Workin' my *** off

I'm back to three jobs now and I love it.

I'm tired...

but it's awesome.

And no, I'm not counting the band. Perhaps I should though. OK, fine. Twist my arm. You win. I have 4 jobs.

This time it's different though. I actually have a direction in life. It's awesome. I hope to get more and more directional... something I can attribute to the Republican, I guess. There's something about being with an accountant that makes you want to get your ducks in a row...

The gauntlet was thrown, and I couldn't resist. So, yeah, 2 of the 4 jobs pay my bills. And the band is my passion. But the other, the newest... it might actually lead somewhere. And I can't tell you how excited I am.

Now I just need to find the time to sleep.



I've been a bad friend this week. I've been ignoring more phone calls, completely unintentionally, than I'd like to admit. I swear I'm not trying to be rude. ...I've just been hanging out with the hottest guy I know. And the sweetest. And the most charming.

So, when I'm not working all night, I'm thinking about him all day, and it's a really fun feeling.

So... forgive me. I'll try to call tomorrow. Or Monday.


Mr. No-Game

So I'm addicted to Facebook right now. I've been trolling my HS classmates, my college friends, my preschool-mates, and my sorority sisters. It's a numbers thing. Not that I'm comparing my number of "friends" to anyone in particular. I'm just addicted to making that one number grow. People with sitemeters may be able to relate with me: It's much like the numbers challenge you face every time you check your hits.


A close friend whom I rarely speak to these days (but we play a mean game of phone tag) has always had her own obsessions: Getting into heaven the old-fashioned Jewish way, by making 3 matrimonial matches (and you thought those bubbies did it out of the kindness of their hearts!); making me one of those "matches"; and converting me so that the resulting offspring will also be Jewish.

It's a sickness I'm not sure she'll ever get rid of, and until she does, I'm forced to be the Ace in her back pocket: the Shicksa for all of the Jewish boys that say they're not "into" dating Jewish girls "right now."

Facebook has helped this friend keep her obsession(s) alive with very little intrusion into my own life. Case in point: she recently IMed to tell me that there was a strapping young man who was interested in me. She had forwarded him one of the less-flattering (in my opinion) pictures of me that are on my profile from my birthday (remember the red dress?).

He works for some kind of defense contractor (get in line, pal!) and so could not talk to me directly that day, but had his obnoxious NYC friend "screen" me. And then the man himself and I played some facebook-message-tag. Here's a classic, a message that I think sums up his character, as he represented it to me:
"Tragic news. But as I always do, I will regroup and move forward. Life's road blocks are mere character builders for me: they make me stonger. Like wild chicken.

So your friend Amy is cooking up a little something for us Saturday, I think you should find time between all the heavy lifting to show your pretty face and corresponding sweat stains.

As for my busy schedule as a top secret intelligence official - I am not sure how I even have time to write this. It is tough juggling my online stalking, fantasy sports, g-chat and saving our asses from the terrorist enemy. Man I am good.

Oh - so my point is that i''m not busy and we should get drinks sooner rather than later before you fall for a cuter and smarter version of myself.

So here I lay in my queen size, midnight has struck, and the stomach has settled. It is finally time to turn it over to E, Turtle and the gang. My correspondance will have to terminate.


Can't you see why I was subsequently unable to keep myself from banging down his door? I even politely told my friend that I kind of had my own nice, Jewish boy these days (that I'd found myself, thanks to DS) but she was un-deter-able. She gave the guy my phone number and then he proceded to text message me, too.

Some call it "witty," but I call it an obnoxious and failed attempt to channel Adam Sandler.

Facebook=Friends, NOT dating.

But that's just my opinion.


Acting the Girlfriend

I've been single for a while now. Like, years.

I've found that single is most fun when I have a rotation going. Because I watch too much Sex and the City, I guess. Because I take the "eggs in one basket" saying to heart. Or because MamaRoar always stressed "dating around" back in High School when I was still too gawky for anyone to be banging down the door. (I'm over it. *Sigh*) Anyway.

It's been rare that I've come out of my usual MO: Rotation Mode. (Which, when you think about it, was just an insecure, defense mechanism more about hedging my bets than actually trying to attain intimacy). The instances were rare, but the reasons relatively simple. It was the kind of conversation that went on for hours. Or I really admired him. Or he ate it like a champ. ...but I digress. (Another post, another time).

The thing is, I've now found myself in a weird place. I'm dating one person who has respectfully requested that I not date anyone else. And I'm excited to comply. But MO-changing is difficult. I'm not sure enough people give that topic the lip service it deserves. Can that really happen over night?

Don't get me wrong. I'm not accepting any more dinner invitations. I'm not giving out my number and I'm not drunk dialing the fuck buddy. I like this guy. But years of being breezy, flirtatious Roar is a hard habit to shake.

I actually even considered not telling the people at my new job about this new thing because, well, it's new. But also: I wondered if they'd treat me the same way.

I guess the quandry beneath all of this is:
If I'm not "Available" who the fuck AM I?

And further, a process question:
How on earth am I now supposed to relate to other men?

Like I said: I like this guy. Any suggestions? Lip service, here we go...


I'm going to be glued to my computer today, from 2-4pm. And no, it's not cuz I'll be blogging (though I'll probably be reading then, too).

I'm going to be listening to the Local Lowdown at SACReD (don't worry, it's not Christian radio). Cuz local bands need everyone's support. Cuz that's just how I roll. O yeah, and cuz I was there helping to record it. ...and what a(nother) fun medium!!

Read me but never met me? Wanna hear my live-canned voice? Tune in!


Pussy Prerogative

It's a saying I use constantly. And yes, I made it up. I'm brilliant with alliteration.

Now, you can't say it anywhere. I'm sure if you said it at the office you'd get labeled "cavalier." I'm (almost) over it. Anyway.

I say this before or after the first shot I take of the night. Because I can't take a full shot. And instead of being endlessly berated for being the only sorority girl that ever matriculated from the University of Maryland that can't slam a good, hard, cheap one down, like the nerdy kid on the playground, I came up with a witty one-liner to deflect the bullying.

Actually, though, it's more like a 3-liner. Cuz you can't just say "Pussy Prerogative" and expect them to know what you're talking about. I let the words sink in first, while they have that quizzical, goofy grin on their face before I follow it with:

"Because I don't take it in one, and I don't open my throat for anything."

Some people don't let me off the hook. Some continue to tease, but it's in a much less embattled way than it undoubtedly would have been. Most, though, are so tickled at my reference to deep throat (omigosh, was she kidding? she can't be serious!) that they let me take it in how ever many I want.

Think you've got your crowd? Follow the above with one of these classics: "As long as I can get it in me, what difference does it make?" or "It's all in the suction, anyway."

Take Pussy Prerogative with you to the bars and disperse it. Because, honestly, I've been saying it by myself for over a year and it's getting lonely. Just last night someone said they'd never heard it before, and granted, they were a new friend, I'd like one day to have someone I've just met chant it with me. (OK, I'd settle for a knowing little laugh).

; )


Peach of the Week

A quickie:

Talking to one of the nicer guys during my shift last night about his music, etc, his friend came up behind him and said:
"Come on, man. Stop hitting on the help and let's get out of here."


MTV Halfway House

So, I've moved. Kind of. More on that later... when I have pictures of the hulking men that helped make that day happen. But I digress:

The reality of the next two weeks is simple:
A Mid-Month Move-Out Date +
A Beginning of the Month Move-In Date =
Roar the Squatter

Big thanks to K for keeping this chick off the streets. While other people (that I know and love!) have loads of new junk in their respective APTs, I'm living downtown in the neighborhood's newest Halfway- I mean, Party-House.

4 girls in a 2 bedroom is soo Summer. It reminds me of college when I lived in the frat house. (OK, I did it two Summers and loved most minutes of it).

This situation is like a weird, dwarfed version of the Real World, where not all of us had to get the same job (cuz we're all holding down different degrees of a "real" one) and some of us are related. We even have the "Odd, Reclusive Chick" who hangs out in her room all day with the door closed reading papers that are strewn about. The last time I saw her was 1am on Monday night when she came out in a towel to adjust the thermostat.

And who am I in this little MTV-inspired reality show? The sassy couch bitch, of course! (Thank G-d it's comfortable!) Frankly, I'm just happy to have a roof over my head each night, and the chance to be part of the "Halfway House" Show. So, again, thanks to K for making it all possible.


Blogger, Blogger, Everywhere

Last night might as well have been a blogger happy hour. It was suprising and fun to see so many of them in my usual (and unusual) haunts. It should be noted that last night's debauchery was planned by Marge, to incorporate one of her newest friends who just won her the Employee of the Month Award. Read about it HERE.

Originally stopping off at Home Base (aka Citron, My Turf, etc), I ran into the first, yellow headband blazing. I even met the new intern and it seems as though she's no shrinking violet. Few voices can carry over the masses and music that is Citron after 11pm. Good for her. She yelled something and walked away, leaving our hairy friend to bask in the fact that whatever she was handling at that moment was something he didn't have to think about. He was then able to turn his attention back to me.
"...your blog is dead. You don't come to the Happy Hours anymore... Where have you been??"

I thought about mentioning being fired, moving, going home, D moving out, house hunting, etc but I just said:
"The blog's not dead. There's just some big things going on."
"You seem too sober."

Totally pleasant conversation. It was startling. He told me when the next HH is (no, I didn't know), and I went to the bar for my first drink.

After about 45 min, we walked with the manager of Citron to Play. DCB and New Intern were trying to pick up girls on the street in front of the old "Ben and Moe's" when Marge and I passed. We were almost victims, til we were recognized.

Gotta say: Play on a Thursday is not Play on a Tuesday. I love Tuesday Play. Thursday Play, at 11:45, seemed like a meeting of the fat, ugly club. The fat, ugly, bumping-and-grinding club. I was not impressed.

