Girl's weekend, part I (Friday - Saturday)

Two weekends ago, my apartment was transformed in a matter of hours into the home base for Operation Girls' Weekend.

Couches and tables were pushed up against the outside walls of the apartment, and the middle was piled high with blankets, pillows, and bottles of wine/wine glasses. Also, it was overrun with hair-doing appliances. I've never seen so many curling irons, straighteners, kinkers and blowdryers in one place. I'm actually surprised Seattle City Light didn't have to call in emergency backup to power us.

As I mentioned before, my girlfriend flew in from out of state to spend some time with three of us who've stayed local. Because we've only seen her probably twice in the last 8 months, this was reason to celebrate. And celebrate we did. All weekend.

There was lots of the usual girlfriend stuff - discussion about old and new friends, husbands, live-in boyfriends, parents, religion, family, sex, shampoo, fiber, McDreamy vs. McSteamy, and our collective exes. There was also a lengthy discussion about how often a person should, in fact, go number two. Answers ranged from twice daily, like clockwork, to twice a week, on a good week. This was, believe it or not, a rather heated debate.

There was also record-breaking drinking. Honestly, we anticipated a little boozing here and there during the weekend, celebration-style, but I am quite certain we set a new record on Saturday. It was like any Girls Weekend Saturday: We went to breakfast, watched Sex and the City and talked all day, lying prone on various piles of pillows and blankets. The only thing that was new was that we drank like it was our job.

The funny thing was that we weren't doing that thing where you set out to "make a day of it". We just always somehow had a drink in our hands -- starting at breakfast. I blame this on a shopping excursion that fully stocked my fridge with every type of alcoholic beverage imaginable. Oh, and my girlfriend L, who was responsible for refilling all our drinks. Girl did a standup job, if I do say so myself.

Just to illustrate the unthinkable quantities of adult beverage we consumed, per person, a tally:

10 a.m. - 11:30 a.m.
- Two drinks per person at breakfast (mimosas or bloody marys)

Noon-5 p.m.
- One large bottle of Raspberry Framboise, each (soooo girly, I know)
- One bottle of white wine, each, while watching Sex and the City and then later while blowdrying, straightening and curling

5 p.m. - 2 a.m.
- Two martinis, each, at/before dinner
- One after-dinner shot each, at restaraunt
- Three beers and two shots each at the first bar
- Two beers each at the second club
- Two drinks each at the after-party (gin)

Grand total, per-person, Saturday night: 22 alcoholic beverages, each.

This is a gross number. Not gross like gross vs. net, but gross like disgusting. I almost can't believe it, myself. And it's not like we're big girls... we're all between 5 foot 4 and 5 foot 8, and weight somewhere between 125 and 145 lbs. To add to the unbelieveability of this story, we all woke up the next morning feeling really, really good. Not a hangover in sight. Go figure.

I also don't want to neglect an incredible meal we shared at McCormick and Schmick that night -- not only was the atmosphere and food beautiful, but the company was, as well. I've commented on this before, but there's just some kind of special energy that hovers about a group of girls who get dressed up and take themselves out. There's a glow that radiates both within your tight little circle and around you. I've observed it from the outside before -- but there's nothing like having it all around you. We were warm, happy, close, and all felt just a little beautiful, I think. Or maybe that was the glow of a healthy 4-hour buzz. Whatever it was, it was lovely. And our waiter brought us free dessert, noting that he and the waitstaff determined that we must be "celebrating something".

Yes, we were. It was friendship.
And the no-flour chocolate cake was divine.

(Part II: the Ticket Gods' Revenge coming soon...)

A friday snack, from me to you.

This song just made my Friday.

It's called "Young Folks" and is by Peter, Bjorn and John (PB&J... I know, I know). It is a little out of tune and over-simple like any synth-pop: a basic drumbeat, some whistling and a perky chorus with some repetitive lyrics and an obligatory accent. But something about them is better -- less produced and glossy than Postal Service and other 80's esque synth music -- more airy and real. The NY Times called it "wistful". While I wouldn't go that far, I am also not a music critic. So whatever.

They're playing this week in the Mercury Lounge in NYC on Monday night and Bowrey Ballroom in NYC on Tuesday before a stint in L.A. for their new album release. If I lived in either place, I'd go, just to bop around like a Swedish pop-whore who's had too much cotton candy and ecstacy.

