hey pretty

I'm Audi 5000

2007-08-17T19:33:00.000Z

I'm conducting a little experiment, kids. For the time being, or perhaps forever, I am moving shop. Please visit me at heypretty.typepad.com. This includes even more scintillating commentary on The Hills, Justin Bobby, et al.

Pardon the appearance, as I am just learning how to use its features and get settled. Although cleaner and more elegant, it's not as intuitive as Blogger. If anyone can help me with sidebar links for instance, I'd be mucho appreciative.

What I Want To Be When I Grow Up?

2007-08-16T21:09:00.001Z

Frequent readers will note that once every six months or so I identify a new career that I think I might like to pursue. They've run the gamut over the years, the most recent ones being Green Urban Developer and Journalist. Well, this week I have a new one: Librarian.

Think about it. Librarians are involved with some of the coolest activities on earth:

1.) Reading books
2.) Research
3.) Using creative problem solving techniques to answer questions
4.) Promoting literacy
5.) Promoting the spread of information and potentially influencing social change
6.) Upholding 1st Amendment Rights and fighting censorship
7.) Spreading ideas

All of these activities are ones that I feel quite passionately about so it is therefore somewhat strange that this occupation is just now occurring to me. I mean, I practically lived in the library in college and in my current life I insist on surrounding myself with books at basically all times. I also have a life-long fascination with information, and how it's structured and presented.

It's not just because librarianism is hip and getting hipper by the day either nor because Parker Posey's character in Party Girl ultimately became one.

The job just speaks to me on so many different levels.

Having just had this epiphany yesterday it's too soon to say if it will stick. But I am looking into becoming a library volunteer somewhere, perhaps at the DC Public Library or Provisions. Right now, I can't think of anything cooler.

Justin Bobby, WTF?

2007-08-15T18:05:00.000Z

Much has been spoken in recent months regarding the alleged Lauren Conrad/Jason Whaler video tape; if it even exists; who leaked the idea of it; how the idea of it ended Conrad's friendship with former BBF Heidi Montag; and how the idea of it will shape Season 3 of Conrad's MTV "reality" show, The Hills.

But for me this season, the most fascinating aspect of the Hills as got to be the enigma that is Justin Bobby. For those uninitiated into the spectacular train wreck that is the Hills, allow me to explain. Justin Bobby is a former paramour of one of the show's leading women. He has recently re-entered her life and is trying to win back her affections. But that isn't what makes Justin Bobby the perplexingly fascinating male specimen that he is. No, Justin Bobby is an enigma wrapped in a riddle, shrouded by mystery simply for the shear way in which he inhabits his Justin Bobby-ness. Let's break him down.

1.) His name is Justin, yet his friends call him Bobby. Interesting, why is this? It's not as if the word "Bobby" has anything to do with the word "Justin." Moreover, Justin announced this fact to Lauren and her friend Lo as if it made all the sense in the world and didn't require further explanation. Was Justin Bobby purposely being opaque, or is he simply too stupid to understand that this real name-nickname dissonance needed additional elucidation? Regardless, Lauren and Lo christened him Justin Bobby and it seems rather clear to me that a phenomenon has been born.

2.) His look. With his mangy chin length hair, big eyes, and knit cap, Justin Bobby seems to be channeling some sort of Jared Leto/Kurt Cobain persona. Were this 1994 I would completely get it, as that look was definitely the paradigm for male attractiveness in many circles. But this being 2007, I thought we were over that. Unless of course, Justin Bobby is seeking to revive grunge, something that I myself have been secretly praying for. In addition to really loving me some crunchy, loud, melodic hard rock music, I miss the days of being considered fashion-forward for my love of flannel. Francis Bean Cobain however, is rapidly reaching an age where she could have influence over the cultural zeitgeist, so I will cross my fingers that she comes through for me in the event that Justin Bobby drops the ball. Anyway, Justin Bobby doesn't strike me as particularly cute or hot. But he's a character on The Hills, which is all about promoting glitz and glamour, so perhaps I'm just not plugged into what is considered cute and hot anymore.

3.) His delivery. He meets Audrina for dinner, and claims to not understand the menu. Is Justin Bobby too stupid to understand a restaurant menu, or is he carefully cultivating an image of casual cool defined by the fact that he is way above reading menus and simply cannot be bothered?

It is my goal to answer these questions. It is therefore with pleasure that I announce my intention to embark on a several month-long research initiative to probe and explore the endless depths that is Justin Bobby. I vow to watch every episode of the Hills and analyze every sentence uttered by this young man until I can fully answer and explain all of which I have just presented to you.

In other news, did you read about this?

And...I just received a spam email with the subject line, They Dived Head-downwards off of it, howling frantically. Wow.

In the comments section, tell me what your take on Justin Bobby is.

An Open Letter To Lindsay Lohan's Publicist

2007-08-10T19:40:00.000Z

Boy, are you completely falling down on the job. Have you even represented a celebrity before? God, I've only ever done non-profit PR and even I can tell that you're f'ing up big time. Here, let me help you.

When repping a celeb you have two primary tactics at your disposal: getting your girl into the media and getting your girl out of the media. Got that? In or out. Now. As we all know, our little Li-Lo has very little trouble getting into the media. Heck, our little Marilyn-in-training blows her nose and flash bulbs pop. But the staying out part? I hate to break this to you, but this is a young lady who came of age in Hollywood, experienced some lackluster parenting and has since developed a mighty substance abuse problem. She is at this time, in no way capable of keeping herself out of the media. It just ain't gonna happen. That however, is where you come in. Pay off the paparazzi, hire a double who looks just like her to act properly in public (like a real life version of Parent Trap--how meta, I know!), construct large mirrors and set up huge smoke machines all over the greater LA region, do SOMETHING to get this girl out of the tabloids.

Then, send her to rehab. And I when I say rehab, I mean just that. A place with lots of doctors and other experts who can help her get well. Not a spa where she gets to f*ck around all day and riding horses and getting facials. Leave her there for a while to dry out.

Okay, so about that acting career. First, have you stopped to ask her if she really wants an acting career? Because maybe all this to-do is her acting up in order to get out of acting. Maybe she'd prefer a quieter scene where she goes to college, gets a job, rents an apartment with her best gal pal and lives for whatever the lastest designer knock-offs are being churned out in any given season by H&M. Woah, wouldn't that make for a genius reality show? It would be like that show with Danny Bonaduci meets The Hills, only low rent. Anyway.

Let's assume she does want to act. There's still the problem of insurance and the fact that nobody wants to insure her because then their movies can't get bonded, which is bad for some reason I don't know about and am too lazy to Google. If memory serves, a similar thing happened to my future husband, Robert Downey Jr. (as opposed to my other future husband, CJ from Top Chef). Bob D. Jr's representation decided that the only thing he could do was to do some cheaper indie films for a while. This was good in many respects, chief among them that he got to lie a bit lower for a while, work at what he loved, and remind people of his talent. Several years into this endeavor, my darling Bob D. Jr has nice little career going and is a widely respected master of his craft.

I suggest that our Li-Lo take similar measures in order to repair her tarnished public image. Girlfriend is only 21. It's certainly not too late for her to thrive if she's advised by people with brains who have her best interests at heart.

If you require any assistance launching or maintaining this strategy, please let me know. My services are available at the very reasonable price of $600 dollars an hour. Give me a jingle and we'll chat.

The Criminal Justice System And You

2007-08-09T20:23:00.001Z

Several of you have wondered why I chose not to press charges against W, who kicked my door in last week in a drunken attempt to find a place to sleep. To those of you who viewed his actions as reckless and dangerous, I hear you and I agree. However, our city's criminal justice system is a tricky thing. Like that of many cities, it is bogged down with cases, many pertaining to serious issues such as rape, homicide, kidnapping and a host of other atrocities. Have you ever noticed how frustrating it can be to get what you want from the system? That is because the system is currently over-taxed with actual serious issues.

Not that having your door kicked in by a drunk in the middle of the night isn't an issue, because it is, but adding yet another case and set of bureaucratic pressures to our city's criminal justice system seemed irresponsible and unnecessary. And I'm not saying that the system is only there for criminals either. I know that in part, it exists to keep us safe. But adding another case to the system just seemed like I'd ultimately be doing more harm than good, that the resources used to address my problem could better used making sure that people who actually harm other people are taken care of in the best way possible.

This is not to say that I'm letting the issue slide. Compensations are being arranged. The perp now has my landlord to deal with, which will be punishment plenty.

I tell you all this not because I feel a need to justify my actions, but to offer another perspective on things. Next time you feel inclined to call the police about a matter in your life, please think long and hard before doing so. Just because a resource is there, it doesn't mean that its necessarily appropriate to use it.

In other news...I haven't posted all week because I was out of town. But, here I am. Not much news to report, other than I have decided that it's time to start putting out feelers for finding a new job. I can't leave just yet due to the fact that I feel somewhat obligated to see a project here out to it's end. That, and 46 turns 47 tomorrow. I have contemplated changing his nickname, but I feel that the original one can stay in place. After all, as I told him last week, 47 is the new 46.

Adventures With the DC Police

2007-08-03T19:48:00.000Z

Perhaps it's my years as a radical leftist, but I've never been a huge fan of law enforcement officials. Everything from their uniforms with their dumb shiny badges, those aviator shades many of them insist on wearing, and their ridiculous swagger bugs the sh*t out of me. Not to mention the fact that many completely abuse their positions of power, and when they confiscate your drugs, they often keep 'em for themselves.

It was therefore with hesitancy that I called DC's finest yesterday afternoon to file a report on the damages inflicted upon the poor decaying manse I call home. But I did so anyway, because it seemed like the civically responsible thing to do, and apparently part of being an adult is doing civically responsible things. They arrived after about an hour's wait.

There was two of them, male and female. They walked with the swagger I so detest and indeed their uniforms threatened to blind me with all of their bling. But I was nice to them, downright charming in fact, because they were there to help me.

I showed them the damages and they looked at me with confusion. Did I want to press charges?

I considered that option for a second thinking how funny that would be but quickly decided against it. Having your fellow citizens arrested merely for your own entertainment seems irresponsible and probably not very conducive to fostering good karma.

Am I *sure* I didn't want to press charges? The male officer's eyes lit up with glee every time he asked.

Yes, I am sure. No charges will be pressed. This time.

Next time he comes over you can call us, the male one told me. And then we can *you know* which he said while pantomiming putting handcuffs on a person. This was actually rather funny and probably the most enriching aspect of the whole experience. I can mimic a police officer arresting someone like I'm some sort of insider. Catch me at the next blogger happy hour and I will show you how it's done. Then you too can be as awesome as I.

The female officers informed me that by not pressing charges, this is really a civil matter that I will need to work out myself. I informed her that I was already in communication with the perp' and that I was handling it my own way.

They wanted to know why I called them. I told them I thought I was supposed to. They guffawed. The female one was looking at me all judgmental-like, probably questioning my choices in men, something I sometimes wonder about myself. Really, when you meet a guy at a bar, how are you supposed to know that he might be a really crazy drunk with a penchant for kicking in peoples' doors? He seemed like a better catch than the guy I met that summer who wanted me to help him break into a person's house to steal their stereo. Or the coke-head British Indieblue waiter. And for the most part he was a fun person to date. I was unemployed so he bought me drinks all the time and listened to my fascinating accounts of not working and what it was like to apply for jobs and live off of a budget of 12 dollars a day. I was miles away from wanting to find a life partner, and this one seemed just a good of a guy as any to waste some time with.

Anyway. My judgment in other people has never been very good. I'm not one of those people who just looks at a person, decides yes or no, and always makes the right choice. I invite people into my life who turn out to be complete flakes; who are only using me as a rebound girl; who befriend my friends and then dump me; who gab with me about the boys I like and then end up making out with them at parties. I am entirely too trusting, an irony for somebody as sarcastic and cynical in real life as I. On any given week, my life is a roller coaster of personal dramas. It has been pointed out that I thrive on such sh*t, and to some extent that's true. I like to keep things interesting. I hate boredom. And I am slowly learning to pick and choose the drama I invite into my life. In order to hurt less.

Eventually the cops left. I had a few cocktails. 46 came over (first visit to my house ever) and we drank some more. Because some situations simply call for that kind of thing and this was one of them. I've been scared that 46 would think less of me because I live in a dilapidated group house but he really liked it. He was able to appreciate the home's quirks and he likes my decorating sense (lots of dark wood, some antiques, lots of art work, tons of books, and lots of textiles, none of which match but all seem to go together in an odd way. And tons of crap on the floor--intentional, I swear!). So that was a relief and it made me like him even more. I am growing to find all of the quirks in our relationship endearing and funny. We're quite a pair. On the one hand he lectures me on my wild ways, but then he turns around and eggs me on. He calls me a "terror" and yet I think that's one of the qualities he likes best in me.

But that's somewhat off track, isn't it?

So, long story short--don't bother filing a police report in DC if you don't want to press charges. And if you do want to press charges, I have a new police officer friend who would be more than happy to help you out there.

Night of the Ex-Whatever Convergences

2007-08-02T14:42:00.000Z

Could a representative from the Universe kindly explain to me what the f**k was going on last night? Why it was that two of my most vexing and saga-esque ex-whatevers decided to make themselves present in my life?

Remember over a year ago when I penned an educational missive for you all on why people lock their doors? For those of you who weren't HP readers at the time, the reason people lock their back doors is: to keep unwanted characters out of their homes. Because sometimes a drunk ex decides it would be a good idea to crash somewhere in your home even though he's been told a million times that he is never welcome in your house ever again.

Yet sometimes, even locking one's doors can't guarantee your security. Sometimes a person decides to bust down your door, tearing the frame and decimating the lock all because they are too cheap to pay for a cab home. Note to drunk men in DC: Baby Jesus gave us taxis for a reason--to transport your drunk ass home from Adams Morgan because at the age of 32 you still haven't learned what your tolerance level is.

I suppose I should have taken his three text messages and two drunken voicemail messages as a warning. The one about all the crazy, dirty awful s*x we could have if he came over was hilarious enough for me to save for 46 to listen to later, but I naively thought that if I ignored him, he'd go away. Not you know, that he'd inflict costly damage on to my house for the sake of finding a place to sleep for the night.

I also should have personally escorted him from our home rather than trusting he'd make his way out, as he completely spooked one of my other female roommates. At least the message I received from him this morning (left at 4-something am) telling me he'd left his cell phone somewhere in our house was a small consolation prize.

While all this was happening, another ex-whatever was texting me to ask me "whatcha doin?" Of course, the logical response to such a question very early on a Thursday would be "sleeping", not say, "fending off the advances of drunken exes who break into people's houses late at night."

While all of this is very annoying and jarring, I do understand that in the long run, I have little to complain about. I know that my situation will never be as bad as that of an acquaintance who had somebody bust into her home in the middle of the night about a year ago, to very different and far more unsettling ends. Still, I can't help but think of how often we take our perceived security for granted. How often I sleep with my window wide open, walk home from the metro alone after dark, or fall asleep at night convinced that merely a locked door can keep the potential dangers of the world at bay.

HP Rocks Out

2007-08-01T16:08:00.000Z

It turns out that I possess a hidden musical talent that's been buried for the past 30 years, patiently waiting to acknowledged so that it can grow and bloom.

Last night I was helping 46 find some songs to play for an upcoming gig. Browsing through his collection of music books, I find myself staring at the sheet music for Sunshine of Your Love by Cream.

"This song," I sighed "makes me want to take up the guitar. I love the opening notes."

"It's not very difficult," says 46. "Here, take my guitar and I'll show you how to play it."

I take the instrument and lay it across my lap, he shows me which frets to put my fingers on. We go over the first three notes, which I play several times, before moving on to the next three, and finally the three after that. I don't hit the strings perfectly every time, in fact, sometimes I hit the wrong one altogether. Sometimes I forget a note and declare my desire to give up. 46 ignores my protests.

"Give up? Are you kidding? You're a natural. Look how easily you're picking this up and how much you're getting into it."

He's right. When I can manage to remember the notes, I'm golden. As I hit each one, my torso sways along with my almost perfect rhythm. I am recreating the bravado I so cherish within those 9 opening notes. I am, dare I say it...? Rocking out.

"You think I'm really a natural?" I say shyly, 90% believing him but also thinking he may just be humoring me. "I've sucked at every instrument I've ever attempted--flute, cello, electric bass. Why would I be good at this one all of a sudden?"

Mr. 46 of course, cannot answer. He simply ells me to keep practicing. I do, until my vision becomes a little blurry and I grow tired, no longer hitting my notes with any sort of precision. I stop.

"Why'd you stop?" he asks

"Because I'm a little drunk and somewhat high, and I'm having trouble seeing the strings."

46 laughs at me.

"[HP] Every great rock guitarist has made a career of playing drunk and high. You're already well on your way to becoming a rock star."

Finances and the Issue of the Sugar Daddy

2007-07-31T21:14:00.000Z

Several years ago, before the birth of HP, I maintained an incredibly boring blog that detailed my journey to financial responsibility. It had few readers, and I wrote it mainly as an attempt to keep my efforts to climb out of credit card debt and to establish regular savings and budgeting strategies in check. It lasted all of three months. I grew bored with it, and with its demise so died my futile attempts at fiscal responsibility. I also snagged a new job that paid considerably more than my non-profit gig and began spending money willy-nilly with little regard for long-term savings.

Every month a modest yet not unimpressive flow of cash enters my bank account. Towards the end of every pay period I realize I have just barely enough money to scrape together for a pack of smokes, a yoga class, some food and a night out. Every month a vow to do better. And yet, I seem to repeat the same cycle over and over. Meanwhile, my peers buy condos, prance around town in designer threads, and take cool vacations, while I wonder why at 30, I can't seem to get my act together.

Mainly it seems, because I live in profound denial of my complete inability to budget for anything.

Today, I decided to take some small form of action. I printed out my bank statement from July, and using different colored highlighters, identified the main categories through which I spend and waste money, and identified how much I spent in each. I won't go into the details but lets just say that eating and drinking out constituted a shockingly high percentage of my income. Not as much as necessities such as rent/gym/utilities/credit card bills, but it was definitely up there. That's the problem with living in DC and having a social life: every 25 dollar bar tab or meal out begins to add up. And July was apparently a very social month for me.

While I ponder ways to reduce my expenditures in this category (like eating in more often) I decided there were other actions I could take to gain some control of my finances.

1.) Although I have an online savings account that yields a nice interest rate, I always forget to transfer money to it. Today I had my HR Manager here at work re-route 300 a month to said account from my paycheck.

2.) My stupid credit bill. Oh, how often do I forget about thee? Far too often. From here on out, on the 15th of every month, a certain sum of money will be routed to paying the beastly thing down.

I already have automatic payments for the gym and my cell phone bill, so those I don't have to worry about.

Really, there should be no reason why I feel as poor as I do now. I even established a monthly clothing and beauty budget.

Which brings me to another issues.

A certain gentleman in my life is growing somewhat insistent that I need to have in my possession some prettier clothes and some better shoes. Really, he's growing tired of seeing my feet in the same Circa by Joan and David black sandals with a modest two inch heal. All of my explanations that they're comfortable and I hate breaking shoes in have been met with deaf ears. Mr. 46 wants to buy me some new shoes. And while he's at it, he'd like to buy me some new clothes.

I should stop here and explain that it's not as if I regularly dress in rags. I have nice clothes, I am simply of the mentality that it's better to spend more on fewer items. Thus, I tend to wear the same jeans by Paige Denim; the same American Apparel tees; the same couple of dresses by Susanna Monaco, Theory and Ann Taylor time and again.

Friends of HP are ecstatic with this development. Who wouldn't want a semi-wealthy man buying them stuff? My knee-jerk quasi-feminist sensibilities however, are having mixed reactions. While I adore fashion (I've been a devoted reader of Vogue since elementary school and I regularly troll Panda Head and Bright Young Things for clothing advice), part of me can't help but believe that it isn't the place of a man to play Pygmalion with the object of his affections and desires. Part of me thinks that doing so illustrates some slightly dark and power dynamics that I'd rather not think about, yet that tend to hover just beneath the surface of my relationship with 46 as it already is.

Yeah, I know. I'm totally reading too much into it, aren't I? Yes, there's a reason why ex-crush blew me off with the explanation that I "think too much." So I'm trying not to dwell over such unpleasantries. Instead, I am trying to keep an open mind while wondering if 46 is as much of a fan of Barney's Co-op as I am.

Parents: Still Not Always Right

2007-07-27T18:54:00.000Z

I can still remember what a shock it was when finally freed from my ultra-protective parents and away at college, I realized that they were in fact, not always right about everything. I can't recall what event or discovery catalyzed said revelation, but I do remember feeling like my very being had been shaken to the core. Things were never quite the same between me and them after that. Those of you who discovered the concept of rebellion earlier in life probably think that I sound absurd. But hey, I was raised in a very insular environment by two people who I trusted because I wasn't presented with another option, and because neither of them had ever done anything (that I knew of) to make me believe otherwise. Not having siblings probably factored highly into that equation as well. Going away to college exposed me to a slew of new experiences and characters whose backgrounds varied from mine. Eventually, my way of thinking got a little, okay, a lot, more independent.

Since then I have grown to find small doses of delight in situations that reveal the limits of my parents' knowledge. Of course they're both highly intelligent, well-read individuals, but ultimately they are not immune to the amusing hysterias that our information-age often produces. Case in point: Earlier today, my mother forwarded me an email supposedly originating from John's Hopkins University warning us that we shouldn't put bottles of water in the freezer or microwave plastic because of some chemical reaction that will most certainly give us cancer. This information immediately struck me as suspect. Given the fact that millions of people eat foods that have been microwaved under plastic, it seemed unlikely that this could be true. I mean, surely the food scientists at Lean Cuisine have tested out the containers their food comes in to make sure it won't give us life threatening illnesses when it's heated for a few minutes. Do they think we don't care if we get cancer as long as we're skinny? And surely the geniuses at Rubbermaid do a little investigative testing when they invent their products to screen for the issue as well. I mean, that kind of sounds like a class action lawsuit waiting to happen, dontcha think?

Mom however (God bless her), has never quite embraced microwave technology. She's not convinced it's a process that will enhance her life in any way, and she's paranoid that people who regularly employ it will eventually develop third eyes. So I suppose it's not surprising that she felt compelled to forward that particular electronic missive on to me. My initial response expressed my skepticism towards the whole notion, but didn't discount it altogether. Since I'm not a scientist (nor do I play one on this blog) I don't feel confident knocking down theories supposedly originated by the esteemed scientific minds at JHU. But then I remembered snopes.com and felt inclined to do some quick research.

Just as I suspected, the email was a complete and total hoax. I sent mom the url, feeling a bratty pang of satisfaction. No response just yet. I'm sure she's miffed that I put the kibosh on her mission in life to become the Erin Brokovitch of microwave technology.

Hey Good Lookin' What's Cookin'?

2007-07-26T20:03:00.000Z

Me, apparently. Last night I shook the dust off of my long-neglected culinary skills and returned to the kitchen (actually, it was a terrace if you want to get all technical about it) for my first foray ever into the exciting world of grilling.

On the menu?

Grilled vegetable salad with pesto dressing
Grilled Yellow Finn Tuna
Toasted Japanese white bread that thinks its French with goat's cheese.

The vegetables consisted of red and yellow bell peppers; graffiti eggplant; corn; yellow squash; fennel; and zucchini. After approximately 10 minutes on the grill they were tossed with pesto and cherry tomatoes. I would have grilled the tomatoes, but they were so small and potentially cumbersome. As for the pesto, it had been my intention to whip a batch from scratch, but Whole Foods was low on basil so I settled for store-bought. Oh, I know. Quelle horror!

The tuna was marinated in a simple mixture of lemon juice, olive oil, fleur de sel and cracked black pepper for about an hour and a half before it was cooked. It spent a grand total of 6 minutes on the grill before my dining companion informed me that he had a feeling it was time to take it off. Okay, to be honest, I have no idea how long it was on the grill. Neither I nor my companion wear a watch, and we were both a little silly from some substances we had consumed earlier. We're guessing it was 6 minutes. Could have been more, could have been less.

The Japanese white bread that thinks it's French was lightly toasted and brushed with olive oil before being spread with goat's cheese.

The verdict?

The veggies were a bit charred for my taste, but my companion gamely wolfed his down.

The tuna was completely scrumptious. But then, I am of the opinion that when you pay 25 dollar for a large tuna steak, it can't be anything but amazing. Although I was apprehensive about giving it such a simple flavor treatment, I found that the austerity of the marinade was perfect in accentuating the fish's natural flavor. I'd definitely make it again, but not until I'm making more money at my job, as 25 dollars for a single component of one's dinner is a bit pricey.

The toasts of course were great, but how can white bread smothered with cheese be anything but scrumptious?

Next up?

I'm not sure, but this experience suggested to me that if I can whip up such a lovely meal with very little recent cooking practice, with some additional practice, I could be giving Nigella Lawson a run for her money. Look out!

In the comments section tell me about a successful meal that you once made.

An Open Letter To Wired Magazine

2007-07-25T19:05:00.000Z

Every month I look forward to reading Wired for its off-beat and engaging reporting on technology development and general trends in innovation. Yet in reading your August, 2007 section dedicated to workplace efficiency, I couldn't help but notice that some of your tips seemed geared towards male readers. Fashion guru Tim Gunn's advice for acceptable workplace attire for instance, seemed written entirely for clueless male Information Technology professionals who apparently prefer to dress in the dark with little appreciation for workplace decorum. While the majority of Wired's audience may in fact encompass this demographic, it seems worth mentioning that women do indeed account for some of your readership and that we may appreciate having our interests addressed as well. Perhaps in angling your fashion advice to men, you assume that your female readers are already so fashion savvy that we do not require your guidance. If this is the case then I thank you for the apparent faith you have in our sartorial choices.

But the fact of the matter remains that many women are as forward-thinking and as innovatively-minded as your male readership, and we deserve to be treated as such by being included as part of the audience of your articles.

Hey Pretty
Washington, DC

Everything I Thought I Never Wanted

2007-07-23T21:06:00.000Z

On Saturday morning I awoke with the most awesome sense of unsettledness. I had spent Friday night imbibing considerable amounts of alcohol with some of my coworkers, and our conversation naturally fell towards the office, and everything that was wrong with our company, and how we were surely all about to be randomly fired for no good reason.

I knew in my heart that such talk was probably just paranoid speculation, but I still couldn't shake the fact that something was very wrong. After a nice brunch at Cafe St. Ex with friend A, I asked if she could drive me to the office on her way home so I could do some work. I have never before in my life voluntarily gone to the office on a Saturday. Normally, I view such behavior as the kind reserved for Type-As and people with no social lives. But I knew that if I didn't I'd be plagued all weekend by an intangible combination of guilt and pessimism, and they only way I could avoid that would be to get some work done.

Turns out than an empty office on a weekend afternoon is the perfect environment for cranking out some quality work, while taking care of some previously neglected communication. I had made plans with Mr. 46 for that night, and he kindly offered to come pick me up. At 6:00 he rolled up to my office building in a late-60's silver roadster convertible. Now before you start making sarcastic comments about how clichéd that is, let me tell you that I hear your snark and can at least say that he's owned the car for 15 years and purchasing it was not a result of some sort of icky mid-life crisis. Anyway.

Back at Casa Mr. 46 he prepared a light snack for us that we enjoyed while sipping a nice Spanish white wine and talking about our days. We ate produce from the local farmer's market--fresh cucumbers lightly salted with sel de mer; an heirloom tomato seasoned with the same, drizzled with balsamic vinegar; zucchini squash stir-fried with their tendrils in olive oil, garlic and plenty of salt and pepper. The harmony of sweet organic produce cut with oil and salt, combined with the effects of the wine and Mr. 46's assurances that my life isn't actually falling apart dissolved the edge I had previously been experiencing. From there he prepared a main dish of pasta with fresh clams and a nice simply sauce. By the time he brought out a bowl of fresh peach sliced seasoned with balsamic vinegar, I had all but melted into an extremely relaxed and contented pile of mush.

