Oh What a Tangled, Tangled Web

Last night was yet another night that I will look back on for some time and question if it really all happened. For example:

-Was my ex really at the same bar as me?
-Did he really bring a date to what appeared to be a young Republican's meeting?

[I will say that it was quite fortunate that I was surrounded by cute younger guys at the moment ex was standing 5 feet away from me and that one of them happened to have his arm around my waist.]

-Did I really run into married guy?
-Shoot I did. Did we really have a conversation about our relationship and what it can be without it being really bad?
-Yup. Did we really not resolve anything?

Married guy is quite the perplexing situation, one I don't exactly know what to do with. I know him through Date, Lulu's man. We clearly like one another quite a bit, and as Lulu told me just now over email "he looks at you with such adoration in his eyes." Well yes he does, but he's taken. Taken as in no longer wears his wedding ring, often sleeps on the sofa, takes separate vacations than his wife, clearly got married too young but is sticking it out for whatever reason compels people to soldier through bad relationships. That kind of taken. I can't even begin to relate to his situation. But the chemistry is there.

Said married guy: I always hope to run into you and I'm always so happy when I do. I really want to hang out with you but I don't know how to.
Me: blah, blah, blah, something, something, something. In all honesty, I simply don't trust you.

The question of the day, dear members of the Peanut Gallery is this: How can an unhappily married guy and a single woman who like one another and are very attracted to one another spend time together without committing any sort of transgression that would hurt any of the involved parties (wife included)? I don't think it's possible.

I don't need his attention. I can get attention in plenty of other places. And it's super uncool of him to drag me into the bullshit drama that is his personal life. But maybe I have slightly more power here than I think. But maybe I don't. Do we think that due to his slightly tenuous grasp of relationship morals, he may not be worth wasting energy on? If he's willing to do whatever this is with me, what is he capable of doing to me? Oh, but did I mention that I like him? And that he likes me?

.........

In other news, the boy from Wednesday wrote back saying he had fun too, but no mention of future plans. Should I just be a big girl and ask him out? He wouldn't have written back if he wasn't into it, right? He isn't married, which is an enourmous plus right now.

Career Advice from HP

(This one is for the young'uns out there)

You know that really impractical career aspiration you have? The one that involves whatever your passion is, that would set you up for a lot of competition for jobs, that may not pay well but sounds super fun? It's probably also the one that your parents or whatever other adults are influential in your life are telling you not to pursue because it sounds too fanciful and might not pay the bills. Well, don't listen to the adults. Pursue that impractical career aspiration. Take it from your friend Hey Pretty, who has logged many on hour suffering through unfulfilling office jobs. Sitting in a dull beige cubical all day doing something you don't really care about that you know isn't what you're destined to do, but you're doing it because it felt like the practical career path, is depressing. I should know.

It's not that my job is that awful. It even sounds interesting to the outside ear and involves many of my skills. But it's just...wrong for me. For years I have thought that my disinterest in my work was due to the environment that I worked in. But this is my third job involving marketing, public affairs and writing for some sort of issue, and you know what? I think it's the marketing/public affairs/writing that's problem. Growing up I kicked around the idea of going to art school or at the very least majoring in art at college. But I didn't because it felt impractical and because a bunch of adults told me it would be too hard to get a job. Well yes, but what about the theory that if you do something you really love you'll go far because it's what you love and that will fuel your success? Is that too wild of an idea? I'm totally beginning to wish I hadn't listened to them.

I've always regarded maturity as doing the practical thing, but what if the most practical thing is actually following your heart, logic be damned?

So. I pledge to become more involved in the DC art community and to make some connections there and further contemplate graduate school. Meanwhile, if any of you are friends with an art administrator or an art consultant, I would love to talk to them about their jobs. And...if any of you are looking to buy some art and need help finding work that you like, I am officially offering my services for free. I know some artists and I'm good at translating abstract aesthetic preferences into concrete artistic objects (made by other people, not me--although I do take nice photos, but they're hardly of professional caliber).

Not Bad, Actually...

So yesterday I was reacting to the prospect of a date like it was a trip to the dentists. Of course it was not actually that terrible. I arrived early to get settled and center myself a little (yes, that sounds dorky and new agey, it wasn't actually like that, I just prefer to be early). I worked on the crossword and was in good spirits when my date arrived because I was kicking crossword ass by that point. Will Shortz, look out! The date was nice. We drank beer and exchanged pleasantries and I didn't smoke a single cigarette. Every once in a while he looked at me as if I were endearingly silly (I am) and there were hardly any uncomfortable lulls. He wasn't really my type but I found him interesting, smart, of the correct political persuasion, a little cynical, and rebellious but mature enough to question his rebelliousness and wonder if it's always the most appropriate response to things. He passed the five minute test, so he gets another date if he wants one. Thing is, I don't know if he does.

Male readers, please help.

I had expressed a desire to leave by a certain time, so we did our best to have things wound down by then. When it was time to go, we stood up but rather than walking out together he said he was going to use the restroom and then go grocery shopping. He gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek and we parted ways. I left feeling puzzled. The hug/kiss thing was fine and suggested that he liked me, but the whole restroom/shopping excuse sounded slightly fishy. Doesn't the guy usually want to walk you out? Maybe I'm just jaded. It's not that I'm obsessing (really, I'm not) I just like to know when my likes are one-sided. I'd much rather hear HJNTIY now, than to spend several days wondering what the deal is. I am particularly sensitive to scenarios such as this because this one time I was out with a guy and I thought we were meeting each other outside only he never came out so I went back in to find him flirting with the bartendress. So see, male readers, in addition to girls being crazy, we also place value in gestures like walking people out of bars. Now you know.

Feeling Not Groovy

So...I have a date in T minus two hours and counting. All day I have been feeling down for no reason. Just a little sad and like my mind is a TV with an owner who can't decide what channel to watch, so they just skip from station to station. I can't imagine I'm going to be much fun.

At lunch today the subject turned to women and fashion. A male coworker was interested in knowing how much time I take getting ready to go out. I replied that the majority of my wardrobe is composed of slim fitting neutral colored tee shirts and jeans, with a couple of more interesting pieces I bought for the specific purpose of wearing out on the town. There's little diversity and thus little guess work and although I often think it's boring, it also saves me a lot of time agonizing over what to wear. I have a theory that the amount of time you spend getting ready is inversely proportionate to the amount of fun you will have once out. Tons of prep time normally equals less fun had. But maybe that's just me. All this is to say that I have put very little effort into my outfit for tonight's tryst. Tight black tee shirt, jeans, high healed sandals.

