Actual virtual conversation

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!

A weekend night in review

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.

Persistence pays.

"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.

Proposal, plans, present plea

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.)

Hometown heroism

(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"

Airport, "gay", and a weekend away

"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.

The Note, Part II: Why I'll never write another

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

[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.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big weekend in Portland

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

Consider yourself warned.

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

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

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

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

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

The best I ever had

Oh, hello, ex-boyfriends of the world. Sorry to dissapoint -- this blog is not about your sexual prowress.

[Did you hear that? The browsers of... both... my ex-boyfriends closing in disgust? Me too.]

Thanks all for your well-wishes for my full recovery, though regardless of whether I do, in fact, heal completely and with full range of motion, none of you will be getting a handjob. Sorry to dissapoint... again.

Which brings me to my next story of medical discomfort: the gynecologist.

[I know what you're thinking, and yes -- this IS just another cliche post from a female blogger talking about the **eeewww** gyno. The reason this formula is cliche is because it works. Sorry, true. Cliches are cliches for a reason. Just like stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason. For example, I saw yesterday a cop walking into a Dunkin' Donuts. See? It's science. Don't fight it.]

I'd better get to the point of the story first, as after that paragraph I'm lucky if you're still with me:

I recently went to the gynecologist and got a Pap Smear (is that capitalized?) so good, my friends worried I was a lesbian for a week.

[See? It will be a moderately bad story, I promise.]

At first, it was a normal Pap.

Go in, try not to breathe in the waiting room for fear of contracting an airborne illness, be led back to the doctor's office, where you're weighed, rated, listened to and poked before you're told to strip down, put on a gown that doesn't close in the back, and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait more, while envisioning the Pap -- awful, violating, and that cold metal "duck". On a cold, noisy paper-lined bench that makes you feel like an old person in a hospital.

It's like torture, honestly.

And then: the doctor enters, like royalty.

I ended up in Dr. Price's office on the strong recommendation of a family member who urged me to see her for reasons she did not go into detail about. But she seemed certain Dr. Price was good, and I trust her opinion, so there I was.

Dr. Price is about a 5 foot 6 female. Shortish sandyish hair, a plain but pleasant face, a lowish voice and a soothingish personality. Basically, if she wasn't a doctor in a lab coat, you would probably never notice her at all.

Dr. P went about her business exactly that way, too. Sneaky, almost, how comfortable she got you. After a bit, I suddenly found myself on my back, talking about all sorts of personal things, half-naked, with a manly woman who was touching my woman parts. As you can imagine, it was a very confusing encounter.

As she did the breast exam part (for men, a mental picture: imagine the first time you groped a girl. Now imagine that same action, only minus the squeezing -- same motion, just with stiff fingers. That's it...), we continued our chit-chatting.

I had been caught off-guard, unprepared for the doctor to ask me all sorts of personal questions (not medically personal, more sexually and intimately personal) and was, therefore, feeling a bit put on the spot. And when I wasn't responding to her, I was doing a lot silent commentary on how bizarre the situation felt, and how if I didn't know she was a female, I might mistake her (via personality, conversation, etc.) for a man. I felt like I was hypnotized -- hyper self-conscous and self-critical, a constant stream of inner dialogue, but also so comfortable I almost couldn't control my bizarre behavior or turn off the commentary in my head.

"So, not married yet?"

"Me?" (Inner self: No, moron... the other half-naked unmarried woman in the room.)
"Oh, nah." (I was focusing on being nonchalant about that -- you know, trying not to get defensive, even though pretty much everyone I know is married and 26 and single is starting to lose its appeal).

"Why's that?"

"Gosh, you know, I guess it's just not a priority right now," I said, cool as a cucumber. "I'm, you know, married to my job." (Inner self: WHAT? Did I really just say I'm MARRIED to my JOB? Nice one. Fuck, you're retarded.)

