B and I don’t fight often.

But when we do, it’s almost always about something entirely insignificant, like who has to go downstairs to get the takeout from the delivery guy. (We’re really big on Not Wearing Pants in our house, which clearly, this interferes with.) And 99 times out of a hundred, any argument- or negotiation, really- is entirely in jest. Unless of course it’s my week to “attract vampires,” and then not only is it dead serious but I am 100% right and NOT AT ALL BATSHIT CRAZY, no matter what the situation is.

Duh.

But the other night, we got INTO it for once. And it was bad.

You see, I am a Fall Asleep With TV On (FAWTO) person.

B, on the other hand, is an incredibly selfish Fall Asleep With TV Off, Because For Some Strange Reason He Can Turn Over, Sprinkle Some of His Magic Fairy Dust He Hides From LiLu On His Eyes, and Be Dead to the World Within 2.0 Seconds (FAWTOPBFSSRICTOSSOMMFDIHFLABAW2.0S) person.

Look, as we’ve established round these parts over the past few years, I am probably not the most “stable” person on the planet. The thoughts whirling around inside my head at any given moment are akin to what it would look like if Peter Griffin, Chelsea Handler, and a unicorn had a baby and it was ribbon-dancing a la Will Ferrell around inside my brain.

See? Scary stuff.

Anycrazypants, my point is that I simply cannot fall asleep unless my loco-ass mind is distracted. I have to trick myself into caring about the Kardashians’ latest baby scare, or Alton Brown’s ceramic potted planter BBQing technique, or whose makeup is the most atrocious on Jerseylicious (it’s Olivia, FYI), just so that I can put my own mile-a-minute thoughts aside long enough to go unconscious.

B, on the other hand, prefers to fall asleep in this very, very unnerving thing he calls… dum dum dum… 

“QUIET.”

I know. Go figure.

In truth, I know it’s probably not exactly healthy to rely on cable network to lullaby me to sleep, but it’s been my way for over a decade now. The thought of going to bed and lying there, staring wide-eyed at the blank white ceiling with nary a Jon Stewart joke to snap me out of all the inane worries that wash over me is, well, terrifying.

And so, friends, I am at a loss. Perhaps the time has come for me to give up my late night affair with The Soup reruns and a plethora of Real Housewives dramz. It breaks my heart to say goodbye…

Let’s just hope it doesn’t break my mind.

…even though I haven’t been on an “I’m single” date in two years. *Evil cackle*

Head on over to read about the “S.C.O.R.E. System,” a la LiLu. And add your 2 cents while you’re at it.

This WYR Wednesday brought to you by my listening to Wale’s “Center of Attention“… on the treadmill. Because that’s where I do my best only thinking.

What? I'm gangsta.

And also, because I’m actually curious what you would answer.

So, Would You Rather…

1. Receive a million dollars $300 thousand (you were all choosing this one- too easy!) absolutely free and clear, but know you will never, ever be famous in your lifetime… for anything?

2. Receive zero financial gain for it, but become famous for something awesome, like an Olympic medal or curing cancer. (Let’s assume in this scenario, for some reason curing cancer did not give you any cash money. You didn’t do something awesome and give it to orphans or anything, you just never got any money for it.)

3. Be filthy rich AND famous, but you have no control over what your fame is for. Like, you could be the Cloon… or you could be Octomom. You don’t know til it happens.

vs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

***By the way, don’t forget to put this Friday’s Happy Hour on your calendar! Vapiano’s in Dupont! Woot!***

I’ve mentioned a few times how I have a little trouble with The Sleeping.

It makes no sense, right? It’s one of the few things we as humans are supposed to be PROGRAMMED to do. Eat, sleep, bone a little, eat afterwards, pass the eff out. In a perfect world, that’s how it would be.

But for some reason, MY body prefers to “pass out, wake up to pee at 5 am, fitfully try to go back to sleep but end up thinking about omgthereissomuchtodotoday and I forgot to take the rent check downstairs and it’s the 5th so I actually need to do it today and I can just SEE the dirty dishes in the sink mocking me and my skills as a good housegirlfriend and OH EM GEE I still have not unpacked my suitcase(s) from ten days ago, am I really a grown up? REALLY? because I’m pretty sure my grandmother who taught home ec for 50-odd years would be ashamed of the woman I have become…

…until Axe Murderer inevitably reaches through the end of the bed and sinks a claw into my big toe, at which point I sigh heavily, give up on sleeping all together, and shuffle out to the living room to begin what already feels like A Helluva Day.

So, a few weeks ago, my doctor gave me a prescription for Ambien. Which I put into action over the vacay last week… and found to be positively magical. I slept through the night, woke up rested, and barely noticed the kitty teeth gnawing at my itchy witchy toesie wosies in the wee hours of the morning. B even high-fived me on Sunday when I woke up at the oh-so-late hour of NINE THIRTY (gasp!!), and said, “Great sleeping, baby!”

And all was right with the world.

EXCEPT.

I’m not much of a dreamer. Maybe a flash here or there, but it’s been years since I woke up and actually remembered a dream.

Apparently, Ambien changes all that.

Suddenly, you’re dreaming- vividly- about cleaning out your grandfather’s recently-deceased (fictional?!) neighbor’s house, when you happen across a program for an old ballet recital you had, oh, TWENTY YEARS AGO. And you’re so out of it you can’t even remember if it was sweet or creepy in the dream.

The next night, I had no eyelashes. They were just… gone. I desperately tried (and went through) about a bucket of falsies, at which point of course I was covered with them and they, naturally, turned into bugs. Creepy crawly bugs. On my face. (Wait. Did you hear me? MY FACE.)

