Meet the Fockers, Italian-style

So.

This weekend was a big one in the Jerz. Maggie turned 30 last week, and Anne, Mr. Maggie and I threw her a surprise party Saturday night. Well, Mr. Maggie and Anne did, while I shouted expletives at people on the NJ Turnpike who were blocking my way and making my part in the party - showing up early and decorating - very difficult.

But I did get to curse a lot! So that's fun.

Sunday was Grace's graduation party (yaaaaaaaay Grace!) wherein a bagillion of my Irish and Italian relatives and some of her GWU friends converged upon my parents house for some bocce, a LOT of food, and in general a rocking time.

Oh right, and Grad School BF came.

It was a scary prospect, him meeting the families (real and urban). There were a lot of people in a short period of time, and some of them suck. Actually, a lot of them suck, and in a variety of ways. Some are just super socially awkward. Some are very, very embarassing. And some are you know, borderline racist.

Awesome.

But honestly? Dude did amazingly well. At Maggie's, when the food showed up for the grill, he jumped up and helped John grill away, earning him serious points from the likes of Anne, Emilia and Maggie. Also, a bunch of Maggie's friends who I kind of love. At casa nostra, he worked harder than I did (and definitely harder than Michael and Grace) at making sure my mom was totally chill.

Which is pretty hard under normal circumstances.

And I have to say that other than the part of the evening when my great-aunt was like "I had a Paki friend once" and I was like "um... isn't that derogatory towards Pakistanis, and also, GSBF is from the Middle East but nice try" it went quite well.

But the best part is?

That I am an annoying person to deal with, in general. I whine a lot and make dumb jokes that I think are hilarious and am easily offended when others don't laugh at them. But put me and another person in an itsy bitsy space (say, a rented Toyota Carolla) and then add in a shitload of traffic, no sleep and caffeine, and you pretty much have Medusa on your hands.

Well. With FABULOUS hair.

And imagine hanging out with Medusa for 36 hours straight. Think about it. The harpy bitch keeps screeching at you, around you, freaking out about everything from tolls for the Delaware-Memorial bridge to out of state drivers in New Brunswick to fucking-shitheads-who-cannot-park-for-their-fucking-lives in Hoboken. Then add in a little alcohol, some crazy Jersey love, and a decibel level rivalling a cannon.

Would you still like me at the end of it?

Forget like. Would you still tolerate my FACE? My VOICE? My annoying MA-isms like "super" and "motherfucker"? Would you, instead of pitching me out of the moving car on the NJT, rub my thigh when I said (whined) that I was sleepy? Would you grab my hand as we crossed the Del-Mem bridge because you know that I'm stressed about traffic at the other end? Would you tell me amusing stories to keep me in a good mood, and tell me that of course you could drive the entire way back to DC, and that I should nap and that we could listen to any radio station I wanted to?

Would you still want to sleep with me at the end of it?

Because honestly, after GSBF proved once again his absolutely fucking amazingness in doing ALL THOSE THINGS AND MORE, my families (real and urban) could have hated him. Loathed him. Despised him with the power of 1000 suns. And I would say, hey, fuck off, motherfuckers. He's super awesome.

I think I'll keep him.

Do people ever SAY "VD" anymore?!

So.

I was just walking down to McDonald's to get a healthy lunch (which they weren't serving for 15 minutes, so I ordered some shitty sausage thing, which took 14 minutes to get me cause they were so fucking idiotic (btw, I don't think McDonald's employees idiots in general, my mom and friends have worked there and usually my experience is quite good but this was RIDICULOUS) and needed instead to fucking act out their fucking battle between the black cashiers and the hispanic kitchen staff, all talking shit about each other while I COULD HAVE JUST GOTTEN MY FUCKING CHICKEN SANDWICH BECAUSE I HAD WAITED SO LONG).

Um. Sorry.

Anyway! I went to Mickey D's with J. Jeter (who btw I work with. Have I told you guys that? The best coincidence that has ever happened, ever) and her friend K who I want to be MY friend when J. Jeter moves back to New York. And I was thinking, awesome, time to impress K with my wit and charm.

Unfortch, given the aforementioned situ, that didn't happen.

