Found: My Blogging Mojo
So I realize I have some explaining to do.
I know it’s been a while, ok maybe more like an eternity, since my last post. I didn’t think anyone would notice. Do people even still go back to the site anymore? Do they even remember I exist? I’m sure I can go a little longer before anyone notices.
Ha. Yeah, right.
Comments on the board, threatening emails, at least twice daily gchats, even messages sent through my mother (“I ran into so and so at the grocery store, and she wants to know when your next post is going to be.”) Wow, you’re a persistent bunch. Even my sister said, and I quote, “I had like 12 people ask me this weekend when your next post is going to be.” Before I spur a riot in the streets, let me just say, I hear you. Loud and clear. You miss me, and frankly, I miss you too.
So what happened? Things were going so well. My fan base was getting larger by the day. Complete and total strangers were reading the blog and passing it on. I would even meet people through friends and they would quietly say to me, “I love your blog.” Ahh! Really?! I’ll admit when I started this thing, and I thought my family would read and my close friends (because I would make them) and that would be it. Little did I know, it seemed to strike a chord with people, and I have to admit, it made me even more clever and hilarious in real life. I was always scheming for my next post, even more surprised when material would come out of nowhere, and get down right annoyed when my bosses would, you know, make me actually work. “You need me to do what? Um, don’t you realize I need to put a blog post up first? Thanks.” It seemed the Washington Post Style Section story on the political staffer turned bloggerturned bookdeal and newly crowned Saks spokesperson was just around the corner. (Hey, a girl can dream, if I’m going to get a book deal, I might as well get some free shoes out of it as well.) It was like the first few weeks of dating a guy when you just walk around with a permasmile and gush about him to your friends. I had a new boyfriend, and it was my blog.
When I first played around with having a blog, there was much discussion among my kitchen cabinet of advisers (ok, like three friends of mine who actually took my blogidea seriously and not just another one of my grand plans that never come to fruition like the following: a book club, a girls investment club, a charity cocktail party, Sunday brunches, and more dinner parties than I can name.) about whether I should be anonymous or you just go ahead and come out loud and proud. Should I go ahead and trademark my identity now? I mean, the “If you Like Me, Check This Box” desk calenders could be out by next Christmas. It was decided I should be anonymous for multiple reasons. I would have more freedom to write what I want and you know, there could be more hype if there was ever some grand unveiling of who the actual author is. Wait, theatrics can be involved? Never one to shy away from anything dramatic, I knew anonymous was the way to go.
However, here’s the thing, I’m really bad about being anonymous. There are people who do this for a living, and I just don’t see how. From this blog experience, I now know CIA operative is one career option that will never be in my future. Two vodkas on an empty stomach at a 6:00 Thursday happy hour, and I’d tell all of Washington, DC every piece of intelligence in my head. “Oh you’re from Russia? That’s so funny! I work on all our secret intelligence in Russia, but I can’t tell you anything! Ha! Oh, you’re buying me another drink? You’re so nice, can we be bar best friends?” Ten minutes later, I’m spilling my guts and on the cover of Newsweek for being a Traitor to the United States. Was it for millions of dollars in bribes? Ha, no, just a couple of free drinks at the bar. I’m a cheap date like that.
So I launched the blog and decided I would just sit back and see if anyone read it. Well, after I sent an email to about 20 friends of mine who find me somewhat humorous saying, “Hey, I started a blog, check it out. I’m anonymous, but psssttt…it’s me.” So discreet. I thought that would be the end of my PR campaign. Yes I would be content with those twenty people knowing my identity, and that’s it. Yeah, well, then the thing kind of took off. I realized how much I loved writing about the crazy life I lead and it turned out a lot of people liked reading it as well. I would be out and about, and I’d meet some fabulous, fun girl or gay guy at a party and think, “Oh, she would SO love my blog.” Next thing you know, I’m drunk and blabbing, “So I have this blog, and it’s called “If You Like Me, Check This Box” and it’s really funny and I think you’d like it. But, shhhhhh, don’t tell anyone it’s me. I’m ‘Anonymous’.” While readership did increase, and I won a whole legion of fans with this strategy, it also spells a recipe for trouble.
So here’s when the drama happened. It was September, a brisk, fall evening. I was fresh off a fabulous week in the blog world, writing not just one, not two, but three fantastic (if I do say so myself) posts, two of which still remain my favorites to this day. Since day one, I have been scared of running out of material, but after this week I was starting to realize, as long as I kept waking up every morning and going about my day, and continuing to live the life I lead, I would never run out of material. I mean, come on, this is me we’re talking about. I met my friend Jane, and two of her friends I had never met for drinks. After introductions, Jane goes, “She writes the blog I showed you guys!” Oh my gosh, fans! Strangers who are friends, even better! The night wore on, I made the fatal mistake in the name of weight loss to not eat bar food and instead just drink until I could eat a points friendly snack at home. Yeah, bad idea.
As I was talking to Jane, we somehow figured out that she knew Jack, the blind date from hell I went on in September. Let me make a confession, in all posts, I change all names to protect the innocent, unless my friends don’t want their names changed. It actually becomes a game, “What do you want your name to be? Do you want a soap opera name like Diandra or Faye?” “Oh, what about Babysitters Club names? Who wants to be Stacy the Diabetic?” So Jack is not really Jack and for that matter, Jane is not really Jane.
“Um, Jane, he’s Jack.” (ha, Jack and Jane, I didn’t do that on purpose when naming “Jane”, but funny how that worked out, anyway, I digress.)
“Oh. My. God. I can’t wait to tell my friend who works with him!”
“NO! You can’t! It’ll get out, you absolutely cannot!”
“No, no, I’ll just tell her, and I’ll make sure she doesn’t tell anybody. I promise.”
Right, famous last words. I went home feeling a little uneasy about it all, but figured it wouldn’t be a big deal.
Right. Over the next couple of days, I noticed that my blind date post was getting more hits than any other post. I was thinking, ha, it is my favorite, of course people are reading it. Then I started noticing there were quite a few google searches for the title, “So Why No Boyfriend? This is Why.” (Yes, the little WordPress elves show you what Google searches led people to your blog. This is very educational and also very disturbing – the search “Soft Porn” and “Netflix” has led to quite a few visitors. Don’t ask me why.) Hmmm…that’s weird. Again, it was a really funny post, maybe it’s gaining an internet following. I mean, I do have quite a few fans, and I did just break the 5,000 mark on hits in a little over a month. I guess this is what fame brings.
So it’s Saturday morning, I’m back from the gym, MSNBC is on (it’s my constant background noise), laptop is on my lap, and I’m going about my various internet activities. Check Gmail, read news clips, check Washington Post and New York Times headlines, visit various shopping sites, oh and check my blog. What is today’s readership total so far? (At this point, I was checking hourly, maybe more like every 15 minutes on a particularly slow work day.) Oh, a new comment! Yay! I love comments – it’s like Christmas. Oh, it’s on the blind date post. God, I love that post. I wonder what he/she said? Who is writing today? This is so exciting!
Whoa.
Um, okay, that’s not a nice comment. At all.
And that’s not from a usual girly name. That’s from….
Oh.
The Blind Date.
Yes. In All Its Glory.
The Blind Date found the post, read it, and decided to let me know what he thought. Let’s just say it was not very nice. At all. I could copy and paste exactly what he said, but I like to keep this a family publication. I mean, there’s enough smut on the internet, I don’t need to be an added contributor. Oh what the heck, I really should just post in all its glory:
New comment on your post #216 “”So Why No Boyfriend?” This is Why.”
