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.