But back to the story (again) - we were walking down the street when this COMPLETELY normal looking woman wearing what looked like work clothes (a dress that was clean, and didn't smell) and sneakers, and toting an utterly harmless appearing gymish bag goes to the three of us, "how many VDs do you have? How many abortions have you gotten?"

Um. WHAT?!

We were so in shock that the lady had already moved down half the block before one of us finally recovered (J. Jeter) and shouted, "that is CROSSING A PERSONAL BOUNDARY." Like, seriously. If you're going to act all crazy, at least prepare me, so I can be like "I got one from your MOM" or something.

Ok, I'm still pissed about McD's and therefore am not witty.

Point is - wtf is up with DC? Normal businessy woman asking me about the abortions I've allegedly had? Like, is that to be EXPECTED on a Friday morning? Maybe at 3am, when I'm drunk and shouting about my babykillers (aka pills, but you know, people aren't wrong for mistaking the two). But not when I haven't had my first diet coke of the day.

Ugh.

What crazy people stories do you guys have?

He's too sexy

So.

Grad School BF is hotter than I am. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not bad looking. In fact, as far as looks go I’d say that I don’t hate my reflection in the mirror, and it has earned comparisons to a young Elizabeth Taylor (exactly twice) and Kristie Alley (about 1000X that).

“Cheers” years, so I’m happy about that.

But it is a fact that GSBF is pretty effing cute. Becca, when I first started my program in the District, did the obvious thing and obtained my fb password to go through my new friends. When she hit GSBF, she was like “whoa, who’s he? Hit that!” It should be said that Becca is pretty fucking hot.

Not Kristie Alley, sure, but I mean seriously – HAWT.

Point is, I know this about him. My mother has a thing about looks and when I was dating Evil Corp Ex and she met him, she reacted with thinly veiled contempt for his physical appearance. I was all, “mom, he makes me laugh, he’s hilarious” blah blah blah.

Yeah, we broke up 2 weeks later.

But when she met GSBF she fell a little in love with him, because he is that cute. Which is great, when it’s my slightly vain/prejudiced mother who I’m trying to impress.

Not so much at Country Club in the H St. corridor.

We went with GSBF’s friends on Saturday night, to check out what everyone’s been talking about. I thought, hey, skeeball, minigolf, tequila – sounds like the Jersey shore!! And was UP for it. We got there, breezed past the popped collars and pearl earrings, and found a good perch near the pool tables. I was 2 shots in when the first girl approached. I had been chatting with one of GSBF’s friends, Jen and her boyfriend about something to do with Patron, and this curly haired bitch came over and put her grubby little hand on GSBF’s shoulder.

Um. No.

At this point I should probably say that I am a jealous person. Hm. Not jealous. POSSESSIVE. Like, insanely so. When On Again Off Again Ex was in town in February, I made out with him in the middle of a party we were attending at DC Laura's house because another chick there had talked to him for more than 2 minutes.

And then she laughed at his physics joke.

Yeah, I mean, it wasn’t funny. It was about SCIENCE. So I marched over, literally shoved her out of the way (oops! Sorry! Ha.) and grabbed him ‘round the neck and stuck my tongue down his throat.

I might have had a few shots that night too.

So on Saturday when this chickadee touched GSBF, my eyes widened at her brazen flirting. I mean, she hadn’t even asked some dumb question and then gently grazed his arm while he answered feeling like a big man. Nope. Just went up and put her whorey little fingers all over him. But that was fine. Because I had only had 2 shots.

Later, however.

We were playing skeeball and I had just kicked his ass (ok we tied, whatever) and to celebrate I went to go to the bathroom. Cause I’m classy like that. When I got back, there was another chick bearing down on him from the other side to tell him cooingly how well he had done in that particular… game? Roll? Whatever. Having had at that point FAR more tequila, I wrapped myself around him and said suggestively, “I thought you were going to join me.”

Which is gross. Because Country Club is nice, but not sex-in-bathroom nice.

She gave me a Look and wandered off. And to be fair, he probably would have handled it very well had I not decided to dry hump him in public. The first girl, after rubbing her cooties on his shoulder, got a raised eyebrow while he plucked me out of the middle of my conversation with Jen and pulled me into him.

