The Bare Ass Booze Pitch Post Plug

Kevin of the "Bad Pitch Blog" (link under "linkage" at right) put up a post today discussing a bad pitch I sent him a few weeks ago.

For you non-PR types out there, a "pitch" is typically an email (sometimes snail-mail or phone call) directed to a journalist (or group of journalists) from a PR person who intends for the journalist to read/hear the pitch (about the PR person's client or product) and then subsequently write about it, put it on TV or otherwise propel it into the world by virtue of the large captive audience they have at their attention.

This particular pitch was sent to me from a journalist friend who recieved it some time ago. He forwarded it to me for a laugh, and in an effort to emphasize why he almost categorically hates PR people.

While I couldn't defend the pitch, I did have a laugh -- and passed it on to Kevin, who publicly, hilariously, and scathingly disembowels ill-advised pitches like these every day.

Thank goodness I didn't touch it here - I couldn't compete with his post. Check it out, and laugh: The Bad Pitch Blog: The Bare Ass Booze Pitch.

Honestly.

Dating Epiphany: It's all about your Story

Dating epiphany: The importance of the "how we met" story is the aspect of dating that is undeniably most underestimated by men.

Yes, physical attraction is important. Chemistry, religion, and how much she likes sports: all critical. But honestly, probably one of the three most important things to any woman you're dating that she'll never admit to your face is the story of how you met.

Consider:

The wedding toast. A proper wedding toast must be sugary and prophetic -- about how you first met, you knew instantly you'd be together forever. Love at first sight, butterflies, 12 straight hours of holding hands and talking about God and music, yadda yadda. Nobody wants to hear this:

"Yeah, Rob was wasted one night, as usual, and he saw this chick -- well, actually, he was about to call her a bitch because she cut in front of him in the drink line, but then he noticed she had a nice ass. You should have heard the pickup line... and then she threw up on his new Pumas, but he wasn't even mad, because he knew he was gonna score. Anyway, one thing led to another, and when they woke up the next morning, they realized they had more in common than a mutual love of tequila..."

And even before the nuptuals, there's the introduction to friends. Nobody in their right minds is going to admit they met their new man in a chatroom, or in a tanning salon, or the day he got out on parole. And no guy wants to bring a girl home for Thanksgiving and tell his folks he met his new lover at Rick's, when she suddenly stopped dancing on poles and instead, in one magical moment, picked up his $20 with her butt cheeks.

I once briefly dated a man I met in real life after a series of email exchanges inspired by the wonderful Web (no, not a dating site, which I actually think seems like a good idea, should I ever be in the market again for a real relationship with a qualified man who is seeking the same). Anyway, in my case, initial contact was made via a nerdy email encounter. In my defense, it was the first time I'd met someone this way, and I had no idea romance would blossom as a result of said email (and, later, in-person) encounter -- at best I thought it would result in a good party story.

But then one thing led to another (no, not like that) and he was eventually (poor, dear, terrified man) introduced to the parents.

"Mom, Dad, this is Rob."

Enter "How did you meet?" question, which I knew was coming, but was just hoping I could will away. No such luck.

After weighing the options, while frantically looking at each other in silent "You go." "No, you go." conversation, one of us settled on "Uh, we met... at... a... bar?" before quickly changing the subject.

Good one. The only thing my parents wanted to hear more than "I met him on the Internet" was "I met him at a bar". It wasn't a total lie -- we did, in fact, meet for the first real time at a bar, but if a truth, it was an amended one. The "On the Internet" explanation is a bit more... complicated, inevitably resulting in a bizarre rehash of email exchanges, all of which we would have remembered as far more clever than they, in acutality, were. It all would have seemed very weird, and desperate, and nerdy, no matter how we delivered it.

So we fibbed... sorta.

With his family, it was the same sort of scenario, only he prepped me before with a full-on "appropriate" Story. It went something like this: We met at a bar when he was in town. First time we ever communicated. Like at first sight. First date the next day. A fated, happy coincidence.

He made me swear to stick to this story, and I gladly obliged.

But in situations like this, some of your friends know, right? You gotta tell them. And ultimately, you tell your parents the real story once they start liking him, and all.

But you both consider ever so often the painful truth: you will have to negotiate this awkward exchange -- your Story -- FOREVER, should the relationship last. Oy.

Then comes the aforementioned wedding toast. Brutal. And later you have to tell your kids when they ask. And grandchildren. I mean, in the end, it doesn't matter if she watches football or he opens doors. And yeah, she's hot, but you get used to it, right? Stay married to Jessica Alba for long enough, and eventually, no matter what, she just becomes your wife. But you can never escape your Story. It's permanent. Like a tattoo.

