Hi. I'm Crazy.

Giving my phone number to strangers is risky business. First, I rarely like anyone so being on the hook to respond to phone calls and texts is a massive chore for me. Second, most people are crazy.

Exhibit 1: Gave phone number to ok-looking male at neighborhood convenience store. He immediately texts that it was good to meet me. Now I have his phone number. Makes sense. He had also given me his card. Very professional and polite. I'll refer to said male from this point on as "Crazy."

Crazy: Why do you have a Colorado phone number? Ha!

My internal monolog: I realize some folks in Texas have a difficult time grasping that there are places outside of Texas from which someone might be. I also realize that many people in Texas find it very difficult to leave Texas. I do, however, feel a bit befuddled by the acute shock that I'm from another land so far away and exotic as Colorado. Furthermore, the fact that I have a Colorado number can really only mean one thing: I once lived there. Further furthermore, why is it funny?

My actual response: I went to undergrad at Boulder.

Crazy: I thought I'd send you a completely random photo of me and my friends at a burger restaurant that also sells cupcakes. Ha!  (I'm not exaggerating. He actually did this. I'd left the convenience store about 10 minutes ago.)

My internal monolog: Um, thanks...(I'm still wondering what is so goddamn funny.)

My actual response:

Crazy: Would you like to go to happy hour on Friday? (This is the morning after meeting at the store.)

My internal monolog: Yeah, probably, as long as nothing more fun comes up. I appreciate you asking a few days in advance. I'll respond when I get off work.

Crazy (a few hours later): Why are you avoiding me? Yes, I'm calling you out.

My internal monolog: You're effing crazy and I never want to meet up. I'll respond to your texts when I'm good and ready and not a second before, maybe not at all. And that's perfectly alright. So there. I hate that shit.

My response: I just got home and actually I think you might be a bit full on for my taste. Please lose my number.

Within 24 hours of meeting him I got 12 texts (compared to my 2 responses). The final few were comically insane. I was scolded for being adverse and unresponsive to so many texts when anyone else would simply find them friendly. I was also chastised for not using his business card to stalk him online. If I had I would have known that I was lucky to have received so many texts from him because he is such an upstanding citizen and generally awesome guy. Very kindly, his final text apologized that he had led me to so presumptuously think he was into me. He was just trying be friendly to a neighbor and hopes someday I'll be a normal person. Whew...what a relief?! Now Olive and I don't have to wear wigs and sunglasses to the convenience store.

If he's normal, I'm so glad to not be.

To Get To You

Getting around in Austin, TX is a nightmare. Transportation in this city is so epically mismanaged and poorly planned that it has caused me to become enraged and borderline dangerous on numerous occasions. It is no wonder Texas has such a high rate of drunk driving.

First, the traffic is impossible. On the way to work, i zip straight there in 10 mins flat. The way home, on the other hand, is a painful, soulless stop and go that can be up to 60 mins of pure mind-numbing torture.

Parking is an effort in futility that usually leads to homicidal fantasies.

You cannot get a cab to save your life. I had an easier time snagging a cab in DC during the Obama inauguration in the freezing rain. Hailing a cab is out of the question. You must call to be picked up. There is a single cab company with 1 or 2 phone lines, likely manned by an unambitious, bong-hitting high school kid. These alleged phone lines are often disconnected and go straight to what sounds like a third-world country's IRS helpline. If you do manage to get through, the person on the other end usually hangs up before you can get your address noted. It is infuriating.

If, by some miracle of the universe, you do find yourself in a cab, the driver is invariably grouchy and rude. These men clearly need to get laid, which may be possible if they didn't refer to their unlucky significant others as "my old lady" and have permanent scowls on their miserable little faces. I promise...because of the rare treat of riding in a cab I am overly polite and kind to these people (without effect).

Walking, my preferred method, is possible. However, you frequently have to jump fences, scale cement walls, or cross interstates to do so. Walking in 110 degree heat isn't the most fun ever. Also, Texas is big. I mean, really really effing big. For that reason, you can walk miles and still only be to the next intersection.

The only mode of getting from A to B I have discovered is to fling yourself on to the cargo train that passes over Barton Springs occasionally and then fling yourself off the moving train nearer your destination. Hobo-ism is evidently the most reliable transportation.

