Unconventional Conventions

Uncertain of our ability to spot one another in a crowd, he told me he'd be wearing a pink tuxedo shirt, black vest, and black pants. I donned a black cocktail dress, diamond tennis bracelet, and my sexiest black stilettos.

And I met The Butler at Dairy Queen.

Getting dolled up for ice cream was a quirky little two-fold treat. I liked that his suggestion turned the mundane into an event, of sorts.

The date was fine. Not stellar, not bad in any way. Just fine.

We parted with a handshake after about an hour so I could meet some friends for drinks. He said he'd be in touch, (and so, to the Mantris he goes).

And, yes... he really is a butler.

Jerry Masterson, age 8, is My Hero.

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?

I Can Be Accommodating

... if you know how to ask.

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.

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.

Should I Be This Scared?

I've found myself flying pretty much solo at several social events in the past two weeks. Well, three, to be exact.

At the first*, a happy hour, I met a few people (4). I talked easily to the first soon after entering the bar. The others I met a little later. Two of them said they would offer their expertise in the apartment hunt (so far, one has). The last vowed to join me and a new associate in an upcoming social endeavor. I've yet to call. (But I will! I will!)

I was invited to the second event by one of the hosts**. I knew no one save this host, and, being that he was a host, I didn't expect constant entertainment. My feelings on the event are mixed. I met a (small) handful of pretty cool people (again, 4), but the majority of the guests did not seem to be people I'd ever get along with. After a few good hours with the few cool people, I found myself pretty much alone with the not-so-cool people while waiting for a ride. The night actually ended with me feeling very much like a junior high reject with acne, bad breath, and head gear. Perhaps I digress...

The third event was completely random.

Opposed to spending yet another Friday night entertaining Roommate's parents while she was off on date*** and semi****-stood-up by my partner in crime for the evening, I headed to the bar solo.

I've been to this bar a few times before with Quicksylver. The first night we went was our waitress's first night as well. We'll call her Saronno. Despite Quicksylver's initial insistence that she was just being nice to get tips, we hit it off really well and have since talked about hanging out together.

Anyhow, Saronno was at the bar when I showed up Friday, but she wasn't working. She invited me to a small get-together she was planning to hit up before heading to a bigger, swankier party later on. I accepted her invitation.

She and I were the first to arrive. I kicked a little ass on the Wii***** then we moved on to the beer pong. (At which I also kicked more than my fair share of ass, if I do say so myself.) Saronno left, and I was totally fine. Got along with everyone there. Had a fantastic time. Hope to see all the players of the night again in a similar setting.

Before I accepted Saronno's invitation, though, I was prepared to call myself socially awkward. I'd even begun a post describing myself as such and outlining all the ways in which I'd changed that made me feel like I was the social reject.

But, now? I'm not thinking so much in terms of my morphing into a socially awkward woman in her mid twenties as I am thinking of me fucking putting myself out there. Trying to meet new people. Failing at times, perhaps. Succeeding at others, perhaps.

Attending social events and trying to meet people on your own is a scary proposition.

I really have nothing more profound to say on the subject.


* I have to admit, I primarily went to see a boy. The boy was not there. The boy does not yet get a name.
** The host is the aforementioned boy. He still doesn't get a name.
*** Both completely okay by me, by the way.
**** "Semi" because I don't really blame him.
***** I'm saying right now I'd be totally addicted if given the opportunity. That shit rocks. And, no, spending $400-500 on that shit is not an option for opportunity for this chica.

Some Notes on the Office Move

- Changing one address to another on 400+ pages of my company's extremely convoluted Web site is slightly more therapeutically mind-numbing and less annoyingly nerve-wracking than I initially predicted. I will probably be at this for the better part of the week.


- Despite the office move being delayed numerous times for a total of several months, not one of the floors of our new space is what we can call, um, completely finished. The construction workers are still wearing hard hats. Walking through a space with no ceiling tiles a bit ago, I wondered if I should be as well.


- Our new phone system is super sleek and cool. Unfortunately, we weren't given adequate instructions for using the phones or the system. My boss hung up on someone I was talking to today when he pointed to a button on the super sleek and cool phone (which is, apparently, highly touch-sensitive). And after attempting to enter my extension and password several times, I locked myself out of my voicemail account. So much for keeping up business as usual.


- Our nifty balcony seating area is completely closed. My prediction for its opening? No sooner than the time the leaves start falling.


- My cube* is located just at the entrance of our department. By the doors nearest the elevator. Already nearly everyone who has walked through the door has described to me, in detail, their technical problems. I never have the answer. Ever. I've been requesting a different cube since before the move. There are empty cubes. I am not allowed to move. I'm am not a happy camper.


- The new seating location also puts me just around the corner from a man who's always telling me how sexy I am. How fine. And how he'd say all kinds of things to me if he weren't married (which he then proceeds to say anyway). He's been in my cube no less than 10 times already today. I don't foresee that volume decreasing any time soon.

- The bathrooms have full walls and doors instead of stupid stalls where the person next to you is always trying to quietly take a shit and you always find yourself looking over at her shoes and thinking, Why'd I have to look so I'd know who that is? Now I'll just be weird around her all day.

