Friday, September 23, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
I was going to attempt to make this flag better using a photoshop like program, but in the year and a half since I last made my website (my actual professional website) - I totally forgot how to make a simple box... soooo yeah, you're getting the crappy paint quality one.
The Flag displays 4 symbols, the two bars of red, symbolizing the Night and the Day, both of which are acceptable times to party and meet potentials. They're colored red, because everyone knows red is the color of lust and desire and passion, three things any reasonable single should not leave home without.
The Martini glass - the symbol of class and society since James Bond first asked for one shaken not stirred, symbolizes the alcohol imbibed by the thousands upon thousands of people every night as they make their way through bars, clubs, concert halls, and restaurants searching for their true love with a little bit of social lubricant (or a lotta bit, let's be real).
The pair of lace panties - a symbol of sex appeal and desire. A single with a good head on their shoulders embraces who they are and creates their own special blend of sex appeal, grace, lust, and class for the world to see or not see depending on what you're trying to accomplish with pair of panties. Guys are most surely going to ask, "why panties - where's the boxers?"
Boxers are not pretty... unless they're silk and have intricate designs and both creating a silky texture and intricate designs are beyond my paint skills, so lace panties it is...
"Where's the tighty-whities"
Tighty-Whities aren't attractive in real life, they're doubly not attractive on my flag.
"What about the boxer-briefs?"
Now you're just being contentious.
The waves - The waves reminds us that as a DC Single the pond is constantly changing and swirling, ensuring that we know that if we haven’t met the person of our dreams today, due to the consistently transient nature of DC, all we need to do is remember that tomorrow is another day with plenty of new fish in our sea.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
I heard the horror stories.
I saw the pictures.
I blinked through tears watching videos of my fellow Texans wade through knee deep, then waist deep, then chest deep, then neck deep water struggling for safety, while I sat lifeless not able to help with anything aside from awareness.
After the storm passed, my closet back in Texas was soon emptied of coats and extra blankets for the relief efforts as people huddled in refugee centers across Southeast Texas.
When life altering hurricanes sweep through towns at such a cost to human life and infrastructure, the World Meteorological Organization retires their names, so that future storms bearing that name wont tread on the emotional sensitivities of the people who suffered through the last storm with that name.
Here's where my idea begins.
When I've been in a serious or emotionally deep relationship with someone of a certain name, that name is forever tied to the emotions of that relationship, and when that relationship sweeps by like a hurricane leaving me tossed like driftwood up against the dunes, just hearing that name again mars my romantic feelings towards others with their same descriptor.
These are what I'm calling my Hurricanes of the Heart.
Everyone has certain rules about the people they date - rules like - they have to be tall, they have to be thin, they have to have a sense of humor, and everyone has certain rules about people they wont date - they must exercise, they have to love sports, they can't wear their hair in a pony tail (I wish I made that up).
For example, I have 3 rules which I will never break when meeting a new potential, aka, I wont date you if you meet one of the following...
1. You're a Marine or a former Marine
(I don't hate them, one of my uncles is a Former Marine, but I'm just not going to jump back into that paddy wagon of emotional drama for any reason - I am not a therapist - I do not have a PhD in fixing things - I have been here twice, I don't need to re-experience it).
2. You're only in town every other weekend... or month... or for the night.
(For me, Long Distance is Wrong Distance).
3. Your name is David or a shortened form of that name.
I'm so gung-ho with this list that I once was at a going away party for a good friend of mine, when I saw this really gorgeous guy at the bar. And lo and behold, it was my friggin' lucky day - He stopped me to talk!!!
"Hi, I'm David"
"LoRo, what brings ya out tonight?"
"I'm here on leave, just this weekend visiting friends, you see I'm a Marine and..."
I cut him off right there because I couldn't let the poor guy get his hopes up any higher with thoughts that he was going to be macking on me at the end of the night.
I walked away. Done. and. Done.
That's how committed I am to the rules. That's how committed I am to protecting my vulnerability. It takes a lot for me to open up and let someone in - relationship wise, and in a few cases where I have opened up and been burned, it's taken me months if not years to emotionally brace myself up again in order to start something serious with someone new.
I've only broken my rules once, and I wound up with a commitment-train-bound-for-crazy-town-Marine. So, Back to keeping with them.
But now I have a new thought... What if I expand my 3rd Rule to include not just Davids, but any name that has repeatedly screwed me over again and again, because if I'm going to be real with you, people with certain names just keep screwing me over emotionally.
