So Much for Professionalism

I haven't been spending time in the blogosphere lately because I've been working on advancing my career.*

I've been devoting almost all of my working hours (and then some) to a difficult project with asinine clients. The guy doing most of the work for the project (thereby working closely with me) pretty much keeps to himself. Mr. Chill speaks only when necessary. Gives looks that make people think their mere visage offends him. Wears his headphones so as to block out ambient noise and

Recently, several people in our department were rearranged, and I found myself in the cube directly across from Mr. Chill. Late last week, I felt like we had a much-needed communication breakthrough. He started actually speaking to me. Both about the project and about things unrelated to work. I was particularly pleased with the turnaround and looking forward to the benefits of our newfound working relationship.

Today, my work buddy Buddhist Catholic tapped the glass behind me and blew me a kiss. I turned in my chair just enough to blow a kiss back at her, which left me facing the aisle and Mr. Chill. Usually engrossed in his work and/or social networking, Mr. Chill took this opportunity to turn toward me as I was mid- kiss... lips puckered, hand in air... and facing Mr. Chill directly.

I tried to assure him that I wasn't blowing him kisses, but I felt the flush rising in my cheeks and saw my shame mirrored in his suddenly rosy face. Certain any further explanation on my part would only make things worse, I turned back to my work.

So, yeah... Pretty sure the newfound lines of communication with Mr. Chill are shut down as of now.

And Buddhist Catholic? After laughing hysterically at my retelling of the story, she's banned from blowing kisses my way.


* No, that's not an excuse, just the facts, people. I'm not silly enough to think anyone's out there wondering where I've been. It just happened to be a good lead-in for a little self-deprecation. And we all know how much I love some self-deprecation. Yep, all two of you. I see you, Ogden, Utah, and Higden, Arizona.

I was robbed by two men.

And... I am allergic to penicillin.

Hasta la vista, Baby.

Own It

"When I'm wrong, I say I'm wrong." - Jake Houseman, Dirty Dancing


Maybe watching Dirty Dancing as a kid enough times to memorize every line, facial expression, outfit, and set had a little more of effect on me than producing mass quantities of drool and daydreams of a wedding to Patrick Swayze.

I recently recalled Dr. Houseman's apology to Johnnie at the end of the movie and realized I'm one of the few souls in the working world who is willing to own my mistakes.


On the surface, it seems like a simple enough thing (admitting your mistakes, that is... not doing lifts). But finger-pointing and blame-laying and flat out denial of any wrongdoing seem to be standard operating procedure these days.

And even though I try to make it a practice to tell people when I know I'm wrong, it never seems to get any easier. I like to think it does make me much less likely to repeat the same missteps, though.

I recently had to suck it up and spit it out. (The apology, fools. Don't bring all that filthy thinking to this rare-form PG post.) It wasn't as bad as I'd thought it would be, really. It usually isn't.

All that said, the very same party to whom I admitted my wrong and issued an apology is now coming after me full force, finger pointed, blame ready for the laying.

He realized, rather late in a project, that he hadn't asked for something from my team. A relatively major something, which he's now trying to claim he insisted upon all along.

So what does he do? Moves in for the attack, of course. Wants someone, anyone (but most likely and conveniently me) to take the blame that should lie squarely on his shoulders.

Why? So he can save face? Undoubtedly. Avoid being reprimanded? Likely. Keep his job? Perhaps, but I really don't think the situation is that dire.

What we have now are two groups of people working together with major animosity festering and hostility growing.

What we could have if the dude had just owned the slip-up when it was discovered and worked with us toward a solution? A much more smoothly-sailing project.

Obviously, this guy didn't take his life lessons from Dirty Dancing. Maybe I should get him the DVD for Christmas.

Things I've done since that pathetic post about my cat

So I went and posted about my pet for the first time, then I abandoned all things blog and left pictures of my cat as the main damn thing on this here site for a solid month.

I'm not apologizing for my absence, 'cause, really, who cares? What I am going to do is pay penance for getting all cheesy and leaving a scandal-less post up for an inordinate amount of time to greet the masses (okay, trickles) on their visits here.

I now present to you...

Things I've Done Since that Pathetic Post about my Cat:

• Made 743,209 empty threats using the words kick and cut.
• Found the Random Pierced and Tattooed Bar Mate featured here.
  
• Went home with RPTBM. (See complete whiskey menu at Neighborhood Dive for reasoning.)
  
• Got hickey from RPTBM.
  
• Deleted RPTBM's number. (See item above for reasoning.)
  
• Got pissed that RPTBM never called me back. (See gender for reasoning.)
• Baked 756 cookies in 18 hours. (With the help of Roommate, of course.)
  
• Started hating the mere thought of cookies.
  
• Visited a 'Gentleman's Club' for the first time.
• Cried during sex. (Oh yeah, I'm now officially that girl.)
  
• Broke the fall of a drunken musician after a show.
  
• Went bat-shit crazy after sex. (Oh yeah, I'm now officially that girl, too. Wait... is it the same girl?)
  

Nice 'n' Crazy

Boy: [blah, blah, blah] ... you're nice.
Belle: Umm... Have you met me? I'm a bitch.
Boy: No, you're always nice. ... Except when you're crazy.
Belle: Fair enough.