I'm more concerned about what I will say to this person and if I can manage to be entertaining. Despite the fact that I feel like virtually the only single person I know these days, I have rather let go of feeling bad about not being in a relationship. Although this makes me cool and independent, it also makes me a little apathetic about going on dates, something I never thought I'd be. I used to love dates. These days, not so much. But I continue to go on them because I feel it's good practice. And canceling would be rude at this point. Perhaps if I pre-game before my date I'll have a better time. I guess it's bad that the prospect of being on a date is compelling me to drink, huh?

The Letter of the Day is Not "E"

T sent me the following from wordsmith.org this morning:

This week's theme: words about words.

lipogram (LIP-uh-gram) noun

A piece of writing that avoids one or more letters of the alphabet.

[From Greek lipo- (lacking) + gram (something written).]

Today's word in Visual Thesaurus:
http://visualthesaurus.com/?w1=lipogram

In spite of what it sounds like, a lipogram is not a message with a kiss.
Lipogram is a work written with a constraint.

Imagine you've just started your great epic novel and one of the keys on
your keyboard is broken. It would be trivial to manage without a Q, X,
or Z, but writing without a single E -- ah, that'd be some challenge. If
it sounds undoable, consider that whole books have been written without an E, the most used letter in the English language. Without an E, one has to give up some of the most common pronouns such as he, she, we, me, and so on. What's more, even the article "the" is barred.

Coming back to books written without Es (I'm sure writing them is not something everyone can do with ease), Ernest Vincent Wright's 1939
novel Gadsby is written without the second vowel. One of the best known
E-less works is Georges Perec's lipogrammatic French novel, La Disparition
(The Disappearance). Its plot is full of wordplay, puzzles, and other
word-fun. For example, a character is missing eggs, or is unable to remember
his name because it needs E in the spelling.

Though it may be hard to believe considering the restriction under which it is written, the novel is said to be quite engrossing. Apparently, many reviewers were not even aware that a special constraint was used in writing it. After writing the novel, Perec faced a protest from the A, I, O, and U keys on his keyboard that they had to do all the work and E was leading an e'sy life. So Perec had no choice but to write a short work called Les Revenentes, where he put to work all those idle Es: the
only vowel used was E.

If that doesn't sound incredible enough, here is more. La Disparition has been translated into English as "A Void" by Gilbert Adair. Of course, the translation also doesn't have any E in it. In case you have not already noticed, both the phrases "La Disparition" and "A Void" have only vowels A, I, and O in them, same as in the word "lipogram". And Void's protagonist is named Anton Vowl.

One can write numbers from zero, one, two,... onwards, and not use the A key on the keyboard until reaching thousand. As for the literary merit of that composition, I'm not very certain.

-Anu Garg (gargATwordsmith.org)

"Go on, r*ad my lipogram!"
Rod*rick Nord*ll; What's Missing From This Story?; The Christian
Science
Monitor (Boston, Massachusetts); Oct 31, 2002.


........................................................................

Fascinating, no? Can you go all day without aid from that sign that follows D?

I Am a Huge Dork

Earlier today (aprox 2 hours ago) I used the term "synergy" in a meeting with a client. Yes, I was being sincere, and yes, it was appropriate to the situation. But still, who but Carter Duryea sincerely uses the word "synergy"?

You've Come a Long Way, Baby

Earlier today I received an email from one of the boys of Spring, one of the two who made the months of March through June the emotional free-for- all that it was. Upon reading that he had been thinking about me, I scoffed in disgust and logged out of my account. In emailing a couple of friends about it, I got to thinking. A year ago, I would have immediately pressed "Reply" thrilled by the attention. I would have agonized over the most appropriately "breezy" response. I would have pushed away the memory of him being dull, unappreciative of my company, and bad in bed. I would have told myself that by doing these things I was being "optimistic." In considering my options today, I now see that optimism more as recklessness, neediness, and a general disregard for my own welfare. In short, a bad idea, and not "bad idea" in that way that I often tend to romantisize, like "tee hee, what a great entertaining train wreck that will be", but "bad idea" in the "even if it is entertaining haven't I done this enough, shouldn't I lookout for myself this time" kind of way. It was a great revelation. I have decided to ignore him, at least for the next several days. It is after all tempting to find out what he wants, but I doubt there is any kind of reward to following up with him.

On a related note, I found myself confronted with the reality of a friendship this weekend that I hadn't yet considered and it cast the situation in a darker light than how I am accustomed to looking at it. So I have this friend without benefits, who I have written about in the past who I really cannot go into details about for a variety of reasons. He's great, I love him to death. For a while now, he has hovered on the periphery of the crazy ven diagram that is my romantic life. Sometimes we get drunk and he floats in for a brief moment, but he quickly runs right back out. There are about a million and half reasons why he should remain there, and a million reasons why he should be smack directly in the middle of the crazy ven diagram. Up until very recently, I had adopted a totally "woe is me" attitude about the whole thing. "Oh woe is me this can't happen and yet I wish it could, perhaps it will someday." You get the gist.

And then it hit me.

He is totally setting the terms of everything. He has all the power. He decided things couldn't be a certain way and refuses to look past it, or doesn't want things to be a certain way and is hiding behind the current set of circumstances because he's too scared to offend me by being truthful. He is the one who is a complete pussy. And yet, and yet! I completely lap up the attention when he flirts with me, get all happy when he compliments me and will generally bend over backwards to do him a favor, all because I am living out some sort of lame fantasy that things will eventually be different. Maybe they will be, and my life really is mirroring a Meg Ryan movie, but I'm starting to feel falsely optimistic. More than anything else though, I see this as the time to start setting some terms of my own.

Why Washingtonians Are Silly

Why? Well, so many reasons (and all so endearing, I heart you Washingtonians) but today, the primary reason is this: Their obsession with popped collars. Okay, we get. People with popped collars are douche bags. We heard you. Loud and clear. Can we please just let the issue lie? Apart from complaining about tourists standing on the wrong side of the escaltor, it has to be the most play-out bitching and moaning this city has to offer. Can we please find something else to hate about our fair city?

