Being the "Cool GF" is SO 2001

So.

Last night I was having a conversation with DC Laura about a party she is throwing to warm her new abode in a few weeks. I was like - dude, I'm totes obvs there. But then she told me her two bffs from college weren't going to make it, and her actual bf was briefly a maybe, because he was planning to go home for the weekend. And she was like "for a moment, I felt torn. Like, I want him to be there, but really? I want to be a 'cool gf' too".

And that reminded me.

Of a conversation I've had with SEVERAL friends of mine about their S.Os going to strip clubs (seriously ladies who read this blog who know me IRL. It's like, 75% of you). Even though strip clubs are scummy and gross, and the idea of some other woman pressing her ass up against your man's crotch (confidential to random ass chick/dude at Policy on Saturday night - POLICY IS NOT A STRIP CLUB) and him in turn shoving money down her g-string just ISN'T appealing, I have a lot of friends who keep their mouth shut when their men head out to Titties R Us.

Which btw, there are a few of those near Ground Zero. In case you were wondering.

Other girlfriends (ehem, again, readers o' this blog) are girls who pretend they don't poop. Now don't get me wrong. I can appreciate being in a new relationship, and not wanting to ruin the mystery by exposing your bodily functions and fluids too early on. Who wants to ruin a day of really awesome "god aren't we just SO FUCKING HOT TOGETHER AND BTW I MIGHT LOVE YOU" sex by smelling up the loo a few months too soon. But these are girls who have been with their SOs for fo' EVA EVA. Like, they are married.

And I get it.

My girlfriends want their boyfriends/fiances/husbands to think they are just oh so breezy about everything in life. Like, you don't want to make it to my great aunt Sally's 95th birthday, even though my whole family is going to be there and we've been dating for a year so maybe you should go? Of course not honey, you can go watch the game with your friends, I know it'll be a total bore for you cause Sally likes to sit on your lap.

I'm in like Flynn on the strip club theme today. I blame the couple from Policy.

Anyway! The thing is, you WANT your SO at your big housewarming, and you DON'T want him to go motorboat some stripper. And guess what boys who read this blog (although if you've put up with me this long, you're probably like, the nicest person in the world and I shouldn't be talking to you. But pass the word on to your less couth friends) - girls poop. If we didn't, our large intestine would explode, rendering us not only smelly, but you know, dead.

(I think. I'm good on strip clubs, not on biology.)

And in my experience, pretending that you ARE ok with the SO missing big aunt Sally's 95th is just going to lead to resentment. And if someone loves you enough, they're totally going to be ok with you demanding a few things from them. Like - come to my place early and bring the two bottles of wine I forgot to pick up. Like - ok, you can go to the strip club, but I swear to GOD no lap dances.

Like - stay out of the bathroom for a while there, alright? It reeks.

I know, single girl getting on the soapbox. But if there's anything I'm learning as I get older and (maybe) wiser, it's that life's too fucking short to settle for second best. You're awesome, your man knows it, so stop trying to be "cool" and just be coo' baby. Reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal cooooooooooooool.

The Best Money I EVER Spent

So.

Between having had a crazy weekend, which wasn't even entirely alcohol related, getting actual work at my job that I care about doing well (shocker!) and now living in an among boxes and clothes and stuff I forgot I owned much less packed that doesn't fit into the smallest apartment ALIVE.

I'm not really one for introspective posting.

The thing is, there's a lot of introspection I probably should be engaging in right now. Like, why is it so hard for me to just store a Target table I bought back in 2005 (ehem, Anne? Right? Remember having to pick that up at 10pm on a Friday from your concierge??) because somehow it's a signal of my independence and ability to live my life as I want to without the help of mes parents. Like, why didn't I think to look at more than 4 apartments that I was signing a freaking yearlong lease on because maybe I thought that if I didn't find an apartment, Grad School Ex and I would stay together and live Happily Ever After, and now I'm stuck in a studio that doesn't fit anything, at all. Like, when do I draw the line between soliciting advice from my friends, listening to that advice, and letting them take over my life, and what does that imply for both my ability to see straight AND my friends' vested interest in seeing me happy.

So the thing is.

