Mildly Amused.

on Birds, Socks, and Becoming Conventional

2011-10-06T21:55:00.000-07:00

My Thursday night consisted of this: lounging on the couch while pretending to do work, taking an hour to fold a basket of laundry, catching up on my exhaustive dvr list, and watching my inbred dog toss a stuffed pumpkin up in the air and catch it about a thousand times (she may be at the risk of getting retained in training class, but she knows how to entertain herself). Smokey and I were feeling a little defeated after the trainer strongly implied that she will not be graduating from her classes in 2 weeks ( although, that really just means she can re-take it for free so, in all reality, Pet Smart is really just putting itself at a loss in this brutal economy).

While scrolling through my DVR list, now littered with Reid-shows aka "Hillbillie Handfishin'," I realized how distant all of those neon Thursday nights at Rick's had become. And, yes, that is my one and only attempt at sounding profound. Instead, I was trying to ensure that all of my shows had dvr'd and was relishing the fact that I could watch sitcoms in 20 minutes and dramas in about 42.

During these fine 62 minutes of allotted tv time, my inbred dog decided to herd all of her toys and personal items ( brush, traveling water bowl, and seat belt) into a pile in our room. With the dog's newfound love for herding er maybe for hording, it occured to me that it was very possible that it had been she who had planted the bird in the laundry room.

Flashbacking to Monday, after a somewhat long and exhausting day, I was falling asleep on the early side while Reid stayed up and did homework and probably played Call of Duty. I awoke slightly because I heard him bumbling around in the laundry room. Soon the bedroom door cracked and he entered, turning on the closet light so as not to wake me fully. Looming over me like a vampire or something, Reid whispered, "hey, I think there might be a bird behind the dryer, or maybe a sock. I don't know. I'm wearing my glasses and I cannot see well."

There were two things really wrong with this statement. Number one, there should not be a BIRD in MY house. Number two, why would you wear glasses that impair your vision? I was royally confused and dying to enter a REM cycle. I tried to convince myself that I was dreaming about a vampire.

"It's probably just a sock," he said settling in, "don't worry about it." I am sure I mumbled something unintelligible and fell asleep.

In the morning, my genetically maladjusted puppy jumped on top of us as usual and I was up pulling on running clothes. As I reached into the basket for fresh socks, something about vampires, socks and birds entered my brain. Did that really happen? I thought to myself, tying up my shoes. Wincing, I slowly peered behind the dryer. And there it was.

It was the BIRD. Terrified and disgusted, I let out a yelp and screamed at Reid who was shaving in the bathroom. Then I grabbed the dog's leash and we ran like hell... for about two blocks until we got lazy and retreated to our typical pace.

During the run, my brain started spinning. How did it get in? Had we left a door open? Had it flown down the chimney? that tiny crack on the ceiling of our closet? God, there were so many ways the bird could have gotten in. On the bright side, Reid's glasses were probably ok.

When we returned home, Reid had left for work but next to the dryer was his lacrosse stick. After spending so many years of his life playing and coaching, he was now using it to scoop intruders from behind our dryer.

my tweenage dogg-er

2011-09-28T20:38:00.000-07:00

Basically, I was smart about it. I watched all of my friends become dog moms to newborn puppies while I stood by as the cool, jerky-bearing aunt. I avoided the racoon eyes, sleepless nights, and scraping fecal matter from the dog's cage. Instead, I surfed the net for a one year old dog who was house broken, somewhat obedient, and still, on a technicality, a puppy. You see, until a dog is two, it is essentially still a puppy. I am not certain about where the baby-toddler-child-tween-teen transgression begins and changes for canines. My name is not Cesar Milan. Therefore, it is pure speculation that I consider my dog to be a tween.

At about 1.5 years, Smokey is a the equivalent of a 10 year old tween. And, yes, Smokey is a she. We opted for an androgenous name so that Reid would not have to suffer the shame of failing his WASPy roots. More literally, Smokey's pelt is neither dark brown or black...it's just smokey. Of course, she already has a stockpile of inane nicknames. I actually typed these once and, out of shame, deleted them. It really reduces my cool factor. Won't even get into the songs.

Anyway, as Smokey is a rescue tweenager, she's got some hormonal growing pains that she is dealing with. Just like human tweens become angsty, awkward, and smelly, Smokey is also facing some of these challenges.

Fraternizing with boys: Smokey always has initial anxiety when meeting new friends, particularly boyfriends. Of course, she does like them. Even though she dances away from full facial contact while meeting them, she is the first to check their behinds. Eventually, she will come onto them in the backyard, dashing after them and baiting them with her plush, squeaker filled toys.

Her best boyfriend, Leo, has recently been sneaking a lot of kisses. Smokes just growls and kicks him away from her water bowl. Typical. Actually, that sounds a little more like college.

Eating disorders: I cannot quite pin point how to define her eating disorder. She will go from starving herself during meal time to binging on jerky (the equivalent of a real tween's cool ranch doritos). While this seems like a classic case of bulimia, there is no purging involved. Confounding, but, nonetheless, disordered eating.

Intense sweating: While real tweens begin sweating intensely while nervous behind the wheels, a dam basically breaks in my backseat everytime Smokes jumps in. She is not getting her learner's permit anytime soon.

Interest in new substances: While Smokes was hesitant about accepting jerky and t-bonz from us at first, she has begun to experiment with a new fervor. Her experimentation has actually transgressed to full on addiction. She has also been experimenting with Kleenex, Nylabones, and Toy Stuffing. These are highly addictive substances.

I attributed of these quirks, along with her physical anomolies: wide crazy eyes, huge thighs, and pigeon toed front feet, to be part of her character and growing pains. That was until Smokes went to training class at Pet Smart.

After the first class, I feared not only retention, but demotion to a lower level. On top of that, the trainer told me she might be inbred (as she was a rescue dog). Inbred? There was no way! My wild-eyed, kind of bulimic Aussie Shephard with an androgenous name was not inbred. She was a tween! She was artsy! She was using multiple substances! But she was not inbred.

I returned home and told Reid. In true Reid form, he told me I was ridiculous. Then I looked back down at Smokes, with her dialated pupils, big mouth open and her huge thighs holding up her smallish body. I loved my inbred dog.

Puppy Love and Dog Babies

2011-08-01T16:54:00.000-07:00

Without giving me any advanced notice, all of my friends decided to adopt puppies this summer. My friends have brought their dogs into various home environments. One dog, Leo Feinberg, is the son of single mom, Julie. Another dog, Lily Rabin, is the beloved daughter of Jen and Adam. This leave me, on the other hand, as the spinster auntie, barren of puppy love and dog poop.

The other day, Leo and Lily came over to play in my backyard and pool. When Lily arrived, Jen told me that Lily needed to greet me outside because she would get excited and start to dribble pee upon seeing me. So we stood on the patio, oohing and ahhing over the golden doodle and her pee splattering on our feet.

Lily enjoyed the pool for a while until Leo arrived. Leo, a lab pit mix, excitedly eyed Lily. I am sure he was into her fluffy doodle haircut, teddybear like complexion, and large, silky ears. As they began to dance around, pawing one another, Lily would coquettishly pat him on the lower back or flirtily sniff his asshole. It was not all that different than a scene out of Axis Radius or Pussy Cat Lounge.

As Lily is both younger and smaller than Leo, he was fairly responsive when she would start to back off from their little romp. And just as Lily's mom was getting comfortable with the playdate, Leo went biserk and jumped Lily's bones, sending her rolling into a pile of grass. She sat up, stunned.

"He did that because he has to poop," Julie said, hopping out of the pool, "it's really sad but my life now revolves around when he needs to poop." I sat in the pool and contemplated my friends' life changes. Julie, the single mom, was thinking feces 24/7. Jen, on the other hand, was fretting over her golden doodle's playdate gone amuck. These were not animals, they were children. Dog babies to be exact.

After a few hours of swimming and playing, the babies needed their naps.

Riding in [trucks] with [farmers]

2011-07-27T15:56:00.000-07:00

One lazy spring sunday, I forced Reid to watch the latter half of Riding in Cars with Boys, that Drew Barrymore flick where Steve Zahn, in all his creepy glory, is the father of her illegitimate son. I am pretty sure he enjoyed it because on another occasion I caught him watching How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. This has nothing to do with the story I am about to tell, but it did birth the title of the blog.

Anyway, one of my greatest paranoias (among many) is getting lost. And by 'getting lost' I really mean getting lost in nature. I love nature, but I love it on a marked trail sans snakes and poison ivy. With plenty of water.

In the time that I have dated Reid, we have enjoyed many a trail and sometimes gotten temporarily turned around. On those hiking occasions, I was never too nervous because he assured me that he knew the 'landmarks'. Of course, I had no idea what landmarks he was talking about because just about everything in the desert is reddish brown and hot. But, whatever, he did NOLS, that prestigious outdoor adventure program that supposedly makes you an expert explorer and gives you the Godly ability to use the sun as a compass or something like that.

Unfortunately, NOLS knew nothing about the backroads of York, Pennsylvania, a small town just north of Baltimore that was supposedly the nation's capital for 4 days during the American Revolution. It was also the home of Reid's older brother who lived not far from the trail we were about to traverse.

Once we arrived on the trail and began tackling the humid mosquito laden land, our illustrious leader decided to take a short cut on the trail. Apparently, he was a little tired out after frolicking around a fire pit and carousing in the local reservoir all night (another story completely).

"I'll meet you guys in a little bit- just stay on the trail- see you soon..." and he was off, down a side trail that would lead to the end sooner.

Now, it was just Reid and I running around this York, Pennsylvania trail that had a bajillion off shoots and random bugs everywhere. Every few seconds I would ask if we were on the right trail. Reid would shake his head humidified hair and say it was fine.

As we headed up a narrow leg of the trail and hurdled a fallen tree, the great cloud of doubt crept in, but I braced myself and tried not to whine. I mean, everything was usually fine so I knew I needed to let go and let York.

Soon enough, the trail came to an end and petered off into a regular, cilivized road. Reid's brother had not mentioned us hitting a road, but we were out of the woods.

Well, we ran up and down over that road again and again while the air grew hotter and seethed with humidity. I was dripping with sweat and dead mosquitos and Reid definitely needed some curl care for his hair. And suddenly he stopped.

"Ok," he said, "now we are lost." Oh shit, I thought to myself. For once, I was right about being lost. However, it was not as satisfying as being wrong because when I was wrong, I was actually on the right trail.

"we'll just flag someone down, " he said and started waving his hand at a man driving a Ford Truck. The truck slowed down. the man inside confirmed that we were about a half mile from the next trailhead to get us back on the trail.

"I can give ya a ride up there if ya want, " the man whom I assumed to a be a farmer offered. Without thinking, we hopped in the back of the truck bed, and rested on granules of dirt. Normally, I would not get in a strange man's car. Or a strange woman's car. But York, Pennsylvania seemed to be the place to do it.

And after hitch hiking for a half mile up the road, we were back into the woods, retracing our steps. Reid insisted that I laugh about the incident so I did. However, I was kicking myself for not asking our driver to just take us back to the house. A girl could get used to this hitchhiking business.

Biebs in love: is it a match?

2010-12-10T11:26:00.000-08:00

My criticism and fascination with Justin Bieber began sometime in the early fall of 2009. He had just hit the scene and I had just discovered that it was actually a male singing "Baby, baby, baby ooohh". From that day, his popularity has soared to a sick sort of cult following. Biebs even had one 3 year old girl crying her eyes out for him. Lucky for her, he met her in real life and gave her a kiss on the cheek. I wonder if he would do that for me if I taped myself crying for him. Then again, he cannot pick me up and i'm pretty sure I'd face legal charges.

Well, I am writing again for the sake of dear little Justin Biebs because it seems he has found a chick: Selena Gomez. Because girls develop faster than boys, He looks like he's 7 and she looks like she's 20. In all reality, she is 18 and he is 16. Normally, if they were both legal adults, this would not be so notable. But technically she is dating a minor who looks like he's 7. Therefore, she is at risk for statutory rape. Take a look at the photo below:

Gomez could easily be Biebs' babysitter. But more importantly, I thought it was trendier for 18 year old starlets to become entangled with 30 something bad boys like, oh say, Wilmer Valderama. I actually think Selena and Wilmer would make a great couple:
Pretty cute, huh? I mean, here are Wilmer's perks: despite association with Lindsey Lohan and a bevy of subsequent drugs and alcohol, Wilmer has had a driver's license for more than 2 months, has graduated high school, can attend R rated movies, and can buy cigarettes and lotto tickets with Selena for sport. He can also buy her liquor.

My vote is Wilmer and Selena.

Old Man Face Baby

2010-11-09T19:13:00.000-08:00

While home sick with a 24-36 hour bug, I had the gross opportunity to watch an obscene amount of TLC, including shows about regular babies, babies born in tents, and babies born unto former junkies. That said, I found myself deliberating over whether the crack baby or the homeless baby was cuter. I know I should feel bad about this, but I was feverish and trying to keep down gatorade.

All of this got me thinking about how the disparity of attractiveness among babies is just as broad as that of children and adults. Sometimes, babies are just plain homely. Luckily, their parents have no idea.

One Sunday morning, right before heading to Sedona for a day hike, my boyfriend and I stopped into an Einstein's on the way. After paying for our bagels and waiting a little too long for the toasting process, we came face to face with Old-Man-Face Baby. Or, rather, Reid did as OMF B could have really cared less if i was there or not. OMF B craned his head around and scowled at Reid with his shriveled up face and baby food sodden grin. He had the tenacity of a mongoose. He also had a six-head.

"that baby's staring at you," I said to him, pointing at OMF B. OMF B had worry wrinkles on his sixhead that were tensing by the moment. OMF B's mom turned his head away to feed him again, but the moment she turned to another child it was game on again.

"Do you know that baby?" I asked, starting to wonder if he had made fun of it in grocery store in passing one day or something like that.

"No, why would I know that baby? Maybe he likes me," he said, raising his eyes at OMFB.

OMF B just smirked and driveled baby food down his chin. Reid stuck his tongue out at OMF B. The baby didn't blink but the mom was not amused.

Luckily, our order was ready. We grabbed it, hopped in the car, and made fun of the baby for about 20 minutes.

Sexycat

2010-07-20T10:07:00.000-07:00

For some reason, I rope myself into pet sitting for mentally deranged animals. The latest adventure included a bout with an orange tomcat named Roux. Roux came to me one afternoon bearing a blood curdling meow and a sparkly collar. At first glance, he seemed nice enough; he would occasionally come up to me for a pat on the head and politely let me know when he was hungry.

And then he got comfortable. I mean, reallllly comfortable. It happened one night when I had returned home late from work. As I sat on my couch checking email, he siddled up next to me and all of the sudden I felt something dripping on my leg. The cat was drooling. AS far as I am concerned, cats should not drool.

"Ew!" I said, pushing him away. Oh no, he was not phased. Not unlike a typical Scottsdale bro, sans the v-neck though, He kept throwing himself at me, in the most literal sense of the word. However, to Roux's credit, his meows and drool were much more pleasant than any form of conversation/advances attempted by barside lurkers.

As days turned into nights, I had to develop a new routine for barricading my bedroom door. I did not have to do this until one fateful day when, after spending some QT at the pool, I had decided to take a quick nap. Just as I began to doze off, I felt something on my leg pushing my dress up.

"Oh my god!" I screamed. The cat, who at this time rightfully earned his new name: "sexycat", was trying to sexually assault me within the supposed safety of my own home. I was disgusted. How far did he think he would get with me? Did he really think I was that type of girl? This was the most perverted cat I had ever encountered, even worse than Besos, a former roommates' big, white cat that would hide in the closet of my room to watch me change.

Because of this incident, I found myself hastily stacking chairs, brooms and other assorted items outside of the not so secure french doors that led into my bedroom. For roughly the first 20 minutes of the night, I would be safe and then, no matter the combat strategy I provided, Roux would slide his pay under the door and jimmy the latch. Additionally, he was on the talller end of cat heights and could reach up to turn the door handle traditionally designed for humans. Roux's height, horniness, and harassing nature were a triple threat and my bedroom door was no match. I was beginning to contemplate purchasing a chastity belt.

After roughly five weeks of Sexycat's advances, his time with me came to a halt. On the night of his departure, I returned came home after happy hour with my boyfriend and his friend only to realize I had left my bedroom door open. This could only mean one thing: Sexycat was in my bed.

Sure enough, he was on my bed. What I was not expecting to find, though, was that he was also face down in the cup of one of my bras rubbing his head back and forth. Yes, he was motor boating my bra, quite fervently to say the least. Because he is a cat, he could not make the side effect noises, but I am sure he was thinking them.

"Oh my God!" I yelled, shooing him off my bed. There was, of course, a large deposit of drool in my left bra cup.

Deep Thoughts by White Kong

2010-04-27T21:36:00.000-07:00

Given that White Kong has side stepped his way into the mensa category as far as IQs go, I find his deep thoughts rather compelling and a bit contradictory.

With the help of my sister, Emily, I have gathered a couple of conversational snippets surrounding the following topics: food and chicks. These topics, of course, consume at least 70% of male brain capacity. White Kong, evidently, is not all that much different. He is also obsessed with Rhianna.

White Kong on Food

the scene: White Kong chats with Emily on Sunday afternoon via google chat.

For the last five years, my sister Emily has been seeking hard evidence that White Kong is, in fact, not straight. I am not certain where this burning desire has come from, but she is convinced that one day White Kong will be clipping along at her side to help her decide between Oliver Peoples and Tory Burch shades:

Emily: our brother is for sure gay
3:10 PM
me: why

Emily: he said that he has perfected his crepe making techniques
and then said: jill loves to ruin potentially good stuff with her horrible tastes;
case and point: loaves of banana bread made today were tainted with nuts
they were thus rendered inedible.

Then he said this: my crepe prowess is unstoppable

me: wow, are you saving this as documentation?

Emily: then I asked: how were the lasagna rolls?

he said: theyre probably gonna suck- jill fucking put spinach in them.

me: i mean....
3:12 PM
Emily: oh and this too: Me: father of the bride is on!! WK: what movie is that - cus im in the mood for a tom hanks meg ryan duet.
me: he said that?!?
3:13 PM Emily: yes

Do I think Emily's beliefs are just a bit unfounded? Yes... I mean, just because White Kong enjoys whipping up french pastries does not render him a homosexual. He was also pretty adamant that he does not like nuts, nor was he certain of the contents of Father of the Bride.

White Kong on Chicks

the scene: 10 pm EST White Kong chats with Emily's 21 year old roommate, Amanda, via google chat.

amanda: WK do you like bcbg dresses?

WK: which line

amanda: wow you are so gay... max azria duh

WK: well in that case i guess they're not too bad, a little pricey but you can't really get past that

amanda: its okay you can redeem yourself at prom with kitsi if you know what i mean

WK: you want me to hit it and quit it

amanda:YES!
WK: despite this little 18 year dry spell, ill do my bestfor you, at least

Later on, Emily got in on the action... never did it occur to her how mentally disturbing it is to hear one's 17 year old brother utter the phrase: hit it or quit it:

Emily: are you going to make out with kitsi after prom

WK: oh, of course

Emily: reallly??? damn Kong!
WK: well duh, im not spending 100 bucks on this bitch and not getting at least a little lip
After reading this, I was not sure whether I should laugh, cry or be impressed by WK's grasp of his dry spell reality and decision to take some very concrete action steps toward hooking some lip. Was my sunburned little brother who could say his alphabet backwards in 37 seconds at 16 months (thus giving my mother Aspbergers paranoia) really capable of hitting it?
I much prefer to picture White Kong in intense gaming mode instead of working on his game. I guess he listens to too much Rhianna lately.
In any case, I have documented both of these conversations as burdens of proof against Emily's allegations about WK's sexuality. I also would prefer not to hear Rude Boy by Rihanna.

"We could have NBA babies together"

2010-04-22T21:08:00.000-07:00

In lieu of the NBA play offs and the onslaught of ads for Jennifer Lopez's assinine new movie about getting herself artificially preggers because her clock's a ticking ( the first time I saw the ad, I thought she had been impregnated "knocked up" style; I was a little intrigued that her G in the flick had decided to stick around as the surrogate baby daddy), it is only fitting that I write about one of the more disturbing things a guy has ever said to me.

About a month or so ago, I met this seemingly normal guy at a local watering hole. There wasn't anything particularly special about him, but, in a sea of creepers, he seemed like a safe choice so I started talking to him. Once I found out he could speak in complete sentences, I convinced myself to give him my number. I mean, we had a few things in common as we were both from the same state and had a mutual friend with whom I had gone to high school. He also worked in some supply chain management job that somehow yielded free cereal and breakfast bars. I love love cereal. And so, for a moment, I thought that maybe this could be a start of something great. Nothing would thrill me more than having unlimited access to honey nut cheerios.

As it happened, Cereal had friends in town the entire next week, but persisted to text me to check in and to arrange a date for the following Tuesday. He was starting to grow on me a little. Especially since he had boasted having far too many free cereal products. It was obvious he wanted to adorn me with them.

Come Friday, Cereal called to see what I was up to that night. As it happened, I was already at a happy hour on Mexican Restaurant's patio chilling with Boozehound and other assorted friends. While Boozehound restrained himself from mauling Margarita soaked limes, I casually told Cereal that maybe we could meet up later.

Following the happy hour, Julie and I ended up alone (never a good combination as we will inevitably lose each other and end up bar hopping with strangers or getting a ride home in a tow truck, whichever happens first). Around 1 am, after we had exhausted our very favorite bar, American Junkie, I ceded to Cereal's advances for my presence: "come hang out! I'll buy you girls drannks"... really? Dranks? I wasn't going to judge. This was during a phase in my life where I was working on not being so rude about people.

Once we entered Cereal('s) bar, I had a split second of panic that I would not recognize him. I have terrible facial recognition. Fortunately, I remembered that he was really tall and was not exactly Jillian Michael's brother. He also spotted me immediately and engaged me in some really mature conversation about how he was taking a GMAT class. Like I really cared about that. Fortunately, my mother taught me manners and I know how to feign interest in just about anything.

And then, all of a sudden, he paused looked at me and said, "wow, you are really tall!" Seriously, I thought, you just realized this. You know, i really do not understand why people do this. I never walk up to midgets and say "gee, you are really short" or, worse yet, "wow, you look like a midget". That's just rude. But I guess I don't understand a lot of things. Like, for instance, why Justin Beiber and Miley Cyrus are not in love. Or why people pay money to go to Jennifer Lopez movies.

Just as I was laughing it off he said it, "yeah, you know, we could have NBA babies together." Good thing it was dark because I am very certain that I swallowed my greyhound down the wrong tube.

What an awkward thing to say. First of all, you do not say that to some random girl you have met at a dark bar twice. Secondly, you have got to have a lot of nerve to think that I am going to jump on it and spawn a chid with you. Especially an NBA baby. There is no guarantee that child will actually have a successful basketball career just because it is tall. And if it does not, it is just, well, tall. Most importantly, why would I voluntarily get knocked up?

I ended up blowing off the statement and meeting up with him again the next night. Once again, I was working on my personality. Unfortunately, he said it again. If I could turn back time, I would have told him my tubes are already tied. I also did not want my child to look like Steve Nash.

Instead, I simply bid adieu and said give me a call before Tuesday, the day of the previously proposed date. The following day he texted me to make small talk and I responded with more small talk. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

And then Tuesday rolled around. I figured he would call me on his lunch to confirm a meeting time and place, but there was no call. This struck me as weird because: a) I had gone out of my way and restrained myself from making him feel stupid about making creeper comments and b) did he not want to have NBA babies with me anymore?

I called Julie and Jen, both of whom who had met Cereal. Both of them thought that something must have happened. I mean, it was kind of eerie. Usually when you blow someone off you have the decency to make up some lame excuse like, for instance, that your pet rabbit is having a seizure or that you have a urinary tract infection. It's common courtesy.

As it happens, I never heard from Cereal again. I do, however, have some theories: a) he is in a coma after getting hit in the head with a cereal bar or b) ran away to Burbank to be an extra in Jennifer Lopez's The Back up Plan or c) he found this blog.

I Love You, Babe.

2010-03-21T18:25:00.000-07:00

When Jen told me he was a dentist, my jaw dropped. I looked back across the pool at him: sleeves of tats, Ed Hardy shades, and laughing like a 12 year old every time the six year old in the pool screamed, "motorboat! motorboat!". Shortly after, the boy's grandmother called him in from the pool, probably for fear that he might soon be drinking a bud light with Dr. Dude and his girlfriend, Babe. Maybe even experiencing his first adult motorboat.

"Yeah," Jen whispered, "he was talking about buying a practice in San Diego before you got here." And so we sat there, pretending to be really focused on eating our Paradise Bakery salads so we could listen in shamelessly on the most asinine conversation.

Babe was pretty typical: skinny, tan, bottle blonde. I learned that she was a server at a chain restaurant in North Scottsdale. She was sipping something out of a tall tumbler. I assuemd it was not water.

According to the current exchange, Dr. Dude had done something to upset their relationship. In retaliation, Babe had slept with "some 20 year old", according to Dr. Dude.

"You don't understand, Babe," Dr. Dude said taking a swig of of BL, "I don't think you are ready for all of this." he motioned to his torso, also tatted out.

"No! you don't understand!" Quibbled Babe, "I am being honest with you! You need to respect that!"

They went on and on like this for about an hour. It would be super boring to write down all of their conversation because it was cyclic and melodramatic and, mainly, stupid. At some point during the conversation, the elderly man from Nebraska (also the grandpa of the child that was exposed at an early age to an alternative definition for 'motor boat') piped in to no one in particular, "Spring has arrived! It's mating season!" Jen and I cracked up. I looked over to the older man and responded, "Yeah, the birds are going crazy." He chuckled, "And the boys!".

Dr. Dude, who was now on the same chaise lounge as babe, looked up helplessly, "You've gotta understand, man, how much I love this girl!"

Nebraska responded in true Nebraska form, "Then maybe you should marry her. You know, marriage is a fine institution." Babe smirked at Dr. Dude. Dr. Dude braced her shoulders and stated very profoundly:

"Babe, if we are gonna be we are gonna be. I love you so much. I know you don't know how lucky you are to have me right now, but maybe some day you will see." Dr. Dude looked lovingly into her eyes as he lifted her glasses. Babe had tears glistening in her eyes. Or maybe that was side effect of the muscle relaxers she was on.

"Even when you were mean to me- like when you wouldn't tell me where you were going or when you'd be home-" [pregnant pause] "I never stopped loving you!" she professed.

"Babe, that's why you should have never listened to your stupid friends! They just didn't want me in your life!" Dr. Dude popped the cap of a bud light for her. I was not sure if I should cry, throw up, or ask them for some of their drugs.

Dr. Dude began cooing some sort of gibberish in Babe's ear. Unfortunately, the sound decibles were to low for me to hear. This made me wish I was a whale because whales can hear at low decibles.* I began to doze off in my chair; as i slipped in and out of consciousness, I heard mumbling of Babe's desire to move to New Zealand "'cuz all I need in life is to be on the beach!". Moments later, she was nearly in tears because, sadly, Dr. Dude is a litter bug.

All the while that I listened to this bullshit, I wondered who was the most normal: 1) me, sitting in my chair trying to gather enough material to exploit the two lovers 2) Dr. Dude and Babe's love affair that was about as stable as Whitney Houston (not even bringing bobby into this simile) or 3) the recent addition to the pool deck- a huge German man in a French cut speedo face down on a Teletubbies towel while drinking a Capri Sun.

In trying to suspend my judgements, I thought about all of my dating inadequacies and inabilty to maintain a stable relationship. If you have read some of these snapshots within other entries, I feel this is fairly obvious. Granted, I never cried if a guy forgot to recycle.

I spent a moment wrapping my head around which was worse: a failure to commit or a commitment to failure?

In the end, the answer was clear: Hanzel over there on his Tinky Winky towel was the only one who had it going on. Especially with the Capri Sun. It made me really want one very badly. The rest of us were a bunch of dipshits who either over think or under think any possible incident or relationship. Hanzel, however, though deep down inside he knew it was fucking weird to watch PBS children's shows, clearly, was just glad to be himself. Or he was simply waiting for the six year old to come back outside.

