How Not to Wear a Pucci Scarf to a Pool Hall.

If you will let me be, I will try them. You will see.

Suave convinced us all to buy $36 tickets to go to Latin Dreams last night at K Street Lounge to support our friend on the planning committee and to help save Columbian refugees. Not that I know any refugees personally, but my contribution was drinking margaritas.

Then Suave got sick and couldn't come. CM was her substitute for the night. The evening can be summarized in the following gChat this morning:

Suave: How was the event?
Sam: A Yawn.
Suave: did i miss anything?
Sam: Nah. The blogger hh was more fun. Though I had several margaritas in me by that point. Not a good idea. The Pea and I met a bunch of unattractive men on expense accounts who bought us drinks. No need to owe them anything in return, although I might have to buy some mutual funds. They taught us to play shuffle board. Shuffle board was $20 an hour at Buffalo Billiards! It was fun though. One of the bloggers at the happy hour asked one of the expense account guys if he had hair plugs. He wasn't happy. It made me laugh. I thought he had hair plugs too!
Suave: Um, fun? So I missed nothing then.

Sam: Yeah, pretty much nothing but a horrible hangover.

Sitting on the couch eyeing the crowd with my toothpaste tasting mohito at K Street Lounge(good thing it was open bar, because blah, that was disgusting!), I leaned over to the Pea and SF. "Okay, spot the Glamour Don't in this crowd. I'm such a bitch. You know the karma of me saying this is going to be a bunch of people asking why I'm wearing a Pucci scarf around my neck like it's 1952."

The Pea, "Holy shit! That dress is terrible. Cute print, but does she have it hiked up? I can see her butt! OMG, she's bending over. OMG, we are actually seeing her butt. That's ridiculous!"

I had to get a picture. I pretended to be taking a picture of CM. Here's the blossoming, too short, out of season, butt-showing dress option. I guess in a pick up scene one must show their assets. I don't think this picture does the fashion Don't justice.

Admission to K Street got you a raffle ticket. You put the raffle ticket in your choice of 4 different packages. The options: A Romance Package with a hotel room and fancy dinner, A sports package with front row tickets to a Caps game and dinner at Clyde's, A Starting Over Package with a year of Jdate membership and dinner (okay, pretty embarrassing to win that one), or A New You Package with Laser Hair Removal (even more embarrassing! Even if I needed it, which I don't, damned if I want everyone at the bar to know about that!)

We left at 9pm right when the open bar concluded and head to i-66's blogger happy hour. I realized a little too late into the evening that I had a scarf around my neck. Not really proper pool hall attire (well nor was my satin pleated skirt and stilettos, but anyways). I immediately took it off and tied it on the handle of purse a la Miranda Priestly. That was probably even more pretentious now that I think about it. I hope no one noticed.

i-66's only got one more of these functions to host. I've already mentioned my anxiety over attending anything blogger, but I love i-66, and he was hanging in the District, so it was worth it. Besides, I was curious. Not that I talked to anyone who I didn't already know, but I did force myself to hover near the group. Baby steps. I say that like I'm going to more in the future. Probably not. We'll see. I make many social gathering promises I don't keep (um, I was at Rumor's last week and Chief Ikes the weekend before).

"I haven't kept up my blog roll well tonight," i-66 remarked. "Yeah, I'm not here." He laughed, "I knew that before you said it."

Drunken me also didn't think about how my talking to the expense account boys must have looked. Like I'd ever go home with a guy that looks like he has hair plugs. But, I wasn't teasing him either, honestly. I don't think. This is the group that was reading Jessica Cuttler before Wonkette picked her up. Yeah, note to self, not a good idea.

I stayed out till midnight. I'm hungover and flying to Bama tonight for the weekend. Woohoo!

Can we just review the current portfolios of this season's ANTM?

Because, seriously, TyTy Baby, oh no you didn't!

I think Miss Jay and Jay Manuel overdosed on the hormones.

Here's how the website explains last night's shoots: "At the photo shoot, the girls must transcend their gender by posing as men alongside male models who pose as women."

Yep, the girls dressed as dudes and were criticized in evaluation for not being manly enough. Ya know, because so often girl models are asked to dress like dudes? I didn't realize it was the 16th century and Shakespeare was smokin' the doobie while directing.

Thus far, the girls portfolios consist of the following themes- politically radical, a high school cliche, naked coated in candy, murdered by other models, and dressed as men. Who's hiring these girls to model? The National Enquirer?

Also, I do think it's rather funny that Twiggy is most obsessed with Renee as a model seeing as Renee looks like a mini (albeit a disgruntled and bitchy) Twiggy.

Kick It!

I'm coming out of the, um, dingy bathroom at Tom Tom's about something.

I bashed the hell out of kickball last year. Okay, no, really, I bashed the hell out of the founder of DC Kickball. The Master and Peter and Ralph and everyone else I know who plays and who I consider a friend of mine suggested I rock it before I knock it. So, the Master put together a WAKA Adams Morgan team as part of Team Cuttler's fundraising plan (this year's WAKA charity is to raise money for players who are participating in the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society's Team in Training marathons). I promised I'd sign up thinking she'd never follow through and leave her championship team. I was wrong. I signed up. I'm playing kickball.

On the plus side, everyone on our team is a friend of ours who I'd actually opt to drink with once a week or more. The main issues with my playing are as follows:

1) I don't know how to play kickball. I'm sure it will come back to me from those sweltering elementary Physical Education class days of Mrs. Baker blowing her whistle for my friends and I to stop talking in left field, but, as of now, I know as much about kickball as I do about why my father insists on watching, yawn, curling.

2) I don't drink beer unless I'm trashed, thirsty with no other options, or participating in a round of car bombs at the Black Duck in Westport, CT (Martha Stewart Living TV gathering-after-softball tradition).

3) Even if I did drink beer, I find flip cup extremely unsanitary. Think about it, people's saliva-covered plastic cups falling into a mound of beer one at a time, over and over again. I'm too much of a hypochondriac to have any interest in partaking in that past time.

4) I don't own many pairs of work out pants and shorts. My collection of exercise gear consists of about 4 pairs of spandex, cropped yoga pants and cute racer-back sports bra tanks. I'll need to stock up on my Soffe shorts like in college again. You think I should iron my sorority letters on the toosh too?

5) I don't like sweating. I do sweat (okay, obviously), but I don't like smelling like sweat. I especially hate smelling like sweat and suntan lotion. I'm going to have to buy one of those Sharper Image personal cooling systems or something. Would I look silly (or a 1980s Disney World tourist) if I brought a water spray bottle and mini-fan?

Last night's kickoff party at Adams Mill was fun. All my friends were there, and we had a great time. I wore my "laid-back kickball gal" best (ie a cotton fitted tank and torn-on-purpose designer jeans with sandals and hair in a pony tail). I ran into a friend of a friend I'd not seen in a while. He told me one of his teammates gave me a "cute." Meaning, he was sitting at a table with them pointing out who he knew in the bar. When he pointed to me, the person said, "oh, she's cute." See, I can play this role. Sam the kickball chick.