One Unhappy Puss in Boots

I awoke two Sundays ago with an ass in my face. (It's not that uncommon, really. One of my favorite Puss in Boots' favorite pastimes includes arranging himself in such a manner that his ass and my head are in close proximity and perfectly aligned.)


When I reached around to give The Puss the attention he demanded, he moved toward the window above my bed with a bit less stealth and grace than he typically manages. It was then I noticed the limp. The swollen paw.

Upon further inspection, I found a fairly large gaping hole was the root of the swelling and limping. With a bit of help from Roommate, I managed to shove The Puss into his carrier before dutifully hauling him out in search of medical assistance.

We waited in a small examination room that was decked with wing backed chairs and antique furniture rather than the metal table I'd expected. The Puss explored the room and the lingering smells of the hurt and sick animals before him. Obviously unimpressed with their scents, he chose the one wooden chair in the room as his throne for the wait.

The doctor examined The Puss and outlined his treatment plan before wrapping him in a towel and gently removing him down the corridor to the back of the hospital. The Puss's howls reverberated throughout the building as I waited, heart aching slightly for his pain.

A couple hours and a couple hundred greenbacks later, I took one miserable beast home from the animal hospital.

Puss spent about a week and a half in the stupid lampshade thing, mercilessly knocking into walls and furniture and any pesky humans who dared exist in his chosen path and constantly begging to go outside.

The torture device collar around his neck made The Puss decidedly more determined to obtain affection and his navigating our townhouse a bit more difficult than usual.

Climbing the stairs proved a particularly cumbersome activity. When The Puss tried to climb straight up, the lower rim of the collar caught on each step. So he navigated on a diagonal, going up two or three steps before hitting a wall or banister and having to change directions. (Oh, how I wish I'd had a camcorder.)

I have to admit, his plight was highly amusing.


The antibiotics have dutifully been forced down his throat (not without much fighting and biting, mind you), and the paw has healed nicely. I owe Roommate a great deal for taking care of The Puss's treatment in my work-related, week-long absence. (Especially since she merely tolerates his presence when he's not hurt or particularly needy.)

What more could you need?

Green Lantern: omg omg
Green Lantern: :-)
Belle: What?! What?!
Green Lantern: I want a Wii!
Belle: ME TOO!
Belle: Well, really I want to date a boy who has a Wii.
Green Lantern: Then you'd have the Wii AND the Sex.
Green Lantern: What more could you need?
Belle: Exactly.

Safety Through Omission

Belle: Serial Killer is asking me to tell him what his best and worst qualities are.
Green Lantern: Uh oh.
Belle: Can I tell him I was afraid he'd chop me into bits if I let him know where I lived, but, other than that, he seemed like a perfectly nice guy?
Green Lantern: Don't agitate him!
Belle: hehe
...
Belle: Ugh. Now he told me mine...
Green Lantern: What? That you lied about having a boyfriend?
Belle: I did not lie!
Green Lantern: :-P
Belle: I was dating someone when I told him that... Just haven't bothered to update him...
Green Lantern: Fair enough.
Belle: Safety through omission.
Green Lantern: LOL

Drink Pepsi

Fuck you, MajorSodaCorporation "Rewards" Site.

And, for that matter, fuck you, MajorSodaCorporation.*

I wasn't even drinking your brand exclusively until I got sucked in and started entering your stupid codes on your stupid site. I lived in relative peace, blissfully ignorant of the heinous crimes perpetrated against your customers by your stupid fucking so-called "Rewards" program, thankyouverymuch.

But for weeks now, I've been dutifully saving bottle caps and laboriously adding ridiculously long alphanumeric codes into your super-flashy Flash site, hoping I might win some contest prize. I did this despite what I knew must be tough odds, what with the millions of other MajorSodaCorporation customers out there and my terrible luck when it comes to, um, winning things. And, of course, I never win, do I? Do I?

No. I never win.

So I decided that the huge buildup of caps on my desk from the last few weeks would be the start of my points collection. That maybe I'd be able to get something cool out of the deal if I bought into the whole delayed gratification bullshit.

And then I realized that each cap is only worth three measly points. That a fucking Mp3 download requires 45 fucking points. That most of your cool prizes require thousands of fucking points. Rewards my ass.

So I did a little math.** If I continue drinking your brand exclusively and stick to my usual consumption of one soda per day, I'll have 780 measly fucking points at the end of a full calendar year. 780 points? And with what treasures, pray tell, would you deign to reward me if I displayed that much commitment to your fucking products, MajorSodaCorporation? What?

Let's take a look, shall we?
- You offer a multitude of products emblazoned with your logo (or one of your affiliates' logos), all of which retail for <$30.
I'm so not doing free advertising for you, assholes.

- I could take a few people bowling or to the movies.
Because I'd totally save up for a fucking year before treating myself to a trip to the movie theater or the bowling alley.

- You're generous enough to offer ONE shitty video game for a PC.
What about the Mac users? Fuck them, you say?

