my encounter with a future 40-year-old virgin

Yesterday I was sitting on the train, just people watching, studying the faces of my fellow passengers and trying to guess their stories when my attention turned to a teenage boy reading the paper in his prep school outfit, complete with the navy blazer and red and navy diagonal striped tie. He was obviously very dorky, with a mop of messy brown hair, glasses, and a bad case of teenage acne. However, one would not guess, just by looking at him, that he is also the most fucking disgusting creature on earth.

As I watched him, he started picking his nose with his thumb. I was surprised that he would actually do this on the train, but my surprise turned to complete and utter disgust as I watched him then insert his thumb into his mouth and eat the booger. My disgust only got worse as I watched him dig his thumb into the other nostril and then lick the bounty off of it.

The last time I saw somebody eat a booger (or boogers) like this was preschool. There was this little boy that I didn't get along with who would pick his nose and eat it in front of me just to torment me. And here this kid was like 16, eating his boogers on the metro. But it didn't stop there.

As disgusted as I was, I couldn't stop watching him. He then began picking at one of his many zits. After digging for about two minutes, he examined the dried pus on his finger. I thought to myself, "If he eats it, I'm gonna fucking die right here on this train." He didn't disappoint. He licked his prize off his finger and continued reading the paper.

I still couldn't stop watching. He discarded the paper and pulled a Sudoko puzzle out of his trapper keeper. As he studied the puzzle and determined which number should go where, he took his thumb and started digging in his left nostril again. This time, my stomach turned as I watched him eat it, and I couldn't look at him anymore. Next he might have moved to his ass, I don't know.

What a dork. I feel a little bit badly for him, knowing that he's so not going to get laid til he's at least 40

another dear boy letter

Dear Pinot G.,

You really let me down tonight. I was counting on you, counting on you to make me forget my heartbreak, my insecurities, my self-doubt. But instead, Pinot G., you made me realize how very insignificant my problems are.

You brought me news. News of a friend in need, a friend beyond lonliness right now, a friend for whom I, nor anybody else, even those closer than I am, can do anything. And you made me oh so blue.

They knew it at our bar. They put their arms around me and told me to cheer up, to wake up, would I be okay?

I shrugged and fake smiled, and demanded more of you. More of you to help me to shrug it off, to treat the situation with pure, unadulturated, blissful ignorance. But you, my dear, you slid down my throat with your familiar bitter sweetness, but insteaded of comforting me, you refused to let me forget.

It became clear to me very early in the night that you weren't going to help me. It became clear that I had to leave you, and leave you with a quickness, before I exposed my ultimate vulnerabilty to everyone. So I left. And I waited for the bus to bring me back to the solitude of my own home.

But you followed me, and once we were alone, you and I, waiting for that bus to pick us up, you took advantage of the darkness of the street, of my blue disposition, of the lyrics pumping through my iPod.

The food that I'm eating
Is suddenly tasteless
I know what's alone now
I know what it tastes like.

And with that you made those hot salty tears roll down my cheek right there in the darkness of 8th Street. I furiously wiped them away, determined not to let you get the best of me. I wasn't about to let anybody see me cry, that was for damn sure. But when I got in the bus, you continued to torment me.

Won't you help a brother out?

Those beautiful piano melodies to which I used to analyze x-ray evidence at my cozy desk in my cozy, private office suddenly seemed to take on a completely different meaning. And as I stared down at the blue aisle, not picking my head up for a split second, not letting those ten strangers see my vulnerability, you fought me, and fought me hard. A right hook to my heart, a slap to my soul.

I got off the bus and made my way to my street, eyes focused intently on the sidewalk rather than the straight-ahead, confident, don't-fuck-with-me-because-you'd-be-surprised mug that I usually have on H Street. And when I finally reached the solitude of my own home, I rested my head against the closed front door and wept. I wept for the tragedy which I counted on you to help me ignore, but which you threw right in my face.

Fuck you, Pinot. We're breaking up.

Sincerely,
Just One More Broken-Hearted Girl

digging more than i'm not digging

Things I'm so digging right now:
1. My iPod
2. Having my iPod ear buds attached to my ears allll day long
3. My new computer
4. All my music on my new computer
5. Walking to the metro in the morning with my iPod on
6. Handi transporters
7. The Jefferson Monument
8. My job (finally!)
9. Our Christmas tree
10. The fact that I'm coming home in less than a month!

Things I'm so not digging right now:
1. Missing my Florida friends (still)
2. Not being a part of the Benny's of Bonita action
3. Missing my Missmo
4. ummmmmmm
5. welllll

I'm apparently very happy right now because I can't think of a single other thing that I'm not digging right now.

if only it were true. my life would be so much easier.

My judge/boss thinks I'm a lesbian.

I mean, I guess if I were her I'd think the same thing. Three times now I've been like "Oh, my best friend is coming from Florida to visit" and I've only been here four months. I think she's starting to suspect the "best friend" thing is code for "lesbian lover." The first time she was like "Oh, that's nice." The second time she asked "How long have you been friends?" and then added "I think it's time that she looked for a job up here and moved up here." Then today we were discussing our holiday plans and once again, I was like "Oh, my best friend is arriving tonight." And then I added "Tomorrow's her birthday so I made reservations at Notti Bianche and then we're going to the Kennedy Center to see the Nutcracker." She replied with an "Ohhhhhh, that's nice."

I've yet to tell her "Oh, this weekend my boyfriend and I [have reservations at a fancy restaurant/are going to the ballet/are visiting some friends in Brooklyn/are going to lay low.]" So I'm pretty sure she thinks, or at least strongly suspects, that I'm a lesbian.

How does one rectify the situation? "Here you go, Judge, here is that opinion I was working on. By the way, I'm not a lesbian."

I'll be back Monday with some pictures from Missmo and Am Take DC Part IV.

Happy Turkey Day, y'all!

rebel

I never do two in one day, but I was just sitting here in my office, working on some very unimportant legal issue, when my mind started drifting to my visit to my hometown last Christmas, and my blood started boiling.

We went to this bar called Jack's, where I ran into not one, not two, but three girls that I was friends with in high school whom I hadn't seen in years. The first one I didn't really talk to. But I was really excited to see the other two, and really drunk, so I pretty much jumped in their laps. The three of us were part of the same little clique, and so we started reminiscing and talking about others who were in our clique when I mentioned that one of the girls was going to community college in Gainesville the same time that I started college at UF. I ran into her, we exchanged numbers, and we hung out a few times during my undergrad days, but then she kind of blew me off. I didn't really like her that much this time around anyway, because she seemed like a pretentious rich-girl snob that I wouldn't really bother with if she hadn't been one of my VERY first friends in Florida.* Anyway, we kind of lost touch, or rather, she started blowing me off, so we didn't really hang out after that, until one day I ran into her on the street during my first year of law school (I believe she was still in community college). We exchanged numbers again, and I called her a few times and invited her out, but she blew me off each time, something like she didn't want to go to a law school party.** So then I was like "fuck 'er," and that was that.

*As an aside, I moved to Florida when I was 13, and I met this girl and some other people. I desperately wanted to fit in and be cool like them, so when one day shortly after I moved down there, they handed me a leafy green substance and told me it was pot and I should smoke it, I gladly agreed. I smoked it and I didn't feel any different, but I couldn't let on like I wasn't cool like them, so I pretended to be high. Then they told me it wasn't really pot and they knew I was faking. I was humiliated. Some friends, huh?

**As another aside, I think she was just jealous because she was so proud of herself when we hung out when I was an undergrad because she was dating a law student. Then I was a law student. And law school parties turned out to be the best parties EVER.

So I ran into these two girls last year, and because I was drunk, and because we were talking about former members of the clique, I said how the girl in Gainesville was such a bitch because she never returned my calls. So why did one of the girls turn around all of the sudden and be like "Don't hate. You disappointed a lot of your friends in high school." Therefore implying, I don't know, that my behavior as a rebellous 15-year-old somehow reflects on my character as an adult? That I'll always be that wild child and am therefore not worthy of their friendship?

But it wasn't just her words. It was the way she said it. With like a look of disdain and a whole lotta indignation in her voice.

The more I think about it, the more mad I get. So here's to you, Old Middle/High School Friend that I Ran Into at Jack's Last Year - GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!! What the fuck are you doing with your life nowadays? Working at the mall? Oh. Because me? I'm fucking doin' it as a LAWYER in DC. Turns out being a rebellious 15-year-old has its perks.