"Oh, come on. Married to your job?" I started to sweat. She was on to me. "You're young, and in great shape," she continued. Inner self: Why, thank you sir--err--ma'am. "I'm glad you enjoy your work, but so do I and I still think it's important to nurture more... personal relationships." Inner self: Okay, weird. Personal like how? "...At least to relieve some of the stress in my life. It gives me perspective. And you want kids, right?" she concluded, from somewhere below my tormented head and between my legs.

I had no idea how she got there or what she was doing, and I didn't care. Suddenly I had been propelled into some sort of bizarre couch conversation -- and I couldn't figure out if the good doc was trying to be my psychlogist or my boyfriend. Either way, I was so preoccupied by my running inner dialogue about the weirdness of the situation that I continued to be... weird.

"Oh, kids? Sure. Absolutely. Eventually."

"Good. Well, you're fertile now, but you will be for some time, so that's nothing to rush in to."

Inner self: AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!

It was like she was a manipulative man, and she wanted to be my baby's daddy.

I can't explain it now, and I couldn't explain it to my girlfriends, either, later on that night during drinks.

"You guys? I think my gyno is a lesbian, and I think she was maybe hitting on me during my Pap."

This elicited a wide range of responses. By wide range I mean a shrill cackling to a full-on silent-gasping-for-air laugh.

"Liz, c'mon," they said, more or less. "First of all, every gyno isn't a lesbian. Second of all, every lesbian isn't going to hit on you, you crazy narcissist. Third of all, did you like it?"

I was stuck between a lesbian encounter and liking a lesbian encounter.

Oh, and being a narcissistic lesbian-encounter lover.

To be clear, I'm cool with lesbianism, [You guessed it: the PC disclaimer one must include in any blog rubbing up against, proverbially, controversial topics including homosexuality, black nail polish-wearers, Hello Kitty, racism and hot dog ingredients.]

Hey, I can appreciate that women are a lot prettier to look at than stinky, hairy, fat, scary men. But as much as I can sort of see where lesbianism is an attractive concept, I could just never ever go through with it. I would have to be a celibate lesbian in order for that whole prospect to work.

But the point is that in this context of my conversation with the girls, after two martinis each, and facing the "did you like it?" question, I had nowhere to go. Backpedaling was futile.

So I was honest.

"It was the best Pap I've ever had."

A week later, after the "Do you think she's secretly considering lesbianism?" whispers reached a deafening roar, by which I mean I was constantly and publicly the butt of jokes about my apparent sexual confusion post-Pap, I finally had to make the phone calls -- to ALL of them -- confirming once and for all that I was, in fact, NOT a lesbian, and that although the Pap was a good one, the goodness of said pap is relative to the typical badness of them. Meaning a good pap is just not a bad pap. And also that my confusion was mostly focused around the fact that while I was busy analyzing the conversation in the exam room, she was sneakily busy analyzing my.. ahem... and I was so preoccupied I didn't even feel it.

The harder I try to explain, the worse it gets. So I will leave you with this in an effort to get out before it's far, far too late:

For a Pap so good it will temporarily convince your friends you are gay, call Dr Price: (425) 555-7662.

Halloween and my new shower curtain

"I don't know," I whined. "I don't like Halloween."

"Yeah," he said, the picture of a convincing friend itching for a party, "but there will be candy. And beer."

I wasn't initially planning on making much of a fuss about Halloween because I'm lazy. Then, I was enthusiastically planning on going as Bob Ross for a couple days, for a few key reasons including comfort and humor, as well as the fact that I am the only white girl I know who looks smoking hot in a 'fro wig, but also to protest the number one reason I hate Halloween and all my guy friends love it: Costumes like this.

I dunno, I guess I just feel like a girl's options are limited on Halloween. Limited, I mean, in the sense that there seems to be some unwritten rule that anything you dress up as must include the word "dirty" or "slutty" in front of it, and must therefore appear "dirty" or "slutty".

