My lovely place of employment has given us a "shopping day" for christma-kwaanz-ukkah. Today is my day and thus far no shopping has taken place. Only sleeping, lazing, and making my eyes bleed by watching Tyra. Oh and dabbling in some English muffins and coffee.
What a gift today is though, TODAY IS MY OYSTER. TODAY IS FOR ME, and ME TYPE THINGS!
I could shop. I could go to the gym. I could clean my apartment and decorate more. I could drink in the afternoon! I could have lunch with the DK! I had even thought earlier this week that I would metro to PG Plaza to go to the Target there. I could buy yarn and finish up some gifties for various born and unborn-as-of-yet friends. I could go to the hardware store and buy things that I have to buy there. Don't we all have to always buy things at the hardware store? I could buy a Christmas tree! I could buy lights and ornaments!
I could...
But really, so far, these options have not taken me any further than my couch. And the warm, loving glow of TV. Ambition will only get you so far, until you remember that your couch is soft and it's rainy outside.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
SSSSShhhhhhhh
I had a good time with my friends last Thursday. We watched Gray's. I made pizza. We had cake. We drank wine. It was nice.
Then, we watched the most glorious thing.
Do you have Comcast? Do you have digital cable? On-Demand?
Have you seen the video personals? In the Get Local section?
They are riotously funny. Get someone who's nervous with some drinks in them talking about what they look for in a partner and how they rate themselves is fascinating. Also, we had drunk copious amounts of two buck chuck.
Dating on-demand was the best thing on TV, and that was a night of some good programming. Though they definitely played safe.
For example: the "Naughty" section? " "No listings available." What about the "one of a kind" section? Same deal. "Beefcakes?" None.
The most uproarious section was entitled "hidden talents".
Our favorite was a sassy lady who did impressions. She had a great sense of humor about herself, and really trumped her techniques. Best impression?
A bus stopping: "Sssshhhhhh".
The doors on Star Trek "Shhh".
Betty Rubble: :::giggles:::
She had us all in stitches. I wish to meet her and tell her to "SHUT UP!" like a graduate of the Stacy London school of outbursts.
Another hidden talent was "sculpting naked cows".
Ooh and karaoke in deep corners of Virginia. Apparently, single Virginians love themselves some off-pitch Bohemian Rhapsody. Some Virginians come see this woman sing it EVERY WEEK.
There was Walter, who's hobbies include "playing tennis, listening to live music and doing some things" and wouldn't date a woman who would "mock him".
There was Diana, who was in search of "whatever" and "spending time with people she likes to spend time with" who dislikes when men say "racy things".
There was Alex, who was looking for a woman who "has a great body, but isn't superficial" and likes it when women look him right in the eye so he can see through them immediately, and understand their souls. Also he's an ass model.
Seriously, watch the personals. Marvel at the brave souls who are putting themselves out there on TV. [Insert perfunctory 'it's hard out here for a pimp' quip here. ] I could never do a personal ad, much less one on TV.
If I'm ever in that position, get me six cats and teach me to needlepoint.
Then, we watched the most glorious thing.
Do you have Comcast? Do you have digital cable? On-Demand?
Have you seen the video personals? In the Get Local section?
They are riotously funny. Get someone who's nervous with some drinks in them talking about what they look for in a partner and how they rate themselves is fascinating. Also, we had drunk copious amounts of two buck chuck.
Dating on-demand was the best thing on TV, and that was a night of some good programming. Though they definitely played safe.
For example: the "Naughty" section? " "No listings available." What about the "one of a kind" section? Same deal. "Beefcakes?" None.
The most uproarious section was entitled "hidden talents".
Our favorite was a sassy lady who did impressions. She had a great sense of humor about herself, and really trumped her techniques. Best impression?
A bus stopping: "Sssshhhhhh".
The doors on Star Trek "Shhh".
Betty Rubble: :::giggles:::
She had us all in stitches. I wish to meet her and tell her to "SHUT UP!" like a graduate of the Stacy London school of outbursts.
Another hidden talent was "sculpting naked cows".
Ooh and karaoke in deep corners of Virginia. Apparently, single Virginians love themselves some off-pitch Bohemian Rhapsody. Some Virginians come see this woman sing it EVERY WEEK.
There was Walter, who's hobbies include "playing tennis, listening to live music and doing some things" and wouldn't date a woman who would "mock him".
There was Diana, who was in search of "whatever" and "spending time with people she likes to spend time with" who dislikes when men say "racy things".
There was Alex, who was looking for a woman who "has a great body, but isn't superficial" and likes it when women look him right in the eye so he can see through them immediately, and understand their souls. Also he's an ass model.
Seriously, watch the personals. Marvel at the brave souls who are putting themselves out there on TV. [Insert perfunctory 'it's hard out here for a pimp' quip here. ] I could never do a personal ad, much less one on TV.
If I'm ever in that position, get me six cats and teach me to needlepoint.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Today was one of those days...
... and totally in a good way.
There was bounce in my step. If my hair were long enough, it would have swung rhythmically with my stride. I could faintly hear the theme song to "Stayin' Alive" as the soundtrack to my strut.
I thought at first it was my renewed interest in actually burning some calories post-holiday since I am still carrying around the 8 pieces of poundcake I ate while I was home, but I decided perhaps no.
Or maybe, I thought, it was the shoes.
New shoes! I bought four pairs when I was at home for Thanksgiving. Three of those pairs of shoes were necessary for work-appropriate fashion that didn't involve me still wearing business casual from the ankles up, and slip-on sneakers with skulls on them from the ankles down like my look circa October.
Three purchases were necessary, and I've worn already. One sensible, two mildly sensible (sort of--
flat is sensible. And metallics are the modern neutral, right?).
But then.
There was the impulse buy. A steal, no less, at a crazy sale price that made my knees weaken.
I bought grapey suede wedge heels. With a twee bow on the heel in matching grosgrain ribbon.
So wondrous, these shoes be, not one but TWO very nice ladies stopped me on the street to say so.
It made me wag my foot at all my female friends (and some poor, unprepared males too) and say "See? Don't you see?".
If you could package that, just about any lady would ask for a box of "excuse me, but where did you get THOSE SHOES?!" for Christma-Kwanza-kkuh.
Or for "Wednesday". Whichever.
There was bounce in my step. If my hair were long enough, it would have swung rhythmically with my stride. I could faintly hear the theme song to "Stayin' Alive" as the soundtrack to my strut.
I thought at first it was my renewed interest in actually burning some calories post-holiday since I am still carrying around the 8 pieces of poundcake I ate while I was home, but I decided perhaps no.
Or maybe, I thought, it was the shoes.
New shoes! I bought four pairs when I was at home for Thanksgiving. Three of those pairs of shoes were necessary for work-appropriate fashion that didn't involve me still wearing business casual from the ankles up, and slip-on sneakers with skulls on them from the ankles down like my look circa October.
Three purchases were necessary, and I've worn already. One sensible, two mildly sensible (sort of--
flat is sensible. And metallics are the modern neutral, right?).
But then.
There was the impulse buy. A steal, no less, at a crazy sale price that made my knees weaken.
I bought grapey suede wedge heels. With a twee bow on the heel in matching grosgrain ribbon.
So wondrous, these shoes be, not one but TWO very nice ladies stopped me on the street to say so.
It made me wag my foot at all my female friends (and some poor, unprepared males too) and say "See? Don't you see?".
If you could package that, just about any lady would ask for a box of "excuse me, but where did you get THOSE SHOES?!" for Christma-Kwanza-kkuh.
Or for "Wednesday". Whichever.
Monday, November 27, 2006
It was a sad, sad day.
I just found a few things about my Veronica Mars boyfriend, Jason Dohring. He's super-cute and when his character, Logan, says smarmy things, I lap it up like my rightful inner 15 year-old does ice cream on a proverbial Saturday night.
There are four facts about him below. Guess which one is a lie?
a.) He is married.
b.) His dad owns Neopets.
c.) He and Zach Braff and Peter Krause are Jake Gyllenhaal's REAL best friends. None of this Mattew McConaughey and Lance Armstrong nonsense.
d.) He's a scientologist.
Sadly, the lie is c.) but it's d.) that upsets me the most. Even though c.) involves ALL my Hollywood boyfriends. Suck.
There are four facts about him below. Guess which one is a lie?
a.) He is married.
b.) His dad owns Neopets.
c.) He and Zach Braff and Peter Krause are Jake Gyllenhaal's REAL best friends. None of this Mattew McConaughey and Lance Armstrong nonsense.
d.) He's a scientologist.
Sadly, the lie is c.) but it's d.) that upsets me the most. Even though c.) involves ALL my Hollywood boyfriends. Suck.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
I'm a little tea pot
Tomorrow, my family is hosting Thanksgiving. We are 5 in my immediate family.
Around 5pm, TWENTY of our nearest and dearest are descending upon our humble abode, and that's only one side of the family with some family members missing.
My mother is making 5 desserts. Just in case. She feels like a bit of a failure for not making pound cake AND chocolate cake to accompany the medley of pies to be displayed.
So, I've been helping out as best I can, but apparently, not correctly.
As I was dusting tonight, I was using "too much pledge" and had to be reminded to "spray it ON THE rag" but not "near the floor" or slipping is eminent. You pledge with SIDEWAYS motions and with SPARINGLY spritzed amounts, dusting the surface first and THEN progressing to the items that reside there.
I turned around, and told her "you know, last week I told so-and-so that he was a control freak in a meeting. I meant it with love, and I'm telling you now. Also, with love."
Mom turned around and looked fake-shocked. This is a skill we all have perfected. The huffy, fake-shocked pout.
To back-peddle with a bit of humor, I told her the rest of the story: How so-and-so countered with "ring ring! ring ring! Hello Kettle? IT'S POT!"
Mom laughed. She said, "that's good. I'll have to use that one!"
And like that, Shifty saved me from being grown-up grounded.
And then for the rest of the evening, it was a joke. Mom would pick up the tea kettle and wag it at me while fake-chastising me to "watch out for the pledge on the floor!".
This is what happens when anal-retentive people have anal-retentive children. I had to pledge the whole house and arrange things in the medicine cabinets neatly, because my mother heard on Oprah that 60% of people dig through other people's medicine cabinets when they are visiting.
The labels are facing just so.
Like mother, like daughter I suppose.
Around 5pm, TWENTY of our nearest and dearest are descending upon our humble abode, and that's only one side of the family with some family members missing.
My mother is making 5 desserts. Just in case. She feels like a bit of a failure for not making pound cake AND chocolate cake to accompany the medley of pies to be displayed.
So, I've been helping out as best I can, but apparently, not correctly.
As I was dusting tonight, I was using "too much pledge" and had to be reminded to "spray it ON THE rag" but not "near the floor" or slipping is eminent. You pledge with SIDEWAYS motions and with SPARINGLY spritzed amounts, dusting the surface first and THEN progressing to the items that reside there.
I turned around, and told her "you know, last week I told so-and-so that he was a control freak in a meeting. I meant it with love, and I'm telling you now. Also, with love."
Mom turned around and looked fake-shocked. This is a skill we all have perfected. The huffy, fake-shocked pout.
To back-peddle with a bit of humor, I told her the rest of the story: How so-and-so countered with "ring ring! ring ring! Hello Kettle? IT'S POT!"
Mom laughed. She said, "that's good. I'll have to use that one!"
And like that, Shifty saved me from being grown-up grounded.
And then for the rest of the evening, it was a joke. Mom would pick up the tea kettle and wag it at me while fake-chastising me to "watch out for the pledge on the floor!".
This is what happens when anal-retentive people have anal-retentive children. I had to pledge the whole house and arrange things in the medicine cabinets neatly, because my mother heard on Oprah that 60% of people dig through other people's medicine cabinets when they are visiting.
The labels are facing just so.
Like mother, like daughter I suppose.
Monday, November 20, 2006
why was I so angsty as a teenager?
SERIOUSLY. WHY?
Home is glorious. I am at home now. I am sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop while my father reads the paper and has some Hershey miniatures. He's like clockwork. He'll have a lemonade (now that he's given up tea and iced-tea products for health reasons) and a bowl of pretzels in 4 hours and then hit the sac. It's so easy here.
And delicious!
I had a steak sandwich for dinner, and it was perfect. It was so nice to have it right.
Imagine: a world where you don't have to PREFACE that NO, SIR, I would NOT like mayo, lettuce, tomato, or mustard on your steak sandwich. Just steak, onions and goop that may or may not have once been a cheese-like substance.
It's a thing. When I come home, there's a list of people I have to see. Family. Friends. Franzone's Pizza. It's like home to me, that pizza place. I might want to have my funeral party there. Or my wedding, I can't tell.
Keep that in mind for the story I have regarding the chinatown bus and my trip back to the glorious Filth-a-delphia. It rocks.
here's a sneak peak.
Home is glorious. I am at home now. I am sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop while my father reads the paper and has some Hershey miniatures. He's like clockwork. He'll have a lemonade (now that he's given up tea and iced-tea products for health reasons) and a bowl of pretzels in 4 hours and then hit the sac. It's so easy here.
And delicious!
I had a steak sandwich for dinner, and it was perfect. It was so nice to have it right.
Imagine: a world where you don't have to PREFACE that NO, SIR, I would NOT like mayo, lettuce, tomato, or mustard on your steak sandwich. Just steak, onions and goop that may or may not have once been a cheese-like substance.
It's a thing. When I come home, there's a list of people I have to see. Family. Friends. Franzone's Pizza. It's like home to me, that pizza place. I might want to have my funeral party there. Or my wedding, I can't tell.
Keep that in mind for the story I have regarding the chinatown bus and my trip back to the glorious Filth-a-delphia. It rocks.
here's a sneak peak.
Monday, November 13, 2006
More delicious than a butterscotch krimpet
On Saturday night in New York visiting friends, I went to a lil old post-hipster dance party. It was like I died and had gone to heaven. It was better than a butterscotch krimpet, and having been raised in a Tastykake kinda town, I can assure you that translates into serious business.
It was Britpop night with more Justin Timberlake. It was cheesy 80's tunes with more Nirvana. It was $4-PBRs-worth-it to see a beautiful man in a police hat and the teeniest, tiniest kilt and fishnets. The bathroom was bright gold and my feet are still sore from all the bopping around. They played BREED right after Girls & Boys and before some Prince for crying out loud.
But Nirvana! I couldn't tell you the last time I have listened to Nirvana, especially in my "adult life". It was like 1992 had smacked my fushia legging-ed self with an old flannel shirt.
Hearing Nirvana made me haul out all my pre-2000 CD's when I got home. Has it been all these years really since I took down my Kurt Cobain poster? Since I listened to Kula Shaker while driving my 1987 Honda Accord? It feels like yesterday.
When I was dancing it's amazing how the words came back so easily (thanks, PBR!). Jumping up and down SCREAMING "we can plant a house we can build a tree!" was easier to recall than state capitols at Quiz Night. I think at the end of the night my throat hurt worse than my calves.
Which says a lot. Trust me.
So now high school Katastrophe is the soundtrack, and it's hard not to re-live some angst. And Tastykakes are on sale at CVS.
Trouble abound.
It was Britpop night with more Justin Timberlake. It was cheesy 80's tunes with more Nirvana. It was $4-PBRs-worth-it to see a beautiful man in a police hat and the teeniest, tiniest kilt and fishnets. The bathroom was bright gold and my feet are still sore from all the bopping around. They played BREED right after Girls & Boys and before some Prince for crying out loud.
But Nirvana! I couldn't tell you the last time I have listened to Nirvana, especially in my "adult life". It was like 1992 had smacked my fushia legging-ed self with an old flannel shirt.
Hearing Nirvana made me haul out all my pre-2000 CD's when I got home. Has it been all these years really since I took down my Kurt Cobain poster? Since I listened to Kula Shaker while driving my 1987 Honda Accord? It feels like yesterday.
When I was dancing it's amazing how the words came back so easily (thanks, PBR!). Jumping up and down SCREAMING "we can plant a house we can build a tree!" was easier to recall than state capitols at Quiz Night. I think at the end of the night my throat hurt worse than my calves.
Which says a lot. Trust me.
So now high school Katastrophe is the soundtrack, and it's hard not to re-live some angst. And Tastykakes are on sale at CVS.
Trouble abound.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
I don't know what to think
Someone found my blog by googling:
"I'm wasting my life away".
If you google that, I'm #3.
#3.
For wasting one's life.
Yup.
"I'm wasting my life away".
If you google that, I'm #3.
#3.
For wasting one's life.
Yup.
Monday, November 06, 2006
According to the air-heady-voiced twenty-something on the Metro
she LOVES! some things. The way she said "LOVE!" is unlike anything I've ever heard. It's written in pink, loopy lettering in the word bubble of her after-school cartoon special. It's fuzzy like fleece and soft like a baby's cheek. It smells like unicorns and tastes like strawberries.
