Margaritaville

I’m not a big fan of Lauriol Plaza. The food is mostly “meh” and it’s packed to the rafters every night, which is somewhat inexplicable. But I used to go there back in the days before it moved to its current location, and every now and then, I have a craving for one of their delicious frozen margaritas. (Also, I have a lot of good margarita-fueled memories of years past from there.) Yesterday, I was having one of those cravings, so we went there for brunch (which is crowded, but not as bad as it is in the evenings). We both ordered frozen strawberry margaritas.

Brunch went something like this:

Lord Kissington: Are they always this sweet?
Me: Hmmh, this does seem a little sweeter than normal. Usually, the large amount of tequila in it cuts the sweetness a bit.
Lord Kissington: Well, maybe they’re a little weaker than normal.

A few minutes later:

Lord Kissington: You know, I can’t even taste the alcohol.
Me: I can’t either.

Nearing the bottom of the glass:

Me: You know, when the waiter read the order back to us, he was sort of mumbling. Is it possible he said “virgin strawberry margarita” instead of “frozen strawberry margarita”?
Lord Kissington: I guess that’s possible, but why would anyone order virgin margaritas?
Me: shrugs

The bill arrives:

Me: Yup, those were virgin margaritas.
Lord Kissington: Why am I still drinking this?
Me: This means I just drank about 500 calories worth of sugar for no God-damned reason.

I’m totes bitter.

Do I Need to Worry About Hot Flashes Already?

1. I talk with my hands. There’s lots of gesturing. Sometimes it gets a little out of hand and I accidentally smack Lord Kissington while I’m gesticulating wildly. I even talk with my hands while on my cell, which is a complete waste of energy. The other day I was walking home from work and talking on my cell to a friend. After about 10 minutes, I told him I had to go because trying to talk with my hands and hold the phone up to my ear was making my arms ache.

2. Go see the newly renovated American Art Museum/National Portrait Gallery. I’ve always loved this museum, and although there are now many more people there than ever before (if you’re like me and remember the nearly deserted exhibits, this may come as a shock), but the renovation is such a great job, you won’t mind. Just be prepared to say “excuse me” a lot and gently nudge people out of your way. Sneering at people waiting for the elevator because they are too lazy to walk up the stairs is optional, but I always enjoy it. While you’re there, check out the William Christenberry exhibit. I won’t even try to describe it, but it’s really amazing.

3. I have a birthday coming up, and although I try to be ok about getting older, every now and then it freaks me out. However, for the most part I think I deal with it pretty well. Last night, I was going through my mail, and I received a letter from a clinical group doing a study on post-menopausal women. They want to sign me up. Ummh, yes, I’m not as young as I used to be, but hello, I am far from being post-menopausal. I’m still well within my child-bearing years people. I’m just wondering where the hell they got my name?

Blast from the Past

Recently, I received a rather odd email. The story of this email starts almost six years ago (this story was pieced together through the mists of time, or perhaps the mists of keg beer). Two good friends were leaving DC, and there was a huge bacchanalian goodbye party. At some point during the party (late, but not so late that I don’t remember), a young man approached me. He told me that he was from Korea, and he said, “I think you are very beautiful, and I would like to give you my card.” Well, flattery will get you everywhere with me, and I took his card, and I must have given him mine, although I have no memory of doing so. He seemed harmless enough, and he said something about going back to Korea, so I didn’t think I needed to worry about hearing from him again. Something he said seemed to indicate that he was a friend of one of the departing people. I don’t have his card anymore, but I remember that it was kind of cool, because it was in English on one side and in Korean on the other.