My reasons are as follows:
1. It prevents me from falling into the David themed rabbit hole I find myself in (I have dated and been in relationships with 6 David/Daves in my life, not including hookups etc... with other people bearing the exact same descriptor). You want to know how hard it is to talk about people when you have to remember and keep up with 10 different nicknames given out to all the people with the same name? It's Frickin' Hard!
2. It prevents me from dealing with the emotional fall out from another direct hit of someone with the same name.
3. It makes it easier for friends/family to keep track of the men in my life. No more confusion about what guy I'm talking about because they'll all have different names, easing the transition from person to person, because it's easier to separate people if they have different names.
4. It prevents me from writing down the wrong last name on birthday cards that I mail to them.
5. Allows the next person I date, the ability to be himself without being judged by my anticipated thoughts and reactions to a person with his name.
So here's my Hurricane of the Heart retiring names rule - Due to the level of emotional damage cause by the last Hurricane Heartbreak of _X_ in my life, I refuse to be with someone with that name, ever. again - romantically. This could be due to one epic Hurricane Heartbreak - or - the repeated emotional distress caused by multiple people bearing that name.
So that rule would then extend to the names
Michael (or any version there in)
David (or any version there in)
It's as Kate Miller-Heidke, in her song The Last Day on Earth, put it - so well:
"In my head I replay our conversations
Over and over 'til they feel like hallucinations
You know me, I love to lose my mind
And every time
Anybody speaks your name
I still feel the same
I ache, I ache, I ache inside"
It's not that I'm trying to sit here and be a bitch to everyone with those names. It's that as someone with an over active imagination who does replay conversations over and over again, I can't give a fair go to someone who has one of my Hurricane Heartbreaks' names. It wouldn't be fair to them, because I'd constantly be looking for them to display the same tendencies as the last person with that name, and as soon as I'd see it, I'd go HA! I WAS RIGHT!
This may make me sound crazy, and I realize that, but if I'm going to be honest about how I feel, this is it.
The ache felt by having the shores of my soul crashed into by the surge of emotions from the Hurricane Heartbreaks in my life doesn't go away. It's like your first love, you never completely stop loving them, they're always a part of you. So when A Hurricane of the Heart makes a direct hit on your soul it takes a bit of you with it, and even after the clean-up, the blue roofs, the insurance claims, and the rebuilding - you never quite forget what happened. It's always there at the back of your mind.
And for that reason as naive as it maybe, I have no urge to experience another Hurricane David or Andrew. I have no urge to batten down the hatches waiting for them to tear apart the foundation I've freshly restructured. The house I've freshly redecorated. Or the walls I've freshly repainted.
Some might take this post as disrespectful - it was not meant as such, my heart goes out to anyone who had their lives affected by Hurricanes from this season or any other.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Lately, however, I've started to notice things in my life that says "hey, are you sure you don't want a boyfriend? Are you sure you like juggling men? Wouldn't it be nice to have one stable dashingly good looking devil of a man hanging around?" .... maybe.
So here's my list of 11 things that make me want one...
Some of them might make me seem lazy - I'm really not, I do some of the things on the list by myself, but I'm not Sound of Musicing my happiness on the top of the mountain...
1. De-clogging the drain.
I got a new apartment a while back, and the man before me didn't unclog the drain... neither did the apartment complex... So guess who got to grab a screw driver and clean months, if not years of GUNK out of the drain... I about gagged when the dripping water began to touch my hand... So hell, new boyfriend can use Draino. I don't care, but if I have to experience this lovely house maintenance job again, I'm going to be very unhappy. So, I'll be shaving all my hair off tomorrow, because, ugh - gross.
2. Taking out the trash.
I know it's literally right around the corner, but between me and you that's 10 steps too far away to walk with a bag that may or may not break on me depending on whether Glad lives up to its name. I'll applaud new boyfriend for his efforts. I'll give him a passionate embrace when he returns, maybe a quality massage, but the whole experience of taking the trash to the shoot, is underwhelming and overwhelming at the same time, and I just don't like doing it.
3. I can't cuddle with myself.
And I can't cuddle with people who work normal hours, and I can't cuddle with people who live far away, and I can't cuddle with people who work bizarre hours, because I don't want to wake up at 5 a.m. for you to arrive at my apartment when all I want to do is sleep... I fucking love to cuddle too, which is a serious problem, because, like I said in a previous post.... I've begun to look at people on public transport as potential cuddle friends. This is not good. DC Metro takers, beware.
I don't want to be this girl...
