Where I Ask You To Dress Me While Suggesting With The First Part Of This Title That I’m Naked Until You Do June 4, 2008

Multiple webpages displaying various party frocks decorate my computer monitor right now.
 
Hectic office setting? Sorry, you can be damned.
 
In two days, it will be my birthday. And while some people may take this time to reflect on What It Means To Be A Quarter Century Old And Still Not One Step Closer To Owning Their Own Personal Island Or At The Very Least Not Living From One Paycheck To The Next, I am quite adamant about Not Going There right now. Because I’m at work. And the janitor who can comfort my sobs with his broken English chants of No tears, Missus doesn’t get here until later this evening.
 
So instead, I distract myself with a search for the perfect atrocity that will cover my natural birthday suit this Saturday night. Because, well, I survive by living in denial.
 
Which is where you come in.
 
I tend to happily align my taste with the borderline ugly. Two weekends ago, while trying on a pair of heels at Nordstrom’s, I gleefully squealed to my boyfriend, “Aren’t these the most ridiculous things ever?” He agreed that they were. I promptly purchased said shoes.
 
I crave the absurd. Wearing loose v-neck tees and ripped up jeans to the oh-so-hot clubs where all the other chicks are decked in their “Here’s my boobs and - oh! - my crotch” monotony is fine with me and choosing to don my Alexander McQueen fuck me boots to the scummy dive bar that lets its patrons play beer pong until 4 in the morning is instinctive. Because fashion, to me, is a whim. It’s an opportunity to not take yourself too seriously and be silly. Like those shoes up there that I would have bought solely because they’re named EVIL.
 
But knowing all this about myself, a second opinion never hurts. Especially when I have my gay best friend Teddy encouraging me that Yes, the dress that’s electric aqua blue and shaped like an upside down tulip is the BEST IDEA EVER AND OH IT WOULD LOOK SO GOOD WITH A TIARA BECAUSE IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY, PRINCESS, AND YOU DO WHAT YOU WANT while a little voice somewhere in my head peeps: Prom Queen On Acid. Move along.
 
So, help. Please.
 
Dress #1:
 

 
Nope. Not joking about the electric-blue thing and the shaped-like-an-upside-down-tulip thing. But! It’s my party. And I’ll dress like a high school prom queen on acid if I want to?
 
Dress #2:

  
So this is when you learn that I have a love for all things preppy. And pleated. And white. Because white against my olive toned skin? Helps me convince myself that I’m much tanner than the cloudy gray weather that is Chicago this spring has allowed. Plus. I think I remember how to make faux-carnations out of tissue paper from my first grade art class that would go perfectly with this dress.
 
Dress #3:
 

 
Yes. It’s black gingham. Gingham. Maybe only second to seersucker (or wait, no, MADRAS) when it comes to fabrics I’m ashamed to admit I’m deathly obsessed with. Don’t put it past me to braid my hair in pigtails should I wear this dress. That, or some ridiculously voluminous high ponytail tied with a shiny fat ribbon.
 
Dress #4:
 

 
I can pair this with the afro wig I bought for our 70’s theme party last year.
 
Dress #5:
 

 
So that once my quarter-life-crisis catches up with me, I can take this dress and go try out to be a Deal or No Deal briefcase-carrying girl.
 
Dress #6:
 

 
This dress must be too normal. I don’t have a single thing to say about it.
 
Dress #7:
 

 
Because I was born in the 80s. And proud of it. (Ed. note: HOLLER NEON.)
 
Celebrations are set to begin with a booze trolley - a surprise planned by my boyfriend because yes, he’s that awesome - decked to the mess with streamers, balloons, and - if I get my way - Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Because trying to play Pin the Tail on the Donkey on a moving vehicle with open windows while completely sloshed demands that hilarity will ensue. Or broken limbs.
 
More likely than not, I’ll demand drinking games with rules centered around taking shots every time a car is seen. Shouting at hoards of people is a given. And all while capturing everything on the disposable cameras I plan to provide by the handfuls because fuck digital cameras and getting that oh so perfect picture on the third try. Not on this night.
 
So. Right. I guess I’m asking for your help in choosing a dress that will help me stand out even more on an evening that will surely help me acquire 3 million Chicagoans - plus or minus a few - as my new enemies. 

 

You’re Kind Of A Big Deal February 8, 2008

I have a lot of faults.

Too many, in fact.

And I’m quick to acknowledge all of them before anyone else gets the chance.

I know I drink too much. And that I talk too loud. I’m so fucking emotional. I curse. I’m inappropriate. That line that people always mention? I’m the one who crosses it. Repeatedly. I’m a glutton. I’m not good with money and I spend too much of it but - hell - it’s my money. I’m addicted to sex, bad TV, insomnia, and denial. I fall into fits of practicing unhealthy extremes. I lash out at the people I love when I’m in a foul torpor and feel copious amounts of remorse immediately afterwards. I’m all energy and flash and jokes and flurry when people first meet me because if I’m hilarious and fun as hell, it covers up all the shit, right?

It’s almost as though I enjoy conducting some macabre roll call in my head, where instead of the version teachers use to see if Billy or Tonya are present, I’m checking to make sure that all the dysfunctions that call my little brain or body home are still there. By being the first to point out just how fucked up I can be, I feel like I somehow win.

You can’t insult me with that. I already called myself out, bitch! 

(I think, by the way, that this is the strategy Eminem applied during his last battle in 8 Mile. When he was still thin. See? So inappropriate.)

It’s most likely a defense strategy I developed playing subject to my father’s repeated drilling growing up. I lived in frequent terror of him and our one-on-ones. He’d yell and yell and then yell some more while I tried everything I could to not cry in front of him because that only meant more yelling and - if he was feeling really ripe - some slapping around. I didn’t know how to protect myself from him. So I began trying to predict everything he might possibly say, the absolute worst thing that could happen, comforting myself that if I knew beforehand what to expect when he hired midnight until dawn to berate me, it might sting less when it actually happened. I was always wrong, it always stung, but I almost aways felt relief repeating to myself that the worst he can do is kill me. It helped put things in perspective.

