The Blair Witch

I was making pie dough in my food processor one evening last week, which involves some aggressive maneuvering of the food processor on my part -- but results in superior crust.

I had just put the dough in plastic wrap to chill in the refrigerator when someone knocked on my door.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"Uh, my name is Nicholas, I'm your downstairs neighbor."

Hmm -- what does he want?

I open the door and yes, it's the degenerate bf of my trashy downstairs neighbor. If you know me, you know my life has been a living hell since they moved in. All night parties, violent arguments, drugs, alcohol...basically, they suck. And now the boyfriend from this couple is standing at my door and he wants to talk about noise and is asking me to let him/them know if there are any problems with noise. I was a bit surprised, it was only 9 PM on a Thursday and I hadn't found them particularly noisy that night.

Because I'm me, I engage him in a long and detailed conversation. (I need to stop doing that...)

His name is Nicholas, both his parents are deceased. He's Catholic, but his girlfriend and her family are Greek Orthodox and Greek's are LOUD! He's kind of dreading Greek Easter with them. He has a brother and a stepbrother. He's a graduate of Johnson and Wales and works in 3 restaurants: Smoky Bones, Centro and Sunset Grill. He worked at a restaurant in Saratoga Springs in 2006 as part of his intership at Johnson and Wales. He finds the neighbors below him to be noisy too, saying they play video games loudly at 4 in the morning! (Gee, imagine that...loud at 4 AM...) He's taking financial management classes and owns property in the Bahamas, California and Norwalk.

When speaking of his girlfriend, he twice indicated she is crazy, as demonstrated by using the "cuckoo" finger motion at his head. He also said she gets very jealous of the time he spends with his buddies...which is why they party at the condo all the time. Super!!!

Back to the noise issue -- they hear me stomping around all the time in my high heels. Yes, incredibly they have an issue with ME! Hilarious, I know. Especially since I haven't been in heels for over a month due to a knee injury, and I don't wear shoes around my house anyway.

But you know what brought him up to discuss noise with me this evening...

The food processor.

Yes, my aggressive maneuvering of the food processor involves some banging and thumping, in addition to the sound of the motor itself. And while I was manhandling my food processor, Nicholas was banging on the ceiling in response. (Which I heard, but assumed it was their typical noisiness, not anything directed at me.)

So, he does get some points for addressing the problem. He loses all points for being both drunk and high when he came to my door.

Going forward, I'm going to be more conscientious about what shoes I wear in the house so as not to disturb them (i know, really!!!) and if I find their partying too extreme, I should let them know they need to quiet down.

Oh, and what's the deal with the title of this post: The Blair Witch...Apparently Nick and his buds were downstairs one night (drunk and high, obvi) and I was stomping around my unit (in heels, of course) and probably making pie crust in my food processor and the sounds emanating from my unit reminded them of The Blair Witch Project. So they call me the Blair Witch -- which, as you can imagine, I love the name!!!

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Follow up: I mentioned the above incident to my beloved mother in an email and this was her response:

They are not stable people. How old are they? He is probably a bus boy at all the restaurants he works for. As for cuckoo, he is as nutty as the gf. Also, if he owns property in the Bahamas and Cali why is he spending the winters in NE? Steer clear of these people, they are bad news. No more conversations if he or she appear at your door. Tell them you have poison ivy or poison oak. "M" oxoxox

Love it! Poison Ivy or poison oak...where does she come up with this stuff?

39...the new 70!

A message came in from "Kritios Boy" that started with the usual blah blah blah...but then it got interesting. Paragraph 2 of his message reads:

I have all my own teeth and hair. I love the outdoors; and enjoy all kinds of music, & most of all I enjoy cooking. I don't have any pets that I am aware of, unless you count the birds in the yard. I have a degree in engineering, however I moved into marketing & really enjoy working in the women's healthcare. I'll be more than happy to send you some pics if you reply.

"I have all my own teeth and hair." I had to double check his profile -- which did NOT include a picture -- to see how old this guy was. 39!!! Ok, I could totally see if he was 60 and felt compelled to rave about original teeth and hair...but 39? It's a bit young for that to be a highlight.

I didn't know what "Kritios" meant, so I decided to google it to see if there was any significance. Well what do you know! The oh-so-reliable Wikipedia tells me: The marble Kritios boy or Kritian Boy belongs to the Early Classical period of ancient Greek sculpture.

If you're as uneducated in the Early Classical period of ancient Greek sculpture as I was, allow me to educate you: it's all about full-frontal male nudity of pre-teen boys.

So that's what this guy has selected for his profile name -- nude Greek boys. I had been curious to see a photo of the original hair and teeth, I mean gosh, they were featured features...but I'm fairly certain any pic I received from Boy Wonder would contain full-frontal male nudity and I'm just not down with that.

Meth Head

I got a wink from someone named Jimmeth411. I was bewildered from the start as to why someone would use the phrase "meth 411" in his user name...but even more shocked when the wink notification email from Match - which includes part of one's profile - reveals that my pill-popping friend started his profile with:
Its hard to be humble....when your perfect

After which the Match email cut off the profile. (To read more you must log in to match.com). So all I know is he's a potential meth-head who thinks he's perfect...yet he is already a perfect failure at grammar with the "its" and "your" -- versus "it's" and "you're".

I informed Sissy of my new admirer to which she responded:
I, sure he is jsut james michael ethelany born march 11

The above line is directly from our email exchange -- where egregious grammar and spelling errors are commonplace. But people, please, edit your online profile! Please.

I responded to Sissy:
Well March is actually the THIRD month, so that would be 311. Nice try.

And back she came:
Oh right. Yes he meth head.

While I could certainly expand on my knowledge of methamphetamines...I'm not looking to do this as part of a relationship.

Moving on....

McLovin

So I'm live on Match.com. I'm also extraordinarily busy at work so I've been neglecting my matches. And they have been noticing.

Email #1 from "iammclovin" -- get it, McLovin? Lame.
Does this mean I have to move to Conn?

I didn't respond (although my first instinct was to write back "No.") for a few reasons:
-His profile pic is a sketchy webcam photo.
-He's from Long Island. I have nothing against LI, but I do have something against commuting for love.
-His profile starts out with "sorry about the webcam photo but I work a full-time job."