Their other songs are similarly enjoyable.

...

And yes, I know I owe you a story or two for last weekend and here we are plowing into another weekend, but I promise you I'm an expert procrastinator. All stories will come, in good time, fully-formed, directly from my fingers to your friendly screens. Like Minerva from Zeus' head. Or some shit. I dunno, I didn't take Greek Mythology in college, opting instead for Human Sexuality. Which reminds me of my Human Sexuality Seizure story, which I will also save for another day. Sorry.

Have a good weekend!

Armoires and Wendy's: good ideas gone bad

Once you’ve moved (as in switching condos, apartments or houses) once or twice, it’s difficult to imagine what (outside of perhaps a flesh-eating bacteria on your face, being locked in a tanning bed or drinking bleach) on this earth is worse.

I helped move a friend yesterday, which is why I mention it. Well, actually, I mention it because I feel like an eighty year old man. Everything is stiff, from my shoulders to my knees. I can barely turn my head due to a tussle with a 400-lb armoire and there are apparently muscles in my forearms that are necessary for pretty much every finger movement, including lifting, gripping, and typing. I know this because these exact muscles are, at this moment, as i type these words, on fucking fire.

Ow.

Every time I help a friend move, I decide that’s the last time. Also, every time I move, I decide it’s the last time. Last, that is, until I buy a house, after which THAT move will be the truly final move.

But, of course, I continue these friend-helping and every-9-months-moving things. I lived, for a while, down the street from three Chinese restaurants and two Jiffy Lubes. Have you ever seen a four foot tall and three hundred year old Chinese woman swing a purse at two Mexicans wearing greasy shop clothes and using the word “punta” a lot? I have. Twice. Also, I used to live less than half a mile from a strip club run by the local mafia family that was painted bright pink and had a huge flashing sign with the words “LIVE GIRLS” perpetually on the front, like “DEAD GIRLS” were an option.

Not long ago, I moved from Fremont/Ballard to Kirkland. FreLard is a pretty rad little place, I think. Very close to the water, the city, and two progressive, large universities. A pretty happening place, without being dirty enough that you step on discarded needles on the sidewalk… frequently.

Kirkland, while also on the water, is sorta Yuppie-ville. Pricey, with some fun bars, incredible food, yachts, and a great strip right by the water, but full of these Microsoft geeks with drop-tops, Terminator-in-shiny-clubshirts types with overly-large egos (and biceps to match) and very very rich, spoiled 19 year old boys driving their daddies’ Hummers.

That said, I moved to be 8 (as opposed to 58) minutes from work, and my place has TWO bedrooms, a huge deck, and is walking distance from all the awesome things in Kirkland – the water, the bars, the retaraunts, Hector’s (the hands-down best damn breakfast this side of the country and a bloody Mary that will make you take your clothes off, in a good way), and a Wendy’s (open late!).

I have been smart, in the past, not to live directly behind a Wendy’s.

In my previous residences, I have always lived closer to a market (and, once, an actual vegetable farm) than a fast food restaurant. While this wasn’t by design, it was fortuitous. My new place is directly behind a Wendy’s (which is the best fucking fast food ever, in my opinion, second only to Dicks or White Castle – which is a whole ‘nother story). I am literally two blocks, maybe, from the front door of that shiny mecca of greasy, cheap goodness – (open late!). Also, the walk to the joint is downhill the whole way – a nasty turn of fate that makes it soooo easy to walk there and a red-headed step-bitch to get back home, much less with a value meal tucked in your gut.

My early prediction about this predicament was that a long, bloody battle would ensue between my vegetarianism and Mr. Wendy. There would be casualties, I was sure, and my net time spent at the gym would increase, necessarily, in increments directly related to dollars spent at this hellhole of deliciousness.

So far, I was right on the money. Though I’ve yet to buckle and eat a burger, I have become friendly with the drive through people, who see me coming and start making a baked potato and a side salad, then always ask me if I’d like a sandwich to go with. No, I say, but I’ll take a mini Frosty, please.


I did briefly appear to have won this war, I am proud to say, when the joint came out with that Vanilla Frosty, which tastes like powdered non-dairy milk alternative and gives me drymouth, and is basically an incredibly great fast-food idea gone terribly, awfully wrong. Which sucked for me, because I ordered it once, twice, three times just to be sure it did, in fact, suck as badly as I thought it did the time before. Each time, my worst fears were confirmed. The execution of this new frosty flavor was completely botched.