These Old Shoes by Deer Tick

Unsubscribe

Like any sizable life event, moving brings people together. I've had night after night of meaningful connections with old friends the last couple months. I've also had a handful of random idiots contact me with hope I will carve out time for them, time obviously already booked by my true friends.

More than once, I've gotten a text out of the blue from some a-hole I dated several summers before wanting to know if i have plans my last few weeks in town. Um, yeah...i'm kinda busy. (insert clubbed head followed by braindead stare)

I kinda wish there was a way to unsubscribe from old boyfriends, drunken phone number exchanges, and overbearing people met in bars. If i could just respond to them with a "Please take me off your list," it would sure come in handy. Being in the online marketing industry makes me all too familiar with CAN-SPAM policy.

That being said, if any of those randoms wants to help pack my moving truck in 100 degree weather and a possible thunder storm, feel free to gimme a ring. I'll wait to report you to the FTC until next week.

Hard of Hearing

Not too long ago, I was listening to my usual collection of Pandora stations through the rose-colored headphones of a relationship. This week, after having my heart stomped on with boy cleats, all the songs sound differently. Just a few weeks ago cheesy love songs made me smile at my desk in the way only someone retarded in love can pull off. I now find myself skipping the sappy love songs, thumbs-upping the depressing, spiteful side of love music.

Only now can I even hear the lyrics warning me of playaz (Beyonce station), lyin’ cheatin’ hearts (George Straight station), and that boy in the front row (Toby Lightman station). Even Alice Smith’s Dream received an irritated eye roll and Mariah Carey’s Shake it Off suddenly makes sense. This is serious.

I clearly did not hear, let alone heed, the advice of a gazillion entertainers singing their poor hearts out about the red flags of letting yourself have feelings for another person. Clearly, I am hard of hearing.

On another note, Pandora seems to behave much like the weather this week: completely abnormal and crappy, grey, dismal, cold, depressing, and very, very unfair…all to match my situation, obviously. Thanks Universe, how clever!

If one more sad break-up song comes on Pandora, I may give up on music. Same goes for happy songs about people in love. No more! Isn’t there anything else to effing sing about?! Can’t someone make a song about how glamorous it is be single, gorgeous, and on the rebound? Or that feeling you get from slipping on the perfect pair of jeans…there’s a topic that is certainly as song-worthy as a sensual encounter with your man. Taking a walk around the city with a cup of coffee…another life experience on par with falling in or out of love. No one is singin’ about that, are they!?

Ok, Beyonce, let’s try just a bit more creativity if possible. That Halo song is making me gag.

Back to this impossible SEO document. As if this week didn’t suck enough already…

My Sweet Song by Toby Lightman

Verizon has a consipracy against me

Over the last few months, i've attempted to join whatever century we're in now and sprinkle my life with a few electronic devices. I've always been years behind when it comes to gadgets and things with cords.

I didn't get a DVD player until just a couple years ago, after my mom realized how un-cool I was. I am forever in debt to my former music mentor from Colorado for gently encouraging me to give up my boom box by gifting me an iPod (filled with cool new music). He rightly predicted I wouldn't have a computer at home with which to charge the Pod so he included the wall charger. Brilliant! When the cable I was stealing got shut off, I signed up for Netflix and called it a day. I couldn't loose that crappy used cell phone in a cab to save my life. Spending money and time on such luxuries as wireless internet, communication by phone, and a working thermostat seemed a bit beyond my reach. I was doing fine without so why complicate my life?

I'm not sure if it was winter boredom, my new job at a software company (where EVERYONE has an iPhone), or my sports-loving beau who waits for me patiently with nothing but Bust magazine and Olive to keep him entertained...something inspired me to get wired.

In the last few months, i've added a digital converter box and space-age rabbit ears (I couldn't quite bring myself to get cable yet and the government was offering coupons), wireless internet (which I share with my neighbors to keep the cost down...less money spent on bills means more money to spend on denim), a new cell phone, and an Internet-based home phone so I can more easily work in my pajamas. I had to get two power strips for all those damn cords.

I have had several meltdowns over faulty equipment, low signal, and criminal billing practices. This shit simply isn't my thing.

