Backwards, In Heels. (Formerly Legwarmers)

April 1 - No fooling

2011-04-01T23:45:00.000-07:00

Oh, how I love this spot.

A minorly major update

2010-04-25T09:07:00.000-07:00

A lot has happened since my last post. I mean, for one, micro-blogging. Who knew blogging in 140 characters or less would become such a cultural phenomenon? I'll admit I tried my hand at it, but here's the thing: I've never been one for brevity. My life simply doesn't fit into 140 characters. I mean, my opinion doesn't fit into 140 characters usually. Come to think of it, there's not a lot I want to say that does. Except this:

I'm getting married!

Yep, It turns out not only is Jim impossibly loving, funny and intelligent - and an absolutely spectacular cook -- he was also somehow willing to sign up for a lifetime of putting up with my somewhat inflexible or at the very least incredibly passionate points of view, mild case of wanderlust, constant need for a project or three, lack of ability to iron clothing or take out the garbage and tendency to take unnecessary chances while driving.

Which makes me a soon-to-be-wife, and Jim a crazy person, by my count.

Here's the funny and totally cliche thing: I knew I was going to marry him, probably even before we really started dating. We were acquaintences, then colleagues, then friends, and always dating other people for the first couple years we were in each other's orbit. During those times I never gave him a second thought, because I was so singularly focused on my other (failing) relationships. And then, sometime almost 3 years ago, I was suddenly single again - as was he. That was when I really took notice of him - tall, funny, generous, kind, with a Cheshire Cat grin and a whip quick wit - and never looked back.

The first time he met my mother was on my birthday, roughly the same week we'd started dating. He came to my birthday party - dinner at a great place on the water with 20 friends and then off to my favorite divey karaoke bar where 10 more of my friends and family joined us - by himself, unruffled by the fact he knew nobody there but me.

His first words to my mother? "Hi, I'm Jim. I work with slash love your daughter."

And while it would have been easy to hang back, intimidated by being surrounded by so many of my friends and family and in the midst of a brand new relationship, guess who was first up on the karaoke mike by the time we were all tipsy enough? Jim.

With an unforgettable rendition of "Lola".

I threw him right into the middle of the fire, and he held up. Single men everywhere, nake note: I didn't have to babysit him or hold back, and my friends and family certainly didn't either - and he reciprocated and thrived. While he connected with everyone in the room that evening, I never had a doubt that he was there for me, and only me. Everything he did was just the right key. And while I had a hundred scars on my heart -- reasons not to jump in -- everything in me said this was somebody who could handle me, and who I could trust to.

There's something incredibly freeing about being with a person who accepts you fully, every odd little angle of who you are. And while I might think Jim is a little crazy for being crazy about me, I am so grateful he is and that we managed to find each other. There's nobody I'd rather get old and fat and batshit crazy with than him. And in the meantime, I am looking forward to the adventure of our lives.

AWK-WAAARRRRRDDDD....

2009-06-25T09:35:00.000-07:00

Let's set the scene:

It was a busy Wednesday. I was bogged down at work - endless decks to pull together, meetings to run, cats to herd. I was down to the wire on a crazy-big project with lots of visibility. And, noticing Mickey's big hand was on the 12 on my clock, I realized with a pang that I was STARVING.

With less than a 20-minute window before my next meeting, I had no time to sit down somewhere. Worse, the secret pseudo-food health bar stash in my top drawer was depressingly empty. I had no choice but to run for some deliciously bad takeout.

The teriyaki place across the street is a far cry from the best I've had, but it's predictable, and thus was my choice.

My stomach grumbling, I entered the strip-mall-style shop to find every table full and a line at the register. Waiting to order, it registered that I had caught that magical lunch hour rush when the crowd in local restaraunts gets a little... awkward.

See, my company is very near a large high school with an open campus for lunch. This means that on any given day between about 12:15 and 12:45 the local establishments are the meeting grounds for many longing, lecherous businessmen suffering mid-life-crises in suits AND (the awkward part) herds of scantily-clad teenage girls. Cheerleaders and Lil' Kim wannabes abound, noisily giggling and madly text-messaging.

Hysterically, during these strange lunch hour mixings, these two different tribes do their best to pretend to completely ignore each other, at which they epically fail. At these moments, everyone is actually acutely aware of each other. I'd say there's a fair amount of eavesdropping, and more sideways glancing that is technically comfortable to watch happen. I was in the midst of musing about this when...

"What you want today, lady?"

Shaken from my rapt people-watching (people-judging, to be more accurate), I ordered the lunch special: a slab of sliced chicken covered in a sticky-sweet sauce, an ice-cream scoop of gluey white rice and a handful of iceberg lettuce covered in a mayo moonlighting as "dressing".

I stepped out of line after settling up and found a seat on the long bench between the register and the door to wait for my order to come up. In front of this bench, the distracted line of customers queuing up to order meanders from the register out onto the sidewalk. Further inside the restaraunt are tables for dine-in patrons.

A few minutes had passed when a woman from the kitchen made her way over to me, arm outstretched to hand me my white plastic take-out bag. I was shoving my pen and that day's NY Times crossword into my purse with one hand and taking my takeout with the other when I heard him.

"HI! I'M BEN!"

I jumped, startled by the inappropriately loud volume of his voice, and looked up. Meanwhile, the rest of the restaraunt's patrons did the same. His volume alone managed to hush the entire joint and, impossibly, capture the attention of all the teenagers and professionals in it.

I gulped, and slowly looked up. As I had feared, Mr. Mortifying was addressing me. Trying not to cringe, I smiled, said hi, and looked back down at the paper in my lap, silently willing him to dissappear.

Please, please... I thought, eyes squeezed tight.

"I WAS JUST WALKING BY AND SAW YOU IN THE WINDOW..."

Oh no, I thought. This can't be happening.

"...AND THOUGHT I SHOULD STOP TO TELL YOU I THINK YOU'RE REALLY, UH... BEAUTIFUL..."

Cue waves of crippling guilt.

Here he was, giving me a compliment, and just because he was SCREAMING IT EMBARASSINGLY AT THE TOP OF HIS LUNGS IN A PUBLIC PLACE, I was feeling all panicky and ungrateful.

But he just kept going.

"...AND I JUST WANTED TO KNOW IF I COULD TAKE YOU OUT SOMETIME!"

Fuck. There it was.

The restaraunt was tomblike in silence. I suddenly knew what it was like to be on-stage, the main event, one of those terrified dogs on bicycles in the center ring of the circus. The only sound was the fryers and grills in the back of the restaraunt. Every cheerleader, hoochie mama and corporate VP had his or her eyes trained on the train wreck-slash-soap opera in front of them, featuring me and my new volume-and-tact-challenged Romeo.

Handle this, I thought. Don't panic. Be cool. But I just couldn't stop it. It was coming out of my mouth before I even had a chance to take hold of my internal E-brake and yank:

"AAAWWWWK-WAAARRRRRD!"

My inner dialogue had escaped like some clever little yappy dog. Rather than gracefully diffusing the completely mortifying experience and politely declining this gentleman's clumsy advances, I had sprung a leak in my filter and instead yelled - YELLED - "Awkward!", volume 10, drawn out theatrically into a 7-syllable groan of disgust and embarrassment.

The crowd's response was a gasp, and then some giggling. The moment the word escaped, I clapped both hands over my mouth, eyes as big as saucers and frantically shook my head.

"No, no, I'm sorry. It's just... right here? Right now? Do you think..." I took a deep breath, getting a grip. "Uh, can we speak outside, maybe?"

I leapt up, took his arm and lead him outside into the parking lot like he was a bad child. The next few moments were a mishmash of apologizing and thanking him for the compliment but (obviously) declining the offer. Shockingly, he didn't seem even close to as humiliated as I had been, which helped, though he did mention that he realized he had yelled, probably because he was "nervous".

But we managed to somehow extricate ourselves from the conversation, and both turned to go our separate ways on foot, me in front of him.

And a few minutes later, as I opened the front door to my giant office building and glanced behind me, guess what? He was still there. When I turned to address him, he smiled sheepishly at me.

"Well, if you thought THAT was awkward, I can't imagine what you'll make of this... you work here too??!"

Can a girl please catch a break? I must have kicked a kitten in a past life.

"Talk about awkward...

"I'm wearing that shirt you like..."

2008-12-02T23:29:00.000-08:00

I just got a second Blackberry and a second line.

Why?

Because back in July I had an experience that convinced me that any adult who would like to be perceived as responsible should carry separate work and personal devices. And, being a procrastinator, I just now got around to it. But the horror of my lesson still lingers.

Here's what happened:

My girlfriend Anne and I had plans to go out for a bite and a drink on a Friday night after work. We planned to meet at my houseand then head downtown.

I was home changing in my room, when she got to my place. She knocked on the door, I was upstairs. I didn't hear her, so she let herself in, having to pee. Not wanting to scare me, she sent me a text message from the bathroom to let me know she was in.

"I'm in your upstairs bathroom, FYI. Don't freak."

I got the message, and, picturing her sitting on the toilet texting me, giggled and
replied, telling her to come into my room when whe was done and mentioning the shirt I'd chosen to wear that night, knowing she'd get a kick out of the choice.

The shirt was a recent favorite addition to my wardrobe: a long, thin, dark blue silk number. It was perfect, except the last time Anne and I had gone out, 3 weeks prior, I had worn it and made an embarassing discovery. We had taken about a million photographs, and the following day when reviewing the pictures, we realized that the flash of the camera combined with the thin fabric of my favorite new top created a perfect storm - the unintentionally sheer-in-photos shirt. You could see my bra and a little cleavage in literally every photo. WHOOPS.

But I loved the shirt, and as I recalled its one downside, I chose a darker-colored bra less likely to make a guest-appearance in photos this time around, and made a mental note to ban flash-photography.

A few moments later Anne burst in, laughing.

"You're wearing the shirt!"

"Yep, couldn't resist," I said, dropping my cell phone into my purse before slinging it over my shoulder and pivoting in the mirror for one last check on our way out of my room. "I knew you'd get a kick out of it. By the way, who text messages on the toilet? Dork."

We headed downstairs, on our way out the door. On our way, I pulled my phone back out of my purse to check the time. But rather than being on the home screen, my phone was on the "sent text messages" screen, where I could see the last 5 or 6 texts I'd sent.

I must not have locked my keypad before dropping it into my bag, I thought, hoping I hadn't pocket-dialed anyone accidentally when my phone was in there squished against all the other hundred things I carried in my purse.

Hopeful, I looked more closely at the screen, at the list of my recently sent text messages. But something wasn't right.

The last two sent messages were not the ones I'd sent to Anne, though I hadn't sent any others after our little exchange when she was in the bathroom. Curiously, the texts I'd sent Anne were two down in the list - the 3rd and 4th most recently sent messages.

Looking closer, it all became clear.

"OOOOooooOOOOOOOH MYYYYY GOOOODDDDDDD," I wailed. April came running.

"What?! What?!"

I showed her my phone.

"Oh. OH! Shit!" she said.

I hadn't pocket-dialed anyone. Nope, it was worse. I had pocket-forwarded the last text message I sent Anne -- you know, the one about my shirt and where I was -- to my boss.

My male, married, BOSS. And worse, I hadn't done it once... I had sent it to him twice.

The messages were exact copies of the ones I'd sent Anne, and they read as follows:

"I'm in my bedroom. Meet me here when you're done. I'm wearing that see-through shirt you like."

Let me repeat that:

RIGHT AFTER WORK, I POCKET-FORWARDED MY BOSS A TEXT THAT SAID, FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, "I AM A SCANDALOUS HOOCH. COME TO MY HOUSE AND SEE MY TA-TAS."

"Oh shit," Anne said again, as if that even came close to expressing the horror of the momen.

"Good, thanks. I am dead. I am a dead person," I said, not in the least dramatically. "What do I do? Oh FUCK, WHAT DO I DO???"

We silently stared at each other for a moment, me holding the phone like it was about to self-destruct, she just, well, gaping at me. I think we were waiting for what we thought would surely be the text response from our boss: "You're fired". Or worse: "On my way".

And then Anne, looking at me holding the phone away from my body like a grenade with a "doooo someeethingggg!!" expression, cracked. She burst into hysterical laughter, and I, seeing no other possible option, joined her.

It was the only thing that could be done. I had accidentally forwarded on an unintentionally seductive text message to my boss, with my butt, through my purse. Who in the hell do these things happen to besides me?

An hour or so later, when I hadn't recieved a response, I sent an explanatory email to said boss, explaining what had happened and falling on the sword for not having separate work and personal phones. He responded immediately (clearly he hadn't known what to say, a small relief in the big scheme of things) shrugging it off.

To this day, we haven't spoken about it. But, as I said, I now have separate work and personal devices. And I am locking my keypad for good measure.

Just did it.

2008-11-30T17:52:00.000-08:00

I ran a half-marathon today, my first, and survived.

It was painful, but I loved it. And, in retrospect, I could have finished it a considerable amount faster, but as I ran past over-achievers who were, in the final leg, on the ground with cramps or strapped to gurneys and vomiting, I decided that for my first one, slow and steady was the way to go.

I am no worse for the wear - a little sore (okay, a lot sore, anyone offering rubbing services of any kind?), but overall in good spirits, and I have a cheesy medal, two "finisher" shirts and a crumpled race number to show for it.

Yay me. I feel so ahead of the game. Isn't this something I was supposed to, like, resolve to do in January or something? Can I get away with retroactively resolving to do it, like when you write down a list of the things you did today at the end of the day only so you can cross them all off? Or, if you're like me, you write a list of to-dos that always begins with "make list".

No? Hmmm. Alright, then, in 2009, the moon!

Thanksgiving stories to come, but in the meantime, enjoy your Sunday evening and I hope your holiday was as beautiful, and hysterical, as mine.

Be well, and try running once in a while, fatsos. Its awesome.

(Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean that. Runner's high? No? Hmmm.)

It'll grow back.

2008-11-29T19:48:00.000-08:00

"I'll be right back," I said, spinning away from the cutting board, dropping the knife in the sink, and trying not to look down as I pinched my left thumb to my middle finger on the same hand. I was working overtime to keep my face serene, host-like, un-alarmed, as I sauntered out of the kitchen.

The moment I passed through the doorway, however, away from the chatter and company, I broke into a sprint, tearing up the stairs, crashing into one of the upstairs bathrooms and dropping to my knees in front of the sink. I threw open the cabinet doors and, using my right arm, swept the contents out onto the floor so I could better look through them.

You see, I was throwing a dinner party. A huge meal, five separate dishes, each highly complex (hello, idiot), and each requiring approximately the same time to prepare. Jim, typically my soux chef and partner, was busy entertaining the company, which included my mother and brother and some of our closest friends, and was thus out of commission to help much.

Oh, and I had just sliced the tip of my finger completely off.

Go ahead, re-read that. I know, it's hard to imagine.

But there I was, in the kitchen, slicing peeled parsnips (which were about to become a delicious addition to a winter root vegetable and apple hash) when I got a bit more than I bargained for. It's amazing how quickly it happened, just slice, slice, slice, sl-ouch! And I looked down and it was gone. No flap, no cut, just a chunk of my finger -- missing.

I knew, of course, that it would bleed, but I caught it with my thumb and applied pressure quickly enough that I hadn't seen any, yet. And I hadn't wanted to make a fuss of myself there in front of the crowd, so in my typical free-spirited control-freak fashion, I determined I'd handle it myself. You know, so as not to cause any alarm.

Anyway, there I was on the bathroom floor. No bandaids, bandages, etc. to be found. Nothing, in fact, remotely medical. I moved on to the next cabinet. More of the same. About seventy bottles of fingernail polish and lotions of every kind, but not a single ouchless strip.

On to the next bathroom I went, dumping a drawer into the sink. What the fuck were we thinking, not having any bandaids? My self-sufficient plan was starting to look hopeless. And my finger was starting to hurt as the adrenaline wore off. So I decided perhaps I could do a little improvising. First, I'd need to see what I was really dealing with. I'd barely seen the wound when I did it, and ever since had been pressing my thumb to it.

I sat back on my heels and removed my thumb.

And then came the blood. More blood than I have ever seen, and I have gotten myself into some pretty good messes. But this, this was bright red, running and running; it was a facuet of blood. In the few seconds I had my thumb off the wound, blood had run down my elbow, onto the ground in pools, all over my hand, on my knees.... it was everywhere.

This is where I started to panic.

I tore back into the first bathroom, desperate for anything i could fashion into a bandage. But before I had much luck, I started shaking and sweating. There was blood everywhere. In the sink, on the floor, across the counter... it wouldn't stop. And the shaking was getting worse.

Shock, I realized. I was going into shock.

Some dinner party.

Resigned to the drama that would have to follow if I called for help, which is what I realized I had to do if I didn't want to pass out (and, I thought, perhaps bleed to death? Can one even bleed to death through their finger? What about someone excessively stupid and clumsy?), I called, panic clear in my voice, for Jim.

He came running upstairs, shouted something to my mom, and moments later she and my brother materialized, he with a fistful of bandages. I dissolved into sobs, no longer able to keep up the facade as I watched blood continue to run from my finger into the sink and felt cold sweat trickling from my neck to my chest, down my back, down my face.

And then, a few fumbling moments later, my finger was wrapped so tight in bandaids it looked three times its size. Johnson and Johnson would have been so proud. There was still crusty blood everywhere, but my mom was busy on cleanup.

"Christ, babe," Jim said, shaking his head, hand on my hair as I sniffled in a heap on the floor. "How many times have I asked you to be careful with your knives? You make me so nervous the way you cut; I can't believe this is the first time this has happened. From now on, I cut. You point, I cut, chop, dice, fillet. No more knives for you."

"Oh, cmon," I said with a weak smile. "I'm just keeping things interesting."

"I'll say," he said. "You scared me there."

"Well you'll live," I struggled to get up, with his help, and head to the bedroom. "Besides, I'm the one missing a digit."

After changing, with Jim's help (let's be honest, he did it all; I was still a bit of a mess from my brush with shock) from my blood and sweat-soaked clothes into pajamas, I came back downstairs, wounded hand held above my heart (you know, to stop the bleeding), tear-streaked and a bit traumatized.

"My god," said my best friend. "Are you alright? I heard you cry, and when I heard that I figured there was something seriously wrong." I nodded, fighting relieved tears. She gestured to me, speaking to her boyfriend. "This one has a pain tolerance like I've never seen. She doesn't cry. Jesus, what, are we eating your finger for dinner?"

I sniffled and smiled, nodding. "Possibly. At least one of us is."

Dinner was finished (the beautiful buerre blanc sauce for the salmon, the hash, the bok choy in sesame oil, the king crab and three asian dipping sauces...) with the help of my mother, who came to the rescue with both hands and the patience to take orders from me as I paraded around the kitchen pointing at dishes.

"Butter there, slowly, whisk it... those need to be turned... oven on broil, just for a minute -- watch that..."

Of course, the meal turned out beatifully, and with the exception of the fact that I was missing a tiny bit of my body, had to eat with my hand in the air and had to stop drinking (didn't want to thin my already reluctant-to-clot blood), it couldn't have gone better.

And nobody found my fingertip, so that's a plus. :)

Mommy to the rescue. And though it was gruesome for the first two days(and you can imagine my hypochondriachal fantasies: staph infection, gangrene, more bleeding, loss of sensation, over-sensitized nerves, etc.), my little owie is much better now, thank you. In fact, looking at it now, I can't believe how horrible it looked that first day. Our bodies are amazing things; it's expected to make a full recovery in 2009.

And I'm expected to improve my knife skills. But you can make a safe bet that won't be the last aspirational meal I'll cook, with an audience, for fun. After all, what's life without a little danger?

This is awesome.

2008-10-17T12:08:00.000-07:00

I dare you to do this and not feel Zen.

I'm not gone, just... resting.

2008-10-15T15:39:00.001-07:00

This is the longest I've gone without writing anything -- ANYthing -- ever. In my whole life. (Well, after I learned how to write, anyway). (And not work-related, I mean.)

I have many theories on why this is.

Love makes one less creatively inspired? I'm focused on building my career? (Oh yeah, I quit my last job, gave a middle finger to my stock options, and took a new, cooler one in a company that will weather economic turmoil AND pays me twice as much!!!) Got a puppy, puppy is to writing as salt is to slugs? Started reading the Twilight series against my better judgement and am now too busy being in love with a 100+ year old vampire? Signed up for a half-marathon and am now officially very sore and clearly insane? Planning a beer pong tournament and so am too exhausted (read: drunk with practicing) to document my escapades?

Aaah, while all these things are at least somewhat true, I can't say it was a conscious decision. I just accidentally took a break. But many interesting developments have, uh, developed. And I intend, as always, to overshare. Soon. In the meantime, some ear candy:

An old favorite mix I found on Muxtape, before the labels shut it down and forced a reinvention (which is pending...

Fiona Apple — Across The Universe
Emily Haines & the Soft Skeleton — Doctor Blind
Earlimart — First Instant Last Report
This Is Ivy League — The Richest Kids
These United States — First Sight
Band a Part — Sounvenir de l'Avenir
장필순 — Good-Bye
Flight Of The Conchords — Leggy Blonde (Featuring Rhys Darby)

I'm coming back, promise. :)

Define "spare".

2008-07-07T16:27:00.000-07:00

"What are the odds?"

Jim shook his head in exasperation.

We were standing in the parking lot of a grocery store staring into the open back of my hatchback. Pennies, nickles, dimes and quarters -- hundreds, maybe thousands of them -- were scattered in the car, wedged in cracks and crevices, and spilling out of the back into the parking lot, where they clattered and rolled around, making us quite a spectacle.

My car was like a treasure chest with wheels. Only our treasure was escaping.

"Well," I began sarcastically, "Do you mean what are the odds the giant ziplock bag of change would rip and spill while we were en route to have it turned into bills, or what are the odds that an adult male would have such an impressive coin collection?"

I got on my hands and knees in the parking lot and started recovering our change. Jim took care of the thousand and one coins in the car. After a good twenty minutes, we were satisfied that we had gotten every last one -- but it took some effort, to be sure.

**It is important to note that we were in Bellevue, an area outside Seattle that is often accused of being home to a host of Stepford wives and Ferarris -- where the most eggregious crime of the day usually has something to do with the sandwich Nazi at the gourmet sandwich shop screwing up your order. That actually made us, scrambling around on all fours after pennies, that much funnier, but it's also important to the story in a moment.**

As we walked towards the grocery store to the CoinStar machine inside, Jim holding a giant clear bag absolutely full of loose change, we chuckled about how funny we must have looked crawling around the parking lot like high school kids after a few pennies. But truth be told, Jim even looked silly holding it -- the bag was GIANT and clear, and he was holding it up like a kid holds a goldfish they won at the fair -- in a proud fist in front of them.

And then, out of nowhere, appeared the only transient I have ever seen in Bellevue. And he was walking straight towards us. Or, rather, straight towards the tall man with the giant bag of change next to me.

"Uh oh, he's coming our way," I said under my breath, like the bum was a pirate and was coming to commandeer our bag of gold.

Jim sort of nervously coughed and we continued to walk, not making eye contact, hoping the bum would just sort of pass us by. But of course, no dice.

"Hey mister, you got any spare change?" The bum was eyeing the bag. The jig was up. It was all over.

I looked over at Jim, who continued walking and lamely gestured at first the bag, and then the bum, in this semi-sympathetic, totally awkward sort of way, before stammering, with a surprised, uncomfortable look on his face:

"Uh...no... man. This is, uh......... my money."

And he just continued to walk with his giant bag of change, into the store. I, in shock that the whole scene had actually taken place, quietly followed him.

"Wow," I said when I finally recovered, bursting into hysterical laughter. "What are the odds of THAT?"

File this one under "mildly offensive (but nonetheless true) things my boyfriend says"

2008-06-23T09:40:00.000-07:00

This morning:

"Hon, if you were to run for public office, your platform would be 'chaos'."

Note to self

2008-06-18T09:57:00.000-07:00

1. The mailman comes every day.
2. There is a finite amount of space in a mail box.

Therefore, if you do not pick up the mail for more than 3 weeks, you are likely to run out of mailbox space, making it difficult for the mailman to put more junk mail into the now-full mailbox.

