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

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

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

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

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

Which brings me to my next point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...Then came reality...

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.

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

Alright. I admit I have never been one of "those people" who has visualized her wedding day. And I very much doubt that if that day ever comes, I will be a bridezilla. The day may come and I'll be like, "Where am I supposed to be? And who am I marrying?" I see my friends doing spreadsheets and religiously watching/reading The Knot and participating in chat groups, snapping at each other, and generally stressed about it all. I guess the spreadsheet thing makes sense since most of my friends pay for the wedding themselves now (my parent's wouldn't be able to give me the $30,00-40,000 it requires to throw a decent DC wedding). But I'm not that good with the "budget thing" so if my guy wants to tally away - be my guest!

But let's be clear on what I DO know will happen at my wedding:
1. Lots and lots of booze.
2. Late night partying with my favorite people.
3. Music all night long.
4. A very pretty dress for me and the girls and two shoe changes!
5. The best photographer that money can buy.

Here is where I am fuzzy:
1. Where? Destination? Or a little chapel on the beach? The church in DC my parents married in (which I, admittedly, have always thought about as a little girl)?
2. The walking down the aisle thing...my momma?
3. The groom!!!

Alright. Alright. From the sounds of this post you might think I have wedding bells queued on my ipod, or that some dashing young man is promising to make me an honest woman and give me back rubs for the rest of my life, or, quite simply, that love is in the air (like my previous posts and my absence might imply).

Wrong!! Because...

Love stinks.

I hear no wedding bells anywhere - I only hear bagpipes.

And there is no nice young man with strong arms and a strong heart within my galaxy. Can I come over to yours?

So I'm just going to say it now so we are all up to speed on Boa's Crash and Burn Version 26.2 and a half. But I am not going to give an explanation and I am not going to wax on....but Pompadour...is finito. Off like a dirty shirt. And that is all that we need to know going forward. Great! More posts about decorating!

And so, I am standing on my bar stool, vodka in hand (and not the gay stoli O and soda, but Belvedere), scanning the room, shouting, "Next!"

[Ed. Note and Mel, Alice and Flo's instructions too: Do not go to a diner and order an egg white omelet and get mad if they can't oblige you. Honey. You do not want to see the greasy-shirted, pot-bellied, spatula-waving reason why!]

So, I was on the subject of my fantasy wedding.....where for art thou Husband? Just kidding! Seriously, I am thinking of getting a dog. Seriously. [We can't get a dog! -- Mav.] So what if it cramps my lifestyle. I am ready for a new chapter in my life that entails hanging out with my friends in my house - or their house; maybe playing dj; maybe playing Trivial Pursuit, Scrabble, or Charades, hell, I'm even willing to keep playing I Never or Asshole; and drinking lots of wine and champagne and giving Miller Lites a rest [That's crazy talk! --Mav and Dear Prudence.] All of this with a little lap dog in a pink shirt at my feet, who follows me around and needs my undying attention. (And all my friends can make fun of me. Great!) Who can not live this world without me and he just might have a little quirk. Like maybe one eye is missing or his legs are deformed and he has to scoot around on his butt. Bottom line: He needs me!

OK. Maybe I do need a man. Oh! Did I mention Pompadour - the guy a week ago I was calling "sweet boy" - is now a ripped out page of Boa's Book of Love. There are only 3 pages in that book and one of them is even taped back in!

Alright. There I go with the tangential Me-talking and, oops, I talked about what I said I wasn't going to talk about anymore.

So...what I stepped up on this pulpit for was to share some very annoying wedding invitation I recently received. That's how I started out with the wedding jabber. Because it is simple, folks. What I DO know about "a" wedding is this: IT IS A PARTY....A CELEBRATION....SHARED WITH FRIENDS AND FAMILY. Do we agree on that? Great! Here is where we might start disagreeing - because if you are my friend whose wedding invitation I just received - you would be disagreeing. And you'd be wrong and I'd talk about you. First, MY goal at MY wedding is to make sure my guests are happy. Isn't that what you do when you throw a party? So since this is the biggest party you are probably every going to throw in your life what is the smallest thing you can do to make sure your guest will have a great time? Make sure they are comfortable! And since you most likely will not be able to hold their hand and rub their feet and carry them to the bathroom when they get drunk, maybe you should let them bring a date. Or not. Maybe they will choose not to but you should give them that option. I mean, we are 30-fucking years old.

