What The Funk?

I have been in a little funk lately, tempered only by the occassional tryst with Pompadour. I become blinded by the champagne and drowned in the music.

The space in between is Anxiety. That birthday is looming and for the very first time in my life I have actually thought it would be pretty cool to have a little minnie Me. This tells me that aside from my general lack of self-esteem I must like myself somewhat and, hey, I might be kind of cool to hang out with. And I never wanted children before but lately I picture a little girl with Princess Leia buns on the side of her head and a shirt that says, "Anarchy in the Pre-K."

I don't know, the stars are not aligned or is this some pre-mid-life crisis? Am I going to go out and buy a PT Cruiser, carry a paisley duffle bag for a purse, and put ice cubes in my wine?

I'm the first to admit that my occassional dance with depression is rather self-indulgent, knowing this I guess keeps me sane. But I still have to muster up some charm for lunch with III tomorrow...

Panic! At The Blog

When I first set out to pen my little insipid drabble, very few knew about it. Slowly, I started to share with some of my friends and family - and still only some. Not because there is anything to hide. I just really don't think about it unless it comes up in conversation and then it's like: "Blog?" Blog!" "I blog" "Can I read it?" and then the address is forwarded.

Yet, I go back and forth. On one hand, I want lots of people to read but only if they play nice. Feelings hurt, ya'know. And on the other hand, I cringe at some of the things I write when I should just look back at it and shrug: Well, it was the 1960's, times were different, and we were all on drugs.

Luckily, I have always been careful not to say anything hurtful about anyone I know. Because when you walk into a bar and your friend says, "Hey! I've been enjoying your blog!" you panic just a little. Then you frantically go back and make sure nothing hurtful was said about anyone he may know. Then when you consider he is good friends with the Yukkell, well, then you cringe because some of the early shit is out there. Then, you squirm in your stilettos knowing that one of your Guy Pals - who you drink beer and watch sports with (sometimes in camoflauge sneakers) has access to some of your tragically hopeless inner-most thoughts (and fashion fixations, but you had to already know that, huh?).

Then after the paranoia settles, you think it's pretty cool that he is on board because, hello!, it's the Bear. Say hi to the Bear. The Bear is a cuddly little ilk. I mean, he impregnants people by just being in their presence! True story I mean if your idea of "true" is "not really." Sound people are of the mind that it takes two to tango (and cash).

Then it is even doubly good that he is in on Blog when you realize you can capitalize on the sheer comedian that the Bear is and the late-night trouble he gets himself into. His stories involve hospitals, the grocery store, bathrooms, "couples" therapy, oh to name a few. But I'm not spilling the beans, Bear! So perhaps he will oblige me an interview someday. Cause for celebrity. And I think I can hear the Bear chime in with: "It's a celebration!" But maybe he should say it 30 more times in 30 minutes just for nails-down-a-chalkboard effect! Ha!

I know I don't write anymore so maybe this is just for the crickets in the back.

Patheticicity

How did Friday night come to this?

Drinking a bottle - or two - of wine and cyberstalking and buying furniture online. I even rode out to Loehman's so I could pick up new pajamas for such a night. Well, I intended on finding some cute outfit but the only draw were leopard print pj bottoms and a pink tank-nightshirt.

So here I am...in all my leopard/pink glory, cruising the guys online.

Mav says I have given drunk dialing a whole new meaning.

Don't get me wrong...I looked forward to a night at home, playing with my new computer, fixing my blog, transfering music to the new computer, and cyber-stalking guys I don't know.

SWF Deletes Phone Numbers

ARLINGTON, FEB. 2 -- In a defiant act of protest to Relationships, Lack Thereof, and Annoying Cellphone Rings, SWF deletes all past loves and lovers out of cell phone.

It is unprecedented in this household because SWF (name withheld due to an abstract restraining order) is a hoarder. She collects die-cast pencil sharpeners, scarves, and gummy bears, but she is not about the add phone numbers to the clutter.

SWF was not available for comment but we were able to reach her psychiatrist, Dr. Ima Ginary, who stated, "It is a good day in the world. My patient was hiding behind the argument that having these phone numbers meant that she could identify them when they called and thus have control of the situation. By screening her calls, she thought she could better address the situation. But see, some of these guys hadn't called her in over a year and I wondered what this was doing to her psyche. You know the saying, 'A watched pot never boils'? It's just basic Psych 101." He further went on to add, "If all girls would get on board with this we could have peace and democracy in the Middle East. "

We were also able to meet up with her Feng Shui consultant and astrologer to the stars, the legendary, Madame Karma Comelately, who made us fork over $5.95 per minute (the first minute of advertisements being free), before speaking with us. Luckily she accepted Paypal. She was able to share with us the cleansing affect this could have on SWF, "SWF was hanging on to these numbers and, let me tell you, she had numbers of guys who she couldn't even identify out of a lineup of turnips. By releasing the bad energy and tidying up her communication corner, she will relinquish all control these misfit men have over her."

Then in an interesting turn of events, the normally media-shy phone was spotted walking down Rodeo Drive sporting nothing but numbers of friends and families and a shiny piece of red floss tied around the antenna. Normal sights are red bows on pooches, but red bows on phones? We caught up with a color consultant on the meaning behind this. "Red symbolizes love and passion, by tieing a red ribbon around your phone, you are sending out those energies to the world. Similar ways to accomplish this might be to wrap it in red felt. You know the saying, 'If you build it, they will come?' "

Now the buzz on the street is that Tom Ford is incorporating the look into his spring runway fashion shows this year. Skinny phones wearing nothing but red ribbons or coats of red felt and not fed any bullshit phone numbers. Less controversial that overly-skinny models strutting the runway in red floss. Tyra Banks plans on chatting with Larry King on this very topic. In her bathing suit - but she will bring along her own cameras since bad camera angles can add poundage.

World peace and fashion trends, all with the press of "delete." That's the real skinny, girls.

Just Another Dating Story

I usually have good dates. Even when there is no chemistry, if there is liquor involved, you can count on having a good time with me. [Just tootin my horn, y’all! Honk-a-honk-a. And did I just pimp myself out?]

Sometimes I make a friend out of the deal. A lot of times I do get my heart tossed in a blender.

The one bad date that I can think of lasted only 10 minutes because I wasn’t going to sit around with some uptight pretentious dandy who rolled his eyes at me and tainted my little galaxy hut and it's BYOB (Bring-Your-Own-Boy) glory. As quickly as you taketh boy there, you can removeth. My final words to him were: "I'm so glad I didn't waste a Friday night on you." I think I had pig-tails and my trapper keeper on my hip when I said this.

Sometimes the dates might be a little boring and you know this is the case when you recite all the ways you love the potato. Sweet love, my little spuds! Oh wait, my archives just pinched me in the butt to remind me of the Princess and Ugly Stepchild Date, or how two people can go on the same date but have a remarkedly different experience – it’s the champagne vs. the miller high life lite date. Hee hee. That post still makes me laugh because it was really that bad. [Now time for another Phil Collins joke: He was no easy lover.] OK. So aside from that, no horror stories.

So last night was just another dating story...

I showed up five-ten minutes late, which is probably rude but he was unsure whether he would be minutes early or minutes late from our agreed upon time as he was at metro’s mercy. And she has hated me lately – cold weather go away so I can start walking to work again. I like the guy arriving before me anyway – I like to see how he is going to handle the whole drink/chivalry thing. He did well. First he commented on my beautiful smile [Honk if you like me!], got me a drink - actually a pitcher!, and took my coat and hung it up for me. Good, right?