Dirty Nurse. Slutty Schoolteacher. Kinky Parole Officer. It's all exhaustingly predictable (and restrictive!).

"Oh, all right," I relented. "But I'm not being slutty anything. In fact, I'm not dressing up at all. Take it or leave it."

"Sold!" he said. "In fact, I won't dress up, either. We'll come as "tuesday night"."

While that concept was mediocre at best, I was glad I wouldn't be alone in un-costumed glory. We were off.

House party, in Fremont. Many friends and strangers there, huddled around two freezing cold kegs. Many, many slutty fill-in-the-blanks, and me -- tall, long, straight hair (recently dyed back to its natural very dark brown), glasses, jeans, heels, and a military-style button-up jacket.

"What are you supposed to be?" I was routinely asked.

Glare, hair toss, then response: "Daria."

It was all very "My So Called Life".

At the party, I counted 6 doctors (six! Well, one surgeon in all-white, but the rest were doctors.) and two cowboys riding strap-on horses and both carrying capguns, which are incredibly irritating. There was also one ninga with very creepy stick-on long moustache things, carrying "safety numchucks", which I immediately removed from his costume and began swinging around like a retard.

There were some so-so movie characters, but one Shaft that was priceless. And there was a girl dressed in all-pink with cotton batting wrapped around her head who shuffled and itched and sweated all night who said she was a Q-tip. Funny, but also a little weird and very uncomforatable-looking. Overall, a general costume so-so-ness, which I am partially to blame for.

Oh, but the house had a sweet-ass showercurtain printed with cute little inspirational "positive self-talk" phrases like "I love naked!" and "I am so clean!" and "Look at me!" all over it. The funny part is the house was rented by four very masculine men. By the end of the night, everyone was talking about the shower curtain (It was a CRAZY party, you guys. Off the hook, or whatever. Clearly.), and we'd tracked down the owner, Paul, a tall, muscular guy in a Fireman outfit who confessed he got it at Target.



He blushed, drained his keg cup, and tossed it through a plastic basketball hoop velcroed to the wall above the living room door. (Very grown up.)

"Girls love it," he said.

He was right. The thing is totally frivolous and adorable. I bought one yesterday.

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 not to get a ticket, though you totally deserve one

I, Liz, author of Legwarmers and generally cool girl, otherwise, drive a Pontiac Vibe.

(Can't you just hear the browsers of men across the globe clicking closed right now?)

I chose this vehicle a few years ago when I was doing guerrilla marketing work and traveling by car along the west coast for weeks on end, lugging materials, samples and the like around. I needed a car that was easy to get stuff in and out of, had backseats that would lay down (giving me the cargo room of a pickup truck), and wasn't a gas-guzzler (I'd like to say this was because I'm environmentally conscious, but in this case I was just broke as a joke. Sorry to dissapoint).

A Vibe it was. And while I get lots of "wagon" jokes from my friends (also the "when are you due?" jokes, as it appears to be a car for a girl in a family way), I love the little sucker. It just reminds me of a good-gas-mileage-getting baby SUV. Practical, practical, practical. Decent sound system. Sunroof. And easy to park. So that's the car.

Now, while I'm reasonably good about knowing my way around cars (I used to drive a 1976 Chevy 3/4 ton pickup truck that was constantly needing belts changed, headlights out, flat tires and -- admittedly operator error -- running out of gas) I'm no mechanic. And, while I'm great at getting things done and staying organized at work, I really suck at taking care of myself.

Bills, for example. I have the hardest time just sitting down and paying them. Also, much to my mother's endless frustration, checkbook balancing. I mean, what? (I know, I know, Mom. Very irresponsible.) Even more heartstopping for my parents was when they realized I basically made up my taxes last year and sent in a random check -- the day after they were due -- in the hopes that I got close enough to the right amount that they wouldn't notice that I completely made stuff up. Well, they did. (Who knew those particular government employees were so dilligent? Huh.) My family almost had me convinced I'd be doing prison time for that one. And, of course, mailboxes. But the point I'm trying to get to, really, is my car.

