"When I'm At The Beach, Where Do I Put My Chew?"

Missing from Potunkville, USA:

Slightly full-figured man in shiny red man panties, commonly referred to as Speedos, with a ring of dip, probably Skoal, tucked in the left butt cheek. Last seen carousing a popular Delaware beach, carefully treading his way through innocent sunbathers. If you have seen this man, please call 1-800-SO-PCKTS* to have him removed from the premises. His back pocket is missing him and we would like to reunite them as soon as possible.

*Sew Pockets, dba SOPCKTS, is engaged in the unique business of clothing manufacturing and fashion therapy. Our staff will work with the subject to ensure he gets a pocket that fits his vacationing lifestyle. We might fashion his current Wrangler square on his Speedos, or we may delicately guide him towards a longer syle of swim trunk, like, say, a board short that coincidently already has the pockets attached. Either way, we will work to educate him on the utility of a pocket. We at SOPCKTS understand that no man should have to go very long without a can of dip in his back pocket, even when at the beach.

Not The Hip-Shaking King...The Plastic Variety

The stalker is back. I ran into him outside my building so there was no avoiding it. And in the three minute conversation we had, he managed to bring up a body part that, really, should not come up in casual conversation. Especially not in the context he was using it. [Example: Did you party your {fill-in-the-blank-with-male-body-part} off?] I mean, really. How does a girl respond? So he creeps me out.

But you know what creeps me out even more than some lustful, ogling pervert?

The King with the big, plastic, smiley bobble-head. The King of Burger King commercial fame with the advertising slogan, "Wake up with The King!" or, "Up late with The King!" Have you seen these commercials? It's this big human puppet. In bed with you when you wake up. Or he's outside your window a-knockin' when you open your currents. That painted on smile. I am sure he just wants you to forego the McGriddle, the McMuffin, and the Breakfast Burrito, for BK's own, I'm sure, equally delectable breakfast. Maybe he doesn't intend to kill you. Or does he?

Is it an indelible image of kind and sympathetic marketing? Oh, I think not.

If you have never seen these commercials then you -you lucky bastard - will forever have peaceful slumber. With birds and sweet song. Meadows. You may skip. And eat straight from a sugar jar. And never get a cavity.

But if you have seen these commercials, then you will be haunted in your dreams if you turn your tv off right at the point when the plastic-headed King comes on your screen and that is the last image you are left with before turning in for the night. Or is that just me? A conspiracy afoot? Because, if last night was any indication, the King does not like to be silenced. He will come back for more.

As all creepy creeping creepsters do.

I don't want to go to BK if there is a chance I will run into this creepo. I'll run for the Border before I run to any castle. King and my Prince be damned!

But if he taunts me in my sleep again, I may have to. Damn marketing genius. How do you do it?

So, you see, I have this aversion to puppets, dolls with the blinking eyes, and clowns. Never liked them. My mom has a few of these antique dolls, some with the blinking eyes, and they all have a spot on her bed, which is just....creepy. The oompah loompahs? Creepy. Those halloween costumes with the plastic masks? Creepy. Ronald McDonald, for that matter....creepy. And a plastic life-sized King will still scare the shit out of me!

But when anything fearsome or creepy enters my dreams - then that just crosses the line into Horror-Film-Where-I-Am-The-Victim territory. And you are the audience, screaming at the tv to GET OUT OF THERE! YOU IDIOT, HE IS RIGHT BEHIND YOU! Or is he in the parlor with the Professor and the candlestick?

Uh-oh....where is the King now?

AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Scared yet?

Let me give you an example of how my dreams are capable of haunting me silly. And I am not alone, my sister can attest, as she is victim too.

We were young - grade school age - and we were in a Publix (the best grocery store with the best bakery in the world, y'all!). We were horsing around as young kids forced to go grocery shopping on a Saturday afternoon will do. And we carried it too far because we dumped over a standing ashtray that - back in those days - they had standing on every aisle so you could, you know, smoke and shop at the same time. Shortly after the "Clang! Clatter! Clatter! Shwwwwiiiiiinnnnkkkl!" came a booming voice - out of nowhere - very Wizard of Oz - summoning a "Clean up on Aisle 6!" So my sister and I started giggling at this because, slap your knee, look at what we did and our parents didn't even see it! Not only are we bad-ass, we are scot-free. But! Then came the Evilist Man Of The Evilist Empire In All The Land shooting us the most evil dirty looks as he was forced to sweep up the ash and butts. In all its sooty-gag-me splendor. Then he muttered something in his "native tongue" at us - A Spell! And so for years that voice and that look HAUNTED us. In our dreams. And we always shared them with each other to let each other know that we were in this nightmare together. Which haunted us in the real world too. See, this guy happened to be of a certain ethnicity and so we just stereotyped the whole country - or the whole continent, which we didn't realize at the time - as one man. The evil Chinese Man.

We feared the Chinese Man.

Dad: We are going to Chinese Restaurant tonight.
Me and Sister: No! No! We are sick! We are sick!
Dad: ???
Me and Sister: Chinese Man will be there. Chinese Man wants us dead.

We got over that eventually and have since come to love the Chinese Man. In fact, we love all Man. We always vote a Liberal ticket. Our hearts bleed. We are cool like that. And I have dated a Japanese guy - by our little girl scared-shitless standards he would have been Chinese Man.

So, you see? Our own mind creates and conjures icons of fear. Or is that just freakishly me? The mind she is wild - and mine just happens to run, run, run. I would make a plea to BK to kill the plastic-headed King but we know that the monsters never die. They always come back.

And so I go to Burger King.

Because She Needs To Be Put In Check (And Wears A Size 9)

Guess what? I'm imposing a Boy Talk Moratorium. You might be asking, will she have anything else to talk about? I can always talk about shoes, clothes, makeup, the bathroom, phobias, pet peeves, or the crazy little things I do. Check the archives! You might still be bored.

But y'all will agree on this: Too many boy crazy posts lately! Grow up!

"OK."

What has become of me? You'd think I retrograded back to the age of 14 when I was realizing boys but not allowed to go on dates yet. Because 20 years later? My world is very similar. I am realizing boys for the first time in like six years after being marooned in Non-Commital, Manic-Depressive, Drunk-In-A-Bad-Way, Let-Me-Dump-You-For-Ex-Girlfriend-Who-Looks-45-And-Has-Four-Kids-And-Needs-Me-To-Be-A-Provider-And-She's Toothless-And-Shaped-Like-A-Bunny-Rabbit Guyville. So now I am back in the real world and, lo and behold, the guys are everywhere. Look around you! They are ringing me up in the coffee shop. They are taking my bags at the hotel. They are on the metro. They are in my building. They are at the beach. They are in my drink. It's madness! And it has to stop.

Lest you think I am a slut...because I am so not. And that is the truth. When all is said and done, I really can't take credit for any notches in the bedpost. I think that "holding out" makes them respect me and piques their interest. Well, apparently not. What is the secret? I have done the hard-to-get. I have done the be-yourself. I have done the easy-breezy. I have done the what-the-hell. All? Not working. Should I do Ho? Should I do Stalker?

No, mom, not to worry, I won't go that route.

This weekend - even at the beach - I am on VACATION. No talk of any Very Cute Boys. I will not "meet" anybody. I will not flirt with anybody. I certainly will not kiss anybody. And I most definitely will not be passing out my phone number.

The Internet has permission to kick my ass if I come back in love again, ranting about some VCB* and oh-my-gosh how awesome is this one. This girl is toughening up. Stone cold it is.

So Future Husband Or Guy Who Is Going To Love Me Forever And Ever: You need an icepick to crack me open. Sorry to make you work so hard but these things do not come easy. Trust me, I will be worth it.

So what cleaned my clock? A picture from the wedding. In this recent group of photos there were various pictures of me and my "wedding date" - or the latest VCB from last weekend - hugging and posing. And looking very sweet together if I must say so. But the very last picture taken on this digital "roll" of 98 pictures is me, sitting on a barstool in my "princess" dress and my hair all wedding-ized. My shoe had fallen off and "my wedding date" bent down on one knee and put my shoe on my foot ever so delicately. Then he kissed my foot. My friend snapped this moment and wrote this caption to go with the photo,

"Prince Charming slides the glass slipper on Cinderella's foot."

That, my VCBs, is all I am looking for. Nothing more. Nothing less.

