High Heels and Football

Forgive Our Trespasses

2008-06-16T09:40:00.000-07:00

"And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us."

In church on Sunday, I said a prayer for someone whose name I don't know, but who made me very angry nonetheless. I had thought about him entirely too much. I prayed for his soul, for him to find spiritual strength. It was the Christian thing to do. Forgive and be forgiven.

Friday, BF and I had met some of his co-workers for happy hour. We all laughed together as they recounted the details of their "field day" (kickball, sumo wrestling), as one of them revealed a secret crush. It was the first time I had met them but we quickly became friends. It was a sunny summer Friday, perfect for beers and bonding.

The trouble started when I went to the bathroom.

There are two private, one-toilet bathrooms, one labeled ladies and the other, gents. Really, it seems that it doesn't matter which is which because, like I said, they are private.

The ladies was occupied with another girl waiting. The men's, as usual, empty and no line. I asked the girl waiting if she wanted to take it. She said no. So I went in.

When I got out, there was a guy standing there, who I assumed to be waiting for the men's. I smiled at him. He told me I shouldn't go in there and that if I did it again, he would tell the bartender. I thought he was joking -- he looked like a customer -- so I sort of laughed, and the whole thing seemed very light-hearted. I went on my way without thinking another thing about it.

As we readied to leave, I went to the bathroom again. This time, it became very apparent that the guy from before was actually a bouncer, and he really did work there. When I came out, he was with a couple of other employees, telling them that I had told him to "f*ck off" when we talked before. They wanted me to leave.

"I never said that to you!" I said, disbelieving that this was actually happening. My friends later said he called me a bitch (or was it stuck-up bitch?). I had no idea what I did to cause such ire in this individual, and worse that he would actually lie about me, about something I never said. The last person I told to f*ck off was an old boyfriend, and it was about three years ago. It's not something I say to 300-pound bouncers I've never met, and especially not ones I thought were joking with me.

It bothered me for the rest of the night, the day after, the day after that. Obviously, today too. BF pointed out, quite correctly, that I was giving this situation far too much power. But BF will also say that I am always all about "the cause," and what is fair and just, even though life is seldom fair or just. He is right.

Maybe the bouncer's girlfriend just dumped him, and maybe she looked a little like me. Maybe his life wasn't going well otherwise. Maybe he's just a jerk who doesn't like women. Maybe he was mad that I didn't properly "respect his authority." I won't ever know the answer.

"Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

I said a prayer for him.

Can't Clone Love

2008-05-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

I can't say I'm against cloning. I think cloning, say, human organs would be a good idea if it would mean that people waiting for donations wouldn't have to wait as long, or at all.

But a feature on today's Good Morning America pointed out a trend I find outright disturbing: cloning your pets.

As I've written here many times before, I adore all three of my kitties. If I just pause to think about the inevitable day when I'll be without one of them, I actually start tearing up. My love allows me to look past vet and food bills, daily litter box cleaning and prolific shedding. They are a joy to me and I think they're about the most precious creatures alive (next to BF, of course).

But that said, I wouldn't clone any of them.

I've had cats my entire life, eight of them at last count. Each of them was unique in their own way and that's what was so lovable about them. Like people, they have personalities, and none of them are the same. I can't imagine not experiencing each of them.

There was a man on GMA from the company that does the cloning. He extolled its virtues, how it's like always having your most beloved pet even though you'll likely outlive him or her. And probably what galled me the most was the fact he said the company would soon be offering an auction on its Web site for people to bid for this service. Unconditional love goes only to the highest bidder.

Meanwhile, thousands of animals get put down each year because they can't be placed in a suitable permanent home, because so many people think they're "too good" to take on a rescue or shelter pet and nothing less than a pure-breed will do. (For the record, every cat I have owned has been a stray or shelter animal.) And we can thank such intellectuals as Paris Hilton for starting the "collect little purebred dogs like they're knick-knacks" trend.

Perhaps I'm too emotional on this issue -- after all, I either leave the room beg BF to change the channel when that Pedigree dog food commercial comes on, the one that shows the poor forlorn doggy in a shelter hoping to be adopted. Oh, and that ASPCA commercial with the Sarah McLachlan song. I honestly can't bear to watch it.

I suppose the prohibitive cost of cloning likely won't make this a widespread trend. But I still can't help but think that the world would be a really nice place if people didn't keep screwing it up.

On Weddings

2008-05-16T11:56:00.001-07:00

Oh yeah, something happened to me recently ...

I'm engaged.

I haven't made a big announcement on this page because 1) hardly anyone reads it, and 2) I've been trying to notify family and friends personally. (Inevitably, someone will read this who didn't receive such an announcement, and for that I apologize. I've already drawn Emily Post's polite ire many, many times, and I haven't even got around to a complete guest list yet.)

The nuptials are tentatively planned for October 2009. That gives BF and me a full 15 months to make plans, change them again, gnash our teeth and wring our hands about how much all this costs, and, I hope anyway, not come out of the whole process hating each other.