Romancing the Food Service Industry

Since the DC Blogosphere seems especially enamoured with coffee-talk this week I thought I'd take this opportunity to share with you all the story of the time I dated my barista (or baristo if that's an acceptable masculine form). I couple of years ago when I worked in downtown DC, I made it a semi-regular habit to get a cappuccino mid afternoon to accompany my mid afternoon cigarette. I always frequented the same pricey vendor, as it was half a block from my office. Seven times out of ten I was waited on by an extremely attentive, attractive young man several years my junior. I was 26 or 27 at the time and I figured he was probably in college. We never exchanged names but we did work up to a consistently friendly level of banter that eventually crossed over to a light flirtation. As I was truly miserable at my own job at the time, I started to look forward to my coffee breaks and the positive attention I received during them, even if it was really just part of his job to be nice to me. I never tipped him, basically because I was already getting great service, and when the line crosses from friendly to flirtatious, tipping feels a little, well, smarmy. One day my baristo disappeared and I figured I'd never see him again, which was just as well because I had started to feel a little silly flirting with the 20 year old who made my coffee.

Skip ahead two years. I'm at the Pour House on a typical Friday. I'm waiting for Claude to hurry up with my Jager shots and out of the corner of my eye I catch some guy giving me the once over. I turn to find a pleasantly attractive young man who obviously thinks that the way to get girls is to stare them into submission. It's a bit unnerving but since I am bored and mildly intrigued by his hipster togs (the Pour House is so not a hipster bar) I motion for him to come over. He obediently scampers over. He mentions that I look familiar and starts listing off a battery of small liberal arts colleges and did I attend any of them (yes I did attend one, but none of the ones he mentioned). He can't figure out how he knows me but I can. He's my old baristo and he's clearly hitting on me. He claims to not remember me from his halcyon days as an espresso slinger. Whatever, it hardly mattered with his hands practically down my pants. Long story short, I ended up dating my old baristo until he grew boring, distant, probably dating somebody else besides me, and he dumped me (6 weeks from start to end, about, not counting the time we hooked up after randomly running into one another at a house party).

If you were wondering what the point of that story is, I'm sorry to inform you that there wasn't one. I just felt like adding my own coffee story to the week's blogging fodder. Shortly after my last paramour with the baristo, I had a whole other set of adventures with a bartender. Now my friends like to tease me about my apparent penchant for food service industry workers. I had never considered it that way, but maybe they have a point. Perhaps I should aspire for a chef next. They're pretty badass and I happen to know a wickedly hot one.

Still Nothing Regarding Cold Fusion

Because I write about residential building for a living, I get to read the New York Times Home section for work. It normally doesn't have a lot that applies to my particular subject niche, and today was no exception. Of course this doesn't mean that I navigated away from the page when I realized it had nothing to do with what I should be billing my hours to. No, my attention was captured by an article about women who leave their partners and spouses for the hot contractors who they've hired to work on their homes. The article opens with a tale of woe told by a man jilted 12 years ago for the man he hired to renovate his colonial farm house. It didn't offer specific details, but the description of the geographical region in which it took place sounded familiar, so I shot an email off to my mom asking her if she knew him and had any good gossip.

Her response was appropriately hilarious in only a way that my mom can be. Her answer was yes, she does know him. He owned a house (the one described in the NYT article in fact) several miles down the road from ours. She then went on to portray his personality and looks in a less than flattering light. The high point of the email however (and the one that followed) was a commentary on the leading contractors in our town (all five of them--this was a town of 1,200 people, mind you) and who was hottest, who was a hippy burnout, who remained faithful to his wife, etc, etc. It seems that the topic of hot contractors in small New England towns has been debated for quite some time.

All this has made me incredibly nostaglic for the Pioneer Valley. I've always regarded myself as a city girl at heart, but today the fantasy of moving back home to the woods, renting out an old farm house like the one I grew up in, and shacking up with a hippy carpenter is incredibly appealing. The last time this happened I instead read The Quality of Life Report and that snapped me right out of it. So until I manage to unearth my copy, do not be surprised if I go missing. I'll be chilling out in my renovated farm house, baking whole wheat bread and throwing back microbrews with my gorgeous contractor boyfriend.

Poll Time

Warning: Male readers will probably grow bored with this post rather quickly.

I seem to blog about my hair a fair amount, which is sad really, but it's been a minor preoccupation for most of my life. See, I have a lot of it and it's rather difficult to effectively manage.

Every summer when the hot weather rolls around I entertain the notion of chopping it all off. Although it's currently brown, curly and somewhat long, it has been in its time:

1.) Medium-length and purple
2.) Short and blond
3.) Medium-length and brown
4.) Short and brown
5.) Short and blue
6.) Short and red
7.) Medium-length and blond
8.) So short as to be practically non-existent/bordering on crew cut (otherwise known as the summer everyone assumed I was a lesbian).
9.) Medium-length and a lovely color that can only really be described as "swamp." This was the result of applying henna to fading out Manic Panic purple over a home bleach job. Yeah, it was a total mess. If Amy is by any chance lurking, she can vouch for the unsightlyness of the whole thing.

And several combinations of the above.

Other than to totally date myself as a 90's teenager/college student, the point of that list was simply to illustrate that I'm not normally one to shy away from experimentation. If somebody suggested I chop all my locks off, I wouldn't scream in horror.

So, as I said earlier, every summer when the anguish of finding creative new ways to combat frizz starts to get the better of me, I begin to contemplate making a major change. It's been the same way for a few years now, which is unheard of for me. What I can't decide is if I'm in a rut or if I have simply found a style that works relatively well and to leave it alone. It's quite pretty, but very heavy, prone to frizz, and it makes me look like a hippy. In conservative old DC, looking like a hippy isn't really in one's best interest, especially as one approaches 30 and starts to think it might be nice for people to take her a bit more seriously. I guess what I'm trying to say in my fractured, round about way, is that I need a change but I don't know what it should be.

I can hear you now saying "why doesn't she ask her stylist?" Because stylists are no help at all. When I ask them what I should do, they usually just stare at me blankly and mutter "I dunno, what do you want to do?" They're utterly useless.

So, my question is: What should I do? And I am not asking you to assess what it seems like I want based on what I've written here and to reflect my sentiments back to me (which was useful during the apartment dilemma). For those of you who know me, what do you think I should do? If, assuming you had skills, you had a pair of scissors in your hand and my head was two inches away from you what would you use those shears to create? The those of you who have never seen me or my hair are welcome to weigh in on the matter as well, you'll simply have a less reliable visual to go on.

Later I promise to blog about cold fusion or something similarly brainy to make up for the vapidness of this post.