* you are tremendously stupid if you believe everything I say. I know nothing about aquatic creatures.

Booze Hound

2010-03-16T20:07:00.000-07:00

"Melissa, you are the worst babysitter in the world!" I looked up from my phone conversation with Jen to find Noreen shaking her head and cradling her newly adopted Tea cup Yorkie, Oliver.

"Ummmm, sorry, he was just playing with those people over there-" I motioned toward some rando's behind me on the W's pool deck, "I don't even know what happened!" I knew I could not defend my carelessness by saying I had to have a pressing conversation with Jen about which new running shoes to purchase.

Apparently, the security guards at the W had picked him up and dropped him off promptly in her arms. What she did not understand was that I had already kindred-ly connected with the dog; in so many bodily gestures, he had said to me: fuck off, Melissa.

So, like any agreeable person, I had let him carouse around the pool deck as any little dandy likes to do on a Tuesday afternoon. Though the little fucker and I have not had a ton of time to connect and bond, I felt like we were getting along fabulously during this fine afternoon at the pool.

For starters, we had a lot in common. Namely, we both like to party. Yes, Noreen's 3 month old puppy is, so to speak, a bit of a booze hound, in the most literal sense. And by booze hound I do not mean that anyone was shoving a natty light in its face frat style. No, the little bugger was basically trying to get blitzed by tipping random cups of cocktails and sipping some sangria. I am not going to lie, I was just a little bit impressed. I meannnn, even though he did get caught trying to snag some loser's mai tai, he almost got a pull out of it. Oh, and he had perseverence. After I snagged Noreen's vodka soda from his dog lips, he bopped to sip the sangria of the 50+ New Yorker who had been annoying us all afternoon with his chauvanist commentary. On more than one occasion, this dinosaur stated that both of us would not have careers and would be staying at home to raise children. He was sunburned, fat and had a really annoying accent. Dinosaur was also not buying us drinks. If you are not going to serve it, then please don't dish it out, sir. Anyhow, if the dog's health and sobriety had not been at odds, I would have fully encouraged Oliver to ravish that asshole's drink.

After several hours at the pool, we were gathering our belongings to leave when Noreen casually mentioned a fear that her dog might be blind. I had not seen the dog run into any chairs and had seen it stalking out opportunities to nip the bottle so, at this point, I had very little concern that it might be blind. Booze hound? yes. Blind hound? negative.

Anyhow, her irrelevant paranoia only inspired me to act like a jerk. As we were exiting, Ollie was bumbing around at some man's feet by the doors. Clearly, Ollister was pretty slammed after accruing about 3 sips of vodka in his 3 pound body. . This man had decided to engage Noreen in small talk about her pooch, as had about 23 other people on the pool deck that day.

I looked at the man and said, "Isn't it great she adopted a special needs dog?" Then i went on to explain how he was legally blind. I don't understand why this man was dumb enough not to question me or if he really just didn't care.

"Wow," he replied, "well i guess that explains why he seems to run into things a lot!" I smiled fondly on our little special needs dog, "Yeah," I said. What a dipshit- clearly he had no idea what a drunk dog looks like. I mean, I guess I had not either until now.

We decended the steps to the front of the hotel where Noreen's boyfriend was going to pick us up and take us to dinner. She looked at me, "That was bad karma, Melissa." I shrugged, and watched the dog try to sober up while drinking warm water out of a dog bowl outside of the hotel.

"Bad karma in what sense? Do you mean i'm going to get a blind dog or have a blind baby?" I did feel a little bad: I actually liked the little freak a lot more than I had expected to and he could hold his own amongst poolside pricks. Like I said before, we truly had a kindred connection. I also was beginning to realize that dogs that are too small to shit might not be so bad.

Once inside her boyfriend's car, we contemplated where we could go to dinner while accompanied by booze hound. Sadly, we were turned away at many a venue as booze hound's presence could potentially ruin the ambiance.

"No room at the inn, " I muttered under my breath as we crossed the street to Saddle Ranch which obviously had to accept him as they accept so many degenerates that a small dog was hardly an issue.

Once seated, I decided to mention that I had told someone the dog was special needs. Noreen's boyfriend was not remotely amused so I decided not to push the bill and try to convince the waitress.

Booze Hound, in the mean time, had already whored himself out to some woman at a nearby table. I looked over at him and I swear he winked at me. Or maybe he was just eyeing my vodka soda.

Man Maid

2010-03-15T20:07:00.000-07:00

Sometime around early August, I got dragged out of my Scottsdale Kingdom down to the trenches of downtown Phoenix. The primary reason I look unfavorably upon going out in downtown Phoenix is because door bouncers and bar tenders do not know my name. Though, in retrospect, maybe this is a positive.

Anyhow, at this time in my life, I was casually dating a remarkable alcoholic who would basically become catatonic when drinking heavily. And by remarkable I really just mean that i was totally over it.

After jumping on and off Phoenix's light rail, which is more of just a novelty than a viably useful form of transportation, we popped into an irish bar somewhere in the downtown area. I was pretty happy to be off the lightrail as i was tired of sitting next to meth heads with 3 teeth slurping off brand energy drinks. While posted up at the bar I spotted this man. The minute I laid eyes on him, I wanted his name but not necessarily his number. He was 75, fat, and wearing a coogi sweater... well it may have been argyle, but wouldn't it be funny to see a 75 year old man in a coogi sweater?

Jen and I hopped to it and engaged him in some sort of mindless conversation. Moments later, I found myself reviewing the various vowel sounds in the english language. He was Irish and had not learned proper phonics skills. I also made sure to tell him I liked his sweater.

While Jen and i jabbered on with old man O'Leary, Noreen was flitzing around the bar for a drink and had taken up talking to some tallish blonde boy. Then i saw her look over at me and point. Noreen thinks it's a fun game to find boys for me at the bar. And i thank her for this because sometimes she just finds me really huge weirdos that she knows i'll want to 20 question, for example, the weird computer nerd who i spent 20 minutes successfully convincing to hire White Kong to work for his start up. White Kong is 17 (see previous entries "White Kong" and "White Kong in love" for more details on White Kong and how i know him).

Before I knew it, blondie had come my way and was chatting me up. He spent the rest of the night hanging out with us and got my number, called me, and took me out the next week. Now, he was a super nice guy, pursuing a law degree, and clearly from a nice family. When he referred to his mother, he said 'mom', throwing out the possessive pronoun 'my' altogether. This kind of pissed me off. I mean, She was not my mom. He also liked to wear pastel v-necks and knew a little too much about my favorite brand of purses. On many occasions, I thought about calling up my Marv in LA and having him analyze with his supreme gay-dar capacity. I already had a wonderful gay boyfriend and was not looking for another.

At any rate, these flaws aside, he liked to party but was not a remarkable alcoholic. Basically, if i were to describe him to my mother, she would be fairly supportive of this G.

The main problem was, apart from my suspicions, that the whole thing was just off from the start. My crazy friend Mark, who is both a hopeless romantic and a supreme bar star, always says, "never settle for anything less than butterflies." There were no butterflies. I'm not trying to be queer, but when you know you know. However, He was nice enough and i was ok with keeping it casual. However, I just couldn't get that excited about new jeans.

This little ditty carried on for about a month and a half. Day by day, I was losing interest and it was sliding into a slow fade. Toward the end of it, Jen called me one day and directed me to a web page: Man Maid. The page boasted jack of all trade services that included your general scrubbing and dusting, yard work, and fixing odds and ends. Interesting concept, no? Then I realized that the one and only man maid was actually the boy who I had been dating for the last month. Holy shit. He had been prostituting himself out to wash other women's windows and trim other womens' hedges. In my head, I tried to picture him in a french maid's outfit then got really disturbed and almost threw up the Luna bar i was eating. At that point, his masculinity plummeted to rock bottom depths. He could have my purses.

Amidst all of this nauseating analysis, I stopped for a minute and played devil's advocate against myself: maybe it would be a nice to date a guy who would so eagerly clean my humble home? But then I realized that I'd probably have to pay him.

Girls with Dumb Names

2010-03-13T09:05:00.000-08:00

I tend to get a lot of flack for ripping the male population apart. In all honesty, I love men; I just find them anywhere from mildly to moderately amusing on many given occasions. It's not my fault that you walk around the gym in flip flops, or that you chose to bring firecrackers into the W and set them off under my skirt, or that you are married and trying to get my number.

So, in honor of my male readership, today I am pondering the following topic: girls with dumb names. When I speak of dumb names, I am speaking of names that end in a long 'i' sound, namely. Really, you had to name your daughter Trixi??? Well it's your own damn fault she got caught with the captain of the Lacrosse team behind the bleachers.

There is a fine line between preppy nicknames with that long i sound at the end and trashy, made up names that literally end in an i. For instance, Missy, Muffy, Kitty, Betsey and Lacey can be cutesy. Not saying they make you sound brilliant, but they are acceptable. I can even handle an I ending as long as it's a REAL NAME. I may be saying this because I have a nickname with a y at the end. But fortunately, my mom was not dumb enough to name me after a Disney character. Naming her Bambi, Roxi, or Trixi is not ok under any circumstance. At that point, you are hoisting your daughter on a stripper pole and giving her a bottle of lotion that smells like pears.

The following names, I believe, are truly the worst: Bambi, Misti, and Rikki. Especially when they are all in a public restroom together. Girls with retarded names must get together at a convention, trade hair spray and pear lotion, then say omg we are so bff4L. I was so lucky to nearly get esphixiated by Bambi's hair spray as she was re-teasing her bleached hair.

"OMG... it's been like this since 7 am... do i still look good to be out???" Bambi squealed to either Misti or Rikki. It really doesn't matter who it was, considering that combined they had enough brain cells for a lemur.

"Omg, no you look so hot. I love it short!!!" Misti/Rikki shrieked. Meanwhile, Rikki/Misti exited a bathroom stall donning some gross synthetic black dress that she was falling out of purposefully.

"Ohmigod, I'm so excited for tonight!!!!" Rikki/Misti trilled while running up to snatch Bambi's hairspray. I wondered if Bambi was still scarred from when the hunters shot her mother in the forest.

They squealed together like sick cats and I hurried out of the bathroom. On my way back to the table, I passed a table of bros. One looked at me and shouted, "Tiffani!?!?!?!" I'm not sure what kind of look I gave him but it must not have been very nice.

"Do i look like a Tiffani to you?" I asked. Seriously, I was not about to leveled down to Misti and Bambi.

"Whoa, what's your problem? I thought you were Tiffani. Tiffani's a great girl she's having my friend's baby." He looked so sad.

"Nope," I replied wondering if I looked like a pregnant Tiffani or a dumb whore, "maybe she's doing her hair with Bambi and Misti in the bathroom." I shot him a wide smile and made it back to my table, sniffed my shirt to see if I smelled like pears.

The Top 100 Things that Amuse Me Mildly: #96: From the Fra-rority Corner: You totally PAMed him last night.

2010-01-16T08:36:00.000-08:00

From the Fra-rority corner: "Sorry about that P.A.M. last night!"

"ohmigod I totally PAMed last night."

"With who?"

"Derek. I mean, I was fine... and then... all of the sudden-"

"Do you think he knew?"

"Ummmm, didn't seem like it, but who knows???"

"Do you think you are going to see him again??"

"errrr depends on how much he likes Baja Fresh quesadillas."

"so probably tonight, then, huh!"

The art of a solid, inconspicuous PAM cannot successfully executed by all or, in fact, by most. The majority of intoxicated, single Americans ranging from 18-30 ( I know, the range is long, but i don't want to discriminate) will not make it past the first stopping point: P. The A of the acronym PAM, the connector the bridges the initial P and the ultimate goal of a solid M. If you make it to M, you may even make it to even loftier late-night logistics. But don't get your hopes up.

At this point, you have either a) decided that PAM is an extremely dirty acronym b) gotten thoroughly confused and will inevitably keep reading c) gotten extremely bored, annoyed, and have not even made it this far or d) reminisced about all the PAMs in your life- you know exactly what I am talking about.

The highly scientific acronym PAM stands for the global late night phenomenon: Puke And Make-out. It is most successfully maneuvered by those who lack respect for the soon to be PAMed. Even better executed by those anticipating the likelihood of a PAM and pack their pockets and purses with mouthwash and mints.

The true key to PAMing is not to think about it to much. Realistically, one should say to himself, "Gee, I just vommed into a pitcher under the table... I should probably go home." No. That is what happens to the majority of the population: common sense and sobriety kick in as soon as your sphincters and digestive track fail you and your capacity to party.

Instead, change your perspective: Pitcher half full or pitcher half empty? pitcher half empty! I mean you did not fill the enitre thing, so you are probably good to go. And, to boot, no one saw! As a matter of fact, because you rolfed your Chipotle, you now have more room left in your body to throw back a few more and that hawty shawty across the bar has been checkin' you alllll nighttttt. ...

When you think like this, you have hurdled over the moral dilemma that accompanies a P. You now have a PA and are oh so close to achieving that M. Not only are your inhibitions down from heavy consumption, but, in fact, you are able to gloat and stumble in that sense of achievement: "I rolfed and rallied!"

So go on, amble over there, you are a warrior. You have fought the urge to puke, failed, but are still ready to win the battle.

And there you have it: 15 minutes, 20 steps, and 2 SocoLimes later, you have successfully achieved a PAM to the tune of "Tik Tok" by Ke$ha deep in the dark of a dance bar.

Versin'

2010-01-13T20:19:00.000-08:00

Tonight, my sister g-chatted me with a playful challenge that she had been assigned for her class: pair a grossly romantic line with an extremely unromantic line. Given that I have accrued several thousand dollars of debt to study Creative Writing in Undergrad, I was pretty excited about this challenge. Here is what I came up with, and, of course, I felt the need to address them to and from celebrities, primarily tiger woods- ( if you can think of more, feel free to post comments):

"oh, my dear, my body to yours i would sucher;

except for the times i was sleeping with the producer "

-girl who got kicked off the bachelor to the bachelor

"your soul and mine like flint did clink,

until i f***ed hookers on our kitchen sink."

- tiger to elin

"alas, the sun rises and sets in thou eyes,

and still beyond them, i can't stop checkin otha chicks' thighs."

-tiger to elin, after a few shots

"roses are red, violets are blue

sugar is sweet and so are you-

but not as sweet as the settlement

I shall get when, thou ass, I sue!"

-elin to tiger

Ok so these are only a few, but... there will be more to come!

xoxo,

MAG

She's Just Not That Into You

2009-12-29T22:39:00.001-08:00

Yes, women can be socio-paths when it comes to dating. For anyone reading this who does not know me, I toss around the term 'socio-path' very liberally, thereby covering a huge spectrum of possible personality disorders. I much prefer socio-path to psycho-path because socio-paths are, ultimately, a lot more terrifying. Anyhow, whether said socio-path keys your car and slashes all your tires because you chose a night with the boys over her, or if she decides to sleep around during your honeymoon (all of these are real incidents I have picked up while watching bad dating bootcamp shows), for every crazy woman, there there is an equally unstable man. And let's hope to Jesus that they don't ever meet, pair, and spawn.

A few years ago, the book, He's Just Not That into You, slapped a bunch of desperate, delusional women across the face. I mean, what this man wrote is not rocket science; in fact, it is basically common sense: He doesn't call you back after you call him six times... guess what? he's just not that into you!

Of course, it took a man to write this fine little dating guide for the dating disabled. Sadly, a book for men about what not to do and say to women has not reached such prestige. This may be for several reasons: a) it has not been written and b) if it has been written, it has not been embraced because that's not how guys role. They don't really do self help.

While there may be books out there for men with tips for reading women written by women, I am far too lazy to research it right now as it is midnight on a Tuesday and I am watching Chelsea Handler while writing this. I would really much prefer to just relay a lovely little vignette of a man my sister sat next to on the airplane recently. Over the course of a two hour flight, he did and said so many terrifying things that I am surprised my sister does not need some sort of post traumatic flight therapy. His name was Josh, he was 27, and had his associate's degree from some unknown college. He liked to overshare. Here is his story and the rules he broke:

1. Do not talk about how much money you make

"The first thing I picked up from this guy," said my sister, "was that he was trying to imply that he made a ton of money."

Apparently, in his job as some sort of sales representative, Josh was making bank. My sister actually remarked that she thought it was very insulting that he thought his salary would pique her interest. I have to agree. I do not all women have 'gold digger' stamped on their chests. Sure if you have some extremely cool job - like if you are an astronaut or a pet psychologist or a psychic- by all means tell me about your career. That makes you interesting. Your cash does not. I would really like to meet a pet psychologist.

2. Do not size yourself up to me (literally)

"And he also kept saying how i was probably too tall for him or that he was too short for me. As if he was assuming I would date him or something," she told me.

My sister is about 5'8". Yes, she is on the taller end. On the plane ride, Josh informed her that he about 6'0" which is man code for roughly 5'10". Then he made the aforementioned awkward comments. I mean, seriously, how do you move forward from an assinine comment like that? He had basically sunk his battle ship within 5 seconds of meeting her.

3. Do not talk about your future children, especially their appearance/ genetic dispositions

"He told me he hopes his future children get his curly hair, even though its a recessive trait."

Whoa, shit, stop. When you are 27 and speaking of your future spawn, you make me want to throw up in my mouth. and then probably all over you. And, for the record, who wishes jerry curls on one's offspring? vom.

4. Do not talk about finding your wife/girlfriend/or the next girl you sleep with

"Josh kept talking about wanting a girlfriend and wanting to get married. Then he got super upset when Men's Health said that Miami is not a good place to find a woman to date seriously."

Well, duh, Miami is not a good place to have a relationship. Even though this section is meant to criticize the way Josh publicly lamented to my sister, a mere stranger, about his lonely single life, I need a moment to vent about how this moron is not going to take advantage of Party Paradise for a year.

Anyhow, imagine you are a girl sitting on a plane and some man casually flips through a men's health sobbing about his single-dom? Do you want to jump his bones in the airplane bathroom? Absolutely not. He is mopey, desperate, and annoying. Primarily annoying and, in addition, kind of creepy. Don't be so fucking desperate. Don't sit too close.

5. Do not think out loud/overshare/talk about your ex within 5 minutes of meeting a girl

"He kept making all of these really annoying random comments. There was this girl walking down the aisle, and he said, "OOoh I hope she gets to sit next to a hottie.." then he gave me a creepy smile."

When you make comments like that, Josh, the girl sitting next to you knows exactly what went through your head when you sat down next her. And she is creeped out. She is also creeped out by the way you have wistfully spoken of your wife and girlfriend. And how you have asked her how long she has been dating her boyfriend, whether she has made it to the two year mark. She is probably also annoyed that you have taken this time to naturally segue into a conversation about how your last girlfriend was too clingy. At this point, you lost her at, "I'm too short to date you," as you showed her that, ultimately, you have limited confidence. You also just let the random girl sitting next to you on the airplane discourage you from ordering a meal because she doesn't like the smell of deli sandwiches. And she' s not even your girlfriend. You, my friend, have been whipped by a strange girl. Good luck in Miami.

***

Obviously, I have just dented the surface of some of the most glaring errors males make. I definitely don't deserve to be published. Or to have a major motion picture starring Drew Barrymore, Ben Afflect, and, ah it wouldn't/couldn't/shouldn't be complete without Jennifer Aniston in my fine blog's honor. I do think, though, that men and women could save themseleves a lot of trouble by embracing a little thing called a filter.

Don't Take Life Sitting Down

2009-12-21T15:07:00.000-08:00

Well, it looks like plights for gender equality have reached a new extreme. Yes, women can be corporate executives and play professional basketball. But now, with the help of Go Girl Urination Device, females can now pee standing up. Just like a man.

Before I stumbled across this Go Girl empire of all things urinary and portable, I was never really aware that my inability to pee standing up was a draw back. Sure, maybe it takes me about 30 seconds longer to urinate than a man, thereby giving a male colleague a lunch break that is roughly 30 seconds longer than mine. Or maybe, while out in the woods, I would have to find a denser neck of the woods to drop my shorts while a man can just pull it out just about anywhere. But I wouldn't necessarily consider myself at a disadvantage for this. I also am 99% of time avoiding the great outdoors- I prefer patios. Furthermore, I think the concept of a urinal is tremendously disgusting and awkward. I'm glad that public establishments had to ultimately spend more money to build more bathroom stalls for women.

Anyhow, for the love of all that is androgynous, women can now shove a funnel like device with a spout just below their nether regions and apparently "go anywhere" because "life's greatest adventure shouldn't be finding a bathroom." The Gogirl comes in lavender, but you can purchase either a traditional pink or a special camoflauge container. There are gift packs to boot, as well, in which you can get a GoGirl tshirt so that you can flaunt that you pee like a man.

I have one small question: WHAT DOES THIS EVEN MEAN?!?! Ok so maybe this funnel thing would keep you from having squat or splash out in the woods or could be used within a public stalls to prevent you from sitting on a toilet or taking advantage of the 30 second glute/hamstring work out that results from squatting (hidden workouts are the best). However, this still doesn't mean you can pee ANYWHERE- it simply allows you to pee differently.

I was so thrown off by this entire concept that I investigated the website further. Apparently, there are types of Go girls: Outdoorsygirl, Skigirl, Globalgirl, Mommygirl, Citygirl, and Roadgirl.

So the descriptions for Outdoorsygirl and Skigirl almost make sense. Skigirl might need to go off into the woods and use her Go girl, though i'm not really sure where she is going to keep it while she's on the slopes. I guess in the pocket of her ski jacket. Outdoorsygirl, also, is in the woods all day so now she doesn't have to step off the trail to far. Even Globalgirl might be roughing it in India or in the jungles of South America. I guess the world really can be your toilet.

The concept of Mommygirl definitely bothers me. It suggests having one's young daughter use it to prevent germs. Sadly the germs it prevents will not outweigh the psychological problems and gender confusion she will experience later.

Roadgirl also perturbs me as I get this vision of traffic violations galore while urinating en route.

While trying to figure out which type of girl I was, I decided that I fit best as Citygirl. For the Citygirl, Go girl aims to please the impatient, high maintenance clipping from club to club in her hooker heels :

"Worried about germs in public places? Had it with impossibly long lines at clubs, stadiums, or big outdoor events? If there's a will, there's a way-- when you've got a go girl in your bag."

There is no way I can even try to defend this as a plausible concept. It would only result in a UIP or sex offender violation. What would I do? pull out my Gogirl and urinate into my empty vodka redbull? the thought of it makes my stomach churn! Sorry, Gogirl... you are not for the City Girl. Even if City girl were to use it in a public restroom stall for sanitary reasons, Isn't it all the more worse to be carrying around remnants of your own urine in your purse after peeing? I also do not think that peeing into a funnel would go over so well while getting tips'.

Though Gogirl boasts, "You won't be like a man. You will just be able to pee like one", I will not be breaking that bad boy out at the bar, mall, or any of the very public places I go to on a daily basis. I much prefer the hidden work outs.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

2009-12-14T20:50:00.000-08:00

In lieu of all of all this holiday spirit, I would love to know what a song about date rape and the birth of Jesus Christ have to do with each other. I really do. It is just so jarring to hear "Silent Night" one minute and in the next, a man creepily cajoling a woman to have "just a half a drink more" and squealing, "how can you do this to me."

In all reality, the song is kind of pathetic on both ends. You have your man who is begging on his hands and knees while still trying to persuade this girl into just a little sip o' roofie-nog. Basically, she has no choice but to freeze on the frozen tundra outside or to fall at the mercy of this very needy man. This also makes me wonder: how is she getting home? is he implying that she will have to walk or does she have a car like a normal person? Then again, if she has been slurping holiday punch all night, this option may no longer be plausible.

Naturally, she decides to sing along with him, occasionally adding to the creepiness by bringing up members of her family. Yes, I must remember, the next time some man tries to convince me to go home with him, to sigh heavily and say, "oh dear, i don't know what my mother will say." Or, better yet, my brother, especially since my brother is 17 years old and could hardly care less about the adult choices I am confronted with on a daily basis.

While listening to this song, I can think of two situations where it could easily go down. The first one that comes to mind is a frat house located slightly out of the way of central campus. In my mind, I am picturing maybe the FIJI house or ZBT at Michigan because those houses are basically in Kalamazoo. FIJI really fits the bill as it is up on a high hill and has a ridiculous driveway. One night, while attempting to go to FIJI, I never even made it there because I fell down the driveway six times. Of course, in Ann Arbor it is acceptable to wear stilettos when it is 5 degrees outside and the world is covered in black ice.

I could completely see this song taking shape after two silly 19 year olds had a hey day with an ice luge. The girl, I can assure you, is wearing stilettos, and is legitimately concerned about making it down the driveway to even get into a cab. She is also probably dreaming of NYPD pizza garlic knots. Yummmmm.

I can also, in my older age, see this happening a made for tv movie, particularly one of the lifetime movie network. I should probably not be admitting to the world that i spend a substantial amount of time during the course of the week watching this channel, but, unfortunately for me, I do. Over the course of the last week, I have seen John Stamos starring as a dangerous hit man with double life, a smattering of rapist/serial killer flicks, and one random one about a haunted farm house. For the most part, I could see this scene fitting in nicely to one of the awkward seduction and/or attack scenes on these fine films. There would probably even be some sort of song and dance act.

Given the option, I would probably walk out the door of this man's house considering that a) I am too old to be contending with frat boys, b) because desperation is a turn off and c) I have a terrible singing voice.

Dick

2009-12-09T20:19:00.000-08:00

"Well, in my opinion, he should not be re-elected president of the HOA."

"Why do you say that, Herb?"

"Lots of reasons- for starters... to resurface the jacuzzi.... just wasn't all that necessary."

The View: Poolside Old Man Edition's current topic-- who to vote for the head of the HOA- wove itself in and out of a sun induced sleep that I was trying to enjoy on perhaps the most perfect Saturday afternoon. For the next hour or so, Herb, Ted and Bob droned on through a garden variety of quibbles and quabbles, among these topics: The HOA, youngsters running around at bars, and late night noise.

My ears perked up at late night noise, just waiting for them to quip about the volume of music coming from the 2nd floor.

I hadn't always intended to live in a retirement community. However, in the 19th hour, when my roommate, Noreen, and I were about to become either a) homeless or b) subject ourself to another painful 6 month lease at the San Marin ( my previous complex which was actually a breeding ground for the service industry aka extremely annoying on the one night I want to sleep: Sunday). It was then that our useless realtor, Colin Prick ( poor idiot was unfortunate enough to have a name that rhymed with Dick and Prick), who had done absolutely nothing for us, found this little diamond in the rough or, perhaps, tooth in a pool of tapioca.

The moment I walked in, despite the mature carpeting in the hallways and the reek of the near dead, I felt at home, as the apartment itself was absolutely phenomenol: completely floored in marble, black granite counters, and rich cherry wood cabinets. The balcony, still boasting marble, was extremely large, large enough to comfortable place three beer pong tables.

And so, one blistering July day, we moved in, with the help of temporarily unemployed male friends who had spent the night at our apartment. Said 'temporary' unemployment is certainly voluntary as smoking pot while watching star wars and playing golf are priorities. Though I was extremely pissed when i woke up to find them sprawled on my old apartment's floor, a nearly empty fifth of some off brand whiskey and a spilled bag of pine nuts beside them, it was because of them that I was able to retire at 23 in my new old people's home, complete with an emergency rescue button next to the master bath toilet.

Days later, I found myself riding the elevator with a lovely woman named Delores, with whom I discussed her purchase of a new visor and matching sea foam green t shirt "Scottsdale: Most livable city". I'd like to think Dolores and I have a lot in common. We are both shopaholics and fans of colors most people think are disgusting. I bet her favorite candy is Dots and that she loves Maeve Binchy novels and Lifetime Movie Network. Who knew a party princess like me could fit in so nicely in a retirement community. I was in heaven as I truly love old retired people, especially for their big ears and slight hunchbacks.