Last night was the kicker. We started watching “Deadwood,” and I was all stoked for some cowboy dreams.

What did I get? A little Seth Bullock “Montana” action? Maybe he rescues me from the evil Al Swearengen and we live happily ever after running the swingingest saloon in town?

Rawwwwr. Lasso me, baby.

Alas, my friends. I dreamt that Maxie and Lexa and I were in Vegas, feeding tigers cinnamon and accidentally killing hookers.

I think.

It could have been a panther.

But it was definitely a jungle cat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

P.S. Oh, dear god. Apparently I am also here today. With back up singers @lexalemmy and @katierose_ . Um, sorry I didn’t warn you guys?

The shame.

P.P.S. Did you vote for me yet in the 20SB Bootlegger Awards? You totally can. Til Sunday. I won’t even get mad. Swear.

P.P.P.S. Yesterday, my friend Rob’s blog about the documentary he’s directing looked like this.

Today, it looks like this.

Thanks to little ole me.

LOVE.

And cavy? You’re next.

First things first… I’d like to extend my most heartfelt thanks to everyone who sent me an inquiry via a myriad of technological methods, asking after me and mine in light of the Metro crash yesterday. (Amazing/horrifying WaPo pictures here.) Your thoughtfulness is truly overwhelming. Although B and I have many friends who commute on the Red Line, everyone has been accounted for… though the loved ones of at least seven others (as of 8am Tuesday, according to the Mayor) were not so lucky.

I walk around this city every day feeling completely safe, as though no harm could possibly come to me. Those cabs speeding around corners wouldn’t ACTUALLY hit me, right? Those double decker busses taking out tourists… that’s just a myth, isn’t it? METRO CARS DON’T REALLY COLLIDE, RIGHT?!?

My neighborhood, Shaw, is far from the safest in DC… but I trot home, day or night, without so much as a glance over my shoulder. I feel (felt) 100% safe here, even though I absolutely should not. Though it might seem like I can’t go to a bar without running into a friend, this is not a little podunk town where everybody knows my name… this is a Real City where Real Shit Happens. And I forget that.

It’s a wake up call in a few ways, actually. It may be twisted to think of it this way, but no tragedy occurs without the silver lining of reminding those of us still here that Life. Is. SHORT. Any of us could be gone in the blink of a Metro car that plows into the back of another train.

And as “too soon” as it may be… that reminder is the last push I needed in a battle I’ve been preparing to fight.

You see, I’ve been struggling. I’m sure some of you that read here, that see my Twitterings about the ‘too much fun’ I’m having think, ‘Just reading about this is exhausting… when does she stop?’

The answer is, I don’t. And all this funsies and debauchery, it comes with a price.

I pretend to be invincible, but the reality is that I’ve lost control over many aspects of my life. Maybe it’s that being in a relationship that was so easy and comfortable, I expected the rest of my life to follow suit… but over the past few weeks, I’ve had a rude awakening. And it’s time for me to listen to, well, myself.

I may not be able to control the Metro, or whether I get jumped in Adams Morgan one night. But yesterday, something snapped in me. I need to take back control of the things that I CAN have power over in my life.

The truth is, I haven’t felt good for a long time… inside and out. I feel sloppy, disoriented, stressed out. My body is angry with me for the things I put it through… and so, for that matter, is my wallet.

I cannot down cheeseburgers and booze all the time and expect to lose the ten pounds that have been haunting me.

I cannot never say ‘No’ to hanging with a friend and expect my bills to pay themselves.

I cannot sit on my ass and wait for my life to magically take direction on its own.

I wrote a couple weeks ago that I wasn’t burning out… and when it comes to writing, I’m not. But I AM burnt out on this thing called life, physically. I am tired of being drained, hungover, bloated. After the past few weekends, my liver has sent me a letter of resignation… and I am inclined, for the first time in my life, to accept. I feel too weak to argue… and I miss feeling strong, healthy, clean inside.

Forget something… everything’s gotta give. And I’m finally ready to grab whatever I need to by the balls and make it happen.

As I expressed last Friday, I am extremely grateful for and humbled by all the lovey love you guys have shown me lately. Consequently, I feel like it’s time I gave a little sumin’ sumin’ back. That’s how blog sex favors work, right?

What?

Anyhoosits… a few months ago, I wrote a tribute to some of the funniest posts on the block. Because my heart is in need of a little warming today, I’m going to do something similar… but with posts that have somehow touched me, that were heartfelt, that were clearly difficult to write… but the authors were brave enough to put them out there and share them with us anyway.

So, I hope you likey… I sure did.

My darling Floreta writes a letter to her hypothetical child…

“Take heed, I will let you walk, and I will let you fall. I will let you stumble, then try again. Dear Child, I am terrified of having you and raising you. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it is to do things that scare you. Fear is good motivation, but so is love. Together, it is unstoppable. Remember this.”

My favorite poker player, Kali, ponders Cruel Intentions…

“…you know the saying ‘Always Leave Things Better Than You Found Them’? I like to think that goes for people too. So stop playing mindgames. Stop chipping away at people’s self-confidence to make them more manageable. Stop making people second-guess themselves. If you’re with someone and you like them, tell them. Sure it’ll be scary (and this is such a clichéd phrase), but life IS short.”

A newbie to me, but one I’ll definitely visit again… DC Femella wants to know Why Do We Label Each Other?

“Before you start labeling people, and thinking that they are this or that label, think about the reasons you are really doing this. We constantly label people in a negative light due to difference of opinion due to religion, political view, sexual preference, parenting method, etc., but why? Is it to make yourself feel better? And/or feel like they are not like you?”