*Very Cute Boy, duh

For Better Or For Worse

This weekend is the wedding. The Wedding Of The Marrieds In Which I Have No Date. I know, I know, woe is me. I even considered asking the Very Cute Boy from last weekend but for some rarely sane moment of reason opted out of that. (Digression: Did I mention that he is moving back to the West Coast very soon? Yes, well, he is, so I don't even want to start something up for that reason. I don't do long distance and we wouldn't have enough time to get to know each other before. And he lives in a sketchy neighborhood so he could walk out of his front door and die any day. And, yes, the question of the hour is, "Do you find excuses to be single?" Maybe. So I don't end up getting in over my head too soon and end up a heartwreck? So, I see, a psychoanalytical topic for another time...But, right now, I am enjoying singlehood and plan on playing it out for the summer. If VCB wants to come along for the ride, hop in. Dr. Freud, your hour is up. Get off my couch.)

The not having the date thing - really is tongue-in-cheek. I don't care that I don't have a date. Really. What does irk me a tad is the fact that I *did* have a date that canceled on me at the very last minute. And the fact that I told everyone I was bringing him. Big mouth strikes again. And now I have to tell everyone that, well, he stood me up. And then you get those words of sympathy "Oh, sorry. He doesn't deserve you. Better you found out now what he is like. You will have fun anyway. Borrow my husband." Thanks. Yes. Yes. Yes. And, uh, no.

Witness my neurosis for the weekend....

When slow-dancing comes on - hide! So I can always borrow a friend's husband or boyfriend to twirl me around the dance floor. But the thing is - I don't really like to slow dance. Missing that "chick gene." I have a problem with following. No, I don't always need to be in control. On the contrary. Maybe it's impatience. Maybe it's because I can't do it perfectly. But I always end up wanting to take the lead. I don't want to anticipate when he will call me or when he will ask me out, oh, sorry, ahem, I mean, where we will twirl next. So dancing with me often leads to the Stepping On The Toes or the Falling Down (hi floor!). So I end up on the sidelines (read as: The Bar) - watching. And I see the looks people give me. Poor, poor single girl, drinking herself silly, envying the Dancing Twosomes. So when the slow-dancing comes on, I will go for a smoke break (and I don't even smoke on a good day).

Do not take on any extra-special responsibilities that I didn't sign up for, wasn't consulted about, and didn't practice for. Namely, I hope I don't have to hold the book that the priest reads from during THE WHOLE CEREMONY. Wait. Let me start that one over. I hope that I do not have to stand in front of 200 or so people in a very quiet church, showing my rear side, on camera and video, holding a book like a book stand would usually do. But I guess I could say if called upon to be the Book Stand again, I am a pro. Really. Everyone told me so. Really. They said I looked pretty standing up there. I didn't know how to take this. How does one get to be the Book Stand, you may ask? Or, you may be asking, how do I avoid being the Book Stand? Well, my original responsibilities started off innocently enough. First, the Miller Brewery tour. OK, so it was a self-imposed responsiblity, nonetheless, it had to be done. Then I went from Beer Garden Denizen to Program Girl. Really. I changed in a phone booth. Or I clicked my heels and counted to five and poof. No. Really. For the amount of time we had in between the Very Important Beer Outing to the Very Important Passing Out of The Programs, I needed some magic superpowers. But I worked with what I had. Being human is the pits sometimes. Anyways, I thought I was doing a lovely job with the passing out of the programs and all. I got to chat with a few people. Direct people. Cut people off who were taking advantage of free programs. Who knew passing out programs required so much authority and responsibility. But then - and here is where you need to learn from my mistakes (because you should totally go to the Miller Brewery and I realize it has nothing to do with my point but I will tie it in at every seam I can). So, if the priest - no matter how lovely and charming and pious he may be - and no matter how much you may fear the wrath of God - even if you have to repent, or atone, a million times over - if he asks you to help him out, immediately become ill or mute or die (but not really this one). Because this is what might happen.

Sweet Little Old Priest: You look like a nice young lady. Would you do me a favor?
Unsuspecting Soul: Sure Father! What can I do for you? [Am a very good Ass Kisser in the eyes of God.]
SLOP: You must hold this book for me.
US: Sure! You want to do a practice run, don't you? I have a fear of speaking in front of large crowds and I practice, practice, practice!
SLOP: No, nice young lady. I need you to hold it for me during the whole ceremony. You will stand up in front of all 200 people. You must stand there with your backside to the crowd. Holding the book in front of you. You will come up when I motion for you. It's easy.
US: But - don't I get to practice first?
SLOP: No time. We are on now. Walk next to me and follow my cues.
US: But I have to confess, Father. I was at the Miller Brewery earlier. I am sure that is a sin.
SLOP: No, nice young lady. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can head to the reception and drink. Now follow me!
US: Yes, sir. *gulp*

So I was in the procession with the priest and the altar boys. I sat at his right hand side. I jumped when he said jump. I held the book with no problems. I had a starring role in the ceremony. I had more airtime that the bride and groom. I never got the hiccups. It was a ground-breaking performance for me. So I am good at the Book Holder thing (hold the librarian jokes). I just hope I am not typecast. Because I have so much more dimension.

Turn phone off to avoid drunk phone calls from friends. Well, I know that I won't get a call from "Ty" asking me what I am wearing. Which he has done on many occassions and, once, at a wedding. But he will be at the wedding. You may ask - why even bring your cellphone to a wedding, you yuppie, am-so-connected, am-so-popular, techno-dependent? For the very reason why I have a phone. Poor me is all alone, the phone is my safety call when help is needed. Ever since my dead cell phone saved me from some nefarious cab driver taking me on some random back streets of Arlington, I never leave home without it. I took it out, saw that it was dead, but acted like it worked - because I was quick-thinking which doesn't happen all the time. I told the phantom callee where I was, what cab I was in, etc. Needless to say, the cab driver immediately turned around and dropped me home and didn't ask for money. Weird.

Hope I don't get overcome with coughitis. I have been suffering from some kind of respiratory infection for weeks now. I have been to the doctor. I have taken the antibiotics but I can't shake the sore throat (which comes and goes) and the cough. So, I hope I don't have a coughing attack during the middle of the ceremony. You know coughing fits always happen at the most inopportune moment. Speak now or forever hold your peace. *cough, ack, cough, ack, cough, ack, ack, ack, cough, cough* I'm sorry. Was that a cough of dissidence? Then the whispers in the church. Poor, poor single girl, bitter because she is single. Can't these single people be happy for people that find true love?

Hate the "traditions" - no, wait, embrace them if you can. Typically I tend to embrace traditions, customs, etc. And I believe in superstitions. Something borrowed, something blue, etc. I also lift my feet at train tracks. I don't step on cracks. I say "rabbit foot" at the first of the month. And I knock on wood. But all the hokey wedding traditions? The father has to be the one to walk you down the aisle. Father's first dance. Throwing the bouquest to all the poor Unweds (i.e., ladies in waiting). The whispers. Poor, poor single girl, the only one to catch the bouquest. Doesn't that negate the "luck"? While the guys get to be racy with the garter - ooh la la, give me your leg, baby, and let me cop a feel. (Seriously, I haven't been to a wedding where they have done the latter two in a long time.) Then the ceremonial cake-cuttiing. And the feeding of each other. Keep it behind closed doors. But now, I would give anything to have some of those traditions. I'm here to say that not every little girl dreams of what "her" day will be like. I never had this image of a wedding day because I never thought of it as my day. I always expected that The Man I Marry will dream the dream with me to make it our own day together. But now I would give anything to have my father walk me down the aisle. To have that father's dance. I want him to "give me away." I think about it now. When it is too late. I usually get choked up during these moments at weddings. Not at being dateless, but fatherless. But I am hoping that maybe this time I will be able to smile a little dream for daddy.

I won't end on that note. I think the concept of a wedding is a beautiful thing. However you do it. Pomp and circumstance or down and out. Traditional or non-conformist. Anyway you do it, it is joyous and it is an occassion to drink. For the most part I will be doing just that.

Cut Me Off A Slice Of Heaven

It's just a typical weekend at the beach...or, to all the guys I loved before, fuck off.

In boring play-by-play fashion....

