hey pretty

Ceci n'est pas une "dating blog."

Thursday, November 30, 2006

Life is Just Better When...

1.) You have a huge pile of books to read and you're torn between which one demands your immediate attention.

2.) You have a creative project in the works. To date, I have knit ALL of the scarf I am making for my mom for Christmas. It is longer than I am tall, and made of kinky-fuzzy-soft wool. I intend to use ribbons for the fringe. After that, I am going to hand-bind a photo album and fill it with photos I took on my trip to Vermont this August.

3.) Your editor barely touches a piece you submit her because it's next to perfect as is.

4.) You have an insanely funny mom who emails you things like this:

I ate my lunch at Chilies. Don't go there. Anyway, I've been reading this book C. lent me: "The Place in Between." It's about a trek across Afghanistan. In winter. Much snow. Land mines. The foolish beings who take on this very long walk are a nice young Scottish historian (Rory) and a very large, not tame but wonderful dog (Babur). Second to last page, the dog died. I cried. In damn Chilies.

I assured her that crying at Chilis is probably more common than she thinks (I mean, it's Chilis for crying out loud); and in fact, it inspired a new idea. Next time I want to break up with somebody, I am doing it at a Chilis. That way, I will not associate a place that I like or care about with an unpleasant memory. In fact, I bet a lot of people get dumped at Chilis. Perhaps their marketing team should explore this idea for future promotional campaigns.

Two Ships Passing in the Night

Well dear readers, I'd love to fill you in on the juicy details of le date last night, but unfortch, le date was not to be. Not quite sure what happened. I showed up early, found us seats, ordered a beer, became engrossed in my crossword puzzle. At 7:30 it occurred to me to check the time, causing me to realize that I was either being stood up, we had crossed paths, or we failed to recognize one another. Determined to finish my puzzle (yes, I am a major nerd), I ordered a second Blue Moon, befriended the nice British bartender and got my crossword on. No worries, I only stayed another half hour or so. And yes, I finished my puzzle--New York Times Wednesday edition no less! Will Shortz, eat your heart out.

This morning, messages were exchanged. I was there and didn't see you.

But dude, I was there and didn't see you.

But I do believe him. When I returned home I caught myself peering into the mirror, wondering if for any reason, my looks are of the variety that causes blind dates to reject me from across the room at first site, until I decided that they aren't and I was being too harsh on myself. But I did slather on some wrinkle cream before going to bed. You know, just for good measure.

But enough of that. A resched is being discussed. I'll let you know what we decide.

So I mentioned earlier that I recently started Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis. I'm only 107 pages in, but so far my assessment is: Book LUST! Lunar Park will probably only be enjoyable to readers already intimately familiar with Ellis and his previous books. I say this because in placing the public persona of "Bret Easton Ellis" in the center of the novel's narrative, he slyly pokes fun of himself, but more importantly, our collective perception of him. Critics of Ellis have accused him of being misogynistic, drug addled, self-obsessed and host of other terrible things. So that's exactly how he paints himself here. The Bret Easton Ellis of Lunar Park is a "recovered" drug addict who cheats on his wife with nineteen year-olds; snorts mountains of coke everywhere he goes; fails to connect with anyone around him, especially his children (he likens parenthood to "some fucking Beckett play that we're constantly rehearsing"); and is trying to pen his next novel, a pornographic thriller aptly titled Teenaged Pussy, if only he could get over himself to finally sit down to write. Basically, he's made himself a million times worse than the National Organization for Women (who slandered him after the publication of American Psycho) could ever dream. It's the sort of dark, sarcastic humor that I go crazy for. It's like he's saying "yeah, you thought I was bad before, oh honey, you can't possibly imagine how bad I can be."

Vanity Fair described Lunar Park as a mix of John Cheever and Steven King. The King elements are beginning to emerge. As cracked out as Ellis is, he's lucid enough to realize that things are amiss in the sleepy suburban town he and his family have fled to from Hollywood. Either that, or *because* he's so cracked out, things seem to be slightly amiss. Like Rules of Attraction, the plot of the novel is heavily based on individual perceptions, which can't be 100% trusted. As of now, characters from his previous novels seem to be coming to life...and that's all I got for now. I'm guessing what will end up happening is that Ellis will end up being dragged down by these characters in some way--that the demons of his own creations, so to speak, will be what haunts him. But maybe not. Or maybe yes, but much, much more.