The Vibe regularly gets her oil changed. And sometimes on a slow sunday, I'll get her washed. But since I drove her off the lot two years ago, she's had the same tags (yes, they've been expired for two years) and no front license plate (very illegal in Washington state). Also, while I always pay for insurance (THANK YOU, GEICO, for letting me do that online, and with a credit card!), I only put the proof in my car maybe every other year or so.

So that pretty much sets up this story. Exhausted yet?
_____________________________________

The Vibe doesn't have what you'd call a huge engine or anything, so when it accomplishes huge feats of speed or power, I always give her a little pat on the dash. This weekend, on our way to the cabin (again), my friend L and I did just this after the Vibe crested a steep mountain pass at a respectable 65 miles per hour, seemingly without trying.

"Good girl," we both said, patting the dash like a small child, and turning up the music so we could sing again without hurting each other's ears.

Our windows were down, the sunroof was open, I was halfway through an iced Americano, and things were going just dandy. Heck, we hadn't even had a near-death experience yet. Which may not seem like a big deal to you, but please remember: I'm a pretty bad driver.

As we cruised down the other side of the mountain pass, I looked down at my speedometer.

"95 miles per hour, Linds! The Vibe is totally kicking ass!" I screeched, as if the Vibe were driving all by herself. I braked a little, reining in the wild wagon, to a much more reasonable 75.

"Wow,"I said. "Good thing there weren't any cops around!"
"I didn't know she had it in her," laughed L. <"Has she ever gotten a speeding ticket?"

And that's when I saw it. White car, coming towards us going the opposite way. Three lights in red, white and blue on top.

"Shit!" I breathed, braking hard. "COP."
"Be nonchalant, be breezy," said Lindsey.
Good thinking, I thought. I tossed my head and smiled, hands at 10 and 2, still braking hard. Be breezy. Breezy. Nonchalant. Noncha--

Siren. Before the cop had even completed his U-turn, the lights and siren were on.

"Fuckfuckfuck," I hissed bewteen clenched teeth, in my most ladylike voice, as I was still trying hard to be nonchalant, unsuspecting, breezy. "Motherfucker, I'm going to get a ticket." (Again, think very sweet voice, innocent expression.)

The cop pulled to a stop behind us on the shoulder of the mountain road.

"Linds, quick -- look in the glovebox for my registration. Or whatever," I said.

"Well, what does that look like?" she asked, as she opened the glovebox (which burst open, as if spring-loaded, spewing forth a stack of papers rivaling a standard phone book.) She began to dig, frantically, through the pile.

"I don't know! I don't even know if they're in there! But just look, for God's sakes!"

The officer approached the car. I rolled down the window, removed my sunglasses, and looked up at him.

"Were you watching your speed this afternoon, ladies?"

"Well, I thought we were -- it's actually funny, we were just talking about speeding. And how you shouldn't, and stuff. Plus, we were going downhill, which, you know... inertia... and gravity... makes it hard..." I trailed off, lamely, and gave a sheepish smile.

"Okay, license, please?" The officer didn't seem amused... yet.

"Uh, yeah," I pawed through my predictably unorganized wallet. "See, I just renewed it, so I have this lame paper one for now, but here are my last three expired ones -- which one do you want?"

"That's fine," the officer said. "How about registration? Insurance?"

At this point, I look over to the passenger's seat, where L has been working on finding these super-critical docs for the last 3 or 4 minutes. It more or less looks like a blizzard in the passenger's seat. Where her hands should be there is just a mass of crumpled, multi-colored paper. She's essentially up to her neck in documents, none of which are my registration.

"Is this it?" She asks, holding something out.
"No," said the officer, "That's a service reciept."
"Oh. This?"
"Nope. That's a CD booklet."
"This must be it, then..."
"Those would be a gum wrapper and a condom, miss."

