"Be David Caruso in 'Jade'."

My foot is healed. Thank you for your concern. I still haven't caught the little/enormous creature who bit me, but trust me: I'm trying. Have you ever seen Spider Tape? That stuff is all over my house. When I catch that spider, he's in serious trouble.

In other news, a reader (Lebatron) recently pointed me to his blog, which I took a peek at today. If you read the post linked above, you'll find that he has figured out that women love mysterious confidence (a tactic I refer to as MC). Which reminded me of my friend, who I affectionately refer to as "The Guppy", and how he discovered the wonders of well-executed MC.

For those of you unfamiliar with MC: Even men with serious shortcomings (peg legs, wives, lobotomies, unemployment, a criminal record or a combover) can, by properly executing the MC, get women. Jealous witnesses find this mysterious. Also, it IS mysterious. Hence the name.

Anyway, The Guppy is the most awkward man on the planet in typical social situations. He does this thing where he just sorta opens and closes his mouth with big, surprised eyes when it's his turn to talk, letting a few nonsensical syllables slip out before wilting like a snotty tissue and darting away. The Guppy is reasonably good looking and doesn't drink, but he has a crappy job, no drive, plays videogames 8-15 hours per day, is totally nerdy but has a very small vocabulary and totally lacks a sense of style. He is terrified of women, who throw him into intense Guppy mode, down to the damp, dead-fish handshake. He just has absolutely zero game.

I'm embarrassed how often I refer to the movie "40 Year Old Virgin", as I didn't even find it that funny, but there's a scene where Andy Stitzer gets some advice from his friend on how to talk to women. His friend's advice is to "...be David Caruso in Jade". <<<<< David Caruso in Jade, obviously. Guppy must have watched this movie. Either that, or he stumbled into his golden ticket.

You see, one night, the Guppy decided to throw a few drinks back at party we dragged him out to. Well, it turns out that alcohol magically turns off all the little ticks and causes Guppy to just stand and brood, which (to the disbelief of the noisy "look at me" type guys there) attracted the attention of two very beautiful, if a little scandalous, girls who spent the greater part of the night competing for his attention. Finally, something in him must have clicked, because he totally pulled an epic MC:

With both hands, one pointed at each girl, Guppy made the "come hither" motion with his pointer fingers. He then turned and strode into a back bedroom. He didn't say a single word. I don't even think he smiled. 35 minutes later he emerged, drunk and disheveled, saying things like "I didn't know where to put my hands!" and "What did I just do?". Yes, folks, the Guppy had a threesome-esque encounter -- almost by accident. He learned (and taught all the other male witnesses present) an invaluable lesson in the MC.

You see, with MC, it is possible to convince women (particularly dense, desperate or drunk women) that you are entirely as cool and desireable as you wish you actually were.

Have a good weekend! (And try it out, Caruso. It's a gem.)

A letter to the Giant Foot-Eating Spider living in my bed

Dear Giant Foot-Eating Spider,

First off, I'd like to say that I know there is more than one side to every story, and I fully intend to hear you out on yours (from a safe distance, and while holding a can of Raid) after I say my bit. Giant Foot-Eating Spider, I don't really appreciate you leaving your giant fang marks on the top of my foot, unprovoked. I'm quite certain I am not an appropriate meal for you, and it's becoming clear to me we need to set boundaries if we're going to be cohabitating. (By the way, I really need you to sign the lease. I'm not comfortable bearing the responsiblity for your portion of the rent if you decide to eat my roommate and high-legs it out of town.)

It's true that in the middle of the night I might have rolled over while attempting to spoon you, squishing one of your gigantic hairy legs. But let's be real: you have EIGHT of them. Couldn't you have just pulled one off and gone about your business with the remaining seven? I mean, why in the world do you need eight legs? Really. I don't see why you couldn't have taken one for the team and saved me the doctor's bill, which I'd ask you to pay, but realize would be pointless as your full time job seems to be liquifying and eating me, bit by tiny bit. (Which I hear doesn't really pay well and might be a bit ambitious, if I may be so bold.)

I must admit I haven't been that comfortable around you lately. I just always feel like I'm being watched by a million tiny little eyes. I think that if you would spend more time out in the open and less time lurking in the warm confines of my bed you might be better socialized and less hungry.