Really? Guess what: I work a full time job and then some, yet I manage to have pictures of me taken by a human being. Because of my full-time-job-and-then-some situation, I never responded. I was too busy.

Two days later, McLovin takes another shot:
Looks like I don't have to rent a Uhaul

Nope, no you do not. But I'm still so swamped at my full-time-job-and-then-some that I don't respond. In fact, there was a solid week where I didn't log in to Match once. (Although I have the supreme pleasure of getting these messages forwarded to my iPhone.) I was too busy to care about my non-response, figuring he'd get the message.

So two days after that, imagine my surprise when McLovin reached out again:
Hey how many guys are willing to come from another state to see you?

Okay, McLovin, you crossed the line: you are officially creepy.

Where's the love? Oh, here it is.

Remember I bitched about not being interviewed by the local media for my ascent of Kilimanjaro? But that lame-ass guy who raised a $100 for celiac disease got an interview?

Well, I got my due. The local outdoor shop where I dropped a significant amount of cash in preparing for my trip nominated me as their "local hero" and while I won't be featured in any print media, I will be a hero on a daily news website. Woo hoo! (We all know my love of things online, how fitting.)

I only did the interview a few days ago, but already I'm stressed that I'll come across like a narcissistic asshole. How does a reporter accurately reflect my statements in his written materials when all he has is a notebook full of scribbled soundbites?

Yeah, so that's what we're going to blame if I sound totally douchy -- we blame the reporter. Because anyone who knows me (or reads this blog) knows I'm sweet, kind-hearted and infinitely tolerant of those around me. Love you!

PS: Of course I googled the reporter before we met and while he has published nothing of significance, I did come across a website where he was offering his services as a freelance creative writer and in his profile he wrote: "He resides in Connecticut with his cat Miho. Pretty much everything he does is to keep her appeased." Then I googled "Miho" and it's some japanimation chick. And you know what? When I met him I realized his is totally that guy who is a slave to a cat.

PPS: Shit, I just proved exactly why I am the d-bag asshole. Hopefully the reporter didn't pick up on it!

You've just [re]subscribed to Match.com. Your new love life awaits.

I just spent $60.57 on a three-month membership to match.com. While some of you had requested eHarmony, I went with the cheaper alternative. Hey, we are in a recession! Plus, I already had my old match profile ready to roll. eHarmony wanted to ask me 1,001 questions and I wasn't feeling honest with myself, never mind an online questionnaire.

So stay tuned! I hope to be entertaining you soon with the trials and tribulations of dating dudes like our old favorites OffshoreDave and RoboDate. I'll get free drinks out of it, you'll get the laughs...it's win-win!

And who knows, maybe I'll meet someone decent who will inspire me to deactivate my match.com profile. Ok, ok, let's not jump the gun here.

Heel Walker

a new neighbor moved in to my building. directly below me. and whoever it is -- he/she is a HEEL WALKER. each and every footfall slams into their floor and i can hear each and every footstep in my unit -- which is ABOVE their unit. it's nearly unbearable. i even heard this person stomping around at 4:25 AM on saturday morning. i get up early but not THAT early. and definitely not on a saturday.

curiosity (and irritation) got the best of me. as soon as it was dark on saturday evening, which, in case you hadn't noticed, is by 6 PM these days, i went outside to see if i could spot this person thorugh their windows. totally pervy, i know. fuck you. maybe i'll come look in your windows next. (the very thought makes me sick. yeah, f u again.)

i looked up at their unit and it appeared they have dark drapes on the living room windows. damn. there was a flat panel TV mounted on a wall, but no sign of the resident, who momentarily was NOT stomping around their unit. probably loafing on their sofa, watching college football. the rest of the weekend progressed in a now-typical stomping/foot slamming fashion.

monday evening i got home from work early. i was heading into the building to check my mail when i paused, in full daylight, to peer up at slamfoot's unit in hopes of catching a glimpse of my lead-footed neighbor. and that's when i noticed it was not DRAPES in the living room windows blocking my view. no, no -- that would be far too classy. this person --slamfoot-- has a GIANT CARDBOARD BOX, deconstructed to flatness, over the half the windows in his/her living room. corrugated cardboard. complete with the label "this end up" and the explanatory arrow. in the window. of our high-end condo complex.

beautiful, just beautiful. there goes the neighborhood...

The Liability

We noticed "The Liability" when he stumbled down to the edge of the water and urinated through his swim trunks, completely unaware of what he was doing. We would have noticed him anyway -- the scorching sunburn on his body, the lack of shoes, the way he clutched his backpack...the tell-tale drunken lurching, barefoot, over the rock and broken shell beach.

We watched, laughed and heckled as the kid, through unseeing eyes, finished pissing his trunks -- DID NOT EVEN BOTHER RINSING IN THE WATER -- and returned to the party further up the beach. We laughed some more when we determined the boat he had arrived on had long since departed and would not be returning until the next day. But he wasn't our problem. Or was he?

Fast forward a few hours. We're leaving the party, it's dark, the tide is out. And guess who's back. The Liability. He's got an advocate this time, someone less drunk than he is, who is imploring us to return him to land, drop him at any train station, he needs to get back to NYC. The Liability is still shoe- and shirtless, he's still clutching the backpack like it contains the Holy Grail, and although none of us are close enough to smell, he likely reeks of beer and urine. Excellent.

After some serious debating among our group over who would take the urine-soaked Liability aboard their boat, he was finally assigned to the boat I was on and since I would be driving past the train station I was tasked with dropping him off. It was 8:30 PM, the next train to NYC from the E Norwalk station was at 10:30. The Liability would have a long wait.

We get to the gas dock at Cove (an even longer story about why that was my origin point) and I take The Liability, now also covered in black mud due to the muddy bottom at low tide, off the boat. Our captain hops off too, grabs the hose on the dock, and immediately hoses his boat down...eliminating the urine and mud from our formerly shared, but now MY, liability. Good idea -- I grab the hose and start hosing the kid down, scrubbing the mud off his legs.