Life was absolutely arcadic until I met Richard. Richard was the on-site maintenance man who seemed nice enough at first until I solicited his help. Despite the fact that his job was to support tennants with requests, because I was 23 and a mere renter, he seemed to turn his old nose up at me.

"Young lady," Richard snarled at me one day after I returned home from a long day of work, "you know you move too quickly. You are forgetting to lock your mailbox. Mailman won't deliver your mail if you don't lock it!" I stopped, turned around tiredly and apologized before trooping upstairs. That was a little harsh.

A few days later or, rather, Friday night, I returned home from a night out with youngsters to find that the door to my condo, literally, would not shut. That night, too tired to deal with it, I put in my denchers and went to bed.

The following morning, I awoke and realized I still had to give ol' Dick a call, even though it was Saturday. Fortunately, he was not too severe and only reminded me six times to lock my mailbox and put my parking permit sticker on my car. None of which I actually would do with enough promptness to his liking.

A few weeks later, as I left my condo in a Monday morning haze, I walked down the fire exit stairs to find the main doorway taped off because Richard was waxing the foyer floors. However, unfortunately for Richard, I was late and already needed to shave ten minutes off my commute as it was. As I clumsily began to step over the yellow tape, he spastically jumped out from around the corner like a guerilla fighter.

"Hey you," he growled, his beedy eyes furrowed behind bifocals, "Can't you read the signs!?!!? GO AROUND!!! and don't you know you are not supposed to park out front in the guest spots!?!? Read your home owners manual!!!!" I glared at him and mutter something unintelligible. Clearly, I had lost that morning battle.

The home owner's manual was a gem of a document with more stupid rules and disclaimers than you could shake a stick at. Among these, one of my favorites entails the procedure for Christmas trees: if you must have a real one, it must be disposed by being cut branch by branch and delicately place in a garbage bag. As for balconies, You were not to have more than three potted plants and only one may stand higher than the balcony rail. Do not park in guest spots on any occasion... the nagging list went on and on. I rolled my eyes and shoved it back in the drawer.

While living in the retirement community under the watchful eye of Richard, I realized I was becoming more and more like my neighbors: I seemed to be developing some form of on early onset Alzheimer's when it came to parking my car. Either that or my car was magically moving itself from place to place. The first time it happened, I had circled the back streets of old town crying to my mom about my lost car. You see, I had thought I had parked it across from the bridal store when, in fact, it was two streets parallel in front of a Native American art store, or one of the hundreds. Granted, this happened after watching Michigan lose another football game, but that was truly no excuse.

The second time it happened, I really burned every bridge with Dick. It was early Saturday morning around 2 am. I had just returned home after enjoying some cocktails with friends when, lo and behold, I noticed my car was not parked in its usual guest spot. I panicked. It had been towed!

Of course, my gut reaction was to call Dick. I reached across the concierge's desk and grabbed a card, and punched his number into my phone as quick as my arthritic digits could. When he did not answer, I left him a garbled message about how my car had been towed.

"I never read about towing from guest spots in the...er...manual," I cried, "i'm really sorry I never put the stickers on my car!!!" I hung up the phone and defeatedly climbed the stairs to my apartment. I then called Noreen freaking out. Again no answer. As I openend my door, my phone range: it was noreen.

"Your car's at Jen's!!!" she said, " I knew this phone call was coming... I just figured it would come tomorrow morning, not tonight!!!" Great, my best friend had already accepted my failing retention rate.

The next morning I woke up and my first thought was: Richard is going to kill me. For the next week, I slipped in and out back doors and made sure to not use the main entrance or be in the building from 8-4 on weekdays (easy, as I do have a day job).

One night, Noreen called me as I was on my way home from the gym.

" I ran into Richard," she said. My heart skipped a beat. I was tremendously afraid of this 65 year old maintenance man.

She went on to tell me that he had curtly reminded her that his hours are 8-4 M-F, and under no circumstance was he to be called at 2 am on a Saturday. Of course, he threw in, per usual, that guest spots are not to be occupied by residents.

Tito

2009-12-07T21:16:00.000-08:00

"I'm sorry, ma'am. You already ordered a water. One drink per customer-short flight." The flight attendant scowls at me. I am pretty sure she hates her life. But I suppose you would too if you had a seven year old boy's haircut, a muffin top, and a shift that involved the 8 pm flight from Phoenix to Vegas.

"Yeah, well i want to order vodka soda, i'll pay for it," I persisted, as if i would have a choice, "how much is it?" She scowled at me again-

"We don't take cash." She kept moving and refused to serve any of my friends. Clearly a discrimination case. 28th ammendment, please: no discrimination toward vegas bound youth. Crotchety ol' bitch.

Two seconds later, a nice looking male flight attendant passed down the aisle with peanuts and pretzels. I stopped him, told him how rudely i had been treated. He was, of course, sympathetic and hurried to bring me a complimentary beverage just as they announced there was too much turbulance to serve at all.

Things were off to a great start- I had been served before paying customers. Jen, across the aisle, shook her head and said, "It figures you would get served."

As I am quite convinced that the best things in life are free, that must mean that weekends in Vegas are among the best things in life. There is never a better time to be a female than on a weekend in the city of flashing lights. Despite the fact that we had of course paid for our flights, our 3 night stay was gratis, compliments of our friend Ashley's pseudo uncle who we fondly referred to as Lester the Molester. In all reality, I am sure Lester was a just a run of the mill harmless creepy old man who really wanted to 5 twenty-somethings out to dinner. Ashley's mom, though, said to be wary of ol' Lester. Conveniently, Ashley lost her phone the first night we were there, thereby making it impossible to contact poor Lester.

Of course, when I mentioned a gratis stay in Vegas it was not necessarily at the Bellagio or the Wynn... we were booked that the tried and true Stratosphere which is arguably still on the strip. Upon arrival, we stepped up to the desk and met Sandy, a stereotypical NY Jew with a beard that I could only imagine would boast matzo particles on any given occasion.

"Hi there," Ashley said brightly to Sandy, "we are registered under a Mr. Lester _______". Sandy looked at her skeptically. "Which one of you is Lester?" he grunted at his stupid little joke. Ashley looked at him, "He registered us- he said it would be all set." Sandy began to putter around on his computer; we would learn over the course of the weekend that Sandy loved to putter and make people wait obscene amounts of time for simple requests. He had a tendency to almost make you feel guilty about needing his services. Sandy took his job very seriously, and had no tolerance for fun and games.

Amidst his putzing and fettering away of our precious Vegas minutes, he took all of our licenses and examined them with the precision of an FBI agent.

To Jen, Ashley and Sammy, he made some elitist Jew joke that Shana and I could not comprehend and then smirked and pointed at us, "Goyim... they don't understand." In response, I asked Sandy if he wanted to go clubbing later and garnered a hysterical image of this fat man in a little suit rocking out at Tao and sweating shamelessly.

Eventually, Sandy gave us room keys (and we quickly found out that only one of them actually worked), and we began our whirlwind Friday night that, for me, ended in the food court of Caesar's Palace at 4 am shrugging off a broken dress strap and casually gnoshing on cheese fries off some stranger friend's plate. I guess we all have our moments.

The following morning, due to aforementioned cheese fries and most likely several pieces of pizza that I do not want to admit to, I did not feel all that awful and was ready to seize the day at the Tao Beach pool party.

Tao Beach was essentially the most exclusive frat party I have ever been to in my entire life. Unlike Rehab, which, personally I find overwhelming and commercial, Tao Beach is much more intimate. On this particular day, LMFAO was performing so naturally I texted Red Foo as I had met them outside of LAX a few months ago while waiting for blue shuttle bus. I guess even rockstars pinch pennies. Much to my dismay, Red Foo did not respond, but I had absolutely no time to sigh sadly as within moments we had joined the company of a bunch of little nuggets in bright pastel swim shorts. The head nugget, one who essentially had a shag rug taped to his chest, was the keeper of vodka and stood on top of the cabana bench so we could see eye to eye.

The nuggets were touchy little beasts but, overall, not unlike Lester who we would now never meet, they seemed relatively harmless and quite generous. This seemed to be the theme of the weekend: harmless, generous and just a little bit uncomfortable.

We would not see the end of harmless and generous throughout the weekend. After two long nights out, plenty of new stranger friends, two day long pool parties, we were headed for our final hours in Vegas. That is when we met Tito.

After moseying around Moon at the Palms/ taking advantage of ladies night champagne, we stumbled upon a table of decent looking fellows and I struck up conversation with a Mario Lopez replica in a white jacket.

"Oh hey," I said, "why don't you let me take the picture? That way you can be in it!" Nice goes a long way. the man flashed a smile. He looked even more like AC Slater, dimples and all.

Slater hopped in the picture, lithe as a gymnast and did a bit of a sorority squat. After the photo sesh, we introduced himself, "Tito," he said, pouring another drink. I told him my name and asked if his parents were fans of the Jacksons. Tito was not offended because, not unlike myself, he was more of a teller than a listener. He launched into a diatribe about his life. Within moments I learned that he was an architect from San Francisco, a cancer survivor, and Ayn Rand was his favorite author.

"Oh, I love Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead," I squealed. I am a dork and am always impressed when i meet any man who is relatively literate. It was quite possible Tito and I were soulmates.

Sadly, that dream died about thirty seconds later when "I got a feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas started bumping and I learned the dire truth: Tito was a clapper and looked like he was about to get on the soul train, white jacket and all. If there's one thing that I really dislike it's men who feel the need to clap while they dance. Suddenly I had visions of him hopping around in a Jackson 5 music video. Tito, in all his hot glory, was just another generous-harmless-awkward man out on the strip.

A wonderful night for a gondola

2009-11-23T20:36:00.000-08:00

Because your kiss, your kiss in on my...

I rolled over and slapped my phone. Hall and Oats ring tones are actually really annoying. Why was it ringing, who was calling, and most importantly... why was it still daylight?

Then it all hit my like a sack of bricks- i saw what time it was: 4:45 in the afternoon. It was still Saturday and I was supposed to be heading to a charity event within the next 15 minutes. Unfortunately, I was still wearing Maize shorts with "Wolverines" printed on the ass and my Michigan Alumni sweatshirt. My hair was matted to the side of my head. There was no way I could take a French shower.

After jumping in and out of the shower, chugging blue-razz powerade zero, and re-enacting a throw back episode of Finders Keepers with my closet (buried treasure? a black and red Theory tube dress), I was somehow almost ready to go within 15 minutes. Luckily, my friend, Julie, who i had spent the morning at the sports bar with while watching our alma mater lose, had returned to my apartment to reclaim an overnight bag and a pair of hooker heels.

Shoving my feet into my own hooker heels- patent Michael Kors with an exposed gold zipper-, I jumped into her convertible and she dropped me off at Jen's house.

"See," I said slamming Jen's car door shut, " only 10 minutes late!" And we were off to the Sheraton at WildHorse Pass to support a fundraising effort for the Boys and Girls Club of the East Valley.

As we neared the resort, we passed the sister hotel, located a mile down the road. It was the one attached to a casino and also boasted a snazzy new club. We were, unfortunately, headed to a secluded desert spa type venue, sans flashing lights and oonst oonst oonst.

We looked longingly at the tacky glittery casino light, "We'll hit that up after," Jen said as we curved the winding road to the conference center. Sigh of relief from me: it's not everyday that I get to go clubbing in the middle of no where.

Once we arrived, we hopped out at the valet.

"It's ok if I leave my car overnight, right?" Jen tossed the 18 year old valet boy her keys. He said it would not be a problem.

Upon arrival, we headed straight for Cabernet and Pinot Grigio, then began touring about the silent auction items. Not much was piquing our interests, and my interests were even less piqued by the selection of men at the event. So much for finding a kind hearted philanthropist who cares deeply about the welfare of America's youth.

We turned another corner and I noticed there were a few cops loitering about. As I got closer I realized that the event had not solicited extreme security. In fact, the cops were an auction item: SWAT for the day.

The head honcho of the cop crew, or so it seemed, was a broad, tall man with an attractive chiseled face and greying hair. We'll refer to him as Lt. Dan. Before asking Dan about the perks of swat for the day, I had this image of Lt. Dan wearing the apron from my Halloween costume and dusting the baseboards of my apartment. Next up he would be ironing the wrinkled mess on my closet floor. After that, fixing the drain on my bathroom sink (I am deeply afraid of my complex's onsite maintenance man due to a few incidents I will write about later).

"So what does SWAT for the day entail?" Lt. could also be handy with illegally splitting the cable so that I could get HD in my room.

"well, young lady," said lt. dan, puffing out his pecs, "You will go spend a 10-12 hour day with us. A full day!" I could have sworn he raised his eyebrow, "You might start off with some artillery practice," He motioned with a sweeping hand over a foray of rifles and flashed a Crest smile.

"I'm good with guns and handling assorted weaponry," I said. Yeah right, the most viable contact I have had with rifles is probably Big Buck Hunter or the rifle case I tripped over one time on the floor of an ex's bedroom (again, another story). Lt. Dan went on to tell me how the rest of our day would be spent: a trip in a helicopter, a re-enactment of a crime scene in which I would get to dress up in SWAT costumery, a simulated SWAT chase, all by the side of dashing Lt. Dan. The only thing that seemed more fun than this gig would be a never ending, all access pass to free frozen yogurt for life at Red Mango where I currently am blowing my life savings on a weekly basis.

"Wow," I said taking a swig of wine and wondering if they had my size in the SWAT pants, "how much?"

Lt. Dan chuckled, "Well bids start at 900 dollars..." I shook my head sadly, "sorry, out of my budget. But I'm sure some lucky 12 year old will get to do it." Lt. Dan laughed again and told me he was broke, too. Wow, such a turn on when guys tell you they are broke. Not the best thing to share. Of course, Lt. Dan was probably married and way too old for me.

Jen and I moved along and rounded the corner to a table that had a pair of rollerblades on it. Jen nudged my arm, "shameless, " she said. I looked at her; I didn't think I had been all that inappropriate.

"No," she said, "that SWAT guy just shamelessly checked you out. He was not even a little bit discrete. He totally trailed you." We started cracking up.

"I can't afford Lt. Dan," I said and we headed to the dining area to meet up with Jen's sister and her boyfriend.

As it was about 7 pm, the open bar was closing and turning into an ugly cash bar. We got a second glass and headed for our seats at the table. On the way, Jen said hello to a tall African American man named Roger who she had met at a networking group. He was super friendly and mentioned that he would be going to the new club down the road later. Jen made unofficial plans to meet up with him before leaving the auction.

The table settings, I noticed, also alloted for another glass of wine. This meant that we would have plenty of wine to entertain us through the live auction and dinner.

"Would you like red or white," a fragile Asian woman was serving our table. I thanked her for the white wine and we sat down to dinner.

As salads were served, or, rather, plates with 3 strawberry pieces and a leaf of lettuce, I noticed that there were several empty seats at the table. I also noticed that my lock stock and barrel of wine was dwindling. Well, not really, but I had no idea how long this dinner would go on.

"Excuse me," I signaled the waitress, "I have some friends coming and they would like some wine. They are on their way." She walked away to retrieve some wine.

A moment later, before the waitress could serve my friends their wine, two people actually arrived. One was a man who was a previous acquaintance who I had randomly met while walking out of a bar. In all reality, I had seen him holding a copy of 944's edition that boasted Chelsea Handler on the cover and had basically stolen it from him. The other was a girl who I had never met. The waitress returned.

"Would you like red or white," she asked the girl sitting next to me while giving me the eye. Busted! The girl smiled at her and declined, saying she would just have water. The waitress gave me another look and I swear she smirked.

I introduced myself to the girl as the food arrived. It was my personal favorite, Petit Filet, and some grilled chicken thigh like thing with seasoning. I looked back at the menu: mole chicken. While the filet was wonderful, upon trying the mole chicken I knew I would be burping up its aromas all night so I pushed it to the side of the plate.

After eating and engaging in small talk for a little while, Jen and I went to the bathroom really to make a game plan for the rest of the night.

Once inside the bathroom, Jen ran into a stall, "Hold on, I have to get these spanks off!" She came out moments later with spanks in hand, "Soooo much better, but you're going to have to put them in your purse. Mine is too small." I looked at her like she was crazy but, never the less shoved the damn things in my small bag. One would think this was one of those time-to-self-reflect-on-your-life-moments: you have spanks in your purse, said spanks are not even yours, you tried to outsmart a waitress for extra table wine, and had an inappropriate exchange with a really old cop.

Instead, Jen and I decided to pass Roger's table and finalize plans for clubbing. Roger's table was located right by the door so we could easily siddle up next to it and chat with him while the live auction continued.

"Why hello girls," Roger flashed us a smile, "are you excited for the club?" I was extremely tired of table wine and definitely ready for some flashing lights.

"Say," he said while adding Jen's number to his phone, "I'll text you when I'm going. How are you getting there?" We told him we had been thinking of taking a cab.

"Cab," he made some motion with his hand, "haven't you heard about the Gondolas? I will be going to the club in a gondola- you girls should come with me!" I looked at Jen. I was a little confused about a gondola in the middle of the desert in Arizona. I also got a really funny picture in my head of Roger, Jen and I shoved into a Gondola and being escorted across some man-made body of water. Roger might even be singing to entertain us. He would even let pocket sized jen climb up on his shoulders like a 5 year old so she could see the lights in the distance better.

"Yea," Jen said, "text me. We'll go in the Gondola!" Well it would be an adventure, I thought as we returned to our table. We stayed for a little while longer and then got super restless. As we plotted to leave earlier than orginially anticipated, Roger stopped by our table, set down a full glass of wine and said, "See you girls later!!!" and walked off. Awesome, he gave us his left over wine. I always get really excited about backwash from strangers.

Things were clearly getting weird so we opted to hop into a white hummer with the two kind people who had arrived to sit in my pretend friends' seats.

On the way over, Roger texted Jen: Are you going to join me in the gondola? I, for once, felt totally safe riding a white hummer with someone I barely knew. Gondola was clearly code for something else.

Once inside the casino, which, though new and clean, was basically a budget Vegas, Jen and I hopped up to the club. The man at the door tried to charge us 1o dollars cover. We declined because, in all of our glory, we thought we were the entitled ones.

As we descended from palace above, Roger texted Jen: you inside the club and then on my way. She responded that we were leaving, did not want to pay cover. Roger replied: I'll pay your cover and a few minutes later I'm probably getting a room there, you in? My mind flashed back to the gondola and the backwashed wine. Sick. It was time to run for the hills. Lucky for us, Jen's sister Becca and David were ready to go as well and they carted us back to Old Town.

Inside the car, we watched the glorious casino in the middle of no where fade into a speck of nothing and investigated a giant blue cooler and Whole Foods basket David had won at the auction. Jen's phone blinked again. Roger had texted: :(... sometimes words cannot express what an emoticon can reveal. We laughed and I thought again about how there had not been any visible water in sight.

"It's a good thing I won't see that man for a few weeks," Jen said, "because it will probably be awkward."

The only thing that might have been better than Jen, me and Roger in the gondola would have been Jen, me, Roger and Lt. Dan in the gondola.

Spanky

2009-11-19T21:50:00.000-08:00

I'll admit it- I do route my running route past the dog park on McDonald and Hayden. Though I cannot actually go in (I do not own a dog and, not unlike playgrounds, you can't exactly go to a dog park without a canine accessory), I can creepily peer in to watch all of the lucky people who are responsible enough to own and care for a pooch. I can't help it; there's something about watching Labrador Retrievers carousing about, catching a frisbee here and there. Furthermore, there's no denying that Scottsdale has the most beautiful of Golden Retrievers, their silky, Pantene Pro-V worthy pelts glistening in the late afternoon sun.

There are a lot of reasons I cannot have a dog. Mainly, I might forget to feed it, kind of like the way i accidentally leave my laundry in the wash for a week and then have to rewash it because it smells like vomit. Well, if you forget to feed your dog, you don't get a rewash. They are not like cats; they do not have nine lives. Another thing that scares me about having a dog is that I'll come home late one night and leave the screen door open and it will run away to some better patio that has leftover barbeque on it. Sadly, if the dog runs off my patio, it also takes a 15 ft. leap as I live on the second floor. More practically, I have no desire to clean up fecal matter or run on my dog's time clock. Therefore, I must simply admire from afar or take one of two alternative routes: a) pet sitting b) visiting pet shops and pretending to be interested in purchasing pets or c) fawn over other people's pets.

So, I've gone the pet sitting route. As you've read in my previous entries, I once spent a week on Noah's Ark with possibly the most motley crew of creatures. Several years later, I acquiesced to spend two nights with my friend Tom's English Bulldog, Spanky. The dog had such low self esteem it made me depressed. You would too if you had a severe under bite and were a box on sticks. And if the highlight of your day was a stale milk bone.

"fuck that shit, spanky" I said, clipping on his leash, "we're going out on the town! Your dad might be riding some mule in the Grand Canyon but you're in Scottsdale!" And, by out on the town, I meant walking him the 5 blocks his asthmatic body could manage to the pet accessory store, All that Jazz.

The girl who ran the store had some poodle like, freaky looking dogs with mullets and black pride hair cuts (as you might realize, I am a total dog snob, I only like the classic, beauties), but she was super welcoming to our down home boy, Spanky.

"Aren't you a beautiful boy,' she squealed as a 5 inch strand of saliva dangled from his mouth. What a boost for Spanky's self image.

"See!? the nice lady likes you! Someday you'll get a girl of your own," I whispered to him while she went to get some gourmet dog bone samples, "but stay away from that shit," I said motioning toward the bichoodles sitting behind the counter.

Spanky sampled several dog treats: one sprinkled with carob chips (no go), another one that had some sort of peanut butter supplement (no go), and yet another that was of some oatmeal cookie variety with delicious looking icing. Quite frankly, I was breath away from asking the girl if they were an appropriate snack for people. I couldn't understand why this dog was so choosey... geeze... clearly a diet of milk bones had left him with an unsophisticated palate.

The girl ended up giving him some sort of organic jerky that he inhaled in two bites. It was the most expensive of the treats. I had no idea Spanky would turn out to be such a little whore.

Instead of buying him a bag of treats, I decided it would not help his physique to feed him beef jerky, I opted to buy him a new handkerchief print bandana with a red jinglebell on it.

"Handsome," I said to Spank-ster as he clodded along, wheezing heavily. En route home, several attractive men stopped to admire my dog. Despite how ugly he was, Spanky was making me more approachable or, at least, helping my game. In my mind, Spanky was no longer a fat fuck but an excellent wing man. We pranced around town for another twenty minutes or so and then, because the dog was in need of an inhaler, we headed home.

Later that evening, I took Spanky to the dog park with a few of my friends. When we arrived, I desperately wanted to take him into the "high activity" dog run so I could play with the goldens and labs.

"MAG," Erin said warily, "don't you think that will be a bit much for him?" She motioned to a black lab leaping over a collie to snatch a frisbee. She then nodded to the "low activity" dog run, where, clearly, there were only geriatric dogs wearing dumb sweaters.

"Oh, fine," I pouted a little, but then felt bad that I had not been looking out for his best interests, "Low activity it is." Maybe we could find him a cougar (is that what you call old, female dogs? I'm not really sure!).

We entered the retirement community and looked around for the shuffle board courts, handicap rails, and jello. Meanwhile Spanking hobbled over to the side and began puttering around in the rocks.

"Spanky," I yelled, "get over here, I got a girl for you!" I motioned to a tiny, 6 pound nuggety little black dog in a hot pink sweater. Kind of cute, though probably not logistically possible. He turned his head slowly toward me and looked more depressed than usual. He even looked like he was about to cry. Was Spanky completely socially retarded? Was he afraid of girls?

Something twittered in my heart and then I realized it: I was attached to the little fucker.

"Spanky," ran over to the pee rocks, "come here!" I petted him and brought him over on his leash to socialize with other dogs. Curiosity got the best of him and he started sniffing around at the yippy little nugget. Pretty soon, Spanster was romping around and sniffing grass fervently and intermittently with nuzzling Tiny's fuzzy pink bolero. He was almost acting like a normal dog. For a minute, I thought he was a little bit cute. Total Quasimodo syndrome.

After Spanky romped around for a bit, it was time to go. My roommate Noreen had just gotten back into town and was ready for a big night out in Scottsdale.

Back at the apartment, Spanky ate and drank like a real man. The dog had a new swagger. Noreen, nearly ready in a hot pink dress (same color as Tiny's sweater) started blasting that Jai Ho song from Slumdog Millionaire (she would) and dancing around her room while putting lotion on her leg.

Seeing another vision in pink set the little man off. He went running (sort of) down the hall to Noreen's room. I heard her exclaim, "Spaaaaannnkkkkky" in her shrilll falsetto voice, "Coommmee dannnnce with meeeee!!!!"

Well, don't they say ask and you shall receive? Spanky lunged at Noreen and knocked her off her feet, literally. She bit it and fell hard. I heard shrieks from her room and ran down the hall to find Noreen sprawled on the floor and the last chords of Jai Ho playing. Spanky sat on the ground as if nothing had happened.

I looked from fallen Noreen to Spanky sternly. I pointed at him:

"No more organic beef jerky for you, little man."

White Kong in love

2009-10-24T19:35:00.000-07:00

"You'll never believe what White Kong just did," my mom quipped while we chat on the phone, "He just came into the kitchen for cookies, took the hot ones for himself and then put the cold ones on a plate for his friends." Sounds about right. I laughed, "White Kong knows what he wants." Clearly, White Kong is an alpha male. A few minutes later, I heard David Guetta's techno beats blasting and White Kong belting out "Sexy Bitch". Apparently, he was putting on a show for his guests and did not think he was too far a cry from Akon.

"mom, what kind of shit is going on over there?!?" I was a little concerned. White Kong was acting sketchier than usual.

"oh it's just white kong being White Kong," my mom said, "did I tell you what he did last night?" My mom then went on to inform me that White Kong had volunteered to work at some Halloween event at the park as a member of the Varsity Club. As part of his volunteer role, he was supposed to wear a costume while he passed out candy. On his way out the door, White Kong ran down to the basement and grabbed a demented Halloween mask that might be well embraced by anyone who has pedophilic tendencies.

"Michael, that is what you are wearing to pass out candy to children," my mom had queried, "don't you think you scare the children?" White Kong shrugged and said it was the easiest costume he could find and jumped in his race car to go volunteer with the children. This was also a red flag that White Kong was more or less embracing his capacity to fly his freak flag.

But then, again, I guess love can make you crazy. While I was home visiting, I learned that while White Kong dominates athletics, academia, gaming, and most things in life, really, his heart is actually dominated by an unrequited love. White Kong, is, in fact, a hapless and hopeless romantic. Unfortunately, the lady of interest had moved East for her senior year of high school to attend some ritzy private school as she was hoping to attend Harvard in the fall. Either that or she really want to know what its like to be a Gossip Girl. White Kong had been crushed.

Anyhow, White Kong in love is a different animal from White Kong not in love. White Kong in love is sassy and blasts eurotrash techno. White Kong in love flexes his biceps at any chance and walks taller and prouder than ever before. White Kong in love did not want to ask another date to homecoming. "I'm not buying some chick dinner and paying for her ticket," he said, "I can get a steak if I don't have a date." Then I saw it. White Kong was in love and did not want to waste his time or his hard earned golf caddy money on some bra he didn't have the hots for. It was like that .38 special song, "so caught up in you" was constantly blaring through White Kong's teenage mind.

Even though he will eventually get over it, I am actually quite proud of my brother for his first step toward love. It confirms that he is really just a human and actually not a super-human. And, since White Kong is such a catch, I am sure he will find love again soon enough.

Adventures with ManRam

2009-10-21T21:35:00.000-07:00

I'll never forget the moment Noreen called me with the big news. I had just been dropped off to pick up my car after a night a gallivanting around Old Town. All I really wanted was a bagel and powerade zero. However, I got a lot more than I was bargaining for that fateful Sunday Morning.

After she revealed to me the new situation at hand, I responded, "Omg. We are going. This is out of control." You see, Manny Ramirez who, at the time, was still one of the most noted, notable, and noticed players on the Boston Red Sox had just invited Noreen and her girlfriends over to his apartment at the Optima in Scottsdale. The purpose? His uncle's birthday party. The time and date? Today at 1 pm.