I’ve made my peace with my upbringing. Sometimes, at its best, it’s only an uneasy peace, but it’s peace.

Of course, there are its longer-lasting effects.

I cannot accept compliments gracefully. I respond with quick self-deprecating quips or flashes of rolling eyes and half smirks. I don’t suffer from poor self-esteem; not in any typical fashion anyway. My father’s brand of steady attention parlayed indelible strength in me to stand up for myself always. Some may call it a wall that I need to fucking get rid of already, but I appreciate my fortitude. I know all too well I could have easily crumbled and ended up completely broken. In a round-about way, my father raised me to be a fiercely strong person.

But that social grace, the one of tactful compliment acceptance? That’s not exactly how my family worked. Grunts from my father served as acknowledgments for my first place finishes in 5K invitationals, and a mild frown from the guy was response to my mother’s announcement that I had been awarded class valedictorian. Those kinds of responses didn’t prepare me to hear things like You’re so pretty! or You’re so smart! comfortably. So I shrug those off. I guffaw. I throw the compliments back. (Ed. note: Minus the adulation that targets my sexual prowess or ability to annihilate large amounts of food in a single sitting. I have no problem accepting and wholeheartedly believing those.)

There are some really amazing people I have met by blogging. People I want to know. People I’d like to zap to Chicago or zap myself where they are so we can raise hell together in - gasp! - 3D life. Internet inhabitants that I dare call my friends. Genuinely cool people who read this thing and email me and leave comments and compliments that throw me into blown away disbelief. When I respond with some - probably failed - attempt at funny, I’m just hoping you’ll be too busy laughing to notice what a complete tool I’ve made of myself.

But believe me. I really appreciate the comments. Every single one. I don’t always know how to respond. All the ways I can think of saying thanks or that I’m flattered just sound so … plastic in print.

Maybe that explains why all Hallmark cards are so full of cheese and awkward humor.

I write about a bevy of stuff, but I know I focus often on my family. Or about how fucked up I feel. How fucked up I am. I make jokes about it. I share tales of my upbringing hoping that you’ll see beyond the anger and the sad and the hurt and detect the girl who is still all shades of sensitive and sickeningly idealistic. Maybe even see the humor in some of this stuff, too. 

Or perhaps display how fucked I am in the head to even be able to find some of this stuff funny.

I guess I choose to see it as acceptance. 

Because I wasn’t always so forthcoming about my family. Lying ad nauseum was standard modus operandi for a very long time. We looked the role of perfect on the outside, and I was too ashamed and scared to let people know what that shell of perfection hid. Distance and college helped, but one doesn’t heal in a handful of years the all too many spent broken and battered.

This blog has become a part of that adjustment. The writing helps. It sets that angry, emo kid inside of me free. The one that grew, hid and beat against my insides while I played Perfect Student, Perfect Athlete, Perfect Prep, Perfect Personality, Perfect Home Life, Perfect Little Miss Homecoming Queen. Nothing, I think, can be as suffocating to a person’s soul as playing so much pretend - playing dual, triumvirate, quadruple roles. It may be an anonymous truth released to the internets for strangers to read, but when even one person says something thoughtful or tells me they went through some shit like this too and that they relate, it helps. It helps with the sadness and feeling less alone; to digest the memories, pull out the moderately funny moments and gain a perspective less bitter and more contemplative. 

I learned on Monday that I had won the two 20something awards for which I had been nominated. I was stunned. Floored, really. I’m not sure if it’s proper etiquette to even mention this. Should I act more discreet? Make a joke or add it as a by the way to one of my posts? Just tack on the award images to my sidebar and leave it at that?

I chose to write something now that the voting thing is long over because I really appreciate the thought. I’m flattered. I’m grateful. I may have trouble accepting compliments and accolades, but it’s certainly not because I’m not thankful or touched. I always am. So thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Because for all the sarcasm, the cynicism and the inappropriate cracks I make, don’t ever confuse me as an aloof or detached person. That people voted for me? Batshit manic, can’t stop with the inappropriate humor, ridiculously wordy me? Well. That means a hell of a lot.

This post isn’t really about the awards though.

Thanks for accepting what I write. It can feel scary as hell to post shit about my dad. How he used to lock me inside of a dark closet for hours to teach you discipline, daughter when he learned I was afraid of the dark. Or that I used to keep a strand of paper clips on my backpack in middle school as some kind of demented keychain that I’d add paper clips to every time I thought about killing myself. That’s some sad stuff. So thank you. For not making me feel like a complete freak when I share things like this. Or for letting me think that I’m at least a readable freak.

Thanks for understanding that sometimes, among the depressing and heartbreaking shit, I crack jokes and post pictures of my stuffed monkey Bernard hanging around on our fake rubber tree courtesy of World Market. No matter my upbringing, my fall-out is being able to see the humor in too much of everything. So thank you for tolerating all these multiple personas fit into my one person.

Thanks, Thanks, Thanks.

Because each blogger is allowed one gratuitous blog post waxing saptasical about blogging and their readers/fellow bloggers, yes?

Now, before I turn all Cady Heron and use MS Paint to cut up these awards - that someone took their time to create - into little pieces and virtually toss them around, I’ll stop.

(Best Title shared with the very kickass Ashley of This is Not the Life I Ordered! )

Come to Chicago - all of you. Rounds of tequila shots and champagne flutes on me. Some scotch, too, because I know there are a few of you that appreciate a nice glass of Glenmorangie. If tequila isn’t your thing (coughNicolecough), I’ll fill your gullets with cheese. And Barefoot Contessa Outrageous Brownies. Of course the Barefoot Contessa Outrageous Brownies.