But things picked up: KAC finally arrived with The Senator in tow. They both looked just as charming together as when I saw them last Sunday for Marge and I's tri-weekly entourage viewing party. And then there was that other CPMC guy. He seemed charming too, though I didn't catch his name. I wish I could give you quotes, but Play is not conducive to much conversation. Too loud. O well.

It was a fun night. Marge, who originally said she wouldn't be drinking, ended up taking sips of champagne instead. As for me, I let myself imbibe for the first time in weeks.

...And now I have to finish packing. Life, for a while now, is going to be one big blogger happy hour (if it wasn't already).


Motivational Music

This is my playlist while I try, desperately, to get some major shit done tonight. I have a fun night out planned with Marge tonight, and to justify the serious steam-blowing that will inevitably occur, certain things have to happen. Must. Go. Out. Tonight.

Maybe this combo will be as productive for you as it is for me. I recommend that the songs be played in exactly this order... though to be honest, the most productive thing I've done so far is write this not-so-imaginitive (let's be honest) post.

Rock the Boat - Aaliyah
I'll Be Around - The Spinners
You Don't Know My Name - Alicia Keys (Too bad about that interlude that now seems so-not-cool, huh?)
Put You On The Game - The Game
B.O.B. - Outkast
Aya Benzer (Royal G's R&B Mix) - Mustafa Sandal
Manhattan Groove - Mark Gorbeleu
Ama-Gents (Club Mix) - Brenda Fassie
It's A Shame - The Spinners
Parisien du Nord (Remix) - Cheb Mami and K Mel
Draggin' Days - Alicia Keys
Could It Be I'm Falling In Love - The Spinners
Higher - The Game



VH1 Soul

Who goes to Eyebar on a Monday? The person that's shooting a music video, of course.

Now, let's be clear: I may have, like, 3 seconds total on-camera, though I didn't leave the place until 12am. But that's not the funny part.

The funny part happened with the makeup artist.
"I've never done a white girl before...!"
I'm used to being the token in this crowd, but all I could think at that time was, 'Lord, Please don't let this woman make me look like a New York Avenue Hooker.' Turns out it was a valid concern, as I found out when I timidly asked:
"Is there really that much of a difference?"
to which she explained, as she shallacked my lips with the darkest plum that's ever been on them, that my skin simply soaks up much more color than the faces she's used to painting. I'm not sure she had come prepared to do any face similar to the one the boys had been calling "ghost" all evening. (I had, afterall, just walked in the bathroom and asked for a touch-up. I doubt my service had been budgeted.)
"See," she said. "This color would barely show up on me."
Comforting words when you can't see the mirror...

Then later, as she was finishing up, she said:
"I'm going to have to call all my girlfriends and tell them what I did tonight!"
I told her I was happy to have popped her cherry. ; )

Gotta say, though, it was more makeup than I've put on myself in a while, but I looked damn fine!!! Shallack, here I come! (For the club only, of course).

Check out Nimat's songs on this site. "Funny" is her first single off this album, and the one whose (correct word use if the video were a person, though I'm not sure what the correct use would be) video was shot tonight. Er, technically it was shot all of yesterday and that evening, which is officially the night before since it's 2am. Whatever.

Anyway: If VH1 Soul takes votes (and I think they do), vote for this song if you liked it, please. Same thing with any other music video outlet.

And... (I'm just curious) what do you think of the chorus??? : )

Goodnight, lovelies. See you on the flipside.


Cousin Comparison

Needless to say, going home, back to into the fold of my Mother's loving, outstretched arms this past week was rejuvenating. (Not to mention cost effective). But there were some uncomfortable comparisons to be drawn once there. If my professional and romantic lives are at a stand-still (and they are), my cousins put me to shame. (I am one of the 3 oldest. I'm not counting the younger ones. I'm sure I look accomplished compared to a 6th grader).

The cousin that was born 6 days before me (because he was concieved on the same family reunion- go ahead, say it: 'EEEEW!') is going to medschool in the fall. With his girlfriend. Of six years. Who will also be studying to be a doctor. An OBGYN, to be exact. They have never done anything sexual. And they're getting married next June. If I didn't really love him, I'd really hate him, you know?

And then there's the cousin that's 5 months older. Professionally, she's at even more of a standstill than I am. But it's not a big deal, because though she's known for tearing through the wrong guys (it was a bonding point for us) she has now found one that's nearly perfect. It's been 3 months and he adores her. His family even owns a dealership, too. (What's the opposite of an Oedipus complex??) She's thinking she's not going to have a career. Grandmother thinks she might want to be his wife instead.

And then there's me.

The family wasn't told anything about why I was coming home on such short notice, but they knew something was up. I had never done that before, never pulled a PTFU (Pop The Fuck Up). So the first night I got there, one of my 7 cousins, a sophmore in college, ran up to me:
"Roar-y! Roar-y! Why are you home?"
I wasn't ready to tell anyone. So I lied: "I got knocked up."
She didn't even miss a beat: "O great! I'm gonna be an Aunt!"
I told her I was kidding, but I didn't have the heart at the time to tell her she was wrong on two counts: I cannot and would not make her an Aunt anytime soon.

That simple, untold truth led to another low point later that week: I began considering what would happen if I was actually pregnant. Maybe I shouldn't take certain decisions for granted. Maybe that would make my life simpler. At least then I wouldn't feel so aimless. Then I would have direction. Daydreaming, I began to wonder what specifically I'd do in that situation... move home... go to grad school at night... write for the local paper...

Don't judge. I said it was a low point. I may be lacking direction right now, but I refuse to let my story get tied up that way. Surely I can figure out what I'm doing. Surely.

That's what this Summer will be: Figuring shit out in what I'm now calling the "Summer of Roar."


Oklahoma Diet

I stepped on a scale on one of the last days I was home and was shocked to see the number staring back at me. Though perhaps I should have been less surprised. After all, there are certain places that I simply must visit while home. Culinary must-hits, if you will. They range from fast-food to authentic barbeque-- but they all taste like home to me.

Braums. This was my first job in high school, and it still has the best milkshakes ever. Just ask for your chocolate dark and thick: they'll know what to do. Notice, if you will, that the "Nutritional Facts" for Milkshakes are, uhm, missing from the website.

Taco Bueno. This is a long-standing love affair that I'll never fully get over. Bell has never stood up to "Brain-o." At five, when Grampa pulled up to the wrong franchise, I just whimpered, "My OTHER Grandparents take me to Bueno." "Like hell!" he snorted, and around the car turned... ; ) This past week, I got my food brought to me, specially, cuz I announced that it was the 3rd time I had eaten there in a week. That's how you get VIP, baby!

Joes. This is an institution in my town. Not only do they have the best cheese fries, but it's the late night place to go, too. I have rubbed elbows with many an OSU student, while taking shots from the Joes bar. Incidentally, Ladies Night this past week was fun. I even bumped into the HS Sweetheart that night. *Swoon.*

Bad Brad's BBQ. This restaurant is the reason I refuse to eat meat in the Northeast. It just can't come close to what you get there. And don't lie-- you never knew where Pawhuska was until you saw that map, did you?

Last but not least:

Hideaway Pizza. YUUUUM! Love those fried mushrooms. They tout themselves as a Stillwater "Tradish" whatever that means. Still, I can't say no to Hideaway. Never.


Airborne Godless Absolution

I thought I had it made, making my flight reservations the day before, finding one with only one "layover" each way and under a gazillion dollars. (As it turns out, Southwest seems to think that if you don't have to get off of the plane, it isn't a layover).

Yet to learn the SW "Layover" Rule and still in a grateful frame of mind, I boarded my "final" flight of the day in Chicago, the second to last passenger to do so, yet exclusively (I would imagine) loaded down with laptop, takeout, bottle of water, and hot chocolate.

I spotted a middle seat close to the front and went for it. This choice was more than inauspicious, as in so doing I had chosen to sit next to two of the stupider men on the plane. (Again, personal inference).

Precariously edging into this seat, I could sense the hot beverage about to fall.
"Help, please," I entreated the man next to the window.
Ignoring the steaming hot chocolate I was referring to and it's position teetering on my laptop case, the man grabbed the skinny black bag instead. I watched in slow motion as the hot, creamy liquid spilled all over my laptop bag, my pants, and both mine and the aisle seat. Interestingly enough, the hot chocolate didn't hit the dolt at all.

The man who had stood up to let me into the row just stood there.
"I am so sorry. I'll be right back," I promised as I ran towards the cockpit for paper towels.
Due to the incompetent boobery I was met with there, it took me a healthy 85 seconds to get back to the row with the napkins. The fat, unamused man was still standing in the same place, scowling. He continued to scowl down at me as I scrambled to wipe up his seat, and then my own. It seemed weirdly apprpriate to look up from my crouched position and plead,
"Uhm, is that OK?"
I didn't, of course. But I'm not sure I've ever had to fight a similar urge.

I was mortified. I didn't even take the used paper towels back to the front, I just stuffed them in the pocket in front of me. Mr Fat Aisle Seat seemed pretty anxious to sit back down.

It wasn't until much later, after take-off, that I began to feel less guilty and embarrassed. At that point, the Peevish Potbelly pulled out Ann Coulter's "Godless."

I suddenly felt absolved, somehow. No wonder he scowls so much.


Pharoh's Doesn't Exist

I tried Connecticut Ave, Across the street from the Four Provinces, but clearly, it was not there like I originally imagined.

So I called information (411). They said it was Wisconsin and M St. #3222.

For the record, there is no 3222 M St. Just as, when I was connected to "Pharoh's" on M, I got a busy signal.

The meetup, I must then conclude, is a myth. Pharoh's doesn't exist.


Word Association (Co-op)

I thought Sharkbait's Word Association was cute and fun. So I've co-opted it, amended it, and made it my own... You know what they say about immitation. Isn't it interesting, though this was a WORD Association, I associated nearly a sentence for each? Overactive brain, I guess.

Wanker- Funny *ish.

Blogger Friends- Make me smile.

Real, Old Friends Who Happen To Blog- Priceless.

Stop Blogging- Don't tell me what to do!

New Blog- Stay Annonymous.

Drama- Queen.