Pleaaaaaaaaase stop the laughing.

I'm Not a Very Easy Rebound

There was a time in my life when I enjoyed being the rebound. I know SHOCKING! But, there was something to be said for being everything a guy was lacking in their last relationship. I'm not talking about being the chick a dude spots across the bar while taking shots with his buddies and brings home the weekend after he splits with a girl. I enjoyed being the girl 2 or 3 months later who he dates because she's completely opposite of the ex-girlfriend.

This was before I talked to a shrink who explained to me that my knack for avoiding serious conversations was not me having a dude mentality or being a laid-back girl, rather it was my inability to process emotion and explain what I was feeling.

So, for a short period of my life, I found that being with a guy who'd spent the last couple months fighting with someone created an ideal situation for a fluffy and cozy mini-relationship. (I was also 20, so I wasn't really lookin' to start talking about procreation and Vera Wang).

Now though, I'm weary of getting hurt. I step into things way more cautious than I did at 20. I don't find it complementary to be told that I'm so much easier to hang out with than another girl. I don't want to be the backup plan. I don't open up until someone opens up to me. I don't get attached until someone is attached to me. Hell, I don't even call them until someone has called me! And, I don't know that I'm okay with being someone's rebound.

It's not that I'm out hunting for a serious relationship. I still need some time to be listed as single on my MySpace and Friendster profiles. But, I don't want to be in something that has no direction. I don't want to be in something that doesn't have the potential to grow into something more. It's a waste of the energy and optimism that I've just begun to rebuild again. When talking about dating people just to have fun, Suave remarked, "each one of them does take a little bit out of you. Just know that. After a while, they'll add up to zero energy."

Rebound no more. Advice to others? Let the ball drop if it doesn't make it in the hoop. Someone will pick it up again in the next game.

Who I Am

Listening to the radio as I drove to Pentagon City last week, the WMZQ DJ remarked, "That was Jessica Andrews with 'Who I Am' a number one hit back in 2002. That was Jessica's only number one hit, but, boy, what a hit it was!"

One hit Oneders. Only thing left for Jessica is to dig her key into the side of that DJ's pretty little suped up 4-wheel drive.

Then again, my friend in college was the little brother to LFO's Rich Nice. Mike dropped out of college as a microbiology major right before his senior year to move down to Orlando and work with Lou Pearlman. Even though LFO didn't make many top countdown lists after 'Summer Girls,' Mike ended up getting a gig producing Making the Band and then managing O-Town.

But anyways.

This weekend was a lesson for me. Even though I've learned to say, "look this is who I am," it takes me entirely too long to finally realize when I'm being made uncomfortable for being myself. I've been me for 27 years. I need to learn to chant Jessica Andrews in the shower or something.

If I live to be a hundred, and never see the seven wonders, that'll be alright. If I don't make it to the big leagues, if I never win a grammy, I'm gonna be just fine, cause I know exactly who I am.

I met Rob at Front Page for cheap happy hour ($5.50 for his beer and my wine) Friday night. After a couple drinks, we went to grab food at Luna Grill. He left to go meet friends in Adams Morgan, and I headed home to rest and relax.

A rainy Saturday morning made the rest of my morning and afternoon pretty mellow. At 8pm, I met Suave and company at Zengo for some cocktails before we headed to JK's Chinese New Year and housewarming party. Three glasses of Saki sangria and I was feeling much more peppy than my calling as a member of the Year of the Goat.

The Jackass (and yes, the question mark who became a period and then pretended to want to be a friend officially gets that name now) was at JK's party to meet up with us. He'd brought his sleazy, bisexual (not stereotyping, the Jackass told me this info), Spanish friend along. I'd thought the Jackass was a nice guy but boring, then I'd found out he liked to go out, so then I figured he'd make a good friend. We'd been trying to arrange plans for a while, and I was committed to possibly hooking him up with Suave. "He's into his family and wants to get married. Very settled and mature. He likes to work out everyday." Yeah, I was wrong. Very very wrong.

I left Suave and the Jackass to talk. The Jackass says to her, "Yeah, Sam thought I was boring, but I was just putting on a front of what I thought she wanted. I'm not like that at all."

Suave did not like that one bit.

So, I was drunk. The Jackass and the Sleaze were heading to Blue Gin. They knew someone who worked there so they promised no lines. I felt badly that they'd come into DC and gotten to JK's party an hour before all of us headed over from Zengo, so I decided to go with them for a drink and then meet up with the lost boys, Suave, and company at their Dupont bar of choice.

In the cab, the Sleaze started to interrogate me. "How do you know the Jackass?" "Um, we went out a couple times, but he thought I acted like a senior citizen, and I thought he was boring." "Are you single now?" "Um, yeah, technically. I'm talking to someone though." "What's he like?" "Just a guy." "What was the last guy you dated like?" "Um, I don't know, there were a string of them. One was a 6 foot 7 player, the next was an arrogant Producer, then I dated a 23-year-old followed by talking to a 40-year-old. I was having fun. This guy's much different, I guess."

The Sleaze starts speaking in Spanish as he looks out the window. The Jackass answers back one word over and over again. "I'm getting out now," I declare. The Jackass, "why?" I look at the Sleaze, "you may be able to pull whatever shit your pulling with the normal girls you pick up at the dirty clubs you must frequent, but not only will I not partake in sitting next to someone with zero class and respect, I'll most likely slap you across the face for it." We stop at a red light a block from Blue Gin. I walk to the curb. The Jackass follows, "Sam, he wasn't saying anything about you, and even if he was, I don't speak Spanish, so I have no clue what he was saying. Let's just go get a drink. Okay? Can I buy you a drink?"

Urg. Fine, I went in.

The Jackass and I get drinks and he pulls me onto the dance floor. "Come on, let's dance." "No, I'm wearing a jacket right now and know one else is dancing. Let's go upstairs." Upstairs, he takes my drink and puts it on a table. My full drink with a real little raspberry in it, which is the only reason why I'll pay $8 for that drink at Blue Gin. "Come on. Dance with me. You said you were fun. Let's have fun. You're so uptight. Let go." "I don't want to dance right now. You sound like a rapist." He pulled me to him. "Okay, I'm leaving."

I walked out having never even gotten to eat my raspberry. Damn Jackass.

Suave called to say she and everyone were at Lucky Bar. In the cab, I drunkenly felt guilty for leaving the Jackass there. I was thinking, "okay, I'm going to try not to be abrupt and just be friends with this guy." I text, "meeting all at Lucky Bar. Ya'll can come if you feel like it. Have a fun night." As I'm waiting on Suave to come save me from the line (huh?), the Jackass joins us. Outside he asks me if we can dance in Lucky Bar. "Um, no, I don't want to dance tonight." "You are uptight. You're not fun at all. You do act old." Finally, I blow up, "look, I'm definitely not the dance on a bar naked, go home with random dudes sort of girl. I think I'm plenty fun, and I appear to have a pretty great social life, so I'm assuming I'm not a total dud. That being said, you aren't going to make me act a certain way by taunting me. Perhaps it would be best if we didn't try to be friends. I don't like you boring, but I hate you like this."