Bitch.

crazy

This is how my day went yesterday:

10:00 a.m. – Go downstairs to the retail center in my office building. Buy coffee. Step outside for some fresh air (read – cigarette). Encounter crazy homeless woman who sometimes hangs out around the building. Crazy homeless woman sits down next to me and starts talking about her kids. Ask her if she has kids in the system because I have heard her talking about how they've been taken away. Confirm suspicions that she is severely schizophrenic when she responds that her children have been kidnapped, raped, and beaten by women lawyers who have taken over men's positions whilst wearing witch outfits and have gotten too power hungry since they have taken over the men's positions. Politely excuse myself and retreat to my office.

4:00 p.m. – Leave the office and stop by CVS on my way home. Encounter little old lady in the shower gel aisle. Little old lady comments on the great sales that CVS is having. Politely agree. Little old lady relates story about how she was in the Mac-Donald's earlier and witnessed a crazy homeless woman attempt to rob it. Story takes ten minutes. Little old lady tells me she's actually a CIA agent, and the crazy homeless woman is lucky she didn't have her gun or she would have shot her. Politely agree. Attempt to get away from little old lady, but little old lady follows me down the aisle, imploring me to "listen, miss." Little old lady warns me to stay away from the Mac-Donald's by the courthouse because this is the location of the attempted robbery. Little old lady shares with me that she works at the courthouse as a clerk, a judge, and a lawyer. Finally get away from little old lady. Three minutes later, hear her from the makeup aisle telling somebody else the story.

4:15 p.m. – Get on the bus to go home. Walk towards back of bus looking for a seat. Drunk old man gets up and offers me his seat. Politely thank him and accept the seat. Drunk old man sits in empty seat across aisle from me. Put my nose in my book. Five minutes later, feel somebody rubbing my left arm. Turn around to find drunk old man leaning back into his seat. Resolve to say something if it happens again, but to brush it off this time.

4:17 p.m. – Bus stops at Union Station and I get up to let other drunk old man who is sitting next to me get off the bus. CVS bags remain on the floor, and I see other drunk old man is struggling to get past them. Apologize and attempt to move CVS bags, but other drunk old man says it's fine and that actually, he wishes he could take CVS bags with him. Politely giggle, unsure of the meaning of his comment. Put my nose back in book and wait for bus to continue down H Street. Hear knock at my window. Turn to my right to see other drunk old man standing at window, motioning for me to get off bus. Turn back to book and think to myself that the day couldn't get any crazier.

4:32 p.m. – Get off bus and make my way down H Street. Out of corner of my eye, see drunk young man approaching with bottle in brown paper bag in hand. See him stop short. Continue walking, making extra effort not to make eye contact. Drunk young man grabs my arm as I walk by and proceeds to make the sign of the holy cross and blow kisses at me. Continue walking, resolving not to come out of the house for the rest of the day.

a dear boy letter

Dear Boy,

It's been almost a year since you left.

I can still remember the way your hand felt on the back of my head, the heaviness of your body that time we napped together in my broken futon in my Gainesville apartment. I remember the exact look on your face when you stared at the ceiling and told me that my father must be fucked up; the way your lips pursed together when you smiled at me and rubbed my knee. If I put enough thought into it, I can hear every single word you whispered to me that night in Missmo's den.

I cried for days when you left. I was like Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give – as soon as I opened my eyes in the morning, the flood of tears would stain my pillow, and I'd roll over, not wanting to face the day if the day didn't bring you. Even when I'd be out with the girls, drinking and dancing and laughing and having fun, you'd always be in my thoughts. And then, if the night had been long enough and I'd had just enough Bacardi, I'd hide my face in the backseat so nobody would see me silently cry on the way home.

I couldn't understand how things were so different when you left. It was as if when you crossed the state border, all that intensity, all that earth-shattering magic stayed in Florida. I told you to abandon all rational thinking and to just follow your heart, like I did. You wouldn't though. You held on to real life and real life problems – jobs, money, distance, difficulty. And just like that, as you said, you "walked out of my life."

It took me months to get over you. It wasn't until a sweltering day in August, sitting on my mom's lanai, when I realized that it was all so wrong from the beginning. Nothing healthy is ever that intense. Your world views suck, and your competitive streak would never mesh with mine. I was a fool to believe it was right. It was the relationship and its loss that I couldn't get over, not you. It was having somebody who understood me on much more than a superficial level and appreciated me for who I was, who I am, and who I will be that I longed for, not you. And with that, I was over it.

Weeks sometimes go by when I don't even think of you. I have successfully banished you from my thoughts. But lately, you've been coming back in my dreams, and that I can't control, no matter how hard I try. I've always dreamt of you, but they used to be terrible, heart-breaking dreams wherein you are there but want nothing to do with me, or you are there but you're with somebody else. I'd wake up from these dreams feeling empty, sad, and remorseful. The entire day would be grey.

The recent dreams, however, have been nothing short of beautiful. In one, we're sitting together, Indian-style, discussing the romanticism of Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms, my favorite love story ever. The colors are bright, the mood is light, but still, I hate this dream. It reminds me of what is and what could never be. I might have been your Catherine Barkley, but you, my dear, were never my Fredrick Henry.

Last night was a new one. We dive into the ocean together, like we did that day we spent alone on your family's boat, and let the sea salt cake our bodies and our hair. I don't remember any more details, just you and me and the sea. But I know that I'll be thinking about you all day now. And mostly, I'll be thinking about the possibility that next month, fate may have us cross each other's paths again.

Part of me hopes that it doesn't, part of me hopes that it does. But all of me wishes that for the time being, you wouldn't haunt my dreams. I finally got you out of my thoughts, now please get out of my dreams.

Sincerely,

Curly Girl

public transportation trauma

Since I sold my Explorer in August, I have become a champion of public transportation, and I have found that it's really not all that bad. At first, I would sit on the bus and fume, reminding myself that I have been through eight years of post-secondary education and I'm still riding the bus. But after a while, I got used to it.

Then this morning happened.

The bus was running late, so when it pulled up, I could see that it was packed full. I squeezed onto it and, as I do most mornings, stood in the aisle, holding on to the pole so that I wouldn't topple on top of the other fifty-seven people standing in the aisle every time the bus went over a bump or took a turn. I was standing there not three minutes when I heard a rather impatient man making his way up the aisle, pushing people out of his way, going "excuse me excuse me." By the time he approached me, I had already resolved that I was not going to let him by. In fact, I was rather annoyed at him. So he reached me and told me "excuse me excuse me excuse me," and I held on to the pole and told him "sir, you're gonna have to wait a minute until the bus stops." He looked at me with disbelief and said "I'm tryin'a get to the back of the bus," and I replied "well, you're gonna have to wait."

And then it happened. He took his dirty hand and grabbed my freshly lotioned hand on the pole, and then with his dirty fucking REPULSIVE long-ass finger nails, dug under my fingers to loosen them from the pole and brushed right past me.

I was and still am DISGUSTED. I got to work and washed my hands like seven times.

My response was "excuse me, please don't touch me." The words came out of my mouth and even as I heard them, I was so pissed off at myself. Why did I have to be so proper and polite? "Excuse me?" "Please?" Why couldn't I be gangsta and bust out with some shit like "Oh, I KNOW you didn't just put your dirty mothafuckin' hands on me, mothafucka" and kicked him in the groin? No, instead I busted out with "excuse me" and "please." What the fuck?????

I spent the rest of the ride to work trying to read my book but fantasizing about Henry Hill being my boyfriend and being on the bus with me and whipping out his pistol and telling that motherfucker "Touch her again and I swear to God I'll fucking kill you" like he did when that neighbor boy tried to touch Karen. Okay, not really, because I'm not a proponent of violence, but at least a big beefy gangster boy with me to be like "Touch her again and I swear to God…" something. Something gangsta. Not "Excuse me, please don't touch her again."

trick? or treat?

So I volunteered for this Halloween street festival last night called "Hilloween." A realtor whose office is next door to the restaurant I work at on weekends puts it on every year, and there's a hay ride and balloon animals and face painting for the kids, and burgers and beer for the adults. I was selected to be a face painter (for God knows what reason because I can barely draw a stick figure) and I had to dress up in my fairy costume.