4. Making lots of food and having no one to enjoy it with.
Yeah, not everything on this list is bad. I make a LOT of food, and I like trying out recipes... and sometimes I'd like some confirmation that a cajun chicken guacamole sandwich is delicious, (because it is). I can only corral friends in their off time, which is usually the weekend so that leaves an entire week of weekdays worth of dinners eaten solo...
5. Every now and then I just want someone to tell me stories.
That I haven't heard. That make me laugh. That make me want to share stories. That make me think every word coming out of their mouth is appealing and fun and awesome. That make me want to listen to the next story, because this one was hilarious. That builds a bond between two people. That is shared overlooking Arlington or Bethesda, on a balcony when it's 70 degrees outside and the sun is starting to slide below the horizon, while an adorable puppy stares up at me, as an intelligent funny man laughs with me.
6. Because my friend S, cannot always fix my building mistakes.
I have a table... the center leaf (which is supposed to be removable) does not come out. I had an epic Ikea Fail, and I don't know how to fix it. Who has a toolkit and is willing to use it? Not this girl (This is a lie, I have one, and I do use it). I'd like someone to come over fix my table, while I supply them with beer and laughter.
7. Flat Tires.
Because when I get frustrated, sometimes I don't want to put on a brave face and call Norma because I lost my jack. Sometimes I just want to curl up and let someone take care of me. And I don't want it to be the AAA hired mechanic, because they're usually gruff and coarse, and not happy about my flat tire, in the rain, or my flat spare. I've had on the strong single girl face for - ugh - 2 1/2 years give or take, and I'd like to take it off and let someone else be tough.
8. Hurricane Evacuations/Nonevacuations
I always like a good excuse for a road trip, and I really like a good excuse for a road trip that ends where I'm snuggled up in a hotel room with a handsome man. What I'm not too fond of is the family evacuation where I wind up bunking with my brother listening to him snore through the double door, because as much as I adore my brother... one more family evacuation/vacation/trip where I have to hear him sawing redwoods through SOLID BRICK, and I'm going to jump off a building... or smother him... with a pillow.
HOWEVER, in regards to things I like about hurricane evacuations - I like lightning, scary ghost stories, pondering how to get the electricity back up and running, and pouring water into the back tank of the toilet (ha - joke)... It's the "Jurassic Park" effect. If there's a natural disaster bearing down or dinosaurs coming to eat me, the only solution is to run around like a chicken with your head cut off AND connect intimately with someone with whom you have killer chemistry (Jeff Goldblum need NOT apply)... Cold Beans anyone?
9. Family Get Togethers
If I have to attend one more gathering where people ask me who my "flavor of the day" is... I'm going to scream. I'm sorry but unlike 80% of you, and the whatever percentage of the United States, I'd like to not have my marriage end in divorce, so I'm taking my sweet time, and if I have to sample every Tom, Dick, and Harry to find him, then I will!
10. What's a Manfriend?
Repeatedly saying oh, this is my Manfriend, XYZ, is frustrating. I mean I like the illusion. I like having someone on my arm, but it's the oh this is my, "lady friend" affect. It implies this "Manfriend" isn't quite a boyfriend, but is more than just the casual hookup from college, but everyone knows that someone isn't committing, but no one wants to admit who. Then there's always the wait... what's a manfriend? question. Then I have to point and say, this. this is a manfriend. The man, I'm seeing, but I'm not with, but I am with, but I'm not... As in - who's going with me to happy hour, him, but as in - who's coming with me to a wedding, it's not him.
11. Football Season
I have this love/hate relationship with football, which normally culminates with how well my team is doing - some people might call this bandwagonning, but I call it levels of caring. Should I really get that worked up about the Aints during years when they fail at life aka any game they had Jake Delhomme prancing around... NO! But as the football season starts to gear up and there are games on the TV, I like cuddling on the couch while Drew Brees makes an amazing comeback (still losing but meh) against the Green Bay Packers... Am I right? How could I not, when it includes my five favorite things. Yelling at the Television, Cuddling, Man Candy, Fun Snacks, and Drinking? I don't think Julie Andrews had me in mind when she sang that song, but you know it takes all kinds to spin the world.
I'm not saying that I need a Boyfriend, because I don't, because I'm a strong independent woman who can pay for my own drink/food/earrings/artcollection, and I can cry on my own shoulder, and I can get my own taxi, and I can party with my own friends, and I can open my own damn door, and I can open my own damn car door, and I can draw my own bath, and I can cook my own food, and I can fight my own personal battles, and I can start my own catty fights, and I can deal with my own drama, and I can paint my own nails & brush my own hair, thank you, but sometimes I can't help but think... wouldn't it be nice to have someone next to me to assist me in my fight for world domination?
