"Honesty is hardly ever heard. And mostly what I need from you." --Billy Joel

Good Friday, people.

Oh, my. I have received the Honest Scrap Award:

from the infamous, indefatigable, interesting, insouciant and--oh, wait this isn't the follow-the-letter-meme-thing. Never mind.

Anyway, thanks, f.B!

The rules: I have to tell you ten honest things about myself in writing and then tag ten people to pass it on.

So, here goes.

*getting hooked up to polygraph*

Is that really necessary? I thought only a scrap of this had to be honest...

*needle skips in huge arc across the paper*

*blink*

*sigh*

Fine.

1. I can bend my pinky without bending my other fingers. On either hand. Or both simultaneously. Creepy or cool? You decide.

2. I love chewy. Anything chewy. The chewier the better. It's all about the chewy. When it's not about the salty.

3. I Love Lucy. With a capital L.

4. I spent four years living on the bank of a river. (Although, not in a van eating government cheese.) Watching rain plink on the water was strobey and soothing all at the same time. I recommend living near a huge body of water. When you see something as enormous as a river every day, it definitely makes your troubles seem small.

5. Once I pick something, I hate to put it back. Even a lemon at the grocery store. I don't want to reject it.

6. On the first day of school (ever), I was told my actual name when the teacher called roll. I liked it. When I went home and a family member addressed me with the diminutive version, as usual, I informed them of what my proper name was. Nothing impresses like a five-year-old getting haughty.

7. I once "designed" my own clothes by cutting holes in the seams of a skirt and wearing this as a blouse. I liked it. I wore it in public. For about half an hour. Then I realized just how bad it looked.

8. I don't get why sometimes the formatting in Blogger works just fine and sometimes it's all flucked

up.

9. The high school counselor who administered the aptitude test said I'd make a good judge. Where I am Judgy McJudgerson about everyone and everything, I never wanted the burden of deciding other people's fates.

10. I don't understand clowns. Well, I sorta... no, I don't. I don't understand clowns.

Sharing the thrill, I bestow this award on the following folks (some who read my site and some who don't) because I appreciate their honest scrapitude:

Zombie Fights Shark!

Who Invented Roses

The Life of Brian

Fearless in Toronto

Suburban Fizz

ErinSlick

Church of the Big Sky

Malnurtured Snay

Travelin Through

Farm Fresh Meat

I'll trust the universe to inform those that need to know. Or not.

Plain Jane? NOT.

Not long ago, we watched Gentlemen Prefer Blondes again on AMC. Well, there was nothing else on, it was free, it's got snappy numbers in it, ...and why am I explaining myself?

It stars Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell.

Marilyn:


and

Jane:



Together.

They co-star.

Marilyn and Jane:


Notice how irritated Jane looks in this shot. I'd be irritated, too, if I was in a killer dress and had to walk next to Marilyn. Do gentlemen prefer blondes? Dunno about that but I get that they prefer Marilyn to Jane, even though Jane is no slouch. No slouch at all.



But, Marilyn... Marilyn is riveting. When she is on the screen, you don't see Jane. You don't see anybody but Marilyn.


Yes, she is blonde. She has that affected babydoll voice, the incredibly lush body, that way her lips move more than they need to but in a most pleasing way.

There is no bad angle for Marilyn.

And she is the perfect mix of sexuality and innocence. If you could bottle it, you'd make a fortune.

But since Jane doesn't get her due next to Marilyn, I am providing a clip of Jane doing a number from the movie [with no sign of Marilyn but with plenty of beefcake. In fact, it goes over the top (given the era it was filmed in) from about 2:30 on. And rumor has it that Jane wasn't supposed to go into the water. Check it.]

Sing it, Jane!

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank god for you..."--Bette Midler

Well, it's Wednesday. Wednesday is super-duper meeting day around these parts.

Often I have six meetings scheduled for Wednesday. Sometimes seven. Fo shizzle.*

See, lots of people telecommute Mondays and Fridays and I telecommute on Tuesdays, which either makes me very clever or the village idiot. Jury's still out. This means that five days of meetings get crammed into two days: Wednesday and Thursday. And, unless we got enough snow and ice from the storm to close work**, I'll be slammed with meetings all day long.