So a pitcher of sangria turns into dinner which then turns into shooting pool. Now if I had a dime for every time a guy tells me over the course of a date that I might be "the coolest chick" or "a dreamgirl" or "can't believe you are not taken yet" or just propose to me on the spot, well then I’d have $42.30 in my pocket and then I’d march over to sephora and empty those pockets on a lovely new potion. He said something along these lines probably because we have had lengthy exchanges on football, I know how to play pool, I drink beer, blah blah blah – you know, the guy’s girl thing was overpowering the pretty pink package in stilettos. [Another toot for me! I'm my own one-man band.] Then a dime fell from the sky. And we know how that story ends.

Just another dating story until...

I forgot that pool was an opportunity for dudes to ogle the sweet ass and cleavage. And so my rump and stumps were on show and apparently free game for commentary from the peanut gallery. He surmised that I probably had really nice legs because "ballerinas are hot." In which case, I had to remind him again that I am hardly a ballerina. If you could be a fly on a wall in that class - oh boy! I spend half the class cracking up at myself. He also proceeded to inquire about my underwear. ETc. He was also getting a little too touchy feely.

Apparently he brought his own horns along to toot because he told me that I really must see him without his shirt on. He promises that I would be impressed. I should tell him that I am easily impressed in that department. I mean, you usually get me at Forearms. He also asked me to go back to his place for just a half hour so we could make out because I'm an awesome kisser. [Ten horns a tootin! One big fat egg.] And is this high school? Seven minutes in heaven?

And because I like to believe the best in people, I am going to attribute these actions from what was an otherwise polite gentleman in the first half of the date (really), to a case of Too Much Alcohol (TMA). TMA can make you do very bad things. I know because when I got home at 12:30 last night, I sent a text message to Sham-oo (who incidently has been the subject of my cryptic last two posts) and because I was secretly hoping he wouldn't respond, I refused to look at my phone until my friend, Snow White, made me. He replied with a cryptic message of the blah! Blah!!! blah! kind. The boy likes his exclamation points!!!!! So TMA can have very strange effects on people. Have you ever seen Blind Date, the movie?

To further support the Gentleman Persona, at the end of the date, he put me in a cab and paid my cab fare. So I am not sure what to think.

The question is: Do I go out with this guy again?

Do I Have To Go On Another Date?

Indications that you are so OVER IT:

--You eat a big greasy hamburger and french fries from five guys followed up by a candy bar and root beer the night before the date. [Normal practice: You hit the gym and feast on carrot sticks and yogurt to fit in your skinny clothes.]

--You don't wash your hair the day of and you actually contemplate dying it with that semi-permanent dye you got over the weekend. [Normal practice: You NEVER experiment with hair color! And you wash your hair with the $20 Frederik Fekkai apple cider shampoo.]

--You wear an outfit you don't particularly like: the pants are baggy, the shoes matronly, and the top too frou frou. [Normal practice: You buy something new.]

--You don't use a Whitestrip. In fact, you don't even brush your teeth before you leave the office. [Normal practice: Multiple whitestrips! And brush your teeth, dirty mouth.]

--You wear your highest heels - even though they pinch your feet - knowing he is 5'9" - which means you will be taller tonight. [Normal practice: Wear the cute leopard print ballet-like shoes that you have been wearing a lot lately because the ballet and pilates is paying off.]

--You plot how you are going to work into the conversation your distaste for the gym and all things outdoors, and your love of five guys knowing that he is a serious gym rat, camper, and self-proclaimed veggie lover. [Normal practice: Would tell him about the one time that I did go camping and it wasn't so bad after all. I still would ask him if we could hire out someone to build the fire.]

--You contemplate how you are going to get home in time to see American Idol. [Normal practice: Fuck AI!]

--You might curse online dating. [Normal practice: Endorse it - tell him about the friends you have made from it and the friends who have married.]

Essentially I plan on being my own little Debbie Downer.

Edited to add: Shit, I just flat-ironed my hair and put a bobby pin in the left side - code for: pulling out the big guns. If only I had time to go buy a new outfit!! (Some things will never change around here.)

When There Is Fish

Me: Well, you know he is a Pisces.
Mom: I told you there is something weird about Pisces.
Me: They are fish, you know, they-
Mom: Are spineless?

I'm glad it didn't work out.

I would have been a country club wife living in some very rural Virginia town with nothing but a golf course and an ATV. I might have fallen off that ATV. I could have a broken leg.

We would have had a yappy little dog - who wouldn't be Tom Ford - but instead named after some newly-retired football player who wouldn't fetch your slippers and let you paint his toenails. He wouldn't sit at my feet. Instead he would stand with paws in the air on the command of "touchdown." I would tire of "touchdown Tiki" on a daily basis.

I would be alone a lot because who is going to visit me out in that town nobody has heard of - 40 miles outside of the city. He would mysteriously disappear on the weekends. He would still insist on keeping up pictures of the Redskin cheerleader and recite the story of "When I dated a Redskin Cheerleader" over and over when asked, "Who is that hot girl in all your pictures?"

We would have to board employees of his "management trainee program." We'd probably be audited by the IRS. I would get tired of paying for everything with cash and the places I frequent would not be able to cash my $100 bill.

I'd get tired of his humongous feet.

But boy am I glad I never have to hear him say, "sat-uh-dey" again.

Alter Egos: Reality Or Make Believe

This week's visit to the couch assigns me the nametag: Hi! My name is...Little Miss Drama.

You see, it is probably no surprise to those still on board (and you got your own name tags, don't you?) that I tend to have an overactive imagination. Along those lines, I will romanticize a guy here and there. If there is a spike to his hair - he has a pompadour! White sweat pants - he's a pervert! Serenades me with the guitar - he's a bad boy! Wears a velvet jacket, like my own - he's gay! All of those together? Whoa - Rock-and-Roll-hall-of-fame-Tom-Cruise-IS-gay-Elvis-has-not-left-the-building-and-most-certainly-did-not-die-on-the-can-while-my-guitar-gently-weeps! So a kiss on a shoulder, a gaze in the eye, karaoke with broken zippers, drunk texts, lint-rolling - it's all for romance, isn't it?

And so I might just build a guy up - perch him up on that pedestal. Because it's usually better than the reality. And then when the reality is really that - Real Pedestal Romance and sweet and tingly - then I can't go up with it. So I will find fault with the littlest thing (like, say, an accent) and if I can't find the fatal flaw I go and create a whole alter ego of an unsavory nature for the chap because my own little make-believe that I - and I alone - participate in will protect me from what I am afraid of and something that has been so alien to me for a very long time now: a real, live good-to-me man. Who is cute, funny, successful, happy, kind, and has a dog that I have been given free reign to decorate!

A Walk In The Woods (smitten!) turns into a Walk In Space (cu-cu!) turns into a Walk In The Bookstore (support for the cu-cu!) because what I am doing in my own head and sparing you the details of - is actually fodder for kiddie lit. I have recently discovered the children's SkippyJoe Jones books centered around a siamese cat whose head and ears are too big for his body (thank you Mr. Illustrator! and I have my own bone to pick with my own illustrator - does my butt really have to take up so much room on the page - really? and can't you just give me the Ashlee Simpson nose? contract negotiations are in order or I may walk to Mickey Mouse, he's offering me lots of cheese). So this mighty charming character believes that he is really a chihuahua. So he (I'm not sure, but I think with the author's help - reality-make-believe-line-blurred) creates this whole alter ego around this image in which he becomes Skipito Friskito and he fights crime or something of the sort. Banditos be damned! So charming! Sign me up for the fan club.

And so my point? If only to remind you that, no, I am not dating a crime-fighting endearingly fucked-up cat. But, I might think I am on the verge of something a little more real. So my inner dialogue leaves me to kill his alter ego off in a climactic blow-up scene that would make Quentin Tarantino proud and an endorsement from McDonalds and is really too violent for these pages anyways (gun control). (Details withheld due to: Sharing is so 2006 and 2005 Jinx and the Crazy Has Left The Building.)

