oh my god you have no idea how much i hated memorial day from grades 6 to 12.

i certainly mean no disrespect to our country's servicepeople, it's just that i really hate parades. especially local parades that have no discernible entertainment value (look! it's the old guys in the tiny cars! look! it's the group of people in green t-shirts with flags! look it's some vaguely attractive blond woman in a bikini in the backseat of a convertible! yay for america!). but i hate the local parades even more so when i have to be in them, admitting to the entire town that yes, i am in the marching band.

and so starting in 6th grade i had to be carted downtown at an ungodly hour (pre-sunrise) to get into "formation" (clusters) with the other people in my middle school band. which meant basically standing around.

and you know what isn't a nice sound? 11, 12, and 13 year olds "warming up" on instruments they can, for the most part, barely play at 5:45 a.m. on what will eventually become one of the hottest day of the year. every year.

i will also never forget what i had to wear for those middle-school year parades. our school band issued shirts, which were royal blue with gold lettering and had collars (that we had to turn up because we may have been in band but dammit, we could still be hip). and then we had to pair the shirts with white pants.

and let me tell you, even at 11 years old i was still aware of my ass necessitating an aversion to white pants.

and then we would stand at the beginning of the parade route forEVER, waiting for our turn to go. and then we would go and try and look and sound impressive, but we weren't because we were a middle-schoool marching band and had been practicing "marching" while actually playing our one patriotic song for only like three weeks. and you know the jokes about walking and chewing gum? yeah.

once on the actual parade route (so ugly, by the way) we would alternate between "marching" (walking) and standing still waiting for the cue to "march" (walk) again. for like, four hours.

and for what? i was never entirely sure how forcing awkward adolescents with squeaky instruments in unflattering and uncomfortable clothes to walk in "formation" (clusters) while sweating disgustingly served as any sort of homage to war veterans.

it did allow for parents to take reels of unsightly pictures the likes of which i will never live down. which i suppose in its own right is patriotic. but whatever.

then by the time i hit high school, i developed a whole new level of parade-hating.

marching band is marching band and i was in it and committed to it and fine. it was a summer/fall thing and we had competitions and performed at football games and otherwise had concerts but we were not in a situation where The Public was exposed to our marching-bandness, you know?

but then every friggin' spring we'd be reminded that we'd have to put on our HEAVY polyester BAND UNIFORMS and learn some lame-ass marching routine to perform in not one but TWO local parades.

and it would always be hot. and horrible. and there would be endless photo-taking, just like jr. high. except by the time we were in high school we had to be all "disciplined" and actually not embarrass ourselves which meant no talking, no socializing, only moving as one unit or standing rigidly at attention. i swear. (though sometimes we could stand at what is called, in band terms, "parade rest." i am not making that command up at all.)

and then. my senior year i was the drum major. do you know what that means? it means many things, but mostly it meant that i couldn't hide under a lame band hat with plume and fade into the woodwind section, it meant that i now had to march at the FRONT of the band gaggle and CONDUCT the band while marching backwards in a special uniform. so while the entire band got to be in blue, i was given the special distinction of wearing -- yes, of course -- white. white polyester skirt, white polyester top complete with horizontal blue stripes. uh huh.

and so those eleven parades will haunt me for the rest of my life and will be why i always make it a point to spend my memorial days sleeping in and wearing lightweight cotton.

Imaginary Internet Friends, you asked for it. plus also i needed a procrastination device. which means i can now present you with an illustration of my evening with a blog-stalker! yay!

but first, a few words.

this was not a Date because CalifSkip and i are Just Friends for many reasons not the least of which is that he lives in LA. and i totally did enough long-distance dating in college to last me the rest of my life thankyouverymuch. and so it being a non-date took all the pressures of Dating off and allowed me to feel comfortable which meant that instead of talking a mile a minute and trying desperately to activate any of my filters (the way i might on an Actual First Date), i spoke at an alarmingly faster rate and rejected any sort of filters whatsoever. because i am the epitome of breezy elegance.

anyway, CS was here in town for a wedding, so we agreed to meet at the bar atop his hotel because it has amazing views of the city. (of course i would NEVER go there if i were not with someone from out-of-town because that is not what people who live in SF do. we also do not go to fisherman's wharf. or wear shorts. we do ride the cable car, but that involves much scowling at the tourists who are riding it "for fun" as opposed to riding it to get from point A to point B.)

so right, the bar is mostly worth it for the views. SF is stunningly beautiful, especially at dusk with the softly purple fog rolling in. (made even more spectacular with a martini, of course.)

unfortunately, the bar is almost not worth it because it is a hotel bar. and this means you have hotel bartenders, who may or may not know what they're doing. if the hotel is uber-chic, the bartenders can be outstanding. however, if the hotel is uber-touristy (like this one), you're more likely to run into bartenders who look at you quizzically when you inquire about their top-shelf gins. which they won't have.

(i will interrupt myself here to acknowledge that i can, on occassion, be high-maintenance when it comes to ordering cocktails.)

the same bartender might then give you olives even though you requested a twist, which might then make you have to send it back because you hate Hate HATE olives so very much.

(and here is where i will admit further obnoxiousness on my part. a very good bartender would, after having erroneously put olives in the drink, discard the entire cocktail and start fresh with the twist because he would know the olives had already gotten their horrible juice all over my gin. and while i would never demand this, i do secretly wish for it every time it happens.)

and then that bartender, instead of discarding your entire drink, might return your same drink to you with the twist...AND the olives. at which point you might have to shake your head a bit. and then take the olives out of the drink and mention, politely, "oh, it's just that i prefer the twist because i do not like olives." and he might then ask you, "oh? you don't want olives at all?" and you might then wonder how it is possible he is a bartender.

but at least by then the matter will have been settled. and it will be fine because CS will eat your olives and you won't have to worry about them anymore.

and plus you can start fresh with the next round.

anyway, another thing about this bar is that there is a dance floor. and the thing about hotel bars with dance floors is that you never know who might decide that it is a good idea to dance on them. in our case, while it was still light out and the dance floor was otherwise completely empty, a man and woman decided they would make the most of the latin music.

the man was probably in his early 60s and not in very good shape. he was ruddy-faced and sweating. he was wearing a very bright, obnoxiously patterned shirt that men who are that age and have money seem to wear for completely inexplicable reasons. he had bushy white-grey hair. and he could not, for the life of him, dance.

especially not to latin music.

with him was a woman at least 25 years younger who appeared to actually be latin. and she was busty. and she had on a very tight-fitting dress and had very long hair and sort of knew what she was doing on the dance floor. which only made the sight of her with the man more painful. and obvious.

because while maybe they were a couple very much in love, i sort of got the e-s-c-o-r-t feel. ya' know?

anyway, it was otherwise uneventful (in the sense that i didn't fall or spill anything or make a complete fool out of myself) (that i know of). and evil olives and tourists and escorts and fog aside, it was a lovely meeting and a fabulous way to discover that at least one of you is not entirely imaginary.

hurrah!

remember how i said i am not uber-tech-savvy? that was after i received this meme thing, which has been sitting around in my inbox making me feel guilty for over a week now.

so i think what i'm supposed to do is say where it came from,

(it came from a young blogger named mike, whose postings are here)

and then post the questions it asks with my own answers. The Theme is Music. (isn't this exciting!? okay, here we go...)

1. Total Volume?
   i think this is where i'm supposed to say how much computer space is being taken up by my music files. except i don't know because my music files are not really so well organized, like in ONE folder or something. they are all over the place, frankly, and only about half are in an iTunes related folder. also, i have duplicate files. over the years, for example, i've probably downloaded and "filed" Dancing Queen at least five times. and i never delete things. this is why i have external storage now for my 20G laptop. not that i know how to use it. whatever. moving on.
   
   
   
2. Last CDs Purchased?
   um. i am not a big CD purchaser. i don't even download entire albums, just songs i like and usually those are throwbacks to when i was in middle school because i am WAY out of the current musical loop because i don't listen to the radio anymore because i don't drive anymore. i am not cool at all.
   
   this said, i did make a couple impulse CD buys at starbucks (hi? marketing-gullible much?) recently. those would be the ray charles duets album and the best of joni mitchell. i think i'm supposed to talk about my feelings on these albums, but what is there to say really? it's not like any of you have managed to escape hearing ray charles everywhere, and joni is joni.
   
   (though i will point out that i totally cry when they play her "both sides now" in love actually. every time.)
   