1. Patiently sit in traffic on New York Avenue, on 50, on the Bay Bridge, and over the Bay Bridge.
2. Suddenly realize it is going to take you 4 hours to get to the Fun in the Sun.
3. Uh-oh...you are driving down alone.
4. Decide to prank call your friends!
5. Oh yeah. Realize the whole caller ID thing kind of makes this impossible.
6. So have your 31/2 year old niece entertain you.
7. Hear about her "foe-fee" she got in "bow-way".
7. Listen to her tell you about the "grandpa who lives next door with the balloon in his belly."
8. Have your sister-in-law translate: "A trophy for ballet recital" and "The neighbor in his 60's with the big beer gut."
9. Look down to make sure you do not have a balloon in your belly.
10. Decide to add this phrase to your vocabulary.
11. You are very bored now.
12. But spot Route 1!
13. Make a beeline to the liquor store for 2 cases of beer and 2 cans of pineapple juice for mixed fruity beachy drinks on Saturday afternoon.
14. Sit out on the deck, beer in hand, waiting for the rest of the Friday evening crowd to roll into town.
15. Gather everyone and hit a bar.
16. Have your friends push you into the cutest boy in the bar.
17. Giggle like the 12-year old girl you feel like and run off.
18. But the cute boy follows you.
19. Regain your composure and exchange some small talk.
20. Find out that the cute boy is now Very Cute Boy and is also Very Interesting and Very Funny.
21. Oh, so, what the hell...
22. Invite him back to the house for a slice of pizza and more beer.
23. Stay up all night talking, laughing, and making out.
24. Wake up in his arms the next morning - fully clothed - but carrying on the giddy giggling from the night before.
25. Then spot the elephant in the room.
26. Retrace the events of the night.
27. Learn that you have a sleep-walking housemate.
28. Hear Sleep Walking Housemate comment on how sweet the two of you look engulfed in a pretzel-like embrace, cooing and giggling.
29. And he is sincere about this. Umm...
30. Sleep Walking Housemate bows out TO HIS OWN BEDROOM.
31. Thank Sleep Walking Housemate for leaving.
32. Uh-oh. Discover a problem with your hazy memory.
33. Fess up.
34. Ask Very Cute Boy his name.
35. (Only girls can get away with this.)
36. So conceal the asking in joke form.
37. Stay in bed until noon talking, laughing, and making out some more.
38. Keep your clothes on because, you know, you have morals.
39. Get a phone call from Mav who is on her way to the Fun in the Sun.
40. Answer the phone and tell her you have Very Cute Boy in your bed.
41. (And he is a good sport about this.)
42. So Mav tells you to keep him there until she arrives.
43. He is under your spell, he is not going anywhere.
44. Now get a phone call from Goose.
45. So answer, of course, because you are going to miss her this weekend.
46. Very Cute Boy gets on the phone.
46. (Did I mention how he is such the good sport?)
47. And you like him a little bit more for this.
48. So include him in your plot to kidnap the little dog out back named Fu.
49. He repays you by smothering you with kisses and tickles.
50. It's now noon.
51. So your housemates join you in your room to make sure you are alive.
52. (Gosh darnit if he is still a good sport!)
53. Mav arrives, jumps in bed, and tells Very Cute Boy that, yes, he is very cute boy.
54. You reclaim him.
55. Then send him off so you can spend the day on the beach with your housemates.
56. You know, talking about him.
57. Burn a little.
58. Pray you don't succumb to pre-mature aging AKA Leatherface and skin cancer AKA Death.
59. Oh yeah. Forget to take your sunglasses off.
60. Decide you might be a tad hungover.
61. So go to a bar to drink.
62. Get a drink with whipped cream because - when in Rome...
63. Run into pseudo-Brad-Pitt-in-disguise.
64. Mav can't resist this so says, "Hey Brad."
65. He can't resist Mav so returns with, "Hey baby."
66. Spot Fu across the bay running with the Big Dogs and swimming! Atta boy!
67. Miss Goose.
68. Get back to the house to watch the Belmont Stakes.
69. Because you knew that Afleet Alex was going to win.
70. Finally shower and kiss the soap.
71. Clean now!
72. And reddish.
73. Hungry.
74. Order Chinese Food.
75. Hungry. Want it now.
76. Determine that the Chinese Food people are dumb because they do not know the main road in town.
77. Curse the Chinese Food people.
78. Drink.
79. The Directionless Chinese Food People take two hours to deliver the food.
80. Too long.
81. For this you are ungrateful.
82. But finally get food.
83. Finally eat.
84. (The drinking never stopped of course.)
85. Dance with your housemates at the house before heading out to the bar.
86. Meet up with Very Cute Boy at the bar.
87. Watch your friends fall in love with him.
88. Take him home again.
89. Feel him hug you so tight it takes your breath away.
90. " Shit."

Shopping Scents

I like shopping by myself. I am not an impulsive shopper, usually. If I am heading out to a store, I usually have an intended purchase in mind. Sometimes other things will wind up in my cart, draped over my arms, or in my driveway (??), but generally I think through my purchases. I will mentally tally up my bank account minus the purchase. I will pair it up with things in my closet (or where it will go in my house). I will dream about other accessories I need to buy to complete the purchase. But this all takes place in my own head. If I need to rationalize something, I will call for help. I'll call my friends, my mom, my sister, my brother. With all due respect, I almost never seek the opinion of the salesperson. They're biased.

But sometimes you get the overzealous salesperson who thinks they know you better than you know yourself. They think they know how you decorate your home. Yes, these chili pepper Christmas lights will add that something-something your home is missing. They think they can dress you better. They think they are Coco Chanel and you are a KMart Special. Personally, if you want to wear the purple with the green with the orange with the pink - then color away! If we all wore that outfit off of the mannequin in the front window we'd be rather ordinary.

Unless I am shopping in territory I am unfamiliar. In that case, help will be needed by the salespeople. I'll find you. Let me ask the questions. When I am in Home Depot and looking at the power tools or getting keys made or in a nursery deciphering the green and flowering and what I will or will not eventually kill, I will ask for some help. I know when the Shopping becomes too big for me to handle. By the way, shopping for a car? Been there, done that, on my very own, thank you very much. And most certainly when I am in any clothing, general retail, department, fabric, or liquor store, I can almost always hold my own.

So over the weekend, I went to this lovely store to pick up three things that I use all the time: my very favorite hand soap, my very favorite Dishwashing Soap and a waterless hand sanitizer ("The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap"). All three different brands (and three different scents apparently, you'll see). Here, I encountered one of those overzealous salespeople.

Going into this conversation imagine the Clerk as Jack from Will and Grace. Flitting about with a sing-song voice. The exclamations are necessary. Imagine me deadpan, not cracking. It's Super Shopping Deameanor, A Force To Be Reckoned With. Learn, kiddies.

Clerk: You know you have three different scents going on here! *smile*
Me: Yes. I do.
Clerk: So these aren't all for you then! Oh, I love giving gifts! I'll just wrap them up for you! *smile* {Clerk rummaging under counter}
Me: No-not necessary. They are all for me.
Clerk: But you have three different scents! *frown*
Me: Yes? *blink*
Clerk: Hmmm...well what are you using them for? *quizzical look*
Me: *blink*
Me: Well, they all have three different purposes. I am not using them simultaneously, if that is what you are asking. It's kind of like buying a deodorant, a perfume, and a hair gel - they don't need to match, now do they? {Inner Me: Good one!}
Clerk: Oh honey - mine do! *smile*
Me: *blink*
Clerk: Let's go take a look at some of the other scents - maybe we can get you in the same scent family! *smile* {Turns and assumes a running start to the dish soaps.}
Me: No-really-this is what I want today. Thanks for your concern though.
Clerk: OK. *frown* {Yes, disappointed he is but he finally begins ringing up the purchases of The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap.}
Clerk: {But not satisfied to stop there with this stubborn customer.} Oh. *frown* You were at our Clearance Table. You know this Dishwashing Soap is their Holiday Scent? {Takes his glasses off now to give me a good looking down upon.}
Me: Well, I kind of gathered that since it is Pumpkin Spice.
Clerk: Oh! So you are going to save it for next Thanksgiving! *smile*
Me: No. I will use it today when I get home. I like the smell. And it is on sale.
Clerk: Yes, we put it on sale because it is ssoooo last season. *tsk, tsk* We have some other more spring-like scents. Shall we go look? {Starts the sprint to the Clearance Table.}
Me: I like pumpkin in the spring. In fact, I am going to go home and bake a pumpkin pie. {Inner Me: Good one!}
Clerk: *frown* {Proceeds with the ring up of The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap.}
Clerk: *aha!* OK. Now this Hand Soap you bought - you haven't used it before now have you? *pursed lips*
Me: Actually, it is all I use. I have been using it for five years now. {Inner Me: No lie!}
Clerk: Then you should buy the economy jug! *smile* Let's go look! {Starts the sprint back to the soap.}
Me: I don't want the economy jug. {Now smarting to his next move.} Sure, I understand in the long run, I would probably save money that way. But I have nowhere to store it and I am fickle and may decide I don't like the scent in 6 months and I prefer to buy the new pretty bottle everytime.
Clerk: They make this one in a different scent too. What is it called- *perplexed*
Me: Don't want that.
Clerk: Umm...what is it called...umm..... *perplexed*
Me: *blink* {Inner Me: Doonn'tt wwaaanntt iittt.... }
Clerk: I'll be back-
Me: That won't be nec-
Clerk: {Darts off faster than a speeding bullet, jumps display tables in a single bound.}
Clerk: {Running back.} Fruits and passion! Fruits and passion! *smile, smile, smile*
Me: Yeah, thanks. Still don't want it.
Clerk: *frown* {But proceeds with the ringing up.}
Clerk: OK. Now this hand sanitizer... {Takes off glasses again.}
Me: *sigh* What about the hand sanitizer?
Clerk: You know they make it in a bigger size?
Me: Yes, I want this size.
Clerk: You'll go through it pretty fast.
Me: I need it for my purse so I need that size.
Clerk: *frown* {Finishes ringing me up.}
Clerk: {Hands me the bag.} Enjoy your soaps! *smile*

In the end, I got out of there with my intended purchase: The Soap, The Soap, And The Other Soap. And when I got home I squirted them all over the sink together to break the scents in and boy did it smell like lemon, roses, pumpkin, cinnamon, verbena, lavender, sugar and spice and everything nice. *sniff, sniff* Smell that? An olio of scents. My nose was loving it.