LSATs- MamaRoar's Dream for Roar.

Da Playaz- Crush a lot.

Blogger HH's- Drama Central.

New & Improved- Wisk!

Utility Bills- Ruining my credit.

Nestle by Jenny Craig- A gross abomination of the best food group ever.


Pay to Park

I don't know how I always forget, but I do. Every morning, I tell myself that it's no big deal: I'll just save a 1/2 hr and drive in to work. What's an extra $5 for a little longer under the covers?

It isn't until I pull into the garage that I remember. It's a sinking feeling in my stomach.
Oh, Jeez. I have to talk to the Parking Attendant.

OK, yes, I have unlimited use of a very VIP "Reserved" spot that I never paid for. And it's nice. And he has let me use it for months.

At first, he just wanted to talk to me about the Bible on my way in to work. I'm from Oklahoma, I know how to handle those conversations. Now, these days, he refuses to take my money and asks me when we're going to dinner.

Now I'm annoyed. (Is that even fair?) How do I make it stop?


Where Was I Last Night?

B Girl covers it best.

And no, I didn't pay the $20 cover. Can anyone guess why?

But ooooh, yeah. AFI and Julie Dexter are amazing live. What a priviledge.

I'm surprised I didn't get whiplash. My head hasn't rocked like that in a while, hehe.


Snot Rag City

If you could have seen me for the past couple of days, you would know that I have been buried under a mound of dirty snot rags. I have camped out on my purple sofa and have already exhausted the cinematic reserves from Blockbuster and my neighbors.

As a result, I had some very witty things to share about "Old Gringo," a Mexican Western with Jane Fonda, Gregory Peck and Jimmy Smits. I'm sure you can guess the drift. (However, the movie might be worth the rental just to see Jimmy's butt as much as you do in the film. Ay, Caliente!)

In lieu of the above-mentioned wit, though, I thought I'd be real with you. More than my post-nasal-drip, and the headache that comes and goes-- more than the dirty dishes and drawn blinds-- something has bothered me ever since I caught this bug. The fact is, of all the guys that have asked me to dinner, or to "hang" or to "have a drink" etc, this past week, only one of those offered to come bring me something.

Daddy was the only one that even SUGGESTED that he might bring me tea. Give me a man that wants to clean my apartment, rent me movies from Blockbuster and bring me chicken soup, and I'll give you a truly loyal woman.


"Family. Redefined."

The hardest lesson I've had to learn (& relearn) since being away from my family is that though you'll painstakingly put a pseudo-family together for yourself, most of those elevated friendships will never be as loyal or as solid as the relationships with your family. Many won't even pretend to be.

And it's fine. I'm fine. It's been over a week, and I doubt she's even noticed. She's busy.

Here's my question though:

If this is what it's like with your girlfriends, how can one ever create a more solid and real family with a man? What would make a man want to do the unconditional stuff that so few girlfriends will? Can you ever have unconditional anything with someone not related to you by blood?



DistrictSiren always tells the same 2 stories when introducing me in mixed company. They both involve music class. The second occurred on the first day of Sophmore year, when I shuffled into (class shall remain nameless), in my flip-flops, jean skirt and Sorority Billboards.

According to DS, of all the students that tried to get special permission to “oversubscribe” to the class (technically, I didn’t have the credits to take it), I was the last to ask and the only one allowed to do so. Supposedly there were others before me that actually showed up on time. Puh-leeze.

I spent the next 4 months killing myself for the ‘C’ our professor gave me; and DistrictSiren spent the 2 after that fighting to be bumped up the extra .5% points for an ‘A.’

I was then, of course, thrilled when the same professor waltzed into my bar Friday night. He waited for me to be cut and then we chatted between shots at the bar.

“I don’t like that story,” he said in response to DS’s version. “It makes me sound like a pervy teacher.”
“No. You’re the nameless, faceless teacher in that story. It makes ME look like a bimbo.”

The part of the story that DS doesn’t tell is what happened during and after finals that same semester.

I had filled my blue exam book first with the answers I knew (not many) to the questions he asked, then second with all of the other, random crap he didn’t. I labeled that section of the book:
Things I Know That You Didn’t Ask
Creative, I know.

“What is it about you, Roar?” he asked after one of our shots last week. “There’s always been something about you.”

During Christmas break after that semeseter, I bumped into the professor at Chipotle. I couldn’t help but ask.
"So, have you graded them?”
“Well…? What did I get?”
--“What did you need?”
“To pass.”
--“Well, then…”
“But-- Oh. I mean…”
--“You’re a major, right?”
--“So what’d you need?”
“Well, a ‘C’ but-”
--“Well, then…”
“Oh, thank you Professor! That’s great!”
--“No problem. Now what are you going to do for me?”
“Huh?” I didn’t get it. “Anything! What do you want?”
He could tell I didn’t get it. He just smiled. “See you later.”

Maybe my Professor was a cad. Or maybe he just has verbal diarrhea like me. Are they really mutually exclusive propositions?

It was so fun seeing him Friday that I brought the professor to Dragonfly with my group. He walked into the sterile first floor and all he said was:
“Oh, wow. I should have brought drugs.”

I’m guessing: A little bit of Column A, a little bit of Column B. Whatever. I still think he’s awesome.

No Hiatus

I'm pretty sure that to actually have a hiatus it has to be planned. But you know me better than that. You know I'm too messy to plan anything beforehand. Were I Travis, or Larissa, or Velvet, I would have said something before or during.

But, alas... I didn't know this was merely a vacation until it was over. Forgive me for abandoning you.

There, there... Mama's back now.



The concept behind social networking is fundamentally flawed.
The premise being, you like your friends, they like their friends, and therefore, you should like your friend's friends.
Uhm, no.
On the ideological level:
It was just simply different way-back-when; when morality in America was more standardized, homogenized. But with the onset of social change, our tolderant attitudes toward those who believe in everything from premarital sex (I'm a fan), to interracial adoption (also a fan), to the death penalty (I vote no), our social networks are getting more confusing. Can't the people with opposing views carry cards, or something?
On the interpersonal level:
No one likes everything about their friends. And these people, being seperate human beings, can tolerate certain things that you can't. I cannot get along with people who are disloyal, dishonest or impolite. But even "polite" I'll bend a little on, and I happen to know that some of my close friends put up with things from their own close friends (putting them in dangerous situations, putting them down, being competitive, etc) that I would not tolerate.

Clearly, "mixing friends" can be a mixed bag.

Case in Point:
OC this weekend was lovely. I didn't go to Seacrets once, and didn't want to. I was staying in a beachfront condo wth K and her roomate, (let's call her Kristy). Kristy's long-time guy friend passed out on our couch Saturday night, then took Kristy, K and I to Bayside Skillet the next morning before spending the rest of the day with us. This concrete salesman and Salisburian was the perfect gentleman.

Alone on adjacent hammocks later that day, he and I began discussing the intricacies of life. Cuz that's just what you do on hammocks. (Or maybe it was the Dirty Bananas that we were using to "hydrate" our burning flesh).
"It's so weird, Roar. I know this guy. He's like a brother to me. He barbacked for me for years. Then, when he got into Maryland, we got him a job barbacking at Bentley's. But come to find out, he's in jail. Last year, some kids were taunting him, so he lit a broom and set the house on fire."
"Yeah, I know. I sang at the Memorial Service for the student who died in that fire."

I think he had expected me to sympathize. But obviously, I couldn't. I wasn't mean about it. But while our perfect gentleman wondered how his friend could have kept the secret so long, I couldn't help but verbalize:
"Maybe the court would have gone easier on him if he had confessed at the time. Someone turned him in, right?"

We went into more detail, but the gentleman eventually left it at this:
"Well, Roar, I had no idea. I'm sure you have a different perspective than I do, given the people you know."


OK, so this is an extreme example. But it is also extremely true. Don't get me wrong, I don't think this guy was a bad guy just because he knows someone who's in jail. But the circularity of this scenario was uncanny. How does life happen like this?

And more to the (general) point: Is it any wonder that the friend-of-a-friend test, these days, is anything but foolproof??


Ghost Town

I saw Scooter-the-Football-Player in Georgetown Saturday evening. I found out quickly one semester that the list of girls he'd made out with in my sorority was about an arm's lenth long. It made it less flattering somehow.

Later that night, after jumping in a cab near my place (that almost never happens) I spotted another ghost. He was sitting outside at Logan Tavern and though I just happened to spot him, I would know him anywhere. His face is exactly the same. He still cocks his hat exactly like that. I've never seen another body hold that position as naturally as his can. It was him.
...I considered having the cab stop, but that seemed a little shrill, especially considering I know exactly which doorway to find him in these days. If I really wanted to talk to him, I would have approached him by now. As it is, when in Adam's Morgan, already happening to leave a venue at the top of the hill (again, going too far out of my way would seem shrill), I make sure to walk past and catch my cab up there, at that corner. Because it's not about wanting to talk to him. But if I have to live knowing he's still alive, I want him to do the same...
But I digress. It was unnerving seeing this unfriendly ghost away from his doorway and perched in my brunch spot. It almost made me forget how nervous I was for the evening- for a minute.

Even later, I was braiding Woz's beard hair and checking my voicemails. That random Oklahoma number from earlier that day? It had been a very friendly ghost: the voice I'll never forget, my H.S. boyfriend calling to check in.

Clearly, for Roar, the ghosts come out on Saturday night.



There's nothing to say.
Each of the comments that were left on Wednesday's post were completely fair and accurate.

O, so you want more?

I was prepared for the violent reaction to Wednesday's post, and each concerned and even pissed comment was completely valid. I respect each of the strong feelings against drunk driving that people posted. Those commenters are, without a doubt, completely correct.

I've never lost anyone to a drunk driving accident, but I'm sorry for anyone who has. I realized as I posted this week: I was the villain in my own piece.

The guilt I mentioned in the title was not about thinking I was "bad luck," as luck clearly had nothing to do with what happened (or worse, what could have happened) to my friends; and could have very easily happened to me. Rather, I have continued to feel horribly guilty that I failed to protect myself and my friends last Friday night. I feel like I unfairly skated through that situation unscathed.