Is it the Real Thing or something Make Believe?

In due time, banditos...

On Red Pens

I put a red pen in Relationship Corner. I will also move 27 things on New Year's Day, eat black-eyed peas, and say "white rabbit" when I wake up. I will also find a way to plant some greenery in my little condo.

In your library, you may file that under: "Hippie New Age Psychobabble" or "No Wonder" and if you are nice you might just tag it OCD. But it is also OK if you just say: Poor Thing.

Because see, I am going to good-luck-charm my way into the New Year and happily kiss the sucky year that was 2006 good-bye. I should have known 2006 was tainted when - well, I didn't do any of the above - and instead spent last New Year's Eve playing Syms with Peter Pan (who had already morphed into Johnny Jerkface at the time but I was in denial) and missed the turning of the calendar, dropping of the ball, and the Second Coming of Dick Clark - not to mention, not even a smooch to be had - when this was realized at 12:22 AM. So, my first thought of the new year - after my alter-ego, Cyrus Bookbender, kicked some ass in make-believe land and married the vapid bimbo Jerkface was charicaturing - was: This blows and look, we didn't even finish the champagne.

I believe we call that: disappointment.

So this year I will drink ALL the champagne with one Dear Prudence with not a plan in the air. Maybe we will play canasta with the cat or maybe we will stumble out into the neighborhood to see where the night takes us. Maybe I will make a fool of myself and drunk text some boy. Maybe I will go out on a date with one with a southern accent, or a short one, or a teddy bear, or an author with a best seller, or a pirate, or Captain Steubing, or [fill-in-the-blank].

We are going to call that: hopeful.

So join me in raising your red pens: Here's to a Good Year, y'all! And I just checked my Past and Psychic and it revealed to me that I do so much better in odd years any way. How 'bout that?!

Wanted: My Gums (Also Answers to "Chops")

Traits I inherited from my momma:

The Bennett nose
The Bennett sour stomach
The Bennett curse which skips a generation (hi me!)
The Bennett antiqueing gene (it's sick!)
The Bennett big feet
Bennett youthful good looks (and if you are going to put up a fight we can just go with youthful looks, party poopers)

And, P.S., I am going to go out on a limb here and point the blame on the family with this one: Bennett gums.

I am my momma's girl.

When we were younger, my brother liked to tease me in that way that little brothers do, and tell me that I was adopted. It's beside the point that he still does it, because why let an inside joke die? But back when I wore tube tops and powder blue sneakers and stood with my hands on my hips with the pouty snarl, (yes, party poopers, kind of like I still do, tube tops and all), I would believe him for a split second. But all I would have to do is look at a picture of my mom when she was younger and see myself staring back as if to say, "Yes, honey, you are Bennett and not a Barnum or Bailey."

Now my dentist does not know of my Bennett lineage. The Bennetts are a classy bunch. They get written up in the Washington Post when they want to redecorate their beach house or celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary (can't find link but - really!). They are all musical - and I guess it is possible that there is a relative who plays the washboard with spoons, but I don't know of this very cool person, while the family might think otherwise. All the ladies wear scarves and antique broaches and like their gin and tonics. These are my genes. What I'm trying to say here is: We brush our teeth, y'all. Yet, my dentist has mistaken me for a descendent of the Clampetts, and not the Bennetts.

Let's break now for an oral hygiene history!

April 1971: A few days-old baby has her first jelly bean somewhere in the valley. Baby can't figure out if big sister was trying to kill "the thing" or make nice to little sister. But since the big sister is the sweet one, historians have sided with the Making Nice theory.

Circa1970's: Mean mother of Jelly Bean-Loving Baby forces the now growing child to visit a dentist once a year. Now the Jelly Bean-Loving Baby becomes addicted to bubble gum-flavored flouride treatment. Now looks at the dentist office as possible candy shop.

1980's: Ground-breaking study reveals that you need to visit the dentist twice a year so mother ups the visits. But still lets child go outside with no sun screen. Oh, and then mother takes what has become Gap-Toothed Child to orthodondist for braces to correct a Lauren Hutton space in the front teeth.

1986: Shortly before braces were to come off, drunk-ass guy rear ends car that Brace Face was residing in. The impact propels Brace Face forward who smacks her mouth on the back of the front seat. Braces slice right through mouth and require 200+ stitches in and out of mouth. High school boys starts to call poor child Mouth. Year book from that years recorded the phenomena. On the plus side, braces saved the Mouth from losing all her teeth and being a denture patient at the young age of 15.

Circa 1987: Braces come off! Teeth are in tact and straight! Now have to wear a big black retainer every night at bed time. Looks like Darth Vader and makes you breath like Darth Vader. But I don't think Darth Vader drooled like this.

1990's: After graduating from college and getting first full-time job with benefits meant getting dropped from paren't medical coverage and being responsible for own dental care. Jelly-Bean-Loving, Bubble-Gum-Flouride-Lover, Gap-Toothed Child, Brace-Face, Mouth, Darth Vader-By-Moonlight now becomes Rebel, and skips the dentist for a few years and manage her own oral hygiene. Discovers Act flouride treatment in the meantime.

Still 1990's: After a few years of living free from dental drills and shrills and, generally, things that go "eeeee!" with no chalkboards present, Reformed patient returns with tail between legs and resumes twice-yearly exams and cleanings.

Circa 2000: Discover the glory that is SonicCare when boyfriend re-gifts you one. This replaces the water pik of childhood. Also discover a dentist in drag. This is the first time you hear that your gums are receding so cross-dressing dentist takes measurements of your gums. Also introduces you to the "night guard" which is really the Darth-Vader retainer in a "cuter costume."

November 2006: New dentist comes to Cross-Dressing Dentist's practice and wants to treat me as new patient that she will now refer to as Clampett.

So, my gums are receding y'all. By mere millimeters. In fact, after her careful measuring, it was discovered they aren't really that bad at all. So I won't need the gum graph that scrapes the roof of my mouth and implants new gums. Holy burn-the-top-of-my-mouth-from-too-hot-pizza! Except no pizza in my belly.

But she still insisted on reasons why my gums could be skipping town (one could argue they don't like her and her preachy, condescending exams).

Possible reasons by the dental book, or science, or the Clampetts:
1. Not using an electronic toothbrush.
2. Not rinsing with flouride.
3. Drinking soda.
4. Drinking red wine.
5. Hmmmm.....

I'll give her the hmm, but I brush, floss, and rinse regularly. I don't drink soda that much nor red wine. Champagne and beer, but she didn't mention them.

My retort to help the girl along in her quest to find my missing gums:

Might it be a case of the Bennett gums? See, my mom, also has this issue - and since the dentist is putting me on the defensive with my oral hygiene or what she sees as lack thereof, I offer: but she takes even better care of her teeth than me. She instilled in my good oral hygiene!

So now I started her down this path and then she offers that maybe heredity, braces, and the jilt of the car accident - and the general shifting of teeth - all could contribute to my fleeing gums.

So she decides to close the book on the case and bill me $185 for this here "flouride consultation" anyway - because I guess she can't bill me for "patient schooled me consultation" - and wrote up a prescription to an over-the-counter toothpaste that, I ask, what is in this toothpaste that can't be sold over the counter? And, will I become addicted to potent toothpaste?

I can see it now: I'm a brush away from popping squeezes of toothpaste and a stay in the Betty Ford clinic where I room with Lindsey Lohan and discover that we are long lost sisters of the Clampetts.

Must patch up with the Crest White Strip.

2007: Receding gums hold out until Cross-Dressing Dentist takes them back.

