lactose intolerant

While I miss the fam, I do not miss sleeping in my nephew's trundle bed. I also do not miss being woken up in the middle of the night just so he can tell me that he has to use the bathroom. On the other hand, I do enjoy the time we spend together right before we fall asleep. We watch Animal Planet and Spongebob Squarepants and gossip about the mean kids in his class. He tells me that the meanest kid likes to mix milk in with his ketchup and sucks his thumb. I told him that the mean kid clearly has issues and to feel sorry for him.

However, while we were at the lake, the Neph and I shared the queen-sized sofabed and I got to find out why my sister went without sleep for the first 5 years of this kid's life. The Neph loves to snuggle up, but he does so in this violent manner - all sharp-edged elbows and knees - like an alligator in a death-roll. He has no sense of personal space. I tolerated the bruising till the night before we departed...

That night, my mom and I went out for frozen custard. I love frozen custard, but it does not love me. I've been lactose intolerant since forever and those little Lactaid tablets really don't help. So, I experienced a bit of gastric discomfort that night. In my sleepy state, I "shared" some of my discomfort (as one of my bosses would admonish, "Its not good to hold it in!") which caused my nephew to instantly unfasten himself from my side and scuttle to the other side of the bed. I'm still laughing about this. My stomach still ain't right.

The niece was adorable and demanding. I have sciatica from picking her up and swinging her around so much. I think we give in to her too much because she is such a beautiful child - but we just can't stop. (We spent $300 in a fancy-schmancy childrens clothing shop called Strasburg on the babykins - we are that bad) I called last night and sang to her over the speaker phone. My mother tells me that she went into a state of rapture, hugged the phone tightly, and then ran off with it. 

blogging from the heartland

My dad had the finest catfish dinner of his life on Saturday, while I had the most disturbing grouper sandwich of my life. The family was down at the redneck-tastic Lake of the Ozarks for a long weekend - which was nice. Except, you can't take a 17 month old and a six year old, neither of whom eat anything, out to a restaurant. So, you have to eat in shifts.

I accompanied my dad to a very hot local "eatery" called Shady Gator. Shady indeed. It was right on the docks, where a constant stream of sun-baked, bleached-hair speed-boaters were landing. Truly, it was a bar along the lines of the notorious (and possibly defunct) Florabama. The kind of place that puts a wristband on you at 5:30 pm, that is so dirty that only a good fire could really clean it. A place where you can feel comfy in your swimsuit, dirty hair, and hangover.

We had just gotten our food when the Tropicana girls started to arrive. Now, my dad is not a shady sort of guy. He's quiet. A retired CPA. So, he doesn't really leer. But I could tell his attention was elsewhere, so when I turned around to see about 12 lithe young women in very tiny red bikinis with perfect tans he said, "Sorry, they're just in my line of vision."

Then, the Tropicana girls started multiplying. All of a sudden our section of the bar was teeming with them! My dad was agog. "They just keep coming!" I felt very very clothed and pale next to them. Also, uncomfortable. As we departed, we heard the live act sing "I'm dreaming of a white-trash Christmas" (in fecking August!), my dad appropriately blurts out, "That was the best dinner I've ever had!"

I love being on vacation.

its not you, its me

I'm resorting to posting cute photos because I really don't have anything to say. This month has been a real soul-sucker. It doesn't help that work had to be an out and out barn-burner today. I may be taking the Blackberry with me, but I won't be turning that bitch on except to play brickbreaker at the airport.

So, I'm taking the next 8 days off to play with my family, get my hair done, eat fresh tomatoes, frolic at the lake, fend off the 2 am panicked "are you still there?!?!" swats from my nephew, and wrestle my niece into cute outfits. Check the hair on the 17th month old, yo.

Anyways. You can always check out the weirdness at Chickenhead - their banners are fun. Or Foamy's latest rant. Or item # 3 from Velvet's post today - I'm not sure I would've kept my sanity without the laugh. 

t-minus 64 hours and counting

A photo of the monsters at rest.