I’m going to let Chelsea Talks Smack’s title speak for itself: “Trusting is like not knowing how to swim and letting someone DUNK YOU ANYWAY.“

“Whether it’s the beginning of a relationship, or twenty years into one you have to practice that act of pure belief in their words. … Then, how after that “first thing” the first fib, first omission, first lie, first fabrication do you get back to that space when you aren’t terrified of the bottom dropping out?? It’s like handing your sleeping baby over to a person walking a tight rope and saying, “just don’t drop them.” This time, I’m the person, my heart’s the baby and he’s the wire walker.”

Another newbie to me, and damn am I glad this is the first post I read from her. justatitch frankly, yet respectfully, discusses the demise of her young marriage.

“Divorce rips your heart out. Divorce hurts in a way like nothing else. The thing is that it’s not just the end of a relationship; the loss of companionship. It’s the death of being an “us”. The death of hopes and dreams. It’s being estranged from a circle of friends while everyone figures out their “side.” It’s the small stupid things: no more Christmas traditions or having someone to call who knows exactly what you want on your salad and someone to kiss goodnight. And I don’t regret divorcing him. It was, in many ways, the best decision I ever made. It saved me. It saved me from being dead inside.”

Thanks for these, my dears. Thanks for trusting us to listen, support, and not judge.

And I’ll return the schmoop… I promise. (Oooo, look! Foreshadowing!) *wink*

Listen, ladies. A lot of you out there in our wonderful little blogosphere are single. And that? Is FABULOUS. You are amazing and confident and satisfied all on your damn own. And that is absolutely wonderful.

But of course, you’re open… you’re open to the idea that Mr. Right might just walk around the corner on your lunch break. You’re aware that the man who buys you a drink at the bar COULD just end up being an amazing guy, and not just some sleaze who wants to get into your pants. You just might begrudgingly attend yet another (goddamn) engagement party, only to look into the eyes of The Man You Want To Spend The Rest Of Your Life With. It could happen.

Just because you’re perfectly content on your own doesn’t mean you’re not aware of the possibility. And that’s good- it’s a great and healthy place to be.

But I’m here with a message. One that is important to me, given that I myself came so very, very close to letting the one person that I Want Forever slip through my fingers.

You see, my outgoing, sassy and boisterous bartending personality is something I have developed over many years. It has served me well in many- nay, most situations. But, as I discovered, it can also be a bit of a curse.

When I met B at Fado on that fateful night last June, I knew that I felt something special that night when we ended up making out on the steps of the church on 8th Street… but I didn’t know if it was anything more than that.

At 2 pm the next day, my phone rang. That night, he popped in to the bar where I was working… and I pulled my most bartender-y of ‘tudes on him; I put on a show to see if he was intimidated.

He was. And I almost wrote him off, calling him a “quivering little bunny rabbit” the next day in my post. I almost canceled our real first date before it even happened. I almost let the best thing that’s ever happened to me slip away, because I wanted to write off the Nice Guy. I figured he couldn’t handle me, that he was lacked confidence, that he was weak. And I have never been more wrong about anything in my life.

B is the strongest man I have ever known. He is the perfect balance for me… he is EXACTLY what I need to mellow me when I need mellowing, and to let me bring a little crazy (spice) into HIS life. It is a killer combination, and it works.

So, ladies, this is my message to you… basically, Don’t Be Me. Don’t ignore the nice guy in the bar. Don’t write him off because he’s nervous when he says hello. Don’t assume that because of that, he is a boy and not a man. After all, approaching girls is terrifying- imagine if WE had to do it! If they’re man enough to come up and say “Hi,” give him a chance. Plainly speaking, remember this…

“NICE” OR “QUIET” DOES NOT EQUAL A LACK OF CONFIDENCE.

We all want a confident guy, right? Well, that normally translates to the immediate gratification of the loudest, most obnoxious guy at the bar. Of course he’s confident… but he’s also crossing the line over to “cocky.” Wouldn’t you rather have that strong, silent type? The Don Draper kind of man? The guy that takes a little longer to get to know, but once you do… once you crack that shell, the things that are inside are AMAZING?

The problem is, pop culture always portrays the girl ending up with The Sap. And that’s kind of bullshit. That’s not what women want. They want strong, confident men, who are willing to take charge when necessary, but are also able to show care and compassion.

What we are forgetting, my dear ladies, is that there is not only The Sap and The Asshole. There is a whole world of men in between. You just have to dig a little deeper to find out which ones they are.

Last week, I was at The Gibson with some uber fabulous ladies, when the conversation turned to the subject of being able to read people solely based on how they present and carry themselves.

This is, without trying to toot my own horn, something I’m pretty damn good at. It’s sort of unavoidable, honestly, after working in restaurants for as long as I have, and particularly because of bartending. Spending a decade in a job where your income depends solely upon your ability to read people means you can’t help but learn to notice their signals and nuances. Analyzing the decisions that people make when they choose how to dress, how to present themselves, how to walk, how to stand, how to approach, how to hit on, whether to hit on… every tiny little itty bitty thing that you do tells me a dozen things about the person that you are. (More details from a past bartending post here.)

It’s a bartender’s favorite game; someone enters, perhaps a couple, a group, a single- doesn’t matter- and we have a quick huddle and take bets on What Their Story Is.

“He’s a traveling (married) business man, meeting someone from Craigslist.”

“Third date, she started dating him for the money, but she’s almost decided it’s not worth it.”

“They should have gotten divorced a year ago… they’ll probably pull the trigger in a couple months.”

“Back from Iraq. Beers are on us. One of the girls, go flirt with that boy. He’s earned it.”

“Blind date… he does this professionally. He’ll have her in bed tonight and she’ll never hear from him again.”