Flat Stanley

For a month now, I ignored the 3 AM text messages and his taunting of champagne. But - and it was probably the high of just seeing the Twilight Singers perform - I obliged him after the show. I mean I was just face to face with Carson in his salmon pants and Phil Collins and his sh-sh-sudio and they all left something to be desired. This little gal doesn't rue anymore. So I let him - Pompadour, that is - hunt me down that evening. It was I, after all, who turned him on to the firestorm that is a live performance by Greg Dulli.

I believed the fairy tale that he went there looking for me.

That drink in the bar turned into our usual all-night chat-fest and music-listening party and I almost succumbed to the Chimay-induced starry-eyed fairy tale again. I even romanticized that kiss on the shoulder for one moment because it felt like only someone who cared about me would kiss my shoulder.

But he won't talk about what happened or why he went hot-cold so fast. So I tossed the fairy tale aside and remembered that he doesn't love me. And then his laugh became too loud, his voice too dominating, and did he just call that guy, "bro?" Either he was trying too hard or I was over it.

Then he went in for the kiss and it was not a kiss to miss at all.

Besides his glorious pompadour was no more and I just couldn't like someone as flat as him again. Or was I just not prepared for male company?

In the end, I hid the champagne from him and will save it for another fairy tale. But I am curious to see what his next move is.

Has Anybody Seen A Dog Died Dark Green?

I have a pet. He is a dog and he is on his fourth name change. First, he was named Schroeder, after Charlie Brown's sensitive piano-playing chum. But he wasn't as calm as I imagined him to be - I'm a cat person - so I renamed him Mick Jagger - to give him a rock and roll edge. Then he started to became really interested in fashion - I figured - because he kept chewing up my shoes (which explains my latest shoe-shopping craze, it's the dog's fault). So, you know what is next - he became Tom Ford. But then, just today, I heard that Snoop Dogg was designing fashion for doggies. And how cool is that? While I may be New Wave at heart, I just adore Snoop. He is the black person's John Wayne - coolness, gangsta-style.

With this new development, I called Mav this morning and excitedly told her that we had to change the little doggie's name. And she replied, "You having a dog named Snoop, is like me in leggings."

Nonetheless, I am considering Mr. Gin N. Juice. Or Huggy Bear. Because I am sick of the fashion designer moniker. I can't tell you how many Chanel's and Coco's we meet at the dog park. I am a slave to my dog, not fashion. And Tom Ford is getting sick of the little shirts, but he will always wear shoes. Hey, Britney is wearing them now. So I am going to go with Gin N. Juice for the moment.

Holy identity issues. But since Gin N. Juice is imaginary - very much like my niece's "friend", Binky, who one time got "stuck" in the sun roof, in which instance my dad apologized, opened the roof back up, and pulled Binky to safety and then we told Binky to wear his seat belt in the car for now on.

He was Elvis for Halloween. Look at this picture:






Isn't he the cutest thing?

Right about now, if I still have your attention, you might wonder what kind of dog he is. Well, first he was a Frenchie, and he was Martini's dog, Milo's, boyfriend. Milo is a girl and the kind of dog that you have to take for walks and skip happy hour for. I know! That kind of dog.

Mr. Juice is a special kind of dog. He can hold it in for weeks. In fact, sometimes I just plum forget about him. First, he was a chihuahua, then he was a poodle or something with long hair so I could braid it and ponytail it. But now he is an Italian greyhound. And the funny thing is I just did an Internet search for Italian Greyhounds and found a local group. (I know how this sounds and I know what you must be thinking: Seriously, she is taking this imaginary dog thing a bit far! Sure, crazy people, I am taking Gin on a playdate!) Seriously, I was researching the breed because some day Mr. Juice can be a reality and, weirdly, I found a guy I used to date who happens to be a member of the local IG group. He has two. And, yes, the kind of dog you have to take for walks and skip happy hour for.

And so in the words of Fred Scheider and the B-52's*:

Has anybody seen
A dog died dark green?
About two inches tall
With a strawberry blond ball.
Sunglasses and a bonnet
Designer jeans with appliques on it.

Sadly, the dog that brought Fred Schneider so much joy, Quiche Lorraine ran away.

Are you still there, reader? Great! We will be at Earth shortly.

According to Fred, even imaginary dogs can run away - because clearly he made this little doggie up (the sunglasses clued me in). Why would you do this to your fantasy? Not me. In my fantasy, this loyal Gin N. Juice AKA Huggy Bear I speak of, dog or no dog, never leaves....

*B-52's, "Quiche Lorraine" off of the Wild Planet album. (You: That is some Wild Planet alright.)

Liquids On A Plane

(Or the one that puts me on some government watch list or, rather, shameless product endorsement.)

Last month, I flew for the first time since the new air restrictions on liquids were enforced. If they ever knew my extreme - X-treme! - fear of pyro-anything related, well, they would not even waste their time sifting through my liquids. I mean, just so you understand....I am afraid of the stove. I always wonder if this will be the time it blows up. And then a dog will attack me and then I get skin cancer. It's my triumvirate of phobias.

But then, the Ex-True Love of My Life, not to be confused with Summer Fling Love-of-my-Life (that's for those keeping score), blew up things for a living. Seriously. He was very important to the government and Maryland football too when he got to blow off the cannon at halftime. I think he found that more fulfilling. I stayed in the stands with the flask that we had to sneak in. Far away from the pyro-technics. So, the detail with which they were analyzing my liquids in Chicago, someone must have tipped them off to my knowing Blow-Up Guy. Because apparantly I was a suspicious Blow-Up Girl on the way home.

Or, rather, just some girl with way too many beauty products.

I can say that the trip there was easy breezy. Mav and I had plenty of time to spare...or drink... so we checked in our luggage and then hit the airport bar for bloody marys - since it was only 10:30 AM. My cosmetics apparantly breezed through the Suspcious Liquid Sniffing Dogs (or men in suits?)because we got our luggage, seamlessly, on the other end. (Courtesy Traveling Tip: Dog biscuits in your suitcase are a good distraction. Or liquor. But, really, don't try this at home.)

So we got to party it up in Chicago with all our liquids in tact.

The way home was a different story, my friends. It wasn't smooth-sailing, drunk-before-departure this time, because we just made it to the aiport and had very little time left to spare. To drink a bloody mary. So we had no choice but to bust through all the security with our liquids. I really started to worry about what would happen to some of my more, shall we say...hefty bottles at 4 ounces. Just over regulation play.

Before we could test security, we had to pass muster with Liquid (or Wicked, you choose) Queen of the Land of Ziplocs. And let me tell you, she ruled with an iron fist and a plastic bag. She didn't have her scales - no, she judged Liquids with her bare eye. And then she started tossing out liquids left and right. I let her go in her joyous lay-ups as I shrugged off losing my L'oreal makeup remover and Crest, but when she got to my brand new bottle of Kiehls - that cost $30 - well the dukes came out. Because really, if I'm going to blow up something, I'm not buying a $30 Kiehls product to do this. I think I would go with hemorhoid cream.

My dukes were up but with sugary cupcakes in peaceful offering. "You can't take that. I just bought it! It was $30 and it is only 4 ounces - can't you let an ounce go?" And I may have batted my lashes.

"NO!" A shout heard round the world.

Then she got distracted with another goody bag of toiletries and she forgot about me for one second. Meanwhile Mav is triumphantly placing all her cosmetics in her ziploc bag. She passed inspection. And I was wondering how she even fit all her products into one bag. I probably needed three. So I shove the Kiehls in my bag, zip up my ziploc, and tell Mav to scoot. I'm busting through this Ziploc aisle.

But not before Cosmetic Hater yells at me, yeah, yells at me, "Where is that bottle I told you you couldn't take?" There was a head cluck too.