I considered "Lucky and Guilty" my pennance. An acknowledgement of what did and what could have happened. A way to also be held accountable, though not by my insurance company.

But to those that thought that this blog's topic was inappropriate, I've got to say one big "Fuck You." The blog did not glamorize an ugly situation. Nor was it meant to. Drunk driving is what it is: a stupid, incredibly dangerous thing that happens often and with serious consequences, as each of the commenters with personal stories proved.

The blog was intended to begin the discussion that it did, and I was happy to take the fall, because few of us are completely blame-free. Because too many people have IM'd me: "We've all done it..." And because I'm old enough to know better.

This weekend was the first time that the consequences of drunk driving hit so close to home for me, and I realize, that makes me very fortunate. I thought this was worth discussing HONESTLY and without rhetoric; admitting my own personal irresponsibility.

And that's just what I do here, and will continue to do. Cuz I didn't give the URL to my family, and I'm not putting it on business cards. I try to keep the drink/bar/club lists to a minimum (unless they serve the story at hand), but I'm only going to write about what I know (for better or worse...). I promise never to post pictures of people I've never met, and never, ever will you find videos of asian porn posted here just so I can say: "I'm doing something original."

What else can I say?


Lucky and Guilty

Sorry I've been so preoccupied. This weekend, one of my very good friends wrapped her car around a pole.

I went out with two people last Friday night. It was a drunk night that began with shots of Jameson and Jaegermeister before I even got off work. I had more with a (guy) friend once I was cut, at 10pm.

My best friend, (a former sorority sister), then joined me at the bar, and she quickly caught up with shots of Patron. She was the reason I was out: I got a text from her around 9 that said she needed to blow off some steam. And "blow off steam" we most certainly did, complete with dancing on the bar.

Our banner evening ended with Kier (sp?) Royales before she dragged my drunk ass out of Science Club. Who knows where our guy friend wandered off to...

She took me back to my car, still upset with her boyfriend, and drove off in the rain.

After another pit stop at Citron, I drove home, too.

It wasn't until Saturday night that I got the news. She's OK, she's just bruised, but I feel horribly guilty.

Then last night, while waiting tables, I found out that my other friend, the guy we lost while in Science, had also gotten in an accident that night. He got in his car and ended up driving his Spidr into a road divider. Within 20-30 minutes of my girl friend's accident. He's also fine.

Though there's not a scratch on either of them, they've both totalled their cars on inanimate objects. It could have been much worse, but still.

I feel like bad luck.

I'd like to say that I'll never drive under the influence again (the way I promised never to have sex again) but I can't-- not completely, anyway. Driving wasted I'll clearly never do, but what about the gray area? I just drove home tonight after 3 drinks (and sushi) at Dragonfly...

UPDATE: MamaRoar (a lawyer) just put it all in perspective. That long Chipotle lunch line is soo useful! I've been preoccupied, clearly, because what happened to the 2 people that went out with me that night could have easily happened to me, too. Definitely a wake-up call.

And the Gray Area (aka 1-3 drinks in a night)? MamaRoar broke it down like this: If you've had more than one drink in the hour or less before you're going home, don't drive. Even if the accident wasn't your fault, if you're breathalized, you're screwed. (Did I mention she's a lawyer?) I thought it was an interesting perspective I hadn't considered, though. As was her next piece of advice: No matter what your friends think is OK at the time, you're the one could be maimed, and they can always be on to their next best friend...

But her Bottom Bottom-Line was this: If you think you'll drink at all, don't drive at all. And if you think you can't afford the cab, you're too poor to be going out anyway.

And just in case you guys thought you needed to rake me over the coals a little more (go ahead, I posted it afterall...) MamaRoar has this to say as well:
"I'm pretty disappointed that you're 23 and still doing stupid shit like this."


Thank you, AE

Picture from my birthday (Cuz if Sharkbait can live in birthday revelry for a week, surely I can reminisce as well...):

This dress had an aura all it's own. So I decided it needed its own post. It made me do wild and crazy things-- like the salt-shaker-- on every raised surface I could find.

Not to mention, few could keep their hands off me when I was in this dress (as demonstrated by the picture, above). I'm never throwing it out, ever. (And to think, I found it in the back of my "dressy" closet!)

Thank you, Armani Exchange. Thank you.


Fan Club

He did Britney better than Britney does. That sample comes on, and just when you think you're about to hear, "I'm a slaaaaaaaaaaave for you" instead here comes his amazing, insightful lyrics. And some cello.

I'm talking about Van Hunt, of course. And song #6: "Being a Girl."

Van Hunt and I have this long-standing relationship. Ever since "Down Here in Hell With You," it's been clear: this man gets me. "Singin' my life with his words..." Anyway. And then there was "Dust." How can you not like that song??

So yeah. I'm getting to know his latest "On the Jungle Floor," and I have to admit, I didn't like it at first. It sounded too... out there. But that's who he is. And when my man Van puts it down, it's lyrical mastery. "Being a Girl" is my theme song this week, 'cuz this girl is def
"...full of spectacle and charm like nothing else."



Slump After Hump Day

District Siren celebrated her Birthday last night. My beautiful Taurus bff joined the ranks of the 23's yesterday, and a fun time was had by all.

BTW, HAPPY BIRTHDAY NEEZY!!! I wonder how many times I said that last night?

The burger was good, but our party was too big to seat in the Restaurant, so The Front Page (of Ballston) sat us in the hallway of the mall behind it. We were having such an echo-ing, raucus good time that we didn't even care that the $1 drafts ended at 7pm. The VA'ans (who were used to the cheapness lasting 'til 9pm) were bummed, but I was excited to get ANY drink for even $2-- it was like being in college again!!

And what birthday would be complete without Kareoke at the Royal Lee? This dive was deliciously bogus cornball. I treated DS's work buddies to my own (fabulous) renditions of "I Will Survive" and "Black Velvet," cuz Roar is a Diva and she rolls like that.

Too bad it's raining, but our hangovers needed the down time that the present gloom affords. Besides, I'm on mental rest until tonight's debauchery...


Roar, Reporting from Celibacy Central (a PA)

A Scientist once told me that our bodies aren't meant to have sex with as many people as we, in modern America, do. I had no idea what he meant at the time.

But then recently, A Health Professional Said...

...Condoms only protect against HIV and pregnancy. And that's only when they don't slide off or pop. (EVERYTHING else can be transmitted during "protected" sex).

...Lesions, warts, sores or other symptoms don't need to be present for your partner to transmit them.

...(As an example): Someone with Asymptomatic Herpes can slough the virus from anywhere on their genitalia, at any time, and infect their partner. (Not sure if this is the same with other viruses).
The kicker:
(As I learned later, according to a Herpes website) 90% of people have Herpes and don't know it. The only way to know is through a blood test, and no one does them. Why? The Health Professional described the test as "a can of worms."

I share this, because I feel as though I've been lied to. The strong women I idealize as independent and fashionable role models on Sex and The City, (if the above facts are true) are not liberated, but most likely, (were they real people) are among the afore-mentioned 90%.

And Not-That-There's-Anything-Wrong-With-That. Evidently, as any quick google search will show, there's a very active online Herpes Dating community. (I'm sure it's the same for every other incurable STD). Clearly, life does not end once someone contracts an STD.

But the same way the medical community continued to tell women that mammograms were "lifesavers" when they knew they weren't (a 20-year nurse's study came out a few years ago discounting mammograms' effectivity), I think someone should have warned us, as our numbers climbed, that adding sexual partners to our respective rosters was only asking for trouble, period. Slogans like "Just Wrap It Up," and "Knowing Is Beautiful" seem to fall way too short, with the above information.

Imagine: what would dating be like if we saw the condom for what it was--(a HIV-Hat and Baby-Rejector)? Would we all be as randy as we are? Or would we date to get-to-know and trust that the sex would just magically be there after the vows?

Cynical Roar that I am, I've never believed that great sex would magically be anywhere, especially not in the marriage bed of a celibate couple. But my cynicism has been overridden by fear:

I'm never having sex again. Until I'm married.

Knee-jerk reaction? Perhaps. But for now, Roar is officially Prude.

***Proof that guys don't get tested as often as us chicks do.***


The Serbian Man Said...

..."The word for ___ and fish is the same thing in slang in my country."
(Same here, buddy...)

..."American women don't shave here like they do there..."
(He was referring to, uhm, "fish." Which actually really suprised me since I didn't think European women shaved anything...).

..."Oh. You like to sing? I think you'd be a good manager. I'll lay out a step-by-step plan for you. But not in front of him," (nodding towards our bartender). "Who knows? He might want to be manager of the Ritz Carlton too..."

..."So what are you cooking for me?" (WHAT?!? I can cook pasta, pasta sauce, eggs, broil fish and roast a chicken. But I won't be doing any of that for you.)


Stuck- AGAIN

How does this always happen?

My roomate and I made plans to drop by Lima tonight. Cuz it's a friend's birthday and he was supposed to be going. And it's the only night they play acceptable (read: non-house) music...
I was excited cuz I've been out-of-commission this weekend (with Mom in town), and I invited all the coolest party-goers that I had in my phone.

But our friend decided to do dinner and a movie with his guy friends for his birthday instead. And then roomie bailed. And all my chick friends are "sick," "have a cold" or are "tired." This is bullshit. I am going to Lima tonight to meet up with at least 5 (confirmed) dudes and offering up zero girlfriends. Like, can you imagine how pissed the guys are gonna be? I can. Been-there-done-that.

Picture this: Chi-cha lounge, November, me and 4 dudes, all of which thought I was coming to meet up with just them.... ugh. Can you spell A-W-K-W-A-R-D? (Lemme know if I spelled that right, cuz I'm tipsy from wine and cheese earlier with Smashley).

Back to tonight: What ever happened to taking one for the team?

Who gives a shit if it's Sunday???


Bald Guardian?