Peter and Ralph were walking out as we walked in. "Let me get my jacket and Adam, and let's go somewhere else. Please leave that asshole behind," Suave said to me. The Jackass had wandered up and was seated in someone's booth by himself. I waved as we walked out.

We followed the boys to Front Page where Ralph and I danced like maniacs to Bon Jovi. See, I am fun when not provoked to be on my guard!

Sunday morning I woke up hideously hungover. Suave hosted brunch where I spent the morning and early afternoon massaging my temples.

As I was washing my face last night, I looked at myself with bags under my eyes and no makeup. I started to process the details of the evening again. Do I wish I was the type of girl who could just put up with immature guys? Yeah, sometimes. But, that's really not who I am, and I'm not going to change for anyone. Simple.

Drinkin' for a cause.

I'd drink anyways, so it's nice to be able to drink for a cause. Lately, there have been plenty of alcohol-related charity events. I'm a fan.

We went to Rumors last night to help the disadvantaged job seekers of Alexandria and Arlington through Put Your Best Foot Forward. Tons of people attended.

I remembered why I hate Rumors though. Everytime I've been (only because I've been made to go for a birthday party or mandatory social gathering), I've come drunk and then been forced to wait for hours at the bars (there's 2, why the issue???) to get a drink. As I wait, my buzz wears off, and I'm stuck jam-packed in a gross bar with a bunch of people under 21. Luckily last night wasn't too bad. Though, I did have to strategically finish drinks around the time a guy friend did or the pregnant bartender would overlook me repeatedly. Peter called me out for tinking him one time. I explained that proper non-cock blocking decorum gets tossed out the door when someone's in need of an alcohol refill.

I forwarded one of the Lost Boy's emails about the event.

Not sure who's on this email list already, but for those who didn't get this, here's the change of venue info for Thursday night's charity hh. LB is copied if you have questions (and LB, you know I like you b/c I'm going to Rumors).

Sam

He responded back.

Sam,

There are all different levels of sacrifice in this world and their significance is relative – I know this is a big one for you so thanks.

Me back:

I think going to Rumors is totally my ticket into heaven... up there with being a martyr or a Priest or whatever else.

Him today:

You had a good time, admit it.


Next Thursday, the Young Leaders of the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society (mission of rescue, reunion, and resettlement of migrants) is throwing a Latin Dreams party to benefit Colombian refugees. $36 before March 26th or $45 at the door. You get 2 hours of open bar, food, salsa lessons, a DJ, and raffle tickets. A friend is on the Steering Committee, so we're all going. I'll drink to saving migrants. It's a huge sacrifice, but really why not? I'm a martyr after all! Tehe.

This guy was at the bar last night (the other tall guy from the weekend I first met the Giant). I dodged him. Not that he'd rememember my name, but, ya know, just in case.

Oh, and the poor Colonel. He's new to being written about on this blog. His buddies, our mutual friends, kept teasing him, "How you doin' Mr. Manners?" Hey, worse things I could write. No?

This just in-

I'm thrilled to report my Internet research saved me $150!

So, two weeks ago Saturday, I was rushing to get to District Belle's for Shamrockfest. I'd fallen in love with a Bond #9 Scent of Peace sample I got from my coworker. I didn't assume it would be more than $80. Okay, $100 max.

I drove up to the Saks in Friendship Heights (which I'm usually a HUGE fan of) to get the perfume. I didn't look at the price, because clearly I was in a hurry. The sales woman basically took advantage of me and didn't ask if I wanted the 3.3 oz or the 1.7 oz, but that's a whole other issue. I get into my car and realize I didn't get my parking validated. I run back in with the receipt to the accessories counter and then glance at the price, $205! Obviously, I'd have to return it. How can I give peace a chance if it is going to bankrupt me?

I returned it the next day and stopped into Sephora to test out scents. I couldn't find anything I liked as much.

Then, I decided to play around on the Internet to see about getting a discounted bottle from Amazon. No luck. Bond 9 is exclusive to Saks, Bendels, and Harold's. Fab.

BUT, I finally found a couple reviews that said it smelled identical to Anna Sui's Secret Wish fragrance made exclusively for Victoria's Secret (that cost half the price). I went down to the store I HATE near Farrugut (that's how badly I wanted to smell this way) and was disappointed to learn that it isn't available in all stores. No one helped me to locate it anywhere else, of course, so I called other stores in the area myself later. Bummer, no luck.

Took a risk after it all and just ordered the scent from Amazon. $50 for a 2.5 oz bottle. It just arrived. I'm wearing it. It smells identical to Scent of Peace. I like the name better anyways. And the bottle has a glass fairy on the top. Pretty. Woohoo!

Wouldn't it be nice.

Happy times together we've been spending. I wish that every kiss was never ending. Wouldn't it be nice. Maybe if we think and wish and hope and pray it might come true. Baby, then there wouldn't be a single thing we couldn't do.

I have 3 music playlists on my Nano: Dinner Party (Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney, Michael Buble, Allman Brothers, Garth Brooks, Mary Chapin Caprenter, the Dixie Chicks), Relaxed (The Carpenters, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Phish, Enya), and Pumped Up (all the other random music I like including the Beach Boys, Tupac, Shakira, LL Cool J, Mr. Big, Bon Jovi). I was writing about a historic house's interior style the other day and described it as "eccentric and eclectic" Queen Anne style. I like that categorization. Eccentric and eclectic. I've decided I'll use that describe myself, in general, from now on. "What music do you like, Sam?" "Oh, I am very eccentric and eclectic in my music taste." "What type of fashion do you have?" "Oh, I have very eccentric and eclectic taste in fashion." It could work for so much!

But, on to more important things. Can we discuss these fashion shoots on America's Next Top Model? Last night, I was actually home to watch the show (the Master's agreed to start DVRing it for me. Have I told you how much I love her?).

Is it me or are these photograph themes just getting completely absurd? I'll buy the modeling shoots where they dress as men or hang from harnesses or make nice with a large spider or pose naked. But, lately the show's pictures are closer to being stills from the production of Survivor. I mean, Caridee almost got hypothermia last season when they dunked her in a frozen pool.

So, the purpose of these shoots is to give the girls a professional modeling portfolio to help jump start their career. Last night, the girl posed pretending like they'd been murdered. Um, can you even imagine their go-see with Isaac Mizrahi. "Well, you appear to be a very beautiful and talented model, however, I can't deal with looking at your portfolio. There's entirely too much gore. Perhaps a nice head shot would suffice next time."

I switched the channel during the photo shoot and evaluation (although, I did enjoy the challenge this week where the girls all had to crawl through a laser maze without hitting the lights all while posing. Demeaning, pointless, and fabulous!) The whole theme grossed me out. To make matters worse, the girls each were told the motivation behind their murder- one of the other girls in the house killed them for some reason (ie Whitney was killed because someone was jealous of her big boobs). Considering these models aren't always, um, the most stable people on the planet, do we think it was smart to give them all ideas?

