The Androgyny of 7

One of my friends says that odd years are bad for her, unless the year is a prime number. Prime numbers are great. So she's good with 2007. Seven, she says, is positive.

"It's not like 1, which is totally phallic, or like 6 or 8, which are obviously feminine. And 4 is male and very complicated. Seven is perfect. You have the nice curve and you have a straight line. Seven is clean, it's sensual, it's androgynous. I like it."

I cross my sevens, so I'm not sure how that affects things, but I'm very excited for 2007 to arrive. 2006 was, with a few notable exceptions, fairly craptastic.

We are ringing in the new year with a charity party. All the proceeds go to Bread for the City, a non-profit providing things like food, clothing, and medical care to vulnerable residents of DC. If you are looking for a charity to donate to, it's a great cause.

And on top of raising money for a local charity, it's going to be so much fun! We have a hip venue, a seriously kick-ass DJ, a gazillion sparkly temporary tattoos (which last year I wound up applying with gin and tonics, because a glass of water was harder to find than gin), boas, tiaras, and 200 really fun, kissable people. Well, OK, they're not all going to be kissable. But hopefully some of them will. . .

We sold out two days ago, and each organizer got two "last minute lovers" tickets to use as we wish. I don't think any of us have last minute lovers (alas!) but we do have a plethora of friends who didn't get it together to buy a ticket in time.

I wish all of you happiness, health, love, fun, adventure, great surprises, and everything else you hope for in the year to come!

2007 is going to be excellent! Happy New Year!

You know me well enough by now that this breast conversation will not surprise you

"Another glass?"

"Sure!"

"More wine?"

"Yes, please!"

...all evening long.

And the level of inanity of conversation escalated in proportion to the increase in blood alcohol content. So late in the evening, when two of my friends were about to leave, I asked if they could take me home.

And then (as if there was ever any doubt) I clarified. "I mean, home to my house. I'm not proposing a threesome."

And the guy rolled his eyes and said, "I'm actually going to sleep. So if you two want to have a threesome, be sure to take notes."

My female friend said, "Huh, maybe I should go home with Lisa. I bet if I ask she'll show me her breasts."

Obligingly, I nodded. "Oh, certainly."

And then we pointed to another friend of ours and said "Actually, you know, she has perfect breasts."

"Yes, totally perfect! Look how nice they look!"

Now, this woman, who does have perfect breasts, is not one of these women who flaunts them. Or talks about them, for that matter. I think she was half flattered and half mortified. She backed away giggling. Nervously.

We had a group of (hopefully) equally inebriated friends watching this conversation with great amusement. One of them looked me up and down and said, "But yours look like they're fine."

I waved him away very matter-of-factly. "Oh, mine are absolutely fine, but really, hers are perfect."

"Actually, yeah. I hope it doesn't hurt your feelings, Lis. I'd definitely choose to have her breasts over yours."

"No, not at all! I would too! I can't blame you!"

Because this needed to be a conversation? Anywhere?

Dignitaries

We get Tuesday off for Ford's funeral! I work for a non-profit that follows the government closing schedule. We were all really hoping for a four-day weekend, and we're excited it came through. We figured that after they did it for Reagan, they'd have to for Ford. At least, that was what we were banking on.

It's weird being in DC. You get so cavalier about all these government things. Inaugurations, for example, are inconvenient. Well, except Clinton's, which was the last one I was really excited about. But for the most part, all this government stuff means traffic, road closings, people in the way.

And here you are regularly stopped for motorcades, or police or some sort of emergency something. Sirens don't faze people. There are so many sirens on a daily basis that I think people here have become inured to them. Most drivers don't even seem inclined to pull over for ambulances or fire trucks. It's quite shocking.

Last fall I was out walking with a friend down on the Mall. From where we live, it's a good 6 mile loop down to the Capitol, past the Washington Monument, around the Reflecting Pool and down to the Lincoln, and back up to our neighborhood. When the weather is nice, it's a lovely walk.

So we were walking up 17th Street, and the police had the street blocked off. In fact, we were asked to step back - we'd walked too close. I tried to chat up the policeman, find out who was coming through, but he was having none of it. He woundn't tell us who was coming through or how long it would take.

So we stepped back and waited. We considered walking around it, but it would've meant walking all the way around the Ellipse, and it was getting dark. Much easier to just wait.

And so we waited. And waited. And waited.

We dislike the current regime with more intensity that we'd care to admit. All of our bitterness towards them was oozing out our pores as we waited for this motorcade. It turns out that it's DC - not federal - tax dollars that pays for their motorcades and such. We're aggravated that we're paying for all this. And having to wait for them.

Finally, finally the procession started arriving. Police and police and secret service cars and police and cars and a big, dark, van. And police and secret service and so on and so forth.

"Wow! More than just Bush and Cheney!"

"Definitely. Oh, wait, somebody just got to town...I just saw it in the Post this morning. He must be in there with all of them."

The tourists were exicted about someone important! We simply felt inconvenienced.

And so we kept waiting and waiting for them to pass. It was dark. We were getting cold. We wanted to go home.

"Fucking dignitaries."

Badger vs. Tasmanian Devil, According to Bob

I work with this very cute, young guy named Bob. He's totally hilarious and refreshing, and describes himself as "That guy who looks like he's just gotten his eyebrows perfectly waxed."

He's the only person I know who makes you feel like a teenage boy when you're talking to him.

His favorite Christmas present - and one he would sincerely recommend for any guy - one of those lights you can strap to your head. He said it's his best present ever. It's great for working on the car, or digging around in a dark cupboard, or even just reading a book. The other day he was watching TV and forgot he was wearing it.

Someone suggested he wear it driving, and he said it might be helpful to avoid hitting deer. Which reminded me that my insurance company recently told me that the premium for hitting a deer is lower than for normal accidents, because if you have the choice, they want you to go ahead and hit the deer rather than driving into another car, or a tree, for example.

This prompted a discussion of the damage that deer, moose, and even large pigs can do to your car. Which then led us to the meanness of particular kinds of animals.

Now, one of my colleagues is Indian, and so she and I share some of the same stories about the meanness of monkeys (really, they are!) and cows who will chase you down the street just because they're hungry and bitter and looking for someone to take their anger out on.

They get turned loose when they are no longer useful. And you can't kill them, because it's a Hindu country. So they wander the streets starving, chewing posters off walls, mad as all get-out. Honestly, I still have a huge knot in my thigh from an angry cow veering across the street and stabbing me in the leg ten years ago. Just because.

Hippos, though, hippos are what you really need to be scared of. They're fast, and mean, and they can turn on a dime! All of these things are true.

And so this started a discussion of how a hippo and a crocodile are apparently evenly matched in a fight. And so now Bob is on a find-evenly-matched-animals kick.

This could get pretty interesting.

A European Tradition?

A few weeks ago I wrote a post in honor of World AIDS Day. The post was not about fisting, although the term did figure into the safer sex lecture I described at the Whitman Walker Clinic. And because I have that word on my blog, I have discovered the following: there are a lot of people out there searching for fisting on the Internet.

I don't suppose this should surprise me, although it does. I think I'm so blasé about everything, but every time I turn around, something shocks me. I get made fun of for jumping, covering my mouth, and saying "Oh my goodness!" on a regular basis.

So here's what really surprised me in the last couple days. On Christmas, both Christmas eve and Christmas day, there were a ton of people who arrived at my site by Googling "fisting." On Christmas!

Now, the bulk of them were in Germany, Austria, and Eastern Europe. It's gotten me wondering. And what, so, you're sitting around, and you've opened all the presents, you've had your goose and sauerkraut with the family, and then people retire to their corners to read their new books, wash the dishes, try on new outfits...and search for fisting in the Internet???

Ohhhh Boy

If you want to feel really, completely ill on December 26, I suggest the following recipe for Christmas day.

Roll out of bed at 9 am. Open presents with mom and dad. Lounge. Consider going for a run. Notice the rain. Lounge some more.

Perform ablutions and get dressed to go over to the house of old family friends. You've known this family forever. Their children are older than you, and so, have literally known you your entire life. It's such a luxury to have people like this in your life. You feel safe and at home.

Arrive at family friends' house at 3 pm. Accept the offer of rum and eggnog. Yum! You didn't eat lunch, so the eggnog calories aren't fazing you. Continue drinking rum and eggnog until dinner. Start drinking wine, and keep drinking through dinner. Then resume rum and eggnog.

Then when the "kids" decide to leave the parents behind, go out with them. It's 7 pm and you're already plastered. Woo-hoo! You aren't driving and they promise to take good care of you. Your mom, who is pretty amused at how hammered you are, takes your camera away so you don't lose it.

When you get to J's house, which is where your little party cabal has moved, , and you are asked what you want to drink, head straight for the gin. Since you've had plenty of rum, eggnog, and wine, gin is a great idea.

"Sapphire martini, up, with lots of olives."

Because a big glass of straight gin, that's always a safe way to go.

Drink half, spill the rest on the rug, and accept a new, full glass. Drink new martini.

If your day yesterday went like this, then even if you ate all three packets of M&Ms that your friends bought you when they stopped at the gas station on the way, and even if you were very kindly fed a bagel around midnight because the room simply would not stop spinning, and even if you were very nicely taken home by the old friend and deposited safe and sound at your parents' house, and you poured yourself straight into bed...those things will only slightly mitigate the fact that you pretty much drank your weight in liquor last night. This is a recipe for feeling like complete and utter ass.