In that case, it is likely he will leave you a nasty note for making his job harder, steal all your mail, and stuff it somewhere else, like possibly the post office, where you'll have to go pick it up.

On an unrelated note, post office lines are long.

We're moving!

2008-06-16T09:54:00.000-07:00

That's right, Legwarmers is moving! Nothing is going to change besides the name and the URL, which is to say I'll continue telling bad pee-pee jokes and sharing every mortifying and grisly detail of my life there, so you can look forward to that.

But I thought it was time for a little refresher. Legwarmers has run its course. I, your humble contributor, am evolving, and therefore so is Legwarmers.

We're stepping out, in heels.

About the name: The "...backwards, and in high heels" quote above is one I've always loved -- it sort of captures, cheekily, my general perspective. It has been incorrectly attributed to a former Texas politician and to Ginger Rogers herself, but it was, in ironic fact, first written by a male comic strip writer -- Bob Thaves -- in a comic strip aptly titled "Frank and Earnest" in 1982, when I was barely a year old. The original strip is below.

I'm not exactly sure when this move is going to finally commence, as I am attempting to transfer all Legwarmers content to the new URL while also maintaining the integrity (heh. "integrity".) of this site, but in the meantime, you can enjoy a new look and a new name.

I'll post a note with the new URL when we make the official leap.

Owie.

2008-06-15T13:42:00.001-07:00

Ouch.

It is 1:30 in the aftrnoon on a gorgeous Sunday in the greater Seattle area. I should be outside soaking up the sun, or barbequeing, or jogging, or driving with my windows down and occasionally yelling "HEY, THAT'S MY BIKE!!!" out the window at small groups of alarmed adolescents cruising their huffies down the sidewalk.

But instead I'm sitting here in a pair of well-loved boxers and a hoodie, with whacked-out hair, eating pizza (vegetarian, extra sauce and pineapple, easy on the cheese), making a feeble attempt to hydrate (Diet Pepsi count?) while flipping through the photo evidence of the debauchery that was last night.

In short, I am hung over. Thanks to one of the best bachelorette parties possibly of all time.

There was nothing particularly spectacular from the outside about this party, really. We had the huge limo, of course, and the gazillion bottles of champagne. And the dresses. And the bride had the obnoxious flashing gag veil with little light-up penises all over it.

But what we had that most bachelorette parties don't was a desire to CRUSH every bar we entered. We wanted to drink everything, talk to everyone, and generally monopolize every venue exclusively for our benefit, other patrons be damned.

Highlights include:

1. The maid of honor taking swigs off a Souza tequila bottle (yes, that is essentially the worst tequila made -- let's be clear on the fact that this maid of honor is not messing around)on the way to the restaraunt and booty dancing her way up and down the limo -- on the freeway.

2. Ordering a round of Scooby Snack shots for the girls, taking them, then deciding they were too "fattening" and asking the bartender to try them with red bull instead of half and half. The result? Pure heaven, an addition to the shot menu, and my first drink named after me: the Lizzie Snack. (Let me just say that these things were a HUGE hit, and are fairly advanced for a "girly" shot. The combination of booze, sugar and caffeine in these puppies result in a very happy buzz -- and could be fatal if overdone.)

3. Taking the limo back from the piano bar to "downtown" Snohomish (think: cow town). No, that's the highlight. A limo in Snohomish. I think it's actually the first time that's ever happened.

4. Hitting three more bars, two of which had live bands and both of which I managed to convince to let the bride to be up on stage to sing a song. I accomplished this using my finely-tuned powers of persuasion (eyelash batting, a well-delivered joke, a little sweet talk and a deftly slipped $20). The songs? Joan Jett's "I Love Rock and Roll" and "Sweet Caroline". The entire patronage of both places ended up joining in by the end of the songs -- I'm surprised we didn't have a roof or two collapse. I should have been a hype-man when I grew up. I'm that good.

5. Being danced with and then gently hit on by a very, very tall man who was in town as best man in a wedding. I, of course, politely declined his advances and made my way back to the table. A few minutes later, in front of the whole table of my girls, one of his buddies came up to me and said something like: "Hey baby, did you know he plays for the L.A. Clippers? He makes a ton of money and he thinks you're beautiful. I mean, he makes a TON of money."

Taken aback, I dismissed him. He continued to push, on and on about this "money", which I gathered was supposed to impress me. I continued to wave him off. Finally, as he was not getting it, I unleashed a torrent of shit on the pathetic little man. Something to the effect of "Listen, you arrogant little prick, I don't know what you're trying to pull here, but I make my own money. I strongly recommend that you go back to wherever hole you came from and work on your little sidekick schtick. If that's the best you can do for your buddy over there, I think he needs to find a new wingman. Oh, and by the way, you're short and you smell like cheese."

It was a memorable night to say the least. Now it's back to the horizontal position for me. Happy weekend!

I don't believe I've met you...

2008-06-11T16:37:00.000-07:00

"Jeeeez! Look at all this little personalized Mariners' paraphernalia," I marveled.

Jim and I were at a very swanky party thrown by the president of the Mariners. You know, the terrible baseball team based in Seattle? It was held at SafeCo field (where aforementioned baseball team loses most of its games) for two friends who are getting married this summer. The groom grew up with the President of the Mariners' kid, and therefore el Presidente’s family decided to host an over the top party at the President's suite at the ballpark.

So here we are at this swanky party with unlimited food and booze, where we knew nobody except the bride and groom... and there is customized paraphernalia everywhere, which is clearly impressing me.

Think: Little baseball player cookies with little frosting jerseys with the bride and groom’s name on them, real Mariner’s jerseys with the bride and groom’s name on them, hats, water bottles… just swag up the kazoo.

And I, trying to make friends as I make my way across the suite to the restroom, am exclaiming to strangers in the room, enthusiastically, about how cool all this stuff was.

“Oh look at those cookies…” I cooed. “They’re so cute!” This elicited murmers of agreement from a stranger or two, who I then introduced myself to and made nice with before moving on to the next weird personalized memento.

So picture me doing this while making my way across the room, proudly leaving a bunch of not-strangers-anymore in my enthusiastic wake. I was quite pleased with my impact, and as I sauntered nearly out of the room, I passed one last item: A very oversized leather mitt with a wedding band on its ring finger, in the center of which was a softball-sized baseball with the bride and groom’s name embroidered on it.

“Oh my gosh, would you look at that??” I shrieked in my girlish delight. “It has their names stitched right into the ball!”

To punctuate this exclamation as new strangers turned towards me to respond (and because I have pretty terrible vision and couldn’t see the items well enough), I reached for the ball. I planned to pick it up, turn it over, and look at it up close and personal, as I had with the other items, while making friends.

Except the ball wouldn’t lift.

It was either the world’s heaviest softball-sized baseball, or it was stuck to the mitt.

I tugged at it again with my hand. Nothing. Just as I was about to engage my other hand for a good old fashioned two-handed pull, it hit me.

It. Was. A. Cake. (And for the record, it looked a helluva lot more realistic than this picture of a similar cake. It looked honest to God real.)

A fondant-covered, larger-than-life, baseball mit with baseball in it CAKE.

And I had my grubby little strange hand all over the crowning jewel, huffing and puffing and jerking at it like an I was an over-served middle-aged man and it was a stripper with negligible moral code.

“Oh my gosh, it’s a cake! It’s a cake! I didn’t know it was a cake!”

Yep, that's what I said. I know, I know. Brilliant.

My voice was high pitched. My face was bright red. I clutched my “bad” hand with my “good” hand and glared at it like it was some sort of naughty pet that had temporarily escaped my control. And then I looked around.

Some people off to my left were giggling and nodding knowingly. They had caught me. And they were not impressed. But no matter – I was not going to my left, I was going to my right. To the bathroom. Hell, to FREEDOM. To a place to hide forever and never come out. Because I had touched, aggressively, the cake.

I spun around to my right, just feet from the door, just seconds from the bathroom and sweet escape, and bumped directly into – with my “bad” hand – wait for it...

The president of the Mariners' wife. You know, the HOSTESS of the EFFING SWANKY PARTY at which I knew nobody (now including Jim, who saw the debacle and wisely denied having any idea who I was).

Oh.

FUCK.

Intelligently, I said (still holding up my hand:

“I didn’t know it was a cake! It’s… uh… amazing!!!”

She looked at me – this woman who had certainly come up with the idea for the cake, absolutely ordered it and without a doubt paid ridiculous sums of money for it – with a look of such disdain I can’t even describe it. It was like Cruella DeVille had suddenly appeared before me, and I’d accidentally vomited on her coat holding a sign that said "SAVE THE PUPPIES".

And then she spoke in a slow, disapproving drawl the words that will forever be burned into my mortified memory of this moment while looking me up and down and shaking her head:

“I don’t believe I’ve met you.”

...

I no longer watch the food network's cake show -- the one where cakes are made to look like kittens or buildings or small children or golf equipment.

Why? Because fuck them, that's why. Making food look like something else is just MEAN.

I do. Times seven. Minus hundreds of dollars.

2008-06-03T10:39:00.000-07:00

This summer I have seven weddings to attend. That’s right… SEVEN weddings in less than 4 months. This does not count bachelorette parties, bridal showers and other wedding-themed events. This means three things:

1. The countdown to me feeling like an old maid has begun.

To be clear, I do not currently feel like an old maid. I am quite happy not to be married at this particular moment, and am reveling instead in the joys of living in sin.

But ask me about this topic sometime in the not-so-distant future, and I sadly suspect I will have joined ranks with the droves of late-twenties women who are suddenly struck by an insatiable desire to throw a big party and wear a white dress and whatnot. I’d like to say this will never happen because I’m not influenced by things like peer pressure and social expectation, but the fact is I’m not, contrary to popular belief, completely impervious to these pressures. Evidence lies in the fact that I have just planted my first garden (and things are growing!!!), I’m meal-planning and doing my boyfriend’s laundry regularly, and I spend about 4 hours online weekly shopping for either puppies or houses – or both.

Which is so funny, considering that the Liz of a few years ago would have been completely aghast at these newfound preoccupations, preferring instead to picture herself as an unmarried bespectacled 40-something in a flat somewhere in New York with her dogs and cats and fantastic wardrobe and nightlife and single (preferably gay) male friends and an awesomely stimulating and high-powered job.

It could be that the right lovely tall smart sweet cooking cleaning fishing complementing complementary capable man has appeared in my life. (Or maybe it’s just cuz all my friends are doing it.) :)

2. I will be spending a grand total of, well, my entire savings account attending and participating in these wedding festivities.

I actually calculated, and assuming I spend X on each gift and X on each bridal shower and X on each bachelorette party (which, by the way, are RIDICULOUSLY EXPENSIVE these days, even without strippers!) I’ll be looking at a four-month expense of something like what it costs to attend a large state university for a semester when you’re not good at sports OR academics and are not either a veteran or a native American. Which is to say a lot.

3. I will have even more opportunities than usual to embarrass myself.

Yes, there is a story here. And yes, I will tell it. In my next post.

Until then, be good. I’m off to Vegas this Thursday through Sunday, where the weather will be 100 degrees and I will be happy as a well-fed, well-watered, baked clam.

Baked as in tan, not high. Just to be clear.

Talk soon!

Happy Innuendo Day!

2008-05-23T09:38:00.000-07:00

Well, folks, it's my favorite time of year again, so to speak. That's right, the day when it's encouraged to say "is that a gun in your pocket, or...", as it were. The day when "that's what she said" reigns, and "not that there's anything wrong with that..." is king -- or at least that's implied.

It's a hard thing to stay on top of, and requires cunning linguistics and repetitious practice before you can fully grasp the thrust of it. (Wink wink, nudge nudge.)

I think you know what I'm talking about...

Happy Innuendo Day, all.

Man-Shave, anyone?

2008-05-08T17:18:00.000-07:00

"You know what I think we should get your brother for graduation?"

My mom was driving, I was sitting in the passenger seat, fighting sleep, which was threatening to take me down like a rogue rebel force as we drove the 5 hours from our hometown to Washington State University, where my brother would be graduating the next day.

I shook off the dazed look and attempted to act like I'd processed the question.

"Um....what?"

"An old fashioned lather and shave," she said, all excited-like. "Except I didn't think about that until right this minute and graduation is tomorrow and so there's no way we can do it now."

My adorable mother is trapped in the stone age. She thought that because she'd not arrived more than a day in advance that there was no way she could now, in the car, figure out how/where she could send my brother in his college town for a fresh shave the morning of graduation. It never occurred to her that phones now have web access or that 411 might be a good place to start... instead, she was thinking the most efficient way to do this would have been to arrive in town, ask the locals, and go door to door until she found someone who a) provided the service and b) had a slot open the saturday of graduation for my brother.

She just -- JUST -- learned how to text message, in fact, and though she knows how to do it, she never does for two reasons:

1) she says it's ungodly expensive, and cents (CENTS!) per text, and
2) she can't figure out how to use the "shift" function on her phone, so all her messages are a strange combination of letters and numbers only sometime resembling actual English

Anyway, the problem: I was sleepy and needed a job in the car and my mother needed to find a barber shop.

Well, Liz to the rescue.

"No sweat," I said, pulling my shiny blackberry out of my pocket with a proud flourish. "I can take care of that for you in no time, flat!"

"Suuurrrree," she said, eyeing the phone warily. "We'll see."

I shrugged and started typing. Google wasn't turning up great results, but at least I got a list of phone numbers I could call in the Pullman, WA. area. Proud of my little progress and eager to show my mother that technology was, in fact, the obvious answer to this problem, I held up the phone, showing her the screen (nevermind that we were hurtling down the freeway at 80 miles an hour).

"There! See? A whole bunch of places we can call!"

I clicked the first link, calling a barbershop with a very masculine name. Surely, I thought, these folks would be the place a guy would go to get a...

a...

shit, what are they called?

As the phone was ringing, my mind was racing.

A straight shave?
A lather shave?
An old-fashioned shave?

My mind was blank. Though I could picture the service in my mind: man sitting in barber's chair, a hot towel on his face, then lather on his beard, then a straight-razor shave, I couldn't figure out what in the world that experience was technically called.

And then a man answered.

"Phil's Barber shop, this is Phil, how can I help you?"
"Oh! Hi!" I was far too enthusiastic in an attempt to buy me some time and hide how flustered I was.
"Hi," Phil said patiently. "What can I do for you?"
"Umm," I stammered, "I...I..." spit it out already! what were they called again? "I was wondering if you did those... uh... fluffy--er, I mean, soapy... uh... MANSHAVES!?"

There was a pause, then the sound like ol' Phil pulled the phone away from his ear and covered up the reciever, and then a snort.

"ManShaves?" Phil was sweetly trying to contain a laugh.

"Yeah... uh, you know..." It was over. I realized I'd just said "man shave" and completely lost it, bursting out in hysterical laughter.

"Fluffy?!!" he gasped.
"MANSHAVES??" I screeched.

Phil did the same. For two minutes at least -- a long and intimate time to be laughing on the phone with a dude you don't at all know -- Phil and I snorted, howled and tried to contain the waves of hysterical laughter that kept rolling back and forth between us.

When I finally composed myself and he courteously did the same, I of course apologized.

"Sorry, I didn't know what they were called," I said. "I cannot believe I just said 'man-shave'. How embarassing."

"No, it's cool," said Phil. "It's just that we're an equal-opportunity shaver. We prefer to call them 'PersonShaves'."

"Oh, of course," I said. "My mistake!"

Cue laughter again.

God bless goofy strangers.

And what the eff is wrong with me?

Y? Because we like you!

2008-03-24T08:57:00.000-07:00

Well, step 1 seems to have worked. After a car detailing and some reorganizing, I seem to be free of Mickey, the gum-chewing mouse. This is a relief, as is the fact that it does not appear I will need to go buying mouse traps and digging little mousey graves anytime soon. Hurrah!

The thing is that I think that in dealing with this situation, I may have developed yet another neurosis: I think I'm now either obsessed with or terrified of rodents.

The other day while at the mall, I stood on a skybridge talking on the phone to my mother when I saw a mouse scurry across the street below, from the parking garage (where I had just come from) to the mall building (where I was going).

Not only did I completely blank out on what we were talking about, I just sort of froze there momentarily, considering whether I really needed to go into the mall, and whether it was completely insane to think maybe that mouse came from my car, and whether there was any potential that mouse was going to make it into the mall (and therefore whether, again, I really needed to go in).

I think I recovered well, but to be honest, I'm not sure. I think my mom just kept talking the whole time I was panicking.

Then, last night, I dreamt that my house was infested with rats. But not just any rats, the kind that are really smart and evade you at every turn while still periodically popping their ugly little faces out of strange places in your home and scaring the bejeezus out of you. Yeah, not a sweet dream at all.

Like I need something else to be fixated on! On the upside, this could very well result in some entertaining stories for you sadistic minds out there who are entertained by my every misadventure. So stay tuned for that.

This is my 250th post, and there is a mouse living in my car.

2008-03-17T13:38:00.000-07:00

Let me repeat: THERE IS A MOUSE. LIVING. IN MY CAR. Is that both horrifying and disgusting? Yep, that’s what I was afraid of.

There is a mouse living in my car. And this dirty, disgusting little imposing mouse has a squeaky clean mouth (sorry for the pun).

I know both these things because this morning, when Jim and I were commuting to work, I reached into a little coin tray where I keep change and gum in my car for a stick of delicious Orbitz gum, and when I pulled out a stick, it had teeny tiny little bites taken out of it.

A goddamn MOUSE broke into my goddamn CAR and ate my goddamn ORBITZ. For the record, this did not give me a good clean feeling no matter what, as advertised.

“Oh…my…god…” I held one of the evidential sticks out to Jim, while not at all maintaining the 10 and 2 position with my hands on the wheel and only partially paying attention to the road.

“Looks like you have a mouse,” he said with utter disgust. “Eeew.” (Yes, Jim said “eew”. Priceless.)

“I do not have a mouse! There just IS a mouse! How did he even get IN here?”

I was immediately indignant. Nevermind that I have gone though periods where I could have been mistaken for living in my car, having someone bear witness to the fact that there was/is/had been a mouse living in there was a thousand times worse. Because mice are, well, icky. And I have it on good authority that mice only like really disgusting, dirty places. So that meant, in my head, that “my” mouse said something not at all flattering about me and my ability to maintain a car.

Just after I processed that thought, shaking my head and muttering, the next terrible one hit me:

“Oh shit! Do you think he’s still in here?!”

(As you can imagine, I was paying even less attention to my free right turn and the 5 key rules for safely operating a vehicle while processing this thought than I was before, because I was at that moment increasingly certain that there was a mouse – no, MANY mice, maybe hundreds – scurrying around under my seat, next to my feet, across my headrest, along the backseat. I was utterly convinced that they were everywhere.)

I couldn’t get us parked and out of the car fast enough. I scrambled to the elevator, imagining a torrent of rodents racing frantically behind me, worked to ditch the heebie jeebies and formulated my Rodent War battle plan:

1. Get car detailed, by a professional. Do not opt for the cheapie where they just vaccum your carpet, bite the bullet and request the full-on shampoo treatment, complete with bonus search for dead, dying or (eeew eeew eeew) alive rodents.

2. Lay a food booby-trap shortly after detail mission is complete.

2.a. At first sign of teethmarks, purchase 6 mousetraps – the kind that catch and squish the mice. (NOTE: Do not poison, as you have heard too many stories about people poisoning car-mice and then suffering through dead-mouse scent for weeks when they’re unable to find the body).

2.b. Have a nice strong drink. Consider setting up a hidden night-vision motion-detection camera with which to catch the mice in the act and determine their mode of entry.

2.c. Have another drink and reconsider motion-camera tactic, as it sounds like a lot of work.

3. Rely on the traps to catch and squish the mice.

3.a. Throw bodies away as needed, screeching "eeeeeEEEEEEWWWWWWWW!" the whole way to the garbage can.

4. Repeat as necessary until they wave the white flag or someone gives me a better idea.

5. Go shopping.

I do anticipate some problems. For one, I apparently live in the rodent capital of the universe. Mice have been a problem for some of my neighbors and even the previous renters of the house I currently live in (which, for the record, is VERY CLEAN AT ALL TIMES) and is so far free of mouse-sightings.

Secondly, mice breed like rabbits. Or cockroaches. Or something. I think they can have like a hundred babies in 10 minutes flat. Which means I may have to dip into the 401K to afford all the mousetraps this war may require.

Third, the irony: I have a cat, but she has no claws and lives indoors and poops in a little sandbox and owns a pink bedazzled shirt with the word "bitch" on it.

Finally, I don’t like killing things.

This is perhaps my biggest weakness as a person. It’s so GIRLY it’s unforgivable. I don’t even kill spiders – I make my cat do that (you don’t need claws to kill spiders). Hell, I go fishing and am happy to snag the fish and reel them up, but you will never get me to be the person with the bat who whacks that poor fish on the head to kill it. Nope, I’d rather put it in the cooler and know it’s slowly, painfully dying than just end it myself. I used to pluck and clean like 50 chickens every spring with my family growing up and I loved looking at all the guts, but I could NEVER handle that axe. So IF I get to step 2 and have to buy the horrible old fashioned mousetraps and I actually catch a mouse and find it in the trap the next day, squished and dead or worse—squished and not yet dead, I’m in trouble. Because there is NO WAY I’ll be able to a) open the door to the car in order to b) pick up and dispose of that trap.

Which may mean I’ll have to just give up and turn the car over to the mice and start jogging to work.

Wish me luck. And please, if you have any advice, I’m all ears. But not Mickey ears, because he’s the Enemy.

This is not a poop joke...

2008-03-12T16:18:00.000-07:00

But it could be.

Click here for a seriously unbelievable story including a toilet seat, a 2 year relationship, and the word "atrophy".

Work safe... I promise.

Five blades or die.

2008-02-21T08:58:00.000-08:00

I apologize for being so damn lazy lately, it's just that I've been altogether uninspired, super busy at work, and totally lacking creative juices (unless you consider a return to crock-pot cooking creative...). And it's not that I'm even that short on interesting stuff happening in my life. I mean, I've had a roommate go completely off her pogo stick, I've gone to (and drank black russians after) a funeral with my totally insane family, and my neighbor caught me watching TV while painting my nails, fully naked. These are all good stories, or at least moderately entertaining, but I've just got zero capacity to tell them at the moment.

So sit tight. But in the meantime, and in the interest of keeping you even somewhat entertained, I encourage you to read my favorite Onion post of all time: click here.

It's old, but every time I go back to it I find myself hysterical.

I mean, five blades? Five blades? C'mon. That's just crazy.

I've done a lot of stupid things while drunk...

2008-02-08T09:54:00.000-08:00

Including but not limited to:

- initiating a giant cake fight in a house that wasn't mine, with cake that wasn't mine
- missing the cup and instead pouring a drink into a friend's lap
- getting lost on a beach
- sending mass-texts to everyone I know and then not remembering the next day
- drunk-dialing (shocker, I know)
- drunk-MySpacing (worse, I assure you)
- bar-fighting (that's a really good story, actually)
- locking myself out of my house
- ordering $100 bottles of wine when what I really needed was gatorade and a cheeseburger
- buying a shirt of a large black man's back
- dancing with a transient
- etc.

...but I've never threatened to blow up a city with a TV remote.

And that's something.

Happy Friday!

Can I be your pet?

2008-02-06T08:08:00.000-08:00

Click here for the article this post relates to.

I think I'm a pretty open minded individual, but I gotta admit, this makes me a little uncomfortable. Either this girl is completely diabolical and about as lazy as a couch, having worked out a way to, like, never have to do anything of any substance again, or she's disturbed.

I mean, it doesn't sound so bad if you are the laziest individual on earth - she gets to basically loll around all day, eating and making waste and sleeping and whatever in her house. She doesn't have to hold a job or do chores or cook or run errands... she's a completely unproductive member of a household, just like a cat.

But the tradeoff is she can't leave the house without her significant other, and if she does leave the house with him, she has to wear a collar and a leash.

Huh.

First, no thanks.
Second, how long can this possibly last? I mean, at some point, isn't the gimmick going to be over and isn't this guy going to want a significant other he can take to an "off-leash" company Christmas party? And isn't she at some point gonna be like "Hey, dude, I don't like meatloaf. I'm making a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, and that's that!"?

i can has cheezburger?

