girl crush part deux

Once I find something that I like, I become almost obsessed with it and play the shit out of it. For example, four-inch black Nine West pumps. I had them only two months before the material was all scraped off the heel and the nail began to protrude from the bottom. A Farewell to Arms. Like I've said, I've read it a hundred times already, but for the past week, every night before bed I escape to the Italian countryside with my man, Fredrick. I found an egg salad recipe that I like, so guess what I have for lunch every day? And then of course, there's Esthero. Having just one CD wasn't sufficient, so now I have another EP, a collection of remixes, pretty much every unrealeased and live jam that she offers on her myspace page, and an official Esthero t-shirt (it has a hot pink pirate skull and cross bones and the cross bones are microphones so it's actually pretty rad).

Now I have a new obsess - er, I mean something I really like. Amy Fucking Winehouse. That bitch is BAD ASS. One day during our Grown Folks Spring Break, Missmo and I sat in the house and watched the I Love New York marathon on VH1 almost in its entirety. They kept showing a clip from the "You Know I'm No Good" video as part of their One to Watch promotion or whatever, and I was like "Wow, I like that chick's sound...and those tattoos." So I Googled her and listened to the song all the way and loved it. Then last Friday night, during our Mellow Zengo Happy Hour Turned Eighth Street Drunkfest, the infamously gorgeous Julia Gulia started playing the CD in her car and I'm all "Oh MY GOD, I LOOOOOOVE Amy Winehouse!" Gules introduced to me to several of the tracks on the CD, and then informed me that Ms. Winehouse used to have a thing with Nas and "Me and Mr. Jones" is about the thing.

Nas, I said. She dated NAS. Triple Bad Ass Bitch points.

And seriously, how could you not love that soulful voice over some MoTown beats talking about dudes with skull t-shirts, being sniffed out "like tanqueray," and being caught cheating because you're sitting in the tub and your man notices you have carpet burns.

Then this morning, I discovered something that just may be the most awesome discovery of the year. "You Know I'm No Good" with Ghostface. It's actually off the Ghostface album, so it's like Ghostface featuring Amy Winehouse, and he does most of the lyrics with a few samples of her jam, but it's fucking AWESOME. And any white girl who does a song with GHOSTFACE is my fucking hero.

So I will be downloading "Back to Black," the new album, as soon as I get home tonight, and I've already placed an order for her first album, "Frank," which is apparently hard to get here in the States because it's not on iTunes and I had to pay twenty fucking dollars for it, but it's well worth it. I sampled it this morning, and besides a jam called "In My Bed" that has the Nas "I Shot Ya" beat, there's a jam called "Amy Amy Amy." Awwwww yeah.

In conclusion, I heart Amy Winehouse.

on becoming an adult

I am currently listening to an internet radio station belonging to the genre of "Adult Alternative."

Fuck yeah, man! Goo Goo Dolls rocks my face off!

When did I start becoming an adult??????

maybe we're both crazy

So here is my first post on my new blog site. I had this blog on another site, where I could easily be identified and future employers could read about my drunken exploits, so I decided to move it. Now I can finally write honestly about EVERYTHING, for nobody I know will ever have this address and YOU people can't tell who I am just by looking at my picture on my profile because I have a microphone in front of my face. (Key West. So fun.)

Anyway, this will be my first honest post and yes, my friends, it's about booze and sex and a dude. A certain dude that I've been kind of dating off and on since September. "Kind of dating" because this is how it goes: he'll call me up, we'll meet up, we'll have drinks and maybe a jumbo slice, then we'll make out, usually he'll spend the night but I won't let him have sex with me, then we'll have breakfast, then he'll leave, then I'll call him or e-mail him and invite him somewhere, then he won't respond, then I'll hear from him for at least two weeks later when the event to which I have invited him has come and gone. Repeat.

Twice I've mentioned to him that this is bullshit, and only after I avoid his calls for a month or two but he keeps calling so I give in. He always tries to tell me that it's not me, it's him (heard that one before), and that of course he's into me and I shouldn't think he's not just because he doesn't call for two weeks or respond to my invitations (!).

But for some reason, I always break down and agree to meet him. There's just something about him. Truthfully, he's totally nerdy, and not in a really cool way. Sometimes, it's so obvious that he tries too hard to be smart and sophisticated or whatever and I just want to be like "Dude, just be yourself." Also, we have a lot in common and our playlists are very much alike which is something I've never found in another person. He has a job that I admire, and we have a whole lotta fun together. But what I think I'm most attracted to is that at the mere age of 22, he was sent to Iraq and was one of the first into Baghdad. This just fascinates me. Maybe it's that Fredrick Henry from A Farewell to Arms is the love of my life, maybe it's because I've been needing a hero for a long time and I associate all men in uniform with heroes, of maybe I'm just crazy. I don't know.