I'm going to avoid all that for another day, and for now, tell you about the best (almost) $400 I ever spent. Now you might be thinking - duh! - trip to the Dominican Republic with Becca in 2006 post-Evil Corp Ex breakup during my birthday that made me simultaneously forget about that asshole AND TAN! Or perhaps all 10 seasons of Friends plus... I dunno, a case or two of lambrusco, that have helped me sleep for five years and counting? Or maybe you'd be thinking about my grad school application fees.

Clearly, you're not thinking that one. Why WOULD you?!

But no. I am here today to tell you that the best money I EVER spent was about $400 on movers ($350 for moving, $40 for tip). On moving day my boxes were ALMOST packed, all my clothes were still in their drawers, my old apartment was a shittastic hole of squashed avocado, newspaper remnants and crumpled packing tape, and I woke up with a bitch of a hangover.

Like, that evil wicked bitch (witch?) from Hansel and Gretel.

The point is, you'd think that given it was Moving Day, and I am in general a complete fucking WRECK when it comes to moving (see: Snowpocalypse 2009 or freshman move out 2002. Sorry Daddy), PLUS the fact that I wasn't just moving, I was moving away from a life I loved, an apartment I loved, and to this shittastic box, I would have um, been destroyed. Times 17. And yet when all was said and done I was moved, sober, and only melancholic (and not raising my blood pressure levels) by 3 freaking pm on Saturday. At that point you could find me plopped on one of my couches that don't fit into this teeny closet, sipping a diet coke and beginning the "let's avoid deep thought" phase that has gotten me to today.

Without lifting a fucking finger.

I know that movers seem like a waste of money, because I have been there and done that. You're like, whatever, $390? I only have to pay $75 for the truck! And sure, another $50 or so for pizza and beer for my friends. And, OK, another $40 for that Target bookcase I ended up breaking because we didn't do it properly. And right, whatever medical expenses incurred by trying to lift a desk by myself. And sure, the non-quantifiable costs to mental health of myself, my roommate (slash partner) and friends by the ridiculous amount of stress inspired.

I bet the cash is looking better right now, isn't it?

And even if it's not, let me tell you that it should be. I am a tight fist when it comes to money (well, most of the time) and I was raised to be able to do whatever I needed myself, so I never HAD to pay anyone to do it (thanks Mom, I'm sure that we'll discuss that in therapy after me and the doc get through all that introspection I'm avoiding). The problem is that I never realized that not HAVING to pay for something doesn't mean you SHOULDN'T. For example, should I bake or buy a cake for a friend's birthday? Unless it's ice cream cake (and for me it should be, e-HEM) clearly, you DIY. But while I could also sew a slipcover for a couch, that might fall apart after some time and that I'd have to shell out for the fabric, the design, and bandaids - I could just go to Target.

God. I love Target. But not as much as my movers!!

And so I am here to tell you people - if you have the money (because I appreciate that sometimes we're students and don't, again, sorry Daddy, I swear, if I had known you were going to only be 35 blocks away when I STARTED to sift through the foot of silt/paper/bottles that coated my floor freshman year, I really would have called you to tell you to stop at a bar) - it is worth it. It's worth the fact that I'm putting off a trip to NOLA to see Daniel (who btw, just got engaged!!! CONGRATULATIONS DAN AND ANNA!!) and am postponing paying off the credit card debt accumulated on my Discover card during those last months of grad school by one more month:

TOTALLY WORTH IT. Best decision, ever. Well, since the Target table.

Didja hear? DC: more dangerous than Baghdad

So.

My lovely friend Ramona posted this on google buzz an hour or so ago and when I got a chance to read it, I realized that the Tea Partiers were coming to DC this weekend and I hadn't prepared at all.

By getting the FUCK out of Dodge.

The last time they were in town for the 4/15 tax day rallies, my only concern was turning in my thesis on time so as not fail out of grad school. THEN it was to buy enough alcohol for my grad school class for all of us to forget (esp those who had been around me that last week, like Ramona, or Grad School Ex, or Chelsea, or Leah, or Becky) that we had all gotten pretty bitchy with each other and maybe said some things we shouldn't have.

Ehem. Nuther story.