We acted quickly: I called Kate who was ecstatic and bopped right over. Noreen dug our roommate Stephany out of her room (as this was early in the period of our friendship, I really do feel that this brush with fame brought us all a lot closer). After rounding up our little girl band, it occurred to me that I was missing a piece of the puzzle:

"Um, Noreen? Why and how does Manny have your number?"

Noreen was lounging on the floor playing with a digital camera in her pajamas.

" Dirty Pretty," she shrugged. The name Dirty Pretty was explanation enough for acquiring a professional ball player's number. Apparently, she had met him a few weeks ago and had chatted him up while we were out clubbing. Last night, she had run into him again and had gone to his VIP table for probably no more than ten minutes- little girl who leaves a big impression, apparently. Anyway, Noreen's charms over Manny were about to give us a great adventure.

En route to ManRam's casa, Kate called her mom to tell her about her pending adventures. Of course, though Mary Ann was probably equally as intrigued as we were, she pulled the concerned mom card. Kate promised not to accept refreshments.

Once we rolled up to the Optima, arguable the most expensive apartment property in the metro Phoenix area apart from a few high rises in the Biltmore, Noreen called him up to figure out how we would get to his humble abode.

"oh hey" she said casually, "where do we park and how do we get in?"

ManRam directed her to park anywhere and said he'd be right down. Moments later, a pearly Escalade truck (I am fairly certain it was pearl, but perhaps silver) rolled by slowly in drive-by fashion. The tinted drivers window rolled down slowly; meanwhile, I was blinded by the ultra rims. Custom rims, I can assure you.

Manny poked his head out the window, "Hi girls," he called in his still thick Dominican accent, "get in, I take you my apartment." Now, I am a tall woman but I virtually had to jump into ManRam's hoss. In the backseat, of course, there were the stereotypical practice balls rolling around the floor. I thought about the prospect of how Manny might have thrown them in there just to tempt me to steal them. Well it was working. Luckily, I had a small purse which enabled self control.

Sitting right behind Manny, I was just inches from his magnificent dreads. I wanted to pull one. Weird, but it would be a good story had it happened.

"So Manny," Noreen asked, "how old his your Uncle turning?" Manny looked at her really long and hard for a minute as if he had no idea what she had said. He either needed me to translate or had totally fucked up his own fascade for inviting us over.

"Oh, you have to ask him." Using context clues, maybe one of the only skills I gained from majoring in English Lit, I knew I was not going to be gorging myself with really expensive birthday cake that pro ball players must get for family and friends on their birthdays.

After a slightly awkward elevator ride, we were at the door of Manny's apartment. I have to say, the apartment was not the Moorish palace I was expecting. Decor was simple. And there were no streamers. I still decided to play up the birthday party.

As we entered the kitchen area, a fifty something man entered the room wearing an all black track suit. It was the uncle.

"Happy Birthday,' I said to him, " where are all your other friends hiding out?"

Manny looked a little guilty, "Oh, it's just you guys," and began pouring drinks with copious amounts of vodka. Noreen helped him serve; I was convinced they were roofie coladas so i put mine down and flipped on the plasma. The uncle sat next to me and I learned that he was also Manny's trainer and did not, in fact, speak very much english. Lucky for him, I shared an interest in Rock of Love and am fluent in Spanish, the only other useful skill I accrued in college.

As the aging uncle and I engaged in small talk, Kate and Steph hung out in the living room wiht us. Meanwhile, ManRam cranked on the salsa music and within moments was spinning little Noreen around the kitchen. After a few minutes, he excused himself for a moment to take a call.

Noreen gave us a look, it was probably time to go. Things were just going to get weird. Not that they were not already. We all stood up and conjured up that leaving look in our eyes. We told ManRam we had to get back to prepare for work tomorrow. ManRam looked a little sad and a little in the mood for more salsa. Unfortunately, a few twirls around the kitchen were all he would get from Noreen. And as for his uncle, he would never fully understand Rock of Love without my translations as we could not figure out how to get the subtitles going.

As we drove home, I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed in Manny. For a celebrity, he was actually pretty boring. Not much of a conversationalist and with a pretty simple apartment. And didn't even use good mixers in his drinks (ok so i had to try it).

However, Manny was still a celebrity so we continued to pursue contact in a friendly way. As luck would have it, Manny began blowing us off and his wife came into town. Several weeks after that, he bailed on Phoenix for Ft. Lauderdale and changed his number. To think I had been just inches from his dreadlocks and now could not ever contact him again (of course, this was not a huge loss because Manny is not really that entertaining).

If I learned anything from ManRam though, it is that certain adventures and opportunities only come around every so often. If you don't take them and run with them, you will be one dreadlock short of a really, really good story.

Bloggversary

2009-10-15T19:48:00.000-07:00

Believe it or not, it is the one year anniversary of my blog. After reflecting on a year spent regurgitating adventures and spinning somewhat snarky tales, reviews, and commentary, I have to say I can surmise one observation about my blog: it's utterly random and smattered with everything from family profiles to tales of childhood to commentary of pop culture along with many random day to day adventures.

Now, my blog is certainly not the most popular. Nor does it get any more than 50 hits or so when i publish. But i hold those 50 hits so much closer to my heart than thousands of meaningless hits. These are the people who appreciate the random and do not require me to squeeze my writing into some annoying, limiting category.

In the new fiscal year of my blog, I would like to expand it horizons to a new level: guest writers. Yes, I promise to find the wittiet, weirdest and most hysterical people to comment and query about life. Look forward to it!

White Kong

2009-10-13T15:53:00.000-07:00

At 6' 5" and 190 lean pounds, White Kong is not someone you want on your bad side. I am thinking about this as White Kong stands in the kitchen while loading two peanut butter sandwiches, 2 banananas, 5-6 assorted granola bars and rice krispy treat bars, along with two bagles and cream cheese into a now bulging plastic bag. This is lunch and breakfast. For some reason, White Kong is also not wearing a shirt and pauses momentarily to flex his gargantuan biceps. When he shoves the sandwhiches in the bags, the bags nearly burst from the force of his fists. He staggers across the kitchen, thud thud thud, and cranes his neck around the stairwell to yell into the basement:

"Muu thhhh er. Can you bring me up 3 waters and 2 gatorades, pulllleeeasssee!!!!" My mom is in the basement doing laundry. White Kong actually happens to be my 17 year old brother, believe it or not. An All American swimmer, White Kong is currently in his senior year of high school. He spends his days swimming, yawning through classes that bore him, and cruising to and from school and practice in a two door Ford Escort coup from the early nineties. When i drive in Kong's car I am afraid i am going to die. White Kong, however, lives on the edge, the edge of 17, if you will. After school and practice, White Kong does not spend much time studying or doing school work. He much prefers to spend his time gaming, recently mastering all of the expert level songs on Rock Band. Having mastered the bass and the guitar, White Kong now is working on his drumming maneuvers to Journey songs.

As you might discern from the initial scene of this essay, in which White Kong makes sandwiches in the kitchen, that White Kong is not your average seventeen year old. Yes, he goes to school. However, in order to avoid utter boredom, White Kong has enrolled in every Advanced Placement Course possible. During math, because he has exhausted everything the public school curriculum has to offer, White Kong takes Calculus III online with Stanford. He really enjoys this course because he teaches himself, meaning he has plenty of spare time to play on his facebook account and play computer card games.

On top of being a phenomenal athlete and complete brainiac, White Kong has the wit to match. Quick with a joke and in possession of an extremely sardonic sense of humor, Kong can jest with the best of them. White Kong was not always so self possessed, however. He, too, went through his awkward teens where he refused to talk and picked at the patchy peach fuzz on his face. This, however, was before he became White Kong.

I am not really sure where the name originated. During his childhood, we called him Snow Monkey, because he spent his his days at the pool, thus chlorinating his hair to a stark white and, with the help of the sun, he looked like a roma tomato in the face. His haircut also contributed to his resemblance to a monkey. However, as he grew and got stronger, he grew out of Snow Monkey. During this growth period, my brother also accrued an acute skill to dominate video games and swindle peers in basement poker matches. As White Kong began to grow into this swindly pre-teen body he began to encompass a very powerful persona.

As White Kong' s love for cards, swimming, and games grew, he joined an online XBOX Live gaming community. To be part of this community, one had to submit a name. This, I believe, is where White Kong truly materialized. White Kong took the gaming community by force until my mother realized he was becoming a little too passionate about this cyber world and ended his subscription. However, by this time it was too late to deny the Snow Monkey's remarkable transformation into this formidable creature we know as White Kong.

Whenever I fly home from Arizona, which is about 3 times a year, White Kong seems to have grown in bicep and intellectual strength. His sense of humor is just increasingly sophisticated and he has turned into a young adult. When I accidentally signed into his email account, White Kong's friend had sent him an email with the subject line, "he's the study guide, you little twat". Seeing that White Kong now communicates with an adult sense of humor tears me up a little because it, apart from the fact that he looks like a body builder, is an indicator that, though he is my younger brother, he is no longer my little brother.

White Kong is going to college next year, which is scary because in my world of denial I still consider myself, after having been out for 3 years, as a recent graduate. Everyday White Kong gets piles of renowned universities vying for his acceptance and bribing him scholarships and other assorted treats. Most of the letters, he shrugs while reading them and tosses them in the garbage. I did not have the same volume of Universities soliciting my attention. However, I cannot help but feel a sense of familial pride for White Kong's honors, awards, pool records, SAT scores, poker winnings and gaming domination. To top it off, it won't be so bad to be that-really-good- American- swimmer's sister at the 2012 Summer Olympics in London.

Chicken Nugget

2009-10-12T09:47:00.001-07:00

As I have mentioned before, my sister Sarah and I had a penchant for nicknaming males after clothing stores. This was actually a very complicated and somewhat esoteric process as it required us to actually know the male of mention. In my recent years, I have developed a new, shallower means of classification: food items. Yes, classifying men as food items, more specifically as types of meat, judges them less as individuals and provides more of a generalized sort of classification.

In thinking about it, I got hooked on this methodology once I was introduced to the term "Nugget", commonly used by the comedian Chelsea Handler to refer to all of the small people she meets and embraces, figuratively and literally. I now toss this term around quite frequently. The word nugget is rather vague though. While it could refer to a food item, it could also refer to golden nuggets or those pellet like things you throw in rabbit cages. Naturally, though, nugget had to evolve into primarily a food item. Anyway you shake it, a nuggety person is just a more compressed, round version of his stretched out counterparts. This is where the chicken nugget comes in. Chicken nugget is a more descriptive version of the word nugget, adding color, flavor and smell to the formerly ambiguous nugget. Chicken nugget men are a little crispy on the exterior but soft inside, and most certainly round, compressed and can be consumed in just two bites, maybe one if you are ravenous. They are small and squat and should not come past your collarbone.

In thinking about chicken nuggets, i did not think it was fair to leave the other genres of male out in the cold and thus the following have ensued:

Popcorn Shrimp: tiniest version of all nuggets, unfortunate enough to have a snappy high pitched voice. The popcorn shrimp is more likely to bouncing around any given venue and has a shorter attention span than the chicken nugget.

Petit Filet: leaner and more sophisticated than the nugget but still extremely small. Likes to work out and has very little body fat. Doesn't mind an equally petit side or two. a bit of a dandy.

Filet Mignon: The larger version of the petit filet, still likes to work out but very lean looking. Extremely finicky and likes to swap out sides frequently. Sides must compliment the filet mignon as it tends to take center stage. Decadent dandy.

Kung Pao Chicken: more adventurous than his cow part friends, sometimes of the ethnic variety. Likes to travel.

Salisbury Steak: Very rough around the edges and suffering from a severe case of 'roid rage. for sport, he might let you watch him blast his pecs.

Beef Brisket: loves to eat and has a much higher BMI than a filet. Beef Brisket has a fear of cardio though he will ocassionally wander around the weight room in sandals and an offensive cut off sleeve tshirt. Then he will get on his phone: "hey bro, yeah, just workin' out for a few.", do another set, and then hit the bar.

Chicken fried steak: has lard in his ass.

This is just a short list, but I feel it is very appropriate to classify males as varieties of meat. And, by no means, have i done this to be demeaning or to belittle the male gender at all. Think of this, simply, as a quick index for describing males. For instance, while engaged with a conversation with a friend, I can easily describe a guy I had met the night before: "oh yeah, he was a total Salisbury steak and would not leave me alone." Contrarily a friend might say to me, " Omg I am going out with the cutest petit filet tomorrow!".

Moreover, if the Gym Class Heroes can write a song called Cookie Jar, in which they classify women as "oatmeal raisin asians" and "puerto rican butter pecan" and "oreo creme" if you got em, then, contrarily, I can have my own little mixed grill of male terminology.

Short stuff

2009-10-04T22:46:00.000-07:00

I'll admit, I have a huge case of selective hearing. My mother was the first to diagnose me with a raging case of selective hearing during my childhood. Selective hearing is not a hearing impairment, it is moreso an impaired ability to engage actively in a conversation if that conversation does not suit one's interest range. Outbreaks of selective hearing could crop up at any mention of cleaning and other fairly undesirable activities. I still have it today and it kind of sounds like this:

Other person: blah bleh WTF blah blah ehhh and then....

Me: omg

Other person: yeah no kidding...blah blah blah and I....

Me: ohh i see ( I see? aren't you supposed to be using your ears?)

Other person: Can you believe he did that, I mean what a fucker!

(at this point i have no idea a) who Other Person is talking about or b) what Other person is talking about and c) I probably don't even care)

Me: Seriously.

(other person goes onto gripe. If i am on the phone, i am probably watching tv, doing my nails or on the computer. Or just playing with my hair because sometimes that is more interesting than talking to people. The rest of my responses to the conversation might include any of the following remarks: a) yeah i know b)oohhhhh c) ughh d) haha but usually e) uh huh)

Now, for all of my friends reading this, I do not want you to think that on any given phone call with me i am not listening. this is not true, i am very good at actively listening, when i want to be and I usually am but sometimes, my focus gets the best of me. So, please, continue to call me and talk to me because i really do like having friends.

The problem with selective hearing is that it can morph and grow into other diagnoses. Of these include: Selective Vision and Selective Logic. Now, I usually do not fall fodder to selective vision, which is a syndrome that can allow you to not notice things as simple as red lights and stop signs to slightly more complex things as a substandard late night hook up or, far worse, the fact that your boyfriend is making out with someone else in front of your face. I mean, i occasionally turn a blind eye to a too high for purchase price tag and decide it is in my budget and have been known to glide a few stop signs, but I certainly would not be so dumb as to waste time with someone who would much prefer to play tonsil hockey with someone else- gross.

Selective logic, is however, a bit more complicated than the other two as it is completely based in mindset. While your ears and eyes play tricks on you, if you have selectively decided that only "a is possible, and b is not possible because it is simply not logical" you have an entirely new problem on your hands. Unfortunately, I have been a victim of selective logic when it comes to one particular theme: Short men.

As a 5' 10" woman, ever since I have known what a boy was, I have had this mindset " because you are tall, short men will not be interested. Therefore, you really don't need to worry about them! They will never come onto you and are bound to be your friend." So here, it was: i had this mindset that it wasn't logical for a short man (note: I do define short as 5'7" and below because I know the term is relevant and that men with heights ranging from 5'8" to 5'10" are in every contemporary sense of the word actually just "average") to, for any reason at all, be attracted to me.

Well, after a few situations this summer, which i will not reveal to protect myself and those involved, I realized that maybe this was not actually true. While having a truly active conversation with Noreen, she shook her head and basically told me that I am a delusional.

"You are 5'10" and blonde-- do you really think they are not interested? Do you really think short men don't give models a 2nd look?" I really enjoy the way this comment was framed, because she essentially put me at par with supermodels (thanks, Noreen, for making me feel like Heidi Klum for a day). With this comment and series of incidences on my mind, I realized there was no safe zone. I had to be just as careful with the ankle biter club as with Big and Tall. Everyone had a sniper rifle ready and loaded. Yikes!

With my new heightened awareness that anything was fair game, I became extra cautious with my actions, comments and casual flirtations with male friends of all shapes, sizes, and colors. You never know. The only thing that now provided balance was the fact that my gay male friends would always just be my friends; unfortunately, they were staked out coast to coast in LA and NYC, a little to far for instant comforting.

And so, about two weeks after noreen's profound and prolific statement, I came face to face - er well, chest to face- with a man-boy we will call: The Freid. The Fried attended a happy hour as a friend of a mutual friend of my friend, J. By the time he graced us with his presence at the happy hour, J and i were already 1 Kirin/ 1 sake deep and the Fried, who had the swagger of Jay Z and confidence of Kanye, LIfted his Stunna shades and told us he had spent the day boozing poolside at the condo his 'rents kept in North Scottsdale. The Fried revealed, also, that he owned some nebulous sort of start up, was still in undergrad and really liked having relationships. I accrued all of this information from The Fried about twenty minutes into meeting him. He had a natural knack for oversharing and boastful nature. A total Boneparte replica.

As the Fried launched into his passionate defense for why he loves jumping into relationships after meeting someone one time, I countered the Fried by saying that there is a lot to be said about independence.

"why would you want to put all your eggs in one basket?" I shrugged. And for some reason, the Fried was hooked. He told me I was a really cool girl and somehow this hypothetical 3rd person he was describing while he talked about his dating tactics grew into 2nd person: you. Luckily, I was pretty buzzed and it seemed no one else at the table had heard him. Our happy hour crew paid the tab and headed to another bar because the Fried had a friend who would hook us up. While walking, the Fried made sure to walk in sync with me, moving his little legs as fast as possible. Amidst conversation, the Fried asked for my number: "Wanna go out sometime?" Everyone else turned and looked. Not wanting to embarass the Fried, as he was definitely a nice person, I gave him my number and uttered, "sure." J winked at me. It was happening.

Once at the other bar, the Fried texted me under the table. Aggressive. The conversation had shifted to a discussion of a pending Incubus concert that J and ohters were considering attending. The Fried said he loved Incubus and wanted to join her group. Then he turned to me, "You want to go to Incubus?" I don't like Incubus; i mean, no offense, but I was raised on Ziggy Stardust, tempered with Chicago and a sprinkling of Zappa. Incubus is just kind of boring to me. I replied, " I don't like Incubus." The Fried smirked, "I didn't ask if you liked Incubus, I asked you if you wanted to go." I declined again, saying I had other plans.

At this point, it wasn't even that the Fried was short that really bothered me, it was more so attitude. Even htough his pants were obviously shorter than mine, he clearly wore them pulled up way too high. I have zero tolerance that crap. J and N could see i was uncomfortable. We left shortly after as a group and ditched the Fried and co., to which he responded with an angry text, commenting on how rude we had been.

A few weeks later in Vegas, I was at a pool party at a club called Tao. There, we befriended and joined the elite cabana of about 12 hairy little nuggety jews from Mexico. Not only were they quite hairy but they were incredibly horny. Horny little Gorillas. I still remained diplomatic and drank their vodka while shaking them off, one little anklebiter at a time. and Snow White thought 7 was a lot.

Upon returning to Scottsdale I was bound to run into the Fried again as I always insist upon attending Jewish networking events with J. Really, i usually have myself to blame for these, er, run ins that I have. While at a pool bar at the Montelucia, J had just finished introducing me to her friends when she nudged me and said, "uh, guess who just walked in- your favorite."

It was the Fried. All pompous and puffed out like the little cockerel that he truly is. We caught him glancing in our direction. Just then, one of J's friends swung around and introduced us to another group that had entered. While shaking hands with new acquaintances, the Fried came prancing over. Lil J's friend who had been the mover and shaker before looked at her and said, "Oh do you know, ___________ _____________?" The Fried promptly shook her hand, smiled, asked her how she had been. J was clearly laughing. J's friend assumed that, being a gentile and all, I did not know him.

"And ____________, have you met MAG?" the Fried looked at me like he had never seen me before, shook my hand, "Nice to meet you!" Now I bet you are hoping that I called him out? Of course I did:

"Um we have definitely met before." I said. J was no longer trying not to laugh. The Fried looked really uncomfortable and I could see his eyes darting around. Conversation desisted.

It was then i realized, while polishing off the remains of my vodka soda, that my aversion to The Fried would have been the same had he been 6'4". He was twerp no matter his height. This was the same situation with Tao Beach. Those hairy beasts would have been just as annoying had they been giants, granted it might have been a bit more difficult to swat them off. I was simply zeroing in on their height while, in all reality, I have met far greater number of offensive tall men than short men. For instance, there is this vile security guard at the W hotel whom I offended on one occasion by querying about the hotel's bankruptcy. In retaliation, three months later at that, he threatened me with a regular old Fe Fi Fo rigamarol. There are, however, just so many gross large men like this that i have lost track. So, in that, maybe my point is this: there is no need to rule out all of the nuggets because one might be solid gold.

A week later J ran into the Fried again. He was still awkward.

The Top 100 Things that Amuse Me Mildly: #97: Vibrating Mascara

2009-10-01T21:40:00.000-07:00

One day my mom called and we chattered on about stupid things until we got down and dirty with something really serious: make up. Now, I am not the type of girl to cake it or transform myself into Pretty Woman on a daily basis. I also have very little desire for this blog to turn the dark path of fashion and beauty commentary (no offense, but we don't need another one like that). I do, however, have a new fascination with vibrating mascara.

The fact that my mom introduced me to vibrating mascara is not that alarming. She is savvy and chic and in better shape than me most likely. Furthermore, the last package she mailed me, apart from my birthday gift, included: a Victoria's Secret thong, birth control pills and a package of marshmallow peeps. Granted, of course, she had put no thought into the implication of such a garden variety of things.

Now, my love for vibrating mascara is two folds. First of all, it is absolutely wonderful. I no longer need to comb through my lashes or deal with clumping. Furthermore, the vibrating gives me a little jumpstart to my day. It's ever so invigorating. On the other hand, the name is just hysterical. Who thought of this? I have a feeling it was some really horny woman who had clumpy mascara. Just a thought.

baby daddy

2009-09-29T21:30:00.000-07:00

With a recent crash of my internal harddrive, I now realize, on a plan to New York, that my computer currently lacks all of the original components it came with, among these, Iphoto, Microsoft Office, all of my music. This means, my computer is virtually useless. I am also pissed at the Apple Store for not refurbishing my computer with all of its original assets and commodities.

Now, with my technologically disadvantaged computer and on a plane- picture this, crying baby to my left and dad picking his nose; to my right, a man with a large cross on his arm who can probably see my computer and is probably offended right now- I have spent the last hour or so noshing on Vanity Fair, mainly zeroing in on the sensationalist articles and skipping the ones that have the words "bail out" or "economy" in them. I guess that is just the sort of person that I am. I am far more likely to be drawn LeBron's memoir of a champion, the blow by blow of sex crazed Phillip Markoff's bouts as a real life American Psycho, and most definitely a personal memoir written by the one and only 18 year old heartthrob/ teen father, Levi Johnston. I absolutely love real life accounts, especially when they center around interesting content, such as Sarah Palin's personal life. And what is my final impression after reading Levi's bouts in Palin-land? I should dare say, he has an outstanding publicist.

Everything about the essay/account screams Carhart wearin'- bison huntin'-ford truck drivin-hockey puck slingin' - back country boy. It is everything the public would expect and more. He gets down and dirty, has no filter for Palin and family's privacy or personal lives. With everything from his accounts of Palin slinking out of work early to watch those 'wedding shows" and sit around in her 'wall mart pajamas' that she has in every color. He, very painfully, details life on the campaign trail, where it basically boils down to the fact that is was a) boring and b) he had to just hang out with Bristol. Poor ol' boy just wanted to get back to snow mobile. He exposes Palin as a self centered person and a terrible parent very matter of factly. He lights on how she has absolutely no relationship with her children and even goes so far to refer to the most recent addition to her brood, Trig, as "that retard baby".

Levi, though, can pull off this expose without sounding even a little bit malicious. He sounds more, well, simple. While reading this article, my mind returned to other books written in the first person that detailed mentally simple characters. On that came to mind was Flowers for Algernon. Or other books, like the way Scout looks at life in To Kill a Mockingbird. Now, Levi is neither a mentally disabled middle aged man nor an eight year old girl. He does, however, really embrace that innocent charm while writing.

Toneless and completely written from the angle of a third person omniscient character, Levi's account never lets on to any emotion regarding the entire situation. When he speaks of Bristol, there is no element of charm or charisma that he uses while describing the relationship. "I met her at the hockey rink. I thought she was cute." We do have to keep in mind, too, that he is a teenage boy. When he describes finding out that Sarah Palin did not actually like him, he merely says, "it came as a surprise." Something tells me, though, that it was not a surprise as feeling surprised would be a personal reaction to another force of opinion and I really don't think Levi is capable of this.

Despite lack of tone, Levi is not wanton for details. He spends a great deal of time describing what it was like to get clothes and then give them back, Sarah Palin's luxury suites during the campaigns, Sarah's lounge wear, and Todd, Palin's husband, who basically lives in the garage. The entire article was basically a clusterfuck of tangents and superfluous details boiling down to a whole lot of nothing. Just like a third grader might ramble through a story, Levi rambles like crazy about life as a Palin. But I do believe that this is the entire point of his entry and his writing career. To give the world another taste of innocence lost and the remnants of one who has suffered through a whirlwind of fame.

Toward the end of the article, he casually notes that he had to go to a trial for his mom who had been caught selling prescription drugs. He seems un-phased by the trial and, at this point in the article, the reader might notice that this is the first time this boy has talked about his own family and life outside of the Palins. At this time, I began to feel sorry for the boy, who, as this voiceless writer, does not even have his own life to write. He is moreso a marketing tool to 'innocently' provide an account for America of the 'truth'. And because he is essentially a victim of temporary fame, we do feel for this little sport and we tend to believe him. We've got no reason not to believe him, if anything else.

Levi's bland story ties up nicely as he, casually again, drops that with the engagement a no go he is suddenly in the spot light still and being petitioned to go into modeling. Luckily he's got a right hand man, Rex, a lawyer left over from mom's trial, to serve basically as his agent (it's hard to find one in Alaska, apparently). Levi provides us with an outstanding visual of Rex as a tall, large African American man who has cufflinks personalized with his name. I am guessing that Rex also doubles as his body guard and eventually trainer and nutritionist. Rex assures him that he will take care of him and that it is best to just see where things go as everyone will ont make it as a celebrity. Rex doesn't say it outloud but he is so excited about making some phat cash.

This simple man/boy's story wraps up with him casually shrugging that he might be a celebrity someday soon and that he does not think Rex is capitalizing on him. He emphasizes that he loves his son and will take care of him and could care less about any "big old mansion and bently." Levi claims he would be just as happy to be an electrician like everyone else in his family 'cuz "that's fun, too."

I can't help but think about the number of editors and publicists grazed this articles contents for this sappy-sweet-simple ending to give our boy Levi some major points as a nice country boy. On that note, I am also a bit concerned that for the last 30 minutes I have been analyzing the prose of a high school student and all of the strings behind it. I am also concerned that, out of all of fine word-smithery available in any given article of Vanity Fair, that i am the most fascinated by an entry by a small town boy from Alaska. It would not surprise me, either, though, if this were the same case for at least half of the population reading this magazine: We are nosy. We want some dirt. We don't really care about the presentation.

A rabbi, a judge, and a hot balloonist walk into the bar

2009-09-12T19:36:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday, we had a big decision to make : Would we attend the Jewish networking event at Angels and Outlaws or the less culturally specific networking event at Un Baccio? Both had the potential to be mildly amusing so it was a toughie. In the end, J and I decided to go to both. Who says you can't have your jews and your gentiles, too?

Strategy-wise, it made the most sense to go to the Jewish event first, as J claimed it would most likely be dead and ended earlier. At the door, we signed in. Now, if you saw me, you would know that I show no physical semblance of typical Jewish build or features in general. i actually look extremely swedish. This isn't to say that i don't identify with them on a socio-cultural level. Nevertheless, I wrote down M. Goldblum as my name, as Jeff Goldblum is one of my favorite jews, mainly because of his dabblings in Jurassic Park. Nothing is sexier than a man who doesn't bat an eye at a velozorapter that is trying to bite his face off. and, furthermore, I have been told on many occasions that I look like Laura Dern.

