Standing in honor of Rosa Parks

Seven and a half hours.

Door-to-door from my Capitol Hill apartment to the Capitol and back again. I have never been so uncomfortable so close to home. At any point I could have bailed. A number of people did and I fully respect them and the decisions they made.

I’m glad I stayed.

I want to cry, for the beauty and the pain - I really do ache. I definitely cried earlier, seeing the motorcade with a 1957 bus followed by three Metrobuses. Everyone just… stopped. Cheered. Cried. I am certain I wasn’t alone in that.

I heard a rumor that the powers that be expected around 30,000 mourners, viewers, spectators. I heard another rumor estimating that 300,000 would be closer to the truth. Capitol Police announced that the Capitol would remain open all night, Metro ‘til one.

For the people at the back of the line, it probably wouldn’t make much difference – the Metro anyway. There was no way that they’d make it through before Metro reopened at five.

Actually, for the people in my part of the line, it had little impact as well. They were prepared to cab, bus, or stay in a hotel. I even offered to drive a couple of people home if they needed. After six hours in line with someone, you feel like you know him.

The couple in front of me, the couple I offered to chauffer, live in DC now but talked of their first visit, many years ago.

“We took the train all night,” Jake said. “We came into Union Station and we walked the same way we walked tonight. I’ve never seen such a large group and so friendly to each other.”

This was 1963, right before Jake and his wife got married, and they came to DC to see Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

“I was about 100 yards from the podium,” Jake remembered. He told me a lot more about that trip and about his own protest experiences.

“You had to watch out,” he said, pausing in the deliberate way I grew to know over our six-hour conversation. “You never knew where a brick might come from, but you know, we were young and that was just something we had to do… You didn’t think about it.”

We talked about other things: North Country and Katherine Hepburn, Ruth Reichl’s memoirs and aerospace engineering. Seriously. I found out how they met and I watched them holding hands (more than 40 years later) as they trudged up the hill on the south side of the Capitol, close to the end of the wait. They were just two of the many that I met tonight, people with whom I shared something special and will never see again.

The couple behind me started out as a five-some but were left alone with their sullen 15-year-old son. In no uncertain terms, he wanted to go home.

“This is stupid,” he shouted in the middle of the first zigzag. “It was a long time ago,” and “You’re not listening to me” and “I have school tomorrow” and “What am I going to wear for Halloween?”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” I wanted to scream at him with every aching fiber of my being. We were all tired and cold. I developed a major limp somewhere along the second set of slaloms and started sneezing about every half-minute on the half-minute. The discussions of food indicated that not only my stomach started cannibalizing and stretching amongst strangers/new best friends grew common.

The boy's complaints made me look around and note the sleeping infants and weary kids, leaning on even wearier adults, the beautiful older women dressed in suits and hats, the stoic men with sleepy eyes. I ached but no more or less than any of them. I wanted to turn to the boy and say, “Hopefully, someday, you will be man enough to feel ashamed for the way you are acting.”

I didn’t, of course. You spend six hours in line with someone; you try not to offend him. Life is short and despite the aches and pains, the chill and the hunger, I heard more laughter than complaints.

At the end, after walking so quickly past the casket that I fear I will remember nothing if not for the pictures, we walked out. That was it. I lost my wonderful, wonderful couple and the family with the sullen teen. I walked out into the cold night and marveled at the thousands still waiting in line. I stood for a second at the top of the steps and turned, wincing my way down, back up Capitol Hill, home.

I need to go to bed. I need to be at work in less than six hours and probably shouldn’t be typing now. I just can’t help it. I was a part of something tonight, something so much bigger than myself, and I was scared that if I didn’t write it down, if I didn’t type it out tonight, I would lose something dear.

I still don’t know why I went. All I know is that it was something I needed to do. Something for which I will always be grateful.

Strong women

Today. For me, at least, today is about strong women. I didn’t know when I got up several hours ago, well-rested after an extra, glorious hour between the fall flannel sheets. (God bless Daylight Savings Time.)

I had a couple of plans for the day – to catch a movie with a friend and to go to the Capitol and see Rosa Parks lying in honor.

Okay, so I knew that the day would about at least one strong woman: Rosa Parks, the woman who made a stand by taking a seat. When I first heard a rumor that she would lie in honor at the Capitol, I knew I wanted to go. I didn’t know why. I still can’t figure it out. I just know that I need to go.

I am young, urban professional white girl who grew up somewhat poor but most certainly not disadvantaged in southeastern Ohio - far from the tumultuous south of the 60s. In addition to that, I am uncomfortable around coffins. I prefer to remember people as they were: strong, vibrant, alive. However, I will leave soon to join the line, to honor the very honorable Mrs. Parks in the only way I know how. I would stand all night if I had to, if I have to. (I'm not sure if the Brokekid plans to wait that long, but I'm pretty sure he would. We will figure it out.)

The rest of the day, though, I thought would be a normal Sunday afternoon. Enjoying a bit of respite from the recent cold and recovering from my own recent cold. Instead, I dove head first into the frigid air of North Country, a movie about the first class action sexual harassment suit, a movie beautiful in spite of, or perhaps due to, the incredible ugliness these women faced. It was completely predictable and somewhat safe but powerful, nevertheless.

I cried like a baby.

Granted, I’ve been crying at everything lately, regardless of the fact that I’m quite happy. Movies, books, a well-timed long-distance phone service commercial. Whatever. The tears start streaming. North Country, however, deserved at least a couple of tears. It was compelling, well acted, well directed and relevant.

Women like Lois Jenson helped make it possible for me to work in a safe, as-close-to-equal-as-we’ve-ever-gotten environment. Charlize Theron, Frances McDormand and Sissy Spacek sacrificed pride and beauty in order to share the story. And I haven't even talked about the beautiful, strong woman with whom I saw the movie. I felt some major girl power by the time I caught the metro.

On the way home, I stopped at my absolute favorite used books store – Capitol Hill Books – and picked up Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” (it was in my head anyway, after The Lazy Bunny’s post).

A lot of things are running through my head right now, I have a lot more to say, but you’ll have to excuse me. I need to go and stand in line, read a book, call my grandmother.

Tag: StrongWomen RosaParks NorthCountry LoisJenson

Wist is Rad

Wist lets you add existing items to a wishlist that you can then place on your site through a JavaScript badge or parse as an RSS feed, pretty cool stuff. It also lets you bookmark stuff you find with a special tool that sits snuggly on your toolbar. It's a pretty cool tool for finding cool stuff you want people to buy for you.

Tag: Wist | WishList

You're awfully pretty, for an ugly girl

So, I went to a rugby game today. Cold, sunny autumn afternoon. Violent sport. Big, burly men wearing each other shirts. Good times.

Later, we ended up at the after party and the guy who’d been talking to me off and on through the first game (he played the second) decided to hit on me.

Unfortunately, he started with a sexual innuendo, followed by criticism of my Jeep and upcoming book club and repeated slams on my neighborhood. (We both live on Capitol Hill, but apparently my farther east address designates a lower-income level. He said as much. In so many words.)

I am the first to admit that my neighborhood, closer to Eastern Market and Lincoln Park, is not the same as his neighborhood, closer to the Supreme Court and John Ashcroft’s home. I am okay with that. I feel that my neighborhood has a little more personality, a little more diversity and is more easily accessible, but I am biased.

Nevertheless, what man puts his arm around you and tells you that you couldn’t afford to live in his neighborhood?

He doesn’t know what I do. He doesn’t know how much I make. His impressions are based solely upon my Jeep Wrangler (a Sport, not a Rubicon, but he drives a 1985 Volvo), my clothes (at a sporting event) and the street upon which I live. Given his comments, I would venture a guess that it isn’t even a street he’s seen.

I am peeved.

Granted, I’m thinking about him an hour later but more in a “I want to don cleats and drive my heel into his hand” than a “I want to go out with him” kind of way. Does this approach really work for guys?