Can you tell I'm mad? That is the only time I swear, I swear. Heh.

So I am not to bring a soul and I am to sit at a table with all our friends who are in relationships so they are invited with their significant others. I find it insulting. I have toyed with the idea of not going but I think I will - it is somewhat local (but way out in the suburbs) - and making them pay for my $20-30 plate - and that is all I intend on spending on the wedding gift. Because on top of this, I atttended the shower this past weekend and when the bride opened my gift, she paused on the name and had to look around the room of 12 to figure out who "Lara" was. Which is just WEIRD. I mean, I have known her for years. Bizarre.

And don't even get me started on who they didn't invite.

It is moot now because I am not bringing the Pompadour and I would never bring a random. But brides get to do what they want. The argument is that they are paying for your head to attend. But I am buying them some $100 wedding gift of something they already have because when you are in your 30's you already have sheets, wine glasses, and measuring spoons! Or is that just me? Because I haven't visualized my wedding? These might be people who have visualized their wedding AND their wedding gifts. Sent off to college: "Do not buy me sheets, I will get them when I get married!"

So I'm going to start visualizing now. But I am taking baby steps...I am just now visualizing the bartender, the KitchenAid mixer, and a pug named, Tom Ford For Gucci (pretentious) or Thurston Moore (rock and roll) or, simply, Clara Sophie (a namesake), if it is girl. Oh, and this just came to me: a champagne honeymoon in France!

Sigh. Sometimes I am just happier in my dreams...

[Editor's other note: And Pompadour hates France. Oh and he likes Bill O'Reilly. For being so rock and roll....Alright...talked out of him now, Loveless Loser?]

When Books Attack

Is it wrong that I wanted a book to fall on someone's head today?

It's like the waitress or chef who spits in your food ("the secret ingredient") or the mechanic who doesn't really give you an oil change ("See ya in 3 months for that new engine you are going to need."). Well, when you are a librarian, the equivalent is dropping books a la an "oops, darn slippery book!"

Today I took it so far as to ponder: Should the foot or the head be the target?

Well, since she was sitting down underneath me while I leaned against her and around her just to get to the books while she sat there and watched me take down eight very thick and heavy looseleaf binders one at a time, not once offering, "Let me help you with those," or even, you know, moving; well, I'd aim for the head in that case.

If I was that kind of person.

But sometimes I just live in my head and this is how it played out there:

Me: Here are your eight very big binders, all updated.
Her: Hmmph. [Proceeds to scoot chair over a smidgen and open up the overhead cabinet where she motions. Words don't come easily to this person.]
Me: [struggles with books...heavy books....high to reach up here...uh-oh, oh-no, I can't catch that book...it is falling....falling....SPLAT]
Me: Did I say oops, because I meant to?
Her Head: OWWWWIEEE....
Me: Yeah, sorry about that. Occupational hazard.
Her, stars floating around her head in a halo: No, I am the one that is sorry. I should have helped you. Instead I sat here like an idiot while you labored just so I can have my very own books. Heaven forbid I use the library. We still have one of those? And you were doing me a favor and I just sat here. I won't do that again. Books hurt!
Me: You know, that is what everyone keeps saying.

What's your occupation ammo?

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

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

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

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

"Let me see that ring!"

"Would you look at that ring?!"

"That's such a big ring!"

"Congratulations!"

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

"Ah, the ring!"

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

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

"Let me see the ring!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo Leary

I am working on this theory.

In posting an online profile, girls will comb through every photo they have EVER taken and get everybody's opinion - biased and unbiased, known and unknown. A girl believes dating success is hanging on that one photo.