She LOVES!
her neighborhood (Shaw)
hotels
chocolate
metro
In my brain, she also LOVES!
kitties!
lollipops!
Days of our Lives!
Satan.
She LOVES!
her neighborhood (Shaw)
hotels
chocolate
metro
In my brain, she also LOVES!
kitties!
lollipops!
Days of our Lives!
Satan.
Help me oh internets
So, say you lived in a wonderfully cheap apartment building. You love your apartment, but the neighbor above won't give you much rest (hello, VACUUMING BEFORE 9AM ON A SATURDAY MORNING).
You beg and plead with God to make her stop. You sleep with the air conditioner on even in the fall so that there's some white noise cover.
You shake your fist. Hourly. MUST YOU WEAR YOUR STILETTOS INDOORS?
You told her about herself already ONCE.
You practice conversations with yourself to figure out exactly how to come off like you mean business without sounding like a TOTAL bee-yotch for the NEXT time.
And then God smiles upon you.
A crooked, crooked, smile.
My landlady informed me that someone on the TOP (TIPPY TOP) floor is moving out. She knew I was only half moved in, and figured she'd ask to see if I wanted to move upstairs.
On paper, sounds PHENOMENAL. Same building, but the sunnier side. Same lay out. Same rent. Park view (over a smaller building, but still).
The catch?
That apartment is surrounded by old people who chain smoke in their places and that smoke travels up. INTENSELY. The smell of smoke pours from her kitchen sink, seeps through her closets, and stains her windows black. She spends $30 on candles a month to cover up the odor. She fabreezes herself before she goes to work. She has already had her couch cushions dry cleaned. She changes her sheets every 4 days so they don't reek.
I enjoy a cigarette socially every now and again. Usually after a blurry-fun night. But all the time? At least Stompy goes away sometimes.
I ask you. Which is the greater evil?
Stompy or Smokey?
You beg and plead with God to make her stop. You sleep with the air conditioner on even in the fall so that there's some white noise cover.
You shake your fist. Hourly. MUST YOU WEAR YOUR STILETTOS INDOORS?
You told her about herself already ONCE.
You practice conversations with yourself to figure out exactly how to come off like you mean business without sounding like a TOTAL bee-yotch for the NEXT time.
And then God smiles upon you.
A crooked, crooked, smile.
My landlady informed me that someone on the TOP (TIPPY TOP) floor is moving out. She knew I was only half moved in, and figured she'd ask to see if I wanted to move upstairs.
On paper, sounds PHENOMENAL. Same building, but the sunnier side. Same lay out. Same rent. Park view (over a smaller building, but still).
The catch?
That apartment is surrounded by old people who chain smoke in their places and that smoke travels up. INTENSELY. The smell of smoke pours from her kitchen sink, seeps through her closets, and stains her windows black. She spends $30 on candles a month to cover up the odor. She fabreezes herself before she goes to work. She has already had her couch cushions dry cleaned. She changes her sheets every 4 days so they don't reek.
I enjoy a cigarette socially every now and again. Usually after a blurry-fun night. But all the time? At least Stompy goes away sometimes.
I ask you. Which is the greater evil?
Stompy or Smokey?
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Lazy bones.
I am sitting at home with a pot of mac 'n' cheese balanced on my knee, enjoying the fruits of my cable bill.
This is one of my simple pleasures. Awful Kraft mac n cheese and watching equally cheesy TV. it's the cheese afternoon, brought to you by Viacom and Kraft.
I had seen some good stuff today. I saw many Mtv True life shows: "I'm a Jersey Shore girl", "I'm getting married", and right now I'm watching "I'm Obese".
I could eat the mac 'n' cheese through the first two.
The third made me put down my fork of processed, powdered cheese sauce covered white pasta and think about doing some yoga.
Yikes.
Actually, that's a lie. the "I'm a Jersey Shore Girl" made me gag a little too. I can say it. I was a Jersey Shore Girl. But I digress.
The woman on this show is breaking my heart. She used to weigh 615 and she can't do anything for herself. She doesn't seem to have any friends, and her legs look like tree stumps of thick oak trees.
I am immediately guilty for not having joined a gym yet, and go make some asparagus. Mmmm, asparagus.
After my asparagus, I realize that I just did exactly what Mtv wanted me to do. I was affected by its programming and changed my behavior.
That's crazy. I'm 24 years old, it's a.) a wee bit embarrassing that I still watch Mtv with the regularity that I do and b.) that it's old tricks still work.
Shoot.
This is one of my simple pleasures. Awful Kraft mac n cheese and watching equally cheesy TV. it's the cheese afternoon, brought to you by Viacom and Kraft.
I had seen some good stuff today. I saw many Mtv True life shows: "I'm a Jersey Shore girl", "I'm getting married", and right now I'm watching "I'm Obese".
I could eat the mac 'n' cheese through the first two.
The third made me put down my fork of processed, powdered cheese sauce covered white pasta and think about doing some yoga.
Yikes.
Actually, that's a lie. the "I'm a Jersey Shore Girl" made me gag a little too. I can say it. I was a Jersey Shore Girl. But I digress.
The woman on this show is breaking my heart. She used to weigh 615 and she can't do anything for herself. She doesn't seem to have any friends, and her legs look like tree stumps of thick oak trees.
I am immediately guilty for not having joined a gym yet, and go make some asparagus. Mmmm, asparagus.
After my asparagus, I realize that I just did exactly what Mtv wanted me to do. I was affected by its programming and changed my behavior.
That's crazy. I'm 24 years old, it's a.) a wee bit embarrassing that I still watch Mtv with the regularity that I do and b.) that it's old tricks still work.
Shoot.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
This post is brought to you by t-mobile
I'm stealing from a real live famous blogger, Que Sera Sera. I am SHAMEFULLY stealing her ideas because, hey-- they are good ones and it's Saturday and I am lazy. There is Disc 5 and 6 of Season 1 of Veronica Mars, Halloween costume detailing, house cleaning and run-taking to do. Oh, and then copious amounts of fun to be had!
So, I'll just give you a list.
Here, are some text messages that I find in my cell phone this very minute:
Whoops. Out of hair dye. See you at the party.
Is it wrong of me to love Forever 21?
Je suis arrive. and stuff.
1. Shake excess water from hands.
2. Push button and release.
3. Rub hands briskly under hot air.
4. Dryer stops automatically.
Eh. you don't think about it until you need one. Then you REALLY need one.
Awake and upright. Surprise! Still interested in dumplings?
Brock lifted my dress up. Hate him a bit. it's ok, he's pretty!
OMG [redacted] is at this party. Lying profusely. Yay!
I have no idea what that means. I can only presume you are drunk.
OMG you must make that soup. It is like a cheeseburger dressed in cream clothing!
So, I'll just give you a list.
Here, are some text messages that I find in my cell phone this very minute:
Whoops. Out of hair dye. See you at the party.
Is it wrong of me to love Forever 21?
Je suis arrive. and stuff.
1. Shake excess water from hands.
2. Push button and release.
3. Rub hands briskly under hot air.
4. Dryer stops automatically.
Eh. you don't think about it until you need one. Then you REALLY need one.
Awake and upright. Surprise! Still interested in dumplings?
Brock lifted my dress up. Hate him a bit. it's ok, he's pretty!
OMG [redacted] is at this party. Lying profusely. Yay!
I have no idea what that means. I can only presume you are drunk.
OMG you must make that soup. It is like a cheeseburger dressed in cream clothing!
Sunday, October 22, 2006
24
I think I may have had the best 24 hours ever.
Let me elaborate.
I got cable TV. Need I say more? I'm now free to watch things like "40 Dumbest Celebrity Quotes EVER!!!!!!!" and waste my whole life watching Food TV.
I ate a tasty dinner. I cheffed deliciousness for me and the the DK.
I put on a dress and footless tights. Purple eyeshadow and faux-hawked my hair. I took a cab with Runjit.
I drank VERY cheap booze at the Common Share. I think I had a gasoline and Red Bull. Who can care?
I danced to much amazingness at Brit pop night at the Black Cat.
This is a big one. Brit pop night is SERIOUSLY one of my favorite things about living in Washington. For those of us working for geeky or wonky places, it's our answer to MisShapes and NYC style revelry. I've been going since I was in college, and there's nothing better than putting on a ridiculous outfit, getting a little loose, and dancing. But dancing in all ridiculousness. Thrashing of arms, flailing of limbs, wiggling of heads, stomping of feet, and general silliness.
I'm so sore today. It's like battle wounds of a good weekend. And all that interpretive dancing about swimming that Shifty and I did to Pulp blaring in the background makes a girl feel like she ran a marathon.
I dragged my ass home drunk on the metro and ate leftovers and animal crackers while gulping down water and watching food TV. I woke up at 6am with an infomercial on and I dragged myself to bed in my clothes from the couch in my clothes.
I woke up, miraculously not feeling the affects of any of my fun. I made coffee and bummed around my apartment. I watched Giada Bigface make some stuff. I caught up on the celebrity gossip. I got some phone calls.
Then Shifty and I and our S.O.'s went for dim sum. To Hollywood East Cafe. Far away, in Wheaton. I have never experienced such a delicious meal of dumplings, nor have I ever experienced an MSG high THAT HIGH. Everything we ate had pork and shrimp in it, and we giggled, drunk on sodium about the follies of the night before.
Then we got into the car.
And went to Michael's.
Swoon!
I'm either dreaming, or I've died and gone to heaven.
In the past 24 hours, I've eaten delicious things, drank some beers, danced my little heart out, went to a craft store, and had a lot of fun.
Bring it on, Monday. Bring it on.
Let me elaborate.
I got cable TV. Need I say more? I'm now free to watch things like "40 Dumbest Celebrity Quotes EVER!!!!!!!" and waste my whole life watching Food TV.
I ate a tasty dinner. I cheffed deliciousness for me and the the DK.
I put on a dress and footless tights. Purple eyeshadow and faux-hawked my hair. I took a cab with Runjit.
I drank VERY cheap booze at the Common Share. I think I had a gasoline and Red Bull. Who can care?
I danced to much amazingness at Brit pop night at the Black Cat.
This is a big one. Brit pop night is SERIOUSLY one of my favorite things about living in Washington. For those of us working for geeky or wonky places, it's our answer to MisShapes and NYC style revelry. I've been going since I was in college, and there's nothing better than putting on a ridiculous outfit, getting a little loose, and dancing. But dancing in all ridiculousness. Thrashing of arms, flailing of limbs, wiggling of heads, stomping of feet, and general silliness.
I'm so sore today. It's like battle wounds of a good weekend. And all that interpretive dancing about swimming that Shifty and I did to Pulp blaring in the background makes a girl feel like she ran a marathon.
I dragged my ass home drunk on the metro and ate leftovers and animal crackers while gulping down water and watching food TV. I woke up at 6am with an infomercial on and I dragged myself to bed in my clothes from the couch in my clothes.
I woke up, miraculously not feeling the affects of any of my fun. I made coffee and bummed around my apartment. I watched Giada Bigface make some stuff. I caught up on the celebrity gossip. I got some phone calls.
Then Shifty and I and our S.O.'s went for dim sum. To Hollywood East Cafe. Far away, in Wheaton. I have never experienced such a delicious meal of dumplings, nor have I ever experienced an MSG high THAT HIGH. Everything we ate had pork and shrimp in it, and we giggled, drunk on sodium about the follies of the night before.
Then we got into the car.
And went to Michael's.
Swoon!
I'm either dreaming, or I've died and gone to heaven.
In the past 24 hours, I've eaten delicious things, drank some beers, danced my little heart out, went to a craft store, and had a lot of fun.
Bring it on, Monday. Bring it on.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Live blogging cable installation
1:00pm: my Comcast-given "window" begins. Any time now between 1 and 4pm a cable fairy will magically descend and let the food network come to my TV. I drool with anticipation (or was that the Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwich?).
1:10pm: I fret. What if the cable guy doesn't know that there's no buzzer. What if I miss him? Should I write a sign? YES! A SIGN!
1:24pm. Write "Hello Comcast, I am so effing thrilled that you are coming so I can watch Paula Dean eat butter. call me! xxx-xxx. thanks!"
1:26pm: Realize that's abhorrently geeky. Change sign to "Comcast: please call xxx-xxxx. Thanks."
1:29pm: Can't find keys to go put sign outside. WHERE ARE THE KEYS? Under the bed? No. In hoodie? No. In door still? NO!?
1:37pm: Finally find keys. On table, in plain sight.
1:45pm: Decide to actually update blog. Write half a post about how I like some tunes and wish they'd be in a movie sometime. Some brief googling settles that. Who knew Grand National was on the Transporter 2 soundtrack? Delete post.
1:54: A CALL!
1:57pm: Charlie, the cable guy arrives. He's a nice enough fellow, calling me ma'am (which is totally freaky) and I try to make idle chatter with him but he'll have none of it. He is here to get in and get out. Knee pads and all.
1:59pm: Charlie realizes there is no cable jack. NONE. That he'll have to drill outside, through a lot of brick, by the window to get cable into my living room. Charlie almost doesn't believe me, he looks around for a cable jack that does not exist. Swears slightly under his breath. Takes apart my window and looks for the sea of other cables on the building. Finds them. Notes how far the box is away from my house.
2:01pm: Charlie sighs. Deeply.
2:05pm: I take Charlie downstairs through the laundry room. He inspects some wiring, and sighs again.
2:07pm: Charlie brings his truck around the back. I realize that the back alley was just repaved, so he cannot park right up against my building. Must park about 15 feet away. He carries heavy things to and fro while I fret about breaking apartment building rules, namely keeping the door open with a piece of wood, and letting him at least U-turn on the macadam.
2:11pm: Charlie starts drilling.
2:15pm: Charlie still drilling.
2:25pm: Sweet Jesus, poor Charlie! He's balanced perilously on a ladder and leaning into the drill with all of his might. He's drilling through a foot and a half of brick. He asks me if I could hand him his bag through the window.
2:26pm: I hand Charlie his bag and inspect the progress. He's halfway there. Apologize profusely to Charlie. Charlie shrugs. Charlie drills some more.
2:28pm: I have visions of my neighbors throwing darts at my picture; of them cursing my name. The noise is unreal. I have visions of Charlie, day dreaming about laying on the couch and watching football.
2:31pm: Charlie abandons drilling for hammering. Swears softly again. Hammering goes SUPER loudly. Take that, STOMPY!
2:34pm: Headache ensues. Embarrassment ensues. I hope no one has a migraine today. Or is home. It's too pretty a day to be inside anyway. Convince self that neighbors are not at home, but rather out in the world!
2:37pm: SUCCESS!!!!!! Sweet success!!!!!
2:41pm: Charlie gets the box and everything installed super fast. I offer him a glass of water and a banana, but he just goes for the water. I wish I had coffee, or a cheeseburger, or like, caviar for him.
2:42pm: Charlie calls up Comcast for the job and asks them to let the cable on through. Let it flow, baby, let it FLOW!
2:47pm: No cable. Charlie calls up Comcast again and is all "There's no juice!". Tina, on the other end of the phone sasses him. He tells her "C'mon boo-boo. Do your job now." I decide I like Charlie. He is sitting on a huge coil of cable sideways in the middle of my living room telling Tina about herself.
2:52pm. I handed Charlie a check, thanked him profusely, and am sitting on my ass watching Project Runway reruns.
There is a god.
1:10pm: I fret. What if the cable guy doesn't know that there's no buzzer. What if I miss him? Should I write a sign? YES! A SIGN!
1:24pm. Write "Hello Comcast, I am so effing thrilled that you are coming so I can watch Paula Dean eat butter. call me! xxx-xxx. thanks!"
1:26pm: Realize that's abhorrently geeky. Change sign to "Comcast: please call xxx-xxxx. Thanks."
1:29pm: Can't find keys to go put sign outside. WHERE ARE THE KEYS? Under the bed? No. In hoodie? No. In door still? NO!?
1:37pm: Finally find keys. On table, in plain sight.
1:45pm: Decide to actually update blog. Write half a post about how I like some tunes and wish they'd be in a movie sometime. Some brief googling settles that. Who knew Grand National was on the Transporter 2 soundtrack? Delete post.
1:54: A CALL!
1:57pm: Charlie, the cable guy arrives. He's a nice enough fellow, calling me ma'am (which is totally freaky) and I try to make idle chatter with him but he'll have none of it. He is here to get in and get out. Knee pads and all.
1:59pm: Charlie realizes there is no cable jack. NONE. That he'll have to drill outside, through a lot of brick, by the window to get cable into my living room. Charlie almost doesn't believe me, he looks around for a cable jack that does not exist. Swears slightly under his breath. Takes apart my window and looks for the sea of other cables on the building. Finds them. Notes how far the box is away from my house.
2:01pm: Charlie sighs. Deeply.