You can, however, be thankful for the following, because you could, in fact, feel worse. You had today off. You are a happy drunk, and although you were entirely unfiltered, you didn't say anything appalling. You didn't smoke the cigar you were offered. You didn't get in the hot tub and drown. You have grown out of the get-drunk-and-take-off-your-clothing behavior of your youth. You were totally cared for and brought home safe and sound. Your parents love you, even if they think you're ridiculous.

And, having done all this last night, and having the idea of how bad this feels fresh in your mind, you will be much more careful on New Year's.

Cheers!

Merry Christmas!

This year we got the best present ever. My brother and his wife had a baby, and he is the cutest, drooliest, happiest, loveliest little Hobbit on the planet. We are all vying for his attention.

Now, I've never been a kid person. When he was just a little baby blob, I kept asking when he was going to DO something. "When's he going to talk? When's he going to do stuff?"

"Give him some time!"

They announced one day that he weighed 16 pounds! This is what our dog Gloria used to weigh.

And so, as Betty was oohing and ahing over him, I said, "Hey Zach, you know, when Gloria was your size, she could do all kinds of stuff. She could sit, she could shake hands...she could even speak. In two languages!"

None of them appreciated the comparisons.

But really, I'm crazy in love with him. He smiles! He laughs! He's charming! And this is his first Christmas!

Merry Christmas everyone!

Such Good Memories

These carolers are one of the things I love about Christmas at my parents' house. I made that first caroler - the ratty one with the blue stripes and the falling-backwards head - in fourth grade in Egypt. Everyone in the class made one. I was in Mrs. Kennedy's class. I was terrified of her, but we had great art projects.

My mom loved the idea. And so the next year, we made a bunch of our own. I look at these and there are so many memories. The lady in purple is wearing what used to be a pantsuit of my mom's in the 70's (yikes!).

The pretty one in blue, missing an eye, her hat and scarf are made of a pair of slippers that my gramma Lillian made me years prior. Her pin is from my elementary school in Bangladesh. And her hair? Well, Betty had really long hair back then and let me snip a little off the ends. I'm not kidding.

The little fellow with the drum is wearing an old shirt of my brother's from when he was a cute little guy in first or second grade. One of the guys in the back, his outfit is a sock from an old family friend.

The elegant woman in the back, she's wearing another of Betty's 70's pantsuits - a lovely brown stretchy velour number. And she and the fur coat sporting guy in front of her, they lucked out on their timing. The day they were made, our dog Jo Jo chewed up Betty's rabbit lined gloves.

They've moved continents five times, and they are showing their age. But I love them. I love all the memories.

Whether you are celebrating Christmas or not, I wish you all happiness and health and great times with people you love and who love you.

Big hugs to all!

Circumcision Sure Can Kill a Conversation

Conversation with three colleagues - Kay, Steve, and Eric - on the way back from a Starbucks run.

Steve thinks our UPS guy is hot. "Oh. My. God. Did you see UPS Guy today?"

UPS Guy is big and muscular, and, in my opinion, slightly scary looking. He doesn't smile. He has a big face and a shiny shaved head.

I replied, "You know we don't have the same taste in men. Remember - you liked Neck Guy on that show."

"What show?"

"The sewing one."

"Right. Project Runway. Whatever. That guy is totally hot."

"Anyway, we don't have the same taste in men."

Steve rolled his eyes at my lack of taste. "So UPS Guy. Of course he had on his little brown shorts, but he also had on the cutest Santa hat!"

Kay said, "You know, I've just never gotten into the bald guy thing. I don't see the appeal."

And I said, "I never did, until I dated this big bald British guy. Except for not being circumcised, he was totally hot."

Brief and shocked pause.

Steve and Eric don't know what to do with this. Kay, who has told me that her mother described to her how she once put a rubber band on a guy's penis and it was too tight and he panicked and it got stuck, is not remotely fazed.

Kay makes a face. "Not circumcised?"

"Yah. Ick."

Steve, who can't believe I've said this, also can't contain his curiosity. I know from his blog that he has slept with women, but that was years and years ago. "Wow! You women can tell?"

Kay and I look at him. "Of course you can tell."

"Huh! Women are much more sensitive than I'd have imagined!"

"Sensiti...? Oh! No, no, not... Heh. I mean. Um. Just, you know. When you. And. Yeah. You know. Um."

We keep walking, eyes forward, totally avoiding looking at each other.

"Way to make things awkward, Lis."

"Thanks."

My Dad on Fire

Many, many Christmases ago, when we lived in India and I was in high school, my dad got a video camera. One of those enormous ones that used tapes. He got it a couple months before Christmas, and proceeded to film every waking minute of our lives.

I have to say, I appreciate it now, because, well, life in India is the kind of thing you want to have a record of. I will find pictures and post them. It'd be fun to dig up those moments. But at the time, oh, how we got sick of it.

See, it wouldn't have been such a big deal if I hadn't been so insanely self-conscious. If I hadn't been one of those girls who starved and exercised herself down to 100 lbs and still thought she had the fattest thighs around. If I wasn't terrified of anyone seeing me without makeup. Or in a bad moment. Or in bad light. Or an outfit that made me look fat/pale/short...you name it. You get the picture. Ridiculously insecure.

And so, knowing I'd be on film all day long, I got up at 6 am Christmas morning, so that I could shower, and put on my make-up, and get dressed up. We had a very dear family friend named Dallas spending Christmas with us, as he usually did, and so there he was, stuck on film with my family. All day long.

By that evening, when it was time for Christmas dinner, we were tired and sullen. We were sick of performing. We were sick of answering stupid questions for the camera.

So I invite you to picture this. A dinner table, set for five, with a Christmas feast. There is food galore. My dad is at the head of the table, behind the camera, asking questions. I am to his right. I have, oh, perhaps 8 peas on my plate, and maybe half a potato. It's about as much as I am willing to eat for dinner in high school.

And since my dad is stuck behind the camera, this night it doesn't turn into an argument. An argument that is the only one he cannot win, because he cannot force me to eat more, and he cannot force me to exercise less. Back then, back then I thought it was about the size of my thighs. It took me years to realize it was about control. But I digress.

So I am seated to the right of my dad, picking veeeery slowly at my peas. My brother is to his immediate left. He's 14, a slightly awkward teenager, trying to be obliging, in an I-wish-you-would-leave-me-alone way. My mother is seated next to my brother, and she is sitting there avoiding questions by shoveling food into her mouth. And next to her, at the far end of the table, is our lovely house guest Dallas.

My dad turns to me. "How are you enjoying your Christmas, Lis?"

I spear a single, solitary pea. "It's fine."

"That's great! How about you, son? That food on your plate looks delicious! What are you eating?"

"Turkey and stuffing. Same thing we always eat on Christmas."

The camera stops on Betty, who keeps up a steady fork to mouth rhythm, leaving no possibility of an on-camera question.

And so, finally, my dad begins to focus entirely on Dallas. This year Dallas has the weighty responsibility of carrying the entire Christmas dinner conversation. Fortunately, he is a very old friend, practically family. He already knows our quirks, although perhaps this year we are a little more unfiltered than one might expect. He isn't fazed, however. He laughs a lot, he tells great stories, he's charming. This year, he'd recently taken a trip on the Trans-Siberian Railroad. His journey was fascinating.

"So, Dallas, where was the first place in Russia that the train stopped?"

Dallas obliged. Honestly, his story was great. We were all listening, we just weren't participating.

And then my father, for some reason, decided to back up. I don't know if he wanted to get a shot of the whole table, and needed to back away from it to do so. But in any case, he backed straight into the candelabra on the credenza and set his sweater on fire.

The last thing you see and hear on this tape is the following.

My dad (camera still running) yells, "Oh my God! I'm on fire!"

Cut to a shot of me looking briefly at my dad, and then calmly across the table at my brother and saying, "Can you please pass the salt?"

Thank You

Thank you, thank all of you very much. I so appreciate the supportive comments that some of you have left, and the nice emails that I've received. I always contend that people are kind, and the support I've gotten from strangers reaching out through cyberspace confirms that belief.

And now, after all this kindness, I am going to ask a future favor of you.

When I met M, I had an immediate connection with him, which led me to write a post. It was a post that was primarily about the Dementor, who was the last guy I had such an immediate and intense connection with, and who wound up being, well, a Dementor.

Interestingly, I talked to the Dementor Monday night. Our relationship ended acrimoniously, but then we kept running into each other and chatting politely. And then he moved to NY, and the possibility of us dating ended, and we formed a sort of friendship. And so now, when he comes to DC, we have coffee, and catch up on our lives. And we email and talk every so often.

So I spoke to him Monday night, and he was a shocking source of support. I'd emailed him that morning sad, and he called immediately and left a message, and then called again that night to make me tell him the story. He listened, he gave advice. He was kind and supportive. I can appreciate him now, and we have a great rapport. I'd never have predicted this, but it is a fabulous surprise. But if we were dating? He would not be nice. He'd be manipulative, and controlling and belittling. I remind myself of this whenever I think that it's so lovely to see him, and that we have such a good time together.

Now, M is not unkind. He's not a Dementor, he's really not. I believe is a good person, and that being honest and being kind are important to him. He didn't set out to make me feel bad. The problem that I have with these guys is probably more about me than about them.

