Thursday, January 29, 2009


I have a lot of friends (and enemies) who own ye olde SUV. I don't begrudge them their shining trophy, and will even have to admit that they probably need that 100 square feet of space for their 9 pound newborn. Saudi princes definitely need support, parking lots should consist of a challenge for the rest of us when a clever SUV-owner jams their car into a "compact" spot, and I certainly love the fact that a country that was built on the efforts of pioneers trundling around in wagons really hasn't changed all that much. Although the new pioneers could do with a little more awareness of vehicles next to them on the interstate.

I guess when it comes down to it, I only have two minor complaints about SUVs.

1. They are completely fucking with evolution.

Let's face it. About 90% of the human population are morons. And a good chunk of that percentage possess a driver's license. Now, in a world where we all drive Chevy Impalas such a fact would not be fatal to the betterment of the human race. Person talking on cell phone/swatting soccer-player kid/eating cheeseburger all at the same time would actually die in the collision that they cause when they cross four lanes of interstate traffic. Of course, some innocent victims would die as well, but nothing's perfect.

But no. SUVs are built like fucking tanks with reinforced airbags and possibly a parachute thrown into the deluxe models. So the beings whose legs only appeared so they could crawl out of the ocean and take a really long time trying to parallel park on a busy street in a parking spot at least six feet too small for them actually survive to live and annoy us another day. And kill the well-meaning folk who drive Chevy Impalas.

I suggest that there be a 'decent human being" test required before the purchase of an SUV. Just to make sure the right genetic material is sticking around.

2. SUVs sport awful bumper stickers. Okay, this is unfair. Other cars sport awful bumper stickers. But these bumper stickers usually have some sort of useful message, like which candidate the person supports, or whether they like the troops, or recycle, or world peace, or think the Army Corps of Engineers did (not) do enough to keep that whole Katrina levee mess from happening.

Today, heading back from a routine doctor's appointment where I was told that either my thyroid gland is enlarged or my neck is rather thin (gee, thanks), I got stuck behind a particularly ponderous Lexus which was cruising along like a whale shark among krill. I was running really really late to work with the remnants of a hangover so my tolerance was a little less than normal.

And then I saw it. Hands down the most horrifying bumper sticker I have ever seen in my 30 years.

It said, "I (heart) my husband."

First impression.

Really? You really love your husband? You are a truly unique and gifted woman. I'm sure there are no other women in the world who heart their husbands. In fact, said hearting must truly not begin until said bumper sticker is meticulously placed on your Lexus.

Second impression.

Ok, something is up. We do not advertise the fact that we love our husbands unless there is something wrong. Bumper stickers like that are no more than tools for a daily affirmation. And we all know how useless those are. It's like "You know, I have hearted my husband in the past, but am not sure that I heart him any longer. But maybe if I put this bumper sticker on, I'll remember to heart him every time I have to open the back to put my groceries in."

Third impression.

This bumper sticker is a subtle warning to all who do NOT heart their husbands. Or might TRY to heart the driver's husband. In which case I recommend the following bumper sticker for other cars.*

I hearted your husband at the company Christmas party. On top of your family portrait.


You are completely allowed to heart your husband -- in fact I encourage it because divorce is a long, cumbersome, and expensive process. But please, please, please go accomplish something else as well.

Like not driving an SUV with that stupid bumper sticker on it.

*preferably Chevy Impalas.

Monday, January 26, 2009

Elevator (II)

You know how I said the rest of this month would be dedicated to something besides my vanity? That subject being elevators?

Well, what I meant to say was NEXT month.

Just wanted to clear that up.


On the day in question, our heroine decided to let herself sleep in until 7:46 instead of the usual 7:30. Which is probably what threw everything into a sad spin.

At approximately 7:49, our heroine learned from her mother that a truly amazing person had finally died after a long illness. Heroine was grateful to her mother for not mentioning the 7:00am irate voicemail that heroine had left mother yesterday involving mother's choice to buy six dog beds and other general irritations about being emotionally smothered by the woman who gave her birth (even if it was with no painkillers).

At approximately 8:25 our heroine made it out the door after walking the dogs, remembering there is nothing except condiments in her refrigerator and deciding to go for the ponytail. For the one hundredth day in a row.

At 8:47 our heroine purchased an enormous eclair at a bakery in her building that used to be called "Baked" but is now named something generic like "Lucy's Sweets." Our heroine would really like to know the backstory on that name change but suspects she already does. Anyway, it could be a touchy subject.

The enormous eclair then sat there being eaten in various stage for the next six hours in a small conference room where the thermostat is broken and left on 60 degrees at all times, and the cabinets are full of candy so people keep interrupting her to get some so she can't remember which document she was looking at. Our heroine has also learned that although the firm functions on an honor system very few people actually put money for their candy in the Happy Buddha designed for that purpose. She also suspects this is why the shades for that particular conference room are always closed since there is a very observant secretary who watches it.

At 3pm, our heroine needed a break.

She didn't take one.

This was the case from about 3-5pm.

At 5pm she decided she had done all that was humanly possible and decided to finally exchange sympathies with the family.

At 5:15pm she actually started to cry, which was a little confusing because heroines don't normally cry. But there is an exception for people she cared about dying. So she decided to go with it. Until it went on for ten minutes and then our heroine realized that she was effectively trapped in her office since she was afraid that everyone would think she was crying because she worked all weekend, and such show of frailty would not look good on her review.

And being trapped in her office, our heroine had only some subway napkins stuffed in a drawer. Unfortunately, such paper product is hardly the most gentle on heroines' fine noses, and so by the time (6:15) that she finally managed to brave it out of her office, she closely resembled Rudolph. Or with the bloodshot eyes, drunken Rudolph.

Despite this, heroine decided that she probably needed something to eat besides Twixes, and Reeses and Mints and other things she did not pay for whilst sorting mounds of paper in the conference room, and went to get a beef schwarma sandwich.

At which point, the Jewish matchmaking service called for the third time that day, making heroine wonder if it is possible to put a restraining order on a matchmaking service. And why the people running it think it's effective to leave a voicemail message that begins "I'm really trying to talk to you, but it doesn't seem like you want to talk to me," which is making her start to think that the matchmaking service might have hired a few of her ex-boyfriends.

Then, at approximately now, our heroine came home, walked, fed and kissed her dogs, and is heading toward a warm bath.

And remembering that everything's temporary. There will be better days in question.

And she's alright.

Saturday, January 24, 2009


Oh my dogs love the hunt. This is why instead of throwing them the far-too-decadent SIX dog beds provided by mother, I decided to test the waters last night and throw one potential victim to my experiment.