2008-01-24T16:12:00.001-08:00

I found this site today on the random recommendation of a business associate and within moments of discovering it, it was up on the top bar of my browser as a bookmarked and much-loved site.

That position is reserved for very few sites, as space there is limited (I have probably 100 total bookmarks in my list, but only about 10-12 can fit as icons in the top bar of my browser). Among the best are wired.com, a couple industry blogs I monitor closely, Techcrunch, a link to my 401k planning site, 2 internal company links, a stock photo site for my creative work, theonion.com and, now, i can has cheezburger.

I don't know what it is, the anthropromorphizing of animals just gets me every time. Esepcially when they are animals who pronounce things funny, have a poor grasp of the english language, and are so completely self-obsessed as these ones.

And it's like a fun little treat -- you can check it 5 times a day and usually there's a new post every time! I might trade in my chocolate fix for cheezburger.

(by the way, the above image is the one I created of Akeelah -- watch for it to appear on the site!)

resolutions? maybe next year...

2008-01-02T20:33:00.000-08:00

I always make a good effort at resolutions at the beginning of a new year. There is something about them that appeals to me, to my idealism. I like the thought of looking at your life, promising to make changes, and having a timeline in which to see those changes take place (a year, to be precise).

But the follow through is where I find myself occasionally lacking. Not always -- I often make great headway on a number of my resolutions -- but generally speaking, resolving has actually turned out to be more of a "thinking out loud about how I would like to be if I had any will power whatsoever, then forgetting about it, renting a movie, and eating two bags of microwave popcorn in one sitting."

So much for idealism.

But it's worked out so far; 2007 was one for the books:

I removed myself, once and for all, from a bad relationship. I nurtured new relationships and some old ones, too. I saw my mother through a nasty divorce. I lost, then regained my sense of family. I fell in love -- the real kind. I skydived. I challenged myself. I hired employees (yes, this girl is someone's boss. Isn't that scary?).

I went on a road trip. I went fishing. I had surgery. I recovered. I surprised myself. I accidentally ate pot cookies (that's a whole 'nother story).

I got a raise, reconnected with old friends, and made new ones.

I figured out what I stand for, I think.

I got more patient, less confrontational, and stopped yelling so much.

I learned how to negotiate.

I folded my clothes after they were done drying much more frequently. I did not run out of gas one time.

I performed random acts of kindness. I helped friends in need. I got more comfortable being a friend in need, too.

And I realized for the umpteenth time that nothing's easy, and I know even less than I thought I did, and that sometimes people aren't who they say they are, but sometimes they are.

Oh, and I discovered that one should not drive around with expired tabs, that alternators are easily replaced by car-savvy friends, and that weiner dogs and small cats have the same size poo.

And that no matter what, one should always say yes to topless pools in Vegas and no to eating chips in the shower.

Maybe I don't need resolutions after all.

It just feels right.

2007-12-29T20:20:00.000-08:00

"Okay, let me see you," he said, holding his little camcorder. We were in a gift shop, surrounded by children scurring around with glee and parents who looked frazzled but happy, all to a very familiar soundtrack which was piped in from the ceiling.

We were in Disneyland. Just for the weekend. And I had run into the gift shop (one of a thousand on Disney's Main Street) on a whim and scrambled to the floor-to-ceiling display of mickey mouse ears; the felt ones, the old-school kind.

I snatched a child-sized blue pair with their floppy plastic mouse ears and propped it jauntily on my head, stretching that cheap (and dangerous) little elastic band around my chin to secure it. My heart immediately swelled a half-size.

I looked up to find Jim pointing his tiny video camera at me, smiling with his eyes, sun pouring in the shop all around him like some sort of beam of happiness. He looked golden. I felt golden. The moment crystallized.

"Can you see how cute you look right now?" he said.

I looked around the store. No mirrors. Was that possible? Ah, well.

I patted my head with satisfaction and grinned back at him from the very center of my inner 5-year old self.

"No," I said, "But it just feels right."

Naked near-death experience

2007-11-26T18:10:00.000-08:00

I recently almost died, literally, as a result of two things: modesty and multitasking.

(Can't you tell already that this is going to be a good post? I promise that it will be full of all your favorite things, including but not limited to nudity, food, and medical emergencies.)

It was Saturday afternoon. I had gone to the gym and spent too much time there, and had a date that evening. As I got into my car from the gym, the planning began.

There were many things I needed to get done in very little time in order to not be late for said date. These things included eating, showering, and dancing around naked while figuring out what to wear and getting appropriately pumped up, among others. It struck me, then, that there simply wasn't time for it all.

Here's how the math went:

Eat: 20 minutes
Shower: 10 minutes
Dancing, etc.: 55 minutes, at least

I had, say, 30 minutes total to work with.

Clearly, something had to go. Showering was a must-do, as this was a "likely to kiss" date, meaning sweatiness, even properly dried and coiffed, was a big no-no. Which left only one place to scrimp: food. (Clearly, the dancing is key to both my personality and my consistently smashing track record on dates. Let's just say I should teach a course on how to get boys to love you. I'm that dangerous. Ask me how to get them to not be complete douchebags, however, and I stare dumbly at you, for I do not have those answers.)

All the calculations done in my head on the drive home from the gym, I arrived at my abode a veritable whirlwind of activity.

I recall mild surprise that nobody was home, in our huge 4 bedroom house, when I arrived. As I stepped from the garage to the house, I pulled off my shoes and socks. Barefoot, I then raced to the stairs, and in doing so I passed the kitchen, where a bag of tortilla chips sitting on the counter caught my eye. Starving but still committed to my hurry, I snagged three chips from the bag and continued upstairs, into my bedroom and personal bathroom (I have the master bedroom in my house).

I put the chips down on the counter and turned the shower water on. As I waited for it to get warm, I stripped down and ate two of the chips, quickly. (Pleas spare me the lecture on how gross you think it is to put chips down on a bathroom counter -- it's my personal bathroom and is, therefore, clean as a whistle).

Sticking a hand into the stream, I determined it was nearly warm enough for me to enter. Grabbing the last chip and popping it, whole, into my mouth, I slid the door open again and went to step in.

And suddenly my eyes were starry, my heart rate was racing and I couldn't breathe.

In my haste to finish the chip before getting into the shower, or perhaps my inattention to it as I multitasked, I was choking.

On a tortilla chip.

In the shower.

Naked.

Swallowing hard, tears now streaming down my face, I flung the shower door open and frantically tried to cough. Nothing. I pawed at my throat, and tried the "finger sweep" move in my mouth -- but it was too far down for me to reach.

Having no gag reflex to speak of, forced puking was impossible. Suddenly I recalled seventh grade health, where we learned to administer to others, and ourselves, the heimlich maneuver.

This involved locating a corner of something (table, chair, etc.) and ramming your stomach area, right below your ribs, into it. Simple enough.

Eureka! I thought. I'm saved!

And then I tried it on the corner of my bathroom counter.

Remember, I am still naked as a jaybird, and a bathroom counter is typically sharp-cornered and fake-formica-topped. I jabbed myself about twice before I determined that there was only one thing worse than suffocating to death on a potato chip: heimliching yourself, naked, on a hard tile bathroom counter corner.

Now I'm really starting to panick. I'm only getting a tiny amount of air around this chip, and it's starting to get worse, not better. I realize this is a situation that has just taken a turn for the dangerously worse for me.

Realizing I can't heimlich myself hard enough to dislodge the chip without first puncturing my abdomen, I think about other corners in the house. Downstairs there were plenty -- chairs with round backs, rounded tables, even a bannister that would have worked. Surely that would projectile the stubborn little chip out of my airway and save me. Or I could run across the street to a neighbor's door and fall, gasping, on their doorstep for help!

Except one thing -- I was naked. As a jaybird.

And there was no effing way I was running downstairs, home alone or not, to throw myself on a counter corner, or at the doorstep of a neighbor.

No WAY, dying or not, that I was going to do that.

At this point, my vision is blurring and I am quite convinced that I am about to kick the can. I am now back in my bathroom, standing with my head between my legs, starry-eyed, light headed, and about to go down from lack of oxygen when the irony of the situation hits me:

I lived for 2 years absolutely alone in an apartment, and never once did I choke or get into a life-threatening situation. But the moment I moved into a huge house with 3 roommates, I choke on a potato chip while naked and home alone because I'm multitasking, and because of a sudden stroke of modesty and a low tolerance for pain, I was going to die, naked, on the floor of my bathroom, with the shower running, and a potato chip lodged firmly in my throat.

Fuck! I thought. I haven't even gotten married, reached my sexual peak or worn that green dress yet!

And really, is there a more embarassing thing for your family to have to tell your bereaved than "Yeah, she died of, um, well, a potato chip... naked... in the shower"? It rivals Elvis Presley!

And just when I am getting to the part in the grisly fantasy where my body is discovered, something shifts.

Perhaps it was all the spit and tears, perhaps it was the 150 percent humidity in my now steaming-hot bathroom, but something softened the chip.

It slid sideways, and with a grimace and some scraping, I was able to finally swallow it and take my first full breath of air in more than a minute or two.

I've learned a valuable lesson or two from this experience:

1. Chips are my arch nemesis, second only to the Giant and Collossal Squids
2. The gym can save your life, and I don't mean because it makes you healthy (if I weren't a tiny bit worried about what was going to jiggle and what wasn't, I'd have run out in the street naked and choking, I'm pretty sure.)
3. If anyone ever tells me they gave themselves the heimlich, I will unabashedly point and yell "LIAR!!" because I've tried, and it's just not possible.

...

Oh, the date went fine. I was only 5 minutes late. And I still managed to shower and dance (more so, even, than usual -- as I'd just survived a near-death experience).

And there was kissing, but no chips.

Tre, domesticated.

2007-10-23T09:50:00.000-07:00

Due to a series of unfortunate events, my big ass house and my two other roommates and I have been, recently, seeking a fourth roommate. The unfortunate events include but are not limited to letting a douche live with us -- a douche who we thought was our friend -- and then later having that douche douche out on us, by which I mean move to another state a mere week before the beginning of the month (when, lest you forget, rent in the amount of $600-$800 is due).

This has resulted in a few interesting twists in my life over the past month or two.

One of them is that my boyfriend moved into my house.

Now, before my mother starts sobbing hysterically about how hard she tried to "raise me right" and my brother starts repeatedly calling said boyfriend to threaten his life unless he propose, I should clarify: he moved temporarily into my house. Just for a month. To help us with the rent while we sought a "real", non-boyfriend, roommate.

The whole living with your significant other thing is an interesting experience. I've never really been decided on whether or not the rule should be one MUST live with their significant other before marraige or one MUST NOT, and this experience hasn't done much to convince me either way.

Let me explain, pro-con style:

Pros: Your respective schedules, and coordinating them, is no longer an issue, as you're guaranteed to see each other at least once a day, albeit sometimes when you're sleeping.

Another pro? Mealtime. Without even discussing it, Jim and I slipped effortlessly into the ryhthm of making breakfast and dinner for each other. I'd make french toast one day, he'd make egg sandwiches the next. I'd do corn chowder for dinner, he'd do salmon and rice the next day. There's something, as you know, that I find ridiculously sexy about cooking, and cooking together in a house that you both belong in is a whole 'nother hot, intimate, wonderful experience.

Plus there's just the pro of being in the general vicinity of the person who is your most significant other and therefore one of your best friends. Yes -- you better be able to fart in front of each other or your relationship is doomed -- but more than that, it's just nice to come home or wake up and have that person be there, happy to see you, every day.

But there are some cons. Like now he knows exactly how long it takes me to get ready to go out -- about 15 minutes longer than I'd like to have him believe. And he's seen -- and smelled -- me in less than desireable conditions. Living together, you're no longer able to carefully craft your image... cards are all on the table, face up, chips down.

But it gets worse. Take, for instance, the other day, when Jim came home to find me in the hallway outside the washer/dryer, a confused, guilty look on my face.

"I couldn't help it!" I cried, perplexed and flustered.
"Help what?!" Jim was confused and suspicious.
"I saw your laundry pile, and it was just sitting there," I said, face red, hands flapping about, "...and I had nothing better to do, so I just... I just... DID YOUR LAUNDRY!!! Without asking!"

I was horrified. I had become, overnight, a wifey/matronly type who, under the guise of doing her significant other a "favor", occupied her compulsive self by doing laundry like some sort of crack-chore-doing-whore.

There is no end to all the things I suddenly want to do for Jim that he is perfectly capable of doing on his own -- and probably likes doing as a perfectly capable modern man! Like making doctor appointments, cleaning up, doing dishes. Hell, I don't know how to iron and I've been tempted to iron for him!

And I'm OBSESSED with my crockpot. Jesus. I spend 15 minutes a day on Recipes.com looking up crock-pot enchiladas, crockpot stews, crockpot winter chicken roasts. I'm like the weirdly domesticated version of my former self -- suddenly my greatest concern is how I'm going to get a fresh, hot meal on the table in the least amount of time after work. Two months ago, my greatest concern was how to get my blood alcohol level up to .20 in the least amount of time after work.

What has become of me? Am I losing my sex appeal? My spark? My wiley singleton way? Has the constant exposure to testosterone suddenly caused a surge of the opposite in me? Or is it just the winter and the approaching holidays, and that innate female desire to nest, nest, nest when the weather gets chilly?

Whatever it is, it's a phenomenon, and one that's taken me by surprise. I think it must be a phase (a theory I'll test in a week when Jim moves out and into his new place 45 minutes away from me).

In the meantime, I'm going to play out the rest of this little domestic fantasty by going home during lunch to start my spicy black bean soup -- tonight's meal.

But aybe while I'm there, just to be safe, I'll change into some lacy underwear... you know, to keep things cosmically balanced.

The past, Hitler, and Rome, according to my mother.

2007-10-19T13:18:00.000-07:00

"Hey! That's where my car froze solid one winter and I was stuck here for a week!" I exclaimed, arm outstretched, pointing to a multicolored leaf-strewn residential road on the outskirts of my old college town. My mom and I were driving through it last weekend on the way to our family cabin, which we were traveling to winterize. And I was in the midst of an ongoing flashback, nostalgic and thrilled by the rapid-fire memories I could hardly verbalize before they were overcome with another more powerful one.

"And that's my old house! Oh God, the fondue parties we used to throw..."
"I had my very first class in that building... and there is where I learned how to throw a football... and there's where we used to sled in the winter and mudslide in the summers... and that's where I'd always go to skip class... and that's where I met--"

I stopped short for a moment, torn between enjoying the memory for what it was and mourning its presence at that moment.

Undecided, I turned towards my mom in the car.

"Isn't it weird how strongly attached certain places and things are to people from your past? Even when you don't want them to be," I moaned, "they just can't be untangled."

"Oh honey," my mom scoffed, half-laughing, half-scolding, "tell me about it. I've got 30 years worth of those places and things!"

My mom is recently divorced. From my dad. Her first marraige "failed", if that's the word, after 30 years. And she's doing incredibly well - looks better than ever, smiles all the time -- it was a good thing ultimately, as breakups almost always are.

But the truth remained: she has more memories painfully tied to my father, a compulsive and abusive cheater and liar, than I have of my entire existance.

"Oh yeah," I said. "Does that make you angry? I mean, aren't those memories prone to just barging in unwelcomed?"

"Eh," she shrugged, "At first, I guess. But after a while you realize that all those memories are true, and really happened, and are a part of your past. What are you going to do?"

"I dunno, brainsurgery?" I quipped. "Have you ever seen Eternal Sunshine?"

"Well, there's a lobotomy, or there's recognizing that where you've been before defines you, regargless of if it was as graceful or as spotless as you wish it were. The fact remains that you are who you are today thanks to where you were yesterday."

I nodded. .

"It's like Hitler," she said. "He killed a bunch of people. Mostly Jews. It's horrible, you can't pretend it isn't, but in the end, is what it is. A real part of the real past. You can't undo it."

I nearly broke my neck I whipped my head towards her so fast. Searching her face for a hint of sarcasm while failing to hold back a torrent of horrified laughter, I managed to get out a punishing "MOM!" and then "You realize you just compared your ex-marriage to the Holocaust, right? Don't you think that's a bit much?!"

"Well," she said, eyes dancing with health and humor and a bit of that gypsy mystery she has about her, "Maybe, but when in Rome..."

"Mom, I don't think that's the right context for..." I stopped, smiled and shook my head. "Oh, nevermind."

Airlines are the devil. Now gimme my window seat!

2007-10-18T09:16:00.000-07:00

I had a conference and a couple business meetings to attend lastweek in Texas, for which I bought plane tickets weeks ago. I was over zealous when buying the tickets, and decided I could tough out a redeye flight, which would save me a night in a hotel, but also get me to my destination city early enough to not feel rushed and deal with anything that went majorly awry before it was, as they say, "showtime".

BAD MOVE.

The night before the flight, at about 10 p.m., I got my handy-dandy Orbitz flight alert with that perky lady who proceeded to tell me my flight, scheduled to take off in 2 hours, was delayed. Yes, a red eye flight, delayed. So I called the airlines in an attempt to catch a later flight out -- like one when, I dunno, the sun was up.

And do you know what the nice lady with the southern accent told me? There was a flight at 11 the next morning which I could get on, but I would have to call back at exactly 11 p.m. to claim the ticket, as there was some sort of 12 hour rule. And there was no amount of convincing I could do to get some leniency on this rule, I discovered.

Well, shit. That meant I had to get in the car and start driving to the airport while calling the airlines at precisely 11 to hopefully snag the last ticket on that flight. So i did. And 20 minutes later, guess what I discovered? No ticket left. But there WAS, I was informed, a flight at 12:30 the next afternoon, and if I wanted to wait until 12:30 a.m. -- or 3:30 a.m. for the 3:30 pm flight, I could do that.

What the fuck? This is a bullshit rule. I was ON THE PHONE, with my CREDIT CARD IN HAND, dying to buy a ticket, and they told me that on a technicality I'd have to skip my flight, cross my fingers, turn around in a circle, and stay awake until 3 in the morning to MAYBE buy a plane ticket for 3 in the afternoon!

This made no sense to me. So I hung up and continued to the airport, where my flight was further delayed. By almost 1 a.m. I was finally boarding, looking forward to my window seat, when I discovered seating had been rearranged, and I was now on an aisle.

BAD. VERY BAD.

I hate aisle seats. I hate them because I can't ever fully relax in them (relaxing is imperative on a redeye flight, as you simply cannot be the one asshole with the reading light on in a pitch dark plane for 4 hours). I can't relax in them because I'm always afraid someone in the middle or window seat is going to need to pee and I'm going to have to get up so they can get out, because if I'm asleep when they have to go they might feel uncomfortable waking me up.

Now, I'm the ideal window passenger because I'm like a camel -- I get on planes and no matter how long that flight is, I NEVER have to get up to pee, or primp, or puke. No sir. I am asleep in a window seat before takeoff, ipod in place, and wake up right about when the plan touches down, sometimes slightly after.

So maybe that actually makes me more like a sloth or hibernating bear than a camel.

No matter, you get the point:

1. Redeyes suck
2. Airlines are the devil (albeit with very friendly voices in customer service)
3. If you're the person who has to pee once an hour on cross-country flights, you might remember me. I'm the person in the aisle who politely lets you out and then sticks her foot out to trip you on your way to the tiny cube potty -- for the THIRD TIME. Nice to meet you.

Actual virtual conversation

2007-09-28T10:07:00.000-07:00

Pat: Can animals join al-Qaeda? I'm just curious if they'll take anyone, or some poor saps get turned away...and/or animals.

Me: As long as they hate modern clothing and the baby Jesus.

Pat: Why am I in a predicament that involves me needing scissors to open scissors? Terroristic animals are the least of my worries now!

Me: This morning, I almost had to pull over and ask the construction workers to assist me, using power tools, with the opening of an Advil + Sinus pill blister pack. Fucking technology. In other news, I'm throwing a karaoke-housewarming party and I wish wish wish you didn't live in god forsaken TEXAS.

Pat: I rocked Montell Jordan the other night at karaoke like nobody's business. I'm talking standing ovation type shit. Texas, particularly San Antonio, blows. What a great representation of this fine state! It smells like Antonio Banderas, which I think is who it's named after.

Me: Well, THAT was random.
---

Happy Friday!

The sound of September

2007-09-27T09:40:00.001-07:00

Fall is always a good time for music for me -- I am restrained by the weather to hours inside on weekends, which means I'm looking for tunes to drive to, clean to, read to, nap to... Music becomes my little pet project.

September's soundtrack:

1. Paolo Nutini.
He's a 19 year old Scottish singer/songwriter, but for all the cliche that is in that description, he's relatively memorable, in a "these songs were totally written for motion picture soundtracks" kinda way. His song "Last Request" reminds me of the pointless romances we've all endured (and endured is the right word). It's pathetic and sad and really wonderful up loud on a rainy day in the car. Almost everything he sings is melancholy, with the exception of "New Shoes", which is a happy little ditty that warms up the corners of your your brain, sticks in your molars like white bread and makes me smile like an idiot.

2. Muse.
I'm hooked. The song "Starlight" is kickass, as is "Invincible". To give them a listen, click here.

3. Sara Bareilles.
This is the perfect "telling me to love you doesn't make me love you, you smothering asshole" song, only it's so damn sweet you'd never know it.

Sara Bareilles Love Song

Music Videos And Lyrics On Demand

4. Citizen Cope.
Hello, you. He's been in the music game for a while, but I recently rediscovered Cope, and can only say that if you're not already a big fan of his go-go/funk/rock/soul sound (and his... um... hotness), one listen to "Sideways" and "Bullet and a Target" (and a lookie loo at his videos, ladies) will make you a believer.

5. Regina Spektor.
Fidelity is rapidly becoming a "most played" song on the iTunes, but she's interesting across the board. Looks like Tori Amos, has a unique Bjork-reminiscent sound -- she's one of the few singers (another? Imogen Heap.)who's voice wavers between sounding human and sounding purely instrumental.

Hello, little Chuckie!

2007-09-26T07:55:00.000-07:00

This is the scariest thing I've ever seen on the Internet (and I've seen Britney Spears' crotch)... thank you, Perez Hilton.

It is also (along with Britney Spears' kids) a reasonably valid argument against having children.

For more retro demonic kid ads, plus the fun bonus of deeply disturbing cuisine ads, go here. Whatever these ads were selling, I'm not buying. I'm a particularly big fan of the devilied eggs layed on top of day-glo mac and cheese and surrounded by halved tomatoes and the creampuffs full of peas.

Good God. Thanks, Plan59!)

"It's a race... and I'm WINNING!"

2007-09-24T15:12:00.000-07:00

This image has literally nothing to do with the post that will follow, except it has the word "race" in it and the quote with which this post is titled is from the movie "Rat Race". (That was like a free association exercise, and I apologize, but now that it's there I'm not taking it back because if you're reading this you clearly don't have shit to do, anyway.)

I believe we've discussed here before that I am at the very least unpredictable, and at most the human embodiment of the word "contradiction". Totally put together on the outside, while secretly stupidly scattered. Great at taking care of other people, almost genetically unable to care for myself. Great at parking, terrible at driving. Torn between city and country, summer and fall, passivity and aggression. Super flirty but impossibly prude.

And, above all, at once graceful and incredibly accident-prone, both at all the wrong times.

Which is where this story comes in.

I recently went with Jim out to lunch. We met in my office, and as we walked towards the elevators, we were joking and laughing about God knows what. It's important to note that the long hallway leading towards the elevators is set up as follows. On the right: wall. On the floor: carpet. On the left: an expanse of windows that looks in to the engineering department at my company (in other words, a bunch of computer nerds staring at their screens, iPods on, facing the window.

"Hey!" Jim said, stopping in the middle of our banter, "I have an idea!"

"What?" I was intruiged as I saw his eyes light up. Whatever it was, it was going to be fun.

"Let's race---"

At the word "race", I knew it was on. In an attempt to get a head start to the elevator, I leapt immediately, yelling "GOOOOO!" AND swinging my heel-clad right foot forward violently -- the first step in my inevitable sprint to victory.