2:05pm: I take Charlie downstairs through the laundry room. He inspects some wiring, and sighs again.
2:07pm: Charlie brings his truck around the back. I realize that the back alley was just repaved, so he cannot park right up against my building. Must park about 15 feet away. He carries heavy things to and fro while I fret about breaking apartment building rules, namely keeping the door open with a piece of wood, and letting him at least U-turn on the macadam.
2:11pm: Charlie starts drilling.
2:15pm: Charlie still drilling.
2:25pm: Sweet Jesus, poor Charlie! He's balanced perilously on a ladder and leaning into the drill with all of his might. He's drilling through a foot and a half of brick. He asks me if I could hand him his bag through the window.
2:26pm: I hand Charlie his bag and inspect the progress. He's halfway there. Apologize profusely to Charlie. Charlie shrugs. Charlie drills some more.
2:28pm: I have visions of my neighbors throwing darts at my picture; of them cursing my name. The noise is unreal. I have visions of Charlie, day dreaming about laying on the couch and watching football.
2:31pm: Charlie abandons drilling for hammering. Swears softly again. Hammering goes SUPER loudly. Take that, STOMPY!
2:34pm: Headache ensues. Embarrassment ensues. I hope no one has a migraine today. Or is home. It's too pretty a day to be inside anyway. Convince self that neighbors are not at home, but rather out in the world!
2:37pm: SUCCESS!!!!!! Sweet success!!!!!
2:41pm: Charlie gets the box and everything installed super fast. I offer him a glass of water and a banana, but he just goes for the water. I wish I had coffee, or a cheeseburger, or like, caviar for him.
2:42pm: Charlie calls up Comcast for the job and asks them to let the cable on through. Let it flow, baby, let it FLOW!
2:47pm: No cable. Charlie calls up Comcast again and is all "There's no juice!". Tina, on the other end of the phone sasses him. He tells her "C'mon boo-boo. Do your job now." I decide I like Charlie. He is sitting on a huge coil of cable sideways in the middle of my living room telling Tina about herself.
2:52pm. I handed Charlie a check, thanked him profusely, and am sitting on my ass watching Project Runway reruns.
There is a god.
Monday, October 09, 2006
heffalumps and woozles
My upstairs neighbor is a force to be reckoned with.
I've had upstairs neighbors before. Loud ones. Upstairs neighbors who bounced basketballs at 7am and upstairs neighbors who, like Craig David, were Born to Do It.
But current upstairs neighbor takes the cake.
Let us call her Stompy.
I know it's a single female inhabitant. I know her name. I know she orders prints from snapfish.
I also know that she has a tendency to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, generally around 4am. She probably has gone to lots of concerts, because her TV is loud enough for the both of us to enjoy. I know she washes dishes only in the evenings, and she eats dinner roughly around 7. She wakes up, and probably goes to the gym, and then comes back and takes a shower. She wakes up before I do but leaves after, so that's the only guess I can properly make.
Doesn't that just make you feel uncomfortable?
It makes me uncomfortable that I know THAT much about her. It also makes me uncomfortable that I have to fill in the gaps in the story. I don't know her face, but I know how often she pees? Give me a break. Creepy! But, to my own defense, it fills the time while I'm staring at the ceiling laying in bed, swearing quietly to myself, wishing for her sudden purchase of thick, expensive wall to wall carpeting. There must be some good to this woman, though she stomps around mightily.
I imagine she's training injured elephants who have been shipped from Nepal who were mis-treated how to perform gallant tricks so that an organic, free-range circus can take them around the country and have them shake hands with disabled children. How can you hate an animal lover? An activist?
Maybe she has a life long dream of being in a revival of "42nd Street" and has been a self-taught tapdancer since the age of 7. She practices at night to keep her dreams alive and her apartment warm. At night she cries herself to sleep, but to dream of glimmering character shoes and bow-ties. That dream keeps her moving, and that moving keeps her going.
Or, she's plagued by Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It's ruined her life, and the only way she can cope properly is to rearrange the furniture on a daily basis. Her dining table has been in all possible corners and now is occasionally moved into the bedroom, just to shake it up a little. Her medication also gives her superhuman strength, so it's easy to lift those couches but her OCD makes it hard for her to select the proper locations.
She has 24-hour dance-a-thons for Easter Seals. Twice a week.
Perhaps she is a determined Catholic who wants to bring drifters back to the flock. She MUST know I gave Catholicism up for Lent in 2003, and has decided that the only way to get me back in touch with the Lord, is to irritate me to the brink of summoning Jesus, Mary and Joseph by name. Only after I take them in vain so many times will I properly feel Catholic-flavored guilt and repent. Become a nun. Decide that the noises from above are not from a neighbor, but from God himself. Give up sleep and food in favor of fasting and meditating upon said noise as divine intervention of syncopated footsteps and nonsensical creaking of floorboards as the modern burning bush.
Is a Republican and saw all my liberally-leaning mail and has decided to make me pay for my bleeding heart.
Is a Democrat and doesn't think I do enough for the cause. Isn't the relinquishing of my relationship until election day enough? Doesn't the DK do enough for the BOTH OF US?
Is Satan. Tempts me with forbidden fruit of silence. Thinks I'm hilariously cute when huffy.
Is Jake Gyllenhaal. Tempts me with forbidden fruit of self. Thinks I'm hilariously cute when huffy.
Is my mother, so she can guarantee that I can't sleep in.
(DCblogs, Express: kisses!!)
I've had upstairs neighbors before. Loud ones. Upstairs neighbors who bounced basketballs at 7am and upstairs neighbors who, like Craig David, were Born to Do It.
But current upstairs neighbor takes the cake.
Let us call her Stompy.
I know it's a single female inhabitant. I know her name. I know she orders prints from snapfish.
I also know that she has a tendency to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, generally around 4am. She probably has gone to lots of concerts, because her TV is loud enough for the both of us to enjoy. I know she washes dishes only in the evenings, and she eats dinner roughly around 7. She wakes up, and probably goes to the gym, and then comes back and takes a shower. She wakes up before I do but leaves after, so that's the only guess I can properly make.
Doesn't that just make you feel uncomfortable?
It makes me uncomfortable that I know THAT much about her. It also makes me uncomfortable that I have to fill in the gaps in the story. I don't know her face, but I know how often she pees? Give me a break. Creepy! But, to my own defense, it fills the time while I'm staring at the ceiling laying in bed, swearing quietly to myself, wishing for her sudden purchase of thick, expensive wall to wall carpeting. There must be some good to this woman, though she stomps around mightily.
I imagine she's training injured elephants who have been shipped from Nepal who were mis-treated how to perform gallant tricks so that an organic, free-range circus can take them around the country and have them shake hands with disabled children. How can you hate an animal lover? An activist?
Maybe she has a life long dream of being in a revival of "42nd Street" and has been a self-taught tapdancer since the age of 7. She practices at night to keep her dreams alive and her apartment warm. At night she cries herself to sleep, but to dream of glimmering character shoes and bow-ties. That dream keeps her moving, and that moving keeps her going.
Or, she's plagued by Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It's ruined her life, and the only way she can cope properly is to rearrange the furniture on a daily basis. Her dining table has been in all possible corners and now is occasionally moved into the bedroom, just to shake it up a little. Her medication also gives her superhuman strength, so it's easy to lift those couches but her OCD makes it hard for her to select the proper locations.
She has 24-hour dance-a-thons for Easter Seals. Twice a week.
Perhaps she is a determined Catholic who wants to bring drifters back to the flock. She MUST know I gave Catholicism up for Lent in 2003, and has decided that the only way to get me back in touch with the Lord, is to irritate me to the brink of summoning Jesus, Mary and Joseph by name. Only after I take them in vain so many times will I properly feel Catholic-flavored guilt and repent. Become a nun. Decide that the noises from above are not from a neighbor, but from God himself. Give up sleep and food in favor of fasting and meditating upon said noise as divine intervention of syncopated footsteps and nonsensical creaking of floorboards as the modern burning bush.
Is a Republican and saw all my liberally-leaning mail and has decided to make me pay for my bleeding heart.
Is a Democrat and doesn't think I do enough for the cause. Isn't the relinquishing of my relationship until election day enough? Doesn't the DK do enough for the BOTH OF US?
Is Satan. Tempts me with forbidden fruit of silence. Thinks I'm hilariously cute when huffy.
Is Jake Gyllenhaal. Tempts me with forbidden fruit of self. Thinks I'm hilariously cute when huffy.
Is my mother, so she can guarantee that I can't sleep in.
(DCblogs, Express: kisses!!)
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
The first words spoken to me today by a living, breathing person were:
"Thank you, ladies back there for waiting patiently for the light to change, unlike THIS young lady who seems to be in a hurry!"
Gee, thanks crotchety capitol police officer, for pointing that out. You are TOTALLY right.
I was impatient.
I was in a hurry.
Haven't you ever, dear capitol police officer, ever woken up late?
I woke up at 7. I hit snooze many times. I woke up at 8:05 in a blind panic, because I had 25 minutes to be on time. Ok, not like I am EVER on time, but it's a jolt into your day.
So I hustled. I chugged my coffee. I skipped eyeliner (short hair = I've taken to wearing actual make-up, instead of just my standard blush/chapstick/one swipe of cream eyeshadow former technique).
I ran out the door, at 8:27, resigned to being late, but doing my best to be as LEAST late as possible.
I show up at your fine intersection of 1st and C, SE on my way to the subway. It's a very nice intersection. Sometimes there are cars. Sometimes, like this morning, there are not. I hustled along, minding my own business, until you pointed out my haste.
I contined on, rolling my eyes into my sunglasses right past you.
This made me huffy, because:
1.) I am not very good at being "in trouble". I obey rules (minus WRONG rules, like say, not being allowed to wear white after Labor day and no jaywalking when NO TRAFFIC IS PRESENT). I have never gotten a ticket, and I buckle my safety belt. I send thank you cards, and pay bills on time. Don't go against my grain here and point out how I am DISOBEYING. Because the light turned green JUST as I had taken my third step, and also you are a capitol police officer. You got right in my face and wiggled around like a good, topical political joke (ps isn't it like, DC martial law to make Mark Foley jokes? The ones I loved, which are hilarious, can be found here).
2.) I am an aggressive pedestrian.
I have no patience for people who have a comfortable, cushy drive from their mansion in McLean. I haul ASS to work and sweat on the subway and freeze while I wait for the bus. I am an urban scurrying machine. I don't appreciate being called out on being a good urban citizen. Guess what? I don't pollute as I stroll. Lay off.
I bet as your precious and rightful cars roll by you don't yell, "Thank you, kind pedestrians, this big ass-hat over here in the VE-HIC-LE had to just push on through because SOMEONE needs to get onto 66 while the HOV lanes are still open".
Doubtful.
I hear you yell at everyone in this fashion, congress-people and tourists alike. I suppose this is a good "welcome to the neighborhood" moment, because I will continue to cross against that red light to Capitol South if I am in a hurry and no cars are coming. And if you continue, I'll start yelling back.
But only in my head, because I am a giant wussy rule-follower.
Gee, thanks crotchety capitol police officer, for pointing that out. You are TOTALLY right.
I was impatient.
I was in a hurry.
Haven't you ever, dear capitol police officer, ever woken up late?
I woke up at 7. I hit snooze many times. I woke up at 8:05 in a blind panic, because I had 25 minutes to be on time. Ok, not like I am EVER on time, but it's a jolt into your day.
So I hustled. I chugged my coffee. I skipped eyeliner (short hair = I've taken to wearing actual make-up, instead of just my standard blush/chapstick/one swipe of cream eyeshadow former technique).
I ran out the door, at 8:27, resigned to being late, but doing my best to be as LEAST late as possible.
I show up at your fine intersection of 1st and C, SE on my way to the subway. It's a very nice intersection. Sometimes there are cars. Sometimes, like this morning, there are not. I hustled along, minding my own business, until you pointed out my haste.
I contined on, rolling my eyes into my sunglasses right past you.
This made me huffy, because:
1.) I am not very good at being "in trouble". I obey rules (minus WRONG rules, like say, not being allowed to wear white after Labor day and no jaywalking when NO TRAFFIC IS PRESENT). I have never gotten a ticket, and I buckle my safety belt. I send thank you cards, and pay bills on time. Don't go against my grain here and point out how I am DISOBEYING. Because the light turned green JUST as I had taken my third step, and also you are a capitol police officer. You got right in my face and wiggled around like a good, topical political joke (ps isn't it like, DC martial law to make Mark Foley jokes? The ones I loved, which are hilarious, can be found here).
2.) I am an aggressive pedestrian.
I have no patience for people who have a comfortable, cushy drive from their mansion in McLean. I haul ASS to work and sweat on the subway and freeze while I wait for the bus. I am an urban scurrying machine. I don't appreciate being called out on being a good urban citizen. Guess what? I don't pollute as I stroll. Lay off.
I bet as your precious and rightful cars roll by you don't yell, "Thank you, kind pedestrians, this big ass-hat over here in the VE-HIC-LE had to just push on through because SOMEONE needs to get onto 66 while the HOV lanes are still open".
Doubtful.
I hear you yell at everyone in this fashion, congress-people and tourists alike. I suppose this is a good "welcome to the neighborhood" moment, because I will continue to cross against that red light to Capitol South if I am in a hurry and no cars are coming. And if you continue, I'll start yelling back.
But only in my head, because I am a giant wussy rule-follower.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Per usual
When I need sleep the most, sleep won't come.
I got in bed at 10:45, thinking I could finish my book and roll over only to wake up at 3am all groggy-like to turn out the light and re-locate a soft thing to hug to lull me back to sleep. A penguin or panda, whichever.
The book I just finished, The Flight from the Enchanter was a fine read up until the last 50 pages. The last fifty pages were not magnificent. They made me angry a little.
After I had finished the book, I was a little like "hmmm, clumsy ending-- a bit freaky, though".
And then anger turned to all out, ridiculous, un-prompted new-house-what's-that-creaky-noise fear. A noise I could not blame on my intrusively loud upstairs neighbor
And then my tightly shut bedroom door pops open.
And now I'm sitting in my living room with all the lights on watching David Gregory booty dance on Conan O'Brien to some Chris Brown. Didn't he already do that?
You know you're home when you're scared in your house for the first time for absolutely NO REASON.
I just can't tell if it was the sight of the booty dancing or the book that has caused me to be awake this late AGAIN after being exhausted all day. And still, with the extreme tiredness. But the lack of sleeping.
:::sigh:::
I got in bed at 10:45, thinking I could finish my book and roll over only to wake up at 3am all groggy-like to turn out the light and re-locate a soft thing to hug to lull me back to sleep. A penguin or panda, whichever.
The book I just finished, The Flight from the Enchanter was a fine read up until the last 50 pages. The last fifty pages were not magnificent. They made me angry a little.
After I had finished the book, I was a little like "hmmm, clumsy ending-- a bit freaky, though".
And then anger turned to all out, ridiculous, un-prompted new-house-what's-that-creaky-noise fear. A noise I could not blame on my intrusively loud upstairs neighbor
And then my tightly shut bedroom door pops open.
And now I'm sitting in my living room with all the lights on watching David Gregory booty dance on Conan O'Brien to some Chris Brown. Didn't he already do that?
You know you're home when you're scared in your house for the first time for absolutely NO REASON.
I just can't tell if it was the sight of the booty dancing or the book that has caused me to be awake this late AGAIN after being exhausted all day. And still, with the extreme tiredness. But the lack of sleeping.
:::sigh:::
Monday, September 25, 2006
Double your pleasure, double your fun
I just got back from work.
Not day job, which I do not write about on the internet. (Haven't we all learned that lesson by now?)
OTHER JOB. Which I will.
Other job involves me wearing a very unattractive suit that would melt if lit on fire and which makes a rustling sound that makes a girl feel as unattractive as it gets. The pants are tapered, the jacket has shoulder pads are too boxy, and the shoes like that of your dippy middle school English teacher who liked sensible shoes with long flowy skirts. The pockets in the blazer are long but not deep, which doesn't make carrying a lot of necessities a good option unless you like to rock a mean cellphone bulge. The button-down shirt is tight around your neck neck and short at your sleeves. There is ring-around-the-collar on it like you wouldn't believe. No matter the amount of bleaching I put forth, it's still 3 years of sweat.
Catering is a serious business.
There are people who take it as such. People who get into the power of telling hundreds of lemmings (many of whom are college students) where to go, what to do and "HUSTLE". They know the way to lay the knives just so, that your way which was .5 millimeters off is just SO WRONG. They walk faster than you and heave deep sighs when you might not jump when told.
There are people who do this on the side of day jobs, because those jobs don't pay them enough money. There are two types of those people.
1.) young people who work for non-profits or are just starting out in the workforce and don't have much money. Apartments and beer and clothes not from H&M sometimes need to be paid for, but not when you make a laughably low starting salarty.
