The Banging Above

It became a running joke in our apartment. Nearly every evening around dinner time- any time, really, between 6 and 9- there would be a very loud banging coming from above our heads. At first we thought it was a hammering, but we soon discovered, when it lasted at least 45 minutes at a time with no secession in rhythm, that we were witnessing our neighbor's sex life. The banging only got worse from there. The TV often had to be turned up to be heard over the noise.

D & I began surmising who the nympho neighbor could be. We felt sure he was a guy. What girl, we reasoned, would want to be slammed that hard for that long? And, in the unfortunate event that a sexual encounter of that type befell her, what girl would invite the offender back for seconds? Clearly, we were dealing with a man.

Then came the most awkward conversation of my life. I was coming home to change for a night out, K by my side as I put my keys in the door. The main door opened behind us, and I turned to see a pretty, petite, professional-looking girl heading for the stairs.
"Uhm, excuse me. You don't happen to live above us, do you?"
"No. Why?"
I began to vent, telling an exasperated account of our experience with the unknown neighbor which even included banging on the wall for emphasis and example. K and the girl were both hysterical by the time I was done.
"Wow. Omigosh. They have kids!"
"Well-- they're about to have MORE!"
I turned around to touch my keys again and her face dropped.
"You live in THAT aparment?"
"Yes, why?"
"Oh. Oh, I do live above you."
"Uhm, well... maybe it's your roomate."
"No, mine is the middle room."
"O.. well... uhm... I'm sorry.... I--"
"My bed is wooden and against the wall. Sorry about that."

Bright red, I turned and walked inside with K. My neighbor just giggled, completely unabashed, up the stairs.

Denoument: This past rainy Sunday morning I woke up to the sound of a rhythm I now know all too well. This time, though, the sound was muffled. My pretty, petite, professional neighbor clearly moved her wooden bed away from the wall. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was the politeness of her gesture, or maybe it was the fun Saturday night I had, but that morning I was able to resist hating on the sex above my head. I mean, who doesn't love Sunday-Sex-Day? Besides, girlfriend likes to get it knocked out. 'Nothin' wrong with that. Go get it, girl!

**Scratch that. Warm fuzzies are gone. Girlfriend sucks. As of last night, she had moved her bed back to the wall, and her 45 minute sessions are now more like an hour. At 10:50 I turned to D: "He should be done by now!" D: "Yes, but he's starting to falter." Keep in mind, the 45 minutes are only how long her sets go. There may be up to 3 sets a night. And no, I'm not jealous. I'm sick of the noise pollution. My pretty, petite, professional neighbor is now a PRIME PAIN in my PANTS!**


Cock Fight

It was supposed to be the best night ever. Painstaking thought had gone into the evening's plans. It was, after all, the all-important SALSA NIGHT.

I had invited a sundry cast of characters that fit into one of three categories: girls I know and like that know how or wanted to learn how to salsa, and guys that are good salsa dancers (and I know somewhat) *or* guy friends who wanted to hang despite their lack of salsa skill. I erroneously thought that this would be a "safe" bet. I was wrong.

The dancing at Habanna Village was great. The venue was everything that was promised: All Salsa, All-The-Time!-- but it didn't matter. Though I had the same number of guys and girls assembled, there was trouble from the get-go. Because I had done the orchestrating, I was the defacto hostess. I had to have at least one conversation and dance with each guy, preferably as they showed up, so that I could get back to the activity at hand: SALSA.

But then the guys started sulking. One bad salsa dancer wanted two dances (and you know how I feel about bad salsa dancing). Hadn't I wasted one precious song on his ass already?? His friend was playing a very active wingman. M, one of the better salsa dancers, didn't realize his was a working (and not amorous) invitation. "Un beso, por favor? Verdad, solo un poquito beso? Por favor, bailarina..." Ugh! Dance, hombre. Dance. He even acted jealous when I danced with his friend: "I don't even know if you're interested." *???* I'm not.

Interestingly enough, few of the guys talked with each other and some didn't even talk with the other girls that were there. You're in a group, man! Act like it!

Mad props to the guy who handled himself the best: A work friend of mine said he'd drop by since we'd both be in Adams Morgan. And he did just that. Midway into the night he showed up with a friend, talked for a minute, we danced one song, he finished his beer, and then left. He even laughed to me, before leaving, at the obvious tension in our corner of the room. Thank you, Kevin. Thank you.

At the end of the night, K got sick, cuz that's just what friends do. They pretend to be sick for each other. I had had enough of the weirdness of the night, and she had too.