While I am (sometimes...when it is working) happy to be able to stream old CSI Miami episodes wireless on my laptop while simultaneously watching the new CSI Miami episode on channel 7-1 WJLA-HD or whatever, I do question the necessity of it all. There are times I want to gather up all those ugly boxes with annoying blinking lights and their tangle of miserable cords and ritualistically burn them.

Olive and Beau do seem content watching March Madness while I blow-dry so perhaps it is worth it. Just no more effing cords please.


P.S. Thanks for the YouTube video, Tex. It made me feel the tiniest bit better about all the obscenities that have come from my mouth in your presence while trying to get all my fucking pieces of shit working.

Going out of style

I'm all for public access to information. Everybody should be able to read books for free, which is why I’m so disappointed in the DC Public Library system.

Today, in an effort to renew some interest in my job, I decided I should read some books related to my field. I have a list of recommendations from numerous conferences and seminars and some of them even sounded interesting. So, I went to the public library’s website. I was thrilled to find they had an online search option. This would save me from hauling it all the way over there if they didn’t have what I was looking for…brilliant!

One of the books I wanted was an interesting twist on how to change public attitude with simple marketing schemes: The United States of Arugula. I searched for “Arugula.” Sorry, term not found. I tried “United States.” Nope, never heard of that either. I search for some other books with no luck. Already irritated, I call. The man who answers is able to look up the books effortlessly and promises to hold them for me. I give my name with a sigh of relief. Things are looking up.

I head over after work to pick up my books. I stop at the information desk and ask if my books are there. With an annoyed pencil tap, an evil librarian, the likes of which stereotypes about cranky librarians were created, snapped that NO, my books obviously weren’t there and that I should try another identical information desk.

I get there, hand over my library card, only to be told that I haven’t returned the Amy Sedaris cookbook I had loaned over the summer. I am instructed to find the missing book on the shelf or be turned over the to the authorities for book theft. I frantically find cookbook and return to desk. Strange…turns out the book was returned after all. Woman shrugs.

May I please have the books saved for me? Certainly not! They are no where to be found. But, I can have another ignorant shrug. Perfect!

Dismayed, I walk back to the original desk, the one with the smug librarian. There are the books with my name in bright purple marker rubber banded around them, right next to Evil’s mouse pad.

If it wasn’t for my pre-existing soft spot for librarians (thanks to three years living with an actual smart one), I may have strangled someone. I grab the books, check out, and vow never to set foot in that shame hole ever again. No wonder there are only homeless people sleeping on all the tables instead of real patrons. Where are the days of helpful librarians, cheerful book displays encouraging reading, and book drops that don’t have electric fence around them? Shame that even information, it seems, is going out of style.

Billable Hours

I’m feeling a bit nostalgic. I miss my old job. Not the situation that I left, but the day to day, the challenge, the way it was. I miss my friends and my boss. I miss feeling busy with work I liked and I miss feeling that my job was cool and did good for the world.

A few weeks ago, I was at an online marketing conference, this time as a vendor instead of a client. I sat in several sessions that used screenshots of my former projects as examples of kick-ass online marketing. On the one hand, it made me proud of the work we did at my last job. On the other hand, I felt a deep sadness that those days ended before I wanted them to. Next slide please. My days of making an impact and saving the world…of awards, magazine covers, and speaking invitations are over.

This weekend, I went with my beau to his holiday party. Everyone was happy and I could tell that not only did they enjoy each other but also enjoy the work they do. I went in the bathroom, my usual spot to go when I’ve had too much to drink and am feeling sorry for myself, to do some deep breathing and get organized. In those situations, I look in the mirror and talk to myself, usually in a stern, no bull-shit tone of voice. This time I said, “You are not your job.”

The person in the mirror nodded in agreement.

But, I’m feeling sorry for myself again today. Although I feel lucky to have any job at all, this one just isn’t doing it for me. I can’t seem to get over the lingering feeling that actually “I am my job. I am what I do for most of my time.” For me, my career is part of my identity. And, I’m having one hell of a time line-iteming my identity on a billable hours worksheet.

I used to think I could live on the age-old principle of getting the paycheck so that you can have fun with it after work. But if you don’t feel like having fun after work or if there isn’t any time left in the day to have fun, what’s the point of it all?!

