People say DC is like Hollywood for nerds, and it’s true. News flies fast when someone sees Bill Clinton at a restaurant or Barack Obama at the gym, and it’s always fun to guess who’s behind the tinted windows of the ubiquitous motorcades. Only in DC can you excitedly gush to your friends about seeing an obscure wonk-type no one else would even care about.
So it should come as no surprise that the pool of eligible men here is heavily skewed toward Debate Team rather than Football Team. Not that I mind. I maintain that a band nerd from my high school is one of the best kissers I’ve ever kissed. He played the trumpet. Firm lips. Still, even so, it has taken me a month to admit I’m dating a guy who proudly wears a braided belt. He’s brilliant, witty, and handsome, but there’s also no doubt in my mind that somewhere in a basement in Texas there’s home video footage of him wielding a light saber a la George Michael on Arrested Development. And yes, I said Texas. Groan. He even wears cowboy boots.
My friend Kate, a self-proclaimed, card-carrying Geek, says I’m probably in over my head with this one. And she may be right. I mean it’s one thing to tell me about the Tolkien themes embedded in Zeppelin IV (swoon!), but it’s quite another to own a “movie accurate” Indiana Jones costume (yes, seriously). I almost had myself convinced that this kid was from a galaxy too far, far away when this happened:
Two nights ago, I got a 1:00 a.m. phone call from the back of an ambulance, where my guy found himself after being jumped on his way home from my apartment. By the time I got him back here, I barely recognized his face it was so broken and bruised. But when I referred to him “getting his ass kicked,” he was quick to correct me with a full account of what went down. Apparently, my uber-nerdy crush judo-kicked the shit out of his attacker (all the True Geeks know martial arts) and even used the heel of his cowboy boot to kick the scumbag in the back of the head. While pinned on his back. With a knife to his throat. Yeah. I just looked at him, lying on my couch in his rumpled LSU t-shirt and hideous Lone Star belt buckle, ice packs on his face and Guinness in his hand, and thought:
Hot.
I am dating a Billy Bad Ass Dork.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
Charlie
In case there is anyone left in the free world who hasn't yet heard: I am aunt to the cutest kid in Christendom (Yeah, Christendom. I needed the alliteration.) And since I am regularly--rightfully--accused of hyperbole, I have included photos so you can see for yourself. My brother and his wife want four kids, but I honestly can't imagine another genetic cocktail with such a perfect, more cherubic outcome. Time will tell.
It's good actually, that Charlie is so freaking cute. I mean even if I do have kids one day, I figure my brother has this category in the bag. Which is great because growing up I was always the bratty, one-upping little sister. He was due his day. And since we're talking about it, I'm not shy about mentioning that I have no idea if I will procreate one day or even if I want to. It all seems so theoretical and not worth pondering sans a suitable life partner. Plus let's face it. I've spent the last ten years consumed with one thing only: me. This is not to say I'm self-centered (although I am), but that I have had the luxury of living on my own terms and doing all that annoyingly predictable Gen-Y self-discovery stuff. And as it turns out, I'm a pretty cool person.
Plus I'm a career girl. I'm like head-over-heels, can't-get-enough, totally in love with what I do. I simply can't think of anything more fascinating than contemplating cities and unraveling complex urban policy problems. I want to be on the front lines of this massive creative class takeover of the 21st century. And I am already. In the mix, that is. Which means I'd clearly be one of those horrible mothers who puts their kids in daycare and on a million prescription meds. Or ships them off to live with their Auntie Jill, a total natural, until they're too old for me to break. (Not a bad idea, actually.)
All that being said, you should see how Charlie levels me. I mean just totally depletes me of all ability to act cool, and in fact reduces me to one of those blubbering women I've always judged. Turns out "poopykins" and "buddah butt" are in my vocabulary. I actually coo! How embarrassing. But I could lay on the floor next to that little guy for hours just watching him figure out he has a tongue, and it's utterly, inexplicably, riveting. Who knew?
Monday, July 21, 2008
Is Brodie There?
When I was in college, and far less scrupulous about who I doled out my cell phone number to, my roommate and I invented The Brodie Game. We played The Brodie Game whenever one of us would miss a call from a non-programmed phone number and the Mystery Caller wouldn't leave a message. Rather than wrack our brains guessing who it was, we'd call from another cell phone and pray for an identity-revealing voicemail. If the Mystery Caller happened to answer, our default cover was to ask for Brodie. The point being that the name "Brodie" is rare enough to ensure a "wrong number" exit strategy. (Brodie also happened to be this adorable Freshman kid who practically lived in our dorm sophomore year and was subject to/of many of our antics.)