   
   
3. Playing Right Now?
   um, remember how i mentioned i'm really not cool? i'm really not. my iPod on the bus this morning ran through...let's see...some ABBA, some harry connick jr., some remixed ollllld school stuff (check out 'verve'), some sinatra, um bette midler, and some very bad dance music the likes of which i'm too embarrassed to recount here.
   
   
   
4. Five Favorites?
   hmm. my favorites are likely to change at any time, so i will list the five songs that i listen to overandoverandoverandover these days. they would be:
   
   Different Drum - as performed by Me First and the Gimme Gimmes
   
   Bohemian Like You - The Dandy Warhols
   
   ABC/I Want You Back - remix of the Jackson Five standards
   
   The Man Comes Around - Johnny Cash
   
   Proud Mary - Ike & Tina Turner
   

and then i think i'm supposed to end by passing this thing along to OTHER bloggers who i will then make feel guilty for not answering. like so:

1. here, KnitterStacy. this will give you something to do when you tire of working on making another (fucking) sweater.
   
2. and to you, Jen, because you are done with finals and thusly have all the time in the world for, as Purl* would call them, me!me!s.
   
3. also to you, Jake, because you are cute. and because we should meet. (did i say that aloud?) i simply want to uh, have the opportunity to prove the existence of you.
   
4. and then to my brilliantly funny friend Smacky who has, for one reason or another, decided to take it upon herself to blog in russian. and when she wanted to try and link to my blog, had quite a time getting advice on the russian translation for "she just walks around with it" given that "it" = "my enormous booty" and you know, there are some syntactical peculiarites related to american booty.
   

enjoy!

*Purl has already had to fend off quite a few memes, so i didn't want to contribute to further onslaught.

i realize that none of you are online right now. and nor should you be. after all, it is 4:30 on a friday before a three-day weekend and NO ONE SHOULD BE AT WORK ANYMORE. but i'm here*. and therefore i like to pretend that my imaginary internet friends are here now, too.

so, IIFs, you know how i mentioned that my little sister is going to be a mom soon!? well, she is getting BIG. (and kids, my sister is otherwise so little! she's one of those adorable women who wear size 0s. oh yes, yes she does. genes are fun, huh?)

i share with you now a picture of my almost-niece or almost-nephew! complete with b-ball for scale!




*at work doing things like looking at pictures of my sister, but whatever.

perhaps this entry is a bit blush-worthy, but whatever.

so anyway, i had just read in the Times about a new book, wherein we learn that science is awfully hard-pressed to provide evolutionary explanation for the female orgasm. didja see that?

but then i read this delicious take on the findings by the illustrious mr. morford and thought i should share:

Woman's orgasm has no evolutionary purpose? Bull. Woman's orgasm is proof of evolution, baby. Spiritual, karmic, celestial evolution. It is what propels us forward, brings us light and awareness and deep laughing cosmic moan and makes much of life worth living. And if we lose our grip on that notion and insist on devolving at our current rate, we will be in deep trouble indeed.

;)

morning, kids.

i'm writing this to you from inside a hangover. hi.

(that's the bad news. the good news is that it's the friday before a long weekend. and while these points are pretty much unrelated, i don't care.)

anyway, apparently you are not all imaginary. because one of you actually wrote me and began a correspondence with me and then met me for drinks last night. isn't that nice?

it is!

so yes, apparently i exist. and so do you.

(hmmm. unless it was all a martini-induced hallucination...)


PLEASE NOTE: THIS WAS NOT THE SCHEDULED "BLOG PARTY"! the blog party is still planned for June 9 at the castle.

marinated beef?

not a hit.

in case you were wondering, i am not waiting for him to call.

i was not waiting for him to call throughout my entire work day yesterday while i was diligently working and occasionally* checking my personal email account to not see if he'd written.

and actually, there were many many things i was occupying my time (and head) with yesterday while i was not waiting to hear from him, all of which i will detail for you now at this god-awful hour of the morning because i am awake because i went to bed early because i was not waiting for him to call last night, either.

like, talking PinkJaime into getting ONE drink with me after work. and then miraculously stopping after only two drinks(!) because i had to go run distracting errands. which, truth be told, consisted solely of shopping for cat food.

(oh man. is that maybe the saddest thing i've yet admitted? that i left a bar with my darling friend after two drinks because i had to shop for cat food? while not waiting for a boy (i barely know) to call? *sigh*)

well, in my defense, i did absolutely have to go to the store to buy cat food because my cats were getting ready to stage a mutiny. i've mentioned how i'm not maybe so on top of things? well, some days my cats bear the brunt of this, which translates into my having pleading conversations with them in the morning explaining that they have a very bad cat mommy but that i do really love them very much and that i promise i am going to go out and hunt for good food instead of the filler backup food i've been giving them and that when i return i will have something they really like, i swear. and then i beg them to understand and to please not pee in the kitchen while i'm gone.

and then for those of you who do not have cats (or who have low-maintenance cats, if there exists such a thing, though basically if you want a low-maintenance cat your'e better off just getting a dog) you might think that running to the store to get cat food is a simple, non-distraction-worthy activity. and you would be wrong.

how my inner dialogue works, in front of the cat food aisle, after two drinks:

"oh look, cheap cat food. too bad they won't eat that. you'd think they would. you'd think you could just offer them that or nothing and they'd be grateful, eventually. yeah, no. no one wants to live with my cats when they are cranky about their food and so yes, here we are at the Fancy Feast portion of the aisle. god, they've got quite a selection. i wish my cats ate normal stuff. no no, not the plain stuff. not the minced. not the flaked. ah, here's the sliced. but not fish-related sliced. only beef or turkey or chicken sliced. right. wait, that pink color, the chicken giblets, they won't eat that either. put that back. oh look! they like the new line of marinated, too. they are branching out, my cats, thank god i have more options now. oh wait, but they didn't like the marinated salmon. fucking cats. wow! they now have marinated beef! they love the sliced beef so much, i wonder if marinated beef will be their new favorite. they will be so happy with my new discovery! god, i wish i could just buy only the beef flavors and call it a day, but we know how well THAT goes over..."

and so goes the 15 minutes of standing in the cat food aisle, staring at rows and rows of cans that hold the key to my cats' happiness.

what? do you think i'm making any of that up? i'm totally not. my cats will not eat anything for more than three days in a row except for the dry food they like, which for some reason is the cheapest stuff on the market. but they will get very, very angry with me if i feed them only said dry food. so now they have dry food constantly available to them and then i give them wet food once a day (when i don't run out of it).

oh and i know you think they're spoiled, but YOU try changing their diets and then living with them. seriously.

anyway, back to my distractions.

i got home and fed the cats. and then myself. and i had chicken. and that was good because it further distracted me because when i eat chicken, sherlock stalks me. and he is sneaky. he will dive bomb me from all angles, aiming for my chicken with great dexterity (and sharp claws). so meals take twice as long as they normally would when i'm forced to play Chicken Keep-Away with my cat. and you certainly cannot wait for the phone to ring while you are playing Chicken Keep-Away. nope.

however, not waiting for him to call became a little bit harder as the evening wore on. because if you were him, you would probably wait until evening to not call, wouldn't you? erm, not that i was thinking in those terms.

so anyway this, dear imaginary internet friends, is when knitting becomes especially useful. because when you are winding finely woven yarn around four itty-bitty (size 5, kids) needles and having to count and purl and things while also half-watching bridget jones for the 40 millionth time, there is absolutely no way you can be waiting for him to call. hooray for knitting!

and then gosh, by 8:45 i was so so so tired, i couldn't possibly stay up any later. because i haven't gotten much sleep lately and knitting takes so so so much out of me and really, if i am going to be partying all weekend with NO ONE IN PARTICULAR then i should definitely take this time to catch up on my beauty rest.

and that's exactly what i did. and was asleep by 9.

unfortunately, this is why i was up by 6:15 a.m.

writing this.

because i am still absolutely not in the least in any way at all waiting for him to call.




*compulsively

i'm not exactly uber-high-tech or anything, but i'm not exactly tech-clueless, either. (erm, mostly.) but i am hereby admitting that i totally don't get Text Messaging.

actually, truth be told (and really i think we're at that point, yeah? i did tell you about getting toothpaste on my back remember) i really don't get cell phones, either.

[i am the uncoolest person in california EVER.]

i just don't like, get them. okay okay, i mean, i GET them -- i like having a phone on me and i use it to make and receive phone calls -- but beyond that, i am baffled.

