3:30 a.m. pot theft

Last night I went with a lady friend to go see New Moon. Yes, I'm that girl. I'm not THAT that girl, as were many of the young ladies standing in line at the mall movie theater last night. I've never worn moccasin Uggs with black leggings with a Team Jacob t-shirt, topped off with messy pigtails. I'm just not that kind of that girl.

Team Edward? Maybe.

Lucky for you, this isn't a movie review. All I can say about the movie is that with all the chest-baring, there wasn't a dry panty in the house. And that it wasn't nearly as bad as the last one. Mostly because of the chest-baring. I mean, "special effects."

The movie let out around 3 a.m. and I was dropped off at my doorstep only to turn around, hop in my car and head over to dog-sit for a friend of mine. Earlier that night, I had about 30 minutes in between working and movie and those minutes were meant for 30 Rock and some soup - not dog-sitting.

3:30 a.m.? That's meant for dog-sitting, obviously.

Upon arriving at my friend's house, I started to realize just how dark and creepy it is when digging for a key in a mailbox at 3:30 a.m. I let myself in, let the dog out, then busied myself doing what every dog-sitter does: dig through their friend's stuff.

I'm not interested in the normal snoopy type of things, mind you. I know what medications she has behind her mirror. I know what kind of vodka she has in her freezer (the none kind of vodka, because she drinks it too fast to freeze it). I know where her vibrators are stashed and what their names are. I'm interested in bigger and better things.

Namely, shit she's stolen from me.

Which is why I found myself walking out of a dark duplex at 3:45 a.m. last night carrying a bulky load, fighting to keep her 75 pound dog inside while balancing my precarious cargo. What did I steal?

Three pots. How does someone manage to steal all three of your pots? A giant 8 quart stockpot, a 4 quart pasta pot and my Crock Pot. Why would a single gal living alone with a 75 pound dog need all three of my giant pots?

I guess the better question would be "why would a single gal living alone with a 4 pound dog be stealing back her giant pots at 3:30 in the morning?"

Answer? Bitch, it's late November and I haven't had chili all year. And I AM that kind that girl.

a psychological commentary of sorts

I've been thinking and, after two minutes of thought and three glasses of wine, I've come to a conclusion. Most sociologists attribute many of man's actions to one of three basic motivations: food, shelter or procreation. Basically, we're hungry? We eat, and find a way to make that happen. We're tired? We sleep, and find a way to make that happen. Same goes for sex.

But what has long been attributed to sexual attraction - a fit body, a sound mind and an ability to provide for and nurture potential offspring - is outdated. I'm here to propose that what we find so physically desirable in the opposite sex - a lean, muscular physique - is not necessarily the visual evidence of a person who us capable of providing for a family and/or protecting the potential household from harm.

In fact, I believe the embodiment of these physical attributes represents a much more desirable characteristic than merely providing for a family unit that may or may not result from a physical union with this person. Fit people are capable of having sex. And lots of it. And we're basely attracted to those who have the muscular structure that shows off their virility.

I'm not saying that the two ideas aren't correlated. I'm just saying that, after yesterday's extensive research on the subject, sex is quite the workout. I ran an Olympic triathlon last weekend but, after the seven bouts of sex I had yesterday on a "sick day" from work, my glutes have never felt better.

So ladies, when you feel as though your biological clock is ticking and you find yourself attracted to a lean, tight, muscular form - go for it with piece of mind. Your biological instincts aren't urging you toward this person because you're looking for a good, strong provider and you need to mate and settle down. It's Mother Nature whispering in your ear: "this man knows how to fuck. And how."

You're welcome.

creative (director) license

I had the following conversation tonight with my creative director on the innocent topic of bike riding:

Me: "Well, I'm out. Going to ride my bike. Stationary, not mobile on the trails. Not really in the mood to get raped tonight."

CD: "Well, there go my plans for the evening."

best job description ever

In a meeting the other day I saw a list of chefs that have been invited to participate in an upcoming client meeting. We'll refer to my favorite's as Jane Doe to preserve her anonymity, protect my job, and establish said chef as female.