Fast forward nearly six years. I get an email from an address I don’t recognize, but the subject line indicates that it’s probably not junk mail, so I open it. The writer tells me that he met me at a party that he attended with BobbyRock back in August of 2000, where he met me. He’s now back in the United States and is looking to get back in touch with BobbyRock. This is all very strange. I assume it’s the person I met at the party, but I don’t remember the connection to BobbyRock, someone I didn’t know at the time. I did meet him some months later, and we hung out a few times, but we were never really more than casual acquaintances. He moved to London in 2001, and I lost track of him after that, although I did hear that he had developed a strange habit: he would go into HMV, “borrow” CDs from their cases (CDs aren’t shrink-wrapped in the UK; some stores just have the case in the rack, and you have to ask for the actual CD when you purchase it, but apparently, they’re just sitting in the rack in HMV), taking them home, burning them, and then sneaking them back into the store. This struck me as ridiculously convoluted, but whatever. Last I heard of him was several years ago, and I have no idea where he is now. Receiving an email from someone I had spoken to for approximately two minutes at a party six years ago asking about someone I haven’t seen in five years just seems so random.

Home Sick

Yesterday, I felt like crap, so I went home early. While riding the bus home (bus in middle of day = totes depressing, but perhaps that’s because I only ride the bus in the middle of the day when I’m sick, so I’m not at my best), I glanced at a discarded newspaper. Apparently, there’s some kind of war thing going on in the Middle East. I don’t know much about it, which is what happens when you get all your news from the Express, which devotes one small paragraph to the current crisis and features really important articles like “Sudoku: Passing Fad or Not?”

Since I was home sick, I watched lots of brain-rotting TV (Elizabeth, dump that pill-popping loser’s ass and get back with Jason, please). I got sucked into an episode of Oprah, which was all about the evils of crystal meth. The take-home message of the show was “crystal meth is totally bad bad bad and it turns even soccer moms into depraved losers,” but the message I really got was that it makes you lose weight. Of course, you’ll probably lose your teeth and any claim you ever had to beauty, so it’s probably not worth it. The best part was when a former meth addict was discussing the dangers of indiscriminate meth-induced sex in the gay community (although I would hazard a guess that indiscriminate sex is just as prevalent among straight meth users. Just sayin’.) and he used the term “barebacking,” to which Oprah feigned ignorance and said “barebacking? What’s that?” HI-larious.

This morning, while walking to work, I fell to my knees. No, it wasn’t the rapture. I’m still not sure what happened. My show did something funny, I lost my footing, and next thing you know, I’m on my knees. No damage done, but still not the best way to start the day.

Solitary Confinement

I am a person who doesn’t mind spending time alone. One might even say that I enjoy it. I hesitate to put this out there, for fear of being branded a “loner,” a word loaded with all sorts of negative connotations (camo-sporting nutjobs who live alone in cabins in the woods fretting over the UN’s plans for world domination). I enjoy being with people too and I would say that I am pretty social, but I find my own company pleasant and I have no problem with solitude. On a recent business trip, I was really looking forward to some alone time. I brought a bunch of books and hoped to order a lot of room service and catch up on my reading. I ended up having dinner engagements the whole time. When acquaintances asked me to dinner, I really felt like I couldn’t say no. It wasn’t like I had anyone else to eat with, and for some reason, I felt uncomfortable telling them that I really just wanted to sit alone in my room and eat room service.

Lord Kissington and I spend a great deal of time together. For someone who enjoys their own company, I think the mark of a successful relationship is that even though you like being alone, you would rather be with the other person most of the time. But every now and then, I need some time for myself. Yesterday, Lord Kissington wanted to see a movie, so I suggested he go by himself and I would spend the afternoon alone. He readily agreed (movies being one of those activities that I never feel bad about someone doing alone, since it’s not exactly an interactive experience*).

But once I had the afternoon to myself, I found that I didn’t quite know what to do. It was a beautiful day, so I took a book and sat in the park for a while. Sadly, the ground was still a bit wet from Saturday’s rain, so sitting for a long time wasn’t possible. I considered moving to one of the benches, but it’s been my experience that every time I sit on those benches, I get accosted by someone (I must give off some sort of crazydar, because they always find me). Once the ground became uncomfortable, I picked my damp ass up and pondered what to do. I really wanted to stay outside, and I wished that I had a backyard, because that would have been perfect. I considered sitting outside at one of my local haunts and having a drink, but there was something about drinking alone in the afternoon, even if I were outside, that sounded so, I don’t know, sad drunk**. So, I ended up going back to the apartment and reading in the bedroom. Have I lost my talent for solitude?