Titles Are Over Rated

Certain relationships are the way they are because the environment that they grew within requires them to adhere to certain rules, often not of your choosing. While these rules may seem rigid and counter productive at times, they serve the helpful function of preventing you from doing something that you might really regret, and somehow altering said relationship in a bad way. In other words, certain rules often seem pesky but they're often the only things saving you from yourself.

The other day I had a conversation with somebody whose friendship is emblematic of these relationships. As is the case with all of our chats, it began informally and promptly escalated as we both shared our eventual desire to remove ourselves from the environment that is currently imposing these rules. Not for the sake of our relationship of course, but for other reasons having to do with other life changes, seizing better opportunities, whatever. Growing up, I suppose you could call it. Anyway, the exchange was punctuated by a peculiar moment where I realized that these rules we've been abiding by had suddenly been assigned a shelf life. I rather limited one at that, and that within the relatively near future, we should expect to find ourselves free from the limitations that our friendship has flourished within. Although potentially liberating, the revelation is cause for minor alarm. As much as I like railing against convention, there's a certain amount of comfort to be found within its constraints. Safely cocooned within its arms, you're amounted very little room for personal error.

It's utterly impossible to know right now what will happen when this embrace is removed--whether it will prove itself to have been a preventative factor, or if it will reveal itself to be the one thing that held everything together in the first place. But for the first time, life without it has gone from an abstraction intended to postpone a possibly scary scenario, to an inevitability.

Road map of a rational, mature decision

So, I am passing on the apartment. My friend the owner would require my lease to begin in August and that simply is not enough time to mentally and physically prepare for a move. I own way more books and assorted art supplies than a sane person should, and the anguish of having to pack it, carry it to a new location, and unpack it again is too much for me to bear with only two weeks notice to get it all together. Moreover, I don't need to move. Yes, having a space of my own is a dizzyingly attractive prospect, but not attractive enough to jump at the first available opportunity. In conducting a bit of research, I learned that I can get a place with almost twice as much space for the same price in a neighborhood almost as good as the one I was offered this morning. I really, really despise moving. Friends always offer to help, but when it comes down to it, I always feel awful asking it of them. Plus, there simply aren't enough reasons to compel me to leave my current situation. Yes, group houses can be a little dicey, but various factors have caused me to warm to mine over the past year. And I am SPOILED when it comes to rent. I won't tell you where I live and how much I pay because you'll just get jealous.

To help me arrive at my decision, I made a pro and con list. Although the pros outnumbered the cons, the cons held more weight than the pros. What I learned is that I will probably be ready to move back into my own place within the next 6 months to a year, but that this particular opportunity is not the right one for me. When I told my mom what my decision was, she indicated that I was making the right choice. Not that I need mommy to validate my decisions, but it did feel kinda good to hear her agree with me.

Dilemma!

Imagine this: you have a friend who owns a lovely apartment downtown. You've visited it before and have always found it to be quite lovely, although a little small. But it's still charming in a quirky, boho sort of way. Your friend recently got engaged and is moving to the suburbs to live with his bride-to-be. He wants to keep the apartment to rent out, but he has had no luck finding an appropriate renter. He offers it to you at a huge discount, no security deposit. Taking the apartment would mean totally uprooting your life at a moments notice and occupying yourself with the business of moving, a business you hate. You'd also experience a huge lifestyle adjustment--going from 4 roommates to none.

The offer is the stuff of urban legends. Units like this never go for the price available to you. But you have to decide soon, as its a decision that affects many people.

But, you'd have your own charming apartment with which you could entertain friends whenever you want and have your very own little haven from the world around you, and you'd be in walking distance of a ton of cool places. You would also be free from the politics of group houses, even though your current one is rather drama free. But you may also finally feel like more of a grownup, and would no longer have to feel slightly embarrassed when strangers ask you where you live and who you live with.

What do you do?

Lessons of the City--Just a Typical Saturday

Saturday was one of those epic weekend days where you leave your home seemingly for brunch with the Oberlin girls, but you don't return to your home until well past 3:00 am. As is the case with many days where you spend 16 hours away from home base, the city teaches you a number of lessons, and with each one your friends remind you of your duty to blog about them. Here, in popular numbered list format, they are:

1.) Sign of the Whale no longer offers its famous bloody mary brunch.

For the unindocrinated among you, SOTW's bloody mary brunch was, in it's time, one of Washington's best excuses to be drunk on a Saturday afternoon. For 12 dollars you received an unlimited quantity of cheap vodka, with which you could make an unlimited number of bloody marys. The window sill of the bar would be lined up with an abundance of tomato-based liquids, millions of hot sauces, dozens of steak sauces, and a myriad of flora with which to garnish your creation. Having recently heard that the establishment is due to go out of business, we decided to have one last hurrah. But it was not to be. B, who called the bar upon realizing that the doors were locked was informed by the voice on the other end that they will be reintroducing the special in the fall for NFL season. Apparently, somebody didn't get the memo that they're closing.

A decent substitute can be found several doors down however, at the

2.) Mad Hatter's $16.95 breakfast buffet with unlimited mimosas. So you can't make your own bloody, in fact, they're barely even included in the special (they cost 3 dollars) but, you may feel free to get as tipsy as you'd like off of mimosas, and cram as many waffles, plates of eggs, piles of grits, and mountains of scalloped potatoes (highly, highly recommended) down your throats as you wish. The ladies among you can also feel free to flirt with the waiter, who will flatter you by asking you if you're in school or "just graduating." He's 21, in case you're interested.

It seems illogical, but sometimes the best thing to do after eating a ridiculous amount of fat and starch is to go shopping at

3.) The fancy French underwear store in Gallery Place/Metro Center.

I have been promising L a blog entry about this place for quite some time, based on her experiences there, but never having been in the store myself, I didn't want to pose as any sort of authority. But yesterday, to my mimosa addled mind, a measly 10 percent off sale seemed the perfect excuse to drop all sorts of cash on frilly, sexy unmentionables. So that I did. I will not get in to exactly how much I spent, but let it serve to further explain why I don't own a car or a condo--because my spending habits are not always as practical as they could be. However, I am now the proud owner of some incredibly kicking underduds (as Lulu calls them)--sheer pink with white lace and all sorts of ribbons. The next man I date will be a lucky one indeed.

