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!
3.15.2006
3.14.2006
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."
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."
3.13.2006
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.
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.
3.10.2006
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.
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.
3.09.2006
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?
And one related question: How soon do you tell someone (that doesn't already know) that you blog? 3rd date? 5th? Never?
3.08.2006
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.
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.
"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.
3.07.2006
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...
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...
3.06.2006
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.
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.
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.
3.03.2006
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 love Chuck Taylors. Punk, baby. Punk.
(Except for the only-drinking-2-drinks thing).
Who's hardcore? THIS girl!
3.02.2006
3.01.2006
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.
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.
2.28.2006
Mardi Gras!
Happy Fat Tuesday!
I hope you all get drunk, get beads and have fun.
...I'll be working.
I'm actually excited about Lent coming up, though. It's my favorite Christian season. Seriously.
I usually give up chocolate or swearing or soda, but I think this year I'm giving up alcohol.
Er, drinking more than 2 cocktails a night.
Er, drinking more than one drink per venue.
Or...
No. I can do that. I can. It's 40 days. Just 40 days.
The whole point is to strive to be more Christ-like. And I'm sure the more Christ-like version of Roar involves less alcohol. Actually, I'm positive.
Perhaps this will also help with the budget crunch of late. We'll see...
I hope you all get drunk, get beads and have fun.
...I'll be working.
I'm actually excited about Lent coming up, though. It's my favorite Christian season. Seriously.
I usually give up chocolate or swearing or soda, but I think this year I'm giving up alcohol.
Er, drinking more than 2 cocktails a night.
Er, drinking more than one drink per venue.
Or...
No. I can do that. I can. It's 40 days. Just 40 days.
The whole point is to strive to be more Christ-like. And I'm sure the more Christ-like version of Roar involves less alcohol. Actually, I'm positive.
Perhaps this will also help with the budget crunch of late. We'll see...
2.27.2006
Daddy Savage
Daddy Savage was in town on business last night. It was a pleasant evening. My Father and I have our *ish, but I have to give him his props. (Credit where credit is due kind of thing).
Dad's Quote of the Evening:
...He may be cool, but he's still a Dad, ya know?
- He was the youngest and most handsome Dad in my elementary school. (New Yorkers wait 'til their 30's to have puppies and Dad was 26 when I was born). Bubba won't ever know him like that.
- Dad was nicknamed 'Daddy Savage' by my sorority sisters on my 21st birthday. He stayed at the bar with us, paying for shots and playing bouncer while I took my 21. Girls wrote in my shotbook that night: "Daddy Savage is HOT!"
- He's cooler than I am. Dad bought me my first Death Cab for Cutie CD this Christmas. I had never heard of them. We'll both be going to the concerts when they come to our respective cities.
Dad's Quote of the Evening:
"Why don't you wear more turtlenecks?"
...He may be cool, but he's still a Dad, ya know?
2.25.2006
"Munich"
Instead of the bars, last night I saw "Munich." The movie had a real affect on me.
I'm remiss to admit that I had not ever heard about the Israeli hostage massacre at the '72 Olympics before the movie hit theatres. There's a NYC public school education for you...
But a month ago, while I was still shaking my head in horror each time the trailer came on, my Jewish friends were almost excited.
My Mother was a Junior, my Father a Freshman in High School when it happened. They both lived in different cities in Oklahoma. I doubt that the massacre affected their lives much. I doubt they knew a Jewish person at the time.
My Grandmother had her second of 4 children in 1957, my Mother was 2 at the time. But it was 2002, when I was a freshman in college, taking a contemporary American History class, when I came home excited to talk to her about what I was learning.
She stared at me, blankly.
Earlier that year, in the halls of my freshman dorm, I watched girls crying, frantically trying to get through to New York. Even 9 miles outside of DC, it was all so close and so real. But I went home to my family that Christmas and no one felt much about it- not the way I did. It was as if 9-11 created a palpable hole- but only the East Coast coast could feel it. Everywhere else it seemed to be an empty excuse for... something. It was clear to me, though, that the people listening to Toby Keith's "We'll put a boot in your ass..." didn't get it.
It's just interesting.