Bedroom door opened and floor full of guts of bed.

You see, they hunt them. It is all very meticulous. First Nita with her tiny teeth picks apart the zipper, then she and Magda slit the seam quickly as if going after a foam artery. And then the mayhem begin, and the living room resembles one of those Christmas displays at the malls that I traipse through in a suit every morning while they are sated and asleep on the corpse of what - for once - a tasteful and color-coordinated bed. If this were the wild, I am not so sure they would be snuggling on top of a bloody corpse, but they are wrapped together like a yin and yang and we give them concessions.

Concessions even to Moms, for now there are 5 more beds whose entrails stand ready to be ripped out and torn. One can only imagine the carnage. In fact, I'm going to live the carnage because I'm now beginning to feel like maybe I should be making snow angels in dog bed guts and inviting people over for snowball fights with smelly remnents. At any rate I don't feel like picking it up. It's soft stuff and can't seem to hurt me.

Such vicious little darlings. Oh, how proud of you I am.

Thursday, January 22, 2009


I already anticipate the delights that the elevator in my building yields that will find themselves dancing across this medium. Except for the not-so-delight when on a very high floor, as I stepped into the elevator alone, it lurched, began to fall, screeched and then a Man's voice said calmly and mechanically : "Do not worry. Only experiencing technical difficulties."

But the funny thing was I didn't care. I mean did I want to go plunging into the abyss? No, not really. But would I have any control over that happening? Nope. So, you know, it'll be over soon. (This is always highly effective on airplanes as well).

Anyway, I recently thought it might be fun to branch out from the narcissism a bit and just do some observations of the really extraordinarily fun things that can happen on elevators (besides the obvious, you pervs. I mean every knows there's security cameras in there these days ... unless you're into that by all means, just make sure you don't offend the person watching it - you might want to get them to sign a waiver. And yes that does kind of take away from the spontenity and verboten bit of it, but really you're holding the rest of us up anyway.)

Ok, so the rest of this month will be devoted to elevators.

React (II)

A third law school friend got engaged. And her brother just got nominated for an Oscar.

In other news, I stepped on my Johnny Cash CD and broke it in the car this morning.


In my "honesty" post, I mentioned that my father is one of my best friends. I should probably include my mom in that category too, but every once in awhile she does something that makes me want to completely banish her from sight for a couple of weeks (which works out since she lives a gazillion miles away).

The problem is that my mom is an incurable packrat. And I'm not. I start feeling claustrophobic if I own more than five pieces of furniture, including the kitchen table chairs. I don't buy more than I need at the grocery store - a quart of milk rather than a gallon is just fine. I limit myself to one moisturizer at a time, and four towels are plenty, thank you. When I travel, the greatest compliment I receive is "your backpack is so tiny." Yes, it is. That's so I can pack up and hit Wyoming at a moment's notice. Like when the debt collectors start knocking down my door.

The packrattishness has become a joke in our family that she doesn't find funny, and therefore the purchasing of the fifth blender because the other four were lost in the fray continues. Every once in awhile she realizes she might have too many of the same thing, so she comes up an excuse to come down here to give it to me. And I turn around and immediately donate it to AmVETS. Those people love me because that merchandise is still in its original packaging.

My father often comments he's too afraid to have people over to dinner because they may never return from a trip to the bathroom and we will find their corpses, arms and legs askew, behind the hundreds of dolls and stuffed animals she seems more attached to than my sister or I ever were.

I've had several little interventions with my mom over this. I point out again and again that we don't have the same taste (I like my abode to be like a hotel room, except even more lacking in personal effects) and hers conjures up images of flowery parlors in the redneck town where I grew up where one can never have enough lace or pink.

But no. No, no, no. She's my mom. She's not supposed to listen to ME - that's a role reversal. So tonight, when I returned from a long day at the office I was greeted by seven large boxes at the bottom of my stairs. All of which contained dog beds.

I have two dogs. Just two. And they already have a nice big bed.

Maybe her point is to have somewhere for my guests to sit when they come over. Like a nice little harem vibe going on. But I usually resolve that problem by having my parties in the garden or dragging the garden furniture inside.

She just called BTW - and I probably somewhat deflated her enthusiasm when I asked her why I have seven dog beds. I should have anticipated the answer, which is what the answer always is with southern mothers:

"They were on sale."

My sister and I make a point never to buy anything on sale. We will go out of our way to drop $40 on a white t-shirt, and that phrase is why.

To be fair, it was really only six dog beds, and she says she'll take two of them back with her next time she visits so they have a place to sleep in the good ol' NC backwoods.

The seventh package was an incredibly heavy rolling pin. I'm not sure what this is for either. I actually don't have what those fancy realtors call "counterspace." All rolling of stuff needing to be rolled would probably have to be done on the floor. And no one wants cookies that have been rolled on the floor. That's disgusting.

I didn't give her any grief about this one though, because it can make a highly effective weapon. And is certainly cheaper and more time-efficient than going through concealed weapon training in Louisiana.

Love you Mom. But please stop wearing socks with sandals. Please.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009


In college (and probably too long after) I was a big fan of the honesty games. You know, you get together with a lot of people, get too drunkenly uncoordinated to play quarters and so move on to games like "I Never" or "Truth or Dare."

(Occasionally, if the drunkenness had moved to a point where no one could articulate a thought clearly, there might have been some "Spin the Bottle" involved. I don't remember though because I was usually passed out in the closet from being paired with myself for "Seven Minutes In Heaven.")

Anyway, I was thinking about this because several of these kind of games have cropped up in our little blog rings wherein we interview each other. And frankly, it might be a little refreshing to move from the alternating moody heartbreak self-pity/delighted with how ridiculous life can be posts and just answer something plainly for a change. I mean, it's not like anyone I don't already know or have the common ground of chronicling my days with doesn't read this. I mean it's not like my employer or any of my clients know about this blog.

It's sort of like group therapy. That makes you develop carpel tunnel.

Anyway, the rules, according to Mizz Rachel, are as follows:

A) first list 10 honest things about yourself - and make it interesting, even if you have to dig deep! B) pass the award on to 7 bloggers that you feel embody the spirit of the Honest Scrap!

As a prelude, I would like to think the inventor of this game for not threatening impending doom should I not fulfill the second condition.

1. I have an astounding number of moles. Truly, it's amazing. Someone counted them once some years back and it was in the triple digits. I had a close friend who once comforted me about my moliness by saying that each of them represented a lifetime I had lived. I liked that idea until I started thinking that maybe the SIZE of the mole represented just how amazing that particular life was. And most of my moles are pithy little freckles. Pithy little freckles = pithy little lives. Al;so, I was somewhat traumatized when a dermatologist decided one of my larger ones had to go. Since then, I feel as if some of my collective unconsciousness has disappeared.

