Month: May 2008

As we left my building one night, I said, There’s my homeless boyfriend. Mr. X and I gave him some money. He looked sad. Perhaps it was because I was on the arm of a man and the last two times I saw Dredlocks he asked me out. Or perhaps it was because it was raining and he’s homeless.

Regardless, there’s nothing like saying youve arrived when you go down to your front door and find a homeless guy trying to call you from the callbox – with the help of one of your neighbors. I wondered which of the two had truly lost their mind the homeless man asking me out and telling me he needed a warm place to stay for the night or my god damned neighbor who told him my last name and how to dial my number. This city is too liberal, even for me.

So Mr. X said to me, You know, it would be nice if you could point to some decent looking guy under 80 years old who has asked you out. It would make me feel a little better than the processional of wheelchairs and canes hovering around your front door for a date.

Its true. Within a span of 10 days, Id been asked out by three men, all over 65 years old. My mom wanted me to post about the Congressman, but I’m nothing if not against the D.C. Machine. Let’s just say I royally fucked up some serious rules of avoiding the unsolicited “well now I owe you one so let’s go to dinner.” I did this guy a favor, not knowing he was a Congressman and not particularly caring, and he used my favor to up the ante and push for dinner. I promptly sent the link for his website off to 17 of my closest friends. Patsy texted back, “FUCK. I was NOT prepared for THAT!”

Mr. X just wants one of my suitors to be young and attractive so it can validate his attraction to moi, but that hasn’t happened. I have been considering wearing a medic alert bracelet decoy ring to ward off these advances but instead, despite the fact that I’m very lucky in the wrinkle department for 35 years old, I just decided to try to look younger.

I went to the Dermatologist and said, “Why is this happening?” I pointed to several parts of my body including lines around my mouth and my C cups (D Cups if you believe that whore from Nordstrom) that you can now find down near my knees thanks to years of running with an improper sports bra. The Derm put on his mask and said, “Honey. You need a plastic surgeon.”

Great. Just fucking great.

So now every day my mom and I have the same conversation.

Mom: Honey, please, before you get your tits lifted, can you check into some of those really good expensive bras.
Me: Would you stop?   Helium and a crane couldn’t save me now.
Mom: Why do you want to go under the knife?
Me: Well mom, when you watch as much porn as I do, tits on the collarbone start to look normal. And I’m going to stop telling you shit because now you’re going to send me every fucking newspaper article on the matter.
Mom: Oh, I will NOT.
Me: LIAR!

I’m not sure what’s worse: That she actually underlines crap in those newspaper clippings with a red pen, as if I’m too stupid to find the main points of the article, or that my mom is younger than the average age of men who asked me out that painful week.

It’s no secret that the summer holiday weekends bring a quiet calm upon the city. I love when all the yuppies get in their SUV’s and go to the beach. It’s really the only time D.C. is somewhat tolerable. The rest of the time, I’m torturing Mr. X to move to Brooklyn. (When I think Brooklyn, I’m talking about the Brooklyn with guidos, gold chains, and the best pizza not the Brooklyn overrun with… wait… SUV’s and yuppies who eat couscous and summer in the Hamptons. Ick.)

So what am I doing this weekend? No one cares. The more important question is “What are YOU doing this weekend?”

Friday
Rock & Roll Hotel
9 p.m.

The Jones

And, tell them at the door that that’s who you’re there to see, bitches.

Written up by Met Blogs as the “next big thing.”

Tuesday came and went and there’s no Sixes. I don’t know what to say. She’s unreliable. And a whore. And she’s currently trying really hard to not let her current beau know as such. So we won’t be seeing her for a while.

Today I’m going to provide for you a live-blogging stream of my work-related bitching. Check back if you care to see how my day is going.

11:14 a.m.:
The bathroom currently smells like someone cooked a flounder, then took a shit on it. This a twice-daily occurrence. Someone needs a colonoscopy, STAT.

12:24 p.m.:
I just informed someone that seeing as how my company wrote a contract on misrepresented terms, he may want to consult a lawyer, but the client is still, technically, legally, HIS. He said, “Oh NO! I don’t want them anymore. They are yours!” “Again, sir, you probably want to call your attorney because this appears to be one giant mess.”

3:59 p.m.:
I just spied like the 5th pair of NUDE SUNTAN pantyhose here in the building. Jesus christ. That is not cool.

In honor of the rain that won’t quit, I break my previous rule about not posting from work to, yes, you guessed it, post from work.