- Above the toilet, there are two silver buttons. One looks slightly different than the other. After my initial response, which was something akin to Sylvester Stallone's character's reaction to the three seashells in Demolition Man,** I tried each of the buttons. They both just flush the damn thing. So I ask you, what's the point?


On the elevators, specifically:


- Of our six elevators, only two will stop on my floor, only one will go to the floor below me, and only three will go to each of the remaining floors. The same elevators don't go to all those floors, though. I've done the elevator hop 10+ times already today, opting for the stairs almost each of those times after the second elevator wouldn't accept my destination.


- One of our floors lacks elevator call buttons. The ingenious construction workers have a system for this. They simply stand at an elevator's doors and shout the floor's number out. Another worker on another floor will send an elevator up to them. My coworkers and I are less swift; we've been using the stairs.


- We were told before the move that we'd have to use our newfangled key fob thingies*** to get the elevators to go to our specific floors. On my many trips to the various unfinished floors this morning, I dutifully carried my newfangled key fob thingy with me. My colleagues gave me odd looks. The more outspoken pointed at me and laughed. You don't need that, Belle. Why are you carrying it around?!? When I went down for my first smoke break of the afternoon, I was informed that the elevators had been reprogrammed. We now do, in fact, need our newfangled key fob thingies to get to our specific floors. Guess who'd succumbed to peer pressure (and, perhaps, early-onset Alzheimer's) and left her newfangled key fob thingy on her desk?




* The new, PC term for our cubes are "modular units" or some such nonsense. I refuse to participate in the delusion. It's a cube, people.
** Oh, shut up.
*** My company owned the last building we were in, and our staff comprised the majority of people in the office. Security was much less an issue than it is in the new place, which we will (eventually) share with others. I've used access cards and key fobs at other jobs. Many of my coworkers seem befuddled by the additional security measures.

Season Closers

Last night was my rec softball team's last for the season.

Ready for the tally?

2007 Season

Games played: 9
Games won: 1
Games lost: 8

Last Night

Games played: 2
Players present: 12
Total innings played: 8
Final scores: 14-26 & 13-29 (That'd be Belle's team losing both times, obviously.)
Teammates seen for the second time this season: 3
Teammates seen for the first time this season: 1
Over-the-fence home runs hit: 2 (By the same player. In the first game. Each yielding four runs. If this guy had bothered to show up to more than three games this season...)

Hits Belle took for the team: 11 (If you sing that song that goes "head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes"... you're almost right on the money for where I was pelted with the ball and in what order. Catching is a dangerous business for those who, uh, can't catch.)

Times Belle tagged home and got someone out: 2 (But don't be too happy for me. The pitcher caught both, handed each to me, and let me step on the plate as a courtesy.)

Runs Belle scored: 1 (The pitcher walked me to first, but I take great pride in the fact that I didn't fuck anything up after that!)

Balls Belle hit: 1 (I was ONE step from first when that crazy lady on first caught the ball and got me out. ONE. Dammit. Still... I hadn't hit a ball that wasn't a foul since the first game of the season.)

Wit and Whatnot

I got tagged last week for my second meme. Yay! I'd try for wit and whatnot, but the 2(.5) bottles of wine I consumed last night have severely infringed upon my abilities in that department.

Rules:

1) Post the rules, then list 8 things about yourself.

2) At the end of the post, tag and link to 8 other people

3) Leave a comment at those sites, letting them know they've been tagged, and asking them to come read the post so they know what to do.

1. I have never been stung by a bee. As a result, I'm irrationally afraid of the little buggers. If you want to see hilarity, it's me knocking over chairs and such while running from a tiny little bee that's much less interested in stinging me than I imagine, I'm sure.

2. I once bowled seven frames without knocking down a single pin. Seven frames!

3. My mother doesn't always recognize my voice on the phone. She's my mother, for fuck's sake. It's not as if we're estranged and haven't talked for years or something. When I was younger, I called her at work every day. About three times a week she didn't know who I was. (I realize this is perhaps more about The Moms than me. Eh. Whatever.)

4. I think I'm about to enter a new career path. It's looking like it will involve technical training on the company's dime and time, of which I'm a fan.

5. Save the whole coming into the world thing, I've never been a patient in a hospital.

6. I have something akin to a freckle in the bottom of my left eye. It used to be shaped something like a cross; now it's more like a scalene triangle. The other day a woman in my office noticed it and asked about it. I've dated guys and/or known people for years who've never noticed it. (In case you haven't noticed, I tend to date shitty people.)

7. I drive a pick-up. It's a manual. I lost the spare tire almost two years ago. (Don't ask.)

8. I love shopping for shoes/buying shoes/collecting shoes. When I get a new pair of heels, I often have nothing to wear them with immediately. (Baby blue stiletto sandals with a rhinestone buckle, anyone?) In the past when this has happened, my various roommates have come home from work/class/banging the neighbor to find me strutting around in pajamas/jeans/gym shorts with my hot new shoes on, doing things like making dinner/folding laundry/cleaning out the litter box. I say all that to say this: I'd probably be barefoot all the time if I could. Illogical? Well, yeah.