Stay tuned.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

An Open Letter to Men Who Internet-Date

Dear Men Who Internet Date,

Congratulations on taking the step to broaden your social horizons by electing to meet women on-line. Bravo. Whereas in the past (like, 10 years ago), people who dated on-line where maligned as geeks or social misfits, now just about everyone and their mothers is hip to cyber hookups. So much so that certain sites have found niche audiences and subtly brand themselves to attract consumers of each one. Many pixels have been spilled on the internet highlighting what site is for who, so I won't be too elaborate about it. From what I can tell, the breakdown is as follows*:

Match----> Rather mainstream, nice boys and girls. You're probably well adjusted & not too kooky. You're most likely upwardly mobile.

EHarmomy----> For one, you have an inordinate amount of faith in computer software, which either makes you desperate or just a little hokey.

MySpace---> You're either my ex-boyfriend, a 14 year old girl, or a pedophile.

Friendster---->My guess is that you're a former hipster whose been in a coma for 3 years and hasn't heard that nobody uses Friendster anymore.

Springstreet Network (Accessed through Nerve/Salon/the Onion/other random "indie" pubs)----> You're self consciously intellectual, you've probably been called a hipster on more than one occasion, you read Pitchfork.com, you think that your ideal mate will love the same (New York Times Notable) books as you and the same (Black Cat/DC 9 approved) bands.

Yahoo Personals---> Actually, I have no idea what you're like.

So once you have found the site that best suits your personality, it's time to create a profile. They make this semi easy by requiring you to answer a bunch of questions. With EHarmony for instance, you will spend close to an hour filling out an electronic questionnaire about your "values." Believe me, it is tedious. A word of advice-- when filling out such profiles, be honest. Sure, glib answers are amusing but they really don't tell me anything about you other than the fact that you desperately want to seem cool and that you'd rather spout semi-witty one liners that actually say something of substance.

Okay, so your profile is up. Now it's time to meet some ladies. There are a couple of ways you could go about it. You can be all passive, like and make them come to you. Or you can go to them. If you do decide to go to them, might I make a few suggestions. For starters, remember that old tired cliche, "You never get a second chance to make a first impression"? (I think it was in fact, a Head and Shoulders tagline for a while). Well as dumb as it sounds, it's true. And even truer when e-dating. Do not attempt to engage a woman in conversation with a stupid one liner or sarcastic remark. You'll just sound like a smartass, and you'll probably even remind her of the dumb men who stumble up to her drunk at bars while slurring nonsensically and leering down her blouse, the whole reason why she's e-dating in the first place. Having said that however, it's probably not a great idea to write anything too earnest and detailed. HP has been on the receiving end of far too many messages that resemble novellas in their length and detail. I suppose it's possible to do this ironically, in which case I would give you major props, but it's definitely a difficult feat. Tread lightly. Your best bet for an introductory note is something brief, sincere, funny and perhaps moderately self deprecating. Please do not make any comments about her appearance in your opening remarks. That's just cheesy and even a bit icky.

After you've written the message hang tight and await her response. If she responds, awesome. There's potential for her to be into you. Run with it. Entertain her with your wit, be charming. After you've settled into a comfortable exchange ask her out for coffee or a drink. Don't be too eager like and ask her right away. Let her feel like she's getting to know you a little before she commits to spending time with you. A woman wouldn't go out with a random who just walked up to her on the street and asked her out without at least conversing for a moment. The same thing goes online.

Now of course there's the possible scenario that she doesn't write back. Do not take this as sign that she's playing hard to get or in some way wants to be badgered with a million more messages. It's kind of like when somebody doesn't return your phone calls. They're not interested, get it? I don't care how great you think you are, or how interesting, or how well you think you'll get along with her, or how adorable your babies will look with your eyes and her nose. She's not feeling it, dude. This happened to me recently. A dude sent me a rather glib message through a dating site. It was semi-obnoxious but warranted a perusal of his profile. I didn't like what I saw. He just wasn't somebody who I thought I'd have fun with, and (sorry to be shallow) judging from his photo, I didn't think I'd find him attractive. So I didn't respond. A couple days later he wrote AGAIN to tell me that he wanted to add that his favorite book was blah, blah, blah.