2.) people who don't understand why you would pass up the opportunity to make more money pretty easily (you carry things, walk around, get fed, clean up and go home). Many of these people were born outside the US and cannot believe EVERYONE doesn't hand people plates of food for $17 an hour. In some of these peoples' faces, is where you see the most gratitude for living in America.
There are other people who do it because friends of theirs do it, and why not get paid a very decent hourly wage to whisper your gossip into their ear than yell across a smoky bar.
There are people who do it because they are newly 21, and need to fuel their new relationship with alcohol now that they are finally out and proud.
And then there are people like me. Who just spent an irratingly high amount of money at Ikea and who might have to buy some leopard print new shoes. I have money in my budget for things, but not for EXTRA things. I spent all my recent savings on Gilbert chairs and Expedit shelves. C'est la vie when you move.
I've had this job since 2004 on the sly. It's always been good to me. It's there when I want it, ignorable when I don't. Tonight was one of a handful of "mandatory" dates. I went, begrudgingly.
Now there are a handful of people I enjoy seeing there, and our numbers are dwindling because people move on. It was more fun in the past when my roommates in college and I did it together. Out of 4 of us, someone was usually working with you, and it was fun to unwind together after being on our feet unaccustomed to that much action.
That is the main drawback. When you get home, it's impossible to shift modes. You just carried plates and trays and tables and chairs for hours. Always more than 4, never more than 12 hours at a time. Your hands hurt from heavy decorative plates topped with delicate china, and having to pinch them so other people can grab them from your shaking hands while balancing a handful of silverware and being told to smile. Your back hurts from lifting things; your shoulder blades from picking up trash and your lower back from picking up heavy boxes. Your legs hurt from walking so swiftly around people milling about, eager to catch a glimpse of DC celebrities and show of their biggest diamonds and smallest appetite. Your feet hurt because your heinous shoes cost $12.99 at Payless in 2004 and you are too stubborn to buy new ones.
Your pride hurts, just a wee bit, because you still need that second job.
I don't know when I can get rid of it exactly. The money is too good and too necessary. I have student loans and expensive taste. That's a dangerous combination.
Much like being very awake at 2am on a Sunday, with your feet in a tub of hot water and two advil swimming in your stomach.
On the upside, they usually let us take home the flowers.
Not day job, which I do not write about on the internet. (Haven't we all learned that lesson by now?)
OTHER JOB. Which I will.
Other job involves me wearing a very unattractive suit that would melt if lit on fire and which makes a rustling sound that makes a girl feel as unattractive as it gets. The pants are tapered, the jacket has shoulder pads are too boxy, and the shoes like that of your dippy middle school English teacher who liked sensible shoes with long flowy skirts. The pockets in the blazer are long but not deep, which doesn't make carrying a lot of necessities a good option unless you like to rock a mean cellphone bulge. The button-down shirt is tight around your neck neck and short at your sleeves. There is ring-around-the-collar on it like you wouldn't believe. No matter the amount of bleaching I put forth, it's still 3 years of sweat.
Catering is a serious business.
There are people who take it as such. People who get into the power of telling hundreds of lemmings (many of whom are college students) where to go, what to do and "HUSTLE". They know the way to lay the knives just so, that your way which was .5 millimeters off is just SO WRONG. They walk faster than you and heave deep sighs when you might not jump when told.
There are people who do this on the side of day jobs, because those jobs don't pay them enough money. There are two types of those people.
1.) young people who work for non-profits or are just starting out in the workforce and don't have much money. Apartments and beer and clothes not from H&M sometimes need to be paid for, but not when you make a laughably low starting salarty.
2.) people who don't understand why you would pass up the opportunity to make more money pretty easily (you carry things, walk around, get fed, clean up and go home). Many of these people were born outside the US and cannot believe EVERYONE doesn't hand people plates of food for $17 an hour. In some of these peoples' faces, is where you see the most gratitude for living in America.
There are other people who do it because friends of theirs do it, and why not get paid a very decent hourly wage to whisper your gossip into their ear than yell across a smoky bar.
There are people who do it because they are newly 21, and need to fuel their new relationship with alcohol now that they are finally out and proud.
And then there are people like me. Who just spent an irratingly high amount of money at Ikea and who might have to buy some leopard print new shoes. I have money in my budget for things, but not for EXTRA things. I spent all my recent savings on Gilbert chairs and Expedit shelves. C'est la vie when you move.
I've had this job since 2004 on the sly. It's always been good to me. It's there when I want it, ignorable when I don't. Tonight was one of a handful of "mandatory" dates. I went, begrudgingly.
Now there are a handful of people I enjoy seeing there, and our numbers are dwindling because people move on. It was more fun in the past when my roommates in college and I did it together. Out of 4 of us, someone was usually working with you, and it was fun to unwind together after being on our feet unaccustomed to that much action.
That is the main drawback. When you get home, it's impossible to shift modes. You just carried plates and trays and tables and chairs for hours. Always more than 4, never more than 12 hours at a time. Your hands hurt from heavy decorative plates topped with delicate china, and having to pinch them so other people can grab them from your shaking hands while balancing a handful of silverware and being told to smile. Your back hurts from lifting things; your shoulder blades from picking up trash and your lower back from picking up heavy boxes. Your legs hurt from walking so swiftly around people milling about, eager to catch a glimpse of DC celebrities and show of their biggest diamonds and smallest appetite. Your feet hurt because your heinous shoes cost $12.99 at Payless in 2004 and you are too stubborn to buy new ones.
Your pride hurts, just a wee bit, because you still need that second job.
I don't know when I can get rid of it exactly. The money is too good and too necessary. I have student loans and expensive taste. That's a dangerous combination.
Much like being very awake at 2am on a Sunday, with your feet in a tub of hot water and two advil swimming in your stomach.
On the upside, they usually let us take home the flowers.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Heaven is your boyfriend asking you...
"so, I really need to get my roommate to drive me to Michael's. You should come!"
SWOON!
SERIOUSLY!
There's nothing I like more than some craftiness. This whole lil blog here was for me to take pictures of my knitting and show them to my friends. I had fooled myself into pretending that people were interested in my fibrous habits. I had also fooled myself into thinking that I have THAT MUCH TIME on my hands to do enough knitting to show people things so that I'm updating my blog with the due tenderness it deserves.
Now that I live much closer to a kickin' yarn shop, and the temperatures are falling, I AM interested in getting into the cozy crafting. I'm totally into watching TV with a glass of wine with my needles clicking. It's the best 'me time' a girl could ask for.
So, of course, when your boyfriend needs to get some matting for a print he'd like to frame, those eternal words just made me swoon with delight. OF COURSE, I would LOVE for you to talk your dear roommate into driving out to Falls Church so I can tag along and buy yarn and buttons and beads and JOY!
I feel like that was a big moment in our relationship. A first date. A first kiss. THE TIME HE ASKS YOU TO ACCOMPANY HIM TO A CRAFT STORE. IN HIS OWN RIGHT AND SOBER MIND.
I think this all comes down to a repayment of karma for the World Cup. Because that wasn't fair, not having a boyfriend for that long. He just bowed out of all boyfriend duties because there was a ball to kick. I may have watched some matches because, HELLO, THERE ARE SOME GLUTES ON THOSE BOYS. But otherwise, no thanks.
So please, karma gods. Allow his roommate to not think he's lost his mind, or that I had a hand in persuading two boys to take me to a craft warehouse so that I might skip gleefully through its aisles of fake flowers, embroidery thread and paintbrushes. So I can run my hands over every skein of yarn, every pad of paper and every ream of fabric. It's my own version of being Veruca Salt, skipping in a red dress and tights throughout a craft store, touching everything and wishing for it all to be mine. Only I would be a teensy bit more polite, and probably not demand that my parents buy it all for me. But still.
Do not take this moment away from me.
It just wouldn't be fair.
SWOON!
SERIOUSLY!
There's nothing I like more than some craftiness. This whole lil blog here was for me to take pictures of my knitting and show them to my friends. I had fooled myself into pretending that people were interested in my fibrous habits. I had also fooled myself into thinking that I have THAT MUCH TIME on my hands to do enough knitting to show people things so that I'm updating my blog with the due tenderness it deserves.
Now that I live much closer to a kickin' yarn shop, and the temperatures are falling, I AM interested in getting into the cozy crafting. I'm totally into watching TV with a glass of wine with my needles clicking. It's the best 'me time' a girl could ask for.
So, of course, when your boyfriend needs to get some matting for a print he'd like to frame, those eternal words just made me swoon with delight. OF COURSE, I would LOVE for you to talk your dear roommate into driving out to Falls Church so I can tag along and buy yarn and buttons and beads and JOY!
I feel like that was a big moment in our relationship. A first date. A first kiss. THE TIME HE ASKS YOU TO ACCOMPANY HIM TO A CRAFT STORE. IN HIS OWN RIGHT AND SOBER MIND.
I think this all comes down to a repayment of karma for the World Cup. Because that wasn't fair, not having a boyfriend for that long. He just bowed out of all boyfriend duties because there was a ball to kick. I may have watched some matches because, HELLO, THERE ARE SOME GLUTES ON THOSE BOYS. But otherwise, no thanks.
So please, karma gods. Allow his roommate to not think he's lost his mind, or that I had a hand in persuading two boys to take me to a craft warehouse so that I might skip gleefully through its aisles of fake flowers, embroidery thread and paintbrushes. So I can run my hands over every skein of yarn, every pad of paper and every ream of fabric. It's my own version of being Veruca Salt, skipping in a red dress and tights throughout a craft store, touching everything and wishing for it all to be mine. Only I would be a teensy bit more polite, and probably not demand that my parents buy it all for me. But still.
Do not take this moment away from me.
It just wouldn't be fair.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Like water for chocolate
In the early spring of 2003, I gave up Catholicism for Lent.
My grandfather has always given up candy, and in all 87 years he can remember (which is not very many, granted...) he's always owned up. My mother says extra rosaries. I was encouraged to do something nice for my community and to be a good kid.
Ok, that's fair, but...
Oops. That all was well and good when spoon-fed from my parents, but add the atrocities of Catholic school into the mix, and you've got yourself a deserter. So I dissented in the grandest way possible.
The Catholic girl falls for the Jewish boy. My first friends/family of friends Rosh Hashanah is tomorrow. So far, all I know is that I am in for a.) goose (goose? Is this a "thing"? I don't know any better, so I'm asking b.) honey, walnuts and apples and c.) loads of wine.
So far, being Jew-friendly is a-ok by me. mmmmm.... loads of wine.
It's also fun for once to not be in church elbowing the DK, explaining why being at Mass at Christmas is like a 2-hour lite aerobics class and why you under no circumstances can gulp the wine in the chalice. There will be no slapping away of his hands as he gestures below eye level, to indicate naughty things that are in the news involving altar boys. I've dragged him through many levels and discussions of why Catholicism makes no sense. It flip-flops. This will be different.
On the contrary. I think it'll be neat, I think, to be on the learning end of what seems like the greatest holiday in history. Though it does not involve presents, for which I find great fault.
My friend, Dan, is all about making me and his girlfriend (and a few other select ladies) Shikse shirts. I know it's a term that people have mixed feelings about. But I think you just have to embrace it.
Especially when you are in a relationship where there are differences as such. Sure-- a nearly lapsed Jew and a quite lapsed Catholic seem nearly perfect on paper, but there are always some arched eyebrows and latent questions. It's not like we had to fight through picket lines to be together, but people have opinions, and some of them reek of 1952.
I think the best way to go about it is to enjoy it, recognize that I'll learn how to participate in a way that makes me feel good about eating that much goose. Preferably with a big red-wine-stained smile. BIG.
Cheers!
My grandfather has always given up candy, and in all 87 years he can remember (which is not very many, granted...) he's always owned up. My mother says extra rosaries. I was encouraged to do something nice for my community and to be a good kid.
Ok, that's fair, but...
Oops. That all was well and good when spoon-fed from my parents, but add the atrocities of Catholic school into the mix, and you've got yourself a deserter. So I dissented in the grandest way possible.
The Catholic girl falls for the Jewish boy. My first friends/family of friends Rosh Hashanah is tomorrow. So far, all I know is that I am in for a.) goose (goose? Is this a "thing"? I don't know any better, so I'm asking b.) honey, walnuts and apples and c.) loads of wine.
So far, being Jew-friendly is a-ok by me. mmmmm.... loads of wine.
It's also fun for once to not be in church elbowing the DK, explaining why being at Mass at Christmas is like a 2-hour lite aerobics class and why you under no circumstances can gulp the wine in the chalice. There will be no slapping away of his hands as he gestures below eye level, to indicate naughty things that are in the news involving altar boys. I've dragged him through many levels and discussions of why Catholicism makes no sense. It flip-flops. This will be different.
On the contrary. I think it'll be neat, I think, to be on the learning end of what seems like the greatest holiday in history. Though it does not involve presents, for which I find great fault.
My friend, Dan, is all about making me and his girlfriend (and a few other select ladies) Shikse shirts. I know it's a term that people have mixed feelings about. But I think you just have to embrace it.
Especially when you are in a relationship where there are differences as such. Sure-- a nearly lapsed Jew and a quite lapsed Catholic seem nearly perfect on paper, but there are always some arched eyebrows and latent questions. It's not like we had to fight through picket lines to be together, but people have opinions, and some of them reek of 1952.
I think the best way to go about it is to enjoy it, recognize that I'll learn how to participate in a way that makes me feel good about eating that much goose. Preferably with a big red-wine-stained smile. BIG.
Cheers!
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Social organizer extraordinaire
I'm not very good at keeping my personal life, personal, and my professional life, professional. It seems only natural to make myself perfectly comfortable where I have to spend 40+ hours a week, and vice versa. HELLO, if I like these people, I'm going to want to drink beers with them on my off time, not just fill out TPS reports.
I've done this EVERY job I've ever had. Work friends often cross the line into friend friends and they often have been some of my greatest delights. Before I know it, I'm gossiping at the water cooler about embarrassing things that shouldn't be spoken out loud while wearing security badges, and then the next day, I'm dragging myself into work hung over and that is always much more fun if there is someone else to blame.
Work friends are important especially here in DC. I've had more friends move in and move out and move back in (and then back out) than you could shake a stick at. People come here (and often go) from all walks of my life-- high school friends, college friends, hell; friends I met while living in different countries! But work friends often form bonds firm and fast because you know they are here to "stay". Not that jobs REALLY hold people down in this city, but you look at a work friend and you think maybe, "cubicles aren't conducive to rapid change. Please tell me that you'll stay for a bit and we can have some fun and laugh and drink beers and make faces at annoying people at work both on weekdays AND weekends!". And I don't mean that in a needy way, but when your friends are of the livelihood that they could do whatever they do in any city, it makes things more transient. Really, if you work in non-profit land, you work here. And here you will probably stay.
I don't know if this experience is universal or not. I highly doubt it. I am just sort of a social circle busy-body and mold them constantly. And I wouldn't say I have a specific circle of friends, even, because who does after college? But I really value them, however they are scattered.
At my old job, I met two of my best friends here. And my job would be much less sunny (ok, perhaps my whole existence) without shiftless badger by my side.
So here's a thanks- to work friends old and new. No, I won't sing you the Golden Girls theme song, but I'm TOTALLY TEMPTED. So enjoy that as a token of my appreciation for liking jobs that don't pay very much but are somehow money-centered. Go figure?!
I've done this EVERY job I've ever had. Work friends often cross the line into friend friends and they often have been some of my greatest delights. Before I know it, I'm gossiping at the water cooler about embarrassing things that shouldn't be spoken out loud while wearing security badges, and then the next day, I'm dragging myself into work hung over and that is always much more fun if there is someone else to blame.
Work friends are important especially here in DC. I've had more friends move in and move out and move back in (and then back out) than you could shake a stick at. People come here (and often go) from all walks of my life-- high school friends, college friends, hell; friends I met while living in different countries! But work friends often form bonds firm and fast because you know they are here to "stay". Not that jobs REALLY hold people down in this city, but you look at a work friend and you think maybe, "cubicles aren't conducive to rapid change. Please tell me that you'll stay for a bit and we can have some fun and laugh and drink beers and make faces at annoying people at work both on weekdays AND weekends!". And I don't mean that in a needy way, but when your friends are of the livelihood that they could do whatever they do in any city, it makes things more transient. Really, if you work in non-profit land, you work here. And here you will probably stay.
I don't know if this experience is universal or not. I highly doubt it. I am just sort of a social circle busy-body and mold them constantly. And I wouldn't say I have a specific circle of friends, even, because who does after college? But I really value them, however they are scattered.
At my old job, I met two of my best friends here. And my job would be much less sunny (ok, perhaps my whole existence) without shiftless badger by my side.
So here's a thanks- to work friends old and new. No, I won't sing you the Golden Girls theme song, but I'm TOTALLY TEMPTED. So enjoy that as a token of my appreciation for liking jobs that don't pay very much but are somehow money-centered. Go figure?!