I find that, in the case of our wedding plans, I'm seeing plenty of trees but no forest yet. For example, I already know I'm designing our invitations and I even have some specific ideas for them. Likewise, I've mentally constructed our centerpieces, and I know the style of dress that I want. We know the song for our first dance. I know the song I'd like to use for dancing with my dad. I should note, though, that we have yet to come up with a few minor details, namely the ceremony and reception locations, and — oh yeah — the date.

Meanwhile, it's a constant struggle to not listen to those who say wedding planning is an awful, stressful event. Even more important is not getting frustrated at everyone's well-meaning but rather annoying "vision" for what we should do: "Oh, you should consider this place (never mind the $10,000 site fee)." "I think horse-drawn carriages are SO romantic." "Have you considered gliding down the aisle on a float made of jujubes?"

Even better is when people find out BF is Catholic, and myself raised Presbyterian, and how we're working to find common religious ground so we can join a church -- not just for a wedding, but for the long term. A woman at the gym gave me a long speech about how I should go talk to her priest, and how having a Catholic communion at our wedding is absolutely essential, and if we join an Episcopalian church it just "won't be the same." Chalk it up to learning an important lesson about keeping my mouth shut.

But here's all that matters: We're very happy. We're in love. We're going to have a great life together. And we're getting married!

Best Compliment I've Received ...

2008-05-16T11:52:00.000-07:00

... regarding my fashion sense.

Woman at business luncheon, musing on the lack of style in DC: "I really like your outfit. You're not from Washington, are you?"

Hungry

2008-04-28T07:14:00.000-07:00

I just want — no, need — some reassurance.

First, it was a war that has no easy end, no victorious, triumphant solution.

Global warming became more than just scientific speculation.

Fuel prices went up, and kept climbing.

Now, people all over the world are going to starve soon.

The surge in food prices is highly unsettling. In yesterday's Washington Post, there was the story of a textile worker — I can't remember her location — who was living on tea for lunch, watery sorghum for dinner. Nothing more. "I don't know how long we can survive this way," she said of herself and her family. She is not isolated.

Climate is having an influence on food production, as a prolonged drought in Australia has far-reaching effects. It also seems that as credit markets tighten, speculators have turned to food to find fortunes. There is a fine line between greed and humanity. Which side will win?

Here in the West, we have the elixir of complacence, ignorance. We have Nutri-System, Weight Watchers because our comfort has led to widespread excess. But our supermarket bills certainly aren't getting cheaper. How bad will it get? Will it take the prospect of starvation for people to finally get outraged? To finally pay attention?

I can't help like feeling we're going headlong toward disaster. I just want someone to tell me it's going to be OK.

Earth Day

2008-04-22T10:15:00.000-07:00

It strikes me that, when it comes to being good stewards for the environment, we are very much products of our upbringing.

One of my earliest memories is of the paper drive that used to happen in my home town. Since it only came a couple of times a year, by then we'd have a massive stack of newspapers piled in a corner of our garage, all neatly bundled within brown paper grocery bags. We'd take the load to the town supermarket, where a semi trailer would be filled with months' worth of newsprint, headed for recycling.

Years later, I can recall walking with my then-boyfriend along the road that led to our high school. I don't remember the exact incident, but I think it involved him tossing an aluminum can into a field. I scolded him and said he should recycle it. He dismissed me like this whole "environmental" thing was just a waste of time and energy. It wasn't the first time he'd prove himself to be a complete imbecile. The relationship was short-lived.

By then, curbside recycling had come to my town. My mother taught me the proper way to go about it: rinsing out cans and bottles, breaking down boxes, bundling newspapers, sorting everything as it should be. My father was the "energy cop," advocating use of the house's massive vent fan instead of air conditioning, and later putting CFLs in the condo he once owned long before it was the chic thing to do. To this day, he rarely uses air conditioning, prefers using a kerosene heater in the winter (at least, until it becomes intolerably cold) and has added massive amounts of insulation to his creaky, drafty, 1880s-era home. He's had an organic garden since long before Whole Foods was even a gleam in an urban yuppie's eye. He is a composting Zen master.

Living with BF has proven this upbringing theory in some ways. His pre-Baby Boomer parents are somewhat older than mine. While mine came of age in the era of flower children, his were more of the sock-hop set. Environmental concerns are not high on their priority list. So I've had to become a bit of an ec0-nazi in our household, digging recycle-worthy things out of the trash, turning off the faucet while he brushes his teeth, questioning whether it's necessary to run the air conditioning just yet. Yes, I am a pain in his ass sometimes. But the message has been getting through, and he admits he never knew much about recycling before he moved in with me.

So on this Earth Day, gentle readers, I implore you to do this: Teach your children. If you don't know everything you can and should do, educate yourself. Small, simple steps can mean a lot.

Pass it on.

Just Wondering

2008-04-21T10:23:00.000-07:00

Having not enough material to do one coherent post ...

1. Whatever happened to Salon Selectives hair products? Used to be you couldn't go to any store without running into their stuff. It was heavily marketed. I was never a big user but that apple-scented hairspray could bring back memories of my big-haired high school years. Everybody, sing along: "Like you just stepped out of a salon ..."