OH! Why didn't you mention that in the first place! That changes everything. Not.

Dude. I still don't care. Now please stop harassing me.

All this is to lead up to the awesome news that I have an internet date tonight. And I can almost assure you there will be fun tales to regale you with tomorrow.

More on dating etiquette in a bit. Unfortch, I have a deadline looming that I must attend to here at my "real job."

*Yes, I am stereotyping. This entry is also satirical. Suck it.

Monday, November 27, 2006

Most Exciting Blog Entry Ever!

Ha, ha. Made you look. But being the day after a holiday stretch, I decided it was time to pay a little attention to Ms. HP.

Break was good. I stayed here in town. I am allergic to the very notion of traveling for Thanksgiving--too much traffic and commotion. So I exercised my right to stay put. I spent Turkey Day with friends, at an "orphans" Thanksgiving Dinner complete with a ton of food and even more booze. On Friday, several of us decided it would be wise to start drinking at 3:00 pm, and thus Saturday was spent recovering from that. As much of my crew is younger and thus, more resilient than I, I spent Saturday night watching them reprise Friday while I nursed a ginger ale and moaned about my rapidly advancing age. I was simply exhausted. So much so that when a very odd boy starting talking to me, I lacked the energy to get up and move. You know those people you meet when out and you can't decide if they're weird in a funny and alluring way, or weird in a scary or at the very least annoying way? That's basically what this dude is. I was personally somewhat delighted to be chatting with him, but I know for a fact that my friends don't like him. But since I am no longer in the 8th grade, I should make decisions about people based on my own intuition and experience, rather than what my friends think, right? Moreover, my friends have rather large, exuberant personalities, and I find that people with those sorts of dispositions sometimes misjudge those of us who are less extroverted or well socialized. But then again, I have a tendency to give strangers too much credit for being cool, and find out the hard way that they're not worth getting into it with. But then again, it's not as if I'm perfect either. But I did give the potential weirdo my email address and am now trying to figure out what to do with him.

On the way to the ATM to find cash for a cab home from the Hill I spotted my Republican bartender ex-paramour and had a delightfully mature exchange with him that did not result in tears, regret, or any other form of emotional trauma on my part. Hooray for distance. Apparently, he scored an office job advancing all sorts of issues I disagree with. But regardless of politics, I'm proud of him. It's nice when you see good things happen to somebody who was once a prominent fixture in your life, if only for a little while.

Sunday was all about the productivity for HP because I realized it was the last day of break, and I felt compelled to feel like I did something besides eat and drink. I mosied down to Dupont Circle where, after visiting four stores, did not find any suitable winter boots. From there I bought books: The Washington Story by Adam Langer (follow up to his novel Crossing California) and Lunar Park by Brett Easton Ellis. I was so excited about both that I had a hard time choosing which one to dive into first. I picked the later. Easton Ellis has been one of my favorite authors since I read the Rules of Attraction and heavily identified with its themes of lost youth wasting time and getting wasted at a rural elite liberal arts college. In Lunar Park, Easton places the persona he adopted/was bequeathed with during the 80's and 90's as a cultural zeitgeist/pop culture bad boy in the center of the narrative. It's Easton Ellis writing about Easton Ellis. That's as far as I've gotten but I read fast so I'll be able to provide an update in a few days.

Finally, I saw the movie Fur: An Imaginative Portrait of Diane Arbus. And since I wasted two hours of my life watching it, you don't have to. All hail HP. Aside from my fascination with Arbus, I must admit that a large part of my motivation for seeing this film was to drool over Robert Downey Jr, my movie star boyfriend. Alas, his entire body is covered with hair throughout most of the film, making him resemble a Yeti, totally diminishing his beauty and thus ruining my experience of the movie. I also had a hard time buying Nicole Kidman as Diane Arbus. Where Kidman is ethereal and a bit wispy, Arbus was said to have been more earthy and dark. As much as I understand the studio's apparent motivation to hire a well known actress to carry the film, I couldn't help but wish they had been a bit gustier in their casting. Who else, I don't know. But somebody.