I didn't have much of a problem with the sales women there. I swallowed my pride and bought the size larges, without even bothering to ask the size 2 French lady behind the counter if they'd fit. L on the other hand, did not have such a pleasant experience. It seems that several months ago, she entered into something of an abusive relationship with the owners of the store, who possessing boring rail thin bodies, don't quite know what to do with L's rockin' curves. But L gave them her money, and she continued to do so yesterday even after a traumatizing run-in with la Frenchie in the dressing room. It's not my story to tell so I won't get into the details, but let this serve as a warning. If you're one of those women who likes to eat food, even in modest quantities, and you have a body that betrays this dirty secret, proceed to the fancy French underwear store at your own risk.

What's the next logical move after spicy up your lingerie drawer? Why, I trip to the

4.) Tattoo parlor!

Did you know you may be required to wait two hours for a tattoo? It's true. If you go to get inked, I suggest you bring a friend. Or four. And while you are there, as a gesture of solidarity to your friend who is getting inked, why not get your nose pierced? If you do, you may have the pleasure of talking to Brian, who has more metal in his face than anyone I have ever seen. It seemed impolite to stare long enough to count all the bling, but a rough estimate brings it to 15. On his FACE. Never mind what was lurking beneath his clothes.

If you have the patience to wait the two hours for a tat, you may be subjected to the gun of the meanest, most bitter tattoo artist ever. Bitch practically yelled at my friend, who did her best not to squirm as she was subjected to the sensation akin to being stung by a bee repeatedly for 15 minutes. Never having seen a tattoo in process, I do admit that the whole thing was a kind of fascinating.

By this point in the day, it will be 9:30 pm. Although you intended to go home and change into something slightly interesting for the evening's party, you realize you don't have time, and its so hot out it barely matters what you're wearing because you'll look like ass eventually anyway, with all the sweat running down your face. But having recently had the "I don't give a shit anymore" epiphany, you really don't care. Your friends will be with you and if strangers aren't impressed by your jeans/black tee shirt combo, well...fuck 'em. The party will be fun, but nothing major to speak of. Until you learn the...

5.) 1:00 am rule. Why nobody clued me into this years ago is a mystery to me. Knowing it would have saved me much pain and suffering over the years. Anyway, it's like this. Do NOT entertain the flirtations of anyone at a party who does not speak to you before 1:00 am. Exceptions can be made for people who don't roll in to the party until 1:00 am, but that is it. But the guy who elbowed you out of the way of the keg at 11:00 pm, or the one who walked away from you to chat up the hot Asian chick? Yeah, he does not deserve your attention when, at 1:00 am, he slithers up to you and asks for a smoke even though he doesn't. Move along, little man, move along...

I know I should end this post with a conclusion, but I don't got one. More later, bebes.

Growing Old Rocks!

So for a while now I've been hearing that turning 30 is great because you start to not give a shit anymore and for the longest time I couldn't figure out what people meant by this. Not give a shit about what? How can I get in on that? Does this mentality magically set in the minute the clock chimes 30, or does it develop in a more gradual, organic matter? But then today I was reading some blog, I don't which, and it doesn't matter, that mentioned rating women as 1s, 2s, 3s, etc. etc. For a second it depressed me to remember that there are guys out there that reduce the attractiveness of the women the encounter to such an arbitrary set of standards. And then a thought about it again and asked myself if I really care what some 24 year old dork in a white baseball cap and an Abercrombie polo shirt thinks of the way I look and that answer was no. Tah Dah! I didn't give a shit! And what a refreshing feeling that was. I can only hope to look forward to more moments like this one in the months to come.

An Open Letter to the Crazy People on the Street Who Talk to Me When I'm Listening to My iPod

Dear Crazy People on the Street Who Talk to Me When I'm Listening to My iPod:

Hey, what's up? How was your week? Mine was good, thanks. It went by real quick. I'm looking forward to the weekend. I have lots of fun social activities planned. Anyway, that's not why I'm writing. There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about, and it's time I stopped procrastinating and got on with it. It's regarding your insistence on talking to me when I'm listening to my iPod. I know, I know. Sometimes it's hard to tell that I can't hear you. But I'm going to help break it down for you. You see these white bud-like things that are nesting in my ears, the ones with the white cords hanging off of them? Right, yes. Those. They serve an important function that you don't seem to be aware of. They exist to pipe music in to my head so that I may be better entertained as I walk down the street. Yes, agree with you that it's a sad testament to the state of our society that we feel the need to be entertained by various media AT ALL TIMES and that we can't appreciate silence and simplicity, but hey. We can't all be Henry David Thoreau, can we? So the thing about the music being piped into my head is that it serves a second vital function. It prevents me from hearing you and having to listen to you as you shout at me to give you a dollar (a dollar? ah, to recall the days when it was just a quarter or a dime) of my hard earned money so that you can by a Big Mac or a bottle of malt liquor or God knows what other poison that no doubt caused you to wind up where you are in the first place. It's not that I don't feel terrible about your plight. I do. But it's not really my problem to fix, and frankly, the several years I spent working for do-gooder non-profits jaded me enough that I am simply burnt out on random liberal empathizing. Moreover, it taught me to be more efficient with my charitable donations, which I would rather spend on electing good liberals to office than on buying your lunch. So, I'm sorry about that, but it's just the way it's going to be. And please do not follow me down the street either. Stalking me will simply lead you to the nearest police officer and there's nothing worse than encounter with the DC po-po. I think that's something we can all agree on. So please just let me listen to my iPod in peace and save your voice for somebody who can actually hear you.

All the best,

Hey Pretty

Quick to Judge? That's How I Roll...

I'm sure many people will come down rather hard on me for what I am about to say, but I'll say it anyway. Far be it from me to ever hold back, right? I can usually tell within the first five minutes of talking to a guy if I think there's a possibility that I'll ever want to take it to a more physical level. That is all I need to assess appearance, personality, sense of humor, weirdness levels, confidence, overall awesomeness. If they've passed my five minute test, flirting may ensue. If not, well to quote the kids on MTV, "NEXT!"

The five minute test came in handy last night as I was sipping G&Ts with my date, who we'll refer to as "Man of the Hour" in a bar I normally reserve for second or third dates (it has sofas and is therefore conducive to closer proximity, and therefore better flirting) but I hadn't been there in a few weeks so I thought I'd give it a whirl. To be clear, my date with "Many of the Hour" was indeed a blind one. I had seen photos though, and they seemed promising (it's so hard to tell with photos though...I will be the first to admit that I don't look in photos the way I do in real life--I'm cuter), but after 30 seconds with MOTH I was developing that sinking in the pit of your stomach feeling that he wasn't going to do. Ostensibly, there was nothing wrong with MOTH. He was smart and funny, two very important qualities. But, he just wasn't that cute, and the five minute test revealed him to be incredibly nervous (and not in an endearing way), insecure, and just slightly weird. I know "just slightly weird" is a rather vague term, and I can just hear Lulu, E, and E2 asking me "slightly weird in what way?" I can't pinpoint it, but it's a quality I encounter in a lot of guys and I like to use it as a catch-all term to encompass subtle personality flaws that add up to deal breakers. And he had a really annoying laugh. Oy vey.