2. I really get annoyed when people talk about celebrities. I think celebrities are just normal people, and I don't worship normal people. I actually don't even care about normal people. Once I realized that I'm just as hot as most celebrities, I stopped even imagining that their lives were as interesting as mine. And don't get me started on "actors" who are basically worshipped for pretending to do stuff they could never really do. I also get unreasonably angry when people start talking about celebrities, but don't want to really express that anger. So, instead I just smile and nod and thank god I get an important email in the middle of a lunch where colleagues were comparing Sundance festival celeb spottings.

3. I lie about the number of siblings I have. I have a little sister. I also have an older brother who is dead. That's obviously upsetting for a lot of reasons, but it's really awful when you are in a situation (such as a networking function) where people ask you how many siblings you have. I'm not a good liar, so I end up saying "I have a little sister" and then I pause like I'm going to continue, but I don't. This is because I've learned that the person will then ask, "so what does your brother do?" and I'll have to admit that his current occupation is being dead. And then they'll ask the worst possible things people ever ask which are "how old was he?" and "how did he die?". And all of that is really complicated and none of their fucking business. Plus, a mood-killer. I've decided to reserve all talk of dead brothers until the time I have a son and name him after my brother. And that's it.

4. I sometimes wonder if I love the idea of being heartbroken over someone for over two years. It's like I imagine myself as The French Lieutinant's Woman, or some widow walking the coastline mourning for her man lost at sea, when, in reality I helped him into the boat, handed him some salt peter, ordered "anchors away" and cheerfully waved him off. I'm starting to think this ridiculous pining is serving two functions. First, it sweeps me off into a comforting moroseness on which I can blame any unexplainable mood changes which are probably just hormones, or stress, or eating at restaurant with a poor sanitation rating. The second is that it keeps me safely out of reach of ever having to have feelings for someone again.

5. My father is one of my best friends. Please don't go all Oedipus complex on me. But no two people in the world are more alike, and that's because we are both complete assholes who love taking the piss out of the crazy things going on around us. My dad was kind of a nutso religious strict guy when I was growing up, but of course after I figured out no one can REALLY stop you from doing what you want (at the tender age of eight) he somewhat mellowed out. Now we talk about pretty much anything - actually everything. And my dad understands things like sometimes running away IS the best solution, fidelity and kids are overrated, you are supposed to freak out when you put on 3 pounds, and white men should not the only people ruling the world - but for the moment they are, and I hope I raised you to stick your dick out there too.

6. I often wish I had some more exotic linguistic or ethnic background. When people ask me about my "roots" I guess I could say "well, there's the Italian, the Polish, the Scotch-Irish, the English, the Norman French and some Cherokee thrown in for good measure." The true answer is I'm a friggin' white American and until someone teaches me how to make a calzone while yelling "capisce?!" or gives me a share in a gambling enterprise, I guess I'm going to have to live with that description.

7. (Related to #6). I often overcompensate for being a friggin' white person by trying to travel to as many places and learn as many languages as possible. For the latter, I'm lucky. I pick them up easily, and don't care if I sound like a retard as long as I get my point across. I have a secret dream that I can say all the right things in one language I haven't found yet. I also like making love in different languages. Sometimes those are the only words I pick up.

8. I am incredibly vain. For those who know me in real life, you probably find this impossibly hard to believe since I am usually wandering around in either workout clothes or a suit whose jacket is improperly buttoned with my hair piled on top on my head. But the amount of time I spend in front of a mirror is truly ridiculous. And I'm not even doing anything useful in front of it (unless it's pretending to be Neko Case). I secretly wish I could sit all of my immaculately groomed friends down and get some lessons.

9. When I feel like I've gotten the shit end of the stick I can go really overboard. I've gotten better about this, but I think a really good example is when my ex did something that really hurt me and I drew up a contract wherein I made him promise to 1) ship me our telescope back from Canada and 2) never talk to me again. Oh, and 3) take care of a hospital bill from Montreal when I had a weird anaphylatic reaction and had to go to the ER. I had jsut finished clerking at a couple firms so the contract was all legalese and bitterness. Like "Wherein (ex) admits that he is the lowest cretin to ever crawl across the earth...".

The best part is he signed it and mailed an original with a time stamp back with the telescope. Then a month later he contacted me, and I contacted him back and that went on for a year, so not only was the contract completely embarrassing, it was also nullified by our subsequent conduct. I hope he didn't keep a copy. Yeah, he probably did.

10. I am at times absolutely bewildered to be alive. Since I was a child I often feel like I'm not quite in my body, and that things move and speak only to me. Like life is just gathering around me to point out the truth in everything, and I often glibly follow. I learned to read tarot cards a long while back, and I have to hide them from myself because sometimes I feel like I can't believe things are random - but then a cynical side of me thinks the fact that the universe is gathering forces JUST TO LET ME KNOW WHAT'S GOIN' ON is a little tenuous. But maybe the universe has a large budget and can do that. I still look for the messages, and I still follow them. So far, I've done okay. At least there's no permanent damage.

And so I'm finished. I'm sending out secret invites to my 7.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009


Okay. So I have definitely pulled my share of practical jokes in my life, some of which I am particularly proud. And I've had them pulled on me. So far, I've been a pretty good sport. But that ends now.

To whomever thought it would be funny to sign me up for a Jewish matchmaking service, you will be in a world of pain once this chaleria* finds you.

Besides the worrisome identity theft issues, I am not actually Jewish. The closest I have ever come to being Jewish was when this drunk girl at a school function asked me which temple I went to, and when I told her I was Catholic** she told me I looked Semitic. At first, I thought she said I was ANTI-semitic, so it was awkward for a moment, but we worked it out.

On a segue, my sis has this thing where she's convinced her whole squadron she's Jewish, and everytime I go to visit her, I almost screw it up. I probably almost screw it up because I'm not Jewish, but then I almost screw it up because then I do overkill - like I say things only a goy would say. Like when one of her pilots said to me "Gee, she's in kind of an un-Hannukah-like mood, huh?" I'll say "Yeah, I forgot to bring her dreidel***" and then I think, "Oops, went too far." Sorry sis.

Anyway, so I start getting all of these random calls from this Jewish matchmaking service telling me I filled out a questionnaire and I try to explain that I didn't and I'm not Jewish or in the market for a mate and I thought that would resolve that.