So the favor that I ask of you is the following. If ever write a post swooning over this guy I've just met, will you please smack me back to reality? Will you remind me that the people I fall for immediately, the ones I have that amazing connection with, are the ones I have to be careful of? Will you please tell me that the intensity of their personality, and the personal things that they share will likely pull me in very close very fast, that I will like them too quickly, and one way or another, I will get hurt?

Thank you.

Or Maybe It's Not the Glasses

I have started wearing my glasses out at night.

I'm farsighted, so I wear glasses to read or when I'm on the computer. Basically, I wear them all day at work, but since I can see everything without them, I never used to wear them when I didn't have to.

The thing about being farsighted, at least for me, is that I can choose when to focus my eyes and when not to. But if I'm tired, I have to work to focus without my glasses. About a month ago I had a plan to meet friends out at Local 16. I was tired, and I couldn't be bothered to try to look nice. I certainly didn't feel like working to focus. And so I decided to hide behind my glasses.

A very interesting thing happened. I got such different reactions from men. Men I know and men I don't. Everyone liked the glasses. Not only that, they talked to me differently, and they took me more seriously. Pre-glasses, I remember I asked someone if a relationship had ended "acrimoniously" - and I got a verbal pat on the head for using such a big word! With glasses, nobody bats an eye. I demonstrated this for a guy I know at a party the other night. I am not making it up.

And in DC, brains are like beauty in LA. Being impressed with someone's intellect is tantamount to thinking they have a nice rack or an amazing six-pack. Appearing smart is oh so important.

I was at a party not long ago, talking to a very bright, intellectual guy. He joined a couple friends and me at a particularly light point in our conversation. We were talking about bars and meeting people in them. I was worried our conversation might be too light for him.

But no, he jumped right in to the frivolous conversation. He's a professor, and one of his friends had run into a group of his students out at a bar. His friend had flirted but had no luck with any of the women in the class.

He said that clearly, knowing him hadn't been of any help to his friend, and he wondered what that said about him.

And I said, and please, let me remind you that I do not know this guy very well, I said, "Well, thank goodness! I mean, wouldn't it be awkward for you to know that the hot brunette in the third row gives really good blow jobs?"

I swear, I have never seen anyone twitch with such alacrity. His shoulder hit his ear several times faster than you can blink. He looked at me like I was a cretin. And then he fled. I cannot imagine he will take me seriously again.

So maybe it has nothing to do with the glasses.

How Was Your Date?

A text message conversation with a friend of mine regarding a blind date she'd gone on:

"How was your date?"

"He ordered a Cosmopolitan. It was, therefore, effectively over before it began."

"Yah. Bummer."

Raised a Heathen

My good friend Jane, who lives in Philadelphia, emailed me the other day and said, "Hey, I work with a woman who was at your school and in your sorority at the same time as you. Do you know K?"

According to Jane, K is incredibly bright and funny, and someone I would really like. Or maybe someone I did really like; I simply can't remember. Her name sounded familiar, although as I've described previously, college for me was miserable, and I've practically erased if from my memory. It's almost as if it didn't happen. But since the world is small, lately I have fewer than six degrees of separation from Carolina.

So Jane told this woman that she thought we might know each other. She told her my first and last name, and that I had a blog. The next day K came to her and said that she definitely didn't know me. She'd found (what she thought was) my blog on the web.

She very diplomatically said, "I found your friend Lisa's 'faith-based' blog. I wouldn't have known her in college. We would've run in very different circles. She would've been home studying while I was out drinking and partying."

My faith based blog! I looked up the blog that she had found, and the woman states up front that she's a Christian writer.

Now, this wouldn't be so funny except that I tell people that my brother and I were practically raised heathens.

Our dad was Catholic and our mom was Lutheran, and it was a scandal in both families when they got married. So although they promised to raise Catholic children, they didn't raise us with any religion. And then we spent the bulk of our childhood in India and Bangladesh, so we knew more about the avatars of Hindu gods and goddesses than about Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John.

I mean, we had Christmas, which is my favorite holiday on earth. But for us Christmas meant a variety of things having nothing to do with religion. It meant we (usually) got to see my Gramma Lillian, my favorite human on the planet. It meant stockings that she'd made for us (and that we still have). It meant julekake and other Norwegian Christmas treats.

Christmas meant a tree with colored lights and too much tinsel - but not necessarily a "real" Christmas tree. One year in Bangladesh, my mom bought two of the closest thing to pine trees she could find and tied them together. And we hung our lights and ornaments on it and thought it was amazing. We always used the ornaments that we or friends had made, ornaments that my parents had collected from various countries we'd lived in, ornaments with incredible sentimental value. We still use the same ones, and I LOVE them. And of course Christmas meant presents galore! We didn't actually realize that Christ had anything to do with Christmas.

And then we had Easter as well. Which meant chocolate! And candy and dyed Easter eggs! Easter for us wasn't too different from Halloween, except that we didn't wear costumes. As I said, practically heathens.

We only wound up being baptized because it bothered Gramma Lillian so much. When I was around 8 or so we were in Minot, ND visiting her for the summer. She took us down to her church to have her pastor baptize us. Incidentally, when my grandmother died, this same pastor, this very old Norwegian man with a thick, thick Norwegian accent, unintentionally provided the only moment of levity in the whole funeral. The first thing he said, in his lilting English, was, "Lillian knew she vass a sinnner!" I almost laughed out loud. My sweet little grandmother? A sinner? And she knew it?

When we went back home after the summer of the baptism I wore the dress she'd bought me, and my dad complimented it.

"Thank you. It's my baptism dress."

"Your what?!"

And then, when I was 14 and my brother was 10, our parents started hauling us off to Mass. They suddenly freaked out, fearing that if we didn't have some kind of religion in our lives, we'd grow up and join the Moonies.

We were too old, though. We were sullen. We were bitter. It was a fight every Sunday. The following year we only had to go every second Sunday, and the year after that I think it dropped to Christmas and Easter. And then to never.

College, in fact, was the first time I'd been around people my age who voluntarily went to church. There were women in my sorority (and I know that K was picturing me as one of them) who had weekly Bible study. It being the South, there was a lot of "accepting Christ into your life" around. The only time I'd ever said "Jesus Christ" was when I did something like drop a brick on my toe. As I've said before, I was aberrant in Chapel Hill, hotbed of liberalism for North Carolina, home of Jesse Helms.

Jane knows all of these things. And so of course got a great laugh out of this "Lisa has a faith-based blog" idea. And then she pointed K to my actual blog, starting with my post on foot prostitution.

Only Lisa Tailgates This Way

The title of this post is the title M gave to a picture he took of me, drinking wine in his car. He took it on our Philly football weekend. I love the title and the humor behind it.

I've been trying not to write too much about him. I don't know him well yet, and I don't know where it will go. I don't want to jinx it.

I would like to say, however, that it's really hard NOT to like a man who invites you on a random adventure, which turns out to be a football game. Who calls you from Starbucks on his way over to pick you up on that Saturday morning to see what he can bring you. And then when you get up there early, parks his car in the sunshine so you can watch all the other tailgaters but don't have to be outside in the cold. Who then opens the sunroof, pulls out a bottle of wine, and offers you a glass. And then sits and TALKS to you about everything under the sun. Who asks questions about you, and who you are and what you like, about your family, about your interests. And offers up his own personal information. And then, when you go into the game, which he is very into, having played football in college, he still wants to make sure you're having a nice time. It's hard not to like a guy who feels, emotionally and intellectually, like one of your close female friends, and then is also this big, athletic, hot GUY. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

Full of, Well, Not Brains

My head is full of snot, which is throwing off my balance. I'm not super coordinated to begin with. The good part is that my voice, which is normally quite high, is now kind of low and gravelly. My coworker said I could do phone porn with this voice.

The hardest part is that I'm exhausted and just plain five steps behind.

I was getting coffee in the kitchen, and one of my colleagues walked in and said, "Hi."

I said, "Hi, how are you?"

"Fine, how about you?"

"Fine, thanks. How are you?"

She gave me a long, hard look. "I'm fine, thanks."

And then another colleague walked in and she said, "Hi, Dan, how are you?"

And I replied, "I'm fine, thanks. How are you?"

They both looked at me and started laughing. And kept laughing when I walked into the doorframe on the way out.

Boy, I'm Glad I'm Not a Gangster!

I will turn into my mom. I believe this to be inevitable. Today I say, "I speak Betty." One day, I'll probably have a kid who interprets for me in the same way as I do when mom tells people who ask that her dog is a "Jack Daniel Fox," and I translate it to "Jack Russell Terrier."

I just thought, "Boy, feeling bad really is no fun!" Which is such a Betty thing to say, and reminded me of one of my favorite Betty stories of all time. This is from probably 4 or 5 years ago.

My mom, who, except for her recent interest in Sex and the City, has never been very into pop culture, walked into the kitchen one day, and said to nobody in particular, "Hi Puff Daddy!"

My mom had heard of Puff Daddy? "You know Puff Daddy?"

"Of course!"

Of course? I started to laugh, and said, "Well, did you know he's P. Diddy now?"

"He's P. Diddy?"

"Yes. So did you know he's no longer dating J Lo?"

"He was dating J Lo?"

"He was."

"How come they broke up?"

"I don't know. Mom, do you know he's a gangsta rapper?"