[which is why i'm carrying around what amounts to a DOS-based cell, while the rest of the world is all fancy with their equivalent-to-OSXs.

seriously, my phone has a monochrome screen thing. with green backlighting (totally like computers of the 80s a la 'Working Girl').

and it's clunky. and the color is wearing off in parts. and the ring choices? there are like, five, and i'm pretty sure none of them qualify as "ringtones." my phone does not take pictures. it does not display pictures. it certainly doesn't display lots and lots of different pictures, like the faces of those people who are calling me. i cannot download sounds or features for it. i can't listen to music on it. i can't use it as my PDA (omg, i also so can't use PDAs at all, but that's a whole different story).]

i just cannot grasp the role of text messaging in a world that already has email for long messages and IM for short messages and then phones that still function as phones.

and so my lack of texting comprehension (and, let’s face it, ability) has left me feeling kinda lame and uncool and tech-savvyless.

HOWEVER!

there is apparently an upshot to my lameitude. it turns out i should never, ever, EVER be given the power of text messaging ANYWAY because apparently text messaging is an especially compelling activity when one is drunk. (and kids, you know i do not need another technical medium with which i can get in trouble for using while under the influence.)

so sure, sometimes drunk messaging is rather harmless. like say for example, after your friend kristy has plied you with 17 or so margaritas, you think it is a good idea to text your girlfriend. and so you think long and hard about what exactly you want to say to her because you love her very much, and want to let her know that even though you can’t be together tonight, she means the world to you. so you spend a good deal of time hitting many buttons (slightly harder to do with so much tequila, you understand) and finally send her the following, deeply heartfelt message:

and then it is, say, tomorrow. say, lunchtime. and you are at, say, work. and a strange feeling comes over you as you start checking your voicemail. about some text messaging you may have done the night before.

and then you hear it. the voicemail from "tom" who called you this morning saying he was surprised and happy to hear from you last night.

right. see, that's "tom." the guy you swore you would never see again after that night. who you haven't heard from since. who you weren't going to worry about. who you thought you were going to date but then he didn't call. who you are still crazy about anyway. whose --ahem -- number you didn't remove from your phone.

as opposed to "thom," the guy you are actually currently dating.

oopsie.

so uh, not that anyone i know would ever have something like this happen to them (certainly not), but i have learned that things like this are maybe possible and thus, given me and my crazy, likely.

as would be lesser texting errors.

because, danger of sending inappropriate lovey messages aside, i have learned that drinking before text messaging can also cause much damage in the way of "technical errors."

frankly, i cannot even imagine trying to command a little machine involving names and buttons and settings and noises and colorful screens while under the influence of a couple martinis.

because you know what would happen? i’ll tell you. i would end up with the same problem a friend of mine’s sister had:

little sister went to a big party at her big college. and the next day she woke up not entirely sure of the text messaging she’d done. she vaguely remembered messaging her big sister to tell her she was having a good time.

so later in the afternoon, she was very surprised to receive a call from someone named “Holy Shit I’m Drunk!”

incoming call from Holy Shit I’m Drunk!

hmmm. "do I know someone named Holy Shit I’m Drunk!,” she wondered.

and then she laughed.

because, as you may have figured out already, rather than text message her sister to tell her that she was (holy shit!) drunk, she had instead changed her sister’s name.

so yes. while i am lame and uncool and unhip and textless, i think it is best that i stay off the messaging bandwagon for now. but if you ever receive a message from someone named ARE U GETTING THIS, you’ll know i’ve changed my mind.


*pass out

you guys, you rock. i'm sitting at my desk crying over your sweet words of encouragement. can i tell you how much i love that imaginary internet friends want to go drinking with me?

so i say, let's go drinking!

i am totally not kidding at all. a lot of you imaginary people are actually living in the bay area, right? you certainly are in my world, anyway. and you also seem to enjoy getting your drink on (in my world AND yours, if i'm to believe all your comments.).

and ALSO a lot of you keep insisting you aren't actually imaginary.

so i'm calling you all on it.

Thursday, June 9. Edinburgh Castle. 7 p.m. what say you?

Amanda said...
Yes, you do seem to have a problem with alcohol. You also sound incredibly self-centered, high-maintainence, and crazy. If the fat doesn't scare men away, getting to know the real you will for sure.
11:19 AM, May 24, 2005


hi amanda,

well, goodness. i was rather surprised to get this comment, but felt the need (in my crazy way) to respond.

first of all, the alcohol is what it is. i make no excuses and have no need for any.

as for self-centeredness, i would have to say i probably am. especially here, on my blog, where my intention is and has been to write about me and my life. at least i can say (likely with your approval) that i have been consistent in achieving that goal.

crazy and fat? hmm. these terms are certainly subjective. i like to think of them on a sliding scale, really. for my own part, i feel being self-aware (on both counts) is key. and is also why writing about them is funny.

however, i cannot abide by being called high-maintenance. i have no idea where or how you would get this idea. was it the mashed potatos on my shirt? my breezily elegant soup-eating? my fear of wearing heels because of how often i trip and fall? or was it more the emotional? like taking it to heart when a stranger on the bus smiles at me?

in the end, i just have to wonder why you would feel compelled to make this comment. pointing out all of the things i'm most concerned with and insecure about seems fairly base and pointless.

(unless your intention was simply to hurt my feelings...in which case i feel i should let you know that you have succeeded. well done you.)

so did you guys see where Anonymous noted that a lot of my stories involve drinking? and that maybe i should try and dry out to get a better life perspective?

(and also that i am a lush and lazy and boring and should write "more better"?)

yes well. i think it's evident that i am not going to be drying out anytime soon, so instead, i think i shall embrace my lushiness and review the weekend in terms of wine. because that is how all things should be reviewed in terms of.

so because i continue to think of myself as a knitter despite mounting evidence to the contrary, i went to an actual knitting class on thursday night with ShoeHo, KnitterStacy, and KnitterStacy's fabulously un-PC italian mother from brooklyn who flew in for the event.

know what i learned? that you are not allowed to drink wine if you are going to be learning six lace stitches in a matter of three hours. even if the wine is very good and the man who sold it to you was TOTALLY flirting with you. knitting instructors do not care about the flirting. they care about PSSOs and such.

also, i learned that if you take a picture of me while i'm knitting and not drinking wine, i grow an extra very large chin. obviously, if i'd been sipping wine this wouldn't have been the case.

finally, i learned what happens when you refuse to let an un-PC italian mother from brooklyn have her wine because she needs to learn a faggot stitch.

yeah.

so on friday, first i spent my lunch hour attacking the ribbed cap for Snarky with renewed vigor, since i'd learned (totally unrelated) Advanced Stitches the night before and felt rather empowered and capable.

naturally, i fucked the whole thing up. did you know you can knit in the wrong direction when you're knitting in the round? wouldn't you think there's only one obvious direction to go in? well, if you're me you would, and then you would be all sorts of confused when one of your needles appears to have nine rows of stitches and one seems to have seven, plus purls appear where there should be knits.

because knitting is stupid.

moving on.

i spent friday night at costco shopping for supplies for a baby shower. do you know how much i hate shopping at places like costco? a whole lot. so you know what makes doing so fun? meeting up with your girlfriends ahead of time for a bite to eat and some wine. costco is SO much more fun when you and your friends are a bit loaded. things become funny, like that you can buy 24 rolls of toilet paper in the same place you can buy socks and DVD players and sheet cakes and sandwich rolls.

also, the carts are fun to ride on.

[and just in case you thought that we were making wine-induced fools of ourselves, EVERY SINGLE ADULT we saw bringing their cart down the giant ramp from the store to the parking lot was RIDING their cart. EVERY ONE. this is why i love this city.]

and so then saturday morning came and do you know what i got to do? well, first of all, now might be a good time to mention that i'm part of an all-female a cappella group. oh yes i am. (i sing a whole lot better than i knit, for the record. thankfully.) so our group booked ourselves a limo and drove up to napa and spent the day tasting and singing and drinking wine. it was fab-u-lous.