The moral(s) of the story:

--For some reason, when including a guy in a group invitation, saying "A bunch of friends and I are going to X on Y date, you can come along if you'd like," is somewhat misleading in some language. Be blunt. "My friends want to Salsa. If you distract me from this, I will be pissed."

--There is no reason to bring men to Habanna Village. They are everywhere.

--It is hard to scratch your Salsa itch in Habanna Village. Unlike other places that will throw in some Meregue or Reggaeton (eew!) for good measure, there is no way to ever be "finished" with the salsa at HV. I still have a salsa itch.

Look for me at Habanna Village sometime soon. I will be at the table of las gringas. There will not be any guys there. Except maybe Carlos, my Salsa King, who is used to harems of women. (Typically, I categorically refuse to be in any kind of harem, but Carlos' salsa prowess makes him the exception to my highly-held rule).


My. Head. Hurts.

...It's 11am and I'm just rolling into the office. I laid in bed for an extra hour this morning, unable to support the idea of actually moving. I'm still dizzy.

Needless to say, I did *not* stick to K and I's plans of only having two cocktails at most. What can I say? Eyebar on Thursday is BO-ring! The old men were out in full force. It was Russian night. The guys at PimpHand that I had originally planned to see could not get the place's equipment working. And I went to UMD, which means, basically, that when bored in a bar, I often choose to drink for sport. ...So I did.

After the free blue martinis we got for being chicks, K went home, but Ash and I hopped in a cab to K Street Lounge, which of course took us straight to Citron. We drank Washington Apples and danced on the bar (which the owner is all-too-happy to encourage me to do all the time: 'No one's danced on the bar tonight. Roar! You go, you're great!').

*Alas* old men and crowds (and early drunkenness) sent us home by 1. I was out for a whole 2 hours! Which only goes to show how talented I actually am: 2.5 venues, many drinks, bar dancing and losing my credit card.... I am *such* a multi-tasker.

...I will post more later, when my head feels normal again. I'll give "The Man" my slow brain waves, and save the good stuff for y'all later.

And I have to get normalized at some point, cuz it's SALSA NIGHT TONIGHT! Ouepa! (sp?)


In Defense of the Sisterhood

Though I have heeded someone's suggestion and have not been reading one of my favorite blogs recently, I thought I'd do my part for woman-kind by showing the flip-side of woman-bashing (however popular it may be):

I heard a *male* speaker my last semester in college spout the following statistic: The #1 man a woman needs to be afraid of is the one she lives with. Think about that, and let it resonate. It makes sense since he is the one man with most and easiest access to her.

It usually begins insiduously and under-the-radar:
...Even the not so sympathetic agree: if a man begins his abuse with insults or name-calling, he has a serious problem that will not go away, but will escalate.
...26% of teen girls report enduring verbal abuse in dating relationships. (holy crap!)

And it's not just that girl:
......1 in 4 women will experience Domestic Violence. (In fact, it's a cause close to my heart because, of my 4 best friends and I, 3 of us have experienced it, and no, we didn't know that before we became friends). *Guys, this means that most likely you have, or will, date someone who has dealt with this.*
...In the US, a woman is physically abused every 9 seconds.
...There is not one segment of the female demographic that suffers a higher rate of domestic violence than any other: all women of all walks of life are abused at the same rate.

And it's *not* just older, married women:
...women 16-24 experience the highest rate of domestic violence.
...53% of domestic violence occurs within a dating relationship.
...30-50% of dating relationships exhibit the same kind of escalating violence as marital relationships.

And it's not always just a slap across the face:
...Wife beating results in more injuries requiring medical treatment than rape, car accidents and muggings combined.
...Over 1200 women are killed each year by an intimate partner.

So, while this week in particular, you may be having fun reveling in the woman-bashing, -trashing, and -degrading, (or so I hear) remember: it's not completely funny. Attitudes affect actions. Anyone (say, like, a blogger) with any realm of influence should be careful not to encourage nasty attitudes or behaviors. It is not as innocuous as it might seem. After all: 90% of Americans agree that men should take responsibility for preventing violence against women.
...isn't it time?

Just a thought.

Wynton Fan

"Live in Swing City-- Swingin' With Duke LIVE"

If this CD doesn't make you stage full-on-60's-era-soft-shoe-big-band-musical-theatre-style-arms-flailing-hips-swinging-legs-kicking-Edward-Albee-kind-of-choreography in YOUR shower, I'm not sure we are of the same species. Especially #1. I love #1.



