weeps! So a kiss on a shoulder, a gaze in the eye, karaoke with broken zippers, drunk texts, lint-rolling - it's all for romance, isn't it?
And so I might just build a guy up - perch him up on that pedestal. Because it's usually better than the reality. And then when the reality is really that - Real Pedestal Romance and sweet and tingly - then I can't go up with it. So I will find fault with the littlest thing (like, say, an accent) and if I can't find the fatal flaw I go and create a whole alter ego of an unsavory nature for the chap because my own little make-believe that I - and I alone - participate in will protect me from what I am afraid of and something that has been so alien to me for a very long time now: a real, live good-to-me man. Who is cute, funny, successful, happy, kind, and has a dog that I have been given free reign to decorate!
A Walk In The Woods (smitten!) turns into a Walk In Space (cu-cu!) turns into a Walk In The Bookstore (support for the cu-cu!) because what I am doing in my own head and sparing you the details of - is actually fodder for kiddie lit. I have recently discovered the children's SkippyJoe Jones books centered around a siamese cat whose head and ears are too big for his body (thank you Mr. Illustrator! and I have my own bone to pick with my own illustrator - does my butt really have to take up so much room on the page - really? and can't you just give me the Ashlee Simpson nose? contract negotiations are in order or I may walk to Mickey Mouse, he's offering me lots of cheese). So this mighty charming character believes that he is really a chihuahua. So he (I'm not sure, but I think with the author's help - reality-make-believe-line-blurred) creates this whole alter ego around this image in which he becomes Skipito Friskito and he fights crime or something of the sort. Banditos be damned! So charming! Sign me up for the fan club.
And so my point? If only to remind you that, no, I am not dating a crime-fighting endearingly fucked-up cat. But, I might think I am on the verge of something a little more real. So my inner dialogue leaves me to kill his alter ego off in a climactic blow-up scene that would make Quentin Tarantino proud and an endorsement from McDonalds and is really too violent for these pages anyways (gun control). (Details withheld due to: Sharing is so 2006 and 2005 Jinx and the Crazy Has Left The Building.)
Is it the Real Thing or something Make Believe?
In due time, banditos...
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