At this point, Lindsey looks over at me, exhasperated and completely convinced we're going to get a ticket that will put me on welfare. I'm hysterically giggling, and apologizing profusely.

"Oh, god. This is so embarrassing. I know it's here somewhere..." L and I both furrow our brows and continue to dig, knowing full well the chances of us coming up with anything are verrrry slim. "Seriously. I think I need to clean out the glovebox, wouldn't you say? I am so sorry. We must be getting close..."

The officer chuckled (I know, I was surprised, too) and walked back to his car, shaking his head.

Finally, "FOUND IT!!!" L had landed her paws on the critical registration document. I held it out the window and waved it enthusiastically at the officer, who was on his walkie talkie and clearly indisposed.

"Officer!! Found it!! Found it!!"

There were cars whizzing by us at easily 70 MPH. I must have been crazy to think the thing wasn't going to blow out of my hands and over the edge of the mountain, lost forever. Somehow, I managed to hang on.

The cop waved, ackgnowledging our find, and came back to the car, after he got off his little walkie talkie thingie.

"Found it, huh?"
"Yep! And my old proof of insurance, too. See, it just expired, but I also just realized something really cool!" I said, like a moron.

Somehow, I thought this man was my friend, and had forgotten entirelly that he had clocked me going 15 miles per hour over the speed limit, in a car with no front license plate, 2-year old tabs, no proof of insurance, and a driver with a paper license in it.

"See, I just realized that I could totally call Geico and they could email me the proof of insurance, and then I could show it to you on my Blackberry!!" When I said "Blackberry", I whipped it out of it's little holder in my car and waved it around like it was buried treasure. "Isn't that cool? Want me to? Because I totally have insurance..."

"You could do that, huh?" the cop smiled (actually smiled!), like you would smile at an 8 year old with fingerpaints on his face or a kindergartener who you just caught eating paste or picking her nose. Or a puppy.

"That is pretty neat," he said. "But that's okay. You guys just get going. And watch for the speed trap up ahead -- it goes down to 50 miles per hour there and you don't want to get caught in that construction zone."

"O...kay," I said, in disbelief. From under a pile of paper, next to me, I heard L's muffled voice: "Th-thanks, officer!"

"Drive safe!" He said, before giving the Vibe a little, affectionate, pat and walking back to his car.

So let's recap, shall we?

1. I have a dorky, underpowered car that I love
2. I am the world's worst driver
3. I completely lack the skills necessary to take responsible care of myself
4. I was going 95 miles per hour in a 60 (in the dorky, underpowered car that I love)
5. An officer caught us, in the dorky underpowered car that I love, with no license plate, expired tags, recklessly driving, with no license or proof of insurance) and with us giggling like unorganized maniacs, throwing papers all over the car and out into the road and flailing technology around like it would save us, and still didn't give us a ticket.

6. I am awesome. Or awesomely lucky. Or both.

Hope your week is going as well as mine!

Quarter-Life Golf

Yeah, this is my friend Adam. (Work-safe -- just click it, already.)

He's 24. I cannot explain this behavior, except to say he is also a fan of Michael Bolton, has a karaoke machine at his house to which he sings Elvis songs, played football in college, actually has a fairly large vocabulary, and constantly blames things that go wrong on people "picking on the fat Jewish kid", even though he hasn't been fat since 1997.

Please tell me you know someone like this.

Please?



Have a good laugh at his expense, and then a good day!

Pearl Jamming and a damn good weekend

It was a good weekend. I managed to cram 4 days of festivities into two whirlwind tours of fun. I'll keep it short, but here's the gist:

Spent all day Saturday on either the beach or a boat at L's cabin. On the beach, I read trashy magazines, threw around a football, and drank beers. On the boat, I watched wakeboarders ride, drank raspberry vodka from the bottle, listened to SoundGarden and pretty much felt like a badass. The company was good, the music was good, and it was that classic summer day you never want to end.