[and frankly, i expected to return with many tales of how and why i should not be allowed in wineries, but nothing especially tragic or embarrassing happened! i didn't spill red wine down my shirt. i didn't knock over any glasses. our car didn't somehow catch fire. miraculously, it was a glorious day.]

um, i did learn that the accoustics of a wine cellar are very good for making wookie noises. and that if you are not careful, the sexist man with a bad comb-over pouring you wine will start singing songs from musicals. also i learned that if you give 10 very health-conscious women enough wine and leeway, they will eat things (like an entire loaf of "custard bread" plus bagels, cookies, muffins, cake and anything else high-sugar/low-protein you can fit into a limo) like they are going out of style.

i figure i consumed approximately 8,972 grams of carbs. roughly. whatever. it absorbs the wine.

then on sunday, i joined my friends to help set up for the afternoon's baby shower (using the supplies we tipsily purchased on friday night's outing).

and so perhaps at this point you're thinking that a baby shower is certainly not the sort of place one drinks too much wine.

you would, perhaps, be wrong. because you do not know my friends (though i believe you are getting a feel for them) and so do not understand that ANY occassion wherein we get together is occassion for wine. this is just how things are.

which meant that from noon onwards, there was much, much champagne. and while sure, there was also gift-opening and game-playing and shower-appropriate festitivites and occassional speak of babies, mostly there was champagne*.


overall, the weekend was spectacular, and as such i see no reason to yet remove wine from my weekend routines. but i do appreciate the feedback, Anonymous, and will try and keep it in mind next weekend. uh huh.



*and bacon-wrapped dates.

happy friday!

just a note to say that the only comments i delete are my own; other people have the ability to delete their own comments as well -- the expression "deleted by author" means "author" of that particular quote.

also, i have received some requests (and a meme, i think) to post about specific things not related to me or the blog, but just for my imaginary internet friends in general to read. i just wanted to say that i will get to them, i'm just really not on top of things.

i have yet to get a california driver's license, for example. i've been here four years.

just sayin'.

and speaking of why i sometimes long for baggy clothes, we need to explore a situation that has fallen under the radar for far, far too long.

naturally i mean low-rise pants.

now look. i think low-rise pants can be stunningly sexy on the right body. i believe they help "celebrate" women's curves in a lovely way. yes, yes i do.

know what i mean?

(and in case you were wondering, of *course* i have illustrations for this; yes, i used photoshop for these; and no, i didn't even try to create arms because they are too hard. plus some of the arrows don't go all the way where they should. but you should expect this sort of thing by now.)



however.

there are lots and lots and LOTS of women out here who do not have bodies that easily lend themselves to the low-rise phenomenon. and this is why i believe it would be beneficial for designers and retailers to maybe consider carrying lines of pants that have waists where, you know, waists actually are.

otherwise, women who are not maybe so well designed for the low-rise (and requisite fitted tops) are forced to subject themselves to -- frankly -- rather unflattering fashion selections. uh, not that i have any first-hand knowledge, i'm simply making a point.

like so:

because, MUNI musings and Timid Lizards and ex-TheBoys and cross-country engagements aside, i actually do kinda like a boy.

i know i know, shhh. no, shhh!

it's just that, um, despite being over-caffeinated and jazzed up on allergy meds and adrenaline and martinis, it turns out i'm still potentially okay company for a second date. and third.

and while i'm probably jinxing it by writing about it here (because that has seemed to be the pattern, kids) (right, it's because i BLOG about it, not because there are other issues) i thought i'd let you in on it.

just a little FYI between you and me, okay? especially since i'm pretty sure he doesn't actually read this*.



*um, and if he does, i guess uh, everyone wave hi!

tra la la, 'round i go on the workout circuit. look at me, i'm here already for the second time this week. i am a workout maven. who cares that i missed 2.5 weeks of gym going because drinking plans got in the way? now that i have worked out twice i must clearly be pounds thinner!

in fact, i have been eating pretty well, i think i'll just hop on that scale there. it's been ages since i weighed in, and i can handle it. certainly i've no reason not to. i'm bound to be pleasantly surprised.

uh huh. hi, reality? fucking endorphins.

so right. i got on a scale. an lo and behold it did not tell me i'd magically lost dozens of pounds. in fact, i've hardly lost any since the last time i checked, and that was weeks ago.

and so all of a sudden, in rather dramatic fashion, the Bad Thoughts started in. the ones about how faaaaaaaaaar i still have to go. about how looooooooong it will take to get there. about how little progress i've made so far.

and when this happens, i get very discouraged. not in the "i should just give up" kind of way -- i don't tend to think like that. i get discouraged in the, "what was i doing being so confident?" kind of way. and i feel like i should just walk around in sloppy baggy clothes and big coats and wear no makeup and not talk to any boys for the next few months until i become more human-sized because right now i am just too scary and horrible.

not so rational, i know, but this is what happens when endorphins run away and the Bad Thoughts enter.

anyway, i left the gym feeling miserable and headed home in the drizzle, eager to hide out in my apartment away from the world.

and as i walked, feeling so unattractive and sad, i passed a homeless man. he was crouched low against a building under an awning trying to stay dry, and when i glanced down at him he looked me squarely in the eye and said:

"you need to put a smile on that face. things will get better. you'll see."

and that was that. i snapped right out of it. i just needed a nice big Reality Slap to remind me i should be more than grateful to have my life, such as it is...well, such as it is.

Bad Thoughts be damned.

to the person who emailed me the following very concise and somewhat inexplicable message:

i am very inerested in you i want you

i am just curious:

a. are you emailing me because of my blog? and

b. expecting some sort of reply?

i know you were waiting, imaginary internet friends, to find out what would happen if i saw the HottieHot on the bus again.

and i'll tell you.

i would get Girl-Stupid, and he would show his Boy-Stupidity, and that would be the end of THAT.


"there are like 7 people on this bus. is it always this empty at this time? didn't i used to be on this early all the time? when did i change times? i need to be more career-minded and go-getter-y and stuff. i should be on this early bus all the time and get to work early all the time. like a real career person."

*bopping along to iPod*

"i don't recognize any of these people, either. who rides this early bus?"

KA-THUNK!

"omgomgomg. that's him. right? that's him? sitting in the back again, where he was before? your HottieHot 'hi, i'm michael'??? did he see you? why aren't you wearing eye makeup today? and why are you wearing your tired fleece jacket? you are in NO shape to be meeting hotties on the bus, girl. no shape at all. he might not even recognize you. you should ignore him and wait till some other morning when you don't look like this.

"wait NO. your imaginary internet friends deserve better than that. they will get mad at you if you just sit there and don't do anything. you should do something. look at him and smile, and make yourself approachable. take off your broken-ass earbuds and put the iPod away and look pleasing. don't look too happy though, or you'll look crazy.

"okay, look at him NOW. good.

"wtf? he saw you. he didn't even acknowledge you. what is that? (did he get a haircut?) why did he not acknowledge you. maybe you really do look a lot crappier than you did that other day. but come on, you don't look THAT different. do you? maybe it was a big mistake the other day. maybe it was just a fluke that one morning and he doesn't even remember. hey, you're not even sure it's really the same guy even.

"it's totally the same guy because he is in the same sweatshirt and look, check out his shoes. you spent way too much time staring at his shoes the other day, you know you'll recognize them.

"damn, can't see them from here.

"wait, is that him getting up? this is like, nowhere near where he got off the other day. try and see if you can catch his eye now that he's near the door. one more glance/smile should do it.

"NOTHING. he must think you're a lunatic. (haircut looks great.) crazy bus girl smiling at him, clearly trying to get his attention. and there he goes, off the bus and HOLD THE PHONE.

"is that woman getting off the bus WITH him? they were sitting together and now they are talking and getting off the bus togeth--

"look at them on the sidewalk together. that is no bus acquaintance. she is TOTALLY his girlfriend."


and that concludes our exciting story of how and why i will not be dating the guy on the bus who seems a whole lot less HottieHot than he once did.

you guys. i love you all.

i mean, i cannot believe that you actually read about my um, folderol. and go so far as to comment about it, too. in fact, i'm amazed.

because do you know what kind of person i am, really?

kids, i was in the MARCHING BAND. you know? marching band. for many years. yes and now i'm single and have cats and drink wine and knit. and do things like have hour-long inner dialogues about some guy who says hi to me on the bus.

ON THE BUS.

so i totally love you all and have MAJOR crushes on, like, most of you. (not all of you, mind you, because i'm not *that* e-slutty.) (no seriously.) (okay whatever.)

that said...

um, i feel like i owe some of you imaginary internet friends an apology. or explanation or something. see, i am way sarcastic. dry. tongue-in-cheek. (in addition to being a former marching-band girl and knitting and having cats and all that terrifying single-woman stuff.)

and so i should probably clarify: hi, I AM NOT ACTUALLY ENGAGED.

i do think the world of Mr. Adorable and will probably IM with him for the rest of my life. but i am not actually going to accept an IM proposal and be married to a guy who lives 3,000 miles away whom i dated for three months TEN years ago. he wasn't serious when he asked me (not really) and i wasn't serious when i said yes (not really).

but it is nice to be asked. and it is nice to say yes. and it is nice to share that experience with imaginary internet friends who have LOTS of opinions about it.

so now, i will return to my regular entries about my (non-existent) weight loss and dating nightmares and knitting debris, along with continuing to faux-plan the denver wedding with all of you.

i'll let you know where we register.

like you, nostalgic imaginary internet friends, sometimes i find myself thinking about my past relationships. sometimes that's because i think about recent relationships and what's gone wrong with them. sometimes that's because i wonder what my next relationship should be like.

and sometimes it's because my past relationship IMs me.

so i dated this Adorable guy um, (oh-my-holy-god) TEN years ago. for three months. it was completely bizarre and hysterical and happened over a very very cold new york winter and it started because i gave my number to a guy he worked with when i was schlepping coffee dressed in a minnie mouse costume.