My fRienDs, By vElveT in dUpoNt

Thursday evening started a whirlwind victory tour celebration for E’s birthday. A milestone birthday? No. Just a regular old, run of the mill, 24. 23. (Yes, I maintain friendships with “preteens” but they are only limited to a select few.) E’s boyfriend, the Black Market Wholesaler (don’t buy a laptop on CL because BMW is the seller and it’s usually just a Georgetown yuppie’s rehabbed laptop that he cleaned some dust out the keyboard, then relisted for twice the price – a capitalistic business plan of which I approve, however, I’ll continue to get my laptops the old fashioned way: by wearing short skirts and asking Mr. X to haggle a reduced price for me,) tricked us into joining the celebration.

BMW sent this totally flattering email about how Mr. X and I are the only couple he could potentially tolerate for a 30 course dinner, so did we want to join them for E’s birthday but it’s a big surprise. How on earth could I say no to that? All I had to manage was to keep my mouth shut. Not easy. But I did it.

Anyway, 1 sea urchin, 1 olive oil ball, 1 “organized ceasar salad” (because all the ceasars you’ve been eating are a “disorganized mess,”) 1 deconstructed philly cheese steak, some cotton candy, 25 other non-descript courses and several thousands of dollars later, Mr. X and I joked that maybe we should stop and pick up some mozzarella sticks on the way home.

Sixes came down Saturday morning for the continuation of E’s three day celebration. (Seriously, who are you? Miley Cyrus?) Sixes asked about the Hostess and her boyfriend, perennially caught up in a sea of “we’re broken up” / “we’re back together.” The conversation went something like this:

Me: They just have too many rules and I don’t think they can get beyond their rules.
Sixes: What do you mean? The Hockey Player and I don’t have any rules and Ohmygod did I tell you how cute it is when he..
Me: SIXES! Enough!
Sixes: What? Do I talk about him a lot?
Me: Yessssss! (Trying to show exasperation in my tone.)
Sixes: Well, it’s this version of me or the other version and you didn’t like that cracked out whore very much.
Me: Okay. I’ll take this version. Anyway, The Hostess makes these nutty rules that I just laugh at her for. They’ve gotten back together and broken up so many times that even when she’s crying, I think I’m just laughing and that’s really not a very good friend. But seriously, she’ll say, ‘Okay, well we decided not to talk but that didn’t work because we missed each other so we decided to just instant message only but then we started talking about getting back together so I had to get off IM and so we started to text but then we couldn’t say everything we wanted in texts and he got mad so he said we shouldn’t talk at all so then we stopped, but then I saw him at the dog park and then when everyone went home we made out but no, we’re totally not back together and I swear we’re not talking for the whole month of May unless it rains for exactly 2 hours and 4 minutes before 11 a.m. on Tuesday, then we’ll talk but only by IM and only if he’s flossed his teeth and not for more than a minute and 16 seconds because we realize that at a minute and 17 seconds that we start to fight so that’s what we decided.’
Sixes: Oh. My. God. So this is what I’ve been missing?
Me: Yeah, so now they are broken up.

Sixes and I napped (by nap, I mean, Sixes napped and I watched Forensic Files) and then we went to E’s next birthday celebration. After we ordered some $100 worth of wine and morsels of cheese, we decided to make our money work harder for us and we went Annie’s where I ordered my favorite: steak fries and BBQ sauce. While Sixes and I were eating, and decompressing, because if you think that catching a vision of E sauntering around in short shorts, stilettos and a push up bra doesn’t burn a “porn star” image in your head that you’re hard pressed to get rid of well, you’re wrong. All of a sudden I see something hilarious:

The Hostess.

Her “boyfriend” /ex-boyfriend.

And all the dogs in tow.

Sneaking down the alley to the Hostesses house.

I scream out to the entire restaurant: “OH MY GOD LOOK AT THE HOSTESS AND HER BOYFRIEND!” Never ones to not be pot-stirring assholes, Sixes and I promptly texted her, “So, what are you doing?” She replied that she was just hanging out and asked what we were doing.

“Oh, not much. These french fries at Annie’s are goooood.”

“Damn it! You saw us!”

“Yes, just get back together already and Sixes said we should just go pick out bridesmaids dresses tomorrow since she’s in town.”

The End.

I hate to make Wednesday the standard bitch-about-work day, but by Wednesday I’m ready for the weekend because of some work related trauma. I could entertain with stories about how some woman ended up on the other end of my phone this week and said she lived “at the condoms.” Or I could outline an illicit behind-the-scenes affair between co-workers that someone sniffed out and ran to inform me of. Or I could go on and on and on about how I called a Developer to ask how many units they would be building and they refused to answer.

“D’as none yo’ bidness.”

I know me a shady Developer or two. Hell, I worked for one. Heh.
But I think that today, due to events of the past weekend I’d like to speak to Mr. X, in a 4-part series of e-cards.