- Or I could choose from a selection of low-denomination gift cards, all of which likely offer only products that cost significantly more than the gift card is worth.
Fan-fucking-tastic. Can't wait for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to spend money where you tell me I should.

But what rewards are touted highly on your site? Those worth 6,000? 12,000?? 18,000???

Let's see... if I play the devoted customer long enough to accumulate, say 6,000 points... Then what would you give me, MajorSodaCorporation?
- Luxury Resort Accommodations
- Designer Clothes
- Designer Accessories
- Top-of-the-Line Electronics

Now those are some things that might make this all worth my time. But how long would it take to get the points to satisfy your greedy ass? Eight years at my standard rate of consumption, you say? Eight. Fucking. Years.

Looking at all your damn rewards, I feel like I'm suddenly back in the second grade, drooling over the prize book for the annual school fundraiser. Thinking, I can do this! I can get that awesome bike, that Nintendo***! Everyone will be so jealous!

You know what I'm talking about... every year they'd get us all pumped up for the mandatory hawking of gift wrap and baskets o' cheese and chocolate-covered pretzels by passing out the book with the prizes in it first. By letting us ooh and ahh over the cool shit we could win, if we just worked hard enough. And every year, I'd think, This is my year! I'm going to do it! Top seller!

And then I worked my ass off, annoying every adult with whom I had even the remotest connection. Practically begging that they buy something, then feeling crushed when they turned me down or opted for the cheapest thing on the fucking order form.

And when all the orders were tallied, I knew I hadn't won, hadn't even come close. The Principal would come over the PA and announce the school-wide winners, commending them on their dedication and outstanding displays of school spirit, and I would keep my head down on my desk, pretending I didn't care that I hadn't won. Didn't care that other kids had better-connected parents, more generous acquaintances. Didn't care that those kids were going home with the pogo stick and the Sega Genesis****.

And then I take my stupid freakin' disappointing consolation prize and viciously break it before I made it off the bus, so it wouldn't be around to remind me of my dismal failure.

So, yeah, thanks MajorSodaCorporation, for making me feel like an inadequate 8-year-old once again. I really appreciate that.

Fuck it. I'm switching to Pepsi.

* See how pissed off I am at you? I'm not even using your fucking ingeniously marketed, drummed-into-young-American-brains-from-birth brand name to identify you. Take that! You'll get no fucking endorsements from me, dammit!
** And now you're making me do math?! You really don't know when to stop, do you?
*** Yes, it was just Nintendo. And, yes, you can shut it. Duck Hunt was cool, man.
**** Shut the hell up, I say!

Thanks, Y'all

I'm back from the 'Sip. All went well.

Thank you for your kind words and sympathy.

After a weekend of relative solitude, I'm getting back into the swing of things.

(For the sake of my sanity, however, I'm not trying to play catch-up in the blogosphere... although I do hate the thought of missing out on your brilliant posts.)

I

Loss

We knew it was coming for a long time, but that doesn't make it easy.

My Granny died yesterday.

The doctors have been giving her a week to live for the last three years. She was a tough cookie and fought to stick it out.

Although we shared no DNA, I was closer to her than my biological grandparents.

I haven't quite wrapped my brain around it.

I'm heading to The 'Sip tomorrow for the services.

Stereotypes Shattered

The wedding this weekend was a jolly good time. The quick drop-in with the family was decent, if not perfect. (No tears were shed - yay!)

I might get around to posting some more, but for the moment I'm just going to share a story.

The Bouquet and the Garter
by: Belle

Once upon a time, there was a wedding. The freshly married couple had danced their first dance and cut their cake. The toasts had been given, some causing blushing, some tears, some laughter. There was eating. There was drinking. There was merriment.

Stepping up to the microphone, the Matron of Honor announced the time-honored traditions of tossing the bouquet and the garter would shortly commence.

We need all the single ladies up front!

Slowly a small group of women made their way to the middle of the room, taking a place behind the bride. More than a few had to be gently persuaded to join the crowd. The ladies shuffled around, each, it seemed, vying for a position on the fringes.

One... Two... Three!

The Bride tossed the bouquet. It arced through the air, hit a ceiling beam, and fell to the floor a mere few feet in front of the group. It lay there.

Let's try that again.

One... Two... Three!

The Bride tossed the bouquet. Not one of the girls in the group ventured forward to retrieve it. The bouquet landed. It lay there.

C'mon, girls, you're supposed to catch it! One more time!

One... Two... Three!

Again, the Bride tossed. Again, the bouquet landed. Again, the young ladies were still.

Finally, the foremost girl, the one who planned to break up with her beau on their return home, sighed and stepped forward to pick up the battered and bruised flowers from the dusty floor.

The group dispersed, and the Matron of Honor called the single men to the spotlight.

Now it's time for the garter!

The boisterous bachelors filed quickly to the front from all directions. They jostled one another for a prime position.

The Groom lifted the trailing white hem and removed the garter from his Bride's leg. He stood and tossed the circle of blue and white frill through the air. The bachelors pushed forward in a small wave, trying to shove one another aside to claim the prize.

When the shuffle was over, one of them stepped out of the mass smiling, victorious, blue and white frill firmly in hand.

