A Heart Isn't A Polygon, But Does It Still Have Parameters?
In geometry, we learned about polygons. What are they? They are properties that define space. They are unique. They can be categorized, usually by their parameters. They have sides and edges and borders and boundaries. Once you go outside the boundary of a square, you're no longer in the square. Simple. Right?
The heart is not a polygon, at least not as far as I can tell. No geometry textbook discusses the heart, uses it in examples, calculates its density in dimension. The heart is one of those incredibly mysterious, unknown objects that doesn't really have sides, or edges, or borders, or boundaries.
Inarguably, one of the best things about life, and about being a human being, is the capacity to love, and to feel love for certain things. And ironically (or not so ironically), love is one of those intangibles that makes life incredibly complicated and difficult.
I had a conversation with a really good friend tonight about love and what we think it really is. Can it change people? Can it be a missing link that we need? Can we make ourselves feel it, or does it just magically appear - whether by waking up one day and realizing it's there, or experiencing an insane moment of clarity, due to strike at any given time, like a lightning bolt? Does it develop over time, or is it sometimes instantaneously driven by instinct?
However it does get to you - once it's there, it's there. But I think it's probably fair to assume that as time passes, loving someone evolves. I'm fairly certain that the love I had for my first boyfriend is not the love I feel for someone now. I'm fairly certain that the love I feel for someone now will not be the same as I feel for a husband, or a father to my kids. And when we're (hopefully) sitting on the wooden rocker in 50 years, I'm pretty sure that kind of love will be different as well. But I'm talking about different people, not the same guy. Or am I?
I question a lot of things about the heart, and how it works. People aren't perfect, and neither are our relationships. Once you recognize that you love someone, how much can you take? Let's say you make a mistake. Or the other person makes a mistake. Let's say there's a situation that is somehow misinterpreted. Does it take good communication to overcome it? Maybe. Maybe if you discussed it, you could move forward. Or maybe not. Maybe there are some things in life that love can't overcome. Can it overcome disapproval from family and friends? Can it overcome reality superceding high expectations? Can it overcome religious, racial, social, or physical difference? And more importantly, is there room for any of that in a good relationship. Is love built to handle human error? I'm interested to see where anyone thinks this threshold is. At what point, and after how much, should you give up on something? At what point do you cut your losses and say, "F*ck this, I should spend my energy elsewhere?"
And if, by chance, you happen to look at a picture one day, or an email, or best yet, face-to-face at someone you once loved, is it possible to ever fall in love with them again? Is that what a long-term relationship or a marriage is all about? Is it really just about finding new and improved ways to fall in love with the same person?
My initial thought is that we'd all probably like to believe that love can overcome everything, that we do fall in love with people over and over again. But with the heart having so little definition, the same potential room to expand could really just be room to box something in and contain it. Or not?
No Fun Without Graphics
I have maybe 8,000 things to post, but frankly, most of my stories are best pontificated with pictures, so until I get the pictures emailed (courtesy of IT at work), developed (courtesy of the photo lab), and/or posted (courtesy of...well, me) - the stories will have to wait. Temporary hiatus until early next week.
Also, I have been out in some way, shape, or form every single night this week, and have plans tonight and through Tuesday, so apologies for lack of posting until then.
F*ck You, Excel Spreadsheet
| You Passed 8th Grade Math |
Congratulations, you got 10/10 correct! |
I Lied
I said last night that I probably wouldn't post anything, but I lied.
Today's zen gems, courtesy of Erica (and the email forwarding community):
Simple Words by Which to Live a Happy Life:· Do not walk behind me, for I may not lead. Do not walk ahead of me, for I may not follow. Do not walk beside me either. Just pretty much leave me the hell alone.
· The journey of a thousand miles begin with a broken fan belt and leaky tire.
· It's always darkest before dawn. So if you're going to steal your neighbor's newspaper, that's the time to do it.
· Don't be irreplaceable. If you can't be replaced, you can't be promoted.
· Always remember that you're unique. Just like everyone else.
· Never test the depth of the water with both feet.
· If you think nobody cares if you're alive, try missing a couple of car payments.
· Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticize them you're a mile away and you have their shoes.
· If at first you don't succeed, skydiving is not for you.
· Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how to fish and he will sit in a boat and drink beer all day.
· If you lend someone $20 and never see that person again, it was probably worth it.
· If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything.
· Some days you're the bug; some days you're the windshield.