"A gangster rapper? A gangster?"

"Well, it's a type of rap. But he did apparently shoot someone. He went to prison."

"He shot someone! Well, that's probably why J Lo didn't want to date him anymore. Who wants to date a gangster?"

"Mom, who is Puff Daddy?"

"Why, he's a member of KISS!"

Honestly, I almost fell off my chair. She got a little indignant. And a bit later she said, mostly to herself,"Boy, I'm glad I'm not a gangster. That would be no fun!"

No Perk Today

Today I have nothing happy or funny or witty to say. I feel crummy. And I'm sad.

This week we ruled out both SARS and Bird Flu. So I have a cold. "That sounds like a cold, my friend." Or allergies. "You look exactly like I look when my allergies are kicking my ass." In other words, I look as bad as I feel, and nobody is trying to pretend otherwise.

The truth is that whatever it is, that, coupled with seeing B at a party last night, has me low low low. Seeing him was fine, actually. It was nice to say hello, and I'd have left it at that. But late in the evening, he came to find me, to catch up. And so we talked about how our families are, and work, and life. And it was nice. I've been wondering.

And then he said, "I'm respecting your wishes and not contacting you." I appreciate that - it's really helpful. I know there are lots of good reasons not to be together, but it doesn't mean I've stopped missing him.

The decision to cut him out of my life was so incredibly hard, but it was such a good one. I am finally moving on, and life is fun again. Guys are fun again. Last weekend, I had such an amazing time with M. And for the first time with any guy since B, I was totally thrilled about the person I was with. I just had fun. I didn't once think, "But what about B?"

As we were parting he said, "I'm sure that in three or four years we'll be great friends."

Why say this to me? What is the point? Once he doesn't matter anymore, he just, well, won't matter. So why would we be friends then? Why?

Everything Is Relative

I was not going to admit this but everyone else has. . .last week I went searching the Internets for pictures of Britney Spears and her naked hoo-ha. And wow, it's naked naked! Like, good thing she lives in LA because while it gets cold there, in DC she'd totally be freezing her, um, assets. Because not only is she not wearing underwear, but she's also practically waving her crotch in the breeze. Brrrr. And yikes!

According to Citizen of the Month's Britney Spears Age Test, I fall somewhere between "Generation X" - someone who reads Us Magazine and worries about these celebs (I guiltily read Us - but only at the allergist's office!) and an "Immature Adult" - someone wondering why someone as uninteresting as Britney gets so much attention, but still willing to search the web to find the pictures.

I don't have celebrity crushes, although I do often have clothing envy. I don't have one of those lists of the five celebrities you could sleep with without getting in trouble in your relationship. I don't really care what these people get up to, but like a train wreck, when it's truly horrifying, I can't keep from looking.

For Thanksgiving we had dinner with very close family friends. I was seated at one end next to a man I've known my whole life. He's about 80, and an extremely interesting character. He's incredibly intellectual, and so when someone else turned the conversation to Jessica Simpson, I was astounded that he not only knew who she was, but had something to say.

"I will note," he said very seriously, "that she certainly seems to be aging gracefully."

"Aging gracefully?" I shrieked. "The woman is only 25 or 26!"

"Well, yes. But everything is relative. Look at her pal Britney Spears."

Ability to Camp Might Be Genetic

I think M could be someone who sees it as a personal challenge to turn me into a camper. I told him how terrified I was that I thought I might've agreed to go camping last weekend.

He said, "I bet you don't like camping because you don't like the clothing. What if you could wear a cute outfit? They make pink fleece, you know."

People have said this kind of thing to me before. Listen, I love fleece. I love fabrics that wick, unlikely as that may sound. I have a pink Nalgene bottle. It's not the outfits. I'm just not a camper.

I do not come from camping people, despite the fact that I come from farming Irish and Viking ancestry. My ancestors trudged across the Midwestern prairie when they got to this country, presumably in an attempt to be just as cold as they were in their own countries. My grandparents grew up on farms. And still nothing about my family screams, let's rough it! Let's enjoy the great outdoors! I believe my father's idea of camping is staying at a Hyatt. And my mom is always impeccably dressed. Betty always has on lipstick, perfume, nice shoes. This is a woman who travels with a pumice stone. She always looks and smells amazing.

When I moved back from San Diego, Betty flew out and we spent a month driving cross-country back to DC. We took a slightly circuitous route, as we decided to enjoy the time we had together and to visit family and friends. We spent some time in Berkeley with dear family friends. The night before we were leaving they said, "You ARE going to Yosemite, aren't you?"

My mom and I looked at each other. "Yosemite? Oh, um, sure, we could go."

"You must, you absolutely must. Yosemite is incredible. There's a great lodge you can stay at."

They called and the lodge was full. But we just couldn't miss Yosemite. It was too spectacular. The only reservations we could get were for Camp Curry, which meant that we would stay in a big white tent on a platform, essentially. We would have beds. It would be like camping but not really. They reiterated that as long as we were there, we had to do it.

Now, Yosemite has bears. As we were entering and registering in the park, we were shown all these videos about bears, and what they can do to cars. The bears aren't malicious, but the park wants to make sure that you don't come face-to-face with them either. A bear can pull the door or roof off a car with seemingly the same amount of effort it takes me to pull a yellow sticky note off a page. These videos showed one bear after another sniffing around a car, and then, when something caught their interest, they just casually ripped the car apart to investigate.

Bears are curious, and they apparently have these amazing noses. And for this reason the park people don't want you to leave anything in your car that might entice them. Clothes and such can go in the trunk, out of sight. But you cannot leave food, lotion, anything that smells at all, in your car. A bear will seriously pull the roof off a car for a Snickers wrapper. So the park offers "bear lockers" - big, heavy, metal lockers without handles, so the bears have nothing to grip to pull them open.

Yosemite attracts a lot of hikers and campers. So as Betty and I parked at the end of the day, we watched these hearty camping-y and hiking-y people loading their gear into the bear lockers. They had serious provisions. They had big, heavy gear. They were wearing sturdy brown hiking boots and rugged socks and fleece in earth tones.

And then there were Lisa and Betty unloading the Civic. La la la la la. Traipsing over to the bear locker, with things like, oh, perfume. La la la. A box of See's chocolates. La la la. Scented lotion, shampoo, conditioner. Gum. Make-up. And my dictionary. I'd forgotten to pack it when we left San Diego, so I'd chucked it in the back seat. It had a shiny cover that might entice a bear, and the trunk was full. We were embarrassed. We tried to make quick trips to the lockers when then campers weren't looking.

You also can't have anything in your tent that smells. No food, no face lotion, no toothpaste. All that was to be put in the bear locker. The toothpaste was what got us. We could skip the face washing, but not the teeth brushing. We walked in the dark, clutching each other, from our tent to the bathrooms. But we couldn't get ourselves all the way from our tent to the bear locker to put the toothpaste back. It was too far in the pitch black.

I worried about the toothpaste. It was Tom's of Maine. Delicious and outdoorsy - just the kind of thing a bear could love! In the middle of the night, I woke up freezing, and I heard a noise, a low, repetitive growl. I didn't want to wake up Betty, who it turned out was also awake and fretting about the bear. A bear! A growling bear! In search of toothpaste! The bear kept growling but never made a move. The bear turned out to be, upon breath-held analysis, the man in the next tent, snoring his head off.

It was really cold in the bed in the platform tent. I had to pee. It was too dark to walk to the bathroom. And besides, there were bears. I finally fell back into a fitful sleep around five in the morning. And was awakened by Betty at six.

She was fully dressed. Her lips were pursed. She tossed her head and exclaimed, "That was the worst night of my entire life!"

My mom, this endlessly elegant woman, had a cup of urine delicately perched in each hand. "Come on. Let's dump these out in the bathroom, and then we're going to the lodge for breakfast."

As we walked out of the tent door she said, "This camping business is horrible."

Naked Chocolate

I love Philadelphia, I really do. I spent the weekend there, and if you go, you must visit the Naked Chocolate cafe on Walnut Street. It's charming. The people are nice. It's chocolate heaven. They have this drinking chocolate that could be illegal - it's like melted chocolate crack in a cup with whipped cream on top.

Last Friday, December 1st, was World AIDS Day. I was too absorbed in my upcoming trip to post about anything related to it. And then this weekend I didn't post at all because I was in Philly, watching football and drinking and eating and wandering. And exclaiming every 5 minutes how much I like the city.

So the following, while not about World AIDS Day, is about safer sex.

While I was growing up my dad worked in public health - maternal-child health, population control, and nutrition. Huge issues in the countries we lived in. Condom use, as explained to my brother and me, was all about responsibility. The responsibility not to overpopulate the planet. The responsibility not to contract or transmit disease.

We got boxes of condoms for distribution delivered to our house. Red, green, blue - condoms! Fun colors! I knew what condoms looked like, and about the importance of using them waaay before I had any remote idea what one actually did with one.

Beginning at the age of five or six, I could formally discuss the merits of various kinds of birth control, condoms being the cheapest and most practical in the countries we lived in. STDs were discussed as a matter of course at the dinner table. Which for my mom, I think, was a far preferable topic to the parasites and poo conversations that the rest of us enjoyed.