- The End -

It's a far cry from this, eh?





Do you think the young ladies and gentlemen in the story just comprise an odd bunch out, or is there something more significant going on here?

Guess those pedicures are paying off

Elevator Guy: You know, there are certain things you can say and certain things you can't say, but this is a compliment. You have beautiful feet.
Belle: Thank you.

Sometimes, mornings are nice.

Fake It 'Til You Make It

I think I mentioned this potential promotion(?)/job change thing a while back. Well, the powers-that-be decided this week was a good one to throw me into the proverbial fire and see how I do with it.

Nevermind that I'm set to start training for the position in a few weeks (read: I have absolutely no clue what the hell to do right now, today, while I'm in said fire). Nevermind that I have little useful information or knowledge pertaining to the project at hand. I'm in.

But, so far, so good. I kind of feel like I've been given a seat on the wing of the plan, but I'm expected to co-pilot. Or, erm, something.

Wait, does it sound like I'm complaining? Oh, no... that won't do. It's good. Somewhat stressful, but good.

My supervisor is out of town, and I have been pulled into this whole deal by his supervisor, our VP. Oh, and his supervisor, the Sr. VP, is in on the project, too. (One more rank, and we're literally at the top of the food chain here.)

Anyway, I'm having to completely fake all this shit. Off the cuff, you know? And hoping I don't totally screw anything before I can get my ass into training and get a little grasp on what the hell I'm supposed to be doing.

That the VP trusts me enough to include me in the meetings is no small vouch for his belief in me, though, so I'm feeling pretty good about it.

Okay, enough disjointed work BS.

I'm heading for The 'Sip today. One of my bestest friends is tying the knot, and I'ma stand up there beside her and smile while she does it. Woo hoo!

Yep, three days in The 'Sip. If anything attests to the fact that I'm owning my Maid of Honor duties, it has to be the two HUGE suitcases standing in front of my door right now. (Don't give me crap about girls always packing too much. I can pack light. Just not this time.)

The wedding is Saturday, and I've been in a kind of weird I-can't-do-it-from-here place with most of the planning process. But I'm giving her a lingerie shower Friday night, so I've been running around like freakin' crazy organizing that. And my overflowing suitcases are the keepers of the party.

Since there isn't much time, I was going to skip out on seeing the fam, but it's Nephew#3's second birthday, and there's a party, so I'ma go surprise everyone with my radiant presence for a few hours before getting the hell out of dodge.

Wish me luck. (With the new 'do, I'ma need it. They aren't the most tactful bunch, and they definitely fear and loathe change.)

The Forest and the Trees

Remember my Open Letter?

Yeah, well, that friend told me recently the letter could've just as accurately been addressed to the guy I'd been seeing.

It took me a moment to recover from the verbal bitch-slap*, but she was right. And now he's gone.

Sometimes you're just too fucking close to the situation to get any perspective.

That's why your friends are there to tell you you're being an idiot.


* Not a malicious bitch-slap, mind you. Just an informative one.

I Can Be Accommodating

... if you know how to ask.

Props for Pops

I reached for the ringing hand set and glanced at the Caller ID. Father. Bracing myself for bad news, I answered guardedly.

As soon as it became clear that no one was dead, I relaxed. Breathed a little easier.

It still makes me nervous when he calls, I would tell Roommate later.

I vividly remember the first time I ever got a phone call from Father. Which isn't really that remarkable, since it was only two years ago. Considering I literally made it 23 years before ever picking up the phone to hear his voice, it makes a bit of sense that I'm still inclined to think the worst when he dials me up.

Before that Stepmom had always done the calling, no matter the reason. Father got on the line only when she passed the phone his way.

When I went away to college, I talked to Stepmom at least once a week, and Father slightly less often. At first.

Then, I started thinking about my relationship with the man. Or, more precisely, the lack thereof.

I decided that he didn't know how to deal with me. From what I could tell, Father viewed women in two ways:
1. As mother-like figures to be respected.
2. As sexual objects.

As his daughter, I didn't fit into that equation. Our conversations rarely drifted from the subject of the weather. They became incredibly frustrating.

Frustrated with his lack of initiative and tired of having entire conversations that consisted of It's 110 in the shade and same here, I stopped calling him. Stopped asking for him when I called Stepmom. Stopped letting her hand the phone off.

Stepmom: Your dad just walked in. Do you want to talk to him?
Belle: Nah.

She tried to get me to talk to him. Growing less and less acquiescent, I began refusing to fake politeness to my own detriment.

Stepmom: It hurts your dad's feelings that you don't talk to him when you call.
Belle: It hurts my feelings that he never calls me. That he's never called me. All we talk about is the weather, anyway. We both know it's hot and miserable. It's always hot and miserable.

I wasn't refusing maliciously. I just didn't see the point. I'd resigned myself to the fact that I was an anomaly in my father's life. That our bond was weak, at best. That our views on life were so different the only polite conversation we could have was discussing heat factors and humidity.

Then, one night while I was working, my phone rang. Father. I stepped outside to take the call, expecting to hear that someone was gravely ill or had passed away.

But it wasn't that at all. He'd just called. To chat. To see how I'd been. To offer fatherly advice. To let me know he was thinking of me.