Anyway, saw him this weekend for the first time since January. It's funny because earlier that evening, I was thinking to myself how that night I'd just like to have someone who would stand next to me at a bar, throw his arm around me and pull me into him. And then he called. So I agreed to meet him. We got wasted, as usual, and he put his hands in my pocket and rubbed my thigh and pulled me into him. And I was high.

Then he started to explain to me why he's so undependable. He told me he has intimacy issues that are related to post-traumatic stress disorder for which he is currently seeking treatment.

Damn.

I don't know really what to think about this. Is it a cop-out? I don't think so. Is he really just waiting for something better to come along? Maybe. He assures me that he hasn't been seeing anybody else, and that he hasn't even been laid since July, he just seems to be in a funk a lot, but he's not interested in being my friend, but he's not interested in being my boyfriend right now, but he just has to work it out.

That night, he brought me to his house. We slept together, but we didn't have sex. We didn't even make out. He just held me all night and all morning. We woke up, had breakfast, he dropped me off, and I'm sure I won't hear from him for two weeks. But I can't help hoping that I will and looking forward to two weeks.

great key west moment

Scene: Four rounds and one shot into the evening, talking to some local douchebag at the side bar at Sloppy Joe's.

Curly Girl (to local douchebag): I mean, you all have a need for criminal defense attorneys here, right? I mean, don't you all get DUIs all the time? Possession? Assault and battery? Need a little representation?

Missmo (to Curly Girl): Okay, Miranda.

Curly Girl (to Missmo): Whatever, Samantha.

EDIT: It has occurred to me that some of you may not get the allusion here. In Sex and the City Episode 13, entitled "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," the girls go to a Yankees game at Miranda's behest. After the game, they hang out aroudn the locker room so that Miranda can get an autograph, and lo and behold, the new super hot Yankee walks by. So the girls get to meet New Super Hot Yankee, and here is how Miranda introduces herself: "Hi, I'm Miranda. I'm a lawyer." And New Super Hot Yankee goes "Are you gonna sue me?" And then Miranda just kind of smiles and stares blankly for a minute and then goes "No. I don't know why I just said that." So haha. That's the joke. Except that Local Douchebag was far from Super Hot, and I was mentioning the law stuff not because I was trying to impress him, but because four rounds and one shot into the evening, I was seriously contemplating moving to Key West and opening shop.

missed connection

I saw you today, actually. You were standing in the lobby of my buidling, reading some sort of magazine. You had glasses, sandy hair, and a blue polo properly tucked into your kahkis. You looked up when I walked by, but I got scared and looked at the ground. I could tell that you were a smart boyfriend; the type to meet me at Afterwords for brunch after yoga and browse through the non-fiction section whilst schooling me on Cold War era American political campaigning and its relationship to racial segregation or something equally as fascinating.

I saw you last week too, while I was on vacation in the tropics. You had just returned from a chartered fishing trip, and you were excitedly talking about the marlin and the dolphin fish that you had caught. I saw you stealing glances at me from across the bar, but I got shy and looked away. I could tell you were a manly boyfriend; the type to bait my hook for me and clean the fish, then slide your arms around my waist while I stand at the stove, cooking your fish and pouring your beer.

I even met you once a few months ago, while some friends and I were cheering on our favorite college football team. You and I chatted about public transportation and local bars and skateboards. I knew you were flirting with me, but in case I was wrong, I pretended not to notice. I could tell you were a good boyfriend; the type to listen when I talk, pick me up from the airport, and send me nice text messages in the middle of the day just because.

Unfortunately, however, you just keep on passing me by. Someday, I hope you'll stop and ask me out. Because I'd make a good girlfriend.

turns out i'm still a little afraid of the dark

This morning, for no reason at all, I woke up at precisely 5:02 a.m. I tossed around in bed for a few minutes, figured out I was a little hot, threw my blanket to the foot of the bed, realized the ceiling fan was only on medium, got up and put it on high, crashed back into my bed, and swore that out of the corner of my eye I saw a black cat walk by. It totally freaked me out, because I don't own a black cat. Just a brown-nosed pussy dog, but that's another story. Reminding myself that I am 27 and not 7, I chalked it up to my mind playing tricks on me and tried to go back to sleep.

Ten minutes later, through my open bedroom windows, I heard "POPPOPPOPPOPPOP. POPPOP. POPPOPPOPPOPPOP." I knew immediately it was gunshots. Less than a minute after that, I heard a car speeding down my street, the engine struggling to keep up with the tires.