The Universe wants me to date an older man. And you know how I feel about older men.

But why else would I see that newly-divorced guy from work out at Lima and Play in the same night? (Besides maybe the fact that he brought the girls and I to the second venue...)

Why else on the same night would I hang out with a mutual friend's boyfriend who is newly-divorced himself and plays "cousin" all night, busting the hottie's balls (and eventually letting me doze on his shoulder and then putting me in a cab at the end of the night...)?

But #3 is the kicker: Why else, when I leave my phone in the cab going home, would my 39-year-old work buddy aka Mr. "Why Are You Scared?" call, talk to the cab driver, have the cabbie drop the phone off with him, and hold the phone for me 'til the next night?
Who loses their phone in a cab and gets it back from a friend? That NEVER happens!

Older men are quickly going from skeezy assholes to my guardian angels...


Mama Roar

MamaRoar is in town this weekend!!!

Last night, her Gringa daughter shared with her her love of Salsa: I took her to the free Salsa class at Citron. Poor woman, it was 10pm after a long day of airports, and she still shook her thing. And had a mojito.

Tonight it's a girlie dinner at Acadiana. Yum!

...More later.


Skinny Bitches

I'm only gonna write it once.

I was in line in front of two very skinny, very short, very preppy girls (who looked like they study at the beauty school near my office) at Chipotle last week. After I ordered my Burrito Bol con todo, I couldn't help but hear these girls' order: "Just one veggie soft taco please," they said in the highest-pitched, most annoying voices imaginable. I wanted to snap them like the twigs they were.

Wasn't it Mo'Nique, in the Queens of Comedy (no, I never saw it) that said, "Skinny bitches are *not* to be trusted."

Well I have my own version of that same rule: I don't trust bitches that are skinnier than me.

I understand that this is arbitrary and slightly judgmental: but the rule is not without its exceptions. Many of my very bestest girlfriends are stick thin. They've proven themselves (trust-)worthy and, therefore, have been granted their personal dispensations.

I understand this rule is subjective: my own weight has fluctuated since High School, as my Jr. Formal dress would attest (if I hadn't gotten rid of it). But just as I tend to feel taller than I am, in my head my body looks and feels the same. So yeah. Other women have the wiggle room between my own actual and self-percieved "skinniness."

But back to the point:
Like I said: I get it. Some women are naturally skeletal-skinny. Some women like raw veggies. Some women have mono.

It's not that I think they're evil.
...OK, that's a lie. I do think they're evil. How can you naturally have a lack of upper-arm fat? How does one naturally have a tummy that's concave? Or hip bones that protrude?

No. These women are denying themselves and it makes my skin crawl to look at them. I know they want a sandwich, they know they want a sandwich, everyone that can see them knows that their willpower has, somehow, busted a fuse and created a Nazi eating-regime in their head allowing their wrists to quietly get more and more brittle.

I don't trust these women because if they'll do that to themselves, Lord Jesus, what will they do to others???


Mature Love?

We were in K Street Lounge and a mutual friend was bitching about her relationship. So I said it. Cuz no one else, who was closer to her, was going to.
"Then why are you dealing with this bullshit?"
She didn't miss a beat.
"Because I love him. I'm 26, and I'm ready to work through something. I'm ready to stop walking away at the drop of a hat."
She was completely earnest. It was enough to give this cynical Savage pause. She definitely shut me up.

Now, let's be clear: this is the same girl that gets black-out drunk and hooks up with guys who are not the man she "loves." (Clearly, she's being selectively mature).

Still, in that moment it was hard not to envy her. I can't remember feeling like that since...




I'm Not Dead

Or lost in College Park
...but I am having internet connectivity issues.

Not to worry, I've still been up to the same old hijinks:
Dancing on tables
Salsa-ing with anyone worthy
Eating Salmon (though slightly less...)

I miss you guys. If I have to sit in Starbucks (again) I will.

More later.


Back to School

What's the weirdest part of picking your car up in College Park?
(Multiple Choice)

a- Being attracted to the Shuttle driver but realizing he's a Sophmore.

b- Almost not being able to finish your grilled portobello mushroom on 7 grain with lettuce, tomato and feta when you realize that the woman who made it is the same one that's been there since Freshman Orientation.

c- Really really really being excited to go back because it means you get to pick up a fozen hot chocolate with soy milk. (Fuck the walk of shame! This was where the Greeks paraded their previous night's hookups. It was Soffe shorts and flip flops EVERYWHERE).

d- Thinking that you recognize someone but realizing that that all the ZBT's STILL look exactly the same.

e- All of the above.



I know I was supposed to devote the past week to answering my burning and unanswered questions. But I got sidetracked. By a shitty work week. And dieting like a fiend for my birthday party. I could just see it: me inviting all my nearest and dearest out to celebrate me and then looking like a slob. So 4 nights last week I ate salmon for dinner.

But there are side effects to salmon. I've always heard it's great for you. According to DistrictSiren, it's not one of the 3 fish you can't eat more than once/week, and my skin looked especially hydrated when I ate it for dinner two weeks ago... But yeah. Side effects. Omega 3's don't just hydrate: they help you orgasm according to another friend, Ashley, who eats it for that express purpose. STAY AWAY FROM SALMON IF YOU'RE NOT GETTING ANY.

The week wore on, and as anticipation for my big bash climbed, so did my libido. Which is why when my work friend said she was making it her "duty" at my birthday party to find me "Birthday Bootie" I was.... not.... that.... discouraging. She told everyone about her quest. Or maybe that was me. Which is why there were many times last night where I could be heard saying, "I'm not having random sex on my birthday!" I think I was affirming it just as much for myself, as I was for everyone around me who watched as I shook it like a salt shaker on every table we could clear off fast enough in VIP.

And speaking of the party itself: There are people that I have gotten to know through this blog thing that I've begun to consider my real-life friends... so posting their names would be weird. But I love them. And I love that they came. The night was very special, mainly because of the people that were there. We chose that place, not for its "cool factor," but because they play good music and we don't need a scene when we have our down-ass crew.

**EEEEw: A woman sitting across from me in starbucks just took a digital picture of her engagement ring. Now she's taking more. Evidently, she's not getting the quality she'd like... Now she's holding her hand in the window to get better gleam from her rock. *BLETCH* And she's wearing heels. Who wears heels on a Sunday afternoon??? Yuck Yuck Yuck.**

Back to the salmon: I may have been randy, (and though I may have joked otherwise) no part of me finds random *anything* appealing. Remember in college when the idea of meeting some hottie at a party and dancing and drinking and making out seemed romantic? Like you might meet your next boyfriend that way? I have no such delusions anymore.

So yeah. This is my own 23yo turning point: I'm now looking for quality. And salmon or no salmon, cocktails or no cocktails, that's just what I'm about. I have no idea what that means in any pragmatic sense. ...But that's my 23yo personal assignment. Last year it was "Date Nice Guys." This year it's: Quality Courting born of Libido Leadership.

Damn. I'm getting old.



Hoping to Learn #2:
How do you accept a Pompous Person's Peace Offering without losing your own dignity?

Very rarely is it a real apology. And, typically, they've been an asshole themselves, perhaps even continued to be an asshole on more than one occasion. So how do you handle this graciously? (You can't ignore them, cuz then you'll look more mad than you are).

Back in September, I chose to be passive agressively combative in one such circumstance which resulted in being called a negro amid an email stream I'm sure my office's Big Brother *still* laughs about. (Lesson #18573: Don't shit where you eat).

Perhaps I'm being petty. It's true: I rarely forgive and forget. And when I do, it's because the friendship was more important than the offense.

But really. Are you supposed to bow down and thank Rah for his returned rays of sunshine?? Please.

Am I missing an option here?


Favorite 22yo Lesson

Courtesy of a Venezuelan friend:

"Donde hay pelo, hay felicidad."

I miss that funny, hairy Salsa stud...


Rug Pull

Let's get the Life Lessons started, shall we?

K and I have had the same experience with 2 different men over a span of 4 months (not necessarily the past 4, just the same 4). This makes me think that this is something of a phenomenon. And though supportive of one another we may be, helpful... is another story. Neither one of us can see the forest for the trees, and I'd hate to deal with this for another year.

So (with life-cramming in mind) Riddle Me This:

K and I, with similar "Father Issues" are most often the noncommital ones in relationships. Both men actively persued us, respectively (K and I don't share. Not like that. Not ever.)

This persuing took place for a month- 4 months (also respectively).

However, the minute K and I gave up the French Chick act and warmed up to them (on completely different schedules) both men completely flipped their (again, respective) scripts.

When the previous day they were spouting words like "pursuit" and "girlfriend" the next day they were "not ready." The rug was completely pulled out from under us.

So... what happened here?
For the record: Sex was not the catalyst for said Script Flipping. One relationship was already sexual, one never was.

The question is this: Why would a man talk himself (and someone else) into a relationship that he ultimately doesn't even want???

***I think I may have let my 23-Cramming and 66-Sweating get me into some Premature-Multiple-Posting trouble. This post seems to make K and I look slightly pathetic. Whatever. (As I told one guy who asked about my rejection ratio: "...in their defense, they usually get to know me first.") LOL. However, PLEASE don't let this deter you from helping us Double Deuces out.***

Cramming 23

I turn 23 in a week.

I had previously had this idea that 23 meant something. Big. Like, viable adulthood or something. It's why I began freaking out about my job. I'm not sure if it was a life-long opinion, or one born of December '05, staring down the mouth of my 23rd year. Then again, does the origin of this idea really matter?

The point is: I had expected to have a few more answers than I currently do. And now it's crunch time.

I'm not one to accept premature defeat: In college, I could pull an all-nighter and emerge the next morning with 10 pages of A- quality BS on a book (or two or three) that I had read the same evening. Following this logic, there's no way I can't "cram" an equivalent amount of life knowledge into the next 6 days.

I'm devoting the coming week's posts to my as-yet unanswered life questions. And I want answers. Really. I do. So if you think you can shed some light... please give this double deuce a hand. Gracias.