Sure, my cynical side was still present, softly whispering to me that this was all a seduction ploy--pamper me into complacency and all that. But my romantic self loved every minute of it. My well-developed sense of independence has been a pervasive theme in several of my past relationships. I've found myself with guys who like my low-maintanceness and spend little time doting on me or lavishing me with extra attention. I've used my lack of need for such attention as a selling point for why I'm such a terrific girlfriend.

But the fact of the matter is, I really like being tended to in the manner in which Mr. 46 has been courting me. I used to think that there could be no place for nurturing in a romantic relationship. That the impulse to protect your partner and shield them from the harshness of the world wasn't appropriate within the context of a physical relationship. And now I see that perhaps I was wrong.

I also thought I'd never want to be with a man significantly older, balding and not much taller than me.

In yoga [yeah, groan, I know] there's a theory that the poses you least want to get into are the ones that your body and spirit need the most. That when you find yourself resisting a certain experience, that's the thing you actually need the most. And I believe that notion applies to the situation with Mr. 46 perfectly. On paper, he is nothing like what I would want in a man. But the reality of the situation is that he truly cares about other people, is a good listener, goes out of his way to do nice things for me, appreciates my good qualities, but isn't afraid to call me out on my shit. And after years of dating the same emotionally unavailable, self-centered 20/30-something guy, this experience with him is truly a rewarding one.

It's also causing me to reflect on the perceived power dynamics in male-female relationships. I've been skeeved out in the past by the notion of dating an older man simply because I held a bias that men who date women who are much younger than them most likely have some sort of inadequacies that might compel them to seek out partners who are easy to manipulate. But what this situation is illustrating is that every relationship is composed of a complex network of interpersonal dynamics where the balance of power frequently swings from one partner to another. Sure, he might seduce me with bowls of fresh peaches and bottles of fine wine, but I'm pretty and young, and surely that has some influence over his actions. And whenever the seduction routine gets a tad heavy-handed for my cynical feminist sensibilities, I call him "old man" and that's his cue to lay off.

So forgive the long-windedness of this post, but I guess what I'm trying to say is this: if you're willing to shift your expectations of what the ideal partner looks and acts like, you may be handsomely rewarded. I knew there was a reason why I felt like the earth split wide open the second we reunited. Because in a sense, it did.

An Anthropologist In the World of Men

2007-07-19T16:27:00.000Z

Hanging out with Mr. 46 has opened a previously secret world to me--that of men, their culture, and how they relate to one another. Perhaps it's just because we are so disgustingly open with one another, but I feel like he's been more willing to share with me little stories about what men do with one another and how they communicate, and simply what it's like to be a middle-aged divorced man.

My favorite example of this is the story of how he acquired his stereo speakers. Mr. 46 is a stereophile. He owns all sorts of old receivers and amps and cd players. He's a musician so such matters are terribly important to him. Several years ago he was visiting the house of an acquaintance when he spotted a pair of enormous wood speakers. Such objects of beauty these were that he asked his host about them. The host asked him if he wanted to buy them off him. Mr. 46 thought about it for a second and decided that yes, he did want to buy them. Mr. 46 also had some knowledge of the speakers and knew that they went for several grand a piece. He offered his host 800 for set and the host accepted.

What impressed me most about the story was how it very clearly illustrated a dynamic present among men that is clearly lacking between women. Sure, women compliment one another all the time, especially on things like handbags and shoes. But such compliments are often a form of social currency--often intended as a ploy to stay within one another's good graces.

His story has inspired me: next time another woman compliments something I am wearing or something I own, I am going to ask her if she wants to buy it. Just to see what her reaction would be. Of course knowing women, they'd take it as some sort of passive aggressive snark when really I'd just be operating with a different set of social currency.

Speaking of disgustingly open, Mr. 46 did something rather dumb. He told former crush about us. Apparently they've been friends since forever ago and Mr. 46 feels the need to tell former crush every minute detail of his personal life. Former crush did not react well to the news and told Mr. 46 a bunch of completely exaggerated facts about me. Where former crush gets off dragging my semi-good name through the proverbial dust is beyond me, but it incensed me beyond belief. Yes, I might have acted a little odd towards him, but it was only because he was being confusing and not communicating with me. So apparently he now thinks I'm nuts--further evidence that he drove me to insanity and that it's best that he's out of the picture. Only he isn't because he now seems intent on ruining a good thing. His whole involvement seems perfectly unnecessary. Can't he just "say something nice or not say anything at all"? And why I care about this so much is really bothering me as well.

But here are some more positive actions from Mr. 46 that I encourage my male readers to try with the ladies.

-Make her breakfast in the morning. Nothing says "thank you for a lovely night and morning" like a homemade breakfast. It needn't be fancy. Today I received a slice of thick white bread from a Japanese grocery store slathered with good butter and sprinkled with fish roe. I know, you're probably thinking that we're both insane. Apparently it's popular in other parts of the world. I pride myself on eating weird foods and I'm used to eating non-breakfasty foods first thing in the morning, but this was a little difficult for me to swallow (ha!). It tasted good and all, but it was somewhat intense for first thing in the morning. But in the interest of impressing him, and in showing him my appreciation for him, I downed the whole thing. Must satisfy stupid American palate later today with a cheeseburger and fries, however.

-Drive her to the Metro. Even if you aren't yet ready to leave for work, take 5 minutes out of your demanding day to drive her to the Metro. She *will* appreciate it and you probably aren't so important that your professional matters can't wait 5 minutes (yes, even in DC). Unless you're a doctor of course, and then you can disregard this one.

-If she's the type of woman to drop 30 bucks on a pair of ridiculously frilly lace underwear, please take a moment to compliment them. That's it. No need for a long monologue. A simple, "those are nice" will do.

-If you happen to be rather grumpy in the morning, it's perfectly acceptable to send her an email later in the day apologizing for being a grump. In fact, doing so may solidify your position in the boyfriend hall of fame.

-Invite her to run away with you to Argentina. This seriously happened to me last night. I was all like "wha...?" And he was all "think about it."

Can you imagine?

The Ties That Bind. And Unbind.

2007-07-18T20:35:00.000Z

It's time to accept the fact that as of Friday, I will be a stepchild.

It feels odd that age 30 I am inheriting a stepmother. Thankfully, my father already told my mom about the whole thing, and she accepted and processed the information in a surprisingly gracious manner and is now instructing me on how to do likewise.

According to my mom, the proper etiquette for acquiring an adult-onset stepmother is to inquire when her birthday is, and always send her a card to memorialize the day. You are also, apparently, supposed to send a card congratulating her on her new marriage. It is also important to note that this cards must be hand written on paper stock with neat penmanship, rather than the electronic alternative. See, I knew there was a reason why I have that box of stationary engraved with my full name sitting around somewhere.

Somebody totally needs to write a book about this. Screw chick lit. Stepmother how-to guides are obviously a goldmine of uncharted literary territory waiting to be tapped.

Mr. 46 is being extremely helpful regarding this whole development. Last night in the midst of complaining about everything, he sent me a suggestive text message which I responded to all in a huff because it struck me as insensitive that in the middle of a personal crisis he's discussing nudity. But he apologized. And then this morning when I arrived at work there was a splendid and wonderful email from him truly apologizing again and saying that when he put himself in my shoes to reflect upon what he had said, he instantly felt terrible.

Listen up men! If you screw up and need to make it right with your lady, that is ALL you have to say. You can also say that you were wrong, but expressing your empathy (write that word down and learn it) is essential.

I've always been a big believer in the whole "everything happens for a reason" school of thought. And while sometimes things happen that are random and violent and completely unnecessary, I still tend to adhere to the idea that people come in and out of your life for a reason. Right now, I feel surrounded by individuals who are teaching me all sorts of interesting lessons--mainly ones about how to be a more patient, optimistic, generous person. People who love me for my cynicism and cautiousness, but who are for some reason invested in me to the point where the want to help make me a better person. I don't understand why it's all happening now, but I suppose the answer will be clearer to me later.

Mr. 46 for example, has taught me a slew of interesting new things and we've only known one another a few days (although he's debating that point, preferring to say that it's been two years. I vacillate, myself). For instance: people need to make their own mistakes and learn their own lessons. Otherwise they never learn. I suppose I have believed that for a while haven't fully appreciated it until recently. And also, that sometimes you can be in a relationship with a person where you feel utterly natural being completely open and honest about everything. Like, not being so wouldn't even occur to you because being open and honest is simply how you *are* with one another. Believe me, not having to be all calculating about communication is a very weird thing for me.

But here's a question I have. Let's say you meet somebody and then you don't see them for two years. Is it possible that during that hiatus you were connected to one another in a way that you weren't aware of?

Ack! My new relationship is turning me into a hippy! Can you believe I just wrote that? Be glad I didn't have the moxy to utter it out loud. Lord help me, I think I might need an intervention.

Another Curveball From the Universe

2007-07-17T15:37:00.000Z

Reason 9 million why my life is completely surreal right now: I just received an email from my father informing me that the wedding plans have been "moved up" and he'll be flying to San Diego on Thursday (from Mexico, where he lives) to get married.

WTF?

Okay, 1: What wedding?
2: What engagement?
3: What wedding?
4: You decided that email was an appropriate medium with which to communicate this information?

Yeah, he and the GF have lived together for years. But I had rather assumed that by this point they wouldn't bother getting hitched. They're old, what does it matter?

So now, as an only child, guess who will probably get to tell my mom about this? Although she essentially left him, I know this won't be easy for her. And I hate having to be the bearer of bad news.

Apparently there will be a party of some sort in Mexico in September to celebrate the "marriage" (my dad's third, but who's counting right?) If I really wanted to be a brat, I could bring along Mr. 46 as my date. Wouldn't that add some controversy to the nuptials? Not that I am quite diabolical enough to do this. Only to daydream about it.

Universe: WTF?

2007-07-16T15:20:00.000Z

Monday morning greetings, campers. How were your weekends? Mine was an absolute and complete mind-f*ck, thanks for asking.

New developments...I made out with 3 different people.

...My friend hooked up with my crush. After I told her the day before about what was happening with him. So essentially she put the moves on him after I asked her not to. Or he put the moves on her. Regardless, there was some move-putting on and I was not pleased about it.

...I appear to be having a fling with a significantly older man. Okay, now this one is weird. At the same party where my friend was macking on my now-former crush, this dude and I get to talking. He says, "So you remind me of this woman I met at a party a few years ago. We had this great connection but I haven't seen her since."

Me: What did she look like?
Him: You
Me: What was she like in general?
Him: You.

I ask a few more questions about location of said party and who else was there. And then I have an epiphany. Yes, we did indeed meet a party 2 years ago. We always seemed to "end up" smoking together outside and I remember having a marvelous time with him. But he had been married and I try not to chase married guys because actually? I'm not a complete homewrecker.

Me: Aren't you married?
Him: Not any more.

Ha! So one things leads to another and I found myself at his house last night talking and drinking and smoking into the very wee hours of the night.

I know his ex-wife, but we're not really friends. He and I have quite a few people in common. All would be mildly scandalized if this got out. It's way too early to know exactly what this is, of course and my head is still spinning from the weekend so I'm not even going to bother trying. He's completely different from the disaffected 30 something hipsters I normally go for, that much is certain. Like he's generally concerned about the well being of other individuals and wants to make them comfortable and at home as much as possible. And he does nice things for other people. Which makes sense, seeing as how he's 46 (!!) Yes, I know that age is just a number, but he is definitely the oldest guy I've ever been with. I mean, he was born in the '60s. I'll keep you all posted as further developments occur. We're going out on Wednesday for our first "official" date.

But before that happened with him, Lorelia and I got to scheming in our usual diabolical way, and decided we should 1.) spend the later part of the afternoon at Dr. Dremos and 2.) that we should invite the various men in our lives who represent "lose ends" and kick 'em to the curb once and for all. Which would have been a grand plan if it weren't for the fact that they all refused to fall into line with said plan, and none of them agreed to come out. And the others we had already very wisely deleted from our phones so there was no way of actually getting in touch with them. So instead, we drank hard cider and over-analyzed our respective romantic situations.

And then I decided to go pay Mr. 46 a visit. Invited, of course.

Buckle your seat belts. It's about to be a very wild ride.

Squee!

2007-07-13T18:29:00.001Z

It came! My new camera is here. Only took 1 day to ship. Thank you UPS! Now, despite what I do and what happens this weekend, it promises to be a good one if only because I have a pretty new toy to play with.

Rock on.

I noticed earlier that I have an unfortunate tendency to always come up with a winning witty retort minutes after I deliver the lackluster one my poor brain settled on as an alternative.

Case in point.

Earlier, I am emailing with *somebody* taking issue with his conviction that cabs are easy to find outside of Wonderland. In my experience, that Columbia Heights can be downright impossible to get out of at certain times of the night.

He responded that perhaps it's difficult for me, given the fact that I tend to find myself there after at 4:00 am after being passed out on the bar.

[Not true btw--I rarely even go to Wonderland!]

My comeback was something sort of feeble about preferring the cool tile floor and that it was time for us to have a lesson on prepositions.

Okay, not terrible.

But, minutes later, I came up with this classic: The bar at Wonderland certainly isn't the worst thing one could wake up on top of.

Then, sometime after this occured to me: Takes one to know one!

Very 5th grade, but then, so am I.

If only I could rewind time and ask for a do-over.

What I am reading today

2007-07-13T15:41:00.000Z

-Does this terrify the rest of you as much as it does me?

Seriously, what is this administration's problem? We're led into a messy and expensive war on the basis of some "weapons of mass destruction" that may or may not exist, but if they do probably don't exist where we think they exist. And it turns out? The guys we should have been worried about all along--you know, the ones who drove our flying machine into our big buildings? Oh yeah. Getting stronger by the day. Lovely.

-And this was *before* text message was popularized.

-Scott Rosenberg, please marry me

-If Face Book and MySpace had a fight, who would win?

I am also reading my text message inbox. Because I decided to text you-know-who last night (who entertained my semi-sensical attempts at flirtation like a champ). He also, I just realized, took me to task for only responding to his party Evite as a "maybe." Oh, mysterious, mysterious me.

In other news, shout-out to roommate Ned for the excellent drive to work this morning. I did appreciate being spared the agony of a 45 minute metro ride, and I'm sure he enjoyed whatever non-sensicle rant I spewed about men and work and how they both suck or whatever.

Bang! Bang! You're Um. Well, Uh...

2007-07-12T17:41:00.000Z

Did you get a perm? asked my co-worker D as we shared a smoke break together.

D, I have wavy hair. Why on earth would I need a perm?

Your hair looks different. Did you pull it back differently?

I sighed. Yes, my hair was different. The night before, bored by the latest episode of Top Chef, I reached for a pair of sharps and did something a little unorthodox. I cut my own hair. Into bangs.

Not that I haven't had them before, I've actually done this several times in the past and sort of knew what I was doing. And each time in the past I've been delighted with the results.

Today, I can't really tell. From what I can observe, they have the potential to be rather cute (one part Bette Page equal parts French school girl or Jewish Audrey Hepburn). But for now, they need professional help. Rather choppy and uneven, they could probably benefit from being shaped or trimmed by somebody with better perspective, who knows what they're doing.

Problem is, I sort of dread walking into a salon and explaining what I need. I dread the lecture from the know-it-all stylist about the dangers of waves and bangs. But I know they have some major potential, especially in their ability to emphasize my already rockin' green eyes.

And since my personal style is already a bit funky, and I know that I'm a cute girl, I can rock their imperfections as if I meant for them to be that way.

I can't imagine how I ever bleached my own hair (yes, bleached. I was blond in college. My natural color is a very dark brown).

So, uh...anyone know a very forgiving stylist who works on short notice?

Boredom Is The Past Of Least Resistance

2007-07-11T17:40:00.000Z

Women often bemoan the sad state of their dating lives, especially when a certain somebody is taking too long to come around to fall under their feminine spells. We want instant gratification, easy definitions, romantic vehicles that go from dating to relationship in 20 seconds. But I was reminded recently of a potential alternate scenario and the relative charms of a relationship defined by resistance and tensions between both parties.

It's part of my nature to assume that a hookup is going to create a defined relationship. Like, we are x who do y. Or, we are "an item." I don't know why I should think that, seeing as how in my experience it clearly never does. Or hasn't for quite some time. The relationship with boy du jour has been a slow and steady climb. One marked by twisting trails, branches that stick out of nowhere to potentially knock me on my ass, ambiguous signs, forks in the road leading to nowhere. I mean, I didn't even like this person when I first met him. And yet I've loved every minute of it.

So there's no rational reason why I should assume that a night of drunken shenanigans would result in a defined anything. Nor should I assume that things are over either. Because there have been a couple of exchanges since and they've been sizzling (and here we're talking polite conversation--that's it). With that in mind, I am currently really enjoying the resistance. Things are basically the way they were before the weekend, only more intense and hotter due to the whole covert nature of everything. I never thought I'd enjoy easing into something so much, but it's really quite enjoyable. I'm thinking about things, but all my angst from two days ago has been replaced by a devil-may-care attitude towards the whole situation. One that appeals to my Scorpio-like need for mystery and intrigue. Kind of like a '40's film noir, and since I've been accused of having that '40's kind of look a few times in my life, it fits.

Or even dare I say it...the Logan to my Veronica?

Breaking News...

2007-07-10T20:16:00.001Z

See, optimism does pay off. At 2:00 this afternoon I received an Evite. To an event that you-know-who is throwing. Of course I took it as an opportunity to use a witty double entendre as my reply. Because that's how I roll. And because the theme of the Evite was completely begging for it.

Of course this now inspires additional introspection in the matter. Such as, is he planning on talking to me before the event? What other women are attending? Did he invite me simply to be polite? You know, the usual. But I'm feeling generally good about this development. Thought I'd share.

When Life Hands You Lemons, Say "No Thank You" and Hand Them Back

2007-07-10T16:42:00.000Z

So I began my day feeling horrifically sad. Bummed out and blue in a way that made me feel like I'd never climb out of my emotional hole. It seemed that I was once again depressed about a boy. The kind of depression caused by ambiguity, waiting, and dreading whatever comes next. I spent most of the morning staring into space, researching Japanese meals I could learn to cook and writing people sad emails. Until I got tired of being sad and wondered if there wasn't something I could do to reverse my current fortunes. I mean, really. Sad about a guy? How clichéd is that. So not worth it.

It was then that I got to thinking about optimism again, and the fact that I am not one. In any given situation my immediate instinct is to think of the worst case scenario. It's my way of preparing myself for disappointment. Unfortunately, it has come to mean that I tend to *expect* disappointment. Luckily, I have my homegal Lorelia, who is the world's sunniest person. Seriously, I'm surprised that woodland creatures don't follow her around wherever she goes (instead she has boys for that). This isn't to say that L is one of those unbearably sweet types either. She's a total vixen and loves to gossip almost as much as I do. Anyway, I'm off track. I have been trying to learn from L's optimism. For instance, for the past two days whenever I've moaned or complained about the shambles that is my romantic life, L just tells me not to worry, because the boy will totally come around. Yes, as my friend she's supposed to say that, but I also believe that she really believes it. That's just how she is.

So rather than moping around the office any longer, I followed her lead. I identified something positive to think about, and I am choosing to focus on that. So instead of being all "my tawdry new romance isn't going to workout" I am instead thinking "I can't control another person and if it doesn't work out everything is going to be fine." See? Optimism.

So then I was thinking about the larger picture of personal fulfillment and decided that I have been sitting on the digital camera purchase for too long. Yes, I was trying to save for a Canon D30 and those cost over 1,000 dollars. So I decided to make things easier on myself. I decided that the Canon Rebel XTi (less expensive) is a perfectly acceptable piece of equipment and that it will be fine for my needs. Yes, it's my dream to be a professional photographer. But the longer I sit on my ass not shooting, the more it remains a dream. At least with the Rebel I'll be practicing my skills and improving. Perhaps even inching that much closer to my goal. So I clicked the order button, filled in my info, and with a much lighter wallet soon received email confirmation that my new prize will arrive within 4 to 6 days. Then begins the fun of learning to use it. Which I can totally handle!

Of All of the Time In the World To Spend It Wild and Unwise

2007-07-09T14:58:00.000Z

I know it's been a couple of weeks since I shared any dating/boy related news. Well fear not! I have many juicy developments to share with you. So pull up a chair, grab some coffee. We may be here for a while.

So, dear readers, it seems that I have one doozy of a crush. I'm really not even certain if I can even call it that as crush sounds so light-hearted and innocent and this most certainly isn't. It's tortured and complex and unexpected and alarming.

We need to come up with a new word to classify whatever this is, because it's bad. But good. Oh, I can't tell the difference anymore.

So, it's been festering for months. I think it was even festering when I was actively proclaiming my dislike for the person. Like, I was doth protesting a little too much, if you catch my drift. Anyway, this person. There are a bunch of reasons why it has seemed like a bad idea to like him, not all of which I am ready to share. But after it became clear to me that said person was attracted to me, I thought it might be okay if he became my new boy toy. This plan was being put into implementation and was going splendidly. We'd run into one another occasionally. There'd be some bantering and flirting. I'd exit said situation feeling a little giddy but mostly like a complete rockstar for owning it so effectively.

Then on Saturday some stuff definitely went down. And he freaked out. Which lead me to freak out about his freaking out.

I know what you're thinking. Well, you're probably thinking many things. If you're smart you're wondering why Hey Pretty can't get her act together and like normal people who don't have issues. I wonder about that too. You're possibly also wondering why I cared about his freakout if he's a mere boytoy and I was only interested in batting him around a bit before putting him away for a while.

Well, a funny thing happened on Saturday. Somewhere in the midst of beer, jello shots, and an awesome makeout session, we clicked. Like, I want to talk to this person all the time and hold their hand and discover every single mysterious crevice of his brain and do nice things for him and generally hang out and watch TV with takeout food even if it's something I hate like documentaries on the History Channel kind of clicked.

Which I wasn't expecting because I was under the impression that he was kind of a washed-up womanizer, a little sleazy, and something of a loser.

And perhaps he is and my judgment is being clouded by the fact that he's a really good kisser. It's really impossible to tell. And it's confusing when you have a very rigid impression of a person and it begins to change. Especially when it goes from bad to good.

Anyway.

He freaked out. Had a little guy-meltdown and went home. Which lead me to complain about the whole situation ad nauseum on Sunday. Props to Lorelia and my roommates for putting up with me.

But wait, there's more.

So, late Sunday afternoon I decided to go to a friend's birthday celebration because I feel like leaving the house and also because there was a chance I'd run into HIM and we had some lose ends to take care of. He wasn't there. But apparently he has a brother, and he was there. A brother who spent half the night telling me anecdotes about HIM blissfully unaware that his HE had left my house very early that morning and that I had been wearing few clothes when that occurred. A brother who handed me his Treo and told me to message HIM so that he'd come over. Oh my. The whole situation was incredibly hilarious because of the players involved and the fact that certain people involved lacked CRUCIAL pieces of information. The Brother even suggested that we go over to HIS house to say hi. That struck me as being a terrible idea, and since I had consumed three beers by that point and I'm a lightweight I blurted out "That's a terrible idea and something tells me you're about to understand why rather soon." He just looked at me like I was on crack. By that point, I might as well have been.

But.

Something good also occurred. When I messaged him on the Treo I gave him my # and told him to text me. Which lead to a good conversation wherein I simply said that I had fun last night and didn't think that any of it is a big deal (liar). I also asked him if we could possibly chat soon not on text and he agreed, stating that it would be even better to do so "over beer." So it could be a date. Or it could be that the prospect of talking to me drives him to drink. I can't tell.

So in relating all this to Lorelai this morning over email, she remarked "Well, the universe couldn't let Mercury leave its retrograde without one final bang, now could it?" and I couldn't agree more. Because Mercury in retrograde is always sucky and confusing and my life is chaotic and weird enough.
So that's what's shaking there. I have an undefined romantic affliction on a very confusing individual who would be completely perfect for me if he'd be willing to get over his issues. Again. In other words, same old song and dance over here. Of course, I am also wondering something else. It could just be that he's using his so-called fear as an excuse to not date me because he isn't that into me. Time will tell. For now, I'm just giving him some space and letting him make the next move. He knows where to find me.

More Evidence That I am Getting Old

2007-07-06T15:37:00.000Z

Exhibit 1: When on perfectly lovely first date with perfectly lovely man (imagine what a human being would look like if Orlando Bloom and Penelope Cruz had a baby and the baby grew up to be a 6'4" tall man with sideburns and messy hair. Can you say swoon?), I found myself completely exhausted at 11:15 after two cocktails.

[Not to belabor the point, but he also walked me home--half a mile! So gallant!]

Exhibit 2: After imbibing previously mentioned two cocktails, I sleep for 5 hours and awake at 5:30 never to fall back asleep. Two cocktails! Measly vodka tonics at that. Spend next hour pacing and internet surfing. Give up on going back to sleep. Take 3 mile walk. This is on top of the 4 mile walk I took on the 4th and the 6+ one I took early in the week, bringing my total for the week-so-far up to 13 miles! Is there such a thing as competitive walking? Because if there is I wanna do it. I don't even care if I look dorky while doing it.

Exhibit 3: I just proclaimed that I don't care if I look like a dork while speed walking. All I need now is a fanny pack and I'll be ready to be put out to pasture.

Exhibit 4: Didn't kiss previously mentioned lovely man goodnight. Contemplated the option, then decided that the evening had been perfect as it was and didn't want to rock the boat by possibly infringing on his personal space or rushing anything. Given the fact that in my younger, wilder years I regularly invited young men up to my room for a little makeout session on the first date, this last development is especially telling. Perhaps I am not growing "older" so much as "wiser." Go figure.

Evidence that progress on the maturity front is a slow and laborious process: Am keeping options open and have my eye on somebody else I'd like to kiss this weekend. Eggs in one dating basket=bad idea. At least for now.

Day Off

2007-07-05T16:45:00.001Z

I'm home from work today--It's a personal tradition of mine to take July 5th off if it falls during the week. I'm spending the day trying to get organized, or at least a little more organized than I was yesterday. Due to that, I don't have much time to write. But I did just want to say say once again that my roomate is a complete rockstar and I apologize if I haven't written enough entries specifically delineating all of his wonderful qualities, both as a human and a person to share a 3rd floor with. I intend to remedy that in the future. And I may have a surprise for him when he gets home.

Happy now?

6.2 Miles

2007-07-03T18:54:00.000Z

This is how far away my office is from my house. For ages I've wondered what it would be like to walk home from work but the sheer idea of Silver Spring to Woodley Park sounded incredibly daunting. Until yesterday. Faced with the option of spinning class, it suddenly felt like a waste of a perfect weather day to spend it sweating in a gym. I had all I would really need for a long walk--sneakers and an Ipod. And so I did it. I walked home. 16th Street provided a perfectly pleasant route for my journey. I had measured the route on Gmaps Pedometer before I left and had noted various landmarks that could stand as distance markers. For instance, I knew I couldn't let myself think I was too tired before I even hit Walter Reed, as that was only the 1/4 mark. I also knew that once I hit Columbia Road, I was mostly home.

The path had more hills than I expected, and since I had foolishly walked in Converse on Saturday, my shins were a bit mad at me. The inclines were a little uncomfortable, but overall I managed to keep a pretty good pace. I hit Adams Morgan at the 1 hour and 30 minute mark. I had been determined to make the trip in less than two hours, and although I was obviously in the clear, I picked up my pace and booked it down Lanier Street, over the Calvert Bridge and up Connecticut for the remaining leg of the walk. My end time? 1 hour and 40 minutes. Not bad.