I'm tagging Pissed, Brooklyn Boy, H, gn, Miss B... and Jamy! (Can't forget Jamy!) That's it, though. If anyone else is interested in playing, consider yourself tagged. (Eight is a lot to come up with!)

Play Ball!

Amber: Ms. Stoeger, my plastic surgeon doesn't want me doing any activity where balls fly at my nose.
Dionne: Well, there goes your social life.
- Clueless, 1995

Have I mentioned that some moron called Belle agreed to play softball with a rec team this year?

This was a bad idea for a plethora of reasons. The first of which is that I was always that kid who got pegged with the ball in gym class. Always. The second of which is that, up until two weeks ago, I smoked about a pack of cigarettes a day. Third: That little thing we call hand-eye coordination? ... Practically nonexistent.

Oh, and have I mentioned I know nothing about baseball? I mean nuthin'. Two years ago, when Roommate and I had just met, she invited me to a baseball game. Three or four batters into the first inning, I turned to her and asked (in all seriousness), "Who is that guy standing behind the catcher?"

Ummm... yeah...

So anyway... when I was first asked to join the team, I tried to beg out. I told them how terribly uncoordinated I am. I told them about my lack of knowledge about the sport. To no avail. They needed female players. So Roommate and I signed up.

Apparently, my teammates are somewhat masochistic. They play "to have fun," they say, but we suck so horribly that we're getting slaughtered every time we step on the field. Even though the team isn't quite up to par, I am, as feared and predicted, the worst player by far.

I outdid myself in this week's game though, I must say. After being hit with no less than four pitches* during the first inning, our team came in and I stepped up to the plate to bat.

First pitch: foul
Second pitch: strike
Third pitch: I hit the ball as hard as I could. Through some miraculous (read: logical-trajectory-defying) action, I was immediately smacked in the nose and upper lip with the ball.

Oooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuch!

Painful and humiliating. Now that's my kind of fun...

* They usually have me playing catcher because I'm so freakin' wonderful at everything else. Of course, I can't catch, either...

Firsts

This weekend contained a few firsts for me.
1. First trip to the Eastern Shore.
2. First time on a boardwalk.
3. First time to shoot tequila and not end the night in tears.

I skipped out of work a little early on Friday to make the trek to O.C. with The Misogynist. I made up my mind before departing that I would maintain a positive attitude despite whatever traffic horrors I had to endure. After the first three hours of pretty much sitting parked on various roadways, it was smooth sailing.

I was happy to be able to drive (kinda) fast, roll my windows down, turn my music up, and sing at the top of my lungs without worrying about breaking the windows in the cars next to me with my mad vocal skillz. The first weeks of nice weather always make me want to drive with speed and without aim. That was never a problem when I lived at the Southern Homestead or in The Black Hole. Around here, it's an entirely different prospect.

While I did maintain the upbeat mood I'd promised myself, I was made much more aware of the trials and tribulations of Average Joe Commuter in these parts. If I had to deal with that B.S. on the regular, I'd become homicidal in no time.

We got to O.C. and found a nice little dive called Kirby's. We had some good seafood and some hilarious, entertaining, and blog-inspiring* conversations with the people around us. Good conversation with The Misogynist and deep sleep followed.

We got up Saturday morning, which was gorgeous weather-wise, and made our way to the boardwalk. Happily, the crowd was thin. I had to get my feet in the freezing water, just to be able to say I'd done it. We walked down the beach for a bit and stumbled upon what appeared to be an homage to yours truly written lovingly in the sand. I had to have some photographic evidence.**

After we meandered back down the boardwalk and stopped into a few stores (including Ocean Gallery, pictured at right, which I couldn't not go in), I left The Misogynist and headed back to the District to celebrate a landmark event in Travel Buddy's life. In keeping with the spirit of Cinco de Mayo, we started with margaritas at Alero and moved on over to Adams Morgan. (It was still pretty early, so the hoards of dickheads and asshats hadn't arrived. I told Travel Buddy we had to beat it out of there before anyone started vomiting on the street.)

We continued the Cinco de Mayo theme with shots of 1800*** but threw in some mint juleps to join in the derby festivities. A dangerous mixture, I know, but I'm glad to report that neither of us suffered for it. After the sun went down and the crowds started to emerge, we booked it back to Dupont and stopped in at the Front Page for one more drink before ending the evening watching some early-'90s Eddie Izzard at Travel Buddy's place.

I headed home after a mediocre brunch at Mimi's (did they sell the place or something? It just isn't the same...) and actually got a few things accomplished**** before crashing last night.

All in all, an excellent weekend.



* Posts to follow.
** Okay, okay. So it originally said "Bella" and I changed the "e" with my foot. Close enough, right?
*** I haven't had a shot of tequila in many years because it always makes me cry. This time, I didn't even come close to tears. Yay for small accomplishments. **** Not the least of which was arranging the magnetic poetry on our fridge by parts of speech, with much help from Roommate (and not a little from the Internets).