Ok, small improvement: instead of a putting filthy, urine-soaked drunken dude in my pristine car I'm putting a soaking wet drunken dude in my pristine car. Even worse, he has no shoes and my sympathy has been piqued. All I can think is this kid is going to hit the streets of NYC, quite possibly the subway, and he has no shoes. He doesn't have a friend in the world at this moment...the world being the State of Connecticut. He has a pair of formerly-pissy swim trunks, a wife beater (that I found when I rifled through his beloved backpack), a wet towel, a wallet devoid of money but YES! he does have a train ticket back to NYC, and an iPhone. But no shoes.

While I'm feeling sympathetic, I'm not feeling super generous with my footwear, which are a still-good pair of black Reefs. I do have a pair of Reefs at home (ok, several pairs...) that are so worn on the bottom there is zero traction left. I'm thinking The Liability can probably cram his foot into a pair of those -- really, beggars can't be choosers -- and take his chances in NYC with "better than nothing" vs. "nothing."

I explain to him that I will drive him to my house where I will provide him with some sort of footwear and then return him to the train station.

"I have to pee" he says.

Jeebus! Okay, I tell him, we'll be at my house in 3 minutes. In the meantime, DO NOT piss yourself, or my car. Here, sit on this towel - MY BEACH TOWEL - and don't piss on this either. No, no seatbelt for you. I'd rather replace my windshield after your body passes through it than think about your dripping-wet-formerly-urine-soaked swim trunks soiling my passenger side belt for the remainder of the time I own this car.

We get to my house without incident. I bring The Liability inside, direct him the bathroom, close the door and hop on my computer. Thank god - there's a 9:30 train to NYC leaving from another nearby station. There's plenty of time for me to drop him at that station and not worry about leaving him drunk, alone and defenseless for an hour at the closer train station.

The Liability reappears and asks "Do you have any cheese?"

Jeebus! He's lucky I went to the store this week. I give him a block of Dubliner (which I was loathe to part with, but understand drunken cheese craving), a bottle of water, and I cram a pair of turquoise Reefs (women's size 8) onto his feet. If he comes across a puddle of water while wearing these flippies on any smooth floor surface he will be flat on his back in 2 seconds. But that's not my problem. None of this is my problem -- but I made it my problem. *sigh*

Let's roll, I tell him.

From here on out it was fairly uneventful. I got The Liability to the station, delivered him directly to the platform, managed to get lost in South Norwalk returning home (you locals know how awful this was, happily I am gunshot and stab wound-free) and was home and in bed at 10 PM, basking in the good karma earned as the washing machine chugged quietly in the background, scrubbing my beach towel as clean as my conscience.

Where's the love?

I just returned from my trip. I was barely home 12 hours when I was forwarded an article from a local newspaper: "Wiltonian ascends Mount Kilimanjaro."

The article interviewed a local man who recently summited Kili. What makes him so special?

He raised $1,000 for celiac disease.

$1,000? That's all you could raise? Kind of surprising that the goal was so low, particularly when he goes on and on in the article about the challenges of the climb, how he pushed his body to the limit, but that it was all worth it in the end.

But really -- $1,000? I raised $1,000 to participate in Spin Odyssey where we rode stationary bikes for 6 hours while being fed all the food and drink you could want while hopping off for bathroom breaks, massages, or just because you felt like it. And we got goodie bags and long-sleeve t's. (Everyone loves a long-sleeve t!)

But this douchebag hit up his friends and family and "community" to contribute funds on his behalf so he could trudge up a mountain over the course of 7 days, pushing his body to the limit (his words, not mine), and all he could raise was $1,000?

If you really want to make a change in the world and help people out...then take the $10,000 you just dropped on the trip and contribute THAT to your cause. Then use the 7 days you spent climbing to stand outside Whole Foods and solicit the good people of Fairfield County to contribute additional funds.

Your "vacation" was a poorly veiled attempt at philanthropy and your $1,000 "achievement" --while generous of your friends, family, and community-- is absurdly weak.

PS: The climb wasn't that hard, maybe you should have trained more instead of spending all that time on your fundraising?

"You have really great feet"

Quite possibly the worst pick-up line ever. And it could not be further from the truth: my feet are terrible. I run. Lots. I wear high heels. Daily. My feet are bony, veiny and they show their miles. I don't have bunions, but I do have cankles. My legs have been described as "nice and sturdy, like a piano." (That quote is from my dear mother.) My toes are stubby and fat, like Vienna sausages. Speaking of canned meats, I describe my calves as canned hams: big, fleshy, pinkish. I currently have a terrible sunburn on my feet after missing them with sunblock while wearing my Vibram Five Fingers. Trust me, I do not have great feet.

Background: I was at an impromptu BBQ celebrating the homecoming of a friend after a long trip. A male friend of the host came; he's someone I have met a handful of times and I know he's interested in me and I have made it perfectly clear the feeling is not mutual. But sometimes dudes just don't get it.

It started out like this: the Dude walks in the door and makes a beeline towards ME, despite the guest of honor being present in the room. After being forced into an awkward hug (why couldn't we just fist bump?) I immediately began my strategy of ducking, hiding and other forms of avoidance. I did a lot of dishes. I refilled wine glasses constantly. I peed frequently just to hide in the bathroom. But he's a persistent stalker and I was repeatedly trapped in mindless conversation. The Dude is not very socially adept, so the single question he asks me each time he accosts me is "When do you leave on your trip?" Even if he's just asked me 15 minutes prior.

At one point I was telling a group of guests that I wake up at the crack of dawn and how I entertain myself from 5-7 AM. In the course of my story I mentioned it's far too early to phone anyone and the Dude says, with a wink at me, "Hey Marsha, you can call me anytime."

I almost threw up. An adult male should NEVER wink at a woman. It's fucking weird. You must be over the age of 75, partially deaf and severely wrinkled to legitimately wink at a young lady.

In the split second I had to react to the super-creepy wink (and swallow the vomit) I almost responded "In your dreams" but thank goodness I didn't because I probably already am in his dreams. (Ick.)

So the comment goes unnoticed (hopefully: I haven't debriefed with the other guests) but he manages to corner me a short time later, this time in the kitchen. The Dude opens with his standard line "So when are you leaving on your trip?" I tell him AGAIN and then after an awkward pause where I refuse to fill the silence with a question, statement or other social panacea he looks down and says "You have really great feet."