That was in the spring of 2005. We usually catch up with each other once or twice a month these days. Last night our conversation moved from the weather to work to the merits of fresh seafood over frozen to softball to his grandsons/my nephews. It may not sound like much to some,* but it's a helluva lot more than I ever expected.

I know you've been on your own for a while and you take care of yourself. Just keep an eye out. Be aware of your surroundings. It's your best defense... I just want you to know I'm always thinking about you.

The man, he's trying. And I have to give him props for that.


* Roommate, I'm thinking of you and your daily parental contact here. ;-)

teh wrst spelr

The following is a random IM conversation from last night. Enjoy.

tehWrstSpelr: hi
belle: hi. Who is this?
tehWrstSpelr: u happen to be on my buddy list and I wanted to find out the same thing too
tehWrstSpelr: lol
tehWrstSpelr: im thewrstspelr*
tehWrstSpelr: U?
belle: thewrstspelr?
belle: Belle
tehWrstSpelr: Yup
tehWrstSpelr: Hi Belle
belle: hi
tehWrstSpelr: R u in Dc?
belle: yes. how old are you?
tehWrstSpelr: im 28
tehWrstSpelr: u?
belle: 25
belle: did we talk before at some point?
tehWrstSpelr: i shd think so
tehWrstSpelr: did u post an ad on CL?
belle: good lord. Ages ago.
belle: Where are your words, man?
belle: You seem to have lost them in all this IM speak
belle: it's highly annoying
tehWrstSpelr: My bad
tehWrstSpelr: So whats up with u tonite?
tehWrstSpelr: Cant sleep?
belle: about to get to bed. just catching up on some stuff
belle: you?
tehWrstSpelr: oh k
tehWrstSpelr: cant sleep
tehWrstSpelr: so bored
belle: ah
tehWrstSpelr: u wanna sing for me?
tehWrstSpelr: lol
tehWrstSpelr: hahahaha
belle: sing?
belle: I think not
tehWrstSpelr: alrite
tehWrstSpelr: ure in Dc,rite?
belle: you already asked me that


* The name, obviously, is my doing. Not this clueless dolt's.

If you can't say anything nice...

This weekend, I did something drastic.

I went into a salon*, picked a shade, and told a woman I'd never met to make my strawberry blond(ish) locks a deep shade of brunette.

The results are somewhat darker than what I'd chosen. (Read: Nearly black.)

The stylist's first words to me, before I even commented? It's not my fault! That's the color you picked! (Way to make me feel confident and fall in love with the look, lady.)

It's a dramatic change. And, because it isn't exactly what I was going for, the experience verged on the traumatic, but I think that's reigned in now. It's definitely growing on me.

Most of my friends say they like it. Travel Buddy said it suited me. You've read some of the things Travel Buddy says to me; he's not one to mince words or give false compliments.

So, why am I telling you this? Because some people I encounter almost daily didn't listen to their mommas when they were doling out cliched advice.

(With a look of horror) Why did you do that?!?

(Incredulously) Belle, what did you do to your hair? I liked it before! When will you change it back?

(Deadpan) It makes you look older. I don't know if that's what you were going for...

(With a screwed up look on her face) You like it?! Errr... okaaaaaaay...

Essentially, I want to cut these people. And to start telling them what I really think of their hair/outfits/faces.

But two wrongs don't make a right, or whatthehellever. So I'm not. I'm just whining to a bunch of imaginary people who don't even know what my hair looks like. :)

Thanks for putting up with it.

* I'd never been to a salon before for coloring.

It's a Matter of Equality

I've said it before, and I'll say it again...

If marriage is to continue to be recognized by the U.S. government, the right to enter into those unions should be available to every adult U.S. citizen. Sexual orientation should not be a factor in the equation. This is a basic civil rights issue.

I'm not going to keep going on about it.

Sign The Human Rights Campaign Petition.

I believe that all Americans, including gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people, deserve the rights, responsibilities, and privileges that come with marriage. And right now, we have an unprecedented opportunity to make that dream a reality. Please, join me in adding your voice to a million voices raised in support of marriage for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender couples.

Bloodsucking Bitches

The swampy, marshy southernmost regions of The 'Sip are year-round breeding grounds for mosquitoes.

There might be a few weeks of sweet reprieve from the vicious, bloodsucking pests in January or February, when temperatures occasionally dip low enough to kill off that 'other state bird.' Other than that, you've got no choice but to soak yourself in repellent before stepping outside and invest in Citronella products by the dozens when you're hosting a gathering outdoors. Fending off mosquito attacks is a part of daily life.

Stepping outside into the muggy air this morning, I lit my cigarette and joined a small group of smokers congregating in the designated area. A guy who reminds me of Letterman used his cigar to motion toward a mammoth mosquito hovering near me. That's a big one. A big male. Won't bite you. The males don't bite.

Another guy, one of the young hotties from sales, chimed in. But it has a stinger. So it still bites, right? Otherwise, it wouldn't have it. His know-it-all grin let us know he wasn't asking.

The cigar-wielding Letterman look-alike again said that only female mosquitoes suck blood, using it to nourish their eggs.