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Welcome to the neighborhood
I did the only thing I could do.
I threw my head back and yelled "BALLS!!!!!!!".
A woman walked by in an expensive-looking trenchcoat and looked at me strangely. I showed her the shoe as she was talking on her cell phone. Her look of snobbish contempt gave way to empathy. Every girl has feared the snap of a heel. Tonight was my night.
I can tell you exactly how that happened. It got stuck between two cobbles in the sidewalk. I tugged.
I'll have you know I never broke ONE HEEL while living in Adams Morgan, and I clomped home late at night in heels often. I'm not used to this. I my second assumption was that there was trash under my heel that caught it-- maybe a Big Mac box or a Subway cup, not quaint street that is centuries old.
I have ONE BEER and come home in a klutzy tradewind to this after a long list of hilariousness in the day. Exploding coffee in the microwave. Dropping of keys in a puddle. Cramping of knees while sitting on the floor at Sushi Taro.
This is uncalled for.
Capitol Hill, I want a refund.
Nine West, you suck.
Who has a good cobbler?
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
A long time ago, we used to be friends.
I'm notoriously late on things. Cool-kid things.
Like this whole here blogging thing? Yeah, 3 years too late. Maybe more.
Legwarmers? Didn't do it the first time around. HELL YES, do I do them now.
Ok Go? Yeah, I was a year too late on that bandwagon. Everyone was dancing in their awkward band-front-flag-girl kind of way along with their adorable backyard video and a YEAR later there I am, "oh yeah guys, there's this awesome new thing on teh internets" and the rest of the world sighed with a dull yawn of DUH. Where were YOU in 2004?
My new favorite thing in the world that I totally missed the boat on but REALLY, isn't there time for redemption-- is a TV show. No, it's not The Wire, because EVERYONE just jumped on that bandwagon. That show gives me bad dreams and the theme song stays in my head for weeks on end. That ship is overloaded, they are throwing their suitcases overboard to last.
I'm totally girl-crushing on Veronica Mars. Where WAS SHE ALL MY LIFE?
I was an AVID Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan. I still love a host of terrible actors because of it (see Sarah Michelle Gellar, Alyson Hannigan, Michelle Trachtenberg et. al). There is a toss up for me as to what I would name my first-born. Xander, Giles or Spike. So lots of folks who jumped the Buffy ship landed gracefully on the Veronica Mars space odyssey.
It's a good one.
When I was cable-less in my squatting situation, I caught Veronica Mars one night because it was the only TV show aside from public television stations begging for money that came through with no static. I was instantly hooked.
VM is now my crack. I've netflixed season 1. The WHOLE rest of the show is in my queue. I am obsessed with its film noir slant through blue-washed retrospection. I love her chunky adorable haircut. I love that the dog's name is "back up" and she takes him on stake-outs. I love that she takes pictures and wears short sleeve hoodies.
I hate that Kristen Bell is OLDER THAN ME. And that all the boys in the show look at LEAST 27. But I can look past these things.
It's re-arranged my world view. Like "OH, OMG, that's the girl from Big Love who plays the only likeable character!". Or "OH, OMG, you can say 'laid some pipe' in that sorta way on UPN?". Or "OH, OMG, that's the guy from Just Shoot me who plays the only likeable character!."
So I'm getting better. I was TOTALLY on top of OK GO's SECOND video. Treadmill times? I'm getting better. HELL YES.
Like this whole here blogging thing? Yeah, 3 years too late. Maybe more.
Legwarmers? Didn't do it the first time around. HELL YES, do I do them now.
Ok Go? Yeah, I was a year too late on that bandwagon. Everyone was dancing in their awkward band-front-flag-girl kind of way along with their adorable backyard video and a YEAR later there I am, "oh yeah guys, there's this awesome new thing on teh internets" and the rest of the world sighed with a dull yawn of DUH. Where were YOU in 2004?
My new favorite thing in the world that I totally missed the boat on but REALLY, isn't there time for redemption-- is a TV show. No, it's not The Wire, because EVERYONE just jumped on that bandwagon. That show gives me bad dreams and the theme song stays in my head for weeks on end. That ship is overloaded, they are throwing their suitcases overboard to last.
I'm totally girl-crushing on Veronica Mars. Where WAS SHE ALL MY LIFE?
I was an AVID Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan. I still love a host of terrible actors because of it (see Sarah Michelle Gellar, Alyson Hannigan, Michelle Trachtenberg et. al). There is a toss up for me as to what I would name my first-born. Xander, Giles or Spike. So lots of folks who jumped the Buffy ship landed gracefully on the Veronica Mars space odyssey.
It's a good one.
When I was cable-less in my squatting situation, I caught Veronica Mars one night because it was the only TV show aside from public television stations begging for money that came through with no static. I was instantly hooked.
VM is now my crack. I've netflixed season 1. The WHOLE rest of the show is in my queue. I am obsessed with its film noir slant through blue-washed retrospection. I love her chunky adorable haircut. I love that the dog's name is "back up" and she takes him on stake-outs. I love that she takes pictures and wears short sleeve hoodies.
I hate that Kristen Bell is OLDER THAN ME. And that all the boys in the show look at LEAST 27. But I can look past these things.
It's re-arranged my world view. Like "OH, OMG, that's the girl from Big Love who plays the only likeable character!". Or "OH, OMG, you can say 'laid some pipe' in that sorta way on UPN?". Or "OH, OMG, that's the guy from Just Shoot me who plays the only likeable character!."
So I'm getting better. I was TOTALLY on top of OK GO's SECOND video. Treadmill times? I'm getting better. HELL YES.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Kevin and Neal: 2 vignettes
Kevin is 22 and realized before the rest of his friends that any beers involving the words "ice", "natural" and "keystone" should be avoided. He could play you any song he ever heard once on any intstrument in any key you would like. He is crass and likes working his summer job as a janitor and is bitter about having 1 more year of college left in his 5-years-for-two-degrees gig at Temple.
He may be crass and bitter, but he's a very nice brother and came down to help me move into my apartment. In return, I bought him beers that did not have the words "ice", "natural" or "keystone" on their labels. He returned the favor by sleepwalking out of my apartment into the basement of my building for which I had lived in for precisely 18 hours. He woke up at some point to walk back up my stairs and rap lightly on my door for a short eternity, which my exhausted ears did not hear. Instead, my land lady did and she let him into my apartment at 2:30 in the morning after good-naturedly ribbing him with "Who's waking up the land lady?".
Kevin didn't tell my mother, but my dad told me eventually and my cheeks burned for a full 10 minutes. I apologized to said land lady who has known me know for like, a week. I promised her she wouldn't find strange boxer-clad men rapping lightly at my door at 2:30 in the morning again. I promised her that with a bit smirk on my face with a "maybe I will, maybe I won't" charm but truth be told I hope she meets the DK and understands he's not "strange" before she encounters him in a similar fashion.
* * *
Neal is so freshly 18 that he saves poignant away messages to describe how being so newly in college feels he can share them with everyone. He wants everyone to like him so much, that he's squirmy about it. He doesn't have to be, because he's cute and personable and funny, but it seems everyone knows that but him.
He's the baby of the family, and my mother frets about his every waking breath and whether or not the next will properly find its way in. He is in his second week of college, and was a staunch non-drinker in high school. I had encouraged him this summer to figure out what he likes and dislikes (beer and gin, respectively) and how much he can ease into drinking, because that is better than lying and saying you don't drink only to find yourself at an Edward-40-hands party so dizzy you confused yourself for a sprinkler system.
Being impressionable AND wise, he took my advice sort of. He doesn't want to be uncool, so he's going with the flow of his peers. An email came on Saturday.
"Hey K. Just so you know, I entered a case race on Saturday night. Thought you'd want to know".
I, being a fool, read that e-mail out loud. To my parents, who were diligently helping me clean and put together furniture. We all thought, "Neat! Sounds like a marching band thing!"
Later that night, I found out it is definitely not a marching band thing. Case = beer. Duh, he's 18 and at college. I had envisioned co-eds traipsing up and down the football field with their instrument cases full of leaves or water until they knew the fight song. So I text him "go Neal! Don't boot!". He IMMEDIATELY drunk calls me back and tells me how many beers he's had and how fun it is. I don't think anything else of it.
Until the next day, when my mother asks him "how the case race went". Some back-peddling and excuses later, the truth comes out. My prudent mother was appalled. I was embarrassed to have broken sibling code. Neal was embarrassed that Mom knows he can drink beer in Western Pennsylvania.
Moral of the stories? Siblings' memories are short for things like this. I hope Kevin is laughing about his tour sleepwalking half-naked around my apartment building. Neal, hopefully, is laughing at our prim and proper mother making disapproving Marge Simpson noises about him drinking beer. Because I am laughing at them already, and that's what big sisters are for.
He may be crass and bitter, but he's a very nice brother and came down to help me move into my apartment. In return, I bought him beers that did not have the words "ice", "natural" or "keystone" on their labels. He returned the favor by sleepwalking out of my apartment into the basement of my building for which I had lived in for precisely 18 hours. He woke up at some point to walk back up my stairs and rap lightly on my door for a short eternity, which my exhausted ears did not hear. Instead, my land lady did and she let him into my apartment at 2:30 in the morning after good-naturedly ribbing him with "Who's waking up the land lady?".
Kevin didn't tell my mother, but my dad told me eventually and my cheeks burned for a full 10 minutes. I apologized to said land lady who has known me know for like, a week. I promised her she wouldn't find strange boxer-clad men rapping lightly at my door at 2:30 in the morning again. I promised her that with a bit smirk on my face with a "maybe I will, maybe I won't" charm but truth be told I hope she meets the DK and understands he's not "strange" before she encounters him in a similar fashion.
* * *
Neal is so freshly 18 that he saves poignant away messages to describe how being so newly in college feels he can share them with everyone. He wants everyone to like him so much, that he's squirmy about it. He doesn't have to be, because he's cute and personable and funny, but it seems everyone knows that but him.
He's the baby of the family, and my mother frets about his every waking breath and whether or not the next will properly find its way in. He is in his second week of college, and was a staunch non-drinker in high school. I had encouraged him this summer to figure out what he likes and dislikes (beer and gin, respectively) and how much he can ease into drinking, because that is better than lying and saying you don't drink only to find yourself at an Edward-40-hands party so dizzy you confused yourself for a sprinkler system.
Being impressionable AND wise, he took my advice sort of. He doesn't want to be uncool, so he's going with the flow of his peers. An email came on Saturday.
"Hey K. Just so you know, I entered a case race on Saturday night. Thought you'd want to know".
I, being a fool, read that e-mail out loud. To my parents, who were diligently helping me clean and put together furniture. We all thought, "Neat! Sounds like a marching band thing!"
Later that night, I found out it is definitely not a marching band thing. Case = beer. Duh, he's 18 and at college. I had envisioned co-eds traipsing up and down the football field with their instrument cases full of leaves or water until they knew the fight song. So I text him "go Neal! Don't boot!". He IMMEDIATELY drunk calls me back and tells me how many beers he's had and how fun it is. I don't think anything else of it.
Until the next day, when my mother asks him "how the case race went". Some back-peddling and excuses later, the truth comes out. My prudent mother was appalled. I was embarrassed to have broken sibling code. Neal was embarrassed that Mom knows he can drink beer in Western Pennsylvania.
Moral of the stories? Siblings' memories are short for things like this. I hope Kevin is laughing about his tour sleepwalking half-naked around my apartment building. Neal, hopefully, is laughing at our prim and proper mother making disapproving Marge Simpson noises about him drinking beer. Because I am laughing at them already, and that's what big sisters are for.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Idiosyncrasies
My new apartment has been mine for about 4 days now, and we are getting along swimmingly. It's fun to get acquainted with new house-- its character is always fun to figure out. It's like making a new friend, and trying to describe her to someone else.
My old apartment was a sorority girl. Her name might have been Amber or Heather and she might have worn jeanskirts and danced on bars and flipped her hair to pout. My new apartment? She's old but has kick-ass vintage jewelry and her name could be Vera or Blanche. Shehas been known to indulge in too much port after dinner and has the habit of winking at handsome waiters.
My old place had no neighbors to be conscientious about. There was a set of Parrot Bay plastic margarita glasses left for us in a cabinet. The rug was grayish and the windows dirty. The price was right and the layout good for roommates. We had parties and once had a whole yellow cake with chocolate frosting smashed into our rug. We didn't care, it was a first apartment and we treated it as such. It was our savior when it was impossible to find housing. She was to us like the friend all the boys liked, and you hung around with her hoping that energy would rub off on you somehow.
The new place has welcome mats in front of each apartment. The hardwood floors gleam and my oven is retro-fabulous--totally Rachel Ray styles. I tiptoe around in socks now because I don't have rugs yet and don't want to stomp around to annoy those below. I have mopped and scrubbed this new apartment with yellow rubber gloves on my hands and knees to get this place clean. My silence is reverent and I have been watching a lot of jeopardy and have some old lady chic knitting projects coming down the pike. When I walk around I let one hand linger on the walls, trying to learn each corner and light switch's home
The difference has resonated with me immediately.
The problem with that is, frankly, that fretting about the proper furniture and decor does not a well-rounded girl make. Nor does this adult-old-lady-pipe dream where I am 24 and have a broom to scoot the riff-raff out the door. I have grout to scrub, a bedroom to paint, and curtains and pillows to sew. I want to do it all RIGHTTHISMINUTE, but I have no time for other things. Important things. I haven't seen friends regularly, and even had to wimp out at RUNJIT's birthday party because I was so tired I could barely converse, let alone bowl. I haven't written in ye olde blog in weeks. I haven't run in a week, and I hadn't slept in my own bed in a month. I have been drinking more wine.
So now is the fun part, I suppose. Game on. The exciting changes and balancing them with the activities of my old house. Turning the novelty of a new place into reality. But know this-- I totally kept those parrot bay glasses. For the kitsch factor, of course.
My old apartment was a sorority girl. Her name might have been Amber or Heather and she might have worn jeanskirts and danced on bars and flipped her hair to pout. My new apartment? She's old but has kick-ass vintage jewelry and her name could be Vera or Blanche. Shehas been known to indulge in too much port after dinner and has the habit of winking at handsome waiters.
My old place had no neighbors to be conscientious about. There was a set of Parrot Bay plastic margarita glasses left for us in a cabinet. The rug was grayish and the windows dirty. The price was right and the layout good for roommates. We had parties and once had a whole yellow cake with chocolate frosting smashed into our rug. We didn't care, it was a first apartment and we treated it as such. It was our savior when it was impossible to find housing. She was to us like the friend all the boys liked, and you hung around with her hoping that energy would rub off on you somehow.
The new place has welcome mats in front of each apartment. The hardwood floors gleam and my oven is retro-fabulous--totally Rachel Ray styles. I tiptoe around in socks now because I don't have rugs yet and don't want to stomp around to annoy those below. I have mopped and scrubbed this new apartment with yellow rubber gloves on my hands and knees to get this place clean. My silence is reverent and I have been watching a lot of jeopardy and have some old lady chic knitting projects coming down the pike. When I walk around I let one hand linger on the walls, trying to learn each corner and light switch's home
The difference has resonated with me immediately.
The problem with that is, frankly, that fretting about the proper furniture and decor does not a well-rounded girl make. Nor does this adult-old-lady-pipe dream where I am 24 and have a broom to scoot the riff-raff out the door. I have grout to scrub, a bedroom to paint, and curtains and pillows to sew. I want to do it all RIGHTTHISMINUTE, but I have no time for other things. Important things. I haven't seen friends regularly, and even had to wimp out at RUNJIT's birthday party because I was so tired I could barely converse, let alone bowl. I haven't written in ye olde blog in weeks. I haven't run in a week, and I hadn't slept in my own bed in a month. I have been drinking more wine.
So now is the fun part, I suppose. Game on. The exciting changes and balancing them with the activities of my old house. Turning the novelty of a new place into reality. But know this-- I totally kept those parrot bay glasses. For the kitsch factor, of course.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Since I have no TV and no permanent home yet
I've been exercising all the freaking time.
SERIOUSLY, having no cable has forced me take long runs in the evenings to fill the cavernous void that sitting on my ass in front of the TV on an idle evening had previously filled.
I've been so bad at my life since I've been in interim housing; piss-poor job of seeing friends, not folding clothing and failing to get a good night's sleep, etc. At first it was like camping at a hotel with a soft leather couch and drawers full of other peoples' clothing. Now it's like "OMG, LET ME MOVE IN ALREADY!" I'm totally lacking the energy to be sociable because I am totally unsettled. I just want to sit until it's move-in day.
So I am. Sorta. Until Saturday, that is.
But until then, I shall continue to be bad at my life. Minus the running part. I might even keep it until it gets cold and I get wimpy and join a gym to work out inside.
