Friday, October 31, 2008
I spent much of yesterday worried sick. The least of my problems was that the iron might have been left on. If the iron was on, it was also probably face down on the rug. Meaning it was burning the rug. And then my entire sale rack wardrobe would go up in flames.
And now follow the bouncing ball, chain reaction freakout: If I don’t have clothes, I can’t go to work. And if I can’t go to work, I can’t pay off my student loan. Can the repo men take my college degree? And what if I can’t pay rent? Not that it matters, as I’d be living inside a burned-out hulk of an apartment with winter on the way.
So what have I learned? Easy. No more cheese dip before bed.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
So I thought I’d subvert the script, and list five times I was NOT sexy to men, and rate them on a scale of 1-10. Awesomely, they all occurred in the last 24 hours:
1. I told the Blond's readers that my safety words are, “OUCH!” followed by, “The hell?” Why bother with a code word when you can get right to the point? Unsexy quotient: 7.5
2. This morning, I freaked over the mysterious relocation of the toothpaste, and turned the entire bathroom upside down to find it while muttering to myself and yanking at my hair. (I go a little bonkers when I can’t find something.) Unsexy quotient: 4
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
My décor is exactly how I like it, I don’t have to use any of the top shelves if I don’t want to, and nobody has to know how many sailors slept over last night. I can categorize my skirts by length, have bourbon for dinner, or only change the sheets upon the changing of the seasons.
But I don’t really take full advantage. I don’t know whether it's because I’m a recovering housewife, my inner Miss Priss is a domineering witch, or I've lost my ability to really grab life by the man-parts. But today’s post by Lemmonex made me think of all the living alone clichés I have yet to embrace:
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
But Metro’s announcement of random bag searches definitely got my attention. There has to be more going on than what we've been told.
I typically don't mind searches, as long as they're not onerous or silly. Airports can run me and mine through as many machines as they could ever want. In Bogota, I would be searched an average of five times before I could board a plane (and that's with a diplomatic passport). A man with an Uzi would root through my handbag every time I went shopping at Andino Mall, and men were patted down before we could enter a club. But that’s just part of life in a country that’s been at war for generations.
But America isn’t Colombia. And this bag search policy is laughably ineffective. You can refuse to be searched, leave, and walk the two blocks to a different entrance. The random search policy is all for show, and the show itself is going to cause rubbernecking, anxiety, and delays.
And I haven’t even gotten to the real meat of it: random searches are an affront to who we are, our Constitution, and our culture. If I’m just trying to get to work, what law have I broken? Why are my movements being restricted? Where’s the probable cause? I refuse to play a role in the dissolution of my right, as a citizen, to go wherever the hell I want for whatever reason I see fit. Moreover, I refuse to turn the most ordinary part of my day, my ride to work, into a security theater freakshow.
So what will I do if I get pulled aside for searching? Simple. Politely refuse, hand over a printout of the Fourth Amendment, and leave. I can always walk, use another station, or take a cab. Inconvenience is a small price to pay for freedom, and I'll put in my buck-oh-five.
For those of you who don’t remember Civics class, I've included a copy of the Fourth Amendment. Print it, carry it, hand it over to the Metro goons, and walk the extra blocks. It’s good for the body, and even better for the soul.
The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Watch the intricate mating dance of Guidos vs. Women in Glorified Tank Tops. Recall the Law of Dressing Pretty Without Looking Like a Hooker: The higher the hemline, the lower the heel…unless you’re in Atlantic City and it’s butt-ass freezing. In which case, wear even less than what you’d put on in July. (And, yes, I’ve become the grumpy old lady who thinks girls ought to cover up a little.)
Spend the drive grousing about tolls, and telling each other New Jersey should be paying YOU to visit, and not vice versa.
Wonder why, in the glorious state of New Jersey, it’s illegal to pump your own gas. Is it just to add that extra dash of suck?
Friday, October 24, 2008
But there’s one drawback: Washington is lousy with romantic failure. My failed romances, to be exact. I work five blocks away from my first boyfriend. I pass my ex-husband’s apartment (and my ex-car) on my way to a friend’s house. I routinely run into guys I’ve gone out with, everywhere from the sidewalk to the bar to the police station.