My sister sounds exhausted. The Supremes were very demanding this weekend. She can hardly wait to get me home and sic them on me. They have Supreme Niece saying my name to me on the phone. She is also now saying "Oswald" (current fave cartoon) and "caca" (her father's doing, though I'm not opposed). The Neph has been much too busy with the neighbor kids to chat on the phone, and he has started piano lessons! I didn't start till I was eight, so I'm way impressed that he asked to start so soon.

Enough cuteness. Let's talk about dating again. In particular, let's talk about this crazy shite the Washington Post is doing called Date Lab (click here for an example). Talk about brave. Or crazy. Or just plain attention-whoreish. I don't dare put my real name up here, or name names (all about protecting the guilty over here). I suppose that knowing your experience will be on display for the nation might keep you from behaving badly...

The next dating-related link comes from DC Blogs. The Green Canary. This girl has some interesting ideas - notably that maybe dating would be easier in DC if we just went ahead and focused on the negatives first. I had a Young Frankenstein moment after reading this, a la "It! Could! Work!!" 

romantic gestures

1. For the first time ever, a man brought me flowers on the first date. Specifically, he brought flowers and herbs cut from his own garden. The cinnamon basil is fanstastic. He was an attentive dining partner, asked interesting and thoughtful questions, and seemed to find me alluring and charming (which, of course, I am).

2. He also asked me to let him know that I got home safely. I can't stress enough what an important gesture this is - fellas, if you really like a girl and she is on her way home after a late date then call to make sure she got home okay, or ask her to let you know that she made it home. Yeah, even an independent woman like me melts at this sort of stuff.

3. He went ahead and asked me out for a second date - possibly on Tuesday night before I fly to the midwest for some much-needed quality time with the Supreme Niece and Nephew.

So far, so good. 

and so begins the healing of my liver

The Brits departed on Saturday morning - considering the recent excitement I'm sure their journey home was not enjoyable. It was wonderful to see them one last time... I was sad to see them go.

We covered an interesting topic before they left - that of unsexy names. As I approach my third year of online dating, I find that I'm (undeservedly) pickier than ever. For example, when confronted with a potential partner named, for example, "Vinnie" or "Arthur" my thoughts automatically turn to whether I can see myself shouting out this name in a moment of ecstasy. The answer is, "Hell. No."

The British Bombshell found the following names to be particularly unsexy: Colin, Sebastian, and Arthur. I think that Vernon, Harold and Gerald are all unsexy. Also, I'm not sure if I could go out with a Manny or a Rolf. I think Sebastian is fine, but the Bombshell has encountered a prat or two named Sebastian.

On a completely different subject, I think I had the greatest shopping experience of my entire life today. I went up to the Arundel Mills mall to see if Off Fifth or Last Call had any decent shoes to go with the dress I've found for TMS's and Bunny's wedding. Their shoe situation was not stellar, but the accessory department at Off Fifth delivered spectacularly! I found a cotton gauze oblong Emilio Pucci scarf/wrap, originally retailing for $260, on sale for $85 - quite a bargain! Or so I thought! When I got to the sales counter, I learned that it had been marked down to $35. I nearly cried. My inner 1970's Alitalia flight attendant had a little 'o' right then and there.

When was the last time you went to the mall, found an amazing designer item, a pair of shoes and got a mani-pedi for less than $100? Never. You know what happens when you use all your karma up at an outlet mall on a Sunday? The rest of the week takes a cruise of the crapper. 

i am whisky pants's frayed nerves

Circumlocutor is now sending random souls to visit my diary and heckle me into writing amusing posts. This will not do. I must be allowed the (albeit infrequent) introspective/moving post.

Now, for a little lesson on "whiskies" from Wikipedia:

"Whisky (or whiskey) comes from the Gaelic uisge/uisce beatha meaning "water of life", possibly modelled on the Latin phrase aqua vitae, of which it is also a distant cognate.

The spelling whisky (plural whiskies) is generally used for those distilled in Scotland, Wales, Canada, and Japan, while whiskey is used for the spirits distilled in Ireland and in the United States. A 1968 directive of the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives specifies "whisky" as the official U.S. spelling, but allows labeling as "whiskey" in deference to tradition, and most U.S. producers still use the latter spelling.

International law reserves the term "Scotch whisky" to those whiskies produced in Scotland.