Author : JAWWWSSSSSSSSS (IP: 98.204.98.39 , c-98-204-98-39.hsd1.dc.comcast.net)
E-mail : XXXXX@XXXX>XXX
URL : http://TasteJawsNuts.com
Comment:
Haha that was cute, So you wanted to fuck me? Don’t call me I’ll call you. Loser.
– Jack “Jaws” K.
Jaws? Huh? You want me to what? Yeah, not my usual comment. Also, I didn’t REALLY want to sleep with you, it just made the whole situation even funnier. I love that that’s the first thing that struck him. “Oh, she totally wanted to do me.” Sorry, not really.
If that’s not enough, he then sent me an email two days later. Yes, he responded AGAIN without ever getting a response from me. Clearly this guy was not letting this go unless he had my head on a mantle.
Discretion is the better part of valor. its not your fault, sweetheart, but i think your actions answer your yearning questions.
Yes, he ripped off Shakespeare. He also called me sweetheart, in that condescending, “You’re just a loser girl with a blog” way. I wanted to be like, “Um, did you get a chance to read the other posts? They really are funny.” It also made me realize, okay, this guy is really not for me.
I’ll admit. I freaked out. OH MY GOD! First of all, I realize this is a public blog, and I take full responsibility for what I wrote, and frankly, I stand by my story. However, I am not a malicious person. I’m not someone who wants to bring harm to others. It’s not as if I woke up the next day and said, “Oh, I’m going to take that guy down!” No, it was more like, “Oh my God, this is going to be the best. post. ever.” At the same time, I was never prepared for the actual guy to read about himself like that. Nor was I prepared for a horrible, disgusting, down right mean comment in my normally quite happy comment box. Frankly, I kind of feared for my life a little bit. Can I leave my house? Um, not without my big sunglasses on. (See what did I tell you? Big sunglasses are an essential part of the Single Girl Toolkit. You can’t survive your 20s without them.)
So what does one do in a situation like this? Emily Post does not have a chapter on What To Do When a Blind Date Finds Your Blog Post About the Whole GodAwful Moment. First things first, I took the post down immidiately. I also wrote him a handwritten I’m sorry note on my Crane’s stationary saying I was sorry (which I was) and included a check covering what our little drinks date. I decided I was raised better than to not apologize for my actions, even though I know many would say his actions didn’t justify it, and it was time to stop fearing for my life (which I did) and move on. Even without my favorite blog post.
Yes, it was hilarious. Yes, it was fabulous. Yes, it was my favorite, but I kept telling myself I needed to take the moral high ground. I hurt someone’s feelings, I think his whole office read it, and I can do without it.
Yeah, easier said than done. Suddenly blogging was a lot harder when I kept realizing the consequences if the poor person read what I was writing. I’m sorry to say, but the unthinkable happened.
I lost my blogging mojo.
I’d open up a blank screen, ready to write a new post, and I’d just stare. People would bug me for new posts and I would say I was busy. I thought maybe I just needed a new atmosphere, not my messy desk at my office. Maybe if I went to a hipster blogger coffeehouse, the blog juices would start flowing. Yeah, no. It didn’t happen.
So now, I’m just going to have to take do the only thing I no how to bring my mojo back.
I’m putting the post back up. I’m sorry, it’s a classic and I love it so much I might read it to my children as a bedtime story. (Ok, they would be seriously emotionally damaged souls if I did that.) So here it goes, read it and weep.
I also feel like the mojo is coming back as I type this. I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep up a daily pace, but definitely look back here for something once or twice a week. We’ll just see how exciting my life gets with a new Democratic administration in town.
Also check back for my own personal security sake. If I haven’t posted in a while, or responded to emails, phone calls, gchats – send the police this story. There might be a few suspects after me.
xo
“So Why No Boyfriend?” This is Why.
I woke up at an ungodly hour this morning to a splitting headache, my clothes on the floor, a pair of spanx scrunched in a ball on the couch, and a half eaten sugar free jello sitting by my sink. (Remember, I live in a studio. My bedroom is also the kitchen and the living room.) Good God, what did I do last night? Why does my head hurt? Ohhhhh, three vodka sodas on an empty stomach. Why did I do that? Right, the blind date.
Yes, I went on a blind date last night. Do you want to know more? Get ready.
So several weeks ago, a dear friend of mine who is practically my big sister called me. “I have someone to set you up with.” Oh, really? Do Tell. “He’s adorable, really cute, says he’s single. I told him about you, and he’s interested.” Great, let’s set it up. She promptly introduced the two of us via email, a friendly email banter developed, and we decided to set a date for drinks.
I’ll admit, I did not have great expectations for this date. I mean, it’s a blind date after all. If anything, it’s a new person to get to know, nothing to get worked up about. However, my friend (who is married) kept reminding me, “I have known you for years, and I have not set you up once, and it isn’t because I don’t want to. This is the first person I have ever met that I thought was worthy enough to date you.” She had a point. She never has set me up, and I trust her opinion on just about every aspect of my life: work, shoes, clothes, furniture placement – why not men?
However, I started to have doubts yesterday afternoon when I ran into a mutual friend of ours and told her about my soon to be blind date. “Oh, she set me up once. He was nice, but he showed up at my house one night unannounced wearing a homemade cut off tank top.” Oh. Dear. God. That’s completely unacceptable, and honestly, I’m more offended by the tank top than the unannounced drop by. Never a good look. Ever.
On my way over to the bar, I realized I had not eaten anything since 1:00. I ran into Au Bon Pain, looked at the cookies, and against my better judgement, decided against it on the basis that it was a waste of Weight Watchers points. I would later find out, big mistake. We agreed to meet at 7:00, and I got to the bar at 7:02 thinking he would be by the front door. He wasn’t. I looked around the bar – the only men drinking alone were either graying or had ponytails. Please say that’s not him. I quickly blackberry my friend, “He doesn’t have a ponytail, does he?” Um no. Ok, I’ll just keep waiting. And I did. I even whipped out my blackberry, pretending to have some major crisis at work where I need to be blackberrying up a storm, when really I was just emailing friends saying, “still not here.” Finally, a young, very attractive guy walks in. I approach him.
“Jack?”
“No.”
“Oh, sorry.” (Ugh, so embarrassing.)
“Looks like you’ve been stood up on a blind date.’
“Huh?” (Can this get more embarrassing?)
“Ha! I’m just kidding, yeah, I’m Jack.”
That Guy.
You can’t be serious. Oh my God, He’s that guy. I’m about to have drinks with that guy. Do you think he rehearsed that line 10 times in front of the mirror before he came over? Maybe he was purposely late just so he could use it as the “perfect opener.” Great. Time to get drunk. Drunk with that guy.
We take a seat at the bar, order drinks (vodka!), and start the biographical segment of the date. He’s from the Midwest, went to a very prestigious college, and now works in finance. “Well, I’m a political fundraiser.” “Really? I know nothing about politics. I barely read the paper.” Ok, making statements like this might have been cool in high school, but when you’re 28 and living in Washington, DC, you just look like an idiot. While I’m a political junkie to the core (if you could only see my library), I don’t expect everyone to have the same working knowledge of campaigns and elections that I do, especially someone who doesn’t work in the business. I’m not about to start a conversation regarding the latest NBC News/Wall Street Journal poll or Barack Obama’s chances of winning Florida, and I don’t blame a guy for not being interested either. However, I do ask that you have a basic knowledge of, say, American Government. I ask that you know we have elections every two years (he didn’t know this) and that you remember John Kerry was the Democratic nominee in 2004 (he didn’t know this either). If there was ever a case of looks only getting you so far, this was it. I later found out he went to his prestigious college on a football scholarship. It all makes sense now.