But no, these guys are so persistant they make a prom date look like a choirboy.

To try to relieve myself of this burden I asked them to send me a copy of the questionnaire I supposedly filled out. I've been making a point to stay away from the internet post-Ambien pop ever since that unfortunate incident where I ordered a lot of furniture from Ikea that I had forgotten about until they told me they were getting ready to ship it, so I'm pretty sure I wasn't trolling for matchmaking services recently. However, when I looked at the questionnaire the resemblence to what my own responses would have been was uncanny.

Whoever this was knew me really really well.

Despite my protests, they still haven't stopped calling, which is the annoying part. I suppose they've figured the religion bit can be fixed (um no, conversion takes time and an actual belief in something), and I am a bit of a shiksa. That's right. I suppose it will resolve itself with the method I use with anything involving relationships. I just won't answer the phone. Ever.

Ok, who did this?


Oh, oh, oh.

I know.

Well, we AREN'T Jewish, and you can't fool Navy Pilots forever. You can fool them for a really long time, sure, but not FOREVER.

You just wait little sister until this shiksa gets her claws into you. Chalmayiah! Oy vey!

*I would to think my Jewish college roommate for teaching me that word. Except she didn't have to put it in the context of "Keep your hands off my matza balls, chaleria!" Or get pissed off when I thought that was funny.

**I'm not anymore. But I like idols.

***I refuse to even think about the number of Yiddish misspellings in this post.


I think therapy's kind of silly. I mean I, like a lot of people, have gone because we all have "issues" or what I like to call "realistic reactions to how shitty things can be."

I gave up on it because I would always end up liking my therapists, and so then I wanted them to think I was "cured" so we could be real friends. Like drinking buddies. But I guess they didn't see it that way, so the magic had to end.

Anyway, I was thinking that blogging is like my therapy. I mean the goals of therapy and other groups are to first identify the issue and then take steps toward resolving it. I have managed to do this with my blog. It actually resembles how I resolved my drinking problem, and it only took two steps.

First step: Identify your issue ("I have a drinking problem").

Second step: Resolve how to be aware your issue ("I realize that I have a drinking problem, and that is why I'm going to be really aware of my alcoholism as I down this Irish Car Bomb."*)

*Sometimes your own awareness can even make others aware of your issue. Congrats! That means you're done!


At a recent get-together, a friend and I confessed our newfound obsession with the "Missed Connections" ads on Craigslist. And thus followed an evening where we constructed every possible Missed Connection ad that would garner the most reponses from the general public.

For example, it could not be this:

"Really tall dude with bubble butt and black beret who interrupted a friend and I's conversation about Missed Conversation ads by shoving us away from the bar with said butt whilst talking to large woman with bad tattoo in total disregard of bar etiquette."

I mean that probably wouldn't get a response because that guy probably doesn't even know how to use a computer. Jerk.

No, we were thinking more along the lines of:

"Person moving at relatively rapid pace in Audubon Park on Saturday."

You could narrow it somewhat by saying "with dog" or "looking somewhat sweaty" or "pushing one of those dorky running strollers" but the responses would still probably echo in the millions.

Of course, the curse of the missed connections is that one secretly yearns to be the subject (target) of a missed connections ad. There's something flattering (terrifying) about thinking that some stranger (maniac) might find you so striking (vulnerable) that they could place an ad (lure) in a respected forum like Craigslist and enchant (murder) you.

I mean, I'm pretty sure there have been a few about me. I can easily be the girl with a ponytail you held the elevator door for, or the girl telling her Mom on her cell phone that she might have a gambling problem. I was DEFINITELY sure that the girl who threw her shoe at a car whilst screaming at them to respect the goddamn traffic lights was me, but that ended up being in Mid-City and I really try not to go there. And perhaps it was a strain to assume I was the hot blonde bartender with large breasts working at 3am at the Balcony Bar, but I sleepwalk a lot and might as well make some money doing it.

Of course, now I really do have missed connection ads on Craigslist, but that's because my friend is now putting them up to make me feel good. Because I reciprocate. That, my readers, is true friendship.

Monday, January 19, 2009


I had dinner with a law school friend I had not seen in a long time tonight. She had been awfully insistent on us getting together soon, which should have been a warning, because no one ever wants to hang out with me that badly.

And I got it as soon as she pulled out the engagement ring. Customly designed by her Ecuadorian architect hubby to be. She's glowing. I'm delighted for her, I really am - so REACT already, Erin. REACT!

I thank god for the peeps in my life who have broken the news through pretty cards and facebook relationship status changes, but really dealing with these events in real time leaves me frozen with a confusing panoply of emotions which aren't coming across as the happiness I want them to be.

I want to friggin' maypole her with happiness. They sound gross, but what I mean is when all the little girls dance around a maypole with flowers in their hair and they're all skippy and happy. I want to skydive her into flowerpetals of my support. I want to produce large squadrons of golden kittens to express the warmth and loyalty of my affections as she goes through this ... awesome time.

No idea why all of that is necessary. I mean, she has the ring, right?

Instead I am left with a strange numbness. I follow through - I hug, I coo at the ring, I get all the details - although sometimes in a manner more resembling a brutal journalist than a dear friend. But it's not quite what I'm aiming for in my new baby/marriage/engagement reaction. I do much better with funerals. Really. There's not a lot of ways to go wrong with "I'm sorry for your loss." And usually you are, right?

Maybe because it was my second law school friend to have announced the same news to me in 24 hours.

So, happy for you really. Mean it. Really, really, really.

On a lighter note, I have long been torturing my ex-boyfriend/law school buddy with the fact that my voicemail still says that I am in Southeast Asia for the month of August and will be back on this date in September and please call my family if there is something urgent. Of course I know it's January. This really only seems to bother him. Well, and once someone at my job, but everything bothers her.

The fun part is now I figured out how to set it so that only Ez gets that message. And it's because I love to hear him always start out my messages by finding a way to mock my forgetfulness every single time. It makes me smile. Even more than engagements. Or funerals, for that matter.


I really hate when this big ass SUV in front of you is taking its time, while taking up the road and generally slowing you down when you really need to be somewhere.

And then I hate it when you get to a turn and a compact car turns off in front of the big ass SUV, and you realize it wasn't the big ass SUVs fault at all, it was the little gas-saving car's fault. And you start thinking "well, that was really unfair of me."

Until you see the "My child is an honor student" bumper sticker.

And realize that your gut asshole instinct is always dead on.


I just received an email from 46-year-old ham guy wanting to know if I was still up for having a drink tomorrow.

