Roses. Capitol Hill. 
Patriotism. Barrack's Row.
Interesting. Eastern Market Metro.
May 26, 2008
May 21, 2008
I made the mistake of watching the Bachelorette on Tivo last night. If this is all that’s left in the dating pool – men who special order briefs with your name scrawled on the ass, boys who get so tanked that they rip off their shirts to expose chests that should not see the dim light of night, and dudes who kick lemons off another’s head rather than just marking their territory with good old-fashioned urine – take me out back, pour boxed wine down my gullet, and put me out of my misery.
May 20, 2008
If you've read more than three of my posts, you know that at some point I stocked up on fear multi-packs on special. As a child, I had a diagnosable dread of someone finding my underwear while at a sleepover. It mattered not if they were dirty or clean, I made sure I buried those suckers in the bowels of my bag, past the mouse traps and land mines to which I imagined crafty 9-year-olds were resistant. I'd fake cramps and other teen illnesses so I wouldn't have to play in my piano recitals. Because it is a well-established fact that screwing up Clair de Lune has ruined many a young life.These days, I'll pop you a good one should you make fun of my fear of roller coasters, as everyone of sound mind knows that there's no real reason to propel yourself to Mach 5 wearing little more than a purse strap. And group sports? When I know I'll have to play softball, I hope for locusts and leprosy and yes, even pregnancy – anything that will prevent me from having to get up to bat, assuming a position of failure for all to witness. My hands sweat and I silently invite a pitch to the temple, anything that will get me out of the line of sight and into a more comfortable place, like the dentist's chair. Ah, the calming hum of that drill.
I will also admit to having a pathological fear of people. Not just the cell phone, which we all know I wish would die the horrible death of any period piece starring Scarlett Johanssen, but of real, live people, the ones who breath oxygen and steal labeled food from group refrigerators. I absolutely hate how I feel
when meeting them. Any of them. I'm clammy, I feel clumsy with my words, I'm wondering until just how long I have until it's polite to use the restroom. Then while in the restroom, I'm likely drying my armpits with a toilet seat cover and wondering what I have left on Tivo and just why everyone else in the world is that much better at this than I am.
This, my friends, does not bode well for finding a life mate. I've only realized recently that I have a pathological fear of dating. I am under the assumption that, upon meeting a man, he will deem me insufficient and way too chunky and funnier in email than in person. Whoever I am won't be quite right. That all of it – the straightening of the hair and the current highlights, the carefully scheduled post-work meet up and the cab fare in the oppressive humidity so as to avoid your normal level of disheveled, the washingtonpost.com search
for a venue that's not too loud but not too quiet and has enough wine should you need to drink your weight in it – all of the blah blah blah
will amount to little more than a blog post. They'll want perfection or what they saw on a page, and I won't be able to deliver. I've already failed before I've even gotten up to bat.
I understand what this means. Avoidance virtually ensures the life I don't want, of solo attendance at Celine concerts and sad efficiency at stamping Cricket's paw onto homemade cards. But like daily leg shaving, it's just so damn hard, and truthfully, I just don't want to do it.
I will also admit to having a pathological fear of people. Not just the cell phone, which we all know I wish would die the horrible death of any period piece starring Scarlett Johanssen, but of real, live people, the ones who breath oxygen and steal labeled food from group refrigerators. I absolutely hate how I feel
when meeting them. Any of them. I'm clammy, I feel clumsy with my words, I'm wondering until just how long I have until it's polite to use the restroom. Then while in the restroom, I'm likely drying my armpits with a toilet seat cover and wondering what I have left on Tivo and just why everyone else in the world is that much better at this than I am.
This, my friends, does not bode well for finding a life mate. I've only realized recently that I have a pathological fear of dating. I am under the assumption that, upon meeting a man, he will deem me insufficient and way too chunky and funnier in email than in person. Whoever I am won't be quite right. That all of it – the straightening of the hair and the current highlights, the carefully scheduled post-work meet up and the cab fare in the oppressive humidity so as to avoid your normal level of disheveled, the washingtonpost.com search
for a venue that's not too loud but not too quiet and has enough wine should you need to drink your weight in it – all of the blah blah blah
will amount to little more than a blog post. They'll want perfection or what they saw on a page, and I won't be able to deliver. I've already failed before I've even gotten up to bat.
I understand what this means. Avoidance virtually ensures the life I don't want, of solo attendance at Celine concerts and sad efficiency at stamping Cricket's paw onto homemade cards. But like daily leg shaving, it's just so damn hard, and truthfully, I just don't want to do it.
May 19, 2008
I tried the snake comparison with a friend the other day. It's the one I pull out when trying to convince a particularly doubting Thomas or Theresa that not wanting children is a completely rational choice, like hating brussel sprouts or Dancing With the Stars.
"Do you like reptiles?"
He's a good sport. He laughed.
"Would you like to own a snake?"
"No."
"And if your wife loved snakes, would you really want to have one?"
"Sure. I could have a few in the house if that was really important to her."
"I'm not talking about keeping them in a cage." Because seriously, if we could cage them, wouldn't everyone want their own damn Brady Bunch? "What if you had to strap a snake to your person 24 hours a day? And you were responsible for feeding it and carting it around to Safeway and stuff?" Because we all know just how devoted I am to shopping for the freshest of foods.
"But babies are so cute!"
"So are snakes! They have those sweet tiny faces! And have you seen their wee little tongues?"
I believe he remains unconvinced.
"Do you like reptiles?"
He's a good sport. He laughed.
"Would you like to own a snake?"
"No."
"And if your wife loved snakes, would you really want to have one?"
"Sure. I could have a few in the house if that was really important to her."
"I'm not talking about keeping them in a cage." Because seriously, if we could cage them, wouldn't everyone want their own damn Brady Bunch? "What if you had to strap a snake to your person 24 hours a day? And you were responsible for feeding it and carting it around to Safeway and stuff?" Because we all know just how devoted I am to shopping for the freshest of foods.
"But babies are so cute!"
"So are snakes! They have those sweet tiny faces! And have you seen their wee little tongues?"
I believe he remains unconvinced.