"JANE DOE: NUT EXPERT"

I really hope we meet and she gives me a business card.

white trash is the new classy

In order to give you a snapshot of the past two weeks that I've had, allow me to paint for you a pretty picture of my after-work activity this fine Friday evening:

- leave the office carrying 23 giant Post-Its full of ideas to be written up and thought through over the weekend
- head straight to nearest liquor store
- walk in apartment and make myself a business workin' man's cocktail (Jameson with a splash of water)
- beeline for my balcony to enjoy aforementioned cocktail, a Parliament Light and a single-serve bag of Cheddar Jalapeno Cheetos

I am one Red Bull and vodka away from redefining myself as Britney Lynn. God, I hope I'm not pregnant with Federline's baby.

more fun with quotes

The other day, a friend of mine felt the need to threaten another friend of ours. Most people would resign themselves to a simple "shut up or I'll beat your face" or "quit it before I tell Mom." Not my friend. His retaliation if his demands were not met: "I will haunt your balls."

As if this statement isn't fantastic enough - because who wouldn't shudder in fear at the thought of a ball-haunting? - he went on to elaborate.

"Oh, yes - I will haunt your balls. I will bury your balls alive in an Indian burial ground, build a house on top of it, and force you to live there - sans balls. Then one day I'll crawl out of the TV set to get you."

I love my friends.

this is my job.

Today in a brainstorm, an account sup used these words to describe how she'd ideally like for us to meet the objective:

"We're going for LOL, not WTF."

And she was serious. NFW.

the grand gesture

Not to sound like Carrie Bradshaw again, but I've been thinking a lot (meaning, I've been thinking for the last 10 minutes) about The Grand Gesture and its implications in relationships. Recently coming out of a long-term, quite serious, emotionally taxing and wholly chaotic relationship myself, I've been contemplating all of the things that one must go through to get over and move on afterward. But with that comes thoughts of "what if...?" The biggest "what if...?" as of this moment is "what if... he showed up with The Grand Gesture?"

The Grand Gesture, according to a focus group of me, is something that is done out of selflessness, regardless of potential impending personal humiliation, to show the vast dedication that one has to making the situation work. No matter how bad it could have been, no matter what you've gone through; this is the one last chance the person has of making things work.

In my dating history, which has been enormously flawed and ridiculously time-consuming (I haven't been this single in over a decade, which I discovered the other day with a calculator and some self-therapy), I've been privy to at least three of The Grand Gestures.

The Grand Gesture part 1: My high-school boyfriend and I broke up at the Dairy Queen (I wish I could make this up) after a tumultuous three-week argument with my parents, where they felt as though he was becoming too controlling in my life. In retrospect, they were right in feeling that way. Also in hindsight, I was mid-adolescent and looking for anything that would validate my existence outside of the family. In other words, both parties had good points. After the steak finger break-up (mmm... steak fingers and gravy...), my not-so-much-boyfriend decided to have a volatile and tearful discussion with my parents about exactly why we should remain together. I sat idly by and watched, thinking that whatever he was offering wasn't worth the drama that would ensue. We were finished.

The Grand Gesture part 2: My college boyfriend and had been having difficulties with our personal relationships and were in the process of breaking up. The sexual chemistry was incredible - I still credit him (silently) with teaching me everything I know about pleasing a penis - but we were from different worlds. His was a world inhabited by self-aggrandizing assholes; mine wasn't. But The Grand Gesture came when we went to a university baseball game and he had the entire stadium serenade me with "Happy Birthday, to the girl in Section 2, Row 3 in the pink shirt." I was happily embarrassed by the limelight, but sat idly by and watched while thinking that whatever he was offering wasn't worth the drama that would ensue. We were finished.

The Grand Gesture part 3: My later college boyfriend and I were separated by a summer of an internship (on my part) and summer school (on his part). He came home with me in July and met my family, and they deemed him "too quiet and intense." Personally, I preferred these characteristics, as "too quiet and intense" translated to me as "the guy who gave me seven orgasms in one day without taking a break to discuss our relationship status." To this day, my friends simply refer to him as "Seven". I eventually realized that my parents were smarter than I was, especially considering they didn't have The Orgasm Fog to cloud their judgement. We moved toward a break-up and he decided that the only way to salvage the relationship was to show up in my home town, search for my parents throughout an entire day at their infernal small-town hot-spots (home, place of business, workshops, what-have-you) so that he could read for them a few excerpts from The Song of Solomon to describe his true feelings for their daughter. When he called to tell me this tale, I told him to drive himself the 101 miles back to his house and get his ass home. When he tried to explain himself later, I sat idly by and listened while thinking that whatever he was offering wasn't worth the drama that would ensue. We were finished.