This isn’t as bad as it sounds. I’m friends, or on friendly terms, with almost everyone I’ve ever dated. My Facebook friends list is a veritable Ouija board, conjuring the Ghosts of Beaux Past. It’s no big deal, and I can make small talk with virtually anyone.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
...Give up? It’s Martin Luther, apoplectic with hate for Henry VIII.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
I generally don't respond to “stuff about me” tags, on the grounds that I’ve spent the last six years of DSJ incessantly prattling on about myself. And I’m really only so fascinating. Plus, tags kind of remind me of the pass-along survey from Sixteen Candles. ("Have you done it? Have you seen it? Have you touched it?")
1. I don’t watch television. Ever. Really. This isn’t a culture snob thing, I’m just too cheap for cable and don’t have bunny ears. I will occasionally Netflix a series on DVD, but that’s usually several years after airing. One thing I find astounding about human nature is how often people will ask if I watch a program, then, when I say I don’t watch any TV, they’ll keep talking about TV. Dear Humanity: I really and truly haven’t seen your favorite show. I’ve probably never even heard of it. Can we please talk about something, anything else?
2. I can’t operate lighters.
I’m supposed to tag other people. But as the blogosphere is tag-heavy these days, I’ll just let this one die out with me.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
When I was done signing a death warrant for Shamu, my other client asked me to spend a week touring small museums. It felt like a small-town bandit road trip, except this time for pay.
I found the last leg of my trip, to a submarine in Michigan, cancelled due to my delay in Fort Wayne. Then, by a wonderful stroke of luck, I found myself in Milwaukee with a four-hour layover. I spent most of those four hours tossing back beer and brats, making new friends, and watching my bad habits absorbed by the generous expense accounts of the Ford Motor Company.
Eventually, my Midwest Express flight was called. I wobbled on over, ready for home and a hot bath.
When I reached the gate, I was pulled aside for further inspection. My ricochets around America, last-minute flight changes, and imposing demeanor had landed me on a terrorist watch list.
I began to touch my nose with my pointer fingers and recite the alphabet, in the manner of a field sobriety test.
The TSA agent cracked a smile and waved me on board. When I reached my seat, the flight attendant gave me a cookie and a glass of champagne.
The lesson? Never turn down a chance to make a drunken idiot of yourself in front of Homeland Security. Because if you do, you'll get a cookie!
Monday, October 20, 2008
The problem is that I am cold. I can’t think proper unless I am warm. During my Sarajevo year, I became too stupid to operate telephones, buy milk, or even realize that I shouldn't have been there in the first place.
I got nothin’. So, in the comments, ask me anything. Want my advice? Want to know something about me? Trivia quiz, anyone? I’ll answer, if only because the typing keeps my fingers from clamping together.
Friday, October 17, 2008
I don't care if it puts me in "You kids, get off my lawn!" territory, or makes me the Princess of Prudity, but I'm sick to death of sexy nurses, sexy fairies, sexy French maids, sexy stewardesses, and sexy construction workers. To me, the average Halloween party looks like the opening scene of a very cheap and derivative porno film. Imagine it: boom mike hovering into the action, *boom-chicka-wow-wow* on the hi-fi, nubile, surgically enhanced barely-18s hanging out by the punch bowl.
Sexy Fairy: Ooooh no, my faerie wings have lost their sparkle!
French Maid: I'll shine them up for you!
Sexy Nurse: Don't worry, I'll make you feel better!
*cue tickling with a feather duster and frolicking among the thermometers*
Really. If you're going to trash it up for Halloween, show a little imagination. Give some sex appeal to those occupations that so desperately need it. Both men and women can get into the action (so to speak). Be a sexy colonic irrigation aesthetician. A sexy undertaker. A sexy fishmonger, a sexy laundromat manager, or even a sexy proctologist. Hell, even a fry cook can be saucy if you try hard enough.
If you're out on Halloween, look for me dressed as a sexy toll collector. Nothing spruces up a miniskirt and tube top like an orange vest and some rolls of quarters!
PS - Post based on tipsy girl talk at Liv's party.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
I promise I’ll be funny tomorrow. Today I decided to have a feeling or two (in case you were wondering, blog-as-therapy is usually a sign that I have writer's block).
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
In the hour we were there, HP and I managed to critique the uniform for being less than figure-flattering, get in a long discussion about favorite shades of lip gloss, and debate whether the lack of utensils meant we were supposed to use our um, chestardly bits as “really sensitive chopsticks.” (That awesome mental image you just had? You’re welcome!)