As I've said before, I'm not an athlete. But there's something so wonderful about a nice long walk in good weather. The summer I lived in Boulder I walked five miles, five days a week. Now I'm lucky if I get to the gym once a week. Too bad the oppressive humidity that is DC in July is about to kick our asses. A 6.2 mile walk could otherwise become a pleasurable habit.

In other news, I am finding myself in a very take-charge sort of mood these days. Perhaps it's exactly that sort of motivation that inspires somebody to walk 6.2 miles. My special project at work has been stalling so I've stepped it up a bit this week and I've been taking all sorts of action. Including being a more hands-on manager of my intern, who was starting to get a little whiny and unmotivated. I'm enforcing a little tough love this week and way more things seem to be getting done. Have I mentioned that my intern is the CEO's daughter? Yeah. It's sort of a complicated endeavor. I want her to be happy, but she shouldn't be allowed to do whatever she wants based on birthright. But I can't let her family ties to the company intimidate me any longer.

I have very little management experience. Mostly I've just been managed by some incredibly incompetent individuals with terrible people skills. So I have a lot of knowledge about what I shouldn't do, but very little about what I should. In my book a good manager...

-Treats others with respect
-Clearly communicates expectations but sets only expectations that can reasonably be met
-Motivates through positivity rather than threats and negativity
-Knows when it's time to be firm and tell people to get it done
-Is flexible and open to new ideas
-Isn't afraid to admit fault when necessary
-Is confident in their own ability to lead and take charge

Mostly I am finding that I have little tolerance for other people's shit, to speak perfectly plainly. This isn't to say that I've lost my great sense of empathy. More that I've lost my previous ability to give people multiple second chances and the benefit of the doubt. I find that I tend to let others get away with a lot. I make excuses for their inconsistencies and pretend that it's okay when they let me down. I guess I'm just looking out for myself a little bit more than I have in the past. Like everything else in life, it's a constant balancing act.

Special Episode of Hey Pretty: Charm City

2007-07-02T19:00:00.000Z

"It's like a special episode of your life," remarked Lorelai as we snaked our way through the crowds at Camden Yards.

A special episode of your life, like in 80's sitcoms when the Keatons went to Europe for a couple of episodes and the opening credits read Family Ties Goes To London or whatever. Only this wasn't London, it was Baltimore. And I was so stuffed full of crabs from dinner that I could barely walk.

Marylanders are so super possessive of their crabs it's as if no other region of the country harvests them. Anyway. Dinner was good. My companions feasted on piles of the things, dumped before them on our table while I opted for a single crab cake with some lackluster sides. A miscommunication with our waiter led me to order my crab cake fried, rather than broiled, although I thought he had said "boiled" when explaining the preparation options.

Later, I remarked to Lorelai that my crab cake tasted funny.
"That's because you ordered it fried, and not broiled," she said.
"Broiled? I thought he said 'boiled'"
"Boiled? Who would boil a crab cake?"
"Exactly, that's why I didn't order it as such."

Dinner was followed by two innings of an Orioles game. For the first time in my life, I participated in the 7th Inning Stretch. I know, weird, right? All this time it seems I've been leaving baseball games super early or they've been rained out. As much as I love *being* at baseball games, I have a hard time paying attention to the action on the field, especially when it's as far away as the cheap seats tend to be. Mostly, I texted my friends photos of Camden yard from my cell. And drank a beer, because unless you don't drink, I believe that one must always drink at least one beer at baseball game. It's part of the ritual.

Although we drove a mere hour from the District, there was something so lovely and liberating about being away from DC for a night. Whatever issues I had here were left behind for several hours, and with the aid of excellent company and excellent diversionary measures, I was able to take on a new attitude towards some things that had been bothering me. I guess that's why people take vacations.

Other highlights of the weekend:

Sleeping through a booty call on Friday night. The hookup had totally been arranged and agreed upon--late Friday night we'd "meet up for a drink." But I got tired of waiting and instead left happy hour to drink with my roommates on our front steps. And then I got tired and decided that if the call I'd been waiting for hadn't come by 12:30, it wasn't going to. And if it was, perhaps I didn't want it so badly. So I went to bed. Checking my missed calls the next morning, I see that the gentleman in question called at 1:30 am.

There are many layers to this story, not all of which I can share. The most amusing layer however, is that I spent half of my night with mutual friends of said individual who are blissfully unaware of our little arrangement. So they were all calling him, asking him to come over to where we were, and all I could really do was smile to myself that I already had the whole thing covered. And I would have were it not for my pesky need for sleep.

Anyway. I was a little annoyed that I missed it until I realized that perhaps it was for his own good. You see, I'm teaching him a little life lesson: you can't always get what you want when you want it. And I won't lie. He'll get it eventually.

Swimsuit shopping. Actually, this was more of a low point. I tried, oh lord did I try. The fun of fluorescent lights, not knowing my size and the lack of selection at Nordstrom's ended the pursuit of a new bathing suit after about 5 minutes. I tried on a bikini for the first time ever. How on earth I am supposed to determine my bikini top size if my bra size is all over the place is a mystery to me. Regardless, it was a completely awful experience. Remember how I've been steadily losing weight for the past 6 months? Nothing detracts from the glow of fitting into pants you haven't worn in two years like trying on swimsuits. I responded by going home and eating brown rice and steamed veggies for dinner.

Another low point was running into a crush at happy hour on Friday out with another woman, who he introduced to me as a "friend." Yes, I had the whole "I'm so much cuter than her" rant to myself in my head. But such rants are ultimately just a means of rationalizing one's jealousy and making yourself feel better. When she was in the rest room at one point he came over to me and started blabbering on about some party he was going to later, but I couldn't tell if it was an invitation or not, as he never came out and said "Hey, want to come with me?" Simply instead, "It'll be lots of fun!" Well for you, it would be. Not so much for me as your third wheel. Besides, I had a booty call to sleep through.

Borat. I finally got around to watching it. While some people have fixated on the whole "make sexy time" quote as their favorite, I am particularly partial to this one: "Let's go back to New York. At least there are no Jews there."

I don't think you're special I don't think you're cool/ You're just probably alright/ But under these lights you look beautiful

2007-06-29T16:48:00.000Z

Here's to Fridays and crushes. The more innappropriate the better. Or as Lorelai would say, here's to new boy toys.

Eight Reasons Why It's All About Me

2007-06-28T18:08:00.000Z

Another meme is making its way through the DC Blogosphere. The name of the game? It's pretty simple actually: 8 Things About Me. As a self-centered only child, this should be easy for me.

1. Post the rules, then list eight things about yourself.
2. At the end of the post, tag and link to eight other people.
3. Leave a comment at those sites, letting them know they've been tagged, and asking them to come read the post so they know what to do.

1.) I am currently breaking in a new pair of shoes. Because this is causing all sorts of discomfort, I have been walking around the office barefoot this morning. Good thing I got a pedicure (manicure too) yesterday. My toe and finger nails are currently painted a very deep dark vampy purple. Lincoln Park After Dark (OPI) in case you care. Not very summer-like but I like my polish on the dramatic side. Yes, I am a hippy who walks around barefoot. Deal with it.

2.) Sometimes in order for me to motivate myself, I have to get into a very bad mood. This is the case today, with a presentation I have to give. I don't *want* to give it, so rather than preparing I am sitting at my desk silently complaining. Actually, I am now writing this blog entry. But before that I was complaining.

3.) Emoticons annoy me. As do abbreviations for various phrases that have only developed since the birth of the internet. You know what I mean. LOL. LMAO. ROTFL. Seriously people, get it together and use actual words from the English language.

4.) I'm pretty sure the bra I have on today is the wrong size. Having it on my body, it seems simultaneously too big and too small. I know I've lost a little weight since I bought it, so this isn't much of a shock. In all honesty, I have no idea what size should be wearing and it wouldn't surprise me to find out that all of my bras are the wrong size.

5.) I am secretly a rather vindictive individual. But rather than enacting revenge on those I feel have done myself or others harm, I like to think that karma will catch up with them. If I had a superhero alter ego her name would be Karma Girl.

6.) I tend to develop crushes on the wrong people. My life is a constant and never ending enactment of a Midsummer Night's Dream, without the bestiality and good lighting design. This is especially true of people towards whom it would be downright *inappropriate* to crush on. For some reason, my warped little mind finds people who are "off limits" to be infinitely appealing. I wonder if this is simply a mark of immaturity and I will eventually outgrow it, or if I am doomed to a life of wanting what I can't have. And when I'm drunk, I crush on everyone, although I don't really mean it. 85% of what I say when hammered should be discounted as hyperbole.

7.) I love the color green. Today I have on an emerald green tee shirt. On my left hand middle finger is a cocktail ring with a huge green quartz. My wrists are decorated with bakelite bracelets (one green, two yellow, one orange) from an antique store on Beacon Hill in Boston. I collect bakelite bracelets, although they've gotten mighty pricey now that they're all trendy and shit.

8.) It annoys me when people describe art or design from the Art Nouvea movement as Art Deco. Art Nouvea peaked in the years 1892 to 1902 and is typified by an organic movement of forms and inspiration from nature. Art Deco was a popular aesthetic movement in the 1920's and 1930s. Art Deco was inspired by technologies that were being born at the time--air planes, radios, cars. It can be identified by its faithful use of geometric patterns and sleek, streamlined shapes. I know it's silly to expect most people to know the difference, but it irks me just the same because their inspiration is so different as are their historical contexts.

What also annoys me is when people employ the "I hate modern art because anyone can splash a can of paint on to a canvas" argument. First of all, you didn't. Second of all, that's besides the point. When you step away from the canvas and look at a work in its historical context--when it was painted and by whom, it takes on a whole new meaning. Art isn't just about the thing it represents. It's about finding new ways to represent something. Modern art is significant in the way that it attacks the whole question of depicting the world and the ideas it contains. I find that when it comes to art people are lazy. They don't like to think about what something could be, so instead they get annoyed with it and write it off as crap because they don't understand it. It's sad, really.

9.) Not to break the rules or anything but here's one more fact: I am useless when I am hungry. I suffer from hypoglycemia and when my blood sugar is low two significant things happen. First, I get cranky. Second, my listening comprehension skills take a nose-dive. My teenage attempts at functional anorexia were ultimately futile due to the fact that I could never think or hear straight, which was problematic as I was trying to get an education at the time.

If you're still reading this post, look closely. I now must tag eight others to post a similar entry on their blogs. Are you looking? Get ready...I'm about to do some tagging...Okay....Ryane, Lorelai, Mystery Girl, So DC, Tilly, Have You Met Me, Zandria, Shannon. Did you see your name on there? Yes? Then get cracking. No? That's too bad. Don't let that stop you...

When High Heels Bite

2007-06-26T21:07:00.000Z

Two posts in one day? Oh no you di'n't.

I did.

I'm sorry, I am so white I have no idea how to spell the above conjunction. Again, I apologize for my whiteness. Me, white. Thank you.

It's been a while since I've been able to effectively wear high heels. Back in the day, I was practically famous among my friends for being able to walk effectively in four inch platforms. On my friendster testimonials my friend Alanna even said about me "[HP] is not afraid of high heels, even when they bite."

Well friends, I'm sad to say those days are long gone. Having sprained my ankle twice in the past two years, the thought of a heal higher than two inches fills me with all sorts of dread and panic. I simply can't do it.

I used to really like the added height that heels gave me, and the thought that they possibly made me look slimmer gave me loads more confidence. But recently I've gotten to reassessing this situation.

-Since my last two ankle injuries, the highest heal I've been able to commit to has been two inches. And really, how much slimmer can a heal of two inches make me appear? I really doubt the difference is that pronounced.

-Wearing heals places me in the 5'4" to 5'6" height range. Solidly average and ho-hum. Not wearing heals makes me a petite and adorable 5'2". At least that's distinctive.

-I'm going to have to get my pants hemmed anyway, so it's not like heals make my off-the-rack pants the correct length.

-I'm beginning to think that high heals are causing my calf muscles to bulk up, which isn't very pretty. I come from a long lineage of healthy peasant stock. My legs are genetically programmed to be thick. They don't need more encouragement.

-Ballet flats, my shoe of choice these days, were a sartorial favorite of Coco Chanel and Audrey Hepburn. If they're good enough for Coco and Audrey, they're good enough for me.

-You know what's fun? Walking. You know what's easier to walk in? Ballet flats.

-There's something hip and different about flats. They're a little gamine, a little preppy. Sure, they lack the glamazon sexiness of stilettos, but isn't glamazon sexiness something of an outmoded construct only created by the patriarchy and projected upon women anyway?

None of this is to say that I am giving up on high heals, I'm just really liking the flats these days is all. I'm sure I will always have girlfriends who will criticize the fact that I don't wear shoes that are sufficiently "girly." But hey, I grew up on a dirt road in the middle of the woods. You all should be glad I don't wear a flannel shirt and overalls to work everyday. And when you're as accident prone as I am, you need all the defenses you can muster. Flats are mine.

The Perils of Connectedness

2007-06-26T20:27:00.000Z

"In this world, there's a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we've left behind, and dreaming ahead. At least I think that's so."--Harper Pitt, Angels In America (Part Two: Perestroika),Tony Kushner

Note: This post is not about a specific person. Simply part 100,000,001 in an on-going meditation on human relationships...

Text messaging. Emails. Blogs. Social networking sites. Twittering. The unfortunate truth of the digital age is that there's most definitely such a thing as too much connectivity. You meet and befriend somebody, exchange information. Then somewhere down the line the friendship falls apart. Yet rather than simply disappearing from your life, they've left their digital footprints all over your life. In your cell phone. On your Facebook page. In the comments on your blog. In your email inbox.

I for one, always have a hard time knowing what to do with these footprints. Logic suggests that the smart thing to do is to delete them, brush them out of your way so that the sands level out as fresh they were before that person arrived. Indeed, there is a certain feeling of triumph and catharsis that comes from the moment you delete a person's number from your cell. I like to make a ritual of it--usually over brunch with a girlfriend, snapping my phone closed, punctuating the moment like an exclamation point, or at the very least a closing parenthesis. But even the act of deleting has its own subtext of hidden expectations. Perhaps this person will straighten up and fly right now that you no longer have direct access to their text message inbox. Perhaps erasing their footstep is all you need to bring them back. Murphy's Law of Digital Communications for the hopelessly optimistic. But everyone knows that you can't ever make another person do anything. That's why you're deleting them from you phone in the first place. Because they weren't fulfilling whatever role you had prescribed for them. Or vice versa.

As a relentlessly romantic and nostalgic individual, it pains me to think that people can be gone for good. As bitter as certain friendships and relationships have made me in the past, I always dwell over the good. Or rather, I dwell over that great divide that comes to exist between the good and the f'd up--how that divide came to be, what transpired before and after, what could possibly be done to make it go away. Even if there's nothing I can do about it, because again, you simply can't change other people.

Now that I have Gmail, I've made a habit of archiving old emails. Because I hate the idea of letting go altogether, and maybe because I think those old communications might possess a clue of some sort about what went wrong that I can't see now, but that might emerge with enough distance. Text messages delete themselves in time. Connections made over social networking sites are best ignored, although sometimes that's impossible. I've never deleted anybody from Friendster/My Space/Facebook. There's something so junior-high seeming about doing so. I'd like to think I can at least get along with people in the virtual world if not in real life. So some profiles I simply don't read anymore.

I have found that Facebook provides an especially sad reminder of this phenomenon, what with all the "poking" and wall-writing that it encourages. If you were to "cyberstalk" a person your punishment could be a painful reminder that they care about other people more than you. And really, who needs that?

What's the point of all this? I guess what I'm trying to get at here is the fact that certain inventions intended to bring us closer only end up alienating more in the long run. And after this fissures have errupted into full-blown chasms, they often stand as a mocking reminder of what was. The only thing to do is delete them and move on. Live a life unfettered by pixels and bytes.

Best Regards, Hey Pretty

2007-06-25T15:27:00.000Z

I've been thinking a lot about how I sign off on my work-related emails. A while back I read an article somewhere that asked various creative to share their signature closing lines, but I can't remember where that was.

Mine have evolved over the years. At my first job, unsure of proper protocols, I followed my boss's lead and closed every letter or email with the ending, Many Thanks. But I eventually came to question this closing. Many Thanks for what, exactly? Since then I have cycled through several of alternatives.

Best Wishes
Sincerely
Best Regards

None of these sound particularly satisfying, do they?

Best Wishes is the verbal equivalent of a limp handshake. Sincerely is generic and unimaginative, what the guy who does your taxes probably uses to sign his letters. Best Regards, there is nothing particularly wrong with, I am just a little tired of it.

There are other endings I like, such as As Always, but that sounds too unprofessional. I suppose I could try I am Sir, Your Most Obediant and Humble Servant, but I fear that the sarcasm wouldn't convey properly over the internet (Microsoft needs to invent a sarcasm font) and that sarcasm probably wouldn't be very appreciated in a professional setting. Whatever, I don't care is a sentiment that I often feel when closing a letter at work, but I obviously couldn't use that one. In other words, I am at a loss. Any creative new ideas?

Oh, my weekend, you ask? Oh, of course.

It started off with a bang and a most excellent Friday--lots of wine and beer and general awesomeness with completely cool people, many of whom had never met and seemed to get along extraordinarily well. I love it when I can bring people together and folks hit it off. Anyone who missed out seriously missed out.

On Saturday morning, as I was contemplating my options for getting out of bed and having a productive day, my homegal Lorelai texted me to go get brunch. Nothing rallies the spirits on a Saturday morning like the promise of a plate of eggs and some good strong coffee.

A couple of hours later, L and I found ourselves seated outside in the shade at Open City where we were confronted with a most unusual situation. It seems that the couple sitting next to us were reading self-help books about infidelity. I can't remember the exact titles--something like After the Affair and Surviving Infidelity. They perused these books on the after-effects of cheating as if they were skimming the morning paper, occasionally switching volumes to point out passages of note to one another, casual as can be. At one point, the man left the table and the woman asked me what neighborhood they were in. Seeing as how we were steps from the Marriot, I formulated a quick theory. Somebody in the couple cheated, and now they're on a "romantic get-away" to Washington, DC to patch up what remains of their fractured relationship. The self-help books are their form of therapy. Not that it's any of my business, but since I have made it such I have one piece of advice: couple's counseling.

Other weekend highlights: shopping with L, drinks on the Georgetown Waterfront and rediscovering my game. New and improved pickup lines were tested out. I could teach you, but I'd have to charge. On Sunday, I walked a million miles and saw the movie Ocean's 13.

Now I know that Ocean's 13 wasn't made to be picked over or analyzed too deeply, so I am willing to overlook its convoluted plot and anti-climatic ending. What I liked most about it was its aesthetics. The film uses the spirit and style of late 60's cinematic art direction as a spring board for its own visual language. Similarly, it's use of color is quite thoughtful. During certain moments the screen is saturated in red, followed by a cool blue, and an almost sci-fi green in others.

What also makes Ocean's 13 a delight is its offhanded humor. Towards the end of the film George Clooney's character, when bidding farewell to Brad Pitt's Rusty, tells him to "slow down" and have a "couple of kids" a sly nod towards Pitt's real-life tabloid love affair with Angelina Jolie.

And can we talk about George Clooney himself? When was the last time you encountered an actor who fills the screen with such a laid-back, self- assured, elegant sex appeal? Clooney has been widely acknowledged as a sex symbol for over a decade, and he gets better and better with each new strand of silver that emerges on his head.

Following the movie I bought myself dinner at Bourbon in Adams Morgan and was attended to by a most wonderful bartender. I love men who bedeck themselves in arm-sleeve tattoos and scruffy beards in an effort to look more bad-ass, but manage to maintain a certain fragile sweetness. He hooked me up with an excellent glass of Chenin Blanc and was wonderfully sweet and attentive. Who doesn't love being called darlin'? I'd be his darlin' anytime.

Also of note: I stayed up way too late finishing the Russian Debutante's Handbook.

And now I find myself at work. I was out last Monday for our staff meeting so I missed the announcement that my boss won't be in for two weeks. I wrapped up a big project before she left and now I find myself slightly adrift. Sure would be nice to have a manager who cares about my workload...

Ask the Non-Experts

2007-06-22T20:49:00.001Z

As a former English major I consider myself to be quite lucky to make an actual living using my writing and communication skills. And I don't just mean get a few pennies thrown my way every now and then. I mean, my innate creativity and talent for stringing words together allows me to earn a rather comfortable living. True, I am not a fancy high-profile journalist nor do I get to write about anything very sexy, but I get to write and at the end of the day I go home and work rarely follows me. Since I'm not particularly career obsessed, I am completely fine with this. To be honest, what awaits me outside work will always be more important.

Anyway.

Opportunities abound in our area for writers, you just have to know where to look and be willing to write on just about anything. I for instance, spend my days educating professionals of a certain field about new practices to make them better at what they do. A large chunk of my writing is for industry trade publications. My articles are technical in nature, which is ironic because I rarely know what I'm talking about.

My typical protocol for writing an article is: meet with my editor to determine a topic and an interesting spin; research that topic; write and rewrite until it's perfect. Somewhere in there, I send my article to an expert who I ask to verify or debunk my made-up technical claims. Usually they add several paragraphs of information that while factually accurate, is not particularly well-written. I neaten up their prose, re-arrange some sentences, and send our joint efforts to my editor, who then tells me how brilliant and accomplished I am.

If you think that this process is unique to my experience as a writer, you are woefully mistaken. I have many friends throughout the DC metro region--brilliant, wildly creative individuals who spend their spare time obsessed with music, art, culture and a variety of other fascinating subjects who earn their livings writing about topics that they know nothing about. At least once a week a fellow writer entertains me with a story about something they are writing or once wrote where they made up some of the "expert" information that was then disseminated to their loyal followers.

I know you're wondering "why don't the experts write these articles if real-life writers are such technical imbeciles?" Good question. The reality of the world is that it takes a special kind of brain to be able to master complex technical information and communicate its benefits in a reader-friendly manner. It's similar to why I can't seem to find a graduate program that would enable me to earn both an MFA AND an MBA.

In most cases, people figure it's better to hire a wordsmith who can at least research information and make it sound good. Verification can always come later. This isn't to say that I regularly publish bad information. All of my articles are 100% accurate, thanks to the technical people who review them. Nor is this to say that I am sort of fraud. I'm a very good writer who relies on the expertise of other people to get things done. Its a system that works in its own little way.

I just find it somewhat funny that information is regularly published by "experts" who really aren't. And that at the end of the day, us non-experts are kicking back with our Bourbon and Cokes, and giggling at our collective cluelessness.

And Now For Something A Little Sunnier

2007-06-21T20:03:00.000Z

Sorry about those downer blog posts, kids. Suffice to say I was in a gloomy kind of mood--the kind that inspires much navel-gazing and complaining. But I've emerged and I'm feeling a lot sunnier. Still not perfect, mind you, but better. Tuesday night, when I was fully entrenched in my Daria moment, I even made a list of personal goals. These are nothing like the action items I mentioned last week (few of which I fulfilled, FYI). They were more like things I intend to improve about myself. At the risk of being a full-on narcissist, I will not share the entire list. But here is the main gist of it: being more positive and less-self centered. I'm not sure how one fully realizes either, but I'm looking into it. For now, simply being friendlier, and less me-me-me is a start. There are others, but I'm not quite ready to share them.

Also lovely was sitting outside on my front steps last night with my lovely roommate and several of his lovely friends. We drank wine and ate cheese, and more importantly they entertained me and made me laugh, something I didn't realize I needed, but had obviously been lacking in my week.

I'm still feeling a little sad about that boy, not because I'm getting attached to him as some of your predicted, but because I'm understanding his personality more and I don't think it's really all that good. It's simply sad when you learn more about a person's nature and it isn't as pure or positive or kind as you would have liked. Feeling let down by another human is one of the worst kinds of disappointment you can endure, I think. And that has happened to me so much this year that it's been feeling like a reoccurring theme.

But on the upside, I've made friends with so many bright and beautiful new souls, seen otherwise unnoticed good in some I already knew, and connected randomly with a couple mysterious new characters, that I suppose in the end it all balances out. Just like it should.

Changes in the bearings of one's social life are always traumatic. Especially among people like me--young and social, single, living far away from my already fractured family. It's not like I have a husband or a mom to go home to at the end of the day to get a hug from or receive some sort of positive guidance. I'm not religious, so I can't really call on a spiritual entity either. I have myself, my art and books, but at the end of the day, my friends are what provides the external support system--the bracing that holds these walls in place.

I said this post was going to be sunnier, didn't I?

-I have the song Lovely Day by Bill Withers stuck in my head, although for no particular reason.
-I am wearing jeans that haven't fit in a long time.
-Tomorrow I am eschewing the whole bar scene and hosting a casual get-together at my house--wine, games and the like.
-I have been on-time or early for work twice this week (yes, this is good, I'm usually late).
-The weather is absolutely perfect today.
-I have only spent 55 dollars this week (soon to change with my hostessing responsibilities coming up...)

Lastly, I really wanted to quote part of a poem I really like--An Atlas of the Difficult World, by Adrienne Rich. But I can't find the exact line I am looking for. So instead, I will connect you with this one instead, which is almost as good.

Hugging Your Co-Workers is Inappropriate

2007-06-20T20:39:00.000Z

People always hem and haw about how "inappropriate" and "bad" it is to date or hookup with people you know from a professional context. And for the most part, I agree. Sexual tension in the workplace isn't conducive to productivity or fostering "professional relationships." I won't claim to be the arbiter of upholding this standard, because I've clearly admitted in the past that I possess a rather lax view of this whole subject.

But that's not exactly what I want to talk about today.

What I am discovering today is that I really think there is something to be said for having that kind of relationship with a co-worker. Let's say, you're having the kind of day that I've had so far today. Let's get hypothetical and suppose that one or more of the following things have taken place:

-Your source of "expert" information on a subject told your editor that all the information you wrote for something is wrong, even though it came from them directly, and you now have to re-interview them and re-do half an article;

-A different editor took so long to review a document that half the information in it is now outdated and you must redo all your research and re-write half of your document'

-You sat in a meeting conducted by somebody with no people-skills, who boorishly delegated tasks to people with no respect for their other commitments or priorities and as that person's underling, you prayed the entire time that his Lumbergisms weren't reflecting poorly on you.

Let's say that even just one of these incidences had occurred. It would be an annoying day. What if all three happened? If all three happened, wouldn't it be fair to say that you might want a hug? You might really benefit from that feeling of being encased in other individuals arms for a minute or so, just to experience that fleeting sense of security, that reassurance that your world is not in fact, crumbling apart as you suspect. If you had a coworker you were married to or dating, you could obtain that sense of relief almost instantaneously, and then return to the tasks at hand feeling a little steadier and surer.

I know that the subtext here is all about my apparent inability to manage stressful situations. And that's something I'm working on, I swear. But right now, a hug would be nice. Everyone needs one now and then. Just sayin'.

More Stupid Boy Tricks

2007-06-19T14:40:00.000Z

I don't have a whole lot to say today. Things are simply the way that they are and I am dealing with them as such.

I would however, like to point you to the latest addictive read over at Jezebel.com: I am sorry if you feel bad, either about yourself or towards me. Billed as a "public service campaign" it runs actual breakup emails penned by actual real twatwaffely guys. The current installment is especially precious and any one of you who has ever been unfortunately enmired with an emo boy (or emosogynist) will laugh in sad solidarity. Even better is that Zach Braff is the Jezebel-appointed poster boy for said endeavor, and you *know* how I feel about Zach Braff.