But instead of catapaulting triumphantly forward, I was shocked to discover myself instead flailing violently, unable to get my right foot on the ground. My right heel, on a clear path to glory just a moment before, had firmly snagged in my wide-cuffed kick-ass herringbone trousers just before making contact with the ground, resulting in a "hog-tied" affect -- both my feet together, neither able to move independently.

This, combined with the enthusiasm with which I thrust my body forward behind my first step, resulted in a sort of fishlike wiggling and then a very dramatic faceplant, barely involving my arms, onto the carpeted hallway.

It was horribly quite "Free Willy" -- I sorta dove/slid on my belly down the hall a few feet before coming to a complete stop directly in front of the window looking into the office, and right in front of the baffled, mortified Jim.

"Please," he said, his face a mixture of 80 percent humiliation and 20 percent amusement, "PLEASE tell me you meant to do that."

Unhooking my foot and rolling onto my back, I burst into laugher -- again, right there on the floor in front of the window and in my office hallway. I had, of course, not meant to do that. Jim's great white hope that I had intended that contortionist act of physical comedy made the situation that much funnier. Combined with the look on the face of one engineer dierctly in front of the window, who removed an iPod earbud and was staring, agape, and I couldn't stop laughing.

Realizing the Great Floor Flop of 2007 was unintentional, Jim's face fell. "Oh, God," he said as he swiftly walked away from me and to the elevator, pushing the "down" button rapid-fire, "Get up."

Apparently Jim got his sense of humor back the second he wasn't being associated with me in a publicly mortifying situation, because this is the story that's been told nonstop for the last few days, while the fact that I did the splits and two back handsprings when I got up goes completely unreported.

Either way, I swear to God I would have won that race if not for the disqualification. I'm presently negotiating for a rematch. In a less dangerous outfit, of course.

Goodminton

2007-09-10T07:17:00.000-07:00

"You know, we should be nicer to each other," Jim said. We were setting up badminton set in my backyard, while drinking red wine and sweating after work one day recently.

"Yeah? Nicer, huh?" I was focused on untying a knot. Things weren't going particularly well with the badminton set -- stuff was tangled, the ground was too soft, then too hard, the net was crooked.

With Jim and I, things were going smashingly, except both he and I have acerbic wits, sharp tongues, and a wide sarcastic streak. Before we dated, these traits were fun. Once we started hanging out, these traits served as flirty little conversation crutches. But lately, once in a pretty solid relationship, our barbs have started to occasionally stick, which means we've each spent a little more time than we should every week nursing unnecessary wounds and pouting at each other.

"Yeah, nicer," he continued. "I think our communication could be a little better lately, don't you?"

I just about threw down the badminton set and ran to the nearest gas station to buy a lottery ticket. Was I getting a talk about communication? From a man? Who I am dating?

Who is, then and therefore, not gay?

It was a minor miracle.

In an attempt to not overreact to the awesomeness of the moment, I played it cool.

"Yeah, I think you're probably right. Less sarcasm would be good. Deal."

(That was a lie. I did not play it cool. I launched into a 4 minute psychological dissection of why our normally entertaining and sarcastic conversations were starting to drive us both nuts. Standard communication-happy emo-girl stuff.)

Then, as quickly as we'd started talking about it, the conversation was over. A solution was in place. We agreed to take it easier on each other. More love, less war. At the same time, my knot was untied. The net was up. We each stepped back and picked up our rackets, looking over our handiwork.

"There. Look how much we accomplished in a few minutes!" Jim grinned at me from across the net.

"Yeah," I said, admiring the net with my own broad smile. "It looks awesome!"

Then, a moment of silence, which I noted a tad awkward. I looked over at Jim, who had his head tilted quizzically at me.

"What?" I said.

"Um, I was talking about our relationship... but the net looks good, too," he laughed, shaking his head.

Holy shit. Either I'm totally out of my element, or I've met my match.

My GynoCarnival

2007-09-05T09:48:00.001-07:00

I sat in one of 14 lined-up gray chairs in a gray room, legs crossed, flipping boredly through Parenting magazine, steadily getting more pissed off as I watched the clock tick steadily past my appointment time. The irony of my reading material was not lost on me, as I was there to... um... not get pregnant.

About halfway through the article on how to potty train a stubborn child (and 20 minutes after my appointment for the single most horrifying day of any above-18 woman's year -- the pap smear), a stubby nurse in a horribly flowered set of scrubs opened a door and called my name.

"Oh, that's me," I said, scrambling to stand, shove my blackberry into my bag and stuff the magazine back in the rack with the other "YAAAAY! Babies are FUUUNNN!" magazines.

"Right this way," she said, predictably, gesturing down the hall to one of many doors with little numbers in pink on the outside. I was in room 3. "Now just get undressed, drape this over you," (here she hands me a blue cloth approximately the size of a hand towel) "And crack the door when you're undressed. The doctor will be with you shortly."

"Great," I said. "I thought for a minute he was standing me up!"

I always think it's a good idea to try to be funny at these things, which never goes well. The nurse grunted in my general direction while fiddling with a clipboard. "Oh," she said over her shoulder on her way out, "I've got an extern here shadowing me for the day, so if you don't mind, she'd like to observe your procedure."

Well, if that wasn't a loaded question, I thought. What am I going to do, say no to science? That's like not donating organs, which you simply can't not do, because what kind of person won't give their organs away if they're not using them? Jesus. "Uh huh," I nodded. "Sure."

The door firmly shut behind me, I disrobed, as instructed, piling my clothes under my purse on the chair across the room from the exam table, grabbed the tiny drape and strategically placed it so I could go to the other side of the room, crack the door, and sit down on the papered exam table without an incident of indecent exposure.

Once safely on the table, door partially open, I became aware again of the tiny size of the drape. Either I am a larger than normal-sized person, or this thing wasn't capable of properly draping over a female body and covering enough to keep the examination room rated PG-13.

As I tugged and considered my nakedness, the clock kept ticking. After 10 minutes went by, I started to anxiously look over to my purse, where I could hear the steady "buzzzzzz..... buzzzzzz" of my blackberry, indicating I had recieved email from work.

Now a full 40 minutes after my appointment had passed, the buzzing continued, and I was on the brink of a meltdown. I simply. couldn't. stand it. anymore. So, taking a deep breath, I strategically repositioned the drape, and barefoot and naked with the door half open, raced across the room to my bag where I dug frantically for the blackberry before sprinting back and leaping up onto the paper-covered table again, gasping and re-adjusting the useless piece of cloth while people talked in the hallway just outside the partially open door.

Back to safety, I distracted myself from the fact that my appointment was already technically over by sending 15 work emails (again, while effing naked at the effing gyno. Can you say workaholic?) And then, at last, the doctor entered, frumpy nurse and 12-year-old extern in tow.

"Get your emailing done?" he said sarcastically, noting the blackberry in my right hand; my only accessory. I nodded sheepishly. "Alright," he said, "This should go pretty quickly." I leaned back, feet in stirrups, and tried to relax.

And then, a few seconds into the exam, my phone rang, blaring out a Rufus Wainwright song titled "Rules and Regulations" for which the chorus includes "Theeese are just the rules and regulaaations/for the birds/and the bees...". And as I scrambled to silence it in the middle of my exam, it occurred to me that there was a huge mirror in the room, which reminded me of the many E.R. and Grey's Anatomy episodes where classes of snarky 20-somethings sat behind one-way mirrors to watch procedures, and I pictured myself being the subject of this observation, with my ineffective drape and my gay songwriter "birds and bees" ringtone and the nurse-extern-doctor medical triangle at my feet.

I just couldn't stop myself. I burst into a fit of giggles.

This thoroughly confused the doctor and the nurse, who exclaimed "It's okay, honey! It's like getting the hiccups in church!" to which I laughed harder. By the time the exam was over, I was teary eyed and heaving.

And then, I remembered that two of my work friends and I had recently been discussing all the new birth control methods and had vowed to ask our doctors for their opinions of all the options so we could compare notes, you know... just in case. And as the horrified nurse and extern stood there, I, half-naked and having just experienced the strangest pap of my life, asked my doc about birth control.

He ran through a couple types -- things I'd never heard before -- with names that I swear sounded like spaceships or military acronyms. (By the way, thanks a lot, public education system, for the stellar sex-ed). And then, he came to "The Ring".

"The Ring" I was familiar with, having actually remembered that from human sexuality in college. Doc ran through a couple little bits of information about that particular method, noting that the only possible inconvenience was that some people liked to remove it before... uh... intercourse.

"Oh, really?" I said, trying really hard to be all adult and stuff about this super-weird topic in front of my audience of three and still chilly and naked. "Why would you remove it if you don't have to?"

And here is where my appointment ended with a bang:

"Well," he said, "You don't have to, but sometimes if you leave it in... well... you might just ring yourself a penis!!"

I immediately snorted with laughter and the extern began to giggle, us both certainly picturing some sort of carnival game where if you "ring a penis", you get some huge, overstuffed pink elephant, a goldfish, or a bunch of stick-on tattoos. Unbelievably hamming it up, Doc continued, now gesturing as though plucking low-hanging fruit from a tree:

"...and then you'd have to say (here's where he uses his female falsetto)'whoops! i'm going to need that back!'"

...

I swear to God, sometimes my life is like an episode of Sex in the City gone wrong... way, way wrong, only with less sex, less money, and in distinctly more practical shoes.

Tuesday, we get to laugh. Over and over. And over.

2007-08-28T11:13:00.000-07:00

Oh, South Carolina, I am so, so very sorry.

Also, really, Michael Vick? I mean, REALLY?

I live in a jungle but there's good music there

2007-08-27T08:46:00.000-07:00

My "indoor" cat which now spends the vast majority of her time outdoors brought me this lovely present the other morning -- a shrew, it's tiny belly pressed to the carpet, little scooper hands splayed out to the side, right there in my living room. It looked asleep, almost. So much so that I stood over it and stared at it for a good four minutes before getting up the nerve to pick it up with my paper towel-wrapped fingers and toss it out.

And Keelah sat there watching me watch it, and then watching me dispose of it, the whole time purring violently and making figure-eights between my feet like she was so proud of herself. I gotta give it to her, though, for being a three-pound cat with no front claws, she's a helluva hunter.

Later that day, she killed a 3-inch spider in my sink and laid it up on the counter for me to find in the morning.

I didn't realize, until my cat started hunting, that I was surrounded by bugs and vermin. Reassuring, isn't it?

Oh well. She may be a pain in the ass, but at least she brings home the bacon. Which is significantly more than I can say for one of my roommates.

Monday playlist:

Night Swimming -- R.E.M. Just try it. You'll like it.

Brighter Than Sunshine -- Aqualung. This song makes me feel desperately, irreversably, incurably in love, even when I'm not. But just for the record, I might be.

Almost Lover -- A Fine Frenzy. They're a band led by a lilting, dramatic, piano-playing female vocalist. They opened for Rufus Wainwright at the Moore, and were a distinctly non-sucky opener. This song is pretty much the saddest "almost love" song ever. My boyfriend wants to sleep with the redhead. For all the above reasons minus one, I love them.

No Love -- Team Facelift. Thier name is Team Facelift. They have a song called "Lotion in the Basket". The three rappers in the group are called Machine, Fat Jew and Ginger Ale. They care most about, according to their MySpace page, "not giving a fuck". I like that.

Try not to panic, it's only heaven.

2007-08-21T07:45:00.000-07:00

Heaven is totally overrated. It seems boring. Clouds, listening to people play the harp. It should be somewhere you can’t wait to go, like a luxury hotel. Maybe blue skies and soft music were enough to keep people in line in the 17th Century, but heave has to step it up a bit. They’re basically getting by because they only have to be better than Hell.

–Joel Stein, Columnist for The Los Angelas TimesRead his whole post here

My personal heaven? Lots of sun. Lots of water. Lawn everywhere -- a little long, but not unkempt. Popsicles. Footballs and frisbees and fishing off docks. And kissing.

And dogs. Many dogs. Maybe a dog to person ratio of, like 1:1. Have you ever noticed that usually dogs are a lot easier to be around than people or, say, cats? And sometimes more interesting.

Speaking of interesting, can somebody please explain to me what a jellyfish actually IS? Do they drift, or swim, or both? Do they hunt, or just run into their food, or both? And where does their food go? I've seen lots of jellyfish, but it appears to me they are all hungry, because I've never seen a jellyfish with a fish in its "stomach". Because I'd know. Because they're clear.

Also, while we're talking food and confusion, what is the nutritional value of a mushroom? As far as I can tell, their closest relative is dirt. Or maybe rocks. Or sponges. In any case, they're delicious.

My friend's aunt drinks non-alcoholic beer. Which is funny, because while I like the taste of beer, I also like the warm fuzzy feeling it gives your brain, right at the outer edges, kind of like when you're just about to fall asleep or orgasm. But my friend's aunt just drinks non-alcoholic beer because it reminds her she used to have orgasms, I think.

Speaking of things that are manufactured to impersonate good things but minus certain unsavory parts, why hasn't anyone come up with a non-tobacco and nicotine cigarette yet? For all the orally-fixated people of the world (me, for instance) that would be a delightful thing -- and unlike non-alcoholic beer, you would be getting the ultimate satisfaction of smoking (hand to mouth to hand to mouth) with none of the gross side-effects, including but not limited to stinkiness, wrinkliness, cancerousness, terrifyingly gutteral chronic cough and poorness due to ridiculously high tobacco taxes. (Not that I suffer from any of those afflictions, as I am not a smoker; I just think it's worth noting.)

Last night I was so anxious about having been on (lovely, relaxing) vacation and away from (interesting, fast-paced, exciting) work that I decided to throw a party, cook for 8 of my closest friends, and drink a bottle of red wine. Which was a good idea, up until the 3 a.m. panic attack, when I woke up and was so stressed out all I could do was reach stiffly for the blackberry next to my bed and breathe too fast (in and out, shiraz-flavored panting) while scrolling through the next four months on my outlook calendar frantically, the whole time convinced that I was going to drop dead of a heart attack at the tender age of twenty-something-too-young-to-die.

Panic attacks are interesting because when they strike they are stealthy, only waking you up from a dead sleep when you are already apparently in the grip of death, grim reaper with his gnarly hand on your heart, which is pounding out of your chest. Your limbs tingle, giant tears hang out in your eyes threatening to roll down each cheek. And my panic attacks, at least, are about nothing specific, but rather everything minute and inconsequential.

For example: My toilet is clogged, not flushing right. No big deal, need to plunge and draino again and that will probably fix it up, right? Right?

But if plunging and draino doesn't do it, what then?

What if I damaged the plumbing in the house and the pipes break and water goes through the second floor ceiling and down into the kitchen and they have to dig giant holes in my room to repair it and I get kicked out and my cat escapes or drowns in the runoff and my friends have nowhere for me to stay and I can't find another place to live and I get fired for missing work because I have to canoe through my house and then sick from the standing water and can't afford the medical bills and then my boyfriend leaves me for someone less quirky and confrontational and significantly less disasterous in every way and I am left with only that hooded sweatshirt I hate because it chokes me and my highschool yearbook and a guitar I still can't play, lying on my friend's parents' couch where I die alone and still unable to play "Blackbird"?

Panic attacks are about, you know, stuff like that.

And all you want is for somebody to tell you you're not going to die and maybe pet your head like when you were five years old and remind you that you're not alone, not at all alone, and not a crazy person, well maybe just a little.

But nobody's there, so instead, you picture the worst case scenario: you, dead.

And then it occurs to you that maybe, just maybe that might not be so bad. And then you have an idea: Distract yourself from your own unnamed panicky dread by picturing heaven. (Aaaah, and here is where this post starts to come together. Do you see it now? The genius? Thank you.)

And then, as fast as they came, the panicking and palpitation and panting are gone and you are waking up extra early later that morning and going to the gym to get the lingering panic out and then you're at work, all early-like, and things have changed since you were gone, but not that much, and people are glad to see you and your things are still in your office. Even the stapler and your plants, Spike and Henry.

And there are flowers on your desk. And a friend mailed you a book while you were gone. Both these things make you smile really big even though nobody is looking.

And someone tells you you're "glowing". Which is funny, because if a panic attack and 4 hours of sleep following a bottle of wine makes you glow, you think, you should be basically beaming most of the time.

...

I'm back, and while perhaps not entirely recovered from my vacation, I'm thankful for it almost without exception -- the only exception being the overflowing "in" box on my desk.

I'll get back atcha when I've had a bit more oxygen and maybe a little something to eat. In the meantime, welcome to a whole new week. Try not to panic.

You know what works for me? Picturing heaven, with the dogs and the lawn and the docks and the sunlight. And the kissing. Especially that. That's better than Hell and panicking, both.

Goodness update

2007-08-15T17:47:00.000-07:00

There are many good things happening (BO-RING, I know) at the moment -- in fact, so many that I have no time for a proper (or, rather, completely inappropriate, lengthy and unnecessarily sarcastic) post. So, instead, a list, which I'll come back to for discussion as soon as humanly possible (and I return from vacation):

1. I'm going on vacation!
As usual, this will entail lots of sun, shit-talking while playing various games and sports, alcohol and lying around when not shit talking, drinking, or playing sports. Or frantically waving on-fire marshmallows around my head trying to extinguish them when I accidentally over-toast them (in my toasted, overly, state).

2. I'm alive, surviving the world's worst flu of all time. (Okay, it wasn't that bad, but I didn't eat or work for 3 days, so for me, that's major).

3. My escape artist cat is now an indoor/outdoor cat! This means I 1) don't have to feel guilty about being a bad mother and giving her away and 2) she's smarter than I gave her credit for: when she gets out, she kicks it in the great outdoors for a while, then realizes it's boring and scary out there and there's nothing good to eat and comes home, sits outside the door and meows until someone hears her and lets her in. Hurrah!

There's more, as always, but before I can fully re-commit myself to you, humble readers, I must bake myself for four days outside cell phone range and far, far away from the Interweb.

Wish me luck, have a lovely weekend, and we'll talk soon.

Sick sucks, but has its moments...

2007-08-10T07:19:00.000-07:00

I've slept for 72 hours in the last 5 days. That means I've been awake for about 48.

I have some sort of virus that completely knocked me out, and sent me scampering home Monday morning at 10 a.m. after a pretty valiant attempt at actually going to work. In the car on the way home, in fact, I was doing that thing you do when you're feverish: shaking and whimpering. Audibly whimpering.

And sweating.

The only time I got up Monday and Tuesday was when the boy showed up and made me drink liquids and when I sweat through my sheets so badly that I had to get up to shower, change my sheets, and go back to bed.

It was MISERABLE.

But there were perks.

In two days, this is what I ate:
4 Otter Pops
8 spoonfulls of soup
5 spoonfulls of ice cream
2 bites of bread

This non-eating policy my stomach launched over the course of the past week had a delightful side benefit. When I finally got up Wednesday morning feeling slightly better, I went to the bathroom in a bra and underwear to brush my teeth and was greeted by a pleasantly super-flat stomach and tinier than usual waist.

"Huh," I thought. "Well, at least there's that." I might have had the energy of an Ethiopian boy, but I was looking lithe. And I was feeling much better. So much better that I could go to work.

So much better that after work, I thought it would be a good idea to celebrate my newfound health at a work function with 4 to 5 tasty beers along with my colleagues and executives (we wone a big award, so everyone was celebrating).

And that's when the perk turned on me.

You see, a girl with a virus who doesn't eat and just sleeps and sweats for two full days has the alcohol tolerance of an eight year old. I had nothing in my stomach but beer. And I was feeling good!

Until 7 a.m. Thursday, when I woke up with a hangover like I've never had before -- and guess who was baaa-aaaack? Yep, the fever, the chills, the sweating -- the virus. It hadn't gone away, it was just taking a break. And when I let my guard down and thought I was cured, it came back to bitch-slap me for my stupidity.

Yesterday wasn't such a hot day at work. And though I was sick and brutally hungover, I toughed it out (after all, everyone had seen me feeling SO good the night before... I couldn't possibly take another sick day). The only upside there is that everyone else was so hung over too (no kidding -- literally everyone was dragging ass, and we're a 100+ person company) that nobody noticed me in my office, bundled up in a coat, scarf and slippers with the heat full blast, shivering and sweating like no tomorrow.

Today, though -- today is a new day. I'm hydrated, I'm still boasting the tight tummy, and I'm not drinking a drop this weekend. Because I hate sick. Sick sucks. And I'm never doing it again.

Have a happy, healthy Friday. Do something your body will love you for, for once.

[Note: Don't worry -- once I'm back to 100 percent, all this positivity about "your body is a temple" and whatnot will inevitably fall to the wayside and I'll be back to my usual antics, but until then, humor me, will you? And think happy, healthy thoughts. And send me presents and sympathy emails. Thank you.]

Not technically plagiarism, just extreme, credited, laziness

2007-08-02T10:12:00.000-07:00

From Dooce, pretty much the funniest blog excerpt I've read in a while. It's long for an excerpt, which I'm sure violates some sort of copyright law, but what the hell? Drive fast, take chances, I say.

[And Dooce, apologies for the fact that I'm leveraging your shit to entertain my readers because my shit today is actually quite shit-like, which is to say unfunny/uninteresting, whereas your shit is golden.]

At any rate, we enter the scene when our heroine is in the middle of a quick and thrilling livingroom hookup with her hubby (their roommate, GEORGE!, is out at the moment, presumably for the night, hence the rogue non-bedroom hook-uppage):

"...I’ll just go ahead and admit that there is nudity, like there is wont to be in this type of situation, and within a few minutes there is a cloud of shirts and pants and pillow cushions that has sex-ploded in a giant burst over the entire living room, like a herd of elephants has come through and knocked everything over. And we’re being very friendly with each other when suddenly a strange but familiar noise comes ringing through the air, that of a door handle being vigorously jiggled.

I don’t even remember this happening because it is so lightning fast, but somehow Jon is mid-air within, I don’t know, a blink? And just as quickly he has one leg into his underwear. Now, I have no frame of reference as to what I’m supposed to do in this type of situation. I’ve never had to hide the act of sex from anyone because I started participating in it at an age when my parents were not in the other room. And a part of me thinks that if I close my eyes GEORGE! will just go away. If I can’t see him then he can’t see me. That’s called physics.

Meanwhile Jon is waiting for me to make a move, to hop up and carry my bare white ass to a closet or at least behind a piece of furniture. And I notice that he’s looking very confused, so all I can think to do is grab one of the pillows I have thrown off the couch and cover my body, although come to find out it’s only big enough to cover one body part, not two at the same time, and it’s Sophie’s Choice right there in my living room...."

How's that for a cliffhanger? Read the rest, here.

Cardinal sin #28: Pity-dating

2007-07-29T14:43:00.000-07:00

"I know she's not the one," sighed my friend P into his pint of Red Hook IPA. He was having "relationship issues". I love talking about "relationship issues". Hence us, together, over Bang Bang shrimp and drinks, (two more things I love) dissecting his relationship with his girlfriend of a couple years.

He's never cheated (hell, he felt guilty about meeting me for some platonic female counseling), treats his girlfriends like gold, is smart and an idealist and is actually capable of expressing himself intelligently with some real emotional maturity while also maintaining a distincly masculine air. He's no weenie, but he's also no brute.

Christ, looking back at that paragraph, he's like the holy grail of men, isn't he? And, dear single ladies, he's attractive. AND bilingual.

But he's also a notorious pity-dater.

This girl, who he met and almost immediately started dating and later moved in with, was a "pretty", "nice" girl. The prettiness and niceness were, well, pretty and nice at first.

"There weren't 'sparks', per se," he said, "But she was sweet, and liked me, and it just felt right."

"Right?" I raised my eyebrow.

"Easy," he conceded. "Routine. Which seemed at the time like the way it was supposed to be, I guess."

They never fought. (Let it be known that I believe every great relationship survives because its members know how to do two things very intelligently: fight and apologize -- and mean them both). He never cheated. The sex was just okay. (I asked.) Their phone conversations were short.

"Okay, so let me extrapolate this and see if I'm getting your drift," I said, taking a deep breath. "You go to work in grey cubicles every morning, meet for cheese sandwich lunches during which you hardly speak except about the weather. You come home at night, eat vanilla ice cream after your chicken just before putting on your footie P.J.s and saying your prayers every night at 8:30 sharp on the way to your (separate) beds."