2. When did Bethesda's "Urban Partnership" helpers start becoming Bethesda's Army? Used to be they were friendly folks in red T-shirts and black pants or shorts. Now they're walking around in combat boots (!) with their matching black cargo pants tucked inside, looking fresh from basic training. I had no idea walking around a leafy, affluent suburban enclave required such militance.

3. Is it possible to have beginner's luck with your hair? It seems every time I try something new (this week's experiment: duckbill clips at the roots while drying to add volume), it works fabulously the first time. Subsequent attempts, however, never seem to work out as well. Hmm.

4. Another question about my 'hood: What happened to the awful trumpet player who used to be at the metro station every morning? I even gave him money a couple of times in hopes he'd take some lessons.

5. Why would you let your toddler play in the middle of a freaking busy bike path on a Saturday afternoon? BF and I rode from National Airport to Mt. Vernon on Saturday. A couple was having a picnic a few yards away from the path. Their two-ish looking son was on the path, gibbering as toddlers do, and the couple was cooing back at him happily and not the least bit concerned. Meanwhile, I had just crested a hill and slammed on my brakes in case the tyke decided to step in front of me. Hello, peeps, bikes go fast, believe it or not, and you don't want your kid to take the hit, trust me. WTF.

Clinging

2008-03-31T09:47:00.000-07:00

"Remember that time he spilled an entire drink in your lap?"

"Hey, remember last year? The cat hid from you then too!"

"Remember when she was such a bourgeois sorority girl? She's so bohemian now!"

The three of us talked a lot about the past. The best-friends-since-college talked about sharing a room in their sorority house, separating themselves in the library to keep from talking, the whereabouts of many people whose paths have intertwined and diverged from their own along the way. And we had our own memories since we've become friends -- beach trips, bad relationships, sketchy dudes, inside jokes.

I've been maudlin lately about the forward march of time. Maybe it's because I've spent two consecutive weekends with friends who moved away, maybe it's because I've never been especially good at letting go. Sometimes, I also think it's because that through a couple of big moves and lackluster efforts at keeping in touch, I'm just not that close anymore with most of my friends from "back in the day."

I don't think I'm one of those people who just can't grow up, and I'd certainly keep my 30s confidence over my 20s metabolism. But I just wish I could've appreciated the fleeting nature of that time. Sometimes I wonder what 32-year-old me would say to 19-year-old me, given the opportunity.

"Work harder in school. Keep going straight into graduate school. Make an effort to keep in touch with your friends. You won't always be 'the youngest one,' and there will come a day when you stop getting carded. And by the way, you and Andy aren't getting married."

Then again, maybe it's best if we can't know the future. Maybe it's best if we just enjoy the moments while they're here.

The Space Between

2008-03-25T10:17:00.000-07:00

The trip's beginning could've been better.

Working on four hours of sleep. Shoes off and bins loaded only to get trapped behind a woman in security who decided that *this* was the time to repack her bag. Listening to a wailing toddler two rows ahead, whose father tried to discipline him only to be shooed off by grandma -- who was encouraging the cacophony. Repeatedly awakened by a captain who found it necessary to tell us our current altitude, our future altitude and every major and minor metropolis over which we passed. "We'll soon be over Huntington, West Virginia ..." "On the left, folks, Louisville, Kentucky .." "We're coming up on St. Louis ..." etc.

All that soon was forgotten, though. In the terminal bathroom, off came the sweater over my tank top, my slip-ons replaced with wedge sandals. 80 degrees, the desert sky clear and bright.

I had gone to visit a dear friend. She left the DC area in fall 2005, taking a risk on a future unknown after deciding it was better than the present status quo. It was rough going at first, and the final outcome not at all what any of us would've expected -- but she was right. In hindsight, the unknown was the path best traveled.

We spent money like we had a printing press, ate like we had tape worms, laughed like we were on hallucinogenics. Within her new life (which I suppose isn't that "new" anymore), there was comforting familiarity -- a pair of shoes I remember being well-worn on our "journeys" around Friendship Heights, the drinking glass I used to always choose as my favorite, photos of relatives and old friends.

It went much too fast, as the best vacations always do. Too soon, I was back on the plane, back east, back to reality. Afraid to step on a scale or look at the bank account balance. Feeling the pit in my gut that always comes when we say good-bye, when paths diverge once again.

But that moment in between was just like emerging into the desert sun for the first time after a long, cold winter.

Stupid, stupid. I'm so STUPID!

2008-03-19T09:21:00.000-07:00

Remember that old Chris Farley sketch on SNL when he'd pretend to be a talk show host, giving terrible interviews to famous people? During the interview, he'd ask the star about some obvious part of his/her career (to Paul McCartney: "Remember when you were in the Beatles?"), then say ... "that was awesome." Inevitably he'd start pounding himself on the head and saying, "God, I'm so STUPID! I'm such an IDIOT!"

Yeah. I think I know how he felt.

Up 'til now, my career had mostly been one of editing -- taking a finished product and reshaping it, or even reworking it entirely. I didn't do a whole lot of writing, except what you see here. What I did write was the kind of stuff that just required straight research and not much talking to other people. Hence, interview skills were never something I developed.

Well, in my current job, they want me to write more. Like real stories, with interviews and stuff. It's a small staff; everyone must contribute.