Life needed some calories burned lately, so this is a good thing. I've never been much of a runner. I'll begrudge myself 20 minutes on the treadmill at the gym to shake up my old boring routines. I ran in Rock Creek Park after college because I couldn't afford a gym. I ran some in college when I was new to DC and just wanted to stare at these big white structures with my suburban mouth gaping at all the stateliness of this city.
I was never good at running, but I always found running on a track soothing in high school gym class. The chaotic monotony of running in the same circle with something new to see has always settled well with me. Taurus. Remember? I'm a Taurus. It's the same routine, the same turns and the same landmarkers. I can push myself until a designated position, or lap and the view is always changing.
So, since fleeing Northwest, there's a lovely park that I run around that seriously just fuels my soul. It's long enough that it's like running on a track. that's squished so the straight parts are longer. There are fast lanes and slow lanes. There are runners and walkers and the two people playing always sort of playing lacrosse. There are families and babies and crap, but more importantly; THERE ARE DOGS. SO MANY DOGS. It's like I've died and gone to petster heaven. It's glorious. One day I saw a bulldog AND a miniature schnauzer AND like, 40 of their waggy-tailed friends. My friend E told me there's an ALL BULLDOG DOG PARK DOWN HERE. I'll run all over this city until I find that! It's my idea of heaven, provided that I get to choose the soundtrack.
This whole opposite quadrant thing is going to work out well. Figure A.
SERIOUSLY, having no cable has forced me take long runs in the evenings to fill the cavernous void that sitting on my ass in front of the TV on an idle evening had previously filled.
I've been so bad at my life since I've been in interim housing; piss-poor job of seeing friends, not folding clothing and failing to get a good night's sleep, etc. At first it was like camping at a hotel with a soft leather couch and drawers full of other peoples' clothing. Now it's like "OMG, LET ME MOVE IN ALREADY!" I'm totally lacking the energy to be sociable because I am totally unsettled. I just want to sit until it's move-in day.
So I am. Sorta. Until Saturday, that is.
But until then, I shall continue to be bad at my life. Minus the running part. I might even keep it until it gets cold and I get wimpy and join a gym to work out inside.
Life needed some calories burned lately, so this is a good thing. I've never been much of a runner. I'll begrudge myself 20 minutes on the treadmill at the gym to shake up my old boring routines. I ran in Rock Creek Park after college because I couldn't afford a gym. I ran some in college when I was new to DC and just wanted to stare at these big white structures with my suburban mouth gaping at all the stateliness of this city.
I was never good at running, but I always found running on a track soothing in high school gym class. The chaotic monotony of running in the same circle with something new to see has always settled well with me. Taurus. Remember? I'm a Taurus. It's the same routine, the same turns and the same landmarkers. I can push myself until a designated position, or lap and the view is always changing.
So, since fleeing Northwest, there's a lovely park that I run around that seriously just fuels my soul. It's long enough that it's like running on a track. that's squished so the straight parts are longer. There are fast lanes and slow lanes. There are runners and walkers and the two people playing always sort of playing lacrosse. There are families and babies and crap, but more importantly; THERE ARE DOGS. SO MANY DOGS. It's like I've died and gone to petster heaven. It's glorious. One day I saw a bulldog AND a miniature schnauzer AND like, 40 of their waggy-tailed friends. My friend E told me there's an ALL BULLDOG DOG PARK DOWN HERE. I'll run all over this city until I find that! It's my idea of heaven, provided that I get to choose the soundtrack.
This whole opposite quadrant thing is going to work out well. Figure A.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Not enough to miss comcast, but still
Post "le gran move du monde" or "how I swindled 8 perfectly nice people into carrying heavy things up and down 25 steps for 8 hours in exchange for some falafel", I find myself in a very interesting interim housing situation.
My apartment (the for real one) won't be ready until late late August, and I have amazingly cool friends with super lovely neighbors who have come to my rescue. My friend E had asked her neighbor, an acquaintance of mine, if she might borrow an air mattress for me to sleep on in my 3.5 weeks of homelessness. Her neighbor, replied "or, she can just stay at my apartment" because she was traveling outside of the country on business and is just so freaking nice.
This woman seriously, saved my butt. J, in all her kindliness and amazingness left her apartment spotless, and 2/3 of my entire life fits stacked up in the 2 corners of her apartment. Her taste is impeccable; beautiful leather couches, crate and barrel model kitchen, and a whole apartment full of design porn a la Better Homes and Gardens. It's the perfect place to gear up to decorate and think about how I want my apartment to be.
I say this because there's a lot of time to think.
Cuz the woman may be brilliant, tasteful, nice as all get out, but she lacks cable. And that hit me where it hurts, friends.
I will not say one word of complaint about my time without cable, because this lady, J, has done me such a huge favor that not the biggest basket of thank you odds and ends and wine and dinners will ever cover it. However, this lead me to discuss with other friends exactly how funny it is what some people spend their money on.
I know plenty of other people without cable, without a TV, even (I'm looking at you, R and R in Mt. Pleasant). And you people are utterly crazy.
It is currently almost 10pm. I've been stuck with one eyeball oogling the Ikea catalogue, and the other warily watching "Wife Swap", which is making my blood boil that a) wives are commodities to be traded b) husbands and fathers are that idiotic and c) children could be that squeaky.
If I were in charge of my TV viewings, I could be drooling over Food Network, watching the 500th replaying of Project Runway, or even maybe watching Entourage On Demand. I find it interesting, and have been talking with a friend M, about how funny it is what people spend their money on. My friend Dan doesn't have a TV, but he's got like 14 computers and a pimp vehicle. E doesn't have cable, but girlfriend has a hott apartment. R and R don't have TV, but they do have a healthy understanding of the ends of the internets and are pros at drunk biking.
But I am not in charge since I am only sort of superficially living here out of suitcases and not getting anything dirty-- so I've read a few books and A LOT OF HOME MAGAZINES and all I have to say is
1.) Driving over Lemons made me want to leave a life of cubicles and learn to midwife sheep and have a farm in Spain and
2.) I totally found the inspiration for my new living room in the new Martha Stewart mag Blueprint and just might sign up for a year subscription.
Ok, well Super Nanny is on now, and I think that's where I have to draw the line. I still have my dignity among the boxes, you know.
My apartment (the for real one) won't be ready until late late August, and I have amazingly cool friends with super lovely neighbors who have come to my rescue. My friend E had asked her neighbor, an acquaintance of mine, if she might borrow an air mattress for me to sleep on in my 3.5 weeks of homelessness. Her neighbor, replied "or, she can just stay at my apartment" because she was traveling outside of the country on business and is just so freaking nice.
This woman seriously, saved my butt. J, in all her kindliness and amazingness left her apartment spotless, and 2/3 of my entire life fits stacked up in the 2 corners of her apartment. Her taste is impeccable; beautiful leather couches, crate and barrel model kitchen, and a whole apartment full of design porn a la Better Homes and Gardens. It's the perfect place to gear up to decorate and think about how I want my apartment to be.
I say this because there's a lot of time to think.
Cuz the woman may be brilliant, tasteful, nice as all get out, but she lacks cable. And that hit me where it hurts, friends.
I will not say one word of complaint about my time without cable, because this lady, J, has done me such a huge favor that not the biggest basket of thank you odds and ends and wine and dinners will ever cover it. However, this lead me to discuss with other friends exactly how funny it is what some people spend their money on.
I know plenty of other people without cable, without a TV, even (I'm looking at you, R and R in Mt. Pleasant). And you people are utterly crazy.
It is currently almost 10pm. I've been stuck with one eyeball oogling the Ikea catalogue, and the other warily watching "Wife Swap", which is making my blood boil that a) wives are commodities to be traded b) husbands and fathers are that idiotic and c) children could be that squeaky.
If I were in charge of my TV viewings, I could be drooling over Food Network, watching the 500th replaying of Project Runway, or even maybe watching Entourage On Demand. I find it interesting, and have been talking with a friend M, about how funny it is what people spend their money on. My friend Dan doesn't have a TV, but he's got like 14 computers and a pimp vehicle. E doesn't have cable, but girlfriend has a hott apartment. R and R don't have TV, but they do have a healthy understanding of the ends of the internets and are pros at drunk biking.
But I am not in charge since I am only sort of superficially living here out of suitcases and not getting anything dirty-- so I've read a few books and A LOT OF HOME MAGAZINES and all I have to say is
1.) Driving over Lemons made me want to leave a life of cubicles and learn to midwife sheep and have a farm in Spain and
2.) I totally found the inspiration for my new living room in the new Martha Stewart mag Blueprint and just might sign up for a year subscription.
Ok, well Super Nanny is on now, and I think that's where I have to draw the line. I still have my dignity among the boxes, you know.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Breaking up is hard to do.
I can't.
I'm sorry.
Don't hate me.
Words made famous by Sex and the City regarding breaking up. Moving on.
Moving sucks, and there are complications with moving, so I blame my neighborhood. It just wasn't working out. It was me, not it. So we're through.
We sort of had a torrid affair, and then when I decided that this wasn't what I was looking for. I came to realize that this wasn't going to work. Adams Morgan. Me. Us.
I lived on 18th Street in Adams Morgan. ON 18th STREET. Yes, people LIVE THERE. This came as a constant surprise to all the loiterers who stared at me in disbelief as I hauled an old-lady cart full of groceries into what people assumed was a bar or an office. My neighbors were Queen's Hookah and a Moroccan bazaar owned by the nicest guy ever. I lived in a 3rd floor walk up where weekends meant cleaning up the pizza plates and turning up the TV a few notches so that the fervent prayers of "wooooo!!!" and "hhheeeyyyyyyy!" could be audible to their gods: Millie and Al. It meant arguing with college kids who were about to hurl on my front steps to get past so I could slip in the front door without their vom touching my shoes. It was the loud sighs I would emit while I had to dodge kickball players walking 6 across on the sidewalk in matching T-shirts like they owned the place because the backs of their t-shirts proclaimed Tom-Tom as THEIR BAR. Well, you guys can have it in the divorce. Trust me, it's no loss on my behalf.
It's not Adams Morgan's fault.
At first it was SO FUN. Restaurants, bars, stores, everything and everyone was my front yard. It's hustle and bustle in a way that makes you forget that you are in Washington, and maybe somewhere with a little more edge. I liked that. But then you see the edges soften and finally just dull. When we first moved in, my roommate and I would get excited. "Ooh! Listen! We can hear live jazz!". That quickly turned into "EFFING FELIX NEEDS TO GET A NEW BAND." We had Jumbo Slice for our friends who helped us move in. "It's not too bad sober," we thought. Now, the smell of Jumbo slice and the pounding refrain of "Dame mas gaso-lllllllliiiiiinnnna" makes me lose my appetite. I haven't gone out to the bars on that street (save Asylum and Bourbon) in months. I couldn't stand it because there was no relief. I couldn't throw open our windows and yell "For the love of God, SHUT UP!" like I wanted to on idle Thursday nights. I was a woman scorned. It was too much.
So I moved. I was grown about it. It was an amicable split. I am sure there is some girl out there who could learn to love the AdMo more than I. Though there are still things about my old stomping ground that I love and will miss seeing. Astor Mediterranean cafe, for starters. Pasta Mia. Western Market. Amsterdam Falafel. The Red Box DVD vending machine. Real live diversity on a weekday. Saturdays at Asylum. The excuse to pop into Payless with a disturbing frequency. Sitting on my stoop during the afternoon on a clear day reading the paper with a coffee. The guy behind the Salsa Safeway who winked at me when he gave me my turkey. Memorizing more happy hour specials than I care to repeat. The glutial workout of 25 stairs from front door to apartment door.
I'll go back there for some of those things. For others, I will gladly let the new guys who moved into my apartment enjoy. And then promptly grow to hate. Two years there was my fill. And if you can handle more then that, I salute you.
I'm sorry.
Don't hate me.
Words made famous by Sex and the City regarding breaking up. Moving on.
Moving sucks, and there are complications with moving, so I blame my neighborhood. It just wasn't working out. It was me, not it. So we're through.
We sort of had a torrid affair, and then when I decided that this wasn't what I was looking for. I came to realize that this wasn't going to work. Adams Morgan. Me. Us.
I lived on 18th Street in Adams Morgan. ON 18th STREET. Yes, people LIVE THERE. This came as a constant surprise to all the loiterers who stared at me in disbelief as I hauled an old-lady cart full of groceries into what people assumed was a bar or an office. My neighbors were Queen's Hookah and a Moroccan bazaar owned by the nicest guy ever. I lived in a 3rd floor walk up where weekends meant cleaning up the pizza plates and turning up the TV a few notches so that the fervent prayers of "wooooo!!!" and "hhheeeyyyyyyy!" could be audible to their gods: Millie and Al. It meant arguing with college kids who were about to hurl on my front steps to get past so I could slip in the front door without their vom touching my shoes. It was the loud sighs I would emit while I had to dodge kickball players walking 6 across on the sidewalk in matching T-shirts like they owned the place because the backs of their t-shirts proclaimed Tom-Tom as THEIR BAR. Well, you guys can have it in the divorce. Trust me, it's no loss on my behalf.
It's not Adams Morgan's fault.
At first it was SO FUN. Restaurants, bars, stores, everything and everyone was my front yard. It's hustle and bustle in a way that makes you forget that you are in Washington, and maybe somewhere with a little more edge. I liked that. But then you see the edges soften and finally just dull. When we first moved in, my roommate and I would get excited. "Ooh! Listen! We can hear live jazz!". That quickly turned into "EFFING FELIX NEEDS TO GET A NEW BAND." We had Jumbo Slice for our friends who helped us move in. "It's not too bad sober," we thought. Now, the smell of Jumbo slice and the pounding refrain of "Dame mas gaso-lllllllliiiiiinnnna" makes me lose my appetite. I haven't gone out to the bars on that street (save Asylum and Bourbon) in months. I couldn't stand it because there was no relief. I couldn't throw open our windows and yell "For the love of God, SHUT UP!" like I wanted to on idle Thursday nights. I was a woman scorned. It was too much.
So I moved. I was grown about it. It was an amicable split. I am sure there is some girl out there who could learn to love the AdMo more than I. Though there are still things about my old stomping ground that I love and will miss seeing. Astor Mediterranean cafe, for starters. Pasta Mia. Western Market. Amsterdam Falafel. The Red Box DVD vending machine. Real live diversity on a weekday. Saturdays at Asylum. The excuse to pop into Payless with a disturbing frequency. Sitting on my stoop during the afternoon on a clear day reading the paper with a coffee. The guy behind the Salsa Safeway who winked at me when he gave me my turkey. Memorizing more happy hour specials than I care to repeat. The glutial workout of 25 stairs from front door to apartment door.
I'll go back there for some of those things. For others, I will gladly let the new guys who moved into my apartment enjoy. And then promptly grow to hate. Two years there was my fill. And if you can handle more then that, I salute you.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Easily swayed
I was out this past week with a friend from California at dinner. He and I were discussing some things, and jean shorts were brought up, somehow. I told him that I hadn't worn jean shorts since I was 16, and that I didn't get them.
When I was 16, I spent the better part of my summers in cut-offs and teva sandals chasing children who were recently taken off their ridalin around outside. It was always an exciting choice-- which jeans deserved to be immortalized by scissors. Jean shorts to me are a time and a place that I could pull up in a capsule of time.
When I think jean shorts, I think my father gardening in 1991. I think being in middle school where whomever had the longest acceptable fray on their shorts was the coolest. I think about tourists and Middle America and the Gap.
My friend said he didn't understand the East Coast snobbery, because when he showed up freshman year of college, he wore jean shorts out on one of those first few awkward group outings where 30 18-year-olds do the same thing. He said he got made fun of something fierce for wearing jean shorts. I laughed at him AGAIN. Like I did, lo these many years ago. JEAN SHORTS? GIVE ME A BREAK!
I see hipsters walking around now with the knee length jean shorts. They look pretty cool on skinny girls with converse and a few tank tops, it's true. I am easily swayed by hipster nonsense like that.
So, I did something this weekend that I haven't done since I was 16.
I made cut-offs. To be like the hipster kids with the converse.
Only mine were old brown Gap chinos.
I rule.
When I was 16, I spent the better part of my summers in cut-offs and teva sandals chasing children who were recently taken off their ridalin around outside. It was always an exciting choice-- which jeans deserved to be immortalized by scissors. Jean shorts to me are a time and a place that I could pull up in a capsule of time.
When I think jean shorts, I think my father gardening in 1991. I think being in middle school where whomever had the longest acceptable fray on their shorts was the coolest. I think about tourists and Middle America and the Gap.
My friend said he didn't understand the East Coast snobbery, because when he showed up freshman year of college, he wore jean shorts out on one of those first few awkward group outings where 30 18-year-olds do the same thing. He said he got made fun of something fierce for wearing jean shorts. I laughed at him AGAIN. Like I did, lo these many years ago. JEAN SHORTS? GIVE ME A BREAK!
