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.

Oh.My.G-d.

Uhm, Den-ISE!?!
Ye-ah?!
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."

23

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?

Random

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...!!!

Appalled

"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.

Tagged

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!***

Ides of March

I wonder if both blogger Happy Hours were planned on this fateful & ominous day on purpose. (And, hopefully, the ominousness of the day won't affect 66's DMV trip).

I know I'm no veteran to the blog scene, but this being my 3rd HH, I thought I'd openly share some of the qualms I've been sharing privately with some of my blog buddies. But perhaps this needs set-up:

I walked in about an hour and a half late to the last HH. I ran to Nic & some others I already knew. Still, I found myself standing in a gaggle of people that (mostly) I didn't know. And it fell silent. For like, a healthy 20 seconds. A silence broken only by my declaration: "Time for a drink!"

I know that even though I read many of y'all everyday, you're still basically strangers. And some awkwardness is to be expected. But please don't misinterpret my drunkenness at the last 2 HH's: it's not you, it's me. (I have a very low threshold for social awkwardness). But I really do want to know you all better.

I want to see if 66 (formerly Mr. Smile Ambassador) will be enacting his new, freaky-deaky alter-persona.
I want to know how Travis' pee wee softball season is going.
I want to know if Heather's brother is single (& I figure asking in person is less creepy).
I want to know if DCOE ever got her watch fixed.
I want to know if Kemph will show this time.
And I really want to chat with strong Momma Chase (who can lecture me about female self-esteem any day!).

I haven't broken my Lent-olution yet, so the drinks-as-social-lubrication won't be an option for me tonight. I look forward to moving past that awkwardness and having some cool conversations. See you there!

Why I Feel Bad for Straight Guys

One of the bankers at my office showed up 2 hrs late for work one morning last summer. His was the open cube in front of mine and he plopped down in his chair that morning, eyes bloodshot. It took a while, but he finally told me what was up. "Maggie (his wife, who was 6 months pregnant at the time) "came home last night and told me she quit her job." According to Tom the banker, Maggie was not taking maternity leave, she just left. She didn't want to work again- ever- now that the baby was coming and she hadn't even thought to consult Tom, who maintained he had no previous idea his wife felt that way. He tried to laugh about it, but I could tell by his red eyes that he had been up all night worrying.

I feel bad for heterosexual men. It's just not easy being a straight guy. Money, Sex and Power are all riddled with double standards for the average heterosexual man. As Tom's story proves, they're supposed to be eager default breadwinners yet equally unthreatened secondary earners and content equal-earners. They are expected to harbor no negative feelings should their partner and equal provider, a woman, one day up and say, 'I don't want to work anymore.' And these financial double standards start way before cohabitation and marriage.

On dates the man is expected to pay. Especially if he likes his date a lot, he usually ponies up the dough. Men are supposed to see paying for their dates' time as a priviledge. He's not allowed to resent the fact that he just paid for 2 dinners whether or not it was a 'good date.' And he's definitely not allowed to be disappointed if his dinner-paying doesn't broker sex. Not to mention the glaring double standard that should he consistently choose to invite a lady friend to do things that are cheap or free he would be considered a SCRUB.

And then there's sex. I knew one man 'got it' when he whispered to me, mid make-out: "We're just talking dirty, but still. I really want, wish I could... (insert lewd act here)." He really didn't want to rush into getting busy, but he understood some lip-locks need some hot words, too. Not every man 'gets it' like he did.

And how can you blame them? Men are raised to cultivate their sexual libido- the more insatiable, the more "manly"- with the only words of warning during their adolescence being, "don't get anyone in trouble." They're taught that women never want it as much as or in the same way that they do, so sex and dating become a complex game of "kidnapping the pu$$y."(-Chapelle?) Is it any wonder then that many men are confused?

Case in two points: A bartender friend of mine once told me, (while my date was in the bathroom), "My women love it when I give it to them hard. Their lips may say 'No' but their other lips say 'Yes.'" (Insert horrified face here). Another time, a very frank date candidly told me at the end of our date that he was surprised we hadn't had sex. Why? "Because usually if you fool around long enough, they give in."

