I often say that I am not a morning person, and that I simply do not function at any intelligent level during single digit hours. Many of my friends believe this is just an effort on my part to be cute. I'm cute enough. I really couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
Therefore, for your approval, I submit the true story of my most recent Monday morning:
7:05 Alarm goes off.
7:15 Alarm goes off.
7:25 Alarm goes off.
7:35 Alarm goes off.
7:45 Alarm goes off. Get out of bed.
7:46 Forget that bed has been moved to new position. Exit bed, crash forehead into wall. Emit copious string of swear words in multiple languages.
7:48 Turn on coffeemaker.
7:50 Turn on shower.
7:51 Brush teeth.
7:55 Remember that shower is running. Get into shower.
8:10 Exit shower. Retrieve clothing for day, which had been lovingly compiled the previous evening.
8:12 Notice that I have shaved my left leg twice and my right leg not at all, meaning that one leg is a gory mess and the other is a maze of stubble.
8:16 Compile new outfit, not involving leg exposure. Dress.
8:20-8:22 Drink first cup of coffee.
8:23-8:26 Apply makeup. Stab self in eye with mascara.
8:27 Comb hair. Attempt to subdue hair, which has achieved a ski jump formation on left side.
8:30 Give up on hair.
8:31 Chug second cup of coffee.
8:32 Remove lunch from fridge. Pack bag. Leave apartment.
8:33 Return to apartment to retrieve forgotten cell phone.
8:35 Return to apartment to retrieve forgotten Metro card.
8:36 Return to apartment to retrieve forgotten item which had not, in fact, been forgotten.
8:38 Board elevator. Get stuck in elevator.
8:40 Band together with fellow passengers to pry open elevator doors. Smush fingers.
8:41 Escape elevator. Leave building. Go to work.
PS - Happy birthday to Jason Hamrick and Matt Lauer, both of whom got older and wiser yesterday.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Hundred Dollar Baby
My life philosophy can be summed up as, “Always do anything that would make a good story later.” I haven’t decided whether this means I’m a free spirit, or that maybe I have an impulse control problem.
A month or two back, I was drinking these margaritas called “El Cheapo” and somehow volunteered to be in a bachelor and bachelorette auction. (Note to self: this is why you don’t usually drink tequila.) Once the hangover wore off and the reality set in, I decided to go ahead and do it. Hey, I gotta get back in the dating pool sometime, and this was like doing a cannonball off the high dive. In this case, the beneficiaries were the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.
Sunday night was the big night, and it was surprisingly a lot of fun. I had my strategy down pat. Realizing that most guys don’t comprehend 90% of trendy clothes, I wore a simple black dress and some heels. Then I handed my checkbook to my friend Sean with the instruction, “If I tug on my earlobe twice, BUY ME.” Hey, it never hurts to have a backup plan.
Most of the auctionees and auctionettes got there early, and we all managed to bond before being ushered into what I’d been calling the “babe pit” or “cattle pen.” I had noticed a really ooky guy doing orbits of me, so I was pretty freaked out. I’m not a snob or anything, ugly is OK, and stupid is survivable for one date, but this guy gave every appearance of living in his mother’s basement, with various female body parts stuffed into his freezer and a thrilling job as night manager at the Taco Bell. (Hilariously, a couple of the bachelors had noticed the creepy guy and quietly told me, “If that guy bids, we’re buying you.” Solidarity! Aw. I must say, the best part of the auction was meeting the other bachelors and bachelorettes. They were wonderful, encouraging, fantastic, enthusiastic and fun.)
Once we’d all been ushered into the pit, we were called up one by one and sold off. The guys sold for anything from $65 to $200. Weirdly, all of the blonde women sold for $150 and up, while the brunettes were fetching around $100. So, on the open dating market, blonde hair equals an instant 50% markup. Who knew?
When it was my turn, I went up to my preassigned theme song, “My Sharona.” I’d requested “Short People Ain’t Got No Reason to Live,” but I think the DJ conveniently forgot my request. I had to do a bit of banter with the auctioneer, buy beer in three languages, describe my perfect date, then hope for the best. Really, the whole thing was a complete blur, but I do recall the ooky guy bidding $75. Then one of the bachelors stepped in with $100, and I was sold. I was told afterwards that I seemed very “natural” onstage, probably due to the three glasses of liquid courage I’d downed before going up. (I did keep my drinking pretty tame, as I’d had a nightmare the previous evening about tumbling off the stage and into the orchestra pit, with my lucky ninja panties on display. Though, let’s face it, I fall off of stuff cold sober as well.)
Supposedly, this bachelor guy and I are going out for brunch sometime. At a sports bar. Really.