I exhaled, crushed my cigarette out in the black pebbles, and nodded farewell to my smoking buddies.

Age before beauty, isn't that how the saying goes? Letterman, even surrounded by his foul smelling cigar smoke, was right.

From The Wiki:

Both male and female mosquitoes are nectar feeders, but the female is also capable of haematophagy (drinking blood). Females do not require blood for survival, but they do need supplemental protein for the development and laying of their eggs. Prior to sucking the blood, they inject a mild painkiller, which numbs the host to the pain from the "bite" (Note: mosquitos do not actually bite).

And...

Males differ from females, with mouth parts not suitable for blood-sucking.

Well, shifire and damnation! All those times I was covered from head to toe with the small, misshapen welts from the devil mosquito? Every single one of them was from a female mosquito? Those bloodsucking, traitorous bitches.

Open Letter to a Short, Jerky Twatwaddle*

Here's the thing, man...

If your behavior is directly and negatively affecting someone I care about and I manage to make you feel like crap for making that person feel like crap, I'm glad. Yeah, that's right. I'm glad I put you in a worse mood than you were already in. You deserved that, at the very least.

I didn't like you the first time I met you. Despite my efforts at civility during our ensuing encounters, you chose to come into my home and push my buttons on repeated occasions. You did everything in your power to piss me off. You succeeded in doing just that.

Despite all this, I understood that you were dating my friend, not me. I didn't discourage her from seeing you. Even when you said I had an "unhealthy obsession" with her, signaling that you could be the controlling type who wants to distance your woman from anyone she's close to, I refrained from persuading her to ditch you.

In the past two weeks, you've been a complete dick to her. Whether you're stressed or not, she's an awesome person and deserves better from you. Actually, she deserves better than you, but ultimately that's not my decision.

Oh how I wish she would do a little more standing up for herself. She's not one to let you totally trample her, but she is, sometimes, much too considerate of another person's feelings. Which is why she hadn't said anything to you about what you were doing. Well, that, and she was testing you. And, I hope, working you out of her system.

But me? I make it a point to stand up for myself and, if necessary, for my friends. Being drunk made my textual assault easy. Disliking you from the start made the experience somewhat gratifying.

See, once you stop caring how your behavior affects others, I stop caring about how mine affects you. You lost the right to anything resembling civility from me when you started stepping all over her.

Calling you spineless might have been childish on my part, but I hope I got my point across: It's not okay for you to treat her like a toy that you can adore one day and toss aside the next. You cannot do that and expect her to hang around waiting for the next time you want to play. That is not how it works.

One more thing: She is her own person. We are two separate entities. You using what I said to punish her was a shitty move on your part.

You're a selfish twatwaddle, and you're short. Fuck you.

Sincerely,

Belle


* I wrote this post many moons ago. I only feel safe publishing it now, since the friend mentioned in the letter has long since moved on, and I don't have to worry about the short, jerky twatwaddle coming back into her life or mine.

Something Awkward This Way Comes

Travel Buddy: He only talked to you because he liked your boobs.
Belle: Oh, thanks. You're saying there's nothing else about me that would ever make a guy want to talk to me?
Travel Buddy: Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying.
Belle: You're a bastard.

A few weeks ago, Ms. Potato* came up with the grand idea of finding an establishment at which we might quench our burning desire to play The Skee Ball.

Travel Buddy and the Fun Committee Chair quickly vetoed the Chuck E. Cheese suggestion and proposed Dave and Buster's as a more adult-oriented alternative. And so the adventure began.

We ate. We drank. We played The Skee Ball. We collected tickets.

And when all was said and done, the Grand Pumba of the fine, fine establishment asked that we make our prize selections so the staff could close shop and go home.

So we found ourselves in a room filled from floor to ceiling with cheap Chinese imports, trying to put our hard-earned points to use. Should we get the goofy glasses? The Family Guy figures that grow in water? A stuffed animal?

Ms. Potato and I stood facing a wall with pens, pencils, gadgets, and novelties galore, discussing our options. Suddenly, there was a low voice behind us.

The walkie talkie pens are pretty cool, if they still have them. We turned to see a guy standing awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. That voice recorder has a pretty decent recording time, he said, pointing toward a small package to our left.

I thanked the guy for his input and turned back to face Ms. Potato. She had edged her way to the other end of the aisle and was intently inspecting a stuffed monkey with her back to me and the stranger. Smooth. Real smooth.

The stranger was still pointing things out, telling me what was "worth it" and what wasn't. Wow. You really seem to know your stuff, I told him. You must come here a lot. It wasn't delivered as a compliment, but the subtle clue of my intonation seemed lost on him.

Without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his Dave and Buster's card. The plastic glittered and gleamed under the fluorescent lights, announcing his Gold Status.

If we'd been on television, this is the point where they'd cue the dramatic music and hushed oohs and ahhs of the crowd. Ah, I see, I mumbled, and returned my attention to browsing for something, anything, that would get me a little bit further from this guy.

When I'd successfully navigated away from him and back to Ms. Potato, she raised a questioning eyebrow. I shrugged, and we went back to our discussion of which items we just couldn't live without.