And then there's power, or control. Men are supposed to see power, as it regards a relationship with a woman, as an illegal sublet. They'll take charge or "own" a situation until she says she wants the control of x, y, or z, at which point Mr. Man is expected to acquiesce. If he doesn't take to not wearing the pants? He's an unevolved, Neanderthal control freak. But if he never had the reigns in the beginning? He's a whipped, push-over pansy.

And then there's the other power, self-control. Men are supposed to be evolved enough to know that sometimes their women just need to cry or vent and they're supposed to simply listen, knowing that, usually, giving advice would just piss her off. But men still aren't allowed to cry themselves. Not really. Not unless someone died or their woman is leaving (and even then, only if he thinks it will work to bring her back).

A heterosexual male's existence seems riddled with no-win situations. People lament all the time about the difficulty of raising a girl, but raising a well-adjusted man must at least be equally challenging. Or maybe people accept (however erroneously) that the well-adjusted millennium man is a myth. Instead, they choose not to try- arming their boys only with the phrase "don't get anyone in trouble" each time they walk out the door- making raising them "easier."

Spring Fever

81 degrees today! I'm so excited!!

The polar ice caps may be melting, but I got to wear my pretty, vintage skirt today. Momentous occasion. It's still 7 days before the first day of Spring, but that didn't keep me from having a Spring-ish weekend.

Friday- The All-Seasons Favorite: Drinking. Only, not really. D, Nic and I did 6 spots and I managed to only have 2 drinks. Granted, they were dirty Goose martinis and I hadn't eaten much that day (no time). But still. Unlike the previous week where not enough alcohol made this girl cranky with her cohorts, this past Friday, we stayed out til 3:30 and it wasn't until the next morning that I realized I wasn't as intoxicated as my friends. Must have been the company. *smile*

Saturday- Spring Cleaning. D and I have a constant battle with our bathroom, so I prefer the hands-and-knees scrubbing approach. No matter what, though, it never stays clean. You'd think two chicks would be less messy... I spent most of the day, though, walking back and forth to and from the laundromat across the street. Some guy stopped and introduced himself. "You look like you're on your way to a pool party." O Lord. Damn Soffe shorts.

Sunday- Eastern Market. I was homesick for Oklahoma yesterday. It started when I was told Friday night that the Pope was allowing Irish Catholics to eat meat for St. Patty's Day, even though it's technically a Friday during Lent. I immediately missed my Mother's Corned Beef and Cabbage (and I never really even liked it all that much). An afternoon at her favorite DC spot didn't help, either. But at least I was able to pick up a couple of presents for her upcoming birthday. She was born on the Official First Day of Spring. (I have a feeling she wouldn't want me to say which year).

I love Spring Time.

Tourrette's

Two runners slowed down from a jog right in front of AB and I as we were walking back from Baja Fresh. One man in particular was built. Great upper body. Some grey in his brown hair. Not even winded from his run. His arms might as well have been racks of lamb.

All my ogling made me feel icky (it IS Lent, afterall...) But two feet ahead of us, it was hard for me to get a good look, that is, until he and his friend turned to go into a deli and I was able to see-- "No ring! No ring!" I blurted out, relieved. (I do not, on principle, lust after married men).

It didn't even occur to me that the racks of lamb might have ears as well. When I turned around for one last glance through the deli window, LambChops was looking back at me and smiling as he put his shirt on.

I am so immature.

Then AB and I had this conversation:

Wow. That would have been embarrassing if he heard me.
Yeah.
And I think he did.
(Snickered).
O well. So I have Tourettes.
But then you would have been cursing.
No, they don't curse. They just can't hold in what they're thinking.
That and twitching.
Hey, that might be a good type of person to date.
I feel like some things you don't want to know, Roar.
Hehe. Maybe. Like, 'I think you're being manipulative right now.'
Yeah, only it would sound like 'Manipulative. MANIPULATIVE!'
Do you think there's anyone with Tourrette's that doesn't twitch, cuz that might be the only downside.
Why don't you just date loud-mouthed, honest guys?
Well, see, I've done that... but they end up being too much like myself.