In fact, you might have a "photo shoot" just to get the right picture. You might plan it around a visit to the hair dresser. Because how on earth are you ever going to get your hair as smooth as Chris - er, the hairdresser - does? Perhaps you will visit the makeup counter at Nordstrom's that day. But only because you needed new blush anyway and while you're there you may as well get the works! You will even get a manicure and pedicure. You are at your most prettiest now, girl! And you will most definitely wear your favorite underwear that makes you feel sexy. And always go with the black top. That is always flattering. After all this, you will get the right picture. But only after several takes, of course. Then you will post only those that came out "post worthy." That one with the double chin? Trash. That one from your "bad side." Trash. The one where you were trying to look sexy and ended up looking like you were just really drunk? Well, that goes on the refrigerator.

It goes without saying, that girls will post only pix where they are looking mighty hot. Because you are selling yourself, isn't that so? To girls, pretty packaging is a necessity. That is why girls have the makeup and the hair tools and the walk-in closet. Wait. Is that because WE like the pretty packaging? Or is it the guys who do? Hmm. Well, I don't know about you but I brush my hair for me. So the pretty picture? Well, if the best you have is that picture you took 10 years ago - when you weighed 105 - post it! A girl will do this. (Unless you are me, who can't take a good picture to save her life. So the above does not apply to me. Of course!)

Girls put a lot of thought and consideration in their photo posting. Because of this, they set the bar really high.

Now guys are a whole different breed. As a whole, guys don't care (or don't know any better) what picture they post. They don't put half as much thought into the lighting or the angle of the picture and whether it is a "flattering" picture or not. And they most certainly do not poll the guys: "Do you think this picture makes my nose look big?" "Should I go with full body shot or not?"How should I wear my hair?" "Should I smile or look serious?" "Should I wax?" "Would you date me?"

They most certainly do not do a photo shoot. As such, they set the bar at an even height.

One assumes that guys guys don't put any thought into the picture they post. If it is recent and they are in posession of it, they post it. They don't ask all their friends to send any and all pix they may have residing on their own digital camera. Nope, in the interest of machismo and modesty they will post any picture. It doesn't matter if they have food on their chin or if it was taken at such a close-up angle that their nose juts 3-dimensionally. These guys are rare though.

Is this really naive photo posting by the guys? Because I actually think guys do put thought into their photos - they just go about it differently than girls. Which makes them much more methodical and creative with the shots. While girls will have the pretty face shot, and maybe the one showing off their figure if they have it to flaunt, and maybe an action shot to appeal to the Sporty Spice crowd, and always the one where you are all made up in your bridesmaid dress. "Always a bridesmaid never a bride. Not woe is me. Drunk is me. Don't I clean up pretty?" There is a formula for the gal's photo posting.

The guys are all over the place. Because sometimes I just can't tell which category some of the guy's pictures fall under. The I-Don't-Care-And-Don't-Know-Which-Is-A-Good-Picture-Of-Me guy or the I-Did-A-Photo-Shoot guy? Let's look at some of these conundrums.

Props
Like a cellphone! What is this person trying to convey by posting a picture with a phone to the ear? Does someone really think when they are posting their profile, "You know, I'm going to use that picture of me talking on the phone - you remember the one - I'm holding the phone up to my ear?" If thought went into the photo-posting, this poster might be going for - I'm technologically-savvy (but of course), I have friends (who like to talk to me), and I'm a listener (because, see, I'm listening in the picture). Or, this might simply be a case of that-was-the-only-and-most-recent-picture-I-had. And what friend is snapping photos of phone conversations?

Animal Posing
Guys seriously like to show off the little doggie. Some seem to say, "I will give you one picture of me and four of Fido. There's Fido playing catch. There's Fido eating. There's Fido biting at my leg. And there is me laying on Fido. He really is man's best friend!" When really the girls just want to see YOU. We get it, you like your dog. Conversely, you will never catch a girl posting a picture of their cat. Or maybe you do. But those girls aren't getting dates.

Action Shots
Because guys are sporty! The action shots don't bother me so much. The guy with his full-blown scuba gear? Well it certainly says, "I'm sporty." You can't see his face and just about everybody looks good in a wet suit. These guys are definitely thinking about their photo placements. They want to convey a sport they are passionate about. OR they want to show you their hot little body without saying, "I have a hot body." Or post a gratuitious shirtless photo. They mean to tell you, "I'm a swimmer. Oops, hope you don't mind speedos. And, yes, it's natural! wink." This guy shows rather than tells. Words are meaningless.