*Or at least it shouldn’t be. I always end up next to the people who feel the need to do a running commentary on the movie or use the time to time to catch up with their companion. You people are bastard people.
**Whereas if you are with someone, it becomes a convivial experience. You may still be drunks, but at least you have each other.

Insomnia Blows

If you’re a frequent reader, you’ve probably noticed that I often mention my chronic insomnia. Lately, it hasn’t been so bad, but last night, it came back with a vengeance and combined with some free-floating anxiety to give me a really fun night. I had three anxiety dreams in one night, which really seems a bit excessive, especially when I woke up from each dream and then had trouble falling back to sleep because I was, well, anxious. I used to have very standard anxiety dreams, some variation of waking up one day to realize (i) that it’s the end of college, but I don’t have enough credits/forgot to take a required class and I won’t be able to graduate, or (ii) that I have an exam that day for a class I’ve forgotten to attend all semester. I’ve had these dreams for years now, even thought it’s been a long time since I’ve been in school. But lately, my anxiety dreams have reached a whole new level.

The first dream related to something that’s going to happen tonight. I’m supposed to go to my father’s to meet some friends of his who are visiting from out of town. I’m looking forward to this and am not anxious about it. In the dream, I was running late, and things just kept making me later. For some reason, I had to give my boss a ride home from work (which makes no sense, since I don’t drive) and I ended up in Virginia, where I ran into my mother, and we couldn’t get back into the city because of something to do with the new Wilson Bridge.

In the second dream, I was watching a movie and then suddenly I was in the movie. Ralph Fiennes was a bank robber and I was his partner. We were very sophisticated bank robbers and the bank manager just let us in to take the money for some reason. Just as we were leaving with a box of cash, the bank suddenly caught on to what we were doing, and we had to make a run for it. With a security guard following me, I started running. I ran up an escalator. And then another escalator. And then another. I finally ended up on the top floor of the building where I ran into the ladies’ room, where I saw someone exiting a stall who was wearing stockings and women’s shoes, but was clearly a man. At that moment, I realized he was the police and I was about to be caught, at which point I woke up. I lay awake for approximately an hour trying to figure out what I could have done differently to avoid getting caught (and being pissed at Ralph for apparently getting away.

The third and final dream was perhaps the most disturbing. In it, I had just given birth to a baby girl. Even though I had only given birth the day before, I was out and about with the baby. Lord Kissington was nowhere to be found, so I guess I was a single mother. The baby was totes adorable, and she was basically a superbaby. At only one day old, she could already smile, and at one point, she figured out how to crawl out of her little seat. I started to think, “Uh-oh, I’m not sure I’m equipped to handle a superbaby.” I was at some sort of convention, and I left the baby with a friend for a few minutes, because I had lost track of her seat. I managed to find the seat, but I was having a really hard time finding my way out of the convention place, and then people started chasing me down a hall, at which point I woke up. I had a moment of lucid dreaming during all this, where the adorable baby grabbed my finger in her little hand, and I thought to myself, “Hmmh, maybe I should have a baby. I’ll have to think all this over when I wake up.” Of course, by the time I woke up, the whole being chased by persons unknown thing had freaked me out and pushed out thoughts of how great a baby would be.

Just what the hell is my subconscious trying to tell me these days?

Not as Hot as Yesterday

I know it was probably around 90, but yesterday seemed so pleasantly cool in comparison with the last few days. This morning was equally nice. I find myself liking summer again, which is rather rare for me. Our relationship is a bit like Homer Simpson’s relationship with his brain: “All right brain, you don’t like me and I don’t like you. We’ll get through this and I’ll get back to killing you with beer.”