Bittersweet: What I Left Behind In OK (A tribute to Faulkner)

On Saturday night I was sitting in a bar called Roosters with my cousin, watching her boyfriend and his friends play pool. There were at least a dozen scattered people I’d gone to High School with also there.
Yeah. My *N Word* beater.
-Huh? What did you say?

His shifty, sideways glance gave him away: He’d forgotten he was in the company of an east coast liberal. His comment wasn’t directed at me, but he knew he was caught.
Uhm. I keep my bat at the front door.
-No you didn’t.

I leaned over to whisper to my host.
Did he just say ‘The N Word’?

She took a drag of her cigarette, but she decided to give it to me straight.

The guy next to me was anxious to resume our flirting.
You don’t like that word, huh?
What, did you date one- a black person- or something?
OK. Well, see. What you have to understand is, it’s not that bad of a word.
It’s not all black people, just some black people. Even Chris Rock said there’s a difference between the two.
-“Bigger and Blacker”?
Yeah. That was it. It’s like the difference between a white person and White Trash.
-Well, I don’t say that word either, and—
No, really. You’re missing the point. It describes a certain type of black person...

And thus began the 20 very unsexy minutes where the man that was hitting on me tried to justify the use of ‘The N Word.’ I sipped my beer hoping he might just disappear. He didn’t. Maybe I could shut him up:
It sounds like you’re describing a level of ignorance. Why not call those people ignorant instead?
-No. That’s way worse. Watch—-

He turned to his buddy.
Would you rather be called White Trash or Ignorant?
-White Trash.

Then he looked across the table to his half-Mexican friend:
Would you rather be called a Beaner or Ignorant?
-A Beaner.

“Beaner” tried to expound on his friends point.
Look. I have cousins in the largest gang in North America. The MS 13. And they’re fucking Wetbacks. And I tell them so to their face!

It was such a relief to see L a few minutes later.
You’ll never believe the conversation I just had...
-Yeah. There’s not a lot of opportunity for black people here. That’s why I left. I’m at Langston now. Business Management.
Wow. That’s great! You still talk to ___?

Sunday, he chuckled on his couch:
So you date me way back when and you spend the rest of your life concerned about brown folks...

His Mom didn’t chuckle when I told her the story earlier that evening.
Would you ever move back?
-No, I couldn’t deal with the people…

Then she told me a story about how she had recently confronted a racist person.
…So I went up to her: Do I know you? Are you sure? Aren’t you that cashier at JCPenny’s? Sure? Well, lovely top.. And I touched her, and she cringed, but I just smiled…

A healthy 20 minutes later I walked out of her home, slowly realizing that in her own, long-winded way she had shamed me. And she had a point: If I really cared, wouldn’t I stick around and actively try to make things better?


It was Sunday morning and Mom and I were driving to Daylight Donuts. She was less condemning.
I know what you’re saying. You want to be around people with the same value system as you. And it’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along about relationships; you can couple up across a divide, but you’ll spend your life fighting for the things you take for granted.
-But I’ve always enjoyed dating people that can teach me new things. I guess, thogh, there are already certain things I can’t compromise on, like last night proved.


Saturday night L took me to the other side of Roosters. There was hip hop playing and a cluster of brown faces in the corner, but no dance floor like I’d hoped.
This is Roar, ____’s ex-girlfriend.
-O yeah, I remember that.
--You do? That was High School! Did you graduate with me?
-No, I graduated in ’96 with L’s brother. But I remember you two.


I had been giddy to see him that evening. I had gone the entire day (Sunday) without makeup, my bra strap sticking out of my sweater while playing cards with my grandparents, but I had changed and primped to see him. I was wearing tight jeans. And pink.
It had been years, but there we were, on his couch, overlapping legs and holding hands.
What do you miss about us?

We reminisced about our first love, how pure and uncomplicated it was.
I’m not sure I could ever trust someone like that again.
-No one’s ever tried to understand me, who I am and what I come from the same way since. No one’s respected me at face value like that since you.
If I could have chosen, I wouldn’t have had a baby with her. But you always made me wear a condom.

O yeah. His kid. His daughter.

Earlier, in the car, I’d been indignant, as if she was my own:
You just can’t raise a strong black woman here. No offense to your Mom, cuz she did a good job with your sisters and all, but you want to raise a strong, intelligent and conscious black woman, and you can’t do that here!

On his couch that night, I was ready to jump his bones, kid or no kid, mine or not. He’s still so sexy, and the same sweet guy I’ll always love. I never said so, though I don't think I had to.
But he touched my hand.
These days, it’s so different. It’s just different being a Dad. I may see a woman I’m attracted to, and I may talk to her, or I may not, but it’s just not my focus.

I hugged him goodnight and he felt exactly like I remembered, like a puzzle piece fit snugly with my own. Still, it seemed as though we’d never stood in such different places, or further apart. It hit me, as I walked out of his front door: he may be less long-winded, but he’s definitely his Mother’s son.


As Promised: Dirty Plane Jokes

Via my Cousin:
Eating sunflowe seeds is like giving head. U put it in your mouth, suck the hell outta it, get the nut then spit it out!

Via my Workmate:
A pirate walks into a bar with a wheel on his fly. The bartender asks why it's there. He responds: Aargh! It's drivin' me nuts!

Via an Old Flame:
Q:What did the penis say to the condom?
A:Cover me, I'm in!

Via a Guy I'm "Talking To" now:
(Actually, it was incoherent. *Sigh* ...NEXT!)

Via a Blog Friend:
Q:What's the difference between a husband and a boyfriend?
A:45 minutes.

...And they say Bloggers are less jaded...


Big Thanks

Thank you to everyone who tried to make my time yesterday, stuck on an airplane sitting on the runway for waaay over an hour, just a little more fun by texting me dirty jokes. Some of them were really cute!!

A better post to come, later... but I have to get on *another* flight now.... GRRRRR.



All I want to do is go home. There's a wedding tomorrow, and I'm really trying to get there. I just want to go home.

But I left work at 2:30 for my 5:15 flight out of BWI. And then I had to get my bag at home. And then I had to throw more crap in it. And then I had to lug the 60 pounds into the back of my Escape. And then I had to turn left on New York Ave from Florida (note to self: never do that again). And then I had to sit in traffic on the BW Expressway, when there's NEVER traffic on the BWX'way. And then I had to park in long term parking and get on the slow ass buss.

So when I got to the counter at 4:44, I tried the doe-eyed approach. "Your flight is at 5:17," the ticket agent said, implying that there's no shot in hell. Wide-eyed: "Uh-huh."

Turns out the deal isn't that I was late. Not totally. The deal is that it's Spring Break and they've overbooked all of their flights. Damn Northwest overbooked ALL of their flights. By, like, 10 people. Which means that I was not able to get on standby for the 8am flight, and there would "be no point" in waiting for the 2:30 because I would just be in Milwaukee longer. There's no earlier flight out of Milwaukee than 9. Like.Fucking.Seriously.

So I came home and wasted 45 minutes on facebook.
**Melville-like aside: So, why is it that none of the guys I dated in H.S. or college are on FB? Everyone touted the FB's "stalking" potential: I just wanted to see recent pics of old flames, but still... I'm disappointed. OK, back to the discussion at hand...**
NOW what am I gonna do until 4pm? Should I go into work??


Because the Big Black Banana Told Me To...

...I'm posting a pic of my latest celebrity encounter. (Do I look like a smarmy ass, or what?)

I was graciously extended an invitation to the Radio and Television Correspondent's Dinner (er, Pre- and Post- Parties) by a guy who will remain name- (and picture-) less until he signs off.

Anywho, I was flattered to be his evening's partner in crime, and I loved all the elbow-rubbing the evening afforded. And the dancing. And the free drinks.

Who knew Fox News producers could dance so well?? Who knew CNN could throw such a shindig??

I just love getting all gussied up...

Unhooked Generation

aka- "I Want A Stick Figure of Myself"

I really appreciated Jillian Straus' publicist sending us free copies of her book, "Unhooked Generation." I really did. Not that I finished it. Miss Straus had some good points, but I'm not sure I was of her target demographic. For starters, I'm not even in Gen X.

Straus beat her point like a dead horse: that Gen X-ers are too fucked up to date. Which may be true. Lord knows I don't like dating them. But Straus seemed to construe certain situations in that specific vein, when they were not as obviously (to me)stilted in one direction as she would have her readers believe.

Take for instance page 115's story about "Marissa." IM did not kill this woman's relationship. Marissa, to my mind, was merely too much of a pussy to tell the man she liked that IM didn't seem formal or "real" enough to her. Given the chance, he might've changed or explained his attitude toward IM.

Or Susan on page 144, the woman that had flirted with two different men at a party, still undecided as to which she'd rather bring home, when they all hopped in a cab and ended up at a strip club. Personally, I think Susan got played. I think the men found out she had made herself available to either of them- isn't it possible that if they're both at the same party, that they're at least comfortable acquaintances?- and instead of competing for her attention, they decided to give her a reality check. Susan tried to play two men, and they played her back.

Or Liz's story: Sorry to break it to you, hun, but Adam has Herpes or Molluscum or some other catchy-kind-of-thing and waited forever to do the nasty until his outbreak subsided. As for the failed "DTR," all Liz accomplished by pointing out that other men ask her out is create a seed of jealousy in Adam's head. But, clearly, if you say something like that but don't ask for changes in the relationship, you're sending the message that things are cool and you just wanted to remind him of what he has. No wonder nothing's changed.

Honestly, it seems this "Unhooked Generation" is just that because they are incapable of being honest with themselves or anyone else. What's so embarrassing about asking, "Why aren't you trying to get in my pants?,' 'Why do we see each other only once a week?,' 'Why did you guys bring me to a strip club?,' 'I'm interested in sex tonight. Do you think you'd be worth my time?,' 'Would you mind calling me instead of IMing?.'

Why is this Rocket Science?