Funny thing is, I didn't do anything about it. I didn't pick up my phone and call 911; I didn't run across the hall to Jane's bedroom and tell her what I had heard. I just lied in bed, trying to tell myself that the noise was just some kids playing with firecrackers at 5:15 on a Wednesday morning in April, but knowing that somewhere in my neighborhood, somebody just got shot ten times.

About ten minutes later, the police came. There weren't any sirens or flashing lights. The only way I knew they were there was because I could hear the dispatchers from their radios. I went to the window and made a tiny opening between the blinds, but I couldn't see the police. Instead, I saw a couple of young black men walking purposefully down the sidewalk, away from the area of the police and towards H Street. One had dreads and a sleeveless shirt and kept looking behind him. The other was tall with a long stride and stared straight ahead. Not far behind them was another young man, walking in the same direction and rolling a blunt. I knew they weren't killers. They were just young men trying to make a living on the corner of 9th and I at 5:15 a.m. on Wednesday morning in April, and they were forced to take a little break on account of the police being called to the scene of a shooting.

Finally, about 20 minutes later, I fell back asleep. I woke up at 8 a.m., an hour and a half later than I should have, threw on my skirt and black Ann Taylor cardigan set, and tore my room apart looking for the pair of nude Leggs I bought yesterday which appear to have gotten up and walked away. Finally ready to go, I walked out into the bright April morning and made my way to the bus stop, my iPod blasting an acoustic Esthero jam into my ears.
It's amazing how different the world is at 5:15 a.m. than it is at 9:00 a.m.

pre-departure thoughts on my trip to florida

I HEART HEMINGWAY

During lunch, I went to a used book sale benefiting the DC Public Library System in search of a copy of Uncle Tom's Cabin, which a colleague and I are going to read and discuss together like the total nerds we are, and Slaughterhouse 5, which I've never read but have always wanted to, and in light of Mr. Vonnegut's recent death, feel compelled to do so very soon. In the small Classics section, I found a copy Uncle Tom's Cabin, but they didn't have a copy of Slaughterhouse, so I compensated by purchasing a couple Hemingway books, along with a copy of Farenheit 51 and The Great Gatsby, two more classics that I have never read.

I found an old copy of my ultimate favorite book EVER, Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms. The cover is all dog-eared and features a technicolor picture of a couple kissing in true 1950's Hollywood glam style, and I paid $3 for it, which is a $1.50 more than its original price as published on the cover, but that's what makes it even better. I have already read it fifty times, and I will read it 1,000 more times before I die. I am completely in love with the main character, Frederick Henry, who is the toughest, most masculine creature ever imagined, and hope someday to marry a real-life Frederick Henry.

Then I got The Hemingway Reader, which is a collection of excerpts from some of his novels and some short stories. Although I'm on the last 50 pages of Barack Obama's Dreams From My Father, which I wanted to have completed by the time I leave for Florida, I just couldn't stop myself from cracking into this one. It starts with an excerpt from "In Our Time," where our friend Nick Adams returns home from war and hikes through the hills of Michigan by himself. There's something about Hemingway's male characters that just makes my heart ache. I want to reach into the book and pull Nick Adams out and hug him and kiss him and stroke his hair, although he's apparently doing quite allright by himself hiking through the pines and crushing the sweet fern in his hands so he can smell like it while he boils his pork and beans in a tin pan.

Anyway, if you're still with me, the connection to Florida is that Missmo and I are planning on going to Key West, where I will have the unsurpassable pleasure of being in the same room in which Hemingway wrote A Farewell to Arms and even be able to look at the very typewriter on which my hero, Fredrick, was created. It will be a religious experience for me, and I simply cannot wait.

SPEAKING OF BARACK

On Sunday, I will attend my first political rally, which will be for Barack Obama. I plan to be really inspired by his words, and perhaps get close enough to ask him to sign my worn paperback copy of Dreams From My Father. "Senator Obama? Will you please sign my paperback book? Be careful not to pull the cover for it is already halfway ripped off. Also? I love you."

FUCK WINTER.

It will be 30 degrees in DC when I leave tomorrow morning. Two hours later, I will step of the plane into an 80 degree haze of sea salt that only tourists (now me) can smell. I can't fucking wait.

really weird dreams i had last night

1. I decided that I don't like this guy with whom a small romance is potentially/hopefully blooming in real life. The reason being that I brought him to my house and he met Jane. When he left, Jane informed me that he used to date her former roommate, who weighs about 275 pounds in real life and in real life used to lock herself in her room and not come out for months at a time. So I decided not to pursue it because it was then obvious to me that he had a big girl fetish, and I did not want to be the big girl.