"Yes!" he said. "Exactly! This is a vanilla relationship. At first, I liked the vanilla. It was sweet and looked nice and felt good going down..." He paused for effect while enjoying my cringe.

"But now, all the things that attracted me in the first place turn out not to matter. Yeah, she's pretty. But Jesus Christ, she's boring. We're boring. We don't talk about anything. She doesn't care about anything. She's totally dependent on me, and she's clueless that I could ultimately take her or leave her. I don't know what to do. I mean, I feel bad. She's just so nice."

He spat out the "n" word like it was bitter.

There he sat in relationship limbo, dating a girl that was perfectly fine but nothing special, and it was driving him crazy. To make matters worse for him, he felt completely helpless to rectify the situation because she was literally killing him with kindess. And he didn't want to "hurt her feelings" by breaking it off.

This, of course, was ridiculous.

I, of course, pointed that out.

"Um, don't take this the wrong way, P," I said, "but do you really think anyone wants to be with somebody who is just dating them out of pity? I meam, life goes on after you. Give this girl a little credit... if you told her how you felt, I bet she'd be out of there in 10 seconds flat."

And then we played my favorite game ever: Worst to best.

This game is best played when trying to helpfully counsel your friends through a tough decision -- one they're afraid to make (or not make).

You ask them to start out by describing the worst possible outcome of a situation. In this case, if he did option 1 (break up with her), the worst possible outcome was that she'd cry, scream, slam doors and move out. And P would be single. And he'd be lonely and depressed for a few weeks. The breakup could get ugly, but even in the worst possible scenario, he'd be free of an unsatisfying relationship.

Once you've thoroughly described the worst possible outcome, you do the same with other outcomes that are a few degrees better than the last one, until you come to the best possible outcome. In this case, that would be him talking to her, her understanding and even agreeing, and them peacefully going their separate ways.

We then did this for option 2: Not breaking up with her. The worst possible outcome there was that he would spend a lifetime with her, growing to resent her, and he either ends up cheating or just hating her because she's keeping him from actually falling in love. The best possible outcome would be him getting to just be satisfied with "eh", "eh-ing" out into infinity.

"So?" I asked after P had gamely gone through these scenarios with me.

"I know what I have to do," he nodded.

That was three weeks ago. P ended it two and a half weeks ago. She didn't even cry. He was lonely for about a week (it's not that hard to break up with someone you didn't really love to begin with, you know? A few good nights out and a dirty movie or two and he was over it.)

Yesterday he called me and said he'd met someone at a wedding over the weekend and they'd spent three solid days together since.

I haven't ever heard him talk about someone the way he talked about this girl. I'd repeat it all, but the superlatives even make me want to gag a little. And let it be known that there wasn't a "pretty" or "nice" in there anywhere. Try "breathtaking", "fantastic", "whip-smart", "hilarious".

Long story short: there are sparks. For the first time ever for him. I suspect he's not going back to "eh".

Let that be a lesson to all of us who have ever pity-dated (God knows I have -- biggest purple Bronco-driving, tongue ring having, 7-foot, leg-shaving mistake ever).

Hold out for sparks. Life's too long for "eh", and too short to never know what it feels like to glow in the company of someone you think is far, far more than just okay.

Mike Birbiglia

2007-07-25T14:26:00.001-07:00

This is one funny man.

My favorite stand up comic by far at the moment. Click the links above, watch, laugh, and then memorize these jokes and attempt to pass them off as your own. Seriously. It works 3 out of 5 times.

His site is here.

Happy hump day!

I'm apparently a jersey-chasing scavenger.

2007-07-19T14:05:00.000-07:00

“Well, you’re all set”, landlordlady said, handing me the extra housekeys. “Let me know if you have any questions about the place, otherwise, welcome home!”

I was giddy. A new house! With roommates! And a yard! I was already planning my first three parties: BBQ housewarming, a “naughty” party for the girls, then a Beer Pong and Paper-Scissor-Rock tournament, complete with Manny’s keg.

“Oh,” Landlordlady’s voice snapped me out of my party-planning reverie. “…and sorry about that,” she said, gesturing to the overflowing recycling bin at the corner of the garage. “That was left by the previous renters, but they’ll pay for garbage pickup this week. He was a Seahawk, so they had a ton of stuff to throw out when they moved.”

My ears perked up.

“A Seahawk, huh?” I tried not to sound too eager for details. “Who?”

“Oh, well… if you look around, I’m sure you can figure it out. But I don’t want to say, you understand…”

Well, I didn’t understand, but as she droned on about “privacy” and “out of respect”, I was scanning the house and tapping my feet, waiting for her to leave so I could really apply my brain to this new, fun mystery: Who used to live in my new house? And as a football fan, was there any possible way I could parlay this into free tickets? Or paraphernalia? I can’t explain it, but I suddenly morphed into an insta-jersey-chaser. As LLL left, the recycling bin again caught my eye.

Maybe just a little peek inside…

I was actually considering digging through a stranger’s recycling bin like a homeless lunatic, hunting for “clues” as to who lived here before me, as if that mattered in the slightest.

I knew it was wrong. I even found myself whistling and shuffling around a little, nonchalant-like, trying to pretend I wasn't thinking what I was thinking.

But the bin beckoned, and it was the not-knowing that was killing me.

I needed help.

I whipped out the blackberry. In the absence of an actual human, perhaps I could recruit some rational support electronically.

I texted the new boyfriend, who we’ll call Jim for reasons I plan to eventually explain, but just not right now:

So a seahawk was the last renter of my new house!

15 second delay, and then:

Liar. Who?

Well, that’s the question that has me considering digging through his garbage.

Delay… delay… delay…

Me again: No, seriously: I want to climb into his recycling bin and snoop. I need help.

Radio silence. No response.

Next thing I knew, I was surrounded by a flurry of cardboard boxes, wrapping paper, children’s drawings and old newspapers – the contents of the paper recycling bin strewn around me like the edge pieces of some giant puzzle, and me in the middle of them, examining each piece like a bag lady inspecting a shopping cart. I had succumbed. And then –

“Aha!!!” a box with the label still intact:

Lofa Tatupu.

Only my very favorite Seahawk linebacker – everything about him appeals. Big USC career, pegged as too small to play MLB but played the shit out of it for the Hawks last year with some seriously impressive plays, and…um…yum. I have a Tatupu jersey. I’m not kidding.

And then, while crouched on the floor of the garage, giggling insanely and clutching an empty shoebox with a wrinkled label (proof!!), I was again interrupted:

Buzzz.

I dug down a layer or two in the paper to find my blackberry buzzing. New text message from Jim.

Please tell me you didn’t.

Response: Um… I didn’t.

You did.

IT’S LOFA TATUPU!!!

Jesus, you crazy person.

Delay… delay… delay…

But that’s awesome. Do you think we can parlay this into tickets?

…

I think I love this man. Also, if you happen to want an old shoebox of Lofa Tatupu’s, lemme know. I’ll sell it to the highest bidder.

And Lofa, if you’re reading this, I am not as crazy as I sound (only partially a lie) and have nothing else of yours…. Except maybe one thing, which I’d be willing to return to you in exchange for a signed ball and some kick ass tickets. Oh, and another thing: would it have KILLED you to mow the lawn and fix the fence?

Not that I'm complaining...

Thank you.

Condiment courtesies and my scuffle with sauce

2007-07-12T07:56:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned last week, I just moved from a place I've been for a little over a year, by myself, to a place with three roommates just down the street. Though my more skeptical friends can't believe I'm getting roomies after being alone, I'm looking forward to it. I'm good with change, and am pretty easy to live with, if I do say so myself.

But there are courtesies you have to attend to with roommates that you don't have to worry about when you're alone. With roommates, you can't walk in the door, take off your pants, and spend the rest of the evening on the couch in your undies burping and watching Friends reruns or Sports Center while trimming your toenails. You also don't park in the middle of your driveway. Or leave your clothes in the dryer for a week. Or hog the condiment shelves of the refrigerator, which occurred to me as I was cleaning out my fridge as I moved: I was moving from a home where the whole fridge was mine to a place where it was only 25 percent mine. I was going to have to do some major downsizing.

And that's where this story begins. Me and the cat, cleaning the fridge. Just us and the condiments. I couldn't remember the last time I used the ginger - garlic marinade I found in my door, much less the sweet onion mustard that looked like a tiny jar of earwax. Both went into the trash. Even Akeelah wrinkled her nose at some of what I found -- and she'll eat anything, alive or dead.

While I did find some items that were a little... um... fuzzy, green or lumpy (occasionally all three), it was also kinda fun. It was like when you clean out your closet and get rid of crappy stuff you never wear, but while you're downsizing you also discover awesome stuff you forgot you had. Last time I did this, i found a great pair of tall brown cowboy boots I forgot I owned. This time, cleaning my fridge, I found my favorite homemade barbeque sauce -- made by a friend in another state and hands down the best I'd ever had.

Because it was so good and I'd forgotten about it, I thought perhaps I should open the jar and just make sure it was still a) good (not expired) and b) good (delicious). Basically, I wanted to stick my finger in and taste it. So before twisting off the top, I absentmindedly gave the bottle three really good, solid shakes so as to ensure all the barbeque-y goodness was thoroughly mixed up.

And this is where the fun began.

The second I stopped this vigorous shaking, the smell of barbeque sauce was all around me. It was like I was swimming in the stuff because, well, I was.

When I looked up, my kitchen looked like a murder scene.

The cap must have popped off during the first hard shake, because my kitchen had become a meat-eater's dream come true: there was barbeque sauce on the floor, refrigerator, walls and counters. There were globs of barbeque sauce on the ceiling, which dripped down in great barbequey clumps onto my shoulders, which were covered in the sticky-sweet goo.

My face, hands, chest and legs were drenched in barbeque sauce.

Akeelah the cat sat befuddled, licking herself in the middle of the kitchen floor, her face, tail and paws completely slick with brown, delicious sauce.

And I collapsed on the floor of the room, hysterical with laughter and completely beside myself that I had just shook the entire bottle of barbeque sauce out on every flat surface (and some not so flat surfaces) of my kitchen. If somebody had walked in at that moment and seen me there, they would have immediately flashed back to the Scarface bathtub scene -- it looked that gruesome:

"You wanna fuck with barbeque sauce? You wanna get rough with me? Okay, say hello to my little friend, the loosened twist off cap!"

There was no way for me to go to another room for cleaning supplies without squishing and dripping sauce across my carpet and furniture, either, so right in the middle of the barbeque sauce bloodbath, I had to strip down to my underwear, throw away my clothes, and tip toe out to safety and cleaning materials.

Later, when the scene had been mopped up and the rags (and my clothes) thrown away, L came over. As she walked through the door the first words out of her mouth were "Uh, what's that smell?" I shrugged nonchalantly as the strange mix of barbeque sauce and 409 wafted through the apartment. She then went straight to the kitchen to throw something in the trash (remember -- the trash is full of the barbeque sauce scuffle carnage), and before I had a chance to warn her, she shrieked and jumped back, confused and shocked.

"Jesus Christ!" she gasped, peering into the mess of saucy clothes and rags, which looked now more than ever like a bloody mess. "What the hell happened?!!"

Let's just say I kill a condiment for fun, but for that barbeque sauce, I carved it up reeeal nice.

[God, I hope you get that reference.]

Oh, eff yes.

2007-07-09T14:04:00.000-07:00

Indiana Jones IV. It's really really happening. And that hat still looks sexy, I don't care who you are.

[Video of the first day of shooting HERE].

Is it normal to feel a little tingly all over?

Transience is bliss...

2007-07-06T19:54:00.000-07:00

"You moved?" K's voice crackled a bit on the other end of the phone as I adjusted the volume so I could hear her over the 1970's pickup truck I drove in high school, which I was borrowing from my family to haul my furniture for the weekend. "Again??!"

"Yeah," I said. "But I swear it's the last time until I buy a house."

"Riiiight. I've heard that before."

"Seriously, this time I mean it."

"All I know is I'm not buying you another housewarming present."

"Ouch," I rolled my eyes. "You mean you're not going to bring over a bottle of wine which you then proceed to drink all yourself? Bummer."

"Touche," K laughed. "Okay, gotta go. Good luck!"

Yep, that's right: I moved. Again. Last weekend.

After a year and a half of Akeelah (my Abbyssinian) and I living alone in a cushy two-bedroom in the middle of Kirkland, we learned three things:'

1. Living alone means you can spend a lot of time totally naked (!!!)

2. Living alone costs more, and there's nobody to hold you accountable for not washing dishes or watching The Notebook three times back to back (both a good and a bad thing).

3. Living alone means you occasionally stub your toe or get bit by a huge spider or choke on something and are completely convinced you're going to die and your friends will finally find you a week later lying on your kitchen floor naked and blue with those toe-separators between your left toes and nail polish splattered everywhere, your cat perched on your cold (but still perky!) chest, licking your dead face. (um, a bad thing).

So, even though I have twice in the last two years sworn I wouldn't do it again, Akeelah and I moved last weekend. Into the master bedroom of a really beautiful, large house I found for me and three acquaintences just down the street from my old place. I gave my old place to my best friend, who has yet to experience the strange wonders of living alone.

More on the move (involving barbeque sauce, football and garbage -- no, really) coming soon...

Bare in Vegas

2007-06-28T09:50:00.000-07:00

Before I even start this post, let me establish two things:

1) On principle alone, I hate Las Vegas -- the whole God-forsaken sequin-covered dayglow/nightglow, water-sucking, smoky, trashy, silicone-filled city.
2) I enjoyed the shit out of Vegas on my trip

Everything Vegas stands for is pretty much the opposite of me -- well, with the exception of virtually unconsumable volumes of alcohol. I don't own a closet full of "clubbing" clothes (much less a single club-appropriate -- read: nonexistant -- outfit), I don't care about Lindsey Lohan's 21st birthday party. Gold on ceilings just looks gaudy to me, and though I'll occasionally puff on a cigarette at 2 in the morning, I strongly dislike being places where everyone can do just that, indoors, all around you.

Plus, prostitution makes me sad, as do those terrible clear-soled stripper shoes all the women in Vegas (working or not) insist on wearing. What ARE those?

Oh, and it's like the hottest place on earth.

[I was going to say "in the universe", but there's the sun and all those stars, which I'm pretty sure are burning balls of gas, so I figured I had better keep it believable.]

And I'm a Seattleite.

But I prescribe to no motto if not "When in Rome...". And so I did Vegas. With gusto.

I packed my optimism, a few hundred bucks in cash, a pushup bra, 7 (seriously) pairs of heels, 5 (yep) pairs of jeans, and a few dresses. Oh, and my bikini and about forty pairs of earrings.

I stayed at the Mirage, and again in true Vegas style I went to the pool upon completion of my first workday there. It was 112 degrees outside, and pretty much everyone had the same idea as me: get wet, lay around half naked, get buzzed, then go out to eat and on the town. So the easily 1,000 occupancy pool and surrounding areas were packed. For about 5 minutes I considered squeezing in among the masses on some tiny crowded recliner, until I saw a sign. My salvation.

Bare.

Bare, for those of you unfamiliar, is an "adult" pool. I knew this because it said "Bare... adult lounge" on the sign. But, as I'm sure you can imagine, I had no idea what that meant.

All I could think was no kids allowed. No waterwings, maybe no teeny-boppers, even. I pictured a luxurious, quiet pool. Cushy loungers, a professional or maybe even high-roller crowd. I looked around once more at the loungers crowded with lithe 8-year olds, families and fraternity boys -- a shrill-voiced and splashy crowd -- and turned towards this "Bare" place.

I was in.

I took the road less traveled (all signs pointing to Bare lead to mysterious labrynth of paths, all under heavy palm-tree cover) and arrived, finally, at a red-carpeted, velvet-roped, bodyguarded entrance to Bare. It looked like an exclusive nightclub. I looked down at my strapless bikini, gold flipflops and oversized bag.

I felt underdressed. I wished I'd worn earrings.

"So," I said, coolly, keeping my sunglasses on lest the european man barring the door see my hesitancy, "What's this" (here I gestured casually to the general direction of "IN") "...all about?"

"Well," he said conspiratorially leaning in, "it's an adult pool."

Um, duh? I paused, waiting dumbly.

"Like a nightclub in the day," he continued. "European dress code."

"Europe--" I started to ask the world's stupidest question before realizing he meant "clothing optional".

"Aaah," I leaned back, nodding stupidly. I was so far in now that even though this whole "european" thing scared me a little, I couldn't back down.

"Forty bucks for guys, twenty for girls," he said, matter-of-fact. Then he tilted his head at me, sizing me up. "You by yourself?" he asked.

"Um, not really... yeah." I confessed.

"I'll take care of you, then. Go on in, free."

Now I really had to go in. I nodded, steeled myself, and pushed past the rope.

As I sauntered in, sunglasses still on, trying not to look around too much, I felt pretty effing risque. I was in VEGAS. ALONE. At an ADULT POOL. With a EUROPEAN DRESS CODE.

[In my head, all this was in caps, I assure you.]

I found a cushy lounger, leaned back, took out the blackberry and assessed the situation:

Many pools, some hot tubs. Many attractive waiters and waitresses. Many topless women, all with gargantuan breasts, a male companion and clearly tipsy.

The rest of the afternoon I worked on the tipsy part and the enjoying the sun part. I ultimately relaxed enough to remove my thumbs from my blackberry (I spent the first 30 minutes there, at least, texting play-by-plays of my observations from inside Bare to my companion who would be joining me in Vegas later that night, which had the double benefits of easing me into the scene and sexually frustrating him.)

The music pumped, the steam rolled off the hot tubs and settled on the pool, gorgeous staff rolled towels, propped chairs, lit cigarettes and delivered libation. Women grinded up against their men in the shallow pool. Men tried not to fall over while ordering many Budweiser Selects and groping their bouffant-haired, fake-breasted women all at the same time. It was so Vegas. And it was pretty entertaining.

A couple rich older men came by and introduced themselves as, essentially, rich older men, which was totally standard but also pretty entertaining. And I befriended two women to the right of me who left their kids and hubbies home and had come for some girl-time (and how!).

By the time it closed and I returned to my hotel room to shower, eat, see a show and gamble with a lovely tall man who flew in to spend the weekend with me (and says things like "hello, pretty girl" to me, unprovoked), I was a little tan, a little tipsy, and very impressed with my nerve... giddy, even, with the possibilities of Las Vegas.

While I didn't get married, I did gamble, and eat fabulous food, and see Ray Romano in the hotel twice, and drink $15 melon-colored cocktails composed primarily of Grey Goose, and wear ridiculously uncomfortable heels. And I hit on 12, and 13 and sometimes even 14 playing blackjack, even though it's unadvisable.

Because, well, when in Rome...

Two things

2007-06-21T13:35:00.000-07:00

1. Last night was a long night. Dinner, wine, walk, skyline-gazing, a fresh rosemary-fight (don't ask), a late-night house intruder... the point is I woke up hung over and exhausted today. And smelling like rosemary. But again, not the point. The point is that I actually cleaned up pretty good, if I do say so myself, and thought I was keeping it together quite well. Until one of the founders of my company walked by and said in the sweetest east Indian accent -- I shit you not: "Are you doing something differently?" while gesturing to my face/head region. When I replied that no, in fact, everything was as it should be and nothing was different, he said "Hmmm. You look like you partied... a lot." Sheesh. Hold no punches, why don't you?

2. I will be in Las Vegas starting tomorrow morning and ending Monday night. There is a 25 percent chance I will get married there, a 50 percent chance I'll get sunburnt, a 75 percent chance I'll experience feelings of guilt after gambling and a 100 percent chance I'll get blitzed. Oh, I'm also working there. So none of the above (except the guilt) will be done on business hours. Which means there's also a 100 percent chance I'll come back and sleep for three days.

As always, I'm certain there will be stories, which of course I will share. Stay tuned, and have a great weekend!

Song of the week

2007-06-20T08:53:00.000-07:00

When Love Comes To Town -- Herbie Hancock, featuring Joss Stone and Jonny Lang (a 2005 cover of a 1988 U2 song, released on his album Possibilities)

I'm finding it a bit autobiographical at the moment, which paired with an addictive baseline and that groovy Hancock/Joss Stone sound = rock out.

A weekend night in review

2007-06-19T17:58:00.000-07:00

It's been a long week already, and subsequently I have thus far been unable to put together coherent paragraphs connected with segues (which I'm not really that good at anyway -- and by the way, what's with the spelling of the word "segue"? Is that like a collossal joke on everyone who struggles with spelling? I'm just saying, the French are assholes. If that's even french. I assume it is, what with the weird back to back vowels, but am too lazy to research).

Because of my struggling with segues and the length of my day and in the interest of not boring you to actual death, here is a review of a recent weekend, list-style. I share this only to underscore the realities of my life, which include too much weekend boozing, a bizarre and colorful set of friends, and any number of enlightening experiences slash awkward scenarios thanks very much to the booze and colorful characters.

Note: If you are either booze or a colorful character and would like to begin participating in such experiences as those listed below, may God have mercy on you.

Enjoy, and remember to enjoy life responsibly (and with a pen and paper handy, like me):

1. The night was kicked off with a dance-off, in the Vibe, with seatbelts on. Winner: my friend, a very large, bald man riding shotgun. But only because I had to contend with a steering wheel and two pedals while dancing. (Not easy, but I gave a valiant effort, and didn't even almost crash. Bravo, me!)

2. Debate: can you or can you not work the “mummy” move from Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ video into any dance you are doing to any song, regardless of genre? My position: Yes, yes you can. I am pro-Thriller dance.

3. Debate #2: If you could only do one dance move for the rest of your life, to all songs, in all company, regardless of genre, what would that move be? My answer: I am pro-The Electric Slide. (It's electric. Boogie woogie woogie.)

4. Awkward scenario #1: While standing outside a restaurant/bar with one girlfriend, our other girlfriend joined us. As we stood in a circle, girlfriend 2 leaned over her shoulder, threw up, and then rejoined the circle as if nothing happened.

5. Awkward scenario #2: Later, The Puker reached under the table and stroked the thigh of my date, telling him he should drink more, conceivably so she could take advantage of him. The Puker was thereafter called The Poacher.

6. Redemption: The Poacher spent the night with a guy we’ll call Frenchie, who I introduced her to about 5 minutes before we all went home so as to distract her from continuing her Poaching mission. Frenchie immediately started speaking French to her (a sure thing he’s a sure thing) and it was love. Or at least lust enough to keep her distracted.

7. Learning #1: I am really good at those bar video games where you compare photos of naked ladies to see what’s different between the two.

8. Learning #2: When you’re good at those bar video games where you compare photos of naked ladies and you play this game with randoms, they will often buy you and your friends rounds of shots, unsolicited.

9. Learning #3: just because shots are free doesn’t mean you have to drink them.

10. Learning #4: If you do drink every free shot offered you, you will suffer from one of the top 3 wickedest hangovers of your life – for two days – which makes you borderline emotional and from which the only recovery is Chinese food, enough Tylenol to wipe out at least three regular kidneys (regular being not mine, mine being in Olympic drinking shape) and the pure, undiluted kindness of others.

Food.

2007-06-15T17:19:00.000-07:00

I like everything about food. I started out saying I love food, but that sounds like a food junkie's desperate cry for intervention, so I changed it to "like", even though the other "l" word is probably more accurate. Some people see food as mere sustinence -- like gassing up a car to make it go. I see great food (as you'll recall from this post) as a close, less dangerous, cousin of sex.

If I had more money, I would be a foodie--I would have eaten by now at every amazing restaraunt in Seattle and the surrounding area. But alas, this gets really hard on the checkbook, especially when "drinking" and "traveling" closely follow "food" on your list of top things in life. As it is, I've been to a pretty impressive handful of places, but there are some, including Le Gourmand and Canlis that still elude me, because of incredibly long waiting lists (um, make a reservation a MONTH in advance? I am a bona fide committment-phobe. I can't commit to a cell phone plan, much less a date a month in advance) and a crippling cost per plate that makes it difficult for me to convince someone to be my date -- even if I assure them of a big payout. (No, not that. I was thinking more along the lines of the pleasure of my company, and perhaps a drink on me, you perverts.)