“Closeted frat boys. One girl and one boy double team them and show off the eye candy. A free round of jagerbombs and we’ll have every last penny from their pockets.”

Mind you, we know all this by the time you sit down at the bar. When you open your mouth, it’s just a matter of validation for us. Sure, we’re wrong sometimes, but not often. And after 30 seconds of actually talking to you, we’ve got you COMPLETELY figured out.

I’ve said before how much I love to people watch. While talking about this all with the girls last week, I mentioned that I’ve long since known that if I could have a super power, it would be some sort of handheld device that allowed me to point it at people and have all their stats, information, and life story pop up. You know, so I could check if my assumptions were right. Wouldn’t that be FASCINATING? Yeah, I thought so.

Because whether I’m 100% right, or whether I’m completely surprised… I just freaking love this game.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: People are fascinating animals.

Sidenote: Hilarious Snuggie post here! Ultimate Battle: The Snuggie vs. Slanket vs. Freedom Blanket vs. Blankoat

I have a confession to make, Bloggie Buddies. (And lurkers. I love you too! Just, yanno, a little bit less. KIDDING.)

I have Sidewalk Rage.

Some of you immediately know exactly what I mean. And some of you do not. Let me ‘splain.

I’m sure we’re all familiar with road rage, yes? The asshole on the road who who honks at you for stopping at a yellow light and then throws their hands up in disgust at your rearview mirror… The angst-filled teen who zips in and out of 80 mph traffic, because they can’t stand being behind anyone else? The crazy woman who rides your ass and then ZIPS by you in the left lane when you finally move over, while flipping you off?

Um… yeah. That was me. All of them. Sorry about that. What can I say? I’m a Masshole, baby. That’s how we DO up there. And because we ALL drive that way, nobody gets hurt.

Every time I’d get in the car (I just typed “bar” instead, wonder where MY head is today…?) with someone who didn’t know me that well, and was most likely under the impression that I was a delicate flower of a young lady, (hey! I heard that snort!)… they would- within moments- be shocked and appalled at the venemous filth that poured forth from my mouth. I just can’t help it- when I get behind the wheel of a car, my blood pressure immediately triples and I get a raging case of Tourettes.

(NSFW: Language.)

Yeah. Kinda like that. (God, I love that movie.)

Anyhoo, now I live in the grand ole District, and I have no car, which is better for everyone, trust. (I also get this cute little thing called “narcolepsy” whenever I drive for more than 20 minutes. I’ve driven off the road many times in my life, and the rumble strip has saved me more times than I can count.) So now I walk everywhere, which is great for my legs… but the Rage remains.

This is a tourist city, and they travel in HORDES. They cluster around maps and street signs looking pitiful and helpless while I avoid meeting their eyes. They stand on the goddamn LEFT side of the Metro escalators. They dash across the streets when there’s still 20 seconds ticking on the clock (which is more amusing than annoying, actually).

And if the tourists weren’t bad enough, even the normal people, our own citizens, are challenging… because People. Are. IDIOTS. In general, the average person is, quite honestly, a fucking moron. And every morning and evening during rush hour, I do “walking battle” with these morons. They stand in the middle of the sidewalk. They walk six abreast, with no intention of moving for the lone soldier trudging the other way. They are OBLIVIOUS to all going on around them, like ME behind them, walking on their heels and muttering under my breath as I fight to get around their slowpoke asses while they enjoy the goddamn weather or some shit.

Look, I walk fast naturally. Really fast. I know this. But the sidewalk is pretty big here! DC is a walking city, and the streets are pretty condusive to that. There is NO reason I should be fighting tooth and nail just to get to the end of the sidewalk and make the Walk Light. GOD HELP YOU IF YOU MAKE ME MISS MY WALK LIGHT!!!

I am also, if you haven’t picked up on it, a bit of a competitive walker. Even if I have no where to be, and there is no one on the whole quiet little street except for me and one person 10 paces ahead of me… I will pass them. I HAVE to. It’s this weird compulsion that I can’t explain. I must WIN. I must show them that they are slow and lazy and unworthy of their journey, and look how much better I am at completing my quest? You FOOL! Minion! Peon! Animal cracker!

Sight. I feel better now. That is, til 5:30… but at least there’s booze at the end of that walk.

/rant.

Happy Friday, lovebirds!

I have not slept in two months.

Correction: I have not slept for more than a couple hours at a time in the last couple of months… unless heavily sedated with Tylenol PM. And I’m not big on self-medicating, unless it’s recreational (read: booze), so there hasn’t been much of that either… nonetheless, even my blessed Tyl PM has seemingly started to not work. I don’t want to get a prescription for sleeping pills… that just seems like total avoidance, and thus a waste of time and money.

When I’m (ahem) intoxicated, I will perhaps be lucky enough to pass out, but only to wake up at 3 or 4 in the morning and lie awake until the alarm goes off at 7:30, watching the minutes tick by…

When I’ve not been drinking, I don’t even have the luxury of passing out. Those nights I’ll usually manage to finally drift off around 5am and grab a couple of hours before getting up for work. If not, there’s always the interwebs (how many of you have noticed me commenting at 5, 6 a.m. before? Yeah, that’s not a typo…) I’ve got hours and hours of Sex and the City, 3rd Rock From the Sun, and random horrible MTV/Vh1/Oxygen/Bravo shows that B won’t let me watch around him, mostly because they are seemingly mindless enough to put me to sleep… but they usually don’t.

Last night I slept for a couple hours in the evening… but woke up at midnight. I saw 5 am roll around before I was finally able to sleep- on and off- again, and in the interim I watched Britney Spears’ entire “For the Record” Special, a Bad Girls’ Club episode, last night’s new Girls Next Door, a RERUN of Real Housewives, and some other crap I’m too ashamed to admit. (Pssst, Katherine? Thank you for CatHouse! That shiz is hilARious.)