Unfortunately, after two pissed off weeks on Wendy’s strike, I’m over it, so the war’s back on.

Anyway, back to lessons in moving. Another lesson (in addition to carefully avoiding fast food joints when selecting your new neighborhood) I learned when moving to Kirkland was this:

Unless you plan to die in the home you currently live in, do not, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, purchase an armoire. I was reminded of this lesson this weekend, when I got to move another one – and this time it wasn’t mine, which made it even worse.

On armoires: They’re pretty, yes. They hold stuff, which is how you can justify the purchase at first. But about 4 minutes in to bearing 300 lbs of carefully weathered and whitewashed solid wood armoire directly on your lower back, you start to realize that there is absolutely nothing wrong with a regular old closet. Also, that’s about when the other people you’re carrying this ghastly object with start yelling things like “Careful of the goddamn polished brass knobs!!” and “Holy fuck! Did you hear that pop?! I can’t feel my arm!” and “If I die under this over-priced, hand-crafted piece of shit you just HAD to buy, I swear to God I’ll come back as a pissed-off ghost and haunt the balls off of you in this equally over-priced two-bedroom apartment in the center of Yuppie America!!!”

I am close to certain that my hands are now going to fall off my body, so if this is the last post ever, you know where to find the handless girl.

By the way, if I’m handless, that probably also means I’m thirsty and can’t fasten the buckles on my strappy heels, so please bring over a six pack of Miller light, some bendy straws and a pair of slip-on shoes. And maybe a body pillow or the torso of a mannequin. Because handless girls need love too. And please, DON’T buy an armoire. And if you do, and you ask your pushover friends to help you move it, know that they will, but then their hands will fall off and you’ll eternally be tasked with helping them wipe as karmic payback.

This is why I love my friends. And instant messaging.

np: so what's the word?
Tre: i love "grody". i have been using it all day. Also, I am starving. So hungry it hurts.
np: Me too. I am too hungry to eat. this may be the big one.
Tre: the big one?
np: yes. the big sleep.
Tre: ooooh. the dirtnap. groovy.
np: what happens when you don't have energy enough to eat from not eating?
Tre: You die.
np: holy shit! am I dying? is this really *it*?
Tre: nah, i don't think you die so much as you break through the space-time continuum, on your way to death.
np: then i'm at the corner of 1st and 1st. the motherfucking nexus.
Tre: yes. and once you break through, FYI, on the "other side", you have a strange sexual experience wtih rick schroeder.
np: ...which becomes my sustenance.
Tre: precisely.
np: and I am forced to be gay to survive.
Tre: which, obviously, you do, as you are no quitter and your will to live is way strong. like your pimp hand.
np: if I have to blow a silver spoon to keep breathing, i'm gonna be the black jenna jameson in this bitch.
Tre: get free or die blowing. too bad we're geniuses.
np: too bad I'll avoid all of this by eating this banana. (no homo)
Tre: grody.
np: or maybe this *is* rick schroeder in my hand right now...
Tre: likely.
np: this is more of an asian penis, obviously.
Tre: perhaps you've just convinced yourself it's a banana to avoid the psychological torment that comes with devouring a human, asian, rick schroeder penis.
np: chopstick, silver spoon, I don't care. you do what you have to do. this may be the best banana ever.
Tre: stop it.
np: it's delicious. is this what penis tastes like?
Tre: ...
np: actually, don't tell me. I don't want to know.
Tre: too late.
np: didn't hear you.
np: I'm safe. still hetero.
Tre: not with that junk in your mouth, you're not.
np: all that's left is junk remnants.
Tre: even worse. a reminder of a tryst you're still trying to deny.
np: it was ill advised, but still tastes so sweet.
Tre: you're saved.
...
Tre: we've got it all figured out, man.
np: we really do.

Music, abbreviated

The weekend kicked ass. Many stories, all which I will tell in good time and when I'm not nursing a hangover that may actually take my life. In lieu of a complete download, a brief music post, because it's easy.