· Everyone seems normal until you get to know them.
· The quickest way to double your money is to fold it in half and put it back in your pocket.
· A closed mouth gathers no foot.
· Duct tape is like 'The Force'. It has a light side and a dark side, and it holds the universe together.
· There are two ways to argue with women. Neither one works.
· Generally speaking, you aren't learning much when your lips are moving.
· Experience is something you don't get until just after you need it.
· Never miss a good chance to shut up.
· Never, under any circumstances, take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night.
My Friends Are Really Witty, Like Myself
There's a lot to post, but I have no time and energy left for the big stuff tonight. I have a date tomorrow night, so I figure I'd throw something up for anyone who might be visiting this site daily, praying that I will post something at any given moment. Or, since no such person exists, perhaps anyone who has some sort of blog-checking tick, or checks this simply out of boredom.
On occasion, when bored, I've been known to surf Friendster profiles. And I noticed today that I have a pretty f*cking great group of friends. Judge for yourself. Read their profiles:
Exhibit A:About Me: I am Greek, but I don't like it "Greek Style." I bought a violin. I can not get it to make a sound let alone play it. It just sits there, collecting dust, making me sad. I do not know what I would do without my iPod. If there was a fire, the iPod would be the first thing I would grab. Spiders also freak me the fuck out. I once had a seizure when one crawled across my lap. I am super-duper squeamish. Can't even watch ER. Extreme Makeover? FORGET IT! I love Vince Vaughn. I love Chicago. I love saganaki. I love Purdue football. I love my friends and family. I am a bleeding heart liberal except when it comes to the death penalty. Fry those bastards. I like big butts and I can not lie. I wish I had one. There is no where I would rather be than out on a boat on a sunny day with a case of Blue Moons and some oranges. But not alone. Preferably with someone that wants to make out and knows a bit about boats, because if the boat engine died, I'd be royally fucked.
Exhibit B:About Me: Well this is it in a nutshell. I'm not a people person, I never answer my phone, I complain ALL the time, I love to have a nice cold beer - or 6. I am often completely emotionally touched by movies and music. I buy things to make myself feel better. I drink wine by the bottle not the glass. I take notice of the little things. I can tell almost anyone by their voice. I wear my socks inside out because the seam at the toe bothers me. I'm not overly generous. I am afraid of thunderstorms. I have horrible wretched luck. I am overly critical of everyone and everything.
Who I Want to Meet: Yeah, I don't want to be meeting anyone really. I expend a great deal of effort avoiding the people I already know so I don't think I really have it in me to repel even more people. I guess if I had to meet someone he or she would have to love to make fun of people, drink a lot or at least enjoy watching me drink, paying is okay too. I also enjoy spotting people who look like other people I know, so if you would like to do that, we could probably kick it. What I don't want to do is have to take care of a sloppy drunk, go to bump 'n' grinder clubs, so on and so on. You don't necessarily have to be a genius (lord knows I certainly am not) but a basic grasp on simple catch phrases, pop culture references and the ability to differentiate a crab from a spider are a definate must. Oh yeah, and you absolutely cannot have any tapered pants. I'm not a snob, but I seriously cannot be seen in public with anyone whose pants are less than a hand span at the bottom.
And Exhibit C, a man who some would call my personal favorite:About Me: Tall, Dark, Handsome & Modest.
Who I Want to Meet: I think that meeting Elvis would be a hoot.
A hoot? How can you not love someone that uses the word "hoot"?
Also, for any of my fellow circus freaks who have been itching for Laguna Beach gossip, I found a
great article tonight that really sets the record straight. I just knew that no one could really like Casey on their own accord. And if her stepdad invented the "frozen burrito", why the hell does she keep asking her maid to make quesadillas for her? Slut.
Mother Nature: Take A Smoke Break Or Something
Hurricane Wilma hit Florida earlier this afternoon. Thankfully, residents were prepared. I think Katrina scared the shit out of everyone this year and made us take natural disasters seriously - the only possible good thing that I think came out of that awful situation.
This is the...I don't know - fourth, fifth, eighteenth - hurricane to hit South Florida specifically this year. My parents, who reside in this area for half the year - have had to deal with thousands upon thousands of dollars worth of damage to their home, not to mention constant worrying and phone calls to and from their friends and neighbors who reside in the area year-round.
And they are
lucky compared to many.