Read it and weep.

Also, boys? When you attend a house party and spend your night chatting up a cute random girl, do not get so inebriated off of jello shots that you have to take yourself home without obtaining her contact info. Poor form, Colin.

Blogger Happy Hour & Other Stuff

2007-06-15T14:34:00.000Z

Who's Going?

So do you wanna hear my goal for the weekend? Okay, there are several.

First, I need to get to the gym at least once (most likely this afternoon).

Second, I need to research radical social movements for my "novel." Yes, I referenced my "novel" again, I am so pretentious.

Third, it would be quite great to procure a nice pair of summer-weight black pants, although I don't know where to find these as I am fed up with the quality of BR and J Crew, and I can't quite afford the stuff at Saks and Neimans.

Fourth, I would like to find a replacement for the recalcitrant boy. You heard me. If the universe could kindly deliver to me a tall, intelligent man with a good sense of humor and a minimum of emotional issues (notice how flexible I am in allowing a few to sneak in), who is a nerd but not a dork, I'd be appreciative. Time to upgrade.

The Paper Trail Expands

2007-06-14T16:16:00.000Z

I didn't make it to Kramer's last night. The sky opened up the minute I left the bar from happy hour and my only choice was to make a mad dash across the street to the metro. Upon my return home (shoes are not actually ruined as I suspected them to be) I took inventory of my literature stock, daring to make eye contact with all the volumes I have so capriciously discarded throughout the years without fully enjoying to the extent that they deserve. It was like daring to show my face before a collection of lovers scorned, yet secretly hoping to be taken back. I surveyed the collection carefully, weighing my options. Finally, my hand reached for a generously endowed paperback on the second to highest shelf.

I smoothed my hand over its cover, displacing a fine layer of dust in the process. It's cover art was exactly as I had remembered it. A photograph of a girl with long wavy hair, wearing dark shades and a blue mini-dress lounging on a battered velvet sofa under what appears to be a Kandinsky canvas.

The Russian Debutante's Handbook.

As far as compelling presentation, it has everything going for it. Intriguing cover art, a cryptic title, and many blurbs testifying to it's literary greatness. I mean, damn. Who didn't like this book--everyone from New York Magazine to the Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, The Washington Post to friggin' Entertainment Weekly had something positive to say. This book is hot property. This book gets around.

With most things in life, an entity's popularity tends to diminish my willingness to embrace or enjoy it. Not because I'm one of those contrarian pseudo-intellectual, misanthropic hipster types who hates anything mainstream. More because excessive hype and overexposure tends to turn me away from things. If I hear about how something is great 8 million times my brain tends to shut off or begin to hate that thing. Whatever it is--a movie, a bar, a friend's new boyfriend. After a while it's all blah, blah, blah to me.

It's different with books. Perhaps it's because my experience of loving a book is so intrinsically emotional, intellectual and personal, that when somebody else is brave enough to publicly declare their deepest affections for a book, I take notice.

So here, with dozens of accolades testifying to the singular wonderfulness of this particular novel, I decided to give it another try.

And I'm glad that I did. I've only read a dozen more pages (it's not the kind of text you can gulp down whole) and I had to backtrack a little to remind myself what had been going on when I last abandoned it. But I'm digging it's sense of humor. Right now, the main character (born in Russia) is trying to make sense of American culture, particular the American culture of intellectual hipster types.

As a commenter pointed out yesterday, I have something in common with the book's author. We graduated from the same small, progressive Midwestern college. I vaguely remember him around campus, although he was a senior when I was a first year and we never had reason to meet. The main character in the book has recently graduated from what is obviously the same school as it has been referred to several times as "the progressive Midwestern college." The main character's outlook on the world has been informed by his experience there, something I can wholly relate to. As of now, he is trying to reconcile his own image of success in America with the nerd chic thrift store aesthetic popular among his peers. Oh, how I relate.

In related news, I did a little writing last night, letting the theme of my project shift once again. This time writing more from experience than conjecture, the words flowed much more easily. I did encounter a creative snag however: writing dialog. Mine feels all clunky and weird. Too much, blah blah blah, she saids and x,y,z she responded. I don't know what to do about that.

In the comments section tell me something. Anything.

Paper Trail

2007-06-13T16:27:00.000Z

My to-read list is expanding faster than your waist-line around the holiday season (oh, *snap*!). There are more books on the planet to read than I can keep up with, and every time I get into one book, I learn of another that I need to conquer as well. The fact that I have book ADD doesn't help either.

For those not in the know, book ADD is when you get 50 pages into one, only to be lured away by the charms of another. I have commitment issues when it comes to reading. My eye wanders easily. I am easily seduced by sexy cover art, imaginative graphics, titillating cover blurbs. Oh, blurbs how I love thee! Snappy paragraphs that distill a book down to its very essence. The only enjoyment I ever found in academic publishing in fact, was editing blurbs. My boyfriend at the time told me that blurbs sounded like a snack food. He'd always ask me if I prefer them with mustard.

Anyway.

Last night I finished Special Topics in Calamity Physics, a book that many "important" people creamed themselves over. It was good and all, but I don't see what the big fuss was about. Yes, it was clever. Yes, it was well written. Yes, it was a riff on several Nabakov novels, crossed with The Secret History. Yes, it leaves a little breadcrumb trail of clues about how the book will end. And then it ends. I don't know, I was a little disappointed. I won't say anymore, as to not give it away. But if any of you have read it, and care to discuss it with me, please email me and we can dish.

Next up, I am supposed to read Grapes of Wrath for book club, but methinks I am going to skip that one. I majored in English after all, and had to slog through quite a few dull literary tomes in my day, and I think I've had about as much of that as I can take. Call me lazy, fire away. Then go and read the collected works of Henry James and Edith Wharton for Senior Seminar and tell me how devoted to classic literature *you* are.

So far this year I have read:

The Emperors Children (Claire Messud)
Elements of Style (Wendy Wasserstein)
Zorro (Isabella Allende)
On Beauty (Zadie Smith)
Heat (Bill Buford)
Special Topics in Calamity Physics (Marrisa Pessl)
The Washington Story (Adam Langer)
A teen novel by Meghan McCafferty, the name of which I can't remember
The Know it All (AJ Jacobs)

And one or two more I am blanking on.

Books I have tried to read recently but became distracted from include:

Veronica (Mary Gaitskill)
The Russian Debutante's Handbook (Gary Shteyngart)
The Rachel Papers (Martin Amis)

Veronica was simply too depressing. The RDH I grew impatient with. The Rachel Papers, I don't know. I guess something better came along.

My to-read list now includes:

Mergers and Acquisitions (Dana Vachon)
Foucault's Pendulum (Emberto Eco)
Summerland (Michael Chabon)
Absurdistan (Gary Shteyngart) (Absurd that it's even on my list as I didn't finish his other one)
Then We Came To An End (Joshua Ferris)
The Futurist (James P. Othmer)
The Line of Beauty (Allen Hollinghurst)
Winter's Tale (Mark Helprin)
Blue Angel (Francine Prose)
Selected essays from the million page Joan Didion reader I received for Christmas

I'm sure there are millions of others that I'm forgetting, and that too frustrates me. Knowing that there are great books out there that I haven't experienced makes me feel incredibly incomplete. And let's not even get into the non-fiction books I haven't read, although between you and me, non fiction doesn't excite me.

For me, enjoyment of a book boils down to one element: style. I eschew those written in wordy prose, dripping with adjectives and needless metaphors. I like my novels written in snappy, clever prose--bordering on spare, in face. I marvel at linguistic acrobatics, but not the variety that uses too many words to complete its feat. Likewise, over stylization bores me to tears. Plot is always secondary. Characterization, while appreciated, isn't foremost on my list of expectations.

Have you ever seen the movie Amadeus? In it, a figure in the court criticizes Mozart's music for "having too many notes," and alas, that is how I feel about many novels. Too many words.

So what's next? To what new tome shall I direct my loyalties now? Methinks a trip to Kramers is in order. Holler at me if you have any suggestions. Or holler at me for some other reason. I could use a good holler today.

Oh, and Lorelia just asked me how my own novel is going. On Saturday I divulged to her that I had a seedling for a story mind, and that I had even sat down to compose a few lines--a frustrating experience. It seems that whenever I blog, the words flow so freely, and yet when I sit down to pen actual fiction, my creativity freezes up. I suppose the fact that I have a general idea for what I want to write, yet no actual plot is a bit of a hindrance. So many decisions to make. I can't even decide on point of view, let alone what the damn thing will actually be about.

Random Tuesday Musings

2007-06-12T15:24:00.000Z

-If that psychic lady I encountered on the street last night when I was walking home from the gym was any good at her job, she would have been able to use her powers to glean that I didn't want a reading from her.

-We have lolcats and lolpresidents. The next evolution of the theme can only be lolboyfriends (can i haz space pleeeze?!? i'm in ur mind, messing wit ur thots!)

-It's amazing how different I feel when I have to dress up for work (client meeting). Today I'm wearing a black Theory shift dress, good jewelry, and kitten heals. Even my posture is better. I should buy more nice work clothing.

-Special Topics in Calamity Physics is a good book. It was also a good book when it was called The Secret History.

-I'd be much more content at work if my colleagues actually listened to me and didn't respond to my questions with answers to questions that I didn't ask--questions that have incredibly obvious answers, such as the ones that they provide me with. It makes me grumpy. And then I get negative reviews for having an "attitude problem."

-Every time I read on the internet about how straight people pick one another up at the gym, my reasons for belonging to the big gay gym are reaffirmed. Listen folks, some of us just want to throw on our oldest pair of yoga pants, stick our hair up in a knot, and sweat out our sorrows for an hour. We do not want to be bothered with looking cute and sexy, nor do we feel like engaging in your misguided flirtations. Can I haz space pleeze?!

more later.

A Case of the Mondays

2007-06-11T16:40:00.002Z

[insert other over-quoted lines from Office Space here].

Man, I am in a mood today, which is mystifying considering how good my weekend was. In no particular order, the hours of Friday at 6:00 pm through Sunday at 10:30 pm consisted of spending time with friends old and new, two excellent brunches, not making it out to see Califone at the Rock and Roll hotel because chilling with my homegirl on my front steps proved to be more compelling (some whisky might have been involved too), purchasing some kicking new unmentionables, watching some very bad TV, and triumphantly blowing off one very presumptuous and bad-for-me-boy. As usual, not quite enough sleep was procured, but fun was had. Lots and lots of it.

Perhaps it's the contrast I'm now experiencing between freewheeling good times and boring office doldrums that's getting me down. Or the fact that everyone seems to be satisfyingly coupled-off these days while my one romantic option is a complete emotional defective. Or the fact that I've been assigned to a project at work that only one person really cares about and nobody else feels at all compelled to do their part to participate in. Or maybe it's the fact that I ate bad food all weekend and now feel all flabby and out of shape and am dreading the hours I'll have to put in at the gym to make up for all of it. Or maybe it's just the lack of sleep.

Regardless, I need to cheer up, fast. My horoscope just informed me that by nightfall I will have something to celebrate. I can only hope that whatever this new development is, it comes before my 1:30 staff meeting.

In the comments section tell me what you're feeling pissy about. Or tell me something to cheer me up. Yes, I know. Me, me, me.

Not The Logan to My Veronica, But It'll Do...

2007-06-08T15:33:00.000Z

"I'll be over a bit later," I told him over email. "I need to run home and shower and change. I'm not representing very well on the hotness scale right now, and if I am to see you, I'd rather do it in an outfit that devastates."

Last minute plans are rare in the context of our friendship, if you can call it that, this dance we've been doing since mid-January. Normally plans are hatched after weeks of silence, a week or two ahead of time. I spend the day of participating in various grooming rituals, planning what I will wear, coming up with a good backup in case Outfit A somehow backfires, my stomach in knots all the while. Before we meet up I do a shot of whisky and smoke a Parliament Light, my way of taking the edge off.

Until yesterday it was unheard of for him to request my company with such little advance notice. But after Wednesday's reunion everything was a bit off-kilter. Epic emails were exchanged Thursday afternoon. The ones of the "I can't handle a relationship" variety (him) and the "I'm not in love with you nor do I plan to be in the near future" variety (me). After 5 months of ambiguity, our relationship was finally defined: friends with a little extra. Given my ambivalence towards all things romantic these days, this seems like a nice temporary solution. I have ingested no whisky, but I did borrow a beer from one of my roommates (yes, I will get you back--thanks for having so much beer).

In a tight red tee complimenting both my slight tan and my natural assets, and my new outrageously expensive jeans (that actually manage to flatter my curves--amazing), I sauntered into his apartment. "That outfit devastates" I hear him say behind me, one of the only true compliments he has ever given me in regards to my appearance (I think "cute" was the other--a descriptor I often tire of. I'd take sexy or unique over cute any day). A small studio with barely enough room to contain his bed and his desk, I set about doing some housekeeping. Listen, when you're bed doubles as your sofa, you can't invite a woman over and have it unmade. No lady likes to lounge on an unmade bed, even if she is essentially only visiting you to makeout with you and you both know it. The lighting is crappy, no music is playing. I request some ambiance. He dims the lights, puts on some tunes. "Not the bitter mix," I say. "I can't hang out with you and listen to a mix you made expressing your sentiments towards another woman. And that Ryan Adams song makes me want to slit my wrists." He complies.

A lady does not kiss and tell (very much), so that is as much of a recap as I am willing to provide. The evening was nice. Having laid a gentle smack down on him with my I-do-not-love-you email, I noticed a definite shift in my feelings towards him. Way less emotional, way less worried about saying or doing the wrong thing. But less passion too, but maybe that's better. Passion messes with your head. Passion makes you do stupid things like send snippy emails and text messages. Passion gets you attached. Attached is not something I can be with this one. I am removed, distant, airy to the point of flippancy. I deliver off-handed compliments but follow them up with casual put-downs. Intellectual acrobatics, teasing insults as foreplay.

Looking at his eyes I see for the first time that they're the same greenish bluish shade as mine.

And in other news, this weekend promises to devastate. Happy hour tonight, followed by a possible outing to Wonderland. Brunch with the gals tomorrow, the band Califone at the Rock and Roll Hotel at night. Kickball all day on Sunday, hopefully with a chance to work out, do laundry and see a movie mixed in.

Oh, and my set up? The one I was super excited about? He disappeared into the ether. According to my married friends who set us up, he is dating his college crush. "She's not nearly as cute as you," she said. Hmph! As happy as I am for him that he's found himself a nice girl, a cursory explanation from him would have been nice. Boys these days.

And So It Begins Again

2007-06-07T17:05:00.000Z

Sometimes a hiatus only has to last for 5 days. Really, it's totally okay to boldly state that you're never dating again and OVER and DONE with it, and then decide less than a week later that you've changed your mind. A hiatus can still be a hiatus even if it lasts for less than a week, right? Right.

Besides, some of us happen to enjoy things like texting the boy you had totally given up on, making up with him over text message, persuading him to come meet you out, him actually showing up (which for him is as close to a grand gesture as he is capable of making), and making out on 18th Street for all the world to see. Why? Because the whisky-fueled saunter home in your kicky sundress and practical sandals, iPod blaring the mix you made to get over him (aptly titled Oh Uncooperative Heart) was worth it. And because your dear friend who has listened to you complain about him ad naseum actually got to meet him and confirmed this morning that he's completely into you, or "all blushes and bashful" as she described him. What's not good about that?

Probably plenty of things, but we're not going to worry about that right now.

What is also fun is then having a completely inappropriate IM conversation with another lad that lasted for most of the morning.

Ah, yes. It's good to be back.

Now only if my head didn't feel like it was filled with cotton, this would be a stellar day indeed.

Red Photography Updated

2007-06-06T21:49:00.000Z

New readers are probably unaware of the fact that I also keep a photoblog. I neglect it quite a bit due to technology issues. But I just managed to find a computer with nice imaging software, and spent a little time making some image adjustments. More to come later, but in the meantime, go take a look.

The Hey Pretty Mid-Year Index

2007-06-06T16:31:00.000Z

'Hard to believe 2007 is almost half-way over. I had high hopes for 2007, a year I'd spend most of being 30, a most interesting age. So far, 2007 has been all about transitions. It would be overly dramatic to say that EVERYTHING HAS CHANGED, but quite a lot has--some for better, some rather painfully and harshly. But dems de breaks, as my co-counselor at summer camp way back when was fond of saying. With that said, I present to you the Hey Pretty Mid-Year Index (in deference to Harpers. My apologies, Harpers).

# of new bosses gained @ work: 2
# of new businesses plans I have been responsible for launching @ work: 1
# of raises or bonuses: 0
# of new friends made: a dozen+
# of new friends made who turned out to be bat-shit crazy: 1
# of friends who have moved away: 1
# of old friends reconnected with: 3
# of new roommates: 2
# books read: 8 (but I feel like I might be forgetting one or two)
# of different novels I have started to write, only to abandon: 3
# of music mixes made: 3
# of rolls of film processed: 3 (slacker)
# of new black shirts purchased: 3
# of new pairs of jeans: 1
# of boys kissed: 9 (is it bad that I've kissed more boys than I have read books?)
% of those who I happen to work with: 22
# of set-ups: 1
# of internet 1st dates: 6
# of harmless new crushes that haven't resulted in any kind of emotional trauma: 1
# of sessions at the gym: 45 (approximately)
# of yoga classes attended: 2
# of pounds lost: 5 (but muscle weighs more than fat, so suck it)
# of bottles of wine consumed: too many to count
# of whisky shots: no comment

And so it goes for 2007, months 1-5. Bring on 6-12, bitches. I'm ready.

Under My Skin

2007-06-04T21:02:00.000Z

Certain people have a distinct talent for getting under my skin. Rather, certain men possess that talent. Last week I decided it was time to take a little hiatus from the dating. The number of rants I've published in recent months on this blog alone is testament to the fact that men are driving me a bit nutty. I've simply been wasting way too much emotional energy on wondering when so-and-so will call, why he didn't call, who he is preferring to call instead. I had an epiphany of sorts a few days ago when I realized how many wonderful friends I have for companionship, and even what great company I am for myself. Since dating was only compounding my natural tendency towards moodiness and semi-obsessive introspection, I decided that the time has come to take a small break.

For how long? Until the prospect of returning to it doesn't make me want to curl up in the fetal position, or until somebody really good comes along to make it all worthwhile. Since those have been few and far between in recent days, I foresee a healthy break ahead of me.

I am also taking this hiatus as a chance to assess what has been working in my romantic life, and what hasn't. Earlier today, I got to reflecting on the types of personalities I tend to be attracted to, all of their irritating characteristics, and whether I will ever grow up and learn to like nice, "normal" men. There's a certain someone in my life right now who in all honesty, is driving me completely crazy. Somebody who I should not in any way be attracted to, who seems to know exactly which buttons to push to both annoy and intrigue me. Another pride and prejudice relationship, as darling EJ so aptly calls them. Reflecting upon the utter annoyingness/hotness of said individual, it occurred to me that he is one in a long string of would-be suitors who possess similar traits. In no particular order, men who display the following characteristics and quirks have a better than 70% chance of turning me all angsty and naval-gazing:

-Unpredictable invasions of my personal space. You did not just reach into my dress and the strap of my bra where I have been storing my lighter because my dress doesn't have pockets. Oh wait, you did. With a devilish gleam in your eye for that matter. Stop that. No wait, do it again. No stop. F*ck. I can't decide.

-Disappear for a month but resurface with a really good excuse as to why you were MIA for so long. Oh, you were having emotional problems? That's so deep. Here, let me cook you dinner and gently probe your psyche and offer to fix all your problems for you.

-What's that you say? There's a considerably-sized chunk of your personal history you don't care to share with me? How mysterious. Here, let me buy you a beer so I can ask you a bunch of questions that circle the issue but never fully address it.

-Fully enjoy adult beverages. Like, enjoy them a lot. A whole lot. Whisky shots on a Sunday night? How hot. Yes, let's do several. What's that you say? You keep a bottle of vodka in your desk drawer? Would I care to drink some with you? Not really, okay yes. No, no I would not.

-Startles at the thought of commitment. You're in the military and shipping out overseas in six months? How retro and romantic. You just got out of a long-term relationship and are too "scarred" to get involved again? Oh, you poor thing. Let me nurture you back to datability.

The fact remains that I enjoy the company of men who are witty, charming, good-looking, intelligent, and moderately rebellious. But like all attractive personality characteristics, these often (or always) seem to come with their fair share of mood-killers. When entertaining the possibility of dating a new gentleman, these traits must be carefully weighed, and certain reasonable expectations must be placed on what is considered a "deal breaker." I know I posted a list of what I considered to be deal breakers about a year ago, and since then, I've learned to be a little more flexible. For instance, I've gotten over my "must be a liberal" requirement, and hence, dated two Republicans last year. These relationships didn't last, but not because of our political differences. Well, perhaps the fact that I detest Rick Santorum and have no plans to ever give up my career to home-school my children might have been a factor in being unceremoniously discarded by one. But that was his issue, not mine.

Like I said last week, I am learning to accept the fact that I may just be responsible for attracting said characters. Hey, we all make choices, right? I've accepted the terms of enough ambiguous relationships in the past year to understand that it's time I accept a little more accountability for my dating disasters. So over the next several weeks or months, as I take a breather from the fun world that is the DC dating scene, as I eschew first dates for reading the Grapes of Wrath and all the other books on my to-read list, I intend to isolate specifically what traits unite the cads I have known and loved, and learn to avoid them in the future at all costs.

More on this later, I am quite sure.

In the comments section tell me what unfortunate character traits you find utterly hot in your crushes.

Na-Mother-F'N-Naste

2007-06-01T16:25:00.000Z

Still a bit emotionally spent from my weekend away, and my body hating me for subjecting it to three nights of dorm bed sleeping, I decided it was time to return to yoga class. Many of you will recall my love-hate relationship with the practice. When we're jiving, I love getting swept away in the flow of the poses, the pleasant sensation of deep breathing combined with stretching, and marveling at the things my body is capable of. When we're not jiving, I find yoga sweaty and tedious, and I begin to resent whatever hippy-dippy shirtless dude on the mat next to me who is leaning just a tad too far into my personal space.

Letting go is not something that I am good at. Sometimes yoga is great for helping me release whatever petty melodrama my head insists on replaying to itself a million times a day. Other times, yoga finds me trapped with nothing to think about *but* those issues. Add to that my chronic ankle problems, and the prospect of enjoying a class is spotty at best.

But yesterday it was time. If only so I could do something about the persistent pain that had been sitting in my lower neck all week. I arrived at the studio dressed in my ratty workout gear (I have never been one to gussy up just to sweat--unless of course, it's from that *other* activity--zing!) prepared to embrace whatever obstacles came my way. I was signed in by a lovely young woman, who displayed none of the superiority or snottiness I normally encounter from the studio assistants. Pleasant surprise, that was. I waited in the hall with the other yogis, also a pleasant seeming bunch.

When it was time, we entered the studio and placed our mats in our preferred locations. There was a lot of extra space due to low attendance, so I was confident I'd have much space to practice in. Wrong. A hippy-dippy dude (yet thankfully not shirtless) plopped his mat down next to mine despite the abundance of space elsewhere in the studio. I experienced a moment of annoyance before reasoning with myself.

"Self," I said. "You have your preferred place in the studio where you always put your mat. Chances are others do too. It's not this guy's fault that his preferred location is two inches from yours. You'll have to learn to peacefully coexist and deal." So shocked was I by the intervention of a non-snarky inner voice, all I could really do was shut up and do some warm up stretches. "Who is that woman," I thought, "and why is she so reasonable?"

Class commenced and it was good. Yes, my decrepit ankles took issue with the fact that they were sometimes required to turn at a 45 degree angle, something they just weren't down with, and my bony old knees were *not* happy about whatever pose that is where you lean on them from a lunge. But poses that I used to loath were suddenly much easier, due most likely to the awesome amounts time I've devoted to cardio over the past several months. Plus, the combination of stretching, breathing, and moving was just extremely cathartic and relaxing.

Class ended, and walking to the metro I took stock of the experience and how I felt.

Did my neck still hurt? No.
How did the rest of me feel? Energized, limber, strong.
Did my heart still feel all raw and beaten? Actually, no. No, it did not.

At the beginning of class the instructor told us to set our intentions for our practice, perhaps even to dedicate the practice to somebody in need of a little positive karma. My intension was to release myself from all the drama and indefiniteness that I feel has weighed me down for months, and to send nothing but good thoughts to those that the drama involved. Douchebags, many of 'em, but they need all the good karma they can get.

And this is how a huge weight was lifted from my shoulders last night, the one no doubt responsible for causing all my neck pain. Because that's what it's been--a giant pain in the neck.

Then I got to thinking about all those people who are all totally into yoga and how they walk around all the time talking about "intentions" and "toxicity" and all that other quasi-spiritual new-ageiness, and how I normally roll my eyes because they sound ridiculous. But they're supposedly all enlighted and stuff, whereas I am a cynic's cynic. Yes, I believe in many of those things but I normally keep them to myself. But now I'm wondering if it's possible to become a full-on yoga devotee and still retain a little of my oh-so-endearing sarcasm and wit. Can I be calm, balanced, stable and at peace with the world and still be funny? Or is doing yoga going to turn me into some sort of irritatingly upbeat, drum-beating freak? These are the questions that vex me today. When one worry subsides another replaces it. Albeit, not a particularly dark one. Somehow, I think I'll deal.

And in other news, I am wearing quite the hot little number today. (But in magenta).

Just Chillaxin'

2007-05-31T16:20:00.000Z

I decided yesterday that it's somewhat possible that a portion of the drama I experience in life I inflict upon myself. Note my strategic use of words like "possible" and "portion." I'm still somewhat in denial. Whereas I used to believe that I am simply a magnet for chaos and scandal, I'm starting to think that I might be encouraging it without meaning to. It's something I intend to work on.

With that in mind, I decided that the time has come to diversify my leisurely activities. Methinks that drama follows me around because I spend a lot of time tipsy, interacting with similarly tipsy individuals. Many of whom are boys. It's probably also time to bid adieu to these individuals, as I'm sure that even engaging a little bit in the whole "will guy who I did x,y, or z with a week ago ever call" game is no doubt bad for one's soul. I need to come up with a new system for emotionally managing my expectations of men. Probably being more judicious about who I get involved with would be a good start.

Normally my weeknights consist of either going to the gym and getting home kind of late, or hitting a drinking-related event and getting home kind of late. I used to be proud of this routine, as it signaled a healthy interest in self-maintenance and that I have a lot of friends because I can almost always find somebody to have an adult beverage with.

But in all honesty, I think I'm in a rut. Doing the same two things five days a week after work gets old. So although I have no intention to stop working out or to cease my hours of happy, I have decided to throw some new activities into the mix. I came to this decision late yesterday afternoon and decided that there was no time like the present to implement my plan.

Rather than going home and flopping down on the sofa to watch Tivoed episodes of the OC (Soapnet, holla!) as I had planned because I was still burnt out from the weekend, I instead headed over to Olsen's in Dupont Circle to watch and hear Marisha Pessl read from her novel Special Topics in Calamity Physics. This book has been on my to-read list for a while. All the major literary critics have been fawning over it and her (I'm sure it doesn't hurt that she's quite young and pretty), comparing her to David Foster Wallace and Jonathan Safran Foer (future husband of Hey Pretty, btw).

Pessl talked a bit about her inspiration for writing and her life before she became a full-time novelist. Apparently she worked in a soulless corporate job in a cubicle she referred to as a "veal fattening pen", and used to spend several hours a day there furtively working on Special Topics until she eventually quit to give it her full time attention.