After about ten minutes, Foggy pretended he had accidentally sat down at the wrong table, and had never met these two women before in his life. Or maybe he was just watching the game.
My sojourn at the Hooters did make me contemplate some serious questions:
The Chinatown Hooters opens at 10:00 am. Who can take the sight of Day-Glo orange short-shorts before noon? And do they have a breakfast menu, or do people really eat hot wings with coffee?
Is there any footwear less flattering than bright white sneakers with poofy 80’s style white socks?
Is wearing a low-cut top to Hooters like taking coals to Newcastle? Or is it just one more lovely addition to the scenery?
Why is it so much fun to say the name, "Hooters"? Hooters hooters hooters!
And, lastly, is going to Hooters for the wings anything like reading Playboy for the articles?
Our waitress Cha-Cha rocked, and my cheese sticks were very delicious. So, squicky objectification issues aside, hooray for Hooters! Who's going with me for breakfast this weekend?
Monday, October 13, 2008
"Hey, I only got to first base!"
"Dude, don't tell people that sort of stuff! Be a gentleman."
"You're right. Sorry. High five!"
Because really, doesn't a chivalrous bathroom makeout session deserve a high five?
PS: Happy birthday, Liv! Here's the famous recipe (originally from Bon Appetit):
Gin and Tonic Jell-O Shooters
3 cups tonic (divided)
One cup gin (I used Beefeater)
2 tablespoons sugar
3 packets unflavored gelatin
About six limes, sliced
In a small saucepan, boil two cups tonic with the sugar. Meanwhile, pour gin and one cup tonic into a large mixing bowl. Sprinkle unflavored gelatin on top of gin/tonic mixture, allow to set for one minute. Pour boiling tonic/sugar into bowl, stir until well blended. Pour contents of bowl into a 9x9 inch pan, allow to set overnight. Cut shooters into cubes, serve on lime slices. Pretty, classy, tasty, and not obscenely alcoholic.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Learn how to walk in a freakin’ pair of heels. Last night, as I wandered down Fourteenth Street with the Refugee, he took appreciative note of my fabulous four-inch Victorian streetwalker shoes. And, also, my ability to effectively perambulate in them.
Most women in this town take tiny, very deliberate steps, planting each foot down with ridiculous care. It's like watching Bambi wade across the Miljacka. Moreover, they don the nasty plastic flip-flops even to cross the street, so they just don’t get enough practice.
I had to practice walking in heels before I was allowed to wear them in public. I have an advanced degree in Heelology. And, like many of my more civilized qualities, all credit is due to Mom. She had me walk in a straight line, in heels, arms out, a book balanced on my head. (I can still do this, even after a half-dozen beers. It's my favorite party trick.)
So, ladies: If you’re going to rock the sexy heels, learn how to ROCK them. Take long, confident strides, and waggle your hips for balance (…and attention). Make sure your shoes actually fit – if you’re spilling over the sides of your slingbacks, you aren’t going to be able to walk in them. And don't stomp. You aren't a two-year-old in the throes of a sugar tantrum. Remember: long steps, and a bit of a wiggle in your walk. I swear it isn't hard.
PS: I rarely wear high heels, on the grounds that I’m 5’2” and not fooling anyone. But if I’m going to wear them, I’m going to ROCK them.
PPPS: I'm a little disjointed today, so excuse me. Thursdays tend to hurt.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
ZipKid. The Kid-Sharing Service!
ZipKid can also be fun for couples. Most young couples test out their parenting abilities by getting a dog. Then they spoil the dog rotten, with gourmet food and organic flea dip. Eventually, the costs rack up and the couple is too broke to contemplate babies. ZipKid allows them to test drive parenthood without the accompanying veterinary bills, ruined furniture and dog-walking services.
And with the economy dry-heaving over a metaphorical Toilet of America…who can afford a kid? Only the very same rich golden-parachuted twits who got us into this mess in the first place. So what is going to hold the economy’s hair back? ZipKid! Kid-sharing is a low-budget, elegant solution to the perennial drain that kids exert on America’s finances.