Then for good measure, grabbed my ass.

He then introduced me as his girlfriend, and that was the end of THAT. And so I have complete faith in his ability to deflect unwanted (by me) female attention his way. But still – I don’t know if you remember (from a few paragraphs ago) that my most recent ex (as well as um, most of them) was not the most attractive guy in the world. And so this is funny little wrinkle in our relationship – girls will continue to find him hot, and I will continue to be miffed by it.

Then again?

I get to then take his hot ass home and go to bed with him. FTW.

Uterus thumping

So.

I am a big fat fucking girl. Hm. That came out incorrectly. I am not trying to say I am a large girl who has lots of sex (altho that isn't untrue). But what I AM, is a shitton of estrogen, walking around on two stubby little legs.

Lies. My calves are HAWT.

Anyway, I know this because several times in recent memory I have been called on my girliness, specifically as it relates to babies. For example, I met the children of one of my classmates at a BBQ, and they were adorable. I don't mean kind of cute. I mean gorgeous, curly haired, towheaded children who I wanted to steal away. And as they walked away I said to Becky, "zomg, I think my uterus just THUMPED."

She stared at me blankly.

Then at graduation for this year’s class, I was one of the helpers for parents and things (because I am a grad student BFD. THAT’S RIGHT) and as the procession started, and the military guys in our program came marching in, and someone’s wife said, “look! There’s Daddy!” and like, 15 men turned to look at the same time, I welled up.

Sigh.

Don't get me wrong, it's not like I want to have ze bebes right NOW (ehem. At ALL fertility goddesses. AT ALL!!!). But unlike the majority (seriously) of my female friends, I do want them someday. I want to be someone’s mama. Or mamain. Or mom. Or…

We could do this for a while.

But like, I love babies. And so when this morning, one of my coworkers brought in his adorable son to work, his son who speaks English AND Spanish, who already knows how to write out the alphabet even though he’s only FIFTEEN MONTHS OLD, you can’t really blame me for wanting to take him home with me.

You might be able to blame me for going on babynamer.com.

What?! It’s the best website EVER. You can look up names, find out what’s trending popular, see who is a famous namesake, and catalogue the drawbacks of some names. Did you know, for example, that “Aagje” is currently a popular name for a girl?? I did not! Also, “Ava” which makes me sad because I really like that name.

Damn you Grey’s Anatomy.

Aiden is super popular for boys, but that’s OK cause I don’t like Aiden. In SATC or in real life. But did you know that one of the biggest drawbacks to Jacob, a name I LOVE LOVE LOVE, is “Jack-off”? I hadn’t thought of that. Kids can be cruel.

Or funny.

But there are no listed “drawbacks” to Grace’s IRL name, which is false because a lot of her friends call her a euphemism for semen. Is it a euphemism when it’s the more crude way to say something? I don’t know. Point is, that’s a drawback, in my opinion.

You’re trying to figure out her name now, aren’t you?

In the end, I wasted a good hour at work (impressive for a first week, I think) and got THAT shit out of my system. And it would have been great if the coworker hadn’t brought his little boy over just now to say “goodbye adios!” to me.

And there goes my uterus, pulsing it out.

It's Jersey, not Joisey

So.

As you all know, I am from New Jersey. No exit jokes, please, because I do not live near the GSP or the Turnpike. It’s known as the Garden State. Home to the Devils, the Nets, the Giants, the Jets and the Metrostars (call them the Red Bulls and I will fight you). Location of the best pizza in the US of A. Awesome beaches, fantastic skiing, corn like you wouldn’t believe. New Jerseyans have fierce attitudes but big hearts, with a love of family and friends that is seriously unrivaled anywhere I’ve been/lived/visited online.

This excludes the real housewives of NJ.

I have tried to write a post on this abomination a bagillion times. Starting with the day after f.B’s fabulous NJ post from a few months ago, I’ve typed up angry posts, lengthy screeds, whiny poems and even a few live blogs. None of them were good enough though, and when I say good enough I want you to know I mean “encapsulated the extreme amount of anger and loathing and disgust I feel for this show.”

I don’t think it’ll happen today.