I really do want this job to work out, but that terrifying feeling of boredom is creeping up and making me want to cry. And I always promised myself that when I start crying at my desk, it is time to move on.

Short of botoxing my tear ducts, what have I got?

I’ve got a brain that works.
I’ve got friends and family and a dog who love me.
I’ve got a sewing machine.
I’ve got some sweet potato gnocchi.
I’ve got choices and opportunity.
I’ve got courage and creativity.

Looks like all that is missing is patience. Not terrible, right? With all those things, surely I’ll pull this job thing together. Patience aside, let’s hope it is soon. I don’t know if this new job stocks Kleenex.

Not really into threesomes

When dating, it is perfectly reasonable to be seeing more than one person at a time, assuming everyone involved is properly informed about the casual nature of the relationship. On the other hand, it is perfectly unreasonable to have a proper significant other and try to date me.

This is the situation i find myself in at the moment. Or rather, found myself.

I am not the kind of person who takes a supporting role in someone's relationship drama. I'm more a "leading lady" sort of girl. So when boy of the moment informed me that he was "seeing" another chick, I wasn't amused. And, after careful investigation (Where would we be without Facebook?), when i discovered that he wasn't just "seeing another chick" but was rather in a full-blown partnership, I was full-blown disgusted.

He insists that, though this poor girl might have a boyfriend, he absolutely doesn't have a girlfriend. I have a hard time with that logic actually...but, i've been known to be old-fashioned when it comes to love so what do i know? *wink* The most amusing thing is that he has convinced himself that by telling me the half truth, he isn't responsible for the feelings he is hurting, mine or hers. Unfortunately for him, I'm not buying it.

One simply cannot be a cowardly, indecisive liar and get away with it. I'm far too fabulous to be treated as second best or someone's dirty little secret. And, let's be honest, why would I want to be with someone who lies and sneaks around on his girlfriends anyway?

The good news is that i don't have to put up with it. The sad news is that the other girl, who with utmost certainty doesn't deserve this kind of treatment either, is clueless.

Oh, well. I'm sure she'll figure it out sooner or later. In the meantime, my search continues. Next!

No Substitute Love by Estelle

(I especially like the bit when she raps towards the end.)

Misinformation

So, here i am, all dressed up, on my couch with Olive drinking wine by myself. I am supposed to be out with a boy, but (insert shocked expression here) he forgot what time he told me yesterday. Now, I realize that remembering things for almost 24 whole hours is quite difficult. And who really pays attention to the time anyway, right?

I do.

I've come to the conclusion that somehow along the evolutionary path, boys have sadly been given misinformation that could possibly prevent the continuation of the species.

Exhibit A: It is so not cool to be late.

It doesn't make you look smooth, like you've got so much amazing stuff going on that you practically forgot our date. Rather, it makes you look like an idiot. Also, impressing a girl is easily done by instead doing precisely the opposite...showing up right on time. That shows that you've also been anticipating the time we are about to spend together and have maybe even been looking forward to it. In fact, even if you aren't looking forward to it, it would be nice to extend the courtesy of at least not wasting my time.

Don't Let Him Waste Your Time by Jarvis Cocker


P.S. This boy hasn't done this before, but so many boys in the past have, he gets the shame of this blog post just for being male and therefore guilty by association.

Maybe, but Probably Not

I went to a house party on Saturday with one of my girls. I don't normally try very hard to make it to parties where i will know no one, but I like one of the girls who lives there. And, more importantly, she promised we'd be entertained by a smorgasbord of handsome, Spanish-speaking men.

The party actually became fun after my girl and I dominated the beer pong table, much to the shock and horror of the many drunk (and just barely out of college) boys who opposed us. Turns out, you ought not be fooled by the rocks that the overdressed chicks in platform shoes got when it comes to college drinking games.

I chatted up a boy near the pong table. On first glance, he was kinda cute and my friend was too busy rattling on in Spanish to be much company to me. I gave him my email address. Then, he informed me that i should try brushing my hair. Whoa! I didn't realize that I was so openly soliciting beauty advice from Polo-wearing oafs with their collars up. Furthermore, I do brush my hair. I excused myself promptly.

Very little time passed and my friend was under attack. This time he asked why she only dyed her roots. This guy really knew how to impress the ladies.