So do you make it home much? “Yeah, I mean I go home for weddings and Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.” I nod and think, “Of course you’re Jewish. You are one of my constituents.” “Ha! Just kidding! No, I’m not Jewish. I go home all the time, you know, for Easter, Baptisms, Christmas because I’m not Jewish. Ha Ha!” Did he just make a joke about being Jewish (to a stranger, no less)? Are you really that politically incorrect? Of course you are, you’re that guy!
After the biographical segment of the date ended, we take a sip of our drinks and have that 10 second “what do we talk about next?” silence. He speaks.
“So, why no boyfriend?”
Um what? I don’t know! Because I’m a raging lunatic? I also don’t know why the sky is blue or how traffic can back up for miles when there isn’t a car accident in sight. It’s just one of the great wonders of the universe. Seriously, are we having this conversation? I’m about to throw back at him, “Why no girlfriend?” when he says, “Yeah, I’ve been seeing this girl in Boston.” Hold on a sec, you’re not single? “Yeah, I mean I just don’t see it going anywhere. Boston is just not driveable. You have to fly to get there.” I nod as if this is a completely normal discussion to be having on a first date – a discussion of why I don’t have a boyfriend and how he just might have a girlfriend. Why are you telling me this? Also, why are you even here? Should I be blocking out the weekends you’re going to Boston now? “I’m sure she sees other people.” Oh yeah, I’m sure she does. Keep telling yourself that. Men.
After my third vodka and his fourth bourbon, we called it a night. He had to “go meet his buddies at the Nats game.” At 10:00 at night. Were the Nats even playing? I don’t know. I think (or hope) at that point all the alcohol and lack of food hit me, and some serious drunk emailing and dialing occurred. I called my friend who set us up. Possibly all of Dupont Circle heard me say the following things over and over again, “He is dumb as rocks!” “He asked why I didn’t have a boyfriend!” “Ok he was hot! I would have sex with him but that is it! I would never date him!” She apologized, but also said, “Well, I’m glad it didn’t work out because I met someone else tonight I want to set you up with.” I can’t wait.
I Promise I am Still That Into You.
No, I have not been kidnapped.
Dear Readers,
How I have missed you so! I know, I know – I’ve been distant, I haven’t been keeping up. You’re tired, you’re frustrated, and I understand completely if you’ve dropped me out of your life forever.
However, I assure you, it’s not you…it’s me.
Tomorrow is Election Day. I work in politics, so this is the equivalent of our tax season. I have been working around the clock in a very unglamourous swing state and unable to sit down and write a new post. (Okay, I owe you quite a few posts.)
If you’re still out there, bear with me, I’ll be back and better than ever starting next Monday. I need some time to decompress the last couple of weeks. I assure you – it will be good.
Thank you for all the kind words of support and concerns for my safety. Yes, I’m still alive. No, I have not given up the blog. Although, much like my bank account, I can’t bare to look at the stats. The little graph WordPress provides you looks much like the Dow, just going farther and farther down. I hope I have not lost you all forever. I promise I will be back in touch soon enough.
Miss y’all too
xoxo
No, Gilbert Arenas is Not a Redskin.
This is me on a typical Saturday afternoon. Ok, not really, but in my dreams, yes.
Since moving to Washington nearly four and a half years ago, I have discovered one thing about this town, this fall especially: DC becomes consumed by football. Everyone goes to certain team bars, people have fantasy football leagues, it’s quite the social thing. Now don’t get me wrong, I get this, I’m from the South. We treat football like church, we dress up for it. I grew up going to football parties with families renting big screen TVs for big games (back before the massive plasma became a standard piece of Americana), tailgating before our high school football games. I understand football culture. At the same time, it has been eight years since I have lived in the South. My college’s football team only made ESPN once, when the losingest team in the entire NCAA beat us. I don’t have a boyfriend, brothers, or father (that is living). Football is just not a part of my life. While everyone is getting drunk Saturday afternoon, I shop, run errands, go to the gym, and take advantage of the stores being empty.
So let me just say, I was completely blindsided when I got the following email from my friend Nick:
Do you have plans this Sunday afternoon? My friend Jeff gave me his 2 season tickets to the Redskins-Rams game. Would you like to go?
Wait, what? A Redskins game? This is not the typical email invitation I receive from friends. If you want to have a beer, you call me. If you need someone’s opinion on what shoes to wear with what outift, you call me. If you want someone to go see Nights in Rodanthe (which I not so secretly want to see), you call me. Want a gal pal to come with you to a sample sale? I’m your girl. Yes, I’m a girl’s girl, through and through. I come from a family of women. At least one television in our house is always tuned in to Lifetime, Lifetime Movie Network, or We. In fact, several times my mother has called me to say, “I just wanted to let you know that Lifetime is running a Danielle Steele marathon this weekend.” (Forget that we already own all the VHSes after buying them up at Sam’s Club years ago. It’s like seeing a movie in the theaters, it just feels different when it airs on the LMN.) Do you know how the three of us recovered from my father’s death? Therapy? Prayer? Crying fits of rage? Ok, there was some of that, but really it was just lots of 90210 and two shopping trips to Los Angeles.
But a football game? Is this something I want to do? I asked my friend Emma. “Oh, I had so much fun when I went to a Redskins games, but uh, I really can’t see you there.” Well, shyeah, obviously, and I take that as a compliment. “You drink a lot of beer, eat stadium food, scream with the fans.” Okay, I guess I could go for it. You know, if anything, this is an educational experience. I need to go just to say I’ve been, and honestly, what else have I got going on this Sunday?
So Sunday morning rolls around, I wake up, quite hungover (shocking), and ready for my DC “cultural” experience. But first things first, and this is the dilemma I find myself coming to terms with before every
This Will Never Enter My Closet.
major event: what do I wear? I realize a Redskins jersey would be the standard uniform, however, that is just not my style. Frankly, I refuse. I won’t even wear jeans and running shoes, much less a football jersey. Adding additional challenges, Sunday was also an unseasonably warm day for DC, my perfect fall sweater was just not going to cut it. In the end, I went with an “Americana chic” theme – dark blue jeans, white button down blouse, yellow wrap, Tory Burch flats, and giant sunglasses – Tim Gunn would have been proud. Just because this is a sporting event, does not mean that I have to dress down.
As soon as I walked out of my building to meet Nick, he goes, “Nice game day outfit.” Per-fect.
On the metro ride over to FedEx Field, Nick took the opportunity to begin my Redskins education.
Not a Redskin.
“So what players do you know?”
My knowledge of professional athletes in the DC area only comes from who makes the Reliable Source column in the Post. I don’t think I’ve cracked the Sports page. Ever.
“Who is that guy who throws the parties? Gilbert? Oh, wait, he’s a Wizard.”
“No, Gilbert Arenas is not a Redskin.”
Now you understand just how much this was out of my element. There are not many times I’m willing to let myself play the dumb girl role. However, this was one of those times. When we got to the stadium, we stopped by my coworker’s tailgate for what I thought would be Ah beer. Instead, she took the opportunity to give me a good Redskins hazing.
“What are you wearing?! You’re wearing Rams colors!”
Ohhhh, right. Bright yellow wrap, white blouse, dark blue jeans – yes, I’ve committed a Redskins fashion faux pas. She then forced me to drink two Miller Lites and two tequila shots…in a 20 minute time span. I was drunk within 30 seconds.
“Okay, now just remember the phrase, ‘Give it to Cooley!’ Just scream that and you’ll be fine.”