And if this post was entirely too obnoxious? Let’s pretend it never happened once tomorrow comes. Very much like some morning afters that I’m sure we’ve all experienced. I’m okay with being that blog as well.

Do the Humpty Hump January 30, 2008

Overhearing Co-Worker Susie and all 65 years of her chirp Happy Humpday! to someone in the hallway just now has left me twitching involuntarily in my office chair.

I guess that is my body’s natural reaction to the word “hump” being uttered by the same grandmotherly woman who giggles about changing into her “go fast shoes” before leaving the office to get to the train station.

How the word “humpday” has become so mainstream truly startles my mind.  

Maybe because my mind, in fact, happens to be a pretty dirty one. And when I hear hump, I think of sex. So when I hear people say they mean ”humpday” in an Oh it’s the middle of the week and it’s all downhill from here to the weekend! kind of way, I want to laugh.

And say Pity.

It’s a hell of a lot more fun if you choose to interrupt it in a more literal way. Particularly when a healthy amount of dirty talk gets involved in the whole mix. Because Cock, Fuck, Pussy, Tits, Harder, Wetter and Faster? Yes please, I say.

Being a strong-minded female who isn’t the type to preen over The Rules or making sure the guy always pays or never wearing white after Labor Day, I used to wonder if my predilection for dirty talk implied some deeper underlying issues.

Daddy issues. Men issues. Self-esteem issues. Masochistic issues.

Then I realized what fucking bullshit all that was. Because frankly, the reasons I like sex and have a penchant for dirty talk have nothing to do with needing some kind of validation and everything to do with the fact that it just feels damn good. And as long as it feels good, and it’s not hurting anyone but me, then I say “Hell, what’s the problem?”

Blame it on too many Gender Studies courses or Christian values infiltrating our minds, but once you remove the politics and overthinking behind sex, I think we can all agree that it’s difficult to argue against the merits of an orgasm. And hearing you like that big hard cock in your pussy don’t you just happens to be what it takes to push some chicks there.

Unless, that is, you’ve never had a good orgasm. Then I could see why you may judge and disapprove. You don’t know better. 

Senior year in college, my best friend Corey - she of the Gender Studies major - became infatuated with deciphering the various inferences behind different sexual positions.

“Women need to stop having sex with men doggy style or, even, reverse cowgirl,” she lectured over our nth round of homemade margeritas one night.

“Why is that, again?,” I asked, entirely in jest.

“Because it’s degrading. The guy is having sex with you and he’s not even looking at your face. You could be anyone. All he wants is your pussy. Your brain doesn’t matter. There aren’t any positions that put men in such demeaning positions. It’s not equal.”

“Yeah? I wonder what Benny and Chad would have to say about that.”

“Stop. That’s not the same. I’m talking about men and women right now.”

“You like doggy style, though. And I do too. Doggy style, reverse cow girl, doing it standing up pressed against a wall - whatever. It all feels good. Honestly, Cor, do you guys really discuss the reverse cow girl position in your Gender Studies class?”

“That is also not the point. It’s carnal and savage and if a man respects you, he’ll fuck you like an intelligent person.”

At this, I burst out in laughter. Sex is carnal and savage - the kind I enjoy anyway. I’m horny almost always and my God yes I want it. Sex can be sweet and intimate too, if that’s your cup of (weak) tea. But I consider it a succcessful bout of getting naked and mashing bodies when screaming, sweaty orgasms are had. I’ll save discussing Chaucer and the lack of a sound political infrastructure in most African nations for dinner.

We had some tshirts made later that year - Fuck me like an intelligent person blazoned over the chest in honor of our friend Corey. I still own it and I plan to wear it even when I’m a senior goddamn citizen.

She had a point though. Sex of the rougher and talk of the dirtier varieties only feels truly - dare I say - rewarding when it’s done with a guy who respects the hell out of you. And cares about you. The type with manners and a good heart and shows immediate concern the first time you scream that you’re so deep! And asks if you’re all right and whether he should try to not get so deep next time. Because ultimately, dirty talk is fantasy in good fun - meant to be confined to the bedroom or kitchen or living room or elevator. 

And lucky for me, that’s the type of guy I get to call my boyfriend. (But really, maybe he’s the one that’s lucky, yes?)

I shudder at the idea of a woman engaging in this kind of sex with a chauvinistic meathead - the kind that tells a woman her place is in the kitchen and that he doesn’t like how she looks wearing that dress because it makes her tits look small and doesn’t she know they’re about to go meet his friends and he needs her to look hot? (Ed. note: True story, this was something an ex-boyfriend of one of my girl friends told her. Of course, she is absolutely gorgeous. And he absolutely did not deserve her. But isn’t this too often the case?) The kind of pig that calls you Tits and gives you an approving smile as you walk by him, all while stroking the nearby ass of his girlfriend who is glaring machetes at you. That guy probably does think that all women are little whores who are asking for it. And he probably also has a 2-inch cock, hard.

The kind of sex and dirty talk I like isn’t anything too out of the ordinary. It’s not like I need my boyfriend to pee on my face or strangle my neck before I can orgasm. I don’t need to hear anything more unusual than some encouragement to ride his cock harder or play with my titties more. I’m not trying to tell you that I have sex as I dream about dead corpses.

I just like sex as I think sex is intended to be liked.

It’s not too difficult for me to imagine that this world would be a hell of a lot less angry if everyone would just go enjoy some highly athletic fucking and stop worrying about it so much. Some ‘throw me down and bite my neck and scream my head off not because I’m trying to sound sexy but because I just can’t help myself’ action. Some sex that - once it’s over - you feel too damn tired to feel anything but stupified content.