As a young writer who has kicked around the idea of writing fiction for a while, Pessl's little talk was inspiring. She spoke of two failed novels she wrote in college, and how she was finally able to write Special Topics because she had a clear plan for what it would be about.

Now that, I envy. On any given day, about a million independent mini plot lines for stories kick around in my brain. I can't seem to find a common thread to unite any of them, nor can I really elaborate on a full plot. When it comes down to it, I have no idea how to write fiction.

Following the reading I purchased a copy of Special Topics, along with The Paris Review Interviews Volume 1, and one of the 33 1/3 series of music history books, this one about the band Love.

Although I have yet to finish my book club book, I tore into the Paris Review Interviews when I got home. Reading what Dorothy Parker and Truman Capote had to say about their craft was reassuring. It seems that all writers are hampered by doubts and sporadic battles between id and ego. Good to know. I was also reminded that Parker is best remembered as a short story writer. She never once tackled prose in a longer format. Which got me to thinking--why overwhelm myself trying to write a novel if I can instead try my hand at short stories. After all, I have never been much of a long distance runner, but my sprinting skills are rather impressive (well, they were at one time).

Anyway.

With summer basically here, I foresee my schedule shaking itself up with more and better new activities. Tonight, I will attempt to re-introduce my creaky old joints to the concept of yoga (I've been on an I-hate-yoga-kick for a while, but maybe I can shake it) and in just a couple of weeks, we'll experience the glory that is Fort Reno.

Here's to a creatively productive and calm summer in DC.

Oh, and if any of you can recommend some nice, safe hiking paths in Rock Creek, do let me know. I want to go hiking this weekend, but I'm still a little freaked out about Chandra Leavy (yes, I know it was almost a decade ago....)

Rumble on the Mall

2007-05-30T16:12:00.000Z

A message went out on a list-serve that I am on for a knitting group I keep on meaning to join up with in person but haven't gotten around to yet. It suggested that everyone forgo their usual crafting location this Sunday to instead go "heckle" kickballers on the Mall. This suggestion struck me as absurd for several reasons.

1.) More and more, it has come to my attention that kickballers are viewed as something of a scourge in our nation's capital. Sure, we play a game designed for 3 graders, drink beer and sometimes get a little rowdy. Um, that's what makes it fun. Plus, it's social and sometimes you meet cool people who then enrich your life in various ways. Sure, some kickballers are total twatwaffles who complicate your life or simply annoy you. But there are some real gems among us, and we don't appreciate being lumped-in with ignorant generalizations about how obnoxious all kickballers are.

2.) This email was penned by a guy who is part of a knitting group. Although I am open-minded enough to not cast judgments upon men who sit around knitting, not everyone is so enlightened. I'm sure some of the kickball twatwaffles would have some choice words for said individual.

3.) The author of the email obviously has no idea that some of his list-serve members happen to play kickball and that some (or one, and really I'm fine with being the only one) would take offense to his suggestion.

Despite these facts, the imagery this suggestion suggests is priceless, and may be brilliant enough to actually make his lame suggestion a good one. I can just picture a face-off under the Washington Monument wherein a group of kickballers in their color-coded tees shimmies and struts up to an opposing pack of bohemians, waving their knitting needles in the air like swords. The soundtrack to West Side Story plays in the background. Fingers snap. A pretty dark-haired girl from one side catches the eye of a rouge individual from the other. Kickballs are pierced by the needles. Chaos erupts. Elicit love blossoms, only to end in tragedy and heartbreak.

The More They Change, The More They Remain the Same

2007-05-29T17:23:00.000Z

As many of you know, I traveled to Ohio for a college reunion this past weekend. I didn't know what to expect--who I'd see, who would remember me, who I would remember, even what I would do. From my perspective, I've felt that I've changed a lot in the past 9 years--evolved from angsty, rebellious, clueless teen into a person who at times resembles a responsible adult. Although still a little shy and prone to periods of darkened mood, I like to think I'm a little more together than I was when I graduated.

Reunion weekend was a series of highs and lows, presenting me with the same dysfunctional human interactions I experienced back in my college days. The institution of learning that I attended is renown for attracting some eccentric personalities. Although brilliant and wildly talented, many lack simple people skills. The setting for reunion was small and intimate, and we mainly saw the same people over and over again. Whenever you place a group of eccentrics in a social fishbowl, strange things are bound to happen.

The Highs:
Catching up with old friends. There were several people there I knew I'd see, so their presence, although not a surprise, was a real pleasure. Also in attendance were several characters who I had been friends with early in my college career, but had sort of forgotten. Why we ever lost touch is a mystery to me, because hanging out with again revealed them to be total kindred spirits. Hopefully we'll be better about staying in touch this time around.

Making new friends. There were a lot of people there whose faces I knew, but had never befriended. To be honest, a lot of them had intimidated me for whatever reason back in school. But being thrust into a very small environment with them sort of forced us to interact, and a lot of these interactions were quite pleasant. I even met an extremely cool woman who lives in DC, who I will hopefully get to hang out with in real life.

Visiting old haunts. The coffee shop where I spent a lot of my time back in the day is now a bar. The town used to be dry save for beer and wine, but this place now serves liquor. Their bloody marys are to do for and I very much appreciated the fact that gin and tonics are only 3 dollars. Ohio is cheap, yo. And they serve tater tots.

College-subsided debauchery. Every night after checking out the scene at the only two bars in town/random college house party/campus dance club, we'd return to the dorm that we were all staying at and partake in free beer. Lots of free beer. Saturday night at 2 am found us drunk and making huge forts out of sofa cushions just as we did back in the day. Some of us stayed up until 5 am. I know I heard birdies chirping by the time I made it up to bed.

The Lows:
Boredom. There isn't much to do in Ohio, yo. Because of this, we spent the majority of the weekend drinking. Also, campus and town are SO small. I find the fact that we used to complain about walking across campus to be hilarious, as it would take a total of 15 minutes to get from far corner to far corner, and most of the places you'd be inclined to visit are crammed together in a very small space.

College dorms suck. How I managed to live in a dorm as long as I did is beyond me. Between the horrid bed, the dingy lighting and the weird smelling showers, my group house back here now seems like a palace to me.

Boys continue to suck. Leave it to me to visit Ohio for the weekend, only to meet a boy from DC who would eventually torment me. The details are hazy but we had a very dramatic 48+ hours together. The trajectory of our relationship went as follows--we meet, he initiates flirtation. Flirtation sustains itself for a healthy 24 hours. Several hours after he gives me his business card, I make the foolish mistake of suggesting to him that we hang out back in DC. This inspires a flurry of angst on his part, informing me that my actions towards him (mainly saying, "Hi, you're cute, let's hang out back home) are inappropriate, so on and so forth. And that he made out with somebody else earlier in the evening. How reciprocating the actions of a person who is clearly trying to get into your pants is inappropriate is beyond me, but boys from my school are notoriously weird. Anyway. We patched things up the next night, as I wasn't willing to repeatedly run into him and exchange menacing snarls.

Essentially, I pointed out that we started off an strange foot and perhaps we could start over. He agreed, introductions were made and from there things were just fine. Part of me thinks I will probably just "lose" his card. Although extremely cute, I can't get a good read on him and trying to is getting to me more than it should. But then again, he's extremely cute and I think there's something there. But perhaps he's crazy and not worth my time. Lord knows I have enough extremely cute boys in my life who are already causing more than their fair share of drama. Time will tell.

For better and for worse, my weekend plunged me right back into my late teens/early 20's. I'm sort of happy to be home, although I'm feeling extremely shell-shocked. The fact that my coworkers are being extremely demanding today hasn't helped a whole lot. To be honest, I'm having trouble caring about much of anything relating to this city today. Maybe I need a vacation from my vacation.

Wanna Take a Look? Take a Look...

2007-05-23T17:04:00.000Z

For reasons unclear even to myself, I have joined Facebook. I have resisted up until now because of some pre-conceived notion on my part that individuals who are 30 are too old for the site. Somehow, my lovely roommate convinced me to join. Enter a whole new era of fruitless cyber, um "research."

My embracing of Facebook is indicative of prominent thread that runs throughout my life. Whenever I make some appreciable step forward into becoming more of a full-fledged adult, I slide just a little further backward on a parallel path.

What am I talking about?

Yesterday I gave my BIG PRESENTATION. The one that has had my stomach in knots for the past several weeks. The one I was convinced would reduce me to jumble of anxious tears because that's how terrible I am at public speaking.

Instead, a funny thing happened.

I totally ROCKED it.

Yeah, I was a bit stiff and nervous at first, but 10 minutes in, I was cracking jokes, making sly asides, answering and deflecting questions with aplomb. I pretended I was an actress on the stage, playing a role--that of the brilliant young professional with a great new business idea. Only I was only in part playing, because in reality, that was me. At least in part.

Long story short, they loved my idea, and gave me the go-ahead to proceed (at least for the time being). A note from the CEO declaring my brilliance soon followed.

And yet today, I find myself immersed in the new world of Facebook. Of course, not even 5 minutes into joining I happen to discover that a boy, a boy who was once of significant note, recently reduced to a mere footnote within my everyday life, is a member. Not only a member, but a friend of a friend, through a really random, yet significant connection.

Just when you manage to put something out of your head, the Internet knocks it back in. Not particularly pleased by this new reminder, I'm now left pondering the possible reasons why these two people could know one another, and in what ways their friendship could shed light on to his bizarre behavior over the past several months.

Or I could just try to forget about it again. You know, like an adult would do.

In other news, my excitement about that other boy is waning, for various reasons currently too new-feeling to document.

How I am grateful for the upcoming long weekend in O-hi-O.

And for my hilarious friend who I haven't seen in 8 years, who I will get to see this weekend. Here's a snippet of a recent email exchange:

From: Hey Pretty
Sent: Friday, May 18, 2007 1:15 PM
To: redacted
Subject: reunion

A. and i are both prepping for reunion hard-core. she's been gorging
herself with tater tots and falafel.

Since I was recently blown off by the vegan graphic designer with
communication issues i was dating, i have since transitioned to an in-denial
hipster. and last night i had something like 5 beers for dinner.

we are both totally ready.

as for old and fat, not us. we're even more glowy, svelte and youthful than
we were at 19.

-----Original Message-----
From: redacted
Sent: Monday, May 21, 2007 5:40 PM
To: Hey Pretty
Subject: RE: reunion

It's going to be seriously fucking awesome to hang out again. You getting
in on Friday?

-----Original Message-----
From: Hey Pretty
Sent: Tuesday, May 22, 2007 4:38 PM
To: redacted
Subject: RE: reunion

yes, I arrive on Friday.

-----Original Message-----
From: redacted
Sent: Tuesday, May 22, 2007 5:25 PM
To: hey pretty
Subject: RE: reunion

Awesome. We just got home yesterday from an 8 day / 7 night trip to CA, so
we're still in vacation recovery mode and can't believe the reunion is just
three days away. I can't wait. There are going to be some serious
antics...

-----Original Message-----
From: Hey Pretty
Sent: Tuesday, May 22, 2007 5:28 PM
To: redacted
Subject: RE: reunion

There better be some serious antics. I'm not riding in a car from DC to Ohio
to stand around discussing the dominant paradigm for 3 days.

-----Original Message-----
From: redacted
Sent: Tuesday, May 22, 2007 6:03 PM
To: Hey Pretty
Subject: RE: reunion

Fuck the dominant paradigm. I'm going to count on you to spill a drink on
the first person who uses the term "paradigm" over the course of the
weekend...

Here's to the first of many spilled drinks...

Bad Artist, Bad!

2007-05-18T15:48:00.001Z

I have been neglecting my photography so much recently, it's crazy. As I've told you before, I'm getting a bit tired of paying to process rolls of film with no good images on them, but I can't yet afford a really good digital camera. I have a crappy Canon point and shoot, but what I really need is a solid digital SLR. Since my film camera is a Canon Elan 7, it makes sense to buy a digital Canon SLR, as the lenses are compatible.

But what that requires is money, something I don't have a whole lot extra of.

To be honest, I'm also feeling rather short on inspiration. I think what I need to do is bribe some of my friends to sit for actual portraits, as shooting people is what I'm best at and the most interested in. I'm also tempted to take a portraiture class, as I'm sure there's a lot I don't know.

Yesterday I ran across the website of somebody from college who is now a professional photographer. His images blew me away and I was once again reminded of the frustration I feel whenever I look at images created by professionals. There's this quality that theirs always exhibit that mine lack, yet I can't pinpoint exactly what it is they do that I don't do that creates said quality. My photos, even the best ones (which are lovely for a non-pro, I'm not half bad), still have this snapshot-ish, "real life" quality about them, whereas the ones created by professionals look much more "filmic" much in the same way that the image quality of film looks different from a home video. Objects and people just seem to occupy images differently. Color and light is better, saturation is improved. Depth of field looks not quite real. What I can't figure out is if it's a technical thing, like they simply have a better understanding of the controls of their camera and when to use what, or if it's a question of equipment. Does buying a Canon 30D magically improve your images? Or is it something else entirely, and I'd be just as well off with a lower end Rebel XTi?

These are the questions that utterly cripple my inner artist. The same one that once contemplated art school, that now feels utterly dejected when viewing the work of her contemporaries.

In the comments section share with me your theories about why professional images still look better than even the best amateur ones. Is it one particular thing? Or is the sum of several parts--equipment, a better eye, technically mastery, lighting, dumb luck? Also tell me if I should get the XTi or save my pennies for the 30D.

Goal For Weekend: Use Hot Gay Man as Wingman

2007-05-17T20:16:00.000Z

As mentioned earlier, I'm attended a college reunion Memorial Day weekend. The last time I visited school was the year after graduation. Many interesting things happened during my visit. One of them was running into a boy, we'll call him Dave, who was seriously one of the hottest boys at our school. He used to strut around campus looking all badass in whatever clothing qualified as cool in the middle and late '90s with his equally cool hipster girlfriend, who was stunning in a heroin chic kind of way. They were quite the couple. Dave was also not terribly friendly, which of course added to his hotness.

During our post-graduation visit I ended up spending a bit of time with Dave, mostly because we shared a couple of mutual friends. Dave was considerably friendlier during these chats, like much, much friendlier. And happier, and well-adjusted-seeming. At first I chalked this up to no longer being stuck at a small college populated by nothing but hippy freako weirdos and their pretentious hipster counterparts. I after all, had recently developed these things called social skills, and had been enthusiastically testing them out on anyone who would let me. Dave included. So Dave and I are chatting and I made some sort of sarcastic remark about how funny it would be for somebody to come out of the closet after graduation because our school was so vehemently "gay friendly". I mean, the amount of talk we endured about Kinsey scales, "safe environments", and Act Up events was beyond unbelievable. Sometimes it seemed that being straight was the true alternative lifestyle. Anyway. Dave rolled his eyes at me and said "Coming out after graduation isn't as rare as you'd think." And then he changed the subject.

Wait, *pause*. What?

Dave is happy.
Dave is being nice to me.
Dave is hot and well dressed.

Oooooh!

Dave is totally gay. Of course.

Since then I have run into Dave a couple of times. He lives in New York but sometimes work brings him to DC. He's always surprised and happy to see me and we always spend 5 very lovely minutes together. The topic of his gayness is never addressed specifically, but it's always there in the back of my mind and it makes me giggle.

With reunion coming up, I am kicking myself that I never got his email address. Because it would be totally swell to spend the weekend knocking back PBRs with Dave and hitting on cute boys together.

In the comments section, tell me what sort of clothes you thought were cool in the mid-to late 90s and what Dave and I will name our children should I be mistaken about his orientation.

It's Not What You Think It Is

2007-05-16T17:36:00.000Z

In the casual hookup scene, men often gripe about the tendency of women to get all emotionally wrapped up in what to them is purely a fun physical pursuit. Well, I got news for ya. Our so-called clinginess may not be entirely what you think.

[Before I go on, I would like to clarify that this entry was inspired by a PREVIOUS situation, not a CURRENT one. Okay, carrying on....]

When it comes to the hookup, it is true that many women will form an emotional attachment. These are the sort of women who should not have casual sex, ever. These are the women who will start to act all weird, jealous, call all the time, email crazy things, etc. This is the category that I personally try never to fall into (although I did in the past when I was younger, less experienced, and unable to see the difference between "hooking up" and "relationship".) These women should master the art of self-satisfaction and not sleep with anyone unless they're sure it's going somewhere.

On behalf of the rest of us, I would like to say something. Simply because a woman makes contact with you within a week of you leaving her house after a night of wild shenanigans, doesn't mean she wants to get married and have a million of your babies. In fact, if you think this, you need to get over yourself. In many cases, she may be fishing around for what she feels she is owed: a simple thank you.

Now be honest here, guys. How many times have you neglected to follow-up with your casual whatever partner to thank her for say, the nice home-cooked meal she made you, her splendid hospitality, or the fact that she didn't kick you out of bed when you started snoring? Would it be so difficult to shoot off a quick email a couple of days later saying "thanks for dinner, I had a great time with you, catch you later?" Is it really necessary to compartmentalize everything so damn much?

While sex often involves a bunch of potentially icky emotional things, it should never be devoid of common courtesies. If a woman is nice enough to sleep with you, you should be nice enough to treat her with a little respect. Even if you think she's a slut. Who knows--doing so might even up your chances of a repeat encounter, which is much easier for you than having to go out to the bar/on-line dating sites and pick up a new woman. Unless having sex with tons of different women is your M.O. And in that case, I would like to remind you of the syphilis epidemic currently raging through DC.

Jerry Falwell is Dead...

2007-05-15T18:49:00.000Z

...probably because God hates biggots.

No, Really. My Lips Are Sealed (I Mean It This Time)

2007-05-15T14:58:00.000Z

Sometimes one gets the feeling that blogging about something could really potentially screw it up. I'm just feeling all sorts of unsettled about everything today. I have this big presentation at work about that thing that now has a billing code. If the presentation goes well, I'm officially the manager of my own project. If it doesn't, I'm stuck in my current position with no interesting opportunities in sight, and my next several months of blog entries will be all about my search for a new job.

I hate not knowing what's next.

On another note, I'm attending a college reunion Memorial Day weekend. Part of me wants to pull out the stops to do all I can to look as uber fabulous as humanly possible. Really, anything other than how I looked when I graduated would be an improvement. The details are too awful to divulge. Let's just say I was significantly fatter and I had been cutting my own hair. So even at my utter worst these days, I am significantly improved.

But why stop there?

Isn't the possibility of seeing people you haven't seen in 8 years a great motivator for buying new clothes? I think so. Plus, I have been steadily exercising and sort of dieting since January, and am actually seeing significant improvements. Last night like a complete dork, I measured myself and I am proud to report that I am almost a size 6. I know for many of you that doesn't seem terribly small. But being naturally curvy, it's an accomplishment for yours truly. I don't know if others really notice the difference, but I do. And because of that, I deserve new sundresses, dammit!

I wish I were one of those people who can afford to shop at CUSP and Barney's Coop (seriously, who are you people? would you mind telling me where you get all that money?) so instead I will have to settle for Banana Republic. I just sent my mom links to the dresses I'm considering. Again, because I am a dork and still seek my mother's approval.

My hair was already cut last month and since I'm not wild about it, I intend to leave it alone for a few months. I've been wearing it clipped up and back, which I will continue to do reunion weekend. I was considering an investment in a facial, but never having had one, I am nervous. My skin is incredibly sensitive and I don't think it would be wise to expose it to new procedures the same week I need it to look glowy and ten years younger. Instead, I'm investing in a good mud mask and some new tinted moisturizer. But if any of you have any suggestions for skin products that make you look glowy, dewy and youthy, do let me know.

Beyond that, there will be the requisite mani/pedi; an attempt to get a little color on my skin so I can look less white (on Friday, a friend pointed to the my chest and the veins that you can see through my skin and asked me if I'm sick. I had to explain to her that no, you can see my veins because I am simply "that white."); and probably more fruitless fretting.

So that's where I'm at today--a big old jumble of nerves. In the comment section, tell me what you're feeling anxious about; your favorite skin care product; or where I can buy some killer new dresses. But if you answer H&M, Gap, or Zara, I am deleting your comment. Consider yourself warned.

My Lips Are Sealed

2007-05-14T20:27:00.000Z

There comes a time in a blogger's life when they're faced with the fact that not everyone they meet enjoys having the details of their personal life broadcasted for all to read over the internet. You may be wondering what that's all about. Well, it seems that not everyone is as shamelessly self-promotional as us, and some people actually prefer to keep their private lives private. Since I don't have to be entirely tight-lipped, here's what I *can* tell you. I was set up. My married friends set me up. Of course, cynical cynical me entered the situation assuming our little double date would qualify as a success mostly if I completely didn't revile the other person, could manage to not fall down the scary steep steps at RFK, and I could reflect upon the evening without any deep regrets.

Check, check (sticking to Converse and not wearing platforms or heals aided the realization of this particular goal), and check.

As a jaded single person, it's easy to assume occasions like that aren't going reap significant results. In fact, it's easier than getting your hopes up like a total chump only to have them rained on. On Saturday it did rain, but the drops illuminated by the lights at RFK against a breathtaking purple-black sky were achingly gorgeous. Until they started to soak our section and we were forced to move up a several rows, but I digress. Otherwise, it might as well have been sunny and bright.

We were driven away from the game to a friend's birthday party. Several rounds of bourbon and cokes, combined with the effects of giddily-attempting to play it cool in front of everyone else yet failing miserably, reduced us to a pair of teenagers. Giggling and hand-holding ensued. I know, I have officially become *that girl*. Feel free to mock me. I totally deserve it.

Do you remember what I said about just wanting the universe to send me a cultured, literate, sarcastic man with a good job? Well, it finally listened. It even made up for past disappointments by giving me one who is lanky, tall and dark-haired to boot.

Thank you, universe. At the very least, you made this blogger's Monday a little more bearable, as I flit about my day giggling at my email account and girlishly wondering what's next.

The Case of the Mysterious Bag With The Knitting Project In It

2007-05-11T20:12:00.000Z

Because it's Friday and I am too overwhelmed by the task at hand at work to give it my proper attention, I think I will instead regale you dear readers with a most interesting mystery that is vexing my roommates and I. A couple of days ago, a brightly colored paper bag containing a pair of knitting needles and a ball of dark red yarn appeared on the steps of our front walk. Figuring it belonged to somebody who might have left it there on accident, I hung it from the railing on the walk for them to find when they retraced their steps. But they haven't, because the bag still hangs there (or it was hanging there, I think M might have taken it inside).

How do you suppose the bag found its way to us?

A thinks that it's a chain-knitting project and that we're supposed to knit several rows before passing it on to another house. M thinks he might use it to learn how to knit. I have no clue. While I am charmed by the idea of a chain knitting project, it seems too whimsical a notion for a DC-based brain to have conjured. There are several small children who walk by our house from time-to-time, my guess is that one of them dropped it.

What do you think? Did one of you lose a bag of knitting?

Successful First Date Checklist

2007-05-11T15:54:00.000Z

Arrived on time, a few minutes before me even, which is significant considering my compulsive punctuality-CHECK
Acted happy to see me when I arrived-CHECK
Helped me with my chair when I sat down-CHECK
Asked me questions about myself, therefore indicating an interest in getting to know me-CHECK
Offered counter information about himself, thereby indicating his status as a semi-open person-CHECK
Had interesting information to offer-CHECK
Cool job-CHECK
Attractive-CHECK (although blond and average height, two things I don't normally go for, but in this case am overlooking)
Smart-CHECK
Chemistry in air, but not so much that it might could my judgement and cause me to do something stupid-CHECK
Gave off friendly, cool, down to earth vibe-CHECK
Possesses slight, yet not self-destructive rebellious streak-TBD, although he does own a motorcycle.
Understanding of my complete fear of motorcycles-CHECK
Didn't feel compelled to get plastered in order to stand spending time with me-CHECK
Seemed at least somewhat into me-CHECK
Walked me part-way home even though his car was parked in the opposite direction-CHECK
Inspired me to announce the success of my encounter to my roommate (hi!) and his friends-CHECK

Yes children, that is what a sucessful first date looks like, in case you had forgotten. It's okay, I had too.

Shout-out to E2 for suggesting the Checklist format for this posting.

I Heart Trouble

2007-05-10T19:11:00.000Z

Yup, I cannot lie. Sure, I complain about the drama once the sh*t hits the fan, but all in all, I am a firm believer that a little trouble is good for the soul. Even better when it simply falls on your lap, saving you the effort of seeking it out. Even even better is when it warns of its decent ahead of time so you can plan ahead with measures such as giving your friends a heads-up, planning a hot outfit, and making sure your cutest set of unmentionables from Coupe de Foudre is ready to be trotted out.

Also hot are girlfriends who fully encourage your bad behavior. I am a firm believer in having a variety of friends capable of giving you all sorts of emotional support. While the settled "responsible" ones are great for granting you a sense of stability and forcing you to repent for your mistakes, it's also key to have a few who help you embrace your inner bad girl. I'm lucky enough to have several of these. While some are overt about their bad-assness, with others it kind of surprises you. I have one in particular who upon meeting her, you think she's the sweetest most innocent person on earth, and then she she'll share a story about dirty text messaging during work or some other similar shenanigans. People who appear to be one thing, and then surprise you by being something even better are awesome.

My life's mantra, which I have shared with you before, is If You Can't Be Good, Be Happy. A hope to apply this philosophy to my Friday night, which is currently quadruple-booked with social engagements. I need to get my fill of the scandal then, as Saturday I will descend into the Land of Couple. This is not to say that I don't enjoy the company of the Land of Couple, because I do. But being there requires subscribing to a different set of behaviors and it's usually quite painfully clear that I am a mere visitor in its lands.

All of this reminds me of a quote that has recently captured my attention. It's in the current issue of Elle Magazine and its source is the actress Christina Ricci. I've long had an affinity for her, mainly because she hit her angsty/rebellious/chubby girl phase at the exact same moment I did, and during that time I could always relate to her in the interviews I read with her in magazines. Well, I have grown up a bit as has she. Reflecting upon how her 15 minutes of rebellion has formed her adult identity she said "You can be a bad girl and still be a nice person. Who says the two says the two are mutually exclusive?" Here, here! I also happen to covet the threads she wore in the spread.

Karma Chameleon

2007-05-09T15:57:00.000Z

I played hooky from work on Monday. I didn't have much of a reason for this decision. I was not hung-over, more disillusioned with my job than usual, or suffering from any physical maladies. I simply didn't feel like going. When my alarm went off at its appointed time, I played my usual rounds of snooze bar roulette before finally turning it off for good at 7:30. I slept for 2 more hours and then fired off an email to my boss telling her I wasn't feeling well and that I'd be sleeping and working from home for the rest of the day.

My day was a good one consisting of many fine activities including yelling at the construction workers who have been stealing our parking for the last several weeks. A sample of that conversation goes as follows:

Construction Worker: Can you move that moving van parked behind your house?
Me: You mean the van parked in our spaces that we pay for that you regularly use without our permission? I don't think so. And as long as we're talking, I don't appreciate being woken up at 8:00 am on Saturdays with your drilling and hammering either.

There was also a trip to the gym, which I had almost entirely to myself; some takeout sushi for lunch from Tono; a jaunt to the Whole Foods; and several hours of outdoor time with a glass of wine and Sunday's New York Times. In short, it was a nice day. Nothing Ferris Bueller would be especially impressed by, but I did what I wanted, when I wanted.

But since then, karma has caught up with me. I blame my parents for my almost crippling dependency on karma. Throughout my childhood it was constantly drilled into my head that whatever I did would come back to me a million-fold if I wasn't careful. It's resulted in a bit of a guilt complex.