Thursday, September 8, 2011
I gave my phone number to one of them, the Marine, thinking, hey - these guys were cool I’d like to hang out with them again.
But after hanging out a few more times with the inclusion of alcohol in my system, hanging out turned into a date, which turned into a big group BBQ, which turned into another date, and then it turned into a nightmare.
I’m going to preface this with, the Marine is a perfectly nice man...
and end with, but I used Verizon.com to block him from contacting me again.
In every fledgeling dating thing, there’s the initial, OMG I’m really excited to get to know you. So either you see each other a bundle, or you text each other like crazy.
But as things start to even out and you’re more on a even, I know you and I still need to plan things with you, the texts drop off, SUBSTANTIALLY.
But his texts, never. did.
Here’s a month by month tally of his texts over the past 3 months, keep in mind we just started September
July - 502
August - 783
September - 233
I’m not the busiest person on the planet, but I have a relatively active social life/work life where I’m digesting hundreds of stories, scripts, blogs, on a daily basis. I read all the time, and constantly being pulled out of reading or watching the latest cut of the film I’m working on - drives. me. crazy.
I’m the girl telling everyone to shut up at the movie theatre. I’m the girl who gets annoyed when I can hear 2 TVs at a time, and I’m the girl who when I’m trying to read a book, I ignore what you’re saying - magazines are different if I’m reading a magazine, I’m all over conversation, because stories are shorter and I don’t have this massive need to know everything about people in the Washingtonian...
So anyway, as my work began to pile up (if you read my twitter you probably think I have no work because I have a tweeting problem), my texts began to slack off. I can’t respond every 20 seconds because you have something exceptionally ‘exciting’ to say - “hey sitting around the barracks bored - what’s up?”
As my friend Blair said, “it’s not [my] responsibility to entertain [you] 24 hours a day.”
But since my texts slacked off it meant I had to be dead, of course, so he’d text my friends to see if they’d heard from me... and if they hadn’t then he got his friends to text me to see where I was, what I’m doing, who I’m with, and how I am...
Here’s a graph of how OK it is for your friends to text me...
And originally I’m not going to lie I was like, oh that’s cute he’s concerned, but then it started to turn into if I hadn’t responded in 20 mins, he’d text my friends... and then if I didn’t seem friendly in a text he’d text my friends... which in my opinion is a little obsessive.
I’ve been in a clingy relationship, where we’ve had the talk and it made things better for the time being, but as someone who has a level of commitment issues, knowing that someone has been that clingy in the past, doesn’t improve their chances in my long term relationship binder. It actually makes me want to puke. And it makes me want to run.
SO. After weeks and weeks of being hounded and texted like I was a 7/11 with the only slurpee machine in a 100 mile radius, matched with the fact I was horribly depressed about the plane crash where I had a small heart attack before I read the story, thinking OMG what if one of my hockey player friends was on that plane - I couldn’t take it anymore and on Wednesday, I had made up my mind that when I got home, had a good meal under my belt, and a buttery nipple in my hand (the drink people! THE DRINK!) I was going to call him up and let him know it was done.
But I didn’t get halfway through making my grilled cheese when I got a call from a restricted number.
Not really knowing how the State Department reacts to lost phones, and being that I was expecting a phone call from a friend who works for the SD who lost their phone, my first thought was OH! Sweet, he’s calling.
No. It wasn’t my friend. It was the Marine’s friend.
“Hey, uh, LoRo, have you heard from the Marine at all today? Because he’s been looking for you.”
Duh how dumb do you think I am.
“Yeah, I think so, but I’ve got a grilled cheese burning on the stove, gotta go.”
I realized I bailed, but keep in mind.. it has been less than 12 hours since my last text to this guy. LESS THAN TWELVE F*CKING HOURS and you have your friends calling me from restricted numbers to discover whether or not I’m ignoring you.
After ignoring one more phone call from him, I signed into my Verizon account, entered his number into the blocked call list and wiped my hands of it.
Yes, I may be a really passive aggressive chicken, but if you can’t respect my space and my life enough to wait a few hours for me to call you instead of hounding me like someone who broke off their house arrest bracelet, then I’m not going to respect you enough to call you to break up with you.
No. I do not want to meet your mother.
No. I don’t want to talk to you.
No. I don’t want to date you.
No. I’m not, nor ever was your girlfriend. So get over it.