So, don't expect to find me all lighthearted and frolicy on Wednesdays.****

But I did post a new poll up there on the right. Because I'm committed, damn it, to you, the reader. *cue Wind Beneath My Wings* So, do me a solid***** and vote!

And tell the others--and there will be others--how, despite all odds, I bravely put forth the lamest Wednesday post ever.

For you. *makes eye contact*

You special reader, you. *flashes money shot before turning and running down the hall*

*from down the hall* 'Cause it's all about you! Don't ever forget that you're the most impor--Oh, hi, Betty! Love that outfit! Are you heading to the meeting, too?



* I can't pull that off. I'm lame.

** Fingers crossed as I write this on Tuesday.***

*** Fingers crossed mskes for a lot of typos.

**** What do you mean I'm never lighthearted and frolicy? Hmph. Like you're a box of FiddleFaddle.

***** I can't pull that off, either. Great. More awkward.

"Though it's easy to pretend, I know you're not a fool"--George Michael

Since we are FINALLY getting a bit of snow here, it is a good day to watch the flakes fall (ah, pretty!) and tell a story from my long-ago college days. I'm not proud of my behavior in this story. I was young and petty.

The fake names you need to know for this story to hang together:
Barnaby, boyfriend of a few years
Tom, friend
Mindy, floozy

One of the people that I encountered at school was Mindy, who acted like she was the best thing to hit Earth. Proud of herself? Why, yes, yes, she was! And it didn't seem warranted to me. She was so not all that. Not by a long shot.

Mindy was an engineering student so she was in most of the same classes as Barnaby and she would openly flirt with him, even though he and I were a couple. These days, I'd put the blame squarely on Barnaby, because he did nothing to discourage her attention. But, at the time, I was just disgusted with Mindy.

So, one day, I'm hanging out with Tom in a common area. Tom agrees that Mindy is odd looking. She's pear shaped and she's got this remarkably porcine nose. And we are soon in hysterics, riffing on her Ms. Piggy nose when in walks Mindy.

*laughter stops*

Mindy: Okay, you guys were talking about me, right?

Me, horror-struck: No!

Tom: Yes, as a matter of fact we were.

Me: Tom!

Mindy: What was it? The hippo hips, the thunder thighs or the pig nose?

Me, mortified: No, we--

Tom: That's amazing! It was the pig nose! You're good! *laughing*

Mindy: I figured it was one of the three. *chuckling*

Tom: You know your audience!

*Mindy goes on to meet up with another student*

Interestingly, she wasn't mad at us. It was like she expected to be discussed.

Given the situation, would you have admitted you were snarkily gossiping about her? Or claimed plausible deniability to the end, a la Blagojevich, busted or not?

"Now that I've lost everything to you, you say you want to start something new..." --Cat Stevens

For this story, we'll need two names... let's say Hermione and Efrem.

We are buying groceries at the Giant yesterday. Hubby goes to pick up the last item on our list while I queue up on check out #5.

I am minding my business, watching some pre-teen girl flip out because there is a reference to an actor from Twilight on the cover of one of the magazines at the checkout. (Squee!!)

Hermione, a bagger: Miss! Miss. Three's open. Come this way.

There is that weird moment where everybody stops and looks around. Who is the lucky shopper?

Hermione is talking to me.

I maneuver my heavy cart out of #5 and start heading to #3.

Hermione: Right this way.

At this point, a man and woman maneuver their cart in front of me at #3.

Hermione, pointing to me: I'm sorry but this lady is next.

Woman: But he said we were next. *pointing to Efrem*

Efrem is opening the register at #3.

Hermione to Efrem: I told her she was first.

Efrem to Hermione: I told them they were first.

Hermione: Oh.

Me: Great.

Hermione: I'm sorry.

I queue up behind the couple. It's annoying to be told you're next only to be told you're not next but, really, they don't have all that much. Efrem locks and loads and within a minute or two, I am able to start unloading my groceries. Hubby comes back. We have about 15 (of the 40 or so) items on the belt when...

Hermione: Have you already started unloading? Put it back. She can take you on four.

Me: *continuing to unload*

Hermione: Put it back in the cart! She can take you on four.

Me: *continuing to unload* No. I'm not moving again.

Because, Hermione needs to be quiet and go back to bagging. She's well-intentioned but she clearly has no authority and if I've already gotten this much stuff on the belt, it doesn't make sense to switch. But this leads to the question du jour: Are you a line switcher?