The message, starting when I was young: you use condoms. (Later, when discussed in a more adult way, it became: Unless you're in an absolutely, 100% for sure monogamous relationship, AND you've both been tested for everything.) When I lived in Mt. Pleasant right after college I volunteered at a free clinic, and one of the daily topics was STD and HIV testing. I worked at a non-profit dealing with women's health issues. Health and safe sex have always been part of my reality.

So years ago, when a friend of mine learned her boyfriend was cheating on her, I dragged her down to the Whitman Walker Clinic for free HIV testing. I offered to get tested as well, because the whole thing, understandably, freaked her out. She needed someone to go through it with her.

I don't know what it's like now, but 10 years ago, you had to sit through a detailed "safer sex" presentation prior to the testing. The woman giving our presentation was a cute little brown-haired woman with a ton of energy. The audience was comprised mainly of men, and because of the focus of the clinic, presumably gay men. As women, my friend and I were in the minority.

Now, I knew a lot about HIV transmission and the prevention thereof prior to this lecture. I was along for moral support. As such, I was zoning out for parts of it. And then this woman would do something that would jerk me back to attention.

For example, she was talking about the proper way to put on a condom. She talked about sizes, brands, colors, etc etc. And then she said, "Some men will try to tell you they're too big to wear a condom."

She unwrapped a condom and proceeded to roll it down over her clenched hand, over her wrist, and all the way down to her elbow.

"The next guy that tells you that, well, you tell him you're calling the Guinness Book of World Records!" She waved her arm around in the air triumphantly.

She talked about condoms for oral sex. She talked about dental dams. Lots and lots of options for use of latex and for safer sex activities. I'd learned all of this volunteering at the clinic. I was starting to zone again.

And then she raised her voice. "And finally, if NONE of those options appeal to you. . ."

This got my attention. The audience was waiting, watching with interest.

She made a fist, crooked her arm, and jerked her fist in the air it up towards the ceiling.

"If NONE of those options appeal to you. . .there's always fisting!"

The roomful of men didn't react in any obvious way.

My friend and I, two naive little straight women, we leapt five feet in the air. I'd never heard of it before. Fisting! Holy cow! And what a terrifying visual!

I repeated this story for weeks, always with her intonation, always with her swift upward arm motion. "There's always fisting!"

Random Adventure!

I'm going on an adventure this weekend!

That guy - M - asked if I was free this coming Saturday. If so, he wanted to know if I'd like to go on an adventure. We wouldn't get back to DC till Sunday. He did this by email, so I had a little time to think.

My immediate reaction was, an adventure! I LOVE random adventure! Yes!

And then I had a brief but concerted panic. I have a history of getting into things too quickly. Three dinner dates haven't made it a thing. Would this make it a thing? What does this mean? Does it have to mean anything? What is he thinking? What am I thinking? Does this mean I have to know what I'm thinking?

I freaked out for about a minute with all these things and 85 more. And then I decided to just go with it and have fun.

I emailed back and said, "I love adventure! Absolutely!"

When we talked later, I asked for details.

"You'll have to dress warmly."

Dress warmly? Shit, did I just agree to go camping?

I hate camping. I think back over our dates - was there anything in the conversation that might suggest I even particularly like the outdoors?

Immediately this became one of those scenarios that move 7 million miles a minute in your head. Like when you are out with a guy and during your first cocktail you have, in your mind, already fallen madly in love, moved in together, gotten married, stopped being attracted to each other, grown far apart, and gotten divorced - all in florid detail - and all in the span of oh, perhaps 30 seconds. . .

And you suddenly realize that while you were getting married and divorced in your head you finished your martini and now you have no idea what the guy just asked you. All you know is, you cannot go out with him again. The divorce was just too ugly.

And so in my mind, while M and I are talking, I am dressed warmly and unattractively to go camping, camping! with him, somewhere in the Virginia wilderness. It is cold and dark, and there is a tent, and he is off hunting(!?), and I am, I don't know, sitting on a cooler of Budweiser and warming baked beans on the fire, and listening for bears. And though Dante didn't describe this particular scenario, it must certainly qualify as one of the levels of Hell.

Because he does not know me, he does not know that I only like nature in one of two ways - in one-day increments, like a day of hiking or climbing, or wildly exotic, like the Everest Trek in Nepal. I am happy in the city. I don't even particularly want a lot of nature through a window. That means you're stuck somewhere not city.

I was holding my breath. I let it out just enough to say, "Dress warmly, huh? What are we doing?"

And he said, "We're going to a football game!"

I started to laugh. (I said something to myself that I would never, ever have imagined saying - "Thank you Jesus! A football game!") Out loud I said, "Football? Wow!"

Camping friends say that I've been scarred by my trip with my old boyfriend Axel and the Camping Nazis, that not all camping has to be like that. They say camping can be fun. This trip was 8 years ago, and it's still a fresh and horrible memory.

Axel and I joined his friends up at Lake Arrowhead one long weekend. We arrived a day after everyone, and the first thing we saw were two bulletins posted to a tree next to the tents. One was entitled "Menus" - and it had, in detail, the breakfast, lunch, and dinner menus for the entire three days. There were even lists of "Betweel Meal Snacks" at appropriate times. I believe "Beverage Options" was a category as well.

"Activities" was the title of the page posted next to it. It had the schedule of activities, in half-hour increments, from morning till night. Including the annual Battleship competition, which traditionally took place at 2 pm on Saturday. Right after lunch, which took place after the annual Over the Line game. Which could include, if one wanted, beer, as an accompanying beverage.

I am not one to crack open a beer at 10 am. Unless I am forced to play Over the Line with Camping Nazis.

It was a miserable, overscheduled two days. The not bathing is not what gets me about camping - I can be a mudpuppy for a day or two. It's more that the whole being cold, sleeping on the ground, worrying about wild animals ranging from spiders to bears, and washing your cooking utensils in freezing cold water. All of that just sucks.

And going away for a fun weekend with people who schedule your every minute, who get really upset if you want to, say, take a nap instead of participating in the Annual Battleship Competition, well, that's just a waste of a weekend. If I wanted to have that kind of fun regularly, I'd join the military.

Axel is still friends with them, but he also still refers to them as the Camping Nazis. I wasn't hugely fond of these people to begin with, and by the end I disliked them so intensely I could barely look at them.

My highlight of the weekend? The main organizer, this very uptight guy named John, saying, "Planning is just being spontaneous in advance."

Pick Your Rolls

When I started blogging in October, I checked out Typepad and Blogger. In the end, I was swayed by the lure of free. I'd started on Typepad, though, and thought I'd copied all my early posts over to this blog, but I missed one. And I just remembered it, because I was drafting a post that involves camping, which relates to Axel, although not to this specific post...All this to say, I remembered I forgot it, and so here you go.

I have recently been in touch with an old boyfriend - a German fellow named Axel. We broke up 6 years ago when I left San Diego to move to DC. We parted as friends, and we have stayed friends, although we really never see each other and at this point rarely correspond. I suppose it's more accurate to say that we're friendly, rather than friends. He imported a German wife - which I thought was a great idea - and they now have a baby and I imagine them to be quite Teutonically happy.

In our last IM conversation, the topic of relationships came up - his: good, and mine: varied. I wound up sending him a link to my Talladega Nights post, to which he said, "very interesting, kind of depressing." Which is of course true.

I was instantly reminded of how incredibly ill-suited we were for each other. We were very good friends, and we laughed a lot. But our personalities could not be more different. Axel is relentlessly happy. Even on bad days, life is great and he insists that he's happy. He staunchly refuses to have a dark side. I totally judged him for that.

As I said, we were so ill-suited. He was fairly inflexible, and really well organized, and, well, stereotypically German. I know I generalize - anything Axel did is still, in my mind, what all Germans do. I have no idea what's just Axel and what's really a German thing.

He had to work with east coast stock market time, so he was at work before six every morning. Which meant he was in bed by ten. Every night. There was no staying up late to watch a movie. There was no sleeping in. I mean, I could do these things, but I was doing them alone.

I remember when we started dating, when we were spending a few nights a week together and just establishing some sort of routine. We were sitting in the living room reading, and he got up and said "Quarter to 10! We floss now!" I swear to God he said that. He would regularly say "Ten o'clock! We sleep now!" It sounds insane to want to date someone who said those things, but I thought it was funny. I got so much entertainment from the way he put things.

When we went to his hometown to visit his parents for two weeks, everything about him suddenly made a lot more sense. Now, his parents are people who are retired, who have nothing they have to do at any particularly early time. And still they set breakfast for 8 am. No sleeping in, no missing breakfast. And never, ever, hey, let's just wake up late this once and have breakfast at 10! No, that kind of craziness does not happen.

Breakfast in the Axel parent household consists of fresh rolls, cold cuts, cheeses, and tea or coffee. Axel's dad gets up at 6 am, when the bakery opens, to buy the rolls. You have to put in your order the night before. You have to specify the type - plain or with seeds - and how many you plan to eat the next morning.

Whatever you ordered the night before, you are obligated to eat. If you only want one roll, and you asked for two, someone else has to eat the extra so it doesn't go to waste. Or if you change your mind and you're more in the mood for seeds than plain, well, you could swap with someone else, but you couldn't just take a seeded one. The same with coffee and tea. If you're typically a two-cup coffee drinker, there's enough for you to get your two cups. There's no having a penchant for tea one morning, or needing that third cup of coffee.