First there was my date last night with boring lawyer guy (BLG). BLG was perfectly charming over email, wildly funny, even. And the photos I saw of him suggested that he'd be cute in a blond preppy kind of way. I was extremely excited to meet him thinking I had finally found the perfectly disheveled preppy guy with a good sense of sarcasm, an appreciation for irony, a liberal mindset and a slight wild streak. Wrong-o. BLG was a total clone of thousands of other young-30 something men in DC. You know the type--average height, a little stocky, boring facial features. The ones whose idea of a good first date is drilling you about what jobs you've had for every minute you've been in the city, who can't understand why somebody would just move somewhere on a whim, who certainly aren't particularly funny or unique in real life. The ones who are all suited up with no place to go.

BLG downed three beers in the 90 minutes that we spent together and made up some reason to cut out around 8:00 pm. Lame. I'm beginning to think that there are no appropriate boyfriends for me in this area. I need somebody a bit artsy and cultured without being totally pretentious about it; dryly funny; liberal without being a drum-beating patchouli-soaked hippy; gainfully employed but not career-obsessed; and cute. He doesn't even have to drop-dead gorgeous nor does he need to be rich. You got that, universe? In case there was a confusion, that's what I'm after. Okay, now that we've cleared that up....God, that paragraph was rather obnoxious wasn't it? I've never considered myself to be rigid in my dating standards, in fact, recently I've been pretty flexible. I've never wanted to be that girl who only dates men who fall within a rigid mold. And I'm not, but in an *ideal* world, that's what I hope to find. Okay, moving on...

Karma really got to me this morning though, when I looked in the mirror before my shower to realize I was once again suffering from puffy eyelid syndrome. This happens once every couple of years. My left eyelid swells up for day and during that day, I withstand funny looks from my friends and co-workers and people remark that I look "different, somehow." I usually wear my reading glasses all day when this happens, the frames of which semi-obscure the issue. I expect this to be healed by tomorrow.

Oh, and my Gmail is totally f*cked today.

I'm convinced this is payback for lying to my boss, which I understand to be a terrible thing to do. Yes universe, I read you loud and clear.

I have high expectations for the rest of the week. Tomorrow I have yet another date, and Friday is chock-filled with about four different social activities. Moreover, a certain inappropriate so-and-so seems to be angling for some special alone time, a rarity in our relationship. Normally he just pounces when drunk, but now he's making pains to tell me how pretty I look in my client-meeting-at-work ensembles and IMing to ensure that I'll be at certain drinking activities. I can't imagine what he has up his sleeve this time, but I'm looking forward to being buttered up a bit more as I find out.

Then Saturday is shopping, a baseball game and a party.

Hopefully the universe believes I have paid my dues and doesn't throw any more of wild curve balls. With my luck, they'd be likely to break my nose.

...And the Slut Gets Cancer

2007-05-04T15:15:00.000Z

There's this trend I've been noticing on television that I don't particularly like. Many shows that include a female character who "sleeps around" often decide to inflict some sort of awful, unpleasant, and at times fatal, medical predicament upon that character.

*Spoiler Warning* If you care about Grey's Anatomy, like surprises and have yet to watch last night's episode, you may not want to read on (sorry Jason!).

Exhibit #1: Dawson's Creek, Jen Lindely.
When we first meet Jen, she is the mysterious NYC girl with a "checkered past", ie: she used to do E and have sex. Throughout the course of the series she's given more complexity and depth (or as much as Dawson's can muster seeing as how it's a WB show). But ultimately, her days as a slut catch up with her when she's killed off in the last episode by a mysterious heart condition.

Exhibit #2: Sex in the City, Samantha Jones.
This hardly requires an explanation. The most "sexually liberated" of the fearsome foursome, Samantha is diagnosed with breast cancer in the show's final season. Although she triumphantly beats it, this plot line didn't sit well with me. I really felt like they were punishing the character for her lifestyle.

Exhibit #3: Grey's Anatomy, Addison Montgomery.
Addie cheats on her husband with his best friend, gets pregnant, terminates with an abortion, later learns she can no longer have children because she is now infertile. In words, she "screwed up" her only chance at having a child with her evil, evil abortion. Gag.

Obviously, there are consequences to reckless sexual behavior. People who have a lot of different partners and who don't use protection are almost certain to get a sexually transmitted infection (the PC term for STD in case you didn't know). But why must TV go a-moralizing on us by giving its more overtly sexual female characters cancer, heart disease and infertility? When was the last time a television man-whore came down with a life threatening illness? What is up with the double standards? Can we please finally do away with the whole virgin/whore dichotomy? It's getting old.

Speaking of sex and illnesses...What's the deal with jokes about STIs? I've noticed a definite trend among my peers to crack jokes about STIs and refer to them as the "worst things ever" and people who have them as "nasty" or "dirty" or whathaveyou. Given the prevalence of certain strains of these infections, chances are that many of the people who make such comments may be carrying them themselves. And stigmatizing them isn't going to make public awareness any higher. Having an STI doesn't make you a bad person. It might indicate that you made some reckless choices, but even that isn't always the case.

Many people contract STIs from partners who have cheated. Others contract them from partners they thought were healthy because they didn't display any symptoms. Sure, many people who sleep around with no regard for their or other peoples' emotional or physical well beings carry STIs. But not everyone who has one does because they're a dirty slut. So let's stop stigmatizing and start being a little more understanding and accepting. If you suspect you have something, go get tested. Wear a condom, abstain, whatever. And remember, what goes around, comes around.

And on that note, I leave you to your weekends. Be safe, kids!

Charge It!

2007-05-02T21:49:00.001Z

I must say, that all complaints about anti-Semitic Scots aside, this is shaping up to be a pretty decent week. The boy I entertained on Saturday hasn't yet to disappoint me in any cunning and original new ways, I received only minor edits on some writing I submitted at work, I've had nothing but lovely interactions with my roommates, and...my top secret project at work has been given a charge code!

In the world of consulting, charge codes are a big deal. They're used to account for our time, determine who pays us, and track our project involvement. A little while ago, I approached our CEO with an idea for a new business venture for our company. Ours is a rather progressive company in that management looks to associates to come up with new business ideas. In suggesting my idea, I didn't think it would go terribly far. But I wanted to put the idea out there, even if all it meant was that I'd be given credit as an innovative thinker.

Much to my shock and delight, our CEO quickly became enamored with the idea, and we've been working on it in secret to bring it into fruition. Sadly, I can't yet share the idea with you as he's terrified somebody else is going to "steal" it from us. But it's a good one, I promise.

I've been working on the project for several hours a week in my own time for the last month or so. But last week we had a meeting with several other associates who we're bringing on for support. Given the fact that several of us are now on the case, our company decided to take the plunge and pay us for our efforts. To mark that fact, we were given a real-life charge code. It's official! We're a project!

Taking initiative has always been a challenge for me, so it's a bit surreal that initiative I took has resulted in something so real and concrete that people actually care about. Normally my ideas are just kind of abstract and pie-in-the-sky. That, and I normally think of myself as a writer, not a business development guru. In a way, it's a little scary. Putting ideas out there is one thing, but once you do that you put yourself in the spotlight for examination. If you fall, more people see you. This situation has been a very illuminating one for me in taking risks. You can't be afraid of possible success. As easy as it is to hide in the shadows under a comfortable and well-worn slacker disguise, it's much more valuable to shake off those layers and let more people see you and your brilliance.

Is That A Swastika on Your Neck or Are You Just a Complete and Total Douche?

2007-05-01T14:28:00.000Z

Remember the one about the guy who took me to dinner at Charlie Palmers? And remember how psyched I was to have pulled off a successful dinner date? And then remember how I haven't mentioned him in a week and I hooked up with somebody else over the weekend?

I suppose you're expecting an explanation. Sigh, fine.

I ran into said gentleman last week by accident. By which I mean, I was at a bar after Bocce Ball and he was there. I wanted to spend time with my new Bocce friends, but he and I got to talking. Actually, we got to arguing. When I found him it sort of looked like he was on a date, so I took pains to not talk to him for very long before going to see my friends. Because what else do you do when you see your crush throwing back beers with another woman and the situation is too new that any sort of exclusivity has been discussed or even desired? Right, you make polite conversation and you give them their space. So that's what I did.

But he eventually tracked me down and confronted me on my coldness. Apparently they weren't on a date. Apparently they're "just friends" and it was wrong of me not to shove my tongue down his throat in front of her. Fine, whatever. My fault as always.

Anyway, the conversation soon veered into a lecture about my jealousy and tendency to mistrust people and jump to the wrong conclusions. Ouch. Okay, point taken. I do all those things. I'm a woman and I don't have the best track record with men. I get it, I'm jaded and could stand to open my heart a little more. Fine, I'll work on that.

Blah, blah, blah. He starts rambling on about how "what you see is what you get" with him, how he was no secrets and can only date people who can deal with his honesty.

[Normally I consider that a good thing, by the way.]

But then...blah, blah, blah (delivered in a Scottish accent)...I have a swastika tattooed on my neck...

Um, say what?

Yeah...swastika...tattoo...Jews suck...blah, blah.

You know that my dad's whole side of the family is Jewish right?

Yeah, I know...swastika, openness, Jews suck...blah, blah.

Sometimes it's actually sort of refreshing when somebody gives you such an easy out of a messy situation. Our relationship was going nowhere anyway, so it was really for the best that I found out now that he's a complete and total white trash bigot jackoff. And as I was telling another blogger friend yesterday, it's better that he told me rather than having me find it by accident. I can't imagine anything killing the mood of a hot makeout session more than an ugly symbol of centuries old oppression inked on my partner's body.

Too Cool 4 School

2007-04-30T15:43:00.000Z

This is the second take of this post. My first attempt was so vomitous I had no choice but to delete most of it and begin again from scratch. Here goes.

On Friday at the blogger happy hour, Arjewtino remarked to me that if I ever found myself in a settled relationship it would be his loss because the quality of my blog would suffer as a result. Not because I'd be so busy with all those long walks on the beach at sunset, hand-holding, and gazing deeply into the eyes of my love. No, because most of the punchiness and humor in my writing seems inspired by the men in my life. As hurt as I am that he is so quick to discount my posts on such subjects as limbo and trashy reality television, he does have a point. Hell hath no comedy like a woman with a blog scorned. Not to worry, I am as single today as I was the last time I checked in. Okay yes, some stuff went down on Saturday with a certain so-and-so but that's the kind of material best saved for "dear diary" and bragging to my closest friends. Mostly.

The situation with this particular so-and-so has been all kinds of ambiguous since it began. For a while I had even thrown in the towel because it no longer seemed worth the agony I was subjecting myself to. But having adopted a new and improved, I-no-longer-really-care-what-happens-with-this-individual stance recently, I dove back in. A better part of the weekend was spent splashing happily around in newer, clearer waters.

The feeling that I have nothing to lose often makes me a bit brazen. Brazen enough for instance, to ask my gentlemen friends questions like "Why did it take you six weeks to put a move on me when we first started hanging out?" I'm accustomed to a lot of rationales intended to explain puzzling male behavior. But this one threw me for a loop. His answer: Because I didn't think you were that into it.

ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Seriously?

This is ironic in so many ways. Particularly because I was so deeply "into it" that I have pretty much bored any and everyone who I have told stories about him to. My friends simply roll their eyes now when I mention him in conversation.

But it seems that in my attempts to not "scare him away" or whatever, I came off as too cool and aloof. How that could be the case when I kissed him at the end of our first date is beyond me. He said the kiss was confusing. Uh huh. Right.

There are many ways to react to this information. Part of me is amused at how two people can read a situation in such radically different lights. Another thinks he may be the type who is only turned on to somebody if they're a challenge. He only likes what he can't have, and convincing himself that he couldn't have me was his way of keeping himself interested. I don't know what that says about a person. In fact, it could be a little disturbing.

I'm completely unclear on what comes next. His track record for behaving in a normal, adult manner is shoddy at best. But having realized that he has zero personality beyond the sarcastic quips, I am no longer trying to make him my boyfriend. Sometimes you just have to recognize that a hot guy who occasionally makes you laugh is only good for one thing.

But back to the blogger HH. Given some of the drama that's been going down within the scene in recent months, I had developed a bit of an allergy to these things. But I mostly had a wonderful time. I met some nice people, drank soda, smoked a couple cigarettes. I would have stayed longer, but one of my roommates was having a going away thing to mark his return to London, and I wanted to see him off. That, and because a fellow blogger said something rather shitty to me and I didn't feel like being in the same space as said person and making a graceful exit seemed the best response to the situation. Next time, I promise to stay longer.

Limbo in Limbo

2007-04-25T19:34:00.000Z

So the Catholic Church has decided to do away with the concept of limbo. Even as a non-believer, this decision intrigues me. From what I know, limbo has been a pretty significant belief among Catholics. How do you all feel about this?

From my perspective, the fact that a governing body can decide what people should and shouldn't believe is rather strange.

Think about it.

Your religion tells you to believe in something so you believe in it. But then they tell you that they changed their minds and that you shouldn't believe in it anymore. Does that strike any of you as odd? Because I think it's really bizarre. Please note that I am not, in any way knocking Catholics. I have no problem with Catholics doing there thing (rock on, more power to you). But it just strikes me as weird that people are now going to adjust their value systems based on the word of a higher body. I mean, it's not like they ran a scientific investigation and discovered that limbo didn't exist. Plenty of non-Catholics could have already told them that. Second, it's not like God spoke to somebody and was like "Hey, here's a tip: there is no limbo."

I also wonder if any Catholics are afraid that if the policy on limbo shifts, it could open a flood gate to other changes as well. Is anyone concerned that the bedrock of their faith is about to be rocked harder than a 10 point Richter scale earthquake? Because I think I would be worried about that. But maybe that's because I worry too much.

Back when I was dating Sailor, he told me he was upset that his Lutheran baby mama refused to have their child baptized Catholic. When I asked him why, he said he didn't want young Ryder to go to limbo if he ever died.

I can tell you that as a religious skeptic, that conversation was a huge test of my sensitivity skills. I suppressed the urge to guffaw at him. I mean, he was worried about something that I didn't even think existed. But it's poor manners to mock other people's religions, so I kept quiet. And I could have been the one whose wrong. It wouldn't have been the first time.

Ultimately, I suppose it's a matter of freedom of choice. In this day and age, I doubt that anyone adheres to every dictum of their religion. I'm sure there's a wide range of degrees of Catholicness. But I am curious: Now that limbo may not exist, will you continue to believe in it?

HP Joins Campaign to Revive Vintage Tagline

2007-04-25T16:39:00.000Z

Date: April 25, 2007
For Immediate Release
Contact: Hey Pretty

DC Blog Hey Pretty announced today that it is joining the ranks of a burgeoning internet-based movement to revive the classic phrase "Girl You Know It's True." First introduced in the late 1980's by noted pop duo Milli Vanilli, the saying fell into quiet obscurity after the duo's fall from grace after it was revealed that they lip synced the vocals on their Grammy-winning record of the same name.

Launched by fellow DC-blogger Musical Guru, the Girl You Know It's True movement seeks to bring back the forgotten confirmatory remark.

"'Girl, you know it's true' is a great affirmative statement for general use," said the Musical Guru. "Try it! You don't even have to be talking to a girl to make it work. Any person, any situation will do."

"We are thrilled to stand at the vanguard of this exciting grassroots effort to revive what is truly a priceless and versatile relic of the 80's popular lexicon," said an anonymous spokesperson from Hey Pretty. "If we can inspire the DC blogging community to embrace it, we are confident that the term will achieve the critical mass necessary for it to reach its tipping point. From there, anything is possible."

The Girl You Know It's True Movement is part of a world-wide trend to bring back obscure and antiquated linguistic concepts. Another notable effort includes the popular entertainer Justin Timberlake's campaign to "Bring Sexy Back."

Mi Harem Es Tu Harem

2007-04-24T15:40:00.000Z

One of the more glorious aspects of having several roommates is getting to have like-minded souls to watch TV with. Bad TV in particular. Last night I came home from a spectacularly boring online date (note to the men of DC: when meeting a woman, kindly remove whatever is lodged up your butt before hanging out with her) to find two of my roomies watching Dancing With the Stars. This particular episode wasn't especially interesting. Steve Saunders looked pretty stiff, Billy Ray is too heavy on his feat, and my roommate K has a crush on Apollo Ohno's dancing partner.

What was much better was the delicious train wreck that followed: The Bachelor.

I have never quite been able to get into this show. The fact that it revolves around a man living in a mansion with a bunch of chicks who all want to date him sets off my feminist alarm bells to the point where they threaten to deafen me. I can't wrap my head around why anyone woman would volunteer for such a debacle. Unless it's merely for fame.

I start to feel a little nuts when I even *suspect* that the guy I have the hots for is into other women as well. I can't even imagine what it must be like to live in that kind of environment knowing that whatever he's doing with you, he's doing with a bunch of other people that you then have to make nice with. Human beings are simply not hardwired to survive and thrive within such environments. But such is the manufactured world of "reality television."

Also amusing is how often this guy invokes the word "connection." Last night I watched him tell many ladies how deep a "connection" he felt for them, completely without irony as if the fact that having a "connection" with so many people basically renders the term useless. Who doesn't this guy feel a "connection" with?

My absolute favorite aspect of the episode was the over-use of what is now my favorite term on earth: "special alone time." It sounds so perfect for a heart-shaped bed with satin sheets, sickly sweet champaign and Barry White fluttering through the hi-fi speakers. From now on, whenever I refer to getting it on, I will call it "special alone time." Ew. It sounds even better when an under-fed bottle blond whines about "not getting enough 'special alone time'" with the Bachelor.

And what about that chick with the sprained ankle? Way to milk that injury, girl. Hey, if appealing to his need to rescue and nurture is what it's gonna take to win, I completely applaud your strategic thinking skills. I loved how angry the other women seemed over the fact that she was using her injuring to gain sympathy. I almost expected them to roll into the next scene with an array of new injuries themselves.

Look! I broke my arm!

Hey! I have a concussion!

What about me? Check out my spinabifida.

There was also the de rigueur backstabbing and cattiness expected of women trapped in a house with nothing to do all day but be filmed waiting for a guy to pay attention to them. I can't remember exactly what happened. Rumors were spread, mind-games played. Whatevs.

In the end, the manipulative gossip-mongers were sent packing and the remaining women all look exactly alike to me.

As for the Bachelor himself, he's kind of a dullard. Cute, but not overwhelmingly so. Naval officer/doctor/aspiring astronaut. He's the quintessential "good on paper" guy. Too bad the workers at the plant where he was assembled forgot to implant his personality chip. Not that the ladies seem to mind. Quelle shock.

Spicing up the experience was the fact that I spent this whole time text messaging with a boy. Or two. My roommates even helped.

Me: How do you spell asphyxiation?
Them: What the hell are you doing?
Me: Text message flirting. Now how do you spell asphyxiation?

Did I mention I am a total text messaging stud? But which one will I give the rose to? Stay tuned...

All the Bridges Blown Away Keep Floating Up

2007-04-23T15:06:00.000Z

'Nothing like a little spring-time boy drama, my coworker friend remarked when I told her about my weekend.

My weekend, which did not at all go according to script. That prominently featured me listening to the equivocations, excuses, silences and other forms of romantic torture from the various man-children in my life. Various. Because there are several and they're all a headache.

I don't know about you, but I can only sustain an unrequited crush for a month before I lose interest in torturing myself and move on to a new debacle. Hear that men of DC and the internet? If you want to entertain yourself by causing me to crush on you, you have a one month window of time before I grow bored and seek out a new mystery. So therefore it's kind of confusing when one that I had just managed to forget about re-emerges. Since I'm bothering to share this information with you, it means I am obviously still unsure what I will do about this whole thing. Okay, I know what I should do. But I probably won't do it.

I would also like to say that "I'm staying in because my dog is sick" is a really lame-sounding way of getting out of hanging out with a girl. It sounds a lot like "I'm staying in and washing my hair," which we all know is so sad and clichéd by now that it's almost funny. Hear that men of DC and the internet? It's time to put your collective heads together and come up with a better cop-out.

It's not that I object so much to drama, I just prefer it in small doses, and preferably, coming from only one direction. This, was a bit much. And really, the only person who can justifiably act like a 22 year old about all this is the 22 year old who has suddenly entered the equation. Uh, yeah. My new nickname is Mrs. Robinson. Literally, my friends called me Mrs. Robinson all day on Sunday.

When I was 16 I taught photography at a summer arts camp. Because the camp catered to teenagers, most of my charges were just a couple years younger than me. For some reason, this little posse of 14 year old boys decided to follow me around all summer. It was like having an entourage. Nothing romantic or sexual ever happened with any of them, although there'd be the slightest teenager-ish flirtation every now and then. Having the 22 year old around has reminded me of that era. He often seems to be in the same place as me, right by my side. He occupies his slightly gangly body in a manner that suggest that he hasn't quite gotten used to living inside of it. He trips over his feet a lot and I often tease him about it. He dresses like he's in a garage band. Until this weekend, I basically assumed he saw me as an older-sister type. Wrong. So that aspect of the weekend took me back to 16. But with better lingerie and actually getting to makeout.

"So DC"/ "So Un-DC"

2007-04-18T15:52:00.000Z

If you're a young woman in the market for a sugar daddy, I highly recommend hopping on over to Charlie Palmer's Steakhouse. I was there for the first time last night and discovered that the place was brimming with wealthy looking older men. If you're young and cute I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding one that meets your exact specifications.

This place is seriously one of the most "DC" places I have ever visited in my 8 years in this city. Everywhere I turned there was a man in a navy blue suit fingering a Blackberry. I counted many couples comprised of older men and attractive younger women. Everyone looked like that had just returned from some lobbying triumph or another. I think I was the only woman in the joint not wearing pearls, and definitely the only one in knee-high lace up boots who arrived with her date in a pickup truck. I like to rock the anachronisms as much as possible.

I was fortunate in many ways last night, not just because my date, a man I normally find arrogant and playerish, was reduced to an endearing jumble of nerves and stammers for the auspicious occasion of our first real date after a year of courtship. No, what clearly rocked about the situation was that my date was a regular at the establishment and because of that we were treated to some amazing, very attentive service. We scored an excellent booth, lovely service, and the right to leave our table at frequent intervals to go outside and smoke whenever we wanted. Oh, and the food was yummy. I can't vouch for the quality of the Kobe beef, which at 20 dollars an ounce is probably spectacular, but the petite filet was simply scrummy, as was the aoli that came with our frites.

I won't bore you with the specifics of the evening, but I will say that it was a good one. And that I might have originally misjudged the person I was with. As much as I hate dating, I do love the surprises that it can throw at you. Like when you're date informs you that he spends most weeknights at home reading (rather than banging strange women he meets in Cap Hill bars, which is what I had just assumed); or when you give him a goodnight kiss, he says that wants to take things slow (which I always want to do as well, but men never do). We were certainly the bizarro couple at Charlie Palmer's last night, and I was having one bizarro dating experience. But bizarro can be good.

In her blog today, Carrie M. wrote a piece about dating people who are "good on paper", and how "good on paper", ie: the people you think should be right for you, are often disappointing. Of course, long-time readers will recall that over the past year I've shared a few of my experiences with men who were "bad on paper" and how surprisingly good it can be. My date last night is horrible on paper. We have very little in common and my mom would be appalled should I ever want to take him home to meet her. I can't say that I am 100% into the idea of marriage, but I am into the idea of long-term partnership. I had always thought the person I'd choose for that would be a "good on paper" guy. Maybe he will be, but the more positive experiences I have with men who fall outside those (let's face it: arbitrary and close-minded) parameters, the less sure I am of them. Sometimes knowing what you want can be the most limiting thing of all.

Train Wreck Waiting To Happen?

2007-04-16T16:08:00.000Z

EJ calls them "Pride and Prejudice moments"--those interactions you have with a person to whom you feel an unholy attraction to, while simultaneously distrusting them and doubting the purity of their intentions towards you.

Saturday night comprised a series of such moments, piled one on top of another. It was hard to say if it was the liquor or the rakish charms of a certain man that had me so tipsy.

I've known him for a year. Since the night when I met my friends out after having been dumped by a boy because I wouldn't sleep with him after three dates. It was my experiment in holding out. I looked damn cute that night. Fitted jeans, a top that displayed my cleavage to its best effect. Hair rebelling, but in a good way. I was also extremely grumpy, spending most of the night railing against all men everywhere, pounding beers and chain smoking.

I can't remember at what point he entered the picture. But there were two of him--him and his twin brother. Not from this country. Exotic. Bad. They asked my friend and I if we wanted to go for a ride on their motorcycles. Long ago, I promised my mother that if there was one thing I would never do, it would be to get on the back of a motorcycle. When I was little she filled my head with horror stories of young women whose lives met tragic ends on the back of one. It was probably an attempt to scare me off of all "bad boys" in general, but the motorcycle part was the only aspect of the story that resonated. Since then, my life has been peppered with bad boys, but I have yet to ride on any of their Harleys. It has also been peppered with twins. I seem to be a magnet for irresponsible, good looking men who shared their mothers' wombs.

I also can't recall what else we talked about, other than the fact that we batted around the idea of sleeping together that night. Apparently bad boys dig women with severe attitude problems. But it didn't happen. And later, my friend informed me that this was good, as he has a reputation for being something of a player.

Since then I've seen him out millions of times. We've even sort of become friends. We'll chat for a few minutes, sometimes he renews his offer to lend me his bed as a crash pad. I've always declined. I've learned more about him, but I can't say I trust him. Maybe it's because our first several encounters consisted of him demanding to know why I wouldn't sleep with him. His pet name for me is "grumpy." We bicker a lot. His friends find it hilarious.

His perseverance is impressive. On Saturday, several minutes in one of our typical exchanges ("Hey grumpy, long time no see." "Please stop calling me grumpy. I have a real name, you know") he dropped the bomb.

"When are you going to have dinner with me?"

"I don't know. When are you going to ask?"

"Have dinner with me."

"Okay, what are you doing Tuesday?"

And this is how I came to agree to have dinner with him. I don't know if this was a good idea. He claims to not understand why I don't trust him. He claims that however he earned his reputation, that the stories relating to his past are unfounded. I want to believe him. I want to believe that a man with a reputation for talking his way into the pants of many DC women can grow up. Maybe the rumors aren't even true.

The girlfriend I was out with encouraged me to give him a chance. "He's cute and really into you," she reasoned.

True. He's quite cute. If not cute, then attractive in the way that mysterious men with exotic accents can seem hopelessly dashing to women such as myself who have a love-hate relationship with the concept of trouble. And into me, yes. Very. Having spent several months crushing on somebody completely unattainable, who took my interest for granted, I could stand to be appreciated a little bit.

"I don't know why you don't trust me. I like you. I remember the exact moment we met. You were sitting in that booth over there. You had on a black shirt with white flowers on it. You were grumpy." And chip, chip, chip, it continued. Him recalling our previous encounters, slowly wearing away at my veneer, the armor I wear to protect myself from ambiguous situations with men like him. Maybe he simply has a good memory, but I was impressed that he bothered to remember such details.

I could be grade-A, classic manipulation. Or it could be the start of a new chapter. Or at the very least, a free dinner. As much as I dislike dating, dinner dates in particular, I'm suspending my disbelief and giving him a chance. I'm even planning on dressing like a lady, to act charming, and to give him the benefit of the doubt.

And in other news, I am officially a member of the short-hair club. I had about 5 inches lopped off on Saturday. It's taking some getting used to, but I really like it. It's fresh. It now barely skims the top of my shoulders when straight, and when curly as it is now, it's even shorter. I think there's something somewhat daring about short curly hair. I look like a 30's-era film starlet.

Edited to add: I almost forgot! Today is my blog's birthday! Three years! Represent!