Would you rather... 2

You're dead. You're face-to-face with St. Peter, and there's a wait for some reason. (I know, Murphy's Law, right?) The good Saint mentions that the Pearly Gate-o-Plex now has a new special feature for just such instances of inconvenient death. (The zen-like "But where else do you have to be?" argument didn't go over very well with the pushy, dead New Yorkers). St. Peter offers to let you review one of the larger decisions of your life while you wait and to explore the kind of what ifs that accompany large decisions.

You pick your marriage. Or, rather, you choose to review your choice of spouse because there was, way back when, a runner-up. You only pick this decision because, well, you're a reaslist: they haven't mentioned anything about being able to change anything-- they're just offering insight into your newly-ended life-- and why sit at the Pearly Gate-O-Plex with a Puss on your face? Perhaps you stayed at that job too long or you had one too many kids, but youre at least sure of one decision: you loved your marriage. You always felt challenged and fulfilled in every healthy way.

And what had happened to the door #2 person? You'd heard they'd gone bankrupt and ended up moving back in with their parents (last you heard). Besides, the reason you passed this person up was because you never felt truly loved by them. Not that it was their fault. You know they cared, but not in a way you ever understood or could appreciate. Not like the spouse-of-the-year-every-year person you actually married.

So Saint Peter hands you a 12.2 megapixel cloud with 'Your Marriage' scrawled in gold leaf over the top, and you go sit down on one of the clumps of condensation that are the waiting room at the PG-o-P. What becomes obvious though, as you sit there, is that this "easy decision" you chose to review was actually not as simple as you had thought at the time. The person you married never felt as fulfilled and challenged as you did. They understood you, and therefore did what they knew you needed, but only to keep you around. Every time you euphoricallly closed your eyes after a smooch, they were rolling their eyes. You're still not sure if they were unfaithful- you had to put the 12.2 mpxl cloud down before you got to that part.

And as for the "runner up," they loved you more within the first few weeks than your spouse ever even came close to. They ended up with someone they cherished and respected- cuz that's just the kind of person they are- but not until their mid-40's, and only once they had completely gotten over the possibility of ever being with you.

Totally dejected, with the puss on your face that you'd tried to avoid at the otherwise happy Pearly Gate-o-Plex (ok, maybe not happy, but there's a very palpable sense of relief), you take the 12.2 mpxl cloud back to St. Peter.
"Thanks, but I'd rather just wait," you tell him.
"Actually," St. Peter raises his hand, "Now that you've seen all sides of your decision, would you like to go down there and try it again?"

Do you take St. Peter up on his offer to give it a go with the person that loved you more from the start? Or do you just sit back down and continue to wait? Which would you rather: a love that totally fulfills you, or a true love that you don't understand?



I hate restaurant reviews. They're so standard. Expect nothing of the sort here.

K & I began our weekly brunch-and-shopping ritual yesterday at the beautiful Viridian, newly-opened on 14th btn P & Q. The menu's so simple, it's confusing. The food is good but random: lamb sausages, cold lentil salad, cauliflower soup. The bloody mary is actually lethal-- K caught a whole red chili pepper in hers (at least they don't bother using ice).

It's no Logan Tavern, but the trip into the unknown (and the $24) was worth it: eating brunch while staring at a huge rendering of a sword fight between Uncle Sam (armed with Nike) and Osama (weilding Jihad). Now that's a DC brunch!


Blonde moment

Until exactly 30 seconds ago, my tagline which was supposed to read:

"By day a lowly cubicle jockey..."

had an extra "L" in the word cubicle. Like, cube-LICK-le.

Two words: I wish.


How to Date a Fabulous Girl

Disclaimer: These hints are only to be employed when dating the most fabulous of the fab.

Games: Men & Women play games for the same reason: they're insecure & they're trying to get one over on you. 'I'm busy & not that eager' and 'Men pay for the priviledge of my company all the time,' are the attempted implications of waiting a few days to call or not offering to pony up. Fabulous people see these actions for what they are.

Chivalry: is not dead. (But should be a 2-way street.) Open her car door & see if she leans over to unlock yours. Walk on the street side of the road (MAJOR bonus points!!) Does she switch her purse to the opposite arm while holding hands? In a group, both should introduce the other to their acquaintances.

Gift of Gab: Fabulous people can talk to anyone. They know how to start & perpetuate a conversation. By all means, find this talent refreshing-- but don't punish a good conversationalist. If it's clear that one person simply enjoys talking to hear their head rattle more than they would like to learn about the other person, the fab-u will quickly get bored-- and move on.