This sounds like I didn't like them, but I did. I just get a great deal of enjoyment talking about them. I loved his mother, and I really missed her after Axel and I broke up. She and I stayed in contact, and I visited them several years ago. Axel had clearly told them about the stories I had propagated, because they laughed when asking, the night before, what kind of roll I wanted for breakfast. They meant it, though.

Time to Start Making Christmas Lists

My parents have asked for our Christmas lists.

Two years ago, when my sister-in-law Kate was newly part of our family, my mom asked both my brother and Kate for Christmas lists. Kate was apparently reluctant to make one. So finally, after many requests by our mother, my brother brought over two lists. Kate's list included such items as a Jessica Simpson CD, and "yummy flavored lip gloss."

I managed to mostly restrain myself from judging her on her taste in music. I'm the last person who ought to judge anyone on that. I bought the requested CD and a very fun assortment of "yummy" lip glosses from Sephora.

Christmas morning, we were taking turns unwrapping presents. Kate loved the lip glosses. I was sitting next to her as she opened the CD. She looked a little, well, surprised. There was a flicker of something across her face that I read as, "I am so trying not to judge Lisa for giving this to me."

"Wow! Thanks, Lis."

"You're welcome. I had no idea you liked Jessica Simpson!

"Um, sure.

"But since she was on your Christmas list..."

"My Christmas list? I didn't make a list."

"Yes, you did. It's taped to the cupboard in the kitchen."

She said emphatically, "I didn't make a Christmas list."

"You didn't make...so you didn't ask for a Jessica Simpson CD?"

She turned to look at my brother. "I don't know, J. Did I ask for a Jessica Simpson CD?"

He looked sheepish. "What? You love her! She's amazing!"

He started enumerating with his fingers for emphasis. "She's smart, she's beautiful, she can sing..."

"So J, I guess you're also a big fan of 'yummy flavored lip gloss'?"

That Guy

Yesterday I referred to the guy that I had the third date with as "that guy." And a friend of mine said, "If you're going to see him again, which we know you are, can we stop calling him 'that guy' and call him by his name? What's his name?"

The thing is, almost every guy has wound up with a nickname, even the ones I went out with once. Or rather, the ones who were notable for some reason. Highlights: Cuddle on the Couch, the Dementor (whose story you know), the Wee Brit, Gay Lawyer Guy. . .

The ones from the internet were often nicknamed before the date just for descriptive purposes. As I said, I've gone on a lot of those dates. It was much easier to refer to a guy as "the Wee Brit" than to say a name, which almost invariably seemed to be Dave or John. I only went out with him once. And actually, I think his name really was either Dave or John.

Cuddle on the Couch is probably how the naming started. We went out for drinks once and dinner once. And then we had a snow day. He sent me an email suggesting that we spend the day watching movies and cuddling on the couch. Cuddle on the couch with a stranger? Eek! No thank you. I sent him a polite note wishing him all the best. But as my neighborhood is small, I kept running into him (I still do), and we'd say hello, and one time I was with a friend who asked who he was. I said "cuddle on the couch," and she knew exactly who I was talking about.

And so back to "that guy." I suppose I think about him more as a whole person, rather than focusing on one defining characteristic. "That guy" - I might just start referring to him by his name. I'll have to see how it goes.

My Powers of Observation

I stopped at the Trader Joe's on 25th and M tonight on my way home. The line was eternal, and I was standing between a very cute guy wearing a lot of brown and beige corduroy and a man with a little boy in a stroller. The boy was alternating between hitting people with his yellow balloon and making the kind of combination grunting, moaning, growling noises that I assume an angry hippo in heat might make.

I was in front of the balloon-hitting-hippo-in-heat- noise-making boy for quite a while. I had just started to consider opening my chocolate covered raisins and shoving as many as I could up his nose just to be malicious when I was distracted by the big non-smiling weirdly flirty checkout guy from last week.

A couple days before Thanksgiving I stopped at that Trader Joe's. I went to the register with a million power bars, some chocolate, and a couple bottles of red wine. The checkout guy, an enormous, brown haired man, picked up a bottle of wine, looked me straight in the eye and said, "Are you old enough?"

Now, I'm only 5'3" and I think sometimes my size makes people think I'm young. And granted, I was wearing a bright pink coat and I didn't have makeup on. But I by no stretch of the imagination look under 21, and I have been legal drinking age forever.

So I laughed and rolled my eyes and said, "Me? My God, I'm old."

He didn't crack a smile. "Yeah, I hear that all the time."

If he'd been charming, I'd have flirted with him delightedly. I am perfectly happy to show my ID. These people can get fired for not doing their jobs. And not only do I not give anyone a hard time, now I practically thank them for asking me.

I offered to show him my ID. And he, with eyes narrowed, replied "Yes, I'd like to see it."

And so I shuffled through my wallet, which is fairly disorganized. I found receipts, credit card, money, more receipts...

He was watching me very carefully. "Oh, so maybe you don't have your ID?"

"Huh, maybe I don't..." Shuffle, shuffle. "Oh, here it is!" I handed it over.

He looked down at it, raised his eyebrows and said, "Well, I'll be damned!"

And then he said, "How on earth can you feel old with finger paint all over your hands?"

We both looked down at my hands. They were covered with splotches of fuchsia and blue, dye-stained from the night before.

"It's not finger paint. It's dye."

"Well, how come you feel old?"

As I said, ordinarily I'd have flirted. I'd have had fun with the conversation. But he had me on the defensive. I felt awkward. And annoyed.

"I don't know. I guess it's just one of those old kind of days." Please, I thought, please, just process my credit card and let me out.

"You shouldn't feel old! I bet your boyfriend just loves showing off his young girlfriend!"

I nodded in agreement. If I had one, of course. Just not that day. That day he'd have had to say, "Here's my 'young' girlfriend who got up late this morning, which is why she didn't bathe or have the ability to match any of her clothes. And although today she also looks like she either finger paints or has hands that are about to rot off, neither are true. Usually, I swear, she's hot. And has relatively clean hands."

As I was zoning out thinking about fictional boyfriend's imaginary explanation of my apparent lack of hygiene, the credit card went through, and he handed me my receipt and my bag. Without smiling, he gave me a huge wink that involved scrunching up half his face and said, "Happy Thanksgiving!"

I was thinking that since I've been writing more, maybe I've been honing my observational skills. I asked our HR person at work, who doesn't miss a thing, if she thinks that I'm more observant than the average human, or if weirder things happen to me. She gave it five seconds of thought and laughed.

"More observant? Do you know how many times I've passed you walking on M Street, honking and waving like a maniac from my car, trying to get your attention?"

"Really?"

"Really."

"And do you know anyone else who, while taking her boot off at the office, gets it stuck halfway off her foot, panics and then falls off her chair?"

"Um..."

"Weirder things always happen to you."

Everything Is Fun!

I probably have padded bras in my collection that are sturdier than the bumpers on my Honda. I learned a couple days ago, when my bumper fell off, that they're made of plastic! Not only that, but all they're held on with are these cute little black plastic knobs! Doesn't this make a bumper more of an ornamental piece than an actual defense against impact?

Due to spending so much time on 95 yesterday and today, and paying pretty decent attention to other drivers, and noticing how little attention some of them are paying to driving, I've given some hard thought to car safety. Prior to this, I only fretted about trips on airplanes.

This weekend I drove up to Philadelphia to visit my friend Jane and her little family. She and her husband have a six-month old son. He's sweet, with big, brown, inquisitive eyes. He's incredibly good natured, and, as babies that age seem to be, easily entertained. One of his favorite games is Everything Is Fun! Jane holds him under the arms, bouncing him up and down on her lap, chanting, "Everything is fun!" over and over again. He laughs every time. It's hilarious.

I drove up yesterday and traffic was a breeze. Coming back today, the 150 miles took me four hours. Argh!

I must admit that am not terribly patient, and I am working on that. I got incredibly frustrated today, when people decided to bring traffic to a virtual standstill seven miles prior to every toll. I could feel myself getting totally worked up, thinking that it's not rocket science to pick a damn lane and take out $2! And then I said, "Oh, chill out. You don't have to get anywhere in a hurry. Life is short. Everything Is Fun!"

My date from last week called while I was practicing yogic breathing, intoning "everything is fun," and generally attempting to be Zen in a toll lane. I told him about the new Everything Is Fun! game.

He laughed and said, "It sounds like you've acquired a life lesson there." Sort of. I mean, it doesn't mean that I won't get worked up over the next stupid thing, but hopefully I'll remind myself to put it in perspective.

Today was sunny and absolutely beautiful. When I started out on 95, it was one of those afternoons where you feel like anything is possible. Sometimes, when the weather is nice, and traffic is easy, or when the night is very black and starry and still, and wraps around the car like a blanket, I feel like I should keep going forward, just to see where I wind up. And I have the certainty that it will be somewhere good.

Do you ever start driving and feel like you could keep going forever? Have you ever just kept driving to see where you wound up?

One time I asked B that very thing - "What if we just kept driving?"

And he replied, "Do you really want to go to Florida?"

"Florida? Who said anything about going to Florida?"

"Well, we're headed South on 95. If we just keep going, we'll wind up in Florida."

I remember snapping, "That's not the point. Where, practically speaking, you are headed is not the point."

And he snapped back, "Then what is the point?"

"The point is that you wouldn't know where you were going! The world is wide open!"