So guys, just a thought: if you're at the stage where you're ready to meet "the one", don't even bother with strip clubs, which will dissapoint you (well, in the light of day, anyway) or bars/the Internet (which will dissapoint her).

Instead, try picking up girls at the park, or coffee shops, or comment on the book she's reading on the bus. Or "accidentally" run into her on the street and pick up all her stuff after it flies out of her arms.

Or light her cigarette, or commisserate about the traffic, or slip her a note at a book reading.

Or take a hint from Hollywood, who created this whole fascination with the "How we met" story in the first place. They practically relase step-by-step guides on a quarterly basis. On their list of suggestions: rescue her from Nazis, or terrorists, or wild animals, preferably all on a bus rigged with a bomb that will explode, should it go less than 60 miles per hour. Or send her gloves and an invitation to dinner.

But watch out for traps: Pretty Woman never works out in real life. In real life, the hooker robs you on the third night after that bubble bath and you just end up broke with an STD, a story you can never tell, a huge, ridiculous-looking cell phone and a humiliating nickname that, should you be lucky enough to eventually get married to some non-hooker, will inevitably be explained on your wedding night when your best man stands up to give a toast about you and your lovely bride which digresses from the "how you met" story into something entirely more damning.

Consider yourself warned.

Now get out there and woo, already! The single women of the world are waiting, with baited breat and unrealistic expectations, for you to sweep them off their feet (with nicely toned pecs and a decent job, mind you).

(Oh, and don't thank us women for the honor of this incredible challenge. Thank Walt Disney, Warner Bros., Barbie and Danielle Steele.)

Mini-van me and the popped tire adventure.

Last night, I watched Survivor and Grey's Anatomy and ate dinner over at my mother's house -- which has become a nice little ritual for us. After the shows wrapped up, and the obligatory gossip and plotline dissection died down, I hopped into my car and headed home, exhausted.

But in standard form, my night didn't end - smoothly and without a fuss - there. On my way home, because I'm clearly a novice trick-driver, I somehow grazed a curb at 40 miles per hour, blew my front right tire completely out, and skidded to a stop on the side of the road, half in the grass, and half on the street.

No injuries, not phone poles in the way, no biggie, thank goodness. (Well, no biggie except my car couldn't go, it was 11 p.m. and all I wanted was to be home in bed, and it was dark and scary out...)

Long story short, my mom had to come pick me up and take me back to her place, where the plan was for me to use my brother's car to get home and to work today (she would use her van to get to her work at 7 a.m.). We determined we could get my tire fixed while I was at work -- thank you, Les Schwab remote service. It was a foolproof recovery plan for my tire disaster. We were so smart and resourceful. We complimented ourselves and talked about how we'd look back on me sucking at driving and this whole incident and laugh.

Until, mid-chuckle, her "check engine" light came on.

Not good. (also, cue my mom emitting a blue-streak worth of curse words).

Two cars down. Our plan had been foiled.

When we finally arrived back at her house, we got me situated in my brother's car, with my mom planning to drive the van to her work, essentially being "pretty sure" the engine light was no big deal. She handed me the keys to my brother's car, I turned the right one in the ignition, and...

silence.

Nothing. Not even a starter "click".

Three cars down. Goddamn my luck. Goddamn it to hell.

So this morning, my mom got up at 6 a.m. and drove my old truck (the one I drove in high school, which was a beater even then -- a dented white '76 Chevy pickup) to work in her cute little sweatervest and pearls, while I climbed in her enormous "mini" van and tooled off to work, "Check engine" light blazing.

I was just the cat's meow pulling into the parking garage this morning, let me tell you. First, I was nervous the thing was going to break down the whole way to work, and second, this van is the size of a small, number 1 safety-rated, side-airbags-having, automatic slider door and foot runner-boasting metal planet. Getting it into the garage without scraping along the ceiling and both walls simultaneously was nervewracking, to say the least.

But my buddy "Les" is working on my car tire as we speak (I'm trying not to consider what it will inevitably cost me) and garage parking without my little permit tags isn't likely to cost me any more than $100 bucks today for the planet-van, so that's nice. (sarcasm, sarcasm, sarcasm). The only good news I can think of is that it's lunchtime and the mexican restaraunt across the street serves very cold beer, very fast... now I just have to calculate how many I can drink in 30 minutes so as to determine how long I need to sell my body on the street to pay for it (in addition to covering my tow bill, new tire, parking, and rent next month).