And, a snippet from the very funny Sebastian Maniscalco...

Jokes.com

Sebastian Maniscalco - Grocery Store Line

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"When we get crazy, it just ain't right" --the Eagles

[Women can be delightfully complex]


This is a public service for the gentlemen in the audience.

The topic: Chick traps.

A note of explanation on the term: (No, a chick trap is not Narm's roofie-tini.) The term comes from a former boyfriend who, when faced with an impossible question from me, was wise enough to recognize impending doom and abort, declaring "Chick trap!" Meaning: no matter what he said he'd get in trouble, so all he'd respond with was "Nope! Not going there. Chick trap!"

And, really, I've never heard a guy pull this kind of behavior so maybe the name is deserved? Or maybe I'm stereotyping and I just need to be educated. Either way, perhaps we can all be a bit more aware and recognize a trap when it's set for us* because there are definitely questions for which there are no good answers.

A recent conversation that illustrates...

Hubby, arriving home and speaking to me from across the room: You've been home all day?

Me: Yeah.

Hubby: And you're wearing a bra?

Me: Yeah. Wait... how do you know I'm wearing a bra?

Hubby: *deer in headlights*

Me: Well?

Hubby: There's no good answer to that question.

More obvious examples of chick traps:

• Which of my friends is the hottest?
• If you could change one thing about my appearance, what would it be?

Extended dance-mix chick trap**:

• If I were dead, would you remarry? (Yes --> You mean someone could take my place?!, No --> So, having been married to me, you don't like marriage?!)

These are just a few examples. If you've been in relationships for even a week you'll, no doubt, have your own.



*Yeah, I could stop laying traps but where's the fun in that? Besides, it's an opportunity for the male of the species to improve his agility. Quick reflexes are a must in today's competitive environment and tough economic climate. So, really, it's a favor. Um, yeah. Let's go with that.

** Which you can do the chicken dance to, if you so choose.

"oh the flossy flossy" --Fergie

Quite a bit of Hollywood was in town for the inauguration, including Tom Hanks.

This led me to realize that I don't get Tom Hanks: Celebrity.

Tom Hanks: Actor. Absolutely.

Tom Hanks: Nice Guy. Sure.

Tom Hanks: Activist. Whatever.

Tom Hanks: Guy next to you, quietly eating a cheese danish? Fine.

But Tom Hanks: Celebrity? Not so much.

Celebrities are Big-Time Deals. They're interesting. Provocative. Sensational. Even downright notorious.

Tom's talented. But we know the intersection between talent and celebrity is often vague and sometimes non-existent. So, where's that celebrity oomph? Is Tom Hanks someone the press wants to follow? Is he really A-list material? Breaking it down even more: Is this the guy you want to party with?

Where's the glamour? The wacky persona? The substance abuse? The histrionics? Is Tom releasing a sex tape? Is Tom breaking up a marriage? Is Tom boldly displaying his lack of underwear? Can you see Tom getting arrested at 3 a.m. for throwing an empty bottle of Cristal at somebody's head during a drunken exchange?

No, no, you can not. And there's the rub.

Tom's not throwing anything at anybody.

Celebrity? Bah!

"I was born a ramblin' man" --Allman Brothers

I used to get messages from one particular friend that would be stream of consciousness for five minutes, sometimes more. Each message would contain whatever she wanted to say to me but also whatever thought flew into her head, a verse of the song on the radio, even her telling her kid which drawer had the good scissors. It was bizarre. Although I am not that bad, I know I can be guilty of being a little rambly on my messages.

Conversations are like tennis games... there's back and forth. And when I call someone and get their voicemail, suddenly, it's a one-sided tennis game; I'm lobbing into empty space. There aren't those little cues to let you know, okay, what you said was good or it's okay to hang up now. There was a time when I would just hang up when the voicemail came on but, in the era of caller ID, it seems a little cheesy. So, I leave a message... a message I haven't thought through.

Them: Leave a message!

Me: Oh, hi...

Me: Um, I guess you're out...

Me: Or screening, haha...

Me: It's L.A. ...

Me: You said to call about getting together and doing something...

Me: So, here I am, calling...

Me: Remember, when we were at that place downtown like a month ago? You had that huge plate of wings? Well, not huge. Well, it was kinda huge. Not like you eat a lot. Just that they brought a lot.

Me: Um...