There's a fine line between cute and crazy, and you passed it about 200 miles ago.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Plans were to go to Eastern Market with the Marine, buy some high quality feather earrings from that lady with the mohawk who makes awesome earrings/art/everything, maybe buy some art from the man with the platypus hanging from a balloon tshirts and the art with a sad looking snail (he does greeting cards for a living, and his art has a distinctive level of quirky humor), and then hang out with Marine all day and into the evening, when Blair reminds me.
We have plans.
(Okay not really shite, because to be perfectly honest with you the Marine has a deeply entrenched sense of commitment, which involves meeting parents, talking about future children, and texting me every five mins - when I don't answer, said texts, he asks our mutual friends to text me to find out if I'm still breathing, alive, busy, not busy, willing to answer them, etc... And while on some levels I'm ready for a step towards commitment, I'm still a freebird - and this bird you cannot change, and you definitely cannot shove me into a 200 texts a day about nothing aside from nothing kind of cage because I have pretty intimidatingly large wings, and I'm claustrophobic as f*ck - don't get me wrong he's a sweet, kind, caring, chivalrous, lovely man, whom I would trust with my life and my friend's lives, but what he wants I'm not ready to give)
So I bail on Marine before you can say lickety-ick and hit the road to my apartment for a difficult shower (see sliced fingers + shampoo) and get dressed for the Networking/Bday/Fairwell to the 4Ps Party for my homeslice A, whom contrary to popular belief - i.e. HIS - I adore.
Well the night's going pretty solidly, having a drink, having a good night, when some fellow, whom we'll call Not Ben, steps to the edge of our group and shouts to someone across the bar - "Yo BEN! (Ben/Not Ben - see where the name came from) Split a pitcher with me? I'm buying!"
Ben - not paying attention, hears none of this, so our friend Jess alleviates the issue by shouting to Ben (who may or may not be standing merely 5-6 ft away from Not Ben), "YO BEN! This guy's buying you a free pitcher."
The rest of the conversation went something like a 8 year old girl playing telephone with her bestie i.e. this...
Ben - "OH Sweet - what kind?"
Jess - "What Kind?"
Not Ben - "What Kind?"
Jess - "What Kind?"
Me - It doesn't matter it's free."
Not Ben - "It's not free."
Jess - "It's not free"
Ben - "Ok, But What kind?"
Jess - "Ok, But What kind?"
Me - "Free means it shouldn't matter."
Not Ben - "It's not free, I owe him money... Well what do you want?"
Jess - "It's not free, I owe him money... Well what do you want?
Ben - "I don't know"
Jess - "I don't know"
Not Ben - "I was thinking rolling rock."
Jess - "I was thinking rolling..."
Not Ben - "Aw, hell," Not Ben throws up his arms and traipses through our circle because this was taking too long.
After he bought the pitcher, he returned pitcher and all, trying to engage our slowly diminishing circle until it was just him and me, and my conversationalist skills were at the bottom of the barrel, so I know I was no help, because I was pretty much staring at him trying to figure out what color his friggin' eyes were. Are they black? Are they brown? Are they Navy Blue? Are they 20 shades darker than steel gray? Does he even have them because seriously it looks like he's peering into my soul with two small abysses carved into his face.
For the next 2 hours, I spent probably 1:30 hours talking to Not Ben, smiling as he struggled through asking the typical DC questions to ask anyone you meet, laughing while he and the Organist for the Nationals swapped stories about music played during the games, and me offering the tipsy fellow a ride home since he literally lives 4 blocks or so away from me.
Not Ben is a reasonably tall, cute kind of man with piercing brown eyes (I never knew brown eyes could pierce) who looks like he belongs in Ireland (and no his hair is not red). He's casual, loud, a bit obnoxious - not necessarily in a bad way, and full of passion. He also knows my fake Jewish Brother who went to AU four years ahead of me, so he had a lot of good stories for me to use on future family vacays. Oh Yeah!
I may or may not have a crush.
I drove him back to his freshly destroyed home - thanks Irene! - where we shared a couple of beers, some stories, phone numbers, a frightening experience where some random man crossed the street to throw a branch at his roommate's car, and plans to meet the following day for brunch or lunch or coffee or fro yo.
-next morning, the butt crack of early-
He texts me something about what I want to do.
My response was textured with ugh, um, sleep, and bed, which kept him at bay until an hour after the butt crack of early.
He texts something about not knowing why he woke up so early.
My response was littered with Bahs, humbugs, bunny rabbits, and non distinguishable mumbo jumbo.
He texts back a hour later to let him know when I'm up.