I can’t help but feel that DC is being awfully wussy these days. Unless you just moved here, the sweltering weather shouldn’t really come as a surprise to you. It’s like this every year. It’s hot, it’s sticky, the air’s hard to breathe. But most people have AC, and if you work in an office anything like mine, it’s probably frigid. Most people I know drive or metro to work, so again, they’ve got the AC cocoon. I walk to work, but I’m in the minority there. Imagine living in Europe. It’s hot as hell over there, and they’re definitely not used to it. AC is rare. When I lived in Ireland, most people didn’t even own real summer clothes, because it rarely got warm enough for you to need them. An average summer day was in the 60s and overcast. If it hit 75, everyone moaned and groaned about the heat. They would never make it here.

I’m usually the first to complain about the heat, but this year I’ve decided to embrace summer. Why? Well, there are two reasons. Most of the time, I don’t sweat much. Even pushing myself like crazy at the gym, I barely break a sweat. But walking 40 minutes in this soup makes me sweat plenty, and I’m hoping that a pound or two of water weight will come right off. And this year, I really like my summer wardrobe. Ask me again in August, and I’ll probably be totally sick of it, but right now, I’m actually loving it.

*Yes, I’m always looking for easy weight loss tricks. The other night I was eating some salmon I grilled, and it occurred to me that I might not have cooked it long enough, but I kept eating because I figured food poisoning would guarantee a 5 to 10 pound weight loss. Sadly, nothing happened.

I'm Back and I'm Hotter Than Ever

I have been incommunicado lately for a couple of reasons. I’ve been sick for the last few days. I seem to be recovering now, but I was slammed by a summer bug combined with recurring migraines and what is perhaps a bad reaction to the heat (what can I say, I’m totally a delicate flower). Also, I’ve had something hanging over my head causing me stress lately, and the situation has finally resolved itself, and although the outcome is not what I wanted, it’s basically what I was expecting, so I can live with it (sorry to be so cryptic, and please don’t read too much into this—I don’t have cancer or anything terrible). So between being stressed out and sick, I haven’t gotten out much recently, and I haven’t had a whole lot to say.

However, the heat and being sick have made me extra cranky, and I do have a few things to say.

1. I am morally opposed to Segways. The only people I ever see riding them are relatively young and seemingly able-bodied, so what is the deal? Are you just that lazy that you think it’s ok to ride around on one of those stupid things, nearly running down pedestrians who are actually moving on their own power? Just wondering.

2. Ladies, if you have large hips and/or ass, please realize that the pencil skirt is not your friend. Try an A-line or a full skirt. Just trust me on this one.

3. Another one for the ladies: If you have short stumpy calves, flats are not your friend. Neither are flip flops. Buy some heels. Your legs will thank you.

4. Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock are getting hitched. If anyone can make marriage work, it’s these two kids. Congrats, guys! (Is Kid Rock a step up or a step down from Tommy Lee? I’ll be pondering this one for days.)

5. In the past few days, I have spotted three different women sporting knee-length leather (or perhaps pleather in one case) boots. Do they not know it’s July? Do their calves get really, really cold in the summer? Did the one I saw today wake up this morning and say to herself, “Wow, it’s only going to be 90 degrees today. It’s totally boot weather!” It boggles the mind.

6. Fake chicken is really not so bad. Spray butter is awesome. Who knew?

7. Although there is still no sign of Tom and Katie’s miracle baby, someone did spot a stroller. And what is in that stroller, you might wonder. I suspect it’s one of those scarily realistic infant dolls they use on TV to play newborns since they can’t actually hire a newborn. Those dolls scare me. At least they don’t throw up though.