Hot Girls
Guys seem to think that a hot girl by their side makes them more attractive. I personally know guys who like to have "hot friends that are girls" because, girls, don't you flock to the one guy in the bar who is WITH a girl. I actually do not understand what the guys are seriously thinking by posting pictures with girls. But there is a lot of them.

Scenery
These guys want to show you that they have been somewhere other than the Washington Monument. They have left the District and they travel! "I just went to Italy so here are 4 pix for your viewing pleasure of a place you have never been. Oh yeah, I'm not in any of them. I'm taking the photo, silly!" So you have no idea what the poster looks like, but you get to see some pretty countryside. You don't contact the boy, you contact your travel agent!

Sunglasses and Far away shots
This is iffy girls. It can go either way. I recently went out with one of those guys who either had pictures of him with sunglasses on, far away shots, and scenery. There were no close-ups, yet he was so gosh darn cool and that shot of him with the sunglasses was particular hot so I met him, all along fretting whether he was going to have a lazy eye or worse because his photos - I felt - were purposely hiding something. I went out on the Mystery Date Of The Guy With The Eyes. I had to text my friend on that date to verify his eye status. He had two working ones. He was hot in person. I think his was a case of this-is-the-most-recent-photos-I-have. Take it or leave it.

Red carpet poses
This is classic comedy for me. Seriously, I have seen quite a few photos of GUYS with the back to the camera looking back over the left shoulder. It's always the left shoulder. I can't figure out the motive on this one. Were they walking away from their friends and friend #1 shouted out, "Hey Joe!" and he turned at that moment? Candid camera indeed then.

There is not a category for the guy with the napkin tied on his head.

More picture scouring and analyzing to continue, I'm sure.

People To Hate: Arctic Chill Spreaders In The Office

This post is brought to you by the ice cube - it's not just for cooling your lemonade - that is, when you live your life AS an ice cube, essentially.

Admittedly, I get cold very easily. I keep a blanket on my couch because the sedentary life I come to know circa 7:30 pm, promises that I will get a little chilly. I also sleep with socks on most of the time - because the extremeties - not covered by my nighties - get cold. And shivering is not conducive to a blissful night of sleeping. People think the scarves I wear in the winter months are for fashion's sake - well, that is only partly right. Actually the scarves do serve the purpose of warming me from head to toe - by way of the neck.

Thus, it's a cold life I lead.

I wish I could "Linus my life around" and carry my couch blanket with me everywhere because I was on to something when I was 3 to probably around 5. I actually did carry a blanket with me wherever I went. Until the one day it was "lost." I still believe that an elaborate plan was hatched to confiscate the blanket in order to spare me the teasing by the other children in the first grade. Otherwise, I promise I would have never stopped carrying that thing around.

It is not that I mind the cold. Because I don't mind the chill when there is something I can do about it. Whether it be to wrap the blanket around, put a few extra layers on, or turn the heat on.

Heat! The socially-acceptable alternative to blanket-carrying. So, in order to maintain some semblance of professionalism in the office, I forego the "office blanket" and opt for the individual wall unit located right outside my office door to keep me all warm and toasty. Except! There is a mystery afoot. Because some little arctic chill spreader is going behind my back and switching my wall unit to cold air!

Do I have to remind you that it is February in DC. It does actually get its own brand of cold and, well, especially when the central a/c in the office is essentially on 365 days of the year. Y'all, the air conditioning is on in the winter! The cold draft in my office is most certainly NOT the drinking kind. "Bartender, I'll have a cold draft - and make it 32 ounces." No, it's the kind that makes you run for the blanket. (Oh, to be three again.)

So everyday I turn the wall unit to "hot" that - remember - is right outside my office and only affects, well, me and my next door office neighbor - who is never here but also feels the chill down to her core the way I do. We agree on the heating implement being necessary. On top of all this, I even supplement the heating unit with a pashmina - probably professional society's answer to blanket-carrying.