1. Rufus Wainwright

This guy has been rocking my world. He's funny, and charming, and a little bit sad, and when you listen to his music you get the sense that you could be in the middle of a musical -- like these completely on-point lyrics could have organically sprug up on the lips of the people in the world around you, with you (always) the troubled hero/heroine. Plus, his voice is a little theatrical, but don't think broadway... think indie standup comedy. Favorite tracks: Instant Pleasure (featuring the lyrics "don't you really/want instant pleasure?/instant pleasure instant pleasure") and Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk (lyrics include "i'm just a little bit heiress/ a little bit irish/ a little bit tower of pisa/ whenever i see you").

2. Joseph Arthur

I like him. Intricate, a sweet with a little rough thrown in just for balance. I sadly missed an opportunity to meet Joseph when he played here in Seattle -- apparently he is some degree of friends with one of my exes, who kindly offered to make it less awkward for me to approach and compliment Mr. Arthur. Later, I read this, which made me laugh, and also a little thankful I didn't do the aforementioned meeting and complimenting. Not sure I would have caught his wavelength, honestly. But enough with the babble. A Smile That Explodes is nice. Honey and the Moon is also good, but if you take the time, you'll find other tracks vastly more interesting. Those are just good places to start.

...

I swear to God, I was going to continue, but I am thinking its possible I am going to slip into a dehydrated coma in this chair if I do. [Also, I have the complete second season of Sex in the City on DVD sitting in the other room, so between the headache and the temptation, I'm simply unable to go on here any longer.]

Many apologies.

That said, the above two recommendations will have you completely occupied for the next few days, and there IS that "quality over quantity" thing, which applies to everything in the world except... no, it actually does apply to everything in the world.

We'll talk soon. Promise. Right now, I'm late (and underdressed) for a date with a blonde, chainsmoking jewish girl named Carrie and her three BFFs. And a man with a large nose but no first name. And the city.

[I'm retarded.]

My Ex-Roommate Josh is saving the world

If you have a little time and would like to see why I have self-worth issues, take a gander at my friend and ex-roommate Josh's blog, which he started a few days ago from India, where he just arrived to establish a sustainable fundraising program for an organization dedicated to HIV awareness and female empowerment programming in the Indian workplace. Josh is a great example of what happens when we stop being lazy and afraid and actually do the things we always talk about wishing we could do.

Nothing's been handed to him -- he works hard, takes chances, dreams big, thinks hard about the important things and not at all (okay, well, maybe just a little) about the stuff that simply doesn't matter. Most of all, he isn't afraid of a little unknown, and that is what impresses and inspires me most about him.

I'm looking forward to reading all about his experiences, from a safe distance of course: in my nice, comfy chair in my spacious home, surrounded by meaningless but beautiful things, with a gut full of three square meals and two glasses of wine and absolutely no fear of war, famine, or arranged marraige. (Which I wouldn't have to fear even if I were in India, as I would undoubtedly be unarriable and unmanageable there, too). God bless America. Oh, and Josh, too.

Big weekend in Portland

Coming up, that is. I'm already writing to say that because I'm preoccupied with the pending awesomeness of the big weekend in Portland, preoccupation mostly manifesting itself through lots of warm-up drinking and spacing out at work, I probably won't post until next week.

Consider yourself warned.

This weekend is dedicated to lifting the spirits of one of my girlfriends, who moved out of state for/with a boyfriend, who is now in a questionably rocky state with him and needs some girl time (read: needs to go out, see the greener grass, and be brainwashed into coming the fuck home).

So, as this weekend means a mission to bring back a dear friend gone astray, it will be epic in scale. Rad hotels, great meals, and lots and lots of booze. And shopping. And maybe some sports.

So Portland: watch out. Brookie's coming out to play. And she's staying within walking distance of every bar downtown, and she's bringing her three most fun girlfriends.

It just might get ugly. (Keep your fingers crossed. Ugly usually means really good stories.)

Also, if you live in Portland and want to see/contribute to a shit show plus laughs, email me. If you don't, I suggest you stay in. Because we'll be absolutely unavoidable.

New Year, new adventure

Having just had shoulder surgery, it has recently come to my attention that nearly all my friends have enjoyed going a few rounds with a bottle of prescription pills. Having two very large bottles of them -- Oxycodin and Valium, specifically -- after surgery, therefore, made me a very popular person.

This popularity ended about a week after surgery, when the no-refill prescription ran out and I was too chicken to ask for more, having very little remaining pain and a possible ulcer from overindulging when I did.