Tag: Rugby Dating

Check out Mushaboom

I've been a big fan of Leslie Feist for a while now and was wondering if anything was going to happen with her over here in the states. Her album "Let It Die" is pretty rad, check out her video for Mushaboom.

(via cliptip.blogspot.com)

Brand new video for the most pop sounding track on her glistening Arts And Crafts label debut. There's something intrinsically charming about this single, akin to the imagination sparking French film Amelie. This brand new video is shot by Patrick Daughters. Is that woman in the hot pink top electro princess and former Feist Toronto roommate Peaches? Download (save linked file) the video here (qt)

Tag: Feist | Mushaboom

The best day of the year

Tomorrow. Tomorrow is my absolute favorite day of the year. I like it better than Thanksgiving. My birthday. Christmas. Combined, even. Granted, I’m not much on holidays but the end of Daylight Savings Time is the best day EVER.

Don’t get me wrong – I have nothing against Daylight Savings Time. I kind of prefer it, truth be told. I enjoy actually seeing the sun instead of trudging to work in darkness, trudging home in darkness and wanting to crawl into bed around 5:30 on any given day. It’s just that with the end of Daylight Savings Time comes one glorious extra hour.

In college days, I would just stay out later. Two o’clock? No worries, turn the clock back and it’s one again! My bartending and bouncing friends always hated it, and I have no idea if they actually got paid for the whole shift, but I loved that extra hour.

I love it still, but not for drinking, Halloween partying or carousing. Sleep. Glorious sleep. One whole hour when I don’t have to be anywhere but in my bed, counting sheep or thread count or nothing at all.

No pressure, no deadlines. Nowhere to be and nothing to do. Just... sleep. Heaven.

Tag: DaylightSavingsTime Sleep

Changing lanes

What is it that makes people switch lanes, move right to position themselves directly behind a big white van with a huge, flashing arrow pointing left?

Seriously, on the way home tonight, people kept moving right, cutting across several lanes of traffic to hit the exit ramp, which was blocked by a giant truck, flares and the aforementioned big white van with the arrow.

For the record, you could see the arrow half a mile away.

Nevertheless, people kept moving right, swinging left into traffic and my lane, and moving right again after the truck.

As an obsessive-compulsive friend sang under her breath when I admitted to singing the happy birthday song inside my head when I wash my hands to make sure I wash them long enough (Hey, I inserted her name in that particular hand washing/well wishing), I am a little OCD. I get in the right lane when I know I need to get into the lane.

DC has traffic issues, especially on any of the 95s. By the time the signs say you need to be in the right lane, you have probably already missed your exit. It’s a dance of unutterable beauty and elegance, changing lanes, merging in and out of traffic, arriving at a destination unscathed.

I couldn’t move from my lane, I’d miss my exit. It’s hard enough trying to get to the far right, to the 6th Street SE exit with oncoming Capitol street traffic. I am seldom brave enough to maneuver across two lanes of congested traffic in the quarter mile. Besides, there were people to my left, as there always are.

Whatever gene it is, whatever brain cell is missing, whatever compels people to swerve a crawling vehicle in a tiny space moving 60 or 70 miles per hour seems to carry over to other parts of their lives.

I am convinced that the same people walk down the middle of the street, continue walking down the middle of the street despite oncoming traffic. They leave their baskets and carts in line at the grocery store checkout while they wander the aisles, picking up a couple or 40 extra things. They think that Walt Disney wrote Alice in Wonderland and trilingual people with somewhat halting English are stupid. They mock my decision to live downtown without questioning their own decisions to live in the suburbs of cities smaller than my own.

Oh, fudge. I’ve gotten judgmental.

Other than laundry and rugby, I can’t drive again this week. It’s bad for my soul.

Tag: Driving Washington StupidPeople

Things are looking good!

Knock on wood. I watched Season 1 of Arrested Development last night, that show is fantastic. Anyway, I fell asleep with the DVD on but somehow woke up refreshed, which is not the norm when I leave the monitor on and the computer humming.

Hmm.

It looks like it might be a good day today. The plunger (to the missing syringe) was off my front steps and the rubber band was gone. Nice. I caught the metro early enough and made it to work at exactly 8:30am, wow, that almost never happens.

I called my sister and she was in a good mood, which is nice and then Don pops his head in the office and tells me, "Miers withdrew!" Yay. And you know what today is (I hope!) Fitzmas Day! Oh man, it's too good to be true, the only thing that would make today even better is if today was a Friday, but Thursday is good enough.

I hope this streak continues. What a great day!

Tag: SCOTUS | Miers | Plame | PlameGate | Rove | GoodDay

Today is not the day...

I needed after a night like last night. Unlike so many of my comrades in pens, I did not take to the streets for the high heel drag race, neither spectator nor runner. (I would make a terrible drag queen – my breasts are too big, my hips too wide, but I’m okay with that. I’ve been tranhandled at drag bingo, my only major tran experience.)

Instead, I headed to the place I would love to make my home away from home, the 9:30 Club, for Social Distortion. Fabulous show, preceded by drinks at Bar Pilar, which I love and would make my new favorite place (at least, until the Lounge reopens) if only it were closer to home [read: did not required two metro lines and eight blocks of walking]. Some of the tap beers were tapped, but the place serves tater tots. Tater tots! Besides, I got what I wanted. Allagash White, no Stella but I like it.

The friend who invited me neglected to mention that we were joining a girl friend of his who thinks she’s his girlfriend. She was actually quite fabulous when she wasn’t jumping down my throat for knowing him the better part of four years while she’s known him the better part of four weeks. I’ll keep him as a friend but she’s welcome to have him as a boyfriend.

The group consisted mainly of her friends, which was great when we were throwing back pints and slamming red-headed Sluts, but it grew a little less than spectacular at the loud, crowded bar, standing shoulder to drunken, coupled shoulder. I made new friends with random guy Chris (whom I can never date based on the name – I’m Kristin, stepdaughter to Chris, with best friend Kris and former roommate Kris, girlfriend of Chris. No more. I can’t take it.) and random [gay] guy Jim, who were fabulous, bought me beer, chatted me up for, well, ever.

I love the 9:30 Club. I love music. You could ask me to see random, unheard of band “Lunchbox Vomit” and I would probably go. I get a little tense, though, with all the kids pressing against me. I had a man dropped on my head in my early concert-going career at the State Theatre in Detroit while Luscious Jackson or the Presidents of the United States of America rocked the stage. I tend to avoid mosh pits these days and get a little territorial in the retracted personal space of concert venues.

Note: I am definitely getting comfortable in my own skin. You could have dropped me in the middle of the club last night, alone, and I would have been happy as a clam, whatever that means, and completely unfazed by the general moshiness.

Anyway, made new friends with random Chris and random Jim, chatting them up until I went to the bathroom and passed an old bartending friend on the way back. Bartender man and I hugged, talked, drank. I spilled his coffee. He made space for us at the balcony rail, positioning his my height frame behind me.

We listened, we rocked. We went to a bar, had a couple of drinks and came back to my place where my bartending friend made a fire (literally), shared some beers and popped in Beautiful Girls, one of the best movies ever. Unfortunately, some of the worst timing ever, starting around 2 a.m.

When the alarm sounded this morning, some time between six and eight (I’m a little hazy as to when), I realized that I needed to get up, shower and get my life together. I had three major meetings, one that I lead regarding end-of-year reporting, a major responsibility on my part. I had a staff meeting at the end of the day followed by a work happy hour… or should I say three hours of work-related drinking?

I am beyond tired. I don't want caffeine. I want to crawl into bed with a pillow over my head and send the neighbors to the movies. Until Friday.

Life is good.

Tag: Tired

Yo, there be all kinds of crazy shit going down

Well, yesterday is in the history books (yeah-- who's going to write about *my* history?!). All I can say is that it was one for the ages. As I got home so late last night, I have not even had to tell my own wife about all the events and happenings of the day.