2. I was unable to go on my Florida vacation because I ran into my friend from middle school, Catherine Almquist, and she had become the guardian of all her brothers and sisters for some reason, so I spent all my money on food and wine that I purchased at a bar, and gave them to her and her siblings. In real life, she was the second to youngest, and even the youngest is grown by now. And why I would buy them wine is beyond me.

My interpretation: I am a generous humanitarian with a body complex and a drinking problem who is loyal to her friends.

putting sexy away

What I ate last night when I got home from the gym, in the space of maybe 30 minutes:

1. 1/2 Thai California Pizza Kitchen pizza, which was supposed to be for lunch today;
2. Two pieces Pepperidge Farm light-style wheat bread with roasted red pepper hummus (breakthrough!!! red peppers, and perhaps green as well, do not upset my stomach anymore!)
3. One cup Total Raisin Bran and one cup fat free milk;
4. One 100-calorie pack kettle korn microwave popcorn;
5. One handful of Reeces Peanut Butter Chips that belong to Jane, but I just couldn't help myself;
6. One Morningstar fake chicken patty doused in BBQ sauce;
7. One 100-calorie pudding snack with one tablespoon of fat-free Cool Whip; and
8. One more tablespoon of fat-free Cool Whip just for shits and giggles.

And I mean, this was in one sitting. Can you say "PMS?" Thank God I have only diet shit in the house.

Also, is it wrong to have a crush on a married man who's also running for President?

on to less depressing topics

Spring has finally arrived! I am experiencing seasons for the first time since I was 13, and I have come to the conclusion that I'm not a big fan of Winter, but I love me some Spring.

Goodbye long red, mohair coat that Missmo bought me when I was in college and I used to wear once a year but is now so worn that it's developing bald spots! Hello denim jacket!

Goodbye forlorn-looking naked trees! Hello little white blossoms that I don't think are cherry blossoms but are pretty nonetheless!

Goodbye knee-high boots that my mom bought me in December because I did not own footwear that was appropriate for winter and now have the nail sticking out of the left heel! Hello open-toed sandals!

Goodbye metro ride to the stop five blocks away because it's too fucking cold to walk that far in my boots with the nail sticking out of the heel! Hello mid-day refreshing city strolls!

Goodbye heavy pant suits! Hello skirt suits, although panythose suck!

Goodbye black and grey and maroon and dark and heavy! Hello pink and blue and yellow and orange and light and airy!

However, I must admit, I am still craving the sunshine on my shoulders. Two more weeks!

a dear sir letter

Dear Sir,

Sometimes, like today, I get to thinking about you and I get so mad that I want to spit. That was really helpful of you to totally throw me away when I was 16 just because my teenage angst was a little more involved than other's. Just so you know, a lot of that angst was your fault anyway. Also, it was extremely helpful the way you made a cameo appearance back into my life when I was 22. And to think, I got all excited over a fucking breakfast and some greasy ass diner at 6 a.m. As if that would erase the years of damage you had already done. It didn't matter anyway, because as soon as the issue of money came up, even though I wasn't asking you for anything and I've never asked you for a goddamned thing (I can't help it if my mother wants to stick you for everything you've got - must be some shit that goes all the way back since before I was born and has nothing to do with me), you disappeared out of my life again. For good this time, I presume. It was also very helpful the way you've managed to make your other children, with whom I grew up and knew since they were babies, disappear from my life as well. All of these things were very helpful to my healthy development into a young woman.

Asshole.

Other times, I just get too tired of being pissed off any more. Fuck it. Being angry never got me anywhere. Also, I take great pride in knowing that I am so much more than you ever were or ever will be. You're nothing, brother. A nobody in this world, and you'll never be anybody. And me? I made it. I'm educated. I'm fucking brilliant, actually, and the future's so fucking bright that I gotta wear shades.

But then I'll have a day like today, when I looked at recent pictures of your youngest daughter that I found on myspace, saw her looking healthy and smiling and pretty. I regretted that my bond with her is so broken because of you that I couldn't even e-mail her to tell her how pretty she is. But most of all, I wondered, how come you love her but not me?

Funny how I'm the most successful out of all your children, yet you couldn't even give a shit.

Funny how I'm not sure I will attend your funeral.

Sincerely,

The Biggest Mistake You Ever Made

runnin' through the ghetto

Today is the National Marathon. I didn't know it until I woke up this morning and it was all over the news, and all of the sudden, I saw my neighborhood on t.v. Turns out that as part of the H Street Revitalization Movement, the last two miles of the marathon are through my hood.
Being the novice runner that I am, I felt compelled to get dressed and go outside and cheer them on, especially when the newscaster was like "It's the spectators that are on H Street that are really helping these runners get through the last two miles." So I went outside at 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and screamed and clapped at each runner who went by. It was fun. I yelled things like "Go 'head girl!" and "Welcome to H Street!" and "Lookin' good! You're almost there!" and "22 miles down! Wooooo!"

