March 30, 2005
You're unbelievable
I'm not sure that words can describe the pain that will be NBC's production of "Behind the Camera, Mork and Mindy: THE UNAUTHORIZED STORY."

So I won't even make the attempt.

I hear Tina Yothers is set to star though. Now that's hot.

March 29, 2005
Will you be having the Moon over my Hammy?
Good morning, sweetheart!

Because your Monday wasn't quite exciting enough, today we're going to have your ex-boyfriend saddle up next to you in the morning rush while your eyes are still at half mast. That should get your Tuesday started!

Have a great day.


March 28, 2005
Can you hear me now?
I spent my Saturday afternoon and night with new and older friends drinking to excess and eating baked chips coated in queso. My best friend showed up at the ready, bucket of original KFC in hand as well as a medium fast-food diet coke garnished with rum. She drank and laughed and kicked our asses at whatever that edition of Trivial Pursuit is that you can actually win. Four score and seven beers later, she summoned me to the bottom of the outside stairs, away from the male barbeque participants. She had already lit her cigarette and held one out for me. The look on her face was unmistakable. He hadn't called.

Gone were the bright eyes that sparkled at the thought of the two of them dancing until 2 and a cab fare usually suffered alone this time split. To her, the jokes weren't all that funny anymore and neither were the people delivering them. Instead, it was clear that she probably hadn't worked out enough and had definitely jinxed everything by commenting on how nice it was that he and his mother got along so well. She would never again tell a man she was so excited to see him. And had this not happened 40 times to her already? It couldn't have been been them, not Adam 1, not Adam 2, and certainly not the one that had looked like DiCaprio.

She ultimately ended up at a dive bar on 16th Street, drinking so heavily that she drunk dialed her father at 3:30 am to tell him that she probably wouldn't be making it to his place in a few hours for Peeps and mimosas.

Note to Him (and my mother, silent treatment day 15): Even the Tsunami victims managed to find a signal.

March 25, 2005
Friday's bold statements
Men should never drink amaretto sours.

It is apparently impossible to have a true friendship post dating.

Seinfeld just really wasn't that funny.

And finally, posting anonymously doesn't mean that I don't know who you are, and have contact information for people you've slept with.

March 24, 2005
Can you tell me what a Wang Chung is
I've noticed a recent rash of strange 5th floor bathroom behaviors as well as instances of overly gratuitous public breast feeding.

No time for that now. More later.

March 23, 2005
Hang up and drive, wingnut.
The guy in the car behind me was flossing his teeth on the way to work this morning. Full out flossing.

Who are you that you're too busy to do this at home? I thought, applying the last of my foundation in my rearview.


March 21, 2005
Just a thought.
I sometimes wonder if it's all that strange that I am obsessed with true crime. Not the icky kind of obsessed, like I have to get my hands on some nudes done by Dahmer. I have the kind of bug that makes you wonder how some people who seem so perfect and so whole could switch themselves, could pull from within a personality so stark in contrast to their own, that their mothers and fathers arrange for third mortgages to cover attorney's fees. Just a thought. No reason to sleep with a knife under the pillow, Kevin.

March 18, 2005
Social shopping list
Let's see . . . two rounded cups of Mom still not talking to me?



March 17, 2005
Only 5 points in a Subway sub. Thanks Jared.
I am now THAT woman.

I'm the girl that puts on twenty pounds between the last time you saw her at the high school reunion and last week, when she was caught breathing deeply and tucking her spandy pants under her dress at your best friend's wedding. Yes, I'm the woman who touts her Weight Watchers how-to bible around the office, flirting dangerously with excessive exercise for months on end, fitting finally into a size six for exactly two weeks only to blossom once more in the fall into a rather full size 12. I'm the 100 Calorie Light and Fit one day, the upgrading my free movie popcorn the next. I'm that woman.

I cannot stop eating. The cat is lucky that he moves as quickly as he does. On any given night, I indulge in both Tivo'd American Idol and excessive cheap wine. I have a gym membership that costs me $80 a month. That means that each of my trips to the gym in the past six months has cost me exactly 80 dollars.

Why taking care of myself is not a priority right now is beyond me. I watch Dateline, folks. I know about how dramatic weight loss and gain can wreak havoc on your system, how heart disease is the number one killer of women in America, how when they don't know they're on hidden camera, Safeway butchers rub your unsuspecting chicken on their floors and privates . . . I know what I'm up against.

Yet somehow that doesn't faze me. The fact that I can't fit into my skinny clothes (that is, the first size of four that I keep on hand in my closet), has only started to set in as of late. I'll admit, the fact that I will avoid going in for my yearly ob/gyn visit in March because I just know what her papers say my fighting weight was last year is, admittedly, disturbing.

So I'm changing things. Just slightly. I'm watching my food intake. I've even crafted a food diary so I can watch how many bags of Olean products I'm eating. I have a good feeling about this. I'm pretty sure that I'll lose roughly two pounds per week, and be down twenty in just a few months. I'll feel great for the summer and for big travel plans in the fall. On New Year's my dress will be one of the ones in the back of the closet that still has the tags on it. The price is double digits, the size isn't.