So let's get started.

The day started off OK. By OK, I mean it was cold as hell, it poured all day, and traffic sucked. Once I was in the office, the morning started off without much in the way of problems... Then came lunch. I was to meet a few guys from a partner company to chat about some various sales opportunities. Off I went in the lovely DC fall weather to Reston Town Center where I was to meet three guys at Paolo's. First, my guys were 15 minutes late. That was only the beginning.

The meeting went well enough, and I headed onward to the bank to deposit some checks Kris and I were given as wedding gifts. On the way back from the bank, I witnessed what is quite possibly the weirdest thing ever... well, now, give a night to think about it, it doesn't seem like the weirdest thing EVER, but it still. It's pretty weird. I'm driving up to a stoplight (Old Courthouse and 123). It's green as I approach, but then suddenly it starts flashing yellow, which can only mean that it's flashing red the other direction. I am sitting in the left turn lane, waiting for an opportunity to go, when suddenly the light just stops flashing yellow and goes back to green in my direction... which was really unfortunate for the guy in the mercedes who, after coming to a complete stop on Old Courthouse, had pulled out into the middle of the intersection. When the light turned red on him, he was visibly confused. He ended up making it out alive, but not after he gave depends some more business from the old guy in the Buick that almost t-boned him Golden Corral on a tuesday style.

As if that was not weird enough, the very next intersection-- the light is red as I approach, then starts flashing yellow, then suddenly flips back to red. I stopped. Was someone trying to tell me something? Was this Kris' grandmother signaling me from the beyond? Ma Peek? Is that you? Flash yellow again! Flash yellow again!

So after all the traffic light excitement, I get back to the office and continue my afternoon. All is quiet on the work front... I mean I'm busy as hell, but there do not appear to be any really crazy things happening. "This is a good thing" I recall myself thinking.

Lundberg comes to pick me up around five, so we can head out to the new DemocracyInAction data center so we can install our new systems. They have these man-trap things. They're scary. You step in, the door closes. You enter your PIN (a FIVE digit code, no less), and then scan your hand. Problem is that I either a) can't remember my pin, or b) the scanner doesn't like my hand. If you fail the test, then the same door you entered opens back up, you have to exit the man (sure, I know that I *should* say person, being as how this is the politically correct 00's and all, but to hell with it) trap, wait for the door to close, then press the button to open the door again. It's annoying, but I finally am able to somewhat repeat the process.

Lundberg and I get the equipment in easy enough, thanks to the nice guy next to us, who happens to have a screwdriver, as our power driver won't fit in the smaller spaces within the rack. First thing I notice is that a) the fibre (our internet connection) cable is yellow. Yellow is bad. Most network switches are made to use orange fibre (yeah, I'm being a lot more simplistic here). Our switch is made to use orange fibre. Yellow fibre means that it's not going to work. These servers will not breath life into the Internet tonight. We hang out heads, and walk towards the entrance. I get stuck in the man trap... again. Oh joy, oh joy.

Lundberg and I drive back to my office, which I manage to get back into without issue. I finish my presentation, email it off around 10.45p and hop in the car to head home... It's cold. It's wet, and there's a little orange light coming off my dashboard burning my retina. Then the beeping. As if the light was not bright enough, the shrill, penetrating beeping that accompanied it was enough to wake a deaf guy. So, in short, bright light, loud beeping. What does this mean, you ask? It means my tires need air.

Again, it's cold. It's late. It's wet. It's windy. It's dark. There I am, at a gas station, trying to wake up the cashier by pounding on 3" thick bullet proof glass so I can get 4 quarters for my dollar. Lukoil-- it's a Russian oil company. You'd think the Russians could understand the benefit and nuance of free air, but alas, it was not meant to be. I sodded off toward the air with my four quarters, deposited three of them, and filled the hell out of my tires.

My journey continued. "Could this get any weirder?" I asked myself. Well, perhaps...

I always have to check the mail when I get home. It's a disease. No, really. It is. In the mail is this nice little red box from Marriott Rewards. "That's nice", I thought. I open it up, and there's a red leather luggage tag. Made in China. I wonder if it's made of Chinese political dissident skin. I read the enclosed card, which reads something like "we'd like to thank you for choosing Marriott." Blah blah blah "You inspire us" blah blah blah. "We'd like to give you this Starbucks card"... Whoa. There's a Starbucks card in here?! Gimme gimme gimme! Alas, apparently "Starbucks card" in Marriott-speak means "made in china read leather luggage tag". Bummer. Alas, I had to buy my own coffee this morning. Double-shot of double bummer.

I walk downstairs, and start getting ready for bed. While I'm in the bathroom, I hear the tell-tale sounds of Shmoops getting ready to expel a very cute and good-smelling hairball onto the carpet. Now don't get me wrong, I'd be calling the kettle black if I'd said that area of the carpet should never be puked on... but now? Here? Like this?

Alas, after some minor cat-puke-hairball scraping, I put me, and the day to rest at 11.59p.

Check it. Peep sleep.

Tag: Just plain weird

Anna Quindlan

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/9785746/site/newsweek/

Cheating

In what would certainly be a disappointment to my tenth grade English teacher, Mrs. Klamut who always said “Now, group” with a whiny lilting voice and “Cheaters never prosper,” I have to admit that I’ve been cheating.

And with a married couple no less. As well as my brother.

Now, before anybody gets all grossed out, it’s about writing. I’m cheating on the Girls with Drinks. I’m writing for another blog. Candy Sandwich, to be exact.

In the interest of keeping Girls with Drinks about Girls with Drinks and less about Girl with Drink or Girl with many Drinks or Girl with Multiple Issues and Compulsion to Write, I am spreading the love to another site. I can overwhelm them (my brother and the couple) with my issues. They’re going to love it.

Of course, I am still a Girl with Drink. I will always be a Girl with Drink. I don’t think that they could shake me if they tried. Well, they could revoke my right to post, stop talking to me, stop drinking with me, but that would be a little extreme. I'd really have to piss somebody off.

I do feel like I’m cheating, though, like I am sneaking around with a new blog. I am doing this for us, I swear.

I’ve never been much of a cheater. I really like taking tests. I get a kick out of it. I take tests for fun, on a regular basis. I love eMode. Apparently, I’m a shark, the color yellow and attracted to Energy. My holiday theme song is “Let It Snow.”

I even take the Alcoholics Anonymous quiz Is A.A. For You? on a regular basis, which I pass or fail, depending on your point of view: I am not an alcoholic. I have never even considering drinking like those questions suggest.

Other than the written portion of my lifeguard exam, I have never cheated on a test. (Really, who knew that there would a written part to a lifeguard exam? Wouldn’t you prefer that I had the second fastest time in towing a body for 10 laps or that I could flip a football player over my shoulder when the misogynistic YMCA instructor put three of us in the pool, facing away from the group, and repeatedly sent boys to “attack” us?)

As for relationships, I generally keep to one at a time. I’m not a serial monogamist. I’m just not serious and I can’t keep it all straight when I’m dating more than one guy at a time. I can’t keep it all straight when I am dating one guy or am single.

But here I am. Cheating on the girls.

Really, though, I do think it is best for all of us. I have a plethora of unposted posts littering my Desktop, My Documents and my email. I have a lot to say – so many issues, so little time. In the interest of not completely overwhelming the other girls, I’m spreading them between the two blogs. Maybe I should just invest in therapy.

9 Comments:
At 10:50 AM, Johnny said...
share the love, kristin.

you can kick em out in the morning.


At 2:06 PM, I-66 said...
candy sandwich huh? that.. sounds.. naughty.


At 2:16 PM, Sharkbait said...
Sounds great-if it works for you, it works for you!

Candy sandwich...has a ring to it for sure.


At 5:09 PM, Kristin said...
Naughty, huh? Naughty works.

Ever find yourself saying something that you've been saying for ages and realize that it's weird or it just doesn't make sense?