There were hundreds of H Street residents on the sidewalks acting as spectators. You could tell which ones were the newer residents and which ones have lived here for decades. The new ones, like me, were cheering. The long-time residents, those who lived in this area and saw it under siege during the riots of '68 and called it home despite the violent reputation it maintained for years, stood there baffled. I caught a piece of a conversation between two long-time residents that I think summed up their sentiment: "They got these people runnin' through the ghetto."

Ghetto or no ghetto, this is my neighborhood now too, and I never knew it before this morning, but I'm growing kind of fond of it. "Welcome to H Street," I told the runners. And I meant what I was saying. I was truly welcoming them to my neighborhood.

he's straight hood, yo

Yesterday, I was sitting outside with Dougie, talking on the phone, when all of the sudden he thought it appropriate to charge a man walking on the sidewalk, jump up on the fence separating him from the target of his barking attack, and hop up and down. This happens sometimes, I guess when there's something about the person that he doesn't like, but I don't condone this behavior at all. As a matter of a fact, when he acts like that, I scream at him and clap my hands and demand that he "GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!" and he always quickly complies with my orders.

So last night he started with the charging, and I started with the screaming. Usually the person he is harassing will throw his or her arms up and make a bee line across the street whilst yelling something along the lines of "You betta get yo' dog," or "HELP!" But not this particular man. This man reached into his coat pocket, presumably grabbing his gat because I live in a neighborhood where it would be expected that many people pack, and screamed right back and Dougie. I was actually really pissed. Like, what the fuck man? You're gonna shoot my dog? And his screaming at Dougie only further aggravated Dougie who continued to bark and ignored my orders. And the man just stood there with his hand in his pocket, bellowing at my dog. So finally I was like "Dude, don't encourage him," and the guy walked off, and Dougie finally got back on the porch, wagging his tail and totally oblivious to the fact that he just almost got a cap in his ass.

Dougie. Almost getting shot in NE DC. Because he's hood like that.

ode to pop-pop

Lately I've been pretty emotional about things. I don't know what it is. I'm certainly not unhappy. My 2007 Action Plan is working out marvelously, and my horoscope keeps telling me that great things are going to happen soon in my career and love life. But things like a discussion about walking a ten-minute mile will make me irrationally pissed off* and reading this this 93-year-old man's blog post about his grandfather makes my heart totally break in a thousand pieces. Perhaps it's because it's the middle of the month, or perhaps all this exercise and organic food is making me a bitch/crybaby. I'm not sure.

*Special note to she on the other side of that discussion: I Googled it the next day. Irrational, I know. But seriously, you should start training for the Olympics because there is actually an event called racewalking and they walk 6-minute miles. Also, I love you.

Anyway, that blog made me start thinking about my own grandfather, Pop-Pop. And how he would sit in their old boxy Cadillac in the Marshalls parking lot while my grandmother, Mom-Mom, would spend five hours inside, carefully selecting ankle-length prairie skirts that she would ultimately never wear and sandals that she would complain irritated her hammer toes* until she retired them three years later. Sometimes he would sleep, sometimes he would read the paper, sometimes he would just listen to Frank Sinatra and probably reminisce about when my Mom-Mom was a hot young blonde with Angelina Jolie lips and Hollywood dreams, before the kids and the mortgage and the alcoholism.

*Not even sure what hammer toes are and not sure I want to know.

I'm sure those five hours were always incredibly boring. I'm sure he would much rather have been fishing, or watching the 9-inch black-and-white television in their kitchen, or playing with his grandkids. But he never complained. Not even once. And she shopped a lot. He did it to keep her happy, even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness, because she was his wife and he was her husband.

I think he spent their entire marriage keeping her happy at the expense of his own happiness. And I don't know if I could really say he was a better man for doing it. I really would rather him have been happy himself. But maybe he was. Maybe just seeing her happy made his world.

I'm sure that Mom-Mom would have never have made him sit the car again if it meant that he didn't have to leave her on May 6, 1994. In her last few years, everybody could see that she really missed him and didn't really know what to do with herself without him. When she left us ten years after Pop-Pop, I knew she was ready to find her husband, who was probably somewhere in the afterlife, sitting in a boxy Cadillac listening to Frank Sinatra, quietly waiting for her to finish what she was doing so he could take her home.

another douchebag story

When I was 17, my "boyfriend" (notice the quotation marks, please) waited for me to leave the room and asked Missmo for her phone number and suggested they hang out sometime sans me. Of course, Missmo immediately alerted me to the fact that I was dealing with a douchebag and that was the end of that. Because that, my friends, is a line that is never to be crossed. Lord hath mercy on he who crosseth that line.