It is the fairy costume part that should earn me a medal. I hadn't really put much thought into how I was going to get to Hilloween, that is, until I was in my fairy costume, wings, wand, knee-high boots, face glitter and everything, looking at myself in the mirror when I was like "Am I seriously going walk down H Street and wait for the bus like this?" (H Street is supposed to be an "up and coming" neighborhood. I once told this to somebody, and that person responded by saying it was more coming than up. I have to agree with that statement.) I figured I had to, because how was I going to volunteer for something and then not show? So, ladies and gentlemen, I ponied up and waited for the bus on H Street dressed as a fairy. It was the most uncomfortable experience in my life. This is my favorite exchange that I had on the street:

Man: Damn, you lookin good.
Me: It's Halloween.
Man: You the trick or the treat?

At this point, I had to remind myself that I was doin' it for the kids, doin' it for the kids.

And it was well worth it. Face painting was so fun, although I was sooooo bad at it. My pumpkins looked more like squash, and my spiders looked like flies. I felt kinda guilty about that, remembering a time when I was like ten and I got my face painted and it looked like shit and I was so upset. However, if any of the kids last night were pissed about my unskilled designs, they didn't show it. On the other hand, I could tell some of the parents were expecting me to bust out with some skills and were sorely disappointed. One even told me "I guess you get what you pay for." (The face painting was free.)

But the little kids were just so cute in their little costumes, most of them too young to even talk. There was one little girl who couldn't say a single word that I could understand, but she was sure having a whole conversation with me. It was the cutest! And then there were the brain eating zombies, the mermaids, so many princesses!, the pumpkins, the doggies, the kitties, and one Spongebob Square Pants.

All of them were giddy with that Halloween magic that only children experience, and I even got a little high off of their highs. It reminded me of when I was little, when I would get elated at the sight of a Halloween decoration, when a plastic pumpkin filled with Baby Ruths and Sweetarts and Snickers was all I ever needed, when the possibility that my neighborhood was really haunted by ghosts who appeared only on Halloween seemed quite real. I would plan months and months in advance what I was going to be for Halloween, and the costume had to be perfect. It was my goal in life to win a costume contest. That never happened, although I remember in second grade, I won a pumpkin decorating contest. I remember they said my name, and I was so excited that afterwards, I actually looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and told myself "You did it." Hey – it was a school-wide contest and that's a big accomplishment for an 8-year-old.

Anyway, last night I got as close to feeling that magic again as I ever will be. It was the first time I had participated in Halloween festivities since I was a kid, unless of course you count the law school Halloween party last year, which was basically nothing but a beer fest and my costume was The Guess Who's classic ballad "American Woman," which was comprised of a denim skirt, silver platforms, a white t-shirt, a red feather boa, blue eye shadow, and piece of strategically-placed masking tape which said "American Woman." The only magic that was involved that night was law school colleagues magically finding each other attractive after a few drinks.

can it be that it was all so simple then

I was recently asked what my favorite memory was. Okay, it was in one of those myspace survey things, and it was one somebody else filled out, so in actuality, I wasn't asked anything, but it got me thinking. What is my favorite memory?

It didn't take very much thinking at all. Always, forever and ever, for the rest of my life, my very favorite memory ever will be my 18th birthday. I imagine that even after I'm married at Cesar's Palace in Vegas where I will fly all my closest friends for a weekend-long boozed-up celebration of me and my perfect, funny, smart, beefy, fun, wonderfully charming and manly husband, and even after I have curly-haired, well-behaved children for whom I will throw big extravagant birthday parties complete with ponies and clowns in the backyard of my beautiful four-bedroom home which will be painted white with blue shutters and have a lilac tree in the front, I will still think of my 18th birthday as my very favorite memory EVER.

Guess who this memory stars? Yes, that's right. Missmo and Am and that's it. No guest stars. Except maybe Bertha, Missmo's 1989 Mustang convertible with the black rag top. We'll never forget that beast. We drove it down to South Beach, where we stayed at the Breakwater Hotel, with NO PARENTS. Just me, Missmo, my sexy black and white leopard print XOXO dress (which I still have, by the way), and Missmo's knee-high white leather go-go boots. Except about a week before our departure, Bertha started acting like a pubescent teenage girl and would just completely shut off whenever she felt like it. It didn't matter if we were on I-75 going 89 miles per hour or in the Taco Bell parking lot at 1 a.m. She'd just shut off.

So Missmo brought Bertha to the mechanic a few days before we left, who said that there was nothing wrong with her and we'd be fine to take her to South Beach. We trusted this mechanic, oh naïve teenage girls that we were, plus to have anybody tell us that our Super Duper Parent-Free Birthday Weekend at the Coolest Place on Earth would have to be cancelled would be the Worst Thing that Ever Happened, so we gladly took his advice.

So we're on Highway 1, bumping the DJ Clue and Puff Daddy (back when he was Puff Daddy) mixed tape (which Missmo still has, by the way), totally oblivious to the fact that we were totally going the wrong way when Bertha shut off. Luckily, however, out of nowhere, there was like a little spot where you could pull off the highway. In the miles and miles of Highway 1 that we had theretofore traveled, there was not one spot to pull off. It was a miracle, I say!

So we're sitting there on the side of Highway 1, no idea what to do, visions of sipping Malibu and Pineapple (because that was our drink back then) at Liquid dancing through our heads, when all of the sudden a tow truck pulls up behind us. So we're all "Yes, we're saved!" We get in the truck, the dude puts Bertha on the back, and we're on our way to South Beach!

Now, mind you, the Breakwater is on Ocean Ave (more about the Breakwater later). So we're on our way, butterflies in our stomachs, when all of the sudden it hits us. We're about to be TOWED ONTO SOUTH BEACH. Better yet, we're about to be TOWED ONTO OCEAN AVE. The humiliation was overwhelming. We were both near tears as we pulled off of Collins and onto Ocean. We begged, PLEADED with the tow truck driver, couldn't he drop us somewhere else or at least give us a discount since it was my birthday and all? He wasn't having any of it.

So sure enough, we pulled up in front of the Breakwater, and the valet guys had to actually valet park the car from off of the tow truck. Missmo and I ran into the lobby of the hotel as fast as we could so that nobody could identify us as the owners of the First Car Ever to be Towed onto South Beach and Valet Parked off of the Tow Truck.

Now, let me tell you about the Breakwater. It's classic South Beach. Missmo and I swore there would be house music in the lobby and a pool on the roof. We envisioned young, studly Cuban bellhops who would offer us champagne and strawberries when we arrived and accompany us to the clubs at night.

Not so, my friends. First, we were disappointed to learn that there was no pool; however, if we were ever on the beach and needed to take a shower, we could do so there for a mere $5, just like the European tourists standing next to us had done. Okay, we figured at least the rooms would be nice, and maybe there was still hope for the hot Cuban bellhops. Well, the bellhops never arrived with the champagne, and once we got to the room, we were appalled to find lots of polyester and bright blues and yellows. To top it all off, the toilet didn't flush.

So you might ask, "THIS is your favorite memory?" Yes. That weekend was the most fun I've ever had in my entire life. We hit Cameo before it was Crowbar and Prince's old club, and we had no problem getting served, which is a huge deal to 18-year-olds. We witnessed our first major bar fight, in response to which Missmo actually threw me on the floor and herself on top of me. We met our very first drag queens, and we saw topless dancing girls kissing on the balcony of a non-strip club for the first time. (I distinctly remember looking at Missmo and both of us screaming "Eeeew!" at the same time and turning to the boy I was talking to asking "Do you like that? Would you like to see your sister up there doing that?" Oh, so naïve I was back then.)

It was a rite of passage. We were never the same after that. We were no longer the teenage girls who sat out on my mom's lanai smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap ABC liquor. We were the party girls who partied like rock stars on South Beach. After that, we were there every other weekend. There was a new outfit for each trip. We switched to a different hotel, where we made friends with the manager (MISSMO!! WHAT WAS HIS NAME?!?!?!), and we went to Cameo often enough to know we HATED that stupid bouncer with those gay-ass tinted sunglasses. Some people had freshman year of college; Missmo and I had freshman year of the University of South Beach, and I've got ten bucks that says it was better than any frat party.

Ahhh…those were the days…

yet another reason why i love this city (despite the cold)

Earlier today I was feeling kinda blue for a variety of reasons (mostly the $200 I had to drop this morning on an eye exam and glasses and worrying about a friend who's in a bad shape right now). But when I went to get on the metro, there were two dudes standing at the top of the escalator, one with a trumpet and one with a saxophone, and guess what they were playing? "Kind of Blue." So thanks, dudes at the top of the Metro Center escalator playing "Kind of Blue," you took my blues away this morning.

the bennigan's parking lot incident of 2005 (well, one of them)

Missmo and I were on the phone last night, and we were laughing about the drunken incident that I talked a little bit about in this week's Silly Bitches Association of America (SBAA) survey. We both decided that to really appreciate the story, you must know the whole thing. We think it's hysterical now, although that night neither of us thought that there was a damn thing funny about it. Those of you who know us will see the humor in the story too, we believe.