Me, the Snail of Quick Thinking, hemmed and hawed, and mumbled under my breath, "I'm, um, ah, thinking about it. I'm going to go, ah, over there (I pointed to the atria ahead) and, um, um, use an ounce of it or something."

And I went back and forth with this lady behind a card table with a box of ziploc bags in her hand. She wasn't an aiport screener. No, she was just the lady with the ziplocs. For all i know, she was also pedaliing Girl Scout cookies for her 12-year old daughter, who was sitting at home watching Laguna Beach.

Finally, she got distracted by some other confused passenger, like myself. "What? I can't bring my Rogaine on?"

She has no compassion.

So I broke free from her shackles. Because, really, who was she?

And then I got the real aiport screener, she of nice-hood, who could have been my mom. And if I didn't already have a great mom, I would have totally adopted her. Or a celebrity. Because this fine lady took out my Kiehls and told me she had to go around the corner and check on whether this is passable. "Hey, lunch bag lady said it wasn't," is what I didn't tell her. So while she was gone and I put my clothes back on (because we are one step away from naked screening where they will just pour the liquids on you and, hey, airports become the new porn), I resigned myself to the possibility that it wasn't meant to be with this $30 soap. Let the airport screeners have the clean face. I will be dirty face. (Sulk.)

Well, nice lady came back and asked me if this was doctor prescribed and I think she may have winked.

And again the Snail of Quick Thinking that I am said, "No. But I have these bumps on my forehead and the lady at the Kiehls counter in Barney's said this would be good for it."

Again, with a wink, "So you would say that your doctor prescribed this right? right?"

Ding ding ding. We have contact with the Brain! "Yes, my dermatologist did."

And she let me and my Kiehls go.....to blow up the plane --- JUST KIDDING. Remember, it would be the hemorhoid cream and I left that at home. (Just so you know, I hated making that joke but for purposes of this story as it is Hollywood big budget and the producers control the purse strings and this writer's pen - well, gratuitous violence is necessary - it sells tickets. I don't bite the hand that feeds or they might put snakes on my plane. And I would ask, is John Travolta available? Vinny Babarino-John Travolta.)

And that is the story of how a 4.4 bottle of Kiehls facial soap defied liquid restrictions and safely traveled back to DC and, in the end, wreaked no havoc whatsoever on the plane.

So, chick-flick.

Screaming Blue Iguanas

[Internet General's Warning: Put down the sandwich. Seriously. You do not want to be eating your lunch while reading the following I've-Got-Nothing-Else-For-You post from a dried up blog. Original Me, you are a has been. Oh, sorry, we found somebody more dried up than you. So no food. But wine is strongly encouraged. That way, this might be a little entertaining. And now....the Internet is drunk. This message has been FDA-approved.]

A couple weekends ago Dear Prudence and I bellied up to a bar one rainy Friday night. But in securing these cozy seats for the night we had to entertain some chap who gave them up for us. Nice guys finish last indeed (i.e., standing up in the main thoroughfare of the bar only to be elbowed en route to the bathroom - constantly). So in the goodness of our appreciative thirsty little hearts we "let" him tell us in painstaking and barbaric detail about a trip to Honduras in which he ate endangered iguana eggs and how this came to be: He didn't want to die (i.e., starve to death) hence his "when in Rome" justification (of eating the sweet little innocent baby doll eggs).

Coming to a restaurant near you.

So since we had to hear his story of endangered cuisine and the finger-licking lip-smacking of such a delicacy and mostly because I am THAT NICE (I know! Thank me in champagne!), I will share his meal with you!

We ate it - the story - and that didn't taste good. So, I warned you. Remember put down the sandwich - for the next day or two and digest this.

Now coming to Foodtv.

This story comes with a character and his name is, Gentle Ben. Gentle Ben used to work for the Peace Corps and longs for the days when he wasn't working for the man, he stiffs the bartender a quarter every time he orders his stout, and he frequently strokes his bushy beard while he shares his tale of barbarous woe.

Gentle Ben leans in between DP and I, hand in V formation within his nest of facial hair stroking the words along, and carefully selects his descriptor like any of the best food critics I could imagine,

"Iguana eggs are fluffy."

(NOT) Coming to Bob and Ediths! But foodtv is still interested. Maybe there is a Semi-Homemade cocktail in the works.....

I know you must be famished right now since you have been forced to go without your sandwich for the lunch hour while you read this mouth-watering tale of apparently-ethnic cuisine because see, as Gentle Ben says, "Dude, this is how they survive, by eating the iguana." How many ways can you skin a cat? How many ways can you filet an iguana is what the natives (according-to-Gentle Ben) ask. Seriously, would you order a hamburger at a Mexican restaurant? OK, Gentle Ben, point made.

How To Hunt Iguana, as told by Gentle Ben with help from Me

Shake the cute little guy from the tree.

Dive into the water after him.

Bring him to the cooktop.

Filet the iguana with an incision down the belly.

Munch on the legs at the movies.

Cut the eggs out of the body.

OK, CUT, CUT!! (Or even bad choice of words - no more cutting - stop this Gross Fest!!) Seriously, no more. I am having horrific flashbacks to when I was in junior high and I forgot to skip school on Frog Disection day. And what were we supposed to learn anyways on that day? I'll tell you what I learned: Frogs have sex. And my kermit had lady parts because she was "in that way." Only to be found out after the incision and all the little black eggs (a la caviar) exploded out of her belly onto my lab table. And to this day, I can not try caviar. (But I am sure there are other factors involved in that decision too and they have to do with: gross and eww and a Taco Bell palette.) Alright. That's it. My kid is skipping school on Frog Disection Day. I will send a note: "Susie will have to miss out on your little experiment because she would like to eat caviar SOMEDAY, what with the expensive tastes of her mother. Taco Bell. We'll be at the border."

Gentle Ben says: MMM, tasty iguana tacos.

Screaming Blue Iguanas

[Internet General's Warning: Put down the sandwich. Seriously. You do not want to be eating your lunch while reading the following I've-Got-Nothing-Else-For-You post from a dried up blog. Original Me, you are a has been. Oh, sorry, we found somebody more dried up than you. So no food. But wine is strongly encouraged. That way, this might be a little entertaining. And now....the Internet is drunk. This message has been FDA-approved.]

A couple weekends ago Dear Prudence and I bellied up to a bar one rainy Friday night. But in securing these cozy seats for the night we had to entertain some chap who gave them up for us. Nice guys finish last indeed (i.e., standing up in the main thoroughfare of the bar only to be elbowed en route to the bathroom - constantly). So in the goodness of our appreciative thirsty little hearts we "let" him tell us in painstaking and barbaric detail about a trip to Honduras in which he ate endangered iguana eggs and how this came to be: He didn't want to die (i.e., starve to death) hence his "when in Rome" justification (of eating the sweet little innocent baby doll eggs).

Coming to a restaurant near you.

So since we had to hear his story of endangered cuisine and the finger-licking lip-smacking of such a delicacy and mostly because I am THAT NICE (I know! Thank me in champagne!), I will share his meal with you!

We ate it - the story - and that didn't taste good. So, I warned you. Remember put down the sandwich - for the next day or two and digest this.

Now coming to Foodtv.

This story comes with a character and his name is, Gentle Ben. Gentle Ben used to work for the Peace Corps and longs for the days when he wasn't working for the man, he stiffs the bartender a quarter every time he orders his stout, and he frequently strokes his bushy beard while he shares his tale of barbarous woe.

Gentle Ben leans in between DP and I, hand in V formation within his nest of facial hair stroking the words along, and carefully selects his descriptor like any of the best food critics I could imagine,

"Iguana eggs are fluffy."