(i couldn't make this up if i tried.)

and since then, we've been in touch on and off. usually through IM and usually to discuss important things like the weather, what relationship disasters we've created lately, and, well, jerry springer* (STEVE! STEVE! STEVE! STEVE!).

so anyway, recently we were IMing and reminiscing about those three months, wherein he was working for a Very Serious financial services company and funny things happened like he took his 19-year-old girlfriend** to the Formal Company Holiday Party and she drank 349 tom collinses and then led the conga line and almost got fired from her internship the next day. and also we laughed about his living (literally, he slept there) at one of the wealthiest country clubs in connecticut.

then at one point in this recent IM conversation, Mr. Adorable announced that he thought we should maybe just get married.

hmmm. interesting.

he explained that because:

1. we've made it ten years and are still talking (and enjoying doing so), and that's more than lots of people can say...
   
   
2. we don't seem to be doing a stellar job with our other relationships...
   
   
3. getting married to each other would take *that* pressure off both of us...
   

and


4. it would be fun...

it seemed like a good idea to him.

so i asked, "would you move from connecticut? or would i have to leave san francisco?"

but he said, "no, no, nothing like that. we could just meet occassionally somewhere in the middle. like chicago."

and the more we IMed, the more it sounded like a fine arrangement: be married to a great guy; keep everything else pretty much the same. i mean, i figure we'd stop seeing other people once we were old enough to have to live together or until i was ready to have kids. but that's not for like, 5 or 10 more years.

so, yep, i agreed.

"you should ask your imagingary internet friends what they think first, though," he said. "we could be the first couple in history to get married (or not) by Blog Opinion."

so there it is. we now have the like, the modern-day version of asking for my hand in marriage -- but, you know, instead of asking my father (and by the way, Dad, kev says hi), Mr. Adorable's asking my blog.

watcha think?



(and not to sway your opinions or anything, but you could all totally come to the wedding, which we agreed should be in denver in november.)




*i would also totally marry jerry springer. not the point, i know, but i'm just sayin'.

** that would be me.

aren't we having fun telling internet dating stories? seriously, i have about a million of them.

anyway, i was going through my "archives" (hi, i save EVERYTHING) and remembered this little gem:

about four years ago, when i was freshly back on the singles' scene, clueless and terrified, i put a personal up through salon.com.

(little note: it's still there. how sad is that?)

one of the first guys who contacted me seemed pretty amazing. he was funny, had a great writing style, good job, blah blah blah, but no picture. so through our email exchange, i asked why he hadn't posted a picture and if i could have one.

his reply was something like, "i don't have my picture posted because i don't like feeling superficial, and i don't like women who reply to me for superficial reasons. but i'd be happy to send you one."

and he did:



ding! ding! ding!

so of course i thought meeting him would be a good idea.

we agreed to speak on the phone as a first step.

and much to my delight, the phone conversation started off great. he was funny and smart and polite. and so yes, on that call, i agreed to meet him for coffee.

but then just before we were about to hang up, he said, "I Should Probably Tell You Something..."

is there a worse phrase?

..."and you probably won't want to meet me after i tell you."

oh look at that. there is.

"ooookaaay..." i said.

"that isn't actually me in the picture i sent you."

i don't remember now exactly what i said to that, but i believe it was something along the lines of, "no, it's probably better that we don't meet then. that makes me very uncomfortable."

because seriously, ick.

and that would be the end of the story, except he later sent me a picture of the "real" him asking if i would reconsider meeting him.



i said no.

me: did you read my most recent post? it's brief.

charming british friend: Ah.

charming british friend: Oh dear. Temptation is being thrown into your path at every turn, isn't it? And I am glad to see that you are completely and utterly failing to show any moral fibre whatsoever.

charming british friend: So well done you there.


and there you have it. i am morally fibreless. but i got to have a cupcake.

it will come as a great surprise to you that i had a late night last night, and that a few (several) cocktails were involved.

yes, see? you're shocked.

so um, this morning i wasn't feeling so great. and i decided that i should probably eat something simple and good for me, like whole grain toast. with 7-UP.

and i went to the kitchen.

and i saw them.



look how they're just sitting there, looking all deadly. with jelly beans on top.

you know what those things aren't*? whole-grain toast.

but, hungover on a now-sunny friday, i have the willpower of a golden retriever. and couldn't help myself. so whatever. it was totally unfair to bring them into the office in the first place, Evil Coworker Who Shall Remain Nameless**.

******

p.s. speaking of cupcakes, this cupcake rocks!


*they are, however, a fabulous hangover remedy! who knew?

**it was totally stacy.

not that i managed to send it to my sister in time for:

a. her shower

b. mother's day

c. her birthday


but i'm not really an on-top-of-things type of girl. at least it's done! and maybe someday i will even MAIL it!!


ah, the wonders of yarn-overs.

um, hi. i'm terrifying.

seriously, i'm cute and fun and all, but i am also often a bit much at times. you know? can you even imagine? do you have any idea how much i talk? about nothing? and everything? all at once?

right, so i know you have been wondering about the HottieHot bus dude and let me say, i haven't heard from him and i haven't spotted him again. apparently, my writing about cute strangers makes them disappear. so whatever.

instead, i ventured to meet another internet guy (i know, shutup) last night. while on speed.

now, i don't really do drugs. i drink enough as it is. but allergy season is upon us in an harsh way, and i have been in rough shape. so i took some claritin, non-drowsy.

[actually, truth be told i took "wal-i-tin" which is the sad-ass walgreens version of claritin. i also own wal-dryl and wal-profen. it's possible i just buy these for their names. whatever.]

do you know what claritin non-drowsy is? i can tell you now that it is NOT a version of the drug without the thing that makes you drowsy. it's the drug that makes you drowsy but with so much ADDED SPEED that the drowsy effect is countered. uh huh.

but if you don't know that, say...and then say you take that AND have more coffee than usual that day...and then say you don't eat very much that day either...and THEN say you have to go meet an internet stranger and you are naturally nervous about it... and THEN you meet the guy and he's actually HOT and THEN...


...do you know what you might sound like to the poor internet guy? do you know how fast you might be able to speak and fly off on unrelated tangents and ask questions and interrupt and flail your arms and hands about to emphasize your points and interject your own half-stories with nervous laughter and have to ask, 'wait, what was i talking about?' more than once?

because i do.

you know, there is a reason women were born with The Crazy.

sure, sometimes it's hard to figure out and makes us just seem like lunatics. because The Crazy does tend to rear its head a little too often (like on fridays), and makes us do things like check our personal email inbox at work roughly 1,289 times in any given day and carry our cell phones with us AT ALL TIMES and engage in frantic IM sessions a la "WHY HASN'T HE CALLED."

but sometimes, kids, The Crazy is our best friend.

i'm going to tell you a story now that i just heard, from one of my most adorable friends who -- i gotta say -- did The Crazy proud.

so my friend we'll call Melody was introduced to this Dude. and this Dude was new in town, and didn't know many people. and since he was apparently really hot and smart and interesting, Melody thought she'd like to get to know him.

i should note here that Melody is objectively beautiful, sweet, smart, and really interesting.

so for a month (a month) she spent time with Dude. they chatted, they visited cafes, and just generally saw the city. for all intents and purposes* they were dating. Dude knew this. Melody knew this. Melody's friends knew this.

and here is where i note that while they did do some hooking up, Melody did not actually sleep with Dude because she was workin' the getting-to-know-you phase.

so! one beautiful weekend, Melody and Dude were at a party together. Melody was playing it cool -- giving Dude space to mingle. being all very uncrazy. but when all of a sudden Melody's friend-who-is-driving-her-and-Dude-home announces that they have to leave that very second, Melody wondered why. and then when the three of them were in the car and no one was speaking, Melody sensed The Crazy a-comin'.

and so when Melody was dropped off first and Dude didn't go with her and the friend sped off into the night, Melody's craz-o-meter hit the danger zone. but, in her defense, she did her best to fend off The Crazy. she got out of the car and walked into her home and into her room. and she took off her heels.


suddenly, fueled by alcohol (and a keen sense of "hmmm"), instead of putting herself to sleep, my good, sweet, charming, thoughtful, sensible friend Melody threw on her sneakers, raced into a cab and, at nearly 3 in the morning, hauled ass clear across town to get to Dude's house.

yes, she did.

and so what do you think she found when she arrived there?

i'll tell you. because it wasn't Dude sound asleep in his bed, all by himself.

she found her friend's car in his driveway. she found the front light still on. she found the FRONT DOOR STILL OPEN. and so she got out of the cab. and stood on the front step. and heard, without a doubt, her friend and Dude playing a different version of "getting to know you."

and so she paced. and thought. and was shocked.

and then had to pee.