I've turned out a couple of small things that went reasonably well. Now I'm expected to write a big thing. And the topic, I'm finding, is rather vague and not easy to focus.

So I've been calling people in the know about this fairly vague topic. And my inability to focus it has meant I've asked many people a very similar set of questions. So my story, if I were to write it now, would be saying the same thing six different ways.

The curse of being an editor first and writer second is that you expect things to come out *perfect* the first time you type it. Despite my long-ago time in writing classes that taught us to just "get stuff down and refine later," that is not how an editor operates. So I'll stare at a blank screen for five minutes trying to figure out just exactly how to word something. That means in addition to being a crappy interviewer, my writing moves at a glacier-like pace. Remember those '40s newspaper movies where some hard-nosed reporter would run out of a courtroom, jump into the nearest phone booth and transcribe a perfect front page story for the next edition? Yeah. I'm not that gal.

Today's bad phone experience was talking to someone from a software company. Honestly, he didn't have a lot to offer my story, and I somewhat knew this going in. It still didn't ameliorate things. I got through my list of questions, looked at the timer on my phone and realized we'd been talking for all of six and a half minutes. And I was tapped out.

"Uhh, hold on a second, let me look through my list of questions here ..."

"Sure," my interviewee said.

Yawning silence.

I made up something on the fly about the company's competitors and asked how this particular offering was different. The way I phrased it made it come out in a silly, nonsensical rush that made me sound like a complete idiot. It reminded me of when I'm trying to be philosophical when I'm drunk. Sigh.

"Remember that time your company made that software? ... That was awesome."

Exactly What I Wanted

2008-03-17T11:39:00.000-07:00

I marvel at my hair stylist's ability to somehow bring to reality the babble that issues forth from me as soon as I sit in her chair.

"You know, I like the color now, but maybe something different. Something more like ... a purse I saw at Loehmann's the other day."

She'll nod and pad off to the back of the salon, blend up something and voila -- once again she's bestowed my head with the perfect shade. True story, I've had people stop me on the street to ask (1) "Is that your natural color?", and then (2) "Where do you get it done?"

This time I told her I wanted more red. Red, red, red. I could tell she wasn't sure of this idea -- after all, spring is almost here and a darker shade isn't normally what one does in this season. She quasi-warned me that my highlights would be covered initially but would "emerge eventually" after a few weeks.

Well, red I wanted, and red I got. Especially at the roots, where the "virgin" hair sucked up the color much like a nation of spring breakers taking down fruity frozen rum beverages. Seriously, I think the name of the shade must be something like "Lucille Ball Circa 1955."

Gone was that beautiful caramel shade my stylist had so artfully discovered for me -- the one that actually looked like it could be my own color. But I could not chastise her -- she had done exactly what I asked.

Now I'm trying to figure out how to make it fade. (The other kicker is that I laid down another $50 for some fancy shampoo and conditioner that's supposed to be the best for preserving color.) Fortunately, I'll be in the desert sun later this week, which should help bleach things out a bit. I've read online that a generous helping of Prell shampoo, or Dawn dish detergent, can help.

Meanwhile, sure seems like a good time to bring out the hat collection.

The Fine Line(s)

2008-03-14T12:06:00.001-07:00

I've been perusing my closets lately in search of ways to put together new outfits, spiff up old pieces, as well as cull the dead branches. (Rib knit shirt from 1996? Probably time we said good-bye.)

Additionally, I've been on the hunt for a few new items to make myself more stylish, even if it's only in my own little head. On my to-do list is a visit to Bethesda's several second-hand/vintage clothing shops -- rich people's castoffs, you know.

I've also been perusing the magazines and fellow metro riders for inspiration. One struck me with potential: knee-highs paired with a skirt. Kinda like you used to wear in grade school.

I witnessed this on a rather normal-looking woman who actually might have been a couple of years older than me. She had on a navy corduroy skirt, narrow striped knee-highs and brown leather wedges. (Remember when you had "school shoes"? They were in that spirit.) Granted, she was the tall 'n' lean sort, probably a good 3-4 inches taller than me, and she had fabulous legs. (Minus 10 lbs. since January, mine are getting there again!) It was a great look -- on her, at least.

I saw a similar outfit in a photo on The Sartorialist -- this time it was white full skirt (maybe a dress?) topped by a brown fur coat (faux I hope), brown peep toes, grey knee-highs and a brown chain-handled purse. I started picturing my own high heels paired with high socks. But I realize this outfit has contradictory potential, walking a fine line between natty-ness and ill advised.

I've been trying to discover that je ne sais quoi of personal style -- how two individuals of similar body type could be dressed in an identical outfit, but only one of them might own it. There is a talent that goes beyond matching colors to matching textures and putting something together that is coherent without the appearance of trying too hard.

When I was much younger, I let other people dictate my taste, to a degree. When an unworthy ex-boyfriend deemed me "too funky," out went a gorgeous brown velvet vest, and a velvet olive green short jacket with black ribbon trim. Both were vintage, picked up cheap at the Goodwill, the likes of which I likely will never see again. I miss them to this day. So it goes.