Childsafe

Recently, when inviting a friend with a newly crawling baby over, I mentioned that although our apartment wasn’t exactly childproof, it probably wouldn’t be too bad. Afterward, I thought it over and came to the realization that we may have the least child-safe home ever. It’s all filled with furniture with sharp edges and loads of toys that are only recommended for ages three and up. Not to mention all the precariously placed piles of crap that are everywhere, just waiting for a precocious little moppet to knock them over. This got me to thinking about what it would be like to have children of my own. I’m ambivalent enough about having children, but when I start to think about what I would have to do to make my life childproof--well, let's just say it’s a daunting prospect. So I suppose I can add that to the long list of reasons not to have children. Or perhaps, I can adapt the child to the home, rather than the other way around. If I just get the kid a Michelin Man style rubber suit and a pair of goggles, he/she should be fine, right?

I Am, Uhh, New Pants Wearing*

It was a typical morning. I had a little trouble getting out of bed, but once I got moving, it was fine. It all began to unravel around 8 a.m. as I tried to get dressed.

8 a.m. I scratch the hell out of my foot on the sharp edge of my jewelry box, which leads me to ponder: 1) Why would someone make a jewelry box with such sharp edges? 2) Shouldn’t the jewelry be cushioned in soft velvet? 3) What the fuck is this jewelry box doing on the floor? I realize that it is just going to be one of those mornings and I will have to live with it. Sigh.

8:03 a.m. With some excitement, I put on my new black linen pants. It’s summer, I hardly have any pants, and linen should be perfect for the heat. They are those kind of pants that you can roll up and keep the roll in place with a little strap that buttons on the outside of the pants. They are too long for me without some rolling, but I decide that I don’t really like them rolled up too short, so I just roll them twice and they look pretty good, so I’m going with that.

8:20 a.m. It’s time to go, but I can’t find my shoes.

8:23 a.m. Shoes located, I run out the door.

8:26 a.m. I’ve made it almost a block down the street when I realize that there is a reason they include those stupid straps on the pants: They don’t stay rolled up on their own. And although I’m not Britney Spears holding a baby in one hand and a “glass of water” (sure, Brits, that’s totally not a vodka and tonic) in the other being followed by the paparazzi, I really don’t want to be wearing pants so long that they make me trip over my own feet. I become irrationally angry about this situation and have to give myself a little pep talk in which I say, “Ok, princess, you can deal with this. It’s no big deal. Just take a deep breath and turn around and go home so you can fix your pants.”

8:32 a.m. Back in my bedroom, I rip the pants off and re-roll them. I realize that they are much shorter than I want to wear them and consider switching outfits, but realize that changing would require picking out a whole new outfit and probably changing all my undergarments, and that will just take too long. I give myself another pep talk in an effort to dissipate my irrational anger.

8:39 a.m. Pants have been readjusted and are back on. As I’m running out the door again, I notice that it’s a little overcast. Wondering if I can get away with carrying just the cute, tiny, compact, light umbrella, I call weather. Thunderstorms predicted, so I grab the big stupid umbrella. Grrr.

8:45 a.m. Walking to work once again, I notice that although these pants are linen, they seem really heavy and feel more like wool. Which is great, since it’s really fucking hot out. Stupid pants.

8:50 a.m. I notice that the linen on these pants is rather rough and feels like burlap rubbing against my legs. Stupid, stupid pants.

9:20 a.m. I arrive at work and see the person walking in 10 feet ahead of me push the button that opens the door automatically. The button has a picture of a wheelchair on it, you know, to indicate that it’s supposed to be for the disabled. This woman was completely able-bodied. Pushing this button when you are not in a wheelchair is pretty stupid because the button is actually 5 or 6 feet away from the door, so you have to walk out of your way, and you have to lean down to press it, since it’s at, you know, wheelchair level. All I wanted to do was scream at the top of my lungs “Are you just that lazy?”

9:50 a.m. On first bathroom trip of the work day, I discover that the tie linen belt provided with the pants is really, really hard to untie, slowing down the whole bathroom process. I hate these stupid fucking pants.

Did I mention that I’m a little grumpy today?

*10 points if you get the reference.