And finally tonight I am getting a haircut. The folks at Andre C were nice enough to book my last minute. As I have a somewhat love-hate with that place (great cuts, horrid service) I'm sure I will have an adventure to report about that tomorrow.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Why My Space Is Evil

Because at some point you may decide to track down your first true love. And when you do you will discover that his page is filled with pictures of, and messages from, a lot of really hot chicks. Stripper-hot chicks. Shit.

I haven't blogged much about this particular relationship. It's a tough one to talk about. Being the late bloomer that I am, I didn't fall in love until I was 23. The ex was a few years older, and being a So-Cal preppy party boy, unlike anyone I had ever really met. Initially, I didn't like him. But that eventually changed and I fell. Quite hard in fact. We were both poor and somewhat directionless, and our relationship consisted of being poor, him having multiple life traumas, and me always there to support him through them. I loved him for his affectionate nature and slightly twisted sense of humor. I loved that on the surface you saw a twenty-something Abercrombie acolyte, but beneath it lay a myriad of self conflictions, insecurities, and a very strong sense of irony. I loved that he could love a rebellious east-coast hippy girl. It shouldn't have worked and yet it did. At least for a while. It ended when his commitment issues got the better of him. I cried for a solid month, my friends supplying me with a steady supply of Jack Daniels and cigarettes. Then I threw myself into a series of rebound relationships that I didn't recognize as such until years later. From my experience with him I gained self confidence and the wisdom to recognize co-dependency. And a re-newed love for classic rock.

Years later, I know it's good that it ended. He had problems much too large for me to solve, which shouldn't have been my job anyway. I had to branch out and forge adult friendships without the crutch of a relationship to prop me up. We remain on good terms, emailing every now and then. He finally seems to have his life in order, having traded in unsatisfying DC jobs for law school in California. I am happy for him, yet seeing his new life plastered across My Space so different from the one we shared together is a bit sad. Things change, people change, we move on.

I can appreciate my own good qualities for what they are. Indeed, they're me so I might as well work them. But damn. I did NOT need to see my ex/first true love being licked/rubbed up against by 26 year olds (really, you're 33 aren't they a little young for you?) who look like aspiring porn stars but who are actually law students.

Silver lining: He has gained weight, judging from the facial pudge. And, judging from the photos of him holding empty jello shot containers, he is probably no more mature now than he was when we dated 8 years ago. Once a frat boy, always a frat boy it seems. Le sigh.

Revisiting the Flight of Fight Syndrome

When somebody re-appears in your life after a hiatus of six months or so and your initial instincts tell you to ignore them, it's often best to listen to those instincts. This is not to say that my date last night was a complete and total failure, because it did have it's high points. But when you suspect you're being called upon not for your excellent conversational skills, wit or naturally good looks, but for your skills in other activities reserved for more um, private situations, it's probably best to *forget* to return the email.

Just as I suspected, the event was indeed a glorified booty call. Sure, there was dinner involved, and drinks following, and no, I didn't pay for anything, nor did I offer. He's loaded, I'm not. Then there was a walk to a front door, and a polite goodnight, followed by a claim to be too drunk to drive home (whatever), followed by HP caving a bit on her original policy for the evening. But proudly, not caving all the way. I simply didn't want to have sex with him.* I recall other times with other guys (and to be honest, with him too) where my ability to politely say "no" wasn't strong enough to stand up to a partner who only wanted to hear "yes", where I've convinced myself that I wanted it even when I didn't. To be clear, I don't believe that I've ever been sexually assaulted.** But, like many women, I haven't always known how to say no. On some occasions I have caved because I dreaded alienating or upsetting the other person, and even stupider, I've sometimes felt like I owed them something in return for drinks or dinner.*** Sad, isn't it?***

Luckily, I'm hip to a different game these days and it involves sticking up for myself in a more effective and assertive fashion. Sex is becoming a bigger deal to me than it used to be. Just another area of life where HP is growing up. shocking, I know. So last night I said no. I had to say it many times, in fact, and at one point I panicked a little under the thought that maybe he wouldn't listen. But he did, if only for a little while until I had to say it again. So, I said it around midnight when we got home. I said it around 2 when I first got up for a glass of water. I said it around 3:30 when I was huddled in the fetal position at the very edge of my bed due to the worst cramps in the history of human kind*****. I said it again around 7 when my alarm went off. And finally, I said it at 7:15 after we hit snooze a couple times, but had a few minutes left to sleep. Finally, I walked him downstairs and out the door at 7:30, and promptly indulged myself with a much needed shower.