Me: Anyway, remember? You said something about getting together like mid-January?

Me: So, it's sorta mid-January... a little past mid-January, I guess... where does 'mid' technically stop?

Me: By the way, I really thought that sweater you were wearing was a great color for you...

Me: Really great. Like the perfect color...

Me: You know, on you. I can't wear that shade of brown. What would you call that? Like baked potato brown? Not that you looked like a baked potato. Just the sweater.

Me: The color, I mean.

Me: Um, so, I'm gonna go.

Me: You have my number right?

Me: I think you have my number.

Me: So, okay.

Me: Well, why don't I just give you my number just in case you lost it. Not that you would lose it. You're not careless. That came out wrong.

Me: Anyway, it's 703-555-1234.

Me: Um, forget that thing I said about baked potatoes. Not that there's anything wrong with potatoes. Let's face it, with a brown sweater, I could have come up with something far worse than potatoes to compare it to, right? Haha... I like potatoes. Everybody likes potatoes, right? Does anybody bake potatoes anymore? I mean, not in the microwave... I don't remember the last time I baked a potato in the regular oven.

Me: Okay, then...

Me: Um, bye.

"One singular sensation, every little step she takes" -- A Chorus Line (Kleban & Hamlisch)

In eighth grade, my school did a production of Camelot.

Here's what I remember of the production:

On Guinevere:

• There were two separate casts for the handful of primary roles. So, there were two Guineveres. One could sing but had no personality. The other had a lousy voice but plenty of moxie. Crowds loved the one with moxie. And, who could blame them? I'm having fun just typing "moxie." This has led me to the following beliefs: I believe personality trumps talent. As I have neither, I believe I'll have another beer.
  

On Lancelot:

• I was desperately, painfully in love with one of the guys that played Lancelot. For YEARS. He was (and, no doubt, still is) nothing short of brilliant and intelligence is hotter than anything else.
• He was also the only eighth grader with a full beard.
• Before the show, he would walk around in just his tights and turtleneck that, on stage, he wore under a heavy tunic. Tights, people. It was like watching those ballet guys. I stared. A lot. I blushed. A lot.

On my pivotal role:

• At the time, I was one of those horribly shy people that worried about having to say anything and how it might be perceived, so I almost never said anything.* Yet, I, somehow, managed to try out for, and get into, the small chorus (maybe six of us?) that was part of every performance. [For motivational factors, see "On Lancelot" above.]
  

On the grueling theatrical schedule:

• The show ran for maybe two weeks, with three shows a week. Why, I don't know. The school wasn't that big. And the demand would have had to come up a few notches to be non-existent.
  

The reviews:

• My family came to opening night. After the performance, I changed out of my costume, sharing the buzz of kids high on performance adrenaline. Then, I met my family in the hallway, anticipating praise. I believe my mother's comment was "They should never make children do a show that long!"

* I got over this and never looked back.**
** Okay, I'm looking back right now, but you know what I mean.

TMI Thursday/"I'll be loving you... always..." --Leonard Cohen

"Always" has a line of feminine hygiene products. Their slogan is "Have a happy period."

Think about that.

Let's start with the name: Always. Could there be a worse name for a feminine hygiene product? Okay, "Nasty" would be worse. Still...

If you have feminine hygiene issues such that you need something to mitigate them always, it's time to see a doctor. In fact, you might want to head to the emergency room. I think it's safe to say, the last thing most people want to think about as never-ending is menstruation. A diamond may be forever but your period should not be.

Second, how about that slogan: Have a happy period.

As if.

As if buying this product could somehow transform the event into a party, complete with a mariachi band, daiquiris and your drunk cousin, Phil, face-planting into the guacamole.

The only time you have a "happy" period is when you're late. Then, let the revelry begin!

Otherwise, there is no such thing as a happy period.

Just ask my husband.

He'll tell you. He gets a period--mine. Okay, he doesn't get the full experience, but certainly enough of the "joy" to make him very glad it's not always.

Perio--

Er, nuff said.

"And suddenly that name will never be the same to me" --West Side Story (Bernstein & Sondheim)

When I was in grade school I thought about becoming a writer. Coming up with pen names was as far as I got.

How's this for a nom de plume: Shelley Garfield.