As previously established: I do not have great feet. I have great shoes...but nice feet? It's just not the case. My toes are mangled from the aforementioned great shoes - in addition to the horrors of my piano legs, cankles and bony/veiny/sunburned feet.

"Really?" I say.

"Uh, yeah." He pauses, and takes a second look. The veins are visibly throbbing in my swollen feet, which are pressed tight against the straps of my flip flops. It looks like greenish worms squirming under my pink, splotchy, sun-damaged flesh. I wiggle my toes and the metatarsal bones move under my skin like piano keys. My feet are truly horrifying. More time passes in awkward silence. He realizes it's a terrible, terrible, grossly-inaccurate compliment and changes tracts: "That's a wild nail color."

Okay, that part is totes true: I'm wearing "Jade is the New Black" on my feet, part of the OPI Spring 2010 line. Awesome green color - do not miss it! But that does not preclude the fact that my feet are far from great and this dude doesn't know how to have a conversation. Plus he winked at me earlier, freak! I expertly divert the conversation to nail polish and quickly include the nearest guest in the conversation and ultimately escape his creepy presence as quickly as I can. I was the first to leave the BBQ simply to get away from him.

I appreciate his throwing the A-game at me (actually no, no I don't), but all he's going to get is a big fat F for the wink and the "compliment." I have to say, I haven't stopped looking at my feet since this incident. Holy crap, they are AWFUL. Check them out the next time you see me -- and then tell me how pretty you think my eyes are.

Hanky Panky (part 2)

Do you take yoga? I started recently. Bikram yoga, the hot yoga. It's kind of nasty because there are a lot of older, overweight, hairy men contorted in any one of the 26 Bikram poses (poses?) sweating their balls off wearing just Under Armour boxer briefs. Lots of visible tatts, of which I am not a fan. Maybe because I've never been passionate enough about something to want to permanently ink my skin. Jeez, you mean some day I won't want a dolphin emblazoned on my ankle? There are also a lot of cottage-cheesey asses. Maybe less Bikram and more Stairmaster? Just a suggestion.

The room is somewhere between 105-110 degrees and 80% humidity, so even without any exertion one is sweating. Add in some contorting, balance and stretching and the place is dripping in sweat. So it's essential to bring a towel to cover your mat and absorb the sweat pouring off your body and -ick- off your neighbor's body if the studio is crowded. (I won't get into my fear of ringworm.)

After a 90 minute class your towel is soaked in sweat, as is your clothing. I don't like wet towels or clothing languishing in my laundry room so I generally cobble together anything machine washable and wash a combined load when I get home from class. Yes, I know, combining whites with darks and towels with clothing are major laundry no-no's, but in the 3 weeks I have been a yogi I have taken to breaking those rules. Sure, I could wash that single sweat-soaked towel alone, but that would be wasteful. So I combine.

Friday evening I took class, came home and tossed a combined load in the washer and later switched it to the dryer. Saturday I went wine tasting all day. Sunday I woke up and knew a detoxing Bikram class was in order. I went to the dryer, pulled out the clean and dry towel from Friday's class, quickly folded it, grabbed my mat and a bottle of water and headed to class.

Sunday AM's are popular for Bikram yoga. The studio was moderately full when I arrived, around 5 minutes early. I snagged a decent space in the 3rd row (not too crowded, neighbors not too physically repulsive) and rolled out my mat. Standing above my mat among my fellow yogis I unfurled my towel....and the sin of combining loads was revealed. A lovely pair of white Hanky Pankies with a delicate floral print were released from the fold in my towel and fluttered gently to the floor, thankfully landing in neutral territory (ie, not on a neighboring mat). But my undies were out, exposed -- and so was I. Again.

What to do? Nothing but carry on. I scooped up my delicate -and thankfully clean- undies, balled them in my hand and smiled at my shocked and laughing neighbors. I exited the room and went to my jacket, unzipped the pocket and crammed them inside.

Life lesson #1 (from previous post)
Put dirty laundry in the hamper.

Life lesson #2
Never combine loads of laundry. Towels with towels. Sheets with sheets. Delicates with delicates. And always wash with like colors.

Hanky Panky

I don't typically stay out late on "school nights." Beauty rest is vital to a single girl on the prowl so I try to be home by 11 during the week. Plus I'm typically to work by 8 AM, so it's easier to get up after 8 restful hours vs. 4 drunken ones.

Wednesday night I stayed out later than usual (to be detailed in a future post) and upon driving home was sidelined for nearly a full hour by highway construction. I got home at 1 AM instead of 12 AM as intended. I was exhausted and I stripped off my clothes, taking time to hang my jeans in the closet and fold my sweater, but discarded my bra, undies, t-shirt and shoes in a pile on the floor. I slipped into bed and had unusually broken, restless sleep.

Thursday morning I had to drag myself out of bed. I was tired, groggy, cranky...and instead of putting yesterday's laundry in the hamper I left it on the floor. I did expend the effort to make the bed, but didn't bother putting the decorative pillows in place, just left my one "sleeping" pillow on the bed. I added my pj's to the pile of previously mentioned unmentionables, showered, dressed, and headed off to work. I didn't think twice about the pile of laundry on the floor...after all, who was going to be in my unit before me?

At 10:36 AM an email is delivered to my iPhone...it's the builder (for my condo), they are going to have an electrician onsite today who can fix the tricky lightswitch I had complained about in the master bedroom. Would it be okay for them to let the electrician in my unit?

You know exactly what I pictured: the pile of bra, t-shirt, undies, boy shorts and long-sleeve T lazily discarded on the floor in the middle of the room. And a big, fat, totally disgusting electrician ogling my unmentionables. Of course today would be the day they have an electrician available to fix the problem.

I weighed my options:
1. Say no, and hope they can fix it another day.
2. Say yes, then immediately drive home to scoop up the laundry and dump it in the hamper.
3. Say yes, and to hell with the unmentionables. I'm sure he's seen worse.

My desire to avoid an electrical fire ultimately outweighed my desire to protect my panties and my work schedule eliminated option 2, so I said yes. And I spent the next 8 hours agonizing over what was on the floor and what the filthy electrician was seeing.

I rolled into my place at 6:30 PM last night. I didn't even remove my shoes or coat at the door: I walked directly to the master bedroom, flipped on the now-functioning lightswitch and surveyed the scene.