If I had more than just "more" money -- if I were an actual wealthy person -- I would go to culinary school, possibly abroad. I would then return and do one of two things:

1. Start my own restaraunt. I have two ideas, and can't decide which I prefer. One would be tiny and unmarked with a rotating and seasonal prix fix menu, incredible wine list (no hard alcohol or beer) and deserts that look like works of art and are mandatory with every dinner. I know it sounds snobby, and it would be expensive, but it wouldn't be. Service would be warm and personal, like you're a very important person dining in your own very cool, modern livingroom. Restaraunt number two would be large, eclectic verging on nonsensical or even silly, with a menu composed almost exclusively of all things dippable and/or on sticks, to be dipped in fondue and special me-created sauces. Limited, cheap beer menu, some fun cocktail specials and no wine. Okay, maybe two house bottles. And red and white checked oilcloth tablecloths. I love those.

2. Freelance for top-100 daily newspapers across the country and a few food magazines as I embark on a 500-day American tour of food, hitting every state in the country, eating and writing articles alongside an American food travelogue which will chronicle my trip, the food, and all the bizarre strangers and happenings along the way.

But, alas, as I am neither rich nor filthy rich, and neither of these things will ever happen, I have instead this day decided to give to you, dear reader, a list of my current list of favorite foods for somewhat poor to very poor people. Bon Appetit!

1. Bruschetta. This delightful mix of garlic, basil, onion and tomato on a crusty piece of bread with a bit of balsalmic is pure heaven. Except if your dining partner eats it and you don't. Then, it ruins your sense of smell for two or three days. So I advise you just to eat it. Note: I make the best bruschetta this side of the MIssissippi. I dare you to make better bruschetta than I do. Cost to prepare: $14.00. Time to prepare: 25 minutes (lots of dicing, slicing and spreading).

2. Chocolate oatmeal no-bake cookies. They're just awesome, and replaced rice krispy treats on my list of the best things to eat before they're technically ready to be eaten. Get some oatmeal, chocolate, a little peanut butter, a double-boiler, and a spoon. Then, go into glycemic shock. Cost to prepare: $7.50 plus doctor's bills. Time: Under ten minutes. To make. Under 3 minutes to eat.

3. My signature loaded baked brie. This is a round of brie, sliced in half, filled with dried fruit and nuts or jam, put back together and wrapped in crescent roll dough, then baked until melted indide the golden-brown crescent roll. Cost to prepare: $12.50. Time: 20 minutes.

4. Mangoes. These are black sheep on this list, as they cost about ten dollars apiece and are nearly impossible to eat without a bib and a shower afterwards, but a good mango is, I think, the best fruit ever invented by God. (Nice work, God.) Warning: after eating one, you will need to spend 25 minutes with a roll of dental floss. If anyone can figure out how to make it easier, please, please share.

5. Waffle-cut fries with the magic thing that is fry sauce. First, the fries: Whoever came up with these is a genius. It's the soggy-fry solution. These puppies are evenly cooked throughout, thanks to the clever holes, and are crispy everywhere without being little daggers of burnt crispness like you find at some joints that serve the traditional fry. And they beat steak-cut fries in pure condiment-delivery ability. Like Chex cereal holds milk, waffle-cut fries hold ketchup. Or, even better, fry sauce. Now, Fry sauce: I have no proof, but I am pretty sure this culinary delight came from the midwest, mostly because that is the only place in the country I can imagine coming up with a way to actually make fries worse for you. Take the two condiments with the lowest possible nutritional value and highest cravability around (ketchup and mayo, obviously), and mix them, 50-50. Now your ketchup is fatty, your mayo is sweet, and it's a horrible pink color reminiscent of PeptoBismol. But you know what? It tastes fucking brilliant. I had to move away from Idaho (almost the midwest, anyway) solely because of the amounts of fry sauce I'd otherwise consume. In Seattle, nobody believes in it. Something about cholesterol and obesity. Eh, I just run a lot and make my own. Cost: $1.50.

Control your beaver!

2007-06-13T18:26:00.000-07:00

I just like the headline of this article, and the fact that there's a blog called "Arkansas Blog".

Hot checks, beaver pelts, deceased (?) balding middle-aged crooks, Arkansas... it's a tale full of titillation and debauchery. I think. Full disclosure: I stopped reading at "Beaver Controller".

Also, thanks, D, for this bizarre story.

"Nobody drink the water! The water has gone bad!"

The secrets of stillness

2007-06-11T23:40:00.001-07:00

Some nights when I was little and sick, or when I woke from a nightmare and looked out my bedroom window into the dark tops of the trees and saw terrible things in them, I would muster my nerve, slip out of bed and half-run half-tiptoe into their room.

I would always go to her side of their bed.

“Mom,” I would whisper into the dark, “I’m scared.”

Always on her stomach, I wondered how she breathed sleeping like that, her face pressed into the pillow. While I stood there quietly breathing in the musty smell of a warm down comforter in a cold room, I worried that she was suffocating, she was so still. And then, suddenly, on intuition and my single whisper alone, she would be up, tiptoeing from her room to mine wordlessly, leading me with her hand on the top of my head.

Once in my room with her, it was no longer a scary place. Trees were trees. Shadows were shadows. My fear seemed ridiculous, misplaced. I always half expected her to leave upon our discovery that there was nothing to be afraid of.

But instead, she would slip into my twin bed, scooting all the way to the edge and motioning me in. Gratefully, I'd join her. There we would lay on our sides, an S next to an S, her arm over me, both our heads on one pillow.

And just like that, in a minute or two at most, she would be asleep, perfectly still. It was the only time I ever knew her to be still, I think.

I would listen, wide awake: Her shorter breaths became long ones, rhythmic in and out, in and out. Sometimes the pause between them would grow so long my heart would almost stop in a panic, but always it came and went eventually... in and out.

I would want to move, adjust. Maybe I had an itch. But she was always so still that I never could bring myself to. Instead, I willed myself to be like her -- I willed my bones to be heavy, my body to go numb. I listened to the in and out. I made myself be very still in the black.

In and out, I listened.
In… and out.

I trained my body to be restful, my breath to be long like hers.

In… out.

And her great, warm, rhythmic stillness would press me down slowly into the night, as I listened to her sleep song. And a terrifying night would transform into something known; something velvet-deep and calm.

I never woke until morning was brassy and bright upon me, the night like a vague memory. She was always gone by then, up and busy.

She was always moving until I needed her, and when I needed her, she taught me the secrets of being still.

Unapologetic shitheadery.

2007-06-08T10:21:00.001-07:00

If you have nothing to blog about, let someone smarter and funnier than you blog, instead.

Ryan Reynolds (formerly Alanis Morrissette's better half) is now writing for the Huffington Post. I didn't realize I loved this man until the moment I read this (click link at top), his first contribution, which includes the brilliant phrase "grotesque displays of boundless, unapologetic shitheadery".

I would apologize for the gratuitous posting of a picture of Ryan half-clothed, but the thing is that I'm just not sorry.

I mean, take a good look.

...Yeah, you're welcome.

Have a great weekend, all. Check you Monday... maybe.

--UPDATE--
After recieving two rapid-fire email complaints about the sexism of this post, I have agreed to include a second photo to right my wrong. Here for all male Legwarmers readers to enjoy: Jessica Alba in one of her many swimsuits shots! Happy?

Don't talk to me when I'm glistening, please.

2007-06-06T09:44:00.000-07:00

I looked up from my second set of leg presses to see a mid-thirties man I'd never met standing over me at my feet, his mouth moving, but no words coming out. I looked quizzically at him, and he gestured to his head.

I touched mine, realizing my headphones were in, music blaring, which would account for the fact that this man was making zero sense to me. It still didn’t account, though, for him talking to me when I was clearly busy working out.

I jerked out an earbud and glared at him.

“Yeah?” I said, too loudly of course, due to the other bud still crammed in my right ear.

“Um, I was just wondering if I could hop on there for a quick set in between yours,” he asked. “I just have one more to do, and…”

I hadn’t realized I was hogging the machine in the near-empty gym, but apparently this whole sharing equipment thing was status quo for homeboy, so I nodded cautiously, standing. “Sure, no problem… but you might wanna—“

Before I could suggest wiping down the machine, as I had just completed a 3 mile run and was… glistening , we'll say, he was on his back, legs up, lying in my little sweatmarks, in the middle of his first squat.

I stretched while he finished, and when he got up, I was hit with a dilemma: Either I could lay down in my/his sweat and finish my last set, something I really didn't want to do, or I could walk across the gym floor to the nearest little sanitization station for a papertowel and some of that pink weird equipment spray, which might come off a little insulting, as this guy hadn't seemed to mind my sweat at all.

I paused for a moment, and then... fuck it. I layed back down on the machine and started pressing. I figured if he could do it, I could do it.

And then, four reps in, there he was again at the foot of my machine, mouth flopping.

I jerked up, plucking out an earbud again.

He leaned over and handed me a paper towel, already covered in the weird pink stuff. What the hell? I thought. Now he wants to clean the machine? “Uh, thanks?” I said, wishing he would just go away so I could resume my workout in peace. But instead of leaving, he stood there, expectantly.

He wanted me to wipe the machine down while he was there, when I was already in the middle of using it again.

Flustered and completely weirded out, I twisted around, wiping down the back of the seat, then the handles, and crumpling up the towel like There. Happy?

“Thanks for sharing,” he said, and reached out his hand.

“Sure,” I said, again willing him to vanish. But he continued to hold out his hand. I was totally perplexed, unable to think of anything else to do with it but shake it. So I did. Kinda a “Well, see you later,” shake, I thought.

But instead of shaking back, he kinda half-pumped and then let go, wiping his hand like I might have just given him some sort of disease.

“No, I meant I’d take the towel now,” he said, all uncomfortable, like I was some strange gym girl hitting on him when HE was the one who approached ME and then layed on MY sweaty machine and insisted on talking to me instead of just waiting 30 goddamn seconds for me to finish my set.

“Oh.” I said, ever-eloquent, fumbling for the crumpled, sweaty, pink-stuff covered paper towel. “Right.”

I am clearly a master of interpersonal communication; an example for all people interested in having non-awkward interactions with humanity; a veritable book of rules for those who want to go gracefully in this world amongst their fellow man.

God I hate it when strangers talk to me at the gym.

Persistence pays.

2007-06-05T07:48:00.000-07:00

"I seriously don't understand how anyone ever ends up together," I said, shaking my head at a friend and his wife across the breakfast table.

They had just finished telling the "how we met" story, and let me tell you, it was epic:

At a party, boy meets and schmoozes girl. Girl remains aloof and chilly. Boy asks for phone number. Girl denies. One week later, they bump into each other again. Boy is hammered at a bar, drinking with the bartender. Girl is sober. Boy again asks for girl's number. Girl gives it to him, verbally. Boy belligerently swears to remember it. Girl leaves. Boy (surprise!) forgets number. A few days go by. Boy runs into mutual friend, who he asks for the girl's phone number. Friend gives him girl's work number. Boy calls girl at work, interrupting her while mispronouncing both her first and last names. Girl asks if she can call him back at a better time.

A few hours later, girl calls boy who has now been schmoozy, sloppy and forgetful around her, and possibly doesn’t even know her name. That is far more than three strikes, is it not? A few weeks later, they're inseparable. Now, they’re married (and adorable).

"I mean, you didn't even say her name right!" I rolled my eyes, thinking about all the poor schleps I'd dismissed for crimes far less eggregious.

“I know,” he chuckled, as his wife looked at him adoringly. “My success with women can only be attributed to my ability to be so ridiculously persistent that they finally give in and give me a shot.”

Ain’t that the truth, too? There is much to be said for the persistence of a man who simply will not take “no” for an answer.

Why is that “eye on the prize” approach so attractive? It should be interpreted as arrogant, but its effect is sometimes positively the opposite, compelling women to do exactly what these overeager types ask, as if we simply have no choice in the matter.

According to Webster, "persistence" is the quality of continuing steadily despite problems or obstacles. So is that it, then? Is it purely biological? Are we all ultimately seeking someone we know isn't going to give up only because we realize in life there will be obstacles to overcome that will seem monumental enough to make it feel like quitting is the best possible option? Is this our built in "stability-meter"?

Whatever it is, there’s just something about a man who thinks he wants you badly enough to treat pursuing you like it’s a full time job.

I have absolutely fallen for it before, against all my better judgment. But it’s not a surefire path to success -- if there’s no chance for a relationship’s survival, someone will ultimately snap out of it. In my case, it took about a month and a half before I realized I was somehow mysteriously dating a bi-curious man who only ate Jack in the Box chicken sandwiches, failed out of school twice and who had... wait for it... just pierced his tongue.

Two days after I saw the light and after the world's hottest and most exfoliating shower, it was over. But props to him for a strong, if manipulative and ultimately creepy, start.

By the time breakfast had wrapped up with my lovebird friends, I was thoroughly convinced that dating, love and marraige was just a game of chance that God invented one day to keep him entertained (okay, and ensure procreation) -- something like a bully with a magnifying glass on a sunny day might keep himself entertained by scorching ants on the asphalt between his dirty feet.

(Sorry, God. I hope we can still be friends. I'm just saying...)

Except the ants have tiny brains and get to burn to death. We just have to go on hideous date after hideous date, having the same exact conversations with different versions of the same exact people, all of whom likely find us as boring or crazy as we find them, until someday, almost against our will and certainly with no help from us, something is just... different. And then, maybe even all the things that would have otherwise mattered (hell, even the pronunciation of your name) just won't.

I hope that makes it all worth it in the end.

I like to think it might.

Fiscal responsibility.

2007-06-04T09:25:00.000-07:00

Legwarmers got a makeover this weekend. Why? Well, I wanted to go shopping, but am trying a new thing called "fiscal responsibility" so as to not have to live in an apartment with a cat for the rest of my life, so instead of buying completely essential things like clothes, shoes, an animatronic monkey head, a lifetime's supply of Otter Pops and tires for my car (all of which I otherwise likely would have purchased last weekend), I chose to wear my roommate's clothes, drive a car with dangerously bald tires (oh, and STILL no front license plate) and change the outfit of my... blog.

Happy Monday, all!

Sounds dirty but isn't

2007-05-30T09:53:00.000-07:00

Today's word of the day is one I am going to seriously have trouble working into everyday language. It just sounds dirty. Or maybe that's just my mind. You be the judge:

fecund \FEE-kuhnd; FEK-uhnd\, adjective:

1. Capable of producing offspring or vegetation; fruitful; prolific.
2. Intellectually productive or inventive.

For 21 years after the birth of the Prince of Wales, the fecund royal couple produced children at the rate of two every three years -- eight boys and six girls in all.
-- Saul David, Prince of Pleasure

In her first novel she portrays a lush, fecund landscape palpable in its sultriness and excess.
-- Barbara Crossette, "Seeking Nirvana", New York Times, April 29, 2001

Miss Ozick can convert any skeptic to the cult of her shrewd and fecund imagination.
-- Edmund White, "Images of a Mind Thinking", New York Times, September 11, 1983

Fecund comes from Latin fecundus, "fruitful, prolific." The noun form is fecundity.

T minus 7.5 hours until the gym

2007-05-29T10:00:00.000-07:00

Since my recent surgery, I’ve been directed to cease and desist two things: sex and the gym.

Since I am having about as much of the first as a married woman (read: none), that didn’t concern me. And at the time, when told I’d have to take a few weeks off from the gym, I thought sweet! A mandatory break from working out! I’m going to get soooo good at T.V. watching and wine-drinking it is going to be unreal.

And I did. And it was good.

For about three days.

After which all I could think about was working out.

I was like a junkie craving a fix. I had dreams I was at the gym, mid-day yoga fantasies, and after dinner I started to have to drink, lest I get in the car and end up on a treadmill somewhere in south Seattle. And it got into my head in more ways than one. Not only could I not stop thinking about it, I started to feel like you could see the “hasn’t worked out in a week” on me. I couldn’t find a single thing in my closet that I felt like I looked good in.

I even started cheating a little… popping in to do quick 20-minute tune ups – nothing rigorous, but maybe a few lunges, some shoulder work - you know, just a little taste.

But at long last, the countdown is over. Last night I could hardly sleep, I was so excited. And now, sitting in the corner of my office like a beacon of crack-like exercise hope is my gym bag.

I’m not sure if I’m compensating for the lack of activity in other… um… areas of my life or if I’m just so elementary that the moment someone says I can’t do something it’s all I want to do, but I just don’t care. I’m going to the gym, dammit. And in all likelihood I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Wish me luck!

Don't sign any legal documents.

2007-05-19T10:50:00.000-07:00

There I was again: paper slippers, all jewelry removed, in a sea-green gown with an open back and a hair net, jiggling my foot nervously as a doctor, for the second time this year, went through the pre-surgical pep-talk. This surgery, unlike the last, which was a shoulder repair, was necessary to go from a diagnosis of "possibly cancerous" to "we actually know something, and by the way, you're fine". In other words: not optional.

Like last time, though, I was buzzing with nerves.

"I see you're still under the mistaken impression that green is flattering on everyone," I said, trying too hard to be funny as I fingered the papery fashion faux pas that is the required wardrobe, pre-surgery.

"Yeah," my (adorable but married) doctor smiled, "but it is an appropriate springtime color, is it not?"

I nodded. Thank God he was playing along. All the ways I could die over the course of the next three hours ran through my mind, alongside a mental montage of all the ways one could possibly do it in a hospital waiting room*.

(*To be clear, the death fantasy was an actual fear and the sex fantasy was an attempt to distract me from the death fantasty. It didn't work, and neither were more than 1 percent likely. I know this because I read the disclaimers before I sign, and because I'm a prude.)

A nurse entered the room, holding a clipboard and pushing one of those funny coatrack-looking things with a baggie of liquid hanging from it... a bag that would soon be attached to my arm and wheeled with me into the metal room where they do the cutting.

"Okay," Dr. Death cleared his throat, taking the clipboard from Nurse BaggieofFluids (sorry, I couldn't come up with anything clever). "You have a driver picking you up, right?" he asked, snapping me back to reality.

"Oh, yeah," I said, a little glazed, still jiggling my foot like it was my job, curled up in a chair across the room. "My girlfriend. She'll be here at 2."

I saw Dr. and Nurse exchange these tiny glances -- you know, the ones you exchange just barely, in order to say "did you notice that, too? we'll talk later..." and suddenly it occurred to me that they thought, when I said "girlfriend", that I meant "girl I perform sexual acts with". In other words, while I was refering to one of my friends, who is female, they did the whole really quick "she's a lesbian" secret look at each other.

But by the time I noticed their little exchange, too much time had passed for me to smoothly say "my roommate..." or "we've been friends since childhood" or something to more accurately deliniate our relationship. And, by the way, I only cared a little at the time. Remember, I had death and sex fantasies to get to, not to mention a surgery.

Everything went smoothly. As usual, I woke up laughing about what awesome dreams I had. By the time I was recovered and in a secondary waiting room, I was halfway through a diet Pepsi. A little weak, definitely glazed over, but in pretty good shape.

My friend was shown into the room by a different nurse and a pharmacist -- both quite stern and humorless, neither big talkers. Everyone sat, and the nurse and drug lady rattled off, to my friend, a long list of things to watch for, be concerned about, and do in the 24 hours after surgery. They handed her a baggie of pain meds, antibiotics, etc. and gave her those instructions, too.

I mostly giggled.

They didn't really look at me the whole time, until they came to the last set of instructions before they wheeled me to the car:

"Don't, under any circumstances, drive or sign any legal documents today," said stern nurse lady. Immediately I started giggling again, because, like, what legal documents would I possibly sign immediately after surgery?

And then my friend thought of one. Always a comic, she quipped:

"Damnit! We were going to sign those divorce papers today."

"Oh, shit, that's right," I said, playing along, thinking we were so funny, putting on a little show for the nurses in the room, thinking they'd appreciate a chuckle, "sorry about that... I guess we'll have to do it next week, hon."

We both cracked up, waiting for a response -- something, anything agknowledging our joke -- from the nurses.

I blinked, looking around the room, and exchanging a "what the??" glance with my friend. It was like the Twilight Zone.

::silence::

The nurses had visibly stiffened, and were awkwardly putting things away, shuffling papers and bustling around, all quiet.

No more than three minutes later, I was in the car and we were out of there without so much as a "get well soon!"

In under four hours and four sentences (all completely misfired jokes), I managed to convince an entire surgery center I was a lesbian, and learned that makes people really, really uncomfortable.

...

Just another afternoon.

My plant can beat up your plant

2007-05-18T01:19:00.000-07:00

My meat-eating, homegrown family got me this for my birthday (along with sundry other awesome things, including a bottle of rum, a tub of frozen mojito mix and 27 spankings*):

It's a spotted northwestern pitcher plant, and it is carnivorous.

It is beautiful, and I love this particular plant, which is why I figured they got it for me -- until this morning, when I realized it was possibly the smartest, most secretly ironic joke in the world.

They got a vegetarian a plant that eats meat.

*Spanking reference completely falsified. I grew out of those (by which I mean a single hand could no longer cover the surface of my ass) when I turned 11. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.

Down slopes from here

2007-05-17T15:09:00.000-07:00

At work yesterday, a colleague who is at least ten years older than me and is originally from an eastern European country (this will become relevant infomration in just a moment. Please hang in there.) bumped into me in the kitchenette conveniently located just across from my office.

We were making tea and chit-chatting when she realized it was my birthday.

(Perhaps the party hat, streamers and plate of cupcakes gave it away. Or the fact that I kept spontaneously yelling “GUESS WHAT? IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” every 7.5 minutes. Or maybe it was the two – TWO – new wrinkles.)

“It eez your birthday?” she said, lighting up like Robin Williams on a bender. No, really, just like that exactly, only harder to understand. “Eenjoy eet!” she continued, “…Because you are steeeel fresh!”

“Fresh?” I was confused. “What am I, a dairy product?”

Clearly, we were having language barrier issues. Or perhaps I was a tad bit defensive about my steadily climbing age. Either way, I wasn’t backing down.

“I didn’t realize there was an expiration date,” I quipped. At which she burst unconsolably into laughter. Ten minutes later, she recovered, and as she left she threw back over her shoulder one final, confused, heavily-accented blow:

“Oh, to be young and beeeeautivul. Eeet eees all down slopes from heeere.”

Say it aint so.

Presents, bitches!

2007-05-15T06:09:00.000-07:00

...just a little friendly reminder.

My life doesn't fit in its parking spot.

2007-05-13T20:13:00.000-07:00

I'm now approximately 36 hours away from my 26th year on the planet, and contrary to what you might've expected based on last year's birthday freakout/quarterlife crisis, I'm relieved to report that this year, no panicking. Maybe some pensiveness, but since I turned 22, that has come standard, like automatic windows and that "fasten seatbelts" ding, twice a year: after christmas and on my birthday.

Looking back on the past year, I'm struck by one thing most of all: the sheer volume of it.

How is it possible for so much to have fit so tidily into 365 days? Not to be overly dramatic, but in just that long, everything I knew about my life seemed to fall apart, come back together, and fall apart again, in so many ways. (Alright, that was totally dramatic, but I really believe it, so points for sincerity, right?)Even so, I can't think of a better, more important, year in all my nearly 26.

I'll avoid the gruesome, glorious details (you're welcome), but just a taste of it, to illustrate:

I reconnected with some of the most important people in my life this year, one of whom was me. I started taking what I knew could be mine, and stopped apologizing so much for everything. I think grace and I made some big strides.

My family literally disintegrated at its weakest points, roles reversed, flipped, and righted themselves again, and love and hate were so closely related I'm still not sure I have them straight. But somehow, though the ripping was horrifying, it was liberating, too.

I was freed of my sense of guilt about everything I always knew and felt but didn't say. I had surgery, twice, a cancer scare once, made a freaky career move and was hit by a bus. I paid attention. I let go.

I had a summer of dreams, rediscovered the gorgeousness of a few people really really knowing who you are and loving you in spite of you, and remembered -- three different times -- that I'm good all on my own, even if I'd secretly prefer having someone quietly, carefully care for me, in spite of my endless objections that I can do it all myself.