And I wasn't really that sad to see those empty bottles in the trash, honestly. I'm just not a big pill person. The payout is a little dissapointing for me. I mean, I can drink one beer and hold my breath for 30 seconds and get the same floaty, sleepy feeling I have when on pain meds. This apathy extends to all prescriptions with two exceptions: Xanax (thank you, Xanax) and Ambien.

Not long ago, I dated a slightly self-obsessed and very dramatic recovering hypochondriac who struggled for a while with anxiety.

(It is fuzzy as to exactly what these anxieties were about, as his main activities in life were not working, eating, drinking, watching VH1 and browsing homoerotic websites. That said, I suspect they included worries about why women only sleep with him when they're blacked out and whether or not he can convince a woman to bear him children before he has an inevitable midlife crisis -- brought about by hair-loss and penis-size insecurities -- which will drive him to collossal weight gain and one reckless night in a swingers club where he inadvertently gets blown by a man, loves it, and simultaneously ruins his marraige and breaks his mother's heart by coming out of the closet with his liberal, Eastern-European vegetarian hairdresser/lover, Stefan.)

But I digress. This ex, as part of his genius step-by-step-seduction-program, hooked me up a couple times with both Xanax and Ambien, which was pretty great, as I was going through a crazy career change and some stress-related issues of my own at that time.

And they worked like a charm. Xanax was my superhighway to my "happy place", while Ambien was the equivalent of slipping into a bathtub full of warm pasta on the way to a dreamless coma, all in 11 minutes, max.

So that's me and my two favorite meds. (Oh, and a little unfortunate foray into one of many awesomely strange dating experiences).

Now, on to New Year's.

Z and I went to Idaho to spend the three-day weekend (WAHOO!!) with his family, who have a kick-ass place at the base of a resort with easy access to a ski hill, snowmobiles, an outdoor hottub, a sauna, and general awesomeness. While we stayed, his family had a guest who took a twice-daily cocktail of pills to stay even-keeled. Of course, as I'm not a pill enthusiast, this meant nothing to me. Yet.

On the first day, we engaged in a (rad) routine of snowmobiling and hot tubbing and beer drinking and football watching. On the second day, we repeated this routine, and by the time we got off the mountain that afternoon, we were ready to take it a little easier. The plan was a hot tub, some drinking and cards, and then off to the local sports bar to watch the BSU-Oklahoma game.

I shook off the cold and my frozen coat, Z kicked off his boots and retreated upstairs, presumably to pee or change. I hit the sunroom, sprawling out on a big leather couch. Moments later, Z appeared in the doorway, eyes twinkling.

"Hi!" he said, grinning like a kid with a secret.

"What did you do?" I asked "Or are we about to do it?"

"Nope," he said. "Better."

Something was clearly up. I waited for the bomb to drop.

He extended his hand, turned it over, and unclenched his fist to show me his big secret: a tiny white pill.

"Look what I got you!" he stage-whispered. "Take it!"

I picked up the pill and drew it close to my face. Something about it was vaguely familiar...

"Oh Jesus," I said. "You didn't take one already, did you?"

"Yeah... why?"

"Well, because in about 20 minutes, your limbs will be asleep, your lips will be numb, your heart rate will drop to "almost not beating" and you'll be drooling."

"What?" he said, confused.

What I forgot to mention is that Z, though a pill enthusiast, is not a pill expert. He, having the constitution of a small Russian army, is never sick, and is the opposite of hypochondriacal. He is a picture of health. Sleeps when he's supposed to, wakes up when he's supposed to, and is the most even-keeled, solid person I know. (A nice compliment to my crazy, and a fucking relief after dating drama queen after drama queen.) This means when Z reached into the bag of houseguest goodies hoping to pull out two happy pills, he had no clue he popped the world's tiniest and most effective sleeping pill, instead.

I, of course, am obsessed enough with illness that I whip myself into a frenzy about some disease or another (and its remedy) about once every four to six days.

"It's Ambien," I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

His face flickered between surprised, confused, and bemused, while I slowly realized that unless I took the one he was offering me, he was going to coma the afternoon away, leaving me to spend family time with his family. Ummm, they're lovely and all, but no thank you.

"Fuck," I half-laughed, rolling my eyes, "Well, if you're sleeping, I'm sleeping too," I said, and popped the tiny wonder-pill in my mouth, swallowing.