Many people have lost homes, family members, and lives. I'd just like to take a moment, in the hopes that this will be the last disaster of the season (Alpha - go away) to ask that we all show some compassion and wish those who have endured misfortune due to this hurricane season a speedy and successful recovery.
The Attack of Pussy Magoo - Part Two
Okay, so there never really was a Part One to this story...at least not one that I posted.
Do you believe in divine intervention? Do you believe in signs? Not like that awful Joaquin Phoenix movie "Signs", but subtle signs that either guide or reinforce you to behave a certain way or make certain decisions?
The idea of getting a pet has plagued me for months. I'm at a pretty stable, good place in my life right now - a place where I have settled (slightly), and am looking for some good old unconditional love. In order to fulfill this wish, I can either get a boyfriend or a pet. Pets seem like less work.
I adore dogs, and have wanted one ever since we had to give our Shar Pei to the cleaning lady when I was in high school because he kept eating squirrels and running away. And while I am settled, I am not settled enough to take in a sweet little puppy that needs to shit every five minutes, preferably on my still-relatively-new, expensive Storehouse furniture. So friends and co-workers alike have urged me to get a cat.
My problems with getting a cat are plenty. First of all, my main cat reference is my sister's cat Milo, who has been diagnosed with social anxiety disorder. Now how a cat can have a mental disorder is just beyond me. Shouldn't cats just eat and play and sleep and poop? That little f*cker is the spawn of the devil. He hisses and bites everyone except for my sister, and spends his days waddling his fat little ass in between the windowsill in her living room to nap and the windowsill in her kitchen to eat her plants. Worthless bastard.
I'm also wary of cats because they're not as fun to play with. Face it, cats think that they are God's gift to you, and not vice versa. And frankly, I have dealt with enough people who have felt that they're God's gift. The last thing I need is a cocky animal playing hard to get with me. F*ck that.
Anyway, so a couple of months ago, I fed a stray cat in my apartment building for a good couple of weeks. She was a sweet little thing that kept hanging around my apartment, and I felt bad, so I'd always come home and leave a little bowl of sumthin'-sumthin' for her to eat. She would wait for me to come home, eat/drink, beg to come in, and get shut out and leave. I suppose I was being a bit of a pet-owning cocktease, but I really didn't know where the hell she had been, so I was scared to take her in. Finally, one day, she got tired of the games and left. Or maybe she died, I don't know.
It was during this time that I named her Pussy Magoo. I am a big fan of calling people by their first and last names (especially if I like them), and she was so sweet that I had to give her a full name. She was a cat, and she was mysterious. Hence, Pussy Magoo.
I started thinking about adopting a "real" cat (not a "fake" stray cat) seriously again a few weeks ago, but chickened out. I had just as soon tossed this idea into the wind until tonight. Picture it: I am on the phone, discussing Laguna Beach with a friend. I realize there is a little draft coming from the balcony, so I walk over to the door to make sure it's shut. I open the door and notice a f*cking cat sitting in my porch chair, shivering in this Godforesaken 50 degree weather. (Seriously, it's cold. I had to put my ass warmer on in the car today. Bad news.)
Aughhhhhhhh! Attack of Pussy Magoo 2!
This is not the same cat from a few weeks ago, but a scrawny little tabby boy cat that I noticed crossing the street as I was leaving the parking lot of my building this morning. The amazing thing about this whole story is this - there is no entryway into my enclosed balcony, and I live on the 2nd floor. Meaning that the Divine Being from above somehow boarded this cat onto its Concorde and catapulted it into my lawn chair. If this isn't a sign, I don't know what the hell is.
Not wanting to scare the cat or make any rash movements, I screamed loudly to my poor friend over the phone and slammed the door shut. Pussy Magoo 2 didn't bat an eyelash. He just sat there, and I just stared at him through the window. We were having quite the staredown. I mean, it was intense. Finally, he sidled up to the window and meowed at me through it for a good five minutes. I yelled back, "Get off of my f*cking porch...you dirty gonorrhea cat" over and over. I didn't want to rescue him because again, I had no idea where he had been, but I also didn't want to walk outside and kick him, because that's just mean.
After the longest five minutes of my life (and that includes some intimate experiences), he finally ran over to the side of the balcony and jumped. I felt lower than low. After all, what kind of a compassionate human being lets a stray cat commit suicide over her balcony? I immediately opened the door and stepped onto the balcony, and realized that he had just jumped to an open window ledge a few feet away (but still on the second floor - miraculous), and was doing just fine, so I ran back into the house Napoleon-style and slammed the door shut.