Supply is an issue. Where would the ZipKids come from? Fifteen years ago, we could have replenished our coffers with Romanian babies. Nowadays, cheap kids are hard to come by. So, in the comments, I need some women to volunteer to be ZipKid suppliers. It’s like being a brood mare, except, er, it’s people. Bonus points if you have good genes. Turkey baster included.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Last night, I decided to take a break from petty theft, hard liquor, and my own catastrophic character flaws. I wanted to stay in and focus on clothes: conduct the Great Seasonal Wardrobe Swap (summer-to-winter, which involves a meticulous rearrangement of my closet), do some laundry, and peruse the latest issue of Lucky. Thing is, I have terrible luck with laundry.
Monday, October 06, 2008
As I’m shopping at the online Man Mall, my IM window flies open.
SkeevyDude4U: Hi! Would you like a cute guy to do a striptease for you?
DisaffScanJockey: Uh. No. Thanks!
The lesson? If you are a man, and you use emoticons, I probably don’t want to see you naked.
Happy Monday, y’all.
Friday, October 03, 2008
I am about to cancel a 1st date with a guy but wondering if that would be a mistake. Here's the background:
My Match profile has (7) very recent (only weeks old) photos of me in various angles, some face only, others full length. Good representations, I think.
After emailing with "Johnny" he asked me for some additional photos, esp. if I had any in which I am wearing tank tops/flip flops. I said "oh you must have been burned before by someone who didn't look like their pics, but you don't have to worry about that because all my photos are recent, i really am a size 4, and i cannot tell a lie." I told him that if we meet and we like each other that he can have all the tank tops/flip flops photos he wants of me and was flirty about it.
He will not relent, he keeps asking me for more pics and I keep ignoring those parts of his emails because I have liked everything else about him on email and the phone, even after he (unsolicited) sent me additional photos of himself with his 2 kids. When I emailed him directly (rather than via my talkmatch address) he wanted to know why I didn't email him from my work email and I was like "oh I am a cop's kid, I can't help but be cautious about personal details."
So today he sent me this email:
"Did you ever think that maybe I wanted to do my background check on you?? There are just as many crazy women on the net as men, believe that… That's not too cool though, you even have pics of my kids!….I can understand the last name, address or home phone number but pictures?? C'mon now it's online dating for crying out loud! You trying to hide your hand with six fingers or something? The fact that you keep avoiding it makes me want to keep asking. Hey we found the first thing to disagree about…fun… Wait, you ask if I was at the Sprint in Reston, I think that's too personal of a question, you might stalk me. Let's just say I'm in Virginia…."
I know he's partly being sarcastic, but he is also kinda disrespectful, right? I am about to email him and just cancel the date and wish him the best. Or should I send him some damn pics and go on the date? I just think it's weird he wants more pics when I am confident the ones I sent are very good.
Thanks in advance!
OH MY GOSH. THAT GUY IS FREAKING AWESOME!!!! He’s nitpicking your lack of a flip-flop/tank top photo? Is he for real?
Tell him that not only do you have six fingers on your right hand, you have a penis, a prehensile tail and four earlobes arranged in a ridge formation across your left elbow. Plus, you sleep with a bunch of stuffed animals, and you snore.
On a slightly more serious note, if he's creating that much aggravation before you even go on one lousy coffee date, imagine what it would be like to be in a relationship with him: "Thanksgiving? With your family? I'll need a complete menu, including recipes and potential allergens, photos of your entire family in all forms of footwear, and about a dozen Haldols before I can even contemplate such a step."
It's possible he's a decent guy with an unfortunate lack of social skills, and you've just gotten the wrong end of the stick somehow...but, really, why bother? He's being weird and hostile and he's badgering a woman he’s never even met. There are three billion other men in the world, plus all sorts of high-end electronic gadgetry, so listen to your instincts and run like hell.
And for a dose of actual seriousness: Don’t ever feel guilty for listening your instincts. If your gut is telling you that something is off, don’t worry about being “nice” or sparing this guy’s feelings. He’ll get over it. You don’t need anyone’s permission or validation to say, “Thanks, but no thanks.” And if he tries to drag you into yet another stupid argument about flip-flops or extra fingers, you are under no obligation to reply to him.
Lastly, if he is starting to give you the creeps, vs. merely being annoying, I would also recommend reporting his behavior to your dating service.
