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A Typo Artist
Dear R. Ro -
Thank you for your email. Since my last 100 Words post, I’ve sold my soul to the corporate world and am a bit insecure about my abilities to write without it. However, your email reminded me of how much I loved the random ambiguity of the project and of how much I love praise. Oh, and that I am quite an exhibitionist.
So, Mr. Ro, it’s seems the gods decreed it (your words, not mine), and here I am, penning my first 100 words in years, when I should be reviewing laptop security policy for federal courtrooms.
New Year’s Eve seems to get less exciting for me each time it passes. I am not sure exactly what one is supposed to do on NYE, other than to get over dressed and drink too much champagne, which everyone knows is the worst hangover (other than tequila, of course - unless you’re Mexican in which case I would assume it’s not all that bad.). Awaking Thursday morning, I became quite sure that Korbel and Advil have some sort of partnership. I called Pepto-Bismol’s people to suggest they get in on it. They were not interested in satisfying my consulting fee.
I work in a gray fabric cube across a narrow aisle from many other consultants working in gray fabric cubes. Government employees sometimes emerge from their windowed offices with their coffee cups to peer into our cubes and make random requests or ask questions they should already know the answers to. And they always lean as if standing up straight takes too much effort.
When they’re not cube-leaning, they’re chatting (or rather, complaining) around the water cooler, which leaks, and sometimes I watch them chat and count my tax dollars as they fall in little drops on the linoleum floor.
We have a cat named Kitty. She likes to watch our fish, Twofish, Gordito and Shark, swim around in their tank. She used to sit for hours in front of the tank, batting at the glass, other times on top of the tank, peering through the tiny holes in the lid. Her furry little face always looked frustrated and sometimes she would turn to look at me with such annoyance as if to say “WTF, Mom?”
Then, one day, she just stopped trying. Never batted the glass or cried again. Just sat and watched, peacefully. I think she became Buddhist.
My fiancé is the kind of person who commands the energy in a room. He should have that coffee cup that says “When Mom ain’t happy, nobody's happy.” Not that he is a mom, or is unhappy, or would use the word “ain’t”, but the people around him feed off his mood and you can’t help but laugh when he laughs, even though his jokes aren’t funny.
Sometimes I sit near him and try to suck up all his good energy. I don’t want to tell him though, he’d probably make me take out the trash or something as repayment.
Sometimes I am lucky enough to have the Pause button applied to my day, even if just for a moment. While walking in the brisk air of the dark, silent ally between my gym and my condo. Or alone in the dim chill of the underground parking garage. No chatter of the evening news, no clacking of laptop keys, no garish florescent lights or ringing phones or whirring treadmills. One deep breath of silence slows a racing heart and my confidence is regained.
My thoughts have room to expand and I remember that being alone is often the best cure.
They say that love is not enough. They say you need to posses abundant self-confidence, self-awareness of all your faults and self-control of your chronic impulses. They say you need experience, stability and money in the bank. They say you need to have been raised in the same socio-economic background. They say you need to share a moral compass and life point-of-view. They say you need space and boundaries. They say to heed red flags. They say to never go back. They say you have to grow up. They say love is work.
Baby, you and I say They’re wrong.
Cab to bar for date with some guy who is even less interesting than your cab driver, but knows a friend of yours and will surely pay for dinner: $17
Black patent leather stilettos purchased not for said date, but because your ex left you and all your bags outside in the rain, cold and dejected, at 2:40 a.m. last night, and you wanted to remind yourself how fucking hot you look in black patent leather stilettos: $59 (on sale)
Metro home after 45 minutes of said date: $2.35
Having make-up sex w/ex on kitchen counter until you’re cross-eyed: Priceless
Dear Sarah Palin,
You’re right - Katie Couric is NOT the center of the universe. The earth is, right? God put it there just 6,000 years ago so the other trillions of planets and stars could revolve around us, right? And I agree with you regarding the “evil” media. Really, who knows what the Bush Doctrine is? Why should you have to know just because you’re running for the second highest office in the country? Not fair! And neither is people expecting you to read newspapers. Who has time with all the important snowmobiling and moose hunting you do??
Liam is the guy girls don’t approach. Not because he isn’t good-looking, but because he is too good-looking - or perhaps believes he is too good-looking, which is just as intimidating for the inexperienced.
He wears a uniform with the other guys who are, or think they are, too good-looking: tight jeans in a dark wash, a filmy, fitted t-shirt with swirly designs and random, vaguely artistic words, carefully messy hair, a leather wrist cuff and just three sprays of the new Dior men’s cologne.
Sometimes Liam wears shades in the club, but only if they retail for more than $400.
Some of you women are under the impression that upon engagement, your fiancé should “go blind.” Basically, he should cease to notice or admire other attractive women. This disillusion can occur at different levels. Some believe spoken-for men can still admire fake women (porn stars, Maxim models, Angelina Jolie or any other unattainable and airbrushed woman), but not real woman (hot Russian bartender with legs to her neck). Others believe her man should never look at another woman again.