So does my stubborn proclivity to my own shopping scents make me a good consumer or a bad consumer?

Cash Register: Ka-ching!
Apartment: I can't breathe. If I eat another thing I will explode.
Closets: Can you move out some of the derelicts in here?
Cat: Bags! Yeah, let me put my head in here and breathe. Let's play! Uh-oh. Yak. Yak.
Carpet: Dirty! Clean me!
Vacuum: Sick. Cough. Cough. Dying. Dying. Dy.....sssssssssssss...
Nose: Eww. What happened to the "olio of scents"?! Smells like someone is burning plastic.
The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap: Squirt us! Squirt us!
Carpet: Still dirty! Don't invite anyone over. I'm ashamed to have anyone see me like this.
Vacuum Store: Oh, you need my help, huh? We have special vacuums for people like you. That will be one million and sixty-two dollars. And it will die in a year. See you next year!
Wallet and Bank Account: Feed me.
Credit Card Company: Will you marry me?
Clerk who sold me The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap: Bitch! *smile*

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

Great, Who Will Be My Wedding Date Now?

Occurrence: I got dumped by my wedding date.
My reaction: Wow! This dating thing is fun!

Occurrence: I got dumped because he would rather see his tailor.
My reaction: Yes, friends who warned me, the signs are pointing to Gayville.

Occurrence: So now I have no wedding date.
My reaction: *blink* *rubs eyes*

Occurrence: EVERYONE else has a date.
My reaction: OK, normally don't care. Very independent, never bring date just to bring date. But...everyone but me? Wah.

Wait. Let me repeat this for my own understanding. I just got dumped - via email - by a guy who - emphatically (as in no hesitation with the yes) - agreed to go with me, who knows the bride and groom, and who assured me - when I asked if he needed to check his schedule before he so "emphatically" agreed - that he was indeed free the whole weekend and was looking forward to it, especially the overnight aspect because we had not taken our "relationship" that far yet. And the Dump Email came after not hearing from him for 2 weeks in which I finally sent him a Hello Email and his reply was not "hello back" but Dump. What's with The Mean? Was he ever going to tell me?

My real reaction: Asshole! Yes, OK, not that into me. Got that. He's not flaky anymore, he's transparant. Fine. But he could have handled the let down quite differently. At the very least a "sorry, but..." would have probably been sufficient. Not the blunt, "Can't go, going to the tailor in NYC now. Won't be back in time. Period." So, I...delete his contact information from any recording of it, contemplate sending an "oh, thanks a lot email in response" but decide to just ignore and not respond and write him off. Sometimes silence is the loudest response. And now moving on, dateless.

So, a plea!

One dateless, very pretty (I have professionals working on me that day who plan on making me pretty), smart (or I can pretend to be), and sassy (I will probably fall at some point in the evening) girl in a yellow dress SEEKING a flake-free, date-free, gay-free, hilarious and unassumingly handsome man (who will pick me up when I do fall, by the way, or fall down with me) to be Wedding Date. And can you wear a pink shirt with your suit? I kind of have a thing for pink button-down shirts. We will drink, dance, and maybe sing. Surely, we will laugh a lot?

I've seen movies about this kind of thing. On Lifetime and in the theaters. It works for them.

Mom, you'd be proud of me pimping myself on the 'net.

Dear Diary: You Had To Be There

Memorial Day Weekend 2005...The kickstart to a summer of Fun.
1 Beach House + 11 House Mates + 11 Cases of Beer + 4 Days + 4 IPods + 4 Bars Within Walking Distance = A GoshDarn Good Time

It is hard to describe it and I tend to shy away from giving a play-by-play diary recap of my weekend doings because, frankly, I'm sure you care. There were just so many hilarious moments of the weekend that tend to be of the you-had-to-be-there variety. Really. Case in point: At one point over the weekend, I was making eye contact with a cute boy. Mav and Goose were both talking to boys. I thought of something and shared it with Mav, Mav told Goose, and then the three of us were literally doubled-over with laughter. The something I said could only be funny to the three of us because it had to do with an inside joke we had working all weekend long that NEVER got old. Never. The inside joke came about kind of piecemail - everything that happened or that we encountered kind of contributed to it - and it stuck.

So now the evidence of the Not Funny. The cute boy took this as his opportunity - us sprawled together cracking up - to move in.

Cute Boy: What is so funny?
Me: {chuckle, snort, chuckle}
Cute Boy: You just made these girls crack up? What is so funny?
Me: I said - {chuckle, gasp} - I said - Wait! - You really won't think this is funny. Trust me.
Cute Boy: Try me.
Me: OK. So, I told my "mom" that I feel like the stepchild of the family and blah-blah-blah (Note to readers: trust me on this, not funny to you so edited to spare you.)
Cute Boy: ????
Me: And- (And he is not laughing.)
Cute Boy: Yeah. That wasn't funny. {Turns away, then turns back.} Oh, and tell that guy standing behind your friend to turn his collar down.
{Once Cute Boy turns and walks away into the darkness. His switch went out but he just set off another lightbulb of hilarity in my head. Time to share with the girls!}
Me (turning to Mav and Goose to tell them what he said because if only he knew how funny that was because he just touched on another inside joke): He said...
Me, Mav, and Goose: {Doubled-over yet again in laughter while the Guy With The Collar Up is still standing behind Mav}

Once Cute Boy became a contributor. And this is really how the weekend went. Funny on the inside, but probably not funny on the outside. The Unfunny will be our Funny. You may just shrug your shoulders and walk away too. But the Guy With The Collar Up Who Keeps Standing Behind Mav is gone now, so let's go with this...

The Car Drive Down, Friday. With my old friend, Mav, and my new friend, Goose. Just three girls zipping east in a shiny, pretty car, packed to the floorboard and ceiling, trunk to front seat, in beach towels, coolers of beers, beach chairs, and stereo equipment, while listening to Mav's Playlist in which she streamed the best party tunes a girl could want. The weekend was off to a good start. I love these gals.

The Bay Bridge. Poor Goose can not drive over the Bay Bridge. She is embarrassed about this but I don't think she should be. I am not afraid of heights and I find the Bay Bridge terrifying. My dad would never drive over it, so I understand it. Mav drove then. Goose in the backseat with a pillow over her face: "Is it over yet?" Me and Mav in the calming voice, "Almost over, honey. Hang in there." Until...the car accident that we just missed involving a PT Cruiser and a golf cart. Yes, a golf cart. How fast do those things go? So we were temporarily held up at the top of the bridge. We eventually made it over and Goose survived. We were ready for the Double Arches now.

The KMart KeyMaker, The KMart Gift Card, And The KMart Bathing Suit. Two trips to the Big K over the weekend. One to get keys made by someone who may or may not have worked there and another to return said keys. Because they DIDN'T WORK. So the return amounted in a lovely $44.80 gift card to which Goose replied to the Customer Service rep in her sweetest, "motherly" voice, "Oh, honey, I'm not coming back here." The girl has never been in a KMart before. Do they even have any in DC? Also in KMart, Mav was able to score a "delightful", shimmery, flourescent, turn-the-lights-down, day-glo, glistening and blinding and - you get the picture - swimsuit because she packed for the BEACH and went to the BEACH with NO SWIMSUIT. In the store, we were like, "Oh, that's cute, that'll do." On the beach the next day, we were like, "Damn, what were you thinking buying that thing? Who told you that looked cute?" Friends. That red bathing suit then became a House fashion show staple, modeled by Goose over her lovely Soccor Mom sweathsirt.

The Crazy Old Lady Who Lives Out Back With The Big Beautiful House That Semi-Blocks Our View. She's crazy. Bipolar maybe. Or drunk. Or sad. Crazy Old Lady likes to come out back and yell up at our deck while it is still light out about how we need to get to the bars and she will call the cops on us because our voices are too loud and our laughs are too much. The next day she was all sunshine in her conversation with us, asking how our night was. It was like the movie Groundhog Day because we witnessed the same conversation and the same Crazy every night.