So let me give you a little background. I was home for Christmas break, and I had met this dude (go figure – a dude causing trouble) who, for reasons that are far beyond the scope of this post, Missmo DID NOT like. But I liked him. I liked him a whole lot. So the one night we went to Bennigan's, which believe it or not is the Bonita Springs premier hot spot, and he was there. So I got on the vanilla Stoli and Diet Coke, and Missmo got on the Citron and cranberry, and next thing you know, I'm all at the bar with this dude, chatting him up all night and Missmo's running around Bennigan's, growing more and more unhappy with the situation.

So then the lights come on and it's time to go, and I go and find Missmo, or she finds me, whatever, and she turns around to me and she's like "They [the dude and his cousin] are scumbags and I told them that." So I'm like "What? Why would you do that?" And she's like "Cuz, Am, they're scumbags." And then I'm all "Missmo, why are you being such a hater? You are being such a hater right now." And what's really funny about that is that I was using the term "HATER" in all seriousness, and it was just pissing Missmo off that anybody, especially me, would call her a hater. So I can't really remember what was said after that, but I remember standing in the Bennigan's parking lot, telling her that I didn't care, I wasn't getting in the car with her because she was being SUCH a hater, and I was just going to get a cab.

So next thing you know, I'm standing in front of Bennigan's, waiting for my cab, nose all up in the air and shit, and she pulls up. First it's all civil, and she's using an appropriate volume, and she's like "Amy, come on. Get in the car." And I'm all "No." And that just pissed her off even more (she's a fire sign) so then she busted out with the "AMY [MIDDLE NAME] [LAST NAME]! YOU GET IN THIS GODDAMNED CAR RIGHT NOW, I SAID!!!" So now everybody who knows her, picture Missmo in the front of Bennigan's, leaning into the passenger side of the Benzito, and screaming at me with the finger all pointing at me and shit. And then me in front of Bennigan's, arms folded in front of me, nose up in the air, pretending like I can't hear her. In front of Bennigan's, I said.

Well, eventually I actually did get in the car and she did drive me home. We screamed at each other the whole way home. I mean, the whooooole way.

I'm giggling right now because anybody who knows us knows that this is so unlike us. This is actually the one and only time we had a huge argument like that, and we've been as close as we are now for a decade. (I love saying that). Anybody who doesn't know us and witnessed this might have thought we were lovers or something the way we were carrying on. We know that really we're sisters, and we can scream at each other and say nasty things to each other (i.e., "I can't believe you're breaking up with me over a boy!" "I'm not breaking up with you!" "Well I'm breaking up with you!") and it doesn't change a thing because we got it like that.
So the next day, I waited til like noon and called her, and of course, everything was fine. It was like "You pissed me off last night." "Well you pissed me off." "Well, want to come over?" And, it turns out that she didn't really tell the dude and his cousin that they were scumbags. That's just what I thought she said. So actually, I was being the HATER that night.

dude, i'm from florida!

In the past three days, I've been told twice that I should have a coat on. It's really embarrassing, because I really don't know any better. I mean, I know when I'm cold, but I'M FROM FLORIDA, PEOPLE, where we wear flip flops all year long.

Sunday night I was just wearing a sweater, and I thought that this was sufficient because earlier that night, I met up with Julia Gulia, and she's a veteran Washingtonian, and she wasn't wearing a coat. In fact, she referred to the weather as "medium." Thus, I figured it wasn't really coat weather, because if it was, Julia would have a coat. So I went out without a coat, and later somebody told me that he was surprised I wasn't wearing a coat and he figured I was just trying to show off the goods or something along those lines. I was mortified, because that so wasn't what I was trying to do, and the fact that somebody, especially this somebody, would think so made me feel totally uncool. The truth is, I'm just a silly bitch who doesn't know when it's appropriate to wear a coat because again, I'M FROM FLORIDA, where you can go swimming in the Gulf of Freaking Mexico in mid-October.

So just now, I was downstairs smoking a cig and this woman walked by and was like "You need a jacket!" But I was wearing a jacket! A suit jacket, but still! But then she threw a "But you look very nice" in there, so that was nice, but makes me wonder if she too thought I was standing out in the cold coatless so that I could show off my impeccable fashion sense. But guess what? Not the case. It's just that I'M FROM FLORIDA; thus, my idea of a jacket is a Gators hoodie sweatshirt.

Tomorrow I'm wearing a coat. In fact, I'm not going to take that goddamned coat off all day.

new big wong

is the name of a Chinese restaurant down here in Chinatown. And that just cracks my shit up. Because it reminds me of "wang." Call me immature. I don't care.

But even better:

Me: Is that "I Want to Know What Love Is?"
Colleague (looking at me like I'm crazy): Noooo.
Me: What is it?
Colleague (looking at me like "are you for real?"): Foreigner, "Juke Box Hero"????

i hate me a tourist

This morning was supposed to be one of the most exciting experiences of my life. I was supposed to sit in on a US Supreme Court argument. Not only that, but I was supposed to sit in on a case that involved an issue that I argued in my national moot court competition last year.

But the TOURISTS ruined it all. I got there an hour before seating began, and the line was already huge. And it was full of TOURISTS. So when they cut off the line for the people admitted for the morning argument, and I watched them all go in there with their stupid "Washington, DC" t-shirts, it was all I took not to tackle them down and scream "WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT STIRONE AND COTTON AND NEDER?!??!?!? I BET YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT AN INDICTMENT IS!!!!"

I did get to do the three-minute tour, though. Once I got through security and I stood in that huge, grand marble hall waiting to be let in the courtroom, I actually got butterflies in my stomach. And when they let us in, and I saw all nine justices sitting up there, the lush red velvet drapes behind them, the whole thing took my breath away. I mean, I spent the last three years of my life studying this place, and then I was there. I immediately recognized Ginsberg and Roberts and Thomas and Scalia and Alito. I was so excited I almost burst. The Government was arguing, which is the side that I argued at my competition, and I was pleased to hear a touch of one of the arguments I had made. Ginsberg asked a question, and then I almost wanted to wrestle the Government lawyer from the podium and answer myself. "Yes, Justice Ginsberg, that is correct. However, this Court must keep in mind that..." Ahhh...I can see it now...

Anyway, the issue dealt with the omission of an element of a crime from an indictment, and I'm pretty positive that the Court will rule in favor of the Government, given its conservative disposition. Scalia and Roberts didn't ask any questions as I sat there, and I was sure it was because they both had already made up their minds. But then, when the guard indicated that our three minutes were up and we needed to leave, and as my heart fell to the ground, ROBERTS ASKED A QUESTION. AND I DIDN'T HEAR IT. I was so mad! Of course, all the stupid TOURISTS with their stupid gay t-shirts got to hear it, but by then they probably were sitting there all smug and shit, tuning out the entire thing because they had no idea what the fuck was going on anyway.

ARRRRRRRRGH!!!!!

reasons why i shouldn't have passed the bar (BUT I DID!!!)

I PASSED, bitches.

But now looking back at it, I can't hardly believe that I actually passed. And this is why:

1. Often times, I brought my Barbri books up to my restaurant and studied for the bar at the bar.

2. I didn't attend either of the torts lectures. Didn't even bother to go down to the Barbri office and make them up. Shit, I didn't even read the torts section of the Barbri outline.

3. Come to think of it, I hardly ever read that Barbri outline.

4. Actually, I probably didn't do anything they told me to do.

5. Missmo and I got kicked out of the marine barracks at 3 a.m. two weeks before the exam.

6. What the fuck is an equitable mortgage?

7. I kept telling myself "Well, if I don't pass, I'll just lie and tell everyone I did pass and just take it again in secret."*

8. I kept telling myself "Well, I'll really buckle down come July." Then July 1 came and I was all "Well, I still have like a month." And then one week til the exam came and I was like "Well, if I study 8 hours every day, I'll be fine." And then I was all "Well, 8 hours is really a long time. Four hours will cut it." And then it was "Well, I've been at it two hours. I'm tired. I need a nap."