The tab: A fabulous gal genuinely offers to pay the tab and there are no repurcussions to the guy accepting. That said, just as no fab. gal is anyone's 'kept woman,' she is on a date, not doing charity work. Unisex Rule-- the inviter should always be prepared to foot the bill of their proposed activity in full, though any gracious invitee should find a way to contribute.

...this last may throw even the most proficient dater through a loop. When not paying in full, the date is no longer formalized 'pu&&y brokerage' and will require a paradigm shift, for any not used to dating a True Fab-u. Just keep the phrase "value added" in the forefront of your mind, and you should be fine.


My 1st Blogger Happy Hour

You've already read the overviews. No need to rehash. I'll just hit the highlights:

First let me say, though, this post would not be possible without the help of Jon, who IMed me the minute I got to the office this afternoon. I (finally) can link others' blogs in my own. Gracias, Jon. Gracias. Can't wait to read more of you.

First entering the blog HH, I made a bee-line for I-66 cuz I, like everyone else, recognized him. Sorry we didn't get to talk longer, honey. I still owe you shots, and I was looking forward to talks about the Isely Brothers... next time.

I approached someone wearing a "Chase" nametag. I asked if she was AsianMistress. "Uh, no." I correctly guessed Chase-ing Complacency next. Yeah, ok, so I'm slow on the uptake. "Oh, honey!," I gushed. "You look so much cuter than your picture!" She was less than flattered. Chase- fyi- I only meant that the pic doesn't do you justice. You're adorable.

Met Jade. Awesome chick. We talked Dan Savage, subs and doms. She was my 2nd Washington Apple of the evening. Good times.

I had to rat out my boys E Rock and YoDaddy. My best buds from UMD- these guys go back to freshman year metro trips to Club Platinum (we didn't know any better). Thinking their old bud was dragging them to an event on par with a bookclub, "three, maybe four other people," Erock surmised, they thought it would be fun to try out other names. I had to out "Troy" and "Antwon" to Kathryn. Come on, guys. Forgive me! This was no bookclub meeting, and I only outed you once K said, "So, do those guys have made-up blogs or something?" "No," I began. "Just made-up names." Can't lie to the hostess...

Nicole, you can't be my first friend who's a Hooters girl, but you can be my 4th. What can I say? I have hot friends. I hope you'll be one of them, though. You're fun! (And sorry for making you stay later than you wanted to with me, lol).

Baby Banana (another down-ass-chick) and I had fun taking pics with Travis. Marci, honey, give in to the "type"-- and have fun with it! Dreds are cool, even if he's not.

I waved at V once I recognized her at the bar, only to realize she had no idea who I was, and I looked rather spastic doing it. (Oops!) We talked Okie for a while. Quite fun. She is so sweet and nice (it's an Okie trait). For the record, though, I went to UMD... no harm no foul.

Kathryn, already mentioned above, lived up to her nickname: she was *def* the hostess with the mostest! And hers goes up there as one of the best quotes of the evening: "I met him." "I know." Another 'doh!' moment...
Her quote is rivaled only by one: "I lose interest (in women) pretty fast." What, pray tell, does one say to that???

Cookie, can't wait to see you out and about again. I love 6 degrees of separation (or 3, but who's counting?) and love, love, love that I've converted you to the Washington Apple.

Thanks for a fun night, guys!


Update: Drab Land

I'm overseeing the testing of administrative candidates at my firm. No, I didn't know this existed either. As such, I've been trapped in front of a laptop literally all day, and because of it.... I'm lost... in a sea of... absolute boredom and complacency. I have one of those complacent headaches. The kind that sits, spreads and oppresses.

I felt compelled to reach out, to share my torture with others. And, not having AIM clearance on this makeshift machine, here I am: blogging. The following are the random thoughts that have occupied my otherwise constricted brain:

"The Fabulous Girl's Guide to Grace Under Pressure" is an awesome book. I just can't read any more of someone telling me what to do/how to act today. Here's hoping I don't rebel against the authors tonight at the HH and get... shitty. Or as DistrictSiren would say, "drunkface."

The best advice I heard this week came from one of my new(er) friends, K__. "If you're not sure, don't waste a weekend night on him." You're a sage, K. Sage.

I have the song "Return to Innocence" stuck in my head. That Native American keeps ooo-ing and aaah-ing in my ears. I never liked this song very much. Not even enough to have ever known who sang it. It is seeping into every corner of my otherwise catatonic brain and... ... ... TAKING OVER! Only reading makes it stop, but we've already been through that.

