Archive for April, 2007

Just like death and taxes

April 17, 2007 | Filed under: Gruyere With That Wine

“I personally believe we developed language because of our deep inner need to complain.” ~Jane Wagner

Right around this time last year I wrote these two gems. Both were my way of putting my anger and disdain into fine literary prose, peppered with the word ‘fuck’ a few dozen times just for good measure and dramatic affect. I wanted those around me and visiting and breathing the same oxygen in this tiny nation’s capitol of ours to understand the basic principles of dealing with several thousand smart Type A personalities, as every year we Washingtonians deal with the same shit and frankly, something needed to be said. I wanted them to understand that if you get on our nerves we will have no choice but to shove you down the White Flint metro escalator. And do y’all know how long that sucker is?

Which leads me to this morning when I took an impromptu trip on the metro. In a perfectly fine/excited/anxious mood but good nonetheless; that is until I encountered the first set of escalators. I wanted to walk up on the LEFT side but could I? Of course not, because standing on the RIGHT side would really be too much of a hassle. No, no, please do take up the entire escalator with your fabulous Jordache fanny pack and I’ll just stand here and smile and wait while you enjoy all that DC has to offer.

On the first escalator, “Please move over” I said it nicely, yet with an air of authority which says that I live here and you are totally just not following the rules, but I understand. The offending party quickly moved.

On the second escalator, they were just STANDING. Just standing still acting like they didn’t have a care in the world. And given the surly mood I find myself in without some good old fashioned medication, I did as any average PMSing female would do: “STAND on one side, WALK on the other. Why is this so difficult for you?” Then shoved my way through, huffing and puffing, with a trail of angry turistas behind me yelling that they were in fact tourists and/or new. Maybe I didn’t get that memo from the way they just take up all the damn space on the little tiny escalator.

Later was free cone day. And oh my lord, don’t get me started. But there’s nothing like a line of children under the age of 7 screaming about ice cream and generally flailing themselves around, that will force a woman to seriously contemplate tubal ligation.

Good news

April 15, 2007 | Filed under: Just Add Alcohol, Whoopdie Doo

“The world is round and the place which may seem like the end may also be only the beginning.” ~Ivy Baker Priest

How 99% of the population reacts to fucking fantastic, mind
blowing news:

- gracious thanks
- a good old fashioned BJ
- equally mind blowing sex
- giving thanks to jesus/buddah/moses
- veuve cliquot or Cristal

How I react to fucking fantastic, mind blowing news (short of Random House calling):

- deep sobbing shoulder shaking tears, in which my mother offers a paper bag of some sort so that I do not completely hyperventilate
- xanax
- movie popcorn with extra salt and butter
- xanax
- two Blue Moons
- two glasses of 365 Merlot (mmm, tastes like ass with a hint of fruit. Goes best with chipotle burritos and xanax)
- three ketel one and tonics
- crying
- xanax
- told Andrea no less than 4 times that I have a linebacker neck so my necklace would have to be like 21″ (I may have said “I’m built like a SF 49er.” She may have wanted to drop kick me from 3000 miles away)
- the fetal position
-sticking my head between my knees
- cuticle removal courtesy of my incisors
- xanax

True love

April 12, 2007 | Filed under: Humdrum

“He felt now that he was not simply close to her, but that he did not know where he ended and she began.” ~Leo Tolstoy

On Monday evening, I drove home and noticed a compact car behind me. At the light I noticed it was a family: a husband driving, the wife in the passenger seat and a boy, about 12, leaning against the back window.

At the next light, they were directly behind me in my rearview mirror. It was that moment that I glanced over at the mother with her index finger up her left nostril: She was a pirate in search of her buried treasure. Convinced there’s gold up there, she keeps on digging.

And I sat in complete awe. While her husband kept chatting away. When she finished she pulled her entire finger from out of her nostril – still nasal mucus runs deep, apparently – she looked at the contents on her finger. Inspecting thoroughly and I half expected for her to bust out a macro lens, just to get a good look at her specimen. Then wiped it on the car interior and continued conversing with her husband.