We stayed no more than five minutes,as J saw someone who had been bothering her on a Jewish networking website as of recently. We downed our drinks and headed to what we thought would be more predominantly Goy. My name tag was about to change from Goldblum to Cunningham.

One would think that I would use these events to my advantage, to meet people who might help me with career advancement or could at least connect me to those that might. Unfortunately, I am far to immature to network with useful people. I much prefer to go to these events and seek out the biggest weirdos I can find. Their stories are much more lucrative, in my opinion.

If there is anything I have learned from these networking events it is that people love to tell you about themselves and will basically tell you anything, so long as you go about questioning in the right manner. This can be tricky as occasionally your new conversant might catch onto the facetious nature of the questioning and become offended by your insincere petitions for information. I have also learned to be wary that, perhaps more importantly, stranger men often mistaken an inquisitive demeanor for flirtation. When they cross into this mindset, they are no longer useful for informative fodder and you must dispose of them as quickly as possible before it gets ugly.

At this particular event I met several strong characters. The first was a man who had some boring job I cannot remember as his main job. However, he gave me a card for his side job which happened to be selling suckers that help you lose weight. The card read "Eat candy! Lose weight!" On the back the card listed all of the chemicals in the sucker (we will probably find out that all of these ingredients are carcinogenic in about 5 years). It also had a label that indicated that you should not exceed daily consumption of 3 suckers per day.

"So, what happens if I eat more than 3 suckers in one day," I asked while pointing to the label, "like what if i go on a sucker binge because the are so delicious? Or if i have an oral fixation and always need to have one in my mouth?"

The man laughed, "Oh nothing too serious to worry about, you just need to watch your guarine intake, that's all." Yikes, guarine. I badgered him for a few more minutes about his favorite flavors and personal results from the sucker. He was informative but a bit boring so I let him go. This was kind of like speed dating with people you don't want to date.

Meanwhile, J had met a large white haired man named Michael who looked a whole lot like Michael McDonald or Santa Clause, depending on which popular personality you were raised to identify with. Michael was a hot balloonist. He was celebrating the 30th birthday of his balloon and the 30th anniversary of his life as a balloonist. At first I was confused and thought the anniversary had something to do with a marital anniversary but then I realized it was much more intimate than the union of a man and a woman: It was about a man and his balloon.

Michael did not stay too long and was soon replaced by a new Michael, a leathery, glazey- eyed man grappling a glass of water . I immediately engaged Michael #2 in conversation to get his details. He used the table were were perched at to balance himself.

"What do you do, Michael?"

"Oh, I'm a judge."

"That's interesting, do you enjoy making important choices?"

"Sometimes. What I really like to do is play tennis."

Then Michael went on to tell me about how he was going to Marbella for a full Spanish immersion course. As I have been to Marbella several times, I gushed about how lovely the beaches are and about all of the celebrities he was going to get to meet. Michael said he was interested in learning spanish but more interested in all of the tennis he was going to get to play. I told him he had to play a match or two with P Diddy if P Diddy was there. Michael liked that. He also thought i was flirting with him.

It got a little too weird when he started talking about his seventeen year old daughter. This was when I knew I had to end this little ditty. Luckily, a personal trainer walked up behind my table and Michael pounced on her before the little mouse knew what had hit her. I slipped out to the restroom and, on the way, met a very old man in a tropical shirt. He was eating free Bruschetta appetizers and I made him show me where they were at. After shoving a few in my mouth, i figured it was safe to go back.

With Michael gone, a rabbi had siddled up to our table and began chatting us up about the approaching high holidays. Luckily J and her sister B, who had joined our party, were legitimately Jewish and could talk the talk. The rabbi handed them flyers, completely ignoring me, until i tapped him on the shoulders and made a sad face, "i have no where to celebrate the high holidays." He looked at me, a little shocked and amazing, but fully will to accept this little goy into his big jewish heart.

Like most of the strangers that night, rabbi sort of overstayed his welcome. about an hour after arriving, we bid the rabbi farewell and went to get pizza. Within two hours of leaving I was back at my apartment with a stack of useless business cards in my purse and a few new stories to share.

The human condition

2009-08-26T22:02:00.000-07:00

People are, by nature, just a bunch of exhibitionists. Chuck Barris was smart enough to realize this when he created the poppy 1970s Dating Game, still viewable on TVLand for those who care. This is just one element of humanity- be heard, be seen and you are in the scene.

From there, Dating game shows and just shows in general spawned freakishly like lemmings or Catholic families or Fro-Yo chains on the west coast. They fell into varied genres, of course. There was Singled Out, where the main attraction was probably Jenny McCartney's boobs as no one remembers the male hosts and because every episode was basically the same. Singled out, though, was pretty tame, in comparison to the raunch-fests known as Blind Date, Elimi-date and the 5th Wheel- which occasionally delighted us with some bisexual fun. These shows were great, not only because they were straight up cracker, but because they were untouchably cruel. It was a given that it was acceptable to justify dumping a girl for her muffin top. Along these lines was also Dismissed, where one lucky dude/lady was delighted with a van full of angsty suitors who sat eagerly checking one another out and picking on one anothers' hoochie skirts or those who forgot to bulk up on their daily dose o' roids. There was a financial incentive to this show and, the really smart winners who had the choice of a 2nd date with the leading man/lady, would take the cash and run. I mean, it was usually only 100 bucks, but, probably one of the more entertaining ways to simultaneously earn money and singe someone else's self esteem.

Meanwhile, there was a more dignified breed of dating shows forming where legit people placed themselves on the auctioning block all for the glory of at least 5 minutes of love. This began in the early 90s when Darva Conger fell in love in about a 3 hour time span with... God, i don't even remember the guy but he was a millionaire. At The end of Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire, Fox played that horrible Savage Garden song that goes "I knew I loved you before I met you" as she sobbed in his arms while they spun around on a stage. I think it lasted a week.

But who says you can't find love on TV? Trista and Ryan did on the Bachelorette, one of the original dating serials (though Trista did have to endure all of the pain and torture of ABC's premiere of The Bachelor in order to rule the roost on her own spot. Lucky for her that she was cute and ABC wanted her back.). Ryan won Trista over with his fire-fighter's body, his sensitive elementary school poetry and his cute little paintings of a snowy white tiger (why I remember this is not clear to me; its amazing the amount of garbage i have floating around in my brain). They are still married and have a brethren of their own.

Other spin-offs of the Bachelor ensued, as well as celebrity dating serials that really and truly are the love children of sweet sagas like Trista and Ryan and the Fifth Wheel. The more washed up the celebrity, the better the show. Er, scratch that, I actually prefer the spin offs where the-girl-who-was-supposed-to-end -up-wiht-a-d-lister gets her own spot, ie. I Love New York and Daisy of Love.

With all these serials and spin offs of spin offs chasing each other around on cable, ABC decided to bring it back Old School with a return to the one hit wonder single episodes instead of these hormonal sagas.

The name of the new game is Dating In the Dark. The premise? Simple. Find six people who have been unlucky in love. Stack each episode with a garden variety of not-so-relationship-savvy singles- a dash of the mentally off canter, a smattering of self professed narcisists, one or two with extremely low self esteem. Make sure at least 1/3 are fairly physically unattractive and that roughly half are ok, and toss in an 8 just for good measure. See, very scientific, very simple. Then pair them up using those intricate formulas they use on match.com but here is the catch- they can't see each other. Its like meeting people in chatrooms. Scary, right? Well it gets worse- when the matches meet in real life they meet in the dark. A kind of dark where you can't see anything, have absolutely no idea what the person looks like when you leave the room. Blind as bats. Now, you may be thinking to yourself that you, too, have dated in the dark. You may be pretty sure that its called a blackout. But this is different- it's special, it's sincere, and it's basically sober (with the exception of a few flutes of champagne, though, i am willing to bet there are jiggers of vodka behind the set). These people are going out of their comfort zone to meet with and perhaps build an intimate bond with someone who the producers says is compatible. They are risking it all. They are risking the fact that this person, potentially a soul mate, is, in fact, utterly busted.

And so, on Monday night brought me into the world of 6 people anxiously anticipating meeting 'The one' on basic cable in the dark. Within the course of an hour, the three couples meet with one another on several dates in hopes that by the 3rd date they might get to accompany one another in the light of day amongst the general human population. Because I started watching the show a bit late, I turned it on to witness Gina and Matt groping for one another in pitch black like 18 year olds at a frat party. They were engaged in some self effacing banter, in which matt, he's the token low self esteem male, makes some comment about his physical appearance. Now Gina, a rather portly Italian looking girl, giggles and queries, "Do you really think you are not attractive?" I sense nervousness in her laugh. I mean, i would be concerned, too.

Gina returns to the kitchen where the other girls wait and gushes about both the great connection she has with matt and her concerns that he is a total ug-o. Deanna, a midwestern-looking blonde girl who has been paired with a squirrely guy named jeff who is past his days of hot, is also squealing with sheer joy. Meanwhile, the token 8, a red head named Renee, professes that she wishes she could let her wall down, but she can't so she can't make a connection on the show. About 10 minutes later, she rejoins Jose, a token Ryan type who is a former marine turned music teacher, in the dark room with a flute of champagne and probably a lot of vodka and starts spilling about her trust and relationship issues. She lets down her wall. As part of letting down her wall, Renee brings a glass jar of shells and places it between Joses legs, basically in his crotch. Then she starts talking about how the jar is symbolic of special times with her dad. Girl's got problems. Up to this point I had thought Renee was just being civilly cautious. Then I realized she has always wanted to play that broken Holly GoLightly-type that really just wants to be loved. Renee seriously disappointed me. And she is no Trista.

During the commercial break i noticed three commercials: one for home depot (subliminal message: build a life with someone), Love Happens, a movie staring Jennifer Aniston as a woman who is unlucky in love (she just plays herself), and one for Applebees Specials (perfect cheap date).

Cut to the final scene: The couples reveal themselves and decided if these blacked out trysts will carry on to part II: Dating in Public. This is a very big next step. As Gina waits for Matt to be revealed, with whom, mind you, she played tonsil hockey in the dark just hours ago, she chants, "Please be hot, please be hot". Her face falls when she sees him: "Uh, this guy looks like he' 40- Could I see him on top of me, I don't know." Needless to say, she does not meet him on the balcony. Matt is still a virgin.

Fast forward to Renee and Jose. During the physical unveiling, both are beaming and clearly attracted to one another. As a viewer, i am so convinced that crazy red will meet him on the porch. She did put seashells in his crotch. Unfortunately, she has spazz attack and gives no clear reason for why she will not meet him. I guess the wall is up and sea shells are not for Jose. Jose walks away broken hearted, lamenting that he is used to this and though this show has hurt him, it will only make him stronger. Jose might want to stop dating lunatics for long term results.

The 3rd couple, Jeff and Deanna, close out the episode. Deanna, for some strange reason, really likes Jeff in the dark and is very attracted to him the light. Jeff, contrarily, has a hell of a time deciding whether he can meet Deanna on the porch. He's such a whiner- " uh, I don't know if i can get past the physical attractiveness" he gripes about Deanna, but then comments on how great she is. "She doesn't look as much like I thought she did," he moans. This is possibly my favorite line in the episode. No comment necessary.

After so much ado about nothing, Jeff decides to meet Deanna on the porch. They drive off in a Chrysler Touring into the light of day. The end.

After watching them drive away ( i mean, it may have been a Cadillac, but i am pretty sure it was a Chrysler), I have to wonder: Did Jeff settle for less? Or, did Jeff finally look in a mirror and realize it is time to shed his Dorian Gray complex?

I also have to wonder if this is not the most cruel of all shows. The others- dismissed, elimidate, singled out and even the bachelor- emphasize the exterior as the first factor for compatibility. Here, these people feel a true 'connection' but, upon seeing things clearly, are ready to drop that person like its hot.

I speak truthfully, though,when I say that Dating in the Dark has a lot to offer: The awkward cruelty of middle school, a reminder that some of us are just hopeless, and, most importantly, it really is all about pheromones.

The Top 100 Things that Amuse me Mildly: #98- shark week...

2009-08-04T20:00:00.000-07:00

"The Leopard cannot change its spots. Nor the tiger its stripes. Maybe we can change the way we see it"

It is very rare that in modern television and documentary that one can find such powerful and incredibly insightful rhetoric. Nor is it possible to find a program so rich in personal connections and adeptly aligned, in a figurative sense at least, to daily life. For this reason, I adore Shark Week.

The plot structure of shark week program is so engaging and heart wrenching. It has all of the drama and heartache of Shakespeare and Tolstoy, along with the perversion of Nabokov and the glittery grit of Palchiuk. Shark Bite Summer and a Tale of Two Tiger Sharks ( i may have made up that title but i think it is oh so fitting), are two of my recent finds. Even the titles make for so much anticipation on the part of viewers.

Now I am for the most part not an extremely emotionally sappy person. However, as I watched a man recall in agony about the time he almost lost his 14 pound terrier to a shark i was almost moved to tears, kind of like the time i watched the christian the lion video which portrays lions reunited with their rescuers after 20 years of separation. You would cry to if you saw 200 pound lions docilely reuniting with british people while whitney bellows, "anddddd I-eee-Ieee I will alwayssss lovvvvee yooouuouou". It was almost as heartwrenching to hear the terrier's owner recount the lessons he learned, "I will never let that little dog get so close to water again." I wonder i the story would have been different if the Terrier had been a Great Dane.

While Shark week has led me to sympathize with other human beings, it has also made me realize that I, too, have endured the trauma of a shark attack. Though, of course, my shark attacks have all occured on dry land. I have pulled a few examples of where shark attack rhetoric is certainly applicable to shark attacks on dry land, most specifically in ultra lounges and clubs.

On Shark Bite Summer one victim recounts ever so profoundly "i felt something chewing on my leg, i turned around and saw this huge... dorsal fin." Now, in terms of bar speak, this could readily be translated into an incident of a total guido grinding up on you without consent or awareness underneath flashing lights and pulsing beats. However, as it does take two to tango, shark experts with prententious british accents warn, "its the risk you took going into their environment". This holds true for the club, too. You made the choice to wear that hoochie skirt so you better know how to deal with that dorsal fin. This is because, at the end of the day, sharks and bar guido sharks mistaken your movements for "the kind of splashing sharks always confuse with prey in distress". Bottom line? Don't be vulnerable, don't be stupid and know your territory... as well as theirs.

Just a little food for thought.

The Top 100 Things that Amuse me Mildly: #99- the word 'dabble'

2009-08-02T15:10:00.000-07:00

The word 'dabble' is perhaps the most ubiquitous member of my daily verbal lexicon. Now, this is primarily because it is actually a very vague word. To dabble, as defined by webster-merriam dictionary entails the following:

Main Entry:

dab·ble

Pronunciation:

\ˈda-bəl\

Function:

verb

Inflected Form(s):

dab·bled; dab·bling \-b(ə-)liŋ\

Etymology:

perhaps frequentative of ²dab

Date:

1557

intransitive verb1 a: to paddle, splash, or play in or as if in water b: to reach with the bill to the bottom of shallow water in order to obtain food2: to work or involve oneself superficially or intermittently especially in a secondary activity or interest <dabbles in art>

Now, lets look at definition number 1 which describes some sort of water play. The part that gets me is to play as if in water. I am pretty sure that there are many activities that people engage in on dry land that mirror movements that very well happen in water as well. For instance, I might use the inflected forms dabble to solicit information from one of my girlfriends about her late night activities:

example: Me: "who were you dabbling with last night? It sure sounded like a lot of fun."

Friend: "Yeah, it was a good dabble. I have never dabbled so much in my life- wow i am sore!"

Notice here that, again, verb usage is vague- dabble could still be referring to multiple activities, like yoga, chess, twister, or even late night swimming. What did you think i was referring to? Oh, get your mind out of the gutter.

Notice also that dabble is more than merely an intransitive verb. It can be used in its inflected forms and can also transform into a noun. Dabble as a noun can also shift into "dabbler" as it can easily be used to refer to a person.

Definition #2, refers to superficial involvement in a secondary interest or activity. For many people, this means going to work. So, instead of saying, "i am working until 6" most should say "I am dabbling at the office until 6". For most Americans, work gets in the way of more important things like: checking your personal email every 5 minutes, g chatting your college roommates who live across the country, flir-texting with the guy you met at the bar last weekend, going to the gym, online shopping and sleeping. Think about how much more of these things you could get done everyday if you did not have to go dabble at the office everyday.

I feel like definition #2 could also be used when describing relationships. I feel like it would take a lot of pressure off of both parties involved if it were as easy as "oh yeah, I am dabbling with this guy. Eh, we've been dabbling for a few months, no big deal." Given that this is such a casual term, I feel like there would be much less drama once those two parties are no longer engaged in regular dabble. Instead of using such stigmatized rhetoric as "omg, he dumped me" or "we broke up", which are such violent words to begin with, it would be much more casual just to say "we're not really dabbling anymore". I think this change in common rhetoric would certainly result in less wrath between exs and naturally less keyed driver doors, baseball bats busting windows, and drunken, rage filled phone calls/texts/ notes in car doors. This is also a valuable word to use when you don't want to admit you are dating someone. It helps maintain your sense of dignity.

Clearly, these are only a few ways that dabble is a crucial word in modern diction and, in my opinion, should be used more often. It's true, more dabbling will make for a better world.

The Top 100 Things that Amuse me Mildly: #100- Justin Belber

2009-07-29T20:56:00.000-07:00

I have decided to start a top 100 of mildly amusing things. Granted, I hope you know it is very viable that will never complete this list, let alone get to #99 anytime soon. Oh well. Anyway, at #100 Mr. Justin Belber, the prepubescent little firecracker who is setting pop music aflame just like Jojo and Aaron Carter, is well, kind of a freak.

Below I have attached a link for you to assess and evaluate for yourselves:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ADNpp9U6ogU

I am pretty sure that his "One time Video" is probably a top hit for Pedophiles Anonymous in July 2009. In fact, i think that Justin Belber encourages Pedophiles to keep on creepin' on. On top of that, I think any of the girls he wants to give to 'one time" in his video would more than likely be charged with statutory rape for merely getting within 10 feet of him. Though, i can't imagine they would be interested considering that they are 15-18 years of age and he is somewhere between 7 and 11 years old (11 if he is lucky). and, any middle school girl who has pics of him on her bedroom wall should be ashamed of herself, seriously, he is a child. that's just weird.

Finally, who the fuck does he think he is calling Usher up on his little I phone? It's not even remotely believable and, call me old fashioned, but i don't think you should have an iphone until you are graduate from 5th grade at least. Just sayin'....

U Fucked up, My Love

2009-07-22T21:45:00.000-07:00

On Sunday morning, after completing my morning run (which, actually, had turned into mainly running through the sprinklers in Chaparral Park due to excessive heat and excessive vodka in my veins), I caught eye of a folded piece of looseleaf in the drivers door of a dirty, cream colored PT Cruiser (such an awkward color for such an awkward car).

Well, Pandora's box was basically wide open so I snatched it, shoved it in my sports bra and jogged swiftly to my apartment. On the balcony, I savored its contents:

"U lying mother fucker./ Caught your pathetic ass in the act!/ Wow you amaze me, hunny!/ Trust u, yeah the fuck right- You proved yourself perfectly/ thanks sweetheart! [page break] U fucked up my love- wow, u really do make me proud! / love your gf"

My oh my, this was the best of Cleopatra's raging soliloquy to Antony - gone-Scottsdale shoved in the door of an awful car. Therefore, we will refer to these unknown lovers at whoa as Cleo and Tony, unbeknownst to their knowlege, of course.

The first question I have for Cleo: why would you date a man who drives a PT Cruiser? that is more than a red flag- it is a 15 ft red parachute with fire flares attached. How did you not feel ashamed riding passenger (to that beast) in that beast? Dearest Cleo, I think problems are more deep rooted than Tony-the-Cruise-about-town himself if you allowed yourself to be in this questionable situation in the first place.

Moving along, I have the following question for Tony:

Who are you, and, more importantly, how did you get two women to sleep with you while leasing that car (i am hoping its a lease)? Did any action happen in that car? Does that sort of thing turn you on?

Another detail I noticed about the Cruiser was a parking pass in the window. This leads me to believe that there could have been a number of scenarios that set Cleo a flame with rage. Let me describe these below:

Scenario 1:

Cleo and her gfs, Portia and Rosalind, are traipsing through the complex parking lot after an evening of witty banter, dances with wolves, and 10 or so various spirits. Cleo, being obsessed with details and constantly suspicious her man Tony is cheating, spots his vehicle in the lot. She can confirm it is his based on the fact that she has memorized his license plate number in lieu of a moment like this.

As Portia recounts how she tricked a fellow into believing they had slept together 1.5 years ago and Rosalind analyzes why she prefers Kettle to Belvedere, Cleo starts heretically screaming:

"You motherfuckkkkerrrrrrr!" Shrill as a raging banchee, she continues to scream and starts decking the car. Breaks a nail and screams louder. Rosalind and Portia look at each other. Secretly, Portia is secretly happy because she thinks Tony is a moron. Rosalind is calm because she is analyzing and assessing the situation, trying to think optimistically.

You see, Tony was supposed to be in North Scottsdale, as he had claimed he had late dinner with clients and was going to head home after. However, according to the parking pass, he was the guest of a Miss Octavia Something or Other. The pass is dated for today and Ms. Octavia lives in apartment #218. Only Rosalind notices the apartment number, thank god, or there may have been real trouble- arson even.

Portia, sick of Cleo's obscenities and ready to meet up with 3 suitors in order to evaluate who will bring the proper man's show for the evening, gently guides her friend to write a note to him and stick it in the door. Fortunately, Portia carries a large purse and manages to have paper and a pen.

Rosalind holds the paper for her and guides her to write a thoughtful note that makes her sound incredibly intelligent. Cleo improvises and puts things in her own words. Rosalind walks her friend to her door while Portia darts off through the bushes to meet up with suitor #1.

While this scenario is very well possible, I also feel quite strongly about the following vignette:

Scenario #2:

Cleo ambling through the parking lot with Orlando who frequently pauses their walk to throw her against parked cars and shove his tongue down her throat and hand up her skirt. Cleo has had far too many spirits and is annoyed that Tony did not want to go out dancing with her tonight. Her gfs, Portia and Rosalind, have already gone their separate ways and now it is just her and Orlando.

Orlando is hot. He is super buff, super tan and has a tatoo of a tiger across his left bicep. His gold chain sparkles and shimmers in the moonlight. it is a full moon. Orlando has crystal blue eyes. blue like sapphires and they give Cleo chills. 'Whatever', she thinks while gripping Big O's solid torso, 'Fuck Tony. He's basically out of town'.

Orlando picks Cleo up and throws her over his shoulders while she directs him to her apartment. On the way, she sees her beloved's carriage. 'holy shit,' she thinks. She directs Orlando to pass the car, and sees that there is a pass in the window signed by that dumb bitch Octavia who lives in the next building over. 'Fat slut' she thinks, as she and Big O reach her door and start making out, 'whatever, I'm so over Tony. He's clearly into ugly, fat girls. What a chubby chaser.' Octavia, is in fact, not fat at all, but that is beside the point. Calling another girl fat, moreover a 'fat slut', is the ultimate low blow. Big O and Cleo cross the threshold and she continues to conduct another series of low blows.

At 7 am, she sneaks outside and slides the note in his window and laughs an evil laugh.

And these are only two scenarios for our rifted lovers. There could have been more. Unfortunately, fate got in the way and prevented Tony from ever reading Cleo's note. Which, inevitably, leads to an entire new strand of vignettes and scenarios:

Did Cleo forget about the note in the first place because she was completely blacked out and is still riding side saddle in the cruiser?

Did Cleo completely stop communicating with Tony?

did Cleo and Orlando ever see each other again?

Did Cleo bitch slap Octavia the next night at the bar?

Did Portia pick suitor 1,2, or3?

Has Orlando ever slept with Portia?

Would Cleo try to kill Portia if she did, in fact, sleep with Orlando?

What does Rosalind really think of her slutty friends?

How long is the lease on the Cruiser?

Adult fun

2009-07-13T19:13:00.000-07:00

As of recently, I have come to note that, among many of my peers from high school, college, etc., it is quite trendy to either become a) engaged or b) married. Kind of like gladiator sandals and adult rompers. Some even have babies... ew. I am 23; when you add those two digits together, you get 5, which is much closer to my actual age. I might be a little less perturbed by said 'adult fun' if I were, oh, on the brink of 30; but, let's remember, I am 23, which basically means I am still celebrating my 21st birthday more frequently than infrequently.

Now, in reflection of all of these unions of love, life long commitment, and probably some sort of spawn, I have no desire to rant about how they are wasting long nights and mornings complete with jello shot serving midgets, bottle service at ultra lounges, free Kamikazes and plenty o' stranger fun. I am a rational person and understand that this is not everyone's forte. I have deduced, however, a few things about myself, specifically in terms of everyone's pre-nuptial ceremony: the bachelorette party.

First of all, I am pretty sure that I have a bachelorette party every weekend- sans penis-antlers and like-minded paraphernalia, of course ( men generally aren't attracted to women with a glitt'ry phallus attached to her forehead unless, of course, they bat for both teams). Looking at the laundry list of bachelorette activities, they are actually pretty ordinary. Get 3 guys' phone numbers? Check- but often in reverse, sometimes not even my number or name. Take a shot with a strange man? Standard- risk taker, I know. Take your bra off in public? frequently, why be uncomfortable? It is also really hard to fist pump to "Poker Face" when your strapless is halfway down your torso. Kiss a bachelor? not challenging in the least.

The list continues, but not one item on the list piques my interest: dance on a pole! flirt with the bar tender! flirt with six guys at once! Seduce a married man! Ok, the last one is not on the list but at least it would be/ was a somewhat challenging feat. The only thing I don't do on the list is blow... kisses- please, it's not 1952.

Hence, as I enter my mid-twenties, I have decided that I will have a bachelorette party for the sheer sake of celebrating a continuation of bachelorette-esque novelties. However, as I love challenges and games, this list will not entail aforementioned run of the mill, easy activities.

Here are some ideas I am contemplating:

smell a stranger's armpit and ask them where they bought their deodorant

convince a stranger that you had a one night stand 2 years ago (how can you not remember me?!?!)

find the oldest man ever and ask him if he would like to disco dance

dance with two guys at once who don't know each other

place a balloon or rolled up scarves under your shirt nad convince people to give you money for your child out of wedlock

find a bald man and rub his head to make a wish!

get a man's briefs (without leaving a public locale...)
give a new friend (male or female) a hug and as you pull away sniff their neck sensuously ( a man i met at the pool one day taught me this trick, it's called "the sniggle")

Convince a big man to give you a piggyback ride/ throw you over his shoulders and carry you to the next venue

convince a stranger to dance on an elevated surface for you

find a rando motorcycle, pose by it, and yell at a man to come take a ride with you

Walk up to a man and say "what fucks like a tiger and winks?" hopefully, that man will respond "what" and then do a corner turn and wink seductively. The storm off before he can even respond.

get kicked out of a bar....

oh, this list could go on and on and on and on and on....

You don't have to put on the red light

2009-07-06T21:45:00.000-07:00

It's such a shame that Halloween is the designated holiday for donning costumes. Or, should I say, official holiday for costumes. I have decided, as I enter my mid-twenties, that all holidays should be celebrated with costumes. And, beyond that, I should actually be able to wear a costume or some sort of gimmick whenever the hell I want.

For the 4th of July, I was not about to dress up as Lady Liberty (that would be lame) but to embrace several American classics all in one: Miami Vice, Boca Raton, Fl and the Golden Girls. It only seemed right to embrace some American traditions of excellence for America's birthday. While I channeled Don Johnson's girls through my get up, I prioritized other timeles American traditions throughout the course of the weekend: Bartles and Jaymes by the pool, aluminum cans of Coors Light, bars with mechanical bulls, fries and cornbread, NY pizza at 3 am, so-co lime shots from strange men, Hall&Oates and excess in general.