9. THE RULE AGAINST PERPETUITIES.

*But really, I really did pass. No, really. I did.

everybody reach up for the ho-zone layer

Missmo and I are having a "ho war." That's when everything we say ends in "ho." Like, "Oh my God, you and Geoff will be here tomorrow, ho." Or "You like getting text messages at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday night that say 'Are you still awake?', ho." Or "I don't care that you have to work seven days a week. We're going dancing until 3 in the morning on Friday so stop being lame, ho."
In honor of the current ho war, I'm gonna post this actual footnote from an actual case out of California. I so wish that I was the clerk who got to write this footnote. It is my very favorite piece of legal writing EVER. It's just absolutely genius.
___________
Footnote 1 from U.S. v. Murphy, 406 F.3d 857:
The trial transcript quotes Ms. Hayden as saying Murphy called her a snitch bitch "hoe." A "hoe," of course, is a tool used for weeding and gardening. We think the court reporter, unfamiliar with rap music (perhaps thankfully so), misunderstood Hayden's response. We have taken the liberty of changing "hoe" to "ho," a staple of rap music vernacular as, for example, when Ludacris raps "You doin' ho activities with ho tendencies."
__________
Everyone have a happy ho day.

just a whole buncha randomness on a monday afternoon

SEEN & HEARD THIS WEEKEND

A woman's t-shirt:
(front) Men are like parking spaces
(back) All the good ones are taken and the ones that are left are handicapped

A homeless man and woman on the sidewalk:
Woman (in old drunk lady tone): Fffffffffuck you.
Man: Fuck you too, bitch!
Woman (again in old drunk lady tone): Fffffffffffuuuuuck you.
Man: Fuck you in your fuck you face. (ß best comeback ever)

Tour bus driver to me: Excuse me. Where's the White House?

ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST

I broke up with a friend this weekend. A strictly platonic guy friend. It sucks. We weren't friends for that long, but I thought we were pretty good friends. Turns out it doesn't matter if you are romantically involved or platonically involved – the majority of them will sell you out at the drop of a dime for a big butt and a smile.

BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO

Then I have this other one that's kind of a friend, kind of something else. He's great. But the platonic friend who sold me out also made problems for me with the not-so-platonic friend which is making me think that maybe I should just cut it out with the not-so-platonic friend. Does this make sense? No? Good. It's not supposed to. This is the internet, for God's sake.

WE'RE GONNA GET BELIGERENT

I'm in trouble. Missmo is coming back this weekend. She can't get enough of the District. Which is what I want to see, because I want her to move up here. Unfortunately, however, I've been on these 7-day work weeks and 3-day going out binges, so I'm just about exhausted, and amazingly, BROKE. I even made a vow yesterday to cut back on the going out. BUT this time, she's coming with the bawsiest of the bawsy, Mr. G. Thompson. He's the man. He's a lot of fun, and let's face it girls, not too hard on the eyes. (He's so gonna read this and have a head the size of Texas.) (Hi, Geoff. Be sure to bring your boxer briefs up here with you because while Missmo gets to watch you run around the house in them all day, Jane and I could really use a little excitement in our house.) So I'm really excited. We're gonna have so much fun.

no subject

It has hit five o'clock and I can no longer focus on chest x-rays, pulmonary function studies, and presumptions of total disability. So I shall blog.

I love my life today. This whole week, actually. Monday I got my first paycheck as a professional. It wasn't that much, being that I am a government lawyer (or will be assuming I pass the bar), but it did buy me the four-inch black pointy toed heels that I've been fantasizing about for weeks. I saw them at the Nine West at the little mall at my metro stop, and at least once a week I would go in to visit them and subliminally tell them, "Don't worry, my little preciouses. In a short time, you shall be mine." So now I finally have them. They were a little hard to get used to at first. I could walk in them, but every time I caught my reflection, I'd be like "Oh my god. I look like a hooker." And they started killing me after having them on for one single hour. But now it's two days later, and now when I catch my reflection, I'm like "Oh my god. I'm so hot." And they don't really hurt anymore.

So yesterday I went down to this little place called Marvelous Market for lunch. They have all really good gourmet sandwiches and shit that I like to eat. I work in Chinatown, which is a pretty busy part of the city. "Vibrant," actually. So I sat up at the counter that faces the window so I could see the world go by, and I looked down at my four-inch black pointy toed heels and my gourmet sandwich and out at my city and for a second there, I was simply elated.

And today Missmo arrives. In two hours, to be exact. This makes my life today PERFECT. Don't worry, lovely readers, the next entry shall be "in our own universe part duex" and we shall have lots of stupid pictures to show you all. Perhaps we'll even get kicked out of the marine barracks…you never know…

9/11/01

Well, it's that date. That one date that conjures up feelings of fear, anger, sorrow, and solidarity all at once. Last night, my roommate and I watched a special on CBS about the firefighters who lost their lives in the World Trade Center. It has been about a year since I really sat down and watched the whole thing happen again on television. It reminded me of that day, how confusing and scary it was, and how surreal it was. Still to this day, I don't think I really understand the totality of what happened. I was in Florida when it happened, getting ready for my Biology lab. I hadn't been to New York in years, and at that point in my life, I had never been to DC. I had seen the towers before, but I was very young. I still can't really remember how tall they were; how grand they really were. In 2003, I visited Ground Zero. I remember looking up at all the other skyscrapers and thinking to myself, "These buildings are so tall, but they're nothing compared to what those towers were." I stared into the void that is now where the towers used to be, but I still couldn't wrap my mind around what had really happened there. I wonder if I'll ever truly understand.

There is one image that I've seen on television over and over again that makes it real to me. I watched as the second plane crashed into the tower; I watched both collapse in real time. I saw the people running down the street, crying and screaming, and since then, I've seen the footage of the staircases - people in business suits going down the stairs; men in fireproof jackets going up the stairs. But still, there is just one image that makes my heart sink as low as it will get and gets me all choked up every time I see it or talk about. It's a young woman, with dark curly hair if I remember correctly, standing on a corner in Manhattan, holding a picture of another young woman, her eyes wide with desperation, holding the picture to the camera and pleading to anyone who will listen "Please, I need to find her. This is my best friend. Please."

I'm even getting a little emotional right now writing about it…

This is the image that makes it the most real to me. The planes, the towers collapsing, the people running through the streets – it seems like a movie. The firefighters climbing up the stairs – I don't know what it would be like to be them. Did they know they were climbing to their deaths? Were they scared? I have no idea.

But I know how that woman felt. My heart breaks with her every time I see her. I know about having a best friend, a friend that you just couldn't live without. I don't know what it would be like to be her at that very moment, but I know how I would feel if I were her. I know that getting there and finding her would be the only thing that I would be able to do with my life. I know that I would stand on the street corner with her picture, day in and day out, pleading, hoping, fearing, crying, searching. Nothing else in my life would matter.

I wonder if she ever found her. I hope so.

yo quiero tacobell

Somebody in my office is cooking microwave popcorn or something, and it smells like a chicken and cheese quesedilla from Taco Bell. Now I really, really want a chicken and cheese quesedilla from Taco Bell. And I want it NOW.

Just a little FYI - if I were to have one now, it would be my first sober chicken and cheese quesedilla from Taco Bell experience. Missmo and I always share one on our way back to the house after a night out, but I don't think I've ever had one during the day. They usually serve as a little appetizer until we can get in the house and get into the Grilled Stuffed Burritos with extra sour cream, please.

Jesus Christo. And I wonder why I'm not a size 4.

rain, rain, go the f away!

One thing I hate about being a city girl: making the mile walk to the metro at 8:45 a.m. in the rain. HATE IT!!! By the time I got to the metro this morning, my pants were soaked up to my knees, and I was slipping and sliding out of my flats that I must wear because after all, the walk is a mile. I shudder to think of all the nasty little organisms that I picked up from the nasty city puddles and that are probably colonizing between my toes as we speak. But here's the absolute best part - that my big bootylicious booty sticks out from under the umbrella a little bit so my ass is also soaked.

What a miserable start to the day. Good thing Missmo will be here in one week and one day. And good thing I have an office with a door that I can close and listen to Esthero all day long.

On a final note, guys are so confusing. So confusing.

further proof that you can't trust 'em as far as you throw 'em

Bill Clinton.

JFK.

My mom's ex-boyfriend.

Missmo's ex-boyfriend.

Brad Pitt.

Beer on the Lap Boy.