So now, as I sit and wonder why I didn't get The Grand Gesture, I'm confused. Why would I even want The Grand Gesture? It hasn't done well in the past. The last long-term boyfriend (three-and-a-half years of relationship turmoil) resulted in a mix CD tucked under my windshield wiper and a bouquet of flowers in my doorway. Neither worked. Why would I daydream about my most recent ex showing up at my doorstep with a pained look in his eyes, then us kissing and ripping off clothes without even saying a word? The Grand Gesture doesn't work. It never has. It's always been a last-ditch effort to salvage something that was sinking too quickly to save in the first place.

So with that, I write this post. The Grand Gesture has been made in the past, and has been done so to show selflessness, regardless of potential impending personal humiliation. To show the vast dedication that one hast to making the situation work. But honestly, were any of them selfless? Were any of them done in abandon of personal and social implications? Is anything? And honestly, whatever he'd be offering wouldn't be worth the drama that would ensue.

We are finished.

lunchbox speaks out

My creative director affectionately refers to me as Lunchbox, given my affinity for terribly fattening food and the fact that I'm constantly proclaiming that "I'm starving. Let's eat something already." Today he sent me an email asking "What is Lunchbox's opinion of this list?" Here's the link:

http://manofest.com/index.php?option=com_myblog&show=THE-10-BEST-CHAIN-RESTAURANT-FOOD-ITEMS-OF-ALL-TIME.html&Itemid=1

And, since all of my clients are at an off-site for the next four days and I have found myself with all-too-uncommon spare time, here was my response:

"10 – Chili’s Big Mouth Bites: Completely. Over. Rated. They’re always cold when they come out, the onion strings get soggy before they hit your table, they never put enough bacon on them and you always get a judging look from your local JuCo student waitress when you have to ask for extra ranch.

Lunchbox suggestion: Skillet Queso, the classic version with the perfectly round bits of pre-formed meat swimming in chili-cheese gravy. It comes in a giant plastic bag before they heat it up in the skillet. If you must have the Big Mouth Bites, make it part of a Triple Play so you can at least enjoy some Chicken Crispers (the classic, tempura-fried ones; not the new-school chicken-fried nonsense) and Hot Wings along with the tiny burgers.

9 – Applebee’s Loaded Mashed Potatoes: Pretty solid.

Lunchbox suggestion: Fiesta Lime Chicken with fries instead of rice, side of ranch dressing. It used to be called the Tequila Lime Chicken but too many old bitties got their panties in a twist because they thought the sauce was going to turn them tipsy.

8- IHOP’s Crispy Banana Carmel Cheesecake: Sick out.

Lunchbox suggestion: Patty melt on white bread with no onions, hashbrowns instead of fries, side of ranch and a short-stack of pancakes. Let the butter melt on top of the stack while you eat your sandwich, then spread it over the pancakes. You’ll be left with a soggy butter spot on top of the pancakes. Eat this first, then use the hole as a syrup caddy.

7 – PF Chang’s Crab Wontons: Meh.

Lunchbox suggestion: Lettuce Wraps and Mongolian Beef. No ranch on this one.

6 – WH Chocolate Chip Waffles: No mention of the perfectly round hashbrowns?

Lunchbox suggestion: Perfectly round hashbrowns, side of bacon, side of ranch.

5 – Ruth’s Chris Filet: Never tried it.

4 – Cheesecake Factory’s Fried Mac ‘n Cheese Balls: High marks.

Lunchbox suggestion: Order the Fried Mac ‘n Cheese Balls alongside a Well-Mannered Dirty Martini, extra olives. They stuff the olives with blue cheese. It’s classy. Oh, and ranch.

3 – Denny’s Moons Over My Hammy: Ham? Sick. And they don’t even use bacon on the sandwich. Plus, my college boyfriend used to order this one all the time and his voice was really annoying when he said it. He’s fat and bald now, though. No hard feelings.