I know my parents, in Oklahoma in '72, never would have guessed that a mere one generation after their own would be so familiar on a daily basis with people of a culture they had yet even to discover. It never would have occured to them to pay attention at that time, as it didn't for my Grandmother when she was 23, because whatever was happening, however far away, might directly affect the lives of the people their children would become intimate with. And through them, their children's lives would be affected, too.
American ignorance is nothing new.
I just hope I can open my eyes enough now so that I don't forget to teach my own children things about the world I live in, the world that I'm bringing them into. Because I'd hate to have to stare blankly at any of my progeny and say,
This movie had a real and powerful affect on me.
I'm remiss to admit that I had not ever heard about the Israeli hostage massacre at the '72 Olympics before the movie hit theatres. There's a NYC public school education for you...
But a month ago, while I was still shaking my head in horror each time the trailer came on, my Jewish friends were almost excited.
"O that? O yeah. EVERYbody knows about what happened in Munich."I got the feeling that their information didn't come via their public school teacher.
My Mother was a Junior, my Father a Freshman in High School when it happened. They both lived in different cities in Oklahoma. I doubt that the massacre affected their lives much. I doubt they knew a Jewish person at the time.
My Grandmother had her second of 4 children in 1957, my Mother was 2 at the time. But it was 2002, when I was a freshman in college, taking a contemporary American History class, when I came home excited to talk to her about what I was learning.
'You were there, Grandma. Living one state away from the Little Rock 9. What was all that like? What was the country like?
She stared at me, blankly.
"I didn't even hear about it."
Earlier that year, in the halls of my freshman dorm, I watched girls crying, frantically trying to get through to New York. Even 9 miles outside of DC, it was all so close and so real. But I went home to my family that Christmas and no one felt much about it- not the way I did. It was as if 9-11 created a palpable hole- but only the East Coast coast could feel it. Everywhere else it seemed to be an empty excuse for... something. It was clear to me, though, that the people listening to Toby Keith's "We'll put a boot in your ass..." didn't get it.
It's just interesting.
I know my parents, in Oklahoma in '72, never would have guessed that a mere one generation after their own would be so familiar on a daily basis with people of a culture they had yet even to discover. It never would have occured to them to pay attention at that time, as it didn't for my Grandmother when she was 23, because whatever was happening, however far away, might directly affect the lives of the people their children would become intimate with. And through them, their children's lives would be affected, too.
American ignorance is nothing new.
I just hope I can open my eyes enough now so that I don't forget to teach my own children things about the world I live in, the world that I'm bringing them into. Because I'd hate to have to stare blankly at any of my progeny and say,
"I didn't even hear about it."
This movie had a real and powerful affect on me.
2.24.2006
The Peanut Gallery
The nosey cooks at job #2 always have something to say to make me feel so... hot. Forgive the broken Spanish. It's the only way we communicate. I should learn more.
"Gorda!"
"Que?"
"Tu. Gordana. Aqui." (Pointing to their hips).
"No. ... Si? ... Pero solo un poquito gorda...!"
They shrugged. I think they thought I would be more combative, affected, whatever.
"Si?"
"Si." They're both nodding.
"Yo gusto." (Now I'm holding my own hips). "Quiero mirar como una mujer."
I woke up for the gym at 6am the next morning. Iris (pronounced Eee-reese) just loves that she can get to me like that.
"Gorda!"
"Que?"
"Tu. Gordana. Aqui." (Pointing to their hips).
"No. ... Si? ... Pero solo un poquito gorda...!"
They shrugged. I think they thought I would be more combative, affected, whatever.
"Si?"
"Si." They're both nodding.
"Yo gusto." (Now I'm holding my own hips). "Quiero mirar como una mujer."
I woke up for the gym at 6am the next morning. Iris (pronounced Eee-reese) just loves that she can get to me like that.
2.23.2006
I swear I'm not Jenna Bush. Really.
...and other thoughts from & about last night's Happy Hour.
Having a condom named after you... and it's "for her pleasure," well, I think this settles a few things, don't you? I used to want a "Welcome to Savage" sign that I could hang (uhm, above my bed, perhaps?) but no one wanted to steal if for me. The condom, thankfully, is legal. Thank you to Nic for finding this treasure. That I ultimately lost mid-after-party. Just have to go back, then, I guess.