"But we do know where we'd be going. To Florida."

And I remember feeling like the vastness of the universe of unimagined, exciting, exotic possibilities had just been reduced to the very concrete and uninviting high-heels-by-the-pool-and-fake-boob-ness of South Beach.

I remembered that today, with the blue sky beckoning and the sun sparkling. If I kept going straight on South 95, I'd wind up in Florida.

Happy Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving has never been my holiday. It falls in November, when winter has firmly established itself, when days are short and the sun shines with that thin winter light that doesn't get you very far. And on top of that, Thanksgiving is so much about being thankful for having 85 pounds of food on your plate.

For someone both weight-focused and seasonal, Thanksgiving was a holiday I dreaded. It lacked the fun, twinkly lights of Christmas. All I could see were mounds of mashed potatoes, gallons of gravy. And pie that wouldn't stop.

It used to be that in October I would start my slide into winter weight gain, and by February or March, my annual winter weight would be happily and firmly settled on my hips and thighs. It took miles and miles of running in the spring to get rid of those pounds. Thanksgiving was always the beginning of the season of fat and unhappy.

I cannot claim to be a new woman, but I have, with help, gotten through some of these things. I'm pretty much myself - with all my ups and downs - the whole year through. And while I am always weighing the consequences of a piece of pie, it no longer has anything to do with winter. Now I can appreciate the good things about the holiday.

I spend so much time fretting out loud, complaining about the things I'd like to change or the things I don't have. And so I'd like to make a list - by no means comprehensive - of things I am thankful for.

My parents. My relationship with them. And the fact that now that we are adults, we can appreciate the easy and the difficult and love each other as whole people. Even if we sometimes make each other nutso. They are both smart, funny, incredibly bright, kind individuals. They support me and they love me unconditionally. I am so thankful to have them nearby.

My brother and his wife and their son, my nephew, who is the cutest little Hobbit on the planet. I think the arrival of the Hobbit brought my family closer together, and I am very, very thankful for that. Once he can talk, I hope he has the same sense of humor as his parents. And I fully intend to be Weird Aunt Lisa who drags him to art museums and foreign films.

My group of friends. I have an amazing, supportive group of friends. Since we moved every four years, and since we never lived in the US, I never, ever had a solid group, or any lasting sense of belonging. I had friends, and people always liked me, but I never had the feeling of really being comfortably ensconced in a group. And now I do. I adore these people. I am thankful.

My friends Erin and T. I find them endlessly fascinating. I laugh more with them than anyone. I can tell them anything. They know my deepest, darkest aspects, and they love me like crazy anyway. Even when they think I'm making a huge mistake, they make it very clear that no matter what, they love me for me and will support me. And will be there post-mistake. This is rare, and for both of them I am so incredibly thankful.

Having had B in my life. I've been really angry and hurt for a long, long time. On top of everything, he was one of my best friends, and I recognize that it will take a long time for that ache to dissipate. I have been wanting an Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind erase, but truly, I'm thankful that he was in my life. He's had to deal with more adversity and is stronger and more graceful than anyone I know. He prompted me to grow a hell of a lot, and for all the things I've learned from him over the last six years, I am thankful. I hope he and his family are well and happy.

My job. I fret about the fact that I should be doing something that stretches my creativity, that's more aligned with my personality. And I am working in that direction. It's taken me an astoundingly long time to figure out who I am and what I like. And what I am good at. I have a boss that I really, really like, and coworkers who are smart and funny and supportive. I have the leeway to learn new things. It pays my mortgage and then some. And I can walk to work. For these things, I am thankful.

Finally, I am thankful that I have family friends who love me and feel like I am an important part of their Thanksgiving. I have to take a quick shower, pick up my parents, and head out to Great Falls.

I wish all of you health, happiness, family, and friends. And if it's your thing, enough gravy to drown a small village. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Hyphenation Is Not My Strong Suit

My father read through my entire website the other day.

I'd called him and said, "Hey, Dad! There's this really famous DC blog called Wonkette, and they put a link to one of my blog posts! And now a ton of people are visiting my site! Isn't that cool?"

"Yes, that's cool! What did you write about?"

"Well, that's the thing...It was a post about foot prostitution..."

"Foot prostitution?" He laughed. "I'm not sure if I should be proud or embarrassed."

So he sat down and read every single post, start to end. And he emailed me. With a list of grammatical errors. And he had the following comment. "You seem to be opposed to using hyphens."

The fact is that I'm terrible at hyphenating. I'm never sure if something is supposed to be hyphenated, or all one word, or two separate words. Sometimes I guess, but mostly when in doubt, I just leave them separate. It's a good thing I'm not German. I'd get in trouble all the time for separating those eternally long adjectivenounverbanoatheradjectiveandanothernoun words.

You'd think I'd be better at it. I've taught English, for God's sake. I did my graduate work in linguistics. But just as taking courses in theoretical syntax didn't prepare me for teaching, nothing that I can recall in my educational background, taught me how to hyphenate. Or maybe the real reason is simple. I find memorizing those rules incredibly dull, and so except when I had to teach them, I just never did.

So back to my dad. He did have a couple comments about my use of the f-word, but for the most part, this man was focused on grammar. He then offered to edit my writing before I post it.

He's a good writer, he's more detail-oriented (how's that for hyphenation?) than I am, and he is a thorough editor.

But here's the kind of conversation that I anticipate, and I don't know how to wrap my mind around it.

"Honey, in paragraph two, 'monkey sex' shouldn't be hyphenated. But in the first paragraph of the second post, I think 'ass-lick' probably should. "

"Thanks, Dad."

"I don't mean to criticize, but are you sure you want to call someone an ass-lick on the internet?"

"Daaaaaaad! You promised - just the grammar!"

"OK, OK. Just wondering. And mom and I were also wondering about the "monkey sex." Is this new slang?"

Nuts and Brains

I grew up with looks as a huge focus. With the repeated subconscious message that for a guy to love me, I had to be pretty. It took me years to actually realize that I was smart. And that it mattered. And in my social circle, it matters so much more than looks. And here's the thing. Now I do know I'm smart, but my God do my friends have big brains.

So last weekend I went to a birthday party for four of my lawyer friends. The party was lawyer central. Since I have been dating in a very small demographic, I ran into a guy - a law professor - that I went on one date with last summer. It was fun, and he's cute and interesting and so incredibly bright. I would've gone out with him again. We only went on one date because he never asked me out again. I wondered, was I not enough of a brainiac?

I met him at a party last summer, and I happened to be standing near a bowl of cashews. For some reason, and I swear to you I was sober, I decided it might be amusing to see if he'd let me put cashews in his nostrils. And he did!

Not only that, but he waited, one cashew protruding from each nostril like boar tusks, while I ran upstairs to get my camera. I had to promise him that I wouldn't share the pictures with anyone, which is too bad, because he has gorgeous eyes.

I was telling my mom, Betty, about running into this guy, about the one date, and about how we met. I told her that another friend, whose intellect I admire, said this guy might even be brilliant.

Betty said, "He can't be all that bright."

"Oh, he is, mom. Why would you say that?"

"Sweetheart, the man let you put nuts in his nose! And then he waited for you to get your camera."

Good point, Betty.

If Lizzie Borden Voted In Iraq

If you dye fabric, you ought to wear gloves.

Locking Lug Nuts

I parked my car at the corner of 16th and Belmont last night. And this afternoon, when I was walking up 16th St. to get it, I started noticing shattered glass on the curb. Every other space had a pile of broken window glass next to it.

I started worrying that my car wouldn't be there when I turned onto Belmont. It was. I sighed with relief. As I was walking towards it, I realized that there was such a pretty pattern on my windshield. The pattern that glass makes when you take something really, really heavy, like perhaps a rock, and smash it onto the glass.


Clearly, last night some asshole went on a car window breaking spree. I have to say that the expectation of having no car made me actually relieved that it was just my window. I mean, it super-sucks, that's for sure. But it's DC. And in the end, it's just a window.

Last year someone stole my wheel. I don't mean my tire. I mean my entire wheel. I came out and my car was propped up on a jack, and there was a little nub sticking out where the wheel used to be. They'd clearly started on the wheel next to the curb, because they got the tire partly off, but couldn't get it all the way off because it was parked too close to the curb. For once I was delighted to be an unskilled parallel parker.

Luckily, my dad happened to be downtown visiting me. So he walked to the nearest garage, got some lug nuts, and then an incredibly nice man helped him get my car down and put on the spare.

While this was going on, a policeman happened along. I asked if he could write a report for me, and when I explained that my wheel had been stolen, he said, "Ha. You're lucky your whole car wasn't stolen." And then he asked, "Why don't you have locking lug nuts?"

"What are locking lug nuts?"

"You live in DC and you never heard of locking lug nuts?"

The truth was, I'd never heard of lug nuts.

Locking lug nuts, for those of you who do not live in wheel-stealing cities, are just as they sound. They lock. You buy a set of four, for $50, I think, and put one on each tire. You can only take them off with the key that comes with them.

These things remind you that you're in a city, and that you're not safe. At least it was my car, and not my place, which would feel like so much more of a violation. I'm not emotionally attached to my car.

I have never been a car person. I like my car because it gets me from one place to another, and it is not hard to park, even for the parking-challenged. But cars don't interest me. I have notoriously poor car recognition skills.