Speaking of music, I've had the worst writer's block lately. Can't write anything. Lyrics and melodies used to come out of every one of my orifices (trying to be polite) and now my creative juices are as dry as this day has been.

Vodka, Cranberry, Orange, Pineapple with Belvedere, please... and a Washington Apple to start. Thanks. ...Yes, I'd like to keep it open.


Would you rather...

My family liked to play this game at get-togethers. The grown-ups wanted to get us cousins thinking, I guess. Creating philosophers, if you will. Here are a few situations (some sticky) to ponder. Two have been in the family forever, and the last I've added for some adult flava:

Scenario 1: You're trapped, standing in an Olympic-sized pool of shit. Human excrement, to be exact. Now, for argument's sake, let's say you're chained down by your ankles. You cannot move to any side, up or out of the pool. Your head is the only thing exposed. (You're neck-deep in CRAP!). However, someone (presumeably the person that put you in this smelly predicament) is now standing at the edge of the pool with a bucket of snot-- human-- aimed at your head. They won't miss. Do you duck?

Scenario 2: Would you rather be a big fish in a small pond, or a little fish in a big one? Remember, in this case (unlike others) "big" and "small" are terms relative to their environment.

Scenario 3: There's a couple in bed. A hookup happened the night before. There was alcohol involved. You are one of the people in bed. The other person is whatever gender you are attracted to. One of you wakes up first. It is this earlier riser's apartment. This person looks over at the other person and feels... ill. Would you rather be the person whose apartment it is, that then has to get the "vile" person to leave, or would you rather be the one waiting by the phone for a call that'll never come?

There'll be more tomorrow. Lemme know what your answers are. Mine are:
1--totally taking the snot. (At least it's supposed to be up my nose...)
2--big fish in small pond. Really, large fish in medium pond, but that wasn't an option, was it? I would only be a small fish in a big pond if I could somehow still rub it in the fish faces of the fish in the small pond that I was still better than them, lol.
3--i think i'd rather be the one whose apartment it is. Ignorance is only SOMETIMES bliss. (Honestly, I'd rather think that about someone else and live with my own shallowness than ever have to wonder if someone thought that about me).

Stretchna Nova Godina

....or something like that, is how you say "Happy New Year's!" in Serbian.

My roomie D and good, old friend Ana (half Serbian, and, though we didn't know it 'til we got there, totally fluent in Serbian) went with me to Baci Vini (a hole in the wall under Anzu) to celebrate the New Year this past Friday.

Gotta be honest. I wanted to report back to you all today with lots of new words for your lexicon. But alas, though Boris, (my Serbian friend of a friend) and his friends were throwing lots of Serbian phrases at me, I remember little. The only one I remember is actually the one that'll come in most handy, though. Ladies, take note:

Yasm Damma!
That's right-- "I'm a game/challenge," biatch!

Sorry for the cursory knowledge with which I am reporting back from my travels. At one point in the night, I knew how to correctly say, 'Happy New Year', 'Where's the bathroom,' 'I love champagne'... but alas, Yasm Damma is the only thing that stuck. Freudian, if I do say so myself. It's not so much that I can't pronounce the stuff. I can. I was classically trained in voice for years. I can mimic most sounds pretty well. Remembering them is a different thing, though. You see, there was lots of champagne flowing, and we were at the bar two maybe three times for my personal fave: the Vodka, Cranberry, Orange and Pineapple -- scream that to a bartender three times fast-- with Belvedere, please.

We didn't stay at Serbian New Years. I mean, Ana did. But D and I, with a new respect for the immigrant in America, fled out of Baci towards Anzu where we danced around there to the music with **English** lyrics (yea!). Not that we're ethnocentric or anything, but spastic techno in Serbian is... well... draining. Back to Anzu: we were two chicks dancing drunk and by ourselves, so there were interested jeerers and leerers... *big deal* they were excited about the prospect of drunk ass (seen 40yo virgin, anyone?). What creed or color were said jeerer/leerers?-- we didn't care enough to check, P. We were out of there after our first drink.

We ended the night at Steve's Bar Room because it's my fave place right now. I know, creature of habit... but the bartenders are (usually) hot and the atmosphere is fun, and I always end up on the bar somehow (this last time, to spank one of the bartenders).

All in all, a fun night had by all... in new places, learning new things, meeting new people.... it was fun. It's going to be my mini-challenge for the rest of the year: try new places. Perhaps go out one night without hitting up Steve's... (the horror!)