And I'm actually totally sober and drug-free right now. Seriously.
This whole strange encounter with the gonorrhea cat that tried to commit suicide from my balcony has me thinking about adopting a cat yet again. I think I could be really good to it. I wouldn't kick it or hurt it or anything, and I definitely wouldn't call it a gonorrhea cat unless I busted him having sex with his girlfriend in my bedroom if I came home from work unexpectedly one day. Plus, it's really good practice for 20 years from now when I have kids and have to be a good mom and stuff.
I don't know. I'm so confused.
Molding The Minds Of College Kids...And Probably Warping Them
Never a boring day at work, I tell you. Last week, my friend who handles PR for our agency emailed me asking me if I could help him show around a group of college kids from Ball State's advertising club and give them a feel for agency life. I replied to his email promising to help only if the boys were hot. Mature. I know.
So this morning, a group of six of us met up with the kids and formed a "panel", where we would introduce ourselves and give the kids an opportunity to ask us anything and everything about agency life.
Life is full of surreal moments...moments that you never imagined coming to fruition that make you realize just how far you've come - or how f*cking old you really are. I had one of those moments this morning.
I remember that just last year (well okay, five years ago), I was one of those kids, poking my head around an agency - thinking that if I could score myself a cube in an agency painted orange with a motorcycle in the lobby and a foosball and pool room - I would consider myself having made it in this industry. And today - this morning - I was one of those people, except for that five minutes before the meeting in our orange cafeteria, I was in my cubicle screaming at a worthless rep who didn't send a copy of his newest issue to our client in time, and threatening to take his shitty magazine off the media plan if the client didn't receive the issue by close of business tomorrow. I was trying to complete this phone call without dropping the f-bomb (successful), having everyone around me hear this (unsuccessful), and spilling a cup of the toxic waste they call coffee all over my ironed-last-night-but-already-wrinkled white Oxford (semi-successful, although you can hardly see the stain because it was on my sleeve).
After a quick run to the ladies room to brush the ball of fuzz that was nicely flat ironed just an hour earlier, and slap on some lip gloss, I made my way to be a part of this "panel" of young, budding advertising people. I felt like a total f*cking fraud, but figured I would give it my best.
And give it my best I did. I took a seat next to my favorite resident crush, the Lobster, and dished out advice like Dr. Phil on Adderol. I managed to avoid a few slipups - like when someone asked about how to really break into the industry, I had to choke back my wiseass response of "give the big boys head" and tell them that networking helps. Or like when they asked what the toughest part of my job was and I had to choke back my wiseass response of "having to drink non-label liquors unless the client is paying because I make so little" and tell them that long hours aren't expected - they're required (especially during planning season, which unfortunately happens during the summer, when your non-advertising asshole friends are drinking mojitos at 2:30 because they have summer hours, and you're stuck at the office until 8 trying to populate an 8,000 cell Excel spreadsheet that will be edited over and over again for the next three months).
I wasn't all bad though - I did tell them that my job has its perks. Like the free lunches, the free dinners, the free sports events, the free concerts, the free venues...basically free lots-of-things. And I do possibly have the only job in the world where I have a comp subscription to dirty magazines that arrive directly to my office every month, and it's perfectly acceptable to be flipping through magazines filled with dirty whores, deciding whether or not it's a good fit for my client. How many other people can say that their boss encourages them to gaze with awe and disgust at Heather and her disappearing digits in the Penthouse centerfold on company time?
All in all, I feel I did a pretty decent job in giving them a "real" look at what goes on. And I happen to love my job, so it wasn't hard to come up with some really nice things to say, although my responses may have been skewed by the really hot guy that was sitting in the front row.
Circus Peanuts and Pony Rides
In keeping with my lighthearted posts this week:
A sodomist's dreamLord is he sexy when he's in pain.
Puppy Dogs and Ice Cream
This is about as good as it gets. Be patient with the download - it's well worth your time.
Friends Don't Let Friends Drink and Download
As I'm looking through my iTunes library, trying not to get irritated with it, since everything is irritating me today, I've noticed a sad, sad habit.
My name is KA, and I am a drunk downloader.
It's not bad enough that I shop even while intoxicated, but worse that I shop for shit songs that will gather all sorts of hard-drive dust in my library.