Bright peeks of color, artful layers. I'll own it, mine and mine alone.

Ask Not For Whom the Bell Tolls

2008-03-12T09:46:00.000-07:00

For whatever reason, the bells always made me happy.

Maybe it was their tintinnabular sounds I found so pleasing, or that they played Pomp and Circumstance just when I was in the midst of mid-terms, ready to give up and just "get a job" back home, like some of my friends, who actually had money and could afford regular meals. (Not that it was a serious thought -- other than when I was eating plain macaroni for the third straight day. Those friends? Not doing so well now.)

Though I didn't attend a college that was particularly prestigious, historic or even athletically noteworthy, I still hold a special affection for it. Those chimes made me feel connected to the campus' past. Trite as it sounds, I felt transported back to when "coeds" wore dresses and fraternity pins from their best beaux, when boys weren't allowed inside sorority houses but smoking most certainly was. Back when girls set their hair in rollers at night, and when the only phones in the dorms were pay phones at the end of the hallways -- for the whole floor to share.

So a while back, when I heard that the bells had been silenced -- the inside mechanics shot, the university not willing to pay for repairs -- I felt a little sad. One more tradition down the drain, along with Beta 500 and the skeevy pond on the east side of campus, now drained, filled and planted over with grass. Sigh.

By random chance, I looked up the campus newspaper's Web site yesterday. Lo and behold -- a story about the bell tower! It seems some folks had designs on getting the bells ringing again. They were considering coming to alumni for help.

The money was burning a hole in my pocket. I e-mailed the reporter. "Hi," I wrote. "I am an alum and used to work at the newspaper. Do you have any information for how to donate to the bell tower restoration?"

No info yet, she said. A mass mailing to alum might come out in a few months.

I imagine the wide-eyed student journalist likely rolled her eyes at my e-mail, like I used to when anyone over 25 tried to correspond with me back in those days.

I hope so, anyway. It's tradition.

Everybody Must Get Stoned

2008-02-19T13:41:00.000-08:00

Mostly, the sales people beamed at us from behind the glass-top cases. Happy for us, yes, but also smelling blood in the water. They unlocked and relocked cases, apologized for low inventory following Valentine's Day. Meanwhile, I wished I had taken time to fix my mangled manicure and somehow felt the experience was more than I deserved, was destined to somehow lead to a spectacular crash-and-burn just when things were going so well.

Such was our experience as BF and I embarked on our first real-deal engagement ring shopping trip.

We hit a lot of stores along the way, talking to sales people who were fresh out of high school (mall stores) up to those who actually had taken this jewelry thing on as a serious career (fancy diamond importer). We sat side by side, examining mountings as the associate carefully placed loose stones into the posts. I learned I had an affinity for the "cushion" and "radiant" cuts. It was all the more delightful to be at a mall store when the teen salesgirl gave me a look that was a cross between confusion and slight disgust. "We don't have those here," she said. "They're not that popular."

At some point, BF asked, "Why do women want diamonds?" He wasn't being petulant, nor trying to get out of anything. (I should note that this shopping trip was *his* idea.) And if I were about to spend upwards of $7,000 on something, I'd damn sure want to know why as well.

I couldn't give a great answer. "Because they're pretty and sparkly." (BF: So you just want it because it sparkles?) "Because they symbolize commitment." (BF: So you need a diamond to feel committed?) And the worst of all, which I never said out loud: "Because everyone else gets one when they get married and DAMMIT I WANT ONE TOO." At one flustered point I even told him he could get me a cubic zirconium and chances are I would never know the difference. (Remember those '80s "As Seen on TV" commercials for "diamelles"?)

I don't know a time table for any of this, or even if one exists. I do know BF has asked his recently married best friend for ring-buying advice. But for all I know, this is just to throw me off the trail, so I'm trying not to dwell on it. While I would trust BF with my life, the last guy in my life who hinted around about rings left me a crushed disaster, so I'm staying firmly in the "believe it when I see it" camp.

I want to see. I want to believe. Stay tuned.

P.S. Yes, I realize this is poor juxtaposition, what with my last post being a rant against the jewelry industry. I offer no apologies. I really am that hypocritical.

Le Gag

2008-02-06T10:58:00.000-08:00

Dear Jewelry Industry,

Yes, I realize you only get a few shots every year at guilting the nation's men into thinking the only way to say "I love you" is through gemstones and precious metals combined into whatever "trend" your blasé designers have created this year. (2007-08 version: The Journey Pendant.) But please ... can we form some kind of agreement here?

Now don't get me wrong, I love jewelry as much as the next broad. I've sauntered dreamily through Tiffany's, gone to Smithsonian's Natural History Museum with the express purpose of examining the "glittery pretties." I've dragged BF through New York's Diamond District (text message response from his best friend: RUN), and he's given me a few gems over the course of our relationship.

What irks me so much about you, jewelry industry, is the vapidity with which you treat your potential customers. Yes, I suppose there are men out there dense enough to forget that Valentine's Day is in mid-February, or that a tennis bracelet might make a lovely Christmas gift. Chances are those types aren't contributing a whole lot to their relationship(s) anyway, so maybe you should think about taking those kinds out of your target audience.