(it was, after all, 3 a.m. and she'd been drinking and didn't stop long enough while she was at home to go.)

and so she did what anyone woman in her right mind would in such a situation. she peed on Dude's landlord's doorstep.

and then she returned to the open door, and heard conversation, and heard her name. and finally marched inside.

the two naked people were rather startled to see her. (as you might imagine.) and they weren't really in any position (ha) to make excuses for themselves.

so Melody, with all the power of vindicated Crazy, simply said: "fuck you, and fuck you. you two deserve each other."

and she left.


so all i'm saying is, sometimes The Crazy might lead to compulsive early-morning cab rides, but sometimes it's well worth it.

and completely necessary.



*'cuz i know you like that phrase, imaginary internet friends. that's just a little shout-out. ;)

so of course, adorable bus-riding CutieCute has not been seen since i posted about him like, a hundred years ago.

(i find this highly suspicious. perhaps the cosmos decided to give me a break by not being in the CoffeeGirl's shower, in exchange for removing CutieCute from my morning commute? hmm.)

but see, here's the real problem. it's not that i really suspected things would work out between CutieCute and me (our kids would have been so adorable, seriously) but thinking about what i would say to him or how i would approach him or what he should say to me should he approach me is a very nice distraction from the otherwise general unpleasantness that is my morning commute.

because people are not so pleasant on the bus in the morning, you know?

and since my iPod ear buds have completely fallen apart and i keep forgetting to get new ones, and since i have finally given up knitting anything that requires counting on the bus, i need new distractions. and let me tell you, i am just crazy enough to let one CutieCute fill up my mind's ENTIRE narrative for my ENTIRE commute.

i sure am.

take Monday for example. a solid 17 minutes of inner discourse went something like:

"i wonder what time i got on the bus. is this the bus i'm usually on? how late was i running? is this CutieCute's bus or isn't it? i'm NOT looking for him. huh uh. nope. who knows if he even TAKES the bus anymore. maybe he drives to work all fancy-like now. i wonder what he does. i seriously think he's a lawyer. a lawyer with a car. but where would he park? there is no parking in this city...

"i hate sitting back here. there are no available seats here if he were to get on NOT that i even care if he does (well i CARE but it's not a BIG DEAL) but you know, just in case he does get on the bus today he isn't going to come all the way back here which means i should move up front so that he would have to walk past me and then i could at least say hi. i think at this point we can say hi to each other, right? yeah, i think that would be fine. we are definitely at the 'hi' stage. but i can't just get up and move to the front of the bus for no discernible reason. that would be crazy. what would people think?

"do i really care what bus people think?

"okay we are at his stop. i am certainly NOT LOOKING to see if he's getting on. i'm just looking to see who is getting on the bus in general. sure. see how normal i seem?

"oh whatever, who am i kidding? i am SO looking. i can't see anything around these masses. okay, i have to stop looking like i'm looking, because if i make eye contact with him while i'm busy craning my neck trying to see him, that might be a little hard to play off.

"'nothing to see here, folks, i'm just wondering what's outside the windows. see? i look to the front of the bus, tra la la, and i look around to the back of the bus because i am just a normal bus-riding girl who looks around and...'"

THWAP!!!!!

when i turned to pretend like i cared who was sitting behind me, my line of sight ran smack-dab into some random HottieHot guy who was STARING at me and SMILING. AT ME.

and so while on a normal day i could have continued to obsess over the non-existence of CutieCute, monday's thoughts were suddenly shot into high gear. in a Girl-Stupid way.

"ohmygodohmygod he was looking at you and smiling. he smiled at you. who is that guy? did you even see what he looked like? why did you immediately turn away? why do you ALWAYS immediately turn away? wasn't he super hot?

"maybe it wasn't you he was looking at.

"maybe he was looking at the girl on your right. just because she's asleep does not mean she isn't cute. she's certainly cuter than the old burping chinese man on your left.

"maybe he wasn't smiling at you, either. maybe he was just smiling because um, he likes the bus. a LOT.

"you're going to have to look at him. you are going to have to look briefly to find out just how hot he is and if he really was looking at you. okay, now.

"GAH GAH GAH! SMILE, YOU DOOF! you are looking at him and he is looking DIRECTLY AT YOU so get your smile on RIGHT NOW.

"there, geez. good job. now, look away, nonchalant. good, good. you have established slight interest.

"do not let your face go all red! that is SO NOT COOL! don't think about him. you are casual. you are on your way to work. you are NOT blushing.

"you are blushing.

"turn away completely. he cannot see you blushing. kristy for god's sake you are on the BUS. MUNI. blushing on muni is not okay. sigh. you are such a dork."

and so it was, for another good 10 minutes, that i played the don't-look-at-him-too-much (crazy) / don't-ignore-him (he'll think you're not interested) game. i casually checked out things like his jean cuffs and shoes (not making eye contact) and decided that he's definitely not the lawyer-ly type and more the construction-worker type, and that was just fine because he was HOT and in case you missed it the first ninety times, he was SMILING AT ME.

so i am going to conclude this lunatic-like rant of the most ridiculous proportions by saying that i now know it is possible to sort of meet someone on the bus:

just before HottieHot reached his stop, he got up, stopped in front of me and said, "hi there."

yep, he did.

to which i, with my head still racing and my blush still flushing and my try-not-to-look-like-the-lunatic-you-are smile on, replied, "hi."

and then he offered his hand and said, "i'm michael."

whereupon my stomach flipped (omgHOT) and i kinda squeaked out, "i'm kristy."

and having no idea what to do next ("uh, come here often?") we just sort of muttered a couple chit-chatty things and then he said to have a good day as he got off the bus.

and then i spent the remaining five minutes on the bus wondering if there'd be a Part Two to this story...

...how i managed to get cinnamon toothpaste on my back this morning while i was getting dressed? because i sure as hell would.

i mean, i was brushing my teeth with only my undies on, standing at the mirror, when i felt a stray hair on my back. so naturally i reached back to remove it, except it was in a place where i couldn't quite reach it. which meant that i, in full pre-coffee mode with toothbrush still in my mouth, actually started to spin around to try and get it (much like a dog chases its tail. it's funny when a dog does it. not so funny when a grown, for-all-intents-and-purposes-sane woman does it.)

by the time i came full circle and could see myself and my shoulder blade in the mirror, i realized i not only hadn't gotten the hair, but i had managed to glop toothpaste on my back as well.

how? how is this possible? did toothpaste somehow magically fly from my mouth onto my back? did i somehow, unbeknownst to me, have a glop of toothpaste on my hand that spread to my back?

WHO GETS TOOTHPASTE ON THEIR SHOULDER?

well, obviously, i do.

so anyway, after a final rub-my-back-against-hanging-towels maneuver, i managed to rid myself of stray hair and toothpaste glop. but still.

life is weird and unpredictable and bizarre and brilliant and often really, really funny.

i hear motherhood is like that, too.

so to all the moms and mom-to-be's among my imaginary internet friends, thank you for everything. especially for laughing.

oh! and speaking of laughing...can i just say how utterly giddy i am that my little sister is going to be a mom? a Mom! my sister!

who i still think of like this!

you know, back in the days when she kept pieces of wood as pets and sang linda ronstadt songs to her snoopy doll and was afraid of birds.

and so no, i know she is not four years old anymore. it's just that it's hard to believe that my sisters and i are grown up now and two of us are actually going to be aunts and one of us is going to be an actual mom. really and truly.

isn't life amazing?

anyway, unlike her older sister who can barely manage to keep her cats fed, i know full well that my sister is going to be a great mother.

because she had an incredible teacher...