I just wanted to warn all of you, because if you're not careful, you could end up like me. One night, you will be grumpy, like me. One night, you will look at your iTunes library and notice that something is off. One night, you may see this under your "Recently Added" list:
When Love And Hate Collide - Def Leppard
Praying For Time - George Michael
Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm - Crash Test Dummies
Love Song - Tesla (2 different versions - 1 studio, 1 live)
Heaven - Warrant
Barbie Girl - Aqua
18 and Life - Skid Row
Boom! Shake the Room - Shaquille O'Neal
Weak - SWV
Crazy - Seal
You will realize that you have a problem. A very serious one. One that involves coming home at 3 am and downloading whatever it is that will take you back to 1989. Or 1992. Or 1996.
I pride myself on not listening to that Kelly Clarkson shit, and listening instead to bands that actually have something to say, like Eminem, or a good beat, like anything off of the Gorillaz Demon Days album, or at the very least - anything fun, like Cake. But how I can come home, charge "Barbie Girl" to my iTunes account without shame, and hold my head up high the next day is beyond me. I mean, I enjoy naked karaoke before going out like anyone else, but I sincerely doubt that most of these - if any - are likely to make it onto the playlist. (I am thinking Def Leppard and Skid Row have the best shot of any of them.)
So I'm sharing this with you for two reasons: 1. do as I say, and not as I do; 2. I'm hoping that if I post this on the World Wide Web it will purge me of my sins and serve as a constant reminder of just what I am capable of.
Warning: Reading This Is Bound To Bring Your Day Down By At Least Three Notches
You ever have one of those days where you want to tell someone - everyone - to just shut their f*cking mouth? I am having one of those days. Even the smallest gesture is viewed, in my eyes, as a small part of some larger plan to f*ck with me, and I have the uncontrollable urge to punch something in the face.
I'm not even having a "bad" day, or a bad week, for that matter. On the contrary. Things have been pretty decent. But shit am I sensitive. Do not touch a nerve or you are bound to lose an appendage.
Okay, I'm done here. I'll go back to posting puppy dogs and ice cream tomorrow.
The Wheels Fell Off the Envoy, But We Pulled Off SoPo With Sass
Apologies to have left you hanging for so long, as I promised a post on Sunday, but seeing as I only probably sobered up in the last three hours (and it's Monday night), there really wasn't much time to commisserate about my weekend. I guess the best way to describe it is that it was more incoherent than Ozzy Osbourne on speed, more scandalous than a whore in church, and more logic-defying than a stripper demanding extra to smack her ass with a wooden spoon.
GREAT weekend, start to finish.
On Friday night, after a pretty emotionally-charged week at work, I went out with Hilla and Erica (my Humps). And due to the very tough aforementioned week, we decided to forgo the slow buzz and just do shots. Round upon round upon round. It was a belligerent girl's paradise - a Willy Wonka world of lemon drops, kamikazes, Jager, and anything else that looked even remotely thirst-quenching at the bar. Mario, Mike, Amy, Cindy, Andrew, and Matt were there, and the only thing I can remember after the shot of Patron is Matt and I in the booth at Neighbors, telling each other how much we loved one another (after resolving a small tiff from earlier that day) and hugging and kissing.
Friendly hugging and kissing, honest. No tongue. That's yucky.
After seven or eight shots, it wasn't enough to stay at Neighbors. Oh no, we had to go elsewhere. We had to go...dancing. At the same Save the Last Dance underground dive that my friend Amy G. introduced me to my first weekend here. The one where the gold tooth guy I danced with was paged on his beeper and had to leave me to dance to "Rhythm Nation" all by myself? Yeah. An embarrassing testament to how drunk I was at this point:
Five minutes into being on the dance floor, Humps looks at me and says, "Do you know that guy?" I responded, "What guy?" She points directly behind me, I turn around, and notice that I've been holding my hands at my sides with some random guy who has been dancing behind me.
I tried to bust out hip hop moves, but couldn't really coordinate well in my state of brilliance, so I settled for the white girl's overbite and prayed I didn't look as stupid as I felt.
Hilla drove me home. I do not remember much about it. I called Humps. I do not remember much about it. Apparently I lied to Humps and told her I was eating a sandwich. I never ate a sandwich. I called Matt. I do not remember anything about it. Apparently I told Matt that he was fabulous. I must have been channeling Carrie Bradshaw, seeing as I never use the word "fabulous" other than in posts.