Backyard Entertainment. Some in the house got to witness Crazy Old Lady's Late Night Drunken Gentleman Caller banging on her door, "Leett mmee iinn!! I wwoonnn'ttt ddiissaappppooiinntt youuuu!" That plea was repeated all weekend long. It never got old.

A Dog Named Fu Manchu AKA Fu. Crazy Old Lady's dog. We have photo evidence of the Crazy Old Lady screaming up at our balcony in her mumu and poor little Fu looking the other way as if to say, "Who is this Crazy Old Lady? I don't know her. Send help." Goose promises to kidnap Fu by the end of summer and have Fu drive over the Bay Bridge for her because he the Little Dog AKA Fu.

A Game Called Dance Moves. That never got old either. It involved lot of butt-shaking and The Pants Dance and The Ear Muffs. And lots of forgetting of who's move was whose.

House Underwear. Emblazoned with the logo, "Open 24 Hours." The best 99 cents I ever spent. Worn over clothing by many people in the house. Mav even wore them out in public under the Red KMart Bathing Suit and over gray yoga pants. Fashion Maverick, that girl.

The Photo Ops. Many, many photos of the sleeping posing with various objects, including lit cigarettes, stacks and stacks of beer bottles, Soy Chips bags, hats, and the blow-up swordfish that turned into the Where's Waldo of the weekend because he showed up in many pictures. His home is now above the mantel because he was hooked and blown up for our very own house. It's a 20-pounder, I tell ya!

Trashy Beach Reading. Including an article from Cosmo about the "new" "positions" you just must try. Notably one involving a Krispy Creme donut. Donut on a stick, anyone? And one involving saran wrap and humming. I'm guessing they don't mean humming something like, "Cuts Like A Knife" or "The First Cut Is The Deepest." Others involved a lot of right to left, no left to left to right, leg to knee to shoulder, then flip and then stand at a 35 degree angle. And don't breathe. You would need cue cards to follow along.

Random Characters. Remember the "it's Brad Pitt in disguise" story that ran about a year ago where it was supposedly him with the long hair, hat, straggly beard in cognito? Well That Guy was at the beach. Except he really wasn't That Guy. There was also the guy in the British flag skivvies, strutting his stuff, not shy in the least. Also, the Big Burly Branded Black Guy who told Goose he would do her all night long any way she wanted. And, the Guy With The Cracked Head, who took a dive over the ledge into the water and cracked his head open on the rocks. Owww.

Words Of The Day. It's "delightful." "What a delight it is to still smell your scent on my clothes." "Outstanding." "He's a Fu." "Holla(back)." And finally, "I hate people."

Hooch, My Weekend Boyfriend. {Sigh} Good kisser. I think he was cute. Doctor. Phone number demander. He will never call.

Road Rage On The Car Ride Home. The crazy family of four that would not let us in at a merge, the father grimacing all stone-faced shaking his fist in the air, the two daughters in the backseat flicking us off, and the mother all Mrs. Cleaver there-there-family about it. So we took photos.

Bed At 8:00 On Monday Night.

See? Wish you were there.

Kiki Just Had To Take To The Bottle

Yes, I watch The OC. I was late to the game but I'm here now. For now. Because they are testing me. Yes, this fairweather fan is hissing at the moment because of this whole alcoholic storyline. First, why does every single show - dramas/soaps - in the history of mankind have to deal with this subject? And it is always tied up neatly in a bow. Can you really spin this anew? It's so stale. And in the case of The OC in particular? So, so forced. Me, "forcing" myself into my skinny jeans - hopping and stuffing my ass into them (and laying down flat to zip them), has nothing on The OC and Kirsten's Drunken Plunge Into Shameful Intoxification. Bad Kiki, bad.

You saw the foreshadowing from the beginning of the season. The lone camera shot zooming in on Kirsten's wine glass as if to say, "Pay attention, folks, slippery curves ahead!" And Kirsten may drive on them! While drunk! Oh the drama.

So Kiki drinks all by her lonesome sometimes. So she can polish off a bottle of wine by herself. So she got drunk at a vineyard. So she likes a little vodka in her OJ. So she likes to come home to a chilled swig of vodka. So she got drunk at her father's funeral. Hell, I've done all this. Except at my dad's funeral. I couldn't even stomach a beer that day. So is that what actually separates me from Drunkville? In any case, I am sure I binged just as soon as I got my sea legs back.

I guess we are to believe that all her imbibing happened off camera. We saw Sandy find her bottle stashed in her purse. Oh! I see, it's called allusion. Kirsten has been drinking around the clock! At work. In the bathroom. In bed. While driving. While shopping. While tanning. Before, during, and after every meal. Et cetera. Et cetera.

Snore.

I like my primetime TV all fluff and cupcakes. That's just me. I don't want to see the shootings and the drug dealing and the dying and the blackmailing and the porn-parading. I want the mindless banter, the teenage-bickering, the comic book shenanigans, the breaking up to get back together, the shopping trips, the wife-beaters, and mall-camping. And more scenes with Princess Sparkle and Captain Oats (spinoff, anyone?) Oh, and one more thing, more Peter Gallagher singing. Thank you.

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!

Recipes, From My Kitsch To Yours

The Baked Manwich

1 Busy guy
1/2 Promise to go to a wedding
1 Date to see a band
1 Invitation to go to see a different band
1 Case of not showing up to see band
A sprinkle of emails
A Healthy dose of befuddlement
A Healthier dose of annoyance
Salt in the eye

Stir all the ingredients together. You need a very large bowl for this because you may find other ingredients necessary to get the right flakiness. Once the batter is the right consistency (i.e., too flaky to actually congeal), pour into trashcan. Light a match. Throw the trashcan over the balcony and watch the Manwich dissipate. Your torched culinary presentation will make Baked Alaska look like a twinkie sundae. Now pour yourself a stiff drink.

------------------------------------
The Dew Drop

A million grains of sand
40 Gajillion waves
1 House
12 Fun people
1 HUGE party
Lots and lots of alcohol

Blend all the ingredients together. Pulse for one minute. Add more alcohol as needed. Can be sipped or chugged. Just enjoy all summer long.

----------------------------------------------------------
The Fat Burger

1 Invitation to be on an Advisory Panel
4 Hours of acting the part of a Talking Head
15 Minutes of winging it
One thousand dollars

Mix all together. Bake. Try not to eat all in one sitting. Best if you store this in the freezer so it will last. Do not let anyone named Neiman Marcus eat it.

Mistaken Identity: Case #147 and #148

You know how you can be walking along and usually you mind your own business as in wouldn't notice if Willem Dafoe walked right on by and blew you a kiss because you are la-la-laing to music in your head or thinking about your next meal or how you want to spend money or where is happy hour people? But today you are actually noticing. The surroundings. You're making eye contact. With all the people. And then out of the corner of your eye, you think you see someone you know so you do a double take because you are, you know, paying attention and since you are looking at everybody you don't want to ignore somebody you actually know. And it is all fast when you do the double take and simultaneously smile and mouth a "hi" with no vocals attached because - frog in your throat. So fast that you didn't leave time for your poor, slow brain to catch up with your befuddled excitement before realizing that no, you don't know who this person is. In fact, they look nothing like the person you thought it was. Idiot! (Me.) And so the person looks at you kind of strangely like, do I know you or are you just weird.

I totally just did that. Weirdly.

And last weekend when I was in a bar with six other girlfriends. Some guy came up to me and used the line (actually!)...."Do I know you from somewhere?" First of all, I am not going to critique that line because I figure; a) you got the balls to walk up to a girl standing amongst 6 other hot girls - kudos to you - so say what you want as long as it isn't something that will be blocked from my dirty spam filter at work, you dirty boy; and b) I am too paranoid - as in, I started obsessing on the possibility that he has seen my profile online. Not as in posing, or leaked home videos, mind you. But rather innocent hi-I'm-single-looking-for-love-in-cyberspace-tap-tap-is-this-thing-on presence? But really, he swore he knew me from somewhere. So he proceeds to count down scenarios in which he could have met me.
Do you play kickball on the Mall? -No.
Do you go to blah-di-blah church? -Me? No.
Did you go to Georgetown Law? -Nope.
Do you know Joe Schmo? -Ahh...no.

I didn't recognize him. So instead of letting the poor guy ramble on about my presumed doppelganger and instead of letting my paranoia lie low, I blurt out, "Maybe you've seen me on [online dating service]?" Because I'm out there. For everyone to see. Me - paranoid. He grins and says, "Yeah, no, that wouldn't be it." Because? The shame! Psshaw.