What do the illustrious members of the commentariat think? Additional advice/insights welcome…with the usual caveat that an actual person, with actual feelings, wrote in. So don’t be a jerk.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
One example: Mom, I wasn’t really at the library. I was barreling down Old Delaney Road with various teenagers poking out of the sunroof of Dad’s ancient Volvo. It was fun! Gravel roads, low branches, and delicate machinery be damned, it was fun. And Dad totally had no idea I'd stolen his car.
The confessions felt good. Cleansing. Glorious. And, of course, my mom already knew everything anyway.
But I feel the need for another confession session. I'm about to spill my guts to every man I’ve ever met up with on a first date. It isn’t pretty, but I’ve learned to cheerfully embrace my own imperfections. Maybe someday I’ll meet someone who finds all of this funny...
...and maybe even kind of hot.
My dad isn’t really a gun collector, and I don’t have a big brother named Bruno.
If I met you online, I forwarded your profile to at least two of my girlfriends. One, so they can amuse themselves with it, and two, so you can be identified if I turn up dead in a ditch.
I really do worry about turning up dead in a ditch. There’s a reason for that, which I don’t explain until the fifth date or so. I have a schedule for these things.
I’m sorry I got drunk and face-planted into the side of a taxi. It’s nothing personal. (Please please tell me you thought it was cute!)
It's not nervous chatter. I always verbalize every thought that stomps around my brain.
There’s a $20 bill in a hidden corner of my wallet, so I can run outside and hail a cab if you’re truly appalling.
I’m reaching for my wallet with total sincerity, and totally don’t mind paying, but would kind of prefer for you to pick up the check.
It's a successful date if I feel like I've made a new friend. I rarely feel instant chemistry, and when I do, it's because I've got a wild craving for a bad idea. I've outgrown that sort of thing, though. Mostly. Dear God, I hope so.
If I think you’re a complete jerk, I will hang around to see how awful you can truly be. I’m not trying to lead you on, it’s just that I love a good freakshow.
I'm totally comfortable with my body and my appearance. However, what I'm not comfortable with is not being taken seriously because of the way I look. It happens, a lot. Especially on dates. And I hate it.
If I’ve seen your apartment, I’ve probably mentally moved my stuff into it. This isn’t because I’m clingy, it’s because I love to decorate.
If I don't like you, I will change your name in my phone to something insulting. "Hell No," "You Can Do Better," "Handsy McOctopus" and "Handsy McInsincere" have all at one point lived together inside my address book.
I totally don’t mind being asked about my divorce. In fact, I'll bring it up myself to see whether you’re judgmental or uptight.
If you found my blog, and don't own up to having read it, I will feel violated.
I can tell you’re wearing lifts in your shoes.
I’ll be sad if you don’t call me.
In the comments, confess something to me. It'll do you good.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
When my mother got skin cancer (one free lesion with every Australian citizenship!), she told her doctor she was excited about the, “Free boob lift. Well, on one side, anyway."
All of this brings me to my phone conversation with Dad the other night.
Dad: So, they’re doing some sort of experimental surgery on me.
Me: Cool! Like what?
Dad: They’re putting something artificial in my aorta.
Me: So you’re gonna be a cyborg? Will it make you evil?
Dad: I hope so. I asked the doctor for a lifetime guarantee.
Me: Did she get the joke?
Dad: No. She just stared at me. Then she said it was a five-year program. I told her she was being optimistic. (Note: Dad does. Not. Die. He was given six months to live. In 1994.)
Me: I wonder if there’s a penalty for early withdrawal, like with a 401(k). By the way, did I ever tell you about the time I completely freaked a doctor out?
Me: I was in high school, and went to the pediatrician with Mom. The doctor asked, with her right there in the room, whether I was sexually active.
Dad: I’m glad I never took you to doctor’s appointments.
Me: (singing) The cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon, little boy blue and the Man in the Moon…Well, anyhow, I told the doctor, “No, I just lie there, usually.” Mom cracked up. That may be why the priest at the baptism I went to Sunday stared right at me whenever he said the word, "Satan."
Dad: No, that's because of the time you got in trouble at church camp. You traded your Bible for an ice cream sandwich.
Ladies and gentlemen, my family.
PS – yes, I know it’s lazy to reconstruct a 10-minute phone call, move some stuff around for comic effect, and call it a post, but I’m not exactly quaking with bloggy ambition these days.