I see hipsters walking around now with the knee length jean shorts. They look pretty cool on skinny girls with converse and a few tank tops, it's true. I am easily swayed by hipster nonsense like that.
So, I did something this weekend that I haven't done since I was 16.
I made cut-offs. To be like the hipster kids with the converse.
Only mine were old brown Gap chinos.
I rule.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Apparently, Buster the Bunny was a HUGE Digital Underground fan
I had the unique displeasure of watching a rabbit go to town on my slippered foot this evening.
Buster, my rabbit-friend who is taking a vacation from his daddies while one daddy is in Ghana and other daddy is biking across the country, is currently in love with my foot. Via my slipper.
I was sitting on the floor in shorts and slippers with my feet flexed watching some "Good Eats" on the Food Network while I slipped out of my "drrrr spreadsheets" coma. I was watching him make pad Thai with renewing vigor when I sensed some OTHER renewed "vigor".
There was Buster, holding onto my toes for dear life while he pounded away at the ball of my slippered foot. I couldn't shake him off. I was frozen-- staring at this creature hammer away like he was an awkward teenager who was mistaking speed with skill, while I watched my foot pray for this drunken mistake to just END ALREADY. In about 15 seconds it was all over. For the time being.
A wave of emotions washed over me. I went through the normal cycle.
Guilt.
Violation.
Shame.
Pride.
No, no. NO PRIDE.
ONLY GUILT.
Buster has two daddies who are raising him to be an open-minded, worldly, and knowledgeable citizen of the world. And then my Catholic upbringing realized that I HAD HELPED THIS RABBIT GET OFF. Being paralyzed by the horrified fascination of this rabbit mistaking MY FOOT for a foxy lady rabbit had inadvertently gotten him hooked. Apparently, my neon green slipper is a machine in the sack, because that was it for him-- the deal was sealed. He became more adventurous-- different positions, different speed, you get the picture.
I'd like to thank a friend for giving me this slippers. I'd like to thank my mom for the yarn that I stuffed into the toe after my foot was rammed the first time so hard that I felt like I should start charging this fellow and we should share a celebratory cigarette. I wore these slippers religiously for over a year, and I am sad to see that they met their whorish demise. At least until I can wash them a few times.
Then he tried the same deal with my ankle. Up on his hind legs with a good grip on my calf muscle. That got him put back into his cage. I was raised Catholic enough to laugh after the fact, not be ok with Rabbit-to-skin contact. I can't help a brother out THAT MUCH.
Now that my slippers have been deflowered by a rabbit with two daddies who clearly HAVE TAUGHT HIM WELL, it's at least helpful to look at the positives. Apparently, he's a five-minute-man, but at least he owes the slippers the courtesy of multiple lovemaking sessions. Kudos, gentleman. You are raising the boy right.
Buster, my rabbit-friend who is taking a vacation from his daddies while one daddy is in Ghana and other daddy is biking across the country, is currently in love with my foot. Via my slipper.
I was sitting on the floor in shorts and slippers with my feet flexed watching some "Good Eats" on the Food Network while I slipped out of my "drrrr spreadsheets" coma. I was watching him make pad Thai with renewing vigor when I sensed some OTHER renewed "vigor".
There was Buster, holding onto my toes for dear life while he pounded away at the ball of my slippered foot. I couldn't shake him off. I was frozen-- staring at this creature hammer away like he was an awkward teenager who was mistaking speed with skill, while I watched my foot pray for this drunken mistake to just END ALREADY. In about 15 seconds it was all over. For the time being.
A wave of emotions washed over me. I went through the normal cycle.
Guilt.
Violation.
Shame.
Pride.
No, no. NO PRIDE.
ONLY GUILT.
Buster has two daddies who are raising him to be an open-minded, worldly, and knowledgeable citizen of the world. And then my Catholic upbringing realized that I HAD HELPED THIS RABBIT GET OFF. Being paralyzed by the horrified fascination of this rabbit mistaking MY FOOT for a foxy lady rabbit had inadvertently gotten him hooked. Apparently, my neon green slipper is a machine in the sack, because that was it for him-- the deal was sealed. He became more adventurous-- different positions, different speed, you get the picture.
I'd like to thank a friend for giving me this slippers. I'd like to thank my mom for the yarn that I stuffed into the toe after my foot was rammed the first time so hard that I felt like I should start charging this fellow and we should share a celebratory cigarette. I wore these slippers religiously for over a year, and I am sad to see that they met their whorish demise. At least until I can wash them a few times.
Then he tried the same deal with my ankle. Up on his hind legs with a good grip on my calf muscle. That got him put back into his cage. I was raised Catholic enough to laugh after the fact, not be ok with Rabbit-to-skin contact. I can't help a brother out THAT MUCH.
Now that my slippers have been deflowered by a rabbit with two daddies who clearly HAVE TAUGHT HIM WELL, it's at least helpful to look at the positives. Apparently, he's a five-minute-man, but at least he owes the slippers the courtesy of multiple lovemaking sessions. Kudos, gentleman. You are raising the boy right.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Letters unsent
Dear Jay McCarroll:
I love that one skirt in your Project Runway Season 1 collection. So patchwork-zen, blue-green glory. Should I get this (fingers crossed) apartment, it's the inspiration for my living room. This is geeky, but I really like fabric and paint swatches so it's just heaven to me. Rock on, sir.
-K.
Dear mail guy at work:
You are very short. Your hair is decidedly slicked-down. But very pleasant. I always say hi to you in the halls with my head cocked to one side bemused by the combination.
-K.
Dear skinny blonde woman with the eclectic wardrobe that always looks work-appropriate:
I really dig your clothes. I'm glad you work in my work 'hood and manage to look like you have some spunk. Also you look like my friend from high school. She was a little kooky.
-K.
Dear Pilates Instructor:
I am going to miss your classes since I cancelled my gym membership. I thought about keeping it, just for you. But I then remembered that you teach other places too and I'll track you down that way. Seriously, your classes make me feel like a Gazelle. In a long and lean way, not in a "I'll start walking on all fours" way.
-K.
Dear lady who is always working at Peking Garden:
I love that you asked me once "that's it?" when I ordered food without the DK present. I don't come in super often, but you've started to pretend to recognize the two of us together, which makes me feel fuzzy inside. Also, the general tso's chicken does that too. Nice and spicy. No messing around with too much broccoli filler. Just sweet, sweet chicken filler.
-K.
Dear friendly cafeteria worker who makes the killer wraps:
You rock. Seriously. "good sandwich-maker" is something to aspire to. Also I tend to flush when you call me "baby" while I ask for hot peppers. Makes it seem so natural to have so much hot peppers on a sandwich. You're a nice lady.
-K
Dear the ONLY nice lady at Comcast I have ever spoken to:
You make me want to maybe not think about getting "the dish", but then I think about all your colleagues and I giggle about how I'm going to maybe get "the dish".
-K.
Dear random older gay gentleman who asked me to dance in the middle of Sonoma last night:
You were a good dancer and your partner seems very nice, though confused how we knew each other. I understand you wanting to help your buddy Carlos score some ladies, but the gay bbf angle doesn't work on us. Three taken-ish women sipping white wine on an idle Tuesday would much rather just talk to you, because you were drinking the same wine and it would be easy-- don't you see?
-K
Dear Amos Lee:
please please please please please please please come to DC. I saw that you were playing in Vienna, and thought, "you know? I'd TOTALLY go to Virginia to see him" but then I realized it was Austria. And I pouted. Please sing me the phone book any day of the week and twice on Sundays.
xoxoxoxoxox
K
I love that one skirt in your Project Runway Season 1 collection. So patchwork-zen, blue-green glory. Should I get this (fingers crossed) apartment, it's the inspiration for my living room. This is geeky, but I really like fabric and paint swatches so it's just heaven to me. Rock on, sir.
-K.
Dear mail guy at work:
You are very short. Your hair is decidedly slicked-down. But very pleasant. I always say hi to you in the halls with my head cocked to one side bemused by the combination.
-K.
Dear skinny blonde woman with the eclectic wardrobe that always looks work-appropriate:
I really dig your clothes. I'm glad you work in my work 'hood and manage to look like you have some spunk. Also you look like my friend from high school. She was a little kooky.
-K.
Dear Pilates Instructor:
I am going to miss your classes since I cancelled my gym membership. I thought about keeping it, just for you. But I then remembered that you teach other places too and I'll track you down that way. Seriously, your classes make me feel like a Gazelle. In a long and lean way, not in a "I'll start walking on all fours" way.
-K.
Dear lady who is always working at Peking Garden:
I love that you asked me once "that's it?" when I ordered food without the DK present. I don't come in super often, but you've started to pretend to recognize the two of us together, which makes me feel fuzzy inside. Also, the general tso's chicken does that too. Nice and spicy. No messing around with too much broccoli filler. Just sweet, sweet chicken filler.
-K.
Dear friendly cafeteria worker who makes the killer wraps:
You rock. Seriously. "good sandwich-maker" is something to aspire to. Also I tend to flush when you call me "baby" while I ask for hot peppers. Makes it seem so natural to have so much hot peppers on a sandwich. You're a nice lady.
-K
Dear the ONLY nice lady at Comcast I have ever spoken to:
You make me want to maybe not think about getting "the dish", but then I think about all your colleagues and I giggle about how I'm going to maybe get "the dish".
-K.
Dear random older gay gentleman who asked me to dance in the middle of Sonoma last night:
You were a good dancer and your partner seems very nice, though confused how we knew each other. I understand you wanting to help your buddy Carlos score some ladies, but the gay bbf angle doesn't work on us. Three taken-ish women sipping white wine on an idle Tuesday would much rather just talk to you, because you were drinking the same wine and it would be easy-- don't you see?
-K
Dear Amos Lee:
please please please please please please please come to DC. I saw that you were playing in Vienna, and thought, "you know? I'd TOTALLY go to Virginia to see him" but then I realized it was Austria. And I pouted. Please sing me the phone book any day of the week and twice on Sundays.
xoxoxoxoxox
K
Monday, July 10, 2006
I am currently wasting my life
Looking for an apartment.
House-hunting is currently gnawing away my social life. Friends are decidedly SICK of me discussing where I am going to live. They are sick of hearing the logistics of the what-ifs of timing. I'm at work bitching to EVERYONE who listens about all my apartment woes. The woes of the lack thereof.
I've seen a basement apartment that was 300 square feet and the ceilings were so low I could put my hand up (the hand above my 5"7 head) to touch the ceiling. It was painted the most putrid mustard yellow color and had two windows the size of my ibook.
I saw a very cute studio, cozy. But the floor plan was so awkward that I couldn't put much more than a bed in it. It had cabinets older than me, and a bunchy carpet that looked like it had been smoked on and then tidied up, trying very hard not to gather my attention. It's hard when you are too young to have saved up a lot of money, and get paid less than your old college tuition bills PLUS room and board. And I just got a raise! If I had $1500 a month for a one bedroom, I wouldn't be whining. But I don't. So I am. A little.
I think I ONLY have about another few conversations of the "pleasantly quirky new neurotic girl whose eyes twitch when she jokes about putting a cot in her cube because REALLY, I THOUGHT about the dimensions." I have an eye-mask. It could totally work for a while. I already eat 2 meals a day there, why not just make it 3? There's a TV. There are chairs and a microwave.
But I suppose that this is what you do, in order to find your home. Today in ALL honesty, I said to a potential landlord "you know, I can bake pretty well. Seriously, think about that come the holiday season. I could make it worth your while in sprinkles." She wasn't very impressed, but I hope she at least denoted the sense of urgency in my voice.
When I found my current apartment, I did everything but shove a check in the face of my very pleasant yet slightly shady landlord, who took pity on my roommate and I because he had a son my age and "knows how it goes". We had a lease and the *perfect* apartment stolen from under our noses, but it was much better how it worked out this way. We both walked to work and both made some friends by saying "well if you're out in Adams Morgan you should call me".
I have until August 6th to find an apartment. AUGUST 6th. AT. THE. LATEST. Like sign a lease and move some boxes. It's pulling apart at the insides of my stomach when I eat, and keeping my eyeballs peeled open at night. It's refreshing websites every 30 minutes and pulling my brain away from other important things. It's doing fervent math on my cell phone calculator and making lists only to cross possibilities off.
So that's why I'm not blogging. Also cuz my new work blocks gmail, blogger, and for some reason the EFFING Washington city paper classifieds. DAMN YOU!
House-hunting is currently gnawing away my social life. Friends are decidedly SICK of me discussing where I am going to live. They are sick of hearing the logistics of the what-ifs of timing. I'm at work bitching to EVERYONE who listens about all my apartment woes. The woes of the lack thereof.
I've seen a basement apartment that was 300 square feet and the ceilings were so low I could put my hand up (the hand above my 5"7 head) to touch the ceiling. It was painted the most putrid mustard yellow color and had two windows the size of my ibook.
I saw a very cute studio, cozy. But the floor plan was so awkward that I couldn't put much more than a bed in it. It had cabinets older than me, and a bunchy carpet that looked like it had been smoked on and then tidied up, trying very hard not to gather my attention. It's hard when you are too young to have saved up a lot of money, and get paid less than your old college tuition bills PLUS room and board. And I just got a raise! If I had $1500 a month for a one bedroom, I wouldn't be whining. But I don't. So I am. A little.
I think I ONLY have about another few conversations of the "pleasantly quirky new neurotic girl whose eyes twitch when she jokes about putting a cot in her cube because REALLY, I THOUGHT about the dimensions." I have an eye-mask. It could totally work for a while. I already eat 2 meals a day there, why not just make it 3? There's a TV. There are chairs and a microwave.
But I suppose that this is what you do, in order to find your home. Today in ALL honesty, I said to a potential landlord "you know, I can bake pretty well. Seriously, think about that come the holiday season. I could make it worth your while in sprinkles." She wasn't very impressed, but I hope she at least denoted the sense of urgency in my voice.
When I found my current apartment, I did everything but shove a check in the face of my very pleasant yet slightly shady landlord, who took pity on my roommate and I because he had a son my age and "knows how it goes". We had a lease and the *perfect* apartment stolen from under our noses, but it was much better how it worked out this way. We both walked to work and both made some friends by saying "well if you're out in Adams Morgan you should call me".
I have until August 6th to find an apartment. AUGUST 6th. AT. THE. LATEST. Like sign a lease and move some boxes. It's pulling apart at the insides of my stomach when I eat, and keeping my eyeballs peeled open at night. It's refreshing websites every 30 minutes and pulling my brain away from other important things. It's doing fervent math on my cell phone calculator and making lists only to cross possibilities off.
So that's why I'm not blogging. Also cuz my new work blocks gmail, blogger, and for some reason the EFFING Washington city paper classifieds. DAMN YOU!
Monday, June 26, 2006
Not unlike crack
Cutting your hair off makes you feel really good, really fast.
I liked my cute other short haircut, but this one takes the cake.
It was a hot steamy Friday and I had an appointment at the same place I normally get my haircut, BANG, but with a different stylist. My usual stylist was booked FULL UP until mid-July and when you need a haircut you only really notice after it's WAY TOO LATE ANYWAY, and I was headed home for my little brother's graduation party and there was NO WAY that my she-mullet was coming home with me.
I went to the website and decided, that yes, I katastrophe, was going to judge a book by its cover. So I did. I gauged who had lots of availablilty and decided that it was because they were new and didn't have a client base yet-- and that was not for me. I noticed one stylist had just a few holes in his schedule. So I looked at the picture, ran my fingers through my she-mullet, looked at the picture, ran my fingers through my she-mullet, and hesitating ONLY SLIGHTLY-- clicked the "book it" button.
All week at work I was the "neurotic about my hair in a sort of adorably self-centered way, also maybe this will make you remember me since I'm new" girl. On Friday I burst out of the office full of nervous energy about seeing "the random".
Oh reader, I married him.
Ok not really, but I am totally going to cheat on my old stylist with him. Like, take his calls when she's around speaking in code, and making up excuses about why I haven't called so that she doesn't know I totally left her for another man, and a man with an armful of tattoos and a man-mullet who gave me the best haircut of my life. I don't care that it's dangerous. Her chair is right next to his. I am so in love-- SO IN LOVE, that I gave him a gi-normous tip and I give you this.
YOU. ALL YOU PEOPLE WHO GOOGLE "SHORT HAIR". More of you come to this blog as a gift from the internets to seek out becoming pony-tail-challenged. HERE IS A PICTURE.
EVERYONE WHO IS LOOKING FOR A SHORT HAIRCUT-- you there, netscape searching, googling, and google blog hunting. Have no fear. DO IT. Cut it off.
Who wants you to have long boring hair? a boy? a girl? your fears?