Got it.
Mid second beer: “Now what do you say?”
“Pass it to Cooley!”
“Oh dear God, GIVE it to Cooley! There is no passing!”
Sorry, I’m a writer, I thought it was better to go with a more descriptive action verb.
Finally, we got to our seats…which, I must say, were fabulous. Nick almost immediately went to go get us beers, and I was left to get to know our new seat neighbors. The man behind us I would come to discover seemed to like me. He would high five me every time the Redskins did something right, and oh talk in my ear every time Nick got up. “Is that your boyfriend? You look booteefull today.” Great. He also had on a pink breast cancer ribbon, I guess to show his sensitive side (something tells me the Redskins cheerleaders or some other attractive women were handing these out before the game). In addition, the guy sitting next to Nick brought a video camera to the game. To film the plays, you ask? Oh no, to film the cheerleaders. Without fail, everytime the Redskins girls came out on the field, so did his camera. I also seemed to attract many male admirers whenever I got up to go to the restroom or refreshment stand. Yes, in Rams colors and without a jersey, they still liked me (and every other female under 30).
So did I have fun? A very enthusiastic, yes. While the Redskins may have lost, I still go to spend the day outside, drink all day, and even have a hot dog. By the time I left, my jeans quite possibly may been glued to my body. Maybe my new found love, err genuine respect, for NFL football will lead to a whole new social life – weekends spent in dark sports bars instead of the shops at Georgetown. Okay, doubtful, but surely this will be a great excuse to host a party.
No, the Dry Cleaners Do Not Use Special Clothes Shrinking Soap.
I realize I have been not posting as regularly this week. However, I have some news. After considerable thought, observation, and reflection, I have come to terms with some issues I have been wrestling with. I decided last weekend it was time to get back into a relationship that has been somewhat on again, off again for the past six years. Sometimes we’ve made it a regular thing, sometimes it’s been long distance, sometimes even over the internet. I had been thinking about making this big step for a while, but I truly think it is the best thing for me right now, and honestly, after we got back together, I wondered, “How have I gone so long without you?”
So do you want the details?
Ladies and Gentleman, I went back to Weight Watchers.
Yes, me and the WW are back together again. (It is practically my AA.) When I told my friend Laura that I had rejoined, she looked at me, shook her head, and said, “You’ve got to be kidding me. Those women must have hated you.”
Hated me? Moi? But why?
“You’re not fat.”
Ok, so this is true. However, as I have said before, I used to be fat (not phat). I feel like I am a comrade in arms with these men and women. I know what it’s like to not have your pants fit. I was the slow kid in gym class. I was the fat girl in high school who had to have her prom dress made because nothing fit in the stores (oh, and it was baaaaad – I looked like was channeling 1876 chic – thank you Jessica McClintock). I cry watching The Biggest Loser. I feel their pain. I share their battle scars.
“Yes, but they don’t know that.”
She just might have a point. I don’t look like a fat person anymore, and to be honest, it still feels strange to say these words -I am not fat. I have a perfectly healthy BMI, and I am still much slimmer than I have been in recent years. However, I had quite a summer. I don’t know about other cities, but DC is quite social in the summer months, and frankly, I treated happy hour as if it was my second job. I drank, I ate, I came to work and put my head on my desk in hungover agony. I lived it up in a classic single girl style, and I loved it. I also managed to let a lovely seven pounds creep back on. Although I have to say, I had a ball gaining the weight. This was not a situation of emotional eating because I was depressed or eating too much while I sat at home by myself. Oh no, this seven pounds consists of beer, vodka, beer, baked goods in the office, beer, happy hour nibbles, beer, and a late night July 4th weekend incident at Ben’s Chili Bowl where I managed to consume a chili half smoke, chili cheese fries (okay split), and a good portion of my friend’s cheese fries. Oh, and a milkshake. It was glorious, however, I woke up the next morning saying to my friends, “I don’t regret anything I did last night, or how much I drank. I only regret what I ate.”
Now I realize you might be thinking, “You know, you don’t have to join Weight Watchers to lose seven pounds.” Yes, I understand this, however, I know myself. I need to get on a scale in public. Heck, I’d go on a weight loss show if I could. I need to feel the scorn, the cold, harsh judgement of strangers. I need that lady from behind the desk wearing her “I lost ___ pounds with Weight Watchers” name badge to look at me and say, “What happened?” when I’m a “little up” on the scale. I also need that experience of trying to come up with some excuse besides, “Um, I got drunk three nights this week instead of going to the gym, and one morning I was so hungover that I went and got an egg and cheese biscuit from the deli place down the street instead of munching on a bowl of Fiber One (1 Point!) and skim milk (2 points!).” Yes, if left to my own devices, I will just keep changing my “weigh in day” until, say, 2012.
You might think I’m being a bit drastic. (Me? Over dramatic? Drastic? No!) Yes, I know seven pounds is not all that much. I can still fit in most of my clothes (except my black Milly cigarette pants which are going to be a must have this holiday season), but you have to understand, I’m a weight loss expert. I’m a pro. They should put me on Oprah (I have actually thought of taking pictures of myself wearing really big, ugly clothing and sending it to Oprah saying I just lost 70 pounds but don’t have the self esteem to go buy new clothes at, cough, Saks. Can she help me and give me a makeover and a free wardrobe? I’m willing to lie if you are.) I know that while it may start at a mere seven pounds, next thing you know, it’s 70, and I’m showing up at the bar wearing drawstring pants. I just can’t let this happen. I have the power to control my own destiny. My weight loss destiny is in my hands.
Also, I have to say, I get into it. I realize a lot of people my age find the meetings to be a little much. Strangers…annoying themes like “What kind of Weight Loss Dance Are You?” “What is Your Weight Loss Destiny?” …hearing people’s problems. Instead, I eat this eat up. I love drama and a good sob story. My guilty pleasure is to listen to Delilah on long road trips. Give me a good Lifetime movie any day. Weight Watchers meetings are so up my alley.
My preferred leader at the downtown DC office is an African-American man named Melvin. I used to be a little weirded out about going to a male Weight Watchers leader (kind of like going to a male OB-GYN), however, when I go to a Weight Watchers meeting with Melvin, I feel like I have gone to church. I thought I was the only person who felt this way until last week when he said to the group, “You know, I have really noticed that I need to watch my sodium intake, it really does affect your weight loss.” This elderly woman in the back starts going, “Mmmmmhmmmm.” “Oh yes.” “It suuuure does.” “Mmmmhmmm.”
Tell it sister.
So I may only be back at WW for a “tune up”, as Melvin told me, but I am very much in it to win it. (I was quite frank with him during the “new member orientation” maybe my seventh I’ve ever been to. “Look, I used to be 70 pounds heavier, but I’ve gained seven pounds, and I just want to lose that before it becomes a problem.” “Oh, I hear ya, girl.” Of course you do, Reverend. Operation Fit Back in My Skinny Jeans and Black Ciggarette Pants has begun.
Hey NYT, I’m Always Available For Additional Comments.
No, this isn't him...Yet.
I get questions all the time about “the cat guy“. Yes, he really does exist. Yes, he really loved his cat. Yes, it was really creepy.
However, according to the Saturday’s Times, he isn’t the only one. In fact, boys who love kitty cats seems to be an epidemic sweeping the country.
Mr. Fulrath is one of a growing number of single — and yes, heterosexual — men who seem to be coming out of the cat closet and unabashedly embracing their feline side. To that end, they are posting photographs and videos of their little buddies on YouTube and on Web sites like menandcats.com, and Twittering about them to anyone who will listen.