There are two things in Ms. Straus' book that I took major offense to.
First, the average marriage age of women and men was quoted as 25 and 27 respectively and referred to many different times as "so late." What's so late about 25???
Second, I don't care what disclaimer you put in the first chapter of the book: spending over a hundred pages of the rest of the book referring to the "Evil Influence of the Negative Effects of Feminism," is absolutely criminal. Like, Jessica Simpson kind of Criminal.

And then there was something just plain wrong:
Not all white women want small butts. That's, like, sooo '92. I'm working on a bigger one. "Red beans and rice didn't miss her..."

Like I said though, Jillian had some better points. One of which was that people make snap decisions while dating based on superficial stuff (page 112). That got me thinking. How many times have I ignored a man, outright, because he wasn't 6'0 or couldn't salsa? In response, I've created my own list. These are completely UNsuperficial concerns of mine. I am considering throwing out my old list of date questions (What do you do, How many siblings do you have...?) and just asking the following 8 questions on future dates. Were a man to answer all of them correctly, I might just throw my height/weight scale right out the window for him...

1- Do you go down? With what kind of enthusiasm? Do you enjoy it? How much? Why?
2- How close are you to your Mother?
3- What do you expect from me if you pay for this drink/dinner/ferris wheel ride?
4-When your parents get old, will you put them in a nursing home?
5- What is your idea of a life partner?
6- What was the highest level of education you completed?
7- How do you feel about adoption?
8- What is your experience with organized religion?

...These are the things that matter to me. Why didn't I think of this sooner? ....???
Wudda ya think? Would you ask a guy all this? Guys, would you run for the hills were someone this blunt with you?


Things I Learned In Tucson This (Extended) Weekend

  • I am Exactly 1/64th Cherokee.

  • Hedgehog is the name of a cactus.

  • There is crazy on both sides of the family tree.

  • My Grandfather got kicked out of H.S. 3 times before he married my Gramma and joined the Army. The last time, he was expelled because he stole a school bus that was en route to a football game-- the bus with all the cheerleaders on it.

  • My Grandmother sleeps and eats better when someone else is around.

  • This may be the last time I get to visit my Grandmother. (She and I, however, think she'll bounce back).

  • Next visit, though, I may have to rent my own car.

  • My 11-year-old cousin is only one inch shorter than me.

  • My Grandmother has been a Unitarian since the 70's. Like, I didn't know the church existed back then.

  • There are still pictures of my Mother at my Grandmother's house.

  • There are more pictures of me in the "Main Family" box, mixed in with pictures of my Great Grandparents, than there are in the box marked "Matt's Family" which is already nearly full with Bubba pictures. (No, I'm not jealous...)

  • Unlike contemporary pics, you can't mark old prints from the 40's with Sharpie marker. I ruined a pic of Uncle Gene... at least Gramma and I went through the entire box and labeled the rest (in regular pen).


Spring Break

I opened my yahoo mailbox tonight to find an invitation to join "Hi 5," evidently the newest facebook/myspace/friendster spin-off. I was invited by some random... Wait. I KNOW I know that email address.

Who is Richard X?
Denise, passing by my room: I don't think we ever knew a guy by that name.
Where is Manchester?
England!-- Her boyfriend screamed from her room.
--Boston! Uhm, I mean.... Massachussetts! Denise chimed in.

I was so intrigued, I had to join "Hi5" just to find out who this dude was.


Uhm, Den-ISE!?!
Manchester is in Jamaica...!


Half Price Pinot

This place has 1/2 price bottles of wine on Monday nights and fish that's to die for. You even forget that you're in VA. Like, seriously.

DistrictSiren found her way out of the 'Burbs long enough to be my Sugar Momma last night. She took her best girl out for a good meal and some laughs. My Pimp Momma certainly has come a long way since those purple plaid pants on the first day of classes at UMD. Love you, girl!

Punk Roar

Evidently, "There's no such thing as not punk enough."

Still, I was told it would be a good idea to pick up the Best Of's "The Pixies" and "The Clash."

Cue the makeover montage...


"Sticking" to Context

There are things my Mother tried to teach me that never quite stuck.

I was taught, when I came of dating age, never to leave the house without earrings on. In fact, on the occasions that I came downstairs to greet my date without a pair, she sent me right back upstairs. It was her view that not wearing earrings for a date sent him the message, however subtle, that I did not value him, his attentions and/or his company. My Mother may have had a point. But to this day, it is hard for me to remember to wear earrings, date or none.

My Mother also tried to instill within me a sense of fiscal responsibility. Instead of herself, she used my Grandfather as the example. He started out milking cows in High School, running his own small dairy farm in the hours before and after school. He has since paid all of his down payments in cash, most recently, while buying a house in Colorado. Following the example of my Grandfather's work ethic, my Mother and I both worked at the same fast food restaurant while in High School. It was his complex checkbook-balancing technique, however, that my Mother could not pass on to me. And the system doesn't account for bank cards, my ever-increasing dependency. So I bounced another check to my landlord.

And Thank You notes. I cannot write them unless forced. I know this makes me an ungrateful cad and uncouth rube. I can't help it.

One of the things my Mother did instill in me was done rather unconciously. She entertained a lot, and each time she did, the house was scrubbed from top to bottom. I was not raised in a home with a cleaning lady. I was in charge of organizing my own room while my Mother scrubbed everything else from top to bottom, readying our Brooklyn apartment for the 20+ people she had arriving that night. This was alwas done, without question. While some of her other, older, more liberal friends might entertain with a dusty bookshelf, my Mother would not.

Now, I am a messy person by nature. I cannot breathe in too much organization. But before I let anyone I care about see my living space, I will do a Mother-Mad Cleaning-Dash. My roomate in college used to know, without having to ask, when I had a boy I liked coming over to study. I would be frantically throwing clothes in my closet, making neat piles of my desk. It was uncharacteristic enough to be noteworthy. Any date, then or now, who is able to see my bedroom floor should feel honored. I like(d) you.

I attended a party today thrown by a Sorority sister of mine. I had never met her Mother before, but sitting across the room from her I was fascinated. All of the sudden, Angela was put into context. Her mother made her make sense.

My Mother may have lost the Battles of The Earrings, The Checkbook and The Thank You Notes, but I have her laugh and smile. I have her veiny hands and pale skin. I have her vivacity and her argumentative streak. And I have her hang-ups about "company" and a clean house. My republican Mother is my context.


Did I mention St. Patty's?

This could not have happened at an Irish bar. For so many reasons. That's why we didn't go to one.

I mean, if you can't have a quasi- lesbionic experience on the dance floor, it's just not my kind of place. This woman had curves I can only ever wish for. Seriously, you could have swum in them. I was more than a little jealous.

Finally, after a song or two, I looked her in the eye:
"Where's your boyfriend, honey?"
"Oh, he's over there." (Pointing)
"K. See you later."



alternate title: Roar's Weird (Slightly OCD-esque) Obsession

Being stuck under this corporate rock, flailing, sinking, gasping for air (OK... enough whining already!) I almost forgot that I had been looking forward to this day for a awhile. Baceause it's the 23rd, and I had a special post planned.

The answer to Douglas Adams' Universe might be 42, but the answer to mine is 23. It's the day I was born. It was the day my accidental namesake died (and on my half birthday, no less). It's the birthday of my best friend and roomate. (Actually, we were born the dame day of the same year and never realized until we began planning our birthday parties!). It was the (not so fun) day I went to a police station in Silver Spring.

23 is a number that means 'change' according to the family psychic, Joe. (Because 2 + 3 = 5, because it's not a 'stable' even number, and the damn thing is PRIME, don't forget).

I see this number everywhere. It's in my car's license plate. It's in my bloglines ID. I'll check the clock, and it'll be the 23rd minute of the hour. Like, often. (Yes, I know it sounds weird). According to Joe, when I see the number a lot, it means things are about to change. And, I gotta say, I think he may be right.

Today, for instance, was a pretty big turning point. My heretofore condescending and unhelpful boss said, "Wow! You're on top of this!" She wasn't being sarcastic. It was definitely a 'Hells Yeah!' kind of moment. And the rest of the day wasn't so bad. There was breathing room. I even checked in on some blogs...
After work I had my very first Five Guys experience with some already converted (and very cool) bloggie buddies. Remember: no quotes, guys. Hehe.

So, yeah. What is your special number?


I've been trying to post a picture from St. Patty's Day for a while now. Blogger will not upload it. Damn blogger!

In the mean time, I have the following observations:

Evidently my mac and cheese thing is actually called Tuna Noodle Casserole. Like, my Dad is not the only person in the world that ever fixed the stuff. I am absolutely, without a doubt, stunned.

In corporate life, you can stretch a lunch out longer than is even appetizing. However, you'll be just as behind when you get back as you were before. Not surprised? Sorry, I was.

At our bar last night were wounded soldiers from Iraq. I wanted to be flirtatious, VFW-esque, but none of my friends would join in the fun. "Too vulnerable" one said. The Men were wasted. I doubt they noticed.

Game only works for guys who otherwise might not have a chance. It's like, 'Wow, maybe he has something to be cocky about.' Game on a guy you like is just off-putting. THERE IS NOTHING MAGICAL ABOUT WEDNESDAY!!! I've said too much...


Corporate (S)lacky

I've been promoted at work. I am OFFICIALLY someone's lacky. Corporate lacky. (Did I mention I can't blog from my desk for a while?) I had a migrane by 4pm- what I call "corporate headache"- but I think they're giving me a raise...

I was running out of the office at 6:30 tonight. I missed yoga. K must be mad, too, cuz she hasn't returned my "Sorry-I-couldn't-jump-the-corporate-ship-in-time-to-meet-you-at-yoga" call.

By 7:30 I was in a chocolate-induced high. The best kind. I then made my favorite childhood meal. It's very cheap. Try it. Mix one box of (cooked) macaronni and cheese, a can of peas and a can of tuna. Enjoy. Repeat.

I should probably also mention that we now have TV in our home. D and I had been thinking about an antenna for a while, but it was D's boyfriend who actually got it done. (I've added that to the very short list of reasons to keep a man around-- my favorite being, to carry heavy shit). Thank you, D's boyfriend. Thank you for ABC, CBS, NBC and FOX.