Saturday morning arrived and I woke with the relieved feeling of knowing that I had somehow made it to bed and passed out. I went to the spa with my sister for a facial, and emerged nice and dewy. From there, I headed to meet Humps for Day #2 of ridiculous drinking at the Decatur Beer Festival. Five minutes into the festival, we lost the three other girls we came with. Ten minutes into the festival, JP showed up. I
love JP.
Hour #11 of drinking documented: our first beer. Um, in Decatur.
Thirty minutes into the festival, we had a nice buzz going, we met up with some faces from my past that were in town visiting.
Hour #14 of drinking documented: Decatur Beer Festival 2005
An hour into the festival, Humpy left (temporarily, to head to a wedding) and my feet started to hurt. Two hours into the festival, I didn't know I had feet.
We left the beer festival and headed to one of the guys' houses to play some poker and drink more, because obviously we hadn't had enough to drink. Once there, I played about 16 shitty hands and lost $20. It was about this time that my sassy little bitch Erica returned from her wedding and we started - well, continued - the drinking festivities.
Chuck is the most entertaining drunken bum I have ever known. And I say that with true affection. Please visit his website. It's super.
Hour #24 of drinking documented in a shot with our gracious host.
A few hours of this, and the wheels really fell off of the Envoy that was taking us from destination to destination. We all hopped in the Envoy and it took us, as if on auto-pilot, to the Clermont Lounge, where strippers go to die. Someone had brought along a wooden mixing spoon from the kitchen, but I don't know how it got there, or why we had it.
After a couple of lap dances from a 59 year-old stripper who knew nothing other than how to slap her own ass and pull down her shirt to show off a set of twins that haven't seen Perk since Nixon was in office, one of the guys decided to pull out that trusty wooden spoon and give her a little love tap.
Let me tell you - if there's one thing I learned from this weekend, it's this: Never smack a stripper with a wooden spoon without her permission. Strippers do not like this. I believe her exact words were, "What are you doing? You have to pay extra for that." Ahhh....I get it now. It's not degrading enough to be a stripper at age 59 who moves like Patrick Swayze on Quaaludes. It's not enough to provide fodder for for the masses to laugh at when they're wasted, either. But it is enough to have the audacity to demand that people will pay extra to smack your ass with a wooden spoon? I guess she has standards, though that's damning her with faint praise. Yeah, good logic. I get it. I really do.
The Clermont lost its novelty after a couple of hours, so we headed to the greatest place on Earth: Happy Karaoke. I don't know how we got there, or who knew about this place, but somewhere along Buford Highway is a hidden Korean karaoke gem. The place is insane - they rent out karaoke rooms by the hour, and you can sit in a room, drink beer, eat the sliced up watermelon and cantaloupe they give you as snacks, and make a complete ass out of yourself. If Heaven exists, and if by some lucky mistake I end up there, Heaven will definitely have a Happy Karaoke. In fact, I think I've just decided that Happy Karaoke will be the site of my 25th birthday party this December. And if Chuck would be willing to fly back to Atlanta again and rev up the crowd with another rousing rendition of "I Believe I Can Fly", I will seriously give him an all-expenses paid weekend here.
We finally got back around...um, not sure what time.
Yesterday, after much hungover lethargy, Humps and I went out for a cheeseburger yesterday afternoon, and then sat on my couch and watched "Muriel's Wedding" and about 10 back-to-back episodes of "Laguna Beach: The After Show" on demand.
I am exhausted, but quite satisfied. I guess the best way I can summarize is to ask what happens when you combine 36 hours of drinking with some terrible hip hop dancing, a beer festival, strippers, and karaoke? SoPo. That's what you get. And if you don't know what that means, don't worry about it. It's probably illegal in 48 out of the 50 states. (That was one for you, Humps.)
There's Another Drink Just Around the Bender
Apologies for my lack of posting this week. Between work, my undying commitment to the gym, and social engagements, it has been so hard to be my normal witty, engaging self.
An update for anyone who actually cared about my group date - the guy was not Humpy's type, but in a pleasant twist of fate, definitely my type. There have been some discussions about a little drinking excursion with the same crew tomorrow night, so perhaps a new interest is in my future. Perhaps not. We'll see.
This weekend is going to be interesting, as it seems as though I am quickly plummeting into what will probably be a three-day bender. With plans tonight, tomorrow, and Saturday (with Saturday being the much-hyped
Decatur Beer Festival) - I may not be back until Sunday. In fact, I'm almost positive I won't be back until Sunday.