I've no idea where I got it from but I liked it. Strong. Easy to pronounce (unlike my last name at the time.) Had a successful feel to it. Not a million of them already out there. Just 10 thousand. I could visualize it on the cover of a bestseller. As in:

Intriguing Title



by



Shelley Garfield

Did I mention I didn't write? Oh, yeah, I did mention that.

A few years later, I decided Shelley Garfield was too pedestrian. So I went for: Aquel.

Just Aquel. Pronounced Ah-kel.

Exotic. Sexy. And anything that looked sort of like "Raquel", of the Welch fame, I figured would be a good money-maker. Hm, I was reading more trashy stuff by that age, so maybe that's where the exotic, sexy stuff came in.

I was smart enough not to share my pen name information far and wide at the time. I think I told one friend.

And, now? The whole world. Yes, you, representing the whole world now know this deep secret.

You totally owe me. Tell me something dorky about you.

Do it or I'll tell Mr. Myrtleman you drew a picture of him during class and made his ass really big.

"You keep-a me waiting"--The Kinks

In the weeks before Christmas, I find myself at a Target (you probably know it as Tar-shay) buying a few gifts.* I pick up what I need (you can never have enough Poppycock--I select a 1982 vintage) and get into one of the shorter check-out lines, which is about six carts deep. Almost as soon as I get into line, more people queue up behind me.

It is at this point that the woman directly in front of me looks around, as if waking from a coma****, and announces to me, "I've gotta get one more thing." I say nothing but it isn't like she is waiting for a response. Really, she isn't asking my permission so much as declaring a fact. Like the flower needs the rain, this woman has got to get one more thing.

She abandons her cart.

Now, you know that the chances of her being back before the line moves are a million to one. This isn't Kmart, where you can slip into a coma and nobody will notice.***** Nope, Target has cashiers that are young enough that they don't have to pause between scanning items to complain about their lumbago.

Sure enough, the line moves, and Ms. Gotta-Get-One-More-Throw-Pillow-in-the-Shape-of-a-Turtle is nowhere to be found. So, what? Now her cart is my problem? I get to move her and my cart up? And maybe I can unload her cart and pay for her stuff, too, hm?

Er, no.

I leave her cart where it stands and circle around it. Others seem uncertain whether to follow suit for, oh, two seconds. The line quickly closes ranks, setting her cart adrift. Yeah, there's your Christmas spirit in action.******

To her credit, when Ms. GGOMTPITSOAT returned, she quietly skulked off with her cart.

I say, you want to do more shopping? Fine. Get out of line. But I've seen this situation play out over and over again with a different outcome. Who's right and who's wrong?*******



*Well, that's not quite true. I didn't just find myself there. It's not like I woke up from a coma to find myself in a Target. That would be strange. How come they never do that? They should take coma patients and move them around and see what hilarity ensues.**

**What?? Alright, maybe not. Have it your way.***

***Sometimes, you're poopy.

****Oh, come on. It's practically a theme now. Like a prom banner: "Coma alive, class of 95!"

*****I'm hearing Barbara Streisand singing "Coma in and out of your life... is never easy..." I'll bet Babs doesn't waste her time at Kmart. I'll bet she sends James. Brolin, that is. Not Ingram, who'd be singing, "Coma to me, let me put my arms around you, this was meant to be..."

****** "Oh, coma, all ye faithful..."

******* 'Cause that's what it always comas down to.

"Nothing compares to you" --Sinead O'Connor

Ever been compared to someone you think looks nothing like you? What do you say?

A while back, I heard from a relation of my husband's. She emailed me, excited to tell me I had a double. She included a link to a commercial on YouTube, saying that the woman in the commercial looked exactly like me and that every time she saw the commercial she was amazed.

Here's the thing: I watched the commercial and thought "She thinks THAT'S what I look like?! IS that what I look like?! I do NOT look like that!"

Hubby spent 20 minutes trying to calm me down, assuring me that this woman looked nothing like me. That it was the hairstyle and maybe the jawline... sort of... not even... but other than that, I was much better looking than Commercial Woman.

Oh, and can I say, it is never a good idea to compare yourself to someone who is famously attractive. No good can come of this. Do not put in a dating profile: "People tell me I resemble Salma Hayek." Even if you have, say, Salma's smile, you likely don't have the other, rather important, parts that go with being Salma Hayek. And it's not just a chick thing. I've met guys who say things like "Well, people tell me I look a little like X", where X is Taye Diggs or George Clooney. That's just asking for a derisive snort.