It's not crossed very often, save for the few poor slobs who seriously think that there is a real possibility that Missmo and I are closeted lesbians, or worse, girls who kiss girls for attention, and have the audacity to seriously suggest a threesome. In the ten years that we've been friends, however, we've learned to shake that off. I mean, she's a good looking girl, and some like to say that I am as well. As they say, hate the game, not the player.

Recently, though, that line was crossed again by a guy down home with whom I made out like a year ago. We ran into him again at Benny's over Christmas vacation, and as is always the case, we threw a little afterparty at Missmo's place with a few of our friends. We invited him along for old time's sake, for him to promptly pass out sitting up in Missmo's chair, baseball cap and sneakers on and everything. Figuring that this was a good sign that he was too intoxicated to drive home, we left him to sleep it off, and when everybody else left, we went to bed and slept it off ourselves.

Now, anybody who is or knows a girl knows that girls have no problem sleeping in the same bed together. I even know some heterosexual men who have no problem sleeping in the same bed together, but I won't go there. I don't see really what the big deal is. When we woke up in the morning, the dude was gone, but he wasted no time sending us a text message (to Missmo's phone because mine was dead) that went like this:

"Hey - were you guys sleeping in the same bed last night? I should have jumped in between you guys."

Wha?

Not yet sure of the level of creepiness this text achieved, I responded sarcastically:

"Naw, then you would have interrupted our spooning and we would have been unhappy."

To which he responded:

"I wouldn't have interrupted! I luv spooning! Especially with two girls who are bringing sexy back!"

To which there was absolutely no response. "Luv?" "Sexy back?" For real?????? I wrote him off as a tool, and that was that.

Christmas vacation ended, and I went home. Missmo saw him out a couple weeks later, and being the polite and cordial girl that she is, said hello. We figured there was no harm in being friendly, so she would chat him up when she saw him out and we thought nothing of it.

That is, until one day, she received this text message:

"Anybody up for a mustache ride?"

Wha??? Is this even for real???? WHO SAYS THAT????

Needless to say, that was the line, he totally crossed it, and she hasn't seen or heard from him since. However, the text did land him a spot in the elite group of men that I will blog about, those who are such douches that I have no shame blathering their business to the internet.
So there you go. Another douchebag story. About a guy who once asked my best friend if she was up for a "mustache ride."

we're adults. when did that happen?

Yesterday I learned that my first boyfriend, who is actually the only real boyfriend I ever had, is expecting a baby. I met him when I was 19, and we were together for two tumultuous years until I went away to college and opened a new chapter. Then, my first year of law school, we got back together, but ulimtately did not work out at all so that was the end of that. We went through a lot together in those early years, and the lessons that I have learned from my relationship with him are lessons that I will keep with me for the rest of my life.

We're not in touch or anything anymore, so I heard the news through the grapevine (a very old, very tangled grapevine at that). When I mentioned it to my roommate, she responded "Well, he's old enough."

Holy shit. We're old enough to be parents. And pretty soon, he will be.

It got me thinking about how my life turned out and how his life turned out and how very different he is from me and how very different I am from 19-year-old or 21-year-old or even 23-year-old Amy. A lot has changed since then.

A baby so does not fit into my life right now. I can't even begin to imagine how I could possibly find a place for a baby right now. I can't hardy fathom starting a family right now. But down in ol' Fort Myers, my ex-boyfriend is becoming a father. He's starting his family. Six years ago, we were sure that WE were going to have a family. It just blows my mind.

I wish I could get a hold of him so I could wish him the best for him and his new little family.

But maybe some things are better left alone.

missing

I miss electric touches. Where he puts his hand on my arm and it tingles and I ask "Do you feel that electricity?" and he just smiles because he knows that of course I know he feels it.

I miss secrets. The most intimate words in a hushed voice in the night while his heart pumps against my ear.

I miss comfortable safety. Bury my head in his chest with one arm around my shoulders and knowing that there is no safer place in the world than right here.

I miss heartache. Having something so sweet, so pure, so real, that it my heart aches if I think about it too much.

I miss surrender. Giving my entire being to him to do what he will and wanting him to do anything, everything.