I Would Totally Sell My Soul for Some Jimmy Choos

I saw The Devil Wears Prada over the weekend, and although I really enjoyed it, I had some issues with the message of it. The film is all about how the main character, Andy, is losing her soul by working as second assistant to Editor-in-Chief Miranda Priestly at Runway magazine (Vogue). Perhaps I’m shallow, but I don’t see it so much as losing her soul as gaining some really amazing clothes. When her boyfriend tells her he liked her old clothes better, I wanted to scream, “Are you nuts? How could anyone possibly like those schlubby, misshapen schmatas? She’s wearing sexy black Chanel, you moron!” (And really, are we supposed to believe that the lame, overly hairy boyfriend is any match for the supersexy Simon Baker?) Then her self-righteous friend tells her, “You’re not the same Andy anymore” or something to that effect, and all I can think is, “She gave you a Marc Jacobs purse, and this is how you repay her? Bitch.” Clearly, the feel-good message of this movie was lost on me. I suppose I’m just someone who would happily sell my soul for a free Chanel wardrobe. I did think Meryl Streep was amazing, and she looks fabulous, as does Anne Hathaway (after she ditches the frumpy clothes).

Now, Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Program

1. I am super bitter that Hugh Laurie wasn’t nominated for an Emmy for House. I have zero interest in the Emmys, since they seem to mostly reward utter crap like Everybody Loves Raymond and the ceremony is very B list with people in lame dresses, but I checked out the list as I was interested to see if Mr. Laurie would again be nominated for his role as the cranky doctor. After being nominated last year and winning the Golden Globe, he has been overlooked this year, proving my suspicion that the Emmys suck (and depriving the world of what would no doubt be an awesome acceptance speech in the Golden Globes are anything to go by). The crazy hatch dude Desmond from Lost (for whom I am mildly wicked hot in the pants) was nominated, which is a small consolation.

2. I have a lot of champagne in my fridge at the moment, so someone better give me a reason to celebrate soon, or I’ll be forced to mark such momentous occasions as cleaning out my closet or seeing The Devil Wears Prada.

3. Today I’m wearing an adorable white empire-waisted dress. I look like Elizabeth Bennett. Or like I’m pregnant. I’m going to go with the former.

4. I can barely tell you anything that’s happened in the world this week (North Korea did something or other), but I can tell you everything that’s happened on General Hospital. This scares me.

5. I have had the song “Simply Irresistible” by Robert Palmer stuck in my head all day. I am ready to kill someone. Lord Kissington called me and told me that some friends of his were going to see Toad the Wet Sprocket this weekend, and after we both laughed for five minutes, I started singing that one big song they had, thinking it would knock Robert Palmer out of my head. It didn’t work, but I’m pretty sure LK now has Toad the Wet Sprocket stuck in his head.

Can You See This?

Ummh, if you can see this, please leave me a comment letting me know. My blog doesn't seem to be showing up today. Thanks.

Update: So, I republished the whole blog, but it only shows up in Explorer. In Mozilla, it shows a blank white page. Perhaps I need to try a new template, as I have had various issues with this one in the past.

Further Update: Problem appears to be solved. Whatever. I wish I had something more interesting to post about today than technical issues.

Notes from a Long Weekend

1. All the nostalgia for 2001 (and a visit from the Redhead) has meant that my friends and I have been living in the past for the last week or so. In an effort to remember that it’s 2006 and my body can only take so much, I have attempted to keep the level of debauchery to a minimum, but I have been eating a lot of bad food. This has resulted in a rather annoying mystery stomach ailment, which I see as my body holding up a white flag while screaming “No mas! No mas!” The last week has included a ridiculous amount of bad food. I do not the have the best diet in the world, but I eat relatively healthily and in the summer, I’m usually too hot to eat large portions. But the past week has seen such gastronomic feats as an Irish breakfast for lunch (two kinds of blood pudding!) followed by a burger and fries for dinner, a ridiculously heavy, garlic-laden French meal that followed a rather heavy brunch, McDonalds, mozzarella sticks and a huge plate of ravioli, and a hot dog and boardwalk fries at a baseball game. In a rare moment of sanity, I decided to pass on Ben’s Chili Bowl for dinner last night. My stomach is exploding and I’ve probably put on 10 pounds. Detox begins today. (Sadly, herbal tea is not nearly as appetizing as beer. Or wine. Or vodka. Sigh.)