Sure I am. I just love having drinks with stalkers. Maybe we can swap surveillance methods. Or at least I can tell him to please stop putting holiday background on the emails he sends to me because the holidays are over and I hate that crap. Also, I am starting to suspect that it has embedded cameras, and I'm not looking too hot here in my go-to-work-on-the-weekends gear.



Here's how I know you're my friend:

I've known you for years and never get tired of your jokes and your stories. Especially if they put me in a really good light.

You will let me borrow a pair of your panties if I need to, and be polite enough not to ask for them back. Actually, it's probably more like you're being forgetful and/or don't want to wear panties again that someone else has worn, but whatever.

You won't mind hearing about my broken heart. Again. Just like I'll really love it when you point out from a thousand angles just what a bullet narrowly dodged he was. Again.

You don't mind the fact that I laugh like a horse and often draw looks when in crowded public places.

You remind me that I said it was the last drink like 6 hours ago and stuff me in a cab with or without straitjacket.


You love dogs.

To my friends, thank all the nonexistent deities for you! Cheers, cheers!

Saturday, January 17, 2009


I've been fittingly procrastinating at work by deciding to reach out and eavesdrop on strangers' lives by following them on this account. The disturbing trend I keep finding (besides the fact I am not the only witty white person on the planet and there are probably a lot of others in line for that book deal), is that a good majority are unemployed.

Lucky. Bastards.

No, I know. Not really lucky. This economy bites the big one, and you need money to feed your kids, and your dogs and to afford an internet connection to keep blogging - because dear lord, it's probably kept quite a few of us from being checked into nut houses. Which are very expensive. So, when you get out you're still unemployed, still broke, still have no creative outlet and therefore will probably commit suicide. Which only goes to show nut houses are a complete waste of time and I really wish my friends would stop pressuring me to go and live in one.

I'm fine, thanks.

Let's be fair. I don't hate being employed really. But there are a few things I find less than desirable about it.

I hate not being able to blog about my employment. I'm a lawyer, a neophyte lawyer, who works on incredibly sensitive shit. That I can't talk about. EVER. In a way this is a really good thing because I went to law school thinking I would wind up in some cool top secret position in the foreign service, or the CIA or the FBI or at least the SPCA. Helas, I could not qualify for those positions because I a) wanted to actually make money and b) couldn't pass my background check because every time they called my so-called-trustworthy references, they would say shit like "Erin? Working for the government? You are aware she is supposed to be in a nuthouse, right?" or "Erin who?"

I know that attorneys aren't supposed to talk about their cases anyway - but that doesn't stop a lot of them from doing so. I think this is mainly because many attorneys are really not very interesting people, so they depend on the haphazard drama of the misfortunate people who have landed themselves into court to please a crowd. I feel bad for transactional lawyers, because they don't get to see a courtroom and that means they're just straight up boring and never get to live under the impression they're entertaning other people at gatherings. Or maybe they do. Lawyers drink a lot.

I am mum about my work, both because I did swear to uphold the code of ethics, but more importantly my blog (under a different address) has been discovered by my employer before and I think the last thing I need is to lose my job over some juicy details I decided to share with my internet audience, however limited.

They're not really that juicy anyway. Besides, I'm interesting - or trying to become so. I suppose I could always become a pathological liar. God knows I've had enough experience with them.

My main problem with employment these days (besides the fact that student loans are eating up what I once considered to be a generous salary), is that my filter has never been great on the best of days. And I work in an environment where it's uncouth to walk around with a foot in your mouth whilst holding a coffee mug - and so I'm starting to turn into this mad recluse who always keeps her office door closed, never has anything exciting to contribute to the lunch conversation, and has actually considered getting one of those SARS masks to make sure I can never make any sort of awkward, inappropriate or inadvertantly racist remark again. I also don't like when I make a joke and no one laughs.

The fact that other people I work with do it regularly makes no difference. While I hardly judge them (and wish that I could write it down in some form other than my secret files), I know not everyone's so forgiving about people's slip-ups. I don't want an evaluation in which they point out that my response to a retired partner's story about his dog horseplaying with its bed being "Well, I have two lesbian dogs who totally get off on each right in front of me while I am watching The Office" might not have been the professional thing to say.

That might really affect my job performance scores.

I guess I'm happy to be working, since it gives me something to do, but oh - how sometimes I long to spread my arms wides in my concrete and glass tower and spout obscene and horrible thoughts like a Tourette's patient on meth. And then go back in my office, close the door, and act as if nothing ever happened.


So, I have a pair of boots. They were a pair that I bought myself way back when I had reached the ripened age of 24 and anticipated a Prague winter. I had picked up a job working at a small Irish pub tucked in an alleyway in Starometske. In many ways, they would be my saving grace (very few men could refuse them) - in many ways, my downfall (many Czechs stopped to ask me directions). I couldn't tell you which was worse. No, I can. The former.

So, I have a pair of boots. The thought occurred to me because I wore them today, in contrast to the high-heeled little numbers I usually parade at work as proof that I have something left after my student loan bills have come in. And I ended up wearing them out with a friend from school which turned into a night in the quarter with a lot of friends from school and their friends.

At some point I had to call it a night. And I didn't need a cab home, because I wanted to walk to sober up and enjoy the fact it wasn't nearly as freezing (52 degrees) as it was this morning (45 degrees). Apologies to those in less complicit climes, but this morning the cold wind in my face made me want to smack it down and teach it who's alpha around these parts.

I walked home and realized I was slowly falling in love with the click-clack of my own heels - the resoles by an expert Czech in Spring 2004, the time I knew I was leaving it and a long love behind. The calfskin refused to wear out, preferring to trot along for many more years, but the soles couldn't take it anymore. He replaced them lovingly. They hold out lovingly. I wear them lovingly.

So, I have a pair of boots. I can walk in them and strut in them and run to some form of transport in them. I can clack in them. Perhaps I can kick some ass in them. So far it has not been required, but I feel pretty sure they'd come in handy.

I have a pair of boots. And that's not quite all.

Thursday, January 15, 2009


I am not used to this sensation and it is oddly potent...I am even asking myself like my doctor about the symptoms:

What does it come from?

How many days is it going to last?

Can it be cured?

Do they make medication for that?

When will I want to eat chocolate again?

Why do I want to take a bath every 15 minutes?

Would it have always been so cold in Montreal?

Is it that I always loved you, or that I needed my idol?

Was I not yours?

But for the last question, I never ask shouldn't think it, because if it were reduced to a question of idolism, that would mean that it's ideas that break hearts and not human beings. Then are ideas what we love in the first place and not people? I don't want to be in love with an idea now, because in all my life before ideas were all I had and I needed something a little more corporeal. Before ideas were enough and now? I'm so tired of ideas - I can't take it anymore.