Hmm…sound familiar?
Happy Sunday.
Yes, They Cue Kanye Every Time I Walk in a Room
As I have said many times on this blog, I am the ripe old age of 26. I’m splendidly single, I have no kids to take care of, not even a pet, or a boyfriend. My life is mine to live however I want, and frankly I’m head over heels in love with it. While our society seems to make us want to crave our youth, I have to say, I wouldn’t go back to high school if you paid me a million dollars. While I howled to anyone that would listen that I was “officially old” when I turned 26 (and 25), I would take my life today hands down over my life at age 22. It just keeps getting better and better, and I, quite simply, can’t wait to see how the giant question mark that it has become finally unfolds.
However, lately, I’ve started to realize I’m getting older. In fact, it hit me with a thud when I opened my mailbox on Wednesday to find a Talbots, yes Talbots catalog, addressed to ME. How old do these people think I am? I’m still genuinely offended, not as bad if it were Chicos, but still, it’s just plain offensive. Am I a Talbots woman now? No, but I certainly am not getting any younger. While home ownership will not happen for a very long time (okay, very), I realize I need to take control of my financial destiny (how Suze Orman of me) by saving for my On Golden Pond years and open up a 401k account.
Yes, 401k is now in my vocabulary. Just as when I bought my very first suit, I now feel as though I’m officially an adult (yes, those last four years didn’t count). After being gainfully employed by my organization for six months, I am now qualified to take part in our company’s match program. Admittedly, I’m a financial mess. I thought it was a big deal when I opened up an ING savings account, as if I was going to become rich just off the $10 I got for opening it. I know nothing about 401ks or anything financial for that matter (this is not something to be proud of), however Suze Orman is very much a part of my self help library, and I am slowly but surely educating myself on how to take care of myself for the long haul. I plan to retire in style – play bridge, wear Hermes scarves, and carry a Chanel handbag to my weekly hair appointment. It’s time to start planning now.
So yesterday marked the beginning of my financial transformation when I met with Marilyn,”the 401k lady”, a financial planner who came to my office to talk to all five of us who now qualify to enter my company’s program. Woohoo, I made it past the six month marker.
Before I went in, a girl in my office said to me, “Oh, you’re meeting with the 401k lady? She’s crazy.” Um, okay, so am I, but whatever. I was ready. Today is the day I put all my bad financial habits aside. No more starbucks. No more random sale rack spending. Clean slate from here on out. I sit down, pen and notebook ready, like the good financial student I am, ready to bask in her knowledge and start my 401k empire. Kind of like how you feel as if you’re losing weight as you read a weight loss book. I’m making money as I sit in this office.
As soon as she sat down, I realized – this woman is all about dramatics (no one could say the same about me, oh no). She clears her throat and begins. “I know you may be scared with the economy the way it is.” Okay, true. “However, the American economy is THE Strongest….economy….in the world.” I nod. Yes. Are we going to start singing Lee Greenwood now? NOW is the tiiimme to invessst. George Bush fiiinally has put some of the smarrrtest people in charge to get us out of this mess. I felt like I was watching a 1940s “Buy Bonds” commercial. Buy stock.
Then she starts with the nitty gritty, “Your company will give you a full match for up to 3% of your salary.” Yes. I’ve thought about it, and I’m ready to pony up my 3%. Go me. Big spender. “However, to get all of the available free money that is available to you, you need to contribute 5%.” Grrr…little more than I wanted, but hey, free money is free money. I’m all about a bargain. “However, if you want to actually retire and, as soon as possible, you need to contribute 15% of your salary.” Gulp. Whoa, lady. Baby’s gotta eat. Do I need to file for food stamps now that I’m contributing a chunk of my income to my 401k? This isn’t just goodbye looking good. This is good bye food.
She must have seen me blink. It was clear she also watched Suze Orman as much as I do. I thought she was going to grasp my hands like Suze does on Oprah, for the really truly unfortunate souls. She goes on about how women need to take control of their financial future, we don’t educate ourselves enough, we let men make financial decisions. Um, I know, I read Women & Money too and Young, Fabulous, & Broke, too. “I’m sorry, even if you marry a brain surgeon, he just might present you with a pre nup.” Um lady, aren’t we being a little overdramatic here? Since when did I become the young bride to be about to marry the handsome wealthy brain surgeon who decided I was Valerie from 90210 and can’t be trusted and must sign a pre nup and I say to him, “Just who do you think I am? Clearly you aren’t who I thought you were.” The wedding is called off, the seasons change, and I spend the rest of fall walking around lakes and reflecting pools in perfectly cozy fall sweaters to Jan Arden’s “Insensitive.” Haaave to beee…Insensitive.
Now she goes in for the kill. “This Sex and the City phenomenon. These women who have closets full of clothes but nothing in savings, it is ridiculous. There is nothing that will make you feel better than saving for yourself.” Shyeah, I mean, who are these women, really? I can’t imagine having a closet (cough walk in closet) full of clothes and shoes. Just material excess, simply despicable. I don’t know anyone like that. Oh no, not at all. You don’t have me pegged, oh no, not one bit. I’m a huuuuuge saver. I have a coffee tin and everything.
After the meeting was over, I asked my coworker Anne how her consultation went. Anne is a little older than me, but we’re both single gals living it up in the city. “15%? Is that woman crazy? ” Whew, okay, I’m not the only one who knows that’s just not possible. “Yeah, I know. Did she do the marrying a brain surgeon thing to you?” Anne: “Huh? No. She talked to me about college loans, and I don’t even have any.” Interesting. “Did she lecture you on the Sex and the City lifestyle?” “No – she told me that my 401k benefits could be extended to my domestic partner.” Anne is not gay. Not even a little bit. “Really? She told me I could be offered up a pre nup and that I shouldn’t be living the Sex and the City lifestyle.” “No, I didn’t get any of that.” Okay, I gave this woman zero personal information. She only knew my name and what I looked like, but she clearly had me pegged as shop-a-holic gold digger and Anne as a college loan loving lesbian. I’m not sure if I take this as an insult or that I must have dressed really well yesterday. However, I’m sticking to my 5% contribution (for now) and a clothing budget. No need to wait until old age to finally look good.
Why Additional Screening Is Needed Before Email Romances Begin
I have made reference several times on this blog to gal pals. Yes, they are that – not girlfriends, not besties, but straight up, gal pals. I have been incredibly blessed to have a plethora of gal pals that I’ve picked up along the way through different chapters of my life. I boast about them, I brag about them, I live vicariously through them, and quite frankly, I have all out girl crushes on a lot of them. They are the best friends a girl could ask for, and as I wrote to a friend of mine in a card celebrating her work success, “Here’s to the day when we are wildly successful and wear fabulous clothes and meet for six martini lunches that our assistants set up for us.” I wish nothing but the best life can offer to these girls, and that includes finding a mate that loves and appreciates them as much as I do.
So you have no idea how beside myself excited I was when my dear friend Lauren gchatted me one morning to say she had met someone. Stop it! Lauren is maybe one of the most hysterical people I know, so deserving of meeting a wonderful guy, yet had just gone through an absolutely terrible break up with a completely worthless human being. We hate him. (Do not cross a gal pal or all gal pals will wish for your death. ) However, at a wedding that weekend she met a guy we went to college with and it seemed they hit it off. This was huge.
Before I go any further, here’s something you have to understand: our college is famous for alums marrying each other, and not in a “we met in college and got married shortly after” kind of way. More often, it happens like this: two best friends wake up one day and say, “Oh my God, I love you! Let’s get married!” or two people who were complete strangers meet years after graduation, never knowing each other during college, fall in love, and get married. This looked like option two. His name was Reed Dunn. Honestly, I knew of him, but did not know him personally. Frankly, I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup, and neither could Lauren, for that matter, until the wedding.