At 11:14 PM, DCLastCall said...
Candy sandwich? Will it rott my brain? I hope so. Looking forward to checking in.

DcLC


At 10:56 AM, heidi said...
Kristin, why not just start your own personal blog? It's pretty sweet, I have to admit. I love having my own space that nobody else can contribute to.

Maybe that's left over from having to share all my childhood toys with my sister.


At 2:30 PM, Velvet said...
I'm looking forward to updates from both, you blog slut. Oops. Did I say that?


At 1:04 PM, Kristin said...
I'm a blogging whore. I can't help it.

I should start my own blog but just haven't the guts at the moment. It seems easier to share the responsibility and the criticism. In the long run, I'm sure it's harder because there's also balance to maintain and, in most cases, underlying friendships and feelings. I'm babbling, though. I'm excited about the blogs.


At 1:33 PM, AsianMistress said...
Kristin I started my own after leaving TBN and look at me now!

Haha

Tests of Marriage

My husband (of three weeks) is a lucky man. All his buddies tell him so constantly. Apparently, having a wife (or girlfriend, or fiancée) who is more obsessed with football than you are is a rare thing in a man’s life. I’m not saying it’s the only reason he married me, but I’m pretty sure it least ranks on the list.

My husband & I are huge college football fans. As indicated in an earlier blog, he went to Virginia Tech, and thus, is a Hokie fan. My allegiances, however, are slightly more complicated. I was born in Athens, GA, hometown of University of Georgia bulldogs. Both sides of my parents are from Georgia, and my parents both went to graduate school at UGA, part of the Southeastern Conference, in the middle of college football heaven. Sadly, we moved to North Carolina when I was 4, and thus were introduced to a strange phenomenon called “college basketball”. This was a term generally unheard of in SEC land: a term that refers to the period between the bowl game and spring practice, apparently. Not wanting to offend our neighbors, we watched this foreign sport, and actually began to like it.

I attended University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill for my undergraduate years, and temporarily switched to “all-basketball, all-the-time” mode. Sure I watched some football, but basketball season was the highlight of the sports calendar year. After I graduated, I began a slow transition to my current fan state: UNC basketball fan, UGA football fan. It’s a complicated system, and it borders on the gray area of Bill Simmons “bandwagon rules”. Basically, it goes like this: If UNC plays Georgia in basketball, I pull for UNC. If UNC plays Georgia in football, I pull for UGA. I know it seems pretty weak, but I don’t know what else to do. And I strictly enforce these guidelines.

What I have failed to account for, however, and what appears to be a swiftly looming issue, is what happens when EITHER of those teams plays Virginia Tech. Now, a few years ago, this wouldn’t have been such a vital issue, since Virginia Tech was in the Big East Conference, UNC was in the ACC, and Georgia in the SEC. Sadly, fate was not on my side, and last year Virginia Tech moved to the ACC. Not only that, but they divided the ACC into two divisions and of course, put UNC and Virginia Tech in the same division, ensuring that they play each other every year (football AND basketball). This makes things pretty tricky. Somehow, I’m managing to follow similar guidelines. When Virginia Tech and UNC play basketball, I’ll always cheer for UNC – I mean, did anyone even know the Hokies HAD a basketball team until last year? When UNC plays Virginia Tech in football, it’s a little more complicated, but I’m taking it on a case by case basis. This year (and last year), Virginia Tech is still in the running for a national championship. A loss to UNC would automatically eliminate them, and I absolutely would not want that. If UNC were to beat them, I would be happy for my alma mater, but I wouldn’t cheer for them to pull the upset. I told you it was a gray line. I also know that my husband would not necessarily follow my above guidelines. He would pull for Virginia Tech all the way, no matter the opponent. And I accept that. These were issues we dealt with prior to the engagement.

Now. All of that being said, I arrive at the crux of my current dilemma: what happens when Georgia plays Virginia Tech? This is a football-only issue, since neither school has a good basketball team, and I'm not sure we would even care much about a basketball match-up. I mean, it’s not complicated in terms of who each of us will be rooting for…I’m with Georgia, he’s with Virginia Tech. No ifs, ands or buts. I am more concerned about the toll on our newly-formed union. With Virginia Tech and Georgia currently at #’s 3 & 4 in the BCS poll, it’s looking like a high possibility of a match-up occurring this year (*possible exception: if Georgia quarterback D.J. Shockley’s knee injury keeps him out for even one game, this changes everything, Georgia will most likely lose and will not play Virginia Tech. But this would depress me even more than the stress of a match-up, so I won't think about it yet).

There are two issues at hand here, and they overlap: First, where/how do we watch the game, and second, how do we react to the win/loss without causing us to declare our (not overly large) condo a war zone? I feel there are two options. The first is to watch the game separately. We got to our respective “corners” and meet up later. Or the next day, if one of us is REALLY upset. But this solution is flawed, because it would spark another controversy: who gets to stay at home, and watch it on our big-screen HDTV? I don’t see that issue being fairly resolved, so I’m moving on to what has become the only real option, which is to watch the game, in the privacy of our own home, just the two of us. And just deal with it. If we had other Virginia Tech or Georgia fans present, we would be more demonstrative and/or obnoxious (and anyone who has witnessed me during a Georgia game knows that I do NOT need to be more of those two than I already am).

How will this affect our marriage? It will definitely be our first test (well, besides that whole ER incident on our wedding night, but that’s a whole different story, and we passed that one with flying colors and two stitches). Then again, I’m most likely jinxing the whole thing by talking about it, so it’s probably a moot point anyway.

To stalk or not to stalk

When is that the question? Seriously, guys. It’s not difficult… There are two possible answers – one is sane; the other, not so much. And a wee bit illegal.

Okay, I need to be fair here. It’s not just men who stalk. I know my fair share of psycho bitches and I have to admit that I came dangerously close to stalking in the 10th grade. I just couldn’t get enough of Sean Anker and his sexy red sneakers. But for the most part, it was innocuous, grabbing the bathroom pass and walking the long way so I could sneak a peak in the open study hall door. Actually, all I could see was the red sneakers.

I wouldn’t call that stalking.

And there is the ex-boyfriend. I met him in a bar, looked him up on his company website and emailed him. That was it. He wrote back and he kept writing back through our first date and the second and the 25th. I admit it, though; I pursued him. I started it. He had such nice eyes.

Where is the line? I say that I was stalked once, but at no point did I fear for my safety. I went on one date with the guy who owned my hair salon. (Yes, he dressed hair and yes, he was straight.) The night started badly – he wanted to skip dinner and go straight to a hotel. I laughed, let him paraffin my hands and avoided the issue. We went to dinner instead.

The night got better. He was a little intense but nice. Interesting. I chalked a little of the intensity up to cultural differences (he was Albanian) and actually enjoyed myself. For the most part. I am not so into public displays of affection and would have preferred that he not share wine by spitting it into my mouth in the middle of Harry’s Taproom, but overall, he seemed nice. I might have gone out with him again – except for the calling.

In those days, I lived in Springfield and drove a lot. I dropped him off, drove home and crawled into bed. I got up the next morning and checked my phone. I had four messages. By 9 a.m. Four MESSAGES. I’m not even sure how many calls I missed because the phone was off. Mr. Hair Salon had canceled his plans and wanted to spend the day with me. His messages grew more and more urgent and he seemed somewhat angry by the time we talked.

He continued to call over the next several months. He would call during the day, when I was at work. Instead of leaving a message, he would call back until I answered. I talked to him a couple of times and tried to explain that he seemed to want more out of relationship than I did and it wasn’t fair to either of us. He thought we should go out to talk about it. After six or seven months, the calls petered out.

I lost my salon and learned to look before answering. (At some point, I programmed his number as “do not answer.”) Overall, I felt safe, but there was a line and he crossed it.

He’s not the only one.