My insomnia is rotting my brain.

Two months ago, I figured it had to do with general anxiety, exhibited by the chest pains I was having. My doctor told me it was either anxiety or heartburn… and I knew it wasn’t heartburn.

I decided said anxiety was probably related to my unhappiness with my then-job. So, I went job huntin’. I tested, I interviewed, all the while… yup, still not sleeping well. Clearly, it was a product of the stress of job-hunting, no? But then I found a great job, a much better job, a job that I was excited about! Problem solved, right?

When I still wasn’t sleeping, I thought maybe it was the starting of said new job, in conjunction with worrying about holiday plans (whose house for Xmas, etc.), and the pressure of meeting B’s parents for the first time over Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving came and went, and was a delightful affair. I didn’t say anything too foot-in-mouth, and it was a relatively relaxing weekend of card games, movies, and home-cooked food. B agreed to come to Christmas with my family, and I was ecstatic. Surely, now I would be able to rest?

When I continued to jerk awake in the middle of the nights, worries and tasks flying through my mind accompanied by little shocks of adrenaline that completely prevented sleep, I thought, “Well, the holidays in general are always stressful… so much to do, and I haven’t even started shopping!” Nevermind the fact that going to Costa Rica had essentially bankrupted us since we got back… and everytime the paycheck came that was FINALLY going to take us out of the red, something else came up.

Honestly? I have everything. I love my apartment, my man, my family. My paychecks from my new job are coming in (with a raise that finally gives me a little breathing room to boot). Maybe I can’t shop or frequent restaurants the way I used to, but I can still afford to go out with the friends I love and spend some quality time boozin, talking, loving life.

A lot of my Christmas shopping is done or in the works. I love wrapping and giving (!!!) presents to the people I adore. I love traveling to upstate New York every year to be with my whole family, and I couldn’t be more excited now that B is coming with me to experience it. I love holiday parties and decorations and the pointsettia in my living room and my sad but sweet Christmas tree and the two adorable ornaments my mom sent so that we would have some “real” ornaments that came from loved ones.

I don’t mind winter or snow. I like a reason to snuggle up and get cozy.

So, yeah… you gotta ask, right?

What. The FUCK. Is Wrong With Me???

I am obsessed with people watching. It is my absolute favorite activity. If I had a secret power, it would be the ability to know someone’s entire background story (the abridged version, obvs), so I could check and see what I was right and wrong about. The clues are all in the little things; a careless rip in her tights, a pinched expression when someone cuts him off on the sidewalk, her extra large coffee and downtrodden stance as she waits for the crosswalk light to change.

Is she a recent divorcee?

Is his hot little car “making up” for something?

How are that teenage girl’s daddy issues so obvious to me, a complete stranger? Was he a workaholic? Did he hit her? Was he there at all?

What makes that lady quibble over two dollars with the guy selling purses on a corner? Why does she only have frown lines, and no smile? What is her little girl learning from watching her right now?

Why is the middle-aged man with no ring on his finger SPRINTING down the sidewalk during rush hour with a ridiculously large bouquet of flowers? Is he proposing? Does he WANT to? Is he unsure what she’d say? Or, did he fuck up? And will she forgive him?

How did that young guy become homeless? Did he throw everything away for a woman? Did he gamble on something that didn’t pan out? Did he just give up?

Does she give a shit about this election? Is she going to lose her job when the polls close today? Will she stay here, or move back down south, get married, pop out a couple kids, and daydream at 40 about her days on the Hill?

Did he lose everything when the stocks crashed? Can his children still go to college? Is he going to have to take his parents in? Would he, if he had to?

Did she get laid this morning? Or maybe those rosy cheeks are just innocence. Maybe she’s never had an orgasm… From a man? From a woman? From a battery-operated device?

Is he checking me out, or the cute gay guy behind me? Would he throw away the entire life he’s built, his wife, his children, to move somewhere warm with a hot Latino man?

What do people notice when they look at you? What story do you tell?

I’m a wee bit crazy. Just a little. Well, maybe slightly more than a little. Actually, I might be sort of absolutely, completely, bat-shit insane. (Don’t tell anyone.)

And you know what? Every single girl in the world is exactly like me. We’re all effing crazy. WOMEN, as a rule, are Crazy.

(Let’s get this straight, though- I’m not talking I-probably-need-meds crazy, I’m talking, I want you to WANT to do the dishes crazy. Biiiiiig difference.)

And men? Well, that’s easy. Men are DUMB.

Guys are very simple creatures. Most (straight) men fall somewhere between a golden retriever (the high end) and a sweet potato (the low).

Disclaimer: Obviously, I am only talking about a man’s intelligence as it relates to women; i.e., their ability to not only PERCEIVE when something is wrong, but to know WHY said thing is upsetting, and, for the extremely advanced of the species, HOW to go about fixing said distressing event and/or situation.

Women, on the other hand, are insanely complicated. We think, we worry, we analyze Every. Little. Thing. We notice every tiny nuance of everything you (men) do or say, and then we rip it to nearly imperceptible shreds in our brains, considering the action and its potential meaning from all possible angles.

Then, inevitably, we decide upon whichever one is the least rational.

And we wallow. We don’t want to “bother” you with it. So instead, we sulk, we pout, we answer with one word. And finally at some point, when you, say, get annoyed because we sometimes forget to put a glass in the dishwasher instead of the sink, (totes hypothetical, of course), we freakthefuckout. It may be tears, it may be anger, but you can be sure there’s a whole lot more behind it. I promise.

