Belle: The Nomad

Later this week, I'll be moving for the 24th time in my 27 years.

I'll skip the commentary on what that may or may not say about myself and my family and just give the general announcement that updates on my progress with Mr. Strauss's Challenge are on hold until I get my ass out of one crappy place and into another (less crappy?) place.

Oh, but that friend who inspired me to finally get off my ass and do this challenge business? Yeah, he already landed a date (and some additional dates). All with a hot foreign teacher chick, no less...

Vignette

Before my company moved, I was greeted each morning as I entered the building by our long-time security guard, Calvin. Serious in tone and manner, the 20-odd-year resident enforcer intimidated the hell out of me with his curt nod and grunted "Mornin'."

Then, one Monday as I was walking into the sun-filled lobby through the revolving door, still groggy from too little sleep and too much weekend debauchery, Calvin stopped me.

You're a pretty young lady, you know. Why aren't you married?

Oh jebus, I thought, another one to hound be about my impending spinsterhood? I don't need this shit this morning.

Instead of voicing my opposition to his assumption that I should be married because I'm pretty or because my twenties are on the down-slope or because I have ovaries or whatever the hell his reasoning might have been, I bit my tongue and played along.

Oh, I don't know, Calvin. I guess I just haven't met the right guy.

His left hand snapped down to waist level, and, before I knew it, he'd pulled out his wallet. I've been married 25 years, he was saying as he showed me a picture of his wife. The way she was back then. Beautiful, vibrant, her eyes full of life.

I heard no joy in Calvin's voice when he spoke of his wife, saw no twinkle in his eye. Before me stood a man resigned.

Like Going Home, Only Not Really

23+ years in The ‘Sip, and I somehow never once found myself attending a concert of the country variety.*

That all changed recently, when Mamacita Baño dragged** invited me to attend a concert at Nissan Pavilion.

Rebel flags, cowboy boots, and 18-year-olds abounded. I haven’t seen such a concentration of Dixie Outfitters shirts in many, many moons. And… lassos? Really?

The day was good, though, despite the repeated visceral reminders of many of the reasons I vamped from the Southern Homestead.

* That’s not to say I didn’t listen to country music or go to festivals and other events featuring country artists. No, that’s not to say that at all.
** Love your face, Boo!

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.

Breaking Even

Still bleary-eyed and barely functional, I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, my body struggling against gravity and inertia as I made my way to the 7-11 for requisite a.m. caffeine and nicotine.

Mere steps from my destination, I placed one foot on the sidewalk, haphazardly taking a path across the cross-hatched metal I would normally go to great lengths to avoid.

The steel grates underfoot.
The unseen train moving beneath pavement and earth.
The knee-length, pleated skirt I'd donned an hour earlier through half-closed eyes.

I made a half-hearted effort to push my skirt down, but, really, I was too tired to care.

Inside, I avoided the wait for coffee and bee-lined for the energy drinks. The man in front of me at the checkout wore a button down and tie with a bandanna tied Rambo-style around his forehead and stared lasciviously at me with a wicked grin.

Outside, Red Bull and Parliament in hand, I made a mental calculation.

Pedestrian and motor traffic was relatively light, and the site of my apparel plight was partially shielded by buildings and a trailer. By my unscientific estimation, approximately 10 people were likely to have witnessed my starting the day Marilyn style.

I figure I brightened the day for about 5 of them (Rambo Wannabe included), and probably ruined the day for the other 5.

I'm okay with that. I mean, at least I was wearing panties... Right?

Auditory Hallucinations

NPR aired a segment yesterday morning about people who have auditory hallucinations. A woman who is pretty much deaf one day heard a terrible racket, and then started hearing music. It was all in her head. And a guy who was bored on a sailing trip started hearing heavy metal. All, of course, in his head.

So, what, every time I get a song stuck in my head, I'm having auditory hallucinations? Not quite. While the songs that run through my brain daily on a constant loop can be annoying, to say the least, they don't disrupt my life.*

This one greeted me when I awoke this morning:



Recognize it?

It's from the MacBook Air commercial. Genius marketing by Apple to keep their products at the forefront of the general public's mind? It's working on me...

Maybe it is an auditory hallucination, after all. It might just end up disrupting my life... to the tune of a couple grand. I can think of nothing but MacBook Air. Not, of course, based on research or any particularly compelling desire to own the thing so much as because of this song running nonstop through my head.



* I fully recognize that the songs do, in fact, disrupt the lives of those around me when I start belting them out in my cracked, tuneless singing voice.

Thoughts on the State of the Union

Nancy Pelosi needs to get some new mascara. And take care of her blinking problem.






(What? I didn't say they were profound thoughts.)

I said I wouldn't say it...

... But d'ya know how I realized I'm getting old?

How was your birthday?

...

Well, I didn't take off any clothes, dance on any elevated surfaces, or make out with any strangers, so, all-in-all, it was pretty good.

Yep.

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.

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!

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.

I Can Be Accommodating

... if you know how to ask.

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.

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.