So, later, when he asked for my phone number, I said, "I can be reached online. You can contact me there."

Case closed.

Giddy Up

You know what has me hyped this week? The thought of letting it all hang out in a bikini in one month? Ah...nnoooo. Let's not think about that right yet. Exposing your baby's skin soft feet to your summer shoes? Uh...holy blisters, Batman. True, my beach house summer begins in just over three weeks. I should be excited about that. Instead I am just stressed about getting my ass in gear. So my power walks are going to turn into runs now. So, no, the approaching summer at the beach isn't the source of my excitement just yet.

Oh no. It's something quite grand actually. The first weekend in May is almost upon us. The Run For The Roses. The galloping! The Derby! Yes, this time of the year "...the sun [does] shine bright in the old Kentucky home." The big hulking horsies. Little tiny wee jockeys. Mint juleps. Seersucker. Cash thrown all around. Giddy. Up.

Every year, I watch the race with one eye open. Lest one of the horsies collides and falls while they are hoofing it down the track. And for what? More oats in his breakfast than Mr. Ed down the stall? Every year, I think this is the time some horse is going to bite dust. And that would break my heart. I might give up the horse races altogether if I had to witness that. So one eye open. And one eye nudging my horse - or the horse in last place - to run a little faster. Run!

I also have a love-hate relationship with horses in general. I think they are beautiful creatures. Solid. Powerful. Silky. Ponytails. And big huge eyeballs that seem to know you, if you know what I mean. Almost creepy, like that painting in the Haunted Mansion with the eyeballs that follow you. Horses seem to watch and observe. So I have this fear of them at the same time. Growing up, my friend, Christy, lived on a ranch and they had lots of horses. I loved going over there. But I was always a little afraid of riding them. I wasn't very good at nudging them along. I was always like, "you take your time, little horsie. We will go when you are good and ready. I'm not pushing you. I am your friend." So I was often left out in pasture just hanging out with the horse. Because if I nudged him, then I might have been bucked off the horse like Valerie did one time. I am pretty sure that hurt. So the fear of the horse.

I love watching the horses. I like the steeplechase races.

I like hearing the horses. The cloppity-clop of their hooves.

I love researching their names. And tracing their lineage to see how the names evolve.

And then there is the game. I love betting on the race. And I'm pretty good at it (or lucky at it, rather.) I have guessed the winner in the past three years. So listen to me people when I say -Afleet Alex. I like him for some of the reasons I liked Smarty Jones last year. He doesn't come from "royal" pedigree. He has the human interest element as in he is not trained by one of the big guys, like Frankel or Zito. And he has a good heartstrings story. When he was a baby he was kept alive by being bottle-fed because his momma couldn't produce enough milk for him. And, finally, he is not a quitter. He raced his little heart out with a lung infection - and came back to win the Arkansas Derby. I'm telling you. Alex is a winner, y'all.

But you know what I just did? I jinxed it. So let me tell you about some other fabulous horses who could win.

Bandini - He bites! Really, he has bitten another horse (although he didn't take any ear with him). And he is a black horse. So, a beauty.
High Fly - Aww...he is pretty too.
Sun King - Because of his name. Psychedelic, dude.
Bellamy Road - Because he is the favored? But, eww, Steinbrenner's horse.
Wilko - Because...Wilco! Rock on.
Noble Causeway - He keeps getting better each race. The dark horse?

See? I'm pretty knowledgeable when it comes to picking the horses. Atleast I didn't pick based on jockey outfits. So listen to me. Or don't. But really? Back to why I'm hyped. Really? It's about the cocktail. My one time of the year to savor all that is minty lucious whiskiness. Giddy up indeed.

Factoid of the Day:
Over 80,000 Early Times Mint Juleps are served over the two-day period of the Kentucky Oaks and Kentucky Derby, requiring 8,000 liters of Early Times Mint Julep Ready-to-Serve Cocktail, 2,200 pounds of freshly harvested mint, and 80 tons of shaved ice. *

*From KentuckyDerby.com re. the Early Times Mint Julep recipe.

I Like My Pastries Flaky, Not My Guys

Mixed signals or just a case of Flakiness?

1. You have tickets to see a concert. You have friends who will be at the show. So he buys a ticket. You have been out with each other a few times. You both love Westerberg. He has been talking about it for weeks now. Since he is flying in that night, you pick a meeting place at the venue. You go where he says he will be, only you never see him the whole night. You think:

A. He has died in a horrific plane crash. In fact, you contemplate calling someone who could look this up and confirm.
B. He is really in the bar but gave you a false meeting place. Secretly, he is over yonder laughing at you as you keep looking over your shoulder for Him to show up.
C. He is trying to get to me. The upstairs of the bar is filled to capacity and the bouncers won't let him up, he lost his phone and has no way to contact you. He pines for you to come downstairs to look for him. But you decide to stay put and enjoy the show from your great vantage point. He picked this spot afterall.
C. He is flaky and didn't give you a thought to call you to tell you he could not make the show - for whatever reason.
E. All of the above.

2. So you call him at 2 AM and leave him a voicemail and say:

A. "I know it's late but if you were at the show you would be awake."
B. "If you weren't at the show, then I want to make sure you didn't perish in a plane crash."
C. "I also hope that you didn't get on the wrong plane and instead are in Zimbabwe because that would suck. You missed a good show! Or maybe you didn't because maybe you were there. Were you?"
D. "Kisses!"
E. All of the above except C (although I can't be sure, it was late and I was high on rock and roll).

3. So he calls you the next morning and tells you that he was out till 1:30 in the morning the night before the concert with clients, was in meetings all day, laid down for a couple hours in his hotel room, overslept, got a later flight to DC, thought it was too late to get to the show, also very tired and wasn't up for a late night, so went home. He never mentions anything about calling you to let you know this. You certainly don't mention it because it is too soon to show him the Crazy, the Whine, the Bitching. You are cool as a cucumber about it but you think:

A. Asshole!
B. Inconsiderate asshole!
C. Flaky asshole!
D. But cute asshole?
E. All of the above.

4. So you get on the phone and call your girlfriend to, you know, analyze this a bit more. You wonder why just last week, he drove 3o minutes out of his way to go to your birthday party and meet some of your friends. Then this week give you the blow off. You conclude:

A. He likes me of course! He just has a funny way of showing it.
B. He doesn't like me. He is just being polite by attending birthdays, calling, emailing, etc.
C. It is a very busy point in his life and I just kind of blew in. Patience might be needed with him.
D. He's flaky.
E. All of the above.

Scoring: If you answered E to all of the above, then you are me. I'll send for reinforcements under the name Jack Daniels.

Some Guy's Got A Great Story To Tell At The Water Cooler Monday Morning

Imagine this. Paul Westerberg Friday night at 9:30 Club. It's a late show - it's rounding 1:00 AM and he has been playing a solid 2 hours now and slowly disintegrating into mayhem. A Paul Westerberg show is alway unpredictable and always entertaining to say the least. So Paul decides to lay down. In a fetal position behind the drum set. While the band is still playing.

What would you do if you were front and center? Go up on stage is what you would do! Grab the mic and sing your heart out until the bouncers throw you out in the rain. Was it worth it? Those 10 seconds of American-Idol-karaoke-minutes-of-fame-blah-di-blah. Hell, yeah! Because the band decides to call you back. Seems Paul decides he's going to stay behind the drumset. He is on his back now with a guitar strapped to him. So the band asks you to step in and play the part of rock star. For two songs! You do air guitar. You sing the wrong lyrics in delirium. You hand the mic over to some people in the front row to help you sing along. You plead for Paul to return because this is just surreal, man.

Some people in the audience don't like you. Some are probably jealous. Some think they could sing better than you. Some didn't pay $30 to hear No-Name-Joe-Schmo sing some of the more popular 'Mats songs.

It was a show teetering on the edge of insanity and sheer brilliance. And that is a fine line. It was rock and roll. Pure and unassuming.

The disintegration of the last half hour in a 2 hours and 40 minutes set exemplified the genius that is Paul Westerberg. The 8 minutes singing on a stage shared with Westerberg & Co. epitomized a Guy Named Andrew's best rock and roll fantasy.

Crafting is, like, sooo crafty! And dangerous!

Craft Corner Deathmatch. Has anyone seen this show on the Style network?

I think people are celebrating it as Martha Stewart Living meets Mad Max Beyond Thunder Dome, American Gladiator, and the Iron Chef. In fact, this, from their website: "...home ec as extreme sport...and someone's about to get the craft kicked out of them." Well, with a slogan like that you know you are in for a solid half hour of entertaining TV time.

And it is just that.