But I guess it's true that there are only so many combinations of features. It's funny how we want to see familiarity in the faces of strangers. I am often saying, "Our waitress looks a little like [friend]" or "Doesn't that guy over there remind you of [cousin]"?

Well, I may regret this but... Doesn't this comedienne look a little like DC's own food goddess, the lovely Lemmonex?

Lemmonex:














Watch funny chick, Jen Kirkman, and see if you agree:


Not just like her, but I can sort of see a resemblance. Of course, Lemmonex is much better looking.

PS to Lemmonex: I think I showed some restraint by not including the clip of Jen talking about masturbation.

"Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash" --Pink Floyd

As I was speaking of finding things just a few days ago, I am reminded of a relatively recent experience in a Metro station that caused me to do a Scooby-doo "Huhhh?"

We were at the machines to reload our SmarTrip fare cards and witnessed the following exchange next to us.

Him: *putting paper money into machine*
Her: *eying pennies on floor in front of machine*, *reaching down to pick up pennies on floor*
Him: *using his leg to block her from reaching* Don't touch that! You know how filthy that is?
Her: *retrieving hand, sheepishly*
Him: *reaching into coin return to get change*

I got to thinking about that... He didn't want her picking up coins off the "filthy" floor. Okay. But, at least the floor gets mopped once a day. I guarantee those machine coin return spaces never get cleaned and they get reached into by all types of germy humanity. And is the floor or the machine any cleaner or dirtier than the money itself?

Which brings us to the questions of the day: Do you believe that money is dirty? Will you pick up money? Are there places you won't pick up money?

Best Ticket in Town

There are a lot of rumors currently circulating about the Bloggerational Ball and how it differs from the other (ho-hum) inaugural balls. These are the ones I can print:

• the sexiest bloggers are going to attend (in sexy formal-wear, no less)
  
• there will be representation from DC and non-DC bloggers (ooo, exotic!)
  
• the food will be to die for (none of that mass-produced, warmed over stuff)
  
• the drinks will be top shelf and you won't have to wait in lines 100 deep to get to it (priorities!)
  
• the music will be awesome (woo-HOOO!)
• it's Sunday night ('cause anybody can have a ball on inauguration night but this ball is for people who are in the know)

Do you really need to know more? Fine: BlogBallDetails

Not a rumor: this blogger will be in attendance.

Hope to see you there!

"Ooh Baby Baby" --Smokey Robinson & the Miracles

I once dated a man that smelled like baby oil.

We only went out two, maybe three times. So I never got to the point of asking or observing why he smelled like baby oil.

Truth be told, I use baby oil when I shave my legs (dry skin, if you must know), so, immediately, I knew what it was. And there's much worse smells than baby oil.

Much. Worse. Smells.

We didn't stop dating because of that. Still, it was a bit odd to have a grown man smell of Eau de Baby.

Not that he needed to douse himself in Stetson or Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue Pour Homme* or whatever. I don't need my man to smell like burlap or asphalt or wet sheepdog or whatever else they put in that stuff.

I guess if I could choose a smell for a man, other than fabulous Eau de (Clean) Man, I'd probably go with a food I like, but something non-wimpy. You know, like Eau de Pizza.

I can smell me a lot of pizza.

Talk about irresistible.




*No, I am not making that up. Remember when your dad wore Old Spice, because that's what he received from you every birthday? Talk about making sacrifices for the kids. *shakes head*

"Papa's got a brand new bag"--James Brown

[Letting the cat in the bag.]


I have found a lot of valuable things.*

Some of the valuable things I've found:

• lots and lots and lots of coins (US and international)
  
• US paper money in 1, 5, 10, and 20 denominations
  
• a tri-color 14K gold bracelet that had been run over at least 5 times by the looks of it
  
• a bank bag with cash in it
• a 3/4 karat, brilliant cut diamond

Now, you'd think at least these last two would have great stories. You'd be wrong. Really.

Okay, I'll tell the more exciting of the two stories. On the edge of your seat? Here goes...

The bank bag story: I pick up my car from a service station after a minor repair. I am driving around and realize something is sticking out from under my seat. I pull over to check it out. There, I find a bank deposit bag! I think OH MY GOD! I open it! It contains $37.50. I call the service station. They say, yeah, they accidentally left it in there and could I bring it back? I do. They say thanks. The End.