Point is, here's the scene: I was on my way over from Woodley Park (my old 'hood) to Rosslyn, where my thesis advisor was going to meet me sketchily on a corner to sign off on the final product. After that, I was going to buy myself a McFlurry (I practically lived on McDonald's last March/April. Depression + thesis writing = 10 lbs weight gain) in self-congratulations, and then do a final read thru and then turn that shit IN. I was so wrapped up in my "are my margins correct" and "did I finish this section" and "why can't he just meet me at school like a NORMAL advisor?" that when I switched trains at Metro Center, I didn't even register that 90% of my car was old, chubby, and white. Which is not to say I have anything against old, chubby, white people. Some of my favorite people could be described this way! Like my crazy aunts in Italy!

But then I supposed they'd be Eye-talians. Sigh.

Anyway, when I looked up from my submission form I was taken aback with how far below the Mason Dixon line I had seemed to have traveled by escalator (yes, I know the Tea Partiers are from all over. These just happened to be accented ones). I was too stressed to get pissed, so instead, I just started to smirk as realization dawned on me - these people were Glenn Beckians!! I was torn between fake getting on my cell phone to be like "you'll never believe how many ignorant hicks are on my metro" and you know, not dropping out of Gtown only 1 month before graduation.

Luckily, I didn't have to make that choice.

Before I could do anything, a lovely young man engaged politely with the couple standing in front of him. Maintaining an air of dignified, respectful disagreement, he tore those old white chubsters five different new ones this way from Sunday.

That might have been too many cliches.

Anyway, it was fabulous, and I was so engrossed in sending him mental cheer-ons that I almost missed my stop and my sketch rendezvous with my advisor. When I got off at Rosslyn, I smiled my most coquettish smile and patted him lightly on the back as if to say "you go, sir."

He continued on with his hole-ripping, a small smile on his face.

As I walked out into the sunshine, it occurred to me that as much as those old whiteys want their country "back," they are going to die sooner than my generation (maybe not ME, but I would point you again to my McDonald's habit). My generation of people like that young man on the blue line. And that means that OUR country - and not "theirs" - will luckily be the one that wins in the end.

YAY!

So Tea Partiers planning to come to the District this weekend? I hear DC is dangerous. Maybe you should stay away, and go on some sort of all-you-can-do-to-raise-your-cholesterol cruise.

Am I right side up or upside down

ZOMG guys.

I TOTES have a crush on this guy from work. And a guy from my grad program. It's like, really bad, sometimes, and one of them has a girlfriend which kind sucks but whatevs. S'just fun to look, ya know?

Oh god. I'm terrible at this.

It's been a long fucking time since I've had a crush on someone, because while I'm a consummate flirt (my college roommate was like "jesus MA, you even flirt with me") I tend to not crush on people when I'm in a relationship. No judgment here - who DOESN'T have a work wife/husband. And in fact, at my last job, I was totally in love with the guy I sat next to, but it wasn't so much in the "take me here on this desk RIGHT NOW" it was in the "aw, I wish my sister still lived in DC so i could set you guys up cause she's fabulous and you have great genes".

Yes. This is how I crush on people. Hot sex and friend set-ups.

Anyway, so I know that in light of yesterday's post it might sound weird to say, but I'm crushing - HARD - on one of my friends from grad school and one of my colleagues. The first is adorable, sweet, and unavailable (as Chelsea says, probably the reason I find him attractive is that I know it's not a possibility), while the second is hilarious, interesting, and of unknown status.

And I'm acting like a doofus in front of both.

My friend I usually talk to online (for obvious reasons) and thank god for the delete button or else I'd be saying witty things like "so... how're you. Again. For the 16th time today." And "you're SO funny" in response to "yeah, I'm at work."

Oy.

The guy at work is more embarrassing. I have a normal conversation when I expect to see him, but yesterday I was sitting with my friend Mark and chatting over Smart Pop when the dude walked up. I spilled diet coke all over my lap, giggling madly, while Mark looked at me like I was insane. I spoke in a high-pitched voice, laughed when he told me that he was - hilariously! - reading CNN.com, and sighed in relief when he walked away,

Mark was like "uh...do you need to go cool down."

I'm a fool. And I don't really think either of these are going anywhere, especially with one having a girlfriend and other knowing me as the sticky hyena. But if I'm honest? It's fun to feel something stupid about someone again. Sure, they're probably not "my one"s or even "my NEXT one." But they do put a smile on my face!

And like, smiling? Like, totally rocks.

The trapeze act was wonderful, but never meant to last

So.