I remembered that I know exactly what love is, and that sometimes I need to turn down the volume on my brain enough to hear the persistant noise that comes from somewhere else, too.

Now at this juncture I can't really believe I am going to live forever, but I don't miss the naievete of that belief. I can't possibly mourn it, because it's been replaced by something else far more important. Suddenly I find I think more about living big enough that when I don't live forever, someone somewhere will have a reason to remember me, even if they don't know my name.

...

This weekend, in keeping with the oversized theme of the past year, was exactly what I hoped, only bigger. In fact, after far too many beers, some singing and plenty celebration, the bigness almost knocked me down. All these people, this noise, this laughter... It swirled around me and translated, in one tipsy moment, into a love so palpable I literally had to find a parked car in the parking lot to lean against, fighting to catch my breath (and two big, happy tears).

I am overwhelmed by my life. Afraid, thrilled, a little naseous. Empowered, uplifted, stifled by its hugeness. And I am so aware -- more now than ever -- that it's all out of my hands. I don't know who is driving, but whoever it is knows exactly what they're doing. I don't even want to see the map.

I'm a lucky girl. And so, so thankful.

Proposal, plans, present plea

2007-05-10T09:06:00.000-07:00

From Jason's Notes: "Mammalian birth is sloppy and inefficient. I say we go back to hard-shelled eggs. As a side benefit, most problems of bad parents raising hooligans would be solved as maltreated eggs simply wouldn't hatch. Although, the sociological ramifications of having young that spend a few months being delicious with cheese are potentially terrifying."

Jason, if you're out there, not a psychopath, know how to cook, don't have fused toes or fingers, chew with your mouth closed, don't have a southern accent, like to hold hands, have never run repeatedly over anything (alive or dead, out of anger or irresponsibility) and--oh yeah, almost forgot--are single: marry me. No seriously. I'd be a kick-ass wife. Just saying.
_____________________________________

This weekend, this girl, K, (she was also involved in this drink-a-thon, which is begging to be topped) is coming home to spend the weekend. The occasion is a weekend of pre-birthday celebration.

K and I are both May babies, and we both love the simple things in life, namely dressing up for dinner, dressing down to party, and acting ridiculous around our best girlfriends in the world. The plan is as follows:

10 a.m.: Meet our two other best friends in the world at Hector's for drinks. Sorry, what I meant was breakfast and drinks.

12 Noon - 3 PM: Kick it on the deck at my apartment, in the sun, while imbibing and talking about the things girls talk about. We've been over this, but the list includes work, sex, people we hate, people we love, men, family, religion and music. Among other things.

4 PM: Get ready, using an entire hour and every hair product and/or toiletry item that exists between the four of us.

5 PM: Dinner on a lakeside deck at a restaraunt walking distance from my house. With about 10 other rad people we collectively love.

7 PM: Back to my place for CAKE! and MARTINIS! (I am keeping mindful of my martini-drinking alter-ego on this night. I have determined the magic number of martinis to keep her at bay is 2. The number where she takes over and I either get in trouble, hit on inanimate objects or take a knee in a bar is 4. Three I've never done. Because, well, no brakes.)

9 PM: Party. Preferably while dressed down at some dive bar in the middle of nowhere which just happens to have karaoke and where the bartenders may or may not know our names but definitely -- definitely -- flirt with us all, buy us drinks, play our songs, and don't kick us out for either too much hugging or too much drinking, even if we deserve it.

It's going to be a very good weekend.

Stories to come, I'm certain, as the cast of characters that will be involved in Saturday's festivities are almost unbelievable in their color:

One will be canooeing to the bar, from his house, certainly under the influence. One will almost definitely be wearing a Michael Bolton shirt, and no, he's not kidding. Three will want to sing EVERY song anyone sings -- with them, and uninvited. These microphone-snatchers will suck terribly, but be terribly amusing, all the same.

One of my friends is just this side of a midget, two are Jack-Mexicans (mexicans who speak no spanish, making them in fact more caucasian than me), one is a Jack-Mormon (Mormons who don't do Mormon -- and this one's name, to add to the fun, is Jack), and one chipped her tooth on a beer bottle the last time I hung out with her.

These are my friends. And god damn, do I love them. Stay tuned. And no, this does not mean I'm off hiatus. It just means it's my birthday week, almost, dammit, and I can break rules if I want to.

Have a good weekend!

(Also, you can send presents to me, no problem. Just shoot me an email, I'll get you my address -- or paypal account, if you just want to do cash -- and we'll set it up. I love presents, you guys. Chocolate covered gummi bears, too. Seriously. Bring it. It's the least you can do after I've entertained you for, like, going on three years. It's only right.)

Hiatus, self-imposed

2007-04-24T21:10:00.000-07:00

We are going on a temporary hiatus. Having taken on far too many projects (each of which deserve our undivided attention at this time) it's only right to stop with the stringing on and just call it off for a bit.

If you would like to recieve an email when Legwarmers is back up and at 'em, please send an email to shesajar dot withaheavylid [at] gmail dot com -- and make sure the subject line is "legwarmers", or that shit will get filtered into the junk pile faster than you can say...

Well, you get where I'm going with this.

Be good. We'll talk soon.

Wheeling and dealing the Big Guy

2007-04-12T18:17:00.000-07:00

This guy made a deal with God -- and kept it, repeatedly. (It's really an incredible video -- though you may want to save it for home unless shrieks of agony are acceptable in your workplace, in which case watch away, and I don't want to know what you do for a living.)

While my deals with the good Lord are significantly less painful (If you get me through this hangover, Lord, I promise not to swear/eat chocolate/binge drink for a whole week), I have to say I've also been significantly less faithful to them.

I'm going straight to church this Sunday morning.

...Most likely.

The future is now, and I'm pissed about it.

2007-04-03T11:41:00.000-07:00

I went to opening day at Safeco yesterday and watched the Mariners win their first (and likely last) game of the season. The stands were packed with 40 thousand some odd fans all swilling beer and cramming hot dogs and peanuts in their faces. My seats were good - 16th row on the first baseline. It was sunny. Sunglasses were on. Laughs were had. All around a great time.

Halfway through the game, the retractable roof went on. In minutes, tens of thousands of people suddenly had a roof over their head. Which really struck me as funny: we've got the technology to put a retractable roof over a stadium in less than 20 minutes, but it still takes my hot water that long to get from the laundry room to my shower -- a whopping 1-story climb.

What the hell? It's 2007 and I'm still waiting for decent non-static-y in-shower radios to come out and spending hours driving 15 minutes across a bridge in rush hour traffic while listening to CDs -- antiquated, skipping, scratched up CDs! (Which, by the way, are the worst-executed invention ever. Why couldn't we put them in
protective cases like the old floppy disks so they wouldn't scratch after three listens? I mean, doesn't that seem like a pretty obvious solution to you?)

Where is the future everybody was talking about in, like 1979? By now weren't we supposed to be zipping around in spacecars wearing tinfoil suits and telepathically communicating? Where's my damn Jetson's wardrobe? And what about the spacefood? And teleporting? I'm SUPER pissed that we're not teleporting yet.

But oh no, instead of investing in stuff we really want, like the technology necessary to use something other than liquid gold to fuel my car, which I drive to work so I can afford to pay money to watch roofs magically appear on top of sports stadiums, we're spending millions of dollars a minute to stomp around the planet in our Army boots policing the rest of the world, who by the way are getting pretty good and sick of our whole elementary school bully posturing thing and are calling us out as the one trick ponies we are.

Can somebody please explain this to me? And if not, I understand, but in that case, can you just please come over to my house with two to three bottles of wine and some Cheese fish crackers so we can at least get drunk and tell bad dirty jokes and play Scrabble and watch Family Feud reruns and pretend everything's totally cool?

...

Thank you.

Hometown heroism

2007-04-02T09:40:00.000-07:00

(Thanks, Ryan, for the image!)

So now I'm starting to sound like a real hometown hero with all this puffing up of Seattle, but did you see Prevention Magazine's list of the top 100 "Most Walkable Cities"?

According to the story, which I saw on CNN,

Factors contributing to the ranking were air quality, the percentage of people who walk to work, access to parks, number of athletic shoes sold, and (believe it or not) weather.

While I'm here singing its praises, I might as well also mention that the city falls on the top ten list of "greenest cities", according to Green Magazine, which takes into consideration not the scenery, but the environmental policy, air and water quality and long-term sustainability strategy of a city.

All this "top ten" stuff got me thinking, though. What lists wouldn't we see Seattle on? I'll open the floor, but will throw a few out there to get the ball rolling:

"Best places to live if you hate hippies"
"Top 10 best cities in which to drive a stick-shift"
"Best places to open up a coffee shop"
"Most dendrophobic and technophobic-friendly cities"

Creature Comforts

2007-03-21T09:54:00.000-07:00

I'm lame, (read: SLAMMED) this week, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't be entertained. Check out www.revver.com (this year they got something like a cool $11 million in VC - which ain't bad as a Web 2.0 company) for more videos of all categories. Me? I'm partial to the claymation animals. Oh, and musical parodies of Facebook:

The March Mega Mix

2007-03-15T06:26:00.000-07:00

Okay, it's been a really long day, so let's just get to it, huh? (Links have been included, because y'all piss and moan when they're not. Please, visit and listen. There's some good shit this month.)

Here we go...

1.Neezie Pleaze Saw him last night at Chop Suey and got one of the first copies of his first album a couple months ago from a guy who helped him put it out. Let me just say that if his climbing status on the college charts and Vitamin D's opinion mean anything, he's going somewhere. A talented lyricist with a style his own (and distinctively NOT the bling-wearing, chain swinging, repetitive shit with some hook about rims you've heard eighteen times before from a dozen different, ultimately forgettable, rappers). If I have to draw parallels, I'd say perhaps there's a touch of Prince Paul or Pharcyde in him -- and a completely diggable hip-hop-alt style. This guy's one to watch. Clipse was the opener and D. Black opened after Neezie, but he was the smartest part of the show for sure. The crowd was lame, but this guy was on and I'll bet he'll remain so. I'll keep you posted. (Email me and I'll send you a track, or just buy the damn cd already).

2. Amy Winehouse.
This girl can blow, and she uses her voice to tweak amazing old styles into modern badass stuff -- calls often back on the 40s and 50s styles of jazz and gospel -- and she doesn't give a damn what you think. "Rehab" gets a lot of play right now, at least on our radio here, but "Back to Black" is arguably a better track. Her first album, Frank, is great, too -- and jazzier.

3. Gym Class Heroes. I can't help it. I first saw them 6 months ago at a local event I attended with a couple friends on a whim, just to get out of the house. The sound quality at the event sucked, so I hardly noticed them. Then I got tickets to a private event hosted by Jones Soda Co. and Gibson Guitars in the Gibson Seattle showroom in a week or two PLUS tickets to their larger public show later that night (what can I say? I know people!), and so started listening to them in preparation for the show. (You can't just go to a show without knowing a bands songs at least a little, you know?) Now I'm hooked. They're fun, and blend a couple genres, and are great to run to. I refuse to apologize.

4. Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. I first discovered them years ago, but recently a song came up on my iTunes and I promptly put it on repeat. Just download an album, turn it up, pretend to smoke a bowl, get in touch with your inner rocker hippie, and rock the fuck out, man. (By the way, great news: they'll be at the Showbox the week of my birthday, so I'm pretty much there, front row, with fourteen friends. Okay, I don't have that many friends, but I'm there, at least.)

5. Gary Jules.

Not only did he do one of the most haunting covers of the (awesome) song "Mad World" ever done (in my humble opinion) for Donnie Darko (a film I've seen possibly 73.5 times), he has this voice that's so human its almost heartbreaking and his own material is just... lovely. Like a long drive or a nap on a Sunday afternoon. It's perfectly imperfect, and I dig that. I have no idea why he hasn't been signed yet, but I do predict that one of his songs will be on a Grey's Anatomy soundtrack at some point, which will blow him up (see: The Fray), which will make me happy (though I'll loudly proclaim that I told you so).

Things that make me go "WAHOO!"

2007-03-08T09:40:00.000-08:00

1. I'm going on--GASP!--vacation!!

I'll be in sunny Palm Springs in one short month for a grand total of six days. Originally I was going to be away on a work trip during this week on the whole other side of the country, where it's cold and people are angsty and clammy and it's not yet summertime. Then I snapped the fuck out of it and realized that I could, instead, get out of the work trip by pawning it off on somebody else for once, and go where there are palm trees and I can be in a swimsuit by a pool with a gorgeous tan and a fabulous book and a couple close friends and cocktails being delivered to me every 28 minutes by a tall bronzed californian man who calls me "miss" (because I insist he does it every time I tip him) and clearly works out.

2. Holly O'Reilly and Rachek Harrington at the Triple Door. It's my mom's birthday on the 20th, and so I'm taking her to the show, where we'll sip cocktails, have a little dessert, hear some great music and enjoy being two happy women out on the town. Also, on April 22nd, Rufus Wainwright is coming, and I have a ticket, though now they're all sold out. Neener neener neener. I win. And I'm really looking forward to seeing him live.

3. Mochi. This shit is... well... the shit. If you haven't had it, it is going to sound incredibly weird, but go with me for a minute: it's a tiny scoop of ice cream wrapped in a thin rice dough and powdered with powdered sugar, then frozen. And it's seriously the best thing ever. Ice cream is hands down my favorite naughty food, but Mochi takes the naughtiness to a whole new level: now I can eat the naughty food with my hands. Tittilating, isn't it? But be warned: because mochi is already weird on its own, do not attempt to eat it in weird flavors. If strawberry and chocolate are the delight equivalent of a really really good sneeze or maybe a surprise party, green tea and peanut butter are like getting sneezed on, or being hit unexpectedly by a party bus. Very, shockingly bad.

4. Bang Bang Shrimp at the Bonefish Grill. I recently discovered they also have these little buggers at other restarunts, in particular Quinn's Steak, Seafood and Raw bar in Miami (though they call these "Bam! Bam! Shrimp", there, which is weird). These crispy little shrimp appetizers are like heaven. The good news, too, is that Bonefish is a chain (an overpriced chain by the same people who do the Outback Steakhouse). But their happy hours are great and these shrimp are worth looking up the nearest Bonefish for.

5. It was 71 degrees our here the other day. I firmly stand by my position that Seattle is simply the most beautiful place in the country, particularly in the spring and summer months. Everywhere you look, there's either bright green trees and grass (thank you, rain) or bright blue ocean and lakes against which the Seattle and Bellevue cityscapes are set like reflective metal mirages. Plus, people here are (prepare yourself for some sweeping generalizations, now) generally healthy, well-educated, and a little mysterious without seeming sociopathic, which, when combined with the trappings of summer (more live music, less clothes, more dogs on leashes, people on boats, barbeques, and outside patios/beaches/parks with many people on them holding coolers/buckets/frosty mugs of beer) is a recipe for four to six months of some of the most incredible joy imaginable for those in the 18-35 age range.

(I exclude those under 18 for legal reasons and those over 35 because I am just arrogant enough to believe I will always be "young" and therefore needn't worry about those in the old, older, and oldest age groups, unless I am helping an old lady across the street because I recently went to church or flipping off a swerving geriatric in a tank-like Buick who shouldn't still have his/her license).

And it's all so close I can almost taste/smell/see/feel it.

Airport, "gay", and a weekend away

2007-03-05T15:12:00.000-08:00

"Can we please get a drink before we get on the plane?" L beseeched.

"Um," I responded, in the middle of rifling through my carry-on for my contact solution -- a container of liquid definitely exceeding the allowed 4 oz which I'd almost certainly get confiscated in security, "Is there an alternative?"

It was Friday night, and L and I were in the airport, flying out for a weekend jaunt to another state to see a friend. L was ahead of me in the security line, loudly complaining about the sweatiness of her bare feet in her heels and how gross it was going to be to have to remove them and walk barefoot through the metal detector. I laughed and hoisted my bags onto the conveyor behind her.

"Oh, shit!" she wailed, causing me to look up from where I stood intently trying to remove my fourteen metal bracelets with one hand. "Was I supposed to keep my boarding pass out?"

As her bag dissappeared into the conveyor and with it her ID and boarding pass (which you were, in fact, supposed to hang on to as you passed through the metal detector), she flailed frantically, at one point almost reaching into the X ray machine to retrieve it before thinking better of it when I screeched "Don't! Radiation!" and passing through the detector without it.

It was all downhill from there. Ten minutes later, we were in an airport bar just outside our gate having two tall, cold beers and laughing when a very old man with only a few good teeth sat down next to us.

"Well, if it aint the girl with the sweaty feet," he drawled. He had apparently been in our security line. "How about if I buy you two a drink?"

We couldn't possibly, of course. But we did. A minute later, we were being talked into a shot of tequila each.

The moment the shots were down, a gentleman sitting to the left of us at the bar slid over a chair. Great, I thought, bearing down for an awkward come-on directed at L, who was sitting closest to our new friend. But then he opened his mouth.

"So girls," he lisped, "How is it you are having so much fun and you're not even on the plane yet?"

Instantly Brian was our new gay best friend ever. Not only did he save us from the strange toothless man, he was hilarious and thought we were about the most fun ever. We chitchatted about where we were going (we were going to the same place! on the same plane! let's have another round!) and what we'd do there, and whether wide-leg jeans were really coming back in style or not, and all in all we were really quite well behaved. Until...

"Seriously?" L said, incredulous to something Brian had ranted about. "That is so gay." (as in "lame" or "ridiculous").

For a moment, you could have heard fairy dust hit Brian's light brown suede loafers. I cringed and covered my ears, waiting for the tyrade and avoiding all eye contact. L froze the moment the word fell out of her mouth, wide-eyed. In her effort to be PC (a feat in itself, given our standard irreverence and the fact that we were now on probably our 30th ounce of beer and 3rd ounce of tequila, each), she had accidentally said the one word she was trying very very hard to not say. Gay.

And then: "Let's not use that word, dear... what do you say?"

Brian was an angel. And poor L had never been more thankful for the understanding of a gay man. In celebration of his coolness, another round.

By the time we got on the plane, we were-- "Tipsy?" Brian asked.

"More like blitzed," L replied.

The three of us sat together on the plane, talking relationships, mostly. Brian determined that my last relationship was "gay", while he and L exchanged tips on... well, nevermind. But I imagine for all around us it was a terribly interesting plane ride, to say the least.

The rest of the night included these highlights:

- Once at our friend's house, us girls continued the celebration, during which L fell face-first into a pile of full garbage bags in the garage, a position from which she struggled to recover but couldn't for some time, much to the amusement of myself and K, who flopped around on the ground laughing so hard we cried
- I was jumped, tied up and silly-stringed
- A quesadilla was, at one point, slid under a bathroom door

One key portion of the weekend which I failed to mention was that I had just come down with The Cold -- you know, the one that has taken most of the people around you out at least once this winter? Yeah. So during all these festivities, I sounded like one of Marge Simpson's sisters with a speech impediment thanks to the stuffy nose and sore throat. Delightful. Needless to say, Saturday was a little rough, but we managed to fit in lunch, some shopping, a comedy show, a lovely meal, and another night out on the town, where, after hopping myself up on decongestants and bud light, I saw my first mechanical bull (no, I did not ride said bull, being neither a cowgirl nor a hoochie mama).

Saturday night's other highlights included:

- Watching the apparently common phenomenon of two girls riding one mechanical bull at once, thinking this was both a) attractive and b) safe of which it turned out to be neither, of course.
- My girlfriend K chipping her tooth on a beer bottle after doing an ill-advised group toast at closing time, after which we called her "Lloyd", "Chippy" and "Snaggle"
- Cramming 7 people into a 5-seater van taxi, and being somewhat surprised when halfway through the ride, the driver decided he hated our guts and turned up his CD of Korean pop music (it's exactly as bad as it sounds) so we could no longer communicate with each other or hear ourselves think

The trip home was much like the trip away, if you replace the alcohol with huge cups of icewater. We rode back with Brian - a friendly and flamboyant coincidence - and again the contact solution was in the carryon, only this time they didn't catch it (about which I was very relieved, as the carryon was now also crammed with dirty underwear and socks and other random stuff, but also freaked out by, because, well, what if I were a terrorist?).

All in all, it was a good weekend, with good friends and one new gay best friend ever. And today, I'm paying for it big-time. I've got the sense that if I blow my nose once more, it will trigger a deadly pressure-explosion in my brain, but I just can't resist. Wish me luck...

Good night.

Me and TV

2007-03-02T21:51:00.000-08:00

My relationship with TV has been a little weird since my childhood. I was raised by a mom who had a few basic rules around our house, like most kids. And, like most kids, my little brother and I didn't really mess with them, because these were the hard core basics.

The thing, though, is that in most households these might include things like "Go to church every Sunday" or "No premarital sex" or "No raising your voice to your mother". But traditional rules weren't so much our mother's style. She was a badass with a wide hippie streak. Sex, foul language, religion and debauchery weren't so much her concern. What she DID concern herself with were such classics as "No soda in the house -- or anywhere near the property", "Lunchables might be 'cool', but if we didn't grow or kill it ourselves, it's not going in your sack lunch" and "No more than 30 minutes of television daily" and, worst of all: "Absolutely no cable TV".

These rules outraged my brother and I. Sure, we didn't have to go to church and we could dissappear into the woods from sunrise to sunset on a Saturday like a couple banchees and not get in trouble, but with all the wisdom of 7 and 12 year olds, we felt socially crippled.

Of course, we were crafty, and devised a sophisticated plan to beat the system: Every weekend, we tromped through the woods (yes, literally) to our neighbor's house.

The neighbors had two kids exactly our ages, and their parents kicked major ass. There, they had a television in every room, including the kitchen, they ate off wonderful things called "T.V. trays", they had four or five different tins in their pantry full of different varieties of junk food, and they almost neverhad to talk to each other or go outside, preferring instead to sit in front of cable television.

We were in heaven.

I knew it was wrong, even back then, but I just. couldn't. help. it. My brother and I spent hours of our precious youth on the floor in their living room, gorging ourselves on all the crap my mom wouldn't let near our house and stuffing our minds with garbage, from M.C. Hammer videos to Singled Out and The Simpsons. But we didn't passively watch -- we were, like, in the lean-forward position, the whole time. Picture a chubby kid with a candy bar when he sees his bully older brother approaching to snatch the treat away. You know how he suddenly starts cramming the thing in his mouth, trying to swallow it before it could be taken from him? That was us. We were transfixed, and my mom would've been pissed.

Reminders of those days remain with me, though now what really gets me are documentaries and infomercials. For a while there, when my hippie ways were still in their nascence, I banned T.V. from my home, recognizing my tendencies to fixate on the contraption and believing it would help keep me from spacing out, when I had time to do so. Later, I decided this wasn't financially prudent, as it caused me to have to go to theatres to watch movies, when with a TV you get basic channels and can use a DVD player to watch as many documentaries (and/or episodes of Sex and the City) as you like. And, when I find myself home alone, just me and the TV, I do.

To wit: I watched EVERY SINGLE EPISODE of Alone in the Wilderness when it aired on PBS, because the person I lived with at the time loved it. That's right, I skipped reading or socializing or excersizing and instead watched a very old man make a doorknob with his bare hands, with such riveting commentary as "Today, I built a doorknob. It took me fourteen hours with this here chisle and wood file." followed by, well, nearly fourteen hours of an ancient man whaling on a chunk of wood.

Yeah.

Last night, I found myself completely sucked into a documentary on morbidly obese people.

Have you seen this? It's the one with the two guys -- one's in Mexico and the other the US -- and they both tip the scales at something like a thousand pounds, but they're medical miracles. Their hearts are normal, their blood pressure, organs, everything is just ticking away in there, while these guys can't even get out of bed, much less their house.

Instead, they watch jazzercize videos from the 80s in bed and sorta wiggle along to the music. And run internet businesses. One of them sells designer jeans on Ebay to pay rent.

This was, of course, really sad. Also, a little hard to watch, with moments of complete hilarity. (I'm sorry, YOU try not to laugh at a 1000 lb man gleefully doing arm circles, naked in bed, to Madonna's "Holiday". It's priceless, people.)

And a couple weeks ago, I decided that what my kitchen really needed was a Magic Bullet, but before I could purchase the miracle salsa/sorbet/peanut butter maker, my friend snatched the phone out of my hand and clicked off the television, sucking me back into reality.