So it depresses me a little to have experienced yet another date that served mostly to discount yet another man as a potential partner. But on the other hand, it was a much needed exercise is self-assertion. Someday my friends, all this will fall into place. I feel like I'm starting to get the hang of it.

*Because although funny, he's something of a doofus. And while that's entertaining, it makes him seem really immature. Plus, being a doofus is never sexy. That, and I didn't like him enough. I used to, back when I was excited enough about the prospect of a boyfriend that I wasn't being objective in my assessment of his personality. I saw tall, rich and funny and thought I had hit the jackpot. But now I see an over-grown frat boy who never quite outgrew his high school dorkiness. That, and he wasn't very nice to me on our last date, hence the reason for the six month hiatus in the first place. Ah, clarity, such a gift.

**But I have a couple of close friend who have been, and I think that hearing about their stories and living parts of the recovery with them has certainly made me more protective of my body.

***Isn't my sparkling personality reward enough?

****What's especially sad is how often women give into sex for fear of the other person's response, yet even when we do, we often end up feeling dismissed and mistreated by the man after the fact. Sadly, sometimes I think we inadvertently set ourselves up for that kind of treatment simply by trying to please. Lesson here: sex isn't something to be employed to appease another person.

*****TMI, sorry about that.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006


So, I have a date tonight and I'm feeling apprehensive. It's with somebody I've been out with before, but hadn't heard from in a long time. It's too long a story to get into. Believe me, I typed it all out and was appalled by how it managed to portray all of my awful decision making skills while also being incredibly boring and painful to read.

So let's just say I have a date but I think it may actually just be a glorified booty call. And for once in my life I'm feeling like that is not okay.

So the plan for the night is to eat a yummy dinner, have a good conversation, and leave it at that. I will only put out as far as a goodnight kiss at my front door. My pants are staying on. Very much on.

Friday, November 17, 2006

The Importance of Planning Ahead

So the weekend is basically here and if you're like many blog readers, you may be looking forward to some social activities involving the imbibment of alcohol. If you're anything like me, you're hoping that you can stick to your plan of not getting wickedly drunk and doing something regrettable. Well fear not, I just found a very handy website to assist you with this goal. It's called Intoximeter's Drink Wheel, and it looks suspiciously familiar. I think my 8th grade health teacher made us use it in class one day, but that I turned my nose up at it because I had no intention of ever getting drunk.

Ha, ha.

With a little bit of foresight and proper planning, the Intoximeter will tell you how many of certain types of beverages you can consume within a given time frame before you get too drunk to remember where you live, remember that flirting with the bartender is not an appropriate activity, or before you wake up in Reno with no recollection of the night before, but apparently married to a trucker named Larry.

Let's for example, say that I decide to drink 3 Manhattans (pure whisky and vermouth drops of heaven) in 4 hours. According to my new friend the Intoximeter, that would put me at a BAC of .086, or drunk enough to be convicted of driving drunk in many states. What Intoximeter doesn't know however, is that I don't ever drive. But still, that's pretty effen drunk.

Or in another scenario, I drank 4 light beers in 4 hours. Apparently, that puts my BAC at .00. Score!

Finally, if I drank 10 martinis in 5 hours I would most likely die.

Therefore, the plan is to avoid martinis and probably manhattans as well and stick to light beer. Voila!

What will you be drinking?

As much as I love this tool, I take issue with the fact that it assumes you're drinking the same thing all night. It doesn't account for very likely scenarios such as your friend buying you three shots of Jaeger. So in cases like that you need to be sober enough to exercise some common sense of course. Such as, three shots of Jaeger is probably a very bad idea.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

$100 Dollar Art in DC?