It's been a rough couple of days on the break-up front (how proud are we that I've blogged almost 10 times not directly about it! SUPER PROUD BITCHES! However, that's gonna change for a coupla days. Désolée!). Going on vacation is really lovely, but the problem is, well, RIGHT, you vacate from everything. So other than the few emails me and Grad School Ex exchanged (we had to, it was about the apartment) I did pretty well last week. And then this weekend came.

When - to use the common phrase - the shit hit the fan.

Saturday was fine - got back up to North Jersey, saw Thierry Henry suck it up while my Metrostars were playing Landon Donovan and the LA Galaxy, hung out with Peter and Beatrice to make sure we were still friends after that toast, etc. Sunday, however, facing down the barrel of the freaking bazooka that is I-95, and knowing that at the other end of that tortuous ride GSE was in DC for the first time since this day, was not good.

To say the least.

It's easy to go on with one's life when you're not paralyzed by fear and just a little bit of sick hope that you're going to run into the one person you really, really really REALLY can't face right now. What's not easy is coming back on a BoltBus, smelling like, well, bus trip, your face puffy from hours of on and off crying (and in public no less, something you vowed you'd never do unless it was in a movie theatre) and lugging 10 days of clothes/books/crap PLUS 2 years of emotional baggage to where you're having coffee with that person's brother who by the way you LOVE, who looks just a little too much like his brother, and is sitting in front of you asking but why if you're so sad won't you just talk to him.

Because unfortch, that would make it worse. Much much worse.

It wasn't what you'd call an auspicious beginning to Moving Week, though probably an appropriate one. Last night Chelsea drove me home and asked if I needed her to come up and I said no; J. Jeter was still saying at the friends who put her up for the weekend GSE (and bro) were here, and I thought that I probably would just go to sleep.

Instead.

I walked into the apartment that I will not live in a week from today, seeming bigger somehow that now all my pictures are off their walls and books are off their shelves - an echoey place I used to call home. I sniffed the air cautiously, not knowing if I was dreading the sudden reappearance of the scent that until July meant happiness... or looking forward to it.

It didn't matter which, because it wasn't there.

Slowly I moved around my half-filled boxes, took note that the coffee (which I do not drink) machine was back on, and that there was a new book on the GSE's desk. I went to the bathroom, and boy things that I had hid from sight, like Old Spice deodorant and an electric razor were back in full view. I walked into the bedroom - our bedroom? his bedroom - and saw a suitcase that in haste was only partially unpacked, with his clothes spilling out of it. I lay down on the bed, and my head crunched up against a note that said "Thank you..." in achingly familiar handwriting. To be honest, I'm impressed that it was only then that I lost it.

And at least this time, I was crying in private.

Moral quandry, part deux

So.

Where we had left off was an old friend pressing his... self? Into my back as I fell asleep at a wedding, where otherwise I might have been inclined to oblige except I was sad and icky and he was taken.

Suffice to say, I brushed him off.

I'd like to think I did it suavely. Just as he had inched into me, I inched away, until I was at the edge of the edge of the bed. Suddenly there was a large gap between the two of us, as though he had never tried to feel my boobies and I had never felt his pee pee.

Yes I am that much of a child.

Truth be told, it was an amalgam of problems. The most obvious was, of course, his girlfriend. Even if he doesn't love her enough to stay faithful during a quick trip north, the fact of the matter is that she exists. How terrible to be a party to his love love loving her except not. I don't in general judge the party of a cheating relationship that isn't actually the cheater (I hope that makes sense), but when he literally had just told me how much he loved her - it felt wrong.

And besides.

As much as I have been encouraged to break the seal and hook up with someone, it feels WRONG still. Like I'm cheating. I know I'm not. More importantly, I know I'm not in a relationship anymore. But faced with the possibility of easy, casual, rando hook-up sex with a person I trusted - I said no.

That says something to me.

Maybe I'm not ready. Maybe I am, but he has to be single. Or maybe I wasn't drunk enough (false. I was drunk enough for everyone in the state of New Jersey). I don't know. All I know is, it felt wrong. And for now, that's that.

New question - what do I do now?

Moral quandry

So.

What do you do when you're recently single, more than a little lonely, have friends who keep suggesting random hook-ups, and while you're at a wedding (ie, the best place in the world to get laid) a friend of yours who has a girlfriend drunkenly makes a pass at you. Especially if that friend is a groomsman, and you have a reputation to uphold.