By the time we got the boat off the water, I was pretty sure it couldn't get better (remember, I was three sheets to the wind, in a swimsuit, in the sun, and no one had yet shat themselves). But then it did.

A couple of my friends and I were unexpectedly offered free tickets to the Pearl Jam show that evening by a new (generous) acquaintance. The concert was at the Gorge in George, Washington. Not only is this my favorite venue (for a number of reasons but mostly the aesthetic appeal of the place -- it's just breathtaking), but I was already pretty close, my friends are die-hard PJ fans, and the prefunking was done.

I was in, with three friends.

Now, it was hotter than two rats copulating in a tube sock at the Gorge. We're talking 89 degrees after the sun set. But I was so blissed out the whole time just to be there that I didn't even notice. It was good. Like, really good. Teenage Wasteland was a particular high point, as was Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town, of course. But you can download it here and see for yourself.

After the concert, we went back to the cabin where we crashed and then got up the following morning for an early drive home, during which I slept shamelessly the whole way, half draped over my helpless (but admirably patient) backseat companion (who doubled as a pillow).

Upon arriving home, I changed and went to the much-anticipated company picnic and -- surprise! -- had a great time. It was again a zillion and a half degrees, but at one point all the execs kids had a waterfight and somehow my CEO and I got involved, which was both fun and totally necessary to prevent me from actually melting right there in the park.

Immediately following the picnic, I got on a ferry and headed across the water to an island where a friend of mine recently moved and bought a boat. We killed three hours on the boat, and then went to a nearby restaraunt on a pier and ate our weight in seafood.

By the time I finally got on the ferry home, it was 11:30 and I was full, completely exhausted, and happy. You can't ask for much more than that.

My Best Friend Pooped Her Bikini: A True Story and the Birth of a Nickname

Today, I am going to tell a story that will 1) probably make you pee yourself 2) you will re-tell to someone you only sorta know because you desperately wish it were your story and 3) will forever be my comeback to my best friends witty barbs. Why? Because today I'm telling you the story about how last weekend, she shit herself.

[See how I did that? Grabbed your attention right off the bat so I didn't lose you before you realized how awesome I was? I should really be a writer. I'm fucking unbelievably good at this.]

In the last two weeks my friend L. and I have been on a bender of brobdingnagian proportions.
...

[That last sentence is one of the many reasons I LOVE my little dictionary.com word of the day emails. I mean, who uses that word? Here's the definition:

Brobdingnagian \brob-ding-NAG-ee-uhn\: Of extraordinary size; gigantic; enormous. As in: "The venture capital business has a size problem. A monstrous, stupefying one. Brobdingnagian even." -- Russ Mitchell, "Too Much Ventured Nothing Gained", Fortune, Nov. 11, 2002]

...
Anyway, as I was saying: Following my horrific travel experience, I was in serious need of some social stimulus. I missed my friends! I was working my life away! I was feeling entirely too responsible!

So I did what any of you would do: called up my best friend and rallied her support in getting me back on the right (slightly buzzed) track. She was more than happy to help, in light of the fact that our ritual trip over the mountains to her cabin for the fourth of July was fast approaching.

I drove over on Friday after work and planned to take Monday off. During the 4-day vacation, we spent 4 days laying on the beach/in the water/on a raft/in a boat drinking tepid beer, absorbing harmful UV rays and getting sand in every crevice of our bodies. It was glorious.

Throughout the weekend, other friends came and went from the cabin. They came and went and a new crew would arrive just as the others left, giving L. and I the constant appearance of having just started partying (a minor PR miracle). This meant that while our company was always starting fresh, we were just layering party on top of party, starting at about 10 a.m. and wrapping up around 4 a.m. every night.

One fateful afternoon (don't ask me which one) we had a group of friends with us at the beach, along with along with an older couple. The older couple and their daughter, who is our age, were discussing with us a cool new pulled-behind-the-boat contraption called the kite tube.