Back when I first moved to the area, my friend N was forever trying to drag me to these "$100 Art Sales" wherein emerging area artists would sell their works for $100 or less. I never went because I was dirt poor at the time and even $100 dollars seemed too steep a price to pay when there was bread and milk that needed to be purchased.

But now that I have the very first signs of an art collection, and a desire to amass more, I long for the days of such sales. I've done some poking around on the internet but it seems that the days of these sales has passed. If anyone out there has any inside information on them, by all means, do share (you can email me if you'd like).

Please note that I know that opportunities exist to buy cheap art in DC, but they are often grouped with expensive art as well. What I'm looking for are events or venues that dedicate themselves to art under $100.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Picture on Internet=Not Cool

I have a long sorted history with the practice of being photographed. I have always hated it. Never a photogenic type, my friends and family members are in possession of millions of images of me with half closed eyes and stiff, uncomfortable body language. Recently, I've tried to be a better sport about it, but the results continue to prove disasterous. I know that part of this is due to my natural inclination towards being way too self critical. It also stems from a myriad of other reasons too personal to blog about that continute to affect my self esteem.

I've never understood how other people who I am as or more attractive than in real life can look so stunning in photos, whereas I look like a 300 pound woman wearing a trash bag.

But regardless, I hate it.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

The Magic Word is: KNISHES!

Just when I was poised to take a little blogging hiatus, an issue of extreme importance has arisen that I have no choice but to comment on. The blog-about-town DCist is reporting that our fair city is planning on expanding licensing for food-on-the-street-vendors.

Now, as much as I adore Washington, DC (and I mean that sincerely, not sarcastically), our snack-vending situation totally sucks, especially in comparison to Manhattan's (although it's a bit unfair to compare anything in DC to Manhattan. That's like comparing cherry blossoms to apples). I haven't been to NYC in quite a while, but I seem to recall in past trips being amazed by the selection the street vendors had to offer--pizza, falafel, and most importantly, KNISHES! Oh, heavenly pastry-wrapped bundles of potato goodness!

Wikipedia defines a knish as "an Eastern European snack food popular in Jewish communities." Knishes, says Wiki "Consist of a filling covered with dough that is either baked or fried. Knishes can be purchased from street vendors in urban areas with a large Jewish population, sometimes on a hot dog stand."

Much like their Latin American brother the empanada, KNISHES are perhaps the world's most perfect portable snack food. They are savory and delicious, filling, and feature an edible wrapper, something that can not be said about a bag of Doritos.

With the movie Borat currently burning up cinematic box offices nation-wide, Judaism is within the forefront of American popular culture. What better way to get your Jew on (I hope that's not offensive, please note that I write this as a half-member of the tribe and thoroughly identify with the culture--see, wasn't that unnecessary explanation totally Woody Allen?) than to nosh on some tasty KNISHES from your local friendly street snack vendor?

So. To the DC Department of Consumer & Regulatory Affairs, I have but one word: KNISHES.

HP has spoken and HP wants KNISHES.

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Rules of the Game

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Farewell, My Sweet 20's...

T-minus less than 12 hours before I am officially a member of the 30 and over set. T-minus less than 12 hours for me to perform one last action of an insouciant post-adolescent. [Any suggestions?]

T-minus less than 12 hours until I begin ranting about mini-vans and mortgages.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Democrats Having the Best Week Ever!

And now Rummy's out!

I can't remember a single other day that I have been so proud to be a progressive/liberal/bleeding heart/Democrat.

Go Blue!

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Time of Death, 9:10 pm

Ah well, another relationship comes to an inevitable end. I can't get into the dramatic details, because really it wasn't so dramatic. I'd been rehearsing it in my head for over a week. What I would say, how I would order my thoughts, build up to a climate end. Although it didn't go down exactly how I envisioned it (what does?) I do feel really good in the verbal smack-down I administered. There's nothing quite like telling somebody who you have felt abandoned by how emotionally immature they are and how bad they are at handling things.