Let me ask you women this - now that you’re engaged/married, what did you think of Christian Bale in Batman?
A man spilled a little coffee on a fellow metro passenger - just a few drips on a black wool jacket, nothing anyone would notice. After his sundry and excessive apologies, the woman let the man know exactly what she thought of him by mumbling under her breath while dabbing at her coat, “fat, clumsy fuck...” The man said nothing, but looked as if he wanted to melt right out of his cheap suit into the cracks on the filthy metro floor.
I felt bad for him, but worse for her. He might be fat, but at least he’s not half-dead.
Your furrowed brow and glassy eyes speak volumes
more than your hurtful words;
words not meant for me, but hurled
at me nonetheless because
I am the only target in sight.
I try to dodge them, but your aim is true.
I am hit.
Tending my wounds during your barrage
so I bleed.
All the moms were right;
the world is not fair.
But we stole something from it
that we’re never giving back.
Close your eyes,
and hold it in your hands.
This is your
Exhale and watch the blackness dissipate around us.
The boy is sleeping - I stealthy slide his laptop from under his arm. As it boots up, anticipation builds in my chest and pulses throughout my body causing my foot to jiggle on the floor. I glance back, nervously, making sure his eyes are still closed.
My fingers quiver as I type the web address. I am picturing long, smooth legs in a perfect pair of strappy stilettos. I gasp when a tall, beautiful pair of Christian Louboutin’s appear on the Bergdorf Goodman homepage. The boy startles. I slam the screen shut before he catches me with my shoe porn.
So, a body-building, action movie star (and a mediocre one at that) can run the biggest state in the union,
hippies and college kids who have a med school drop-out friend can legally smoke pot,
and a woman with more plastic surgery than Madonna can be elected to the U.S. House of Representatives,
but Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi (along with millions of other intelligent, attractive, productive homosexuals) should NOT be allowed to marry?
*Please note: I take no issue with Schwarzenegger, Pelosi or legal marijuana … I just can’t stand hypocrisy, bigotry and self-righteousness.
The Tara’s Ridiculous and Outrageous Wish List Foundation is currently accepting donations in any amount for the following items:
- Two (2) roundtrip tickets to Johannesburg, South Africa for the 2010 Fifa World Cup
- Smooth, optimally-filled, 1600 cc saline implants
- The Christian Louboutin Alti pump in black (just Google them, you’ll understand)
- A 2009 Mini Cooper Convertible in Hot Chocolate
- The red 4-door sideboard from South of Market
- Pretty much any Nicola Tyson piece
- Barron Duquette black and white Tie-Dye dress
Thank you for believing in our cause. People like you that make achieving our mission possible.
Donations are tax deductible.
Jessica is the kind of girl who is not ashamed that her “number” is approaching triple digits. She dates guys she meets at body building gyms, UFC fight night parties and motorcycle bars. Five tattoos is a bare minimum.
Jessica’s hair is usually a few different colors at once, and always a different color than her eyelashes, which are normally false. She has a savings account labeled “Boobs”.
At work, Jessica updates her MySpace with photos of herself making kissy faces and waving a middle finger. She looks so hardcore. She deletes all the photos that make her look fat.
I have many friends and acquaintances in relationships.
One guy married a convicted accessory to murder who he now consistently reminds is over-weight. He buys her hair extensions, liposuction and fake nails.
Another male friend has many relationships, with many females, none of whom he respects - mostly because he really likes men.
Another is engaged to a man with whom she never speaks of, unless to say “Don’t tell Mark” right before she sleeps with someone else.
The fiancé and I are in love, completely honest and entirely respectful. Yet, ironically, they all judge how we choose to live.
Who exactly messed up the whole religion thing? The ancient Greeks, Egyptians, Mayans, etc – they had it right. They believed the sun was their god (or at least the most powerful god of many), and looked no further for an explanation of life, energy and joy.
I don’t know why we ever abandoned the whole sun god idea. It seems to make more sense than our contemporary traditional religions. Furthermore, the sun doesn’t ask me to eat his body, wear funny hats/cloaks/gowns, murder unbelievers, kneel on a mat five times every day, or donate money to its cause.
I live in DC, but watched our nation’s first back president take his oath from the comfort of a friend’s couch in Florida. I was slightly disappointed that I wasn’t there, freezing and desperately needing to pee on the mall, but not so disappointed that I couldn’t enjoy my cocktail or the breeze coming through the open porch door.
As millions of people cheered, my thoughts were this - should we be proud for electing a black president? Shouldn’t we be so far beyond those prejudices by now that his election is no less remarkable than that of any other man?
To those of you up in arms regarding my entry yesterday:
President Obama is surely on of the most inspirational figures of our time. His candidacy dragged young people from their PS3s and to the voting booths. His cross-cutting policies and appeal lead to the phenomena of the Obamicans. He unabashedly admitted faults - smoking, cocaine use, arrogance - but didn’t, for even a moment, allow those faults to diminish his abilities. He understands balance.