I write about my life and offer it up for the world to read, to analyze, to criticize. A lot of us do. We’re opening ourselves up to more than criticism. We’re opening ourselves up. Period.

A friend got an email the other night from a reader who’d contacted her before. He had once proposed dating, but she’d declined – not interested in dating a stranger who knew so much about her. She has a boyfriend now, has for some time and the reader’s messages have gotten a little out of control, menacing almost. She’s scared for herself and her boyfriend.

She’s not a celebrity. She’s not famous beyond a circle of readers, most of whom know her, some of whom don’t. She shares her stories because they are funny; she writes well and enjoys doing it. She’s not doing anything wrong or "asking for it" but she’s starting to feel stalked.

What makes someone do that? Cross the line and menace someone else? When is the answer “I’ll just take the train to crazy town and scare a girl into liking me”?

Tag: Stalking

Hormones

I blame my ex-boyfriend for all of this.

Granted, I chose the method of birth control, which was, in fact, effective in, well, controlling birth (or preventing pregnancy, as I like to call it). It’s just causing other problems. Much like the ex.

I don’t have strange patches of hair growth, weight gain, tenderness or anything. I have been having that time of the month for the better part of eight months. I’ve been to the doctor. I’m not pregnant. I don’t have any STDs. It’s just the shot itself. I went off of it seven months ago, but it keeps on going.

According to the official website, it's not just the bleeding. (Sorry, I know it's gross.) I have been losing calcium from my bones for years and there's no guarantee that I'll get it back. I guess I knew that but it didn’t really sink in and I can’t say that it was terribly well known when I started with Depo shots about a decade ago. The whole thing kind of scares me so I'm trying not to think about it.

I'm going to wind up a brittle, broken old lady grateful only for the fact that I had safe sex when I could still have sex before my bones started shattering.

If that’s not bad enough, and really it is bad enough, I am getting hormonal. I have bought candy on every trip to the store for the past three weeks. And I am eating some of it. (Granted, it’s only one or two “fun size” packs a day, but I don’t really like candy.) Um, no wonder weight gain is a potential side effect. Hormonal and craving candy for EIGHT MONTHS could lead to weight gain.

And Saturday? I went to the movies and found tears streaming down my face throughout most of In Her Shoes, which isn’t that great a movie. I don’t even like Cameron Diaz. And then, on Sunday, it got worse. I caught part of Cheaper by the Dozen, the Steve Martin version, not the Myrna Loy version, on HBO and cried through part of that.

Cheaper by the Dozen. Have you seen it? It got a 24% freshness rating on Rotten Tomatoes. For the record, that means rotten. I not only watched it. I cried. (I didn’t realize that Ashton Kutcher was in it. Fascinating.) I am almost embarrassed to go out in public.

What next? Yours, Mine and Ours is coming out. And Cheaper by the Dozen 2. Get me a box of tissues

Tag: Birth Control

I Do Fear the Turtle

I Do Fear the Turtle…

But not for the reason I believe was intended when the marketing genius at University of Maryland came up with the “Fear the Turtle” slogan. I, personally, fear the actual university, itself.

Now, I’ll go on the record as saying my opinion of UMD students was biased from the start. As a junior at UNC, I took a road trip to UMD with my best friend, and stayed with an old friend of hers. Granted, the first part of the trip went wrong purely due to my own shortcomings…that is, I got a speeding ticket AND somehow managed to miss our turn, dumping us into some pretty intimidating neighborhoods in Southwest D.C. I take total blame for that part of the trip. However. When I visit a school, and the freshman girls tell me that in order to go out with them, I MUST wear black pants, I start to become a little skittish of my surroundings. Having chosen to be the rebel and wear, (gasp!), JEANS when we went out, I was later informed that College Park was, indeed, the fashion hotbed of the United States. Not Manhattan, or even L.A. Instead, I was told, “If you want to know what the latest fashion trends are, you come to College Park.” It was a slight turn-off.

Sadly, my initial judgments were only reinforced with my trip last Thursday night out to College Park for Virginia Tech/Maryland football game. Okay, so my husband is a Hokie, and I, by marriage, am 100% supportive of the Hokies (until they play Georgia, which is fodder for another blog). So yes, we were wearing Hokie t-shirts. But so were thousands of other Hokie fans who made the trek. Maybe the sheer volume of Hokie fans was upsetting (read: embarrassing) to the Terp fans. However, I do not believe the actions and brilliantly cruel (read: idiotic) insults hurled at Hokie fans were warranted.

For example, at any other college football game that involved massive tailgating (and believe me, Virginia Tech and Georgia tailgate with the best of ‘em), I have never seen fans of the opposing team belted with full beer cans, and squirted with mustard as they carried their school flag. This just seems slightly unnecessary to me.

Also, why would UMD fans/students trash their own campus? This just seems a little like punishing themselves, as they would be the ones attempting to pick their way through beer cans, bottles and plastic cups when they went out the next day. I actually felt like I was at a high school party, and these people were drinking their very first beer. As we walked to the game, people would finish off their beverage of choice, and just drop it on the ground as they walked.

I especially enjoyed the witty banter. When one of my friends made a snide comment about the trash situation, he was met with “Ha Ha. Very funny. You must have an IQ of, like, 180.” Ummmmm…I don’t even know how to respond to that. Did he mean it as an insult? Did he think 180 was a low IQ? Before I had the chance to push for clarification, the guy was engulfed by the crowd and disappeared, leaving me to shake my head vigorously in attempt to rid it of the encounter all together, and therefore return to defending myself from pelted beer cans and mustard.

To be fair, I did have an unpleasant experience with a Hokie fan as well. When we arrived at our seats, three guys were sitting in them, leaving only two seats open. Some of our group sat behind us, until the guys wouldn’t sit down, at which a snide request made to sit down (I believe it was, “Hey jackass, if you’re going to sit in our seats, the least you can do is sit down so we can see”). The guys agreed to move, and I scooched down to make room for the rest of our group. Apparently the guys weren’t as happy to leave as they initially let on, as I realized a few minutes later, when I tried to stand up, only to discover my ass was stuck the bench. One of them actually took their gum out of their mouth and put it on the bench. I know they didn’t mean for ME personally to sit on it, and judging from their reactions to my harsh looks thrown their way, they felt a little badly, but didn’t come right out and admit to their crime. I was a little frustrated. I had felt a sort of camaraderie with these guys, a “we’re in this together” sort of bond, only to realize that my assumption that these guys were the “good guys” merely because they wore the orange and maroon was more than slightly premature. Turns out …(moral of the story here) …jackasses know no particular school allegiance. It’s true, people, and I know it might be hard to accept, but there were probably some jackasses at your own dear alma mater. Of course you didn’t hang out with them, but they were there, pelting some poor opposing fan with beer or hurling terribly un-imaginative and non-sensical insults.

In the end, we had a great night, despite the aforementioned mishaps, possibly because of them, but more likely, because the Hokies won. A win can make you forgive a lot of things.

I vote confidence

Maybe they are right. The all-seeing, all-knowing “they” who say that you really come into your own, that you get to know and actually like yourself in your 30s.

Granted, I’ve only been 30 for about seven weeks, so maybe I am not in a position to judge. (As with babies, shoes and relationships, counting in weeks means new.) Nevertheless, something has changed.

I’ve never been too concerned with other people’s opinions.

Actually, that’s a lie. I care very deeply what other people think, but not on a superficial level. I want people to think that I’m smart and funny. I want people to think that I am nice, reliable, dependable and for my friends to know that I will always be there for them. However, none of these can be determined with a glance or a double take or my personal favorite, the chest stare/conversation.

Regarding those things that can be judged from across the room, I don’t much care. I don’t always brush my hair; though, I do always brush my teeth and shave my legs, whether or not anyone else will see or feel them. (The legs, that is, not the teeth. I smile a lot, so people always see my teeth but most don’t touch them.) I don’t wear makeup. I don’t care much about clothes but whatever. I just prefer books to fashion magazines.