Whiskies produced in other countries may not refer to their whisk(e)y as Scots, Scotch, Scotland, or Scottish. Similar conventions exist for "Irish whiskey", "Canadian whisky", and "bourbon whiskey".

In North America, as well as in part of Continental Europe, the abbreviated term "Scotch" is usually used for "Scotch whisky". In England, Scotland, and Wales, the term "whisky" almost always refers to "Scotch whisky", and the term "Scotch" is rarely used by itself. In Welsh the forms wisgi, wysgi and chwisgi are all used."

In sum, since I prefer scotch whisky I use that spelling. If you plan to link to me, please make a note of it. You may also take note that I prefer the expensive stuff, but not the speysides. Lagavulin is a particular favorite and helps with the nerves. I couldn't date in DC without it.

Anyway, thanks Circ, but I'm really not worthy. I'm leagues behind the DCeiver. Send those good people over to El Guapo. He's hilarious. And his friend, Miguel, is even better. (I pray that Miguel is not some literary device.)

More on dating tomorrow.

human kindness

I have two bosses. We call one "Fun Boss" because she is - she lives the hell out of her life and tells wonderful stories - I'm thinking about asking her to become my guru. The other boss has been a tougher nut to crack, but I think I have succeeded. He is one of those very decent types of men. A family man. He coaches his kids' teams. He has a quiet demeanor, but firm.

This week he started calling me "dear" and "squirt". I have become one of his kids, and I really don't mind even though I'm pretty sure he's too young to be my father.

It has been a long week and I must bid adieu or I will never be able to send the Brits off in style tomorrow night. Please do not call me on Saturday before noon (unless you are bearing the appropriate hangover cures and food - and prepared to be greeted only through the security gate by a banshee - a snarling puffy-faced nightmarish version of La Whisky). I fear I will be in dire shape.

listen, people, there's nothing to see here. move along.

Jeebus. So the statcounter is blowing my mind. Here I was, all uncomfortable just knowing that my brother-in-law has been reading this regularly, and my readership jumps from about 30 to 280 (as of 6:25 tonight) per day. So, B, as long as you're not sharing this fun with your family, we're good and I will not go into further detail about your borderline obsessive/compulsive methods to stay extremely clean. In fact, have at it buddy. Invest in a full-body steamer if you have to. Or maybe invent some sort of body-towel-sized alcohol swab. The world could learn from you. Also, some folks on the Blue/Orange line could take a lesson.

Back to my main point...

After yesterday's excitement I thought the stats would return to normal. But then, this perfectly nice muckraking blog called Circumlocutor links to me, driving the stats up even further as he/she has been featured on DCist. (C's post about this Wemple couple is rather entertaining, although I sure would have fought like hell against having a filthy pet groomer/lodger next door to me too. I have neighbors with neurotic dogs who like to yap it up during my weekend afternoons naps.) So, maybe things will go back to normal tomorrow.

You see, I'm just a dabbler in words, and not a particularly talented one at that. I don't really share my feelings and precious few people ever really know whats going on with me - my inner stiff-upper-lipped Midwesterner seems impossible to dislodge. I will never really be a great diarist as a result. I write about the things I care about: my family and friends, my niece and nephew, how bad I am at dating, and what I'm reading. Judging from stats, about 25 people out there actually care about that, and that's good enough for me.

wonkette links to nameless blogger, leading her to fleeting and laughable delusions of grandeur...

Holy assfucking, Batman! Wonkette (the first blog I ever read - even before Ana Marie Cox outed the Washingtonienne) linked to me today (fifth story down). Imagine my surprise when I checked my stats to see that 421 people had hit my blog today (I've had 50-70 on a good day). It was both terrifying and exciting. I was both nauseous and exultant. My wee lil babe of a blog... Either this means I actually need to work on the content - or liberally pepper my work with gratuitous references to assfuckery. Maybe just the latter. It would be easier.

In any case, hi mom! Hope you're proud!

security doors - ugly but necessary

Are you aware of how easy it is to break into a house? Or, specifically, my apartment? Well, without the security doors it would be a cakewalk.