In the meantime, feel free to visit
here,
here, and
here - and
enjoy a little celebrity gossip on me. Have a good one.
If You Play Your Cards Right, The Fiddler Will Get Someone To Fiddle With Your Zipper
It seems as though there's this new disease out there called the "group date". And I have it. Tomorrow.
You see, a friend of mine is trying to set up Humpy with her boyfriend's friend. This is all fine and well, because Humpy is hot stuff, and I am all for my friends being happy, dating hot guys, and getting laid every night. However, my friend who is setting her up - we'll just call her the "Fiddler on the Roof" - insists that the most natural way to see if there's any chemistry there is in the context of a group setting. We'll all hang out, have a few drinks, and if they like one another, they can hang out all night and ignore us. If not, there's no pressure and they'll be within the context of a group of friends who are just hanging out and having a good time. You know, just the six of us. Like an orgy. Except no one's getting laid yet.
Bummer.
Maybe it's an age thing, or maybe it's just an Atlanta thing, but in the past few months, I've been invited on a hell of a lot of "group dates". Which sounds nice and exciting, but the sensation is actually more similar to a trip to the female doctor's office (if you're the "datee"), getting a Brazilian bikini wax (if you're the "Fiddler"), or having your wisdom teeth pulled without anesthesia (if you're the "support").
Apparently, tomorrow I will be having my wisdom teeth pulled without anesthesia, in the presence of the Fiddler, her boyfriend, Humpy, Humpy's potential boyfriend, and Matt.
When I asked the Fiddler who
my date would be, she said, "Oh, hmmm. Well...your date can be Matt. You guys are really just there for the support." Great, thanks. All I can say is, Matt's one lucky little f*cker.
So now that the group has been selected, we have to have an activity planned. Our clever little Fiddler just got this fun little board game,
Dirty Minds. Initially I jumped on board because the words "date" and "dirty" were mentioned, but I didn't realize what I was getting myself into. It's supposedly a word game where you're given clues about certain words, and the person who guesses the least dirty word gets the most amount of points per round, and eventually wins. (i.e. CLUE: "the word ends with a "-unt" and every woman has one" ANSWER: "aunt" The jackass that guesses the c-word loses. I will, most likely, be the jackass tomorrow night...every time.)
When it comes to board games, I'm pretty competitive. When it comes to vulgarity, I am usually the first person to pull out a "Bloody Mary". Matt is almost always very quick to follow with something equally disgusting. So to involve me in a game that asks me
not to be dirty, with a "date" who has a tendency to bring out the most disgusting in me...well, that's just a recipe for disaster as far as I'm concerned. The good news to this is that if alcohol is involved, as I imagine it will be, at least I'll head home nice and belligerently drunk.
All of that having been said, this whole scenario got me thinking: are group dates really better? Do they really take the edge off of the whole "shit-you-and-me-have-to-be-alone-for-at-least-two-hours-now?" anxiety? Does getting wasted and deciding whether you're drunk enough to bail or suck it up not work anymore?
The whole thing reeks of old Jewish Yenta grandmothers matchmaking, and I can hear a faint, "Find me a find, catch me a catch..." in the background. The very thought of this makes me itch. Then again, our Fiddler does have a point - it
is less intimidating to be with a group of people than to sit across from some loser at a dinner table somewhere wondering what the odds are of a lightning bolt striking you and putting you out of your misery.
I say the jury's still out on this one. What do you think: better to date Fiddler-on-the-Roof style?
If Wrigley Won't Come to Mohammed...
Ahhh...the Chicago Theater on State St...also known as the theater right by the really good bagel place for lunch.
You know how the old saying goes, I'm sure, and after a long hard night of thinking, I have decided that it is time for Mohammed (aka Me) to go back to Wrigley for a visit.
Don't get me wrong - I LOVE Atlanta. I am happy here. This is, bar-none, the best place on Earth for me to be right now. I love my job, I love my friends, and I love my sister. I also love my non-vintage apartment ("vintage and charming" = old and nothing works) and Southern barbecue. I also really love Southern boys.
All of that aside, I must admit, there was a trigger.
The one that gets away happened to send me a friendly instant message tonight, and we had a nice little chat. It was good to talk to him, because as weird as it sounds, the guy just f*cking gets me. But shit did it make me sad, for some reason. At this stage in the game, I would never pick my life up and move somewhere to be with someone (well, with one exception, but he is not the exception), but at the same time, I can't help but wonder what might have been. And while I know that "what might have been" is not worth thinking about or investigating, I can at least revisit the only home I knew for three years after college. The first city where I lived, worked, and spent those fan-f*cking-tastic post-collegiate formative years.