Well, everyone except for 65-year-old Co-Worker Susie, who seems to think that not smiling for more than one full minute makes you a bad employee and has begun to talk about the sexy older men she’s been meeting through Match (dot) com as though that is acceptable casual conversation in the office kitchen. 

I don’t need to imagine that. That’s just not my cup of (oddass) tea.

Knock, Knock January 9, 2008

Who’s there, you ask. Begrudgingly.

You threaten in advance that no, you orange going to be fucking glad I said bananas. Should that be where I’m headed.

It’s me! Damsel! Remember me?, I say.

Hm. Damsel? Damsel who?, you respond.

Damsel (Ed. note: I really can’t call myself this with a straight face). The blogette that pens (keyboards?) as Damsel in Digress. The idiot who wrote that she blogs at work but that it’s been slow around her office so you needn’t judge. Who wrote this so she could then write that by saying it’s slow around the office, she really meant to say that it’s not slow at all but that she also doesn’t give a shit. Because she’s a bit of a wiseass.

The idiot who dared to throw that out into the universe. Who momentarily forgot that it’s a cardinal rule of the gods to damn idiots who think they are too high and too mighty to pay attention to By 1/4/08!! or ASAP! or See me immediately! (Ed. note: How does one underline things on a blog to show not one but four lines?) because they’d rather play with their blog and their blog friends.

Especially when that idiot is me. A familiar plaything in the hands of the gods.

The last few days at work have been horrifying. Of chaos and pandemonium and threats of malpractice from disgruntled clients, oh fucking my.

(Jay slash kay about the threats of malpractice.)

(For now.)

It’s been the kind of hectic and nuts that absolutely cannot be sideswept into a pile of Things To Do Later. The kind that drives one to drink a bottle of wine the moment one arrives at their apartment and pass out with a Wii controller in one hand and a bag of Cape Cod Jalapeno & Aged Cheddar potato chips (the best potato chips that exist in this world - this is actually not up for argument) in the other. The kind that leaves one’s brain and one’s fingers only able to type ASLKDFJKdkjfASD!!11!!!oneone!!! as a blog post. And really bad Knock Knock jokes, apparently.

And shower? What’s that?

I try to not blog about my job. Though I certainly have ample material. My office is the type of place that would be most bloggers’ wet dream. There’s the 55 year old attorney, Jewish and male, who has a personal manicurist stop by the office once a week. The interoffice memo circulated last week offering $50 to the employee who would clean the year’s worth of stuff! that clogs the office kitchen’s refrigerator. Or the IT guy who kisses your hand every time - every single time - he sees you. The same IT guy who pulled you aside to tell you that while he was updating your computer, he noticed that you had saved some iTunes onto the main company server and that the main company server should be used to save company work only. So now, you are afraid that if you tell HR that the IT guy sexually harrasses your hand every time he sees you, he’ll tell them that he found You’se a Ho! and Africa (Ed. note: Yes, by Toto) saved in your folder on the main company server because you like to listen to songs at the office that hold potential for unintentional comedy. Songs that you had meant to save in your Local Computer Folder but it’s you. So of course you couldn’t just fulfill your work inappropriateness quota by downloading music at work. You had to publicly display it.

But I refrain. (Clearly.) For fear.

I guess there’s no point in this post except to say that I miss you all. And that I know to claim that I will write whatever is on my mind in my last post, then to not post for a series of days is not the way one does this type of thing.

The madness, I think, is subsiding a bit. Mainly because a very kickass girl in HR wrote a very scathing email to one of my bosses to stop being a crazy bitch who hands me assignments at 5:00 p.m. while telling me that she knows it’s a week’s worth of work but that she needs it to be done by 8:00 p.m. for the Fed Ex pickup. And bcc’d me on it. And I choose to see that as a green flag to play.

Although I wish I knew how to decrease this font. Decrease it enough so that the gods don’t notice what I wrote in that last paragraph and create a whole new flurry of work, work and more work for me.

They need to know that the Knock Knock ‘Hi It’s Me Damsel Please Don’t Forget About Me’ plea is not intended for them.

Hate At First Sight December 21, 2007

We began with an assumption borne from a Facebook profile picture.

Once upon a night three Novembers ago, a friend named Brendan informed me and my roommate Sia that the plan for the night was his friend’s apartment party. A friend Brendan had made a few years earlier while studying abroad and smoking hash in the south of France the summer before our sophomore year. A friend neither Sia or I knew and, hence, a friend Sia and I immediately Facebook-ed once we were off the phone with Brendan.

Naturally.

What we found was a Leather Jacket wearing A Pair of Yellow-Tinted Sunglasses holding A Beer Bottle Perfectly Pointed To The Camera classified as A Moderate looking for Whatever He Could Get. 

An alum of a private school. To wit, one of this country’s best. A venerable breeder of overprivileged clones who, in sum, continue their educations at fancy top universities like my alma mater where development into entitled douschbags can be secured.

Oh God, I judged. Yes, I absolutely judged.

When Brendan later arrived at Sia’s and my apartment to begin our night, I was prepared. When he promised the party would be fun, I protested. When he insisted we all go, I shook my head no. When he waxed nostalgic out loud remembering their study abroad together in the south of France, I waxed nostalgic in my head remembering the Facebook profile I had seen moments earlier. And when he asked me why the hell I was giving him such a hard time - me, the girl who had a history of being quite agreeable whenever copious amounts of free booze were involved - I said I had my reasons.

But Brendan is 9 inches taller than me and unafraid to smack a sister. He’s gay, after all. So he won our argument.

When the cab arrived at our destination - a fancy high rise with a fancy entryway and a fancy foyer with a fancy accessory of a doorman right in the heart of downtown Chicago - I thought, Figures.

When the fancy doorman informed us we’d need to go to the 51st floor - the very top of the building! - my eyes rolled back and I nearly choked spitting HA! with such scorn.