What do they all have in common?? An extremely slimey disposition and a complete inability to uphold even the lowest standard of morality.

So Beer On the Lap and I spent about a week trying to make plans. I thought it odd that he would only make tentative plans - never anything definite, and always call the next day with some reason why we couldn't get together. However, I thought it considerate that he would call each time and never make any promises, so I continued answering his calls and inviting plans.
This was the week that DC was on fire from the heat wave, and simply stepping outside would cause me to become a puddle of sweat, which is totally unsexy. Moreover, he was a hippy like me and had no car, so the easiest plan was for him to come over to my house, and we'd sit on the porch, drink some beer, smoke some cigarettes, and just hang out.

So the day finally arrived and the plans came through. He arrived at my door promptly after work, dripping with sweat, and we sat down for a beer. I started trying to initiate the conversation, and I noticed that he wouldn't look at me when he answered my questions and all his answers were monosyllables. I started to feel a little uncomfortable, and started to drink my beer faster. Finally, after the third beer, the awkwardness disappeared. We talked, we laughed, we joked, we were really having a good time. I told him about myself, my family (i.e., Missmo, my mom, and my mom's big fake boobs), Dougie's adoption story, etc., etc. He told me about his home state, college, his friends, his parents, etc., etc. He was getting along splendidly with Dougie, which always makes my heart melt. Then, after a few more beers, he'd tell me how hot I am, what a nice girl I am, how very cool I am, etc., etc. I'd tell him "thank you." Then he started pulling the grab-and-kiss move, which is my absolute favorite. Very sexy, very cool.

However, during one of these grab-and-kiss sessions, it all fell apart. Whilst caressing my cheek, and again telling me that I'm just such a nice girl, his whole demeanor changed. Suddenly, he had to go, he had to leave, he had to go RIGHT NOW. Confused and a little drunk, I followed him out to front porch for one more cig before he left. There, he jumped on his cell phone, started calling everyone he knew to come pick him up. I heard him talking to the one who ulitmately came to get him, and I heard him telling the friend that he was BEGGING him to come get him and to SPEED THROUGH INTERSECTIONS. A little drunk and a lot of mad, as soon as he got off the phone, I lamented to him that I was compltely and utterly insulted by what had just happened and WHAT THE FUCK was going on???????

At that, he tried to hold my hand and told me that it wasn't me, it wasn't me at all, it was him. I, of course, would have rather held an octopus's hand than his at that point, and told him "Okay, George Castanza."

"No," he replied. "Really. I haven't been very honest with you."

"What?" I asked.

"I have a girl."

Goddamnit, people!!!!!!!!!!! Am I destined to be a fucking spinster for the rest of my life or what???? I mean really, what does it take in this world to find a nice, fun, cool guy with who does the grab-and-kiss move????

Upon further inquiry, I found that he has been with this girl for FOUR YEARS, and he followed her here from the friggin' midwest for graduate school. Also, she had called him three times while he was with me so he was pretty sure that she was going to know that something was up. Finally, since he had just met me, and I'm so cool, looks like he was going to have to dump her, or at least could we just be friends??? Of course my answer everything was "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. DO NOT EVER CALL ME."

He didn't take my advice, however, and called me fifteen minutes after he left (with my cigarettes, might I add. Motherfucker stole my cigarettes!) to apologize once again because again, I'm just such a nice girl. Then, he had the nerve to call once more at 3:30 in the morning the next night. I of course didn't answer and he left no voice mail but I wish he would have only because I'm so curious as to what the objective of the call was. Another drunken, slurred apology? A declaration that he had left his girl, could he come over? Or to propose that both he and his girl come over????????

Dudes. Can't trust 'em as far as you can throw 'em.

everbody's working (or not) for the weekend

Good thing last weekend was so fun because this week SUCKS! It's been full of inconveniences, such as:

1. This goddamn heat wave. Like, WTF????? I think Al Gore's on to something here. It's so fucking hot I can't even go outside without sweating. It's really not much different than Florida, except I don't feel like I need a knife to cut through the thick air. But holy shit!! And of course, I'm off all week, and I could be out doing little touristy things like checking out the Smithsonian or going to see the Lincoln Memorial and shit like that. Or even go grocery shopping. But I can't because that would require going outside during the day which means I would melt. Which leads me to...

2. Being a hippy with no car. I can't even go grocery shopping because there's no way in hell (or DC because it's fucking hot as hell) that I'm going to walk the mile to the metro in the middle of the hot-ass day. Thus, I've been eating a lot of toast and drinking a lot of water lately.

3. My computer crashed. Thankfully, Jane left hers behind while she's off being a jetsetter in the Rich Coast so I can check my e-mail and blog. But in the meantime, I had like 18 hours of music on mine, and now I can't listen to any of it. I have my Ipod, which has about six hours, but I'm almost sick of all those jams because I've been listenting to then for about 65 hours.

4. I'm off all week. There's no studying to be done. There's no work to be done. THERE IS NOTHING TO BE DONE!!!! This is the first time in FOREVER that I've had absolutely NOTHING to do. I kind of hate it. I ordered a bunch of books from Barnes & Noble and I am like sitting by the door waiting for the mailman to come because I'm bored out of my fucking mind. I've seen all the movies currently on HBO like fifty thousand times (Shark Tale is so cute, by the way) and the only thing I really look forward to is old school Roseanne at 4 p.m on Oxygen. I CANNOT WAIT FOR MY BOOKS TO ARRIVE!!! A little aside - once they do arrive, the first one I'm reading is Pride and Prejudice, for the first time. And this will be the first time I actually sat down and read and finished a novel since I started law school.

My IPod battery just died. Fuck.

Thank God for Julia Gulia, who entertained me the past two evenings. Tuesday night I spilled my entire beer in her lap. Apparently, this is my new modus operandi.

the very first drunk post ever

This weekend was so fun!!!! Granted, it's 11:49 on Saturday night, and I'm home for the night and blogging, but still, so much fun!!!

GIFT-GIVING HOTTIE LITTLE BRAZILLIANS

So I made friends with this girl in the Barbri class, Cynthia, and she and her sister, Natalie, came out on Wednesday for the We-Just-Finished-the-Bar celebration. They're from Brazil, so of course they're hottie little chicks, and they're both really petite so I look like a fucking giant next to them, but I don't care because they're both so cute and fun. So we talked about going on Friday night, but I thought maybe it was just drunk talk, but sure enough Friday they messaged me and were like "let's go out!!!" So I was like "definitely!" and I caught a cab and met them down in Georgetown. I tried to get my friend Angie to come along be she was all "I'm so not trying to go down to Georgetown to hang out with two little hot Brazillian chicks." I feel her though because George town is so not my scene. I had been there a few times when I came up here for school stuff (will revisit below), and I always felt like I'd never fit in because I don't own a single J-Crew sweater. So when I got there, why did Cynthia turn around and be like "I have a present for you for passing the bar" and hand me some beautiful handmade earrings from Brazil??? A girl after my own heart!!! Except I felt like a total shitbag because I didn't have anything for her so I was like "Want a beer???" Then every time Natalie pointed out a boy who she thought was cute, I'd walk up to him and be like "Hi. Have you met my friend Natalie? She's from Brazil." My gift to her. I'm a little bent out of shape, though, because they're both leaving for Germany tomorrow for like a month. I can't wait for them to come back so we can tear it up again.

HOTPANTS BARTENDER

So the reason why we met up in G-town was because I was telling Cynthia about how I've been trying to get down there since I moved up here because there's this bartender there that I met when I came up in February for moot court thing who kept calling me "hotpants." So she was all "Let's go to his bar!" So we went and he was there and he remembered me and was excited to see me and kept hooking us up with all sorts of free shots (including Irish whiskey which promptly went through my nose which was quite embarassing) and then I noticed the silver band around his left ring finger. Apparently there has been a wedding since February. Oh well. We still had a lot of fun and got free shots and I got to call him "hotpants."

SEX IN THE CITY

Just joking!!!! There's defintely no sex in my city right now! But I do have to say, since I've abandoned having a car and have become a hippy, I have to take a cab everywhere. And it makes me feel so like Carrie Bradshaw, which reminds me of just how unrealistic that goddamn show is because cabs are fucking EXPENSIVE and there's no way that her broke ass would be able to afford always taking a cab.