There is one major American Tradition that is not on the list: fireworks. Fireworks, actually, were invented by the Chinese and originally used to scare away evil spirits. Per usual, the Europeans stole them from the far east. Later, a much younger America became a pyromaniac, kind of like when my sister, the neglected middle child, went and played with matches behind the garage.

Fireworks and I have a very touch and go relationship. As a child, my favorite part of going to the fireworks was getting glowrings ( later I would learn that glow rings show up much more often than just in a field on the 4th of July, thank god). I would save them in the freezer until my mom threw them away, claiming that chemicals were leaking all over the frozen chicken. I did not particularly like sitting on wet grass ( i have a thing about grass) and being mauled by mosquitos.

As an adult, I had a horrific experience at a firework display in downtown Atlanta where a local referred to me as a 'bitch ho' for stepping on her picnic blanket and threw a tumbler of gin and juice at me to teach me a lesson on territory. Last year, my friend megan and I began our 4th of July at about 5pm and ended our 4th of July at 11 pm with all american cheese fries and a philapdelphia steak sandwich. Talk about let freedom ring.

This year, I had no particular interest in fireworks, but, apparently, they still wanted me. After prioritizing dinner at a wonderland of wild western fun called Saddle Ranch where we saw countless Americans forced to gyrate atop a mechanical bull, We decided to change it up and hit the W hotel where there were rumored to be fireworks. Upon arrival, we learned very quickly that the fire works had already set sail 15 minutes ago (bummer) but luckily a man at a nearby table had saved some for me.

Within two minutes of meeting this man--an all american man who wore striped button down, worked for Ford, and had even driven a ford truck (probably a red one) at some point in his life-- I felt a POP under my skirt and whipped around to find him getting up off the ground laughing his ass off. Clarification- in the 1 minute that i had disengaged in conversation with All American Boy to meet one of his friends, he had decided it was appropriate to celebrate America between my legs, as he had just pulled a popper apart below my skirt.

It probably would have made sense to 95% of the female population to give him a dirty look and walk away. Unfortunately, I am intrigued by bold moves and knew that, at the very least, this boy was good for a bizarre 15 minutes and a belvedere and soda. The interaction, henceforth, went like so:

Me: You owe me a drink for that (pointing finger, evil stare)

The American: have a seat ( The American, in addition to a slew of amateur fireworks that fascinate 1st graders, happens to have a table)

[small talk ensues, ranging from ford trucks, ford-lincoln-mercury, Boca Raton, Fl, his sister's affinity for African American men, the fact that he lives by some of the Arizona Cardinals. The waitress serves drinks: redbull and belv- not what i wanted- i am losing interest]

The American: I like your earrings [note: i am wearing large white sea shells that Betty White might have laying around in her jewelry collection]

Me [dry tone]: Thanks- I love Florida and old people. and bingo- but only with greyhounds.

The American: [ puts his ear next to mine] I am trying to hear the ocean.

Me: How does it sound?

The American: What would happen if you brought home a guy who wasn't white? [I guess we are digressing back to his sister]

Me: I thought we were talking about the ocean. [ I stop myself from saying "i've seen guess who's coming to dinner a million times.]

The American: What would happen if you brought home me? [ well, this is moving quickly, but at least we have abandoned his poor sister ].

Me: well i probably would leave out how i met you.

The American: You remind me of my great aunt Nettie.

Me: You think of me as a 90 year old woman?

The American: No, you are just so quirky. You're a little firecracker!

Me: Oh, so are you.

the conversation carries on in a strand of non sequiters until Roxanne comes on. The American gets super excited and starts to rock out on the flourescent floor lights. I dance with him for a moment before he twirls off into a new bevy of blondes.

Ain't that America? Home of the freeeee, yeaaah.

All Things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small AKA "what the fuck"

2009-05-21T20:20:00.000-07:00

Act I, Scene 1: An Entrepreneurial Spirit

It was the night that I [first] hit rock bottom. Picture this: At 3 a.m., I find myself underneath a ratty comforter, between musty sheets, completely overwhelmed by heavy panting. Heavy panting that--won't--go--a--way. And, oh, it is vile, thick, heavy as the smog over Mexico City and it smells like, well, shit.

This incident does not have anything to do with a [what a surprise!] twilight romp, subsequently followed by a 48 hour hangover/ fleeting concerns of v.d./ unwarranted pregnancy . My apologies, I am not stupid enough to slander myself like that (not until i get a book deal). Nor am I not trying to write a porno. I only wish I could be so talented. I will leave that to professional writers. This is actually a warning about the dangers of being a pet au pair, a mistake I made for the first time a few years ago.

As a college student, I had no idea that pets could be as dangerous and needy as children. Therefore, during the August of my junior year of college, when my aunt's neighbor asked me to pet sit for her eight cats, two dogs, and raccoon, I did not think twice. To provide some context, my aunt lives on a beautiful block in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods of the Detroit Suburbs. Grosse Pointe Farms was, in fact, recently described as the Nantucket of Detroit (whatever that means) in the New York Times. I envisioned myself in a garden of Versaille replication, lounging on a cabana, the dogs romping in a meadow way o'er yonder, the raccoon, of course, fanning me with maple leaves. I also envisioned a $500 paycheck for five days of service.

My aunt and uncle had mixed opinions of my latest business venture. Respecting my young entrepreneurial spirit, my aunt encouraged me, constantly reassuring that she was just across the cul-du-sac if I needed anything, anything at all (looking back, I wonder if she meant barbituates). My uncle, au-con-traire, gave me a look that read: don't be a jack ass. My uncle is a stern, Austrian Anesthesiologist, who, appropriately, I would trust with me life. My aunt is a lively, disciplined multitasker, who, appropriately, I would be more likely to gravitate toward. Though I trusted both of their opinions, there were visions of Seven jeans and Popov dancing in my head-- I set up shop at Dr. Doolittle's.

Act II, scene 1: Who needs labels

If there is one pet peeve I have, it is when people CHOOSE to feed their pets canned food. Though feeding pets canned food is a great diet for me as it induces on-site bulemia, I cannot understand why a dog's canned food should have a fancier label than anything I eat. Lamb chop souffle, beef au jus, filet mig-fido... it's just atrocious.

Of the two dogs I nanny-ed, one was a non-descript border collie whose name and face I have a loss for right now. The other was an emaciated doberman-shephard mutt named Carlos rescued from the beaches of Cancun (how appropriate). Apparently Carlos, despite being covered with parasites and other soon to be airborne diseases, had been packed up onto a plane after a veterinarian had flown down to Mexico to nurse him back to health. Don't get me wrong, this was a very nice dog, nicer than most American dogs. I just had a hard time grappling how he was already able to digest Purina souffle after living on stale taco shells for his entire life.

Act II, scene 2: Simon and Garfield

Taking care of the cats was kind of like playing Legends of the Hidden Temple. I felt like i needed a map of the Temple, marked completely with, litter box locations, cat perches, cat food dishes, etc. For instance, Carly lived in the kitchen. Carly also ate in the kitchen. Max ate in the kitchen as well, but he lived in the Foyer and living room. Carly ate at 5 and walked in like she was walking onto a yacht, but Max liked to eat at 5:10. Carly had cat alzheimers and could potentially eat herself to death if not monitored during the cats' feeding times. I know people like this and i'm pretty sure it is called no self respect/control. While some of the cats ate just canned, others ate a mixture of both, and a a few unfortunate souls only got dry food. CC Rider lived in a guest bedroom and only got Meow Mix. I didn't know why Carly was so prioritized over CC Rider who sat on top of a dressing table everyday and never moved once. CC Rider was a total creep, with his pedophilic stare, but probably my favorite cat because he didn't cry or vomit everywhere like Carly and Lilly. Or leave surprise shit piles on top of dusty Edith Warton books in the guest room.

After feeding all of the cats all around the house, I was usually far too exhausted to put too much effort into litter box procedures. But since CC Rider never moved, I figured it wasn't too big of a deal that i didn't clean his box everyday. I mean, the house already reaked of domestic life, what were a few extra clumps and logs in the litter box that he shared with Lilly and 1-4 other cats that might have been passing through?

Act II, Scene 3: The Black-eyed bandit out back

was an agile rodent named Tooner. In all reality, Tooner was not really part of my responsibility, as a kindly, elderly woman with a name like Eleanor or Blanche would come over to feed Tooner from baby bottles. The rest of the day, he would scale a net like contraption in the backyard. As I lazily read The Fountainhead on a 70s era lounger out back, drifting in and out of sleep and Howard Roark burning shit down, Tooner made gross noises and the collie slept under my chair. Carlos, meanwhile, was inside the house as he had continually panted and stuck his mouth in my eye, as if I needed another dog trying to attack my face. I got enough of that at school.

As I thought to myself that, perhaps, Tooner and the collie were my favorites of the brood, Carlos was down in the basement creating an 8 foot diameter a pee that i would not discover until the next day. Upon discovery of said pee, I would shake my head, roll my eyes, and make the executive decision to let it evaporate. This was a decision based on strategy, the economy of time, and how badly i wanted to return to the pending drama of Dominique Francon and Howard Roark. It took 5 days for the pee to evaporate. On the 6th day, I grabbed my check and ran, wanting to black out the entire experience. But, guess what, I still remember.

Act III: Strangers in the night

When I signed up for this gig, I had signed on to stay the nights. Therefore, after the initial introductions to the motley crew, I set up camp in the owner's bedroom. The room smelled like Old Woman and was cluttered with trinkets and troves of assorted perfumes dating back to the fifties. Amidst the perfume bottles, I discovered a pint of Jim Beam, and prayed it was not an omen. My life in a house filled with hundreds of cats- Britney, Christina, and Beyonce-- was too fucking depressing to even consider.

In order to lighten the mood of the room, I had packed a boom box and a few favorites, namely a Jessica Simpson album featuring "sweetest sin" and Lionel Richie's definitive collection because I liked to play "3 times a lady" while I showered.

As I settled in for the evening after a lovely Lionel-laced shower, I picked up where I left off in The Fountainhead. After such an intense day, however, I was rather exhaused and began to feel sleep's fold after 10 minutes. clicking off the light, I drifted off into the beginning stages of REM, when a storm began outside.

There is nothing I love more than a summer night storm in Michigan. Unlike Arizona, Michigan storms do not involve tumbleweed and sheets of dust. Just a lot of thunder and lightning, accompanied by a soothing downpour.

Soothing for some at least. With the first crack of thunder, I heard another type of thunder rumble up the stairs. I shot up in the bed and shouted, "what the fuck" because there really is nothing more appropriate to say when a fucking fleet of animals comes charging through a door you thought was tightly shut. This brings us full circle to the opening act.

It was the running of the bulls in Pamplona, domestic pet addition (thank god Tooner stuck on a the patio in his cage). I now understood why Noah had only allowed pairs of two on his arc. The Collie was first. Luckily the Collie was my favorite and was the most welcome. Carlos was second. He smelled like ass and howled. I began to wonder how this dog had survived on the beaches of Mexico. What a little prick-- had he completely blacked out his homeless days? Not to mention, he was huge and had laid half of his body on top of the Collie. I pushed him to the floor because i was not prepared to give CPR to the Collie. I had not been trained in this procedure with canines and did not want to be liable if something went wrong. Pure breeds are expensive and, besides, I had to make room for the cats.

Lilly and Max came tumbling onto the bed. Max was just as annoying as Carlos with howls but i was too afraid of his claws and yellow eyes to push him to the floor. I strategically lodged the Collie closer to my body as a buffer from Mad Max. Next an assortment of other cats vaulted onto the bed, mewing and moaning. Feeling left out, Carlos hopped back up at my feet and I was completey engulfed in a beast attack. Outside, the storm began to calm down as if on the verge of a quell, when, of course, the loudest crack of thunder erupted accompanied by extreme lightning, setting off Maseratis and A4s below. and, of course, my fucking arc of all things bright and beautiful. Even the Collie was now panting nervously.

I had to take action. "Oh my fucking god, mom" I screamed into the phone, "these animals are freaks!" My mom, of course, talked me off the ledge and told me to just lock them out of the room. "You are a smart girl- I am confident that you can get them out of the room." Apparently, she did not realize the gravity of my situation. This was the only time in my life when I might have envied those androgynous Chinese gymnast that cheated their way to the top in last summer's olympics, had i known about them at that point.

After turning on the light, I vaulted my body over the Collie and landed on my feet atop the shag carpet. Apparently, I was taking after the cats that were now engaging in REM cycle which, naturally, pissed me of because the cats are supposed to be nocturnal.

I pulled Carlos off the bed and shoved him into the hallway. After, I led the collie to the hall, too, and threw some random dog treats to them that I found on the night stand. While they engaged in a midnight snack, I began to move the comforter of the bed up and down like a parachute and the cats popped off like popcorn kernels. All of the cats except for Mad Max. Mad Max gave me a sickly look and showed his claws as the other cats scattered into the hallway. I had no choice. I turned on Lionel "Lady (you bring me up)" full blast and began to jump on the bed. Mad Max was appalled by my behavior and jumped of the bed. I pounced off after and slammed the door shut, locked it, and contemplated taking a shot of Jim Beam.

Act IV: Beast Attack

After that traumatizing night of too many visitors in bed with me, I decided I could not risk my sanity by sleeping in that house. Therefore, I decided to simply leave at 7 and return at 8 am. This system seemed to work. I mean, of course, the house smelled like the zoo every morning, but it was not something that i could not, at least, temporarily quell with Febreze and Fresh Step.

The third morning I went over, however, I overslept and did not arrive until after 9. When I entered the house, I felt more uneasy than usual. The cats were quiet. The dogs did not come to greet me. And then I walked into the living room. Pictures on mantle were knocked over. The screen door was torn and pushed out of its socket. Pillows thrown off the couch. Newspapers shredded. At first I thought there had been a robbery, but then I realized that the tv was still there and so was an expensive bag of golf clubs. And, perhaps most obviously, there was a tail twitching under the couch.

Once again, I threw my hands up in the air and screamed, "what the fuck" but then immediately stepped into action. Tooner, aware of my presence, had come out from under the couch and looked up at me before sticking its tongue out at me and making a creepy racoon hiss.

My immediate inclination was to trap the little creep. I picked up a faded floral ottoman and, wahm!, slammed it over tooner's body. Then I pushed up the area rug while still placing pressure over the ottoman so that Tooner could not escape. And then i went for it, pushing the ottoman across the floor and flipping it out the broken back door that led to the patio. After my little experiment with the coon-apult, I rushed to look the door leading to the back porch and to secure all entries from Tooner's return. Then I popped my head downstairs to examine the pee pond. Excellent, I thought, it had shrunk from 8 to 4 feet. We were on track to evaporation.

Act V: What the fuck

It was the 6th day. The light at the end of the tunnel began to shine and the pee had evaporated from the basement so much that i could throw some Mr. Clean on it and slosh it around to mask the odor that comes with a room previously inundated with dog urine. Life was good again.

My sister and my cousin had come over earlier that day and had helped feed the cats. As a prize for their help, I let them go through some random hall closet that they had been dying to mosey through. Jules laughed hysterically while putting a pair of raccoon binoculars up to her eyes while Emily tore through unwrapped Christmas presents. Then I showed them where the pee had been and re-enacted the beast attack incident.

After the girls left, it, of course, began to cloud over. I prayed for no rain as I did not have the mental stability to host another arc. I spot checked the house for the cats and fed them. As I went through my evening ritual, I noticed someone was missing: Mad Max. Max was an outdoor cat and had probably slipped out earlier. I poked my head outside and looked around, calling for him. No Max.

It began to drizzle. I went back inside and assumed that he would just show up on the porch. It began to rain, but, thankfully, without thunder and the animals seemed to be fine with this. After checking the porch every half hour, I began to worry a little as Mad Max normally did not leave the front yard.

Outside I heard a screech of tires, and shuddered, imagining the worst possible situation. All of hte sudden, I had sweet visions of mad max crunching his chow and covering up his shit in his box. Carlos licked my hand and i did not shoe him away. The collie nuzzled my leg and Carly rolled her eyes back in her head and let out an exorcist howl.

I called my mom to tell her that i had lost a cat. My mom assured me that it would probably turn up. I cried, "but the other cat is showing me signs," in reference to Carly. My mom responded that she was glad my job was almost over.

About a minute later, the phone rang again. I ran to grab it, hoping my mom had come up with some solution.

"Hi there!" the voice on the line said, without introducing himself, "did you lose something?"

I counted on my fingers all of the things I had lost, my mind being the most notable. But seriously, what kind of weirdo asks a question like that?

"ummm.. my cat went missing a few hours ago, if that is what you are implying--" I didn't mean to get snippy with this man, but, seriously, I didn't have time to play head games. I began to think it might be a catnapper on the other line.

"Yes..." said the voice, as I waited for it to post a bail of at least 400 dollars for the cat's return, "yes, Max? I have him here- he seems very, very upset!"

"Well he's an outdoor cat," I got defensive- the nerve of that little fucker!- " he knew what he was doing- where did you find him?"

"Down by the lake," the voice responded, vaguely (this person still was not in the clear for catnapping), " he was crying on the corner of Fishcher and Lakeshore. He is shivering a little still, but I was able to dry him off."

"Oh," I said, suddenly feeling a little sorry again. I, mean, maybe Mad Max was senile just like Carly, "well can I have him back?" I felt really stupid saying that but it didn't seem like this person would think of returning the cat as a logical next step.

"Yeah, well, I guess I can bring him by your house, the address is on the name tag."

"Sure, thanks." I hung up, waited for the cat, and wondered what the person had meant by 'I guess'. I hoped they were not banking on a reward. I thought about the Jim Beam and went to look for some ribbon.

About 15 minutes later, Mad Max returned wrapped in swaddling cloth. It was almost biblical. Almost. After the stranger pulled away, mad max began to stir and flashed his yellow eyes at me. He pulled on paw out and scratched my arm, jumped out of his loving swaddle and ran across the street into my aunt's shrubbery.

Too angry and wet to move, I threw the mangy towel into the gutter. "What the fuck" couldn't even cut it. I had no words or analogies left.

Bad-ass Tammy

2009-03-14T15:50:00.000-07:00

What does it take to be a bad-ass? I am not really sure; hence, I am not a bad-ass. The most bad-ass thing I have ever done is temporarily dye a strand of hair pink for about two weeks. I did this mainly because, at the time, I was enthralled by Scottsdale's club scene (can't beat, em join em!) and partly because Noreen gave me a $25 gift certificate to have my hair temporarily dyed.I couldn't say no- that would make me majorly lame. Simultaneously, my sister chose to dye a piece of her hair pink. As she is more daring and a starving med-student, she used a do-it yourself kit and her hair is still pink, making her way cooler than me and a maybe just a little bit trashy.

Another time, Noreen tried to teach me to dance on a stripper pole and, of course, I failed, mainly because i am tall and it was awkward. The is photographic evidence of me in a pink shift dress and pearls trying to shake it. So not cool.

The coolest thing I probably do regularly is order the occasional jack and diet just to throw my bartenders for a loop and, occasionally, con my friend Kate's boyfriend into shooting Four Horsemen shots with me. This is always good sport.

About a month and half ago I completed my second marathon and, naturally, like any good party girl, wanted celebrate by gallivanting around Scottsdale wearing my medal as my main accessory. I figured it would be a great way to lure males to buy me drinks and to relive my race day glory for a few more hours.

That night we went to a club called Pussy Cat Lounge that is supposedly more exclusive (though you wouldn't know it by the looks of some of the clowns mucking around in there) and has super creepy pictures that move. One is a picture of a girl who winks at you and then proceeds to blow out candles. This is basically the most entertaining aspect of PCL, and i usually find myself staring at the optical illusions than what lurks yonder on the dance floor.

As usual, we got bored after about 15 minutes and decided to hop a cab to another club that we thought might be open on a sunday. We squeezed through the meat press crowded around the entry, coughing and wheezing from the fumes of really awful cologne.

To our great fortune, a cab pulled up out front and popped out two new cattle that needed branding. One man had a terrible receding hairline and the other had no memorable qualities, so I have no idea what he looked like.

"Where you going girls," heckled baldy, "don't you know the party is just getting started in there? I got a bunch of Cardinals coming. Where are you going?" As he stepped into the light, i realized his situation was far more tragic than just want for a little rogain. Did he really expect me to believe that a man in cheap jeans and an ill-fitting graphic t-shirt could possibly be in cahoots with NFL? nuh uh, gramps.

"No thanks, sir," one of use retorted gingerly. The man, obviously inebriated and probably living a pretty dismal existence, muttered something under his breath. Pretty sure I heard the word 'cunts'.

We hopped into the cab and met our driver. For one, I love meeting cab drivers. This is a love I have garnered since college when we had a professional cab driver named Uncle Rick. Uncle Rick was a total bad-ass. He had a raspy voice, a side part and wore woody allen glasses. He was probably about 50 or so, give or take. We even had "I heart Uncle Rick" t-shirts and he was always there in a heart beat. It never occurred to me that it might not be safe to get into a cab alone with him. Then one night, when i got lost from my friends as per usual, he picked me up off the curb of some frat. I was going through a phase of loving Russian literature and Russian vodka and was babbling on about Anna Karenina (what goes better with Popov vodka than russian literature?), when Uncle Rick asked, "Do you know what my favorite russian novel is?" We were pulling into the driveway of my sorority house. "I dunno, something Tolstoy?" I said absently, fishing around for enough singles to pay him. Uncle Rick gave me a grin, "Lolita. Nabokov," and took my money. Yikes! Uncle Rick had gone from an uncle to just another pedophile in about five minutes. The only thing that could have made it worse was if George Michael's "Father Figure" was playing on the radio. I skittled out of the cab faster than you can say Lolita and never called uncle rick again.

Following Uncle Rick, who was the creme de la creme of Ann Arbor cabbies, we sought the services of Robin, a kindly drug addict who would make us special playlists and eventually left the industry to go into pizza, and sometimes a crass man named Richard, who was a hard-ass and possibly bi-polar, but always prompt and really good on black ice.

Out in Arizona, I had to start all over and find new drivers. Noreen has been a very useful tool in this process because a great deal of cab drivers are religiously muslim, as is she, so she immediately fortifies a deep connection and usually a sweet discount. Erin found another one named Vinnie who likes to tell us stories and looks like he rides harleys. He knows a lot about South Phoenix gangs. I feel pretty safe with Vinnie.

The best driver, perhaps, was Rodney. Kate discovered him on streets of Tempe last January when he pulled over his shiny white Hyundai (leather interior) and offered Kate and some visiting friends a ride. When Kate told us about Rodney, we had to try him out. Rodney would text kate frequently to see if she needed a ride, often also saying, "and whatever else you need, just let me know" We were pretty sure that a) rodney was a drug dealer b) rodney began driving the night he offered kate a ride and c) there was an untold story to rodney.

All in all, we loved rodney. He was a good friend, driver, and never outright tried to sell us any sort of drugs so this suspicion remained speculation. Rodney would tell us about his relationship troubles with his woman, who, to me, sounded like a heinous wench and we would tell him that in so many words. I mean, Rodney was a pretty great guy with a decent car-- he could do better than just be some bitch's bitch.

This new driver was a woman named Tammy. She just emitted an aura of cool from her, something, as i said before, that i will never be able to claim. Getting a good look at Tammy, i noticed she was covered in tats. She even had one in her ear. Erin reached over the seat and poked her ear, "sorry am i invading your bubble? I've never seen a tatoo in someone's ear!" i was too awestruck to interrogate tammy too much about the tat in her ear, or the tats all over her body. She casually told us stories about the tatoos and how she was getting a new one over the one that she got when she was 16 on her arm. I couldn't imagine the pain tammy went through to get those tatoos, especially the one in her ear. How bad-ass was that? She turned her body into a canvas of all the things she believed. And when her beliefs changed, whatever, she could just re-tat it. Tammy obviously didn't view tatoos as permanent or as scarring. She was confident, candid, and not afraid to live-- she didn't need a white hyundai. Tammy was a bad bitch.

Rodney, on the other had, had all of the looks and moves but couldn't stand up to his woman. When she would call and nag him about leaving her alone ( to drive us) Rodney asked us to be quiet in the back so she wouldn't hear. Woman was suspicious that Rodney was guilty of infidelity when, in fact, it was really just the opposite. One night, Woman got ahold of Rodney's phone and saw Kate's text. We happened to be at PCL (god only knows why) and she got a frantic call from Rodney to ignore Woman's pending call to her. Woman called Kate's phone to leave a snarling message (or maybe it was a snarling text) and we knew then and there it was over with Rodney. A few days later, he texted to say he was going to Chicago for a while. We knew we wouldn't see him again. We were also suspicious about why he would just pick up and go to Chicago like that.

Unlike Tammy, I don't think Rodney would casually get a tattoo, but he was still more of a bad-ass than me. I mean it's pretty bold to pick up strangers off the street and offer them a ride. I don't think i would be all that convincing.

These are things i've come to accept. I am not an adventurer and my idea of a fine outdoor adventure is drinks on the patio. I just really don't understand why people don't fine pleasure in loitering on patios with a solid Savignon blanc or equally charming cocktails. Then again, though, I was the kid who didn't like to slip 'n slide because i hate the feeling of wet grass in my toes and always thought i would break my arm. When Noreen wanted to go skydiving for her 24th birthday, I shook my head sagely and said, "you're going to die.". In portugal, I sat on the beach drinking 50 cent boxes of wine (the same type the vagabonds drink) while my friends jumped off cliffs. "You're going to die!" I screamed, in between swigs from the sandy box of white wine. Later that day, a new friend invited me to a rave in the forest. Again, in between swigs of boxed wine, I retorted "you're going to die!". I still can't decided whether the rave in the forest or jumping off cliffs would have been more dangerous.

2009-03-13T17:21:00.000-07:00

New posts coming soon! Brace Yourselves.

The Good Samaritan

2009-01-05T21:02:00.000-08:00

All in all, my roommate Noreen is a very genial person. She loves to help people, especially strangers. On one occasion, when we first moved into our new complex, Noreen got lost coming home one night amid the spindling paths and frequent waterfalls and Giverny bridges. While she meandered around, she heard the soft murmurs of someone crying. As she came closer to the muddled howls, she saw it was actually a man.

"What's wrong, sir?" she asked.

"I'm locked out of my house," said Crying Man through heaving sobs, "I don't know WHAT to doooooo!"

Noreen didn't either; I mean, she wasn't going to invite a stranger into the house. That would just be unsafe. She did, however, console Crying Man so that he felt better and he ended up directing her back to our apartment. Ask and you will receive, I suppose. Noreen probably has great karma by now.

This weekend she took up her good deeds again by helping who we will refer to, for all intensive purposes, as the Fallen Man. While at a Jewish deli with our friend Jen on a Sunday afternoon, Noreen and Jen were lunching when out of the corner of her eye Noreen witnessed a large old man bite it on the street curb. As she described it,

" It was the longest fall I've ever seen. I mean the man hit a table and two chairs on the way down! He had so many chances to catch himself!"

Now, I don't know what is so funny about people falling, but this is probably one of the funniest accident stories I have heard in a while. While living in ice laden Michigan, I used to witness people going down right and left all winter long. Here, I do not have that priviledge.

Noreen continued her story:

"So I called the ambulance. I mean the man was groaning and I didn't think I should move him."

So here poor little Noreen was, doing a good deed when, all of the sudden, the owner of the restaurant slipped out the door and handed the man a card and whispered something in his ear.

Within moments, the man got up and hobbled to his car. "I think the owner settled the matter discretely," Noreen presumed, "I mean to avoid a lawsuit."

Apparently, as the man backed out, he almost hit two cars. Noreen said he definitely should not have been driving. "Then I had to call and cancel the ambulance," Noreen said... I wondered how awkward that would be, I mean, who cancels an emergency service? What do you say, "Hey paramedics, I'm sorry but you know that old man who might have a concusion that was moaning in agony a minute ago? Yeah, well, he just got in his car and drove away."