To be honest it felt doomed from the start. Sure, I entertained fantasies now and then that he might come around to the whole long distance thing. Me, writing him poignant love letters that he would read from a Navy ship docked in some exotic sea. It would have been oh so retro and romantic. But I always knew the relationship had a rigid shelf life, and even that was causing me some amount of stress. And then, the whole family issues thing happened, which I was willing to roll with, but as I have said before, only up to a certain point. Meanwhile, I grew accustomed to his absence and had already starting living a life without him. Yeah, it sucks, it always does, especially when the breakup occurs not over martinis at a chic lounge with you in your sexiest, yeah asshat, you'll totally miss me when I'm gone little black dress (which I had been saving for the occasion), but over the phone with the person you're in the process of extricating yourself from being frustratingly unresponsive.

But nonetheless, I stated my case, highlighted what I think he did wrong, pointing out what I deserved that I wasn't getting, mourning his inability to honor the good in what we had, tsk-tsking at his inability to at least pretend that I meant a little to him, even suggesting he take a few days to collect his thoughts so we could discuss it more maturely. Because there is nothing worse than breaking up with non-sequitors. Grunt a couple times and call it a day? I think not. So, boys who are reading this post, perhaps I sound harsh and perhaps I sound like a ball-buster. So be it. Perhaps I harped a bit on his personal short comings. I take none of it back.

On to greener pastures.

Over and out.

Monday, November 06, 2006

Things That Make Me Bitter

Okay, so it's just one thing...When you send out a Save the Date at LEAST a month before you're having a party because you just know that somebody else is going to schedule one for the very same night as yours and low and behold, they do anyway and now a significant portion of your guest list has competing priorities.

This makes me quite bitter.

And it's a MILESTONE birthday, people! Not to be all, me, me, me about it, but I am officially ANNOYED.

I know this stems in part from a general anxiety I have regarding birthdays in general. Every year I feel pressured to be all excited about mine, and every year I feign happiness and throw together some soiree or another. In general the anticipation and planning of the event eclipses my overall enjoyment, and I end up feeling rather meh about the whole thing. And now I'm turning 30 and...I feel myself coming down with a cold...my so-called boyfriend is essentially ignoring me and most def seems to have forgotten what this Friday is...One of my closest friends who I have most of my fun going out experiences can't be there...I am planning a party with little help.

I don't care one way or another about getting older. It's the pressure to observe it and the fear that things aren't going to be fun that's getting to me.

Okay, rant over. Thanks for indulging me.

Friday, November 03, 2006

Thankful For...

The other day at yoga, we were kindly reminded that this being the month of Thanksgiving, that we should take the time to reflect on what we are thankful for. So following that spirit, I present...what I am grateful for today, in popular numbered list format.

1.) Blog-world passive aggression. Not since slam books have human beings found a medium so perfectly suited to bashing one another for all the world to read. Say what you will about the recent various "wars" percolating within the blogosphere (I am practically sitting on my fingers in order to prevent myself from addressing the matter at length), they do make for some damn fine work-time procrastination. It's like a Sweet Valley High Novel. Kudos, fellow bloggers, you slay me every time.

2.) Wine. Fermented grapes have helped me out big time this week, completely distracting me from a sundry of unpleasantness such as the next two sentences of my "novel", laundry, the debilitating pain I've experienced from working out a little too hard at the gym, and Mr. S, wherever he may be (snap, pop, fizzle, fizzle). Irish Red will back me up on this one, as she had the honor of witnessing me down, four (four? three?) glasses of Sav Blanc last night at Science Club. Note to self: Science Club packed on Thursdays. Addendum to note to self: Science Club pours a somewhat stingy glass of the vino.

3.) French press coffee. The very best antidote to wine when 8 hours is all the sleep you can afford. I smell a new marketing campaign...

4.) Free pizza at work. Crust is soggy and the toppings kind of suck, but mama always said: never look a gift pizza in the mouth.

5.) Sharing secrets. Sometimes shite goes down between people and it's simply inappropriate for others to know about it. But that doesn't mean that you can't smile and feel secretly entertained by even the slightest things that they say and do.

6.) Ann Taylor cashmere fitting again. It was a bit tight last winter but thanks to my painful new workout regimen, it's fitting a bit better. Welcome back, old friend. Of course, after the free work pizza, it may not be fitting for long.

And speaking of old friends...

7.) Awesome college friend (aka the coolest hippy girl to ever roam the planet we call Earth) visiting next week.