I'd better get to it.

New: Condom instructions for children!

I have now officially looked at the instructions for the use of a condom twice in my life.

[If you are anticipating a debauchery-filled, scanadlous post detailing tawdry sexcapades, sorry to dissapoint. This post is about the instructions for the use of a condom, not about my personal use of condom(s). At least, that's the plan so far...]

The first time I read condom instructions was when I was like 12 years old, in sex ed, along with every other 12 year old girl and boy I grew up eating paste and getting into recess food fights with. (So embarrassing. Thank you, public schools, for that.)

I was terrified at that time not just of the STD's we kept learning about and the "pushing a watermelon out of a hole the size of a grape" childbirth analogies, but also of condoms and most of all of the reported size of the object the condom was intended to cover. During this class, we were all required to open a condom package, and read the instructions step by step, while putting the condom on our psuedo man-parts: bananas. On top of fear at the sheer size of our bananas, we were also incredibly intimidated (and giggly) about the phraseology used. It was technical, and titillatingly icky:

"Base of the penis."
"Seminal fluid."
"After ejaculation."

Eeew, yes. But accurate.

The second time I read a condom wrapper was yesterday. A girlfriend and I, fascinated by the ads for those vibrating rings that have been advertised by Trojan of late, swung through the sundries aisle while on a run through the drugstore. On a whim and out of sheer curiosity, we bought one. (You can, by the way, learn more about them HERE). I don't know, somehow a hard, thumb-sized piece of jiggling hard plastic doesn't seem that spiffy to me, but different strokes, right? Anyway...

Once in the car, I immediately opened up our little curiosity, discovering not only that the ring itself has a tiny little battery and can be used to buzz your woman into ecstacy until it poops out, but that it came packaged with a condom and instructions for use.

We almost skipped the condom instructions in favor of the little buzzy thing instructions, until some bizarre cartoon illustrations and keywords caught our eyes.

Now, instead of the technical terms for body parts, fluids, and actions -- appropriate for first-intercourse-ready 17-27 year olds, the instructions appear to be written for a 13 year old with a bad mouth and "street cred":

"leave space at the tip to hold your cum."
"Unroll the condom all the way down to the hair."
"After sex, pull out right after you come."

Yeah. Uber Eeeew!! "Come"? "Pull out"? My God. Pretty sure those are not scientifically-appropriate words. Suddenly condom wrappers have gotten near-pornographic, and I, for one, feel like a Republican grandma about it.

Besides the gross-out instructions, there are now pictures of the sex act with these line drawings that are incredibly anatomically incorrect (For example, in real life, the tool should be larger than the jewels, I'm pretty sure) with the exception of hair, which is drawn with disgusting accuracy, and absolutely no regard for the common practice of trimming for aesthetic purposes.

I'm pretty sure I have good reason to be afraid about the future of our gene pool, based on who is apparently sexually active these days, according to Trojan.

::shudder::

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go hold Listerine in my mouth until my gag reflex goes away (or my teeth dissolve, one of the two).

International Talk Like A Pirate Day Returns

And yet again I'm surprised by the gusto with which people celebrate around here. I was in the elevator with two video game programmers this morning, and one of them had a fake parrot on his shoulder. Granted, they're video game guys, but still.

And "Wife Swap" has also indulged in the madness. Check out this trailer for a particularly pirate-y switcharoo show.

Go HERE for more info on the most fun international holiday around.

Finally, if you are really at a loss for things to do at work today, go here and voice your opinion on this age-old question: who's better, pirates or ninjas? Thus far, responses have included:

Vote for Pirates: "Ninja's get a limb cut off, they retire. Pirates get a limb cut off, and now they look even more dangerous."

and

Vote for Ningas: "Pirates have scurvy."

Arrrrrrrr.

Two laws, one friend and a fresh start.

Legwarmers Law #1,572: The amount of fun Legwarmers is directly correlates to the amount of sun Seattle gets.

Legwarmers Law #1573: Sometimes a good deep-clean can therapeutically jump-start a fresh perspective.

This weekend, I fought a major battle with lameness, initially winning and then, ultimately, losing big-time, but gaining something else entirely.

...

Friday night I had plans with my best friend -- and at about 8 p.m., when I was still sitting on the couch in my workout clothes, glaring at the rain outside, watching some horrible informercial for a heating blender (for four easy payments of $49.95!!) and deep into my third glass of Pino Gris, she called to see when I'd be ready.