Otherwise, you're doing a really good job of portraying women as shallow, materialistic twits. Again, I know they exist, but maybe you could make your adverts not seem so overtly geared toward that type? Like, most chicks aren't gonna go weak in the knees if her dude gives her a necklace in a bloody musical jewelry box that plays "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

(As a side note, have you seen that [mostly] photo book, Porn for Women? The one with a cute guy on the cover, running a vacuum cleaner? I can tell you right now that I would be infinitely more turned on if I came home on Valentine's Day to find BF had stayed home to scrub the entire apartment, rather than if he presented me with a shiny bauble. That's just how I roll. I can guarantee that most women living with their partners feel the same way. Let your marketing geniuses chew on that a bit.)

(OK, maybe I'll make an exception if that shiny bauble were to be an engagement ring, but let's not get off track here. See! I can be shallow too.)

So let's you and me make a deal, jewelry sellers of America. You make your advertising into something that doesn't invoke a gag reflex in a person with at least average intelligence, and then only show those ads about half as much as you do now. I will make you a promise that people will buy your tripe no less often than they already do, and might even buy more since you won't be giving them a reason to avoid you. (Geez, I'd love to shop at Shaw's, but if I have to hear that fucking "heart is like a diamond" song one more time ...) You catch my drift.

Thanks much,
Blue

Rats

2008-01-21T08:52:00.000-08:00

There are certain things you just don't want to hear at 6:30 in the morning.

"Oh my God."

"What?" I called from the bedroom. BF said nothing. Fearing some kind of mortal cat injury, I slightly panicked. "What???"

"There's a dead rat in the middle of our rug."

And so began our week, one that capped off a weekend when I was the sickest I have ever been in my adult life (note to self: get a flu shot next year), and now we faced hefty metro delays (me) and an all-day meeting (BF).

I made BF "man up" and dispose of the rat (because I'm a big freakin' weenie), which likely met its demise thanks to Charlie. Or maybe Cecil. We aren't positive but we're at least somewhat sure it came into our apartment through the toilet. I found rat droppings on the edge of the bathtub right next to the toilet, likely where the critter emerged, was confronted by a feline, then shat itself.

Right now we are chalking it up to an isolated incident (we've never so much as seen a single cockroach in the apartment, nor have the cats left dead rodents for us before), but I can't help but get the heebie-jeebies from the whole thing. Should I be afraid of getting bit in the ass whilst taking a tinkle? What if it has a whole family who decides to come looking for their lost loved one?

Some days, it's just not even worth getting out of bed.

Meter maids: As miserable as you'd think

2007-12-19T09:58:00.001-08:00

Overheard on G Street between 12th and 13th ... and no, I'm not making this up.

Meter maid, errr, parking enforcement officer #1: (Indicating FedEx van) I already ticketed this guy ...

PEO #2: Mmm-hmm, girl. What about all these other ones?

PEO #1: Workin' on it. (Points across street) Hey, check out that guy ...

PEO #2: Uh-uh, in a bus zone and everything. And he's going inside!

PEO #1: I'm walkin' over there now. Girl, it's like Christmas early.

Mister Kitty

2007-12-17T08:49:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I have three cats. But Marley is my kitty. He's been with me since winter break of my freshman year of college (1994, if you wondered), when my ex-fiance gifted me with a little black and white ball of fluff from the county animal shelter.

The ex-fiance, well, became an ex. Marley spent 14 hours with me in the car, trapped in his carrier and none too happy about it, when I moved to take my first post-college job in Louisiana. He was with me through two apartments there. We packed up again and headed to the DC area just a couple of years later, this time with his younger brother Cecil in tow. We stayed in a corporate suite, a friend's apartment and finally our own joint, which is where we lived until just this past March, when we again moved -- this time to live with BF.

Four apartments, lots of new friends, a slew of ex-boyfriends. Marley has been there through the whole thing, cuddling up to me on the couch or in bed at night, sometimes seeming like the only person I had in the whole world. He makes me smile when he is silly and playful and smart, sometimes all at once.

He's 13 years old now ... an age when you realize they won't be around forever. Saturday, the cat who loves to eat more than take part in any other activity wouldn't touch his breakfast. He hid himself in the closet. I kept quietly hoping for improvement, cheering inside later when he ate a little tuna, drank water, used the litter box. But it was still clear that he was ill.

He's at the vet now, BF picking him up later today. The vet thought maybe it was a virus but is running more tests.

It's true it could be nothing; he could be just battling a kitty cold and might be back to his old self in a matter of days. I can't ignore other possibilities, though.

A few years ago, I was in the waiting room at the vet's office when it was time for a check-up and shots. Both cats cried from their carriers while I tried to reassure them; everything is OK. A couple came in carrying a keeshond wrapped in a blanket. The dog was obviously very sick; the man told the receptionist the dog's name -- Dutch -- in a grim voice. The woman with him was crying. I looked down at Marley, who was staring at me with mournful eyes. "No time soon, buddy," I said quietly.

I just hope this isn't the time.

Live Blogging After the Office Holiday Lunch

2007-12-13T11:37:00.000-08:00

2:44 This is probably a bad idea.