So Lauren and Reed apparently danced a few times at the reception, hung out a little bit, but that was it. No drunken kissy face, nothing. While she thought he was cute, she was quite surprised to find a message waiting in her Facebook inbox upon her return to New York:
Hi Lauren,
How was your drive back east? I guess maybe you’re still driving though. I didn’t realize how far it is from Minneapolis to NYC. Anyway, send me a note when you get there.
Reed
PS – I really enjoyed hanging out with you this weekend.
Ohmygodyou’regoingtohavebabies!
Okay, so it’s not Shakespeare, but it’s sweet, and let’s be honest, if you were already mildly interested in a boy, and you got an email like this, you would be swooning too. We were at least.
And so an email flirtation began, except it wasn’t really over email, all Facebook messages (weird, I know, but we looked passed it). He would begin messages with openers like, “Lauren – person- I-hardly-knew-in-college-yet-became-the-highlight-of-my-weekend-extraordinaire,” and we would squeal, and get excited, and say things like, “Oh my God, you’re soooooo getting married.” He once added a PS that said, “If we were to fall in love and get married, promise me our first dance as man and wife would be to ‘Superman.'” Ok, kind of weird since you’ve met once, but hey We Like Him!
At the same time this was all going on, Lauren and my other friend Emma were planning a trip to DC to celebrate yours truly’s birthday. Reed lives in the DC suburbs. (I know, red flag, but we looked past it.)
“Lauren, I give you full permission to ditch us to go hang out with Reed Dunn.”
“I would never do that. I’m just going to make out with him.”
“Whatever.”
So the grand plan was that Emma and Lauren would come in Friday, we’d do a girls dinner/drinks thing, Reed would come to my birthday party the next night, and they would make out, hook up, fall in love, and get married (in that order).
However, things did not go exactly as planned.
Friday night, the girls and I go to dinner, and Reed starts texting Lauren. Incessant texting. At first, we think it’s cute. Awww, he wants to see you. Then it’s like, um ok, leave us alone. Fine, come meet us.
He tells Lauren the bar he is at with his kickball team and tells her he’ll meet us in 10 minutes. (Two red flags: kickball and the bar he named is just fratastic. I’m an admitted bar snob, so I feel free to judge.) Okay, deal. So we wait, and wait, and wait some more. Finally, 45 minutes later (because making a girl wait is so attractive) Reed walks in the door with his friend Blake. They are wearing matching black tshirts and still carrying red solo cups from the beer pong party they just left. Sweet.
Now that they have arrived (finally), we decide to change venues and go to a bar down the street. Lauren and Reed seem to be quite taken with each other. Emma, Blake, and I immediately take on our supporting cast roles as we all know that we have to feign interest in each other just so our friends can hook up. We order drinks. Reed and Blake order pitchers. For themselves. Some of you may be thinking, “I did that once.” Sure, IN COLLEGE.
So we all sit down at a table. I look over at Lauren and Reed. They already seem deeply in love. He is all over her, she’s laughing at him, gazing in his eyes. Emma and I try to make conversation with Blake.
“So what do you do?”
Because I seek to protect the innocent, I cannot put up an actual picture of this boy. However, this is totally something he would do.
“Well, I sell insurance outside New York, however, I started this happy hour club and we now have over 400 members. I’m thinking of quitting my job and going nationwide.”
I nod. Okay, cool, I guess. I mean, I go to happy hour all the time. I don’t really need a club to join, but I salute your entrepreneurial spirit. I guess.
Reed is practically molesting Lauren at this point, grabbing her while she’s talking to us, just the works. I have zero patience for boring people, and these people were just boring beyond belief. I look at Emma, “Dear God, these people are awful. What do we do?” “We have to be supportive. She likes him. There is nothing we can do.” Gulp.
Finally, last call is announced. We just might get to go home. (After a late night the night before, I was literally falling asleep at the table, making Emma fend for herself in the rough waters that are awkward conversation. Again, zero patience for boring people. I can’t even fake interest or stay awake.) Oh wait, there are good byes. As we’re standing in this bar with the lights on and the wait staff mopping the floor and three friends staring, waiting/begging/pleading to go home, Reed starts making out with Lauren. Blake, Emma, and I kind of look around awkwardly, trying to pretend we don’t notice that he’s sucking her face off with us two feet away. I look at Emma, “Oh my God, this guy is going to be in our lives forever.” “Shh…we have to be supportive. We like him, remember?”
We haven’t made it five feet passed the door, when Lauren goes, “Dear God, he is awful! He’s so stupid! He is just completely unacceptable.”
Thank. God.
Little do we know, as Emma and I were marrying Lauren off to a life of beer pong and “slammin'” house parties, she was in complete misery with Reed.
“Oh my God, did you know he went to grad school just so he could swim for two more years?! He delayed life to swim! I kept trying to start adult conversation with him like, ‘Oh, you’re from Chapel Hill. That’s a beautiful town, are your parents connected with the University?’ and he’d bring it back to drinking! He is absolutely unacceptable.” He also started planning a vacation at her parent’s summer home in North Carolina. Just the two of them. Remember, this was only the second time they met. In addition, at one point Lauren said, “I love to swim, but i just hate having to breathe underwater – I bet that’s hard to get used to doing .” Reed’s response: “No, even three year old retards can do it.” Swell guy.
“Okay, Lauren, we thought you liked him and were preparing to make all these fake nice comments about him. Granted, we had two, but we were ready.” “Awww, you guys. That’s so sweet.”
The next day, we woke up, still dumbfounded. How could this guy have been so charming over email, wait, facebook messages (yeah, why didn’t he ever use email?) when he really was such a douche bag, a term I hate to use but just seems so fitting. I decided to take a look at his Facebook profile.
Some highlights – all of which are absolutely, positively, swear on a stack of Bibles true:
Religion: Jesus!
Interests: Beer, Drinking, Work, Hittin’ the gym to look hot for the ladies (Ok, this would only be acceptable if he weighed 450 pounds and he was saying this to be ironic. However, he is not.)
- Favorite Movies: Jim Carey Movies, Adam Sandler Movies, Denzel Washington Movies, Will Smith Movies,Teen Movies (My Embarrassing Confession) [Yes, the teen movies part is the only thing embarrassing.]
- About Me: I’m young, black, and famous with money hangin out the anus. (Except the black and famous part, and the money hangin out the anus part too.)
Yes, he really used the word anus on a Facebook profile.
I have nothing more to add.
When Someone Tells You a Coat is “Devil Wears Prada Fabulous”, You Must Buy It. It’s the Law.
I believe there are four things that every single girl needs to survive in what can be a dangerous, cold world. In fact, I will call it the “Single Girl Tool Kit”. It includes the following: a good trench coat, big sunglasses, a black dress you feel good in, and The Big Chill soundtrack. I own all of them, and I think if you have any of the above, you can get through just about any situation.
This morning, being the third day of Fall and with a slight chill in the air, I finally had an excuse to bring out my especially fabulous trench coat for the first time since May. Coincidentally, I also happened to have on my fail proof black dress and sunglasses. It was as if the matron saints of fashion, Audrey, Jackie, and Grace, were all smiling down upon me. I felt so good, I practically skipped the whole way into work.