As efficient as the five minute test is, it still means that you have to play along with the date for at least another hour or two. Luckily, this why God invented gin, tonic water, and Parliament Lights. In fact, I believe those three items were placed on earth for the specific purpose of helping girls endure the agony that is a bad first date. Also lucky, is that I was in the drama club in high school (I was also year book editor in case any of you misguided souls were harbouring any thoughts that I was cool when I was 16) so I can act when forced to (I generally prefer not to but some situations call for it). So, I enjoyed two free cocktails, smoked a couple cigs, and traded friends getting married horror stories with MOTH (who was definitely pretty entertaining after a couple drinks, but not entertaining enough that I would ever kiss him or stand closer than three feet from him) and faked it. E and KB also appened to be there, chilling with a bunch of people I've never seen before. I swear I didn't know they'd be there. I don't think MOTH believed me though. But it was comforting to know that two of my people were in close proximity, even if E kept on bumming cigs from me.


Now, there have been times when I have questioned the authority of the five minute rule. For instance, I once met a guy who I assumed was a complete jerk when we first met, but he surprised me by asking me out after we hooked up (it usually doesn't happen that way for me) and I said yes even though I didn't think that highly of him (sometimes people surprise you). Of course after our first date, which stretched into lunch the next day, I was enamored of him. And that continued for the next 6 weeks, and he continued to get cuter and more charming by the day. But then that changed abruptly and he went back to his original jerkiness. So the lesson learned there--remember the five minute test!



*****

Have you ever had a moment where you look in the mirror and ask yourself "Who's that hot piece of ass?" Yup, that was me this morning. My halfway between skinny and not skinny jeans are fitting again! I celebrated with a bagel, but I swear I will get to the gym again within the next couple of days.

Old

Yikes. So last night I attended Quizzo at the Pour House, as I have practically every Tuesday for a little over a year. I attend because I love watching L yell at the Quizzo Master for the lack of questions pertaining to Saved By The Bell, watching S's eyes light up in glee when the speed round requires us to come up with a bunch of arcane sports facts, and giggling at our collective cluelessness about world geography (you'd think by now one of us would have taken it upon themselves to become a geography whiz). There used to be a time when consuming vast quantities of alcohol at Quizzo was not beyond my devices. I have heard quite a lot of clamor in recent weeks about Tuesdays being the new Thursdays, and my only response to that is "duh." My Quizzo compatriots and I have known that for quite some time. Anyway, last night I consumed a small fraction of my usual alcohol intake. But this morning. Ouch. I even drank water in between cocktails yet the dull ache behind my eyes this morning and my refusal to get out of bed were as if I had consumed gallons of whisky. I do not understand this recent backlash. It is true that over the past year or so my body has been more resistant to my debaucherousness lifestyle. I remember when I was several years younger, people in their thirties would warn me that this was about to happen, and I would laugh at them, because after all, I come from sturdy Irish stock. But alas, their prophesy has proven correct. I had also thought that because I am taking my body to the gym more often for sessions that often consist of an hour of cardio followed by weights, and that because my body is thanking me by slowly toning up and displaying more stamina, that this overall strength might also translate to increased drinking stamina. But it seems that the opposite is true. As I have said a number of times, I'm not much for science, but could it be true that the more physically fit you are, the less of a tolerance for booze you have? It doesn't make sense but perhaps its the case.

On a related note, my 30th birthday is around the corner. I'm currently accepting suggestions for kickass celebration ideas. I don't want to settle for the same old boring go-to-a-bar-and-drink solution.

Ephemera

Recent events in the life of HP have provided further evidence to support the claim that cell phone companies need to be more proactive in developing products that do not break down and refuse to function properly when introduced to quantities of water and other liquids.

As some of you will recall, my old Samsung died after an unfortunate run-in with a drunk kickballer and a pitcher of cheap beer. It was for the best, as I was overdue for buying a new phone anyway.

However, it is totally unacceptable that the pink Razr that I purchased as a replacement not four months ago should meet a similar end when accidentally dropped into a sink full of water. Beer, I can understand. It does terrible things to your liver after all, so it makes sense that it might also disintegrate SIM cards and batteries. But water? Water is supposed to be clean and healthy and revitalizing. Not being the type to dwell over electrical matters, there is probably some technical nuance here that I am missing (scratch that, there certainly is). But it seems unfair to the legions of cell phone consumers out there that Motorola is too busy trying to place iTunes on their phones that they'd neglect something as basic as durability.

When I went to purchase the pink Razr, I unwisely laughed at the sales person who encouraged me to invest in the 5 dollars a month for phone insurance. Who's laughing now?

In other news, I heard from British boy, who expressed an interest in hanging out again. Methinks a slight crush might be developing.

Thank You Wonkette

Since I'm low on blogging inspiration and surprisingly motivated at work today, this post is just a perfunctory shout-out to the good people at Wonkette for the two excellent links they gave to HP last week. Thanks guys, I'm honored and thrilled as only a dorky, self-involved blogger should be.

A Weekend From My Weekend

On Sunday, thoroughly drained from all forms of human interaction, I decided to spend the day in hiding. Last week I purchased Tom Wolfe's latest novel I am Charlotte Simmons. A portrait of class relations set at a fictitious University (one that resembled something of an amalgamation of Duke and UVA), Charlotte Simmons is over 700 pages long. When I bought it, I assumed it would occupy me for at least a month, given its sheer size alone. What I forgot to factor in, is that as a former English major who often had to read one novel a week for each of her seminars (sometimes two a semester) is that I have been conditioned to read books at a super-human pace. It wasn't so much that I loved the novel. I liked it well enough, and I admire Wolfe's way with words. Although often too self-conscious of his own talent, Wolfe does have a way of combining words in unusual ways, and his affinity towards adjectives make for novels that are richly descriptive and well painted. I wanted to finish it more out of a desire to understand how the book's ending was derived from the events that lead up to it.