Deal Breaker?

I just had a date with a man whose apartment reminds me of "Silence of the Lambs." I can't decide if this is a deal-breaker...

And one related question: How soon do you tell someone (that doesn't already know) that you blog? 3rd date? 5th? Never?

Cravings

I crave this once a month. I can't help it. The Fish Filet is awesome.
Mmmmm... delicious Tartar Sauce!

Kicking & Screaming: And Hit Over the Head

I had just a week prior given job #2 my notice when DistrictSiren came over to teach me how to make a budget. We opened an excel sheet on my old iBook, keyed numbers into boxes and... found out why I'm broke.

"If you get job #1 to give you a $2/hr raise, you'd only be $300/month in the hole."

THUD.

A week later, my Supervisor at job #1 (and long-time college friend), AB, announced she was leaving to go be a missionary in Azerbaijan at the beginning of April. The shock was not that she was going, but that she was leaving a month early. Even more importantly, she informed me that with her vacancy, my Permanent Temp status followed.

THUD.

If you noticed I was blogging less last week, it was because I was stalking the WaPo classifieds. And CraigsList. And Monster. I talked myself into moving to New York. Then I talked myself out of it.

**My first thought was not the financial difficulty of NYC, but instead the network of close friends (whom I prize) that I'd be leaving behind. DC has Ashley, Denise, Kara, Koryn, Maggie, Margot and Nicole to thank, lol.**

Oh yeah, and I'm still at job #2. They never wanted me to leave anyway, so I "gave in" after my DistrictSiren pow-wow.

Nice idea...

...(and though I appreciate the sentiment) how's about I save my $40 and buy the Hanes version, in the mean time correcting anyone that should call it a "Wifebeater."


Read about it HERE.

Kicking & Screaming: But Tired of Plebian

I'm bored at my day job. That's why I can spend so much time on the blog. I suspect I'm not alone, because my sitemeter tells me I'm read more during the 9-5 on weekdays. Our jobs, dear readers, don't fulfill us.

For a while there, the two low-level job thing was fun. Especially this past Summer, after graduation. For those few months I actually had 2 restaurant jobs and the temp job. That's right: I was living in a Frat house and holding down 3 jobs, and I thought it was Oh-So-Cool.

Until I started dating. (Ah, the ever-present mirror for ourselves).

Frantically trying to find a place to live in the District, the guy I was seeing at the time (whose day job was in real estate) suggested I apply for low-income housing. The poor Moroccan man had no idea his suggestion would trip one of my bourgeois nerves. "Because I can't spend more than $700 a month you think I'm po-or?!?"

And my plebianism has kept coming up ever since.

So why DO you have two jobs?
Because I can't really afford to live on the one.

So what do you really want to do with your life?
I want to be a rockstar.

And most recently (not even a question):
Just go back to school.
I don't think they'd take me.

So, I'm tired of being plebian. And, worse, I'm not challenged by either of my jobs. Clearly, I've been a little misguided since graduation: I thought Not committing to one full-time job would leave me more free, flexible time. It doesn't. It keeps me working to pay the bills.

...At least I eventually got there on my own...

Kicking & Screaming: One Girl's Quest for Health Insurance

-a novel by RoarSavage

When I met you, I told you I had been flying without a net for a while. It's now been another two months without Health Insurance.

I've come to ignore the dread that must still be lurking in the back of my mind. It's been an unseasonably healthy winter for me. I've been uncommonly vehicularly lucky, as my vehicular luck tends to go. My face has even taught itself to clear up on its own.

Now, I could never prove that my skin decided to act its age, my speeding became more calculated and my immune system has hung tough this winter all simultaneously because I don't have health insurance. G-d knows, my skin has no idea its being deprived of its usual PPO dermos, my driving remains staunchly more offensive than defensive and it's not like I've been resting up and sucking down the Golden Seal. No: I have no idea why I have been able to go so long without health insurance without my usual hiccups. It's as if the road, my skin and the rest of my body took a meeting and all decided to chill the fuck out 'til conditions improved. I should send them each a fruitcake.