2. Bryc3 and I were passing by a local street and I pointed out where a friend used to live (going along with the 2001 theme). He didn’t recognize the street at all, even when I pointed out the Gay Godfather’s house*. “Did there used to be more trees?” I found this hard to believe, considering how much time we all spent in two apartments on this particular street, but it’s entirely possible that he never saw the street in daylight.

3. I have now come to the realization that I like baseball much more in theory than I do in practice. If the games were about two-thirds shorter, perhaps my short attention span could take it. It always sounds like a good idea: baseball, friends, tailgating, beer, hot dogs. Sadly, the reality is often 4 hours of dullness, interspersed with about 10 minutes of actual interesting happenings. Oh, and it was 400 degrees out. The end of the game was really exciting, but I hardly noticed, being that I was suffering from heatstroke**. Yeah, I’m a bad American.

3. I got eaten alive by mosquitoes this weekend. I tried to count them, but lost track at 26. I am estimating 432. My legs are a mess of welts covered in hydrocortisone. It’s hot. They itch so much that even the slightest breeze rustling against my legs sets off paroxysms of itchiness. I’m desperately trying not to scratch.

4. Lord Merlin is away for the week and has left me in charge of things, by which I mean in charge of his cable. I have been sneaking down the hall to his apartment to watch SoapNet at strange hours of the day and night. A few thoughts: Would Jess/Tess just integrate already? Why is Blair so so so stupid? Why would anyone bother to stalk Adriana? Why does the wardrobe department hate Sam so much? Oh, and Robert Scorpio, even though you’re old and wrinkly, I love you. Really. If I actually had SoapNet, I might never leave the house again and would actually enter the channel’s preferred demographic: overweight shut-ins.***

5. I saw Superman this weekend and it left me feeling distinctly “meh.” I realized that I’m not a fan of Superman. He’s too perfect and boring. I likely superheroes in the tormented outsider mode, e.g., Batman, Spiderman, Wolverine. Also, it’s very hard to buy Lois Lane as a Pulitzer Prize–winning reporter when she is so incredibly stupid**** (Do not read this footnote if you want to avoid spoilers. Seriously. I’m warning you.).

6. I heard something about a former friend over the weekend. She was someone I had to negotiate a "divorce" a while back, and with every new thing I hear about her, I feel pretty good about my decision.

*Yes, Virginia, there is a Gay Mafia, and they have really delightful row houses in Dupont.
**Really, a woman who spends much of her summer with her hand to her forehead moaning about having “the vapors” probably wasn’t cut out for viewing a sport that requires many hours of sitting outside in the heat.
***Seriously, there are an awful lot of commercials for weight loss products, all of which are endorsed by doctors from extremely dubious sounding medical schools (Hollywood Upstairs Medical College).
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Do not read if you want to be surprised.


****Really, Lex Luthor doesn’t even have to look for a way to get to Superman since Lois walks her ridiculously small ass and that of her not-so-super child right into his clutches. Yes, I need to investigate this mysterious power failure that seems to have originated at this mysterious mansion, so let me bring my child along for the ride. And Superman’s kid is name Jason? Really? It’s so… not super. I guess naming him anything with “El” in it would have given away the plot twist.