Neither were dismayed by what had just occurred. They smiled, the husband chatted away and yet no look of horror or disgust nor did he push her out the car in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue or bust out the Purell.

I suppose that’s what we all want in life though: Someone who looks past our faults We just want someone who can see that there is more than just gross things and boogers and imperfections. It’s human nature to need someone who has We all just want and need someone who can love us and ignore our foibles and realize that we all just need to do a little deep digging every once in awhile.

What would you say?

April 9, 2007 | Filed under: Humdrum, Straight Jacket

“I’ll tell you in another life, when we’re both cats” – Vanilla Sky

Though I doubt I should have to explain myself, like ever, I feel the need to acquiesce to my gut and reiterate that I do not believe everything that Oprah says. I do not necessarily believe the aforementioned statistic. If I did believe such drivel then the title of my previous post would have been “Oh my fucking hell”. I would’ve been less jovial and unable to write three coherent words together let alone four entire paragraphs. I also would have swallowed my tongue, drank myself into a stupor, cried a bit, frozen my eggs and found a sperm donor all before writing Part #457 of the stupid shit that Oprah says. Or better yet, Part #457 of the stupid shit that Oprah’s production staff feeds to her and perhaps those women are feeling lonely in their powerful positions and University of Chicago degrees and so why not pass off their depressing statistics to the masses? That way all can partake in the joys of permanent celibacy.

I should probably stop going on these bitter tirades because in the end I seem so rancorous but I cannot because the neurons going from my brain to my fingers say otherwise. And yet thinking of how things have been going as of late, I suppose there are things that I wouldn’t dare write less incur the wrath of all those around me. So I step back and then skirt around the issue, which manifests itself into a myriad of crap ass half stories. Which begs not one but two questions: 1) Why can’t I stop with crap ass half stories but instead must go for the crap ass half segues? 2) What won’t you ever write about?

Always the bearer of good news

April 8, 2007 | Filed under: Humdrum

“Lust is easy. Love is hard. Like is most important.” ~Carl Reiner

On Friday afternoon, after a rousing morning of sitting on my ass and then lunch and then a slight OH SHIT panic attack on the walk home, I settled down to stare at Jason Morgan for an hour and then some Oprah. Unlike others, I have no strong feelings towards Oprah. I’m ambivalent at best. I’ve been known to read ‘O’ and went to a taping, but I don’t believe that everything that comes out of her mouth is gospel which means that I also do not believe that she can walk on water.

So, she’s talking and getting America’s opinion on everything from Elizabeth Edwards to Anna Nicole Smith to Cadbury cream eggs: love ‘em or hate ‘em? And then she goes onto speaking of single women as this really fantastic demographic destined to a life of singledom 51% of the time. Then she decides to throw out the real kicker, the coup de grace of single statistics: 70% of black women are single and will likely stay that way forever.

I wasn’t sure whether or not to dramatically roll my eyes at the absurdity of such a statement, die, or drown my sorrows in a large bottle of Maker’s Mark. For if I’m to be perpetually single then why not just drink my way through life and indulge in chocolate fashioned Easter baskets EVERY SINGLE DAY?

Her reasons were something along the lines of black women waiting for their perfect black male soul mate and given the ratio of successful black women to the successful black men that they envision themselves with, was something like 50,000:1. Again, all of this according to the high priestess Oprah.

Obviously the validity of this might very well be skewed and I have probably mentioned before that I could give a fuck if a male is black or fluorescent magenta, I’m just interested in MEN. Period. So it might be possible that this whole 70% thing may not pertain to me. Or perhaps things could change before 2025. Who the fuck knows? I figure it’s best to not obsess about such trivial matters. And if I do end up single for the remainder of my life, it will have less to do with any specific criteria I have for a future partner and more to do with the really classy way I just housed a box of gummy bears and a Godiva chocolate bunny.