As luck would have it, I have a free ticket and some great friends who have graciously extended open invites to crash (thank you Sanders, Mike, Grant). I also have a bachelorette party the last weekend in October, which, if I go back that weekend, will kill about thirteen birds with one stone.
My first six months here have been nothing short of incredible. I expected this move to be a lot harder than it ever really was, and I lucked out. But now that I am settled in and show no signs of leaving, it's time to go back for a weekend, pay homage to my roots, and rock the f*ck out of that town.
I am already planning to do the following: lunch at Grand Lux cafe, drink copious amounts of alcohol with Grant at Halligan's, make an ass out of myself at every bar with Sandy, see the one that got away, spend at least one late night at The Store (or comparable shitty late-night bar), visit my cashier friend at the convenience store across the street from my old place, drink heavily at John Barleycorn with Michael and Rob and crew, have an afternoon brunch at Toast, and shop until my legs fall off of my body. (Particularly at H&M, since we don't have one here yet.)
I am so excited about my weekend re-visit that I seriously may not sleep tonight.
Those Falcons And Their Ginormous Weiners
Burrrrrrrrp. Ahhh....much better.
Sorry, I needed to let out all of that extra air. I usually try to avoid burping, farting, and/or any variety of bodily functions on the blog, but on nights like tonight, I just can't help myself.
I returned from the Falcons game not too long ago, and needed a little time to gather my thoughts, unbutton the top button of my pants, and sober up a little before posting.
As previously mentioned, today was my first ever NFL game, and golly, was it great! A few thoughts:
1. My excitement was so great that it caused me to spend an hour driving around the Georgia Dome looking for the parking lot that I had a free pass for. Figures that it ended up being the Red "International" lot directly across the street from the Dome. Had Krista and Anna not pointed this out half an hour into our mis-guided tour of downtown Atlanta, we may have missed the game altogether.
2. It has become clear to me that I cannot understand traffic cops and their hand signals. One minute they're telling me to make a complete stop, and then next, they're screaming at me to move. I really do think that the cops were f*cking with me, but in the process of following game traffic, I nearly mowed at least two of them down, and caused a third to yell, "Just move your f*cking car, lady!" Me and traffic cops = not a good combination.
3. Tailgating was fun, if you could call it that. Since Patrick cannot seem to grasp the logistics of hooking up some subwoofers and a grill to your trunk in the parking lot of the Dome, we drank at Jock's and Jill's across the street from the game. I must not have been drinking enough lately, because two beers and a couple of shots later, I was asking the "Ask Me" lifeguard guy at the Dome what the state capital of New Jersey is. (Holla Flynn, if you're still reading...it's Trenton, in case anyone else is wondering.)
4. The field is HUGE. I mean seriously huge. It really doesn't look that big on television. I have always envisioned myself being able to run laps around it like a track, but once I saw the field for real I realized that the chances of my dating Adam Brody are a lot bigger than running one lap around that sucker without passing out.
5. Perhaps the most shocking - and unsettling (literally) - memory of today's game was the weiners. We perched high atop the Dome in a suite, which afforded us a kick-ass view and all the Coors Light and food we could handle. Wings, chips, vegetables and dip, 5-layer dip, a dessert cart...and the hugest f*cking weiners I've ever seen. I swear, they were at least 3 feet long with a circumference that rivals my head. (No pun intended, and yes, that was a bit of an exaggeration, but seriously, BIG hot dogs.) I ate exactly one hot dog, a couple of chips (well, a couple of handfuls, who are we kidding), and I have been full for exactly 8 hours - and showing no signs of being able to eat for at least the next day or so. I really used to love gluttony, but since I've started my healthy eating initiative about a month ago, all today really does is make me want to get sick. I haven't been able to breathe, sit, stand, chew gum, talk on the phone, or even watch "Grey's Anatomy" without the thought of vomit. Yikes.
Overall, I'd rate the game an 8. The pros were obvious: suite seats, parking pass, free food, free booze, good friends, and Patrick and his fun drunk friends. The cons - 8-hour heavy stomach from massive weiners and potential ulcer from traffic cops screaming at me - do definitely knock it down a couple of notches. But all in all, a good experience, one I'd like to repeat - minus the hot dogs, and with someone else driving.