Yep. My most embarrassing dream come true:
-"fully armored" bra (translation: extreme padding), color pink, splayed full-length on the floor like a slingshot
-yesterday's undies, pink Hanky Panky's, also extended in their full (albeit, brief) glory on the floor
-gray boy shorts
-long-sleeve T from a company outing in 2000, that after 10 years is more than showing its age
-one pair of ballet flats, one pair of slippers, one pair of heels and two pairs of flip flops scattered about

The one non-embarrassing item on the floor (besides the shoes; I was only embarrassed by the number of shoes I managed to wear in the course of a day) was yesterday's t-shirt, thankfully relatively new so devoid of holes.

Still wearing my coat and shoes, I gathered the laundry into my arms and immediately deposited it in the hamper (tucked neatly in the linen closet). I gathered all the shoes and lined those up in the closet, adding the pair from my feet and substituting those with the slippers. I didn't actually finish making the bed -- I was so tired that I knew in a matter of hours I would be snuggled in between the sheets.

And I promised myself to never, ever let laziness prevent me from taking the extra 30 seconds to put laundry in the hamper ever again. As you can imagine, when I left home this morning my house looked ready for a photo shoot.

Down, boy! Down!

Recently I was meeting some friends at my neighborhood watering hole. I was the first to arrive and I settled in at the bar and ordered a glass of wine from the bartender. I have been coming to this bar for years (although I would in no way consider myself a regular) and I did not recognize this bartender. No big deal, he poured my drink promptly and that's what matters.

Shortly after my friend Erin shows up. She is a regular at the bar and was greeted as such, and had to work her way down the bar giving a personal hello to all the other regulars. She finally gets to me and settles in. We begin chatting and she orders a drink from the newbie bartender while greeting him by name: "Hey CJ, what's up?" He goes off to make the pour and she and I settle into conversation. CJ returns with the drink and Erin, the super-friendly gal that she is, introduces me to CJ. Having noticed my iPhone in hand, CJ seizes this opportunity to begin discussing iPhone apps. (Yawn, haven't we been through this with robotics?) I tell him I'm not a huge fan of the iPhone and it's really just a means of communication for me so I don't have "favorite" apps. Meanwhile, Erin is responding to some texts on her phone.

Although CJ asked me about my iPhone, I was getting a very distinct feeling that he was far more interested in me than he was in my apps.

Erin and I finally shake CJ and go back to our chit chatting...at which point Erin shows me the text she was responding to...from CJ...asking "Who is your friend?!?"

Oh great...

Erin had responded "That's my friend Marsha, she's awesome!" before she realized that CJ's interest may have been more than friendly. I think my facial expression when she showed me his text (which can be summed up as "Ewwwww") probably gave it away.

So the night progressed and our circle of friends grew, but I remained in my seat at the bar. I had turned in my seat so I could face those standing near me, but had left my water and glass of wine next to me on the bar so I could reach them when needed.

CJ, however, was clearly distressed by my ignoring [of him]. He interrupted me at one point when I was sending a text to ask, again, about my iPhone apps. He was appalled that I didn't have the "TMZ" app. I blew him off with "I'm really not into celebrity gossip." [A total lie.]

Later, and repeatedly, he would call to me over the bar "Marsha! Marsha! Marsha!" --which I could very well hear but chose to ignore-- until one of my friends would say "I think the bartender wants you." I would turn to the bar and there would be CJ asking:
"Do you need another drink?" [note full wine glass next to me]
"Would you like to order food?" [he knew we were waiting for a table for our group]
"Do you have this iPhone app?" [no explanation necessary]

Down boy, down! Am I wrong, or should bartenders be seen and not heard? He was like an overeager dog...and I had no interest in being his master.

Over all this time, CJ is texting Erin asking about me. She has relayed my disinterest in him....unfortunately a message that reached him but did not get THROUGH to him.

I left after 5 hours, paying for my entire dinner and the 3 glasses of wine and 1 beer I consumed. I was not comped anything.

As I exited the bar and was about to cross the street to my car I heard someone calling out "Marsha! Marsha! Bye!!!" I looked back and, of course, there's CJ. I offer a small wave and a weak "Oh, yeah, bye."

Well, it turns out he was talking to some girl as I left (I hadn't noticed) and he immediately texted Erin: "I hope Marsha doesn't think I have a girlfriend because I was talking to my friend Mary when she left!"

Ugh!!!

So now you can knock my local watering hole off of places to frequent, lest I accidentally encourage CJ's affection. Which is a real shame because they have a terrific Cobb Salad.

Who needs JCrew when you've got L.L. Bean?

And don't forget Land's End!

L.L. Bean is launching a new "Signature" line that is inspired by their classics but with modern styling:
http://www.llbeansignature.com/index.html

Land's End "Canvas" line (launched last November) focuses is their vintage-styled canvas and sailing heritage:
http://canvas.landsend.com/canvas/index.html

I'm looking forward to seeing more of the L.L. Bean line when it launches in full on March 15th. Somehow I doubt they will have $300 Levis jeans...

The Restroom

It seems like I often find myself in unusual circumstances. Someone once told me that nothing particularly unusual happens to me, it's just that I choose to tell others about it. I disagree, and only partly because that comment came from a boring person who never has anything of interest to say.

Restrooms are particularly prone to "incidents", and I know I am not the only person who has been subjected to a restroom incident...or have caused one myself.

Cause of an incident:
On a recent workday I was busy from the moment I arrived at the office, although I did have time to grab a glass of water and cup of tea before settling in. But it was hours before I had a moment to heed nature's call. At my first available chance I dashed to the ladies' room and although I had company in there, my favorite stall was available.

With bladder bursting, I hiked my skirt to my waist and I tried to pull my tights down...only to discover they would not budge. I did some twisting and neck craning and discovered that the hook from the hook and eye at the back of my skirt had hooked itself into my tights and was holding fast. The tights were not going down without a fight.

Mind you, my bladder is urgently telling me to hurry, hurry, hurry! I do the pee pee dance to buy some time.

I try to unhook the tiny little hook, but it's not just caught, it's twisted in my fancy open-weave tights. I try to pull my skirt down with the tights, but only manage to bust a giant hole in the crotch of the tights. Don't ask how, I could not tell you. I will tell you they were expensive tights and I was angry that they were now ruined.