Ideas can't kiss you, nip the tip of your nose, make you bad pasta with the air of an expert chef. Ideas have no beating heart, but this boy, I'm not so convinced that he had one either.

Ca fait tellement mal. It hurts so much. Insupportably. Omnipresently. It says "good morning" and then "good night." The face of this hurt is rather handsome, and I times I take a chance to glimpse at it. Maybe one day I will try to catch the hurt in the handsome face with a special camera and I will send you a picture. I'm going to dedicate my life to study this slippery hurt, to trap it in a cage where it can't hurt others, to try to understand it. But at least I know, it can never hurt me now more than it did before.


I lived in South Korea for a year right out of college.

Tonight I was nostalgic about old Canadian boyfriends, and realised maybe I should remember they're not so special and I can therefore wax poetic about quite a few nationalities. (I'm like the United Nations Delegate of Relationships - or maybe just sex). And remember I had a good life before he even waltzed onto my stage.

Anyhow, some old notes by me on a Korean boy I dated rather seriously while I was there. Sadly, our love did not outlast the culture shock. Nor the fact that my Scottish friend teased me relentlessly about him having a gold tooth.


The other day my mothers' class and I were discussing signs of affection. Koreans are fairly sterile in greeting--a quick bow is expected, although if you're a woman (or even for the men) and close friends, holding hands and linking arms is quite common. Although couples do not hold hands.....anyways, my point: We were discussing how we say goodbye and one of my mothers said "Every morning my husband wants to kiss me goodbye before he goes to work, but I am too shy to let him." They've been married 5 years and have 2 children. I often wonder how children get procreated between two people who won't kiss each other goodbye in the morning.

But I'm generalising ("you're always generalising," Inju scolds me), still the sexual rigidity between properly married people as opposed to the sordid underbelly of legal prostituation is really bewildering. Men expect their wives to be virgins when they're married and if she isn't there all all sorts of convenient surgeries offered in Korea.

It's strange for me to be a Western woman here dating a Korean man. Inju and I step on each other's toes a lot, regardless of how tolerant we each believe ourselves to be. For instance, he literally won't allow me to smoke when I'm around him. He about had a heart attack at Alison's bon voyage party when he came out on the balcony to discover me and a gang of fellow smoker destroying our lungs together. He then promptly found my bag and confiscated my cigarettes for the evening, which was fine because I had had too much anyway that night.

The funny thing is that the fact that smoking is harmful to my health is second on his mind. He's more worried about the fact that people may find me trashy if I smoke, which is funny because the only times I really smoke heavily is with other foreigners and we're _all_ considered trashy. But I guess you only smoke here as a woman if you're a prostitute. Though I have seen more than my share of Korean women sneaking a quick smoke in the bathroom whle desperately waving perfume and mouthwash around trying to disguise the smell from their husbands.

He also complains when I use profanities and told Jeremy I was like a "fuck factory" the other evening, at which Jeremy about died laughing. I guess Inju didn't realize that while he was trying to poetically expound on the fact that I say "fuck" alot, the translation came out quite differently. To be honest, Inju's English is infinitely better than mine, I think he memorized a thesaurus, but I can still catch him on the idiomatic expressions, the homecourt advantage of any native speaker.

The funniest thing is that he can't stand when I speak "lovingly" (his word) to him in public. "Lovingly" is probably, "pass the pitcher dearest, " which is actually directed at anyone near the beer. But Inju thinks it's somehow equivalent to us having sex on the table in front of everyone. I suggested that while they're thinking that, we might as well do it, at which I got a sigh of impatience. Sarcasm is not appreciated as much in the Korean sense of humor.

At any rate I was thrilled to death when at my birthday part he actually KISSED ME ON THE CHEEK in front of EVERYONE! I knew it was a huge sacrifice for him to lower his standards in front of my fellow way-guks, and it meant a lot. At any rate we scandalize each other, me with my brashness (I'm always daringly sneaking kisses in the riskiest places around town) and him with his damn confucianist Buddhist eastern medicine stoicism. More than one argument has ended with "And no more green tea! Ever! I can't drink anymore Inju!"

Also, Korean men never give women compliments here (which once again has me wondering about the whole race procreates), so I've had to do my fair share of training. My usual greeting of Inju is "¿¡³ç! ĪÂù Ãß¼¼¿ä!"Along the lines of "Hello! I wan t a compliment." Well, he'd better give them. For my birthday, one of of my male students actually gave me a kiss on the cheek in the teacher's office. All the women there giggled. However, Inju couldn't believe he did it. "How dare he! (when I told him) What affrontery! (Yes, he used that word) Surely, you're joking!" Again expect the unexpected. Whatever you think is a rule never is for very long.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009


I wish that people would always remember to shut the gate or door behind them. This is partly to stop letting things escape (like my dog Magda who loves to run wild at the slightest hint of freedom), but also to keep me protected, inside.

I don't do well when doors aren't fully closed behind people when I've made it clear I NEED them to be. I don't react well to letters out of the blue from old boyfriends you've stopped talking to because they once hurt you like you thought no one ever could. I don't need to hear the secretary's chatter after a visitor to my office leaves. The bedroom door must stay closed because that's a way to save myself if there's a fire. The bathroom door stays shut because ... well, for obvious reasons when you live in a small apartment.

I just need closure of gates and doors and that's really all I wanted today. I'm a little sorrowful, and I'd like to weep behind them.

Monday, January 12, 2009


I just finished watching the surprisingly delightful "But I'm a Cheerleader," a drama wherein a cheerleader's uptight family, thinking she's a lesbian sends her off to an institution to get de homosized. Among the delights of the artistic bright settings was the surprise cameo of Julie Delpy as a "lipstick lesbian."

And this gorgeous song. The only you tube video has Victorian lesbians in it, so if you're adverse simply cover the screen. Freedom.

Sunday, January 11, 2009


I love that game where you add "in bed" to the end of every fortune cookie's fortune and how it always makes sense - sometimes bitingly so.

Except my fortune today didn't seem to yield that pleasure:

"Freed from desire, then you can see the hidden mystery [in bed]."

That doesn't make any sense. In fact, this sounds like a really ugly scenario - like "you get really turned off after your partner reveals the previously unknown fact that he has herpes."

Oh. Now I get it.

Game on.


As if the "niece" comment wasn't enough, I recently got semi-stalked by the old guy. Okay, he wasn't staking out my house or anything, but here's the deal. I haven't written him back an email in awhile because I've been swamped at work, or swamped procrastinating at work by blogging.

