A few weeks ago, I was in a blissful relationship—so delightful that I scheduled a romantic weekend away at a beautiful resort for myself and my adoring paramour. What fun! What romance! What love!
So, of course, the week before we were to leave for the glorious mini-vacation, he remembered a boys’ trip to a depravity-riddled, hard-partying, beach town. Apparently, this was a trip he preferred to my sun-soaked, love-filled, spa/beach/pool romantic getaway. And, that was the end of that.
Embracing the storyline of so many chick-lit books and romantic comedies, I gathered a couple really great girlfriends, who came with vital reinforcements like chocolate and champagne cocktails (which is, of course, part of what makes them so great!), and headed out for a delectable girls' weekend. Men be damned!
I should naturally have stumbled unwittingly onto the absolute love of my life, right? I mean, I’ve watched all the movies. That’s how it works. Of course, at first we probably wouldn’t get along; I’d be annoyed he stole the best pool chair as he taunted me from it, try to trip him as he cut in front of me at the bar or “accidently” knock him out of his flowering lotus pose as he tormented me from his strategically-placed-behind-mine yoga mat.
Alas, let me regale you with the types of guys I met instead. Please, if you see some romantic comedy-happy ending potential in any of them that I may have missed, feel free point it out! I’m certainly one to learn from missed opportunities!
• The guy who whispered in my ear what kind of talent he predicted I had in bed and received a swift knee to the groin (ok, the knee in the groin may have only happened in my head and was, in reality, actually a biting remark as I walked away)
• The guy who brought his own drinks to the bar in travel mugs and insisted he wanted to take me back to his friend’s boat—where his 14 year-old son was waiting—and who then moved on from me to hit on the girl not much older than his son who passed too nearby (like 20 feet) to have not caught his attention (he didn’t get far with her before her dad swooped in for the rescue. Good move, Dad.)
• The very talented keyboard player in the musical duo performing at the bar who was so stoned he almost missed the second set, wandering around the resort property
• The guy who got “knifed” outside of a respectable pizza place, who seemed to be leaving out several details of the incident and couldn’t keep the story straight in relaying it to us
• A few guys with two kids each, two of whom adored their wives (sweet, but not helpful to finding my romantic comedy costar) and one who indicated he did not adore his wife as much through his advances on us (skeezy, and no thank you)
It looks like my only hope is to cause a huge scene at a family function (my family’s or someone else’s; let’s not be picky!) a la Bridget Jones, 27 Dresses, My Best Friend’s Wedding (although that didn’t really work out romantically for her either), Sweet Home Alabama, Love Actually… The list goes on and on, and who am I to ignore such divine inspiration?!
Surely it’s only a matter of time before Paramount Pictures comes a-calling! I think I’d like Reese Witherspoon to play me.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Carbon monoxide poisoning is NOT the way I’m going to go
I have seen enough of those videos of gas stations blowing up to know that cell phones and gas do not mix. Before you point out that those videos are likely not real, let me in turn remind you that rational deduction has rarely made an appearance on this blog.
So, of course, one night when I was pretty sure my apartment was quickly filling up with carbon monoxide I was desperately torn between a need to use my cell to call emergency rescue personnel and visions of blowing up my apartment like all those gas stations.
It was 4:00 in the morning and my gas-powered water heater snapped into action. When I say “snapped into action,” it doesn’t fully convey what the water heater powering on sounded like. It actually sounded like a 350 pound linebacker (I think? Is that the position?) lowering his shoulder and running full speed into the thing. You can imagine my alarm when I was awoken out of a deep sleep by such an explosion!
After the explosion, as I will forever continue to call it, I began to smell gas. We all know they infuse that smell into gas so that people can be alerted to its presence. Gas is DEADLY!! Panic set in as I imagined my death by asphyxiation. So, I called the emergency maintenance number. The person who answered said they would call the maintenance guy on call, who would call me to let me know he was on his way. No!! Don’t call me back! That could be disastrous!