And this, my friends, is why there are so many car accidents in Phoenix.

And another...Just for Fun... ooooohhhhhhh college

2009-01-05T20:50:00.000-08:00

A Few Epigrams for Oscar Wilde

(January 2007: modeled after Oscar Wilde's stunning one-liners and are by no means biographical.)

yielding to temptations

gets you no where

but, damn, it's fun

One time when I yielded,

a stranger bit off my earring--

I did not feel like

Sylvia Plath.

Instant gratification is

a terrible thing, especially

when pursued after

3 or more vodka tonics

That stranger becomes

a trope and, if you are

lucky, you might get

to keep your earrings

You will never get to keep

your dignity; don't worry

it's overrated, anyway

A good reputation is

boring

I hope it's true that only

dull people are brilliant

at breakfast

In that case,

geniuses are brilliant

at the back bar

around 2 a.m.

They think so, anyway,

and then lose their debit cards

If you buy me another

I might dance with you

blast from the past

2009-01-05T20:32:00.000-08:00

At the request of Elizabeth, I am uploading an old humor poem that I wrote in October 2006:

While Idling Sunday Afternoon Style,

Elizabeth tells me a story:

My grandmother had this fat dog

Sassy, a schnauzer with a tiny

head and this mondo body!

Once she heard cheese was good for dogs--

so she would feed it

Crunchy Cheetos...

Elizabeth, uncertain if

Sassy still lives

breathes and eats

caloric snack food,

continues:

When my grandmother moved

to a retirement community, she

gave Sassy to the mailman

a big man with a white beard

who rides motorcycles with

his wife on Sunday afternoons...

We speculate about this new,

cycle-strapped Sassy who

sports Amelia Earheart

knock-offs and faux

biker black leather, and

imagine

how her body must

jiggle and throb with each

engine gun while

wind whirled saliva,

tinged with

artificial orange,

flies at cars bound

down the Oregon Coast.

So, for some reason, I was accepted into UofM's creative writing concentration for writing things like...this...

The rookies

2009-01-02T10:34:00.000-08:00

During the course of the past 2 weeks, I found myself in and out of the Chicago O'Hare Airport a total of four times. In that time period, i became very familiar with basic features within Terminal 2: which newsstand shops had a built in Caribou, the Nuts on Clark stand, and bathroom hubs. And while these geographic features became comforting and familiar, they could not leave as much of an impression in my mind as other travelers themselves.

Before beginning this entry, I had a conversation with my sardonic uncle who lives in Tampa about holiday travelers. He had just spent a lot of time in the airport as well, as it is difficult to catch a direct flight to nebraska from florida. He shook his head while were sitting around in my grandparents' family room, "I hate traveling during the holidays," he said, "you have all of these rookie travelers." We began to delve into what makes a rookie traveler.

Rookie travelers travel about once a year during the holiday season. Though I am not in their company prior to arrival to the airport, I suspect that they spend a few weeks prior to the visit packing, having nervous phone conversations about the impending flight, and, finally, arriving at the airport super early with enough luggage for a month meant for a four day visit (though with new luggage surcharge, I suspect this quality in a rookie with just extend itself to overstuffed carry-on bags).

Once inside the airport, rookies talk loudly and take their time in security check points. It is at this point when they start discussing where they will eat lunch/dinner/even breakfast. One of the biggest indicator of the rookie traveler is that they will arrive at the airport especially early just to have a wholesome sit down meal at McDonalds or some equally offensive fast food restaurant. Usually, they manage to save some of it so that, once settled in their cramped airplane seats they can pull out the last morsels of a cheeseburger or some remaining fries. Then, as luck would have it, the entire airplane cabin reeks of the pungent grease and I, along with other travelers, am privy to nausea for 1-4 hours, depending on the length of the flight.

Many times the airport meal is not enough for this breed of travelers. Halfway through the journey or anywhere from 30 to 2 hours after consuming 1,000 calorie + meals, they bust out trailmix or some other sort of snack food that they can chomp loudly. It truly makes me wonder what these people do during the work day or, rather, how they survive.

It is often the rookie traveler who feels it is necessary to engage in raucous conversation in flight and to make sure that most of the air cabin can hear what he/she has to say. Maybe it is due to nerves or lack of social etiquette, but the rookie wants to get to know you and for you to get to know him/her. By the end of the flight, you could walk away with various details about this person's family, job, favorite tv shows, pet peeves, and maybe even sex life.

As I boarded my last flight for the holiday season, or last flight until late January, I began writing this blog. As I typed in the title, An Australian man leaned over next to me at the airport and asked, "what's that for?" I explained to him that i was blogging about holiday travelers. He laughed, "tell me about it! These people are insane." When he got up to board the plane, I noticed that he just pulled his boarding pass out of his back pocket. He had no carry on, not even a computer bag, thus making him an ultra chic traveler.

As I went up to check in, the airlines personnel stopped me and informed me that I needed a new pass because they had changed my seat. I looked down at my new seat number: 3C. This could mean only one thing: 1st class.

Though i am a regular traveler, I have never paid to be a first class traveler. This was a entirely new level of air travel elitism. In first class, there are 2 seats in a row as opposed to three, and the seats are lettered like so: AC DF, complete ignoring the fact that B and E should normally fall in between those pairs. The seats are synthetic leather material and ergonomically constructed with a comfortable dip for one's neck. I settled into my seat and a moment later a male flight attendant politely asked what I would like to drink. It was 7:20 in the morning and all i wanted was water. Instead of pouring into one of those small plastic glasses, he handed me an entire water bottle, thanked me for flying and said to just wave if i needed anything else. How different first class was from the cattle drive behind the curtain that the flight attendant pulled once economy class had settled.

I noticed that the seat next to me was actually empty. Looking over, I thought that not only had I been bumped to first class and was just a pinch short of having a cabana boy waving a palm over my head. I spoke to soon. "Excuse me!" a girl came barreling down the aisle, "wow, I almost missed this flight! They were paging me and everything! Whoa i'm tired! I just ran all the way down here! Here I've lived in this city all of my life and I still don't know when to get to the airport on time! Sorry my name is _______. I talk a lot in the morning, so this won't be a boring flight!"

Fuck, I thought to myself as I told her my name, this girl may not be a rookie but she sure is annoying. She asked if I normally flew first class and, though i had every intention of lying, I told her no, that I had been bumped. She said she had to, as she had almost missed the flight. Maybe she was smarted than I had thought, perhaps this was a new trick to sitting in first class.

She jabbered away about how she lives in California now, as i reached for my IPod. The plane had just taken off and in a few moments it would be ok to turn on my ipod and tune her out. After she asked me what time I had gotten up, I said 4 am, as I had already had a flight from Detroit into Chicago. It was a perfect segue into, "yeah, I'm very tired! I'm going to take a nap!"

About an hour later, I groggily half woke up and saw the male flight attendant bringing her the most deluxe looking airplane meal I have ever seen. However, though I was not particularly hungry anyway, I knew it would be a major mistake to wake up and request a meal as it would be requisite to partake in more inane conversations with her. I passed out for 2 more hours.

As the plane descended, I did wake up and pulled a Cosmo from my bag. The girl caught on, and asked me if I had a good nap. She was now sitting cross legged on the seat, pulling at her socks, "don't mind my socks," she said, "they're my brothers! aren't they gross? Look at the big whole in them!" I nodded and continued to read some real life guy confessions. The girl looked over, " oooh, do you mind if I read with you?" What was I supposed to say?! she pulled the magazine closer to her and began reading the blurbs out loud. An older couple across the aisle started giving me looks and I shrugged with a helpless expression.

After reading about a dozen or so mens' sexual mishaps outloud, she turned to a spread about male showering styles, which featured several chippendales posing in various showers, showing off washboard abs. "Which one do you like better?" She asked several times as she browsed through.

"Hard to say," I said, feeling the old woman's eyes on me. She then decided that we were good old friends and queried, "So do you have a boyfriend or are you single?" The plane hit the ground. I told her that I was unattached; it was, afterall, an interrogation of sorts.

"Oh I see," she replied, as if being single was some sort of disease. "mine is back there!" She turned her head and started smiling and waving at no one in particular. Maybe her boyfriend was a figment of her imagination.

Just as I was concerned she would haggle me for more information, The captain announced that it was safe to move around the cabin. Luckily, as I was in first class, I could bolt from the plane without waiting for 30+ people to dismount luggage from overhead compartments.

I turned to her, "well, nice meeting you!" Then I got on my phone to call my roommate, mom, or anyone who would save me from more conversation with this girl.

Standing at the baggage terminal, I thought about my first class flight. Yes, the thin curtain in between first and economy certainly did prevent the permeation of fast food fumes. The thin curtain, however, did not seem to have any discretion for socially appropriate behavior.

Here we go a cougar-ing

2008-11-23T21:23:00.000-08:00

One Friday evening, our friend Andrew accompanied us out for an evening of diversions and fine libations. The night was fairly typical: Brendan pedi cab rolled up outside our door, sporting his coveted double cart. we asked him about his finace, per usual, and he informed us that they were still trying to conceive. He also informed us that Sarah does not like her gig as a pedicab driver. I responded, "It takes a special person to really embrace this job." We were also privy to experience his new trick: a double wheelie with no hands ( i thought i was going to die).

This was one of the first nights that Andrew had explicitly come to Scottsdale to engage in our dalliances. Once inside the W, he learned quickly he has a hit. Dressed in a light blue seersucker jacket ( Andrew, if you read this and that detail is wrong, please, correct me), a wiry, tanned 40 something blonde pounced at him. "You are soooo cute," she shrieked while sloshing her apple-tini, "I love this jacket, this whole--" and just as she began to tug at Andrew's face, timmmber: her left ankle twisted in its platform wedge and she nearly bit it on top of the flourescent floor light below. But by the grace of God who may have a soft spot for vulnerable, inebriated cougars, she caught herself. I felt bad for her, so I told said to her that I had done the same thing the night before. "And I didn't even save my drink! You are so graceful!"

With that, we became a 20 minute fixture in Patricia's world. We were introduced to her friends, one a weathered blonde with the extensions of a 20 year old that really just made her look like a more haggard version of Stevie Nicks. Appropriately enough, she departed promptly to sidle up next to a handsome WallStreet Look a like at the bar. I would momentarily catch Stevie sliding her hand around the man's waist whenever she tilted back her head to cackle loudly.

We also met Billy, Patricia's personal trainer turned beau. Billy was exactly what one would expect a personal trainer from Boston to be: squat but fit with an accent that still lingered after 10+ years out west. He wore tight light jeans, no doubt to show off his quads or maybe because he really didn't know any better. I suspect a little of both. I began to converse with Billy while Kate and Andrew talked to Patricia about shoes and other novel, assorted topics.

While Patricia promised Kate could stop in anytime to check out her shoe collection, Billy revealed that he used to play baseball in the minors and of course had to quit for an injury. He now worked as a personal trainer at a resort in Gainey Ranch. That is where he met Patricia.

"You know, I trained her," He turned his head proudly as if gazing on a Grecian Bust, "she looks great doesn't she?" I smiled... awkward city.

Since Billy was quite the talker, I decided it was ok to ask details about how their relationship had developed. I received only vague answers in which Billy tried to segue back to talking about his baseball days. I did learn that Patricia's divorce from her former betrothed had almost come to a close.

"It was really messy," Billy shook his head and looked sad, "But I was good through the whole thing. I didn't start seeing Patricia until they officially began the divorce process." I assumed he meant that he did start seeing her until they were separated.

"That's very moral of you," I responded, eyeing for Andrew to rescue me.

"Yeah well I'm kind of old fashioned," Bill nodded still staring at Patricia who had made her way to the bar for another martini. It was true: Billy was old fashioned, or so far i could tell from his clothes, and that may have stemmed from the fact that he was, well, old. He looked at least 55 or so.

I used this moment as an excuse to duck into the bathroom. In the past 20 minutes I had learned about a wealthy Scottsdale woman who left her unhappy marraige to find solace with her personal trainer. It was so .... typical. This was exactly the sort of story I would expect to surface underneath the beach fascade on top of the W hotel. However, I had to give her some credit for not actually having preyed on young men like Andrew. Maybe, Patricia was also old fashioned.

Exiting the bathroom, I spotted Stevie intertwined with Wallstreet and found my friends crowding around a heat lamp across the bar. Stevie laughed and held on tight to Wallstreet. Which was smart, I supposed, considering that she might not be so lucky the next time she went a cougar-ing.

collectors items

2008-11-12T21:13:00.000-08:00

My sisters and I were collectors of freakish things. In her very young toddler youth, Sarah would collect these stuffed rabbit heads with blankets attached. She had 36 of them. She would pick the fuzz off of them until they were threadbare. My mom vacuumed a lot. I, on the other hand, collected clowns. Well, my collection was limited to three, in a range of sizes. The largest was named Obo, the middle was Cousin (he looked a little different from the others), and the third was Junior (for size related reasons).

A collection can only have value if its owner believes it does. To my sister, those Playschool rabbit blanket-toy fusions were money. My clowns were top shelf. Losing pieces of these collections meant losing your mind, sanity, and torturing our mother for hours. It was her job to find the things we would lose.

With age, grew the sophistication of our collections. We used to frequently visit Greenfield Village in Dearborn, MI which, in a sentence, is time warp into pre-industrial America-- hello Firestone Farm and Glass blowing shops. In this magical land, it was easy to get sucked into the looniness of muslin dresses and horse drawn carraiges. Here, my requirements of life were simpler, my expectations weaker. Though my sister and I loved nothing more than vomit worthy roller coasters and carnival rides, suddenly, a ride on a turn of the century Carousel with wood carved horses (along with 1 cat, and 2 dogs) was the cat's pajamas. We were tugging at our mother's petticoat, "Mummy, dear, we would fancy a ride on the carousel, oh please do say yes!"

At the end of a good afternoon's mosey 'bout a few displaced farm houses, school houses and that wondrous carousel, we hit the souvenir shop. Again we tugged at our mother's purse strings, "Mummy, can i have a penny for a peppermint stick or a pack of lemon drops?" The candy we would have turned our nose up at or disparaged as old people candy from our halloween baskets was suddenly a prize. Inside the souvenir shop, we were grappling with our last chance to embrace a yesteryear we never ever knew and would soon discard once we stopped at Bennigan's for dinner out on the way home. At home we wouldn't spend hours boiling water over a cracklin' fire or charcoal homework inside primers. We wouldn't save our pennies and knickles for cinnamon sticks and roasted peanuts. No, we would gorge ourselves on the latest gel filled gummy candy and dabble with Rollercoaster Tycoon on the IBM.

The prized posssession of the gift shop, the coveted prize, though, was not a mere penny sweet stick. We had higher expectations than that.

Along the back wall of the gift shop were baskets of rabbits feet, all different assorted colors, individually dyed and shaped. My sisters and I poked through the baskets, speculating about which ones to purchased, based upon a variety of qualities. Did it have a protruding nail or some defect in its bone structure? Were we interested in a full sized or a mini foot ( the mini ones were from baby rabbits, I suppose, and were cheaper but probably should've been more, considering that they were kind of like a delicacy)? We held them up to the light and squinted like diamond prospectors in the mines of South Africa. The feet smelled like a nature center, or like the prairies that Laura Ingalls Wilder frolicked through daily. These were the toys that children had to play with in days of old we assumed (completely untrue), and we needed to fit the role.

According to some sources, rabbits feet were old good luck gems. We just liked to collect them. My favorites were a miniature magenta one and a white one- au natural and free of dyes. I stored them in the top drawer next to my socks and potpourri satchel my grandma brought back from Ireland.

One day, bored of my rabbits feet lining my drawer, I took them out and put them to use. Inside my closet, I hung them from the metal shelving units, added to control the excess of Lee jeans flooding out into my room frequently. With a little handy work, giftwrap ribbon and tape, I created a montage of rabbits feet hanging from the shelving units.

Then I lured the family cat into my room and placed her in my closet. Voila- a workout center for the cat. For about a week, the cat lived in my closet. I heard the thunk thunk of her batting the rabbits feet back and forth while I did my homework.

After the cat tired of the project, I did not dissemble it. I left them hanging, though one by one they managed to disappear, either slipping away into the abyss of my shoes or into the cat's mangled toy collection. They left naturally though, slipping away in the night, in the company of a new collector or just because they weren't so timeless after all.

An indecent proposal

2008-11-09T18:46:00.000-08:00

"Guess who texted me at 2:30 last night?" It is Friday morning and I am in my typical half coma. Every morning, after snoozing my alarm six times, I run into the wall and door frame to the bathroom and, somehow, manage to throw myself together in about 15 minutes. When Noreen comes into the kitchen to tell me about her late night text, I am standing up and eating Rice Krispies in the dark because, like I said, I am only physically awake.

"Who?" I ask through snap crackle pops in my mouth.

"Chase!... not Bouncer Chase but Chase who used to live here!" Noreen laughs. Chase is a guy who Noreen had a crush on for five minutes. Literally five minutes, as in while transiting from one bar to another. By the time we had reached destination number two, Noreen had announced her crush was over. This was about six months ago. He would certainly fit the bill as a stranger friend.

She continues to tell me that in the voicemail Chase had let her know that he was stranded in Old Town and was too hammered to drive home.

" And then he started begging me to answer the phone, saying "Please, Noreen, I will have to sleep in my car if you don't answer!" I'm glad I didn't hear my phone! How awkward... you can't just call a stranger friend with a request like that!" She skipped off to get ready for work. I mulled over what she had said and dumped soggy cereal down the drain.

I tried to decide if this was the most inappropriate phone/ text proposal delivered to/received by a stranger friend. Earlier in the week, Noreen had received a text message query for dinner and a movie from bar-backer at a club that shares the same lot as our apartment complex. This message, however, was nothing new. Frequently, she would receive these message. Frequently, she would not respond. Then it would happen again and again. Ground Hog's day, amnesia, or denial, you pick.

This, however, was not nearly as bad as the text sonnet incident. A few months ago, disillusioned young man had fallen haplessly in love with Noreen. He was a poet of sorts who also happened to work at Burberry. In the course of his unrequited affair with my roommate, he had scored a beautiful pair of Burberry leather pumps for her at a 90% discount. He had also given her a copy of an F Scott Fitzgerald book, Tender is the Night ( I am fairly sure that he wanted to parallel Fitzgerald charades in his own life). Noreen is a reasonable person. She did take the shoes (I mean, she would've been an idiot not to), but did not tease him with equally poetic responses. Instead, she didn't respond. Despite little to no communication over the course of the summer and early fall months, this young man continued to harbor amorous feelings for my roommate. And then, one evening, while we were getting ready to go out, he texted her to tell her that he was out of rehab (again with the F Scott parallels) and then texted her a sonnet meant to define her beauty. Noreen opted not to respond (though, apparently, no response is far to ambivalent and still leaves a window of opportunity for adoring strangers).

There is that early 90s Demi Moore-Robert Redford-Woody Harrelson flick called “An Indecent Proposal” where Redford, incisive mogul, propositions Moore, beautiful and poor but happy, for sex in exchange for some obscene lump sum of cold, hard cash. Moore and her husband, Harrelson, cede their morals and dignity to have their fantasy lives at the expense of another man's fantasy. Moore has sex with him and, ultimately, her holy union of marriage deflates from jabs of lust’s spiked heels.

This is not to say that the messages strangers send to my roommate are quite at this level of intensity or, by any means, requisite of a truly moral agony. In the movie, Gere has the cajones to proposition Moore formally, as if carrying out strict business. These strangers, however, whether propositioning via love sonnets or seeking shelter from many a whiskey’s storm, do so by weakly leaving voicemails or text messaging. Another friend of mine frequently receives nude photo texts from a narcissistic man who went on not more than 2 dates with last year. Said texts are angled to emphasis his ‘roid ravaged torso and, naturally, his member (though I have to wonder if this man has some sort of photo shop option on his phone). These are always amusing and I am quite glad someone out there is willing to entertain a roomful of girls at his own expense. I have to wonder two thing: 1) how long did it take you to snap that self photo of yourself, sir? and 2) Do you really have nothing better to do on a Saturday night? I have also received my fair share of provocative text messages, though I will not go into detail in order to protect those involved. But, in all honesty, could you imagine this bro hand delivering my friend that same picture? Indirect communication is easier, less accountability and almost never any need for follow through.

In lieu of these assorted digital age messengers, one evening, Noreen experienced a sincere, face-to-face love proposal. This proposal came from the rickshaw driver who willing carts my friends and me from venue to venue. Often, he is waiting at the gates before we even give him a call. His name is Brendan. Brendan did time for selling some assortment of drugs, some of which I am guessing he is still doing, and currently resides in a motel downtown. This one-liner paints a pretty bleak picture of our friend, who is quite possibly one of the most genial characters I have ever met. For this reason, I always compliment him on his calves and occasionally buy him a slice of pizza or a grape soda. This seems to go further than actually paying with currency. He has become a phenomenon known as: Brendan-Pedi-Cab.
Brendan has been carting us around on his pedi-cab or rickshaw (whichever bike cart cab descriptive noun best suits your fancy) since last February. Over this period of time, our friendship with Brendan has certainly blossomed to the extent that we are pro-bono work—or so I thought. As it turns out, Brendan had other ideas.

Around August, Brendan informed us that his girlfriend, Sarah, was pregnant. We looked at each other and responded, “Wow!.... congratulations???!”. Brendan didn’t catch the cautionary measures enlaced in our congratulations. He turned back with a radiant smile while simultaneously popping a wheelie over a pizza box in the road.
“Yeah! We’ve been trying for a while!” He looked like the proudest rooster in the barnyard. I thought to myself, one man’s worst nightmare is another man’s dream. Anyway, for the next few week s we would ask after his, er, fiancé as he now described her. One night, as we routinely asked Brendan about his future offspring, he looked back and shook his head, “She miscarried- we lost the baby.” Kate, Noreen, Erin and I looked at each other- brows raised, mouths paralyzed as we tried to find a tactful transition. Luckily, Brendan saved us himself by shrugging, “ Hey, more reasons to keep trying!” We looked at each other, let out deep breaths.
The first weekend of October, we went out to celebrate the end of Phoenix Fashion Week. On this night, Noreen left us briefly to meet up with a friend at E-4, a club that is vaguely reminiscent of Legends of the Hidden Temple, stocked with men that are bigger creepers than the temple guards.
“I’ll see you at home,” she said as she bounced from Dirty Pretty, “ I’m just going for a minute.” She pranced out of the bar.

About an hour later, Erin, Stephany, and I returned to our apartment and found Noreen napping at the doorstep. “I got locked out!” she exclaimed, hopping up, “and I was so tired! and- oh my god,” she paused, “something really creepy just happened.” It was then that she relayed to me that she had not found her friend at E4. Instead, Brendan showed up and pedied her home, the half block that we live away from E4. When he dropped her off, they had engaged in some conversation about how he had met his girlfriend.
“Well you know,” he had turned back to the cart slyly as Noreen stepped out, “I was holding out for someone else…” Noreen, of course, had probably responded in a jovial tone, “oh who, Brendan, Kate?” Kate is, so to speak, Brendan’s keeper and the one who established the foundation of the friendship in the first place.
“Oh, no,” Brendan had responded, “ I was waiting for YOU!” Noreen did the only thing she could do. She played it off as a joke, though she was very disturbed, and booked it for the locked apartment.

So, here it was, a stranger finally propositioned Noreen to her face. And, this time, on the receiving end, it was so much harder to ignore or just not respond to immediately. It was there, sweating in front of her. And it was no Robert Redford in a corporate office.

Rules are apparently [not] meant to be broken

2008-11-06T20:58:00.000-08:00

Usually, crocodile tears do the job. The last time I got pulled over, I was 16 and had blown through a stop sign on a residential street. I was also driving 10 over. When the cop tapped on the window, he informed me of the crime I had already committed.

"Really?" I responded, darting my head around like a crazy deer, "I didn't even see it! I've never driven down this street before!"

The cop took my license and, obviously, had to have noted that I lived two block away. He went back to his car to do the usual cop things, dicking around with his intercom and taking far too long for my taste. However, during this window of time, I had the opportunity to conjure up a good case of tears. These tears were inspired by the fact that I would be banned from participating by any means in my nearly non-existent 16 year old social life if my mom found out about this little incident.

The cop poked his head back in my window and gave me a little holier-than-thou speech about road mannerisms while I sobbed and moaned like a dying cow. Just as I thought he was going to give me a ticket, he noted that it was taken care of, like he was one of Martin Scorses' little mob lackeys, but to a cop mob (definitely not as dashing as Ray Liotta though).

I found out later that the cop who lived across the street had been at the dispatcher's office and had recognized the plates. With a little cop angel on my shoulder, I learned no such lesson from that experience. In fact, I took care to drive over the speed limit and roll residential stop signs at my leisure. I, for some reason, thought I had some bizarre sort of traffic violation amnesty. The cops were my friends, winking at me as I slid through yellows and going for more donuts when I turned left when it said 'right only'. I never tried anything very bold, just the little things, just to make sure I was still in the inner circle.

One traffic law in my top 10 most consistently blown off is the "15 mile/hour" speed limit for about 100 meters in school zones. For some reason, I have always rationalized that that speed limit was a sheer formality and code for " just drive 20 to 25, my friend!". It was in the same genre of parking garage speed limits and still a little less important than construction zone speeds.

Today, I learned that driving 22 in a 15 zone can actually cost one the hefty price of a $180 fine and 6 excruciating hours of civilian torture at defensive driving school, located at some mid-rate hotel about 20 minutes from my apartment. I also learned that cops do not take so well to the crocodile tears of a 23 year old woman.

This morning, while I sat in my car, I came to two irrational analyses of why the cop had pulled me over. Though these reasons were completely untrue, they were exceptionally pleasing to me. First, I decided that the cop had pulled me over because of my Michigan alumni license bracket. I decided that he was an Ohio State fan. My second rational came to me after I handed over my license. I decided the cop had chosen to ticket me because my address is in Scottsdale and he was just resentful because I had driven in from a land where cops have considerably more cushy jobs, a few duis and bar fights here and there. I also considered that he was hating on my gender and either a) his speed dating rounds weren't panning out or b) he was locked into marital slump. Of course, it was impossible that this poor man was just doing his job. Imagine that.

I threw all my cards on the table. Now that my mother no longer controls my social life, I had to think of new things to cry about. I put my head against the steering wheel and imagined our former schizophrenic cat, Carmel (d. 2001), in her final moments, basking in the sun on a windowsill with a lazy, drunk expression on her little face. This is probably one of the most tear jerking moments of my life. To really drive it home, I thought about my pending insurance rates (fortunately, due to cruel and unusual punishment of traffic school, they did not go up) and about the points going on my license. If there's anything that makes me cry, it's getting ripped off.

I pulled into the school parking lot and felt my heart sink as I realized I was out of the inner-circle. Robert Deniro didn't want me. The moment would've been perfect if Cat Stevens' Wild World had been piped in, "Ooooh baby baby it' s a wild world/ it's hard to get by just upon a smile, girl". Along the school fences of the play ground, thirty-some 2nd and 3rd graders gawked at me as I passed. Though I was crying inside about paying 180 dollars, I turned to the kids and smiled, "When you get your license, never speed. it's a very expensive fine."

Out of Town Clingers

2008-10-26T22:07:00.000-07:00

My roommate Noreen has a penchant for strangers, whom she appropriately deems "stranger friends". On nights when we disregard our actual, legitimate friends and troll the town as a twosome, the night begins like so: We go to Mickey's Hangover for the first drink and mass text all of the 'stranger friends' we can find on our sim cards. It is always the case that she has far more stranger friends than i do, namely because i give random people my sister's phone number instead of my own (usually). The other reason that she has more stranger friends is because she is less likely to offend strangers within five minutes of meeting them.