Tyra ended up booting her hotter, younger twin Felicia who was killed, in her picture, for looking like Tyra. I get the principal of having two plus-sized models on the show this season seeing as Tyra just had that whole mess with people saying she was a cow. But, honestly, Felicia would have made a fiercer model than half these chicks.

Tonight, one of the lost boys has a cause! He's throwing a happy hour at Rumors (I know, I know, but it will be okay with all our friends there months before intern season is upon DC). The event starts at 6pm. The first 50 people get a shot. So classy.

Manners

I once read that a Libra's ideal world is a place where everyone has perfect manners. Wouldn't that be ideal? And, I'm not talking about knowing which fork to use for salad at 1789. I'm talking about a world where everyone says "thank you." Where boys open doors for girls and hand-written notes are sent to commemorate the receipt of a gift. I'm talking about a world where friends remember your birthday with a call rather than an e-card and help you clean up the dishes (or at least offer) after they have dinner at your house. A world much like the one I've been living in the last couple days. It's ideal.

I don't want to blog too much, but I forgot how much I appreciate good manners!

John (my bf from Bama) yelled at me in NYC for not allowing him to open doors. His mom would literally stand at a door waiting until he or his father opened it. Back in Bama, I got so used to good manners and no PDA that I was shocked by dating in college. And, the first time I saw two people making out on a dance floor, my jaw dropped and I pointed the couple out to Ali. She laughed, "welcome to the Northeast!"

I think when you've had an absence of manners in your life for a long time, it's even more impressive when you find yourself around them again. Someone who opens doors, offers you water, makes sure you're doing okay. Someone who makes sure you get in the door okay before they leave. I find myself smiling just thinking about it. Politeness in DC. It does exist (though the person I'm commenting on is from the South).

Smilin'.

This is how we do it!

This is how we do it, all hands are in the air. And wave them from here to there. If you're an o.g. mack or a wanna-be player. You see the hoods been good to me. Ever since I was a lower-case g. But now I'm a Big G. the girls see I got the money. A hundred-dollar bills ya'll.

No apologies from me. I'll admit that I LOVE that song. Love, love, love it! Reminds me of driving to my high school sorority's winter formal in 1996. My date was chugging a flask full of Jack Daniels in his beige Isuzu Trooper as we dashed off to the ball (yeah, it's so lucky I didn't die as a teenager). We were jamming out to Tupac, Montell Jordan, and LL Cool J... in my overly-expensive red velvet gown and long white gloves with my hair in a perfectly designed French twist with sweeping bangs courtesy of my hair dresser. My silk wrapped nails were divinely manicured, and I swung them about singing "This is How We Do It" while tucking the nips of Southern Comfort my date had brought me in my bra (oh, mom, you're reading this now, and I am so sorry for all the trouble I potentially could have cause you! I was so dumb!)

Drinkin' was a huge part of growing up in Bama. I, at about 100 pounds and 16, would get completely trashed on the thickest, straightest alcohol at my Winter Formals. If I couldn't find a chaser, I'd chug completely from the flask or nip or bottle of NyQuil (okay, I wasn't thaaaaaaat bad, really).

I drank far more in high school than I did in college. Truthfully, I'm unable to drink hard alcohol for hours anymore.

St. Patrick's Day always reminds me of how old I am. I tend to spend the day talkin' about Kegs and Eggs at McMurphy's in Amherst rather than waiting in 2 hour lines for 17 cent beer at Rumors (btw, not even for 17 cent beer would I succumb to waiting in line to get into Rumors, like, ever).

However, I have learned that being out on St. Patty's Day evening sober is about as fun as watching the E! True Hollywood Story on Pink twice (um, yeah, I'd forgotten that she died her hair pink after she took the name. She and an African-American guy friend were interested to see what private parts look like on different races so they showed each other. Her friend exclaimed "It's pink." The first time I watched the show, I almost barfed thinking about Pink's privates. And, then yesterday, a second time. Visual: pretty please, leave me now!!! Forever.)

But anyways.

I stayed in Friday night. I assumed drinkin' would be better on a rested soul. The Master and I met up for some Tyson's Corner shopping on Saturday afternoon. She was disappointed to learn that the Tyson's Bloomie's doesn't carry the famous frozen yogurt that Bloomingdale's nationally is known for. I can't eat frozen yogurt on a must-be-flat-to-try-on-clothing stomach, but I obliged to join in the complaining.

At Nordstrom, a flamboyant 40-year-old sales man corrected my pronunciation at the Laura Mercier counter. I walked up as he was unloading 30 boxes of product. (Who's the one that obviously did better in English? I know I'm such a bitch.) I wanted to buy Petal lip gloss. I asked for the Petal Glaze lip gloss. He yelled to a (friendly) saleswoman at the other counter, "Can you get this some Petal Glaaaaahsay?" It's Petal lip glace, apparently. I bit my lip, smirked at him on his designer-jean-covered knees unloading a box of women's makeup.

Saturday night, I intended to meet Jess and crew at Rockets in Chinatown at 9pm. Peter had mentioned going to Lucky Bar with some friends, and I said I'd either stop by quickly before or call them later to meet up. Then the Colonel called and said he too was at Lucky Bar, on the outskirts of the same group as Peter. So, I went to meet them around 8pm. Around 8:40pm, I texted Sassy to let her know I was there instead for right now. She came and met me, and the time disappeared with several glasses of alcohol.

We followed the Lost Boys to some dude's house in Adams Morgan where we rationed his 6 beers and 1oz of vodka. Finally, we convinced the boy to mobilize. The clock read 11:30pm. I called Jess to apologize for the side tracking. I wasn't making it to Chinatown, officially. Drunken St. Patty's Day randomness is always a valid excuse. We ended up at Chief Ikes. I have no idea why. I don't like Chief Ikes. It's not an Irish Bar. There was a $5 cover charge and $8 mini-drinks. I was too drunk to care, and bounced around in boots until I had a blister on two toes.

I started yesterday with a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel followed by buying 3 boxes of Girl Scout Cookies. Glamour is right. You do lose food inhibitions when hungover. Would I stop drinking to appease, nada Big G.

Ari, "How do you have so many actual platonic friendships with hot guys?"

Yeah, I have no idea.

Ari, "All the hot guys I'm friends with I've totally made out with at some point."

Yeah, again, no idea. I mean, I've made out with a fair share of my guy friends. But really, the hottest ones, I'm 100% platonic with for one reason or another. And, it's not that I don't find them attractive or that they don't find me attractive. It's just that I'm one of those girls, I suppose.

Like my friend Chris who was in town a couple weeks back. As I said, the guy is ridiculously attractive. But, yeah, there's no sexual chemistry between us. Never has been. Just not the nature of the relationship.

This all came up because a close friend of mine from high school and I recently reconnected on Facebook. Oh, poor poor Jeff. He was my year, and I seriously talked to this boy about everything a 16, 17, 18 year old has to talk about. I cried. I laughed. I kept him up till the wee hours of a school night talking about whether someone was hotter than me. Yeah, poor Jeff.