I am not going to sit here and review all the dynamics of the show. It's rather game-shjow formulaic in that you have two contestants (in this case, two fist-pumping DIYers), a panel of judges (craft "experts"!), a gothic and solemn "Vanna White", a charismatic host (yum, more on him later!), and a rowdy audience that gets a lot of airtime (they are jeering and cheering and enclosed behind a fence to, you know, shield them from a flying glue gun, mobile, or paper airplane). Really. You either get the picture or you are living under a rock. Seriously, get thee to the show immediately! You won't regret a single moment.

I like the show for two reasons. I like crafting and I like boys. Let me explain.

First, I am a crafter myself. I have been cross-stitching, quilting, purse-making, doodling, knitting, decoupaging, glue-gunning, duct-taping, etc. for years. Here is a walk down "crafting" memory lane.

The first time I got creative with scissors was with Barbie. First, it started with cutting hair. I had the Donnie and Marie dolls and, well, they weren't Barbie. So I cut Marie's hair. In a bob. Then my sister and I each got a Ballerina Barbie, so we agreed we could make one "ugly." We cut her hair too. Then Donnie we just made gay. Because he had the purple nut-hugging outfit. Then we had a Darcy doll. And, well, she wasn't Barbie either - and she was bigger, more voluptous. So she was the sexy Mom. Who stole all her daughters' Kens.

Then I started cutting up old clothes and vintage (gasp!) aprons to make Barbie clothes. I was a Barbie fashion designer. I made wraps. I'd put on snaps. I would overlay fabrics. Playing With Barbie became Designing For Barbie. This carried on into high school when I met my bestest friend, Martini. But not with Barbie. No, we were dressing and designing ourselves. We canvassed the thrift stores weekly. Great days were "Bag Days", when you got a hodgepodge of goods. You never knew what gem would be in your bag. Then we would reconstruct the clothes. One time I made a green blue and red paisly long-sleeve shirt into a skirt. Sigh. This was back in the late-80's before thrifting became so trendy and marked-up.

I remember a time in high school, going to a party and meeting Schmitty. Schmitty was an odd duck (seriously, think Duckie from Pretty In Pink). He was just sitting at this party where lots of beer-drinking and acid-dropping occurred. What drew me to Schmitty was the fact that he was just sitting there.....knitting. So I got him to get his lesbian mom to teach me how to knit.

I remember taking a quilting class in high school. Then I became competitive with some other girl in my class to see who could crank out the most "Quilt-In-A-Day" quilts in the year. I made six but I think she won. But that's ok, because I got the boy. We were an early day Craft Corner Deathmatch.

In college, I had Saran Man. Saran Man was inspired by my friend, Katie. Katie took some wire hangers and fashioned a "little man." Then wrapped him up in your favorite color of saran wrap. We all had one sitting in the back seat of our cars because one time Katie's Saran Man got her out of a speeding ticket. Seriously, the cop was not the least bit creeped out or weirded out by a "little man" just hanging in the back seat. So he left her off for her "creativity." Who knew? So, Saran Man then served as our guardian angels.

I watch HGTV. I like craft shows. I could spend a lazy Sunday watching nothing but. Which is ironic if you think about it. If I like crafting so much, shouldn't I be spending that lazy Sunday doing so? Sometimes I do. But I like watching other people's ideas too. The traditional craft shows are so sweater-tied-around-the-neck, this-is-how-my-grandma-did-it, whiskers-on-kittens, blah-di-blah. So rote. But Craft Corner Deathmatch is a craft show that doesn't take itself too seriously. I like to see how two different people approach something as outlandish as making shoes out of wallpaper, boxes out of cards, or pins out of candy.

But let's get to the real meat of this. Should I be embarrased to admit that I have a crush on the host? Yes, people, Jason Jones is kind of hot. He's a blisteringly-animated, overly-anxious, smack-talking, trouble-raising, shrieking maniac! He's as menacing as my purring two-toothed cat who runs from the vacuum. And when he did that V formation with his arms right at unit level, with the slightest thrust, when he was talking about "kahunas." Well, I might be a little in love with him.

So, in the end, I got no point. But I got a message: Competitive Crafting is the new crack. And I'm admitting it here: "I'm addicted."

On A Date, I Am A Class Act...Always

So I had the date on Friday, which, going into, I was very nervous about. It was with a guy I briefly dated about a year ago. I blew him off at the time - a case of possible right guy, definitely wrong time. As in, my heart was foolishly somewhere else. But now I am in such a better place. So I contacted him a few weeks ago and after a couple emails, I suggested meeting for a drink. Surprisingly, he agreed.

We were meeting after work - at a bar I had never been to nor heard of. Instead of believing that a guy maybe did want to see me - and maybe even happily - I instead went through all these revenge-seeking scenarios he was going to seek against me. Like...Does this bar really exist? I have never heard of it. Is he sending me on a wild goose chase? Or will he throw a drink over my head? So then do I take my new sizzling leather jacket off before I sit down? He can take my dignity but not ruin my wardrobe. Maybe he will just do the tried and true and stand me up? Maybe he plans on berating me - and all his friends will be in attendance? Everyone will laugh at me. Maybe I will show up naked, forgetting to put on my clothes. Maybe I will have to stand on the bar and recite the Declaration of Independence or sing a Celine Dion song a capella. Whoops...you see, I got creative with these scenarios and they were taking a turn into Scary Things Than Could Happen and my Fear of Public Speaking. So, I got back on track and decided to focus on the outfit - carefully chosen. But by the time Friday 6:00 rolled around my stomach was in a tangled knot of nerves.

I cabbed over and was anxiously propped on the bar stool by 6:15. So the bar did exist! And it couldn't be more perfect. Then he came sauntering out from the back. He couldn't be more relaxed and this made me more relaxed. We jumped right into conversation and didn't stop talking or drinking all night. So I escaped having a drink poured over my head! Golly, I was having a fine time so bartender pour me another Belvedere Soda and another and another and another and another. Oops...hiccup...giggle...giggle...time to stop, time to go home. Yes, it was time to call it a night and he kindly offered to drive me home.

The poor dear. Because somewhere between drink #1 and drink #60, I took a nosedrive into the Outer Limits of Coherence - where wacky hijinks can be had. Here is where the fun really begins.

Things I did on the date I was trying to impress:

Had him pull over so I could throw up on the side of the road. Wait! I'm prone to motion sickness. I throw up on airplanes with the faintest bit of turbulence. I am not drunk. But then again, I started to think that maybe I was. Yep, I think I am. Pull over!

Ran right out of the car, never said "bye" or "thanks" or "let's do this again". Nope, just split. I ran right up to my apartment and laid down on my kitchen floor because nothing says drunk like that.

Then the phone rings...it is him! Downstairs, he wants to come up. I want him to come up! But for the life of me, I can not remember how to buzz him up. I am pushing "pound"..."nine"...is it "three"...don't know how I finally got the door to buzz open, but he made it. Heellllooooiieee...(and there may have been two or three of him).

And so, what is the one thing you should probably never ask a guy on a date? If he would like to lay on the kitchen floor with you? Yes. That would be it. You know what I did? I asked him if he would lay on the kitchen floor with me. Beauty. What would his answer be? "Well, no, but I will lay on the living room floor with you." It's got carpet! Good idea...I like smart men! Poor guy, he was just obliging me. So I think in the middle of making out there, I excused myself to throw up again. I know what is happening here - I had no food. In hindsight, he should have fed me. Purrr...(my behavior is kind of kitty-like tonight).

And at the end of the night, when he probably decided he had enough of my drunk ass, I capped off his good night kiss with a roll...of the lint brush. The poor dear was covered in cat hair. So I rolled him.

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

He has called and we laughed about it. So I don't think I scared him away. Besides, I really do not think I could be with a guy who couldn't appreciate the wackiness that will sometimes follow me and a few cocktails.

Although, I regret not being able to remember the kiss. I want a replay. And eventually I'd like to be able to ask him into my bed and not my kitchen floor.

I Don't Want To See You Again

Dear Perv,

I gave you the benefit of the doubt and went out with you. Even when I first met you at the bar and you were drunkity-drunk-drunk-drunk and saying very sexually-oriented things. I shrugged it off as drunk - I know drunk - I have compassion for drunk.

So I agreed to go out with you. We hadn't finished one beer yet and you were begging me for a sleepover (back down, Sparky). Then you disgustingly pondered my 91-year old great-aunt's sex life (file that under NOT INTERESTING). Did you not start to notice the one-sided conversations? I'm really not that shy and coy, buddy. Then I mistakenly obliged you and peripherally entered a conversation on sexual experiences and positions. But then you had to go and take it a step further and "enlighten" me on "how 'it' should be done." Here is a tip, never criticize a girl's ex-boyfriend's bed manners.