In theory, this device, if pulled at remarkable speeds, hovers above the water at heights of 10 to 20 feet, in effect "flying" through the air behind the boat.

Now, while to me -- a person with a serious fear of heights, pain and embarassment -- this sounded awful, it sounded exhilerating to L. Luckily, I had an out: I had to walk back to the boat launch to meet one of our friends who was just arriving and so could not go with the group to ride the flying death-tube. So I left, and they piled in the boat and tore off. The next part of this story has been compiled from the re-tellings of those of my friends who were at the scene of the accident:

Apparently a couple of the guys tried to get the tube to fly, with varying degrees of success. But when L took off on the bat-tube, she caught a ton of air. Now I'm not sure if she got overexcited and did something to cause the tube to flip or if it just sorta happened, but the next thing everyone knows, she's out of the tube, lying in the water clutching her ass and fighting tears.

She gets in the boat, where she tells them to take her directly to the beach. Once there, her brother carries her from the boat to the shore. As he did, they had this exchange -- with L in tears:

L: "Neil, something's wrong."
Neil: "It's okay. What hurts?"
L: "No, seriously. It's my ass."
Neil: "Okay, what about it?"
L, horrified and fighting hysterics: "Neil, there's something coming out of my ass."
Neil, shuddering and nearly dropping her in an attempt to get as far as possible away from her ass: "WHAT?! Like, alive or dead? Jeez!!"
L: "I need to go to the hospital. NOW."

You see, L had gotten a water enema. These, for those of you who have never fallen while waterskiing, are very painful and sometimes (as in this case) cause bleeding, etc. And bleeding L was. But when she really freaked out was when she reached down to remove the fabric of her suit from her heinie-hole and felt something hard.

L is more of a hypochondriac than I. When she felt the hard something, she was convinced not only was she in pain, but she was dying. In fact, once on the beach, she ran up to one of the mom-types there and explained to them, in a panic, that she believed she had shat out a vertebra and was possibly not going to make it to the hospital alive.

[Nevermind the fact that in order to shit a vertebra, it has to break off your spine (which would paralyze you) and puncture your intestine (causing internal bleeding) and then travel through your intestine and out your sphincter. She really really thought she pooped a vertebra. Logical, huh?]

Mom type, trying not to laugh: "Honey, it might just be a bowel movement. Why don't you go check it out?"

So she did. And when she returned, she was still hobbling and holding herself, but she was also a bit bashful.

All concerned observers on the beach: "Well?"
L, bashfully: "Well, um... I just pooped my pants. So, yeah."

A half hour or so later, I returned from my trek to the beach and was surprised to find L (and a few of our other friends) back. I addressed the group, asking how it went. Immediately, L's little brother chimed in:

Neil: "Guess what L did?"
Me: "Um, what?"
All (including the older couple and 4-5 strangers on the beach: "SHIT HER PANTS!!!"

I was shocked. I grinned and gasped for air, waiting for the story, and while I collected myself enough to ask what in the hell that meant, L hobbled up to me, clutching her rear end, hysterically laughing out of embarrassment, drunkenness, and likely shock, and shrieked "And the turd was the size of a chicken nugget!!"

Can you say insta-nickname?

Yep. Now good ol' L goes by Nugget (or The Nugg for short). And no matter what she says about what I do from now on, I have a watertight, built-in comeback (which I've already worn out) that goes a little bit like "Well, at least I didn't shit my pants!"

I love my life. And I also love Nugget, for having a brilliant sense of humor about the whole thing.

The rest of the weekend consisted of more sun, sand, and servesas. But after the "incident" it was also peppered with potty humor which was admittedly terrible, but in light of the fact that someone actually pooped in her bikini, much funnier than it should have been.

Friend 1: "Let's go cliffjumping!"
Friend 2: "I would, but you know how that scares the shit out of Nugget..."