This past Friday, we decided it was time to revamp our supply of stranger friends, which has been tapering off. The problem with stranger friends is that they are, well, kind of disposable. Because we do not take the time to actually befriend these people, they are flat characters who lack the complexity of real friends. After texting our current list of stranger friends, we recieved several lack-luster responses and did not have any real desire to meet up with them. Noreen declared, "Ok, one rule-- we are only allowed to talk to strangers tonight. We need more entertaining stranger friends." Five minutes later, as we frolicked to the next venue, an shi shi ultra lounge called 6, an entourage of graphic-t garbed bros trailed behind us. They were from San Diego and were looking for somewhere fun. This is code for: can we hang out with you?

Rule #1 to making stranger friends: watch out for out of town clingers

Out of town clingers usually travel in packs. They corner you at cross lights with deer in the headlight expressions and the first line is usually, "are you guys from here?" We usually try to stay away from this breed. First of all, they will not be useful for future diversions, apart from a text or two. Second of all, they cling to you like baby kittens, suckling and half blind. Inviting them to join you is, therefore, very dangerous, as it must be for a mother cat to leave its helpless little babies vulnerable to new bars. This prevents you from meeting new stranger friends who will willingly supply you with complimentary libations and 20 minutes of entertainment a pop.

We happened to meet these out of town clingers quite early in the night. As we crossed the street, Noreen signaled to them, "Martini Ranch is right there! You might like it! We are going to 6." Nice, Noreen, nice.

Of Mimes and Men in Communal Bathrooms

2008-10-19T20:50:00.000-07:00

On Saturday evening, i worried that my outfit made me look like a creepy mime artist. I was wearing a short, black marc jacobs skirt with white piping around the edges. I paired it with a black tank and tall, black suede boots. Of course, I was already a few vodkas deep when this fleeting paranoia began. Kate told me I was acting stupid, so I dropped the cause and continued people watching into the colorful garden variety milling around the W's roof top bar. The bar is set to bear some semblance of a beach scene, complete with cabanas, sand, and strategically interspersed palm trees. On this night, Charles Barkley happened to have a table and an entourage of eligible, box-blondes hovering like floozy moths. From this vantage point, the W's beach was South Beach.

In this diverse, drunken circus, a mime might have been a nice gimmick and an appropriate accent to all of the freak acts circulating the premises. Miming began as an art form to tell a story through deliberate body motions. Though I thought the roots to this 'art' were French, I wikipedia-ed it today and found that it began in Greece before Marcel Marceau and Jean-Gaspard Deburea claimed the white faced, clown-like attributes of the modern mime. When I was in Paris, I was very disappointed that the streets were not lined with these characters immune to saying hello or recommending the best Creperie. It would be a pretty great crutch to lean on in moments when you didn't feel like talking, especially when someone wants sympathy-- I'm sorry, I don't communicate in words, but, if you would like, I will act out the fact that I don't care that you are having a bad day.

As I was thinking about this, my friend Erin returned from the bathroom where she had apparently made a friend at the communal sinks ( yes, the W's bathroom has those great communal sinks. After relieving yourself, you just might get lucky by the hand dryers.). Behind me, her new acquaintance, a seemingly decent enough guy, stood and asked if I wanted a drink. In his hand, he had his own drink, one of those trendy looking Vox water bottles shaped like a hair product. I commented on how great the water bottle was and he replied that he was going to keep it as a souvenir. I gauged that this person probably had a pretty decent sense of humor and responded, "yep, you can put it up on the mantle in your living room next the framed picture of your dog."

Looking back, almost 24 hours later, I'm not really sure how this comment was so offensive or what possessed me to drop this line. I had once read somewhere, probably Glamour or Cosmo, that one of the number one turn offs is a woman who frames pictures of her pets and displays them openly. I thought this was funny and stored it with all of the rest of the useless garbage I have a penchant for keeping.

"I DO NOT have framed pictures of my dog!" he fired back. In a two minute interval, I had lost a. a free drink and b. Erin's new acquaintance she had met at the soap dispenser. I tried to recover my verbal dart by venturing,

"Hey, I'm just kidding...what type of dog do you have?" But this was just salting the wound. His face curled into a sour pout and then he did something that no adult has ever done to me in my entire life: he stuck his tongue out and provide an accompanying spitting noise. Before I had time to react, he pranced off, maybe to delete all the pictures of his dog off of his i-phone.

"Melissa!" Erin exclaimed, "What did you do to that man!" I told her, laughing, and she looked at me and said, "why?" Erin wasn't angry or anything, I just think she was perturbed that I could do so much damage to a stranger with such record time. Ok, maybe it was unnecessary to accuse him of framing pictures of domestic animals, but what sane, grown man thinks its ok to stick his tongue out at a stranger?

There's a song by an 80s band called Tuxedo Moon that has a line, "In a manner of speaking, semantics won't do..."; so, maybe, his actions made sense. Maybe it was more concise and efficient to stick out one's tongue instead of say, "stupid bitch, go fuck yourself." Maybe it was the least offensive way he could respond to my emasculating dig. At least he was direct.

We seemed to go to the bathroom in shifts. About a half of an hour later, Kate went to the bathroom while Erin and I patronized a man for being a fashion icon-- he told us in an Ohio twang that he had a 'real' eye for fashion and knew how to make it work. There are no words to describe what he was wearing. In retrospect, I could have used polarized sunglasses. The gleam of his shiny, faux-python jacket and enormous Guido cross made me feel... woozy. Kate returned as we were admiring his watch that he got at a Trade Show in Vegas. Once our bedazzled Tim Gunn decided to mosey off and find new friends, we were able to regroup and Kate revealed what had happened to her inside the communal bathrooms.

She had run into a guy who I used to dabble with on and off for several months (there's really no better word to classify or describe what this relationship did and did not entail), who had been oddly confrontational toward her.

"Yeah, it was so weird," she said, "he was walking out and I was walking in and he made a point to stop, point at me, and say, 'I think I know you,' as if we only might have met before." She then recounted how he had told her she looked like she was wearing wax paper (Kate was wearing a silk-tafetta blend Christian Celle dress that happened to be one of my favorites), which he had probably confused with tin foil or cellophane.

"I don't understand why he couldn't just say 'hi' or, better yet, just ignore me," she wondered, "so much extra effort!" Of course, given the opportunity, she threw it right back at him and commented that at least she didn't wear the same outfit every night in a row and, subsequently, ended the conversation having chalked a tally point: Kate: 1 guy: -2.

I thought, even giving him the benefit of a doubt that he was really drunk, that this was unnecessary and wondered what the motivation was. Was it simply to be a dick? Or, was it a means of telling me, through my friend, that he resented me? My five minute friend had stuck his tongue out at me and this former flame had indirectly attacked me by tearing into my best friend. I was beginning to wonder what had happened to having a nice, ordinary conversation. When did the need to codify semantics become so pressing that every form of communication was cryptic and as enigmatic as the Mayan calendar? At this point, even the painted mimes that were not on the streets of Paris were easier to understand than these creatures lurking in Scottsdale. Throughout the course of the night, Erin noticed that he was moving in laps around the spot where we had posted up. Whether it was intentional or not, I do not know nor do I care to find out. Under her breath, with each pass, she would tick off, "one... two....five." I didn't notice. Kate told me this later.

Or, perhaps, everything was in my head. Maybe there was simply something going on in that communal bathroom that I knew nothing about. Maybe there's a reason to keep public restrooms separate and equal.

Catechism & Dial Soap

2008-10-18T11:04:00.000-07:00

Last night, after returning from the bar, I nearly brushed my teeth with Biore Facial Cleanser. I caught myself mid- press on the top of the pump and managed to switch to Crest. However, when I began to brush, I could tell there was a hint of Biore that must have dripped onto my toothbrush's head. I know I vowed not to discuss play-by-play details, but I thought this one was particularly funny, because I had just washed my mouth out with soap.

Getting your mouth washed out with soap was my mother's version of a whooping or a spanking and, in that, I think it could be classified as cruel and unusual punishment. I don't remember ever being grounded as a child or really losing any priviledges, but I do recall the pungent aroma of the good old orange dial soap bars as my mother shoved them into my 'filthy' mouth after I had sassed or done something terrible (could this be why I have great gag reflexes now?). Sometimes, if we were lucky, it was from a squirt pump-- the liquified substance was much easier to take. The worst part of the whole painful process was the way the taste clung to your gums and tongue; it was one of the greatest paradoxes of all: how could something so clean taste so incredibly vile?

If I got my mouth washed out with soap before dinner, dinner became spaghetti and Dial or chicken terri-Soft Soap. If you think about it, my mother's punishment, meant to symbolically cleanse me of my filth and ill will, might chalk up to a strategy for someone trying to lose weight: who wants to eat that key lime pie when it tastes like soap?

The taste would linger no matter how i tried to neutralize it: milk, water, cranberry juice. "That's the point," my mom would note, "now you have a reminder of what you did." What was this, a temporary, internal scarlet letter? Did resisting to clean my room or teasing my sister really merit this vestige inside my mouth?

One would think that, if I hated it so much, I would have thought twice about acting out. However, I guess being human really ruined things for me as I usually decided to take my chances and convince myself that, even if i did get caught, I could stick out the purification process. Sometimes, it is better to pick the tomatoes and throw them at your neighbor's windows, sometimes it is better to get it out of your system and face the imminent repercussions.

Last night at dinner, my friends introduced me to another version of cleansing, less literal than my mom's. Both of them attended Catholic high schools and during their senior year went on a serious, moving retreat called a Kiros, which means "In God's hands". On this Kiros, high school seniors spend hours self reflecting and connecting with God. A self purification and a means to cleanse oneself of anxiety.

I am also Catholic but I was a Catechism kid-- the only retreat I went on was one right before my Confirmation that i only attended after kicking and screaming (well not literally, but i was not pleased about attending). The retreat did not have any effect on me. I actually only remember two things: 1. I was worried the entire time about finishing an English paper due that Monday and 2. they made us sing that Sophie B. Hawkin's song "As I lay me down to sleep".

It is funny how, though we were raised to praise the same holy trinity, the impact and the presentation of our religious educations were so... disparate. In fact, though i was a total brown-nosing, straight A student throughout my career in public education, Catechism classes were my outlet to rebellion. Because I knew that my success in Catechism would in no way impact my ability to attend a top university or a score a succesful career, it was low priority. It's kind of sad that I already realized these facts of life as an elementary school student.

While I would go above and beyond on the simplest assignment for school, I flat out refused to complete the cloze passages in my Catechism workbooks about the events that occured in the Garden of Eden or the sequencing exercise about the Last Supper.

It was in Catechism class that I was, for the first time, sent to the office and given warnings by a teacher. It was also in Catechism class that I befriended a "bad" girl, whom we will refer to as Maggie. Maggie and I both attended the same middle school and had attended the same elementary school. Maggie was a doctor's daughter who hung out with the smokers and got bad grades, despite the fact that she was actually pretty intelligent. Maggie was also not about to put up with this Catechism bull. Though I acted out because I thought it was a waste of time, valuable time that I could be spending watching Dawson's Creek and finishing my math homework, Maggie acted out because she could, because she was Maggie. I must have admired her, had some sort of twisted respect for this person who so willingly defied authority ( with plenty of witty one-liners to boot) and didn't give a rat's ass about the consequences. Maggie was the type of person who would probably take a bite out of the soap and ask for more, just to make a point.

One evening at Catechism class, Maggie and I were sent to the office after blatantly ignoring our teacher, a squat, sturdy man with pit stains who was a stay at home dad by profession, who had repeated asked us to turn to page 24 to complete partner discussion questions about the return of the prodigal son. Instead, we were, if I had to guess, bitching about how we were missing Dawson's Creek.

We weren't too concerned about going down to the office; actually, it gave us the chance to get out of class and wander the halls for a few minutes. It wasn't a real 'office' anyway, there weren't any 'real' repercussions. The woman who served as the 'principal' figure was a woman named Carolyn Clark, a pious bitch whose daughter, I would come to learn, would get impregnated at fifteen. Of course, Carolyn didn't know this the day we were sent to the office and it was in her hands to prevent us from falling from grace (my mother, when the pregnancy was uncovered, would snidely remark that maybe if Carolyn Clark had spent less time kneeling on the pew, maybe she would have had more time to keep her daughter from running around).

After deep reflections about how we could become better citizens of God, Carolyn commanded us, in her baritone, husky voice, to us call our parents to tell them how we had behaved (though our moms would be camped outside the school in about a half of an hour). On the other line, my mom answered, and I explained my unfortunate predicament.

"We'll talk about this at home," my mom said. As I held the phone to my ear I realized that she didn't even sound mad... just kind of disappointed. Hanging up the phone, I did feel a little ashamed and ridiculous, even if being called to Carolyn Clark's office was kind of hilarious. Maggie, on the other hand, rolled her eyes when we were allowed to go back to class.

"what a hag," she said, referring to Carolyn, "talks like a man, too." I snickered a little, but only as a courtesy. I began to think, why did I act out at Catechism? Was it a phase that I was starting to pass out of? And, more pressing than anything else, why wasn't my mom fuming mad?

That night, my mom didn't wash my mouth out with soap. She did say that she wished I wouldn't hang out with Maggie anymore during class. Her disappointment was sharper than the suds tickling my tonsils. As I got ready for bed, I stared at the bottle of Soft Soap and thought about how absurd it would be to wash my own mouth out with soap. I didn't, of course, I'm not that stupid or masochistic. I did, however, sit as far as possible away from Maggie in class for the rest of the year.

Despite my fall from grace during that year in Catechism class, I've managed to keep a pretty straight edge, staying away from the Maggies, the smokers, and from substance consumption until binge drinking became a socially acceptable norm my freshman year of college. Unlike my friends, I did not have any eye opening retreat experience in my religious education. My religious education was an old battle ax named Carolyn Clark, a wayward brat named Maggie, and a four hour retreat with a cathartic moment to a Sophie B. Hawkins song. Being a 'good' was not something any class could teach me. I learned this over and over the years through dial soap and "i'm disappointed"s from my mom.

This morning, when I remembered that I had almost washed my mouth out with soap, I thought about my recent behavior and whether or not i could deduce this incident inspired by karma or vodka. I rationalized that it was probably alcohol, as the meanest thing I had done was give some pilot my sister's number, say my name was "Sarah", and lie to him that I was moving to Sweden in two weeks because of the economy. "Family," I told him somberly in the depths of a dark, house-vibrating bar, "I've got no choice but to move back." The man believed me.

the nicknamer

2008-10-16T20:50:00.000-07:00

"mmm... sad clown," she says without flinching, "receding hairline, pasty, potbelly, ugly hair... sad clown." This was one of the most recent nicknames my sister had conjured up to refer to a mutual acquaintance. I had to admit, she was spot on in her classification.

It is safe to say that my sister, Sarah, has a knack for attributing nicknames to people based on physical features and/or disposition, depending on how well she knows her victim. She's kind of like a Rain Man for honing in on peoples' characteristics and, with a moment of steady calculation, she will mold you into a fictional character, an animal, a retail location, a city or even a noise (this is when she's getting really abstract). It's kind of like the most useless gift one could have. I am insanely jealous that i can't take credit for what i am about to reveal.

Let's take it nice and easy and look at the animal categorization. Most people can bear resemblance to an animal-- all it takes is one glaring feature and shes' got you nailed. Big, buck teeth? You are a rabbit, or a bunny, depending on how colloquial she is feeling. Now, on the flip side, a severe under bite deems you a bulldog and general dental protrusion might yield a rat or, if you at least a little bit pretty or perhaps more timid, a mouse. Let's look at some other features: beady, deep-set eyes and a hooked nose entitle you as a hawk or an eagle, depending on complexion, and, given a bit more length to your nose you become a heron or an egret. Bulging eyes and supple lips make you a goldfish. Extreme eye bulge makes you...well... Tori Spelling (sometimes the line grows fuzzy between what can be categorized as human and animal). And, if she deems you a Wildebeest, then God help you.

As you can see, my sister's talent for characterization is one tempered and deeply impacted by physical nuances (if she actually knows you, she will consider personality, too); therefore, her cruelty is much more complicated than one might think. I think it was Nietzsche who mentioned that the nuances are what drive people to conflict (i can't be sure because I learned about Nietzsche primarily in introductory courses during undergrad. As a result of undergraduate intro courses, i can hold my own on just about any topic for just about five minutes before I need to excuse myself.). It seems silly to say that one sibling is a hawk and the other is an eagle simply because the former is a brunette, but i suppose people fight over more inane things all the time. Despite how much they have in common, a singular nuance is too much to say they are the same.

If i am to make this all relative, Sarah would be the hawk and I would be the eagle. We look enough alike to be noticeably related, except that she is naturally more brunette and I am blonde (though now we are both blonde). As a middle child, she craves attention and I, as the oldest, crave perfection and domination. As a result, we clashed for years, torturing each other physically (i can't count the times my sister would wield hairbrushes at me and try to recreate Houdini's death with her fists socking my abdomen) and mentally (this was my technique, always teasing her about her clothes or something equally stupid.).

We seemed to call a cease fire when I moved to Arizona. Maybe distance does make the heart grow fonder.Maybe we accepted each others' character deficiencies. It might even be as simple as a desire to band our ill will together toward others. We both share the same love for the absurd and for tormenting unassuming bystanders, for example, through nicknaming. I consider this to be a playful sort of cruelty as it really is irrelevant, especially considering that our prey rarely catches wind of these names, which we create primarily to amuse ourselves.

When my sister proposed the idea of retail identities for others, I was intrigued and envious that she had outwitted me, simply by thinking of it first. I don't remember, but I was probably saucy toward her until I admitted that it was brilliant (never outwardly, of course, but by embracing the strategy). She introduced the tactic through this little gem of a name about a college friend with whom her relationship was a bit, well, blurred. My sister will never openly admit when she is dating someone/ interested in a guy. It all goes back to that whole idea of nuances; she's a stickler for details and will spend hours affectionately relaying why so and so is a loser, but never admit why she is dabbling with that loser.

This particular loser she had dubbed "Old Navy". When I asked her how she had created this nickname, she responded, " Usually a piece of crap that will fall apart after a few wears, but, occasionally, a good find!" Was this a backhanded compliment to this poor boy? I would like to think so. So succinct and all inclusive of the person she had described. I was impressed. My respect deepened even though I hated her for a few days after learning about her latest in our coded language.

We began to generate other possible profiles to fulfill popular men's retailers. Express Men roles down his BMW lease's window to say, "I may look like a million bucks, but this a pastel, white cuffed poly-blend is giving me a rash across my waxed chest!". Armani Exchange elbows you at the club , "Hi, I'm an Italian Stallion and if i turn to much, my left bicep will rip the seam of this great fitted, silk blend v-neck... but they're great to look at and do you like my cross?" Jose A. Banks might boast, at the end of the back 9, "J. Crew is so fucking fruity... stupid bastards with lobsters on their khaki's... since when did preppy become prick-y?" Ok, maybe I'm getting carried away, but you get the point.

One night my sister revealed to me the unthinkable: she, the nicknamer, had been nicknamed. I laughed when she told me that our mutual friend, Kate, a native of Scottsdale where I now reside, had nicknamed Sarah as "Scottsdale". She couldn't have been given a more appropriate nickname. I don't know one midwestern girl who spend quite so much tim trying on metallic stilletos that would lead to insta-death on Michigan's frozen turf or who deems techno-electronica appropriate study music before an animal physiology exam. If my sister has a soundtrack in her mind, it is most certainly ' Ooonst oonst oonst" with a few strobe lights intertwined.

When I speak with my sister long distance, I make it a point to call her by her nickname. In a weird sort of way, it reduces the physical distance between us to just a detail and our bizarre desire to codify everyone comes full circle. I may live in Scottsdale, but Scottsdale lives inside her, despite the fact that her apartment in Lansing is 500 feet from a cow pasture.

a couple of 'foodies'

2008-10-15T21:24:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I attended an Ivy League Association Happy Hour at a moderately swanky bar, its atmosphere only tampered with because it was attached to the Macy's at Biltmore Fashion Park. As nice as the mall is, I have some reservations about staring out into a parking garage while sipping vodka tonics.

I was invited to this little fete on behalf of my roommate who attended Smith College, which is considered a sister school to the holy trinity and its elite cousins. At the door we were invited to make name tags. Therefore, I was the girl from "Go Blue" as many strangers commented when they examined my name tag. Subsequently, I engaged in 40-50 seconds of small talk about the 'rough season' and how we have a 'new coach'.

Inside, the bar was packed by the finest academic hoi polloi that Phoenix has to offer or, at least, the onces who cared to boast about it with sharpie-d on name tags inside an ultra-lounge attached to the mall. Looking around, I spotted Noreen, talking to a couple who looked tame enough but a bit boring. I introduced myself and we transitioned out toward the bar. On the way, Noreen informed me that a glass of wine was $12 ( I figured it was probably Beringer or something equally as nasty and made a mental decision to order well vodka and tonic instead) and that she had begun talking to that tame looking couple on the couch because yet another needy brown man was stalking her. Noreen happens to be Pakistani and is constantly under the reproachful eye of eligible brown men in the greater Phoenix area. Apparently, this character had been concerned that she had 'no friends' and was new to the area, trapped in a crowded bar and unable to relate to the WASPy masses at hand.

Having ordered my well vodka ( a safe bet at $6.50) I began to purvey the faces in the room and wonder: why did people come here? For myself, it was a combination of entertainment and the anticipation of meeting amusing characters. Some, perhaps, of the business variety, were here to network. Some, like the lingering brown man, for a relationship. But in this desert hodgepodge I suppose many of these people were looking for a piece of their pasts, for a chance to play 'who do you know', for slightly different versions of themselves. Or, at the very least, a swing at a one night stand.

To my left I noticed that squat looking man wearing glasses had engaged noreen and erin, our friend who intended Trinity, in conversation. next to him stood a tall, thin woman, her hair bleached with a fringe of bangs. She had about four inches on the man. It took me a moment to put the picture together (this is what well drinks can do to you), but I realized that she would momentarily look warily at the man before reengaging in a conversation that only loosely held her attention. When she brushed past him to signal that she was getting another glass of merlot, I realized they were probably married (well, ok, the matching last names on their name tags did tip me off).

They were the Nuris. Marissa and Larry Nuri. Larry went to Cornell and Marissa did not wear her education on her sleeve. I made a point to smile at her, as if to say, it's ok if you are not Ivy I am also a pariah, but she did not want an ally. Not that she really wanted an enemy either. In fact, the face I thought was wary was actually turning into one of relief. The moment I began talking to Larry really hit the nail in the coffin, so to speak.

After the initial introduction which involved the good old repartee about Michigan's Bad News Bears football season, Larry and I ran off on a tangent about Oldtown (where I currently reside). I bluntly revealed that I enjoyed my proximity to the bars and nightlife.

"my wife and I, " he signaled, pointing to Marissa who was expressionless in conversation, "you see she's over there, that tall woman- we used to go to clubs and bars but now... eh " he stopped, looked up as if he was searching for something profound, "but now, we're getting older. We'll usually go for a later dinner and by the time its over we go home." He then proceeded to describe to me about how he and his wife are foodies, lovers of food and fine dining.

"if you really want a lot of bang for your buck there's this little place, " he informed me ( this segment of the conversation followed a historical documentation about how Marissa has been going to the same club, now called Forbidden, for four decades), "It's right behind that new hotel- The W, that's it- the restaurant is called fusion."

He discussed the various entrees and pricings ( i won't bore you with the details) and I began to see how he and his wife might have been married out of mutual desperation: she had no desire to talk, he had no desire to listen. But, as luck would have it, they both enjoyed fine dining.

I do not remember specifically how the conversation ended, but it did end with a reminder to try Fusion. We returned Larry Nuri to his wife, probably to her disdain, and wandered to another corner of the bar. About an hour later, when we exited, the brown man reappeared and reminded Noreen that he had her card. "email me!" she cried as we scuttled off into the depths of the parking garage.

Two evenings later, Saturday night, Erin, Noreen, and I had made plans to go the W and have dinner at the sushi bar attached to the hotel. However, when we arrived, there was of course an hour and a half wait. It was 9 pm so we decided to go elsewhere to eat before heading to the W bar. I remembered Larry's suggestion and mentioned to my friends that we ought to try Fusion.

It had begun to sprinkle, as we entered the small restaurant not 500 feet from the hotel. As we entered, I remembered that Larry had mentioned something about how he and his wife were going to celebrate their anniversary there this weekend, but could not remember which night.

We entered the restaurant. Though it had a hip name, the inside looked a washed up dining room in an elderly woman's home. The walls were seafoam and the tables looked like they had been purchased at Art Van's Furniture outlet. No music played and the lighting yellowed above us. It was all but empty, at 9 pm, with the exception of... the Nuris. Larry Nuri scoped us out with hawk-like reflex and, before we could turn to seemlessly move to a different part of the restaurant, he welcomed us and informed us we were in for a real treat.

"We're a couple of foodies, you know, and this place is at the top of our list!" He took a sip of wine; Marissa glanced up briefly from the menu before mirroring his action.

The hostess asked us if the table across from the Nuri's would be fine. We were in a clutch: it would probably be even more awkward to request a seat across the room. We sat down. Immediately, Larry leaned back on his chair, "You girls are going to love this, mark my word. we always get the crab cakes. All of the seafood here is great-isn't it?" he called upon an affirmation from his wife who nodded. He tilted back to his table.

I noticed how quiet the restuarant was. When Larry was not talking to us, he was occasionally muttering short phrases to his wife, who replied less occasionally. Their conversation was best when seasoned by the din of clinking fork and knives on their plates and slugs of wine. It felt awkward for us to speak to loudly, for fear we'd break the silence and quiet of the Nuris' anniversary dinner in their restaurant.

We ordered lavash pizza, despite the raves of our pseudo maitre-d. It arrived as a crispy cracker crust embellished with tomatoes, mozzarella and balsamic vinagrette.

The moment we began crunching, Larry Nuri chanted, "crunch! crunch! a lot of crunching over there! Sounds like some people are enjoying their first time!" I always hate when people patronize via talking about me right in front of my face. Especially when PG sexual inuendos are made. I checked for Larry's wife's expression and wondered how her anniversary made her feel. Here she was, alone in this empty, ugly restaurant listening to her husband analyze and imitate the mastication of strangers.

Larry Nuri had informed me his wife was a native of Phoenix. They had met at a club downtown twenty years ago. As we pay our bill, I look over and think about whether she reconsiders the moment she had allowed him to talk to her, the moment that she had accepted a first date, an engagement and a marriage to this import from Cornell. On paper, Larry Nuri was probably a catch. But was this, in the end, worth two crabcakes at a cheap table?

However, it is not fair to make these assumptions. Maybe, they really were quite the pair, maybe they were whispering to each other, communicating through some personal semantics. Maybe they were just a couple of foodies.

another graphic T

2008-10-14T22:52:00.000-07:00

I've always considered blogs as trendy and fringing on obnoxious. Every time a friend began a blog, I would secretly scoff, "what makes so-and-so think that what he or she is saying is so important?" I didn't understand why people felt the need to slosh together the mundane details of their lives- "today my dog threw up on the my bed"- and all of their existential thoughts to date. And then, of course, I would go and read it, shamelessly.

But I am weak and usually come around to trends eventually. Perhaps I just like the element of resistance before I sheepishly buy that graphic t- shirt again and again. The same graphic t-shirt that, a few months ago, I declared garish.

The thing is, from the moment that I front resistance, I know I will fall prey to the trend at hand. In fact, I anticipate and project approximately how long it will take me to come around. It took approximately a year for me to accept the bedazzled graphic t-shirt. A few more to start blogging.

Maybe it was out of laziness, shame of laziness, or concern that everyone might discover that my writing capabilities are actually somewhat...average. Either way, I am waving my white flag and blogging.

I am hoping that the blog becomes more than a graphic t-shirt for me. Eventually, I will let them dissipate into the dark depths of my closet when I decide its time to unearth my polo shirts again. I am hoping that this blog is not something that will amuse me for a short stint before i 'forget'- which really means 'choose not to'- to write in it for weeks at a time. If anything, it can very well serve as a strategic tool for procrastination. I hope that I can take this as an opportunity to highlight the people and places that I find, at the very least, mildly amusing.

Well, as they say in Spain, vamos a ver.