Anyway, he kind of freaked about this about three days ago, like Yahoo was having its own special conspiracy against us getting together to have a drink since there had been some issues before with me not getting his emails. (Although part of thinks the real issue was, even though I wasn't getting his emails, I wasn't really writing him to freak out about it like he did). Anyway, I just really haven't responded since then (work, puppies, blog, occasional shower).

SO, then today I get an email from him at Yahoo freaking out about whether the emails he sent got through. (Yes, I just didn't have time to reply). And that was annoying enough, but then he UPPED the ante by sending me an email AT MY WORK EMAIL disclosing that he:

1) was aware that sending an email at my workplace was weird since he had to google my name, land on my page and inspect my attorney profile (which, he informed me, has a very nice headshot. Yeah, thanks.) BUT

2) he was very concerned that I had fallen off the face of the planet and was currently headed directly toward the sun (well, not really what he said. Sardonic license here) SO

3) he then did some further investigation and found my landline number, called it and left a message. And sure enough he did. Creeped, creeped, creeped out.

Oh my, my. The buck stops here. Besides, my cheap psychology reads suggest this guy might have some attachment issues. As in latching on to women and sucking the complete life out of them.

Sadly, my first reaction was to tell him I had some trial in Malaysia, but now since he has all my personal contact information he would probably call my office phone every day that I claimed to be gone, and I'd have to put my secretary on stalker alert. (Although she'd be more than capable, the woman's got balls.)

So, I did the adult thing. The, write him back and say "it's not you, it's me, I'm tired, I'm cynical, I'm stressed, I'm CURED for fuck's sake." let's just leave it at that. It was very firm. Let's hope it sticks.

This is why, instead of meeting new people, I have often thought of relying on my back-up list consisting of boys I have known well a good deal of my life and could probably marry. Unfortunately, it's down to about three and one is spending like five years walking across Syria, Iran, Georgia, and all those -istan countries ;learning languages and writing about villages, and not understanding my protests that white western women don't fare so well in those places. So, he's out for the moment. Oh well.

But honestly. after the shudders that went through my body at the sound of that guy's eager voice on my answering machine - I don't think "leave me the hell alone" is looking like such a bad status.

Saturday, January 10, 2009


On another note, Netflix has just sent me several movies about women who date male creeps and discover their true (lesbian sexuality).

I think that would also make an excellent facebook relationship status.

OK, I'm really going to finish my work now.


Of course, like many people, I have my complaints about facebook. I mean not to the point where I plan on cancelling my account or blacklisting it for a day, but there is, like everything in life, room for improvement.

I would also like to extend an irritated look at all the people who are contemptuous of facebook, because we all know they won't join because it will reveal how little people like them.

I mean, of course all your facebook friends are people you can run to in times of need and borrow money from. I don't have a single friend that is someone I only crossed glances with once in my law school hallway whilst smiling wanly. Or who wants to be my friend because a friend of a friend is my friend and I will add to their number. No, no, no. Not MY facebook friends. I would never stoop so low as to be friends with those types of people so an ex-boyfriend can see how ridiculously loved I am in proportion to his sad two-digit friend number.

The issue I've had with facebook lately is that, while I've been able to go overboard on listing everything I like and trying to be extraordinarily witty about my educational and work background, I am lost as to what to put as my "relationship status."

That's because none of the existing statuses really describe my situation (single, married, in an open relationship, engaged).

I don't like to think of myself as single, because I definitely have more than one person trapped inside this body.

I'm not married.

I'm not sure what "In an open relationship" means, but if that's dating someone while screwing someone else, and then making sure the person I'm dating finds out when we break up in order to hurt their feelings and make them feel inadequate - that's just being in a relationship. Which doesn't fit my current status either.

Not engaged.

Is there anything else? No? Let's move on then to some new relationship statuses I feel facebook should introduce to fit my and many others' situations.

1. Pending divorce.

2. Divorced.

3. Divorced twice.

4. Pretty sure the last one was gay and terrified the next one will be too.

5. Spending a lot of time at bars hoping to get lucky.

6. Spending a lot of time at high schools hoping to get lucky.

7. Prefers to have the entire bed to myself.

8. Have unsuccessfully consulted a Jewish matchmaker without being Jewish.

9. Will marry for green card.

10. Looking for my baby daddy.

I'm sure there are more...anyone?

Thursday, January 8, 2009

Ham (II)

So apparently there was a misunderstanding between myself and the 46 year old, as he had written me emails I had not received and I thought he'd reacted to my "cured" comment. In reality, he had written them and contacted me today to ask if maybe I didn't want to talk to him anymore.

Well, I did. Kinda. I mean, I like our emails but three things happened recently to make me rethink the whole idea of seeing him again when he's in NOLA.

1. I have a shitload of very stressful work, and since I feel like an idiot on a good day (perfectly normal for a first-year associate infuriating people keep telling me), I know I will be working 70 hour weeks for the rest of the month. That makes me too tired to make witty conversation. Or deal with potentially romantic dinners.

2. He never really responded to the fact I pointed out that I am somewhat cynical about love. Well, somewhat being an understatement. I think it's important that he at least acknowledge we're not exactly on the same page here.


3. He joked that when we go out to dinner everyone will probably think I am his niece.

Geesh, I wonder why I'm starting to think this is all a bad idea.

Today the cashier at Rouse's, a college student with a son was really curious about quiche. She needed to know everything about it, like it was some exotic food. She fascinated me, my heart went out to her. I hope her inquisitiveness and smiles will outlast the myriad of assholes this world produces.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009


Sifting through some old contributions to my MP3 collection, I discovered the following, which had made a kick-ass running companion. And it's artsy. Kind of.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009


Now I have one more reason to hate George W.

Thanks for waiting for me, VLAD!!!

Dictator (II)

For Ann (and all of my other faithful readers) I have included below a video which will allow you to choose WHICH dictator I will make your child into when you procreate and send me baby pictures. For the aesthetically-tempered among you (like myself), you even get to pick how sexy they are.

For the true dictators, I'd personally go for Islam Karimov. Hot.

For the dictators they just kind of threw in there, why ol' Vladimir Putin. I would have sex with that guy on top of Georgia any day of the week. He may have me poisoned with radiation later - but hey, I had sex with Putin so all my life's goals are accomplished anyway.

Sadly, no women dictators made it on the list this year. Therefore, should any of you have female children, I will allow you to choose from among women who take their dogs back to the pound.

Monday, January 5, 2009


Yesterday my neighbor and I got into an argument with the construction workers next door about how loud they play their music, in which one decided to display his command of English by saying "Go fuck yourself."