But, yeah, Jeff was HOT. Like, model hot.

I never saw him as more than a friend though. Honestly, he might have been too hot.

I have no idea why so many hot guys I categorize as platonic right from the beginning. There are so many of my close guy friends who I would think would be the best catch for anyone, who I find perfect, but who I have zero interest in pursuing. Jesse, Gene, Peter, Ralph, Taffy, Jeff, Chris, Graham, Jer, John John, Dave, Michael, etc.

Maybe it's weird of me. Honestly, I think that when I meet a very pretty, very awesome dude these days, I want them in my life. And, I recognize that they'll still around, most likely, a hell of a lot longer if I just incorporate them as friends. Besides which, I do believe you can't force chemistry. I know when I have it with someone right away, well usually. Anytime I've veered, I've been disappointed.

Yeah, I do have many extremely hot, extremely platonic guy friends. I have no idea what that means. A shrink would have a field day with me, I know.

Not-so-Center Stage

Having two girls who have seen Center Stage several million times each watch a ballet rehearsal is not a good thing.

"Um, that wasn't like Center Stage at all! Only one of those dudes was even potentially straight!"

Though, Ari and I did see, er, every single muscle on the male dancers' bodies.

Last night, the Jete Society of the Washington Ballet and Junior League offered $15 tickets to come sit in the company's rehearsal for Carmina Burana, which opens at the Kennedy Center March 28th. A beer reception followed.

I'm a chick. I dig ballet. I know, I know, the cliche of it all! One of the New York Ballet's famous principals was there last night. Sitting two people down from us. I was in awe.

They say with watching a ballet company, you should sit back and see who your eye takes you to watch. That's going to be the star. What was interesting about last night was that normally I'm drawn to watching the women. This time though, perhaps because the piece is very male oriented, I was watching the men more. They were incredible. Even in their tight dance everyday clothing... okay, especially in their tight dance everyday clothing.

Carmina Burana is an hour-long piece based on 13th century scripts found to be written by Bavarian monks. They were originally thought to be prayers, but, later, were discovered to be drinking songs. Thus, it was amazing to watch a final "chair" dance where the ballerinas acted out being drunk in dance.

Reminds me of Erica's boyfriend Jeff's response to Picasso at Lapin Agile when we were in college. I was Publicity Director for the show. I made them go. The entire play, though hilarious, is set in a bar. At the end, Jeff remarked, "I need a beer badly. I just spend 2 hours looking at a bar."

But back to le ballet.

I appreciated that the dancers, in their normal dance outfits, tried a bit harder to make the clothing hip and dancer-like. One of the girls had cut off one leg of her pants below the knee so we could watch her footwork more. I also appreciated the over-dramatized choreographer giving direction throughout the rehearsal. We actually felt like we were watching backstage of A Chorus Line.

Ari and I were both surprised that the majority of solos in the show went to Jason Hartley. Looking at him, he certainly didn't appear to be the typical ballerina. He is much more stout and muscular. That was, until he danced. Wow. Couldn't take our eyes off the man. We discussed later in the car how surprised we were that he was as amazing a dancer as he ended up being.

Of the women, Ari said she enjoyed watching them when they were interacting and not dancing. The stunning Kara Cooper looked like a mixture of the two most attractive Rachels in Hollywood (Rachel Bilson and Rachel McAdams). When the girls performed, her flawless perfection made us hate and adore ballerinas. Ari was convinced the other girls didn't like her. "She's hot. But she knows she's hot. And, the other girls totally don't like that she knows she's hot. I think everyone liked the blond one with the weird pant thing though."

Afterwords, we stopped by Safeway so I could pick up some lettuce and Fiber One. Yeah, seeing a bunch of chicks without an ounce of fat on their bodies is definitely bad for the self-esteem.

What goes around comes all the way back around.

I'm not a huge Justin Timberlake fan. I don't like that he tries to talk like Eminem, dance like Madonna, dress like Puff Daddy, and sing like Prince. I don't like that he's creating a fashion line of jeans which were shown all over US Weekly on Miss-absolutely-no-hips-built-like-a-dude Cameron Diaz, as if that could sell it to us normal folk. And, I don't particularly find him that attractive.

So, there it is. I think if Justin was one of us (just a slob like one of us, just a stranger on the bus, trying to make his way home) he'd have girls walking away from his too tight pants and calling him possibly gay, beat up for trying to talk like he's from the ghetto, and left alone to his dance moves at Chief Ikes.

Urg, those matching denim outfits he and G.I. Brittany come to mind (and we're questioning her mental stability only now?)

But (cover your ears Greg Allman), I do admit I like "What Goes Around." It's a spiteful little number all about karma. What's not to like?

Everything comes full circle. I've come to that point in DC. I now tend to know someone that everyone new I meet knows. The vagrant in me (uh, my favorite song of all times is still "No One to Run With") wants to split the second this starts happening. Honestly, I'm no good at nesting and routine. I don't know what that means for my possible future life (knock on wood) as a wife and mother, but, when I start saying to my friends on the phone, "Things are good. Boring. But, okay." It's the beginning of the end to my love for a city.

Truth is [yawn] I'm a bit bored. Okay, incredibly bored.

Not that I don't adore my friends, my apartment, my life, etc. But, I'm sick of meeting people who know someone I know. Especially since, most recently, I've been meeting people who know someone I pissed off. I'm entirely too good at being candid sometimes. Most of the time, I'm pretty reserved, but I don't play coy when a challenge presents itself. Damn Libra scales.

So the point of this honest little blog entry, being a bit bored and having things come all the way back around often, it makes a girl actually turn to Justin Timberlake. Now, that's what I call sucking.

The Junior League's hosting a Beer and Ballet event at the Washington Ballet tonight. We watch the rehearsal for their new musical, drink beer, and then meet the dancers. Ari and I are going. Should be cool. Tomorrow, I'm planning on fasting when I, no doubt, feel like a fat whale.

At 21...

I was already way over the Amherst bar scene. My friend Marc once told me I"did" college in 2 years. I live in the dorms and rushed a sorority 1st semester Freshman year, moved into Chi O the next semester, lived on the Cape with two girlfriends that summer, got sick of Chi O and moved to the crazy off-campus housing Sophomore year with a fake ID that got me into all the hot bars, and then took summer session the following summer. By Junior year, I was bored of college.

I have an amazing ability to overdose on good times until I find myself bored. Seriously, who else do you know that got bored of New York City?

Anyways, Ali sent out this link to all of our friends yesterday. Halloween 2001. The infamous first Wonder Woman year. Posterity will now remember me. This picture appears on one of our college bars (which I hated by the time I actually turned 21) websites.

I suppose I should just be thankful I didn't end up in the "Bottoms Up" slide show chugging a pitcher... because, of course, I would never do such a thing. Tehe.

Oh, and PS, this guy on the left was named Bryce, if I remember correctly. He was a total dirt bag who spent 4 years trying to get Erica to sleep with him. The first time I funneled a beer was with this guy Aaron my friend tried to set me up with and Bryce in a dorm. Aaron had his zipper down all night at a party afterwords, and I thought it was so tacky I couldn't date him. I was so a bitch in college.