Of course fearing the aforementioned fireball my apartment would certainly turn into when the static electricity spark of my cell phone ringing ignited the gas in the air, I had a shining moment of brilliance! If I continuously rubbed myself, my phone and my bed down with dryer sheets, it would eliminate the static!
I. Am. A. Genius!
So that you can truly visualize the scene the maintenance guy—the hero come to rescue me from probable incineration or fatal carbon monoxide poisoning—walked into, I should probably admit that I was wearing red flannel pajamas that had crabs wearing Santa hats all over them with the phrase “Sandy Claws” repeated over and over (and it was nowhere near Christmas). So, there I was sitting in bed, wearing crazy-ridiculous pajamas, dryer sheets in both hands furiously running them all over myself.
The guy looked at me, stifled a laugh, checked the water heater, turned around, looked at me like an idiot and explained that the water heater works much like a gas stove.
“You can smell gas when you turn on a gas stove, can’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Even if there isn’t a gas leak?”
A more sheepish, “Yes.”
“So… I’m going to go.”
“O… K...”
I went out the next day and bought a carbon monoxide detector and slept with the windows open for a month, in the dead of winter, just to be safe.
So, of course, one night when I was pretty sure my apartment was quickly filling up with carbon monoxide I was desperately torn between a need to use my cell to call emergency rescue personnel and visions of blowing up my apartment like all those gas stations.
It was 4:00 in the morning and my gas-powered water heater snapped into action. When I say “snapped into action,” it doesn’t fully convey what the water heater powering on sounded like. It actually sounded like a 350 pound linebacker (I think? Is that the position?) lowering his shoulder and running full speed into the thing. You can imagine my alarm when I was awoken out of a deep sleep by such an explosion!
After the explosion, as I will forever continue to call it, I began to smell gas. We all know they infuse that smell into gas so that people can be alerted to its presence. Gas is DEADLY!! Panic set in as I imagined my death by asphyxiation. So, I called the emergency maintenance number. The person who answered said they would call the maintenance guy on call, who would call me to let me know he was on his way. No!! Don’t call me back! That could be disastrous!
Of course fearing the aforementioned fireball my apartment would certainly turn into when the static electricity spark of my cell phone ringing ignited the gas in the air, I had a shining moment of brilliance! If I continuously rubbed myself, my phone and my bed down with dryer sheets, it would eliminate the static!
I. Am. A. Genius!
So that you can truly visualize the scene the maintenance guy—the hero come to rescue me from probable incineration or fatal carbon monoxide poisoning—walked into, I should probably admit that I was wearing red flannel pajamas that had crabs wearing Santa hats all over them with the phrase “Sandy Claws” repeated over and over (and it was nowhere near Christmas). So, there I was sitting in bed, wearing crazy-ridiculous pajamas, dryer sheets in both hands furiously running them all over myself.
The guy looked at me, stifled a laugh, checked the water heater, turned around, looked at me like an idiot and explained that the water heater works much like a gas stove.
“You can smell gas when you turn on a gas stove, can’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Even if there isn’t a gas leak?”
A more sheepish, “Yes.”
“So… I’m going to go.”
“O… K...”
I went out the next day and bought a carbon monoxide detector and slept with the windows open for a month, in the dead of winter, just to be safe.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Take that!
I found a gray hair the other day so as an F' you to Father Time and aging I went out without wearing a bra. No one could tell. Take that, age!!
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Metro Stalker
A few weeks ago, there was a really cute guy on the metro on my way to work. And, lucky day! He totally checked me out. I gave him one of my patented, tried-and-true, coy, flirty half smiles—feeling pretty good about myself.
Drawn to my undeniable magnetism, he came over and stood right over me (I was sitting, he was holding onto the bar behind my seat). I'm not entirely sure which stop it was at which he got on the train because I was distracted by how much I could see myself dating him, how happy we’d be together, the sparkly diamond he’d give me, the size of the house we’d buy together… As it turns out, that was also just enough to distract me from actually getting him to talk to me too.