Around 11 am, while I was accomplishing an astonishing number of domestic tasks for a Sunday morning, I managed to lock myself out of my apartment's backdoor. I've done it once before, but the landlord was home. However, they decided to really inconvenience me by going on vacation and the neighbors were nowhere to be found (unlike the landlords, who like to hoe-down regularly, I had no idea the neighbors had lives). I was outside in my pajamas and the front door's security door was locked.

So, I did what any normal person would do. I used some extremely filthy language and then grabbed a little garden tool (it was spade-ish) and went to work on loosening things up around the door frame and the knob. It popped open with surprisingly little resistance (kinda like me, except with whisky instead of a gardening tool). And the lesson here, my friends? If the government thing doesn't work out, I can always fall back on that lucrative enterprise known as breaking-in and stealing stuff.

airing some dirty laundry

I get to see this kid in about 18 days. Time cannot pass quickly enough.

My brother-in-law is still reading the blog (ostensibly to ensure that I am posting amply about los sobrinos). I warned him about this...

At present time, he's the only guy I know who uses those Biore strips. He has my sister get the box with assorted strips so he can plaster his whole face.

You have been warned, B. The next revelation will not be nearly as tame... 

pale blue

Along with the heat, my angst has subsided a bit. I finished Three Junes, which was good, and slept in. Also good. Instead of feeling outright bummed I've transitioned to simply pensive.

Nunzio introduced me to the Jayhawks a couple years ago - and to their song Blue... Is this considered a part of the "emo" genre? Nevermind. I love this song anyway.

Blue (Olson / Louris)

Where have all my friends gone
They've all disappeared
Turned around maybe one day
You were all that was there

Stood by unbelieving
Stood by on my own
Always thought I was someone
Turned out I was wrong

But you brought me through
And you made me feel so

Blue, why don't you stay behind, so
Blue, why don't you stop and look at what's goin' down

Live by an old woman
She'd never sell me a lie
It's hard to sing with someone
Who won't sing with you

Give all of my mercy
Give all of my heart
Never thought I'd miss you
That I'd miss you so much

But you brought me through
And you made me feel

Blue, why don't you stay behind
Blue, why don't you stop and look at what's goin' down

Stand by, stand by, waiting round
(All my life I'm waiting for, someone I could hold the door)
Now that I'm blue, that I'm blue
(But nothing seems to change, you'll come back I know)
From now on, so

Blue, why don't you stay behind
Blue, why don't you, stay behind
So blue, yeah, yeah, yeah
So blue, why don't you stop and look at what's goin' down

(©1994 Pedal Blue Music / Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp.BMI)

change

Perhaps its the weather, but I need a change. I need a vacation. I feel generally uncomfortable, not as funny, in a rut, somewhat anxious, not as pretty, and bored with myself. How many more days till October? How much longer till cool nights where I can wear my favorite cashmere sweaters? I am starving for crisp days and bright clear skies and autumn leaves.

any diet i'm on must include booze

There are pros and cons to working in a male-dominated industry. I hate it when I'm spoken down to and the fact that women are not in operational or more leadership roles. Also, I hate the unwanted sexual harrassment. Conversely, harrassment is okay when it comes from a bunch of funny grizzled fire fighters who are buying you drinks and chatting you up.

So, as you can guess, my time spent way up near Gettysburg was a bit of a mixed bag. I blame my "fun boss" for some of my exhaustion - she proceeded to fill my glass up first everytime a new bottle of wine arrived at the table. All the smug marrieds decided it was time to live vicariously through my singlehood and pick out a strapping fireman for me. Alas, there were none to be had. (Meaning, none were single, or they had been married a gazillion times - firemen marry young and often. Also, there's a limit to how much grizzledness I can take.) But, damn, they were fun.

After about 4 glasses of wine I asked, loudly, "So, what's a girl gotta do to get a firefighter t-shirt around here?" Many distasteful options were presented and politely (by politely I mean by laughing my ass off), but firmly, rejected. I completely missed my chance by not approaching the extremely drunk firefighter wearing the Antartica fd t-shirt and offering to trade with him - I think he would have looked nice in something with a plunging neckline. Grizzledness aside, they were nice guys and I expect to start getting various fire department tees in the mail any day now.