I admire girls who are always put together – I’m friends with a number of them and appreciate the time and energy that goes into looking great all the time. I just don’t feel the need to do the same.

Nevertheless, I have to admit that I haven’t always been comfortable in my own skin. I have survived bouts of bulimia and anorexia and Weight Watchers. My brother used to call me anal – and I am definitely type A. I worried myself sick about rules, doing what’s right, making other people happy. Actually, I cared more about giving people whatever they wanted, regardless of what it meant to me and for a long time I felt that I was teetering on the edge, unable to live up to the standards I set for myself.

Something has changed.

Yesterday, driving out to a bonfire in the middle of nowhere in the rain, I realized I was late. Once I would have sped to get their sooner or to keep up with traffic in the left lane or whatever; last night, I drove slower. I haven’t been driving a lot lately and I wasn’t terribly comfortable with the rain. I put myself first, and I was okay with that.

It’s not just that. Lately, I feel like I do when I have a boyfriend. Only better. I don’t worry about showing up by myself and I don’t worry about meeting Mr. Right. For the most part, I’m not looking. I spent an hour talking to a guy in a bar and refused to give my number because that conversation was enough for me. I found him interesting, but not enough to date. I wouldn’t have called him back. Why mislead random stranger man just because I was flattered that he wanted my number?

I’m even getting Zen about work. The Thursday afternoon call issuing a brand-new, numbers-heavy, 35-page report (due Monday afternoon) pushed me to happy hour with a coworker, but I didn’t drink a lot and when I came in Friday, I took it slow, delegated work and managed to get by without working much over the weekend. I didn’t even worry about the fact that I was having a few friends over that night and hadn’t cleaned, bought food or thought about wine.

It all worked out. The bonfire, the bar, the report (which isn’t quite done yet but will be by Monday afternoon) and the friends on Friday. It’s all good and I am strangely happy.

It could be apathy or the meds I am taking to battle seasonal allergies/the second cold of my 30s, but I prefer to think that “they” are right. The 30s rock.


13 Comments:
At 6:32 PM, DCLastCall said...
Like yourself, experiencing my 30's has been more of a self-centered experience. I used to try so hard to please and met the expectations of others, which I often did, but in the last couple of years, I work to make me happy first. It's quite liberating.

I like what you said about not giving out your number. I hope that he respected your privacy, and a appreciated the fact that you were just not that interested...

Looking forward to reading more coming into your 30's revelations.

DcLc


At 7:10 PM, Velvet said...
I totally agree with your conclusions. I didn't feel anything bad at all at turning 30, I was more excited to see what was going to come.

I feel like I became smarter, and quicker to figure people out. Most women stress about hitting their 30's and not being married. I LOVE not being married.

There was just a contentment I felt at hitting 30. I feel like in that pyramid of the 5 needs they have in psychology classes, that I've finally hit the "self-actualization" phase. I'm done changing and finding myself, now I'm just living with what I've created. I'm not sure that this is knowledge I would have if I was married in my 20's. I think I needed to be alone to get where I am right now.


At 7:28 PM, AsianMistress said...
Sounds like you're coming into your own. I only hope that one day I will seem as cool and collected as you.

I did enjoy talking to you the other night (however brief) and I hope to see you again at other events!

I think there is a great sense of knowing yourself among the women I know who are 30 something and single, compared to some who are just going along with life as it's handed to them. It's good to be confident and really realize you are living your life for you.

I'm babbling...anyway...nice post! I think it's a good mirror of mine. How different we are at certain stages in life!


At 9:57 PM, TheGirlWho said...
I am excited to hit the big 3-0.. Your post hit home.. and I want to shed this skin of caring so much what others think, trying so hard to make others like me, comparing myself to every other girl in the room.. This post made me happy!


At 7:52 AM, MMH said...
Welcome to the wonderful world of the 30's. I'm going to be so sad to see them go.


At 8:56 AM, Johnny said...
1- virgos do have a little thing for having all the planets aligned in the right direction dont they?

2- you wont always get to the bonfire in time. lets just call it destiny herding you to some other hot guy.

3- zen about work? ewww.

4- yes you do have a sizeable rack. one of these days, i'd like a conversation with them. you know... "look at you girls. so pretty!" :p

5- its monday :(


At 2:45 PM, Johnny said...
kristin!

what are u doing with the bartender?

sex on the beach?

do tell! u naughty naughty sexpot!


At 5:16 PM, Kristin said...
Ah, Johnny. I don't kiss and tell. At least not on a blog my mom reads, but I suppose there's a reason that people keep buying me red-headed sluts...

I'm sure I'll write about it eventually, the boy bartender, that is. He's definitely good for the morale and feeling sexy at any age.

There are some great revelations in the 20s (ala AM's insights).

As the other girls with drinks are all fabulous 30-somethings, I didn't worry too much. They rock. Though, I'm glad MMH will scope out 40-something for us (eventually, no rush there).


At 8:57 AM, Berk said...
"sexy at any age" kristin you sound like you just joined AARP. 30 is not old. 40 is, well, getting there, but still not old. at 30, instead of being young and naive, you're just young. that's the difference.


At 10:06 AM, Kristin said...
I should clarify. Bartender boy is 23. I'm 23.3% older than him. I just mean that it's nice to feel sexy around a boy who's comparing me to the 20-year-olds in psych class.


At 4:41 PM, Chairborne Stranger said...
Kristin, holy cow, can you write, and having recently joined the 30 crowd, I'm glad to see I'm not the only one that had second thoughts at first.


At 11:09 PM, Stef said...
Kristin, I'm with you, babe. As I'm now approaching 31, I am realizing that this past year has been one of increased confidence and self-awareness. I'm finally at a point in my work life where I've achieved things and earned a higher position, and being a little older I have an easier time getting the respect of board members and other older colleagues. I'm still the same person, just a little older, and more comfortable in my own skin. Life's not perfect, but it feels pretty darn good most of the time.


At 1:25 AM, Kristin said...
Stef - I'm starting to think that perfection is highly overrated and I'm glad to know that so many of us feel comfortable in our 30-year-old (plus) skins.

Why didn't anyone ever tell us that life got so good?

Sixteen Candles - WTF?!

Last night, in honor of my book du jour (A Year in Provence), I thought to read a little and watch Belle de Jour, a film about a French doctor’s wife turned prostitute, working in brothels while keeping her marriage chaste.

Of course, I don’t speak French and couldn’t quite follow along with subtitles with my nose in a book, so I surfed a little and stopped at Sixteen Candles, a movie I don’t need to see or even hear to follow. I think I could recite the script by heart, complete with gestures and poses. (Fortunately, I don’t do this often.)

I taped it off The Movie Channel in 1986 or so. My mom eventually replaced it with a copy picked up at a library sale. That, too, wore out. I’m now on my third copy. Occasionally, I’ll catch it on cable but more often than not, I’ll just pop in the tape (yes, tape, as in VHS), if I want to see it. I don’t like commercials.

Nevertheless, last night, I stopped at We - the Women’s Entertainment network - or something like that, and tuned in for a showing replete with commercials. I didn’t care. I was reading.

Sometime between a trip to the Côte d'Azur and yet another fabulous, cheap Provençal meal, something went horribly awry. I looked up to see Sam talking about carrots and breast size, standing with Randy in line at the cafeteria.

Huh?

How could I forget a scene, any scene in a movie I knew so well? I popped in the tape and fast-forwarded to the sex quiz in study hall.

Question 7: Have you ever done it?
I DON’T THINK SO

Question 8: If you answered “I don’t think so”, would you ever if you could?
I guess so

Yada, yada, yada followed by a panicked conversation with Randy. "I would shit twice and die." Jump to the pull-up scene. (Are they really pull-ups if you can touch the floor?) No cafeteria. A brand new scene in a movie I had watched at least a hundred times. No lie. Almost as much as my stepbrother Larry watched Top Gun. We fought for the VCR.