It's not like I haven't tried. I have. Job #2 offers insurance but because everyone there smokes, drinks and has whatever else, the rates are ridiculous. As for Job #1, if you find a permanent temp job with bennies, please: lemme know.

Though repressed, the worry has begun to get to me- albeit slightly. And I promised I would take care of this in my first post. I don't want to be a blog-welcher. I applied by myself to Blue Cross Blue Shield. Still waiting. I would doggedly follow-up, but that seems like a lot of work when I'm already sending fuitcakes because I'm so problem-free right now.

It's a symptom of a larger whole, anyway. More on that tomorrow.

Morning Song

aka- I sweat I-66.

This song made me happy this morning, on the drive in to work:

I started to give up
But love wouldn't let it
Then you walked into my life
And we began to...

Totally random. This must mean it's going to be a good day.

Punk Rock Chick

I spent my Thursday night after work at the Black Cat with a Greek contemporary of mine from College. Who else could appreciate it but a Frat guy?

I love Chuck Taylors. Punk, baby. Punk.
(Except for the only-drinking-2-drinks thing).

Who's hardcore? THIS girl!

I have a new toy : )

If looking for one yourself, might I suggest the Powerbook G4?
Yes, I'm a mac person. Get over it.

F.U.P.A.

It's an acronym for Fat Upper Pu$$y Area. Please tell me you've heard of it. It's the paunch/pouch/poodge that every woman has to some degree, just below her belly button. Some more than others... but I digress.

My FUPA is what gets me to the gym (when I go). It's a love-hate relationship really, cuz I love that that bit of fat is what makes me ovulate every month. I sometimes just wish that it would be less... *sucking in*.

I don't feel this way about any other part of my body. I actually wish my butt were bigger. I love my thighs and hips. But it seems as though I will have to accept that to have those curves, a FUPA comes with the package. No: I know it's not huge, but it's not J.Lo's curves-and-6-pack either. It's a path. I'm getting there. Still, I sometimes wonder: in more intimate settings, when 'sucking in' would be too much of a hindrance (or distraction or interference) for the, uhm, activity at hand, if anyone else notices my FUPA and wishes it weren't there.

Last night, my bar celebrated Mardi Gras in a BIG way. We had Brazilian dancers in Carnivale costume dancing on the main bar. Of the two of them, the best one was this beautiful black girl with an ass that wouldn't quit and- to my delight- a FUPA, too. She worked the crowd, she kicked, rolled, shook-- Damn! I want to BE Brazilian!

She reminded me of a High School choir trip I took to Europe. We were bussing everywhere, always looking schlubby, but how could you help feeling beautiful? The men screamed it everywhere you went. I had never felt more comfortable with myself or more beautiful. I have often wished I could capture that feeling, bottle it somehow, and bring it back to have with me always in the States.

I found myself staring at the dancer and wondering, 'OK, how is she moving her legs to make 'it' shake like that? I wonder how I can get my butt that big...' Not once did I think, 'If only that FUPA wasn't there.' I know no one watching her thought that of her very womanly shape, either.

Fast forward to the dance contest-- I eMCee'd. (Can you imagine?) It was a 4-round elimination kind of deal. Of the 9 that began, by the 4th round, we were left with 4. The screams of the crowd determined the winner. Come on, guys: it was Mardi Gras. There was boob.

More interesting, though, was that the clear winner was a regular of ours-- a Transvestite. Her boobs were, of course, the perkiest of all, and she shook them pure pride; without any of the tinge of guilt the other girl that bared herself seemed to harbor. Being (at least originally) a man, he doesn't have to worry about his sinewy body wanting to pack cushion to his every corner. She had no FUPA. And the men cheered for Her as loudly as they had for the beautiful Brazilian dancer.

Whatever. You win some, you lose some.
Still: I want to BE Brazilian.