Finally, in I'm-going-to-wet-myself panic, I reach deep within me and with super-human strength I ripped the hook off my skirt, yanked the skirt up while simultaneously yanking my tights down and enjoy a long and wonderful pee. Yes, you know the kind I'm talking about. When I was done (after a comically-long length of time) I untwisted the hook from my tights and re-dressed.

So how was I the cause of an incident? It seems more like I was the victim given the debacle with the hook on my skirt. Well, the entire time I was battling my clothing someone was in the stall next to me, listening and most certainly wondering what was going on. The muttering, the tapping shoes during my pee pee dance, the ripping sound of the tights, and finally the popping sound of the hook being released from its resistant thread anchors on my skirt...whomever was in the stall next to me certainly had a restroom incident to tell their friends later. Although I'm pretty sure my 5 minute pee summed it all up.

Subject of an Incident:
I went to the carwash early one day a few weeks ago. It's the fancy car wash where you get out and they vacuum the interior, drive the car through for you and then you get it back on the other side all sparkly clean and dry.

I went into the lobby to pay and I realized "Gee, I have to pee" so I go to the restroom (a onesie that is gender neutral) and open the door.

Dear god. There's a carwash guy sitting on the can taking a dump! Jeans at his ankles, tighty-whitey's at his knees. "Excusa me! Excusa me," he's saying.

WTF, dude, lock the fucking door!!! Now two of us are traumatized.

I paid as quickly as I could and went outside to wait for my car, lest I be subject to any further embarrassment - like having to see the carwash dude using a towel to buff my car dry after I just saw him...you know.

Really, J Crew, Really?

I'm a fan of J.Crew. Those of you who see my clothing (or have dug through my hand-me-down bags) know that. And you b-tches who inspected the labels in my closet can confirm as well. (BTW, I'm over the American Eagle jeans - I just acquired the Stella "barely boot" jeans from Express and those rock even more...esp when they costs just $42!)

But my J.Crew fan-dom may have reached its limit.

I hit the mall last night to buy a new iPhone cover and I decided to stroll through the really bad mall J.Crew. Some J.Crews are good, this one is not. But I saw a sign in the window announcing a partnership between J.Crew and Levis 501 jeans. That's cool, I thought, I'll bet the prices are moderate and the styling is classic. I went in search of the jeans but had no luck: apparently it is just a men's collaboration. All J.Crew had for women was an uninspired pale-hued spring clothing line and their usual mediocre, overpriced denim. I happily left empty handed.

This morning, I'm driving to work listening to Bloomberg Radio (keep your comments to yourself) and there's an advertisement...for all Levis jeans...on sale this weekend at JCPenney...25% off original prices...

My curiosity had been peaked.

Hmm, I thought, I wonder what the price differential is between the J.Crew/Levis branded jeans versus the straight-up Levis jeans available at JCPenney.

You know where this is going.

J.Crew Levis jeans = $98 - $325
JCPenney Levis jeans = $32.99 - $46.99 (original $44 - $64)

Sure, J.Crew has a few different washes...but they also had identical washes available at JCPenney! In the same styles!!! Is it really worth paying 3x more for the same product just because you're buying it at J.Crew? Oh wait, my mistake: some of the J.Crew jeans have "Made exclusively for J.Crew" printed on an interior pocket -- not quite the same product after all.

Who is going to buy overpriced J.Crew/Levis 501 jeans? Is anyone that into the J.Crew brand that s/he is willing to pay at least 3x as much for a product you can buy at your local JCPenney? Who are these undisciplined consumers that are making our favorite retailers think they can get away with these types of mark-ups?

THINK BEFORE YOU BUY!

I'm baaaaaaaaaaack!

Hey all! Thanks for waiting for me. I was...resting.

"Resting hungover? Resting fired? Help me out here!"

I was resting up after my breast augmentation surgery. No, definitely NOT for me. But I was the victim of an office breast assault - on my eyes, not my breasts. Here's the scoop:

There's a girl in my office who is unmarried, early to mid-20's and has a 3 yr old kid. She's very trashy: from day one I pegged her as a stripper and among my friends at work we refer to her as "the Stripper". She has a child-like body: very tiny and straight. She's barely 5' tall, if that. She wears heavy make-up and has chunky white/blond highlights in dark hair. She smokes. I won't get into her completely unprofessional office attire.

About a year ago she first cornered me in the ladies' room and told me some deeply personal things. Like how her baby's daddy manages a "gentlemen's club" in Rhode Island. That she struggles with anorexia. She's had tons of Botox done in her face (she's not even 25!!!) and she really wants a boob job but can't afford one. How she wants her Baby Daddy back but he's "cheating" on her with 2 or more dancers at the club...I could go on and on.

I usually listen politely, offer some benign advice ("things will get better!" "you don't need him!" "just do the best for your daughter!") and run away from her. Well, recently she cornered me again:

"oh hey marcia"
"hi Strip, how are you?"
"I'm good"

I'm about to ask if she's ready for Christmas when she RIPS OFF HER SWEATER and reveals the most monstrously hideous fake boobs I have ever seen in real life. She's wearing a yucky but supportive "mom bra" over them, but they are enormous and are still quite new, as evidenced by the surgical tape covering most of them. Then she takes the bra off!

WTF, are we in a locker room or the office restroom??? Go in a stall!!!

Thankfully the surgical tape spared me from experiencing all the visual "delights" of her newly acquired assets. However, two very perky nipples were obvious under that tape. As previously mentioned - she's a tiny person. She has a child's body. And yet she has 2 enormous MINIMUM C-cup implants stuffed under her skin.

I don't know what to say...but I try anyway: "wow Strip, I thought you just had on a really good bra. when did you have your breasts done?"

As she answers me she removes a white band from her bag. It is 2" wide and made of canvas. While she's telling me about the surgery and her doctor in Rhode Island (no surprise there: his office is probably next to a certain "gentlemen's club") she begins wrapping the strap around her upper chest. I'm still nearly mute with horror, but totally curious and I WANT to ask if I can touch them...but I don't ask because I don't need to get fired for creating a hostile work environment even though it is SHE who is assaulting my good sensibilities with her bad boob job. And in the office restroom!! Not even in a stall.