WHERE THE ONLY DEBAUCHERY IS WITH THE FOOD

Tonight I took a cab down to Dupont to meet the DH and some of his friends for dinner. We went to this place called Lorial Plaza, this Mexican joint that D and I went to for brunch last February. I swear to God, it's like a club in there, except instead of dancing there are burritos. It was PACKED with like a 120 minute wait at 10 p.m. and everybody was dressed like they really were at a club. But it was soooo fun!!!! I got drunk off of frozen margarhitas (yes, that's right, i said i got drunk off of frozen margarhitas) and ate about two gallons of salsa and three pounds of chips. Plus, seeing the DH always gets me in a fantasic fucking mood because we're such lovers, even though he has a boyfriend.

I MISS JANE!!!!

And so does Dougie. Jane (my roommate, in case you didn't know) is in Costa Rica. We're very lonley around here. And in Dougie's case, a little depressed too.

AND FINALLY, A LITTLE PICK-UP ADVICE FOR THE LADIES

Spill your entire beer on his lap. They love it and apparently, it's a sure-fire way to get them to call you the next day.

i survived the hangover...LET'S CELEBRATE!

One thing I loved about law school, there was always cause for celebration. And by celebration, I mean getting together and drinking inordinate amounts of alcohol. It's the beginning of the semester...LET'S CELEBRATE!!!! We'll all go downtown and hit up three or four bars and call it a "social!" It's the middle of the semester...LET'S CELEBRATE!!! We'll all get really dressed up and go somewhere from where we'll surely be banned in the future and call it "law prom!" We have new moot court team members...LET'S CELEBRATE!!! We'll all go to the dean's house where he'll have a beer and wine open bar and call it a "cocktail party!" It's football season...LET'S CELEBRATE!!! We'll all go in the morning and park a car down on campus and sit in a chair outside the car and drink til the game starts at 7 p.m.!

Even though school's over for me now, last night I definitely had the biggest celebration of all - I finished taking the bar...LET'S CELEBRATE!!! I got really, really drunk. I even had the nerve to do a shot of SoCo. Like, HELLO?!?!? Who the fuck did I think I was??? It certainly bit me on the ass at the end of the night, when I was totally trying to kick it to a beefy brown eyed man at the bar and totally spilled my entire beer all over his lap. It was sexy. And then there was the pounding headache and wooziness this morning, too.

I went to this bar with a group that I had met in the Barbri night class. I like them all a lot, and we had a good time discussing legal terms that we'll never have to think about ever again. (Me: "Like res. I HATE that word." Jennifer: "Oh, I LOVE res!") Then Julia Gulia came out for a little bit, and that's always a joy. But it just didn't feel right. I couldn't help but feel like I should have been down in Florida, sitting around with everybody from my class, talking about how Little did us a huge favor teaching us the contribution statute because did you see that essay question? I mean, up until this point, I had shared every significant moment in my young legal career with the same 200 people. And here, this might be the biggest besides graduation, and none of those 200 people were involved. Something about it wasn't right.

But, then again, as my DC bar friend Matt reminded me yesterday, there comes a time where you have to spread your wings. So, spread I shall.

on the road again

Goddamn I'm out of shape.

I used to run alot. Like four miles a day, without stopping for a little walk or anything. I'd just get on the treadmill, put my music on and run run run. I loved it. It was such a stress reducer and I'd feel all good about myself when I got off, all sweaty and red and out of breath and shit but feeling like a strong-ass bitch. My ass got all tight and my legs were in the best shape EVER. Then I don't know what happened.

Perhaps it was the stair mill incident, the first time I ever tried the stair mill. I put that shit on 5 and HIT IT...for about five minutes. Next thing I knew, the room started spinning and I felt like I was going to puke or pass out...in the middle of SW Rec (my Gator girls will appreciate how embarassing that would have been). I didn't know that 5 was a high level on the stair mill spectrum of difficulty.

Or perhpas I just traded in the treadmill for the booze my last semester of law school. I just don't know.

Anyway, lately my iPod has been have a different effect on me. Instead of wanting to break it down like the chicks in the Vivrant Thang video in the middle of the metro, I want to RUN. I don't know what it is. The extra stress with the bar coming up or the fact that I no longer make my daily walk to the metro or what. So today I decided to do it. I planned to run the 10 or so blocks up to Pennsylvania Ave and back, which would have been no sweat 10 months ago.

Yeah...so not gonna happen. I made it about four and had to stop to walk. Then I ran another two, had to walk one, run one, walk two, run two, walk one. Moreover, my runner girl exercise clothes apparently no longer fit me very well, as I had to keep pulling down my top which was riding up and exposing my belly. I mean, even though I fit right in on H Street, it was still making me uncomfortable.

Gonna hit it again tomorrow. I am now DETERMINED to make it up to Penn and back without stopping to walk. In the meantime, I need a cig.

AND...I miss my Florida friends...terribly...

have you ever met a talking walrus? because i have.

Last night I had a dream that I was friends with a talking walrus. Not even just a walrus who talked, a walrus who talked and was a really good girlfriend. She had a really great sense of humor and was one of those girlfriends who was a lot of fun to go out with, kinda like Julia or the Silly Bitches. The only thing that was kind of annoying about her was that she would always want to point out my nose and my cheeks because they taught her that at Sea World.

Damn, dude. Sometimes I wonder what the fuck is going on in my head.

bedtime stories

Yesterday, after a month and a half of sleeping on a deflated air mattress on the floor, I finally purchased a bed. A big beautiful queen sized one with a soft pink comforter. I had been sleeping on the deflated air mattress because when I left Gainesville, I also left behind the most uncomfortable futon that ever hit the face of the planet. I bought it from my college roommate because my apartment in law school was more of a studio and my living room, bed room, and guest room was one room. Therefore, a futon instead of a bed seemed natural. The mattress on that piece of shit must have weighed 150 pounds and felt like nothing more than a slab of concreted under my ass. Moreover, on the evening of the infamous Levin High Barrister's Ball of 2005, I tried to step over Missmo in order to get to the other side of her as she lied in it. I stepped on foot on it and the thing snapped in half. So then from April 2005 to May 2006, I was sleeping in a futon with a slab of cement for a mattress and which caved in the middle. When I moved, I donated it to the homeless shelter and actually feel a little guilty about it.

So when I got up to the beautiful District of Columbia, I had no bed. I figured that my sugarmama Sallie Mae was gonna send me some money with a quickness so I just borrowed Missmo's air mattress. I slept on it inflated one night and woke up with a kink in my neck which required me to twist my whole body in the direction in which I needed to look. It was much better deflated, except that at that time, Dougie decided that his soft, cushiony dog bed wasn't good enough for him and he was going to comadeer the deflated mattress. This meant that I had to add brushing the dog hair off the deflated mattress to my nightime routine, which also meant that no matter how hard I tried, I'd still be sleeping in dog hair.

Ol Sallie Mae finally came through last week, and yesterday Jane and I ventured to what might be the biggest IKEA store in the world and purchased my big beautiful queen sized bed with the soft pink comforter. I was kind of putting off because my car died last week and I have this other thing called the bar exam coming up and I couldn't really handle any other big events, but the embarassment of having my house guest on Friday night sleep on the floor in a pile of dog hair and a shirt for a pillowcase forced me to do something about my situation on Saturday morning. And now I'm glad. Because now I have a big beautiful queen sized bed with a soft pink comforter. Every time I walk in my room, it beckons me. It says "Hey...look at me. Look at my big, comfortable horizontal surface. Look at my pretty, pink, soft comforter. You wanna lie on me, don't you? Go ahead. Do it." Napping has never been better, and studying Torts has never been more neglected.

on that note...

PERHAPS ONE OF THE FUNNIEST THINGS MISSMO HAS EVER SAID

Dude who once ripped my heart out of my chest, threw it on the floor, and then stomped on it (but I'm not bitter): So, have either of you girls ever had sex with a black guy?

Missmo (damn, she's quick): Yeah!!! And actually, we made movies and posted them on the internet. You can find them and double u double u dot i'm a racist prick dot com.
My friends are so damn witty, they put me to shame.

an ode to my roommate

SHE'S SO FUNNY SOMETIIMES I JUST CAN'T TAKE IT

I was going to hold off on this blog until I had a longer list of funny things that she has said, but here are just a few. As you are reading these, please keep in mind that she has a very strong South Carolina accent.

1. I didn't come here to fuck around with no yogurt. (At the National Barbeque Cookoff in downtown DC this past weekend, in response to a woman offering free samples of yogurt.)

2. Me (to an unintersting man at the bar): My my cousin [whatever I decided her name was for the night]. She has her Ph.D. in feminist studies from Yale.
Jane: Uh-huh. I hate bras!