Harry how I love thee... Let me count the ways:

Time to let my friends (who don't already know) in on something near and dear to my heart: my crush on Harold Ford Jr.
I have had a crush on this man since... I'm not even sure.
Was it the DNC, when political passion was at its peak, bonding even my Father and I?
Was it the Obama TVOneOnOne interview Ford crashed? "That's what the Founding Fathers envisioned: a nation led by men of mixed background..." Wrong, on so many levels- and he's known for his extemporaneous speaking- but oh-so-poised!
December '04 sealed the deal. I locked eyes with him in the Lincoln Theatre waiting for a Wynton Marsalis concert to start. I had to look away quick-- I'm sure I turned bright red.

Alas, no crush is perfect.
I read a bill on his website that he sponsored, pandering to the Right, advocating something about family values. (yuck!) ...But he's running for Senate in a state with only Red leadership in that house right now.
To further complicate things, The Black Commentator would have you believe that Harry's sold himself to the devil- aka, that the Right and their puppet W have him in their pocket. OK, maybe he said some things in support of the "President"... but what if those quotes were simply in the interest of bi-partisan solidarity? (He's criticized him too...)
Harry's bucking for the title of Solid, Good Leader.
...Nothin' sexier than that!


Stretchan Bojitch Relocated

Doesn't that sound like a cheesy Tom Cruise movie? N-E-Wayz....

The Serbs have moved their New Years party this Friday. I will no longer be partying at Steve's Bar Room but instead somewhere else.... will find out tonight and post again with info. (Along with the Serbian way to say "Happy New Year's!")

How can you miss partying Serb-style? I mean really.

Salsa, Damn It (...or leave me alone)!

It's a fun night. The DJ is playing "...Michaela, como baila bugalu!..." or maybe "Fabricando Fantasias." Anyway, I begin to look around, eager to find a partner worthy of the afore-mentioned songs and, invariably, unfortunately, I will have to sit these songs out once in a while. There just won't be a partner able enough to do them justice. And, I'm fine with that.

But I've seen a disturbing trend recently: Guys that say they can salsa, hell-- they may even think they can salsa, but-- THEY CAN'T SALSA.
Look man, you're not impressing me with your booty moves. (And, frankly, your spastic hip clicks are kind of disturbing). This is SALSA-- this is a two-person thing. Your body is supposed to move with mine, and vice-versa. It's beautiful, cuz no two people dancing it ever look the same with other partners. It's like sex that way. And you're ruining it. You're supposed to LEAD, for G-d's sake! Spin me around. When my right foot goes back... not.... ugh.

It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't talk so much shit. Hey, I get it (I'm the pragmatic type): Not everyone can salsa. Perhaps you think you should be able to, cuz you're whatever-percentage-amount Columbian or Venezuelan (in my experience, two nationalities with very good Salsa-dancing-skill despite their national rivalry ~though I'll always have a soft spot in my heart for Jonathan, my Puerto Rican 7th grade bf~). Still: Your nationality is never a good indicator of dance skill.
I'm in DAR, mother-f***er, and I dance your pants off!
It's not that I think these non-salsa-dancing guys are a waste of time, per se. However, don't talk all that shit and then expect me not to be disappointed. I looooove salsa. Can't get enough. And I've taken my interest to the next level: I dance it a lot-- I'm pretty decent (if I do say so myself).... I can follow well, cross-body lead, multiple turns at once, the whole nine.

So PLEASE to all those reading: DON'T say you salsa unless, you know, you DO!
(Unless you wanna hear Savage growl).
; )


Double or Nothin'


So you know the Spinners....

But can you recognize this one?

I would love to take her home
But her heart is made of stone
I would keep on keepin' on
If I don't she'll do me wrong.

Do me wrong, yeah!

This artist(s) will be added to my profile also once he/she/they are correctly guessed.

As always, Happy Testing!

Way to Start the Day!

Driving in to work, over the Memorial bridge, what was on 95.5 but: Jungle Fever.... "oo ee oo ee oo!" Totally random, and quite timely, I must admit.

OK: New lyric test-- (This is in fact, my favorite song right now. A classic, if I do say so myself)

"Sitting all alone, by the telephone
Waiting for your call, when you don't call at all!

OOoooh! It's-a, got-to-be a _______!"

**Can't you just hear that funky syncopation?**

Happy Testing! Free shot for the blogger who gets it at next week's HH.