(NOT) Coming to Bob and Ediths! But foodtv is still interested. Maybe there is a Semi-Homemade cocktail in the works.....

I know you must be famished right now since you have been forced to go without your sandwich for the lunch hour while you read this mouth-watering tale of apparently-ethnic cuisine because see, as Gentle Ben says, "Dude, this is how they survive, by eating the iguana." How many ways can you skin a cat? How many ways can you filet an iguana is what the natives (according-to-Gentle Ben) ask. Seriously, would you order a hamburger at a Mexican restaurant? OK, Gentle Ben, point made.

Take us back to Honduran cuisine.

How To Hunt Iguana, as told by Gentle Ben

Shake the cute little guy from the tree.

Dive into the water after him.

Bring him to the cooktop.

Filet the iguana with an incision down the belly.

Munch on the legs at the movies.

Cut the eggs out of the body.

OK, CUT, CUT!! (Or even bad choice of words - no more cutting - stop this Gross Fest!!) Seriously, no more. I am having horrific flashbacks to when I was in junior high and I forgot to skip school on Frog Disection day. And what were we supposed to learn anyways on that day? I'll tell you what I learned: Frogs have sex. And my kermit had lady parts because she was "in that way." Only to be found out after the incision and all the little black eggs (a la caviar) exploded out of her belly onto my lab table. And to this day, I can not try caviar. (But I am sure there are other factors involved in that decision too and they have to do with: gross and eww and a Taco Bell palette.) Alright. That's it. My kid is skipping school on Frog Disection Day. I will send a note: "Susie will have to miss out on your little experiment because she would like to eat caviar SOMEDAY, what with the expensive tastes of her mother. Taco Bell. We'll be at the border."

Gentle Ben says: MMM, tasty iguana tacos.

One can only take his word for it. And now after such lovely bar conversation I can't even bring myself to eat a regular American chicken egg anymore.

But I think I will still be good go with the Cadbury eggs come Easter time. Yep, no babies on board in those.

If I Got My Dating Advice From The Bachelor

Someday my prince will come and now thanks to ABC I know how to nab him!

I might be able to win him over if I am royalty myself! Or, you know, "kind of like royalty" because my daddy is rich and, look, my mom is actually Barbie. And just to give him a visual, I will don my tiara on our "first date" so that he can see that I am fit to be his princess. And on second thought, I will leave the fur at home "because of animal rights and all." I can be a princess with a conscience!

Or I just might have to get really, really drunk. Because I am in my 30's and all these 23-year olds think I am over the hill, but they say I look good for my age. And, you know I have, like, genetics to thank for that! Yeah, I am soooo ddr8n5k!

Or perhaps I will hug a tree. I mean, you haven't had a "connection" with someone until you have hugged a tree together. It just might get me the sparkly earrings! I'll bet no trees were hurt for these dazzlers! So go hug a tree today.

Or I could impress the Italian prince with my own Italian heritage. It took me forever to learn how to say, "Nice to meet you, Italian Stallion!" and "Large pie hold the anchovies!" Oops. Prince Lorenzo, you don't know any Italian, oh prince of Italy?

"Gelatto."

"Ciao! Lorenzo, over here, I'm a local and ABC nabbed me off the street to add some spice to the party. And guess what? Italian is the only language I can speak so I can't understand a word you say. I'll just toss my hair around and giggle at everything you say. Did he just say, "Do you like to hunt people?" Oh, silly prince (giggle). Yes! I'll accept the rose! I am looking forward to getting to know you better. Don't you think words are so overrated?"

But why don't I just show him one of my many talents? Miss America does it. I could serenade him an opera aria from the balcony. Thank god for karaoke! It really works those pipes. Or I could always bust out with the dance moves. Doesn't every guy want to see you rock your body, you know, when there is no music on. And what kind of party doesn't have music? Oh, the all-night-kind with no food and lots of booze. Have you cut off the drunk 30-year old? OK. Maybe I should just tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue. Has anyone done that one? [Season 7! --diehard Bachelor viewer (of the not me kind!)]

I should also demonstate the sacrifices I have made to meet my prince: I'm a virgin and I am saving myself for him! I sold my car for him-TV-him! But I put y'all to shame, I just flew coach for him.

When all else fails I should really find some commonality with the prince:

"You went to college in Fla! No way! I am from Florida!"

"You are a prince! No way! I am a princess or at least that is what my mom tells me!"

"You live in New York! No way! I watch Sex and the City!"

"You sell makeup! No way! I wear makeup!"

"You've got a blue tie! No way! I've got a blue dress!"

And the real card up the sleeve is Jon fucking Bon Jovi. Or The Olive Garden. But find that common ground because the tiara is only going to get you so far and you can't hug trees while in a gondola.

But there is one thing I learned from past seasons and I should never ever tell him that I want to bear his prince and princess babies because my biological clock is ticking away. But where is he going to stand when he finds that I have written our names with hearts in red lipstick on every bathroom mirror in that damn Borghese castle?

God, I can't wait to watch another Bachelor trainwreck.

The Proof Isn't In The Pudding, It's In My Thighs

I am having a love-hate relationship with food - nope, scratch that - with sugar and carbs - at the moment. Gloominess is triggering the indulging or the indulging is triggering the gloom. I'm not sure of the whereabouts and that is why I can't seem to find my way out of the deep forest of Overeating where oompah loompahs are the ideal and YOU, my friend (and by "my friend", I mean "me"), are the Oddity.

Fact #1: My diet (i.e., cravings) are really dictated by what is going on at any given day in my life. And so each day is unlike the next. Will I stymie cravings easily with the "Get Lost" tea and "Fit and Slender" water drops? Or will I forget I have these placebos in my possession, decry their "false advertising," and yearn for the Dr Pepper, potatoes, rice, and chocolate bars as Must-Do-Or-Die? (Please send all pies to I dot M dot Pig at originalme dot com, the architect of my own private Chubby-O. Heh.)

Case in point: One day last week I popped over to the "greek deli" for lunch. Anyone who works in my neighborhood knows the greek deli and knows it as mm-mmm-good-eatin'. Think Seinfeld, Soup Nazi. Store-front, loooong lines, and terse (tonge-in-cheek) service. When I go here, I am just about the only girl in line. (In a galaxy far, far away, Shamrock would accompany me.) In fact, I think all the men in the city culminate here for lunch. (Ladies, forget match.com, looking for men in DC? Put down your salad and your computer and hit the Greek deli!) Anyway, on this particular visit, and amongst the distraction of all these men, I panicked at the counter because I WAS going to order the chicken soup which is lemony and delicious - and broth-based - so I could be on par with my salad sisters. But, like I said, I panicked. So..."I'll have the heathly, delicious, yummy broth and hold the bread!" instead came out like,...."I'll have the big greasy slab of meatloaf with a mound of orzo, throw a few potatos on the side, don't forget the buttery bed and, hell yeah, wrap up the chocolate chip cookie with a sugar kiss!" And so I lugged the overflowing styrofoam container back to my office holding steady with two hands because of a) the sheer weight of all this food and b) the girth of container to hold said linebacker meal. And as I sat in my office and caught up on some blog reading enjoying the sheer genius of this greek feast, not once thinking about my thighs swishing together or my snap busting to break free UNTIL an email popped up on my screen from some heretoforementioned jerk by the name of Pompadour asking what I was up to that weekend. (Well, he segued into that, but the point...) And instead of hitting delete on Mr. Fly-By-Night I lost all appetite for the meatloaf, put it in the refrigerator for a rainy day (i.e., Must Eat All Fat In The Vicinity Day), perked up and ate an apple for lunch instead and plotted what outfit I would wear on the "implied?" champagne date. ("what are you doing this weekend? I owe you champagne!" Hence the implication?)

