So even though it's technically not yet summer, in DC we begin sweating profusely sometime in late April. So I guess it was around May 1st that I decided this was going to be "Anything Goes Summer." This is, of course, my highly controlled way of not being such a control freak (which has seriously gotten out of control). I blame it on my BlackBerry.
I suppose I was also motivated by the final, yes final, ABSOLUTELY LAST time I hooked up with the guy I was talked into dating back in November and talked myself into dating for the four subsequent months. By the final, yes final, ABSOLUTELY LAST time we hooked up, Mara was seriously ready to kill me. I mean the girl could only answer the, "WHY am I dating him?" question so many times. I realized I was getting lazy in love and needed a jump start.
So it follows that the first task on my (not at all controlled) list of "Anything Goes Summer" activities was to find The Perfect Summer Fling (PSF). Candidate #1 was a guy I'd been flirting with for a while. In the interest of discretion, as his identity is highly scandalous, his name shall remain Undisclosed. I don't have a single thing in common with Undisclosed, but he's got all the classic "bad boy" appeal to make a white girl from the suburbs swoon (no shame in admitting it). But due to his highly scandalous identity I hesitated. Candidate #2 turned out to have a girlfriend and was quickly disqualified. So it came to be that I chose Candidate #3, or rather he chose me.
Candidate #3 is French, so let's go ahead and call him Frenchie. Frenchie approached me on the street a few weeks ago after following me--too closely--for about three blocks after we both exited the Dupont Circle metro. I was about to mace him when he finally spoke. He told me that he'd walked out of his way to tell me that I was beautiful, but let's face it, he could've told me he stole my wallet because all I heard was the accent. I dusted off my college French skills and we spoke for about ten minutes. I gave him my number and we agreed to have coffee within a few days. I was very proud of myself.
But before I could properly fantasize about dinner parties with expats and Labor Day weekend in Toulouse, Frenchie blew up my phone with sappy text messages. At first I gave him a break--the French discount, if you will--but after about 600 "Bonjour mademoiselle" and "xoxo" messages I realized I had a stalker on my hands.
Which led me back to Candidate #1, the man whose name shall remain Undisclosed. It soon became clear that he was going to be my PSF. His extremely complicated life (and aforementioned scandalous identity) assured me that our fling would be wholly uncomplicated (due to high level of required discretion). Plus the chemicals between us were palpable. The tension hit its boiling point this weekend, and I was fully prepared for the heat. And that's when mister sure-to-be-uncomplicated dropped the "I think I'm getting emotionally involved" bomb on me.
(Sound of record scratching)
This was followed by a long profession of his carefully calculated observations of all my fabulous qualities (of which, yes, there are many), but emotionally involved? The PSF is not supposed to involve emotions.
And so it appears I'm striking out. Or back to square one. Or accepting applications. I guess I'm lucky it's not yet technically summer...
Sunday, June 17, 2007
The Bug Blog
For those of you who were my friends last spring, who were the unfortunate witnesses of the anxiety attack I had (seriously) when my apartment in Ohio became infested with termites, this will be a comical reminder that lightening does, occasionally strike twice. For those who didn't know me then, here is the recap:
Me, sitting at my desk, slaving over my master's thesis, sleep deprived. Swat a knat. Keep typing. Swat another knat. Type type type. Third knat. What the? Look up. Holy Lord in Heaven I am Moses and this is the plague of the locusts. They. Are. Everywhere. Call my dad in absolute hysterics. Make him drive two hours from my grandma's house. He finds me face down in the yard sweating profusely, hyperventilating, and covered in hives. Never more terrified in my life.
F*#%ing bugs!
I hate them. And I don't mean prissy "I can't camp" kind of bug-hate. I mean, seriously if there are more than three of them, dammit I will use spray and force and flip-flops, and I will scan the room in paranoia for at least three hours afterwards. I may not sleep.
So it seems cruel that in yet another apartment--the most expensive apartment I've ever had--I spent my day battling another swarm of bugs. This time, moth flies. And. Their. Larvae.
LAR-VAE.
In my shower. MY. EFFING. SHOWER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Has anything ever been more horrifying??
I accomplished nothing at work today. The guy who sits behind me tried to insist I was over-reacting. I turned around and glared at him with red-rimmed eyes. Then I flashed him my blotchy decollatage. He offered me his extra bedroom.
Lessons learned:
1. $2200/month does not a bug-free apartment buy
2. I have way too many eco-friendly friends. One sent her sympathies for the bugs, one sent a link to eco-friendly killing methods, and another suggested I try to "trap and release" them.
Freaking hippies.
Me, sitting at my desk, slaving over my master's thesis, sleep deprived. Swat a knat. Keep typing. Swat another knat. Type type type. Third knat. What the? Look up. Holy Lord in Heaven I am Moses and this is the plague of the locusts. They. Are. Everywhere. Call my dad in absolute hysterics. Make him drive two hours from my grandma's house. He finds me face down in the yard sweating profusely, hyperventilating, and covered in hives. Never more terrified in my life.
F*#%ing bugs!
I hate them. And I don't mean prissy "I can't camp" kind of bug-hate. I mean, seriously if there are more than three of them, dammit I will use spray and force and flip-flops, and I will scan the room in paranoia for at least three hours afterwards. I may not sleep.
So it seems cruel that in yet another apartment--the most expensive apartment I've ever had--I spent my day battling another swarm of bugs. This time, moth flies. And. Their. Larvae.