But since the season finale was last night, I think it’s finally time for me to say something, which is:

Dear World,
Please do not judge New Jersey on the color of their fake-n-baked skin, or the thickness of their Long Island-cum-Staten Island-cum-Awful Brookaleeeeen accents. Please judge us on the content of OUR character. Not the mobsters and guidos and the goodfellas that la TV would have you believe we are. No no. The part of us that makes us scream songs like Bon Jovi’s “Who Says You Can’t Go Home”. The part that makes us weep with recognition of suburban malaise when we watch Zach Braff movies, and then laugh even HARDER at the pitch-perfect Kevin Smith take on the exact same thing. The part that makes us cheer FERVENTLY and FIERCELY for anything and anyone having to do with NJ when we’re all together, but when we’re with you people, makes us crack jokes like, “New Jersey: where the weak are killed and eaten.”

If this is the armpit of America, sweat never smelled so sweet.

And it drives me nuts that this show – THIS PIECE OF CRAP – played into the same stupid meme about New Jersey that everyone’s family, and everyone’s Italian, and all anyone ever wants is to drink jaeger bombs at the Jersey shore and spend their rich daddy’s money on gold chains to drape around their hairy necks and plastic boobs. The one that makes people, when they find out I’m from NJ and Italian, snicker will ill-suppressed glee at the amount of jokes they will be able to crack at my expense. And that’s alright, really. Usually I write those douche bags off immediately, and you know what? They’ll never be invited to my parents’ fucking awesome parties (like the one we’re having for Grace in 1.5 weeks!), or my friends’ SWEET shore houses, where will we have fabulous times mocking the Jersey-haters, but mostly, forgetting they even exist because we’re really just having too much fun to care.

And if I’m being honest.

It’s not like the real housewives of NJ aren’t real. They are. I know, because one of them lives down the street from my mom and dad. She’s there. Her bratty kids are there. Her crazy husband is there. And they know people that I know, and that I’ve worked for, and it bugs me. Seriously. But the point is, every single family, town, state, country has the people that don’t rep it well. I’m thinking my stupid cousin. I’m thinking the stereotype of the Ugly American abroad. I’m thinking of Rush Limbaugh. I’m thinking of the KKK, and the Nazis, and the Mafia, and al-Qaeda.

No I am not comparing the real housewives to al-Qaeda.

But the thing is, like al-Qaeda is a horrible representation of the graceful religion that is Islam, the real housewives of NJ are just bad spokespeople for something they claim to represent. And there are more of them, sure. But look around where you’re from – isn’t there that family down the street, or that group in your neighborhood, who you wish you could smack around for just being ASSOCIATED with you? But you never would, because you don’t want to sully the rep of your fabulous ‘hood/state/country etc.

And so.

All I ask is, when you watch these shows (like that new one on E! about the Jersey shore), or the movies, or hear the jokes, or make the jokes, just remember – New Jersey may have its fair share of crazies. But so does everyone, and everywhere. And honestly? New Jersey just fucking rocks so hard that we might eventually shake OUR crazies loose.

I mean, it’s New Jersey: we don’t pump our gas, we pump our FISTS!

Sports Metaphors work for chicks too!!

So.

I was talking to Anna this morning about maybe getting together this evening, and I started talking (as is my wont) in utter jibberish. I had plans with Grad School BF to go to poker, not because I love poker (which I do) but because I wanted to see him and he wanted to see me and that was a good reason.

But not good enough.

Because as I tried to explain to Anna, I also am in the midst of experimenting with NOT being a crazy girl. I know – a novel concept, given that I am INSANE. But last week between utter exhaustion, PMS and a few other nits, I overdosed on the crazy. Friday GSBF and I spent a good portion (um, 23 hours) of the day together, and by hour 20 I was just Over. It.

Not HIM. Just IT.

And so I pulled all the crazy out of my drawers. First I accused him of calling me lazy (which I am). Then I accused him of not wanting to sleep with me (because he had remarked, as I often have, how easy it would have been to find apartments if we hadn’t started being cuddly, cause then we could live together). Finally, I left his house in a semi-pissed off huff because he joked that he would see me when I got back from New York when I got up to use the restroom, and then when he didn’t figure out that I was actually a ball of insanity on two legs walking out the door (because I shut it REALLY quietly, intentionally), I got even angrier that he hadn’t followed me out.