Which brings me to my second major point: if you're broke and out of food, please, PLEASE go to the fridge first and see what's leftover before resorting to eating a portion of my leg just because you're lazy and the fridge is a long walk from the bedroom for an arachnid. Have you ever seen Arachnaphobia? THOSE spiders at least checked out the popcorn before lunching on the faces of their human roommates. In fact, if you'd like to leave me a grocery list, I'd be happy to shop for you. For free. Anything to avoid the huge, painful puncture wounds on the top of my foot and the fourteen-colored bruise around them, resulting from your less-than-gentle attack.

I feel your pain, Giant Foot-Eater. I too have low blood sugar. I know what it is to be cranky and famished. But MUST you bite your housemate? Really. That's just bad manners.

Again, I know you probably feel you have a justified position here, but please recognize that I have never sank my teeth into your legs just because I had something in my 24th reflective eye or my mom ate my dad when I was a baby. Those are not excuses, they're circumstances. And they don't make biting me OK.

I want you to know I'm pulling for us to come to a compromise that will enable us not only to live harmoniously, but for me to retain my ability to walk AND potentially for us to even discover a new, cross-species kinship. But if you ever come at me with those teeth of yours again, motherfucker, mark my words: I will scream like a little girl, climb onto the countertop, and call every man I know to hunt you down and spread your guts and those of your babies all across my floor. Keep your Giant Foot-Eating Fangs the fuck away from me and everything will be just fine. Ok?

I thank you for your time and consideration and look forward to reaching a resolution to this issue. Have a nice day, and watch out for the cat.

Best regards from your concerned housemate,

Liz

Recipe for a very short post on a Saturday morning

1 St. Patties Day pub crawl on Friday night. Must include the following:

2 Slooper-size green beers at the Sloop Tavern (36 oz. each)
1 hard cider
1 slice of Irish bundt cake (very, very delicious)
2 Irish Car Bombs, mixed and consumed in under 3 minutes total
25 exhausting minutes of dancing at tiny bar with live band and uncoordinated friend
13 companions with whom to do Irish chanting and jigging while traveling between bars(in heels)
1 friend, dressed in a bright green suit, a striped green tie and a clover lapel pin
A run-in with a planter box (falling over or sitting in one, either works fine)
1 large, green, felt beer-stein hat, to be passed around like a skanky friend

All this should take about 7 or 8 hours. You'll know it's done when you can no longer speak intelligably or walk straight, and/or it's closing time. Preferably all of the above, really. Also, it's important to do this in a town totally vacant of taxi cabs, so you can spend approximately 4 years wandering the streets looking for a ride before someone driving by recognizes you, pulls over, takes pity, and drives you home, where you will inevitably cook a very large meal for whoever else has decided to crash on your couch/floor.

Pass out, have bizarre dreams about hot dogs and cockroaches, and then wake up with only a vague recollection of all of the above. Wake friends up and inquire about the previous night's activities as needed to fill in details. Check calls made and recieved on cell phone for further information. Text messages will also serve you well, here.

Eat one girl scout cookie and a tall glass of milk for breakfast. Think about showering, but decide against it. Lay around.

Wonder where your car is.

Date #3: the dealbreaker

A single girlfriend of mine and I got together the other day for a drink and to catch up. This particular girl is one I can count on to be single, like, forever -- which is great when I am also single, because it means I have someone to go out with who doesn't have either:

a)a penis or
b)a curfew because she has to get back to her husband

(For the record, these are both types of friends that are good to have, but tend to make only mediocre companions for a single female out on the town on Saturday nights.)

At any rate, prior to this get-together, she had alluded to having a story for me, presumably about the guy she'd recently gone on her third date with. So, after the standard squealing and work-talk, we got down to the whole reason we'd gotten together: to talk about sex, love, and men.

Based on our conversation about her recent dates with Mr. Now up to this point, I had braced myself to learn that soon I'd be alone in my singledom... he'd thus far been an impressive date and she was hopeful and excited about him. He was the owner of a successful construction company on the Eastside, she is an intern at the UW hospital. The first date had been a drink. They'd met after work downtown. The second, they'd met for drinks and dinner (also mid-week), and a kiss. The third was a coveted Saturday night: he was supposed to pick her up and actually take her OUT. This was a big deal. Everything was going well. I was happy for her, and certain her urgent news was actually going to be the "so, do I sleep with him now or wait?" discussion that inevitably prefaces a real relationship (and leaves me, as I mentioned, alone in singledom).