Now I have two great loves in my life: politics and fashion. I can describe how good or bad my life was at any point in time, just by telling you what I was wearing. For instance, this past New Years Eve, my best gal friend and I did our annual “highs and lows of the year” discussion on the New York subway en route to a New Years Eve party. I won’t lie, 2007 started out being a terrible year, and I illustrated this by saying, “This time last year, I was sitting in Des Moines, Iowa wearing size 10 Ann Taylor jeans.” My friend looked at me in shock, “No!” “Yes.” However, as I was was saying this, I was wearing a size 4 DVF top and Armani black label pants I scored at Filene’s for $44 – the year had indeed improved. Do you see my point? Thus the tale of the trench coat has a special place in my heart.
Around the beginning of the year, I got dumped. Duuuuumped. I won’t even pretend and say that it was mutual because a) I hate it when girls do that and b) because it was not. I have experienced enough loss in my life that being dumped doesn’t make me call in sick to work so I can wallow in my misery while chain smoking and listening to Phil Collins. (True Story – a friend of a friend did that. She has recovered, and her friends now say to her on especially happy days, “Hey, Take a Look at You Now, Elaine!”) No, I power through, tell everyone who will listen the whole elaborate melodrama (of course I make it a good story), and just kind of feel sad. The weekend after it happened, my Mom kept calling to check on me, “You doing okay?” Sigh. “No, still dumped.” A few hours later. “Any better?” “Nope.” “Well, you know it’s Friends and Family Weekend at Saks – additional 25% off everything.” Sweet Jesus, relief!
Here’s the thing, I have a nasty shopping habit, and I will be the first to admit I live beyond my means. I do what I can – I take my lunch to work, I don’t own a car, I only take cabs when I absolutely have to, however, I still live in a constant state of fear that Suze Orman is going haul me on Oprah, share my financials for all the world to see, and make me live with a 45 year old roommate out in Rockville, Maryland. My only shopping would be at Ross For Less, on a “You’ve Been Good” day for the “Where are They Now?” episode. I have psychoanalyzed myself enough to know that in the way I used to use food for comfort (hello fat pants), I now have taken to using retail therapy in its place. At least I’ll look good homeless.
While I received the Friends and Family Saks notice in the mail, now that my Mom mentioned it again to me, I took that as permission to go over there “just to look”, you know, just to get out of the house and amongst the living, not to buy anything. This is like an alcoholic going by the liquor store “just to look” and buying 10 bottles of booze “just to have around the house”. We’re talking walking train wreck about to happen.
I walk over to Saks to see my “friends” that is, the salespeople who know me. I use the terms friends loosely, only because let’s be honest, they like me in the same sense that, you know, a stripper really liked the guy she was giving a lap dance. They like you for the time being. (That said, I knew I had a shopping problem when one day I went over to Saks to return something, and someone knew my name on every floor. That’s when I moved.) After not finding anything in the contemporary section, I made my way up to the top floor. There, I found it. The trench coat. Charles Nolan. Already On Sale. An additional 25% off.
I’ll admit I thought it looked alright, but when I walked out of the dressing room, the saleswoman (who is now my girl, Vanessa) gasped. “Oh my God! That is just Devil Wears Prada fabulous!” Well, okay, if that’s how you really feel. Sold. I couldn’t get my Saks card out fast enough. I was still a little unsure after I got home. Do I really need this? I already know I can’t afford it. I tried it on for my roommate over my pajamas. (Remember, I was just dumped. There would be no going out, especially after this purchase. Time for the Depression Era diet.) Another gasp. Actually, I’ll be honest, a jaw drop. (Because I cause jaw drops all the time, that’s how I roll.) Okay, if this is the second time a person has had this reaction, I think its a keeper.
Since the trench coat’s debut, it is one of the few pieces in my closet, that I, without fail, always get compliments on, and not just, “Oh, that’s cute.” but “Where did you find that?! I love it!” – maybe the best thing you can hear after getting dumped. While I’m sure plenty of financial analysts would berate me for the purchase, I will say I feel prettier, skinnier, and just plain fabulous wearing it every single time I take it off the hanger, a feeling no stupid boy can take away.
I am a big believer in the fact that everything happens for a reason. I often trace back my steps in life to see how the journey I have traveled over the past couple of years all came together. If I hadn’t gone to this college, I wouldn’t have taken this internship which led me DC, to this job, which introduced me to this person who changed my life, etc etc. However, in this case, if I had not met this boy, and if he had not dumped me (duuuuuumped), then I would never have found the trench coat or felt so good wearing it. Every time I get a compliment, I think, and sometimes say out loud, “Thanks, Brian!” Once someone said, “Oh did he buy it for you?” “Oh no, he just led me to buy it.”
When Someone Says To You, “Garlic Kisses Tonight!”, It’s Time To Run.
I realize I have told quite a few dating stories on this blog. (I swear that was not my original intent, but good God, you people love them!) I’ll admit, I get asked out a lot, although, I may have referred to myself as Sahara, as in the desert, during a dry spell this summer. (Thank God for Dad Jeans Rob.) I never have really thought that I date any more than the next person, but then I talk to friends, male and female, throughout the AmTrak corridor, and on numerous occasions they say, “You date more than anyone I know.” “Really?” “Yeah, I’ve been asked out twice since college.” That was four years ago.
It hasn’t always been this way. You may think I’m one of those girls who always has a boyfriend. Ha, far from it. Quite the opposite. I never even went on AH date until I was 21 and out of college. How did this happen, you might ask. Well, two reasons.
1. I was fat (not phat). Yeah, seriously. Not “I’m now a size 2, but I used to be a size 4” fat, but more like fat girl fat. I assure you, no one wanted to date me growing up (wait, I think the correct terminology then was “go out with”). Trust me on this. I even went to prom on a blind date (in the worst possible way – my mother’s college roommate’s son – just a walking awkward moment right there).
2. My college years (those years where many people start to have maybe their first serious relationship) were spent at one of those small liberal arts colleges in the middle of nowhere (yes, one of those colleges where all of the alums feel superior to the entire human race for having attended this institution of higher learning) and no one, and I mean no one, dated. You were one of two extremes – married (ie together all four years) or just hooking up. Even if you were seriously together, it wasn’t because a guy called up a girl and took her on a proper date, and then another date, and then another before they had “the conversation” and announced to the world they are together. No, it was more like they hooked up once, and then again, and again, and then it just kind of was decided by the college at large, and I guess the two of them as well, that they were together. The End.
Because of this, I walked into the real world, newly svelte, and absolutely clueless about this whole dating thing. I knew how to be a guy’s best girl friend, heck, I was a pro at it. I practically spent my whole life as Rosie O’Donnell (okay, minus the whole lesbian thing and you know being crazy), but had no clue as to how to flirt, let alone deal with a guy who might actually be interested in me.
Sure enough, two weeks after I graduated from college, I was asked out on my very first date. Yes, at age 21 – I truly am the epitome of a late bloomer. Now as you read below, please keep the following things in mind: 1) I was 21 and stupid. 2) I was 21, naive (still thinking I was in utopia liberal arts college world), and, again, stupid. How I did not end up the next Chandra Levy (or as my Mom would say, sold into white slavery) I just don’t know. However, I lived. (See Mom, remember that, I lived, I’m just going to go ahead and preempt the lecturing phone call now.)
So, I moved to Washington the day after I graduated from college, a Sunday, and I started work at 9:00 Monday morning, the very next day. I was new to the city, barely unpacked in my sublet, and working about 100 hours a week (it was election season). A friend of mine called me as I was leaving work one Friday night (oh around 9:00pm) and asked me to come out for beers. Ok, why not be social? Plus, I had just graduated from college, so I still could get absolutely wasted and wake up the next morning fresh as a daisy, ready to conquer the day ahead (sigh, how I miss those days). Anyway, I cabbed over, ordered a beer, and sat down at the bar with my friend. Lo and behold, about five minutes later this rather attractive British guy came over and started talking to me.
