Archive for the 'Gruyere With That Wine' Category

Because sometimes I don’t want to be notified of “FREE PORN” every 12 seconds

June 13, 2007 | Filed under: Gruyere With That Wine

“I have heard there are troubles of more than one kind.
Some come from ahead and some come from behind.
But I’ve bought a big bat. I’m all ready you see.
Now my troubles are going to have troubles with me!”
~Dr. Seuss

Being one of those “I have such good intentions, but fuck me, the intentions are like my red carpet to hell” people, I’m always ‘really trying’ to do something.

Which explains why this morning when I intended to wake at 6 to use the elliptical, I literally rolled over and put my head at the foot of the bed, next to a random pillow and the ring that I’ve been looking for, for the past week and a half. When I politely asked my mother when she would be ready so that we could stop at Dunkin Donuts on the way to the office, she bellowed back something about ‘being ready when she’d be ready’.

I then kindly suggested possibly streamlining her morning routine, which involves sponges and serums and maybe a quick eyebrow pluck and spending five hours meticulously applying lotion. Because lord forbid, that spot on her inner arm is not adequately moisturized.

I’ve been dependent on her driving me to work because my car is apparently in body shop hell and will not be coming out anytime before my 30th birthday. And ‘it’s not her problem’.

Oh and then we went to work. TOGETHER.

I started The Arbitrarian at 9 in hopes of having it done before noon. But was derailed by some asshole whose blog came with bonus pop up ads. And doesn’t everyone want to start their day with Anna Nicole having lesbian sex with a brunette? If so, I can tell you exactly where to go.

Then I had to keep myself together while I compiled a laundry list of things to discuss with someone and the hour at which that person would be leaving until next week, slowly crept up. I had to shut my office door and listen to ‘Dirty Diana’ seven times while my bottom lip quivered.

It’s either Wednesday, thereby destined to be a shitty day or someone’s Klonopin isn’t doing it’s job. I’m going for the latter.

A minor case of homesickness

May 20, 2007 | Filed under: Gruyere With That Wine

“Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.” ~Charles Dickens

Before offering to pass me a joint, Neil asked how Upstate is treating me. It’s treating me like it’s red headed bastard stepchild who stole the neighbor’s 16-year-old son’s virginity after filling him up with Magic Hat and shots of vodka. I’ve already been in a car accident and from what I understand there are points involved and an increase in insurance and this must be the result of sleeping with the above 16 year old.

And with that, I made an impromptu meeting/overnight trip to DC - at my old office building which probably doesn’t help with the whole separation thing. During which I did my most favorite activity: randomly ringing people’s doorbells and just showing up; which is just something that I do. Only to be showered with hugs and baby kisses and wine and possibly singing selections from Rent. And perhaps a vodka tonic or two.

And it was all so, so good.

But since then – yesterday – I keep waking up and forgetting where I am and where I’m supposed to be. Though there’s something to be said for having two residences and two beds of my very own. I woke up from a nap this afternoon and briefly contemplated getting up to finish packing because I had to have a flight or something to catch to somewhere because I don’t actually LIVE here. But I do live here. In a small town where there are Targets everywhere but no Sephora and with my mother. But where things are significantly cheaper and when the washing machine starts dumping water all over the place, my father can be right over.

Yet it still doesn’t feel like home.

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.

Par for the course

March 25, 2007 | Filed under: Gruyere With That Wine, Straight Jacket, The District Of Columbia

What a good country song is made of

March 22, 2007 | Filed under: Gruyere With That Wine, Just Add Alcohol

“Every path hath a puddle. ” ~George Herbert

Kimber invited me to partake in a few drinks in Chinatown and given my faulty relationships as of late, I decided to give up a night of misanthropy for a pitcher of sangria.

The sangria being mostly weak and Kimber being my esteemed counterpart when it comes to all things fermented, we decided on an Irish bar down the street for she wanted to partake in ‘real drinking’ and I am nothing if not a ‘real’ drinker.

Upon approach of the second establishment an ID was required and none was produced on my part. Though I shook it off and we decided on Clyde’s. Though annoying and with a royal stick up it’s ass because of it’s claims on popularity, it’s there and easy and there wasn’t a burly black man at the door with a blonde Mohawk. So off we went.

We sat at the bar. I batted my eyelashes and smiled to pilfer a bar stool from two gentlemen who then proceeded to check out my ass. The bartender took our drink requests, Pilsner, Bud light…and before getting to me, he requested an ID.

Never have those words yielded such a look of pure pain and sorrow and essentially heartbreak. I stammered and stumbled something about taking my license out of one bag before putting it in another as I had recently been flying.

He responded with the look of ice cold seriousness that he needed an ID.

I ordered a diet coke and proceeded to look away in order to fight back tears when he actually produced a diet coke that tasted like ass flavored water, while those around me enjoyed the fruits of Czech labor. I literally went from jovial to humming a little diddy about how my man done left me and my ID has gone astray. A very sad and lonesome tale of a poor girl trapped in a bar unable to enjoy her much needed ketel one and tonic because she didn’t have proof of age*.

But by the look on my face you would have thought that my dog just got run over by a hummer just minutes after finding out about an unplanned pregnancy and a tornado done blew my home away. What can I say? I take my drinking very seriously.