...who had the greatest laugh ever.

this is what happens when lunatic women with imaginary internet friends are left alone with wine, a computer, and no date.

• "artistry" that is the result of someone (who has no idea how to use photoshop) using photoshop while a bit sauced


• something i like to call "artistic license" with regard to "fashion"


• me naked

okay.

the first thing i realized is that, in order to properly convey why i cannot wear sundresses, you need to understand why other women can.

take this "person" for example. she has a reasonable body.


sure, her hair needs a little work (in this case blond really is a sickness, whatever) and she could probably use things like arms and feet, but you get the idea. she has a body that when dressed in a pink-patterned, flowered, feminine, spaghetti-strapped sundress, looks like she should. um, like:


see? isn't that cute?

but that is not what i'm working with. i'm more like:


so. when you add a cute, flouncy, frilly, feminine, flowered little sundress on top of this kind of body, you get:


and this is why i do not wear sundresses.

The End.

"my friend luuuuuuvs herself some fake hair!" my hair stylist said to me* tonight, in a casual conversation about hair extensions.

my stylist is tall and blond and beautiful and thankfully also hip and nice and the kind of girl who says what she thinks. which i love because i tend to agree with her.

unlike, say, my stylist back in darien, connecticut who was tall and auburn-haired and beautiful and also opinionated but whose opinions i neither sought nor agreed with. she was constantly telling me what i should and shouldn't be eating, who i should and shouldn't be dating, and what hair styles and colors i should never have -- not because they wouldn't look good but because she just didn't happen to like them.

"i would like this color," i'd say to the BitchyStylist, showing her a picture of Heather Locklear circa Melrose days.

"that trashy color!? never." um. but.

"well, i think it's kinda cool" i'd say, because it was.

"blond is a sickness, kristy" she'd say. and then give me nice-but-boring highlights.

so anyway, i am relieved to have HappyStylist in my life these days. who has advice (solicited) on how to lose weight without cutting back on drinking, and when i say things like, "do you think i could go lighter?" replies, "oh yeah! i am TOTALLY on board for going lighter. summer's coming!"

and who also, when i explained that i was at the dentist this morning for a teeth cleaning, exclaimed, "man that sucks! those bitches have no respect for gums."


*"me" = "the woman getting her hair done before me," but i still totally heard the conversation.

that, my dear imaginary internet friends, is a direct line from an email i received this afternoon in response to a craigslist post i wrote ages ago.

at first i thought it funny. but then i thought, seriously, aren't we all truly looking for romanticness?

anyway, i'm just letting you know that several more entries are on their way (just as soon as i finish the diagrams), including:

*When The Crazy Leads To Righteous Doorstep Peeing

*Sundresses For D-Cups (or "Why I Love San Francisco Summers")

*Oh, And I Am Engaged

i'm sure you're on the edge of your seats.

in the meantime, i would welcome comments/discussion on the phenomenon that is Men Who Reply To Personal Ads With Pictures Of Their Penises.

(har har.)

in more oh-so-thrilling diet news, i had soup and toast again for lunch. BUT! in a shocking turn of events, KnitterStacy did not outdo me today. in fact, if anything, she underdid me.

yes, imaginary internet friends. this is the email i received from MY BOSS today, who -- i am happy to report -- is having quite a time trying to live down her reputation as high-maintenance.*

(look. you all are bored at work and explain this to me regularly. so this is the kind of update you're going to get sometimes, you know?):

*******************************************
From: stacy
To: kristy
Date: May 4, 2005 12:53 PM
Subject: Lunch. It isn't just for food snobs anymore.

See. Lunch is not always a 12-item, lengthy-preparation-time meal. This is what i ate today. Granted, we had to go to the knitting store, which pre-empted my ability to buy the necessary 12 items at safeway and prepare a gourment feast...but when you need yarn, you need yarn. Meals be damned.

(and btw -- this is not the daily "recommended" amount of peanuts on SBD.)

-S

p.s. Do not let anyone think I am in any way a baseball fan. This was the only brand of peanuts I saw.


*will never happen.

i know that with the Crazy post and the Bad Kissing post and all you might get the wrong impression.

but please do not think for one second that i have one ounce of man-hating in my body. i do not. in fact, i have been completely boy-crazy ever since jonathan kirkham used to pull my chair out for me and kiss me by the sandbox in kindergarten.

(isn't that the cutest thing you've ever heard?)

but since my most recent break-up, i have been a bit more skeptical about the 'more fish in the sea' theory. because here i am nearly 30, with three-plus failed long-term relationships under my belt (while jonathan is probably happily married with beautiful kids) (and is also probably amazingly successful to boot; i mean, we liked each other because he was the Smartest Boy in the class and i was the Smartest Girl. so surely he is somewhere running a company or curing cancer whereas i am spending an inordinate amount of time telling bad kissing stories to imaginary internet friends.).

so anyway. when i start to feel lonely, i occassionally find myself thinking, you know, maybe finding internet dates isn't such a bad idea. why not "test the waters?" (see how i'm working in the fish/sea theme like a real writer?) yeah, let's see who "bites."

and yes, yes, i know i have sworn off internet dating but the point is that sometimes i put ads on craigslist just to see what happens.

and then i get a bunch of responses that remind me why most people are still terrified of internet dating and why staying at home knitting is really perfectly fine.

so! to serve as warning or just to share or something, i present to you now some of my favorite lines--directly cut & pasted--from emails i've received in response to ads i've posted. ads, i should add, that i felt were well-written, funny, sly, charming and a bit edgy. nuanced, if you will.

right.

(uh, i will also add a "snark alert" at this point and apologize in advance for my less-than-tolerant responses. (but come ON. King Od?...)




I wish I were attractive, I try to make up for that shortcoming by being polite.
and honest.


Im clean, neat, and have good personal hygiene. Is that important?
um, well, yes.


You are really fucking smart, Woptee fucking doo. What else are you going to tell me that you are just so fantastic at?
scaring the shit out of men, apparently.


you are good at crossword puzzels and I an not
you don’t say.


I prefer settings or situations where I meet the right kinds of people. I may not club but I do like strip clubs. (Who doesn’t?) My friends got me into that and we go wild there.
you are so right. who doesn’t like strip clubs? and certainly when i think of meeting the “right kinds of people” i think of heading to strip clubs.


i thought your post was hell of funny!!!!! no one is perfect.i had the everything and its gone now, except for me!(thank god)
if you were not “hell of” high when you wrote this, i would be perfectly surprised. i do have to wonder, though, where your "the everything" went.


LIBERALS SAY THEY ARE OPEN MINDED… DON'T THINK SO? SINCE YOUR MOST LIKELY MORE ADVANCED IN THE MIND THAN THEM,YOU CAN GET IT OUT OF THEM...THATS THERE FAVORITE SAYING"I'M OPEN MINDED" BUT DIVIATE IN ANY SLIGHT WAY WITH SOME MADE UP PROGRESIVE AGENDA AND THEY MIGHT EVEN WIND UP ATTACKING YOU.
i hate to disappoint, but i must confess i am not actually “more advanced in the mind than them.” still, i wish you the best of luck in your search for open-mindedness.


I think because of my Passive Personality it’s too easy for me to ignore my Desires/want’s, needs, especially when it comes to Intimacy/Sex therefore I find it important for a Girl/Woman that’s just as Open Minded if not Happy about giving as well as receiving.
don’t you mean Giving/Receiving?


hey im insun valley maybe we could go out for some drinks.
compelling offer! how long did it take to compose this entire email?


i ooze charm-i'm funny smart ;sensitive to the needs of a woman;ultra attractive ,hottest ,honest;-no ego
no, no ego at all.


I am very happy to meet you. Meanwhile I have alreadily read your Ad & find that I am well-fitted for your requirements & hoping that you can be my friend & ...
i’m going to guess that english is not your first language, which doesn’t have to be a barrier except perhaps when trying to get to know someone through a written medium and your entire message is 33 words long. just a thought.


Laughing about the world is fine…but it still remains to be seen if you are part of the problem or part of the solution.
why yes, i suppose it does. let me work on that and get back to you.


If we get naked it will be because it feels right..
very good to know.


Be HONEST. If it is not working then we need to move on. She needs to care take of me and I will her. I will do anything for the woman I love. Love is a two way street you know. When she is at work she gives it 110% and when she is at home she will kick off her shoes let her hair done and let loose. I am a big flirt and will take care of her.
you know why i enjoy email? because it allows me to actually edit my thoughts and make sense of them. otherwise i might end up sending an entire stream of (somewhat bitter) consciousness out into the cyberworld and we wouldn't want that...