Right.

My friend Peter got married last weekend, and it was a lovely affair. Even before you had to consider the fact that it was planned in four weeks. No, his AMAZING wife is not pregnant (well. I don't think so. She drank a LOT at their wedding) but she is currently here on a fiancee visa and had to get married within 45 or 90 days of arriving in the US. Regardless, it was gorg. And I'm REALLY excited for their wedding abroad next year!!

But that is beside the point of this story.

So I had a great time. Peter's parents (picked a pack of pickled peppers?) are friends with a bunch of people who I knew way back when (like, literally some more than decades ago) and it was nice to see them, and to have them exclaim "my GOD you've grown up into such a lovely woman!" There was LOTS of food, LOTS of booze, and I made a toast.

It rocked. In case you were wondering.

But afterwards, there was more booze. And more and more (Peter's parents' friends and Peter's parents have lots of money and it might have all gone towards the bar budget). And then we went to the after party, which I think was fun? There are pictures taken that almost show my panties?

Legit, almost. Regardless, they have been deleted.

So as I stumbled back to my hotel room that I was sharing with four people (the married two on the sofa bed, the other three in the king) I don't THINK any passes were made at anyone else. I know I wouldn't have, I've known these people for forever, and all potential for "ooo I think he's HAWT" was gone when I held back hair and lied about their pot use to their parents in high school. But when we got back into the room, I whipped off my dress, shoved myself into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and collapsed onto one side of the bed.

Two minutes later, my friend crawled in next to me, and sort of rubbed my back. Deprived of physical attention, melancholic that all my friends that I could count on being single forever (this might have been in my toast. The justification "because he is an asshole" might also have been. Don't invite me to your wedding, EVER), and you know, with a sore and itchy back I said "mmmm that's nice don't stop!" in a PLATONIC WAY.

PLATONIC.

I swear to all that is holy that it was platonic. So he scratched and rubbed for a bit, and I said thank you, and burrowed into the pillow and started to fall asleep. Our third friend climbed in, and for three minutes it was silence, broken only by the snuffly noises people make when the are about to fall asleep. Which I almost did, until I felt a little poke comin' thru. On... the dude?

Ok that didn't really work.

Anyway, he had apparently inched his way over to my side of the bed, carefully pressed up against me and suddenly had his arms wrapped around my tummy. I would have thought that he was asleep and pretending I was his VERY SERIOUS GIRLFRIEND (who he had, many hours of alcohol earlier, told me that he recently told her he loves her and it was the first girl he told that to) except then his hands started moving OFF said tummy and to different, less platonic, parts.

What would YOU have done.

I'll finish the story tomorrow.

People Who Rock. People Who Suck.

People Who Rock:

1. My sister Grace for being the best roommate (and best sister) a girl could have;
2. J. Jeter for the same reasons (ok, she's not my sister, but let's be honest, she probably is an amazing one);
3. Random Esquire. I heart you;
4. Ramona (and by proxy, Chelsea and J. Jeter) for being ridiculously accommodating in a way that allows me to live my life the way I want and need to;
5. Straight No Chaser. FANTABULOUS;
6. Jon Stewart, as ALWAYS, but for being SUPER fucking pissed about the 9/11 responders bill and for mocking the shit out of detractors to the Cordoba Project; and
7. The shore, NJ (for peacing me out) and the city, NY for providing me with ample opps for drunk brunch with Emilia, Maggie and Anne!!

People Who Suck:

1. My subconscious (my id? My ego?) for giving me terrible nightmares this week. Ranging from legit scary dreams to I didn't compete my nonexistent work assignments to dreaming Grad School Ex is actually High School Ex and that ALL my exes' families got together to pass some seriously severe judgment on me - dude. FUCKING CALM DOWN;
2. The xenophobic assholes in my fave shore town who have anti immigration shirts dotting the b-walk. Yeah I bet you DO speaka the English Mr. Mullet man, now get the fuck away from my zen place;
3. Boltbus for not selling the fucking tickets I need for September!!!!!!!!! PUT THEM UP;
4. The DC weather. I'm not even there and it pisses me off, that's how much it sucks;
5. Chris Christie. Either until he fucking stops hating on cops and teachers (the very people who you know, MAKE SOCIETY RUN IN A CIVIL WAY), he is number five on the people who suck list. Because he sucks, times five;
6. Smokers. I'm sorry if you are one, and I'm sorry even more when I go off on the habit next week, but I've a serious problem with my hair reeking and my throat feeling all sore just because you have an addiction. Get help, ok? Ie QUIT already; and
7. Um, the shitty rollers at the craps tables yesterday. Mamma could have used a little more bob, if you know what I mean.