If a future Doctor thinks you can eat random fries, who am I to do anything but join in the fun?
I loooved talking to Circle V last night! (And her rendition of an Okie accent was WAAY better than mine. I just think hick accents are so hot!!) I'm setting up my appointment at Blue Mercury as soon as I get paid, hehe.
I will break 66 of his Jaeger beef. Jaeger is the nectar of the gods. When mixed with Goldshlager it's heavenly. I call it a Starry Night. BTW, 66, why do I always scowl in pics with you? I promise to work on this. I looked at one pic and I was like, "Gawd! It doesn't even look like I like him."
Fave quote of the evening(not telling who said it): "I'm straight-ish."
Marci and I are the spanking-giving queens. And DAMN, is this one Down Ass Chick or what?
Greg (non-blogger) totally came through with the car bombs for Nic and I. He followed us to 2 of our 3 after party venues (you guys remember 18th St?) but peaced out at Citron. He must've gotten the hint that no one was feeling him that much. Sadface.
Steve's. Isn't it so speak-easy-ish? All I had to do was walk up to the DJ and say, "I told my crew this was an 80's place. Will you play 80's for me?" And just like that, we were boogie-ing to Michael Jackson and Madonna. Score!
And last but not least: Who was the last girl standing at the after party? THIS GIRL!
...Now you guys have seen Nicole and I in action. As she's already mentioned, if this had been a weekend night, we would have been on the main floor of Citron, dancing on that bar (or one of the booths).
But I maintain: I am not Jenna Bush.
Having a condom named after you... and it's "for her pleasure," well, I think this settles a few things, don't you? I used to want a "Welcome to Savage" sign that I could hang (uhm, above my bed, perhaps?) but no one wanted to steal if for me. The condom, thankfully, is legal. Thank you to Nic for finding this treasure. That I ultimately lost mid-after-party. Just have to go back, then, I guess.
If a future Doctor thinks you can eat random fries, who am I to do anything but join in the fun?
I loooved talking to Circle V last night! (And her rendition of an Okie accent was WAAY better than mine. I just think hick accents are so hot!!) I'm setting up my appointment at Blue Mercury as soon as I get paid, hehe.
I will break 66 of his Jaeger beef. Jaeger is the nectar of the gods. When mixed with Goldshlager it's heavenly. I call it a Starry Night. BTW, 66, why do I always scowl in pics with you? I promise to work on this. I looked at one pic and I was like, "Gawd! It doesn't even look like I like him."
Fave quote of the evening(not telling who said it): "I'm straight-ish."
Marci and I are the spanking-giving queens. And DAMN, is this one Down Ass Chick or what?
Greg (non-blogger) totally came through with the car bombs for Nic and I. He followed us to 2 of our 3 after party venues (you guys remember 18th St?) but peaced out at Citron. He must've gotten the hint that no one was feeling him that much. Sadface.
Steve's. Isn't it so speak-easy-ish? All I had to do was walk up to the DJ and say, "I told my crew this was an 80's place. Will you play 80's for me?" And just like that, we were boogie-ing to Michael Jackson and Madonna. Score!
And last but not least: Who was the last girl standing at the after party? THIS GIRL!
...Now you guys have seen Nicole and I in action. As she's already mentioned, if this had been a weekend night, we would have been on the main floor of Citron, dancing on that bar (or one of the booths).
But I maintain: I am not Jenna Bush.
2.22.2006
World's Smallest Violin
I hate whiney blogs.
And I find those bloggers (and people in general, really) kind of insipid. 'Where's the empowerment, people?'
Which is why I don't have a lot to say today.
Except that I really feel like I deserve a chauffer on days like these, for the walk between my apt., the metro, my office and back. Or, at the very least, an umbrella.
**Pouting to myself**
And I find those bloggers (and people in general, really) kind of insipid. 'Where's the empowerment, people?'
Which is why I don't have a lot to say today.
Except that I really feel like I deserve a chauffer on days like these, for the walk between my apt., the metro, my office and back. Or, at the very least, an umbrella.
**Pouting to myself**
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)