Sometimes I make a whole bunch of sense.

And while I don’t really feel like blaming myself for that day (see aforementioned exhaustion, hormones, and “other”) I really wanted this week to go better. So when GSBF was like “I want to see you tomorrow night, you’re my good luck charm, come to poker” I made a resolution that I would go, act normally, and at the end of the night when he dropped me off at my house and didn’t come in (because I have WORK in the morning) I would not see it as Our Relationship Ending.

Which is when it occurred to me.

When I was in high school I played soccer and ran track (I was still lazy, but you know, liked being involved. Also, adorbs uniforms and team dinners). In soccer I played defense, and in track I ran the 100m and the 200m. And I was great at both. I mean, I’m not a modest person in general, but honestly, I fucking rocked sweeper and fast runs. My team was not fantastic, but we would have been a lot worse if I hadn’t been the paranoid WALL I was. And my track team had better, longer-distance runners, sure, but no one wanted to be across those finish lines more than I did.

Cue cutsy metaphor here.

In my relationships (with boys. With girls, the crazee takes more of a backseat to romcoms and chocolate) I unfortunately have been an AMAZING defender and sprinter as well. The moment things even look like they might head south for a bit (ie, GSBF says, “I mean, you aren’t the most active person ever, why would know of this bike trail?” as “you fat lazy SOB”) I throw up a wall that would rival Berlin’s. Or that great one in China.

In short, commies ain’t got nothing on me.

Even worse, I pretty much view every relationship I’m in (and have ever been in) as a sprint to the finish, when in reality, if it’s going to work out, it’s more of a marathon. Like, the longest marathon ever. Which I know is wrong, because a marathon is always 26.2 miles, but I don’t know what the name of a really fucking long distance race would be. Maybe it’s like relationships that work out are like the Boston Marathon meets the Iron Man Classic meets around the world in 80 days times infinity.

Except you get to keep your toenails.

And I don’t like long distance running. Nor cross-country running (points to the winner of that modified quote). I like the anticipation of the race, the training, the set up, the false starts and the sweet release of the rubber finally hitting the road.

Hehe. I am amazingly punny.

But then I just want it to be OVER with. I want to cross the line, wipe the sweat from my brow, and look forward to the next race. But what if this race was the best thing ever? What if it was like a race where they FED you chocolate and SHOWED you romcoms, PLUS you got to have sex in the middle in really awesome beds?!

Vino and champagne would fit in too.

The point is, why would you want that to end? In other words, why would I want to throw a massive tantrum when GSBF says, “MA, SWEETNESS HONEY BABYPOP, while I LOVE sleepovers with you more than ANYTHING except my mom’s homemade batata harra, I still think that tonight you and I should sleep in our own beds so you do not have to run off to the metro in the morning with your hair soaking wet and your suit half on just because you couldn’t get out of bed.”

Ok, 1. If he actually talked like that, I’d kill him and 2. Batata harra is amazing.

The thing is he’s right! And when I woke up this morning in my own bed, alone, it felt nice to be able to stretch out for another 10 minutes and then freak out when I realized I had missed my alarm. Not as nice, sure, as early morning sex, but still – very, very nice. And if NOT seeing each other EVERY FREAKING MORNING means that I don’t drive him away as quickly as possible, then I should be 100% for it.

And so.

Tonight, when instead of going to poker, GSBF and I take a leisurely stroll down M Street (that will hopefully include ice cream), and say goodbye at the Key Bridge, or maybe even in Virginia itself, I will not (WILL NOT) throw a hissy fit about how he doesn’t find me attractive, doesn’t want to sleep with me, is repulsed by my bed/apartment/morning breath and WHY in GOD’S name did I AGREE to completely FUCKING over our AMAZING friendship if THIS was JUST going to be OVER in TWO freaking MONTHS! Not even in private.

And by private, I mean with Becca.

Because I’m (trying) to be in this one for the long haul. Not the LONGEST haul (I mean, I’m crazy, but not THAT crazy), but more than just the next 100m or so. Cause I really like chocolate, and romcoms, and champagne and sex. And just because it means I need to have a little endurance, and a little stamina, then so be it. I mean, GSBF LOVES soccer (watching, playing). And can make ME batata harra.