I'm not angry, I'm just sayin'

So.

Grace and I are settling in the for the night after a FABULOUS day at the shore. Can I briefly say (do you guys hate me by now? Do you even still read this?!) how fucking awesome the Jersey shore is? Like, despite the stereotypes and the fact that the place we summer (yeah, I said it) apparently has grown some big Republican balls over the past two years (whatever, I brought a Barack Obama shirt, never fear) - it's still the best place on earth. Today I boardwalked, got an amazing new shirt, tanned my legs (ehem, my back was overdone), read a crapton and still had time to eat AMAZING Italian food and beat the entire family in minigolf.

I mean - FTW epitomized.

So anyway, here we are, snuggling up into our beds with our matching Macbooks and matching tans (ha. As if. Girl is sixteen shades darker than - and almost as hot as - Halle Berry. And I am pink. With jealously?). As I'm scanning for an episode of Modern Family to fall asleep to (having idiotically packed almost all of my Friends DVDs already), suddenly from the other side of the room there is screaming, and orgasm-sounds but like in pain, and then dramatic dark music all over the place. I couldn't decide if I should call my sister out on watching some seriously sketchy porn or just pull on my headphones when she said, "sorry - but I just NEED to watch True Blood."

Um, yeah, that's worse.

True Blood, if you didn't know, is a show about vampires. But I bet if you didn't know, you could guess, because in the tradition of all things faddish, EVERYTHING is about vampires these days. Young boys are wearing eyeliner to emphasize their dark souls, people are filing down their teeth into fangs, and every single fucking movie I've seen this summer had the trailer for the next GODDAMN Twilight movie beforehand. Ok, except those at E Street. But that's cause E Street ROX.

Sidenote: and so does the Kids are Alright.

Anyway, so the thing is - this shit is stupid. Vampires. I'm sorry if you're a fan, and I definitely invite those of you that are to "refudiate" this. Small anecdote - I was driving to the shore with DC Laura, her bf Mike and my new bff Allie a few weeks ago and in a rando Panera parking lot there was a car with both pro-vampire AND pro-Sarah Palin bumper stickers on it. I couldn't believe that there was someone THAT opposite from me just 70 or so miles away in Maryland.

Sigh.

Point is, I simply don't get it. And this is not just because every time someone finds out that I LURVE Harry Potter they're all like "ZOMG do you read Twilight?!" I mean, it doesn't help. But even back in the day when I read Fear Street books like it was my job (which I was reminded of today in my favorite bookstore on the boardwalk. Seriously fantastic/craptastic novels there people) I never really got all hot and into the ones that featured vampires. Something about wanting to drink another person's blood ("I vant to suck your blooooooood!") just simply did not and does not appeal to me. Yes, I'm looking at you Angelina, you husband stealer.

Team Aniston bitches.

Ok I know it's late and I'm allllll over the place here, so let me wrap up. The point is, it's totes ok that some of you out there (including Grace, my own flesh and blood, no pun intended, I GUESS. That it's ok. The pun was definitely intended) heart the undead. But some of us just don't. In fact, some of us find it plain fucking weird that you're into pasty angry punky little brats who - despite their 3000 years - still behave as though they are in middle school. AND have fangs. Shit's scary man!

Whatever.

I'll leave you to your vampires if you'll leave me to my witches and wizards. Just please don't force it on me during my walks down the boardwalk (ads for Twilight), my mingolf extravaganzas (t-shirts with Team Jacob on it) or my Modern Family lovefests (Grace, you crazy girl). And I'll try to refrain from judging your freaky taste in men.

Winning and losing the genetic lottery

So.

I am at the Snooki/Situation-less Jersey shore, a place where I have come most years since birth, and which as a result often looks more familiar than Northern NJ, Chicago, Rome, New York or DC. It is ridiculously comforting to be here at the best of times. The routine is easy, well-worn and slow. Not a lot is expected of me - eat. sleep. go to the beach. play poker with my family. beat my dad/brother, watch as the latter gets rather upset. lose TO dad/brother, drink a beer.