Like I said, we’re effing crazy. What do you want?

THEREFORE, the trick, I believe, to finding the “perfect guy” is not at all about how he looks on paper. It’s not really about his job, his clothes, or whether he makes you laugh- those all help, yes, but they are not the most important thing.

The most important thing, my friend, is finding a guy who not only puts up with your crazy, he gets your crazy. Although we’re not really aware of it, this is what we mean when we say “he just GETS me.” What we’re actually saying is, He Gets My Kind of Crazy.

Conversely, when a man gets Your Kind of Crazy, he is no longer nearly as Dumb. You even realize his weaknesses as far as his Own Kind of Dumbness, and are willing to help him out with the little Bits of Crazy he doesn’t get. You throw him a bone now and then, as far as, “I’m upset BECAUSE,” because usually? He Gets It.

And thus is born a new axiom in Livit, Luvit’s little world. Words to live by, if you will.

“It’s all about finding a man who can handle her brand of crazy… and a woman who can handle his brand of dumb.” ~ Me and J

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Sidenote- this post is totally an open invitation for a gentleman blogger to write The Other Side…

Update: See one excellently written and thought-provoking response here, by my esteemed friend Restaurant Refugee.

Last year when I first realized just exactly how boring my office job is, and consequently started reading blogs, one of the first I stumbled on (and fell in love with) was Belle de Jour’s. The high-class London call girl’s story started there, soon after she published not one but two books about her escapades, and now, finally, the TV show based on her experiences has made it to the States. Secret Diary of a Call Girl started this June on Showtime, and I’ve seen every single episode. Billie Piper is sexy, adorable, and endearing as Belle. Apparently the show’s gotten terrible reviews, but whatevs. I heart it.

At the end of last week’s episode, Belle wrapped up the show with a quote that I absolutely loved…

“That’s the thing about London… In London, you can keep secrets, be anonymous, be whoever you want. But as long as one person knows you entirely, and still loves you… it’s the best place in the world.”

Now, I do have a total soft spot in my heart for London, seeing as I spent an absolutely aMAZing summer there in college, and lived there for a year when I was four. Consequently, all of my first memories are of asking my Mum for my wellies when it was raining, and of some cheeky munter who thought she could get away with stealing my brand new fluffy white earmuffs. Think again, you barmy pillock. (English insults are wayyyy more funsies than American!)

Although the quote is pertaining to a career as a call girl in London, and referencing the love and acceptance of Belle’s ex-boyfriend-turned-bff Ben, I think it rings true in a much more generalized way as well. No matter how you live your life, someone out there is judging you for something- your career, your lover, your friends, your religion (or lack thereof), your life philosophy. We all judge each other, whether we mean to or not, and at one time or another, we’ve all felt someone else passing judgment on us.

And they will continue to, it’s human nature. But it makes it easier to face, to accept, to give a judger the hand and tell them to talk to it (kidding!) when you know that somewhere out there is a select group of wonderful and amazing people. A group of people who absolutely adore you, every last thing about you, NO MATTER WHAT. They know every twisted nook and cranny of your personality flaws and questionable nature (not to mention sick-humored psyche), and love you completely… not in spite of it, but because of it.

Point being, I know EXACTLY how damn lucky I am to have the people who love me, unconditionally and without judgment, in my life. And you should too, because it really does make all the damn difference in the world.

<3

This morning, I spent two and a half hours in a dentist’s chair.

It was great.

My new dentist- whom I was referred to by Fellow Masshole (thanks lover!)- is fan fucking tastic. He’s the kind of wizened, long-winded old fellow you can’t help but love. The smile-crinkles around his eyes quickly put me at ease. Not even the fact that the entire room was plastered with Howdy Doody paraphenalia could put me off of this kind and gentle man. (I definitely wouldn’t hang out in that room at night, though. How freaking creepy are puppets??)

He explained every tiny little thing about my teeth and gums a person could ever need to know, and did it simply and with pretty (well, sort of) pictures. He educated me instead of lecturing me (I’ve never flossed- I know, I know).

Within the first five minutes of sitting in the chair, he told me about a horrible day he had in Worcester- he and his wife spent the entire day in a HoJo’s, waiting for a judge to tell them whether they could adopt the baby girl waiting for them at the hospital. The mother wanted them to have her, EVERYONE wanted them to have her, and yet after hours and hours of waiting in agony- the judge ruled that no, they could not have the child. I didn’t ask about the why, but the mere fact that this man so openly shared such an intimate story from his life endeared me to him instantly. Consequently, I was able to tell him anything and everything I needed to, without fear or embarrassment.

We argued over college basketball (he’s a Terp; I, obviously, am a TAR HEEL), and bonded over our hatred of Dook. I told him about meeting Dean Smith on an airplane, and he told me about his daughter my age who works for a woman’s rights non-profit a block from my apartment- this week, they find out how much funding they’re getting from the Gates (as in Bill), which will determine whether she still has a job (and whether the non-profit can continue to exist).

At one point, my office manager called- she had forgotten about my dentist appointment. He waved for me to take the call, and I did. She talked for two minutes straight while I tried to get a word in edgewise and explain that I couldn’t talk, but would be at the office soon; finally, I managed to convey my situation and she hung up abruptly. I apologized, and Dr. Amazing Man simply said,

“You know, she sounds like the kind of person who forgets what’s really important. Some people, they think if they don’t spend 26 hours a day at their desk and they miss a call, the world’s going to collapse. I have all kinds of patients here, some are big shot lawyers who work all the time, making calls and deals and such… one guy I know, nice guy, he got leukemia and died soon after. Three days later, someone’s sitting at his desk, doing his work. I did what I had to do to take care of my family, but now I do this because I like it, I like people. It’s nice to feel important, but sometimes we forget, no one is irreplaceable.”