Hi i'm a serious king od guy but I also know when to have fun.
and clearly “fun” doesn’t involve spell check. well, i can't really blame you. all hail King Od.

um. so you may've noticed that i participate in a few knitting webrings and that i profess to be some sort of actual knitter, despite that i have featured so far:

• one(1) picture of a complete scarf
• one(1) picture of a hat i didn't knit as it related to pyramids and cubits
• one(1) picture of a bag of yarn, without actually showing the yarn
• one(1) picture of a bag i eventually put yarn in
• two(2) pictures of yarn i had not yet started using
• several pictures of drunken knitting debris

which does not equal much in the way of Impressive Knitting Coverage.

so i feel a somewhat compelled (guilty) to share a few more knitting tidbits.

first of all, have i mentioned that KnitterStacy has just about completed an entire f'ing sweater? right. whereas i have not completed the baby blanket for my very pregnant sister that i started over a month ago, despite that her shower was hi, in april. (i am both a Bad Knitter and a Bad Sister.)

want to see it anyway? here's a picture:

oh right. i cannot show you a picture of the blanket because the blanket is in its own special bag. in the backseat of PinkJaime's car. and PinkJaime is in seattle. i am so on top of things.

so in the meantime, remember how i said i was going to make this poncho? here it is so far:

excellent progress for a MONTH of work, no?

yeah, no. it looks like (and is the size of) a fuzzy pink napkin.


moving on...we have my in-the-queue project i need to buy yarn for. it is another CondomHat for Snarky, only this time it is "ribbed for her pleasure." i am not making that up, either. Snarky totally found a ribbed hat pattern and sent it to me and said "can you please make me this?" and i can't say no. but this is:

a. very challenging to make (um, it uses two colors and three double-sided size five needles and has instructions like, "With color A, *K1, SKP, K11, K2tog, K1; rep from * 5 times more, ending with K1." right.) and;
b. actually called a Chemo Cap.

but i aim to please, so who am i to tell Snarky no?

finally, we have the impossible linen-yarn lacey scarf thing i saw in my LYS. "it's just a knit stitch" the LYS maven said. uh huh.

after (i am so totally not kidding) SEVEN attempts, this was the state of said scarf when i got to work today:

uh huh. SEVEN.

notice how i said "was." because also when i got to work today, i had um, a tiny bit of a tangle.

which i personally didn't care about ("i'll just work through it"), but KnitterStacy got her hands on it and just haaaaad to fix it.

and that somehow that resulted in her undoing the whole thing and starting over.

TWICE.

so how does the linen lace scarf four rows in look now? well, let's put it this way: my french-accented colleage stopped by my desk to examine it and said:

"zat loooks like zomezing for a feesh."

to which i replied, "i know. it's supposed to."

"oh! so you want to beee a feesh person?" he asked rhetorically before laughing at me and bouncing away.

so let's review.

i now have a baby blanket being held hostage, a pink fuzzy napkin, a to-be-developed ribbed chemo cap, and a ninth-time's-the-charm linen lace scarf so that i can endeavor to be a feesh person.

there is nothing, nothing, nothing worse than a really bad kisser.

my at-work, ladies'-lunchtime-knitting-roundtable found ourselves discussing the incredible impact that a great kiss can have on us. (see, this is what we supplement the "but he didn't leave a MESSAGE" discussions with.) but because that conversation was brief since great kissers are oh-so rare (and seriously, if you want to shut up a bunch of women, ask them to think about their best kiss ever; they'll just start staring all dreamily into space) (until they start swearing like sailors because they just totally messed up their yarn-over for the second time), we found ourselves discussing the other side of the story.

and here is where this entry becomes, quite frankly, gruesome.


what i am about to share with you is rather horrid. but it is true. and it is scary. and my friends who have heard this story first hand have asked that i share it here. perhaps to serve as a warning, perhaps just to make you feel better. because your worst kiss was not as bad as this.

so. when i was younger (but definitely old enough to know better) i agreed to go on a date with a man i will now have to call The Timid Lizard, becuase that will give you an indication of where this is going and why really you might want to stop reading RIGHT NOW.

(okay fine, but don't say i didn't warn you.)

the date fell into the ho-hum category. conversation was fine, but a little awkward, and overall the connection/butterflies/zsa zsa zsu was just NOT happening.

or so i thought.

apparently, the guy was on a different date than i was on. apparently, on his date, things were going very well. on his date, i seemed into him (on my date, my body language couldn't have spoken louder to the contrary). and so, on his date, it seemed like a good idea for him to end the night by stepping in closer to me.

whereupon i, as delicately as possible, jerked my head back -- mostly because i was shocked: he was going to try and kiss me, and i didn't know why, or how he could possibly think that a good idea, or what to do.

you know how moments like these seem to go in slow motion? when the moments go so slowly you can hear yourself think almost aloud?

"no way. he is not going to-- oh yes. he is. he IS going to try and-- no, don't scream. don't say 'ew' aloud that is too rude. maybe pull away a littl--uh, that is his hand on your shoulder. your shoulder. like you are in middle school and this is the slow dance. your 12-year-old boyfriend was smoother than this. ooh wait, maybe he is just going to pat your shoulder and wish you-- christ, there is his other hand on your-- is that your ribcage he's touching? you have to do something about this. nothing good is going to come from this. this shoulder-ribcage middle-school dance move is so not okay.

"okay, maybe if you don't move he will get the hint. his wet noodled arms clearly aren't going to pull you in, so maybe you can still escape-- ew. he's coming closer. he actually stepped closer instead of pulling you to him ew ew. keep pulling your head away this isn't really happen-- yes it is. he is kissing you. you have let him kiss you. his lips are on yours and you know his tongue is going to be next. why are you not pulling away? what are you DOING!?!?..."

and dumbfounded, i stood there. allowing noodle arms to kiss me. and then it got much worse.

because he did start with his tongue. he slowly, grossly, timidly stuck his tongue out at me, into my mouth.

and then he slowly, grossly, timidly took it out.

"okay," i heard myself say, "you survived and it was brief and WHAT IS THAT EWEWEW--"

it came back. the tongue came back.

and i suddenly realized that this wasn't just a bad kiss, it was the start of an entire bad-kiss-related production. starring me, The Timid Lizard, and the Timid Lizard's hips.

imagine if you will, me standing there in what can only be described as awe, while The Timid Lizard comes at me with a limp tongue and at the same time pushes his hips against me, in some sort of icky circular movement. meaning: tongue comes out, hips brush against me; tongue retracts, hips move away.

me, doing nothing.

and yet this is still not the worst of it. because now that the production is underway (with no end in sight), we have the added attraction of sound.

yes, sound.

every time the Lizard Tongue/Hip Movement reaches me, he makes a noise. a gurgly mmmMMMmmm noise.

i have no idea how i allowed the worst make-out experience of my life to continue, but i was struck immobile. all i could do was hear me yelling at myself in my head ("ew here comes the tongue, hips, mmmMMMmmm; phew! there they go. YOU NEED TO STOP THIS-- ew here comes the tongue, hips, mmmMMMmm; phew! there they go. YOU NEED TO STOP THIS...")

so finally, after what seemed like an awe-struck eternity, i awoke from my stupor. i suddenly pulled as far back as possible (and almost knocked myself against my door). and glared at him, trying not to look completely horrified.

he just looked at me and said, "mmmm. you are a great kisser."

i would really like to not notice dates on the calendar that i should not notice.

today is may the second.

yep. and i woke up aware of this, annoyed at first. and then i decided that rather than be annoyed, i should actually be thankful.

because were it not for this man, who is today turning 33 (oh look at that! he's still four years older than i am! muahahahaha!), i would never have had the nerve to move to san francisco:


featured above is a man who was sweet and nice and great and supportive. until he WASN'T and then left me. OVER THE PHONE. while i was visiting with with my terminally ill mother.

yes. he. did.

so you know, when something like that happens--and by "something like that" i mean the man you said vows to leaving you OVER THE PHONE--you get a little bit testy.

and then you find yourself thinking things like, "you know what? i'll bet someplace 3,000 miles away would be nice. i hear san francisco is beautiful. i think maybe i should move there. yeah, okay." and then you do.

and then it's four years later and it turns out san francisco is beautiful and moving there has been the best thing ever. and you have so many amazing things (friends and dates and cats and yarn and best of all a BLOG where you can post pictures of your AGING ex who would be MORTIFIED to see his mug on this site should he ever come across it, ha ha), you hardly ever concern yourself with thoughts of that very bad man.

except maybe on his birthday.