Release yourself! (hot damn, and your CHEEKBONES) and CUT. IT. OFF.
it's awesome.
Also economical. I'm going to have my bottle of shampoo for like 4 months!
(except not economical because now i have some sort of "My Hero!" type fascination with he who cut my hair and will probably continue to tip gi-normously).
I liked my cute other short haircut, but this one takes the cake.
It was a hot steamy Friday and I had an appointment at the same place I normally get my haircut, BANG, but with a different stylist. My usual stylist was booked FULL UP until mid-July and when you need a haircut you only really notice after it's WAY TOO LATE ANYWAY, and I was headed home for my little brother's graduation party and there was NO WAY that my she-mullet was coming home with me.
I went to the website and decided, that yes, I katastrophe, was going to judge a book by its cover. So I did. I gauged who had lots of availablilty and decided that it was because they were new and didn't have a client base yet-- and that was not for me. I noticed one stylist had just a few holes in his schedule. So I looked at the picture, ran my fingers through my she-mullet, looked at the picture, ran my fingers through my she-mullet, and hesitating ONLY SLIGHTLY-- clicked the "book it" button.
All week at work I was the "neurotic about my hair in a sort of adorably self-centered way, also maybe this will make you remember me since I'm new" girl. On Friday I burst out of the office full of nervous energy about seeing "the random".
Oh reader, I married him.
Ok not really, but I am totally going to cheat on my old stylist with him. Like, take his calls when she's around speaking in code, and making up excuses about why I haven't called so that she doesn't know I totally left her for another man, and a man with an armful of tattoos and a man-mullet who gave me the best haircut of my life. I don't care that it's dangerous. Her chair is right next to his. I am so in love-- SO IN LOVE, that I gave him a gi-normous tip and I give you this.
YOU. ALL YOU PEOPLE WHO GOOGLE "SHORT HAIR". More of you come to this blog as a gift from the internets to seek out becoming pony-tail-challenged. HERE IS A PICTURE.
EVERYONE WHO IS LOOKING FOR A SHORT HAIRCUT-- you there, netscape searching, googling, and google blog hunting. Have no fear. DO IT. Cut it off.
Who wants you to have long boring hair? a boy? a girl? your fears?
Release yourself! (hot damn, and your CHEEKBONES) and CUT. IT. OFF.
it's awesome.
Also economical. I'm going to have my bottle of shampoo for like 4 months!
(except not economical because now i have some sort of "My Hero!" type fascination with he who cut my hair and will probably continue to tip gi-normously).
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Commercial Jingles with which I have been known to serenade my boyfriend
1.) At Eastern Motors, your job's your credit!
2.) Freeeeeeeeeeeee Crrrrrredit Report Dottttttttt Commmmmmmm!
3.) Rub-a-dub-dub we'll cover your tub!
4.) Eight hundred five eight eight two three hundred, EMMMMMMPPPPIRRRE!
5.) THEY GOT A PEPPER BAR
6.) Don't. Hold. Back (do do dododo do do do do)
7.) Big Fuuuuccckkkkkkiiiiinnnnggggggg Chicken
As you can see, he's pretty lucky to be dating me.
He only knows the commercials that I point out because he's got TiVo and is above commercials.
That's the point I am trying to work myself up to. Goal-setting, and such.
2.) Freeeeeeeeeeeee Crrrrrredit Report Dottttttttt Commmmmmmm!
3.) Rub-a-dub-dub we'll cover your tub!
4.) Eight hundred five eight eight two three hundred, EMMMMMMPPPPIRRRE!
5.) THEY GOT A PEPPER BAR
6.) Don't. Hold. Back (do do dododo do do do do)
7.) Big Fuuuuccckkkkkkiiiiinnnnggggggg Chicken
As you can see, he's pretty lucky to be dating me.
He only knows the commercials that I point out because he's got TiVo and is above commercials.
That's the point I am trying to work myself up to. Goal-setting, and such.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Yes, Britney-- I am "pro love"
Because I know we gossip freaks exist, and exist in shamefully high numbers, I'm not even going to operate under the pretense that people might not have watched Dateline tonight and the hour-long Britney Spears "KFC thigh and breast combo with two sides(#3 )" special. Apparently, Dateline has run out of online predators staring at the camera caught like a deer in headlights, so they have moved onto the poor prey that is Mrs. Federline, with child, natch.
(I have decided that is the LAST TIME I WILL USE THAT AWFUL "..., natch" tag in my blog. My mom told me to just "say no".)
Good God, it was a total trainwreck.
Let's hope the GFY ladies get on her for the platform flip flops, frayed denim mini skirt, and a-little-something-for-them-there-menfolk shirt, because her get-up felt purposeful. Like "LOOK AT ME. MY LIFE IS A MESS. LOOK AT HOW MY HANDLERS LET ME OUT IN BROAD DAYLIGHT IN A DESPERATE PLEA FOR HELP."
And then there was the inexcusable gum popping. Poor Matt Lauer. There he is in loafers with no socks asking Britney-Effing-Spears if Kevin Federline lives on the main floor of her house while Katie Couric is going to be announcing to us all the woes of the world with new solomnly appropriate lipgloss. Britney avoided answering the question directly, and retorts with a pop of gum, which was the wrong answer. CLEARLY, the right answer was to get that clump of mascara off your right (my left) eye and to say that you are a benevolent ex-post facto hottie who likes to keep it COUNTRY, but not redneck thankyouverymuch.
This woman was a pro. She didn't answer a DAMN question that Matty-poo asked her, just kept going back to Goldie Hawn, her new mother figure. Frankly, I would have stuck with Madonna. Who's got more money? Who's got the toned arms? Yeah, not Goldie.
Britney has always had a personal benchmark with me-- one of my good friends and she share a birthday. My friend is pursuing acting and her womb is thankfully fruitless. And Brit-Brit? She is on dateline fake-airing her dirty laundry. More like dirty laundry show, but no tell.
I loved every minute of it. My friend and roommate sat with me in the living room, and it was like a 20-something girl version of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Only instead of old bad movies, it's someone's LIFE. I barely paid attention to my beer, let alone anyone else. My father called to chat because his life has been hell on earth at work and he finally could stop crawling around power plant tunnels, and I had the audacity to say "gee, Dad, Britney's on Dateline-- can I give you a call tomorrow?"
Happy Father's Day 'n' crap, Dad. I sent you a card and I hope you feel the guilt that I harbor from here. To make it up to you, I may have already purchased you a present. Also, I hereby swear to stay this far away from back-up dancers, men who leave their pregnant girlfriends, and white men with cornrows.
(I have decided that is the LAST TIME I WILL USE THAT AWFUL "..., natch" tag in my blog. My mom told me to just "say no".)
Good God, it was a total trainwreck.
Let's hope the GFY ladies get on her for the platform flip flops, frayed denim mini skirt, and a-little-something-for-them-there-menfolk shirt, because her get-up felt purposeful. Like "LOOK AT ME. MY LIFE IS A MESS. LOOK AT HOW MY HANDLERS LET ME OUT IN BROAD DAYLIGHT IN A DESPERATE PLEA FOR HELP."
And then there was the inexcusable gum popping. Poor Matt Lauer. There he is in loafers with no socks asking Britney-Effing-Spears if Kevin Federline lives on the main floor of her house while Katie Couric is going to be announcing to us all the woes of the world with new solomnly appropriate lipgloss. Britney avoided answering the question directly, and retorts with a pop of gum, which was the wrong answer. CLEARLY, the right answer was to get that clump of mascara off your right (my left) eye and to say that you are a benevolent ex-post facto hottie who likes to keep it COUNTRY, but not redneck thankyouverymuch.
This woman was a pro. She didn't answer a DAMN question that Matty-poo asked her, just kept going back to Goldie Hawn, her new mother figure. Frankly, I would have stuck with Madonna. Who's got more money? Who's got the toned arms? Yeah, not Goldie.
Britney has always had a personal benchmark with me-- one of my good friends and she share a birthday. My friend is pursuing acting and her womb is thankfully fruitless. And Brit-Brit? She is on dateline fake-airing her dirty laundry. More like dirty laundry show, but no tell.
I loved every minute of it. My friend and roommate sat with me in the living room, and it was like a 20-something girl version of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Only instead of old bad movies, it's someone's LIFE. I barely paid attention to my beer, let alone anyone else. My father called to chat because his life has been hell on earth at work and he finally could stop crawling around power plant tunnels, and I had the audacity to say "gee, Dad, Britney's on Dateline-- can I give you a call tomorrow?"
Happy Father's Day 'n' crap, Dad. I sent you a card and I hope you feel the guilt that I harbor from here. To make it up to you, I may have already purchased you a present. Also, I hereby swear to stay this far away from back-up dancers, men who leave their pregnant girlfriends, and white men with cornrows.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Footie Widow
So this here World Cup thing.
It's the European in the room at a party in Levi's and a sweater around the shoulders. YOU KNOW. The one that you sort of take a side-glance at and wonder if their jeans were fabulous or FAHH-BULOUS. If that sweater fits or if they were FIT.
It's the crazy friend you have that grew up abroad and has rich parents, and sweeps in on idle Tuesday nights and gets you REALLY drunk and then "runs to the bathroom" but before you know it it's 3 am and you can't find them because they're LONG gone and home doing a Danish model.
The World Cup doesn't seduce me like I prefer my Europeans to do (at least, my imaginary Europeans). It isn't teaching me the local dance in a darkened salsa bar, it isn't explaining to me the finer points of Bordeaux, it isn't teasing me about "my president", and it isn't even sitting on its ass drinking litres of beer and signaling for the manliest beer wench to bring us the goods.
To me the World Cup ditched me long ago in the bathroom with that Danish model and I'm just waiting for the frenzy to die down so I can piece back together the fabric of my habits.
The people around me? They are emotionally involved (I'm looking AT YOU BOYFRIEND and YOU ROOMMATE in particular). Can't a girl just get her international flair on TV from Globe Trekker and BBC America? Can't I just knit while you sit around and yell at the TV? At least the players are attractive enough to hold my interest for some of it, but that can only take you so far. I understand being super excited for a sporting event, but a month of super excited for sporting events really just falls flat after its first weekend. It's re-arranging their lives, and to a certain degree- MY LIFE.
It affects ME, all this nonsense. I had to be sympathetic yesterday when the US team embarrassed us. I had to entertain myself in very specific intervals during this past weekend. I had to elbow my way through an evening to get some FREAKING BRAVO up in this joint. It's playing in the cafeteria when I'm eating lunch, on TV in the evenings, and corners of the internets far and near.
That's not the point. The point is come July, SO MUCH PROJECT RUNWAY is going to be coming atcha that it's going to be a pink and pig-tailed, girlie, ruffly, frilly nightmare unleashed upon my life like none other. This shall be my revenge, and my ovaries its champions.
It's the European in the room at a party in Levi's and a sweater around the shoulders. YOU KNOW. The one that you sort of take a side-glance at and wonder if their jeans were fabulous or FAHH-BULOUS. If that sweater fits or if they were FIT.
It's the crazy friend you have that grew up abroad and has rich parents, and sweeps in on idle Tuesday nights and gets you REALLY drunk and then "runs to the bathroom" but before you know it it's 3 am and you can't find them because they're LONG gone and home doing a Danish model.
The World Cup doesn't seduce me like I prefer my Europeans to do (at least, my imaginary Europeans). It isn't teaching me the local dance in a darkened salsa bar, it isn't explaining to me the finer points of Bordeaux, it isn't teasing me about "my president", and it isn't even sitting on its ass drinking litres of beer and signaling for the manliest beer wench to bring us the goods.
To me the World Cup ditched me long ago in the bathroom with that Danish model and I'm just waiting for the frenzy to die down so I can piece back together the fabric of my habits.
The people around me? They are emotionally involved (I'm looking AT YOU BOYFRIEND and YOU ROOMMATE in particular). Can't a girl just get her international flair on TV from Globe Trekker and BBC America? Can't I just knit while you sit around and yell at the TV? At least the players are attractive enough to hold my interest for some of it, but that can only take you so far. I understand being super excited for a sporting event, but a month of super excited for sporting events really just falls flat after its first weekend. It's re-arranging their lives, and to a certain degree- MY LIFE.
It affects ME, all this nonsense. I had to be sympathetic yesterday when the US team embarrassed us. I had to entertain myself in very specific intervals during this past weekend. I had to elbow my way through an evening to get some FREAKING BRAVO up in this joint. It's playing in the cafeteria when I'm eating lunch, on TV in the evenings, and corners of the internets far and near.
That's not the point. The point is come July, SO MUCH PROJECT RUNWAY is going to be coming atcha that it's going to be a pink and pig-tailed, girlie, ruffly, frilly nightmare unleashed upon my life like none other. This shall be my revenge, and my ovaries its champions.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Of day dreams and playlists
In college, the student paper would occasionally stop people on the street and ask them what music they were listening to. This would then be published for all to judge according to how cool the music was and also how attractive they appeared in their photos with the kicky blurb below.
I would always secretly pretend that I would get stopped and I would have something SUPER COOL on my CD player to share with them and would totally be that alluring co-ed in the paper who had this "come-hither, I'm emo" look while still sounding knowledgeable about music. Everyone would nod their heads in agreement at my caption and photo, and I would be stopped on the street and thanked for being an ambassador of good taste.
Today that memory flooded back to me as I was walking through old stomping grounds and I laughed out loud at how sudden the memory was of my yearning for an ipod but having no funds and still believed in the mission of a good mix CD (which I still do-- but itunes playlists also work).
I laughed out loud AGAIN when I reached my house. Had any student paper writers cornered me on my playlist du jour, they would have laughed their butts off. These were by choice, not even shuffle could have made this up.
Today's walk home:
a. Ted Leo-- Timorous Me (3x in a row)
b. Tears for Fears-- Mad World
c. Tears for Fears--Head over Heels
d. Roxette -- The Look
e. PJ Harvey -- Big Exit
f. Pink -- God is a DJ
g. Edwin Collins -- Girl like you.
So what could you deduce about me from this, in the paper?
1.) I really don't understand it's 2006, but rather FIRMLY believe that it's 1997. (b, c, d, e, g)
2.) I am a total fake-out when it comes to being a hipster. Note the PJ Harvey album that 12 year old girls like and a Ted Leo song that EVERYONE knows. (a, e)
3.) Yes, I do own Mean Girls. (f)
4.) I totally wish I owned all of the My-So-Called-Life DVD's. (g)
5.) My I-pod is probably pink. (a, e, f)
6.) I am one of those people who cannot let a certain song go and sort of make it a mantra that like, 5,000 other people share and I am SO not a significant little snowflake (a)
7.) I may or may not, be in fact, a British gay man. (b,c,d,e,f,g)
Catchy tunes with profoundly depressing lyrics have always been my downfall. Also I am totally not ashamed to own the Tears for Fears Greatest Hits. They totally rocked. In that "this band was brought to you by Casio" kind of way.
I would always secretly pretend that I would get stopped and I would have something SUPER COOL on my CD player to share with them and would totally be that alluring co-ed in the paper who had this "come-hither, I'm emo" look while still sounding knowledgeable about music. Everyone would nod their heads in agreement at my caption and photo, and I would be stopped on the street and thanked for being an ambassador of good taste.
Today that memory flooded back to me as I was walking through old stomping grounds and I laughed out loud at how sudden the memory was of my yearning for an ipod but having no funds and still believed in the mission of a good mix CD (which I still do-- but itunes playlists also work).
I laughed out loud AGAIN when I reached my house. Had any student paper writers cornered me on my playlist du jour, they would have laughed their butts off. These were by choice, not even shuffle could have made this up.
Today's walk home:
a. Ted Leo-- Timorous Me (3x in a row)
b. Tears for Fears-- Mad World
c. Tears for Fears--Head over Heels
d. Roxette -- The Look
e. PJ Harvey -- Big Exit
f. Pink -- God is a DJ
g. Edwin Collins -- Girl like you.
So what could you deduce about me from this, in the paper?
1.) I really don't understand it's 2006, but rather FIRMLY believe that it's 1997. (b, c, d, e, g)
2.) I am a total fake-out when it comes to being a hipster. Note the PJ Harvey album that 12 year old girls like and a Ted Leo song that EVERYONE knows. (a, e)
3.) Yes, I do own Mean Girls. (f)
4.) I totally wish I owned all of the My-So-Called-Life DVD's. (g)
5.) My I-pod is probably pink. (a, e, f)
6.) I am one of those people who cannot let a certain song go and sort of make it a mantra that like, 5,000 other people share and I am SO not a significant little snowflake (a)
7.) I may or may not, be in fact, a British gay man. (b,c,d,e,f,g)
Catchy tunes with profoundly depressing lyrics have always been my downfall. Also I am totally not ashamed to own the Tears for Fears Greatest Hits. They totally rocked. In that "this band was brought to you by Casio" kind of way.
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