Don't Leave Home Without [Her]

2007-04-13T19:26:00.000Z

If you're a woman heading out on the town this weekend, no doubt you'll think to remember to bring along many essential items. In addition to throwing on that ideal outfit, the one that is as cute and sexy as it is comfortable, you may also think to stock your purse with a cell phone (think twice about those late-night drunk text messages, ladies), lip gloss, money and your keys. Those items are all well and good but you'd be remiss to forget the most essential one of them all: Your wingwoman.

I was reminded of the importance of the wingwoman several weekends ago while at the Capitol Lounge with a group of friends, among them a frighteningly clever fellow blogger. Now, you all know how often I frequent the Lounge and how I pretty much feel inclined to do whatever I please while I am there. Lord knows I have. But in the past year or so my confidence level in approaching strange young men has declined. I chalk this up to a new-found sense of protection of my personal space, most likely caused by being a bit too, um...trusting of strangers. Whereas I used to regard the gentleman at DC bars as brave new territory awaiting conquest, my experience doing so has clued me into the fact that there are a LOT of douche bags in this city. Cue the "duhs" right now, folks. I was young and naive. So many in fact, that my interactions with a handful of them was enough to quash my desire to meet their cronies. Anyhoo. No longer relying on the kindness of strangers, I eventually fell out of the habit of chatting them up when drunk.

But that weekend was different, probably because it was the first warm weekend of the year and everyone seemed to be supercharged with the motivation to get friendly. I was chatting with my clever blogger friend and a mutual friend when a gentleman of my exact and total type wandered by us on his way back to his friends. I didn't notice at the time because I was too busy talking to my friends, but apparently a rather obvious check-out happened on his part. My friends caught it and encouraged me to go talk to him.

Oh, before I go on, I will explain what my exact and total type is, as I don't think I've ever shared that with you all before and you might be curious. It is: tall (6 feet or taller), lanky, boyishly handsome, messy-haired, and indie-rock-ish in personal style.

Anyway. Cue protests and a modicum of meek, girlish giggling on my part.

Tee, hee, I can't do that. I don't pick up men at bars.

Well, I don't, but my friends apparently do. She walked right over to him and exclaimed "Dave? Is that you?" And used that line as an entrance into a conversation with him, eventually summoning me to come over. Her eyes told me to play along with the charade. I did.

"Doesn't he look exactly like Dave?"

"Oh, yeah, totally."

From there she gracefully slipped away, leaving me to work the Kate charm. Which I did for a while until I grew bored for some reason or another. I think it was because he was from out of town and I didn't feel like dealing with the logistical ramifications of that particular challenge. But my friend's little ploy totally worked and I totally could have gotten some if I had chosen.

You all are welcome to borrow that little trick. I'm sure my friend wouldn't mind.

So, to summarize: all you really need for a successful night out is a killer outfit, a fistful of cash, and a supremely clever female friend.

Off topic, but also of note. Sometimes my ipod behaves so beautifully when I put it on shuffle that I feel compelled to share with you all the total genius of the songs it selects. Here is a sample of what it selected for me to hear today:

Going Against Your Mind: Built to Spill
Boys in the Band: The Libertines
Come Back Margaret: Camera Obscura
Free: Kitty in the Tree
You Talk Way Too Much: The Strokes
I Need You: The Rationals
Washer: Slint
Drown: Son Volt
Talk Talk: Music Machine
Girl in the War: Josh Ritter
Call Me: Blondie
God Only Knows: The Beach Boys

Peace out, my loves. Happy weekend.

My Life Is An Open House

2007-04-12T16:06:00.000Z

A million people showed up last night to look at the two available rooms in our house. Okay, not a million, perhaps 50, but it sure felt like a million. The beginning of the event found me chipper, outgoing and highly organized. I ushered strangers through the house with great efficiency and made small talk.

In an effort to cut down on the number of times I'd have to answer the same question, I created a fact sheet about the house and the rooms, which each visitor received. If you're ever faced with the task of filling open spaces in a group house, I highly suggest creating a fact sheet. Ours included information such as rent, utilities, parking, public transportation, the landlord, and the skinny on the people already living there. Not only did it reduce the number of questions we had to answer, but it gave people something tangible to walk away with--helpful for those visiting multiple homes.

An hour in however, I was spent. Getting through the event required something that my friend Angel refers to as the "Kate charm." This is essentially, a magical quality that I can turn off and on at will that enables me to be charismatic, flirty and outgoing. Angel usually sees me employ it when trying to get free drinks out of people or if I'm on the prowl. The "Kate charm" doesn't get turned on as often as I'd like because I find using it to be a very draining. It's like a super-charged version of me that wears down my batteries incredibly fast. It has a limited amount of juice, and when it runs out not only do I return to my naturally calm, introverted state, I tend to also being a little cranky and impatient. Such was the case last night.

The shot of vodka and the Parliament Light I snuck during one of our down times sort of helped, but not enough.

Anyway, we managed to talk to a ton of potential roommates, most of whom were extremely cool and generally awesome. We had a really hard time narrowing it down. Also nice was how enthusiastic most of them seemed to be about the house. Sometimes we get people in for tours who don't understand the charm of a 100-year old house. Not the case with this bunch. Almost everyone seemed delighted by the quirks of our house and the opportunity to live in such a prime location. It definitely reminded me of how good I have it.

Because two men are moving out, I think it's important to try to maintain the house's gender balance, or at least to not steer drastically off-course. Problem is, we had a dearth of male applicants. Mostly our house was filled with extremely cute young women, all of whom seem to work for non-profits of various kinds. To be honest, it made me feel a little old and haggard.

But we're slowly narrowing it down and have some good boys and girls who we're talking to in more depth. Just to get to know them outside the open house madness. Hopefully we'll find at least one guy to move in. I am secretly routing for the boy from Boston who loves the Red Sox and freely uses to term "wicked" in conversation. I really want to avoid living in a house composed of four women and one man. I don't think that much estrogen under one roof is a good idea for anyone.

Bad News/Good News

2007-04-12T14:05:00.000Z

The bad news is the Kurt Vonnegut has passed away. The good news is that never having read any of his books, I still have plenty of time to get to know him. I know, I know. I'm a bad person. I'm not well-read. I'm ignorant. My literary education is lacking. I've always been overwhelmed by the many Vonnegut choices I had to read, and for some reason, he was never assigned in any of the 10 million English lit and theory courses I took in college. So, perhaps one of my more Vonnegut-savvy readers can recommend a good book for me to start with.

Despite that, one of my very favorite jokes ever comes from Vonnegut. It embodies what Salon.com columnist Andrew Leonard described as V's tendency to mix "bleak pessimism with avuncular warmth.".\ Here goes.

The bad news is that the aliens have finally landed.
The good news is that they eat homeless people and pee oil.

Yet Another Open House

2007-04-11T15:43:00.000Z

Tonight we have to once again open the doors of our home to total strangers, and hope that two of them will turn out to be good roommate potential. Yup, two of my roommates are moving out. One, a scientist who has been working at the NIH is moving back to England because his Visa is up, and the other is moving in with his girlfriend. I have mixed feelings about the latter's departure.

I've told you about him before--the wonderful roommate who had been many things to me, until ultimately embodying the form of a wonderful person to live with. I've already told you how much I love coming home to him, how despite the fact that we never quite consummated a romantic relationship, that we nonetheless sometimes lightheartedly spar like old lovers. That we tease each other for no reason, that there's this wonderful unspoken *thing* that I can't even describe--simply the end result of having endured a bit of emotional trauma and emerging in one piece.

I'm happy for him that his relationship with his girlfriend is so solid and strong. They seem extremely well matched and very "right" for one another. But my selfish heart is worried. I've seen male friends get swallowed into the miasma of live-in relationships, and they tend to become practically dead to their single, female friends. The combination of male friend+cohabitation with girlfriend=one less friend for HP.

Until now it's been easy to maintain a friendship. Whenever I wanted to see him, I'd pop into the TV room where he'd no doubt be watching some God-awful 80's low- budget kung fu movie. But now, living with the GF, I know things will be different. Although she and I get along fine, we've never really clicked. Objectively, I know she's a great girl, but I'm a jealous Scorpio and I resent her just a teeny bit. After all, he and I were batting around the word "relationship" when she entered the picture. I don't know what GF knows about our history, but I certainly have my reasons for not getting overly chummy with her.

Right now, all of our hanging out is spontaneous and sporadic. It takes place in the kitchen, while he makes me coffee on weekends that the GF isn't around, or in the dining room on a Sunday morning as he catches me sneaking in from being out the night before and I entertain him with stories that remind him what it's like to be single and lose. There's no real effort and that's what worries me.

I can deal with not living with him, but what worries me is the fact that we won't be friends at all anymore, that our friendship will reveal itself to only have been relevant within the context of one building. A lot of my friendships have evolved in ways that I'm not particularly happy with in recent months. Although I have certainly gained many wonderful new companions, these snags in the fabric of my social life continue to unsettle me. I'm not looking forward to experiencing another one.

So tonight we will open our doors and commence the search to replace somebody utterly irreplaceable.

The Problem With Demographics (At True Story)

2007-04-10T14:06:00.000Z

The Scene: Last night, the den of my house. I have just walked into the room to find my roommate watching Friends re-runs. In the few minutes I sit with him, several advertisements flicker through the screen.

Me: What's up with all these online dating ads? I mean, what does that say about the people who watch Friends re-runs?

Roommate: It's just a demographic thing.

Me: So people who watch Friends re-runs are apparently single and have a hard time finding a date? Oh, zing! That's me.

Roommate looks at me nervously.

Roommate: Uh, I don't think they mean you. Um, other people who watch the show. That's who the ads are for.

A Weight Watchers ad comes on.

Me: Oh, so apparently not only are we single and unable to find dates, we are that way because we're fat! I'm not taking any more of this. I'm eating my dinner in the other room.

Roommate: I am never watching TV with you ever again.

Out With the Old, In With The New

2007-04-09T16:18:00.000Z

Two activities that seem like perfect rituals for welcoming the arrival of a new season: clothes shopping and cleaning. And that basically, is what my weekend consisted of. On Saturday I logged approximately a million miles on foot between Dupont Circle and Georgetown. I was determined to revitalize my wardrobe. The shops in Georgetown were pretty disappointing. I found the quality of the threads I could afford sub par, and the stores that featured clothing I did like, beyond my modest budget. I found some chic, 60's inspired pieces at Cusp, Barney's Coop and Reiss, but 300 dollars for one piece was a bit much. And besides, those items were a bit too fabulous for my current lifestyle, where I am not required to dress up for work, and most of my social life takes place in dive bars. With perseverance, I did manage to find a few interesting pieces, and returned home with two new tops, two cropped jackets with slightly puffed sleeves, and a new belt. My wallet is lighter, but I am on my way to an improved personal presentation. I am also once again, contemplating a hair cut. Chop, chop. I've been feeling recently like I'm in more of a short hair frame of mind. I want a style that's more assertive, chic, slightly edge. When people look at me now, they see a huge mop of bohemian ringlets. Cute, but I'm no longer feeling the hippy glam. People should see your face, not an overwhelming mess of curls. I'm still thinking about it of course, but the idea is growing on me (no pun intended). Besides, Spring is a time of change, and a new haircut would be a great accompaniment to an improved personal outlook on life. I'm not talking anything radical here. Just a few inches. The difference between slightly beyond shoulder length and slightly above.

Sunday, I only meant to clean for a few minutes, but I got a bit swept away, and three hours later, I was still at it. Welcome to the great room purge of Spring, 2007. I got rid of a ton of stuff. Junk. Old shoes nobody would ever want, old notebooks from old jobs, more junk, yucky old tee shirts. I vacuumed, I dusted. I discovered that the Libertines and the Hold Steady provide excellent soundtracks to cleaning. And there's still a ton to do. But most of it will require a trip to the Container Store, something I can't really afford after buying all those clothes, which will have to wait for my next paycheck in two weeks. Also exciting was that I finally manage to extract a DVD that's been wedged inside my DVD player for an embarrassingly long period of time. Too embarrassing to share with you, in fact. In the past, I have attempted to address the problem in a variety of ways, none of them particularly effective. Finally on Sunday, I came to terms with the fact that said DVD player was probably already broken beyond repair and that the best solution to the problem was to yank the feeder drawer out altogether. So that's what I did. After that, it was pretty easy to extract the disc. Next pay check, I will buy a new DVD player. The old one is in the trash.

All in all, I managed to stay out of trouble, and have a pretty productive weekend. Did anyone else catch Entourage? I am so happy to have that show back in my life. I loved the interactions between Vince's camp and Ari's--how everyone was doing their part to manage expectations in the wake of their "breakup". How long do you think we have before they're reunited?

Also, have you ever had the experience when going through your things, of finding a random phone number and not remembering who it could belong to? This happened to me while I was purging. I set the number aside, not certain what to do with it. It's rare that I collect numbers from strangers. Luckily, an email from a friend this morning (totally unsolicited--I love how the universe works sometimes) helped clarify who it belonged to. Sadly, I can't make use of said number (for a variety of reasons too personal, convoluted and mildly scandalous to share), but I'm happy to know who it belongs to. I'm tucking it away for safe keeping.

Perhaps Not So Safe After All

2007-04-04T18:40:00.000Z

Having lived in lily-white, oh-so-gentrified Woodley Park for several years now, I've developed a certain level of complacency regarding the safety of my neighborhood. It's rare that I feel unsafe walking the streets alone at night and I would certainly never think that anyone would deliberately do harm to my home or my possessions. This is not to say that I write to you from a position of great material wealth. As I've stated before, I'm merely a financially humble writer who happened to have lucked-out by finding a really inexpensive group living situation in a nice neighborhood. For that I am grateful. Having witnessed some truly horrible things happen to friends living in less-safe areas of the city in the recent past, I constantly marvel at my good fortune to live where I do. Yeah, our house is a little tattered and old but there's a roof over our heads and the only time somebody unwelcome ever intruded was a while back when somebody forgot to lock the door and a drunk ex-paramour stumbled in looking for a safe place to crash for the night.

Yet recently, it seems that we cannot have UPS packages delivered to our door without them go missing. Last week my mother sent me a box of stuff she no longer wanted that she thought I could make use of. The contents of the box totaled about 600 dollars in value. I didn't need them, but was looking forward to having them. It should have arrived by now. She had the package tracked and according to UPS, it was already delivered.

I wrote my roommates to make sure none of them had brought it in and I had somehow overlooked it. One of them responded to say that a similar thing happened to him about a month ago. Now that I think about it, I clearly remember seeing a car parked on the street outside our house last week or the week before with one of its windows smashed in.

Until today I have definitely taken the relative safety of my neighborhood for granted. In fact, I have probably tested the limits of our comparative lack of crime for far too long. This is not to say that I am claiming that Woodley Park is experiencing some sort of terrible crime wave, nor do I want to sound like some uptight yuppie bemoaning the theft of her pottery barn delivery. I know I am lucky to live where I live. I realize that I still have it pretty good.

But let this be a lesson to all of us. Sometimes the beauty and calm of a neighborhood can imbue its residents with a false sense of security.

From now on, I'm having all my packages sent to my work address. And hopefully whoever has my box truly needed it more than I did.

Shalom And All That

2007-04-03T14:53:00.000Z

One year during Passover when I was in high school my dad suddenly felt bad that he wasn't raising me to care about my Jewish heritage so he made me eat gefilte fish. Really, my dad was the only Jewish person present in our neat little nuclear family and even his faith had lapsed over the years. My mother, raised Catholic but staunchly opposed to most of its tenets*, was adamant that I be raised without religion, that I could select one for myself when I grew up, if I so chose.

Having been taught to be nice to people, share, and respect the laws of karma, I've never really found a need to adopt a formal religion. I maintain a slightly embarrassing faith in astrology, and over the years have cobbled together a personal sort of cosmology dictated by the stars, having grown up in the woods and having being raised by two people for whom religion basically equaled guilt.

But back to the gefilte fish. I am convinced that only a true Jew can truly be down with this combination of whatever it is (white fish and gelatin?). Alas, my palate is too diluted with goyim blood. In fact, I would surmise that in some circles, crotchety old Jewish grandmothers (not unlike mine, may she rest in peace) probably serve up awesome portions of the stuff to the significant others of their grandchildren just to see if they can hang.

My dad seemed truly disappointed that I turned my nose up at his gefilte fish, asking instead for a nice bagel with cream cheese and lox (see? It's not like I wasn't trying!). At 16 years old, it was simply too late for me.

Like the nationalities that comprise my background, I am a religious mutt. When meeting me, people see my long curly brown hair and petite frame and automatically make assumptions. They learn my last name and they believe that their theories are confirmed. But belying my appearance is a heritage composed of many other faiths and human ordeals. While my father's family once fled Russia to escape the Tsar, my mother's family's presence in the states goes back many centuries. I can honestly say that I am related to both a Beat Poet and an American President.

The point of all this is to say that this month, in this time of major religious observation for many, I will instead pay homage to my family's eccentric little melting pot. I'll drink Guinness with my lox, wear all black, and look for a way to enact my manifest destiny fantasies. I can't annex Mexico, but maybe I can take over my roommates room or something.

*Except for sins of omission. She was big on harping about those, which became a huge problem for me come adolescence when I would attempt to cover up a transgression by simply not telling her about it.

Drive-By Kissing

2007-04-02T19:09:00.000Z

The scene: A bar in Dupont Circle.

The time: Late Friday night, several weeks ago.

The scenario: I had been sitting outside with a co-worker chatting about life over a few cigarettes. Nothing special or earth-shattering was discussed, although semi-serious tid bits of personal information were exchanged. Minutes later, inside, the crowd was dispersing to various post-happy hour locations. Having had several whiskies, I decided to call it a night. Pleasantries were exchanged with smoking buddy co-worker. Again nothing special, just your typical "see you on Monday" goodnights, when he gently grabbed my sweater, pulled me in to him and kissed me on the lips. Too stunned to really object, I might have returned the favor. I went home, thinking WTF? to myself for the duration of my short metro ride.

Skip ahead several weeks. I rarely have reason to work with said individual. In fact, our paths rarely cross unless we both just happen to be sharing space in the same elevator. I've seen him a grand total of four times in the past month, each encounter extremely short and highly formal. Each time, I leave the situation with a chorus of WTFs? echoing in my head. As delusional as I sometimes may be, I have never fabricated a kiss. I am certain that this one occurred, and yet, nothing has been said about it. Really, I suppose there isn't anything to say. I certainly can't be all "Hey, remember a month ago when you rather inappropriately smooched me at the bar?"

I'd be lying if I said I've never kissed a co-worker. When you work at a place with a close-knit social group and a lot of young people who like to party together, stuff is gonna go down. But normally there's some sort of dialog about it, even if it's just the run-of-the-mill "Hey, are we cool?" or whatever.

I have no interest in continuing said shenanigans with said man. He's bad news through and through. I don't find him all that attractive, except perhaps because he is such bad news. But objectively, I know this isn't a situation that needs to be encouraged. And yet...I have found myself extremely flummoxed during each of our subsequent encounters. Plus, it would be highly unprofessional and I am all about the professionalism. Part of me wants to be like "Hey, what is up with you? Do you regularly kiss women you shouldn't kiss and then act like nothing happened? Are you from some culture where casually kissing people is an accepted social norm? What the hell is your deal?" I am obviously not about to do this, so instead I am totally stuck in this most ambiguous of situations.

Has anything like that ever happened to you?

With My Hand Covering My Eyes, I Peer Through My Fingers at the Inevitable Train Wreck

2007-03-30T19:20:00.000Z

I've developed a habit in recent months of hating on Zach Braff. I will admit that this is not by any means an original hobby. The Onion's A/V Club published a lovely missive not long ago entitled Awful Things Zach Braff is (Probably) Responsible For. Once upon a time, I had no issue with ZB. I enjoyed the occasional episode of Scrubs and thought that Garden State was an okay, although extremely overrated movie. I even thought he was cute.

The turning point occurred when I foolishly watched The Last Kiss on DVD a few months ago. It's my own damn fault, I readily admit it. Five minutes into the picture I decided I hated it, yet stubbornly sat through the entire thing just so I could see exactly how much and why it was so extremely awful. I came up with many reasons, the list of which is far too long to share so I will just state its worst offense: ZB's character acts like a complete dick and in the end, gets away with it. I'm not talking oh, he fucked up, but hey, live and learn. I'm talking, he behaves like a pretentious, pampered, immature, myopic, greedy little shit the entire time and we're all supposed to forgive him in the end because he realizes his mistakes. That, and his nose really bothers me.

I know. It was a movie, not real life. The real ZB would never commit such heinous offenses. I also realize that it's bad to cast judgments on people based on their noses, over which they surely have no control. But still, you have to consider the fact that ZB took that role, so you have to wonder what he thought of the character. In my opinion that character should never have existed at all, let alone be brought to life on the silver screen. It's simply a horrid example of 30-something middle class white guys at their absolute worst.

I also take issue with the fact that he clearly fancies himself an indie-rock taste maker, although many of the bands on the Garden State soundtrack sound a lot alike in their semi-twee naval gazing kind of way. Whenever I find myself with an urge to hear the Carey Brothers I instead ask myself what's wrong, and how can I extract myself from this current state? And while I like the Shins as much as the next person, I never thought that they'd change my life, and I really think that's an unfair statement to make about a band. I don't know. I wish ZB would diversify his music recommendations a bit.

This is all to say that I just stumbled upon this gem on musicslut and am now bracing myself for the inevitable train wreck to come. Please oh, please. Leave Elliot Smith alone.

In other news, I am most excited for the weekend. Among other fine and exciting plans, I get to drink my favorite Pinot Noir with two of my favorite women in DC tomorrow night. I am confident that ZB will not make an appearance. Although one never can be too sure.

My Oh My

2007-03-26T21:42:00.000Z

I rolled into work this morning two hours late, with a hideous headache after one of the worst nights of sleep I have ever experienced. It was the sort of night where I'd doze off for an hour, wake up, think I hadn't slept at all, recall the completely fucked up dream I had just had, and fall back only to repeat this scenario five or so more times before my alarm clicked on at 7:00 am. I have a love-hate relationship with my snooze bar, and two hours later we were still engaged in trench warfare.

The problem had everything to do with my weekend and my ongoing struggle to appreciate the finer points of the concept "weekends are for unwinding." This weekend marked the first official one of spring. It seemed that everyone came out of the woodwork to play. My weekend was defined by an overflow of friends, love, creative ideas, new possibilities, things that I didn't think I wanted that now seem like an excellent idea, things I didn't think I could have before that are now attainable, clarifications regarding some ambiguous situations, things that seemed bad that I'm learning to accept, self determination, and again--new possibilities. Several gauntlets were thrown down. I didn't get to bed until 5:30 on Saturday night/Sunday morning. Laura Sessions Stepp would not be pleased with me.

Seeing me cross the atrium of our office, our IT Guy (a friend, and one of the most sarcastic individuals on the planet) smirked and said: Well, you're looking lovely this morning. Decked out in a thermal shirt I stole from a college roommate (my last clean shirt apart from my vintage Journey tee), pants a size too big, lesbian orthopedic clogs, wet hair and eyes ringed with black circles, I could practically smell the facetiousness dripping from his words. I rolled my eyes and told him to suck it.

Despite my ragged constitution, everything that transpired this weekend was 100% worth it. I mentioned before that everything seems to be in a constant state of transition. But I think I'm learning to roll with it and to understand how these changes could help me in the long run. I feel in part like I'm seated on top of shifting tectonic plates, taking me for a ride and at the same time steering a new course for myself. For far too long I had felt a little adrift and now things are starting to make a bit more sense.

I've done a couple of things in the past couple of weeks that I am truly proud of. For one, I came up with a new business development idea for my company that I am now working with my CEO to fast track into something that we can share with outside groups and launch as a real thing. Bizarre seeing as how I have always thought of myself as the smart, sarcastic underachiever. And also because I'm a writer and not a business development expert.

Secondly, I've done a really good job recently of evaluating the presence of certain individuals in my life and honestly assessing how they can best fit into my life in a manner that is productive for everyone involved. It's meant realizing the shortcomings of certain relationships and accepting that I can't mold everything into something it wasn't meant to be. It's been sad to let go of certain expectations I had for people, but it was time. And it has meant displaying a bit of bravery and communicating with people in ways that I am normally way too reserved to do. And from there, lovely new possibilities have presented themselves--my reward for being assertive and true to myself. I was remarking to a friend earlier today that life has gone from Liz Phair song to a Nick Hornsby novel, and that's a very good thing indeed.

An Equal and Opposite Reaction

2007-03-23T14:52:00.000Z

Dear Women Who Are Bat-Shit Crazy,

Stop. You're ruining it for the rest of us.

Signed, only semi-bat-shit crazy.

Sometimes, the closest route between point A and point B is a straight line. So that's the route I've chosen to take. Sometimes, it is also better when you want something, to flat out ask for it. Although popular logic tells us to be coy, mask our feelings with well placed words, there comes a point and time when a girl just has to lay her cards on the table and tell a boy what's what. If they can't deal with it, then whatever to them.

And on a seperate note, the contents of the bag I carried into the office from 7-11 totally illustrates that today is Friday: Gatorade, Tab Energy drink, cigarettes and a turkey sandwich that I ate for breakfast. Because I had beer for dinner last night. Quite a lot of it.

It's All In the Mix

2007-03-22T02:16:00.000Z

Mission accomplished! I completed my mix. There's this moment in the movie Pollack when somebody asks the artist how he knows when a piece of art is complete and he replies totally dead pan: How do you know when you've finished making love?

The same sentiment applies to making a good mix. This isn't to say I experienced quite the same decisive moment of completion, but there comes a moment when you know it's best not to mess with a good thing.

I have a problem with knowing how to order musical arrangements. In this case, I let iTunes do it for me. Alphebetical by artist. It works in its own odd little way.

Without further ado:

Oh, Uncooperative Heart: A Mix By Hey Pretty

Criminal-Fiona Apple
This Isn't It-Big Drag
Listen Up!-The Gossip
Boys On the Radio-Hole
You Are What You Love-Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins
Have You Ever Seen the Rain-Joan Jett
Good Man-Josh Ritter
Galaxies-Laura Veirs
Shame For You-Lily Allen
Strange Loop-Liz Phair
Can't Let Go-Lucinda Williams
Do It Again-Nada Surf
If You Knew-Neko Case
Falling Down-The Redwalls
Fidelity-Regina Spektor
Hot Night Crash-Sahara Hot Nights
Another Nail In My Heart-Squeeze
Sleep With You-Clare Quilty

This collection of songs is a little indicative of where I'm at these days regarding some stuff that's been kicking around in my brain. A few additional tunes were thrown in just cuz they spoke to me.

If by any weird, random chance, anyone wants a copy, toss an email my way and we'll work out a delivery mechanism. People who have my personal email, use it. Those who don't, talk to me at: hey_prettyblog@yahoo.com.

End note: Sorry for any spelling errors in this post. My Mac doesn't like the spell-check function on blogger. Yes, I know there's no excuse for a former English major/professional writer to have such atroshus spelling skills. We can't all be good at everything, can we?

Calling All A/V Geeks

2007-03-21T14:17:00.000Z

The following items are at my house: television, ibook laptop, good stereo speakers, subwoofer.

The following items, I lack: DVD player, receiver.

Is it possible, dear lovely A/V geeks, to use my ibook as a receiver so that all of those components could be tied together in one glorious system?

Barring that, is it possible to, at the very least, connect the speakers and subwoofer to the ibook?

Questions like this illustrate why I need a boyfriend. Men are good at resolving things like that. And they're useful for reaching items on far-up shelves.

???