My response was "Up-ish"
So after getting up-ish, and struggling through my morning routine due to TIRED because someone kept texting me unnecessarily early, we make plans to have some Fro Yo.
We met up in the Bethesda at the Yogiberry, and as I'm reaching for raspberry lemonade flavor (which BTWs is MONEY), so does he.
I'm not saying we're connected by some deep cosmic destiny, because I'm sure that when the Greek Gods separated the human race 'a la' lightning bolt, our souls probably were originally connected on more than just a similar taste in frozen delights, but hey - isn't it cool we like the same Fro Yo? - Yes I realize I'm a teenager...
So the date was nice. It was cute, we talked - sometimes in different accents (hey - isn't it cool we both like doing accents? - Fun Fact: I can do 17 distintive accents), took a walk, held hands, sat in a park, watched children run around with their parents, and then separated so that I could meet Zoya down in Dupont and so that he could go grocery shopping.
After making a fool of myself and losing more of my pride than my dignity, as I'm slowly realizing. It's nice to think, 'not everything has to be a dramatic horror story.' Sometimes things just click.
Monday, September 5, 2011
I was handing out my phone number to anyone with a phone and those without and pretty much making a fool out of myself in the Dupont Circle area, which lets be real, happens more than it should... probs on a Tri-monthly basis.
But guys... as opposed to being on the uptick out of the trough of bad luck, I slipped further into it.
Saturday night I had plans to go with my friends B, his girlfriend, and Blair down for a good ole time in the Dupont...
We switched plans to Bethesda, and it was on.
I got dressed to the fucking 9s, put on my good panties, and I hit the door. Then I closed the door. Then I turned around to lock the top lock (bottom was already secure) and realized. St. Joseph mother of G*D Damn Jesus H. Christ... as the door slams to it's final place... I dont have my keys.
I also never gave out spares... I have them. I have 4 spare keys chillin' in one of my three beautiful closets... but me being smart didn't pass them around... and I also live in a lovely apartment building with a bundle of amenities EXCEPT for a 24 hour desk staff...
Luckily my phone was in God's pockets... aka my Boobs aka Thank Jesus. So I called a locksmith and my friends and decided to wait in the lobby.
I got bored and started digging through my wristlet where lo and behold, a clippy was found!
It looked very similar to this above.
So there I was armed with a clippy and having broken into a few doors in college (I'm a horrible person) with bobby pins, I went back up stairs and made my attempt... but I needed two... long objects - So being the innovator I am, I bent the clippy back and forth several times and then ripped it apart, while slicing not one. not two. not three. but FOUR fingers in the process... (to be honest typing this post isn't a very pleasant experience. I have 4 bandaids on and every time one of my finger pads hit the keyboard instead of my nails, it stings).
So here I am in a mini skirt, wearing my good panties, splayed out on the floor, locked OUT of my apartment, in an apartment building with no public bathroom, bleeding profusely, and now being a big frickin' baby - balling my freshly lined and mascara'd eyes out from the burning pain now searing through my fingers when, around the corner some russian man walks by, and gets a free ticket to the LoRo show and then refuses to help me with my bleeding fingers by rushing past quickly into his apartment.
So downstairs I trek to the water fountain in the lobby to rinse my fingers and my ego... where some tiny asian woman sits there on her phone with her napkin laden McDonalds bag watching me bleed onto my shirt. When I ask her if she has napkins, she looks at me like I've just vomited all over her as a priest holds up a crucifix, and then she runs into the elevator.
Eventually the locksmith comes, charges me a kidney for his services and asks me to sign a piece of paper, which I profusely bleed all over.
After all that I get to Bethesda, I'm not going to lie. I'm not in the best of moods. I just want to dance my little heart out when lo and behold a guy on my shit list arrives at the bar. A guy on my shit list that I then try to avoid for the rest of the evening.
B's girlfriend brought him up... LoRo... that man is staring at you, pretty intensely.
He stood on the edge of the circle. He watched from afar. He watched from the patio. He watched from the bar.
It was time to leave - mainly because I dont want to deal. And because I just can't deal. And because I just want to dance. AND because I was out of cigars. We hit the Sausagefest at Blackfinn removing ourselves from the Biddyfest/Annoyingfest that was Union Jacks.
And it's going great. And by great I mean I'm still trying to keep my fingers from bleeding. I'm not drunk enough, and there he is. In all his muscled glory. The masseuse (a guys I dated for 2 1/2 months at the beginning of this year exclusively till I found out he was talking consistent smack about me behind my back), or a man who could be his identical twin, but I'm going with masseuse because the as soon as we locked eyes, he bolted out of that bar faster than a shot out of a gun barrel.