No sooner was the pill solidly in my stomach, and beginning to wrap its warm tentacles around my brain, than he got that kid-with-a-secret look again -- but this time it was tinged with a little crazy-and-drugged, too.

"Oh God," I said, "What?"

"I'm gonna fight it," he grinned.

You can imagine how the rest of the afternoon played out:

I dissolved into a fit of laughter, and Z, already glazed over and loopy, did the same. Ten minutes later, we were both still laughing, lying in a hysterical pair of heaps on the floor, knees and elbows flailing, clutching our ribs, tears running down our faces.

Twenty minutes later, we were clutching our faces, sore from the laughter, then each other's faces, which soon turned back into laughing fits.

Then we had a snack.

Then the dog farted, and more laughing.

Then hot tubbing. More laughing and some water-splashing, which nearly resulted in a nasal drowning accident.

Out of the hot tub, a slip and fall into a snowbank -- in a bikini -- then more laughing, right up to snack #2.

Three hours later, we were at the sports bar eating pizza, drinking beer, playing cards and yelling our way through the BSU game. There was some slurring, for sure, and some pretty reckless card betting, but no sleep.

...

Seven hours later, the game was over, and it was mercifully dark. I enthusiastically hit the sack, from where I didn't move for nearly eleven hours. I was finally awoken with a cappuccino sometime mid-morning on the second bright day of the new year -- without a hangover.

What a fabulous way to welcome in the new year. Hope yours was as utterly memorable.

Виолончели ("Cello", in Russian)

When he woke the sheets were
still, cold, with hard edges

A broken eggshell
and she had run out

So he bought a cello
and adored it instead

Another distant instrument
he'd never know how to play.

Upgrade

I am putting an unhealthy amount of energy into hoping this bit of celebrity gossip is true.

This guy can't seem to figure it out. First he's with the south's future trashiest barefoot coffee stand and truckstop regular who just happens to have also built her career on her navel, the word "y'all", and impersonating not-that-innocent schoolgirls. Then, he moves on to a 7-foot giant with a Joker-esque mouth and less body-fat (and indications she's actually female) than Lance Armstrong. Plus, she has this irritating "aren't I every man's dreamgirl? I burp, fart, wear boycut undies AND put out!!! Hahahahahaha!!!" persona that really bugs.

But this Scarlett thing could turn it around for him -- she's classy enough to bring shoes on a road trip, subtle enough not to end up dancing on some nightclub table or star in every cheesy comedy as the quirky, burping girl next door, and has enough booty to actually shake something to Alpha Dog's little poppy r & b stuff.

...

I've got to stop spending my money on these US Weekly magazines.

Awesome.com

The new love of my life: LastFM.com. (Thanks, Nicq in LA, for passing along my latest at-work temptation.) All day, I’m just a click away from discovering—and raving about, and downloading, and tagging—tons of new music, while finding people with similar musical taste with whom to exchange recommendations (read: whom I beat down with my opinions, which are obviously right).

Very cool.

There’s an option to stream radio all day with a tiny toolbar on your desktop, which is lovely – and when you hear a song you love or have never heard before, you can just click to “love” the track or “tag” the track, making permanent note of the title and artist. Later, you can then browse your loved tracks or tagged artists and either listen to a personalized “loved tracks” radio station or seek more music by/similar to the artists you’ve discovered.

Best (and weirdest) of all, once you create a profile and synch it up wtih your ITunes (great feature -- so you don't have to create a whole 'nother music library to use it), the site keeps track of what you love, what you hate, what you tag, and what you listen to, and it learns your musical preferences. The more you listen, the more it learns, and so the more tailored its recommendations become.

This “teaching” your LastFM account part is a little addictive, and can be tricky. Something about knowing it's paying attention to every last song I listen to makes me feel like I'm always being spied on -- and silently judged.

In essence, because it publicly shares everything you're listening to, you have to be okay with everything you're listening to being publicly shared. Which means if you listen to that really catchy but mortifying Eiffel 65 song "Blue" on repeat while dancing around drinking rum and cokes, (I'm looking at you, M.) in the comfort and privacy of your own home, you're not as comfortably private as you thought. And if your preferences up to that point have been more Black Rebel Motorcycle Club than Kylie Minogue, you may have some 'splainin to do when Last FM fills up your recommended tracks and neighbors lists with techno songs and E-dropping club kids wearing shiny shirts and wielding/chewing on glowsticks.