And so just like that I went from Ms. Piggle Wiggle, The Little Ball of Pudge, to Miss Piggy Get-Me-Some-Kermit.

And then when the weekend went by and there was no word from him (wtf? or, rather, yeah, I fell into that trap), I opted right back to the Sunday movie popcorn (with lots of butter!), a bagel (with lots of butter!), a baked potato (with lots of butter!), and not one, but two(!), Dove chocolate candy bars in the course of a day. Alright, I exaggerate, but I did have two candy bars, I didn't get butter on my popcorn, but I did have a fat baked spud with tons of butter. No bagel was actually involved in this pig fest.

And so NOW just like that I went from salad and fruit and whole grain and free-love to a stick of butter, a stick of butter, and a pound of sugar and self-loathe.

So it is the same cycle and I can not consistently get into a groove of healthy eating. And it is really not that I eat a lot, because I really don't. It is just that my choices are not the most healthful. Hey! Have I ever told you how much I love potatoes and gummy bears? (Please, I beg of you to send all pies to I dot M dot Pig at originalme dot com.)

And now on top of my own Self-Critiqueing and Mirror Bashing (I am not what I see in the mirror is what I tell myself to which myself responds: Yes, hon, that is all you), I am now paranoid that everyone else sees what I do.

Case in point #1: The other day I was in a dance shop buying ballet shoes and I decided to get a leotard too. The salesperson recommended a large for me because, as she said, "..don't worry because they run really small! Do not take offense to the size. It's like a bathing suit." "OK," I thought, "but I wear a size 4 or 6 in bikini. Have I changed that much since 4 weeks ago?" So I took her advice and pulled a size large off the rack and held it up to me. So for old times sake, I grabbed a medium too. And while I don't like the way the leotard looks on me, the medium will do just fine. In fact, the large was way too big. [Yes, editor, that should be an emphasis on "way", thank you.]

Case in point #2: There is this guy at work. (For those keeping score at home, Snow White's Ex.) He is a super nice guy and the other day he stopped by my office to chat which doesn't happen very often. We chatted about mutual friends. I blabbed about my new house. You see, what I thought was a chatty conversation. I had much to say! And then the next day, he came by my office again and started the conversation with, "You don't have to answer this if you don't want...." Which, holy Freddy Kreuger, scares the living daylights out of me with all the possibilities of that kind of preface coming from a very good friend's ex-boyfriend. But he was merely asking me if everything was ok with me because I seemed a little "down" yesterday. Which is weird, but then again, not so weird. He was the one person who really helped me after my dad died as he had just lost his brother the year before I lost my father and he is just one of those people you find it so easy to talk to. So he is just that kind of guy. But, my point - and remember I am not always the most rational formula in the math book - is I automatically assumed he meant that I looked like I packed on 30 pounds and was headed down a path of self-destruction. Dare I ask him if this is an overeating intervention?

Case in Point #3: When I told a friend the other day that I was taking ballet, she responded with, "You're taking ballet??" Emphasis on "you're" in a very questioning tone punctuated with double question marks, exclamations, and cookies and pies. Then that makes me paranoid that what she was thinking - what everyone is thinking - is "How absurd, you don't have a dancer's body, what are you doing in Petite and Limber Land?" And I would just respond, "Apparently stick figure was not a requirement for the class."

So, you see, when you are in a funk as I am, the food trap I have described as my own personal journey of despair leads to negative (irrational) body issues. I can almost see how eating disorders come about. In all seriousness.

My lawyer's want me to point out that I am not poking fun at food addictions, eating disorders, or the Overweight. All opinions are my own and relate to my own personal body space - my own personal issue - which is about 10 pounds heavier than I would like to be. Do you know how much 10 pounds is?! That is the weight of my Greek Deli fare (see: above) that I did in fact find a rainy day to empty said contents into my "dancer's body." 10 pounds later! In which I pose a question to my lawyer's: Can we sue the greek deli as the sole responsible party to my overindulging as they knew (not me!) that by eating 10 pounds worth of their, albeit yummy, food that I would gain 10 pounds too? That 10 pound styrofoam take-out should post a box with the surgeon general's warning that the "contents will cause pudge." Or, should we sue Pompadour and men of his ilk who drive poor little ole me over the ledge of overeating and into the arms of greek deli meatloaf and chocolate chip cookies to overcome the sting of their rejection? Is that the root of the evil? Because I am not responsible for my own actions, oh no, I am not!

Ok. Ok. With all this Living in Chubbyville talk, you, dear reader, might be yelling at your screen right now. Don't worry, I have heard those shouts and I saw those eye rolls (which makes me very self-conscious so if you can look away when you do that you might not hurt my feelings). So I should point out that I do get off my butt. I have been a little more active than shoveling food in my mouth (arm curls), catching gummy bears in my mouth (basketball), and walking to the Food Store to replenish the cupboard/belly (so, equivalent of say, the marathon?). In fact, Dear Prudence and I have been walking to work every morning which is a 2.5 or 3 mile walk. I've got the ballet going on. Trying to do a little Pilates in the evening as I watch the boob tube. Plan to start my laps at the pool again real soon. Plan to start running. (Did you catch that? I went from "doing" to "trying" to "plan to"....the thought that counts!) Anyway, I understand the importance of exercise. So there's that.

But mentally I just can't get it all together. And that is where I am folks. There's got to be a better way of coping. One that doesn't involve eating all these pies somebody keeps emailing me.

Cock(y) And Bull(shit)

Today.....could it be? Can it be? Shield thy eyes. We got sunshine! Pick up your jaws and wipe your lenses, because, yes, sunny-come-lately, we are witnessing our first sunshine in one whole week! Which, a week with cloudy/rainy weather is a sad, depressing state for yours truly. But I think I am slowly coming out of my funk that has a lot to do with nothing and a little to do with everything.

You see, I have not been excited about anything lately. Slightly depressed? Yeah, probably. The only thing that keeps me away from going to a doctor is my fear of The Drugs. Don't get me wrong, I'm not all Couch Jumping Crazy about it. But I do believe that what works for one may not work for another. My blood bleeds tie-dye. I have always chosen more natural remedies for my ailments. And when I do have to take an antibiotic, I'm pretty paranoid about what it is doing to my body. But, dude, pass the Crisco! My arteries are fine! You know what they say about a spoonful of sugar! And, as they say, Chug! So, really, it is just something for my handbook.

So what am I doing about my sad state of affairs? (Which I am really being melodramatic as I am prone to be and, well, for purposes of this post. Translation: There are no razor blades in my medicine chest.)

1. Drinking champagne this weekend! You may be thinking, chickie, lay off the alcohol, and, well, I say, read above!! Bubbles fall under natural remedy - sad head and achey heart needs effervescence to perk it back up! Dr. Me says so. And I know just the person who will oblige me the champagne this weekend. And his name is NOT Pompadour.

2. Ballet! I have signed up for a ballet class with Dear Prudence and we had our first class last night. I am sure I can plie and entendre my way to happiness. And get kick ass legs to boot. Rockettes here I come.

3. Back to knitting!

4. And, well, Saturdays in the fall, you can find me in some bar with 55 TVs blaring every gosh darn college football game in the universe. You really should check out the Mars Orangemen. They glow in the dark! Ha! That, with no drugs. Yes, I'm coming out of the funk just fine here, folks. Laughter follows, or, halts.

So, alright, I know you have just sunk back into your seat with relief that slitting my wrists isn't on the list. Are you crazy?!?

But, to bring it right back around to what has haunted me in the past few years: What am I doing? Where have I really been? Where am I heading? So I have been assessing the "mistakes" I keep making since the Yukkell....not to say he wasn't a bit of a mistake himself. And, by golly, I found the common denominator among the past 3 guys that I would say "wrecked" me (again, with the drama, to which I say: It is my stage!) in the last year.