The best thing is that I got an email today from Mr. Charming. He went on about how if i get back to him right away, MAYBE he'll allot some time for me this week so that i can try harder to impress him (and presumably look a little less Medusa-esque).

Maybe i'll email him back. Maybe, but probably not.

:-)

10 Block Radius

The other night, I had plans with a boy. I had boxing first so i rushed home to hose off. Tick toc, tick toc...he finally calls and ditches me, giving some lame excuse typical of crooked politicians, Enron execs, and single men in DC.

I was bummed, partly because i was now without plans and partly because i could have stayed at boxing and talked to another, cuter boy i have my eye on at the gym. This boy has done this so, so many times before that i have difficultly even being angry with him and am instead furious with myself for even trying.

So, after making a grand statement about how i certainly wouldn't find love sitting on my couch, I invited Olive on a walk. This was a solution i knew would appease both my dog and my disappointment.

Upon reaching Dupont Circle, who do i see giggling with another chick at a crosswalk? Yes, that's correct. I was ditched for a girl in a buttondown. Muttering "You've got to be f*!king kidding," i approached the lying jerk. I got the usual sleazy load of crap.

I was not amused.

I made my exit by explaining to Beige Buttondown that Asshole must have mistakenly made two dates...in the same night...in the same neighborhood.

And you wonder why i'm bitter...

Go Ahead by Alicia Keys

Never again...

I was nice to the woman who gives parking tickets in my neighborhood this morning. She noticed Olive and I kindly informed her that my dog was friendly and would gratefully accept an ear scratch. I don't have a car so I figured she meant me no harm. Even though she terrorizes my friends and neighbors I assumed she was only working through several past lives of bad karma to procure such a profession and would perhaps respond amicably to a friendly face for once.

I was wrong.

She scowled at me and Olive, pretending to be terrified of my clearly ferocious (possibly rabid) Shih Tzu. Olive and I don't use a leash when we're just doing a quick pop around the block so the woman proceeded to lecture me on mandatory leash laws. She then stomped off, probably to report me and my feral, bloodthirsty companion to someone with more authority than her.

I have one comment and one question:

Comment: This evil woman deserves all the frowns and cold-shoulders she receives. She is clearly mentally ill and was mistakenly given a cushy city job instead of the straightjacket and shock therapy she needs to get better. If my dog, who is barely pushing 13lbs. and was idly sniffing flowers when approached by this maniac, is a threat to public safety, I may need to be locked up myself. The lady should be made to live the rest of her life in a cube in Crystal City for being so foul and miserable.

Question: If children are allowed to walk on the sidewalk without a leash, why isn't my dog? I think it is a safe assumption to say that most dogs are better behaved than most children. I know I may be a little bias, but I think I can confirm that Olive, a teenager in dog years, is less capable of destruction of property and physical harm than a human her same age. In fact, Olive and I run and hide from the brats that walk down O Street during the school year, throwing eggs, yelling obscenities, littering, and starting fights.

After the interchange with mega-bitch in uniform, Olive and I stared at each other blankly, both wondering what the hell we were doing in such a strange town...one in which you can't even walk on your own block at 8:30 am without being accosted by some crazed stranger with ill-intentions.

Then Olive wagged her plume at me and went back to sniffing flowers. I never stop learning things from her...bad people don't deserve much time...it is better to just keep doing what makes you happy.

Post Its and Text Messages

I signed up for one of those text messaging packages last year, not because I really like text messaging but rather because everyone else apparently does and I was getting charged to even receive them.

Over the last few months, text messaging has become one of the most irritating forms of communication yet. Just as Post-It notes are really only good for writing down things that aren't worth remembering anyway, text messaging has become the medium for useless interaction. For example, I got a text message last weekend around midnight from a random ex-boyfriend that said "Hi." Um, ok...hi? He could have made more sense by saying "June." or "Feature Gradients." (I was just looking around my desk for words that have no context and those are the first two I saw.

I got another cleverly written text message from another ex the week before that said "I have been meaning to text you." Again, how is this useful to me and why would I care? These messages have absolutely no relevance to the current situation, relationship, or even current event.