Me: "So.... how's Mr. Now? What's the news?"
Her: "Oh, God. Don't even get me started."
Me: "That good? Details! Now!"
Her: "Nonono...I found, you know... ::pregnant pause:: it."
Me: "IT?! Oh, no. He carries a pocket mirror? No -- wait -- he cried, right?"
Her: "Nope. Guess again?"
Me: "No way. Just tell me."
Her: "Okay, but it's bad. I mean, really bad. He drives a Hummer."
Me: "NO!!"
Her: "Yes. And on the way to dinner he actually passed two cars on the wrong side of a residential street. It's SO over. Who knew? It was going so well..."

Look, we've all been in that situation: you've had a good date or two. There seems to be hope. He's charming, handsome, interesting, attentive, or at least two out of the four. Until magical date number three.

Date number three is when, seventy percent of the time, the fledgling relationship will come to an untimely and gruesome end because you will discover the thing from which there is no recovery: the dealbreaker.

In my eco-conscious friend's world, the Hummer is a dealbreaker. Macho driving is a close second. She prefers her men a little rough around the edges, but with the testosterone manifesting itself in an abundance of body hair or shows of posessiveness, not in moronic driving or an "I have a big dick" car. Upon hearing the word "Hummer", I realized that the relationship I had been so threatened by a moment earlier had absolutely no hope of recovering. He might has well have dropped trou and exposed his vagina. I was spared one of my best single friends by the dealbreaker, yet again. I was guiltily relieved.

The dealbreaker can come in any number of forms, which vary from woman to woman. I'm sure men have their own lists of dealbreakers, most likely including things like children, disproportionate bodies, severe emotional disorders and addictions to "A Wedding Story" on TLC, but I suspect women's lists of dealbreakers are somewhat more subtle and extensive. Take, for example, mine:

1. Manity (also known as pretty boys, powder-puffers or Poodles) Obvious vanity is a huge turnoff. This includes excessive grooming, makeup, checking out of one's self in storefront windows, carrying a pocket mirror, or, as you all know, SPRAY TANNING. Also falling under Manity is focusing too heavily on my appearance while neglecting my other, less gene-based offerings incuding but not limited to my unparallelled intellect, humor and charm, of course. The arm-candy factor is a big red flag. (My thought is that there are tons of women out there who out-pretty me by far, so getting into a relationship reliant on my appearance alone is precarious and stupid, at best).

2. Displaying rudeness or disrespect for family, specifically mother-figures: The moment a man talks disrespectfully about his momma, I'm out.

3. Listens exclusively to country music: Awful choice of genre. Just awful. Appreciation of select country artists I can get with. Consumption of only country music, however, is surefire sign we will not get along. Ever. No matter how otherwise normal he is. Same goes for those who listen exclusively to rap.

4. Arrogance: not to be confused with manity or humorous self-aggrandizing, which I appreciate, arrogance is an unwillingness to learn and a total lack of humility. To make it in my world, a man must be humble and down-to-earth enough to kick it gracefully and simultaneously with the most intelligent and the dumbest people on the planet (my friends are these colors and every hue in between, and I love them dearly).

5. Bad table manners: Smack your lips while eating or do something crude and it's over in a heartbeat. My meals are sacred, dammit, and chewing is a silent sport. Honestly, this is probably a dealbreaker because of my mother. She was big on table manners growing up and once drove a fork into the back of my hand when I tried to push food on my plate with my thumb. No, I'm not kidding.

7. Dislike of animals: I love them. Talk shit about my dog or cat, and I'll be certain you don't have to come home to them. Which is to say you won't be coming home with me. And what's wrong with you if you don't like animals, anyway? I find that disturbing on a fundamental level. Doesn't that make you automatically more likely to be a serial killer? I think so... or something like that.

8. Lack of passion: I like to be around people who care passionately about things. Well, anything except Monster Trucks, pornography, WWF and their cars. Few things get me more worked up (in a bad way) than trying to have a discussion about something and realizing that there's no brain activity or interest on the other side of the table. Someone who lacks the energy to passionately engage in conversation about a variety of topics (including but not limited to family, politics, bugs, sex, food, sports, violence, travel, literature, giant squid, religion, music, penguins, film, the media, my awesomeness, science, popsicles, education, work, bruising, cocaine, etc...) is a total dealbreaker. I'm feisty. I need to be around people who can at least attempt to match my enthusiasm for, well, everything.