He even likes wine as much as I do.

I can learn patience. I can. I CAN.

Here's a tip

So.

I need some non-drunk, non-bridal tipping advice. I'm asking because (full disclosure) I just ordered pizza for delivery (thanks a whole fucking lot, Becca) and I never know how much to tip delivery men anymore.

Also.

Monday night I was at dinner with a few gentlemen, who (full disclosure) are not American-born, or even American residents for more than a year, who were discussing tipping cab drivers. I felt this conversation was highly relevant, as only the night before some douche bag from Blue Top cab refused my fare from the metro, and I was so grateful to the Enviro cab that picked me and my suitcase up while accepting my credit card, that I WAY overtipped.

Which I was fine with.

But these guys, including Grad School BF, were mocking Americans for their tipping ways. GSBF was in the city this past weekend with his friend, a native New Yorker, who tipped $1.85 on a $5.15 fare. And I have to admit? That I would have done the exact same thing.

Which is a 36% tip.

And I know cab drivers, and delivery boys, as well as waiters and bus staff etc are some of the most underpaid and underappreciated members of society. But it seems a little fucked up to me that I'm tipping more (percentage wise, of course) to the dude who drives me LITERALLY up a hill (albeit one I really don't want to walk up) than the woman who rips hair out of my pubic bone.

Hehe. I just launched that one on you, didn't I?

But let's be honest, I'm handing THAT chica a wad of cash, while I'm giving this guy a dollar plus change. Which feels right. But still - I need help. How do you guys tip? In restaurants, I usually do 20% for good service, 18% for fine and 15% for bad. I'm comfortable with that. But cab drivers? Delivery boys?

Pubus waxers?

Hehe AGAIN. Seriously though. HELP!

Airplane!

So.

I hate to fly. Have I talked about this before? I can’t check because I’m currently sitting on the El train in Chicago (blue line baby), heading SOUTH to visit with mes amis, see my old stomping ground(s), avoid exes and judge frenemies anew.

Which is all very exciting.

But as you (should) know, Chicago isn’t exactly a Boltbus away from the District. And so at the ass-crack of dawn this morning I hauled my cookies over to National (dude! I am totally like a NATIVE) and flew over the Shenandoah Valley, a whole buncha Indiana and the glorious Lake Michigan to get here.

But not without some problems.

I used to loathe – DESPISE – flying. And I did it more than most kids do (though by no means a crazy amount. Just more than most). I never, ever enjoyed it. Little kids (ehem, Grace) would sit there drawing happily and I would be scarring my mother’s upper arm with my little kid nails.

They were effing SHARP.

But then I went to school in Chicago, and you know, called New Jersey home. Or at the very least, my permanent address. And so for holidays, summers and the occasional high school musical (before it was trendy) I would fly between Chicago Midway and Newark aiport.

Not Liberty Int’l airport. I really AM a native there.

And I slowly got used to it, through a combination of coping mechanisms (slow and deep breaths) vaguely OCD-like routines (buying a bag of M&Ms before every flight) and the standard, familiarity breeds contempt. Also, I took kickboxing in college, and could totally take down ANY terrorist.

Hiiiiiii-yah!

But a year ago things changed. When I went to Ireland with Grace, the flight TO Italy was great, but the flights bet Italy and Ireland were NOT (ehem, RyanAir) and then the flight back to the city was more than a little miserable.

Which maybe would have been fine.

If my flight the FOLLOWING weekend from California hadn’t fucking blown. Because somewhere over Missoura (I’m in the Midwest, I gotta do it) there was a very scary medical emergency in the midst of some really bad turbulence, and quite frankly the entire sum of events turned me off flying for QUITE a while.

But the thing is?

I like places other than the East Coast. Don’t get me wrong, the EC is my favorite place to be. Especially Ocean City, NJ. But I really like Italy. And the Caribbean. And Chicago.

Well right.

And you need to FLY to these places. So this fall I got back in the saddle, or jump seat or whatever, and flew to Chicago.

And it was horrendous.