Last Friday night as the rain poured down hard in our nation's capitol, I whined to Mav about being lonely (she - and my mom - have had to put up with my whiney ass all week, so a medal of friendship to her! will you settle for a ML, Mav? Oblige me the champagne??) And good friend her carried her ass over to my house in the pouring rain so we could polish off some beers and rant. I would like to point out for the record, that friendship is a two-way street and while she was doing something for me, I'd like to think I was also helping her out of a precarious situation. So we helped each other that night. In different ways. But then I pushed her right back into it later that night. Oh boy. But not the point! Or not my story to tell!

So, the topic turns to Pompadour and as we are hashing what went wrong, she confesses, "I got to be honest, Boa. I didn't really like him. He was a bit cocky and could never be serious. What was he hiding? Always the center of attention and just full of himself. Who orders egg white omelets in a diner and cottage cheese in a market in a redneck Delaware town and gives both people a hard time about not being able to serve these items? And actually being rude about it. But I didn't want to say anything to you because you liked him."

And then she tells me that Hollywood didn't like him for the same reasons - the only two people in my life who had a chance to meet him. And, well, that tells me something.

Eureka! That one word - cocky - was the common thread between, what I am now calling, My Cock-A-Threes (in ascending order): Pompadour, Johnny Jerkface, and the Wedding Date Canceler, hereinout, simply, Carson. (And I will refrain from his last name because he would be That Guy who googles himself on a daily basis because he is pretty big shot in his career and pretty much all over the Internet.) So they were all a bunch of cocky, conceited, self-proclaimed bigshots. And that is not the sooth-saying ginger and Bitter talking. But you can pour me another drink. It is really just the facts.

Because when I sat on Freud's couch, he was like, "It is not you, pretty sweet fun little brat, oops, I mean, girl. Did I say that out loud?" And then I was like, "My parents fault...they spoiled me rotten. Truth. I blame my parents for giving me everything I ever wanted. And if my dad had Donald Trump's money, the world would hate me, and Paris and I would be best frenemies, because I would be Queen Bitch. And only chihuahas with diamonds would like me. Because I'd have to, literally, buy my friends." And then Freud is like, "Try to stay on topic, lunatic." So then I remembered the seed that planted my attraction to cocky guys. Freud wanted to know more.

The second grade. The first guy I ever fell for. His name was Scott Basso and I just thought he was the bee's knees because he walked around the schoolyard rapping, "My name is Scott Basso. That rhymes with asshole."

Only my dad cussed around me! (Special to Freud: See, parents fault again!!) So I thought Scott was uber-cool for school. Like, I'm sure his bike would have fire decals on it and he didn't have a bell, but like, a frog horn attached. And he ate bugs and he tattooed his cereal decal from the Count Chocula cereal box on his forearm everyday. And dude he went to jail, i.e., the principal's office, a lot. He was That Guy. And I had a crush on him. Actually.

But, to him, I was always the Girl Who Ate Butter Sandwiches. And I was terribly shy back then.

So I am done with that type of guy. Seriously! Check back in a future date. And as I wonder what happened to The Cock-A-Threes, Mav put the Missing Pompadour Case to a close today as we were having this conversation about Baby Suri. Which, really? I'm still not convinced she exists.

Me: The question of the day: Is that a toupee on Baby Suri? [Ed. note: Seriously, I am not even straining to be funny here. That seriously looks like a toupe if ever I have seen one.]
Mav: It sure is. That, or a pompadour.
Me: That's funny!
Mav: Yeah, at least you know what happened to him!

Aside to Freud, did I just date Baby Suri? Or did that guy get the biggest role of his life?? Did he have Tom Cruise syndrome? Because he was kind of intensely "all over my shit."

We will leave Freud to contemplate that doozy! But I think we are on to something!

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?]

Bringing Sand To The Beach

There are two sayings at the beach.

1. "Don't bring sand (i.e., a boyfriend or girlfriend) to the beach."

2. "What happens at the beach stays at the beach."

I didn't write them. And I like to break the rules. I always write about the adventures at the beach and I don't think I really leave anything out. There is not much talk this year about it mainly because I am just not going all that much on account of: Burnt Out.

So this past weekend I, happily, broke rule number one and brought some sweet boy I have been hanging out with as of late. He tugged at my heart just a little last week when he sent me an email the day after we went to see the band, X, that said: "Let's run away together and follow X for the rest of our lives."

Things like that will win me over.

And then one night last week when I was out with Dear Prudence, we were trying to dodge the "advances" of Bespectacled and Fleur-de-Lis and rushed into another neighborhood bar and as I was making a beeline to the restroom I look up to a smiling troll-like Johnny Jerkface waving and mouthing "hi" to me. Just like that. Just like we ended things on "good" terms. Just like we even ended things. Last I checked we were on a break - the break-up he didn't want. So technically we are on an 8-month strong break here, folks! I love that boyfriend! He lets me have an open relationship and date others!

In the bathroom, I told DP what was up. Her thoughts were, "Let's go." But I decided we should stay and we should stomp our feet to the other end of the bar and not budge. And so we did. And JJ and his friends kept staring and I kept laughing and carrying on with those around me. Because, well, my stalker showed up. And then things got even weirder as JJ's friend came over - whom I wasn't sure if I ever met - because JJ didn't have but 2 friends that I knew of and never met. (Yes, should have been a sign. I've already met a few of Pompadour's friends.)

Me: Do I know you?
JJ Tool: Noooo?
Me: Am I supposed to know you?
JJ Tool: I don't think so.
Me: Do you know me?
JJ Tool: Nooo?
Me: Have I seen you somewhere before?

See, we are playing 32 questions, is what we were doing. Then we started bantering back and forth in all silliness. Which I enjoy. And then he probed me on my Miami trip (??), "where I live now?", and "do I go to Dewey?", and other miscellany probing question. Was he tape-recording the conversation?

So I played along, never giving him a straight answer, never giving him a truth. Then he ended the conversation and returned to JJ and then me and DP hightailed it out of there. Things were too weird. And I had to leave on a high note because, I'll admit, I was 1 beer away from walking up to JJ.

And that was my JJ run-in. I knew it had to happen some time and it wasn't as bad as I imagined it in my head. You know, he'd be with some beautiful goddess, I'd be ashen begging for alms on the street corner. But I hope I handled it with just enough class but also just enough snub. Too bad Mav wasn't there because she is going to spill beer on him next time she sees him.

And, so, as I tucked myself into bed that night recounting the events of the evening and what JJ's friend (or JJ himself) were up to, I got a text from Pompadour telling me "good night."

Now THAT will get me every time.

Then the next day Pompadour calls me at work and we are talking about me going to the beach and how he wants me to stay in town with him but I need to be there for my friend and he understands this. So I, half-jokingly, tell him to bring his friend, Animal, and come on down. Without missing a beat he asks me if I'm serious because he would like that very much. Now this is a guy who hates that beach.

And so that got me a little.

So the two cute boys came down and we had a fine time but now I am starting to panic. What is going on? Is it too soon to tell? Do I really want to put all my eggs in his basket? (heh.) Sure we talk every day but is he going to drop me once he has me? Is he a serial dater? Is he a liar? Is he going to break my heart like JJ? Does he believe in breaks? Does he wear white sweat pants?!?

See what I'm doing? I'm turning into Neurotic Me.

And so I have my guard up a little. I'm not swinging from the rafters exalting in this feeling. I'm tempering it with a little bit of reality because, y'all, these things never work out the way I imagine them.

Yep, if my past record is accurate, he's going to break my heart. So I'm going to hold onto it for a little bit longer.

But it sure was fun bringing Sand to the Beach....