9. Laziness: Self-explanatory.

10. Any three of the following, combined: Girly hands, a lowered car, shortness, an STD, a tobacco-chewing habit, snobbishness, a history of violence, the patchouli-stink, a unibrow, an anger management problem, an unironic mullet, pit stains, unemployment, a habit of wearing black socks with shorts, a fidelity problem, an ex-girlfriend I am related to or used to live with or tapered jeans/too-short suit pants.

I don't want to hear that dealbreakers are superficial or that you don't have them. I have never met anyone who can honestly say there isn't one thing that they could never tolerate in a potential significant other. This extends to friends, too. For example, I can't have girlfriends who are groupies. I hate musician/sports groupies in particular, and would feel ridiculous hanging out with someone who participates in groupie-esque behavior. So let's get over the superficiality right now. There. Don't you feel better?

My March Monday mixtape

Happy Monday! A short post today, as I'm tired. But coming to Legwarmers later this week: Liz's list of dating deal breakers, desireables and undecideds.

Until then, here's the soundtrack to March thus far:

1. Jackie Greene: "Sweet Somewhere Bound": ITunes says I've played pretty much every song from this album 13 times since I cleared the Top 25 Most Played playlist (last Wednesday). So everything from that album must, by default, be on this list. But if you need a few specific tracks for download, try "Sad To Say Goodbye", "Honey, I've Been Thinking About You", and "Don't Mind Me, I'm Only Dying Slow".

2. Tristan Prettyman: "November"

3. Fiona Apple: "Mistake" and "First Taste" -- Her old stuff has worked her way back into my playlists after a two-month hiatus. What can I say? I can't resist her.

4. Ellie Lawson: "L.A. (I'm Under The Spell)" She tends to do a British Alanis thing on her album "Philosophy Tree", which is sometimes "eh" and sometimes very cool. This song has been on the playlist of late, though.

5. Annie Lennox and Paul Simon: "Something So Right"

6. Psapp: "Cozy in the Rocket" -- I can (and have been) listening to the whole album ("Tiger, My Friend") all the way through without switching songs. That's rare. It's experimental but chill, and you can zone out to it at work or writing.

7. Pete Rock and CL Smooth: "They Reminisce Over You" and "Take Your Time" -- Old school hip hop.

8. Inara George: "Infinity"

On bums: 1 and 2 are the loneliest numbers. I have proof.

I work in a very bum-friendly part of town. (I recognize "bum" is probably not the politically correct term, but I'm going with it, as there's no one to ask what IS PC at this hour, and basically fuck it, anyway). Pioneer Square is, by any standard, the very best place for a Pacific Northwest bum to live, outside of Portland Oregon, which is the transient capital of the world.

It has everything: plenty of shelter, lots of restaurant dumpsters, free bus rides, year-round Japanese tourists, and multiple on/off ramps to highways and freeways at which to post up and beg. Plus, the weather is mild and there are drugs to be found in every alleyway, if you're in to that sort of thing.

When I first began working in the area, I determined that when dealing with bums, one has three options, which I will list in order of popularity:

Option 1: Feel uncomfortable, and act like it. Do not make eye contact with bums or respond when they speak to you. In effect, pretend they are inanimate objects. Be paralyzed by your fear and discomfort around them. Avoid dealing. (Most popular choice).

Option 2: Be disgusted or offended by them, and act like it. Sneer. Say helpful things like "get a job", or "change? why? so you can buy beer with it?", either to them, or loudly, just after you pass them. Be intimidated and angered by your inability to decide whether you feel sorry for them or you are threatened by them or you hate them. Refer to them as junkies, nobodies, trash or freaks. In effect, kick them when they're down. (Second most popular choice).

Option 3: Start out doing #1, then become exhausted by the constant judging and labeling and cowering, and make friends with them instead. (My eventual choice).

A note: Though neither 1'S or 2's typically make eye contact or acknowledge the actual person on the street, they always always read the sign, if the bum is holding one. I know... used to be a 1. What it ultimately comes down to, I think, is that while the person holding the sign wants something from you, the sign is giving something away. To look someone in the eye is to give them something. 1's and 2's aren't very in to the giving of things to bums. But reading the sign lets them take, and from a distance. Much more comfortable. Much less personal.