Since I went to high school in India, I didn't get my licence till I was almost 19. My dad spent a few weeks that summer teaching me, and then he drove me up to the Virginia DMV. I took the little written test, and then it was time for the driving test, which I absolutely dreaded. The man came to get me, and we walked outside.

"Where did you park?" he asked.

"On the side."

"Which side?"

"Hmm. Maybe this one." It wasn't there. There was parking on all four sides of the building, and I hadn't been paying the least bit of attention when my dad parked.

We walked to a second side. It wasn't there.

He asked, "What kind of car do you have?"

I didn't know.

We walked to the third side of the building. It wasn't there. He was, understandably, getting more and more exasperated.

"What." he said, very slowly and through clenched teeth, "What. Does. Your. Car. Look. Like?"

That I could answer. "It's red and square!"

We found it! He clearly thought I was a massive idiot. But I passed.

Would You Go Out With Me?

I came home last night after two birthday parties. One in Baltimore, for the 30th birthday of a dear friend and colleague. Yes, I like her enough that I hauled myself all the way up to Baltimore for dinner. And all the way back to make the joint birthday party of three friends of mine, two of whom are among my closest friends in DC.

The trip back to DC took nearly an hour, and trying to park in Adams Morgan took almost that long. So I got to the party kind of frazzled, had several beers, got home at 2:30 am, and answered an email to the guy I am going to go on a third (totally unprecedented in recent memory - third!) date with on Tuesday.

At least I hope I am. Because my judgement was a little impaired, I went ahead and told him about my evening. Including a version of the following. That two of the birthday people are my close, close friends. And the third man, who is gay, I would love passionately if he were straight.

Last night, when once again I said "Oh, if only you were straight!"

He replied, "If only you were a man!"

I'd never thought of it from that angle before. And frankly, even though that means I could date him, (or Erin for that matter, if I were a straight man) I'd be the pranciest little leprechaun of a man you can imagine. I'm so glad I'm not a man.

But my point - I do have one - is what on earth possessed me to share this information with him? And does he actually want to go out with someone who not only thinks but says these things?

I know he's strong, and he's not easily fazed. He got full-on Lisa on our first date and he didn't bat an eye. We'd just sat down to dinner when the conversation turned to relationships. And cheating in particular, although I can't remember why.

I said "I don't think anyone has ever cheated on me. Except maybe my gay boyfriend when I was 25."

Now, my date didn't flinch, but our waiter, he broke the cork he was in the process of removing from our wine bottle.

He asked me out a second time (the date, not the waiter) even after the explanation of the gay boyfriend, even after an entire evening of me, unfiltered. And after our second date, he asked me out a third time. Quite frankly, I'd like to see him again.

I was doing a post-date debrief with Erin last week, and I told her I think I might like him. I kissed him!

She was really surprised. "You kissed him? Where did you kiss him?!?"

"On the lips. I barely know him."

"No, stupid. I mean, did you kiss him on the stairs of your building? You didn't invite him up?"

"No..."

"Wait, what am I saying? You never invite anyone up. Is it still messy?"

"In his car. I kissed him in his car. I might kiss him in his car again next week."

"You're going out with him again???"

Um, maybe?

Stick Your Toe in a Lemon

If you Google "stick your toe in a lemon," this site appears at the top of the list. Now, this delights me because it's so odd and would never, ever have occurred to me. This "stick your toe in a lemon" is a mystery to me. What would you do with your toe in a lemon? Is this sexual? Is it for pedicures?

I might be overly amused, having just returned from a Beaujolais Nouveau party. It was a Beaujolais Nouveau and French cheese party, and there were two cheeses in particular, both bleu-ish cheeses, that smelled exactly like wet cat.

I don't know precisely what you might do to cheese to achieve that wet cat smell. Like, is it extra expensive because you have to keep cats, and wet cats at that, very tightly bound to the cheese while it's fermenting, or whatever cheese does? I can't imagine that's the case, because at the very least, PETA would've gotten involved in the wet cat cheese process at some point. Even in France. Anyway, wet cat is a very particular smell, and the host, who is a friend of mine, wasn't delighted that I'd pinpointed it and was leading a tour of the cheese table, with the Wet Cat Cheese being at the start of the tour.

Earlier today I told a very young coworker of mine that I was going to this party, and he asked "What's beaujolais?"

I started to launch into an explanation of why I didn't really know what it is or why you have to drink it so soon after it's bottled, but what he really wanted to know was, what is it in the first place? The fact that it was wine was enough for him.

And then he said, "Maybe you should take me. Then everyone can ask you who the guy is you're with who looks like he just had his eyebrows perfectly waxed. And I can ask for some ice in my Beaujolais. Nouveau."

So I have had a great deal of Beaujolais. Nouveau. And I spent a surprise! chunk of the evening talking with a friend of my ex-boyfriend. We were re-introduced and I said we'd met before and she said we'd met through B, but she hadn't immediately recognized me with my glasses. This led me to ask for another Full. Glass. of. Beaujolais. Nouveau!

We wound up talking, this beautiful friend of B's and I, and she asked if B and I still hang out. And so I said no, we do not. And then I said, in fact we have absolutely no contact because I wanted to get back together this spring and he spent the year saying he didn't know and then last month I finally said enough and so no, we are not talking. At all.

Anyway, so I got home after all this Beaujolais and opened my laptop and peered at the Statcounter site. I love seeing how people wound up here, because I just recently learned about this feature, and it's quite interesting.

People in DC seem to wind up on my site through a Google search for "glasses" and very practical things like that. People in Sweden, Qatar, Holland. . .they're searching for "foot job" and "prostitution" and "twisted sexy girl" and "sexy feet" - significantly spicier things. There's nothing even remotely sexy on my site. They must leave very disappointed.

I have learned that if you click on these search links, you find really bizarre things. Try looking up "foot job."Better yet, try Googling "Smurf blue" - there are websites that describe group Smurf sex! In shocking, Smurfillating detail!

It's fabulous. Endlessly fascinating. So go ahead, stick your toe in a lemon.

There's Always Foot Prostitution

My job is fine, perfectly fine. My official title means not much of anything to anyone in terms of being an accurate description of what I do.

What it really means is that I'm the person who can do some techie stuff but mostly I can play nice with people, and so I am in between our (often contentious) content providers and the technical people. I'm the also person who deals with our online training courses.

Any of our digital content.

I knew the job would be fairly dry when I took it, but there were a variety of good things about it, including the ability to walk to work, to have a very 9-5 workday, and to have time to do things I love. And I knew there would be the ability to nudge it in a more interesting direction.

I like my boss and my close colleagues. It's the dragons in other departments that occasionally make it miserable. But most days, it's fine.

This morning I had a meeting with several people, including one of the dragon ladies. And so, when I am left fuming about the malignancy of some of the people, I remind myself that there's always foot prostitution.

Foot prostitution would never, ever have occurred to me on my own.

My sister-in-law mentioned one day that she saw an old high school friend who lives in NY and is now a foot prostitute. Huh? Well, she started out as a foot model, and then she met some guy who likes feet, and he started buying her fabulous shoes. And now she does stuff for him, and he pays her $1,000 every time.

"But, but what? What? What does she do? For him?" I wanted to know.

She had no idea. All she knew was that her friend had wanted her to accompany her to meet the guy at some swank-o restaurant. He'd buy them lunch, and then take her shoe shopping, and then she'd, well, she'd do whatever it was that she did.

"Why didn't you ask what she does? How could you bear not to?"

"I didn't want to pry."

It seems to me that if someone tells you they're a foot prostitute, they're practically inviting questions and comments. If I ever meet the woman, I have soo many questions for her.

We figured that there might be a lot of toe licking, or fondling. Maybe even some foot/penis action? Neither of us have much imagination in the foot arena. But really, we decided, even if you had to stick your toe in someone's anus for an hour, it'd be worth it. A thousand dollars. If you did this once a week under the table (no pun intended) you'd make $52,000 a year. Which seems like a lot for what I imagine to be not a lot of work.

I've asked around, but nobody I know knows any foot prostitutes.

A guy I know, though, a completely flamboyant gay man, said he was once with a guy who liked feet. The man had my friend put his foot in his ass. And then the guy asked him to wiggle his toes!

This image I was unprepared for. Wiggle your toes inside someone's ass! It seems like the toe wiggling one ought to charge extra for.

I was recently on a date and as there was a lull in conversation, I brought up the foot prostitution. Yes, I did.

And people wonder why I'm still single.

But the guy thought it was hilarious. I asked how he thought one should go about it. And without hesitation he said, "First, you take a sexy picture of your feet. To post on craigslist."

The thought of a sexy picture of my feet makes me laugh. My toenails are Smurf blue, for goodness sake.

"Barefoot or in heels?"

"Oh, one foot barefoot on the floor. You have your legs crossed and the other foot you have a shoe dangling off of. Like this!" And he proceeded to pull out his chair, pull up his jeans to show his ankles, and demonstrate.

And then he looked around the restaurant sheepishly and said, "Whoa, all of that came out a little too easily, didn't it?"

He plays hockey, is remarkably fit, and has offered to be my foot pimp. He said he could use his hockey stick as a weapon in case anyone got out of line. He wants 60%, though. I told him this seems high, considering he's not going to be the one with the toe in someone's anus. We're in negotiations.

So there you have it. It's Wednesday, and well, there's always foot prostitution.