The Fine Art of Contradiction

What compliments a Friday evening at the Hirschhorn Museum's After Hours Event? A dress-up like Trailer Trash party Saturday, naturally!

The weekend began when I slipped on my new animal printed, silk, Pradas and a small black mini-dress. I met Suave, BG, and the Pea at the metro, and we walked on the mall from the Smithsonian stop to the Hirschhorn... while drinking disgusting Chardonnay nips of wine that the Pea stashed in her purse.

Adequately buzzed, we were glad to have taken Sassy's advice and gotten there before 8pm with pre-ordered tickets waiting for us at will call. Poor BG was stuck in line for a good 30 minutes, and we were later told Ari's friend couldn't get in because the tickets were sold out.

The cash bar was extraordinarily overpriced, but, of course, that didn't keep me from purchasing four $6 wine tickets. I managed to spill two of them. That's a record for me. Then I met an artist, a sculptor from the area, who showed me some of his amazing metal structures in picture form and gave me his business card. I'm supposed to email him about hanging out with some local artists. I'd so love that.

We left and met the Master and company at the Big Hunt where a birthday party was winding down. I was in Pradas, a mink, and a mini-dress in the Big Hunt and managed about one drink before I checked out for the night.

Saturday morning, I don't want to discuss. I had one Hell of a morning. I gave up about the time that I got to Shamrock Fest and realized I forgot my ATM card and ticket.

But, Suave convinced me to put on my Walmart's best Trailer Trash Throwdown costume which consisted of an overall mini-dress, Dodge trucker's cap, and zebra-print earrings. We met up at Suave's and proceeded to shotgun beers and finish a bottle of wine before cabbing to District Belle and Sassy's place on Capital Hill. From here, I'll just share with you some pictures:


Proper signage is a must at any fancy soiree. A sign in the bathroom told us to turn off the lights so that the girls could "Afferd" rent (since they obviously fictionally flunked spelling).

What a dinner I had! Sassy's friend deep fried some Slim Jims into delicious heart attack bites. Oh, and I forgot how yummy Cheese Whiz on Ritz can be.

Lynard Skynard and Nascar-themed decorations added to the Trailer Trash feel.

It was funny to see how everyone dressed as trashy is defined in their hometown. Southern trash vs. Michigan trash vs. Arizona trash. Above, we attempt to come up with a new ad campaign for Funyuns. "Bring the Carnies to snack time!"

Peter, Ralph, and the Lost Boys met us at the party. I followed them back, in the rain, to get to the Union Station Metro. A detour to Irish Times seemed like a swell idea until I realized I was the only one dressed as Trailer Trash. I'd left the Walmart price tag on my jumper for effect, and in the bathroom, a girl pointed out, "Oh, sweetie, you've left the price tag on your jumper." It wasn't as clear, apparently, that I was in costume. That was a tad embarrassing. So was being groped by about 20 men in the bar. Do I look like the type of girl who'd go home with you at 1am after Shamrock Fest? Oh, yeah, I did.

That's all folks. Hope you had a good weekend too!

Phone call with the Pea at 10pm last night:

Me: "From now on, whenever I'm sick or tired and don't feel like going out, just mention RFD to me again."
The Pea: "And, whenever I talk about going back to work after going out, just mention RFD to me too."

Earlier yesterday, gChat with the Pea.

1:39 PM me: i'm going to last about an hour tonight max. i'm so stuffed up.
1:40 PM The Pea: k, want me to just come and do the "late shift" when you wanna go home?
me: um, do you mind coming earlier? think we can just settle everyone in and go on our way
1:42 PM The Pea: nope not at all; let's do it
1:45 PM me: cool. you really have to go back to work?
1:46 PM The Pea: most likely; may get to take it home we'll see
1:47 PM me: wow. sorry.

At 6pm exactly, I got to RFD. I'd gotten 2 frantic messages from the managers saying that if I wasn't there at exactly 6pm, they'd give away my table because The Who were playing at the Verizon center. I didn't realize it was 1975 again. Oops.

Luckily, Sassy, the Pea, Jer, BG, and others were joining. Sassy: "You are a connector! You're like BG, this is JT, he knows so-and-so from college. BG grew up with so-and-so too."

Sitting at the table facing the doorway, I saw the Giant walk in. Since the first time I met the Giant, I don't think I've actually ever bumped into him. Though, RFD was a change of scenery for both of us. The Giant: "I read your blog now. It's not weird now since I'm not on it." I don't want to lose a reader, so all I'll say, I concur that I am pretty stable when it comes to handling guys I dated lightly. I honestly like the Giant as a person, and at no point did I feel like he was a jerk to me. Truthfully, it was nice to run into him. I have absolutely no animosity or anxiety or malice towards him.

Which, for the record, leads me to believe that when I do feel that way about someone, I must trust myself. Those people must have hurt me in someway.

So, I'd downed 3 packets of Theraflu, 1 Claritin-D 24 hour, and 2 Sudafed Sinus Headaches throughout the day. I was loopy. Then, I had 2 Raspberry Stolis and Sprite. I wasn't drunk, but I was low on the filtering. Talking to a girl and her boyfriend from Marietta, GA who I adore (and know common people from camp days), they mentioned hooking me up with one of their friends. "Yay! Of course!" I said. The boyfriend and I were at camp at the same time, but I vaguely remember him. Anyways, we get to talking, and it's brought up where he went to college. Then, I mention that the Producer went there too. And, of course, they know each other. I make a face. Of course, I'm stuck explaining what the face was about.

"So, you went on 3 dates with him, and then he never called?"
"No, no, we were friends were a while. We went to get drinks after I ended things with APK. Then it developed into something for 2 months or something. Spent New Year's Eve with him actually. Then it blew up. He was a shithead."
"Yeah, he's like that with girls. Not very nice to them. My impression is that he's not really looking for anything anytime soon."
"Yeah. Pretty much."
Me, in my head, [Crap. Why'd that conversation just take place? I really like this dude's girlfriend. Hoping to be friends with her. Crap.]

Luckily, the conversation was able to change directions at that point. WTF?

Oh, and the guy at the cluster who knew my childhood friend from Bama (and was adorable) caught all of this... so, you know it's getting back to that friend that he met a loopy, unfiltered, boy-dramatic me.

Around 9pm, we all paid our tabs and left. I was in bed by 9:30pm. Big weekend ahead. Hirshhorn After Hours Event tonight, Shamrock Fest tomorrow, Trailer Trash Throw down tomorrow night. Hopefully, I won't be saying to the Pea, "anytime I am sick and have plans, tell me to stay in and reference Shamrock Fest weekend." Urg.

Two other things-

Re: the Conjoined twins who are now driving. A special was on TV last night about them for 2 hours.