***

I met Spike shortly after deciding to be a 3. He approached me just outside the Seattle Art Museum one night while I was waiting, alone and in the rain, for my bus. He introduced himself. We shook hands. He told me he was homeless. Then, he asked me if he could tell me one joke. He said if I let him that he wouldn't bother me ever again. I told him he wasn't bothering me and that I could use a good joke. This is what he said:

Spike: "What do OJ Simpson and a lion have in common?"
Me: "Dunno... what?"
Spike: "Well, lions come from Africa, right?"
Me: "Sure. Yeah."
Spike: "And OJ Simpson is a lyin African."

I paused. And then, I laughed. Hard. Yeah, it's not funny. I know. But I liked what he was doing. It was his schtick. It was his differentiator from everyone else on the street that night. The joke was his Unique Selling Point.

And he knew it. After I stopped laughing, he said "Well, you gotta do somethin' to get by. You gotta do somethin', you know?". I knew. I gave him an apple and 3 bucks. He's been telling me jokes ever since. He calls me "Pollyanna". Or "sista". I don't know why. I'm not a blonde 8 year old or a sista, but I like it anyway.

Knowing Spike ended up coming in handy one night when I was on the street in Pioneer Square with a girlfriend looking for a bar. It was late, we couldn't find it, and a creepy man kept following us, putting his hood up and talking nonsense. I was sure he was going to kill us. But then Spike showed up. He got rid of the dude and walked us right to the door of the place we were looking for. Dropped us off like a gentleman. I think he probably prevented my fingers and toes from ending up in assorted gutters around the city or our skins from being turned into a coat.

***

I met "Smile" at the same place he stands every evening: right at the viaduct offramp at First next to the Starbucks.

Smile's Unique Selling Point? His sign.

It's cardboard, and about 2 feet square, and he holds it up all day long, standing in that one spot, where every car coming off the highway and every pedestrian on the street can read it.

Smile only really says three things: "Thank you", "Bless you", and "Beautiful". He says these things when you give him what he's asking for. It isn't money. Sure, he'll thank you for that, too, and ultimately that's why he's there, but doesn't ask for it outright. He knows there are way too many 1's and 2's out there for that. And I think ultimately he wants something more than money, anyway. So with his sign he asks for what he wants, and he thanks you when you give it to him. This is because if you do what he asks, you've made a "deposit" (regardless of if you dropped change into his cup).

My friend Smile gets the 1's and 2's where they least expect it, and where he's recognized they always look: his sign.

Of course by now you know what it says, scrawled in black sharpie:

"SMILE".

Smile is the richest bum in Seattle.

Near-death experiences in NY

Last weekend was my first trip to "the greatest city in the world" on pleasure. I went, on a whim really, to visit a friend. As I actually got to spend time in the city (which was bitter cold but gloriously sunny for this Seattlite and which we canvassed on foot for two days straight), I got a totally different look at it than ever before:

1. First and foremost, it reminded me that I am a small fish in a very, very big pond. There's something thrilling about feeling so incredibly tiny.

At home it's the opposite. After a few weeks in Seattle you can pretty much get a handle on the city. It's friendly, manageable. Everyone has the weather, coffee, the Mariners in common. Buses run regularly behind schedule and 50 percent on bio-fuel, but people mostly ride bikes or drive to the city from the suburbs just north or east. It's mild, in every sense of the word. Some crime, but not a lot. Some culture, but it's rarely shocking. A little attitude, a little sun, a little snow. Geeks. Technology. Coffee. Books. Drizzle. Seattle doesn't wear a lot of makeup, but is expressive: lots of water, lots of mountains, lots of green -- beautiful, smart, unpretentious. Easy to come home to. And you can get comfortable to the point where you can actually make yourself believe you have a handle on things -- even that you ARE somebody -- simply because you can usually pay rent, only get lost occasionally, have never been assaulted, and have stopped carrying an umbrella. In other words, big fish, small pond syndrome.

In New York, this was not the case. There, there was no question that no matter what I did or said or where I came from, the city was enormous, sharp, hungry and indifferent and that I was very, very small. Anonymous. Forgettable. This sounds really depressing, but it wasn't. It was actually inspiring to feel challenged and unspecial -- like I simultaneously had nothing and everything to prove to this place that hardly noticed me scurrying about open-mouthed on its patchwork of pavement. Whatever. This is getting obscure. The point is that it's, like, big and rad and stuff. Anyway...