It's not like I was going to run up and slap him, and he wasn't with a girl for me to ruin his chances with her, but seriously... I made someone RUN not walk out of a bar.
Exhausted and emotionally devastated due to lack of men wanting a bleeding, mascara dripping chick whining about her damaged fingers, I agreed with the group it was time to go.
So we start walking back by Union Jacks on the way to the car, and I'm not feeling the whole late night anymore, and I'm really not feeling running into anyone. So as we walk by Union Jacks I dive behind cars to hide from the guy on my shit list who's sitting outside smoking... Didn't work. After whistling to get my attention, which I ignored... he called me out on it.
Moral of the night... when you think it's time for the upswing in your life, don't lock yourself out of your apartment in a miniskirt.
Friday, September 2, 2011
But I am saying I lost my dignity.
Picture it, Thursday night, Dupont Circle on a cool crisp evening, at my Norm bar, Rumors.
After disappearing into the Texas wilderness for a week and a half and the most desperate road sprint of my life, I was meeting up for Happy Hour with my 2 of my oldest DC buddies, who happen to also be men, who happen to also be awesome, we'll call them B&B
When I got downtown at 6:30 they were already a few beers in over at another happy hour. So as I wait, I grab a drink from Tony, who is a new person to me so I don't really know him all that well, and I'm a little bored, so I check some twitter messages and before I know it B&B have hit the scene. Bartender Tony leaves, and Bartender J, whom I ADORE, steps into his place and somewhere between ordering my dinner for the night a big plate of nachos and sleeping on Bills couch later that night. I got how shall we say - inebriated. I'm not talking Sexyface drunk. But I was unnecessarily feeling it on a Thursday night.
Between all the drinks I begin to imbibe, and the limited caloric intake of things that were not liquid... I began to get friendly.
If you've seen me drunk. You've seen me friendly. Me friendly is like a hurricane hitting you in the dead of night. It's not a surprise, but it's not all together something that everyone enjoys or needs or wants or can really handle.
For example, I once introduced two guys to each other... at a fraternity mixer... their own fraternity mixer... where they were both brothers, but I felt that they needed to meet each other... did I mention they were in the same pledge class?
SO back to the story. Rumors is hoppin, and people are everywhere. I'm making eyes at the DJ, who BTW is making them back, I'm dancing with a tall gorgeous black woman, I'm throwing beer bottles into a trash-can egged on by J and the boys, and I'm kissing everyone, EVERYONE, on the cheek. Everyone is also being hugged. J is giving me Starbursts, I'm hiding the Starburst wrappers in matchbooks and putting them back in the matchbook-cup. I'm stock piling straws, and then it's time to go.
No Big Deal. Whatever, but here's where everyone now needs my phone number. Everyone. From J, to the two tall gorgeous black girls, to a chef, to the DJ... (we'll revisit DJ a few paragraphs down).
So we hopped bars. (This was just supposed to be happy hour).
Now at my Bartender's bar, I bebop inside to say "Hi" to him and the Head of Security, because I love him. He doesn't know it. And it's not going to happen, but I do. But here's why it's for sure not happening.
1. TIPS Training.
2. The following event
I rush inside of the bar in a fury, one of the B's on my tail. (B number 2 had departed due to a ridiculous need to be up at the crack of dawn). There is the head of security (from now on known as HOSS) standing at the end of the bar, next to Bartender. Classily, I saunter up, kiss Hoss on the cheek, several times, and introduce him to B. - Normal procedure. I tell Hoss several times that I am going to get water from Bartender. (might have been 12) He tells me "it's not going to happen" I walk over. Bartender kisses me and SURPRISE!!!!! I don't get water. I get two disgusting drinks that made vomit appealing, which I tell him. - Oops... I try desperately to get my flirt on with Hoss, but after just getting an epic kiss from the Bartender... eh, Hoss loses interest and leaves.
After getting my water and dancing and going to the bathroom and running into Hoss again, it's time to leave, but world. I am still in friendly mode. So I give Hoss a big fucking hug, profess my love and adoration, then walk over to Bartender, grab him by the vest. Pull him into me. And say, "When are we going to fucking have those children," before I kiss him with enough passion and desperation that I pop a button off his vest (LITERALLY it popped off and flew into some guy's drink), dishevel the poor man's hair, get the poor man into trouble, and then saunter off to text everyone in my contact list while avoiding B's useless attempts to grab my phone away from me.