8.) My intuition. It's good to know when to put a slightly lame post out of its misery. On that note, I'm out for now. More later, perhaps...

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Two Whole Sentences!

I wrote two whole sentences of my not-so-great-American-novel last night! And what fine two sentences they are. I'd share them with you but then you might steal them, and well, that would not be good. No, sir.

So as I just said, I wrote two whole sentences, and then got distracted by this bottle of wine I had in front of me, and well, let's just say that the evening's exercise in novel writing came to a close pretty soon after. But I feel that even this is encouraging. Many great writers after all, have been raging alcoholics. Hemingway and Fitzgerald were probably distracted by a bottle of wine on more than one occasion and they're like, rilly important 20th Century novelists, you know?

Therefore, between my two killer sentences, my short attention span, and my proclivity for the juice, I think I may just one day be a great novelist after all.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Get Your Drinks On

Let's say you're planning on having some people over. You're estimating a guest list of 30, give or take. The majority of your friends are heavy drinkers. How much alcohol do you buy? You can count on some people bringing beer, and if you're lucky, a bottle or two of the hard stuff. You know that not everyone likes beer, so you should get some wine just in case. You also know that people lurve jello shots, especially around 1:00 am after many beers so you know you should procure a bottle of cheap-o vodka for that endeavor. How much beer do you buy?

Right now I am vacillating. I don't want to be stuck with a warm keg the next morning so I am leaning away from buying a whole one. I know that a full keg serves 164 12 ounce beers, so a half keg serves about 82. Should I get a half keg of something decent and some cases to make up the difference? If so, how many? Is 5 cases of beer (assorted cheap ass varieties) plus one half keg, plus three bottles of wine sufficient? I'd hate to be the lame-ass host who runs out at midnight.

What would you do?

Get Your Novel On

I clearly will not be the first DC-based blogger to illuminate the fact that this is National Novel Writing Month, but I might just be the first to admit that although I desperately want to participate, I have no fraking clue how to go about the endeavor. I've been wanting to write a novel since forever, possibly before birth. I spent my childhood creating zany short stories which eventually morphed into semi-funny spoken word acts created to express my teenaged angst. The most notable of these fabrications was "Shelly the Waitress," who would emerge every so often at home when my parents would politely ask me to clear the table after dinner. Shelly snapped imaginary gum, spoke in what I believed to be a Southern accent, and had quite the 'tude for being the creation of a very white 14 year old girl. Shelly was impatient. Shelly was world-weary. Above all, Shelly didn't want to take any crap from elder figures fussing about having uncleared dinner plates sitting in front of them. It's amazing that my Shelly impersonations didn't get me sent directly to my room for impudence, and that my parents graciously accepted them for what they were--the acts of an otherwise horrifyingly well adjusted young woman acting out a little teenaged frustration towards "the rules." Besides, Shelly was nothing if not amusing, and I think my parents, being the types to nurture my creative side, didn't want to put a damper on my self expression. Whereas my peers found my dry sense of humor and occasional tendency towards drama confusing and a bit weird, my parents thought these traits made for a highly entertaining dinner companionship.

I'm not sure why, but this tendency towards the fictitious eventually petered out. I got into photography. I got especially into getting the frak out of high school and applying for college. Once at college I became too saturated with college life and a new compulsion to test out various identities that it didn't even occur to me to write. Plus, as a Humanities student I was writing many, many looooooooooooooong papers a term and didn't feel much like tinkering with words in my spare time.

So now I essentially write for a living and consider myself a writer (mainly for trade publications and marketing materials) and I have this terrific blog that I am completely dedicated to although it is essentially about nothing. In a way, HP is my adult manifestation of Shelly, a persona I slip into whenever something arises in my life that I need to vent about. Like Shelly, it communicates my thoughts, but in a form more audacious and witty than I can ever manage in real time. And yet, I still feel as if I am sliding farther and farther away from fiction with each entry. Although I want to write a novel more than anything, I have no idea how to start. I know I can draw from personal experience, but the possibilities on how to order events, which events to base things off of, how to create characters is a dizzying prospect to say the least. I've read a million and a half chick-lit books and know I could give at least a fraction of them a run for their money, but what I possess in talent I lack in direction.

How on earth does one possibly write a novel?