2. New Yorkers are practiced at being unfazed by everything -- including certain death. You can tell which pedestrians are tourists and which are not because the tourists actually wait for the walk/don't walk signals to change. New Yorkers risk being crushed between two cars or turned into much flatter versions of their upright selves every two and a half minutes -- at every single crosswalk they meet -- dodging in and out of traffic and stepping in front of fast-moving, honking cars manned by pissed-off yuppies or non-english speaking cabbies as if invincable. Then, they actually yell and gesture at the cars who may at any moment kill them (and who have every right to be driving straight through a green light).

And the cab drivers! Being totally prone to terrible accidents and convinced I am destined to die tragically young behind the wheel, under the tires or in the backseat of a car (hey, I'm a classy girl. I meant riding as a passenger, you deviant), some of the cab rides were quite traumatic for me. I actually had to make a conscious effort not to totally spaz out/pass out/vomit in the company of my well-adjusted-New-York-transplant-companion. At one point I actually did squeak a bit and clutch at him in the cab in an attempt to brace myself for my own imminent death, but he just sort of laughed and rolled his eyes as if I were just being dramatic. We repeatedly experienced near-head-on collisions, and routinely braked so fast I would have flown directly out the front windshield, past the driver and into the arms of the jaywalking pedestrian we nearly hit had I not been clinging like a child to his arm. Both of these scenarios also failed to fluster him. Which explained his constant leading of me across intersections where I was sure to be pancaked: he had been desensitized to the fear of death.

3. New Yorkers can sniff out imposters, too, I found. Though I was always accompanied by New York (the person, not the city), I was still attacked every thirty seconds or so by a Louis Vuitton knockoff-slinging Chinese man or some greasy Italian dude standing outside a restaraunt he promised would be "a-nice-a-dinna for-a pretty girl". And I wasn't even carrying a camera or map or wearing an "I heart NY" t-shirt. But I was smiling. A lot. Maybe that was it. Even New York couldn't explain this. Then again, he IS a transplant. Maybe he doesn't have "it".

4. Either the acoustics of the city are remarkable, or it is the single noisiest place on earth. I'm a fan of noise. When I was little (by which I mean until I was about 13), my single favorite passtime other than faking my own death to make my little brother cry (more on this later), was sitting on the floor of our kitchen surrounded by kettles, pans and assorted cookware, which I pounded on like a miniature female John Bonham along to whatever rock and roll was on the radio.

So in New York, the constant racket at all hours of the morning (and night) appealed to me. The fact that it was in three different languages made it even better. But yes, at 5 through 8 in the morning when I was working on sleeping off all the drugs and alcohol (just kidding mom -- no drugs, seriously) it was slightly less charming than at 2 in the afternoon. And I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out what would be worth honking and swearing at the top of your lungs about for 5 straight minutes, but I spent some time thinking about that while cursing the previous evening's beverages when it woke me every morning.

Also, garbage trucks came every single morning. Also at about 6 a.m. And they sounded like they were actually backing their trucks into the building I was sleeping in while a team of garbage men drug sheet metal up and down the sidewalk, occasionally bashing into parked cars and yelling. New York should consider recycling. Everyone would sleep a hell of a lot better. But I digress, and I think my Seattle roots are showing like Heather Locklear's brunette, so we'd better move on...

5. Saw RENT. [Had great seats, the show was amazing, yadda yadda, insert raving and details of fabulous show here.] Later that night, New York's roommate, (who had been somewhere drinking while we were show-watching, which was made evident by the fact that his eyes were almost entirely closed when he spoke) said, through a mouthful of Parliment filter, something to the effect of "Isn't that the one with that song that goes... uh... 'five hundred, twenty five thousand goddamn minutes' or sompthin' like that?'" while sorta swaying and half conducting with his right hand from a semi-reclined position on the couch.

Yes, yes it is.

So now, if you ask me when I'll be ready or how long something will take, my standard response is "five hundred goddamn thousand mother fucking minutes", and I'm not sick of it yet. Maybe when I mentally and emotionally graduate from junior high school, gratuitous swearing will be less entertaining. You think?