But in the meantime, I've found me. So I guess that's enough.

from beach bunny to snow bunny

This week I saw snow for the third time in a decade. (I love saying "I saw snow for the [x] time in a decade.") It's such a novelty to me that you can catch me at the bus stop taking pictures of the brown, nasty slush with my camera phone and sending it to my mom and Missmo back home, as though it were magic super slush that contains diamonds and makes you skinny. I had two half snow days, which were so much better than hurricane days because there isn't really any danger during a snow day – you just chill in front of the fire and get to watch Oprah. The past three mornings, I've had to wear the snow boots that my mom gave me for Christmas, which has made me regret being annoyed that I had to drag them all the way from Florida to DC. Every day, I e-mail Missmo about the temperature (usually around 20) and the current weather conditions and she always responds with the temp in SW Florida (usually something around 78) and reminds me that she can and does go to the beach.

This sure ain't Kansas anymore.

This weekend I will try my hand at snowboarding. I have to purchase snowboarding gear because, of course, I own none, and I'm really nervous that I'm going to get the wrong shit because I don't know anything about winter sports and all the cool experienced snowboarders will laugh at me. Kinda like when it first started getting a little chilly here and I never wore a coat because I didn't know any better because I hadn't had to wear a coat in 13 years. That kind of thing.

I'm really excited, though, because I've been wanting to try snowboarding ever since I went up to Deep Creek Lake, MD in January. I keep fantasizing about how I'll be a natural, and all of the sudden I'll come down the mountain with my IPod in my ears in my functional yet stylish snowboarder outfit, in perfect snowboard chick form, and then do like this cool stop and all the snow will shoot up and there will be a crowd at the bottom of the hill and everyone will look at me like "Ohmygod, she's soooooo good," and I'll be like "What?" But in real life, I'll probably spend most of my time on my ass the first day, and there's a good chance that the second day I will wipe out bad and suffer a minor concussion.

saturday night blogging

Some completely random facts about me:
1. I was captain of my JV cheerleading squad in high school.
2. Shortly into football season, I was kicked off my JV cheerleading squad.
3. When I was about 5 or 6, I was convinced that my father was David Lee Roth.
4. Sometimes the sound of a banjo and fiddle makes my heart swell up in my chest.
5. My very first crush was Luke Skywalker.
6. Tom Sawyer was my second crush ever.
7. I didn't learn how to drive until I was 18.
8. One of the things at the top of my list of things to do is to swim with dolphins.
9. Skydiving used to also be something on my list, but in the past five years, I have developed a height phobia.
10. When I was 11, I made my little friends go with me to the Vietnam War Memorial in Manchester, Connecticut and tie yellow ribbons to the trees in support of the troops during Desert Storm.
11. I once knocked over the Christmas tree which caused half of my great-grandmother's antique glass ornaments to break, and I blamed the dog. (Not Dougie - this was way before him.)
12. Jordan Knight was my favorite New Kid on the Block.
13. I have met ?love from the Roots.
14. Until I was 19, I was convinced that it was my destiny to move to New York and marry a mobster.
15. When we were 17, a boy ran Missmo and me off the road and tried to kill us and totally terrified us.
16. In 1986, my mother and I drove all the way from Connecticut to Florida and listened to Bon Jovi and U2 the whole time.
17. I almost went to FSU. Because Tallahassee seemed like more of a party school.
18. When I got the solo in the school play in 5th grade, all the 6th grade girls were such bitches to me that I ended up telling the teacher I didn't want to do it.
19. I broke my very first car by doing 140 or something ridiculous across Alligator Alley. And it was a Mercury.
20. When I first moved to Florida in 1993, I lived on a sail boat on the city dock.

underwear, music, photos, beer, mcdonalds = pretty good birthday

Yesterday I turned the big two seven. In celebration of turning the big two seven, I took the day off and lied around the house in my underwear all day, listening to old Mobb Deep and Outkast jams and looking at the 500+ photos that document the history of Missmo and Am. I was looking at the ones that were taken when we were 17, and I realized that that was 10 years ago, or an entire decade, but it really doesn't seem that long ago. And that was weird.
I skipped the gym and went to go see Mercy Creek with some friends at a bar in Virigina. I drank way too many Bud Lights (2 points each!), kissed an Iraq vet, and on the way home, stuffed a McDonalds chicken sandwich and a large order of fries down my throat (definitely not 2 points each). All in all it was a pretty good birthday. I did lots of indulging.

the health fairy hit me with her celery wand

You'd NEVER believe it, but I'm actually HEALTHY these days. Seriously. I quit smoking for real (except when I'm out drinking, but more about that later). I haven't bought a pack in over three weeks. And you know what? It's cool, man. The first couple of days sucked, but now I don't even think twice about it. Every now and then I'll get an urge, but then I picture myself standing outside in the DC cold smoking a cigarette, and it makes me feel all icky and I don't want one anymore. Who would have thought that me, Amy Frances, she who came out of the womb with a cigarette in one hand, a drink in the other, and stilletto heels, would feel "icky" about smoking cigarettes?