A few minutes later, I found myself buddy-less with the stranger at my side again. Ms. Potato walked toward me, and I picked up the first thing my hand touched. Scooby's kind of cute, I said to her. She nodded and kept walking, ignoring my telepathic plea to get me away from the guy.

I tossed the toy back in the bin, and he picked it up. Hold on, he said. I'll be right back. Wait, your boyfriend isn't here is he? Without thinking, I shook my head. I don't have a boyfriend, I answered, regretting it immediately.

With that, he was gone to the register, and I felt my face burning. Good lord, he's not going to buy me that, is he? Why didn't I just say yes? I stood helplessly waiting while he swiped his gilded card at the register. I could feel the heat rising on my neck as I noticed my friends in a gaggle in the corner, giggling as they looked in our direction. Thanks, guys.

The stranger returned and held a bag out to me. I thanked him and told him he really didn't have to buy me anything. Eh, it's no big deal. I have about ten thousand points, he said, and I don't see anything I want today.

Feeling somewhat befuddled and a little obligated, I introduced myself. Belle, I'm Mr. Awkward, he said, limply shaking my outstretched hand. I managed a little small talk before excusing myself to find my friends.

Bag in tow, I located Travel Buddy and FCC. Did that guy just buy you something? I nodded. He's weird, Ms. Potato interjected. I nodded again.

A few minutes later, the group having dispersed again to search for individual booty, I found Mr. Awkward at my side again, cell phone in hand.

Uh oh , I thought. He's going to ask for my number. Lying didn't even cross my mind. It rarely does.

To my surprise, Mr. Awkward didn't ask for my number. Instead, he showed me a couple of videos of his friend doing stunts on a motorcycle. I watched distractedly, commenting sporadically and wondering what my escape route would be if the guy suddenly went wacko. When the videos finished, we parted ways again.

Final selections in hand, I met my group at the counter, where we swiped and splurged the night's earnings on meaningless trinkets we'd soon forget. Mr. Awkward was nowhere in sight.

As we made our way out of the establishment and across the parking lot, I took a lot of good-natured ribbing from the group and wondered if Mr. Awkward would be waiting around the next corner or behind the next car.

He never made another appearance.


* With nary a week's notice, Ms. Potato made a whirlwind exodus from D.C. earlier in the summer and set up camp in the lower regions of these great United States. After enduring the sweltering heat and humidity of the great metropolis she's calling home these days, she returned for a week and graced us with her presence.

LNS Didn't Bring It

Travel Buddy: There are going to be a lot of douchebags at this party.
Belle: This is D.C. I'll show you 10 guys, and if you can point to five of them who aren't douchebags, I'll give you a hundred bucks.
Travel Buddy: Good point.

The driver stopped in front of the white brick house. That's it. With the exception of a few shadows visible in the window, the house seemed somewhat lifeless.

BB: It looks shady.
Belle: It does not look shady.
Travel Buddy: Look, there are people in there.
Belle: Let's just go in. If it's terrible, we can leave.
BB: We're not staying long.

We paid the man, piled out of the taxi, and stepped onto the sidewalk. A lone figure in the shadows of the half-dark confirmed we'd found the right place. You're here. The booze is to the left, and it's going fast. Help yourself.

We stepped through the door, and I felt immediately like I'd been transported back to college days. The walls were absolutely bare. The furniture was nearly nonexistent. Natty Lite and Budweiser abounded, but most of the girls carried Solo cups filled to brimming with lots of alcohol and a splash of soda by chivalrous young men. It was just like a sweaty frat party in the 'Sip, except this one had crown molding and minorities.

Earlier in the night, as we sipped champagne and shared strawberry shortcake, BB laid out our options. We can stay here, go to another bar, or go to a house party in Georgetown. The house party didn't seem nearly so interesting until she informed me it was an LNS shindig.

I've been reading this and that about this crew for months, and I wanted to see what they were all about. To be perfectly honest, I was kind of disappointed; there was very little fodder for this here blog, friends. Perhaps not being a Smith Point threw the LNS game off a bit.

Guys in (un-popped) collared shirts and girls in sun dresses were crammed into the main rooms downstairs, chatting in small groups. I was sorely out of place in jeans, but what the hell did I care? Nowhere close to meeting the size 4 mandate, I would have stood out no matter my ensemble. And, anyway, I wasn't the most out of place.

I'm glad to see I'm not the only one who's under-dressed. I turned to face the only female present wearing shorts. I feel like I should give you a hug or something, she said. I complied just a moment before her J. Crew-clad friend looked me up and down and told me she was going to have to ask me to leave. I laughed at what I assumed was her jest and went back to talking to Travel Buddy.

Our conversation focused primarily on the party. On the fact that it wasn't as terrible as we'd expected. That we'd been to worse. Much, much worse.

The party was decidedly frat-tastic, but there was nothing incredibly remarkable about it. You had your garden-variety homophobia on display from the guy yelling something about a "homo" when we first walked in the door. You had your insecure cattiness from the bitch waiting in line for the bathroom behind BB. You had your spilled drinks and your drunken breaking of household goods.