I'll feel great and coy and skinny and super and then one day, after a fry here, some work stress there, and finally a late-night Taco Bell run, I'll do it all over again.


March 16, 2005
Mama loves the puns
Wes Isn't Exactly Craven a Job These Days...


March 15, 2005
There is something wrong with liking Celine Dion, isn't there

Enough said.


March 14, 2005
Worst Daughter Ever
I've grown to understand that every major event that I attempt to take on with my mother, whether it be family vacation, milestone birthday or perhaps the random Sunday, is destined for failure. At the very least, screeching and crying similar to that of both threatened animal and myself at four years old is sure to ensue.

Today is day one of her first 2005 silent treatment.


March 11, 2005
SWF Seeks Answers, Tubal Ligation
To birth or not to birth, is there really any question?

Alright now, so let’s just hash it out; what exactly is wrong with me? For all intents and purposes, I appear a normal woman nearing her 30s – little (ok, no) savings, a graduate degree and steadily accumulating interest on Stafford loans, a growing obsession with the guilty pleasure that is TLC’s Trading Spaces (a sure sign I’m on the very verge of purchasing my own spacious home), with a decided interest in the finer things (read: generic tampons are now a thing of the past). Yet I stand aside my peers, looking right and left, and know that I’m out of place. It’s not the platinum wedding bands or top-of-the-line Passats that burrow under my skin. Admittedly, only occasionally is it the well-placed dormer windows or the 18-year-old’s Burberry bag that nudges me. But answer me this: am I the last woman breathing who has made the apparently unacceptable decision not to procreate?
Life is undoubtedly pretty good. I am becoming a great cook at my leisure. My grocery cart is free of Spaghetti-Os and juice boxes. On any given weeknight, I can meet for coffee or happy hour or a film at 7, or any random hour thereafter. My clothes are mostly free of vomit. I can return a movie to Blockbuster without having to unload a 20-pound bag of offspring so it won’t suffocate in the backseat. Better yet, I have never once had to pause in the family animation section of the store, contemplating the rental of the latest Veggie Tales addition, or its stellar alternative, The Wiggles on Wiggly Safari. Things are that easy.
Things most definitely do not appear easy for the moms in my everyday. To view these creatures in a natural habitat, one need only visit any aisle of a local Wal-Mart on a weekday of your choosing. (I do believe it has been scientifically proven that something in the mega mart air forces mothers to slap their wailing children repeatedly, followed by maternal screaming at an intensity better reserved for impending physical harm, or perhaps, Armageddon). These are mammals that appear haggard and unkempt, the black under the eyes nicely paired with the grey of their requisite athletic sweatshirts. The young members of their brood commandeer large shopping carts to ride up and down the aisles, tossing brightly-colored crap into their buggies despite repeated ass-kicking warnings from the matriarch. These are carriers not only filled with multiple demon spawn, but Hello Kitty paraphernalia, Lite Brites, and Huggies galore. Worse yet, I believe that the mother lode of all generic tampons can be found in the bowels of said carts, just beneath the industrial-sized tubes of Desitin. This is the stuff my twenty-something nightmares are made of.
To be fair, the plight of the working mother appears not much improved. Only these lucky women have the added bonus of having an associate peel dried, puréed carrots from their Jones New York blouses during a critical presentation for the firm. Water cooler conversation of Sex and the City has undoubtedly been replaced by a full recounting of Cassidy’s impressive first use of the plastic potty, perfectly resplendent with accompanying Polaroids. (How sweet it is, Kathie Lee!) Unencumbered friends from the office dodge both your phone calls and your supermarket hellos; don’t fool yourself, they know they can outrun even the fittest specimen who is weighed down by papoose or stroller. And anything more than the spelling of the word sex must be a distant memory; your time, your sleep, your cognitive clarity are never again your own. These moms are lucky to remember how they produced their genetic critters in the first place.
Please note that I am not a total loss for womankind. I am comforted by the fact that I do seem to retain some of my supposedly innate interest in miniature humans. I watch with a degree of envy as mothers and young daughters trade sweet kisses on the lips. I must admit to a certain longing when a mother and child share a wonderfully sinful chocolate-lathered concoction, eliciting a roll of giggles from both (still, I must confess that it’s unclear as to whether my envy is for the children or the chocolate). As of late, the word “family” at times produces a genuine smile. I too, not that hardened, would love to share a bond most certainly greater than anything I have ever experienced.
That said, I’m guessing my decision may be less than a firm one. It seems only fair to concede that someday the sight of my pregnant belly may bring me more joy than panic (and nausea, and despair). The sound of my toddler trying out a new psychomotor skill by slamming toys (or the family dog) on the hardwood may be music to my ears. For now, though, I’ll watch moms through their dormer windows, platinum wedding bands eclipsed by the sleeves of those oversized Redskins tees, while I recline on my clean sofa, savoring both a glass of wine and the sacred silence.

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March 10, 2005
Indeed, Mama Likes

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