Most importantly, he will bring sanity and rationality back to the idea of national security.
“We reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals“
As I walk through the large glass doors of my office lobby I can see the commotion around Union Station. Hundreds of protesters from the fly-over states wave homemade signs with gruesome pictures of twisted, aborted fetuses and bloody, latex-gloved hands. One sign says “Liberals murder babies,” another, “Pro-Choice = Pro-Murder”
Before I can get to the metro, three different women have stopped me to give me flyers full of more dead fetuses, inflated statistics and false propaganda. I finally get it - these people will do anything to protect you when you’re in the womb, but if you come out gay, you’re fucked.
Maryanne is a mother of three boys - she has been a mother of three since the day she was born. She loves their father deeply, but wears a ring with their birthstones in place of her wedding band. She waited up every night for their return – and still does when they visit at 30.
When her boys were in grade school, she wrote English papers they had forgotten about so they could sleep. Her sons’ antics are mapped on her face in fine lines, but they never suffered a consequence. A son can do no wrong in Maryanne’s eyes.
Five Signs I'm Not Ready For Kids
1) I hate changing the cat litter box so much I sometimes just move the litter around to make it look clean.
2) I’m more concerned with getting stretch marks than I am with raising a child in a one-bedroom condo.
3) I can’t even manage to feed myself three times a day.
4) I’ve noticed babies get cuter the further they move away from me.
5) In my mind, the most exciting part of having a baby is getting to wear one of those cool, hippie baby-sling/scarves things (a la Kate Hudson)
Dear Fish Geezer –
I am so happy I met you and hated you four years ago. I found my off-roading DJ, house music dancing wrench, emotional rock, and tool bench photographer. You are dry, straight spaghetti and a floppy, hot noodle. You are everything a Bocefish could ask for all in one.
I don’t regret for one second dealing with the polar bears at 1111 for all this time. I still look forward to swimming back to our fish castle every day, making a delicious snicker bass with you and having a couple mas’s before bed.
All my love,
For a woman beginning to approach her thirties, and according to Samantha Jones, her sexual prime, a sex shop is like a giant candy store. Shiny, rubbery, phallic-shaped toys line the walls like a million giant lollipops. Tiny vibrators, teasers and ticklers look like little gummy candies shaped like bees, bunnies and butterflies and can be found in every color of the rainbow.
Before long my arms are overflowing and I have to return back to the front of the store for a basket. The fiancé rolls his eyes, plops down in a chair and hands me the credit card.
We stumble towards the bed, leaving a trail of clothes behind us. Between giggles there is kissing; I’m kissing him and her hand is in my hair. I am kissing her and he watches. Tastes from both their mouths mingle; cigarettes, toothpaste and gum.
Her pants get caught on her foot as he pulls them off. Her face disappears as her shirt comes over her head and reappears with a mass of thick, brown hair and tiny, hard nipples. I kiss her and pinch one between two fingers and then he …
Awkward to read, right? Try being there.
One inch of snow and a little ice means a snow day in DC. The three of us cuddle in bed ‘til 9:30 and then get Starbucks. He makes eggs. I don’t eat mine. I manage to peel myself from the couch to join him in the shower.
He plays Guitar Hero while we take two hours to shower and dress. We share clothes and make-up and laugh at the faces he makes during the hard songs. After she leaves, he and I try out our new “toys”.
Snow days are a little different than they were in grade school.
A guy I work with blatantly stares at my tits every time we speak. I’m not talking an occasional glance; I am talking full two second ogles at my chest while we discuss Gantt charts. He is about fifty, 5’5” and shaped very similarly to Humpty Dumpty (of course, this is an assumption on my part since I have never actually met Humpty Dumpty in person).
I am just a mere consultant, so instead of confronting his staring habits I’ve decided to focus squarely on the giant, bumpy mole on his chin every time we speak. I hope he notices.
My fiancé is impulsive. He’s the guy who speaks before he thinks. He told me he once fell in love with a girl at a bar and was in tears outside when she left two hours later. We moved in together after dating three weeks.
Yesterday, he IM’d me to say he wanted to get a tattoo after work. So we went, both business casual, to a tattoo parlor in Adam’s Morgan. While a scruffy guy with five facial piercings tattooed my initials on his ribs, he decided he would also get his dick pierced, which, of course, he did.
Short, extremely attractive, sarcastic, outgoing, impulsive, dramatic, self-involved, opinionated, attention-seeking white female working for a consulting firm just like every other lost soul in DC, who occasionally enjoys late nights at dives that end with her personal rendition of “Pour Some Sugar On Me” atop the bar, or late nights at packed clubs that blast dirty house music until 4:00 a.m., and who occasionally appreciates the sweet taste of a woman’s mouth but is not at all gay and is in fact entirely in love with her incredibly amazing, good-looking, tall, funny, intelligent fiancé
same. Or better.
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