I did notice, however, that he was not wearing a ring. I also noticed his work security badge dangling in my face, with his name conveniently emblazoned across the front. I swear it glowed when I looked at it.
Obviously, like any google-savvy young woman with just enough information to be dangerous, I did a little light reconnaissance when I got to the office. Ok, one might be able to use the term “cyber stalked” and may be completely accurate, but should we really get wrapped up in semantics?
Yes, I realize that might have been a little intrusive (and I also know that you’re thinking a better term might be psycho), but try and deny that you’ve done it. Uh huh, I didn’t think so.
I unveiled a wealth of information! Here's the kicker, though, according to his LinkedIn profile, two of my good friends knew people who knew him. I thought that was hysterical, so I emailed those friends to relate the funny story and prove just how easy the internet has made the seven degrees of separation game, even when played with strangers.
I thought we’d have a good laugh and that’d be the end of it. How naïve of me…
Coincidently, the middleman to one of my friends’ connections to my metro boyfriend was sitting in the cube right in front of her as she was reading my email. She told me she casually brought up my metro boyfriend to her cubemate. I’m still not 100% on how that “casual” mention actually went down, but I fear it was something like, “Oh my gosh! My friend totally checked out your friend on the metro, went back to her office and found out all sorts of personal stuff about him! Can you believe it?!”
Regardless of how that initial conversation transpired, my conniving friend and her cube buddy started talking about setting up a happy hour to get us all together. Awesome.
This is how I imagined the invitation to such a happy hour would go:
Cube Friend to Metro Boyfriend: Hey, want to get drinks on Thursday?
Metro Boyfriend: Sure, man, that’d be fun. Let’s find hot chicks.
Cube Friend: Unnecessary, Dude. You’ve already found one, although, you might be able to substitute the word “psycho” for “hot.”
Metro Boyfriend: Huh?
Cube Friend: Smooth move wearing your name badge on the metro. Some crazy chick tracked you to my coworker and then to me. You might want to get a police escort when you head home tonight. Who knows what else she’s found out about you? She could end up making a suit out of your skin. Didn’t that happen in a movie?
Metro Boyfriend: What? Wait, is she hot? Dude, I’m still in.
If I had had the balls to have actually allowed this plan to go to fruition, I’m pretty sure that this is exactly how I would have found true love. Or, the details would have shaped the memo section of a restraining order.
Drawn to my undeniable magnetism, he came over and stood right over me (I was sitting, he was holding onto the bar behind my seat). I'm not entirely sure which stop it was at which he got on the train because I was distracted by how much I could see myself dating him, how happy we’d be together, the sparkly diamond he’d give me, the size of the house we’d buy together… As it turns out, that was also just enough to distract me from actually getting him to talk to me too.
I did notice, however, that he was not wearing a ring. I also noticed his work security badge dangling in my face, with his name conveniently emblazoned across the front. I swear it glowed when I looked at it.
Obviously, like any google-savvy young woman with just enough information to be dangerous, I did a little light reconnaissance when I got to the office. Ok, one might be able to use the term “cyber stalked” and may be completely accurate, but should we really get wrapped up in semantics?
Yes, I realize that might have been a little intrusive (and I also know that you’re thinking a better term might be psycho), but try and deny that you’ve done it. Uh huh, I didn’t think so.
I unveiled a wealth of information! Here's the kicker, though, according to his LinkedIn profile, two of my good friends knew people who knew him. I thought that was hysterical, so I emailed those friends to relate the funny story and prove just how easy the internet has made the seven degrees of separation game, even when played with strangers.
I thought we’d have a good laugh and that’d be the end of it. How naïve of me…
Coincidently, the middleman to one of my friends’ connections to my metro boyfriend was sitting in the cube right in front of her as she was reading my email. She told me she casually brought up my metro boyfriend to her cubemate. I’m still not 100% on how that “casual” mention actually went down, but I fear it was something like, “Oh my gosh! My friend totally checked out your friend on the metro, went back to her office and found out all sorts of personal stuff about him! Can you believe it?!”