I googled it.

I still don’t understand it. The scene is actually known to appear in the TV version. Is it on the DVD? Maybe it’s bonus footage in the Brat Pack (Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club and Weird Science). Have I missed two decades of Jake Ryan? I can’t find much in the way of information. I feel betrayed, perplexed, ungrounded. (I don't do well with change.) I didn’t know what to do.

I stopped the video and returned to the book, wary of other surprises. I was almost too shaken to read.

7 Comments:
At 10:29 AM, Berk said...
Why can't they put deleted scenes in the televised version of Cool Hand Luke? Now *there's* a movie!! No "deleted scenes" gimmicks needed to get people to watch over and over again.


At 10:54 AM, Kristin said...
While Cool Hand Luke did not necessarily appeal to my 10-year-old sensibilities in early 1986, almost twenty years later I can appreciate it as the epitome of, well, cool. No gimmicks required.


At 2:10 PM, Drunken Chud said...
well, i looked it up on IMDB, cuz normally USA networks likes to do this shit. they cut a movie to hell to edit it for time and content and then need a minute or so of filler ie: the diablo scene in billy madison and the kickball scene. it appears WE has their own little special scene. here is the imdb explaination. it's not much help, but it's some. automobile... automobile! damn i ramble.


At 4:44 PM, Kristin said...
I have to admit that it's been far more interactive than the French film would have been, even with subtitles. I think I've spent at least an hour looking into it, watching the VHS version, searching for "extras" on DVD versions. (Though, there doesn't seem to be any extra scenes, maybe some music and the trailer.)

I'm even more confused that We has its own version. That's just weird.


At 5:33 PM, Michael said...
Belle Du Jour is one of the best movies ever! You should watch it, if only to bask in the impossible awesomeness of Catherine Deneuve.


At 7:15 PM, Kristin said...
I ought to have just watched it last night. I didn't get much done in the way of reading and "one of the best movies ever" is a glowing recommendation. I love movies - I'll watch films with dimly lit, single bulb blinking recommendations.

Noon on Wednesday

So, I’m in the kitchen, right? Heating up my soup, just like every other day except that today was Amy’s Organic Pasta & 3 Bean Soup instead of the Organic Black Bean Chili or Organic Black Bean Vegetable Soup or Organic Butternut Squash Soup, which I am really looking forward to tomorrow.

I am in the kitchen, at work, I lean over, put the bowl in the microwave and straighten up to see a hot guy standing next to me. He said “Hi,” got a bottle of water out of the fridge and walked out.

I rolled up my tongue and turned back to the fridge, scouring for a Diet Coke. He walked back in to throw away a can and an empty water bottle. Three minutes later, as I was burning my fingers and pulling the soup from the microwave, he poked his head in again, looking for someone who was looking for coffee.

Right.

Unless he is as spastic as I am, there is really no reason to hit the kitchen three times in four minutes. Granted, it could be possible and the first two visits seemed legit but the third trip? I don't think so.

How could he lose someone from the conference room in two minutes? And why did he really need to find him? Random hot guy was not looking for coffee himself and the meeting was so obviously on a break. Otherwise, he really is spastic – leaving an ongoing meeting three times in four minutes. I am going to delude myself into thinking that he just want to see me again.

Needless to say, random hot guy does not work in my office or for my company. There are only about 40 of us and other than one or two new girls at the client site, I know everyone. Even the people who never come to the office.

He must be here for the meeting. I just don’t know who is meeting – I don’t recognize anybody from a cursory glance in the door and our (government) clients are not exactly know for hot 20- or 30-something-year-old guys.

Damn, he’s probably somebody’s client. Highly improper. I will have to settle for heading back to the kitchen for another Diet Coke and a glance into the conference room. He is too pretty for noon on Wednesday.

Then, back to the desk to think about happy hour. Too many blogger happy hours, too little time tonight. I suppose I'll figure it out and drink, blog and be merry.

3 Comments:
At 9:48 PM, Chairborne Stranger said...
No delusions, he's interested, work it, girl.


At 9:07 AM, Johnny said...
you should have explained to him that work kitchens are for sex and conference rooms are ... well actually for sex.

you actually eat at the bistro on the corner.


At 9:58 AM, AsianMistress said...
Yay drink and be merry! :)

Excuse me

Two words: Excuse me. When did they leave the English language? I know that I’m getting a little curmudgeonly, the older that I get, but I swear that it’s getting worse and I have always been bothered by the pushing, shoving, and complete disregard for other people.

I hurt today. A lot of that is my fault, Thursday night took a lot out of me but I still went out to a smoky bar (hard on my lungs) in killer silver wedges (hard on my feet). Some of the aches, though, come from pushes, shoves and a well-placed punch to the middle of my back.

I think I must have greater need for personal space that most. I’ve always gotten a little tense in clubs when people are standing so close that I could probably lose the bra and use them to lift and separate. I move freely for “excuse me” or “sorry” or even the gentle pressure of a hand to the lower back and an apologetic look or shrug. I don’t respond well to shoves. I tend to shove back or even kick on occasion.

Last night, I tried to restrain myself or to just let it go. It’s part of the new Zen me and really, for the most part, it worked. I had a great time and enjoyed a fairly decent 80s cover band. I heard a little ditty about Jack and Diane and Tommy Tutone had nothing on us as we sang (or shouted) “Jenny, Jenny, who can I turn to?” and “Jenny, don't change your number, 8-6-7-5-3-0-9.”

We stayed ‘til the band stopped playing and I think we knew every word to every song. Actually, I think we remembered every word to every song because we can remember the 80s, unlike most of the kids in the bar.

Kids. Somebody born in 1980 is probably 25 years old today, possibly three years out of college, seven years out of high school. Not exactly infantile.

I’m only five years older than that, but I know my music. I’ve always known music. We got MTV when it started, in 1981. I think I spent most of the summer of 1982 chasing frogs, playing poker and watching MTV. These were the days when MTV played music and that summer featured music gems such as Take on Me, I Love Rock N Roll, and Jack and Diane. I was six. It was a good summer.

I suppose I wouldn’t have cared in 1982 if someone pushed me around; though, that might be when it started. Some little girl pushed my brother off the top of the McDonaldland slide and he broke his leg.

Most of the summer, though, we ran around in swimsuits, singing words to songs we didn’t understand, and loving rock and roll. Maybe last night, I should have remembered a little more than the words. I should have remembered how to have fun.

Tag:

9 Comments:
At 5:22 PM, Chairborne Stranger said...
Ouch! That sucks. Two more words that come in handy in these situations:right cross. Oh well, that's too violent.


At 9:33 PM, AsianMistress said...
I know my music and I was born after 1980.

But, I'm just cool like that. ;)


At 9:54 PM, Kristin said...
AM - You do rock.

CS - Was entirely too slow on the uptake. I do have a decent upper cut.


At 9:08 AM, Kayla said...
Aside from all of the people bumping into you (I am totally oblivious to people bumping into me - but I suppose that years of restaurant experience).... I was more disturbed by the fact that every single male in that bar (aside from our boy Bray) was wearing the SAME outfit. Clones. Clones, I tell ya. Where's the guy NOT wearing the untucked button down and jeans combo?? Cause, I want to date you.


At 11:00 AM, Sharkbait said...
Yes, the untuked with jean combo. Seems to be a staple. My roommates went out and had some friends over this weekend-every man...same outfit.

Nobody wants to hang with cookie cutters!


At 11:39 AM, Kayla said...
I suppose this is why I tend to lean towards the surferish look. I like someone with a little creativity when they dress... but, that's just me.


At 11:53 AM, I-66 said...
today at work: polo and slacks.

jeooci...


At 12:06 PM, Heather B. said...
If someone doesn't say excuse me or if I do it over and over again and that person doesn't move, they will either be kicked or shoved out of the way. Too bad. They should learn some manners or move.