When we got to the door of the apartment, I sighed. Loudly. I looked away while Brendan enthusiastically knocked.

Then he of my Facebook-inspired scorn opened the door. And I forgot to throw up in my mouth a little like I had threatened Brendan I’d do seconds earlier. 

I remember that his eyes laughed even though he wasn’t. I immediately wanted to be included in whatever made his eyes laugh like that.

But what I don’t remember? Are first words or first introductions. Or second words or even our one hundredth words. Because the rest of the night was a blur of very heavy drinking, after-hours clubbing in Wicker Park, sloppy tongue-twisted flirting, a very necessary 4:00 a.m. pizza delivery and Family Guy episodes. We all crashed at his place. And I slept on the couch.

His bed was where I slept the following weekend.

And a Thursday night not too long after that. And on New Years Eve 2005 (or is it 2006?), too.

But phone numbers remained to be exchanged. (Bodily fluids though? Taken care of.) Which meant that later that January - when he suggested what I learned many months later was his attempt at an official first date - he used AIM to cyberly ask if I’d like to meet him after work to go rock climbing. Sia insisted I go because seriously, when the fuck are you two going to do something that doesn’t involve late nights and booze?, but this? Rock climbing? I got down to the floor and told Sia I’d only go if I could finish ten push-ups first.

I got to 8 (Ed note: High School Me that won my high school cross country team’s Annual Freshman Push-up Challenge with 76 in less than 10 minutes groans in shame right now). I thought What the hell, packed a bag of what I thought rock climbing might require - gloves? a hairband? leggings? - and ran to catch the 145 bus.

The rock climbing wall was closed already for the night. What a pity. Imagine the stories I could share had it not been.

The following months were spent sleeping in beds together but not sleeping together and meeting up when out but not going out together. Everyone told me the attraction was obvious but that he wasn’t the committal type. That he didn’t do serious relationships. That girls long before me had tried and failed.

I said, That’s fine. This fits.

For the very, very first time, I had met someone who didn’t want to force the So What Are We conversation on me, rush labels or definitions or limitations. Define me as his. And it fucking sucked. But it also, somehow, worked. For a girl who had a history of running away from boys who pushed and wanted too much too soon, it worked.

Then one day in September, we went beyond the witty banter and guarded attraction. We talked about our families and our childhoods and shared pieces of ourselves. We had met after work, our office buildings only a block apart, and gone to his apartment. And, because it’s me, we decided to have some shots because Shots? Why not? before meeting our friends at ESPNZone to watch our alma mater’s first football game of the season. And maybe it was the Barcardi Limon (Ed. note: Stop judging), but soon, we shared stories of similar rebellious streaks against strict parenting and commiserated regret on our childish behaviors. And when the story exchange was over, we both looked at each other and smiled. He walked over to me and pulled me up into a hug. And we hugged the kind of hug that raced my heart and made me feel entirely safe all in one electric moment. And I knew somehow, we had finally gotten over our hump, from there’s a connection to we are connected.

But the conversation was ill-timed. 

Because I was no longer single, stuck in a relationship that had more or less begun earlier that summer, signed, sealed, and delivered as a summer fling. Which unfortunately did not end with summer’s end because I am very bad at two things. That is one, ending relationships. And two, ending relationships that really need to fucking end.

It did, eventually, over the next couple months. In a very ugly, brutal way. And finally. After a year from our first introduction and nearly a year ago from today. After intrigued interest but nothing concrete; catty girls who tried their unstable best to beg his interest away from me; and complications and calumniation by multiple parties that would make most soap operas - Yes, even you, Passions! - blush.  After all this?

One year ago from next Friday, and almost a year after a leather jacket and a pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses almost kept me away from his party, my boyfriend initiated a very simple conversation over a couple of beers at Clark Street Ale House and we finally became us.
 
 ~ 
 
The holidays for me mean appreciation. Beneath the lights and decorations and wrapping paper, the cookies and holiday parties and carols, I’m thankful for my friends and my family and feel blessed that we are all - more or less - in good health. I’m thankful for my boyfriend, who allows my huge tits to counterbalance my huge amounts of crazy. And I am thankful that we eventually exchanged phone numbers so that I could receive his call moments ago to learn that tonight, we have reservations at Kevin, and squeal in excitement. (Ed. note: I’m lying. He told me over Gchat. Old habits die hard.)
 
Happiest of holidays to everyone. And also, the funniest of holidays too. Come back with stories, yes? I will need to be kept entertained once the holidays are over and we have nothing but the winter slump upon us. I fuckin’ love y’all. May your next few days be merry, bright, and not occupied with too many thoughts of wanting to strangle family members.

1,2,3,4 … (Get Your Body On The Floor?) December 16, 2007

One pitcher of sangria, graciously handed to me by one of the servers at our office holiday party, a look of pity tout inclus, kept at my side and steadily refilled all night.

Two comments fired by the managing partner of our firm that we all need to remember that I didn’t think to rent any IV machines tonight, winks in my direction.

Three times caught, double-fisting unlimited booze.

Four hours of sitting next to an attorney who seemed to think my shoulders were his personal arm rest.

Five nasty sneers shot my way by co-worker (and sometime work frenemy) Katie - a girl who without warrant considers me her competition - whenever an Important stopped to talk to me (Ed. note: I know she considers me her competition because she once told me: “[Damsel], you’re my competition,” then drove her point home by following the warning with a forced yet sinister giggle). Without warrant, because I am the girl in the office who vultures in the office kitchen and sometimes (only sometimes) watches The Hills on mtv.com when it’s a slow rough day. Yes, that girl.

Six phone calls I placed to my boyfriend to beg him to please oh pretty please call my phone so I can pretend as though I have received bad news and must leave the party right away. Six times my calls went unanswered after I had switched the ringer on my cell from One Beep+Vibrate to Volume 8+Vibrate in expectation of his call. (I later learned that he had been sleeping. Oh how nice peaceful slumber must have been for him.)