2:47 I can't properly focus on my screen ...

2:54 Actually being surprisingly productive given my level of intoxication.

2:59 Umm, having a problem writing complete thoughts. This is a problem.

3:02 Drinking during the work day = bad, even if the company is paying. Let this be a lesson to y'all, young'uns.

3:13 Ooh, must not allow eyelids to go to half-mast. Open! Be alert! Dammit.

3:14 Hmm, coffee. Yes, coffee.

3:18 The good news is that the pain I was having in my thumb earlier isn't there anymore.

3:22 I am totally obsessed with that OK Go video of the dudes from the band on treadmills. Like, how do you even think up that shit, much less choreograph it?

3:31 Wow, three things knocked off my list of six things to do. Perhaps except for the sloppy typing, drinking at work actually helps me be more productive.

3:34 Whoa, the shoes I have on are definitely waaaaay too perilous for me to stand up that fast ...

3:49 Buzz subsiding ... not sure if that's good or bad.

3:53 How on earth can I be hungry??? We just ate lunch. I should've had the steak instead of the fish.

4:01 This George Mitchell report thing sure is making me happy I don't work in sports journalism anymore, just knowing today is hell for a lot of MLB writers. Then again, they probably had their stories about this pretty much written for the last five years.

4:05 Would it be bad, or just really retro, for me to grab a nightcap (or, actually, metro-cap) for the ride home?

4:24 I. hate. Juicy. Couture. That is all.

4:33 Yaaaaay, five things off my list! I am en fuego.

4:42 For some reason, I'm having a flashback to my metro ride this morning, when some annoying-ass teenage girl and her mom were sitting behind me. The stupid girl was studying for some test. Quotes: "Like, some of this stuff is interesting, but this stuff about, like, Chinese history, I don't even care about." And: "Do you think daddy could take this test for me?" (spoken in the most irritating whiney teen voice EVER) Mom had at least a little common sense, despite her offspring, because she said "No." To which the teen-twit asked, "Why?" Couldn't hear mom's explanation. The future generation is sending us straight to hell.

4:48 In 15 minutes or so, I'm going home ... to eat peanut butter!

5:03 OK, I'm outta here! I think three-hour drinking lunches should be a weekly event.

My Cause Should Be Yours

2007-12-12T09:36:00.000-08:00

One of my many pet peeves (and one shared by many others) is when someone you know well -- usually a close friend or relative -- gets wrapped up in some "cause." Gets religion. Gets vegan. Gets political. Actually, it's not the "cause" part that annoys me, it's when this person feels like because they've chosen to have this point of view, now you should too.

This has been a frequent topic of discussion between BF's sister and myself lately due to an issue I won't detail here, but will only say it involves her impending motherhood. It's not BF's sister's "cause," it's someone else's.

I had a great friend growing up. Best friend, really, even when she moved to a neighboring town and eventually to another state. We went through sleepovers, unfortunate experiments with makeup and hair, high school hallway angst, crushes, first boyfriends, drivers licenses.

The change came when we were in college. New friends and even more physical distance put space in our friendship too. I got engaged, set my sights on a career. She had a live-in boyfriend named Frank. She said a couple of curious things about the two of them wanting to have a baby. I just dismissed it as talk.

But sure as shootin', she was pregnant not long after that. A planned wedding got moved up a few months, and Frank was joining the army to provide for them all.

Sometime around then, she also started going to a church. A pentecostal one to be exact -- the one where they speak in tongues and sometimes the women don't cut their hair.

It wasn't her newfound religion that got to me. It was the fact that now I couldn't have a conversation with her without being told I was a sinner, God this and Christ that. Judge not, lest ye be judged was one part of the Bible she hadn't read, apparently.

As the years went on, there were more children (she's up to four), and more distance ... I actually haven't had a conversation with her since she only had two kids. I get updates because our moms are still good friends. Her scorn for my lifestyle as a "single career woman" became more than I wanted to deal with, so I stopped making contact. It wasn't an easy decision, but I tend only to keep friends who actually support me, even if they don't agree with me.

My mom will say from time to time that my friend misses me and wants to hear from me. Things haven't been easy for her. She found out the hard way that raising a flock isn't easy, and isn't cheap. She moved to Colorado and finally finished college but hasn't found a career out of it. People at her church -- where she was volunteering almost full time -- turned on her after another member there said she was a "witch" because she was taking classes to become a midwife. Her husband, supposedly done with his stint in the army, has been sent back and forth to the Middle East over the last few years.

Someday, perhaps, we might reconnect. I do miss our old friendship. And while this will certainly sound callous, I kind of hope the hard knocks have taught her that there are no "absolutes," that choosing one path while looking askance at those who take another, is not a guarantee of happiness, or sanctity, or peace.

Safe to say, we've both learned a lot over the years.

It's a Boy

2007-12-10T08:06:00.000-08:00

BF and I must be crazy. We adopted another cat yesterday. So, for those of you keeping score at home, that now means we share our domain with three felines. If I still lived alone, my status as "crazy cat lady" would be official.