Lunchbox suggestion: Superbird, upgrade to the seasoned fries, with two sides of ranch (one for your ‘Bird, one for your fries).

2 – Red Lobster’s Cheddar Bay Biscuits: Amasing.

Lunchbox suggestion: Cheddar Bay Biscuits with a side of ranch.

1 – Outback Steakhouse’s Aussie Cheese Fries: Absolutely my favorite chain-restaurant appetizer of all time. When working at the Tyler Outback, I just called these guys “dinner”.

Lunchbox suggestion: Order them as “layered cheese fries.” This way, they put half of the fries down, then cover them with bacon and cheese, then add the rest of the fries, then top those with more bacon and cheese. Totally worth the extra $1.49. You’ll need extra ranch, though.


Yep, pretty busy today…"

Thoughts? Additions? Builds? Feel free to contribute. These discussions were God's sole intent when he created online communities.

these kids these days...

My account coordinator is a peacock. "Peacock" is the term my friends and I have given to any big-haired, heavily make-up'd Dallas girl tripping about at any given moment with a vodka cocktail and a purse the size of my car hanging from the crook of her arm. They always smell of Red Bull. It's an affectionate term when I use it on my AC, but generally speaking these girls are obnoxious. Their own particular bird call is "LET'S CROSS THE STREET HERE... BITCHES!!" And then they stumble out in front of my car in Uptown, causing traffic to back up while they totter slowly in heels, talking about that cute boy that just bought them a Jaeger Bomb.

Anyhoodle, my AC had quite the peacock-y moment this morning. When asked where the supplies for our 1:00 meeting were she replied, "Oh, they're in my roommate's car. My car is still in valet."

I laughed quite a bit and asked how she was feeling this post-Manic Monday morning. She eyed me quizzically and said, "I'm fine, why?" I said, "Well, usually when I accidentally leave my car in valet the night before I have a doozy of a headache the next morning."

She laughed and said, "No, bitch! It's been there since Saturday!! Whoopsie!"

Ah, youth. I shouldn't be too quick to judge, though. My debit card has been at the same bar for over a month now. Whoopsie!

a very carrie post

Apologies are in order, first and foremost. First of all, to the two of you out there who actually check in on this blog: I'm sorry. Things have been crazy. Work has been crazy, family has been insane and even more lunatic, the personal life has risen to Sylvia Plath levels. For the lack of posting, I'm sorry.

Secondly, I apologize for the Carrie Bradshaw-esque tone of the impending post. It's going to happen, so just please bear with me.

I was just taking my dog outside in an ice storm and it hit me: the idea of stability. Stability in work, in relationships, in the day-to-day that makes us who we are. We grow accustomed to counting on those who count on us, sure - but how much of that should we really count on?

As I walked through the courtyard of my all-too-familiar apartment complex that I've grown accustomed to walking through over the past six years, I couldn't help but take baby-step after baby-step, measuring my footprints carefully to be sure I didn't slip in the ice. I was freezing my ass off, even while wearing two layers of tube socks - one layer of which extended all the way to my knees. All the while my dog, who is can apparently teach me more about life than I ever initially thought, forged her way through to pee. All she knew was the goal that lie ahead - peeing, no matter the cost. She didn't care that she hadn't seen frozen conditions like this in years, she didn't care that her tiny paws were completely frigid - she knew what needed to be done, our purpose for being outside, and she made it happen. All the while, I huddled with a glass of wine and cigarette in hand behind any structure that shielded be from the wind. All in all, I was impressed. Amused, nonetheless, but impressed.

All of this to say, I've been in an extremely cautious and dependent relationship for the past two years. He's depended on me for happiness, I've depended on him for fulfillment; the need to know that I myself was needed. As this relationship draws to a close and I wonder how to cautiously approach the conversation, all I can do is draw knowledge from a tiny dog. Don't shield yourself from the wind, clutching onto your cigarette and glass of wine, hiding from the situation. Do what needs to be done. In other words, piss or get off the pot.

And with that, I apologize once again for the Carrie Bradshaw-ness of this post and promise much more entertaining material in the near future. Namely, how I came to have an autistic boyfriend, how my friend and I fell in love with four magicians, and the ridiculousness that's encompassed the past two months.

Toodle-loo.