2007-03-20T15:45:00.000Z

You know how sometimes you really want to post, but you can't quite decide what to say--how much of yourself you may want to give to the semi-strangers who orbit your sphere of being on a day-to-day basis? That's kind of how I feel today. Wanting to say something, yet holding back just to avoid repeating the same sentiments I seem to spew forth on a regular basis. I think I'm feeling a little self-protective these days. Sometimes the process of reaching out is too exhausting and semi-scarring to maintain.

I will say this much: I worked on that darn novel a bit last night. It's no literary masterpiece, but it's a start. Snappy, sarcastic chick-lit, material culled from personal experience. It's quite a relief to see that my time in the underbelly of progressive politics has inspired some entertaining prose. Even my relationship with my old organization's temperamental copy machine has inspired a few witty paragraphs.

I'm also working on a mix. It's a bit melancholy and unformed. Here's what we got so far (in no particular order):

Clare Quilty--Sleep With You
Laura Viers--Galaxies
Giant Drag--This Isn't It
Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins--You Are What You Love
Hole--Boys on the Radio
Josh Ritter--Good Man
Lucinda Williams--Can't Let Go
Neko Case--If You Knew

Mostly I'm just supremely bored and unsettled. Do you ever have that feeling where everything just feels like it's in a permanent state of transition?

The Sports Imbecile Does March Madness (Part 2)

2007-03-16T18:29:00.000Z

And...we are off and running. Do you know what I am learning? That although sports imbeciles often, unwittingly, do very well in March Madness, they often don't do very well at all either. Alas, it seems that the pure fact of being clueless about college basketball does indeed mean that your brackets will bite the big one.

Teams I selected to do well that are now eliminated: Gonzaga, Penn, GW, Old Dominion, Stanford.

The good news: All of my final four teams remain in the game. At least for now.

While I am not in very last place in the office pool, I am pretty close to the bottom. I'm sure this fact is making my smug male coworkers as obnoxiously smirky as usual.

Tonight at happy hour, I will pour a 40 out for those five departed teams. Farewell Gonzaga, Penn, GW, Old Dominion and Stanford. I hardly knew ye. Quite literally, in fact.

New Blogging Rule?

2007-03-15T20:06:00.000Z

Here's what I think: When blogging about dating, the amount of words one devotes to a particular person should be less than, or proportional to the amount of time/words/apparent energy that person devotes to you in real life.

Another Strike Against Outsourcing

2007-03-13T18:13:00.000Z

I was already feeling tremendously grumpy today, so a half-an-hour on the phone with the geniuses at Capital One didn't help.

Due to some not particularly great spending habits in my 20's, I have found myself with a rather unpleasant credit card debt, and a really high interest rate on one of my cards. I'm using my Capital One card, which has a low APR as the card that I transfer my higher balance from the other card to. I do this once every couple of months and it's slowly helping me regain my erstwhile financial stability. And my sanity.

Until today.

It seems that Capital One has joined many of its contemporaries in corporate America in the outsourcing trend. Now, when I call to make a routine balance transfer, I chat very briefly with somebody in the midwest before being transfered via a very fuzzy connection to some lady in India.

Apart from the loss of American jobs that outsourcing represents, it is a major pain in the ass for me, the consumer. Why? Because the ladies who work the call center in India, no matter how nice they may be in real life, maintain only tenuous graps of English, the only language I happen to speak fluently. Call it poor foresite among the adminstrators at Amherst Regional High School, but I am not proficient in Assamese; Bengali; Gujarati; Hindi; Kannada; Kashmiri; Malayalam; Marathi; Oriya; Punjabi; Sindhi; Tamil; Telugu or Urdu. While my inability to parse words in any of these toungues is not normally a handicap in my daily routine, it represents a major disability when attempting to communicate with the customer service reps at Capital One.

Normally, I'm a pretty laid back kind of gal. I tend to find that being nice to customer service reps and not losing my cool is a better way of obtaining the high quality of service that I desire. But doing so is hard when the person on the other end of the phone is convinced you want to transfer money from your personal checking account to a credit card. Why I'd want to do that is beyond me, but after saying very firmly into the phone "No, it's a credit card account" about a dozen times we still weren't jiving. I finally asked to speak with her manager.

Although incredibly surly, her manager was ten times more efficient and more importantly, *proficient*, and I had the matter of my balance transfer ironed out in all of 45 seconds. But this was after 30 minutes of arguing (in my cubicle, co-workers listening--mostly my bad, yes). It should not have been this painful, especially since the knowlege that the experience is going to suck doesn't make me want to repeat it, and for the sake of my credit rating, I really need to. I told her this much, and in response she rattled off a three-minute long term of agreement that I then agreed to without really listening to. So I might have just sold my first born off to Bollywood but at least I'm feeling a bit better about my financial stability.

And to think that more Americans are unemployed because of this simply adds insult to injury.

The Sports Imbecile Does March Madness, Part 1

2007-03-12T18:39:00.000Z

Don't ask me why, but I just filled out March Madness brackets. I haven't entered a pool, nor do I want to. Every year I am asked by some sports-nut who sees March Madness pools as a chance to rob me (the sports imbecile) totally blind. I know what they say about clueless people generally having good luck when it comes to that kind of stuff. I don't buy it. But I was bored and saw that the NY Times has an interactive brackets thing on their website, so I spent a few minutes impulsively choosing teams (I used "the force") and before I knew it, my brackets were complete. At times I chose based on seeding, other times I chose based on a desire to route against a team loved by an especially vile ex, others were chosen based on the inevitability of a few random upsets. I have even selected a "Cinderella Story." Winthrop is going to charge past the mighty forces of Notre Dame and Miami of Ohio to make it to round 3.

For the finals, I selected Memphis to face Kansas. I know nothing of Kansas other than the fact that they're supposed to be really good. Memphis I chose for sentimental reasons. When I was in high school, John Calipari, Memphis' current coach, lead the Minuteman of the University of Massachusetts in several very successful seasons. I went to high school in Amherst, where UMASS is located. Even as a disaffected theatre geek, I appreciated the success of the Minutemen in those years. The excitement they inspired in our sleepy little college town, which usually only got excited by things like Free Tibet rallies, was contagious.

Calipari lived in my town, a tiny hamlet called Leverett, home to only 1200 people. I rode the school bus with his kids. Although I never had reason to meet Calipari, I felt like I knew him through proximity.

Nostalgia informs many peoples' affinities towards the sports teams the fill their hearts. Therefore, I have no qualms in selecting Memphis to take it all.

Besides, it's not like there's money riding on this.

Updated! I lied. I joined the office pool. Now the guys I work with will have yet another reason to laugh at me. But I don't care. Clueless women have a long glorious history of beating sports-obsessed guys when it comes to this stuff. And, I am realizing today that I suffering from some sort of temporary depression and need a good distraction from my sorrows. And, it will give me something entertaining to blog about besides my somewhat broken heart, which I'm sure you all are tired of hearing about.

Go Memphis!

Good Stuff (for lack of a better title)

2007-03-09T18:59:00.000Z

No sage words deconstructing alarming new marketing trends today, my pretties. But, just to roll around in the excessive self-obsessivness and myopia that is blogging in '07, I did get a nice shout out in the Express this morning. Thanks, Express. I heart you as well. I was also given a little sugar by Buzzfeed, which is sure to become a new addiction of mine. So, thanks to Buzzfeed for linking to me, because it taught me that you all exist and now I have a delicious new @ work distraction.

So back in December I met this boy from online for drinks. I liked chatting with him but got the distinct impression that he wasn't too keen on DC and decided that things probably wouldn't go anywhere based on the hunch that he'd probably be gone before too long.

Well children, it seems I was correct. He indeed fled the coop. To Moscow. If only we had engaged in a whirlwind romance that ended poorly so I can somehow take credit for driving him all the way across the globe. But seeing as how all we did was knock back several bourbons together (I'm telling you, I'm a fun date), all I can really do is chuckle at the intense transience of DC. And of course, it's always nice to have a pal in Russia.

In other news...Really, there isn't much. There might be stuff to report about work in a bit but I am beholden to stay quiet about that for the time being. Let's just say that I may be quite the little entrepreneur. I haven't infected any more cute boys with my cold. But of course, the day is still young. And as for the one that I did infect, well...no comment. But speaking of boys, Good at Drinking has a fun post up about women's undergarments. Given the amount of energy we spend trying to look just so for our conquests, it was nice to see a man devoting blog space to appreciating our collective efforts. It also reminded me that I don't own enough cute bras. You may recall my last attempt to buy a new bra resulted in me shelling out 50 bucks for one that in no way fits or flatters and now collects dust in the back of my drawer. I should really use it for an art project or something, rather than letting it mock me as it currently is. So perhaps this weekend I will be a woman and brave that world. Maybe I will even let one of the little old ladies in the unmentionables department at Nordies take my measurements.

Anyway. My favorite part of his post was when he mentioned how sexy it is when women wear nothing but men's dress shirts. I used to have a boyfriend who lived with his twin brother and the two of them were hard wired to go absolutely nuts for a woman in a plain white tee and knickers. The very first time I slept over I snuck out of my boy's room in the morning to get a glass of water wearing nothing but one of his tee shirts and panties and accidentally stumbled across his twin in the kitchen who leered a little inappropriately. I scurried back to the boy's room and related the story. He just laughed. That's kind of how it is when you date a twin. That's also when I learned that it's a good idea to put on pants when you have a sleep over with somebody who has a roommate.

But, I do have to say that I have always derived a small pleasure from the moment a slip a boy's shirt over my head the next morning to go use the loo or get some water. Dress shirt or a tee it doesn't matter. There's just something so marvelously intimate about the moment when you slip the garment over your head--how soft and slightly rumpled it is and how it smells a little like them. It's like sharing their skin, in a sense. Even if all you did the night before was makeout a little, the shirt thing is key. I simply can't do it justice.

Finally, I just realized that DC and I are celebrating an anniversary this month: 8 years! I moved here in March of 1999. That makes 8, right? God, I am so bad at math. When I first arrived in our fair metro area, people were freaked about Y2K (ha!), Bill Clinton was still President, Adams Morgan was considered an edgy place to hang out, and I was convinced that I was way too cool for this scene and would be living in Brooklyn within 2 years.

Memories from the past two years--living in Alexandria; temping; my first long-term relationship; first job; learning how to drive (shut up, I'm a late bloomer); Election 2000; hanging chads; another new job; kickball; my slut phase; my own apartment; group houses; meeting other bloggers; Quizzo at the Pour House; volunteering on the Kerry campaign back when everyone thought Dean would be the nominee; having to evacuate from downtown on September 11th; getting laid off and rather than having the nervous breakdown I anticipated for two months, spending a whole glorious summer sunbathing, getting drunk, and reading library books; countless nights drinking on Capitol Hill; Cap Lounge burning down; an ever evolving group of friends; realizing being an adult isn't so hard after all.

Smooches, DC. Here's to 8 very formative years and the promise of at least a few more!

Perfume For Hipsters, By Fat Cats

2007-03-08T16:44:00.000Z

Corporate attempts to commodify youth culture continue. The latest charade? Calvin Klein's latest incarnation of it's mega successful CK One.

The Gen-Xers (oh, I know, ouch) among you probably remember that one. It co-opted the popularity of grunge culture, launched heroine chic, and was aimed at both men and women. It smelled a little like pine trees. I really liked it when I was 17. But give me a break, I came from a sheltered environment and was too naive to know any better.

Well, CK is trying to duplicate the popularity of CK One with CKin2u. According to a company spokesperson, speaking via the New York Times, CKin2u was conceived as a fragrance for the "technosexual generation."

Huh, what's that now? That sound? Oh yeah, that was just sound of all of my skin being eaten by a serious case of the willies. Let us continue.

I wasn't sure what the "technosexual generation" is either. Lucky, he goes on to explain. "Technosexuals" is apparently a new marketing buzz word for young people who use text messaging and blogging in order to meet and arrange hookups.

Yeah, yeah, I know. All the cool kids are doing it these days. But ew. Something about that description kind of makes me want to stop blogging forever and communicate with others only through Morse code. I feel, I dunno. Dirty.

It also makes me feel somewhat ashamed to be even tangentially involved in the practice of professional marketing. Yes, I know. It's Capitalism, get used to it. Corporations have been making a fast buck off of youth culture for zillions of years. I hear ya. Perhaps its just the blatant commodification of young people's sexuality that grosses me out. Navigating the dating/hookup scene is hard enough. Youngsters hardly need some corporate suits in corner offices trying to make a fast buck off of it. For every cool kid who successfully negotiates a late-night tryst via text message, there a dozen others nervously checking their inboxes and wondering why their crush is ignoring them. Do we really need the marketing geniuses at Calvin Klein exploiting this dynamic? Methinks not.

And what about the morning after? Maybe someone should get on that potential gravy train. Why don't we have a fragrance that embodies the giddy uncertainty of what comes after the arranged-by-cell-phone-(most likely) drunken tryst? Can you bottle smudged eye-liner, bed-head, morning breath, discarded condom wrappers, stilted conversation and that glorious moment before the curtain of what-the-fuck-did-I-just-do falls? Because if you can, they probably will.

Not that my own perfume, or anyone's for that matter is 100% noble and pure. These days I am favoring Pomegranate Noir by Jo Malone. It smells like musty old books growing in a forest. By amorous tree sprites. Yes, it's that good.

I'm feeling punchy today. In the comments section tell me what a perfume would smell like if a marketing exec could bottle the essence of you.

Birthday Meme, etc

2007-03-07T16:59:00.000Z

This blog has been all sorts of lame recently. Apologies for that. There are events I'd like to share, but I'm testing out this new thing where I don't blog about the intimate details of my personal life. It's all sorts of nerve-wracking. It's sort of an "out of respect for somebody else's privacy thing". You may have also noted that I deleted a bunch of posts. Again, a respect thing. Woe unto yee who gets involved with a blogger, that much is certain.

So, on that note. Recovery Overachevier tagged me to participate in the birthday meme. What I did: Pulled up Wikipedia and searched for my birthday. Found three notable historic events that occured on that day (besides my birth, obvi), two notable births (again, besides me), one death, and one holiday. The results are below.

Now, I am supposed to tag five other bloggers to participate. Instead, I open it up to all. However wants to join in, by all means, do.

Events

-René Descartes has the dreams that inspire his Meditations on First Philosophy

-Playing against Army at Yankee Stadium, Notre Dame football coach Knute Rockne gives what is considered the greatest locker room speeches of all time by saying "Win one for the Gipper." The Fighting Irish would win the game 12-6.*

-National Educational Television (the predecessor to the Public Broadcasting Service) in the United States debuts the children's television program Sesame Street.

2 Birthdays/One Death

Martin Luther, German Protestant reformer
Richard Burton, Welsh actor **
Jack Palance, American actor

Holiday/Observance

US Marine Corps Birthday

*Given my ambivalence for all things sports, this is ironic to say the least.
**To report that I share my birthday with a brooding, overly dramatic lush is all too perfect. Too bad I lack Sir Burton's acting chops.

Achoo!

2007-03-05T14:39:00.000Z

Wanted: gallons of orange juice, pint of ice cream, cold meds, box of Kleenex, vat of chicken soup.

Please deliver to Hey Pretty ASAP.

(I lived in complete denial of this all weekend, btw. But I can assure you, it was all completely worth it. Hopefully the person I might have passed these germs on to will forgive me for infecting him).

Why 30 Year Olds Should Not Frequent College Bars

2007-02-27T18:22:00.000Z

I was excited to receive an invitation from Val to attend a happy hour at McFadden's last Saturday. I've recently been drawn into her excellent circle of wonderful friends, and was delighted at the prospect of spending time with a few of these fab men and women. I had been to McFadden's before for various kickball events, but never on a weekend. I knew its rep as a college bar, due to its proximity to GW and Georgetown, but had yet to experience the establishment in its full raucous glory.

Those who know me are familiar with my ability to get down. Despite 10 years of ballet & jazz training I'm not much of a dancer. But I do know how to drink, and always relish the opportunity to let off some steam by kicking back a few adult beverages on a weekend. Problem is, I can't drink as much as I used to. Over the past several years my tolerance has taken a nose-dive, and now several beverages leave me feeling sluggish and looking tired and worn out. But that never seems to keep me from trying. Normally, I limit such activity to dives and the occasional upscale hotel bar. Atmospheres that are relatively chill, where you can hold a conversation with the person standing next to you without have to talk directly into their ear. Places where there is room to stand and a bouncer isn't constantly chasing you away from the only patch of open space. And most notably, places where people do not dance on the bar and offer their fellow patrons the opportunity to vote on their hotness.

This my friends, was a truly terrifying spectacle. At some point into the night, a dozen or so young ladies climbed up on to the bar and starting shaking their stuff for the crowd. Ho, hum, I thought. Nothing special here. But then came the judging process where the crowd seemed to be voting on which of the specimens before them was the "best" or "hottest" or whatever. To be honest, it was extremely loud in there, so it was hard to understand exactly what was going on. But young ladies were bumping and grinding with invisible partners for all to see, while drunk 20-something men ogled and cat-called.

Now, if that makes them happy, it's their business and not mine. But my maternal, sensible side was aghast and sadden by what it saw. Where's the line between liberated self-acceptance/pride over one's body and shameless exploitation? The topic is debated every time a new pop tartlet climbs the charts or some aspect of stripper culture seeps into the mainstream. If men have long gotten off by seeing young ladies flaunt their nubile young bodies, does dancing on a bar for the honor of being the hottest lady in McFadden's conform to that sexist dynamic? Or are the women the ones in control? Are they calling the shots, inverting centuries-old paradigms of gender politics? These are not new questions, and sadly, the confluence of pop culture and the way people live their every day lives continues to obscure the answer. I do know that when I saw one woman in particular, she of an extremely hot little body, writhing on the bar with her tube top dangerously close to sliding off her body, I wanted to reach up and wrap my sweater around her.

Again, bumping and grinding on a bar is a personal choice, and I do not begrudge these women the opportunity to do whatever makes them happy. Just because it's not for me, doesn't mean it's wrong or bad. But it certainly raises quite a few questions. More so than one's typical Saturday night activities, that's for sure.

So anyway. Between the hot lady contest, the 20 minute long wait for drinks (which included watching the bartenders pound Miller Lights), the pounding sound system, and being stepped on repeatedly, it was time to call it a night. I found an ATM in the lobby of a chic hotel nearby, hailed a cab, and found my way home. In short, I was happy to have spent time with the crew, but I don't know how much longer I can go on frequenting such establishments

Extraordinarily Ordinary

2007-02-23T18:27:00.000Z

Women obsess over movie stars because they're handsome and represent a fantasy (ex: my previous "desert island post") but there is also something so awesome about regular, ordinary guys. I know I complain about them a lot. But in general, I must say that I am a great fan of guys. An admirer, an appreciator. I don't make these claims based on their physiques, although in certain cases, those can be rather nice.

No, what I love about guys is this: Despite the fact that they often seem so foreign and "other" with their bizarre non-female thought processes, and proclivity towards detachment, sometimes they'll admit to thinking the dorkiest things ever. Probably not the same dorky things that you think about, but close enough on the dorky-to-cool spectrum for you to relate.

There's just something comforting about that. So many single women spend a good amount of time and energy scheming up ways to impress men. Makeup, clothing, lingerie, shoes, sports trivia. Whatever. As if men were some alien species that need to be carefully hunted.* Yeah, they're different of course, but in some essential ways, not so much. I think that a lot of single women would be happier in their theoretical and real-life interactions with men if they would allow themselves to appreciate the ways in which the sexes are the same.

Case in point: The lede in this article in the lad mag Esquire: When I was six, I was morbidly obsessed with the Make-a-Wish Foundation. With its help I could shoot baskets with Larry Bird, and all I had to do in return was die. So I hoped for the worst.

I absolutely love this lede. The article that follows I don't care an iota about, but this lede is genius. In literary terms, it makes for an attention-grabbing beginning, and it gives you insights into the author's quirks. In female-to-male translation terms it's utterly reassuring. It says, "look, guys have the same strange thought patterns that you do. They too, spent their childhoods fixated on odd, even morbid fantasies that occasionally resurface as amusing anecdotes in their adult lives."

In my opinion, dorky thoughts are the great equalizer. And for some reason, they're all the more awesome when articulated by a guy. I for one, always feel as if I'm making leeway with somebody when we feel comfortable enough with one another to admit somewhat lame or goofy things to one another. We try so hard to appear as we perceive they want us to be. But sometimes it's awesome when our guards drop and we can simply let loose. I think it's what our moms always referred to as "being yourself," and you know what? There were right.

Maybe it's just a quirk of mine, but it makes navigating experiences like the dating world so much easier to endure.

We're really not all that different. Just movin' around, bumpin' into one another, occasionally making a connection.

*All that scheming is also rather hilarious when you consider how oblivious most guys are 99% of the time.

What do John Stewart, Robert Downey Jr, Calvin Trillin, Alice Waters and the Guy From This Old House All Have in Common?

2007-02-22T18:43:00.001Z

Yesterday when I was short on blogging inspiration and asked you all for a topic to write about, Hipster Dork suggested that I compile and share for you my "Desert Island Top 5." According to HD, the following considerations are important for creating such a list: sources of good conversation, sources of food (and/or in my mind, ability to procure food), and sex. I know that some people leave such lists open to figures from any historical period. But that just leaves too many possibilities. So for my list, I am confining my selections to living, breathing humans (much better for conversation and sex, one must note). So, without further ado...

1.) John Stewart. Handsome, witty, liberal and charming, Mr. Stewart would make a fantastic desert island companion. John and I would trade witticisms, smack-talk corrupt political machines, and get busy when we ran out of things to talk about.

Next, I am tempted to list Ellen Degeneris. Also witty and charming, I would appreciate Ms. Degeneris's ability to bring levity to the dire situation of being stranded miles away from civilization. I've always imaged that we'd get along well in real life, with our mutual dorkiness and off-beat senses of humor. However, I don't think I'd want more than one comedian. And Ellen's self-deprecation might begin to grate a bit after a while. So sadly, she's not invited.

The more I think about this, the more it dawns on me that my knee-jerk response is to include mostly actors and comedians. Probably because we have the most exposure to their public images thanks to our lovely media-saturated culture. Sure, I could also list some hottie actors (Robert Downey Jr, that guy from Lost who use to be on Party of Five, Ryan Gosling, Hugh Grant, etc) but that seems too easy. On second thought.

2.) Robert Downey Jr. Yes, I said I wasn't going to pick another "actor-type." I lied. I've had a crush on Mr. Downey Jr since forever ago. When we get bored with the sex (doubtful, but whatevs), he can forage the island for things for us to smoke up and get high from.

3.) Calvin Trillin. I've been a long time fan of his writing since high school when I first started picking through my mom's New Yorker's. Mr. Trillin's commentary on desert-island life would no doubt be enthralling and entertaining. As a story-teller he could also entertain us with some good yarns.

We're gonna get hungry at some point after all that sex, story telling and smoking of the exotic plants. My next pick is:

4.) Alice Waters. Waters made a name for herself in the 80s as the godmother of California haute cuisine with her ground breaking resteraunt, Chez Panise. She has a nack for exploiting the wonderful natural qualities of fresh, local produce and making inventive and yummy dishes from them. I'm sure she could work some magic on whatever plants RD Jr and I don't smoke.

Hmm. Only one more. It would be wonderful to include an artist. Somebody who could make inspiring art out sand and rocks and whatever. I'd love to spend some time with Sally Mann or Sam Taylor Wood. But practicallity is important too so we must include somebody handy enough to build us some strong desert island homes, and possibly even a vessel for transporting ourselves off the island. So...

5.) The guy from This Old House on PBS. I watched this show as a kid but I can't remember who he is or what he looks like. But in terms of crafting us some very sturdy dwellings, I have no doubt he'd perform quite nicely.

And there you have it. I'm tempted to include some musicians there, but I'm not sure what use they'd have sans instruments and I already have two concubines so I don't need another sex slave. Odd, I know.

Ask Me Nicely and I'll Tell You a Story About Most Anything

2007-02-21T21:31:00.000Z

Low on inspiration here today kids. Nothing remarkable to report in terms of work, dating, not writing my novel or flirtations with border-line alcoholism. I suppose a couple of things went down this weekend, but nothing I care to share. I wouldn't want to ruin the pristine image I've cultivated for myself in the last three years I've been at this, after all. So rather than talking at you on a subject you care nothing about, I will use this as an opportunity for ya'll to suggest a topic. What would you like to hear?

Not Punk Rock Enough For This?

2007-02-16T19:54:00.000Z

"We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are."

There was a time in my life, before most of you knew me, when I solidly identified with certain counter-cultural, anti-establishment communities. I loathed "The Man", couldn't ever fathom having an office job, looked down on those poor saps confined to a cubicle all day, dyed my hair alarming colors, and listened to dissonant music. Then I graduated from college and realized that reality looks a lot different when you're faced with the challenge of applying your considerable intellect and skills to earning enough money to pay rent. I also realized that I look a lot better with brown hair.

As much as I appreciate the punk ethos and even admire people who have managed to create happy productive lives fighting the establishment, that lifestyle just isn't for me. But I doff my hat to those who live it, and continue to believe that societal change depends on the presence of certain radical forces that exist to create dialectical tensions.
All of this is leads in to reporting on my date with punk-rock banjo guy. It was pretty much your typical first date. Lots of getting to know you chit-chat, some awkward silences, some flirting. What was atypical was the diatribe I listened to about the origins of punk philosophy. I felt like I was receiving a lecture, an unnecessary one at that, because having read Lipstick Traces when I was 21, I am already down with the history of the French Situationists. But whatever, it's obscure cultural history, so I'll give him a pass on that one because one rarely goes into a situation assuming your date has a handle on that stuff.

Atypical as well was how mainstream this guy made me feel. Normally men in DC make me feel like an alterna-chick freak. I've never claimed to be a preppy. My family's background is mixed, my own parents are somewhat anachronistic in many ways, I've experienced a diversity of lifestyles and have traveled through many of my own puzzling incarnations. This guy seemed a little confused that my parents could be liberals who raised their child in a small rural New England town while maintaining a semi-affluent lifestyle. He wanted to assign them a "back to nature" hippy identity, which I couldn't let him do. As much as the punks I've known in my day have tried to avoid being identified by mainstream notions of "normalness", he seemed just as apt to filter the information that I provided him with through his own biased set of assumptions.
So it ironic that a date with Mr.-Punk-Rock-counter-culture sparked a debate about identity-politics, or is it simply par for the course? I can't decide. Nor can I decide how hot I am to recreate the experience. When the date was good, it was good. But I don't like it when people try to label me as a certain "type" of person. I guess we're all guilty of it, and I strive to remember daily that everyone, including Mr. Punk-Rock-counter-culture can't be neatly assigned to pre-assigned cultural identities, no matter how many niche-specific signifiers they decorate their bodies with.

I know labels are comforting. Calling somebody "indie rock" for example, gives you some clue about their personality, but not the whole picture, as I explained to Mr. Punk Rock when trying to explain to him why I don't think I care for online dating. But it's such a convenient and ultimately empty way of experiencing your fellow man. That was the final great lesson I learned in my 20's, and of course it came about after dating two guys back-to-back who I had little in common with.

Mr. Punk Rock expressed concern that I am too young for him, which again was weird because most of the guys I date tend to be younger. Truth be told, I've been looking for an older man for some time. Now I'm not certain if age has anything to do with anything.
The date ended with me explaining that it was late and that I should go, while he opted to order another beer for himself. After a brief drunk driving lecture, I have him a kiss on the cheek and he pulled me in for a hug. It was good as far as hugs go. More intimate than the ones I've experienced with TT.

The verdict: I'm not sure I care for his personality, and although he isn't all that good-looking, there's something about him that's attractive. He appeals to my inner-rebel in a way that I can't yet identify. Or maybe it was just nice to have a man flirt with me and buy me Anchor Steams.