Seven text messages sent to various friends confirming that Yes, I had verbalized aloud to coworkers, “There should be another term we use tonight for double-fisting because it sounds too dirty for a work event.” Additionally, 1 comment made to a younger male attorney that due to the type of males I call friends, it is impossible for me to walk by the Argo Tea near our office building and not notice - I mean, really notice - the poster-size ads for their Cleveland Steamers.

Eight stuffed mushrooms stuffed into my mouth in less than eight minutes. Every eight minutes. (I love mushrooms.)

Nine male co-workers who asked where the party would be continuing after the office holiday party. Nine male co-workers I avoided for the duration of the party.

Ten minutes I spent in the women’s bathroom at the halfway point of the event, contemplating if anyone would really notice if I left and then grasping that Yes, of course they would, because our office holiday parties are for employees only and there are no buffers to make my disappearance less inconspicuous. Did I then walk back to the party and unknowingly shove my cleavage in the face of a male attorney while attempting to lean around him to grab my mojito? I did. But as my co-worker Sara pointed out, if it makes me feel any better, at least he’s the gay one.

Finale.

The Company Of Unlimited Sangria December 14, 2007

There will be a party tonight featuring plenty of tapas and unlimited sangria to the background of forced laughter, awkward conversation and silent urges pulsing in my fingertips to pull any fire alarms I see to end the occasion early.
 
Even in the company of unlimited sangria.
  
Drinking - heavy and plentiful drinking - was a thing my 18 years of locked up angst adapted to quickly and efficiently once I arrived at college. The stream of long nights blurred with dancing and seducing, phone number exchanges and searches for misplaced cell phones, 24-hour Burger King runs and 10:00 a.m. discussion sections for my Modern Germany class dressed in my outfit from the night before provided distractions of allure and a rush of constant movement that never faded for me.
 
Graduation from college didn’t change the quantities consumed, only the settings. Rather than plastic red cups of keg beer at Phi Delt’s off-campus apartment, it was now a bottle of red in my apartment while sitting on my couch and secretly crushing on Santino. Walks of shame past Hillel and the engineering buildings turned into 6:30 a.m. cab rides and a quick stop at McDonald’s for hash browns before arriving at the office. A break-up with a college boyfriend just days after graduation only pushed me to move harder, move faster during those months as a newly inducted player of the real world. I just needed to move.
 
Then came the news of the upcoming office holiday party. My first. I considered my options - newly guaranteed employment, top-shelf open bar, and my own personal patterns of non-stop double-fisting even around unlimited alcohol - and became nervous. Moderation and I have never been words synonymous. 
 
Tales regaled by a roommate of her co-worker who arrived at work the day after theirs only to be handed a box of his things by security and a message that he had been terminated for his gin & tonic-influenced words and wandering hands only frightened me further. Instant sympathetic recognition and thoughts of Fuck! Could that be me?? as responses to this story made me understand that extreme measures had to be taken to prevent me from being this man when my own office party happened in a few days.
 
So, on the night before this office holiday party two years ago from present, I called my friend Brendan to inform him that the goal for the night would be to get me so drunk that the mere sight of alcohol would discourage me from consumption the next evening among my coworkers. A goal that began as a joke and very, very quickly became reality. Sake martinis at Japonais, liters of wine at the (then) newly-opened Quartino, gimlets - gimlets! - with the escargot and cheeseburgers at late-night spot Bijan’s Bistro, and I was tanked. And to encourage matters, my now boyfriend who was only a boy I had just met a few weeks earlier when Brendan had dragged me to his apartment party had joined us by this point. Who welcomed the challenge to get me so drunk that the mere sight of alcohol would discourage me from consumption the next evening among my coworkers. Which soon led to wild giggling over the waitress’ indignation at our order of “ESSS-CAR-GITS” and drunken French blabbing of how our serveuse de coquetels needed a sens de l’humour and forced Brendan to find us too caustic to humor any longer and leave.
 
Leave us - me and this boy who caused butterflies and sparks but a boy I had just met a few weeks earlier - to end up in his bed. Leave me to slur that my mouth was too dry for kissing and leave him to run to the kitchen to bring me a 24-ounce glass mug of water that I could barely lift to my mouth. Leave us to have sex for the first time. And leave me to text my coworker at 4:30 in the morning something involving many misspellings, exclamation points and pleas to bring me suitable work attire the next morning for me to wear.
 
She found me cowering behind a pillar in the lobby of our office building the next morning and burst into laughter at the sight of me, hungover and hair messily pulled into a ponytail held by a miniature red and white scarf that I had stolen from the snowman soap dispenser I had found in his bathroom (Ed. note: I learned many months later that the snowman soap dispenser had been sent in a care package from his mother). She threw into my hands a Bloomingdale’s Medium Brown Bag stuffed with clothing and told me that I had better replace my jeans right away. Because our office? Is a very professional setting where I may be able to pass off a hungover face and a messy ponytail held in place by a miniature scarf stolen from a snowman soap dispenser but jeans? Jeans were completely unacceptable.
 
I scoured through the shopping bag and considered my options. Faced with the decision between a pair of brown pants that ended right above my ankles and a black skirt that ended right above my knees - a pair of pants that ended below the ankles and a skirt that ended below the knees of my co-worker who at 5′2″ is 5 inches shorter than me - I erred on the side of slutiness rather than unfashionable, and chose the skirt.
 
And for the rest of the day, I sat in an unlit office with my head unable to move beyond a 45 degree angle from my neck. I grimaced at comments of my festive appearance. And silently cried on the inside when 65-year-old Susie asked me where she could get hairties that looked like little scarves for her granddaughters.
 