Enter next morning.
I'm at B's apartment, sleeping on the couch, just starting to awake when B and his girlfriend come into the living room... and begin to hash out the things I don't remember.
First things first, why was our tab decently expensive... (I'm not talking 5 course dinner expensive, but we had been receiving the bartender special and it seemed a little high) Well here's why - B had partaken of a decent amount of alcohol... and then he reminded me of my intake - 3 Pineapples&Rum, 2 Rum&Cokes, a CherryCoke Shot, Sex with an Alligator, TWO count them TWO purple nerd drinks ALL on a Thursday night... Why two purple nerd drinks? Well let me tell you,
"J, can you make a drink taste like a purple nerd?"
He makes a pensive face and begins pouring. Liqueur is going everywhere, his hands play the bottles like a concert pianist plays the keys, and he brings me a glass full of a bizarre yellow/green liquid.
"J... this isn't purple."
"Taste it!" he says, "It fucking tastes like a purple nerd." To prove his point - he dips a straw into the glass, pulls it out and tastes. "OMFG that tastes like a fucking purple nerd. OMFG I am AMAZING. I am a GODDDDDDDDD!"
I taste and "OMFG that tastes like a fucking purple nerd!" We pass the drink around and indeed my group agrees purple nerd. But here's my problem. I go to Rumors more than I go to some of my best friend's houses. I have had this drink SEVERAL times. The GM Paul (also the best bartender in DC) has made me this drink several times. I love it. I would give up a toe for this drink. Not that anyone wants a toe. But J's drink... was yellow/green... where the GM's is usually purple. And Purple is the color of the drink. And to be fair, in my drunk head I had asked for a purple nerd drink and this one was NOT purple.
Drunk me is not upset, but saddened and confused by this non purple concoction in front of me.
So, I grab my drink saunter to the downstairs bar and say,
"PAUL! PAUL! Look at this drink. Do you know what this is?"
"Well it's the purple nerd drink Paul," He smiles, shaking his head - he knows this drink all too well "and - and - and well, Jmade it but... but look at it! It's not purple." I plop it on the counter, "I need you to make it purple!"
Well, Paul's a perfectionist. He didn't just add a dash of purple, because apparently bars don't normally have food coloring sitting around, but instead made me a 2nd purple nerd drink. Which... according to the couple sitting at Paul's bar looked amazing, well I had to insist that Sex with an Alligator was more amazing and made Paul make me one of those too... (I really need to tip this man more for dealing with me)
So I brought the 2 nerd drinks up to B&B and insisted they try them... Conclusion: J's version tasted more like a purple nerd, but Paul's was actually purple... So being the good little drinker I am... I drank half of each and poured them together to make the perfect purple nerd drink...
I'm a perfectionist.
I also apparently at one point ran into the kitchen to profess my love to the chef.
I also kissed an awesome actual vampire on the cheek, which - let's be real is totally cool!!! I might have also smacked his ass... very inappropriate.
I made the assistant chef kiss me, and then almost burned his hand on an open fire.
And back to that DJ. I had totally forgotten about this.
I had totally forgotten about him, and had B never mentioned it when I woke up the next morning it would have been gone. As we're leaving I'm digging into my purse like a MAD woman... I've been switching purses back and forth a lot lately so in the bottom I discover my cache of unused business cards which have been sitting in there for MONTHS. These business cards are the bottom of the barrel, I've run out of the classy ones and haven't had time to buy more, business cards. I pull one out. Not walk. Not run. Not slide. I skip to the DJ booth. I grab his gold sheba bracelet, and I place my 2 year old business card into his hands, wink, and say,
"SO like, I really fucking want you to call me later, yeah? yeah? that'd be totes awesome!" (yes drunk me sounds like a 14 year old valley girl).
But wait - it get's better. As I'm walking away from him. I look over my shoulder. WINK, and as my head is turned - ram into some guy holding a drink which goes all over him, which signals to me. RUN AWAY.
All that on top of the text messages that progressively went down hill... as my night went - uphill... so I discovered when I checked my phone the following morning. (side note - omg I'm a horrible person)
Now I realize that this isn't as bad as it could have been. I didn't go streaking. I didn't make out with a random guy on the dance floor. I didn't whore it up in a bathroom stall. I didn't lose any money. I didn't get arrested (THANK GOD - because in my state I would have been handing out my phone number there too!) and I didn't really DO anything that makes me a tragedy in heels, but somewhere in Dupont Circle I lost my dignity, and the emotional hangover is really dragging me down.