Also, I'm eating healthy. Like, cooking for the week on Sundays, eating lots of fruits and vegetables, drinking lots of water, and taking Viactiv calcium supplements. Yes, I said cooking. Turns out I can cook. Yesterday I made a cuban pork and sweet potato stew. Mmmmmm.
The calcium supplements are because I've also taken up running again. My goal is to run a 10k in May. I'm up to five miles per day on the treadmill, which consists of running four ten-minute miles and walking one mile. I feel fucking GREAT. I LOVE running. But, every now and then I'll get this dull pain in my ankles. I keep hearing the voice of old Mrs. Etterman, my legal secretary teacher, bitching at me that smoking cigarettes and drinking soda causes osteoporosis and when I get old my bones are going to crack in half. So now I'm scared, and I keep thinking that the ankle pain is osteoporosis because I smoked cigarettes and drank soda for too long. Hence, the calcium supplements.

Also, I stopped being a lush. Okay, maybe I get a little lushious still, but only once a week! I've cut the drinking back to once a week (never stopped to think that there were so many empty calories in alcohol!), which means that I indulge in a little nicotine once a week, even though I quit. It's good though. I have a few cigs with my drink, but I'm not feeling like I need to go to the store and buy a pack the next morning or something.
I told y'all I was becoming a new woman. So far, 2007 is turning out quite well.

new year, new woman (part deux)

I'm feelin' good, people. I have been a non-smoker for four whole days. This is really a huge deal. I started smoking cigarettes when I was 13, and I started smoking one pack per day when I was 16, and I've never quit for more than 12 hours. So four whole days is huge. And I feel great! I mean, there are times when I really want a cigarette. Like today, I was seriously contemplating going up to my bar and having a beer just so I could bum one cig off somebody.

"Just one - all I need is one, maaaaaan." (A la Basketball Diaries.)

But I didn't do it. I prevailed. Turns out I do have a little willpower!
In other updates, tomorrow I begin working towards the other half of the 2007 Action Plan - getting skinny. My new girlfriend L has made a pact with me that we shall both look ridiculously hot in a bikini by summertime so we can go to the beach in our bikinis and look ridiculously hot doing it. So, we are attending a Weight Watchers meeting tomorrow, which helped my mother become a skinny bitch, so that we can be skinny bitches and my mom won't be able to say shit to me like "Hey, try on all my old [fat] jeans. How do they fit? Oh, they're snug? No way! Hahahahaha!"

Also, I am purchasing a two-week trial membership at this big fancy gym from which I plan to haggle a sweet deal. I chose this gym not because of its fancy towel service, five million locations, or complementary personal trainer, but because of its group exercise classes. Specifically, non-contact boxing. With punching bags and shit. And non-contact kickboxing. I can't wait.

I say all this, but it is only 12 days into the new year. Get back to me at the end of the month and see where I'm at...

this month's "jugs" centerfold: the sexy entrepreneur

This weekend, I went up to beautiful Deep Creek Lake, Maryland with five fantastic friends to celebrate the infamous D.H.'s birthday. The celebration consisted of chicken soft tacos, coronas, bacardi, cheesecake, a marriage proposal (D.H. + P.C. = 2 lovas 2getha 4eva!), and board games. One of the board games we played was called "True Colors." Basically, you read a question off a card like "Which player is most likely to be behind in his or her bills?" or "Which player has the worst road rage?" and then you supposedly find out what all your friends really think of you. We didn't play the way the directions said to, because we're cool like that, and instead just read the question out loud, and whoever had the most votes "won" the card. I won two.
1. Which player would be the best candidate for the Apprentice?
2. Which player would be most likely to pose nude for a centerfold?
I was quite pleased with the results.

new year, new woman

I'm home* from Florida. Missmo left early this morning. The chaos that has been my life for the past two weeks has come to a screeching halt.

*Weird. I said "home from Florida" like it was nothing.

The past two weeks really has been a whirlwind of events. From Scotty extending his stay in Florida and greeting me at the front door when Missmo picked me up from the airport, to lying in bed yesterday afternoon and trying to recollect the blur of the Capitol Hill New Year's celebration the night before. It's been quite a ride. And not all good. Some of it was real bad.

I've also been doing a lot of perspective-finding. It's a new year – a whole twelve months of new opportunity to become a better me. A smoke-free, skinny jean-wearin', healthy, kick-ass lawyer who pursues her goals to fulfillment and looks hot in a bikini.

So here's to 2007…