And I said "Y tu mama tambien."

I thought he was going to kill me. I don't know why. I was just referring to Cuaron's modern classic.

Later, the foreman made him apologize. I told him, while smiling brightly, that we all have bad days. He's probably outside slashing my tires right now.

I'll be glad when these fuckers take off. They're making me kind of Ron Paulish.


After the revelation that I am actually a lot happier in shallow fling-type relationships with no attachment (and really, folks, this is not denial - my last attached relationship left me crying on the bathroom floor for months), I considered having drinks and dinner with an older gentleman I had met at a party. Older being 46.

Anyway, after an exchange of very nice emails getting acquainted and (as always with me) engaging in the random delicious witty flirt, he stated that he was an incurable romantic.

Well, I kind of got that since he had been married twice before and was still trying to get into someone's pants.

But of course I wasn't going to say that, because he's kind of Richard Gere-ish and I was going to get a free dinner out of the thing. And I'm really trying to work on my tact although I sometimes feel that the people who think they deserve tact are the ones with the least consideration for anyone else. Anyway...

Instead, since he HAD been rather forthcoming and candid, I decided to tell him that I was, in fact, a CURABLE romantic. In fact, I informed him that I have been romantically cured like a Christmas ham. With extra salt.

I haven't heard from him since.

Oh well. Next?

Sunday, January 4, 2009


A word about Homer. Lame.

I recently got this great idea via Lists Of Bests, which lays out reading lists, to finish up their 452 (or whatever) greatest books of all time. To my credit, I had already read like five of those, so the inertia was there to tackle the Iliad.

First observation. No wonder they always excerpted this stupid thing, because it is easily the most boring piece of crap ever to be written. It is so bad, I started thinking maybe I need to watch "Troy" again, just to be able to appreciate Greek literature.

"But," I'm sure I'd hear my high school world lit teacher say, "Homer was blind and just recited it."

Yeah, no shit, because the thing is like a combination of of extraneous detail and some E! Name-dropping fashion show. And I know what that means. It means the dude was stalling to come up with a plot. Rather unsuccessfully, I might add. Ther plot was thus: Lots of strong brave men fight many battles, in the end one gets dragged around by a chariot.


Also, yesterday's reading involved a four paragraph tome on the etymology of a fur hat - whose houses it had been in, who wore it, when someone got lice on it and infected the whole squadron. "And it itcheth like the bites of valkeries with tails tipped in the fire of the ancient mountains of the Danaans who eat the long grass to regurgitate when their stomachs soureth, in the manner of dogs."

Yeah, crap like that. Still want that bad-ass checkmark though.

I hope the Odyssey's better.


To be fair, I haven't been great about broadcasting the fact I have a blog, mostly due to the fiasco when several of my fellow employees discovered it last year and I think there were some entries about lesbian sex on the moon or something. I was probably just being figurative, but people are such pervs.

I am now going to begin a campaign of reaching out and letting people know about this blog, and then reminding them like three times a day to read it.

And of course, follow it!

Friday, January 2, 2009


It may be pathetic. But I am following my own blog. Maybe then people will feel sorry for me and follow too.

Yeah, this is a good way to find out who REALLY matters.


Okay, I admit it. I wish I had a little bit more of a following for this blog. I was going to install one of those little gadgets where it tells you about how many followers you have and it said 21 followers, so I got all excited because most of them are strangers. But then when I actually _added_ the application, all I got was a big fat zero.

I thought maybe a way to remedy this situation, which is obviously gnawing at the most insecure parts of me that puts a lot of effort and bitterness into this thing, was to take a look at the "blogs of note" to see what made them so damn special.

Today's blog of note was a series of name-dropping of NYC restaurant and fashion sites with corresponding links. "Okay," I thought, "I mean I guess that's useful, if slightly pretentious. And it did take awhile to embed all those hyperlinks."

Still, I had higher expectations for the next one, which was about a girl's dog's political views. "That could be interesting," I thought. "I mean, what does the political world look like if you are only 3 feet tall and like to hump things?" Well, apparently the political world looks as dull and pedantic as the dog's owner. After reading a couple paragrahs about how people need to buy less during the recession (no shit, Fido) I was left with the impression that my own dogs could probably write more interesting blogs by stepping on my keyboard and then licking themselves.

I gave it one more try with the next. The next blog started with a staggering description of how a small rust stain in a white sink had begun to spread like a antibiotic-resistant bacterial infection (that was my description btw, nothing that poetic was in this particular "blog of note") and then how her prodigious 8-year-old tried to fix it. And failed.

You know what? Your eight-year-old can't even make it as a plumber. And your blog is lame.

At that point, I just gave up.

Screw you blogger. I think this whole "blogs of note" thing is completely rigged. I am not blogging for artistic value. I am blogging for popularity and appreciation and it's high time I get some, before I have to go out and create a bunch of fake accounts to get followers.

Not that I need your approval or anything.

But please like me. Pretty please?

Thursday, January 1, 2009

New Year

Unfortunately, I've still got about 4 weeks before the true fucking Year of the Rat is over (by far the worst for horses, and this has been more than a self-fulfilling prophecy), but we had a hoot anyway.

We went to a friend/colleague's place, who I went to school with. I marvel at him and here is why. He is this extraordinarily good looking southern boy who ALWAYS looks impeccable. It's like he doesn't even try, but there it is - collar straight, Sewanee manners in place, private school geometric angle to his belt buckle. And always with a kiss to the cheek with the correct contact and decorum. His one flaw is that he only dates southern women that are as impeccably dressed and polished as himself. I think it was the doom of his last relationship...her lipstick was not always drawn on perfectly. Such is life, I suppose.

I will never be a southern girl. I wore a racy designer dress that I picked up in Maine that makes me look about as large as an earthworm and occasionally flips a flattering pic of my upper thigh and doesn't require a bra, and a $300 pair of the world's most perfect hipster boots. My hair was a mastery of shining sheeth, with a sexy flip over the eyes, and for once I actually used lipliner. (Lesson learned). It definitely had the effect on the boys, but I could tell by the looks of the girls that I had neglected to respect the monochromatic satin sheeth, spend all day at a salon and wear sandals that guaranteed death from either frostbite or a topple down the stairs code. And I didn't care. If that's being a native New Orleanian girl - well, fuck it.

I had a good time anyway. But I'd be damned before I went to the bathroom to make sure my New Year's hat was straight.

It's been one of the few times I've been happy with myself in a long time. Yah 2009 - good start! (Now, if Chinese New Year would hit...).