(Now if I could just figure out what to do with this juicer, food dehydrater and Bowflex System...)

Links upside your head

2007-02-28T21:35:00.000-08:00

Sorry for so much potty humor lately, but I stumbled across this site, and HAD to share, as it actually calculates the amount of money your company pays you per year to do your... ahem... number twos during business hours. Click and calculate.

And, as long as we're on the subject, the best story I've ever read about number two. Don't worry, it's not graphic, just funny, sooo funny. Click here to read it.

Alright, enough of that. But there can never be too much of this (by which, of course, I mean a boy breaking up with a girl in public, on video, on Valentine's day (which happens also to be her birthday) with the help of a group of vocalists singing their rendition of "I'm not ready to make nice", by the Dixie Chicks. The link is to an Op Ed piece about it, but I can assure you that the moment I find the video on YouTube it will be up here, too. Unless you guys get to it first, in which case please just email my lazy ass the damn link, will you?

[UPDATE: Link is alive and well in the comments section, thanks to a helpful reader. Enjoy!]

Oh, and by the way, James Brown, dead since Christmas, still isn't buried, even though close to three million other people in the world have died between then and now, and they've all made it into the ground. Anna Nicole and Daniel Smith are still above ground, too.

It's like dying but remaining in a creepy unburied but embalmbed state (this is very similar to undead, I think) is Hollywood's new Scientology. According to my friend Z, this trend combined with the fact that 1) Britney Spears can procreate, 2) the war in Iraq is still raging 3) our country is writing checks to anyone who will take our money 4) unbelievably high home prices will likely keep a whole generation of 20-somethings in apartments until they're senile and 5) the toll MySpace is taking on American productivity all point to a near-term implosion of America (and, therefore, the world).

Z may be over-caffeinated, but he also may be right.

I, for one, am buying lots of canned goods and batteries.

The Note, Part II: Why I'll never write another

2007-02-21T16:56:00.000-08:00

It was my first year of college. I was fresh and alone at a school far enough from home that I didn't know anyone. The campus, though only mid-sized, felt huge. I was awash with the power and excitement that comes with being anonymous in a brand new place.

I knew only one person at the university -- a girl I'd become friends with through sports in high school. She was a year older than me and I always looked up to her -- she was that girl who seemed to have it all figured out. Every high school boy with a pulse was simultaneously a little afraid of her and completely obsessed. She had gotten a scholarship to play ball at the university I attended, but during my first couple months at school I was busy getting settled in my sorority and breaking up with the then-love of my life (a whole 'nother story), so I hadn't seen her, though we talked occasionally on the phone.

One late weeknight a few months into school, I found myself in the campus library late, writing in a computer lab. There were people at every computer, which were laid out in rows with computers back to back. As I worked, the guy in the computer facing me caught my eye. He was tall, had hazel eyes and sandy blonde hair and rakish, crooked smile. He was a couple years older than me, I guessed, from all the muscles. Clearly an athelete, and brazen; periodically he leaned around his computer to catch my eye and sort of half-smiled and nodded.

I was flattered by his attention, but it was a computer lab and I was a goody-goody 18-year old who had had a grand total of one long-term, intimate relationship, like, ever! I pretended not to notice, all the while my thoughts were racing: what do I do? How do I act? Holy Christ! My life is AWESOME and TERRIFYING all at ONCE!!

Nobody was talking, so saying something clever wasn't an option (both because it was dead-silent and I was not clever in the least). And I was supposed to be working. I was in waaay over my head, but was determined to "sieze the opportunity" and "make the most of my college experience" and shit. And then, it came to me. A note.

A Note.

Discreetly, I wrote him a Note right there in the computer lab. It was too long, and went into too much detail about how I didn't know anyone here and what, hypothetically, we could get together and do, like maybe coffee or a movie or something. (I am SO cringing as I write this). Worse, I remember leaving TWO numbers at the bottom of the paper -- one to my room and one to my cell phone. TWO NUMBERS! Can you imagine? I might as well have left him a lock of hair, blood test results and a pee sample too, but I thought I was being verrrry cool.

I finished up at the computer, and, very smooth-like, stood up, walked around the table, and slipped my note into his Biology book on my way out.

I barely made it out of the library before being near-paralyzed with dread. I had been so confident a moment before, all hopped up on hormones and adrenaline -- but once I stepped outside the library into the night, the reality of the half-page long note I left for some random athelete in my new university library was enough to nearly break me out into cold sweats. If I could have burned the place down with him in it, I would have.

A few days went by and that Sunday morning, I got a phone call around 9:30 a.m. It was my old friend from high school on the other end.

"I had the craziest night! You'll never believe it..." she launched into a story about the night before, focusing particularly heavily on a handsome basketball player she met there. "So we went to his house," she continued. "No funny business, but this morning, I hopped in the shower with him." (At this point, I shriek as if my virginal ears just caught on fire. She SHOWERED with a GUY. Holy shit.)

"And when we got out," she continued, but at this point she starts laughing, so words are coming in bursts, "On the floor... by his wallet... was this crumpled up paper... and the handwriting looked familiar, so I... picked it up... and..."

I about died on the spot as she, between fits of laughter, essentially read me the note I'd left with my little library crush a few days before. She thought it was the funniest thing in the world, and, if his hysterics in the background were any indication, so did he.

"Wait a minute," I gasped, between my own horrified gulps, "You mean... you... took... a SHOWER with HIM?!!"

Yep, the only person on campus I knew not only beat me to my library crush, she SHOWERED WITH HIM, and then they, naked, read the most embarrassing note I have ever written. And then called me to replay the incident with me as their witness.

For the rest of my college existence, every time I was out, I inevitably ran into GooglyLibraryEyes and all his buddies, who mercilessly gave me shit, and somehow magically never fucking forgot it or cut me some slack. Let me tell you, by the end of my college career, he wasn't looking attractive anymore. I don't think. To be honest, I never looked at him directly again, afraid my eyes would be burned by the reflection of my own stupidity shining off him like a "neener-neener" beacon forever.

That was the end of my Note-writing career. Thank God I had a sense of humor or I mightn't have survived it.

Lesson: The Note gets read. Often. And by way more people than you intend.

So now its your turn to share hideous come-on stories. Can you beat this? I doubt it, but could really use a little morale boost now, so if you wouldn't mind trying...

:)

The Note (a tale of a misguided come-on tactic), Part I

2007-02-17T09:23:00.000-08:00

[Before we begin, a note: I love how I can write about pretty much anything and elicit a response from y'all, but the day I actually get hit by a bus and write about that? Nothing. A couple emails along the lines of "are you okay? because that's pretty funny..." but other than that, radio silence. You guys kick ass.]

...

"So I'm having a little bit of a crisis," she said. "I tried to lick the company stamps, or whatever, and now I'm paying the price."

My best friend and I are sort of regulars at this little Mexican restaraunt near her house, where we meet sometimes once every couple weeks, sometimes a few times a week, to eat chips and salsa and drink beer with lime in it and talk about... well... everything.

Last week, the topic was Workboy. We'd run into Workboy a few weekends ago on a night out on the town. He'd recognized her as the girl who works in the office building next to him, and described her black Audi and where she parked in their small, shared parking lot. He'd bought her a drink and they'd laughed and flirted. He was doing that thing where you touch the other person when they say something funny. At the end of the night, they exchanged numbers and went their separate ways.

The following week they bumped into each other a couple times, talked about getting together again. So, in an attempt to keep the momentum they'd begun during the weekend, she wrote A Note to Workboy.

Now, the Note is a notoriously female move. And my friend, bless her heart, did exactly what every one of us known Note-Leavers does: First, she wrote The Note four days before she worked up the nerve to leave The Note somewhere for him to read. The Note was, though totally premeditated, intentionally a little sloppy and very short, in an attempt to look, well, not premeditated.

"...it was just very cool," she said. "I mean, very casual."

After obsessing for the obligatory three days about exactly what words should go in The Note, she finally worked up the considerable nerve it took to slip it under his wiper on her way out to her car one day after work.

Just after she did, she saw him come out of his building on his way to his car, and panicked, essentially sprinting to her car and racing off before he could read the note in front of her, the whole way home wishing she could go back, run him over, and snatch the note back out of his adorable, lifeless hands.

"Well," I nodded, "I think you handled that pretty well. So?"

"So he hasn't called. And it's been two weeks," she moaned. "And honestly, I'm dissapointed, but more than that, I'm completely fucked, because I see his car every day and he walks past my office every day, and we haven't spoken since, and it is the most awkward thing EVER!" Cue wailing.

I agreed. What? Well, she was right. It was a completely awkward situation, and after some discussion, we determined that not only was it awkward, it was totally possible he had a girlfriend who he showed the note to, in addition to everyone he works with and possibly also my friend's boss and co-workers. Which led to a whole 'nother bout of wailing.

And that's the thing about The Note. It always seems like such a good idea to us women, but the second you leave it, you realize the gravity of the mistake you've made in leaving it:

You hit on a man like he was a woman, and left cold, hard, physical evidence of your transgression.

It's like we take the biggest mistake men make in hitting on women (the pick-up lines, sometimes some grabbing and and hi-fives with the boys and a few pelvic thrusts) and do completely the opposite thing. We hit on men coyly and nearly anonymously in an attempt to risk as little as possible. Consider the fact that most women's repertoire of moves when it comes to attracting a man (mine included) borrow heavily from deaf, dumb and mute: we ignore them completely, believing this makes us more attractive to them. Nice.

Meanwhile, I suspect a man really wants us to come up to him unannounced at a bar, grab his junk, wrap a leg around him, press our chest against his arm and tell him his legs must be tired because he's been running through our sex dreams all night. But noooo. Instead, like the classy but clueless broads we are, we take the leave The Note angle, thinking it will be sweet and clever and mysterious. Which gets us into BIG trouble. Women want mystery. Men want exactly the opposite. I know this firsthand.

[Next, in Part II, how I know this firsthand.]

"Yeah, I hate gay people..."

2007-02-15T21:41:00.000-08:00

Yeah, Tim Hardaway has the beating of his life a-comin to him, if it's possible to be beaten down by coach bags and the case to Madonna's Immacculate Collection CD. Okay, that was a joke, people. But really, wow.

I guess white trash now comes in chocolate?

...and I was all, like, "What the...??!!!" (Hit by a bus)

2007-02-15T10:26:00.000-08:00

You know that thing that people do when something embarrassing happens to them in public? I know you know what I'm talking about. That thing people do, for example, when they randomly trip while walking down the street?

I'm not talking about the people who start running and try to play it off. (Those people are their own breed, requiring their own separate post. They're the type who do the thing where they raise their hand and wave to someone down the street, thinking they know them, but then realize they don't and instead use their hand to slick back their hair, all, like "What? I'm cool... just fixing my hair!". This is unacceptable behavior for anyone other than Guidos, and real Guidos only live in Little Italy and are drunk and fat and leacherous most of the time, anyway, so their bad judgment doesn't count. By the way, I'm part Italian, so don't call me racist.)

I'm talking about the other people. The people who get pissed. You know, when they trip on their own feet, but instead of laughing their clumsiness off, they stop, and turn around, and, like, glare and the sidewalk, all "What the...??!!" like it purposefully tripped them. Or they point, which is always funny. Or examine the street closely for the crack that obviously caused them to stumble. Or -- better yet -- they kick the curb. God, I love that. It totally ridiculous, because regardless of what they do afterwards, they almost just tripped, and nothing they do is going to make that go away.

Tara Reid is really good at this. Or maybe she's mostly good at just falling and being coked up and skanky. Either way, a photo, because I think it's funny (and hear it encourages you guys to continue reading... thank you, US Magazine):

Anyway, this "What the...?!" behavior didn't make any sense to me until this morning, when I was (wait for it...) HIT BY A BUS.

Yup. A huge articulated bus -- carrying what seemed like a thousand commuters -- ran a red light and met me in the middle of a crosswalk -- head down in the rain, minding my own business -- half a block from my office building.

I'm okay and everything. In the spirit of full disclosure, I have to admit that it's not like it plowed me down, it just sort of met me. The moment it was less than 10 inches from my right shoulder, I looked up and stiff-armed it while jumping sideways, effectively pushing off its front left corner before it knocked me down.

The first nanosecond after the bus hissed to a quick stop, the first moment I knew I was going to live, I was embarrassed, convinced it was all my fault, because who gets hit by a bus unless they're doing something idiotic? What the fuck? I thought. I am so oblivious to the world that I just almost got hit by a bus? I mean, how embarrassing! Surely, I thought, I must have been jaywalking. But when I looked up at the crosswalk, I was stunned. No red STOP hand. Instead, a bright green WALK man. And this one was animated. His legs were moving. He was, like "WALK! LIKE ME!! SEE? DO IT!"

Just like that, (I snapped right there, in real life, while typing the word "that". So please, when reading this, snap, so you can get the full effect of my enthusiasm for this story.) Just like that (thank you), my embarrassment turned to anger.

How in the fuck does a BUS run a red light and almost hit a GIRL who clearly has every right to WALK in that crosswalk, with her legs moving and carrying her across the street just like the blazing green WALK man? That WALK man was suddenly my shining beacon of right-ness. And, to add to my anger, I noticed that on top of the sign, there was a speaker playing piped-in audio instructions for the blind. The piped-in audio woman was saying this, still, even in the seconds after my near-death-experience:

"Walk signs are on for all crossings. Walk signs are on for all crossings. Walk signs are on for all cross..." etc. etc. etc.

God damn that bus! Now I was really pissed. My bright young life was nearly smeared across the bumper of a public transporter, and it was totally not my fault.

I was going to show that effing bus driver.

Yeah, I was.

I was gonna.

Show him.

That effer.

So you know what I did? I'll be damned if I didn't, almost instinctively, do that thing.

I stopped, mouth open in shock as I realized the audio and visual signals were all telling me to walk and the bus to stop at the moment of near-impact, and gave the driver the "what the...??!!!" look, with my forehead all scrunched up like he was an idiot, then pointed to the green WALK sign, then pointed back at the bus driver, shaking my head and again doing the "What the...?!" face before disgustedly throwing my hands down at my sides and marching the rest of the way across the street, shaking my head.

You could almost hear the spectators crowding the sidewalks giggle and whisper. I actually saw a few point. I was that girl. Doing that retarded "What the...?!!!" thing.

But I didn't care. It felt good. Not as good as swearing at the driver, but good enough to satisfy me as I stomped across the street and into my building, brushing my hair back all cool and calm. All, like, "What? Nothing! I'm cool, and stuff. Just fixing my hair..."

____________________________________________

A tale of two come-ons is coming... but forgive me, the bus incident took precedence today, as it was practically a near-death experience. Have a good day, and please--look both ways.

Lameness.

2007-02-14T11:24:00.001-08:00

It's oozing out of my pores. I have about a million stories for you but somehow have had zero time to write. Which means you suffer. And I remain lame, a lame-ass girl lamely working her lame self to death, occasionally making it back to her lame house to lamely go straight to bed, where I drift off to restless sleep while wallowing in my lameness.

Apologies.

In the meantime, I need you to do me a favor and recall the single most embarrassing experience you ever had attempting to pick up or hit on a member of the opposite sex. It is important that you are prepared with stories of your own failure, as I am about to share some incredibly lame tales of my own (and my friends', too, though they don't know it yet)... and we will all need the support.

Deal?

Thanks.

Oh, and happy Valentine's Day. Laaaammmmeee.

(Just kidding, I got flowers and presents already, suckers.)

(And for once I'm not going to tell you whether that is the truth or a big fat exaggeration... you'll just have to wonder. Good day.)

Anna Nicole Smith: death of an All-American girl

2007-02-08T14:55:00.000-08:00

In case you didn't hear, Anna Nicole Smith collapsed in a Florida hotel this afternoon and died. It's sad, really. She was such an all-American girl, you know?

I mean, isn't it just the classic story of the girl next door?

Girl is born to inbred family of six children, girl works in fried chicken before deciding she makes more money slinging her own breasts, which she does with great bleached-blonde gusto until the fateful day she rubs all up on an octegenarian who she later finds out is worth some cool 400 million dollars. Girl marries bag of bones, poses in Playboy and lands Guess Jeans deal, bag of bones dies, girl feuds with b.o.b's family for inherritance, b.o.b's family dies, girl gets paid, stars in reality TV show, hooks up with her own lawyer, gets hugely obese, gets bogus diet pill promotion deal, loses weight and more brain mass, gets knocked up, gives birth to child with no baby's daddy in another country, girls oldest son dies in hospital room once girl gives birth to daughter, girl gets involved in bitter paternity dispute, then crazy eviction suit, then bunk diet pill promotion suit, finally collapsing in the a hotel room at age 39, dead.

*sigh*

Gives us dreamers something to aspire to, really.

I've started an office pool on how long before an Anna Nicole tell-all biography hist the shelves, followed shortly by a movie based on her life and a made-for-TV special. And can't you just hear conservative midwestern mothers everywhere barely holding back the "serves her right"s and "i told you so"s while their Twinkie-eating daughters stuff themselves into designer jeans and wail in anguish?

The real brainteaser is how long until little Dannilynne becomes a promiscuous, addicted child star/stripper? I give her eleven years, tops... and that's only if somebody can keep Paris Hilton and Lindsey Lohan's hands off her before then.

Poor girl. What a legacy. On the upside, she'll almost undoubtedly be filthy rich, right?

Or, you could just wear your shirt...

2007-02-06T06:27:00.000-08:00

I have talked to two different men in the last week who say they take off their shirts when they go number two.

Yep, I know. Bizarre, right?

And they both say this isn't restricted to just their homes. Public restroom? Shirt off. Work men's room? Yep. Porta-Potty? (Actually, I didn't ask either about a Porta Potty, but now I wish I would have. Meanwhile my general rule is to stay a minimum of .25 miles away from Porta-Potty's at all times, no matter how badly you have to pee. As for the other function? No way. )

This clothing removal thing disturbs me for two reasons. One is the basic concept. WHY would you remove clothing to use the bathroom? It's unnecessary, and the mental picture is so icky. Also, this is totally inconvenient. Imagine a man in a shirt and tie: he enters the bathroom, removes his tie, hangs it on that little hook on the door, unbuttons seventy million buttons (and those ones around his wrists), takes off his shirt, then his undershirt, and hangs those both over the door. He's now been in there for 4 or 5 minutes. People are coming and going and watching his clothes be flung over the stall door. He then sits down on the sani-paper, a weird, pasty-white man with his shirt off in a cold work bathroom, and does his deed. (Both shirt-removers are white, so by default, that's my mental picture. But a brown man shirtless on the pot is just as icky). Then, when he's done, he reverses the process. Clothes go back on. Does he tie his tie in the mirror with all the other guys watching? Do they know he just disrobed? And if he's taking off his shirt, why not go the whole way and get rid of the pants and socks, too?

[Actually, come to think of it, I think I did have an ex-boyfriend who took his shoes off when he went number two. I feel like I remember him saying something to this effect, and I just didn't ask more questions because it was weirding me out. Then again, this is also the ex who ate lasagna in the bathtub, so maybe the whole relationship was weirding me out, truth be told. But I digress.]

What's worse about my discovery of this strange male behavior is that I heard about it twice in one week from two different and unrelated men, which makes me believe it stands to reason this isn't a rare occurrance at all. Is it possible there are lots of men out there doing this? Or--gasp--women?

And why were both these guys -- one of whom I barely know, who made this revelation in a big group of people out on a Saturday night -- so willing to share this perverse and private detail?

It's like i'm in the twilight zone. Anyone?

"I think we're alone now" is the best karaoke song ever.

2007-02-02T14:13:00.000-08:00

And this weekend, I intend to prove it, irrefutably. I'll let you know how it goes.

Happy Friday!

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

2007-01-29T10:06:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-01-26T12:46:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-23T20:29:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-01-22T17:31:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-21T20:50:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-17T17:09:00.001-08:00

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

2007-01-16T16:59:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-14T23:03:00.000-08:00

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)

2007-01-12T18:48:00.001-08:00

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

2007-01-11T22:50:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-10T01:04:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-05T08:49:00.000-08:00

::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.

2007-01-03T09:58:00.002-08:00

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.

The storm

2006-12-28T14:37:00.000-08:00

http://www.mydeo.com/videorequest.asp?XID=12928&CID=60659

The above is a slideshow of the wreckage of what I now refer to as "Apocalypse: Beta", also known as the December 14 storm that hit Seattle with a vengence. This is the storm that caused me to be without power (or a shower) for 4 days, and that taught me how to sanitize my own wastewater for consumption, just in case.

(That wastewater part was, of course, a lie.)

The weird Madonna tunes behind the slideshow need to go, but if you turn the volume down, it's really quite impressive. This storm turned 200-year old trees into toothpicks. That kind of power turns me on a little.

Not really.

Okay, maybe a little.

Splitting a satsuma.

2006-12-22T11:11:00.000-08:00

No snow. No frost, even, usually.

The only sign that it's Christmas are the twinkle-lights in the trees, Starbucks' holiday specialties (the Peppermint Mocha and the Eggnog Latte), and the commercial frenzy, the nightly staged indoor snowfall at the downtown mall encouraging more spending, more, more. The clash of hope and dissapointment, faith and capitalism, frenzy and isolation, charity and greed -- and the bustle, more than anything, building to a deafening roar synonymous with Christmas.

Everyone clutching, grasping, hoping for the same thing, sometimes catching hold of it by a slippery tail -- just for a moment, spirits soaring -- only for it to, a moment later, slide just out of reach.

There's a lot of sadness and quietness and loneliness hidden just under the surface of this season; a poor girl dressed up for a moment in borrowed clothes, the tags still on.

And yet.

And yet, it's a little magic.

Not a lot magic, not magic like when you were little and pulled out your tooth two days before it would have come out on its own just so you could stuff it under the pillow and try to stay up all night to catch the tooth fairy under there.

Or tip-toeing down to the living room in the middle of Christmas Eve night; going slower and quieter than almost any 6 year old can stand to, tips of your fingers trailing the walls, avoiding the creak in the third-to-last stair, expectantly reaching to pat the stocking you know hangs from the banister, imagining what might be there but unable to see in the deep and silent black.

And not a lot magic like when the sun hit the clouds just right in the late summer afternoon, the rays streaming down through the trees in a way that reminded you of the illustrations of God in your kid's bible - those bright, near-solid beams of light from the sky, the sense that you were suddenly caught in the presence of God making the tiny hairs on your arms stand on end.

And not magic like that first sudden dip and swell of the possibility of love, or, later, the hammock of new love turned to something else - a retreat, sustenance.

Not quite that magic, but.

Magic, a little, still. In snippets in all the days around Christmas:

The glow of a family room, hot with a fire and the Christmas tree its only light.

You and I lying on the couch, toe to head, clutching full bellies, Charlie Brown's Christmas on the radio, barely touching fingers, not speaking.

My brother, back from college, all broad and tall, loading up the woodbox for my mom, each piece making a heavy thud. When he finishes and comes back inside, the scent of aged wood and sap on his hands, the glow of pride and a cold morning on his cheeks.

The humble celebration we'll have on Monday: a board game, pots of coffee consumed while we talk about politics, travel, family, what we don't know. While we talk about talking; when we talk, as we do, about how we talk.

I'll split a sastuma -- three ways.

Four Yahtzees in one game! Who would believe it?!

Let's let the dog in tonight, just tonight.

What is "Yule Tide", anyway?

It's harder than you think, splitting a satsuma three ways.

There's no snow. No frost, even.

There are no elaborate gifts, no huge gathering of extended family, some of them almost strangers. No midnight mass, no relative dressed up like Santa.

Everything will not go right. I'll burn the 3-minute peanut brittle, a recipe I know by heart and the easiest thing to make. She'll be overly busy, doing what she can to avoid a moment of silence, loneliness; pressured, a little, as I am, by her hope for a perfect day. My brother will answer the phone in the middle of dinner.

And yet.

And yet, in these things, not in spite of them, we three will notice: It's a little magic.

Not a lot, not too much. Nothing showy or obvious. A little magic.

Just enough.

__________________

Happy Holidays. May they be just enough, just right, a little magic.