At 11:26 AM, Johnny said...
Talkin away
I dont know what to say
But I'll say it anyway

It's for real and just in time for Christmas!

So there I was, watching BBC America, trying to keep quiet for fear of waking the friend who’d turned off the alarm and crawled into bed a couple of hours earlier, even more hungover than me. It was one of those mornings where you get up, take a shower and head to the couch for a mid-morning nap.

I thought it was a joke at first. What Not to Wear and Cash in the Attic are not exactly critically-acclaimed, but they are fairly reputable shows with fairly normal commercials. This seemed fit for a SNL skit.

Urine Gone™

That’s right. Urine Gone with a little trademark symbol because it’s for real. I found the website. With testimonials even.

No matter how well I cleaned, my house still smelled like one big litterbox. But with Urine Gone, I just spray and the odor goes away… and stays away.

Don’t worry, though. It’s not just for cats or dogs. It can clean up those little, drunken accidents involving really bad aim. Really. They showed a toilet bowl in the commercial.

Uncertain of your problem areas? Just “use the included 'stain detector' black light to show the urine messes.”

I so know what everyone is getting for Christmas.

10 Comments:
At 7:42 PM, Drunken Chud said...
I love that commercial! after i saw it the first time, i sat there, dumbfounded wondering if i had seen what i had in fact seen. wondering if i missed the joke, or if there was some fine print. i didn't go so far as to check the web, i just backed up the tivo and replayed it over and over. i have some friends getting married in a couple months, and i told them that's what they're getting. (he's a drunk pee-er)


At 7:54 PM, Kristin said...
The gift that keeps on giving. I'm sure your friends are going to LOVE it.


At 3:41 AM, Drunken Chud said...
they better. but i am SO keeping the UV light.


At 3:33 PM, Berk said...
This is an item that every woman should have so that us guys don't have to worry about lifting the toilet seat anymore.


At 4:30 PM, Kristin said...
I knew a guy in college who really could have used it on his ceiling.


At 5:11 PM, Chairborne Stranger said...
On his CEILING?? C'mon, you're making it up.


At 6:18 PM, Kristin said...
No, really. The ceiling. I swear.

Adam had a bit of problem holding his liquor, among other things. On at least one occasion, he ended up naked after a party and peed all over the ceiling. (He was actually known for wetting himself after getting his drink on but generally, it was contained to the jeans/mattress.)

I saw the ceiling. Impressive range for a drunk guy passed out naked in the middle of a party.


At 6:26 PM, Kayla said...
Ok, this is what I have to wonder... Forgive me boys for what I am going to say... a very, very drunk guy = a pretty flacid penis. (if you all can bring it when blackout stage wasted, then I commend you and I wonder... can I have your phone number?!).. So, if your friend passed out a party... naked on the floor - was he holding the goods - thus increasing the risk of him actually hitting the ceiling? Because if not, I would think that the penis would have to be somewhat erect ... which I think would HAVE to be a pretty huge feat in itself. Otherwise, I would logically think his piss would end up all over himself.


At 7:33 PM, Kristin said...
He was clothed when he went to bed. Somebody had something to do with getting him naked – it might have resulted in a non-flaccid penis.

I saw the room after the event. Somebody pissed on the ceiling. While his friends had pissed all over the walls, floor, sink and tub at one of our parties, nobody other than Adam was implicated that night.

Frankly, he would have preferred pissing all over himself (or in his jeans/on the mattress), like any other weekend. That’s why we heard about it. He was trying to figure out who made him naked.


At 12:53 AM, Drunken Chud said...
for the record, a semi erect penis is fairly hard to pee through. though, it is possible. but you get the best range with a flacid dong. though, you do have to... stem the tide and get the back pressure going. then you just let loose. though, barring that, i can't see just drunken passed out with no assistance hitting the ceiling. you might get 3-5 feet of upaward trajectory... but that's about it. ok, why do i know how to piss on a ceiling...

Karma

I need to go to Ohio.

Normally, I go to Ohio, at least this part of Ohio, about once a year, for the Milan Melon Fest and my own Kristin Fest (aka my birthday) with college friends. This year, I had to skip for my cousin’s wedding, my friend’s bachelorette party. Things got in the way. But I’m going now.

In the past, I’ve driven, flown, even taken the train. I thought about driving this year but with gas prices skyrocketing and my post-accident reluctance to drive, I looked into other options. Generally, I can find pretty cheap tickets, but this time, I couldn't seem to find much lower than $250. Price really didn’t matter – I need to see Stacy and she needs to see me. I just realized that I should talk to my boss first.

A couple of days later, a friend called looking for my brother and we chatted a while. I spent a lot of time with her when I visited Scott in the Peace Corps. He gave her away at her wedding, a traditional Indian ceremony in Guyana. A second wedding, next week, will give people here a chance to celebrate with her. She had originally asked Scott to give her away again.

I don’t know what happened. Life, I guess, and he wasn’t sure if he could spend the time and money flying to middle of the country in the middle of October. He decided not to go.

I found out and we talked about it. I told him that I’d help him find a flight and help pay for it, give him miles, whatever. Friends mean a lot to me.

We found a flight for a couple hundred bucks, split it down the middle – a hundred for him, a hundred for me – and started looking for my own flight to the middle of the country in the middle of November. I found a ticket for $78. Direct flights, the perfect times. I even rented a car for $60. All told, I am spending less than I would have if I booked the first ticket and it’s a better schedule, easier on my friends.

Karma. It's not just for Earl Hickey or Carson Daly anymore.

12 Comments:
At 8:12 PM, DireWolf said...
Just don't go to Toledo.


At 8:45 PM, Kristin said...
But what if I want Tony Packo's? Or to see the Mudhens? The glass city offers so much...

(Actually, I'm flying in and out Cleveland.)


At 9:17 PM, DireWolf said...
I'm a Cleveland man. My whole fam is from there. And I like Toledo too, my Dad and Cousin are MCO grads, but there were apparently riots in Toledo today, hence my comment.


At 9:49 PM, Kristin said...
Ah, I am definitely out of it. Though, riots do not surprise me. (I went to BG.) I have heard many a story of violent Toledo teens from a friend who taught high school history there.

He forwarded a party invite found at the school, listing the time as:
8-till U get yo azz beat-up (followed by at least eight exclamation points).

Milan and Norwalk are probably safe but you never know. I wouldn't have expected neo-Nazis in Toledo.


At 10:41 PM, Drunken Chud said...
you went to bg? i went to findlay. but i have to agree about toledo. i'm from detroit and i think toledo's a hole. heh. not that it's toledo, but we used to go to this country bar in maumee, hell if i can remember the name. anyhow, i have no real comments. enjoy the trip.


At 10:43 PM, Drunken Chud said...
wow, that was my most rambling comment ever. sorry.


At 10:57 AM, Kristin said...
I worked as a cashier at the Maumee Meijer one summer. Good times. But as it was one of four jobs I held that summer, I don't think I ever made it to a country bar. Sounds like I might have been missing out.


At 2:56 PM, Drunken Chud said...
missing out? maybe. they did have a mechanical bull, and usually a live band, and the bar was stocked with 151. so, there were good times to be had. as long as you didn't mind country music. ahh... looking back on fond memories of 151 and the bull...


At 4:27 PM, Kristin said...
A mechanical bull? I definitely missed out. I think I spent most of my time at the Brathaus in Bowling Green. No mechanical bull or live music - just crappy service, $1 ice beers and too many college hockey players. No driving required, though.


At 3:39 PM, JP said...
It's not in the best part of town, but my grandparents used to own the Night Hawk bar in the old Polish neighborhood (never a GREAT part of town!).


At 3:43 PM, JP said...
the Polish neighborhood in CLEVELAND, that is.


At 6:59 PM, Kristin said...
The two degrees of separation (or is it just one? Or three? I can never get that straight) make me want to visit the Night Hawk the next time I'm in Cleveland.