I could not be more turned off by you at this point. And, by the way, silly boy, it takes way more than three beers and a shot of whiskey to get me "liquored up and in bed."

And so I got rid of you and sent you on your way. Then you started calling me, emailing me, and text messaging me again and again and again. And always drunk. I never called you back. But you kept calling still.

This past week, you tricked me with the "202" area code. I answered. You questioned me on why I never called you back. And I told you it was because my phone didn't work for a while and I must have missed the calls. And I've been busy. And, yes, I realize I am at fault for not being forthright. So I started to feel bad. And then...you went there again. You had to wax on about penis straws and whether or not I like to "drink from them." I suddenly realized you were no longer talking figuratively. You were doing that gross-me-out thing again.

Then this conversation happened:
You: I hate work. Someone here is making my life hell.
Me: ...
You: I am going to crack.
Me: ...
You: Do you ever feel that way?
Me: What do you mean, "crack"?
You: You know - just explode.
Me: Define. Like scream you head off and punch a pillow crack? Or walk out on your job suddenly crack? Or bring a gun to work crack?
You: The first two.
Me: Ok. I think those might qualify on the healthier side of cracking. I vote number one.
You: Actually all three, because they are all one form of cracking.
Me: ???
Me: ooookkkaaayyy...Got to go!

So you see? Now you were doing the creeping-me-out thing.

Now you tell me you are moving back to DC next month and can't wait to see me again. I wonder, how can you even think I'm fun? I'm not very nice to you. But I know what I need to do. I need to be blunt. I realize that you do not understand that I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN. I realize that you do not get that my saying "we'll see" or "I don't know" in response to seeing you again is not the same as NO. (My inability to say "no" is my problem.) So, know this, the next time you do call, I will answer, and I will tell you, "I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN."

Signed, Someone Who Doesn't Want To See You Again

Spring Forward

Time is a funny thing. Springtime breathes new life again. The birds are chirping. The trees are bloating. The leaves are brightening. People are opening their windows. People are alive. Losing that extra hour arouses life anew and propels us forward.

Some people live their whole life looking back. Memories can be sweet and memories can be painful. Sometimes the painful ones eventually turn sweet. But only because of time.

Some memories are neither painful nor sweet - they are stepping stones along the way to Me (or You). It is those memories to learn from and to spring from. They do not linger in any real sense - but only abstractly. Hopefully, they make you a better person.

Some people become bogged down by their memories. And use them as excuses - to not move forward. It stews. I have been guilty of this. I spent six years "with" someone who I knew would never committ emotionally. I rather liked it this way. I thought, "I can't get hurt this way." Because I had been devastated by an old relationship that didn't work out and I didn't want to get too close again. So after that hurt, I found someone with the same fear of getting too close. Together, we stayed - for the friendship, for the attention, and for the understood wall that neither of us was ever going to penetrate. I was hiding behind it. He'd break it down and I'd bust through ocassionally, but we always went back to our respective corners. We understood our place.

Throughout the six years, I did try going out with others. But I always looked for flaws immediately and never gave anybody a chance to get to know me. I always ran back to the arms of Him, knowing that there would never be any pressure. Never any chance to mess up a good thing because it wasn't a "good thing". Most certainly, never any chance of loving each other the way two people should love each other - tenderly, undoubtedly, and unconditionally. And passionately, because there really wasn't any passion come to think of it. In any case, I call it my Chasing Claude complex. (Modeled after a character in a book by Nancy Lehman, Lives of the Saints.) Chasing Claude is a collision course for disaster. It proved to be. I eventually crashed and burned.

See, that was no wall. That was a fucking barbed-wire fence - somewhat penatrable and very prickly.

And so you learn. I am not Chasing Claude anymore. I'm not dwelling on what could have been. It is what it is. And I am better for it. The memory of him isn't painful. It isn't sweet. It just is. It is shaping a new Me.

The new Me called up one of those guys I never gave a fair chance and, surprisingly, he agreed to meet me for drinks. I also have agreed to go out on a date with a friend of a friend. The Match thing is starting to pick up again too. Who knows? But I do know, I will be open-minded and not bogged down by past mistakes that never amounted to anything more than a fleeting memory now.

I happily turned that clock forward last weekend. Who needs an extra hour of sleep anway? There are shrubs to be hedged!

Table For One

Eating alone is lonely. Eating out in public alone is humbling.

I don't mind dining out alone. But for the experience to be dignified, you have to plan for it and you have to have contingency plans. Even the most seasoned Table For One sometimes messes up and vows never to return.

The first rule of dining alone is to bring a distraction (i.e., reading material). So you look busy - at least too busy to be bothered with company. You are in control and content in your own skin. But my decision to dine out on Saturday afternoon was an afterthought really so I didn't have any reading material with me. Aha! But the restaurant has a City Paper. That would be perfect. Except...there were no more papers to be had. I had no reading material! I decided I would persevere anyway. It was early enough and the restaurant was empty enough. I thought I could be in and out rather quickly.

So I amble to the hostess' counter and meekly say, "Just one, please." She looks at me then proceeds to talk to the other hostess. Huh? I stood there for a good whole minute before another girl - a third hostess - comes over and asks if she can help me. I say again, more confidently this time, "Yes. Table for one, please." She seats me. And she gives me a choice. It was a difficult one. I could sit right in view of the front door. Or by the window - away from the eyesight of the door or passerbys on the main street. This choice is crucial. I was going to need scenery (what with no reading material). I could stare at the front door and people watch. Or I could select the window area - which is more secluded. I select the window. Again - I was going to be in and out quickly....right?

No.

Nobody is taking my order....I have been sitting here for - what - five whole minutes! (When you are a Table For One With Nothing To Read, that can seem like an eternity.) I didn't even need to look at the menu. I said I was ready to order right away. So I wait. Minute after minute. For someone. Anyone. To take my order. My drink order? Hello? Water. Thhhirsssty. De-hy-dra-ted. No one. There are three waitresses (or are those the hostesses?) huddled at their post. I try to wave their attention. Nothing. Bitches. Ten minutes later, I make eye contact and ask if I can order. They nod. Two minutes later, a completely new girl goes to the table behind me to take their order. Their whole party wasn't even seated! So she mosies my way. And yet, I politely order my food. I don't want any funky kitchen scrap or bodily excretion ending up in my food on account of some sassy attitude. It's key. Restaurant staff can treat me like shit, I am always going to treat them like gold.

In hindsight, I should have ordered it to go. Because - horror of horrors - what does a Table For One With Nothing To Reading NOT want more than anything in the world? A Table Of Three sitting ON TOP OF THEM.

And so the bitches (who clearly hate me) sit a Table Of Three at the table right next to me. When there are about 30 other tables - the whole restaurant really - where they could have sat. This table is ON TOP OF ME. Really. They are so close I could reach out and butter their bread. Or stick a finger in their eye. Now, why? And why didn't they just say, "Could we have this table over here?" Why did they have to sit right ON TOP OF ME? If I enter a very empty restaurant and they want to seat me right ON TOP OF another person. I politely ask to sit somewhere else. It's called personal space.

So, as I am waiting for my food, I am just staring into space because again, I am Table For One With Nothing To Read. I would like to look around. But Table Of Three is, like, blocking my view of the whole restaurant so I would just be staring at them. I thought that might seem impolite. Or stalkerish. So I decide to just sit there and mind my own business - get my chopsticks ready. Look in my purse. Fiddle with my napkin. Take sips of my Coke. You know - general time killers. And then you know what Table Of Three does? They look my way - out the window - right over my head and through my head. And started talking about the weather. And looking outside. La la la. Looking outside. Through my head. While I just stare at the phantom person across the table. (And we are telepathically telling Table Of Three - LOOK AWAY!)

So forget it Table Of Three. You sat ON TOP OF ME. You stared my way for eternity. I'm listening in!

Conversational themes I heard from the table ON TOP OF ME:

Food is my friend!
Guy #1: I just eat when I get hungry. And then I stop when I'm full.
Girl: Me too! I never eat that much so that I get that full feeling. I know when to stop.

I want spicy but not spicy!
Girl to waitress: What should I get? I want noodles. I want spicy. But I can't do Rendang. This indecision is killing me.

We are vegetarians!
Guy #2: I'm vegetarian.
Guy #1: I am too!
Girl: We are all vegetarians! Waitress we are vegetarians - no meat products can touch our plate or in the vicinity of our meal.
{Waitress brings me my meal.}
Table for One: Singapore PORK Fried Rice. Yum! Hi Table Of Three! Maybe you should have taken one of the other 30 TABLES in the restaurant! Bon appetit!

You see, I wasn't alone after all.