LAR-VAE.
In my shower. MY. EFFING. SHOWER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Has anything ever been more horrifying??
I accomplished nothing at work today. The guy who sits behind me tried to insist I was over-reacting. I turned around and glared at him with red-rimmed eyes. Then I flashed him my blotchy decollatage. He offered me his extra bedroom.
Lessons learned:
1. $2200/month does not a bug-free apartment buy
2. I have way too many eco-friendly friends. One sent her sympathies for the bugs, one sent a link to eco-friendly killing methods, and another suggested I try to "trap and release" them.
Freaking hippies.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
The Ohio State Curse
Last night, despite the miserable January rain and our mutual ambivalence about going out, a girlfriend and I set out on the town with a mission: to see if we could recapture the single-and-fabulous energy we were both experiencing before the holidays. For a couple of weeks now we've been blaming the holidays. "Everyone was traveling." "The whole city practically shut down." "No one was having happy hours." What we haven't wanted to admit to ourselves is that our single-and-fabulous lives have actually become the victims of two new guys in our lives.
We arrived at an overcrowded bar on Connecticut and within minutes were being chatted up by a few guys. We exchanged meaningful glances that said, "See, we're still single and out meeting new people." We weren't going down without a fight. You see, when two single girls are out on the town to specifically talk themselves out of the reality that they'd both rather be with the new men in their lives, what they need is distraction. Distraction is the best fuel for denial.
That's when the Ohio State Curse (as I am now calling it) officially sabotaged our mission. It never fails; ever since I moved to DC from Columbus, I have realized that 99.9% of men I meet will engage me in a discussion about the Buckeyes. A typical conversation may go like this:
Him: So, have you been in DC long?
Me: Just since summer.
Him: Oh yeah? Where did you move from?
Me: Columbus, OH
Him: Ah, a Buckeye!
Me: (Willfully trying to prevent an eye roll) Yep, but just for grad school (meaning: yes, but I really don't want to talk about it with you for the next twenty minutes).
But I will. He will drone on about Jim Tressel, Troy Smith, the Michigan game (it's even better when he is from Michigan) or, most recently, the crushing defeat against Florida in the national championship game. I will nod and smile and throw out the half-dozen facts about OSU I keep in storage for such occasions, and I will wait for the conversation to move forward. It won't.
Don't get me wrong. Like most native Central Ohioans, I am a Buckeye fan. I'm as loyal to Ohio State as any sports team, but the problem is, that's not saying much. I can think of any number of topics I'd rather discuss, but I'm forced to engage in endless, trite conversations about college football because most men I meet are happy to hang out in that comfort zone. Last night was no exception, and as my girlfriend and I stood there pretending to listen, the futility of our mission was clear. We left the bar.
As we walked home huddled together under her tiny umbrella, we laughed at our comic attempt to forget about the great guys we are both involved with, albeit at the expense of our single-and-fabulous lives. We loudly—drunkenly—complained about the Ohio State Curse and I vowed to feign ignorance about the Buckeyes, or simply make up a new hometown, the next time we went out so that we wouldn't have to endure another lame sports conversation.
I went home, put on the soft t-shirt I stole from my guy, and called him. We both laughed about my evening—he finds my relationship resistance amusing—and made plans for the next day.
We arrived at an overcrowded bar on Connecticut and within minutes were being chatted up by a few guys. We exchanged meaningful glances that said, "See, we're still single and out meeting new people." We weren't going down without a fight. You see, when two single girls are out on the town to specifically talk themselves out of the reality that they'd both rather be with the new men in their lives, what they need is distraction. Distraction is the best fuel for denial.
That's when the Ohio State Curse (as I am now calling it) officially sabotaged our mission. It never fails; ever since I moved to DC from Columbus, I have realized that 99.9% of men I meet will engage me in a discussion about the Buckeyes. A typical conversation may go like this:
Him: So, have you been in DC long?
Me: Just since summer.
Him: Oh yeah? Where did you move from?
Me: Columbus, OH
Him: Ah, a Buckeye!
Me: (Willfully trying to prevent an eye roll) Yep, but just for grad school (meaning: yes, but I really don't want to talk about it with you for the next twenty minutes).
But I will. He will drone on about Jim Tressel, Troy Smith, the Michigan game (it's even better when he is from Michigan) or, most recently, the crushing defeat against Florida in the national championship game. I will nod and smile and throw out the half-dozen facts about OSU I keep in storage for such occasions, and I will wait for the conversation to move forward. It won't.
Don't get me wrong. Like most native Central Ohioans, I am a Buckeye fan. I'm as loyal to Ohio State as any sports team, but the problem is, that's not saying much. I can think of any number of topics I'd rather discuss, but I'm forced to engage in endless, trite conversations about college football because most men I meet are happy to hang out in that comfort zone. Last night was no exception, and as my girlfriend and I stood there pretending to listen, the futility of our mission was clear. We left the bar.
As we walked home huddled together under her tiny umbrella, we laughed at our comic attempt to forget about the great guys we are both involved with, albeit at the expense of our single-and-fabulous lives. We loudly—drunkenly—complained about the Ohio State Curse and I vowed to feign ignorance about the Buckeyes, or simply make up a new hometown, the next time we went out so that we wouldn't have to endure another lame sports conversation.
I went home, put on the soft t-shirt I stole from my guy, and called him. We both laughed about my evening—he finds my relationship resistance amusing—and made plans for the next day.
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