Confession time. Some fundamental flaw in my personality compels me to read the last page of a book before I have read the rest of it. There's a line in When Harry Met Sally when Harry says that he reads the end of a book first so that he'll know how it ends if he happens to die before he reads the rest of it. That ain't me. For me, there's something about knowing the ending so that from a mechanical point of view, I can understand how each event leads up to the end as the story unfolds. It's an unorthodox way of appreciating narrative fiction, but it's an approach I've taken for as long as I can remember. I probably even read Nancy Drew and the Sweet Valley High novels that way as well. I think my motivation for this has something to do with the fact that I hate waiting to know something. In general, if information exists and is available for consumption, I want it. I don't like waiting for surprises and I hate being out of gossip loops.

I wasn't expecting Simmons to end the way that it did, and the conclusion that Wolfe chose seemed hastily thrown together and even seemed to undermine the reader's sympathy for the main character. I won't give away what happens, but I left the book feeling incredibly ambivalent towards the main character who struck me as deeply superficial and self-obsessed.

Anyway, so that was that. Perhaps you're curious about my need for a break from my weekend. It has something to do with the fact that knowing at least 8 couples to get engaged/married this year, combined with feeling like the year of 29 has been one of perpetual heartbreak for Ms. Pretty, that made this weekend especially sad. Sure, I don't handle things well. I'm too sensitive by nature. But it's hard. Having to constantly be happy for everyone else's happiness gets exhausting. Having constant reminders of your own romantic failures only makes it more difficult. Plus, I had an argument with a girlfriend on Saturday night. That alone would have ruined the weekend. So this weekend I chose the bummer routine, and hopefully it will soon be out of my system and I can return to my normal irreverently indifferent self.

The bright spot on Sunday, after finishing Charlotte and watching a cheesy romantic comedy (The Truth About Cats and Dogs--Janeane Garofalo always reminds me of me before I developed any semblance of self confidence) I realized I was famished and in dire need of a cheeseburger. Trotting out of the house in a wife beater, yucky old pants, no makeup, and my hair unbrushed and thrown into a clip, I was hardly the picture of glamour. Most people would probably think twice about checking the mail in such a get up, but I really didn't care. Depression does that to girl. Sliding up to the counter at my neighborhood bar/cafe, I suddenly spot a boy I know through a coworker. A boy who I just saw on Friday night. A boy with a beautiful smile and an extremely quirky personality who I have harbored a crush on ever since I met him several months ago. I had forgotten that he works there. Immediately upon spotting me he came over to help me. And suddenly he's grinning at me with that wonderful smile, he's eyes alit. And to my surprise, I forget that I haven't showered in over 24 hours and that I have spent the majority of the day in bed. I'm flirting with him. He takes my order, we chat. I manage to form complete sentences without stammering and I even sound somewhat witty and articulate. He suggests that I eat my cheeseburger (rare with provolone) in, but I explain that I'm alone that I'd rather eat at home with the TV as companionship. We say our goodbyes and I am suddenly renewed with hope. Not hope for him, per say because even if that happened it would never last and would ultimately bum me out all over again. But hope because I have been reminded that there are boys who flirt with me even when I look and feel horrible and the reminder that despite my raggedness, I can still match their game.

A Capitol Hill Courtesan, I Am Not

So.

Did I ever tell you kids about the sketchy Democratic political consultant who tried to put the moves on me several months ago? I think I was probably too traumatized at the time to delve into it. It was a situation I fell into by accident. Unlike some women in DC, I don't go about my days and nights hoping to run into unattractive older men with strong political ties who I can seduce for glory and fame. This dude I ran into near one of my favorite hangouts. Strongly affiliated with an organization I used to work for, he invited me upstairs to his office to catch up. Silly me thought I was being lent the ear of an influential power-broker with party ties that could maybe someday come in handy when job-hunting. I viewed it as networking, something I suck at. I figured I needed the practice. So. Sketchy Democratic Political Consultant gives me a beer and we chill out for a while in his office. Everything is fine. I'm even managing to sound good-natured about my old job and why I left. After all, I'm here to network and nothing is less becoming of a potential job seeker than bad-mouthing old employers. We shoot the shit, I start to realize that I've consumed at least four adult beverages since 7 pm and that I should be going home. I start to leave but before I know it I am being escorted into a dark room with a bed in it. He sits down and invites me to do the same. I suddenly realize that I am dangerously close to being molested by this dude and I make up a fancy excuse about it being late and I BOLT. I leave, feeling extremely stupid. At some point between my first sip of beer and the incident in the room with a bed (a BED? in a consulting office?) I had given him my email address (for networking purposes, I thought).

Skip ahead several months later.

Every once in a while I receive an email from Sketchy Political Consultant. It's not addressed to me, but to this other woman. I don't know her, but from what I can glean from the emails he sends her, she's somewhat important in progressive politics. For some reason, I am cc'd on these emails. He obviously isn't including me on purpose, but part of me laughs whenever I receive one. In addition to being unattractive and sketchier than hell, he clearly lacks a basic command over Outlook or whatever software runs his PDA. I'm tempted to respond one of these days offering my two cents on the topic at hand, but I'd rather not draw attention to my presence. Maybe someday the topics will get juicer and I'll have some great info to do something dastardly with (it's a sad testament to my inherent niceness that I can't for the life of me imagine what I would do with this potential information). More than anything else, I simply don't want to interact with the guy.

Shannen's Back!

"I'm sorry that everybody is put off by the idea of an independent woman trying to take an aggressive posture in pursuit of a specific goal..."--Brenda Walsh

Throughout the tenure of her career, Shannen Doherty has raised bitchery to a fine art. Sure, her diva-like antics have gotten her thrown off many a set, but its almost impossible to not admire (at least a little) her pure chutzpah in doing whatever she wants, when she wants. So it was great delight that I spotted promos for a new show featuring Ms. Doherty on the Oxygen channel last week (Yes, I was watching Oxygen. What of it?). According to realitytvworld.com, Breaking Up with Shannen Doherty will feature the famed bad-girl going undercover to rescue women entrenched in toxic relationships. Even as our airwaves become increasingly oversaturated with shitty reality programming, there is something sublimely awesome about the premise of this show.

Does your man tell you you're fat? Sick Shannen on 'em.
Is your man sneaking around behind your back? At least Shannen's got *your* back.
Caught in an endless cycle of non-commitment with your neighbor? Shannen will take care of it.

I'm waiting for a version where Shannen comes to my office and informs my supervisor that I will no longer be working on Mondays and Fridays.