Her: "Hey! How are you? When do you want to go out?"
Me: "I dunno, I mean, don't rush over or anything. I really don't care. I'm just sorta vegging out."
Her: "Uh, oh-kay... Um, are you alright?"
Me: "Yeah, I just... ::sigh:: whatever."
Her: "I'm coming over. Good lord, what is wrong with you? Get in the shower, like NOW."

And there she was, about 40 minutes later, pounding down my door and breezing in, sunshine in the form of a companion. She wasn't about to let me mope around, self-medicating in my sweatpants and a self-heating mask and waste a perfectly good, if rainy, Friday night thinking about everything that is, might be or could eventually become dysfunctional in my life.

Always a trooper in the truest sense, she sat on my couch and talked to me while I reluctantly dried my hair. She refilled my glass when it was empty, listened to me rant about any and everything that was driving me crazy, and begged me to take off the belted turtleneck tunic I had chosen in favor of a soft, snug, dark-grey "World Peace" t-shirt and plastic 80's accessories (An off-white headband and bangle) with black Audrey Hepburn flats.

(Too much information, I know, but the outfit was damn cute, and if it weren't for her, I would have arrived at the bar in a cashmere mu-mu, jeans and tall boots -- a good look for Sunday afternoon shopping, photo-touring in Europe, not beer-drinking and dance).

She validated my rants, made me laugh, and lured me out the front door with promises that she would drive -- AND pay for drinks!

Thank goodness for friends who can see through your own bullshit and can rescue you from yourself when you cannot. Her relentless commitment to enjoying the evening bubbled over, infecting me with a giddy sort of pleasure at being out of the house and on a crowded dance floor doing the electric slide to a live (gag) country band, clutching Coronas with lime and occasionally spinning each other around, just for emphasis.

By 2:45, exhausted, we had made the pilgrammage back to my house, and I -- buzzed, happy, and thankful for a good friend -- fell into bed, and sleep.

...

Saturday night, though, I was determined to stay in. This time, though, I wouldn't be rescued. I told my best friend I was staying in, put the phone on silent, lit some candles, opened a nice bottle of Syrah, and settled in for a nice long evening of my favorite thing:

CLEANING PARTY!!

I'm sorry, I can't help it. A couple days a month I get this insatiable urge to just clean the bejeezus out of my living space -- this goes beyond the regular weekly cleaning and laundry days. It takes them, in fact, to a whole 'nother level. On my cleaning benders, I actually clear my closet of un-worn items, bagging them and preparing them for donation to charity. I do huge loads of laundry, I sprinkle carpet freshener all over my house, waiting the requisite 30 minutes to vaccum it up (making sure the little vaccum lines are perfectly straight, mind you) and climb into the tub, where I Ajax until I might pass out from the fumes.

Disinfecting wipes? Check.
Hands-and-knees scrubbing of floors? Check.
Cat-hair removal? Check.
Leather couch oiling and buffing? Check.
Intense desk, closet, shelf and kitchen organizing? You got it.

I cleaned to my little heart's content, exhausting my arms and legs in various crouching, scrubbing positions, and actually breaking a sweat. Then, I rewarded myself with a long bath, a clean hotel robe, 5 chapters of a new and fabulous book, and two Tylenol P.M.'s. (Note: do not try this at home. You're not supposed to take those after you've had a drink. But if you decide to, be sure you can devote at least 8 hours to sleep, don't operate machinery, and be sure you're not sleeping with anyone who minds a little drooling. Sleep hits you like a metric ton of bricks on that stuff.)

By 10:30, I was passed out in bed (clean sheets! Clean P.J.'s! Sweet-smelling hair! A little tipsy!) with my cat next to me, my book on my chest, and surrounded by the cleanest two-bedroom apartment this side of the Missisippi.

I woke up twelve and a half hours later with a smile on my face -- bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and in moments I had a pot of coffee brewing and was in workout clothes. I was heading out the door when I grabbed my keys and noticed a blinking light on the blackberry, indicating a message. I put it on speaker phone while I spun around the house, gathering my things for a long, productive day.

Loud and crackly came the voice of a friend who noted my absence on the scene the night before and suspected what I was up to:

"Hi, it's me. I know you're probably elbow-deep in cat hair right now and loving it, but we're all going down to the Kirkland pub for a beer. Take off your rubber gloves, put on some mascara and COME! It's only a quick walk from your house. Or vaccum some more, either way. But we'd love to see you..."