Kate: Have you seen this? I'm so fascinated by these two.
Me: Not really. Remember hearing about it.
Kate: They're driving now.
Me: So what all do they share?
Kate: They have separate hearts and lungs, but they each control one arm and one leg and share private parts.
Me: What about school?
Kate: They turn in math projects together, but do English separately.
Kate's friend: Imagine if they don't like one another's friends.
Me: They're pretty much quarantined to a job in a freak show somewhere someday. I mean, not that anyone would want to have sex with them, but what do they do?
Kate's friend: They're only 16. They've not gotten around to that yet.
Kate: Someone would want to have sex with them.
Me: Yuck.
Kate's friend: It'd be sort of like a threesome, but easier to organize.

Regarding the Pussycat Dolls Present the Search for the Next Doll:

OMG! Seriously! So, if you didn't see it last night, half the girls had this horrible stomach virus. The other half didn't. #1 the CW showed entirely too many throwing up scenes so you're lucky. #2 they had the girls on IV's behind the stage and made them perform. "If the Pussycat Dolls are sick and set to perform, they still perform." If the Pussycat Dolls are on IVs, I seriously doubt they're performing that night. It was so wrong. I'm not watching the show anymore because I disapprove (okay, and because it sucked). I've been over this crap since O-Town. I didn't watch Left Eye get replaced, so can we just stop.

And, I don't wish my girlfriend was hot like them. Sorry, had to be said.

Things I never thought I'd say:

At Walmart with District Belle last night (checking frame prices for A Night of Mystique's photo raffle prizes, and buying costumes and prizes for District Belle and Sassy's Trailer Trash party Saturday night):

"Walmart has nothing ultra-tacky! What's going on?"
"Wait, do you like the camouflage fitted tee with no writing on it or the camouflage fitted tee with 'Look at me!' better?"
"Can you grab me this mini-overall jumper in a size bigger? I know it won't be as short, but I'd feel better."
"Oh no, I like the Corona trucker hat much better than the 'I Love Twinkies' one!"
"Um, I don't know. The pink bra definitely has more lace, but I like the rainbow one better. It'd probably show through your shirt better too."
"These girl hats are entirely too girly. I want a masculine one. Ooooh, look, they have a camouflaged one with 'Dodge' on it. I'm so getting this!"
"Woah $1.89! Dude, Spam's expensive! You should just get the generic Sam's brand. It's only $1."
"You could just use puffy paints to write 'I Love Dale' on your shirt, right? Oh, yeah, but maybe if you want the writing to show up in pictures you should use iron on glitter letters. I agree."
"Excuse me, do you know where we could find the massive clearance section and also fly swatters?"
"Wait, they don't sell Wet & Wild makeup here anymore? What's up with that?"
"Shania Twain's perfume is $9. That's so expensive!"
"$4 for Lee Press On Nails. When did they go up in price?"
"Where are the neon scrunchies? What'd they stop making them? What about these glitter elastics? There's a couple fuchsia and neon green ones."
"OMG! Look at this Nascar-themed Easter basket. This thing rocks!"
"Hmmm. Johnny Cash isn't really something you'd listen to in a Trailer Park. I think Kid Rock would work better. Too bad they don't have any Kid Rock-in-concert $1 DVDs."
"I'd buy the Star or the Enquirer or TV Guide or something too. Oh wait, $3 for them? What on earth?"

As we were leaving, District Belle, "Wait, an 'only the roots' brush-on hair color set. $3.95. That's perfect. Damn it. Should I go get it?"

I am recovering

#1 from the longest headache in history! I've had it since Friday. One more day of this and my head is going in an oven.

#2 dinner last night with Vive, the Pea, the Master, Suave, and Jen at Nooshie. Getting my Pad Thai (so yummy and greasy there, the way it should be!) to go, I remarked "I don't think I've ever re-heated Pad Thai. I don't know why I always feel the need to get it to go." None the less, half of it is sitting in my fridge awaiting my disposal of it next week when I remember it's still in there. Pad Thai's just not good re-heated.

#3 the weirdest dream on record thus far. Yesterday walking home, an Ambassador cab (number 108, don't ask why I remember that) in lime green drove by me. I thought it was funny. Also, Suave remarked on the mouse traps still all over my house the other day. "Don't worry," I said. "The mouse died. In my room. My landlord just hasn't come to pick up the tracks yet." Then, I proceeded to bump into one of the sticky ones and get it stuck to my pant leg. A couple pulls and curse words, and I got it off with a minimal rip in my favorite sweat pants. Oh, and the Tricon Construction strike is still happening on N Street every morning as it has been for the last 3 months. I have to walk in the street to get to work. It's irritating. Keep meaning to research what the fight is about.

So, the dream last night. I was walking down the street and all the cabs were lime green. I stopped and asked Angelina (who magically appeared in my dream apparently visiting DC from NYC). She told me that CNN Breaking News had sent out something earlier saying all cabs in DC must be lime green from now on. Then, a huge blow-up rat from the Tricon Construction Strike was parked in the middle of Dupont Circle where the fountain usually stands. All these rats and mice were lined up facing it. Angelina said we should just walk through the circle (there was no way to walk around the circle in my dream). I was freaked out. She said if we sprayed them with soda they'd move away. So, we're walking through and spraying the rats with soda. But, I run out. She's way ahead of me. Suddenly, all the rats start attacking me, and I can't get up. I'm stuck to some sticky trap.

I woke up in a cold sweat.

I don't even want to know what the dream dictionary would have to say about the meaning of that!

Muses and Magic

Evite I sent out for last night:

I figured we should have a night to share A Night of Mystique costumes, decide on magic tricks, and more. Also, I just got Warhol's Poor Little Rich Girl and Ciao! Manhattan on DVD. So, how about I cook us all a nice big pasta dinner, and we catch up on the event while watching Edie's demise? Hope ya'll can join! -Sam

Thus, the Master, District Belle, Suave, Vive, Jer, UL, Noah, and Dylan, gathered at my house last night for some pasta and some seriously boring footage of Edie naked shot with a blurred camera lense. We all chose a magic trick to learn. Jer slipped on his white gloves with his wand and got into tapping the top of a ball trick. I tried on my sequin outfit and wig for everyone. The Master performed two quick camp skits for all of us. We laughed like we were 10, and then ate chocolate creme pie.

I have a feeling I'll be too drunk doing my trick at the party and end up showing people HOW to do it instead.

Today's emails were in response to Suave suggesting we have food and non-alcoholic beverages available too. I found a Harry Potter party suggestion to include a potion bar. I've decided I'm okay with anything so long as it gets a cute "mystical" name.

Trying to explain the party to someone, I remarked, "basically, this is supposed to look like what I'm picturing in my head. It's a scary place, my head, I know."

My heart could take a chance.

But my two feet can’t find a way. You think that I could muster up a little soft, shoop devil sway. But I don’t feel like dancin’. No sir, no dancin’ today.



The Pea grew up in Lexington, KY with Babydaddy from Scissor Sisters, so last night she got Vive and I free tickets to the totally fab (and totally sold out) show at 930 Club.

The Pea, "yeah, Scott's stage name is Babydaddy. But, we're supposed to refer to him as Babydaddy when we talk to him now. Even if it's not on stage. I mean, I suppose it must be traumatic growing up gay in Lexington."