It's nice!

Anyway, being here in a rather different-than-best time is even better. Feeling blue? Go down the street to the ice cream parlour I ate (inhaled?) cookie dough ice cream for the first time. Want to pull the covers over your head? Ok, why don't you just walk down the pier to the beach, and see how long that lasts in the bright sunshine.

Fuck nice. It's g-d catharsis.

Anyway, being back also brings back the same recollections I have every time my family gets together at the shore. Namely:

1. Damn, we are a hot bunch o' bitches; and
2. I am so fucking unlucky when it comes to genes.

How these can both be true is simple. My parents are legit gorg (legitimately gorgeous, sorry, my sister is a word-shortener. And so am I. Put us together and it's alls TOTES and INAPPROPS and JELLY). Like, girls I played soccer with hit on my dad and thought my mom was Miss America circa 1982. So their three children, though sure, fatter than we should be, are good looking. I walked into the house yesterday where my brown-skinned big-eyed sister was brushing her luxurious black hair and I just thought - wait. Am I in an herbal essences commercial??

But.

Therein that sentence lies the rub. For while most of my family are brown brown brown this time of year (and brown most of the rest of the year), I am a pasty skinned should-be-from-Norway white girl.

And it sucks.

At the beach, I have to get in the shade when it hits a certain time of day. And even then I burn. While I'm not someone who buys into 70 spf (because that's just a physical impossibility people), I apply and reapply lower numbers like it's my job. As all of my family (including my Irish mother who gave me this skin deformity in the FIRST PLACE yet freckles over in the her most infuriatingly 1982 Miss America way) can sit out and fall asleep and lazily reach for the 4/8/15 when they feel a little hot, I'm feverishly making sure every little bit of me is covered come high noon and dousing myself in Banana Boat.

And still end up lobster-esq 50% of the time.

In the 1920s, this would be a blessing. But in my family, and in my love for the shore, it is annoying bordering on bedbugs levels (ok, unfair, I know lots of people are afflicted with the little buggers right now. Sorry to you. One level BELOW bedbug annoyingness).

Sigh.

And so tomorrow I will get up, marvel at the attractiveness of Team Famiglia, and then start the process of coating myself in suntan lotion, cloth and straw hats, mats and automobiles.

Or something like that.

Then to cheer myself up I think I might go get some cookie dough ice cream, and silently salute my 7 year old sunburned self.

People Who Rock. People Who Suck.

People Who Rock:

1. Vaughn Walker, NDCA. LOVE YOU JUDGE VAUGHN!!;
2. J. Jeter. For Mr. Chen's, for the bugisaster, for meeting a ton of new people just because she is fabulous. AND for being ridic supportive;
3. Becky for everything and most specifically for being... simply? The most understanding friend a person can have;
4. Arielle for visiting!!;
5. Becca and her boy, for MOVING TO THE CITY!!;
6. Chelsea, Chels' hubby, DC Laura, DC Laura's bf, Emma O, Mr. O, Christen, Becky's fiance, my bocce team, Ramona, Ramona's bf, Leah, Leah's bf, and everyone I'm forgetting for feeding me, buying me drinks, introducing me to slutty boys, and in general forcing me to have a great time; and
7. Um. I dunno. My job for not really giving me anything to do at all this week (in general?) and yet still paying me? Rock out! Oh and also my famigs, cause they are le awesome dudes.

People Who Suck:

1. Arizona's anti immigrant (ehem, racist) crowd;
2. The people against the Islamic Center in New York - back off assholes. Windows 7 was mon idea, and New York is mon citte. Ok that's not the word for city en francais, but je ne m'importe pas;
3. Fuckers who want to overturn the 14th amendment. This includes my friend Joseph. YOU ARE A CRAZY ASS MOFO (collectively);
4. The girl DC Laura stalked on fb. You know who you are. Well if you don't, it doesn't matter, because you suck;
5. Chris Christie. Either until he fucking stops hating on cops and teachers (the very people who you know, MAKE SOCIETY RUN IN A CIVIL WAY), he is number five on the people who suck list. Because he sucks, times five;
6. This crazy ass weather. Don't fuck with my bocce bitches; and
7. Packing. I know it's not a person, but if it were, I would kick its ASS.