Reminiscing

Nostalgia has been kind of a theme with me lately. It all began last Thursday night, as Lord Kissington and I were driving home. There was a Jimmy Eat World song on the radio, which took me back to a very specific moment in 2001, my birthday. I had two birthday parties that year. On my actual birthday, a bunch of us went out for drinks, and a week later, I had a huge joint party with two friends. The first party was sort of weird. It was a Thursday night and it had been a shitty week. On Monday, we had all found out that a dear friend had just been diagnosed with cancer. Up until that point, the summer of 2001 had been a blur of parties, happy hours, nights where we stayed up until the sun rose, and lots of other good times. The sobering news hit everyone hard. We were young; young people don’t get cancer. That night, he came out to celebrate my birthday, which was pretty amazing, because if it had been me who received the diagnosis, I probably would have been at home hiding under the covers*. He brought me a present, the then new CD by Jimmy Eat World (Bleed American), which had just come out**. The second song on the record, “A Praise Chorus,” became my theme song for the rest of the summer. It was the song I played over and over again as I got ready to go out every night. It’s a really awesome song, and I loved to dance to it and it made me pretty hopeful even when things seemed shitty.

Are you gonna live your life wonderin’ standing in the back lookin’ around?
Are you gonna waste your time thinkin’ how you’ve grown up or how you missed out?
Things are never gonna be the way you want.
Where’s it gonna get you acting serious?
Things are never gonna be quite what you want.
Or even at 25, you gotta start sometime.
I’m on my feet, I’m on the floor, I’m good to go.
Now all I need is just to hear a song I know.
I wanna always feel like part of this was mine.
I wanna fall in love tonight.

Are you gonna live your life standing in the back looking around?
Are you gonna waste your time?
Gotta make a move or you’ll miss out.
Someone's gonna ask you what it’s all about.
Stick around nostalgia won’t let you down.
Someone’s gonna ask you what it’s all about.
Whatcha gonna have to say for yourself?
I’m on my feet, I’m on the floor, I’m good to go.
Now all I need is just to hear a song I know.
I wanna always feel like part of this was mine.
I wanna fall in love tonight.

Crimson and clover, over and over.
Crimson and clover, over and over.

Our house in the middle of the street, why did we ever meet?
Started my rock ‘n roll fantasy.
Don’t don’t, don't let’s start, why did we ever part?
Kick start my rock ‘n rollin heart.
I’m on my feet, I’m on the floor, I’m good to go.
So come on Davey, sing me somethin’ that I know.
I wanna always feel like part of this was mine.
I wanna fall in love tonight.
Here tonight.
I wanna always feel like part of this was mine
I wanna fall in love tonight.

Even though 2001 would soon disintegrate into a miserable uncertain time in the wake of 9/11, it was still one of the best years of my life. Actually, 2000 to 2002 were pretty damn good. I began 2000 getting out of a soul-suckingly awful relationship, and I spent the next two years having as much fun as possible. I made many new friends. I went on countless dates, most of which were good for nothing other than humor value. I drank a lot of vodka. I kissed some boys. I read (Ulysses. I met Lord Kissington, although I had no idea at the time that I would end up marrying him.

2001 is even more on my mind this week, because the Redhead is in town. She was my main partner in crime that year, and we cut a well-dressed swath of destruction through many bars in town. The other afternoon, we decided to hit our main haunt for old times’ sake, and as we sat on the patio sweltering and belting back our usuals (vodka & tonic for me, gin & tonic for her), the Professor walked up and said, “It’s 2001!” I even ran into some people I used to hang out with back in 2001 but almost never see now.

So, I’ve been thinking a lot about 2001 and how things have changed since then. Among everyone I used to hang out with, there have been eight weddings (including mine) and one divorce. There are now three babies. I’ve attended more going away parties than I care to remember (and some of them I honestly don’t remember). Several friendships ended (it was good riddance in all cases). The group houses have mostly disbanded. The cancer patient has been in remission for ages. I no longer know anyone with a Kegerator. Yes, times have changed.

*and moaning “Why, God, why?” to which God would probably have replied, “Ummh, you don’t believe in me and now you expect me to cure your cancer? Whatevs.”
**We listened to a LOT of emo back then. I still listen to my old school emo, but I can’t get into any of that newer shit since it’s too commercial (and maybe I’m too old).