In the cab ride over, Vive asks, "So this Scott/ Babydaddy guy, is he hot?" The Pea and I snicker.

Me to Vive and the Pea, "All these beautiful men all over the place, and 95% of them are gay."

The Pea, while leaving the bathroom, "no line for the girls room, yet a massive wrap-around line for the men's. Guess we're at, like, a Scissor Sisters concert."

The band was colorfully dressed (Jake Shears wore a Miami Vice-style white, fitted suit with paint splashes all over it), overly spastic in their dance moves, and had images of breasts flashing behind them.

Ana Matronic on the Cabaret Laws in NYC: (if Giulani does to the country what he did to NYC) "There are no dancing signs in bars all over the city. Where's Kevin Bacon when you need him?"

Ana and Jake Shears on a letter they got from a mother in Sydney after one of their concerts. "She didn't like that we used bad words in our songs. Um, what do you expect going to see the concert of a band named not only after a term for lesbians, but after a lesbian sexual position!"

Oh, and the dancing and music was fabulous too. So Studio 54!

I had a headache the rest of the weekend. I went to bed with it Friday night. Woke up with it Saturday. Swallowed a Claritin-D and several Advil with the girls at Spices before Adas Israel's pre-Purim services wine and cheese reception. Brought it back by drinking 4 glasses of wine and then sitting in an overly heated, extra bright service for 30 minutes, and then made myself nauseous commuting alone down to Southeast to meet Sassy and District Belle for Sassy's birthday drinks at Finn MacCool's (which rocks with a live band and totally fun atmosphere).

I'd never been to that strip of bars on 8th St. SE even though District Belle and Sassy talk about "the Mug" regularly. I was definitely impressed by the actual scene along the strip seeing as my only trip to that area was to Backstage, Inc. during the middle of the day. Though, I'm sure any area of DC is a little creepy during the middle of a winter work day. I'll definitely have to go back once my headache is gone. My cab back to Dupont was only $8.80. Same cost for me as coming from Adams Morgan. Have I mentioned that I hate the DC zone system?

Now, I feel like dancin'. Unfortunately, I've got work. Blah.

Disconnect

I often feel like my only purpose in life is to bring people together. I know that's morbid and depressing and whatever else, but I don't necessarily mean it as a bad thing.

The weekend back in October when I went to visit the NYC crew made me feel a bit like the observer in my own life. Jenny and District Belle went out together. I've know Jenny since I was 5. I met District Belle through my JLW New Member group. They're both from Bama, and thus clicked immediately. Jenny'd been out with me and Eye (who I met through my first Shabbat Cluster) and met Eye's friend from college Jack Black. Jack and Jenny hit it off and thus the Saturday night I was in NYC, District Belle and Jenny went to meet Jack Black out. Jack was with Eye and crew, but also with Eye's other friend from college who lives with Kate's good friend. So, District Belle met my roommate and one of my closer friends (Eye) with me elsewhere.

That's just one of many stories. I'd say 75% of the time, I feel my purpose is purely to combine people. JK is the only person I know who does this similarly. Lives her life by throwing oil and water together convinced it will mix this time around.

Telling this to Jer last night, he mentioned The Tipping Point, which, I'm embarrassed to say, I've never actually read (though Susie Salmon just inhabited Ruth's body and had sex with Ray in the last two chapters of my current book, The Lovely Bones. So I'm due for a new book tomorrow). Jer said that JK and I are what comes to mind when he thinks of "Connectors."

I don't know why that settled my stomach the way it did, but it worked better than ginger ale and saltines. Often times I feel left out when friends I've introduced plan things without me. It makes me feel inconsequential and removed from the life I've created. I was trying to explain it to AM a while back. "Do you ever feel like you're watching your actions from outside your body? Like, you're merely an observer in your own life?" A bit like Kate Winslet in The Holiday being told that she's playing the best friend in her own life when she should play the protagonist.

I tried to think about last night's happy hour at the Science Club. Sassy, my friend from JLW, chatting with BG, my friend from Bama, while JK and AM chatted up the Master. That JL, my friend from high school, and Angelina, my friend from Conde, will be meeting for a drink soon in NYC without me. And, I tried to enjoy the fact that I can bring everyone I like together if I want. I can have everyone I care about in one place. Not that many people can do this, and I'm happy I'm able.

So, I'm not an observer. I'm a connector. I can deal with that. I think.

Forwards from the guys I knew in back in Bama:

On 2/21/07, Gene wrote:

this is way to good to not pass along.....

Porn DVD screams prompt sword 'rescue' OCONOMOWOC, Wis. (AP) --

A man says he broke into an apartment with a cavalry sword because he thought he heard a woman being raped, but the sound actually was from a pornographic movie his upstairs neighbor was watching.

"Now I feel stupid," said James Van Iveren, who has been charged in the case. "This really is nothing, nothing but a mistake."

According to a criminal complaint, the neighbor told police that Van Iveren pounded on the door and kicked it open without warning Feb. 12, damaging the frame and lock.

"Where is she?" Van Iveren demanded, thrusting the sword at the neighbor, the complaint said. "Where is she?" The neighbor told police Van Iveren became increasingly aggressive as he repeated the question, insisting that he had heard a woman being raped.

The complaint said that, with the sword pointed at him, the neighbor led Van Iveren throughout the apartment, opening closet doors to prove he was alone. The neighbor later played for police the part of the DVD he believed Van Iveren heard downstairs.

Van Iveren, 39, of Oconomowoc, was charged with criminal trespass, criminal damage and disorderly conduct, all while using a dangerous weapon, and is due in court March 5. Together, the misdemeanor counts carry a maximum sentence of 33 months in jail.

Van Iveren said Tuesday that he heard a woman "screaming for help," grabbed the sword, bounded up the stairs, kicked in the apartment door and confronted the man who lived there."I intended to hold it behind my back and knock. But I froze and instead, what happened happened," he told the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel.

Contesting his neighbor's account, Van Iveren said he didn't look anywhere in the apartment except the front room, and that he never threatened the neighbor with the sword."I had the sword extended. But that was all," he said.

Van Iveren, who lives with his mother in the downstairs apartment, said he did not call police when he heard the noises because he does not have a telephone. He said he barely knew the upstairs tenant.

Police seized Van Iveren's sword, which he said was a family heirloom.

I wonder how awkward the conversation was between the neighbor who was watching the porn and the police.

On 2/28/07, Martin wrote:

I wonder how awkward the conversation was between the neighbor who was watching the porn and the police.

Neighbor: "So, uh, yeah. I was just watching a DVD too loud."

Police: "What's the name of the DVD? Can you give it to us? We need to view it as evidence."

Neighbor: "It's called My Cousin Vinny II: Forced Sodomy. Here it is. Please keep it as long as you need. That saber dude really freaked me out, so I won't be beating it to this anytime soon."

Police: "Uh, thanks. We'll be in touch."

The funniest part of the response is that Martin clearly came up with the name and plot of a fake movie. Out of the blue. I think....