My Second Job Owns Me

Phone rings. It's my manager, asking me to work Restaurant Week. "Just for a while. There's lots of reservations."

...I can't help it. I want the money. So I'm working tonight. Pushing back my date and skipping yoga cuz I'm a greedy bitch who likes to pay her rent.

What can I say? I like going home with the cash. Besides... I can always go to the gym in the morning instead. Still... I feel like I'm cheating myself and have somehow sold my soul. Any votes?

We Be Burnin'


Has anyone else noticed that Sean Paul has a "radio edit" for his new song, "We Be Burnin," that is played on ClearChannel stations, yet RadioOne (93.9) and CBS's Infinity [er, vice-versa. It was hard to tell from my googling who owned who] (95.5) choose to play the un-fucked-with version?

Why does ClearChannel think we can't handle:
"Some got gold and oil and diamonds, all we got is Mary J.
Recognize it. Time to legalize it."

Recogniiiiize IT!, ClearChannel-- hearing about pot doesn't make someone a pothead.

ps-- I will admit, the other part of the "club version" as it's called, is slightly racier:

"Just gimme the trees and we'll smoke it yo.
It don't make me please so don't provoke it yo.
We don't need no speed so we going to coke it yo.
Set we mind at ease we got to take it slow."

Still, racy though it may be, the same argument from above could be used. It's a song, not a dealer's phone number.


Why I *don't* like dating Over-30's

OK- I have to rant.

I hung out with a regular on Friday night after I was cut, cuz he was fun and nice. I gave the 35yo architect my #. Because he was fun and nice. He's from KY. Has the accent. He's racially unbiased. A Democrat. We talked a lot.

Since then, though, he's made some mistakes. Calling the next day was actually a point in his favor. (I try not to date guys that don't). So was leaving a concise message to let me know, you know, the point. I called him back the next day, concise: told him I couldn't meet up on the days he'd suggested-- I have work and yoga after all!

Since then, he called a few hours later (presumably, just after he got my message) but it was after 11pm! Roomie and I were deep into her "My So-Called Life" DVDs at the time. "That is so inappropriate," she said as I turned off my ringer. He called again today, and both messages were less than concise: "Hey, just calling. Try you later."

Dude. I'm not your girlfriend. Wanna make plans to go chill sometime, cool. But...

I've noticed a trend: The 30-somethings I've dated acted slightly more pressed than their 20-something counterparts. It's refreshing at first. Here's this guy that knows who he is/what he wants, has intelligent things to say, we laugh, the works. And I'm only dating nice guys now. So, these nice, cute 30-somethings seem, at first, like a huge find.

(Still, I'm always secretly suprised by their interest in me. I mean, what do I have in common with a 30-something who is established?? NO-thing! I can hold my own in a convo with anyone, but... my lifestyle is very... well, read the profile!)

But the 30-something's knowing who/what he wants becomes more like a possessiveness. It's not that I can't feel that way about someone. But I can't feel that way about someone as fast as they do. I've dated a few now. The first time it took a month for him to want to call me "girlfriend." The quickest one did it in 3 dates. Is it just me or does "I've been here yesterday, I'm here today, and I'll be here tomorrow," sound more like a threat than a promise? (Besides, that was the 3 date guy, and technically, he wasn't there yesterday, and it was presumtive of him to think about "tomorrow.")

This 35yo architect guy is not that bad- yet. He hasn't had the chance. I'm not trying to make his phone faux pas into something larger, but it fits the trend above. Or maybe I'm just gun-shy. But I ask you:

Is this simply a Catch-22 issue? Do older guys only want younger girls cuz they want to get all clingy with someone who's slightly less 'formed,' if you will? I don't want a man that can't handle women his own 'size'. I hope to be one one day.

Keepin' It Nerd Free With My TI-83

...This was the Tshirt from Urban that I almost got my cousin for Christmas, nerd that he is. He's going to OU's Med School next fall. Sorry there's no link, they've sold out of it, but I still think the text is hillarious.

Here's wishing I actually was computer-kind-of-nerdy at one point in my life (I had the choir nerd thing down pat in HS and College) cuz I'm having blog problems. How do I add to my links list?? Blogger help is only so helpful, you know?

Perhaps I'm a pragmatist, but: If blank links show up on my blog, you'd think there'd be a links section in the chinese that they call code. But there isn't. I swear. I've looked.

I-66, I want to return the favor. I want yeah-so-I'm on my blog.... but I'm clueless.

Perhaps someone at the next Blog HH can help.

Stretchan Bojich

Merry (Belated) Christmas to all of our Serbian friends!