True story, Dr. Amazing Man. Thanks for reminding me of how precious life is, on an extremely stressful day when it was particularly needed. Also, thank you for being this:

And not this:

‘Preesh. Srsly.

(And I totally promise to floss.)

Even after years of bartending, it always amazes me how quickly men fall (at least for the night) for the sexy, aloof, sassy bartender chick. If a man sits down at the bar (without a girl), there is a 75% chance he will give me some kind of crap to “see how I handle it.” Of course there are varying degrees of this, but at this point it’s all pretty much the same to me. I throw it back at them faster than they can blink, and on occasion have literally cut someone with a tongue lashing (just kidding- that was for you, B- don’t you hate when people say literally and don’t mean it at all??) within the first five minutes of them sitting down. Don’t holler at me, don’t call me sweetheart or baby, and god help you if you snap your fingers at me.

The really nice thing about where I’m at right now is that I don’t need my second job. To be sure, the extra cash is pretty much the difference between getting by vs. really enjoying my life, but at the end of the day, being a proud and stubborn person means that I’m a little more… cavalier, we’ll say, with my attitude towards my customers. Honest, even. (Yeah, that sounds better. Let’s go with honest.) If someone steps out of line or pisses me off, I have absolutely zero problems with setting them straight in a fashion usually involving biting sarcasm with just a hint of emasculation. (Mind you, this really only works on men. Women will go running to the manager if they have to ask twice for the extra mayo they don’t need.) (Ooooo we’re feisty today!)

Last night a familiar scenario played out- this happens at least once every night I work. A male, generally over the age of 35 (perhaps part of this is resentment that the hot young twenty-something bartender is no longer really within reach? The other part is most likely a (sub?)conscious belief that women cannot bartend as well as men, with a dash of plain old crotchety-ness) yells to get my attention, despite the fact that I am clearly doing three to seven other things at the moment. Quite often, I will actually be in the act of taking someone else’s drink order, and he will simply interrupt. When I ignore him, he starts waving and getting louder; the aforementioned “sweetheart” or “baby” is dropped, and replace with an insistent and childish “Excuse me!” (Obviously I’m ignoring you for a reason, seeing as you could be waving in the planes from Reagan with your oh-so-fervent gesturing.) Finally, after I give him the “One MINUTE” signal without making eye contact (this is very important- every skilled bartender knows to never make eye contact, except with the person they are actually helping), they start pouting and making loud snide comments about the “slow service” to anyone (no one) who will listen.

When I am completely finished with the checklist in my head I had to do BEFORE this asshat starting pestering me, I then, and only then, walk over and inquire what said asshat needs.

This is just one example of why (most) men at the bar need to be abused. It’s like I’m a substitute teacher and they’re my unruly children who only respect me when I lay down the Law! Except instead of music, I use cans of whoop-ass with a sidecar of sass.

Whatevs, as soon as I leave the bar, I can go back to being my sweet and quiet self…

Shuttup, all of you. I can hear you laughing.

It’s been a long time since I split up from anyone, casual or otherwise. When I moved to DC a year ago, I basically took almost a year off from dating and just got to know my city, my jobs, my new friends. (Not to mention the fact that my boyfriend in Carolina and I broke up two weeks before I moved here… when I told him I was moving. Just kidding- I told him 5 minutes after we broke up. But he treated me like crap and totally deserved it.)

Consequently, I sort of forgot how I get, you know, afterwards. Some women eat. Some women drink. Some women cue up all the reruns of Grey’s Anatomy on their DVR and pretend they’re crying about Izzy and George or mad at Meredith and Christina as they hug the Ben & Jerry’s.

I become an exercise junkie.

I guess I’m lucky that way- it seems like women are generally one or the other, either blowing up or slimming down. For me, all that time I was spending going to dinners, meeting for drinks, laying on my ass watching a movie? Is now spent in my running shoes. Don’t get me wrong, I’m generally in decent shape anyway, but this is the time when my drive gets AMPed (sp?) the hell up. Cheeseburgers? Forget it. French fries? Don’t need them. Beer? No thank you.

And of course, there’s always an accompanying soundtrack for strength, power and inspiration. After JBPitt, it was Madonna’s Confessions on a Dance Floor. After Radio, it was Nelly Furtado’s Loose. After the Cuban, The Killers’ Sam’s Town.

This time around? I’m thinking all of the above, with some new Madonna, Katy Perry and Carrie Underwood thrown in. (Don’t judge… it works for me!)

Time for my lunchtime workout… Growwwrrr!!!

Update: Katy Perry it is. Holy schnikes, I love every song…

“If You Can Afford Me”

If you want me you’re gonna have to break the bank, tonight.
Cuz some don’t have the patience, some call me high-maintenance,
But you pay the bill, cuz, that’s the deal.

If you wanna ride, just name your price- don’t play cheap with your heart
Don’t make a bet if you can’t write the check, for me, for me.
Cuz I can be bought, but you’ll pay the cost
If you can afford me…

So, today I’m headed to the National Capital BBQ Battle with the Intern Babysitter who accidentally ended up in my bed Wednesday night… I should be excited, right? Well, unfortunately when he called and asked me out on Thursday, I mentioned that I was bartending at night, and he came in for a beer on his way home from work.

And… well… he must have been really drunk on Wednesday, because I would never have been attracted to the quivering little bunny rabbit sitting in front of me. Yeah, I guess he might have been cute, but all I could see was a stammering blob of nervous energy. And when I’m bartending, I’m basically the most outgoing, confident, Queen of My Bar with a dash of don’t-you-dare-question-my-authority. I don’t know why, but for some reason, shy guys always seem to be attracted to me… I guess because I’m the complete opposite of shy? Likewise, I’m attracted to the most confident guy in the room. So, yeah, that doesn’t really work out.