3. Whooooo!!!! Yeah!!!! Whatever he said!!!! (Holding her beer up, in response to something somebody at the bar said which elicited a round of cheers from a group of men sitting at the bar but had nothing to do with us.)

4. Wy-yyyyy? (Supposed to be "why?" but always two syllables whenever she says it.)

CHOCOLATE, ANYONE?

How about a honey truffle with a piece of real 24-karat gold on top?

No? How about a lavander truffle, then, with real organic lavendar buds on top?

Oh, you don't like that? How about chocolate covered passion fruit-infused caramel? Or how about you just dip your spoon in the caramel?

What about a coffe-rum truffle that contains a whole shot of rum and a hazel nut on top?

Chocolate covered peanut bark? Anyone? How about for breakfast?

We have finally reached the point in our relationship where I am allowed to help garnish the truffles that she makes in our very own kitchen. Last night, whilst jamming out to the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack and Michale Buble jams, I was allowed to put the little pieces of gold on the honey truffles. Then I got to sprinkle the lavander truffles with the real lavander. Then, I got to put the hazelnuts on the coffee rum ones. It was so fun. Then I got to eat them. The lavander ones are my favorite. Very unique.

So much for dropping 15 pounds by the end of summer...

NOTE TO JANE: LEAVING ME HOME ALONE ALL DAY WITH ALL SORTS OF CHOCOLATE TRUFFLES = NOT A GOOD IDEA.

to the wretched couple on the train tonight who would not stop caressing each other's heads

Did it ever occur to you that perhaps that type of behavior is inappropriate in a metro car full of people who may or may not have had their heads carressed in a very long time? I mean, we get it. You love each other, you have a great and loving relationship, etcetera, etcetera. However, the next time the two of you have the overwhelming urge to rub each other's heads and blow kisses at each other (even though you're less than a foot apart from each other) all the way from Foggy Bottom to Eastern Market, remember that it is quite possible that the closest thing to intimacy that the girl sitting behind you has had lately is a dude who started trying to grope her boobs after being alone with her for a total of five seconds, then dropped her off in the hood in the middle of the night and left without making sure she even got in the house. And then PLEASE refrain from behaving in such a manner as to make her want to grab both of you by your necks and throw you off the train.

Also, I saw you scratch your head and then eat the dead skin under your fingernail, lady.

not so funny anymore

So my roommate and I have succeeded in totally confusing the crap out of poor Dougie. All my regular readers will recall that one week ago, I was very proud of my brown-nosed wussy dog and his territorial barking and growling. Within the past week, however, Jane and I have had to modify this behavior.

I mean, is it really too much to ask for a dog to be able to differentiate threatening from non-threatening? Big, 250-pound man in a black hoodie - threatening. Small, pig-tailed girl in a school uniform and pink barettes - non-threatening. Skinny, disheveled crackhead woman - moderately threatening. Tiny old woman in a moo-moo blatently struggling to take the few arthritic steps past our house - soooo not threatening. However, it appears that he doesn't understand this.

So we started by letting him bark at the threatening and screaming at him to "GET ON THE PORCH!!! SIT DOWN!!! STAY RIGHT THERE!!!" when the non-threatening walk by. Didn't take. You could tell that he would get so excited at the opportunity to reduce small children to tears that he couldn't even control himself. So now we have to scream at him every time anyone walks by, including the threatening. Finally, today, he seems to get it. Even a stary cat went by, and I could tell he so wanted to kill it, but he sat patiently on the porch, his jaw moving up and down as if he were barking, but trying very hard (and succesfully) not to let anything out.

On a side note, I fucking love that boy. The other day, the three of us were sitting outside, and I got up to get in my car and drive down the street to the little coffee shop. Dougie ran up to the fence and watched me walk to my car with the saddest little look on his face, eyebrows all slanted upwards and I swear I saw tears gathering in those little brown eyes. I yelled at him to get in the house with Jane, but he just stood there like "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Please don't GOOOOOOOO!!!" Even as I was driving away, I saw him standing there at the fence, the same pitiful look on his face ("nooooooooooo!!! please!!!!"). Awwww....he's like my small toddler. I don't know how I made it before he came in my life.

wwhen the beat drops, i just can't help myself

One of my favorite parts of my new-found city girlhood is putting on my I-Pod, making the little-less-than-a-mile trek down to the metro, and catching the metro down to my barbri class. The walk is really a great way to start the day, not to mention really good exercise.

There's only one small problem. Anyone who knows me knows that I looooove to dance. At the club, at the bar, in my room, in the car...wherever there is a good beat. So, as you can imagine, I have an extremely difficult time containing myself when my little I-Pod Shuffle picks something really good for me.

Example - sitting on the metro, and all of the sudden "Vivrant Thang" by Q-Tip comes on. It's all I can do to prevent myself from jumping up, grabbing one of those poles that people hang on to when there's no place to sit, and twerking it all over the metro. Or, walking down F Street and "It's Goin' Down" by Young Joc starts playing. I'm able to contain myself somewhat, but if one were to observe me very closely, he or she would notice that one shoulder shrugs ever so slightly three times, and then the other.

I mean, even my rock jams get me going. I have to lip sing Led Zep's "The Ocean" when it comes on, because belting out "Used to sing to the mountains/But the mountains washed away," in that high-pitched Robert Plant voice on the metro may make me look a little crazy. However, just yesterday, walking up 7th, I couldn't help myself. I didn't think anyone was around, so I busted out with "Biggie Biggie Smalls is the illest!" To my dismay, I looked behind me and there was a yuppie looking dude looking at me like I had lost it.

And nothing's better than standing on the metro escalator, ascending back into the world, with Dave Matthews telling me that "When I step into the light, my arms are open wide."
Being a city girl is so great.

DC is awesome, but barbri SUCKS

I have now been an official Washingtonian for an entire week. Here are the highlights of the past week:
- I got a gig waitressing at a nice little joint on the Hill. The staff is so fun and already I've made a few friends there. So far, it's been a pretty cool crowd that comes in and I've met a few interesting folks so far. It's gonna be a fun summer there, I can tell already.
- I started studying for the bar. Sucks. I'm supposed to be studying 6 to 9 hours a day after my four hour classes, but I can't stand it. Secured transactions, commercial paper - who gives a shit?!?!?!? I'm supposed to be studying now, 12:30 on a Friday night in DC. Instead I'm blogging. Productive, I know. The good news is there's no DC law on the DC bar. Instead, it's all multi-state general law. Phew.
- Douglas is adjusting to city life very well. He has realized that the tiny little front yard is part of HIS territory and, accordingly, is terrorizing the neighborhood by barking and growling at anyone who has the nerve to walk by on the sidewalk. It's actually pretty funny.
- I have mastered the metro in less than a week. My commute to my bar classes is an hour and a half. I could probably get there quicker by driving, but I'm still afraid to drive in DC. I have ventured down to Arlington twice so far to hit up Target, and both times I missed the exit on the way home and ended up in Maryland or a potentially dangerous part of DC. However, since I still don't have any idea where I am at any given point in time, everywhere in DC is potentially dangerous.
- My roommate is awesome. She's been really good about showing me around, and what's more, she loves Dougie. It's cool because I haven't been around much between work and the bar, and she's been taking him for walks and even picking up his shit outside. She rocks!!! Also, she makes home made chocolate. She's awesome.
- I hooked up with my beautiful Julia Gulia last weekend and we hit my fave DC spot, Madam's Organ. It was a lot of fun. We were supposed to maybe go dancing this weekend but OH yeah!!! I have to study for the bar exam! Still haven't seen D but promised a happy hour next week.
- They play my fave dancehall reggae jams on the radio here.
- I can see the capitol while driving down the street.
- On Memorial Day, I put on my navy sundress with white polka dots and took myself out to breakfast at a little sidewalk cafe before catching the metro down to Arlington National Cemetary where I walked around looking so cute and eyeing the hottie Marines in their dress uniforms and paying my respects when I bumped into none other than Donald Rumsfeld. No shit. I was close enough to touch him. This one dude was like "you can get a picture with him," and I was like "I don't want a picture with him." I took a video though, because I didn't think my friends from home would believe me.
- I miss Florida, but not too much yet. DC is just so fucking cool, and hot enough to be Florida. I miss my mama, though, and my missmo and all my Florida friends. I miss them tons. I wish they could all move up here. But not til late July when I'm done with the bar.