Stretchan Bojich!!

(Yes, I know Pichku, too!) hehe.

Looking forward to Serbian New Years this Friday at Steve's Bar Room... www.stevesbarroom.com

All of the hot DC Serbs will be there!


Happy Confrontation Day!

1 down, 3 to go.

It's not that I'm confrontational per se, it's just that it's time for me to get some stuff off my chest. Did a lot of thinking last night, cleaned my house, watched 2-- (count 'em!)-- 2 Romantic Comedies last night, and woke up today refreshed. Rejuvinated. Ready to tell some people off. (Or in this morning's case, admit that I'd been at least partially wrong).

In honor of this historic day, I'm flying sans "notes." What will spring forth from my mouth has and will continue to be the product of a scattered and overactive brain. Here's hoping I can be as diplomatic ALL day, as I was in the first go-round.

Wish me luck.


Bad advice?

So... I think I just councilled a guy friend of mine not to 'fess up about cheating.

Now, let's be clear: This guy is more of a long-time acquaintance than a friend I see regularly. The only reason we were talking about the incident was because I witnessed it. New Year's, at my bar, he was inhaling the girl that he had said he was bringing only because his girlfriend had to work that night, too. Why not hang bar-side with her? "I like to flirt too much for that." He brought one of his girl friends to my bar, instead.

The funny thing is, this guy was blaming everyone but himself for said cheating. Me, for hooking him up with a free bottle of champagne that he drank himself (I guess the chick didn't like champagne). Her, because... actually, he never said why he blamed her. He did say, though, that she's rung twice and he won't answer her calls.

Just to thicken the plot, he went on to pontificate about how *not* attractive she was. He couldn't believe, drunk or not, that he would make a move on such a girl. "She's so fat!" "She's so busted!" I couldn't help but wonder: One, why isn't he remorseful because he cheated on the girl he cares about? And, two, are my tastes slipping?

I'm sexually pretty hetero. But my shallowness can sometimes reach epic proportions. (Not an attractive quality, I know). I can say the CATTIEST things about other women- especially when out on the town with my best gay friend of 4 years, or talking with my favorite bouncer at the door- and even though I would not have callled this woman "Model-Hot," I wouldn't have called her "busted" or "ugly." In fact, she had that cool/hardcore/edgy/woman-of-the-world look going on that I tend to put down because I admire it so. Besides, on New Year's she was on the arm of a (let's admit, very shallow) stud. I figured her confidence was somehow founded.

**Just goes to prove: A lot of women, myself included, rate themselves (at least partially) based on men's approval of them.**

But, back to my advice:
Though I would never want to be cheated on (again), I gotta say, the advice I gave was tailored to the audience. If the man could so callously suck face all night (& then who-knows-what later-- he only vaguely remembered his bar-side make-out session) and have no inward blame, shame, or remorse, how could he formulate a real admition/apology?

Forget it, I say. No need to hurt the girlfriend. And, anyway, shouldn't she know by now that she has a cad? There's always the outside possibility that she was sucking face at her own bar that night too....


Life Without Health Insurance/Happy New Year!

...It's a slippery slope. I was mad at my Dad for changing jobs and "forgetting" to include me on his next health plan, leaving my graduated ass out in the cold... but that's been several months now.

Seven, in fact, since I finally broke out of CP and the sorority house I loved for almost as many years as I was a member. Seven months-- and now, here in 2006, I wonder if I'm much further than I was in August.

...And it's not just the Health Insurance. It's my car's tags: Still Maryland. It's my driver's license: Still Oklahoma. It's the fact that I can't, for the life of me, ever remember to write my rent check in time to make the mail, and if I do, I still can't remember or find my rental company's address. So, for the past several months, I've had to drop the check off in person. Worse, it's that this year, for the first time, I'll have to do my taxes myself and I'm CLUELESS.

My laziness could, seen from one angle, be a bucking of bureaucracy, in all it's red-tape, paper forms.

And, not to whine, but: It's not completely my fault. My busy life of permanent-temp-ing each day and several nights a week in the service industry don't leave much time for paperwork. Besides, deductibles, premiums, MVA's and rent checks make me nervous. And the taxes-- that's the worst! I get near my 1040 and I begin to feel as though I'm going to jail for some reason that I'll only figure out AFTER I've been made Emira's bitch.

...But this girl has never been a victim of circumstance (for long). New Year's Resolution #281: To take care of all things "Paperwork" in a timely (and immediate) manner.

I'll keep you posted.