Anyway, back to the strap. She sees my look of horror, mistakes it for interest, and says "my right implant dropped but the left one hasn't yet so I have to wrap this strap around my boob to try and force it down." Is this a legit medical practice? Who knows. She tells me the dr expects the implant will drop eventually so until then she wears this strap a few hours a day to encourage it.

With the squeezing strap in place she begins to dress herself, putting the granny-bra back on and slipping her sweater over her head. I am thanking god that no one else came into the bathroom during this exchange, I would have been mortified. Locker room at the "club" or financial services firm public restroom - it's all the same to her!

I hope her enormous fake boobs help her win back her baby's daddy and maybe her job on the pole, as clearly they are doing nothing for her sense of decency in the workplace. She looks like a cartoon character: tiny body with enormous breasts. And of course I have about a million questions to ask her but I never will ask them because I don't want to encourage her. But i'm not worried about it: she will most certainly over-share all the details with me in due time.

Interestingly, last week news broke that an employee of Brides magazine was fired for showing several of her close female colleagues her new implants in her office (ie, behind a closed door) and that she never even removed the sports bra she was wearing. If only I had been so lucky! I'm not saying I want the Stripper fired...I do wish she had a sports bra on to prevent the image of her destroyed breasts from being permanently seared into my brain.

My feet are on fire!

One of the symptoms I had with Lyme Disease was excruciating itching on the bottom of my feet. It came on suddenly and I spent about 3 days fidgeting like crazy because my feet were tingling SO BADLY but there was nothing I could do and nothing my doctor would do until the Lyme test came positive. There was nothing physically wrong with my feet: they looked fine, they just itched. Nerve tingling is common with Lyme so I called Sissy (an N.P.) and asked her what I could do. She suggested I get capsaicin and apply it to the bottom of my feet. Capsaicin is a derivative of the cayenne pepper and it’s in a lot of arthritis medications. She told me it has a cumulative effect so if you apply it over a series of days (or weeks) it ultimately dulls the nerve endings.

So I swing by Walgreens on my way home from work, buy the stuff (it’s a liquid), brush it on the bottom of my feet and I did this twice: once that night and once the next morning. And miraculously, the next day the tingling stopped. I was feeling better so I decided to run the next day. I got up the following morning around 5:30 AM and headed out. I was about a mile from my house and I thought, “Gee, my feet are really hot.” I was 2 miles from my house when I thought, “Gee, my feet are on f-ing fire.” I was at the furthest point from my house with only the deserted town beach, the deserted dog park, and the deserted golf course nearby when I realized that my feet HAD TO BE bleeding. They were burning up, they were blistered, every footfall was agonizing. But there was nothing around, no one around, and who would I call to come help me at that hour anyway? So I kept running just so I would get home faster. And I ran all the way back to my house and as soon as I limped into the lobby I sat down and starting to take off my sneakers, convinced that my feet were soaked in blood and covered in blisters.

I pull my sneakers off…and there’s nothing there. I rip off my sweaty socks, expecting to see bright red feet covered in heat blisters…and there’s nothing there. My feet look perfectly normal, they aren’t even red they are just sweaty (ick) and normal foot color. But my feet are still on fire! I limp up to my condo, take all the ice out of the freezer and dump it in the sink and sit on the counter and put my feet in the ice. Finally the burning starts to subside. I reached over the counter for the “indications” paper I had discarded there a few days prior and guess what I read. Something along the lines of “Avoid heat, sun exposure and prolonged and heavy exercise before, during or after use of this product.”

Oh great – wouldn’t that have been helpful to know before going out for a 5 mile run in July. Even more helpful would have been if Nurse Sissy had mentioned that little tidbit to me! I never used the capsaicin after that and it was DAYS before I was able to run without my feet feeling as if they were on fire.

So take it from me: always read the indications…and don’t always trust Sissy!

Are you really LOL?

Match.com creep #20,017 sent me an email this week. The first thing I see is his profile name: cu2knight. Nice, dude. In your dreams, and I don't mean that kind of dream.

His obnoxious user ID wasn't the only signal that a major douchebag was about to be revealed. Next up was the subject line of the email, which was strongly reminiscent of one quarter of the spam in my junk mail folder (the remainder of my spam folder is dedicated to my prescription drug needs related to my erectile dysfunction and mental illness):
Subject: CONGRATS! YOU GOTTA READ THIS...

And finally, he sealed his fate with the following email message:

Your match of the week! How's everything??

I just assume you're gettin tired of all these stupid emails from guys, so this is my attempt NOT to write you a corney email. ;-) Hope it works for ya!

so what's goin on?? Ummm...

Your profile DID catch my attention though, and I wanted to find out more about you!
I see by your pictures, you have more than ONE source of income.
LOL! It's cool! (who's money is that?)

A little about me...I'm 32, a firefighter/EMT. I'm attractive, spontaneous, funny, and fun to be around!
How about yourself?? Tell me...

What is something that you're REALLY attracted to in a man?
What's is a major 'turnoff' for you?
What are you most passionate about in life? Yoga pant's, huh?

I just hope you REALLY are a cool, attractive, sarcastic woman, and not some 400 pound toothless old man pretending to be one, ya know?
ENOUGH OF THAT! LOL!

Anyway...I'm sure you're here to meet someone.
So, why don't you reach out to me...we'll have a drink sometime.
And if nothing else...you'll make a cool friend!

CHRIS


My immediate thoughts:
-Enough with the LOL-ing. I highly doubt you are Laughing Out Loud, and if you are...you're an idiot because what you are LOL at isn't even funny.
-Your attempt to not write me a corny email was far and away one of the corniest emails I have received. However, you do get points for actually reading my profile. (No points awarded for looking at my pictures, as that is a given.)
-It's fantastic that you think you're attractive and what's even more attractive about you is the fact that you felt compelled to tell me you're attractive. [For those of you who saw his profile picture, it was agreed he is scary-looking and not attractive. Think old-school Arnold Schwarzenegger....shudder!]
-In addition to your self-appointed stunning good looks, I appreciate the fact that you informed me that if it doesn't work out between us, at least I'll make a cool friend. Now do you mean I would make a cool friend for you to have, or that you would be a cool friend for me to have? Given your egotistical message I'm going to assume you mean I get to make the cool friend. Thanks!
-Grammar check: this guy is a huge fan of the "apostrophe s" - particularly when it is not applicable. And is your caps lock key stuck down? For a dude you're a big fan of the "!!!" and the emphasis implied by capitalization. STOP SHOUTING AT ME!!!
-You're sure I'm here to meet someone...don't be so sure! So far all Match.com has been good for is some fun anecdotes to keep my friends (attached and otherwise) laughing. "Ya know?" No, I don't know - LOL!!!