But my friends always says I don’t give guys enough of a chance. So I’m going on this date, despite the fact that I think I scare the crap out of this guy, and that’s just so not hot. One of these days, I will meet a guy who can handle me…

***Update (two years later)… Yes, this post is totally about B. Life is funny, eh?***

Men, especially in DC, need serious help picking up chicks.

I mean, think about it. Yesterday, I wrote about actually meeting a guy who came up to her at a bar and said, “Hi, my name’s XXXX”. The fact that that was basically the inspiration for the post should tell you something about DC, or maybe American guys in general.

Although KassyK expressed a sentiment a few days ago that I believe is universally shared by the sane and open-minded women who sometimes read or comment on the many PUA blogs in DC, I do hope that the relatively new industry might actually help some of the men in our fair city to find some damn cajones.

This is going to be difficult to explain without sounding arrogant (and that’s really not what I’m going for here), but I’m going to try. I’m fun, open and inviting, and incredibly sociable (hence the whole bartender/extrovert thing). I’m entertaining, and sometimes I even border on funny- especially of the self-effacing humor variety. I’ve got more personality than I know what to do with, and am described as “feisty” or “a firecracker” on a weekly basis. I surround myself with interesting and energetic people. And, for the sake of this argument (it’s science, people), I will admit that I look pretty damn good. My girlfriends look pretty damn good. Even my guy friends look pretty damn good (biases aside, seriously.)

My point is, when I’m single, I almost never meet guys out on the town (day or night, although I understand ‘day game’ is more difficult- yay booze, the social lubricant). Even when I do spot one that piques my interest, even if I catch him looking at me, even if I throw caution to the wind and maintain eye contact for a few seconds, even if I not-so-subtly go stand next to him at the bar and wait for him to smile and say Hi… 9 times out of ten, if I want to talk to him, I end up being the one who has to make what would technically be considered “the first move.”

I hate making the first move. But I’ve done it. Because life is short and the supply of truly cute and interesting men is even shorter, and I have nothing to lose, so why not? In fact, my efforts have rarely been met with anything other than enthusiasm. But that’s not the point. It’s just such a turn-off to have to be the aggressor. Men are supposed to be the hunters, to take the chances. I am super, super girly, and I don’t like playing that role at all. My girlfriends are always in awe, but all I can think is, I shouldn’t have had to do that. He obviously wanted to talk to me, which means he was just too scared to come say something. That is so unimpressive… he’s clearly not confident in himself, and ultimately, I would probably walk all over this guy.

Of course there is the obvious argument that the problem is with me. I know that I may come off as intimidating, being all outgoing and confident and what not. But the thing is, I’ve been self-aware of this possibility for a long time, and go out of my way to make sure that I still project an inviting demeanor- a good vibe, if you will- if there are prospects in my immediate vicinity. And if there’s one skill I have, it is being exceptionally aware of the people around me- how they’re feeling; what they’re doing and thinking; how I am being perceived. I notice every nuance of someone’s expressions and body language, I can’t help it.

And this is my blog, so you’re just going to have to trust me on all this.

My point is, it’s rare to find a man who has the confidence to ‘open.’ Which is really a shame, because I feel like many young singles are missing out on possible connections, simply because guys are too afraid of rejection to take a chance.

And believe me, I do recognize the argument that women can be cold or bitchy… I have friends who are that way, and it embarrasses me when they’re rude to a well-meaning guy who had the balls to come say hi, and I’ll tell them as much. But the bottom line is, men, that’s your job. You approach, and do it well, and we’ll listen. It’s all about the delivery.

Plus, I’m getting really sick of pretending to spill my drink on you- just a little bit- so you have to talk to me. The bend-and-snap is really hard to do in four inch heels. And here’s a tip, guys- if you look at me, and I make eye contact for anything longer than a SECOND; get your ass in gear and come say hello right now.*

*You know, if you’re interested. Obviously.

I’ve always been a people watcher. I love observing humanity; in fact I can’t resist it. Nearly every single person/couple/family/group of friends that comes within 20 feet of me is subject to my scrutiny, my curiosity, my overall analysis. I examine their clothes, interactions, the way they carry themselves. Within moments I have taken these snippets and made assumptions about their fashion sense, their self-esteem, their marriages, and their sex lives.

This is something I have always done; it is the reason I majored in Psych in college and I find it highly entertaining (especially if accompanied by a similarly-minded and quick-witted bff or gbff.)

Lately, every time I see a woman on the street in the 22-30 age bracket (roughly my own- “young professional”, I wonder. I study her up and down, her shoes first (shoe whore, guilty), then the whole outfit. I look at her shape (i.e., compare it to my own) and determine how well she is presenting herself to the world.

I wonder if she’s happy. I wonder if she wants to get married, if she’s baby crazy. If she wants to be a high-powered CEO at her company, or make a difference to starving children in Africa. If she’s nurturing and kind. If she’s bitter towards men.

I wonder if she’s loved. If she loves someone. I look for a ring, groceries for two, a twinkle in her eye that shows she can’t wait to get home, because someone’s waiting there for her.

I wonder if she’s secure in that love… if she trusts him. Is it still exciting? Is their sex still amazing; was it ever? Or has it grown boring? Does she accept that monotony, is it comfortable (comforting)?

Does she cheat on him? Will she, ever? Does he cheat on her? Will she ever find out? Does it matter? Or are affairs what keep marriages together?

Is she lonely?

I wonder.