Without D's bf, I would not be able to veg on my couch as successfully, as totally and as completely as I did this evening. I would have continued to be left out of the pop trivia that everyone else knows. And, as you know, pop trivia is all they talk about around the water cooler in Corporateville. Er, Migrane Central.

I'm so glad tomorrow I'll be able to make witty comments like, "Paula must've gotten back on the sauce," (a hunch) and "Simon is now a tone-deaf softie," (true) and "Damn, Kelly Rippa DISAPPEARS on the TV screen!" (like, eeew).

I feel like DistrictSiren. They're going to break me, people. It's 11pm and I'm going to bed...!!!



"I'm just appalled!" the voice on the radio shouted this morning.
"Was it the song itself, or was it cuz it was by the Dixie Chicks?"
"I would hate anything by them," the caller told the DJ. "But I hated this in specific."

Most people called in criticizing the Dixie Chicks' politics, and not their music. "It's like Larry the Cable Guy said," the DJ later commented. "Sometimes that girl doesn't know when to shut her mouth."

I can't help thinking how stupid these people are, criticizing these musicians for criticizing their own government. Clearly, they haven't seen "V for Vendetta." I saw it last night.

At Whole Foods afterwards, I fell into conversation with the Fish Guys while picking up my favorite. The man holding my filet turned to his buddy: "Ever notice how when they say Grey Sole in the movies, it means somebody got shot?" I told the guys I had just seen a kind of violent movie, and didn't need to be further freaked out.
"O yeah?" they turned to me. "Heard of it. How was it?"
"My friend didn't like it, but I'm not sure she got it. It was about each person's responsibility to stand up, you know? Like, fight the fuckin' man!"
I think there was a tear in the Fish Guy's eye when he handed me my grey sole.

I know K would have found the movie less boring had she heard 98.7 this morning. If she could understand the collective ear-plugging that is going on in so much of this country. Even Congress is in on it, as my League of Women Voters list serv reminded me this past week. It was a short email. It read: "Remind our representatives in Congress that each of their voices are powerful." Maybe if the members of Congress could do their jobs with Vendetta masks, no longer scared of losing their political lives, they would be less fearful of doing what is right.

In K's defense, she rarely hangs with a less than cosmopolitan crowd. Had I not stopped my surfing to hear one of my favorite Winona Judd songs, I might not have heard the McCarthy broadcast either. But I did.

Concluding nothing live was worth listening to, I flipped on my Death Cab for Cutie CD, while rolling along the Key Bridge. I looked up just in time to see War protestors on Key's Red side. Their signs read: "War Kills Children. Bring Our Troops Home." One huge sign had a picture of a dead baby in the arms of a woman in a burkah.

I'm appalled too, caller. Appalled.


2 Reasons

RoarSavage: the only reason people date is cuz they want to have premarital sex
YoDaddy: yeah true
YoDaddy: hahaha
YoDaddy: that is so true though
RoarSavage: if they didnt, we'd still be being fixed up by matchmakers
YoDaddy: well although it also allows you to know what you actually like in a person
RoarSavage: fine. the lone valid point.
RoarSavage: you win.
YoDaddy: haha
YoDaddy: that was too easy

...Yeah. I just posted a funny IM conversation. Whatever. I'm certain I said this exact same thing to Kenny when he tried to wax all sappy about dating at the HH. That's nice and all, (and adorably sweet of him) but I'm 22 and I'm not republican (lower case on purpose). I'm not trying to get married. Not yet.

It hit me, after a particularly bad 3rd date a while back, were I to choose to continue to date under current conditions, it would be an act of utter lunacy. (Because, as AA teaches us, crazy is doing the same thing and expecting a different result...) Just when I was about to throw in the towel, I realized: no dating means no opportunities for, uhm, other stuff. The team and I remain cautiously optimistic (crazy, in and of itself), but no one's been "bed-worthy" yet...

And just one word (or 6) of advice: Most of you took off work today to party with college freshmen at Kegs and Eggs. I'm jealous. But just remember: not all freshmen are legal. Ask to see a *real* ID.



I got tagged. And I gotta say, it feels like finally getting picked for a team during a pickup game of recess dodgeball. (Or something like that...) So, thanks babe! Here goes...

My Nickname: Savage. My Dad calls me PeeWee. My Mom calls me Angel-Baby-Girl. Yes, they realize I'm 22. They still call me both in public.

My Hometown: Brooklyn, NY and Stillwater, OK

My Team: Anything UMD, Yankees, Rangers, and Giants (I had a pic of Tiki Barber in my freshman dorm room). I have a respect for any basketball team that doesn't default to the Zone D, though special hearts go out to UMD, OSU and the Knicks, Zone or not.

My Theme Song: "It's a Shame" by the Spinners. It just makes me happy, as does the new Kanye, "Touch the Sky."

My Drinks: The Belvedere Dirty Martini, Vodka COP, Washington Apple, Jameson, Jaeger, and if I have to sip a brew, it's Sagres.

My Spare Time: What spare time? I do music when I don't have to work. And I read each night before bed. Keeps your mind right.

My Hiding Place: My Car (a girlie SUV, the Ford Escape) and My Shower.

My Books: Currently reading Kate Chopin. Favorites are in the profile. Next up will be non-fiction cuz this fiction stuff is emotionally exhausting.

My Fake Heroes: Becky Sharp (of Vanity Fair- the BOOK, ppl!) and Elle Woods. Yeah, seriously.

My Real Heroes: I have a post-it on my desk that says "Dorothy Parker." And MalcolmX. (Again, seriously). I've read his autobiography multiple times and I really respect someone who can publicly change their mind like that. It seems like our leaders don't do that anymore, even when it's obvious they should. When was the last time you heard an American leader say, "I was wrong"?

My Tags: Nicole, CircleV, DistrictSiren (so she'll f-ing post already) and Kyle (same reason).

Happy Hour Thoughts

But first, a lesson:
Clearly, this is something Jesus wants me to learn. When I created my Lent-olution, I thought sure I would be spending the 6 weeks sober. I am here to tell you friends- to testify!- that this is not the case.
2 Martinis with Belvedere + Saving Dinner Plans til After = Quite a Warm, Fuzzy Buzz.
Clearly, Jesus wants me to know that I don't need that 3rd (or 6th) like I used to think I did.
OK... now back to our regularly scheduled program.

This is long, but I didn't want to skip anyone. Besides, I'm proud that I got to talk to so many of you this time. It was, after all, my goal.

LOTS of 1st meetings:
AOL has obviously come leaps and bounds since 4th grade, annoying dial-up and bulky external modems. I liked meeting Jeff and Kenny so much, they almost made me feel guilty that I pirate "my" internet. Almost. Compliments get you everywhere, Kenny. I look forward to reading you both. (Ted Leonsis for President!)

Finally met DCOE, and it was a pleasure. Aspertame should always have a cute, blonde bob. It goes with your refreshingly straight-forward personality.

Another 1st meeting (& a pleasure): Countdown to V. Guys, this Virgin is hot! And sweet! And unaffected! And gracious! Someone do her already!!

EJ, darling, I think you're swell and I'd love to talk longer.

Tyler- A pleasure. I hope we see more of you at these.

KassyK (fellow UMD alum) and Sally were quite the dynamic duo at the bar. It was fun, girls.

Rock Creek Rambler hadn't been at the last 2 HH's, so imagine my suprise when I plopped down next to EJ and introduced myself to the dude she was talking to, and it was him. Sorry we couldn't chat longer. (Though your post today makes it seem as though you would have been hard to impress). Pablo turned on Salsa in the main room like he promised he would. When salsa calls, I answer.

And then there were the people I already knew:
I chatted with our gracious hostess-with-the-most-est, Kathryn, about my new obsession Blue Mercury, a spa she turned me on to. Did I mention I have appointments today AND tomorrow?
And our other host, 66, kissed my FUPA. Hells yeah!

I can't believe VK showed! His holla was on, hardcore, all night. But babe, when did you leave?

"They want to make me an admin," I told Martin. "O. No. You're better than that!" Martin gets it. Or me. This man is living the dream and I'm so jealous.

My fellow Lent-er, Law-rah was there. She, Nic and I were the only ones holding down the afterparty crowd. Nanner's excused. Where was Travis?

I just really like CircleV. She's even cooler in person. *Girl Crush*

I also really enjoyed talking to Heather. Good, down-to-earth people. That's you, dear.

Barzelay- aka, the new AUA, with all of his dcblog citations. Twice in one week did you say? Don't let his baby face fool you. He's quite funny and a little impish...

Scott- Cool seeing you. When are you starting your own blog?

It should be noted that the famous K graced the blog scene with her presence. And then woke to say this morning in an email, "I had fun at that blogging thing…people are cooler then I thought they would be." LOL!

And lastly (but way far from least-ly) Nic. It's weird blogging about our blog-related encounters, b/c this girl is a regular on my social calendar. Like, she is most of it, lol. Actually, once you've met K and Nic, you've met the down-ass girls that rarely miss a night. And speaking of social calendars, Nic had a great idea, which I guess I'll let her debut on her own blog. But remember: many of you already said you'd be interested... And since I'm sure you're all dying to know, Nic and I had Julias Empanadas before going home.

What a lovely (and only tipsy) night! Thanks, guys!

***ADDENDUM: I tried to get everyone. Can't believe I'm such a boor! Ghettodev was there last night, and SUCH a great addition. I'm really glad Nic and I have roped him into this bloggie world. It should be noted that I have known this man since we attended Alcohol Summit during our Sophmore year at UMD. Which consisted of brainstorming ways to dissuade our Greek communities from binge drinking. Is that irony, or what??? He was also a mutual friend of Nic's before Nic and I realized we had mutual friends. O, the tangled web we weave... Anyway, thanks for the call out in front of all our friends, dear. They didn't have to know that I made out in public on the regular in Bentley's. Whatev. I was DATING the BOUNCER!***