I mean really, really bad. The flight experience itself, my reaction to it – no good. The trip was fanfuckingtastic but the fact of the matter is, that I knew I couldn’t really face a plane again without a massive change. Which is why I ended up going to therapy and getting happy pills and even MORE coping mechanisms (though less OCD routines, because the mental health profession apparently looks down on that) and after months of drugs and treatment, today was my TEST.

And I PASSED!!!

Not exactly with flying colors mind you (pun totally intended). For example, I couldn’t eat this morning, and so decided instead to crack open one of the Sofia sparkling wine cans the WONDROUS Julie had given me (and Leah and Ramona) the night before. And when I saw the children sworn to protect us from terrorists and other crazy people on planes, I almost turned back.

But despite the need for pre-dawn boozing, and the tweeny police force, I still got on the plane. Sat next to a lovely lady from Chicago, which made me turn on my accent (eaaaaaaaaaahccent) and a glorious gentleman from Libya who had never heard of Sudoku (banish the thought!) and loved me because I taught him the most addictive plane game, ever. And even thought the moment when I realized the chick in front of me was (idiotically) pouring over the WaPo's coverage of the Air France crash at 34,000 ft was not a GREAT one, I totally made it to Chicago happily and healthily.

Also, quickly. DC-Chicago is SHORTER than DC-NY! WOOHOO!

And now I am on the blue line, heading to meet up with Leroy Brown and Joey and Maria, and later, Emilia and Becca and Caroline and Abigail and Chicago Sam and Marie and SO many PEOPLE I DON’T even KNOW what to DO with myself.

Hm. Sofia can anyone?

So the whole point of this post is, you TOO can overcome your fears and fly places. But BYOB and also Sudoku.

We take a break from your regularly scheduled programming

So.

I've been exploring all the free wifi joints around the District to get meself some internets until my new router arrives (don't even get me started) and I have Something. To. Say.

Dear young man listening to rap,

I applaud your confidence, singing in public. Usually it takes me about 5-7 drinks to get wasted enough to sing in the midst of a crowded Starbucks in Chinatown.

Or more!

As it was 6pm, you were (likely) sober, and so I salute you. Except? It's the kind of salute the firing squad gives the prisoner before they blow his fucking head off.

Shut. The fuck. Up.

Shut up. Shut Up. SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP. I do not care for your music choice, that is true, but that is not the problem for you see, if I were singing Billy Joel at the top of my lungs in public, I am sure that there are people out there who would not enjoy it.

These people are plebians, but whatevs, not the point.

The point is, you are a FUCKING obnoxious LITTLE cretin who is RUINING my fucking INTERNET mojo that I have FINALLY gotten after days of NOT having the internet and instead practically LIVING off my blackberry, which I KIND OF HATE BECAUSE IT REMINDS ME OF EVIL CORP!!!!

You little fucking shit.

So please, take your show elsewhere. I don't have a preference, as long as I am not within ear distance. I hear the street corner outside the Starbucks is open.

Douche.

XOXO,
MA

Extra, extra, read all about it: MA is off the market (for now)

So.

Once upon a time there was a princess named MA (Irish/Italian-American Princess? Maybs) who moved to DC and met a whole bunch of people who are AWESOME. Including a boy who she thought was fanfuckingtastic. But being the doofus that she was, she didn't harbor particular Feelings for this boy. Because she doesn't know how to be happy. Because she is an idiot.

Um. Anyway.

When people would ask her, what's you with you and this boy? she'd reply "oh nothing, we're just besties" and laugh it off. And then one day this boy told her he had feelings for someone they both knew. He wouldn't tell the name of the girl, but it didn't matter - Princess MA freaked out.

And then wondered why.

I could go into the ensuing details, and probably will in the next few days, but the long and short of it is that Princess MA, for once in her boy-fucked-up life, did right and talked with this boy. And after some discussion (and some making out) "this boy" became "the boyfriend" and they lived happily ever after.

Well, for now.

I've been wanting to tell you guys for a while, but due to extenuating circumstances and also, the fact that I've been waiting to fuck it up (but good), I've been holding off. And I'm sorry. But that's my news - I'm blissfully happy (for now) and haven't driven him off (yet) and when I start posting about relationshippy shit in the next few weeks, I'm sorry, and also, this is why.

The End