I can see certain instances where it may be appropriate to send a random text out of the blue. For example, if I was at the DC Pride Parade, several past boyfriends would come to mind and I may want to send them a text that says "Results Gym had a fabulous float. Was that you in the cage at the top?" Or, if I saw someone passed out on the sidewalk in a pool of their own vomit, I might be compelled to send a text to a certain ex that said "Wow. Looking good baby!"
You see, sometimes contacting your exes via text is the safest and most appropriate method of communication, especially when you don't much want to talk to them anyway. But, if you don't much want to talk, why send anything at all? Can we all agree that each message sent contain some relevant or humorous bit of information?

Instead of "Hi.", how about saying "Hope you are well."

If you want to reconnect after several months of not speaking, don't send a text message at 2am that says "What's up?"

I will likely not respond and will instead tell all my friends how silly you are and have a nice laugh. (That is, if I even know who the text is from...I have an ever-growing list of contacts in my cell with Do Not Answer as the name.)

Now, because I am trying my very hardest to not be a spiny fish (thanks for that one, Mom) I will now give an example of a recent fabulous text interaction:

From boy: I wanted to bring you back a bottle. Do you like red or white?

Response from me: You're fabulous! I'm a red girl.

See...not so hard, right fellas?

I’m sorry. I can’t. Don’t hate me.

In an effort to prepare myself for the upcoming Sex in the City movie, I've been watching re-runs of the foxy foursome religiously over the last few months. It is strangely ironic how closely this show can mimic the real-life relationships I have suffered. No wonder this show is so hugely popular!

I've tried the young boy who lives in a trashy apartment with video games and posters taped to the walls. I've dated the too-feminine straight man. For all I know, I've dated the too-feminine gay man. I had unfortunate run-ins with several boys with the Mommie complex. I've accidentally dated a religious person. I can't stop talking about my own Mr. Big. I've fallen off the sidewalk because someone tried to hold my hand. And, I've even had two actual boyfriends. The creator of this show has relationships of our current generation down to a tee.

I just finished the episode where Carrie gets dumped on a Post-It Note. Then she goes on a rant in a nightclub about how guys are cowardly and immature. Then she gets high and almost gets arrested. Then she eats ice-cream and laughs about it all. When said like this, it sounds rather boring and unbelievable. BUT, the truly unbelievable thing is that I've very nearly had that same night. In fact, so many of my girlfriends have. I think the point of this episode is to remind women that we can be prone to craziness and irrational anger. Here I have to stop to ask in a very Carrie Bradshaw sort-of way: It is really us?

Being broken up with on a Post-It is one of the least horrible abuses women are subjected to in our real-life relationship adventures. I feel that the occasional rant, however absolute the probability it falls on deaf ears, is our right. God forbid after being stood up, lied to, cheated on, ignored, used, taken for granted, disrespected, and, in a plethora of other ways, mistreated we dare get angry and raise our voices. Frankly, we should do it more often. In fact, women who don't speak up only make it more difficult for the rest of us. If I am a crazy bitch because I won't communicate solely via text message or I want you to keep your urine confined to the inside of the toilet or I expect kindness, equality, and respect before AND after sex, than so be it.

I'm just sooooo tired of always trying to remain calm and classy in a sea of classless jerks. I know that there must be some normal men out there, someone who rides my same wave. I guess I'm a little bit Charlotte in that way. But when my boss found the printout for my movie tickets for Friday's opening night of the big Sex in the City movie and asked me what character I was, I could only very sadly answer Miranda, the jaded, cynical one.

However, when I am alone and feel sad about how Miranda I've become, I can always count on Samantha to help cheer me up with fabulous words of wisdom:

If you're never someone's girlfriend, you can never be someone's ex-girlfriend.

Now i think i'll call up my girls and eat ice-cream and laugh about it all in the most unfunctional shoes i own. I feel better already.

Self Reflection

A strange and kinda funny thing just happened.

I was just accused by one of my exes of talking shit on my blog about him. I was confused, naturally, because it would be unlikely for me to write about someone who could actually read my blog. If i talk shit, i set it to my preferred list, of course. Most of my exes aren't on Myspace anyway thank goodness so i'm free to insult them privately as much as i please.

This is the funny part...i was on a rant about another boy...you know, that "One" that has tormented me incessantly for the last year. My own real life Mr. Big.