In other news (this will just be a random day of postings) I have to go to a wedding tomorrow. It's for a male-friend who I like, but who isn't part of my close social circle and vice-versa. But he invited me, so I am going. A while back I asked somebody to be my date, but that somebody and I don't really talk anymore, so E has gamely agreed to be my date (thank you E. I owe you big time). Between you, me and the rest of the blog-reading public, I am TERRIFIED of this event. I don't expect to know many people and I pray to death that E won't be bored and grow resentful that I dragged him along. I can only hope that the booze is free or at least inexpensive. At the very least there will be dancing and people to make fun of. I may just bring my trusty pink flask with me just in case.

More ruminations on the subject to come...

Inner City School Kids: More Politically Sophisticated Than You Thought

I swear to God I overheard the following exchange between a couple of school-aged girls on the Red Line to Shady Grove this morning around 9:15.

Girl 1: You know what I heard the President wanted for his birthday?
Girl 2: What?
Girl 1: A lap dance from Condoleeza Rice.

If only I had the imagination to make that up. Kids these days say the oddest things...

Disposable Society

Ours is a culture where are lives are made easier by an array of inexpensive, easily obtained, easy to use disposable objects. At lunch we dine from plastic take-out containers, at work we scribble notes with cheap plastic pens, flimsy paper slips encoded with computer chips record our commutes to work, at parties we drink beer from disposable plastic cups. Nothing serves a purpose for long, and when we're through with them we know that there are plenty of similar objects to take their place.

For the young and unattached among us a similar sentiment seems to apply to the people who float in and out of our lives. Flirtations are coyly bantered about, meaningful contacts are established, only to sever without even the slightest bit of hesitation or second-thoughts. The cavalier attitudes we've cultivated towards the objects that make our life more convenient have filtered down to an alarmingly personal level. Fast food has made way for fast friendships--easy to get, quickly consumed, easily forgotten. As our nation's landfills swell with the detritus of discarded every day objects, our karmic landfills are just as cluttered.

The catch however, is that people aren't plastic cups. But for some reason, we've all decided to treat one another with the same cynicism that we do towards the tower of empties that clutter our kitchen counters the morning after a raging kegger. Perhaps some of us get attached a tad too easily, but others among us would doing everyone a favor if they approached matters of the human heart with just a tad more sensitivity.

But maybe I'm just especially sensitive today [redacted: there was actually a death in the family. who feels dumb now?] and having received a not exactly obscene but not exactly nice message on my work voicemail this morning from an untraceable number.

Mercury in Retrograde

According to the astrological experts at Style.com, Mercury is currently in retrograde. I don't really know what that means, but they claim its the reason why things are going "according to script", which may be why work is so stunningly illogical today and why my new boy toys are paying me little head. Glad that mystery has been solved. It's always nice to have something to blame when life doesn't go the way you want it to. So for those of you who have found yourselves saying WTF? every few minutes, there's your explanation.

Yesterday, key members of the Sunday crew went to see the Devil Wears Prada. I read the book and was entertained but didn't really like it that much. I found the main character to be wearisome in her constant whining and I found little evidence to support her claims that she really was better than her snotty co-workers. But since I adore Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway, I wanted to see the movie. And how glad I am that I did! It obviously won't be winning many important awards, but it was the perfect movie to escape to on a hot summer day. Streep's portrayal of Hathaway's impossible boss was spot on and all day I have found myself wishing that I too could flounce around the office throwing coats on people's desks and dismiss people with a bored "That is all." I know I would never be this way in real life, but think how fun it would be to just get to be a total bitch for a day. Fashion types have criticized the Devil for its inaccurate portrayal of the wardrobes of those who work at glossy fashion pubs and I get what they're saying, but I found myself wishing that I too could wear Chanel to work and that my hair would cooperate with me enough to agree to be stick-straight enough for bangs, and that I too could pull off scads of black eyeliner without it running down my face. But alas, I am fated to a life of Banana Republic, curls, and raccoon eyes.

A First Date is No Occasion for Feminist Grandstanding

Shoutout to my fellow peons stuck in cubeland today! Can you believe the bullshit audacity that some employers are displaying by making us come to work today? This morning I rebelled slightly, sleeping in several hours and rolling into the office at 11:50. Yes, I will need to make these hours up. And yes, I have two meetings today. WTF?

The title of this post is the quote of the weekend. I'll get to it in a second.

First, let me say that because I am a complete and total stud, I had not one but two dates on Saturday! (in addition to a slightly random friday-night hookup but that's neither here nor there). I decided to do this not out of some compulsion to meet the man of my dreams, but more because I wanted the practice.

Date #1 was an afternoon coffee date at Tryst. My companion has a lovely british accent. We flirted and bantered for a while and then we walked around Adams Morgan and then I sent him off to take a quick siesta before he had to meet up with his friends.

Date #2 was for drinks later on. My companion was potentially insane, but extremely entertaining and very smart. He's been published in McSweenys, just to give ya'll an idea of how brilliant and quirky he is. But there is a possibility he's a roid-head as evidenced by the following clues:

1.) He is STACKED.
2.) He told me he sometimes loses his temper and gets angry at inanimate objects.
3.) He got mad at me for paying the bill. Were he a cartoon character, steam would have been coming out of his ears.

You're probably wondering why any sane girl would pay for the first date. Afterall, aren't dates a great way to score some free food and alcohol? In most cases, yes. However, he ordered a Scotch and didn't touch it, and because I love Scotch, I finished it for him after I drank my Amstel Light. Okay. So this wasn't the most ladylike behavior, but I was feeling comfortable with him and sometimes it's better to be yourself than to pretend you're something you're not. Anyway, the check came when he was in the restroom so I took care of it. He was not happy about this and informed me, to quote my own title that "A first date is no occassion for feminist grandstanding." To me, feminism had nothing to do with it. I simply am of the opinion that if person A consumes person B's drink, then person A should pay for it. But whatever.

It is now Monday and I haven't heard a peep from either fellow. Both seemed to be having a good time with me. I texted British boy and thanked him for a lovely time but no response and I just emailed roid-head to thank him as well. It's possible that I won't hear from roid-head because I offended his delicate senisibilities. And it's possible that British boy didn't have fun afterall and I am just a poor reader of other people.

Time will tell.

Anyway, if you're reading this post today, you are no doubt surfing the internet pretending to be doing your job. Know that after my 2 bullshit meetings I will do the same, and perhaps even post again if you're well behaved. What would you like to read about today, my blog-reading darlings?