I saved the message and hung up, smiling in appreciation of the understanding of good friends - even when I need to befriend myself, alone. I patted the cat, took a final, sweeping look at my sparkling apartment, and pulled open the door, stepping out into the crisp mid-morning.

How you know it's going to be a bad day by 11:00 a.m.

First, an actual news story from a few weeks ago:

Church Fires Teacher for Being Woman
From Associated Press
August 21, 2006 7:40 AM EDT

WATERTOWN, N.Y. - The minister of a church that dismissed a female Sunday School teacher after adopting what it called a literal interpretation of the Bible says a woman can perform any job - outside of the church.

The First Baptist Church dismissed Mary Lambert on Aug. 9 with a letter explaining that the church had adopted an interpretation that prohibits women from teaching men. She had taught there for 54 years.

The letter quoted the first epistle to Timothy: "I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she must be silent."

The Rev. Timothy LaBouf, who also serves on the Watertown City Council, issued a statement saying his stance against women teaching men in Sunday school would not affect his decisions as a city leader in Watertown, where all five members of the council are men but the city manager who runs the city's day-to-day operations is a woman.

"I believe that a woman can perform any job and fulfill any responsibility that she desires to" outside of the church, LaBouf wrote Saturday.

_____________________________________

Wow. Rough day, huh? Which, by the way, doesn't even come close to mine today, which went something like this (list compiled at 11:30 a.m., keep in mind. I've got a whole day to go):

6 a.m. -- drop off of friend at the airport, which necessitated an alarm clock blaring at approximateloy 5:20 a.m. and me dragging my ass out of a warm, snuggly bed and into business clothes less than 5 hours after I went to bed. Ouch. Deliver friend at appropriate terminal, then steer car to the "cell phone waiting lot", where people can park for free while waiting for loved ones to arrive.
6-7 a.m. -- make sleep nest in fold-down backseat of car in airport cell phone waiting lot (in effort to avoid traffic and stay close, geographically, to the location of a 9 a.m. business meeting downtown). Drift off, thinking how lucky I am to have a practical car.
7 a.m. -- wake, shivering, as the heat has seeped out of my car and left it approximately 45 degrees. Crawl to front seat to turn on car, and heat.
7:03 a.m. -- turn key in ignition. Hear "click, click, click" sound, but no engine.
7:04 a.m. -- turn key in ignition. Hear "click, click, click" sound, but no engine.
7:05 a.m. -- turn key in ignition. Hear "click, click, click" sound, but no engine.
7:06 a.m. -- turn key in ignition. Hear "click, click, click" sound, but no engine.
7:07 a.m. -- turn key in ignition. Hear "click, click, click" sound, but no engine. Begin to sweat, then swear.
7:17-7:35 a.m. -- pop hood of car to heighten awareness of my distress, then tour parking lot, asking 5 men in pickup trucks if they have jumper cables. None of them do, prompting me to wonder why in the FUCK they have a pickup truck, if they're clearly commuting to a desk job and don't intend to ever haul anything, carry tools or have jumpercables for damsels in distress! Also ask a couple old ladies, one girl my age, and one middle-aged man in a suit with two cell phones attached to his head who spoke something like French. No luck.
7:40 -- call everyone in the area I know (three people) and discover they're all already on their way to work.
7:50 -- get a call from one friend, who gives me the name of a tow-truck company, who I google on my Blackberry and call. They'll be out in 10 minutes.
7:55 -- hear "tap tap" on window, and find two men in navy blue jumpsuits standing outside my window, peering at my battery and asking if I need a jump.
7:56 -- "Well, yeah." (Duh.)
7:57 -- tow truck arrives, prompting two jumpsuited men to say "you called a tow truck?"
7:58 -- "Well, yeah." (Assholes.)
8:00 a.m. -- cables hooked up, key turned, ignition catches. Car is running!
8:01 a.m. -- go over to say thank you to tow truck guy, who cuts me short when he hands me a bill for $62.50. $62.50 for approximately four minutes of light work! Resigned, hand over the money, sign life away in ink, and make mental note to get into the tow truck business as a second career. They make bank.

I won't go into details of my other escapades this morning (spilling of hot latte on inner thigh, 20 dollar parking tab when I go to the meeting for which I paid 62.50 to wait and kill my car, and using a Porta-Potty due to real restrooms being "down for maintenance"), but it's been a long morning.

Reeeeaally looking forward to the weekend. Hope yours is good. And if you happen to have any happy karma vibes to spare, you know where to send 'em.