Going hard

I like to pretend I'm a bad ass. See my blogger profile photo. Ooohhh tie and vest and short hair. SEE HER REBEL. BOY DOES SHE HAVE SOMETHING TO PROVE. I have a motorcycle jacket. Chuck Taylors. A belt chain. A wide array of footless tights. An ipod-induced commuting sneer.

But really, I couldn't be squishier inside. It's a bad holdover from high school.

Shhhhh, don't tell. I sleep with a stuffed panda. That my boyfriend gave me. And I knit things for babies, and cry at work, and TiVo Extreme Home Makeover. Punk rock I am not.

But one thing that I think is a little bad ass is my ladies-only poker night. It's become extra enjoyable now that we're all finally better at it (i.e. thinking in flushes and straights aside from wishing desperately make two pair).

Also, it comes with a serious amount of rib-poking. It's fun to be only chicks, talking the girl talk, sassing each other, and doing something "the boys do". Just pass the pinot grigio, shut up about your boyfriend, and call someone a naughty word for your own ladyparts if they mess it up. It's the absence of men that makes it so fun, actually. But the fact that there's some risk involved, quick thinking, and lots of wine help.

But with the bad-assery comes the squish. It's a $10 buy-in. Sometimes we'll sing with Lily Allen. Often, chocolate and cheese are involved.

But hey, like all tough players, regardless of gender, we stand up when we go all in.

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.

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.