Friend 1: "I was thinking of maybe having a water -- will you pass me one?"
Friend 2: "Nah, Nuge poo-poo'ed that idea."

Friend 1: "I'm hungry. Anyone up for some chicken?"

Nugget: "Want another beer while I'm up?"
Friend: "Well, that DEPENDS!"

Friend 3: "Hey Nugget!"
Nugget: "What?"
Friend 3: "Remember that time you shit yourself? That was awesome!"

And so on.

-------------------------------------------------

It was a weekend not to be forgotten. A secondary story involves me learning that I apparently have a natural ability to play beer pong (which I never had before last weekend), but it pales in comparison to the poo story, so we'll just leave it at the fact that I'm pathetic, having played beer pong for the first time at 25 and being proud of my skill.

If anyone knows a nice man who can marry me now, while I'm still in good shape and before this gets ugly, please email me. It's getting scary how quickly I've regressed. Pretty soon I'll be at keggers smoking Swisher Sweets, making out with 18 year old boys and calling my parents for rides. ::shudder::

More on the Legwarmers Binge-Fest 2006 to come... Happy Monday!
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Evolving

So I'm now officially 25 and two days. And, although I'm now fighting obsession with the tiny laugh lines around my mouth and am pretty sure I spotted a spider vein in the shower this morning, I'm still, for all intents and purposes, perky in all the right places and have muscle tone in my upper arms, which is nice.

Also, I hear I'm still climbing to my "sexual peak", whatever that is, and won't start the hideous descent down the other side of this mysterious mountain until sometime after 30, so I guess I have that to look forward to.

________________________

Last night, the girls took me out to dinner (Mexican and Mojitos) in my new city of residence, which is Kirkland (more on this later -- please don't send a lynch mob out for me before I have a chance to explain).

The meal was nice. The Mojitos were incredible, and all of the girls present were at least one year younger than me, which sounds demoralizing, but turned out not to be. I mean, yes, they totally kept insisting they'd heard from reputable sources that 25 was the "best year" of a young, single woman's life, which is the most obnoxious thing I've ever heard out of the mouth of a 23 year old with legs like a baby girraffe. But, after one Mojito they were shrill and shrieky and the center of everyone at the restaraunt's attention (in a bad way). We were THOSE girls. You know, the noisy, obnoxious ones who occasionally let the F word slip out just loud enough for the buttoned-up family across the restaraunt to hear. The herd of girls who are so engrossed with themselves and each other that they have utter disregard for everyone around them.

We were the irreverent representation of all that is fun about being young, kissed by summer and vodka, and every old person in that place actively hated us for it. Except the waiter, who spent most of his time fluttering around our table, clumsily filling up our water glasses, stuttering and blushing (when he wasn't trying to peer down the fronts of our shirts).

It was a good evening.
There was cake and a mishap with a lighter.
There were a handfull of cellphone photos taken, and even one accidental video (my phone is actually smarter than I am, which is terrifying).
There were a number of off-color jokes, old memories re-told, and something about the difference between a bolo and a bolero.

We were silly and free and ignored the few annoyed patrons around us. And when we stumbled out into the warm night, I was full of the abandon of youth. But after the air kisses and well-wishes and on my short walk home (gifts in tow and mint still on my breath), something changed:

I found myself looking forward to my quiet home, a glass of wine on my deck, and a chapter of my current book. I considered my job, which I love, and was thankful that I've found something that turns me on from 8 to 6 on weekdays, and I thought about re-potting my wilting Jasmine plant. And changing my oil. And what I wanted to do with the rest of the year.

And I realized that this transformation from child to something distincly more sophisticated isn't as abrupt or unnatural as I feared. It's gentle, and empowering. And I like it.

So, though I may be a year older, I've decided I've got at least two things going for me:

1. very immature friends who encourage me to just let go, and
2. the recognition that while youth is certainly a ball, there's nothing wrong with being happy to be right where I am; in the present, evolving.

"Be David Caruso in 'Jade'."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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