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??????
Monday, April 30, 2007
Sunday, April 29, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, April 27, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, April 13, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, April 7, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, April 6, 2007
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?
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?
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