So, not to wax too nostalgic (or reveal just how much time I had on my hands in college), but I've decided to introduce the 10th Anniversary Edition of The Brodie Game based on recent events:
A week or so ago, I got a Mystery Text (MT) from someone who apparently knows me (the text referred to me by name) but is not programmed into my phone. My response (and request for the MT's identity) went unanswered. So I asked my co-worker to call the number and, frustratingly, his voicemail message was, "Hey, it's me. Leave a message." Blast! So she hung up, but now this person is randomly text messaging her too! So I've decided that it's only appropriate, in the world of non-conspicuous, Internet oversharing that we all live in, to put this guy on blast:
202-257-2340
First person to come up with his identity gets a cup of Mr. Yogato on me.
So, not to wax too nostalgic (or reveal just how much time I had on my hands in college), but I've decided to introduce the 10th Anniversary Edition of The Brodie Game based on recent events:
A week or so ago, I got a Mystery Text (MT) from someone who apparently knows me (the text referred to me by name) but is not programmed into my phone. My response (and request for the MT's identity) went unanswered. So I asked my co-worker to call the number and, frustratingly, his voicemail message was, "Hey, it's me. Leave a message." Blast! So she hung up, but now this person is randomly text messaging her too! So I've decided that it's only appropriate, in the world of non-conspicuous, Internet oversharing that we all live in, to put this guy on blast:
202-257-2340
First person to come up with his identity gets a cup of Mr. Yogato on me.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Going Back to the Well
People thought it was funny when I declared, “clearing the bullpen” to be one of my 2008 New Year’s resolutions (and no, not just because I correctly used a sports metaphor). The thing is, there were a handful of guys I’d been cycling through for a while—nine years in one case—and I was sick of warming them up over and over again. Sometimes you just have to make room for new ones. Sort of like my once-per-year closet purge.
Anyway, it’s been a bit of a process, but I’ve successfully eliminated men in three states. I’ve even managed to clear out the nice guys—you know, the ones you never officially rule out because you tell yourself that one day “nice” may matter a lot more than it does now and perhaps even surpass “chemistry” on the must-have list. (By the way, I think this entire category has been maintained for my mother’s sake.) And lastly, I’ve also found the guts to quit torturing myself and cut ties with The Nine Year Guy, whom I’ve remained inexplicably hopeful about despite no real evidence of a workable future together. Blah blah, this blog isn’t for sob stories. Bottom line: I’ve been making progress.
The thing is, it didn’t dawn on me until this morning, when I was rehashing last night over brunch, that I’ve actually accomplished my goal. Mara was commenting on my dance floor makeout session with Bill, which in and of itself was a non-event (Nate used to regularly call the over/under). It had been a while though—a year maybe?—and after giving it no more than 30 seconds of commentary, I had a light bulb moment: the bullpen! The only time Bill and I ever make out is when both of us are unattached and uninspired. In short, when our bullpens are mutually clear. It’s an odd sort of circumstantial star alignment thing, when you think about it. But more importantly, it’s a clear indication that I’m kicking off the summer with a clean slate.
Coincidentally, I ran into Bill on my way home. He too had just finished rehashing our spectacle (and thankfully ensuring the photos don’t end up on Facebook), so I proposed my theory. He added in the very obvious alcohol variable but totally agreed with me, commenting, “It’s kind of like going back to the well.” I laughed, said something about catching up with him later, and continued walking. I think it’s going to be a good summer.
Anyway, it’s been a bit of a process, but I’ve successfully eliminated men in three states. I’ve even managed to clear out the nice guys—you know, the ones you never officially rule out because you tell yourself that one day “nice” may matter a lot more than it does now and perhaps even surpass “chemistry” on the must-have list. (By the way, I think this entire category has been maintained for my mother’s sake.) And lastly, I’ve also found the guts to quit torturing myself and cut ties with The Nine Year Guy, whom I’ve remained inexplicably hopeful about despite no real evidence of a workable future together. Blah blah, this blog isn’t for sob stories. Bottom line: I’ve been making progress.
The thing is, it didn’t dawn on me until this morning, when I was rehashing last night over brunch, that I’ve actually accomplished my goal. Mara was commenting on my dance floor makeout session with Bill, which in and of itself was a non-event (Nate used to regularly call the over/under). It had been a while though—a year maybe?—and after giving it no more than 30 seconds of commentary, I had a light bulb moment: the bullpen! The only time Bill and I ever make out is when both of us are unattached and uninspired. In short, when our bullpens are mutually clear. It’s an odd sort of circumstantial star alignment thing, when you think about it. But more importantly, it’s a clear indication that I’m kicking off the summer with a clean slate.
Coincidentally, I ran into Bill on my way home. He too had just finished rehashing our spectacle (and thankfully ensuring the photos don’t end up on Facebook), so I proposed my theory. He added in the very obvious alcohol variable but totally agreed with me, commenting, “It’s kind of like going back to the well.” I laughed, said something about catching up with him later, and continued walking. I think it’s going to be a good summer.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Striking Out, Part I
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...
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...
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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