I’ve learned a few things. The first thing I’ve learned is that I have awesome friends – which I already knew. Thanks to Mike T, Sean, Rowena and Amy for coming out, cheering me on, providing fashion advice and indulging my insecurities. In fact, a big thank you to everyone I’ve come in contact with over the last two months, as you’ve all in some way indulged my insecurity.
The second thing I’ve learned is that being divorced is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it’s a handy-dandy BS detector. Every time a guy chatted me up on Sunday, somehow the issue of my being divorced would come up. (Mainly, I have no other way of explaining why I’ve lived in such random places.) What I do is casually mention my divorce and check the guy’s reaction. If he runs for the hills, then I’m better off without him. After all, if a guy can’t handle the fact that I’m divorced, then he probably couldn’t handle my wacky family, my morning crankiness, or my neurotic shoe-alphabetizing habits. If a guy sticks around to chat some more, then he’s probably a winner.
So, the auction was really fun. I’m really glad I did it, but more than that, I am really, REALLY glad it’s over.
A month or two back, I was drinking these margaritas called “El Cheapo” and somehow volunteered to be in a bachelor and bachelorette auction. (Note to self: this is why you don’t usually drink tequila.) Once the hangover wore off and the reality set in, I decided to go ahead and do it. Hey, I gotta get back in the dating pool sometime, and this was like doing a cannonball off the high dive. In this case, the beneficiaries were the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.
Sunday night was the big night, and it was surprisingly a lot of fun. I had my strategy down pat. Realizing that most guys don’t comprehend 90% of trendy clothes, I wore a simple black dress and some heels. Then I handed my checkbook to my friend Sean with the instruction, “If I tug on my earlobe twice, BUY ME.” Hey, it never hurts to have a backup plan.
Most of the auctionees and auctionettes got there early, and we all managed to bond before being ushered into what I’d been calling the “babe pit” or “cattle pen.” I had noticed a really ooky guy doing orbits of me, so I was pretty freaked out. I’m not a snob or anything, ugly is OK, and stupid is survivable for one date, but this guy gave every appearance of living in his mother’s basement, with various female body parts stuffed into his freezer and a thrilling job as night manager at the Taco Bell. (Hilariously, a couple of the bachelors had noticed the creepy guy and quietly told me, “If that guy bids, we’re buying you.” Solidarity! Aw. I must say, the best part of the auction was meeting the other bachelors and bachelorettes. They were wonderful, encouraging, fantastic, enthusiastic and fun.)
Once we’d all been ushered into the pit, we were called up one by one and sold off. The guys sold for anything from $65 to $200. Weirdly, all of the blonde women sold for $150 and up, while the brunettes were fetching around $100. So, on the open dating market, blonde hair equals an instant 50% markup. Who knew?
When it was my turn, I went up to my preassigned theme song, “My Sharona.” I’d requested “Short People Ain’t Got No Reason to Live,” but I think the DJ conveniently forgot my request. I had to do a bit of banter with the auctioneer, buy beer in three languages, describe my perfect date, then hope for the best. Really, the whole thing was a complete blur, but I do recall the ooky guy bidding $75. Then one of the bachelors stepped in with $100, and I was sold. I was told afterwards that I seemed very “natural” onstage, probably due to the three glasses of liquid courage I’d downed before going up. (I did keep my drinking pretty tame, as I’d had a nightmare the previous evening about tumbling off the stage and into the orchestra pit, with my lucky ninja panties on display. Though, let’s face it, I fall off of stuff cold sober as well.)
Supposedly, this bachelor guy and I are going out for brunch sometime. At a sports bar. Really.
I’ve learned a few things. The first thing I’ve learned is that I have awesome friends – which I already knew. Thanks to Mike T, Sean, Rowena and Amy for coming out, cheering me on, providing fashion advice and indulging my insecurities. In fact, a big thank you to everyone I’ve come in contact with over the last two months, as you’ve all in some way indulged my insecurity.
The second thing I’ve learned is that being divorced is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it’s a handy-dandy BS detector. Every time a guy chatted me up on Sunday, somehow the issue of my being divorced would come up. (Mainly, I have no other way of explaining why I’ve lived in such random places.) What I do is casually mention my divorce and check the guy’s reaction. If he runs for the hills, then I’m better off without him. After all, if a guy can’t handle the fact that I’m divorced, then he probably couldn’t handle my wacky family, my morning crankiness, or my neurotic shoe-alphabetizing habits. If a guy sticks around to chat some more, then he’s probably a winner.
So, the auction was really fun. I’m really glad I did it, but more than that, I am really, REALLY glad it’s over.
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