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.

Anyway.

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.

end"

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...

Rerun

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

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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."

Asshole.

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

Enjoy.

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.