And so the search continues...

"Intellectual Petting"

Another Match.com weirdo comes out of the woodwork. Here is the original email I received:
_____________________
From: real_deal123
Date received: October 07, 2009
Subject: hang w/ the boys huh?? hmmm..

Well, that pic of the 100 dollar bill is hilarious.... and you look like you know exactly how to have a good time.. I don't write to many on here, but I loved your profile.. .and I'm thinking the sense of humor is probably fantastic... hope to chat soon...
David
_____________________

I have to admit, I was flattered. I mean, Real_Deal_Davie doesn't email many on Match.com but he chose ME!!! Despite his obnoxious user ID I take a look at his profile. As a rule of thumb, when looking at someone's profile you always start with their pictures first that way you don't waste valuable moments of your life reading a profile that ultimately won't ever matter. I'm flipping through his pics and they are all relatively normal, a smiling "husky-ish" fellow who likes beaches and restaurants and seems to have a social life. He cropped out all friends, but he was with other people.

Then I get to the last picture...and it's a self portrait taken in what is CLEARLY a laundry room, but the fact that there's a broad mirror tells me it's a laundry room/bathroom. There wasn't even an attempt to disguise the fact that it was a self portrait in a bathroom mirror, he was holding his blackberry up and out to get the best angle and lighting for the photo.

I'm intrigued at this total lapse in good picture judgment and I read his profile.
_____________________
Headline:
Anybody else a flip-flop fanatic?? Looking to find my other 1/2 to the flip-flop gang.. LOL.. I do wear appropriate footwear when it matters

Profile:
Just to clear up something: I have tons of flexibility in my schedule so location is not that important within reason.

Must be able to really laugh at yourself at times... This world is too serious!!!

First of all, I must say rock solid in terms of my loyalty and character, just making that clear, and secondly, I am really looking for someone with whom I engage in "intellectual petting" if you know what I'm talking about you probably would get along well with me....Wow..what a tough thing to try and sum up in 4000 characters.. Get to know me and I am a very trustworthy, generous, loving, loyal person who really enjoys life to the fullest. I've travelled all over the US and enjoy taking many trips/year even if those trips are only 2 to 3 days. I enjoy intellectual stimulation with someone as I love to learn new things and love to be constantly challenged.. My ideal person (NOT a must) would be intelligent, possibly athletic, maybe a former high school or collegiate athlete and I do get along with teachers, nurses, and those from the business community best but I am totally open to other options.. I have typically been attracted to tall women, but that does not rule out anyone, though I do draw the line at 5' 1", LOL.. There is so much more to me than 4000 characters and I think I am really looking for someone with a GREAT sense of humor that meshes well with mine, someone who loves the water/beach, trustworthy and loyal are big factors as well. Many things are open for discussion and I only have a few deal breakers, smoking being one of them.
_____________________

My immediate thoughts:
-Douchebag
-Here we go with the LOYALTY again - and three references to it!!
-Intellectual petting - WTF?
-I like how his ideal woman does not have to be intelligent. It's good he specifies that because he doesn't have a chance with an actual intelligent woman.
-Teachers and Nurses = Fetish

I'm annoyed that he wrote to me and stated that not many woman receive the honor of an email from him, yet he has obviously contacted enough women on Match who live some distance away that he offers the disclaimer about his schedule flexibility. So I write him an email pointing out in a subtle way that I think he, and his bathroom self portrait, are lame.

_____________________
To: real_deal123
Date received: October 11, 2009
Subject: RE: hang w/ the boys huh?? hmmm..

Hi David,

Thanks for your email. I looked at your profile and to be honest I have no idea what intellectual petting is. I did Google the term and the first result was a blog "confessions of an intellectual Barbie." The second result was a biography on Pope John Paul II. The third result was a band "Heavy Petting" and the fourth, "Petting Zoo Gifts." Eclectic mix there.

Is one of your profile pics REALLY a self-portrait taken in a what appears to be a laundry room...if not a bathroom?
_____________________

And the response comes back...
_____________________
From: real_deal123
Date received: October 12, 2009
Subject: RE: hang w/ the boys huh?? hmmm..

so you are sarcastic..!!! Fantastic..., and yes, that pic was in the bathroom/laundry room.. it's my self-portrait room... I can't wait to hear some things that border on inappropriate.. .haha... that comment was hilarious!!...

Need to know more about you!!
David
_____________________

Douchebag status: Confirmed. (As if there were any doubts.) A self-portrait room....how many self portraits does a moderately unattractive man need? I can only begin to wonder how many pics he snapped of himself in the bathroom the night he took the pic that actually made it online. I had no intentions of replying to his email, as my single question ("did you really take a pic in the bathroom?") had been answered. But Real_Deal_Davie has fallen for me...and I suspect he kept thinking about me and re-reading my email again and again and again...because one day later he writes back. For a second time.
_____________________
From: real_deal123
Date received: October 13, 2009
Subject: RE: hang w/ the boys huh?? hmmm..

Intellectual petting is that feeling when you are turned on by a conversation w/ someone... but more in depth than that... Any interest in chatting on the phone?

David
_____________________

Ah, so intellectual petting = talking dirty. Creepy, weird and way too much information way too soon. Is he really asking me for phone sex? Do I have to pretend I'm either a nurse or a teacher? Or does he want to have a stimulating conversation with me about the notional value of options contracts on an equity portfolio. Yeah, that will definitely turn him on.

Sorry Real_Deal_Davie, I have no interest in giving you the intellectual petting you crave. If I'm going to talk dirty it's going to be for a 1-900 number so I get paid. Because as you know, I only give freebies to the guys at work: [in sexy, sultry voice] So guys, who's Justin Beaver?