But I made it to the office holiday party that evening that began at 6:00 p.m. And while coworkers ordered glasses of white and sipped on scotch, I drank my water and averted my eyes away from the bar. And when the younger attorneys and staff decided to move the party to Suite Lounge on Wells and told me I was not allowed to go home that early, I went along. And shot the Lemon Drops. And drank the Carrot Cake Martinis. And sipped the Chambord + Sparkling Waters. And realized that my body had become so accustomed to alcohol running through it’s internals that it no longer presented any discernible effect. My coworkers talked brutal about other coworkers, danced on table tops, screamed profanities at cab drivers, and I watched bewildered, shocked that I had felt worried about my possible behavior.
 
It prepared me. And reinforced the life lesson that one should always get drunk when the opportunity is available. So when the night before last year’s office holiday party came, I spent it indoors, away from Sake Martinis and Gimlets, and went to bed early, like an athlete preparing for his big game the next day. But the party was no festive occasion because an older attorney at our firm, the father of the managing partner, had passed away the night before. And while the party was still held, it was no time to chug down the endless drinks I had prepared my body for. Naturally.
 
One more year has passed from that day and the night of another holiday party is now upon me. And yesterday evening - the night before tonight’s holiday party - I went to dinner with the same boy I spent the night before my office holiday party two years ago, the boy who is now (finally!) my boyfriend. We enjoyed their delicious focaccia with taleggio cheese, truffle oil (Ed. note: I would bathe in truffle oil for the rest of my life if I could somehow afford this to happen) and herbs to start. The New Zealand snapper with shaved fennel, pomegranate, celery leaves and coriander followed soon after and was consumed in minutes, prepared to perfection. The meal also saw a bottle of Portugeuse Bruto Rosado. We made jokes that the bottle was for me and we should get a glass of something for him. But by the end of the night, my boyfriend had drank more of the bottle than me. And after our bill was paid, we ran over to Sepia for a nightcap to celebrate the anniversary (Ed. note: My boyfriend and I like to celebrate atypical anniversaries. We’re kind of forced to because of the very odd way we came together. We agree to look at it as humorous). Avec had been perfect as always, and Sepia was wonderful. But my happiest moment of the night was when we ended up in the same bed we had ended up in two years ago. And instead of feeling disgustingly drunk, I felt calm, content, and giddy.
 
And of course there was sex. Sex that I could remember today.
 
So this evening poses as my third chance. Dressed in my own work attire and not a bit hungover, it’s one more opportunity to indulge my insatiable thirst for alcohol on the company dime. And perhaps it’s a product of age or feeling less like I’m desperately running from my demons and more like I’ve gained some control over a life and behavior I once thought of as uncontrollable, but it’s a thirst I’ve seen become less insatiable over the past two years.
 
However, it’s still a party with coworkers, where the setting will be of forced laughter, awkward conversation and silent urges pulsing in my fingertips to pull any fire alarms I see to end the occasion early. And because drinking oneself obscenely drunk is still not technically illegal - unlike pulling a fire alarm when there is no fire - you can damn well bet that much of that unlimited sangria will be ending up in my stomach.

I Fucking Love You Too November 28, 2007

My boyfriend and I had already committed to the idea of staying up all night on our last night in Vegas. Our flight out of Vegas the next morning was at 11:00 and staying up all night just seemed more fun (and oh so Vegas of us) than plunking down $250 for a hotel room.
 
This is the type of logic that frequently pops its head into my life and enables me into situations that help me realize how lucky I am to not be jailed/unemployed/dead.
 
Like the night before my first office holiday party two years ago when I decided to go out, get absolutely hammered to eliminate any chance of me getting a little too friendly with the open bar that would be at the holiday party the next night so to not be that girl, and ended up in the bed of my boyfriend who was only a boy I had recently met back then, drunkenly texting my coworker to please oh pretty please bring me work appropriate clothing the next day. And how the next morning, I woke up with possibly one of the worst hangovers of my life. And how I went to the bathroom that belonged to my boyfriend who wasn’t my boyfriend then and desperately tried to find something, anything, to put my J.B.F hair into a ponytail. And settled on the miniature scarf on the snowman soap dispenser that I later learned was from his mother. And showed up at my office building and hid behind a pillar until my coworker arrived, my coworker who is beautiful and cute and? 4 inches shorter than me. And tried to decide between the black skirt and the brown pants in the office bathroom because my coworker was sweet enough to bring me a plentiful selection. And decided that I’d rather appear slutty in a black skirt that ended above my knee rather than fashion-backward in pants that ended right above my ankles. And smiled half-heartedly (and queasily) when coworkers told me I looked so festive with my black going out skirt and red and white hairtie that oh isn’t that cute it looks like a miniature scarf! But, the moral of the story, is that I was by far the least drunk person at my office holiday party. Although, in hindsight, it didn’t matter because no one will believe the stories I have in my arsenal from that night because over time, I’ve established I am that girl anyway so I should have just gone ahead and gotten drunk that night. So the real moral of the story is to always get drunk when the opportunity is available. But I digress.
 
Our first stop was a hotel room in the Flamingo, where my boyfriend’s friends from high school had a room. Friends he had not seen in months and friends I had not yet met. Friends who, when he called them to tell them we were in their room, were at Bill’s Gamblin’ Hall to see Big Elvis. Friends who, with that little bit of information, I knew I’d love.
 
And oh, did I. My boyfriend had already warned me they were crazy. But see, my boyfriend and I, we went to the same college. And knew the same people. Yet somehow didn’t meet until the fall after we had both graduated when a mutual friend dragged me to his and his roommate’s apartment party that I did.not.want.to.go.to (Ed. note: Another post will have to be dedicated to the Story of Us - it’s not pretty). And since dating, I have met his friends that live in Chicago. And they are fun and adventurous and up for a good time and practice the mandatory drinking-too-much and staying-out-too-late behavior I encourage, but crazy - really, really crazy - they are not.
 