________________________________________

Look, I'm not going to run you through the whole experience, but let's just say it was a memorable weekend. I am typing this from Harborview Medical Center, however. You see, I had raging bronchitis and strep throat when I went (or maybe just a head cold) and the sub-zero temperatures and constant exposure to the elements have depleted my immune system to such an extent that I actually have to be quarantined. They say I can go soon, but will have to be entirely protected from the outside world until I make a full recovery -- and until then, I will have to roll around in one of those plastic inflatable globes like Bubble Boy. So it turns out the dangers of NY are not restricted to the traffic, cabs and extreme noise.

On the upside, I've never seen a frat-dick looking dude deliver a cheesy pickup line to a sniffling girl in a giant plastic bubble suit. Which means it looks like I'm temporarily spared the trials and tribulations of dating until I make a full recovery. So at least there's that.

A month in review: Ten things I learned in February

1. You will not die if you don't go out every weekend. In fact, a little self-imposed self-bonding (not to be confused with self-bondage, which doesn't appeal to me, or make any sense at all, really) time can make an otherwise mediocre month pretty fantastic. This is particularly true if it involves consuming entire bottles of wine in the bath while reading classic literature, furtively watching American Idol in your PJ's and leopard-print slippers and yelling to no one in particular that Taylor Hicks is going "all the way" before finding out he has an album out already and ordering it (express 2-day delivery) followed by a brief inner debate revolving around whether or not to take advantage of yourself (alcohol-impaired judgement) before luckily passing out first.

2. On karaoke: If I consume a couple pitchers of beer and at least two vodka shots at my favorite dive karaoke bar, the chances are much better than I'd like to admit that I will sing.

3. On karaoke #2: Because of the divey nature of the bar, there will only be the top 100 most-sung karaoke songs of all time in the book, three of which I will perform. At least one will be Bonnie Raitt, one will be the Gwyneth Paltrow-Huey Lewis version of "Cruisin'" (which, while cliche, I will totally fucking nail with one of the poor schmucky old regulars I will recruit to sing the Huey parts), and one will be "Son of A Preacher Man", which I will sing like the 300 lb black woman I am inside.

4. On karaoke #3: Following this showing I will inevitably sign autographs, have another shot, and hold phone conversations I will not remember in the morning.

5. I am surprised to discover that I am both more spontaneous and more old-fashioned than I previously thought. I am more surprised to discover that I am totally OK with this.

6. Waffles at 3:30 a.m., no matter how good they sound, are NOT a good idea, and will result in the greatest hangover of your life - the kind where all you can do is lay on the floor in a king-sized comforter drinking diet Pepsi and slipping in and out of consciousness while Sex and the City reruns play.

7. Renton is a scary, scary place, and when you find yourself there at night, alone, and are sitting at a stoplight on Martin Luther King Drive, a crackhead will inevitably walk up to your car and begin yelling and pounding on your windows for no apparent reason beyond the fact that you are clearly a terrified little white girl who is so very, very lost. At this point, resist with all your might the urge to reach down and lock your doors, which could further encourage the man to be incredibly scary. It will be difficult, but instead focus all your energy on willing the light to turn green. Then run every single light after that until you're back on I-5 pointed, finally, home.

8. Bulldog pee, when hitting a recycling bin on a cold day, smells like battery acid.

9. It is possible to live on approximately $7.50 per day. Not comfortable, but possible. It is also possible to overdraw your bank account by almost one full paycheck. This makes payday a little more depressing than usual.

10. You can drive a Pontiac Vibe around the Sea-Tac airport for nearly 4 hours (making close to 60 loops) looking for your parents on just under one quarter tank before almost running out of gas/going completely apeshit and running over one of those police ladies with the batons who beats on your window and yells that you must not drive in the load/unload zones. (The authorities are less sympathetic to you if you back up and run her over repeatedly.)

Now, on to March. What is it? In like a lion, out like a lamb? Oh, goodie!

The standard lame excuse

I have so much to say but have somehow been hit with a major time shortage. I will be in New York until Monday. Absolutely no writing will be taking place until sometime thereafter. So at least I've set appropriate expectations for lameness.

But after that, you can expect a shitstorm of genius and many an anectdote. Or at least a post every other day for a while to make up for the last week or so.

Be well, and have a good weekend!

********EDIT************

I'm a retard. By "until Monday", I mean I'll be back on Monday. Sorry for the confusion. But don't expect anything until after I've recovered from the extreme hangover, jet lag, and bird flu (which I will most certainly pick up on the plane, because that is the luck I have).

Good day!