YET, everyday somebody is going behind me and turning the dial over to "cool" air.

Who is doing this?
When are they doing this?
Why are they doing this?

A mystery of Angela Lansbury proportion!

Hey Pigpen, Dirty Is Just Dirty, Put It In The Can

I am at work. I am bored. So I took a trip to the bathroom. A trip as in I am bored, I have drank enough water and tea to fill the Potomac, but yet I don't have to pee, so you know what that means, five pounds of water retention which doesn't make me feel good or, probably, look good, so let's go to the bathroom and see if just being in such a shrine to peeing and poohing will make me go, or better yet, maybe I will run into someobody to talk to, and thus relieve my boredom and water weight! So, yes, a trip.

That trip turned out to be one disgusting trip. Makes me think I need to pick new destinations when I'm bored. Because this bathroom was visited by some pooh-filled person who chose to leave their mark for their fellow employees. Lo and behold in the third stall, which is the one I prefer, there were a few "drops" floating in the toilet and a wad of USED toilet paper ON THE FLOOR next to the toilet! Ohmygross. Next time why don't you send out an office-wide communication exploiting your bathroom skills because the boys in the next room over probably missed it!

This kind of unsanitary display makes me wonder what kind of scumsucker does this? Is it that this person is so high and mighty that it is above them to clean up after themselves? My sister-in-law just told me the other day that if they won the $165 million Powerball she would make sure that I would never have to wipe my ass myself again. I thought she was metaphorically-speaking but maybe there is a whole labor pool out there of people who wipe asses and this person in my office couldn't bring them to work with them because, I don't know, office guidelines - or OSHA rules - prohibit you from bringing your own personal Ass Wiper. So, I ask, if you are incapable of doing it properly yourself, then write a letter to your Congressman asking them to let in the Ass Wipers! Or is it that this person is that that much of a slob and actually lives like this at home too, amidst dirty toilet paper, food crumbs, and sticky surfaces - oh, and that brief or book I just gave them?

Alright, admittedly, sometimes I have missed the "basket" too. Usually I'm drunk for this to happen, but I always (well I can't speak for all those drunk moments) pick up after myself. Is that so much to ask? And I always watch the toilet to make sure it flushes all the way. Sure sometimes we stop up the plumbing, and nobody wants to go tell the office manager, "Hey, I stopped up the toilet. Can you report it? Oh, by the way, here's my monthly management report." But today? This wasn't a stop-up. No, this was some dirty, dirty pigpen with no regard for cleanliness.

But this person didn't stop with the laziness in the toilet. It was like there was a trail of their scum all over the bathroom because there were about 4 wadded up paper towels on the floor of the bathroom - nowhere near the trashcan. Huh? So then I remembered the lovely Morgan who used to work in my office and her groddy bathroom encounter. This was of the explosive kind as in, let me aim my ass up to the ceiling and see how high it can fly and how wide it can spread. So you see? I have a walking Pooh-Ball carousing my office. Send help!

All this bathroom talk reminds me of a conversation I had with Manwich last Friday night about bathroom behavior. He wanted to know why guys lean against the wall of the urinal as they urinate. Is it that hard to hold yourself up? I surmised that they are probably drunk and then, yes, it is hard to hold yourself up sometimes. Or is that just me? For the most part, I try and keep my contact with bathroom fixtures and walls to a minimum. I am a pro at the Flush The Toilet With The Foot Move, While Drunk. Which turns into Balancing On One Foot, While Drunk. Which can turn into Leaning Against Stall Walls While Zipping Up Clothing, While Drunk. So, that guy, holding himself up? Yes, probably drunk.

In the end, my clean, pristine ass learned a few things today.
1. Every office probably has a pigpen.
2. Never take trips to the bathroom looking to overcome some momentary flash of boredom - you may get more than you bargained for.
3. The bear most certainly shits in the woods, in fact, all over the woods.
4. Some people will always think the toilet is over-rated.
5. Some people have very bad aim, and I have good aim, thus making me conclude that shitting is a sport!