But actually, this wasn't my idea (though I can't say I did a lot to discourage it, either). BF and I were roaming the aisles of PetSmart a couple of weekends ago to buy stuff for the cats we already had. We stopped at the "rescue cats" area while I fantasized out loud about taking them all home. BF noted that one in particular -- an orange and white one-year-old male -- was "doing tricks" to get our attention. "Quite a salesman," BF noted. "He's friendly!"

We kept talking about the cat all week. "Can we go back and see him?" BF asked me at least twice.

I agreed (though my gut made me wonder if it was really a good idea), but kind of figured he'd be gone by the time we went back. But yesterday, there we stood in front of the cages again, and there he was. Next thing I know, I'm filling out adoption agreement paperwork and handing over the $135 in fees. I think we're going to name him Charlie.

BF is practically beside himself at finally having a cat that's "ours" (vs. the other two, who were with me for years before he came along). I can't say the older kids are sharing the joy at getting a new sibling. I'm hoping the hissing/growling/etc. subsides in about a week.

Today, I left him shut in our bedroom with his own litter box and food to reduce the chances of hijinks while we're gone for the day. Cecil, our "middle" kitty, was especially pissed about that, as he prefers to sleep on our bed during the day. But, I suppose it's an adjustment for all of us.

I'm still not sure it was a good idea, but I feel good that, if nothing, we saved a life. Or nine.

I Feel Pretty

2007-12-05T07:45:00.000-08:00

My affinity for cosmetics and related flotsam is well-known among my friends. BF calls me "Miss Scarface" because of my elaborate computer desk-turned-vanity, which apparently reminds him of Elvira Hancock. Well, except for the prolific coke habit.

(But speaking of addictions, I might as well confess now that I'm back on the Mary Kay. Stage an intervention now.)

Anyway, I found that makeup has another benefit besides just making me feel purty. Believe it or not, given my makeup-phile status, I actually only wear makeup at work about half the time. I never get up early enough to put it on at home, so unless I can sneak away to the ladies room for a few minutes when I first get in, I'll instead just walk around with a naked face.

But I've actually found that when I *look* tired (aka, sans makeup), I also *feel* tired. Hence, though the magic of foundation, concealer and a touch of eyeshadow and blush, I'm somehow magically able to not fantasize about sleeping under my desk.

Yes, this is entirely unscientific and makes absolutely no sense. The question is -- have I become so addicted to makeup that I actually am allowing it to affect my physical well-being?

Whatever it is, my new Mary Kay lady is thanking her little pink stars.

(So *this* is why I haven't been writing much lately ... I re-read this stuff and say, "Really? That's dumb." But anyway.)

Anthropologie: A Survey

2007-11-15T09:55:00.000-08:00

I'm embarking on a long-desired and actually needed shopping trip this weekend -- a by-myself, take-armloads-of-shit-into-the-dressing-room kind of trip. Among my quests are (potentially) wide-leg pants. And while I regularly receive their catalog and am quite intrigued by some things I see on their Web site, I've never actually set foot in Anthropologie. So my question is this: Is this retailer a skinny-chicks-only kind of place, or can a girl with a, um, more generous rear end and thighs actually fit into something there? They have a lot of said pants on their Web site.

Thanks for your input,
EB

Is it bad ...

2007-11-12T11:10:00.000-08:00

... that I have actually turned down opportunities to sub group exercise classes because there is a *chance* I'll be hungover that day?

Fortune, Indeed

2007-11-09T07:50:00.000-08:00

I can't say I'm too familiar with Fortune magazine. My line of work requires I pay attention to such publications as Business Week, Financial Times and the Wall Street Journal. I have a subscription to Money, though BF actually looks at it more than me. But Fortune mostly remains a vaguely familiar stranger.

But today, I was perusing some headlines from their Web site, a joint venture with fellow Time Warner media outlet CNN. Two stories caught my eye: The man in the no-iron suit, a missive by an old-school shirt-and-tie guy (and Fortune staffer) lamenting the rise of no-iron fabrics, and Building a better Bentley, a story by another Fortune staffer who shares that she drives a Bentley Continental GT but is now in love with the newer Continental GT Speed.

So, just how much are they paying editorial staffers at Fortune? 'Cause I think I need to update my resume.

Colvin, the no-iron guy, notes near the top of his story that he doesn't have to wear suits to work, but he does anyway because he likes to, then adds that most of his clothes are custom-made in London and New York. We-he-hell. Because of this, he says he's probably not the best person to be assessing these "space-age clothes."

Meanwhile, Susan Zesiger Callaway, she of the Bentley, swears she isn't overpaid. She bought it used! She'd live in a shack to drive a great car! I should note that there were photos circulating not long ago of one Paris Hilton (let's hope that's the last time her name appears here) stranded on the side of the road because she ran out of gas (Jesus) driving none other than one Bentley Continental GT. Oh, did I also mention that even a used model will run you around $115K? Nope, Callaway isn't overpaid at all. I'm sure she's got that thing parked out in front of a boarding room at the YMCA.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a cover letter to write.

(P.S. Guess I shoulda done the whole OMG, I sorry I not post, I can has forgiveness??!1!!1! bit, but, well, not happening.)