Be that as it may, it's worth checking out. It takes a week or so before the site starts to really understand your musical taste (and about another week after that to re-teach it what you like after your old roommate discovers what you're doing and plays 4 hours straight of Dashboard Confessionals, just to fuck your profile up).

Password protect your computer, is all I'm saying.

You can thank me later.

Post-mortem makeout

::shudder::

This Jacko-and-James-Brown's-dead-body-makeout-session is already the creepiest moment of 2007. Sorry, but even if my spouse kicked the can, I wouldn't kiss the body. Because it's still a dead body.

Throwing Half plastic! Half angsty teenage girl! into the mix just makes it that much more... icky.

Lessons in resolving.

I've noticed that some new year's resolutions keep coming up in my list year after year like a recurring nightmare, or chronic dandruff or something else gross and uncontrollable. Additionally, I've noticed that moving forward, up and out is only easy and positive if you have perspective on what's in the rearview. So, in lieu of the traditional list of resolutions, a look at what I've learned -- really learned -- in 2006:

• No matter how excited you are about your new job, you're an asshole if you cancel a three-week European tour, complete with World Cup tickets and many promised nights at pubs. Also, American Airlines' cancellation policy sucks. (read: they have none.) Sometimes work should be a second priority, if only for a couple weeks.
• I love chocolate covered Gummi Bears, and if you don't, that's fine. More for me.
• These cupcakes can turn a whole day around.
• I am utterly and irreversibly addicted to coffee, but I don't miss cigarette smoking one bit. Here's to learning to nurture one vice in order to squelch another!
• Being lavished is not the same as being respected and appreciated.
• It's just not possible for me to fold and hang clean clothes on the same day they were washed, even with the best intentions. They must sit, instead, in a pile at the foot of my bed or the end of my couch for at least 24 hours before they're closet-worthy. And I'm cool with that.
• Design Within Reach
• I will never balance a checkbook, and 60 percent of the time I won't return a DVD when it's due or renew my car insurance before the "final warning -- pay now or your insurance will lapse!" notice.
• Being pissed about chivalry was distinctly a phase reserved for my pre-age 25 years. Nurturing a resistance to it is, in fact, not my secret weapon.
• Five days in Las Vegas is three too many
• Being swept off your feet is memorable, and a beautiful way to start a relationship, BUT. There are men who have convinced themselves grand acts are relationship currency and should buy them worship and acquiescence -- which they've confused with affection and loyalty -- in a hurry. My first instinct (which is that love grows quietly and without being insistent, impatient or self-promoting) should be trusted, as the temptation for the giver to expect a reciprocal gift of affection is too often too great, suffocating a burgeoning relationship with resentment and expectation.
• That North Korea and Iran both scare the shit out of me
• That I need to speak less and listen more.
• That there's no sense in being afraid to admit how I really feel.
• That I love living alone
• That forgiveness is possible, but sometimes only after you give the motherfucker(s) a sizzling piece of your mind.
• Working for two different people who both ultimately turned out to be insecure, self-obsessed and lazy is a good way to understand the opposite of professionalism.
• That it is possible to really really love your job.
• That I will soon be the owner of a Porsche 944.
• That I better learn how to drive a stick shift in a hurry.
• That a long-lasting lipcolor doesn't have to be drying.
• That I am unnaturally able to exist solely on sun and beer.
• How to really waste time
• Martinis are my weakness, and my alter-ego after martini consumption is destructive, but I love her, just the same.
• To never ever ever hit on a piano player at a piano bar. His voice might be angelic, his face might be gorgeous, and he may practically ooze sex, but he will almost always be midget-height, which you'll discover is a dealbreaker when he stands up to buy you a drink.
• Also never accept advances from a rodeo cowboy (cowman?). He will always be extremely hot, but he will also always use words like "fixin", "diffrnt", "ain't", and "plumb". Usually all in the same sentence, with a preposition at the end. And he will not take "no, I will not make out with you" for an answer, possibly because he doesn't understand a properly constructed sentence.
• To trust less, but hope more.
• The next great assault on American productivity.
• That I should swear less in mixed company, but remember and tell more dirty jokes.
• That the world doesn't implode if I say NO.

Happy new year.