We were still trying to choke down our huge glasses of gin (soda splashes optional) when everyone was herded out of the house to the enclosed patio area. We stood around postulating about what was going to happen. Travel Buddy suggested that we were to be burned alive. We plotted our escape route should things get out of hand.

I'd been hearing girls buzzing about champagne for a while, and some of them seemed excited that it was time for that. Apparently, they were right. The guy who'd rounded everyone up positioned himself a bit above the crowd and commanded our attention for his little speech. Which was promptly followed by a spray of champagne into the crowd. People scattered like ants then reassembled just in time for him to shower the crowd again. That's when we made our exit.

What a Happy Ending

Last week, I realized I had poison ivy.

My first reaction was something along the lines of "shitfuckshitgoddamnmotherfuckshit." You see, I have a long, terrible history with the dreaded rash. Every summer for as long as I can remember, I have been plagued by that demon plant's poison oil. Apparently, one of the genetic endowments from Father was an incredibly high sensitivity to urushiol.

The first time I developed this rash, The Moms had no idea what it was. Since my legs were covered with oozing, puss-filled, bloody* wounds, The Moms covered them with opaque tights before taking me to the doctor. In August. In The 'Sip. The misery that ensued is one of my most vivid early memories.

Every summer following that, I managed to find my way to the nearest batch of the bastard plant and roll around in it. Well, that is, what I must have done if you listen to the medical gurus' dictation on the subject. They claim the rash doesn't spread. They claim you can't be infected by someone else's oozy, puss-filled rashes. They claim you only get the rash if you come in contact with the plant.

Now, I'm not contradicting the prevailing medical theory, but all I know is that I learned to spot mine enemy early on and avoid it like the plague. It didn't help. If one of my brothers got poison ivy, I did too. Even if we hadn't been to any of the same places in weeks and I only spent 10 minutes in the same room together after he had the rash. And, no matter what, the rash always spread. Just sayin'...

When I was checking groceries the summer after high school, I noticed the tell-tale fiery itch one night mid-shift. At the point of discovery, I had one little red rash about an inch long on my lower abdomen. By the next day, the fiendish plague had overtaken the better part of one-half of my body. I went to the doctor and called out sick. Believe me, with a rash like that covering your arms and face, no one wants to buy their groceries from you.

So last Tuesday, when I instinctively reached to scratch my arm, I recognized the fiery itch and stopped myself. Shitfuckshitgoddamnmotherfuckshit. Poison Ivy. FUCK.

Two fairly small dots butted against one another on my right forearm. To an untrained eye, they would likely appear to be innocuous little pimples. But if the years of recurring summer battles have taught me anything, it's to know what this rash looks like.

Immediately, my mind started racing. I thought back to the day before and realized I'd been scratching this same place for at least 24 hours. Where the hell could I have gotten poison ivy?

No clue.

I braced myself for the worst, imagining waking the next morning to find the rash covering me from head to toe.

I can't skip out on training this week, the company has spent too much to send me. I guess I'll just have to deal with being hideously disfigured for the rest of the classes. It's not like I'm actually going to see this people again anyway... Right?

Fortunately, the worst never came. It's a week later, and the rash only spread to four more little annoying dots on my forearm. They're nearly gone now.


I don't want to speak too soon, but I think perhaps my super-sensitivity to this menacing little vine has abated as I've gotten older.


* Yeah, bloody. You try to keep a 4-year-old from scratching poison ivy, dammit.

A Little Addition Goes a Long Way

Courtesy of VVK

For future reference:

1 Diver Down
+5 Irish Car Bombs
+3 Guinness
+2 Glasses of UBFRDP*
+3 Random vodka drinks

---

Vague recollections of exposing nipplage to a pierced and tattooed bar mate


* Unidentified Beer From Random Dude's Pitcher

Soul-Crushing Disappointment

This cracked me up.

(And even while I was laughing, I had to give Drew and the crew at Left-Handed Toons major props for using the word tessellate and using it correctly.)

Braless, this time...

An excerpt* from my IM with Roommate tonight.

Roommate: We can look after you bring me home tomorrow night too. After I give you some of your goodies.
Belle: Good god, your dad didn't pick bras out for me, did he?!?!
Roommate: no- you're saved
Belle: Thank god!
Roommate: I think you really will like what he got you. I got one too. Already tried it out.
Belle: Now I’m really scared.

* Slightly edited to eliminate the schizophrenia that epitomizes our IM exchanges.

Moving Blows Goats

Roommate wants to move. Her commute currently blows goats. Mine is about the same now as it was before my company moved, but our current location leaves some things to be desired. (Namely, a desirable location.)

I've looked at exactly one place. Roommate is currently out of town, so she's looked at exactly zero, but she found the one I looked at.

The house is old. As in almost a century old. It's got character and a yard and three bedrooms and is located across the street from a sweet little neighborhood park.

What it doesn't have is central heat/air or good insulation, which worries me but probably not enough to put the brakes on signing a lease. Going through winter in that house will probably suck balls. But I think winter sucks balls anyway.

We're trying to consider other options as well, but it's really tempting for me to just say yeah to this place. I fucking loathe this process.