I know! Totally boring, right?! Not exactly screenplay material.**

But, IF this were a movie:

a) I'd look gorgeous***;
b) there'd be thousands of dollars in the bank bag;
c) I'd be in adrenaline-pumping chase scenes with bad guys who scowl and shoot, poorly, at me and at least one car would roll over and/or take flight;
d) I'd have a nebbishy best friend who makes me laugh and worries about me;
e) Owen Wilson****, the lovable screw up, would totally save me; and
f) I'd get a reward for returning the money to it's rightful owner.

Admit it. You'd see that movie. Okay, maybe you'd wait until it hit Netflix, but you'd see it.*****




*And I don't mean "found" like you just "found" that twenty in your Dad's wallet on his dresser after you waited until he was in the bathroom with the fan on. I mean really found. Lying about. Unclaimed.

** Or even blogworthy material, but, hey, you've read this far... Sucker!

***I struggle with the idea, myself, but I hear Hollywood is big on tricks. Like dim lighting. And Vaseline on lenses.

****Owen's nose: adorable or disturbing? Discuss.

*****And then you'd blog about how you wasted your time watching this utterly predictable movie. And the beat goes on...

Yakety Yak -- The Coasters

We are at a New Year's Party in Baltimore and notice how loud one person is. Okay, yeah, I'm sensitive to noise, but this guy is WAY louder than everyone else, forcing lean-ins anywhere near him. He doesn't appear to be inebriated, just loud in that "Look how important I am" way. I wonder if he has some sort of modulation problem or if he's just a jerk.

Eventually, Mr. Loud makes his way to me and introduces himself. I introduce myself. We chat about how we know the hosts.

Mr. Loud: So, you live around here?

Me: Not really. We're in Alexandria, Virginia. You?

Mr. Loud: We live in this area... OH! AlexANDria!

Me: Yes.

Mr. Loud: Near King Street?

Me: No, not in Old Town. South of the Beltway.

Mr. Loud: That's not Alexandria.

Me: Yes, it is.

Mr. Loud: You said you lived in Alexandria. That's not Alexandria.

Me: We have an Alexandria address.

Mr. Loud: That's not Alexandria.

Jerk. Definitely.

Isn't it amazing how people will argue with you about something they know nothing about and you know everything about? You want to argue politics? Okay. Restaurants? Sure. But where I live? I think, if you'll pardon the expression, I'm on pretty solid ground here.

I get that most people upon hearing "Alexandria" automatically think of Old Town. And if buying a 200 year old, very small townhouse, with a basement that floods, that you can only paint in Wilmington Tan and Colonial Black, for the totally reasonable sum of $1.5M is your idea of fun, more power to you. We don't choose to live in Old Town but we love the area's shops, galleries, restaurants and bars.

And I'm not a fan of perimeter creep for the sake of having a more fallutin' address (Olney is Olney, not Upper Rockville.) But Alexandria in Fairfax County is an actual place. The IRS says so. It's not like I have a choice of the "real" area I live in or the bigger/tangential Alexandria title. It's only Alexandria.

But why argue with a jerk? And a loud one, at that.


PS to Sassy: I appreciate the tag--sweet of you to think of me-- but there's no way I'm doing a meme that's that long. A) I chose non-thesis masters programs for a reason. B) If the CIA couldn't dig it up, there's no way I'm admitting on a blog what happened 10 years ago. I've said too much.

PPS: New poll up on the right. And when I say My blog, I mean, of course, YOUR blog. It's all about you, Kitten!

New Year Adventure

And so a new year has begun. And you're thinking to yourself:

I read the Interwebs and everybody seems to be having more fun than me. I have a pretty good life but something's missing. WWDPD?* Why, he'd ask me: "How's that working for you?" and I'd have to be honest and say "Maybe it could be better."

Maybe I should do something. Could be I'm in a rut. ...Yeah, I'm definitely in a rut.

But what to do? Should I venture away from the General Tso's next time I order up Chinese food? Some people seem to like the Kung Pao. Or should I join a book club? Maybe switch from ESPN to ESPN2?

Damn it! Life is so confusing!

If you're looking for that new activity to add a little rush to your life, do not despair.

Check this out:



Pretty wild, no?



* What would Dr. Phil do?