VACAY BITCHES. You'll hear from me (or others) next week tho, je te promise. Again, francais? Chi sabe?

There's one more people who rock, which is just too big to be a rock, and instead should be people who are so effing fantastic it makes me cry which is! My friend Peter and his fiancee Beezus. It's been a long time since I've been this excited about a wedding, and not just for the groomsmen. YAY!!

Jeepers peepers

So.

There has been a lot of construction going on in my current apartment building, which has been at best somewhat annoying (they moved my fave Zipcar 15 feet away!) and at worst, downright dirty.

In all sorts of senses.

For example, I have terrible allergies (which I never did before I moved to DC, btw) and these days I can't walk outside without being hit by a wave of dust and pollen shaken from the building and nearby trees. A-choo!

But there are worse things.

For the past two weeks, young men have spent their days hanging out - literally - outside the windows of my apartment and those in the same column as mine. So this morning, when I was hanging out on the couch working from home, and my nose was itching me, one of these lovely gentleman saw me reach daintily into my nasal cavity and tug.

Yummy.

Last week, I was bent over my moving boxes, right in front of the window, when the boys lowered their... whatever it is (fake balcony? Hanging cart? I have no idea!) without my knowledge. Suddenly I heard the telltale mechanical noise indicating they were back from their break, and realized my moving sweatpants were not quite hiding the thong (and my ample ass that it does not cover). I turned, horrified, but they had already moved on.

AWESOME.

The worst of course, is the many (um, too many) mornings they have started their work before I wake up. It's hot out these days, and I've been sleeping with less bedclothes and actual clothes than normal. One morning I woke up to the guys poised outside my bedroom window, tools in hand, as they started in horror at the sheets bunched around my thighs and my tank top flipped up to reveal my lovely tummy.

Poor guys.

Most days I'm fine, because I, you know, go to work and wake up on time and things like that. But on days like today, or Tummy Tuesday, I gotta feel for them. Sure, they're exacerbating the shit out of my allergies, but you couldn't pay me any amount of money to be subjected to my - and my neighbors - strange proclivities.

The Always a Drunk, Never a Bride Guide to the Real Stages of Grief

This is more like it. Snarky pissed off posts about exes that feature alcohol prominently. I feel more like myself already.

So.

You've heard about the stages of grief, right? Denial, anger, some other shit? Well I'm here to tell you. They are bunk. Ok, they're not, they're actually a very good outline of shit that people go through. But let me tell you the truth. They're a lot uglier than the pretty words the internets and some doctors throw about. And so, to make that a little clearer, I present to you:


The Always a Drunk, Never a Bride Guide to the 5 Stages of GriefStage 1 - "Denial" From now on this stage should be called "denial so deep you're actually joking about being in denial." Examples include telling your friends and family how surprised you are that you feel so OK, that you're crying, but not hysterical, and that you're already able to forget what was so great about him in the first place. Look, the fact of the matter is, denial is inherently not recognizing that you're lying to yourself. My suggestion? Get out of your head and go to the beach. Sure, the internal lies go on, but at least you're having a good time until the shit hits the fan and you have to face reality!

Stage 2 - "Anger" This I would like to call functional alcoholism, or being a really ugly person but just sober enough to realize you're doing it and apologize immediately. Examples include helping your happily engaged friends move in together "just after I've had another beer, because I don't know if you know, but I moved in with John/Jake/Larry and then we broke up. Whoops. That was a little shitty. I'm sorry." When your hangover kicks in, it's even uglier. Examples will be withheld to protect the guilty.

(Sidenote - does anyone know anyone named Larry anymore?)

Stage 3 - "Bargaining" Otherwise known as, starvation and gluttony. So, if I don't eat this and get thinner, perhaps the person who doesn't want to be with me will see that he's wrong. Oh no? That doesn't work? Pass me the entire tray of lasagne, plz. Yeah, and that 7 layer cake. Great. kthxbai

Stage 4 - "Depression" Nonfunctional alcoholism. Drinking, drinking, crying, drinking, crying. You wake up dehydrated, and go for the vodka to get some liquid in your system. Fun. You can't pronounce words, and your friends can't tell if it's because you're slurring them so badly, or crying too hard. This is an attractive time.

Stage 5 - "Acceptance" Well. We'll see, won't we. Anyone want to go to the bar tonight? I'm feeling thirsty.