Turns out, the accusing ex, who i don't talk ill of on the blog (yet), can relate to my posts about other evil men in my life so perfectly that he thinks it is about him!

The sad and ironic thing is that, much to several people's shock, i've actually spoken very kindly of his gentle coaxing me from a scared and cranky hermit to one almost capable of love again...not to mention my numerous shout outs about his musical fabulocity.

Apparently, it isn't me who thinks he may act like an "ill-behaved loser in fancy clothes," but rather someone closer to home.

It is fascinating how when love goes away you can overlook the nice things and try your very hardest to find anger and blame. It is also interesting that when you don't know who that blog post was about, you start having a look at the crap way you treat people and start feeling a tad paranoid.

Anonymous Comment Box

Sometimes you need to tell someone something that you know will not come out right. Perhaps it is a bit of constructive criticism or perhaps it is a flat-out bitchy complaint. But, no matter how you say it, it will likely result in at least one person with hurt feelings. How do you avoid these socially-awkward situations?

I propose an anonymous comment box. How else could one exchange information with people of varying density those opinions that, sure, probably could be left unsaid?

I shall now use this blog as my anonymous comment box for relationships, both personal and professional.

• If you're taking me on a date, please don't show up at my house and ask what i want to do. Have a plan or at least a suggestion or two. It means a lot.
• I know you can't help it, but your snoring really bugs me.
• If you are a graphic designer and don't know how to design for the web, please don't call yourself a web designer. There is a difference.
• Stand to the FUCKING right, walk to the left!!!!!!!! Please.
• Please don't ask me out on used pieces of mail or other rubbish. If you're going for tacky, you're on the right track.
• Just because we work together doesn't mean i want to chat you up on the metro, especially in the morning.

That's all I can come up with for now...going to dinner with Reid. Please feel free to use this blog as your own anonymous comment box. I would much enjoy some collaborative bitching and moaning.

Girl Scouts Confirmed as Public Enemies

Girl Scouts are clearly bloodthirsty torturers who have been sent to my neighborhood to dissolve the last shred of self-control I had left from my New Year’s resolutions. They are clearly evil.

Whatever happened to keeping to themselves and getting some sort of knitting badge or campfire qualifications? I thought I had immunized myself from these little beasts when I moved to a scary urban area where no sound-minded parent would ever set their kids free to knock on doors asking for money. But now, parents and scouts are setting up shop outside Metro stops so that, in my Crystal City-induced delirium, I am forced to walk past their piles of delicious Samoas and Do-Si-Dos.

If I was a terrorist, I would infiltrate the Girl Scouts because that way I could easily use poison to take out the whole country in just under a week. No one would suspect a thing because I would have already earned my "Smug-faced I-know-you-can’t-resist" badge.

Damn it!

Spoiled Children in Grown-Up Clothes

Forgive my use of run-on sentences and harsh words but this topic has evoked such emotional backlash that punctuation and tact seem trivial.

Boys in DC suck.

When I say "suck," I mean they suck in the most callous and ignorant way possible. I know I speak for at least a significant percentage of the unfortunate women of the non-state when I say that these socially-inept cowards have ruined far beyond their share of nights out. They make promises they have no intentions of keeping; they get too drunk and act like criminals; they lie and cheat; they are intellectually and emotionally challenged by any sort of self-assured women they meet; they are lazy in the sack…they are worthless, at best. Most of them think that the only thing they need to impress women in DC is a bit of money, the ability to get into bars after hours, and a mediocre comment about politics over a dinner severely lacking in conversation. Sadly, they are unaware that I make plenty of my own money, have had better times with senior citizens, and have a vibrator that can do their job in a fraction of the time and with much better technique. Then, they wake up in their 30s, wondering why they are alone, with a gut and an STD. I mean, honestly?! I'm clearly better off alone.

I have given my fair share of chances to these imbeciles and, frankly, I have run out of motivation and patience. I don't need an alcoholic, unimaginative loser or a spoiled, bratty child to question my fabulousness.

So, piss off DC boys. Please don't speak to me again until you can act as old as your gray hair and your tired suits make you look.

(Disclaimer: There are a tiny handful of fabulous, grown-up men in DC and they are, of course, exempt from this rant. They know who they are.)