But Adam and Matt and Phil and Woods? They are crazy. Crazy. My kind of crazy. And not just crazy, but good people. And they clearly loved my boyfriend. And I loved it. Because is there anything more endearing than seeing your significant other with their friends and seeing how much they all love one another and thoroughly enjoy one another’s company having a kickass time together? It was fitting that the running line of the night was (cue: Southern Twang) “I motherfucking HEARD you, boy! I fuckin’ love you too!,” something the guys had overheard a model yell into her cell phone the night before, a model hired by Matt to pose for faux wedding pictures at famous Vegas sites. A line that was frequently uttered all night. During dinner at Mr. Lucky’s 24/7 Cafe? Yes. Bottle service at LAX? Oh, hell yes. And many, many drunken cab rides.
 
(Oh, and Matt? Is an incredible photographer. I saw his stuff and it is good. Good enough for me to almost post the link to his site and risk my anonymity. Please email me if you are in need or know someone in need of a photographer who is unbelievably creative and hilarious and innovative. He will blow you away.)
 
My boyfriend and I did manage to stay up all night, although the hours between 5am-7am were rough. And using the booth at the 24-hour cafe at Flamingo to catch a quick cat nap at 6:30am did not please the waitresses. Neither did I feel very comfortable walking around in a short (Ed. note: Short) black dress and chocolate brown 4-inch heeled suede boots once the senior citizens in matching warm-up suits started showing up in hoards.
 
We made it back to his friend’s hotel room to pick up our suitcases and change. And it was dark and all of his friends were asleep. So we changed quietly and tried to pack and gather as quickly as possible.
 
Just as we opened the door to leave, we heard Matt whisper to us, “I motherfucking HEARD you. I fucking love you too.”
 
It was the perfect (fucking) end to Vegas.
 
(Vegas!)

Sin City And A Mormon Thanksgiving November 16, 2007

Four delicious inches of cobalt blue, peep-toe, suede stiletto heel currently dress each of my feet as I sit here at my desk.
  
Office setting? Sorry, you can be damned.
  
Today’s lunch hour consisted of heavy retail therapy. Or can it be considered retail necessity if the shoes were purchased for a purpose? The shoes that are now on my feet even though I am at the office because Hi, I’m Impatient And I Really Needed To See How They Looked On My Feet Again. The office that now smells strongly of water repellent spray for fine leathers, suedes and nubucks because Hello, I Buy Things Based Not Always On Practicality (i.e. suede shoes in cold and wet Chicago) And Must Take Advantage Of Protective Measures. The water repellent spray that I decided had to be sprayed on my shoes right this moment because Hey, I’m Impatient and we’ve already met two sentences ago. Admittedly, I now feel slightly dizzy, faint, and nauseous.
    
But my feet? They are happy. 
 
And even happier yet because tomorrow, they will find themselves and their cobalt blue open-toe stiletto compatriots in Las Motherfucking Vegas. Vegas! Viva Las!
 
(My long introduction that led you to think this post was about shoes alone is what they would refer to as “slow-playing it” in poker terms. I’m so topical.)
     
My boyfriend and I leave Chicago in approximately 12 hours to embark on a week long vacation (a week! a whole week!). The joy that madly pumps through my veins right now leads me to think that maybe it is possible to live high on life! alone. 
   
I had a very creative, very hilarious post prepared (Ed. note: This is not it) but it’ll have to wait to be posted till I’m in Vegas (Vegas!). Because today has been a very busy day at the office, a wild scramble on my part to finish what I can and hide what I can’t. Laptops will be brought along on the trip and posting will seamlessly continue. When I agreed to NaBloPoMo (Ed. note: Cue giggle), this week long trip had already been planned. Which means that I knew there would be a week when I would not be chained to my office desk - where it’s easy to blog - but in Vegas (Vegas!) - where there are many distractions that may - just may - outweigh blogging. But I welcome the challenge. There is a small part of me that envisions sitting by the pool or laying out on the hotel bed and writing some of my best posts yet. You may slightly loathe me as you read my posts that are written in Vegas (Vegas!), but I promise I won’t be that person who just rubs it in your face that she is in Vegas (Vegas!) while you are not in Vegas (Vegas!).  Really.
       
If you need any more reasons to tune in this upcoming week, know that while tomorrow (tomorrow!) through next Tuesday will be spent in Vegas (Vegas!), starting Tuesday morning, I will be at my boyfriend’s parents’ house located in Small Mormon Town, Utah, an hour outside of Vegas, playing golf, canyoneering with my boyfriend’s father (??), celebrating Thanksgiving, and hopefully not becoming someones 4th wife. 
      
See how this could have been a very hilarious post? Scene: Me - a very not blond, very not blue-eyed, very olive-toned complexioned person - preparing herself to travel to a town full of Mormons to celebrate Thanksgiving with her boyfriend’s family for the very first time. Hilarity ensues!
         
But I just can’t do it justice right now. Because I am at the office, and I am busy finishing what I can and hiding what I can’t. I am dizzy and faint and slightly nauseous due to the greater concentration of aerosol water repellent spray than oxygen in the air surrounding my desk. And I can’t stop wanting to shout at the top of my lungs so that everyone in this office can hear: I’M GOING TO BE GONE FOR AN ENTIRE WEEK, SUCK ON THAT!
       
I’m beginning to think that the 4th cup of coffee I had a moment ago was a bad idea.
    
Oh, and my boyfriend? He doesn’t know about this blog yet, not so much because I am hiding it from him but because I haven’t told him about it (Ed. note: …). So I imagine that’ll provide for some interesting future posts as well. Perhaps I’ll even attempt a live blog post for that conversation. It would be so topical of me.