Ok, if this happened to me today, my 26 year old city savvy self would be just plain rude – roll my eyes, cut off the small talk, probably just turn my back to him and keep talking to my friend. I’ve learned quickly to put my guard up, however, little naive me was like, “Great! A new friend!” We start talking, he’s British. “Oh, I studied abroad in London!” He owns a commercial bread company. “That’s so cool!” They serve his bread at the White House. “No Way!” Well, I must have charmed him quite a bit, probably because I was the only female to fall for his British bread baking schtick hook, line, and sinker. I ended up getting drunk, making out (classy!), and asked out to dinner for the following evening.
A date? Really? I remember my friend Becca saying to me, “Okay, you’ve lived in this town two weeks. You work all the time. You know no one. And you already have a date. I’ve lived here five years, I don’t even have a date, but you do.” Yeah, I somehow managed to swing it, but I was absolutely clueless as to what to wear, do, say, or act. Are we going to go get burgers, split a milkshake with two straws, and then drive up to Make Out Point? Do I get a corsage? Do we need to take a prom picture? I just don’t know.
So he picks me up for a late dinner at 9:00 that night. Yes, I rode in a car with him. Again, I lived. I am ridiculously nervous, and as we’re driving over he starts telling me about his day. Oh, he ran into his old friend today who managed Wesley Clark’s race. Oh, his Auntie wrote Reading Lolita in Tehran. Now 26 year old me would just roll my eyes and try not to throw up in my mouth if I heard this. I would know that he is participating in the classic Washington bloodsport that is known as “name dropping.” However, little 21 year old me takes him at his word, sits in awe, and just gets more nervous.
We pull up to the restaurant (which by the way, is one of the nicest restaurants in DC – I tell people this story, and they’re like, “Wait, you ate there on a first date?” The only other time I went after this was a New Years Eve dinner with my then boyfriend.). He then proceeds to…start kissing me. Yep, full on make out. Sober. And we hadn’t even walked in the restaurant. Okay, now most women would probably run away and call 911, but stupid me is thinking, “Well, I guess this what you do on dates. I mean, we already made out once before.” Lord.
Okay, so I know you’re thinking right now, what a pervert, but this is when it just gets downright creepy. We get out of the car, and he…wait for it…holds my hand walking into the restaurant. Um what? I’ve dated boys for a lot longer than 15 minutes (literally, the date had been that long so far), and we never hand held. (Funny how holding hands is just ten times creepier than making out.) Again, stupid me just keeps thinking, “Oh, okay, well I guess this is what you do. A boy asks a girl out and then they hold hands throughout the date. Got it.”
Finally, we’re at our table, we’re ordering drinks. Now the confident, self-assured me of today would, no doubt, order a vodka soda (probably extra strong with this guy), however, I thought I would look classy if I ordered “white wine” so I did. Really, because Sauvingnon Blanc gets you drunk oh so fast. (Also, my alcohol repertoire at this point was beer and beer.) And you know, when you’re nervous and fidgeting, it’s best to drink out of a wine glass. Always a good idea. I think I ordered six that night.
Now it’s time for the conversation. He starts asking more about me, where I’m from, what I do. Now, you have to understand something here. I am a nice girl, I come from a nice family, and I easily check all the nice girl boxes. I attended excellent schools, danced awkwardly in 8th grade Cotillion, went to camp in the summer, studied abroad in college, did the whole deb ball thing (twice), and now work in Washington, however, I think this guy thought I was some girl straight off the bus (or horse and buggy) from Appalachia, as if my parents were from Deliverence or something. He just didn’t get it. Any of it. He was Iranian, grew up in London, and his whole family were now developers in Dubai. Yes, Dubai. I felt as if he kept making sure I understood how rich he was – flashing his Rolex, telling me some stupid story about wiring his brothers $25k in Dubai (I’m sure my mother right now is claiming it was part of a money laundering scheme.) Yeah, I don’t think I could have brought this guy back home for my southern family Christmas party without everyone in my town thinking he was a terrorist (I realize this is extremely offensive, but it’s just true. This is where I live.) I brought home a California Jew one year, and that was just plain exotic. A British Iranian possible money launderer with family in Dubai. Ok, now that’s just over the top.
So the food comes, including some tasting appetizer which was some sort of chilled soup, but came in sort of a refined shot glass. “Compliments of the chef.” We both taste it, and the guy looks at me and goes, “Garlic kisses tonight!” Aaaaahhhh! I’m scared for my life just writing this now! As we started eating, we keep making conversation, and he asks, “So wait, how long has it been since you graduated from college?” “Oh, um two weeks.” “Oh, I thought it had been a lot longer than that.” Nope. Sure makes you feel a little like a pedophile, doesn’t it?
Ok, so now the meal is over and we’re waiting on our check. Did he offer me a breath mint? Oh no, he reaches for my hand across the table. Yes, I had to sit there, awkwardly, and hold his hand across the table. A complete stranger’s hand. I don’t think I could hold my own husband’s hand across the table in a restaurant, much less this guy’s. “So how long ago was your last serious relationship?” Uh what? Okay, if this happened to me today, a guy asking me this question on the first date, I would freaking do a Tina Turner/Angela Basset, What’s Love Got To Do With It sprint out of the restaurant, away from my abusive husband, Ike Turner (or this freakshow), and into oncoming traffic if it meant sparing me from any more time and possible molestation from this man. However, I thought this was a completely normal, not invasive at all, conversation to have. “Well, uh, never.” “Wait, what?” “Yeah, I’ve never dated anyone.” “Anyone?” “Um, no, not anyone.” What was I going to do, tell this guy I just lost 60 pounds? (70 now, bitches) He looked at me like I had three heads. Yep, I’m just that young.
As he was driving me home, he started telling me some story about his “baby cousin.” “Yes, my baby cousin. Oh wait, I guess she’s your age.” Yep, I’m jail bait. I’m your baby cousin’s age. Would you want your baby cousin to go out with some guy like you? I finally show some sort of gumption. “So, how old are you, by the way?” “I’m 34.” As I write this, I bet he was 40, but we’ll just go with 34. I was 21. 13 years age difference, so inappropriate, just down right wrong. Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s not that much, I mean if I was 60 and he was 73, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but I was 21 and fresh off the boat. That’s just wrong.
I said good night and decided that was the end of any possible relationship or social interaction. The next day, he called me, and I, of course, did not pick up. He left me a message that was something like, “Hello, my darling. I was just calling to give you a sweet kiss goodnight and see how you were doing this evening. Miss you. Call me.” Swear to God. Yeah, I was creeped out, but I didn’t get just how peculiar this was, until I told an older male co-worker and he replied, “Okay, that’s something you say to someone you’ve been dating a really long time.” Oh really? Got it. I didn’t return the call, and I, thankfully, never heard from him again.
So yes, that is my first date story. No, his mom didn’t drive us to the movies, we didn’t have an awkward kiss good night on my front stoop (but hey, we did hold hands and make out in the car before dinner – can’t beat that!). Instead, I got a fantastic story that I will be retelling for the rest of my life, as well as pretty much letting myself hit rock bottom straight out of the twenty something gates. Every guy I date should write the British bread baker a thank you note, because really, no matter how bad a date may be, it will never be that bad. It’s just not possible. Although, this is me we’re talking about, so I just might be able to top it. You never can tell.
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