Regardless of how that initial conversation transpired, my conniving friend and her cube buddy started talking about setting up a happy hour to get us all together. Awesome.
This is how I imagined the invitation to such a happy hour would go:
Cube Friend to Metro Boyfriend: Hey, want to get drinks on Thursday?
Metro Boyfriend: Sure, man, that’d be fun. Let’s find hot chicks.
Cube Friend: Unnecessary, Dude. You’ve already found one, although, you might be able to substitute the word “psycho” for “hot.”
Metro Boyfriend: Huh?
Cube Friend: Smooth move wearing your name badge on the metro. Some crazy chick tracked you to my coworker and then to me. You might want to get a police escort when you head home tonight. Who knows what else she’s found out about you? She could end up making a suit out of your skin. Didn’t that happen in a movie?
Metro Boyfriend: What? Wait, is she hot? Dude, I’m still in.
If I had had the balls to have actually allowed this plan to go to fruition, I’m pretty sure that this is exactly how I would have found true love. Or, the details would have shaped the memo section of a restraining order.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
An Unconventional Interview
I am obsessed with Mexican food. I love it. I can’t get enough of it. If we are what we eat, as they say, then there is definitely a mariachi band playing in my stomach.
A few jobs ago, there was a Chipotle across the street from the office. Many days of the week there would be a bit of an exodus from the office to Chipotle at lunch time, and I’m sure you can guess who the ringleader typically was. The people who worked there loved me—maybe even more than my friends at California Tortilla, if you can believe it!
As you may know, once a year, Chipotle offers free burritos to anyone dressed up like one of their foil-covered masterpieces. Don’t think I was going to let the office miss out on that most sacred day!
On this particular Free Burrito Day, there was a new girl interviewing for a job, but good impressions were not about to keep us from free Mexican lunch.
Here’s the story.
It was a warm fall day when a bright-eyed, young girl, yet untarnished by the ways of the mean city streets, stepped out of the elevator. She hoped that our office would be the Mecca of professional authority where she would learn the skills that would eventually allow her to take over the world.
A ripple went through the office. At first blush one might think that in such a den of epidemic work ethic my coworkers and I were irritated to have had our concentration broken by a stranger being escorted to the conference room.
Oh, that ripple was anxiety, for sure, at this stranger’s presence. There was no way her interview would interfere with the biggest event of the day. My coworkers and I had big plans, damn it!
Let’s listen in to the conversation that was happening in that conference room*:
My coworker (an Appalachian State University graduate): It’s awesome that you went to Appalachian State! It fits very well into my master plan to convince everyone that the mountains are completely awesome and fussy, city sophistication is overrated. Eventually you and I will teach these fools from their “northern” schools, where they didn’t have to bundle up in four layers of clothes to march across the street to the outhouse in the middle of the night**, what a REAL education was! We’ll have the dress code here in the office changed to hiking boots and flannel shirts in no time!!
Interviewee: Umm… that sounds great, but by the time I got to ASU, we had gotten running water in the dorms and there were very few bear attacks on campus anymore. I’d really like to talk about the work you all do here, though. I’m looking for a serious place where I can build my career on a foundation of appropriateness and utmost professionalism.
Coworker: Right. Did you bring your hiking boots to DC??
Interviewee: Would you like to see my portfolio?
Then, a ravishing young brunette*** burst through the conference room door: Nicole, it’s time.
Interviewee: …And this one here is my award for just being an all-around awesome contribution to humanity… Uh… Excuse me?
Coworker: Oh my gosh! We need to wrap this up! Are people getting ready?
My coworker, Nicole, escorted the interviewee out into the hallway where there was a tinfoil frenzy going on and people were in various stages of head-to-toe tinfoil coverage.
Ravishing Brunette, handing out rolls of foil: Here, Nicole. Oh, we have extra. Here, New girl. Wrap yourself up.
Interviewee: WTF??
Another Coworker: Oh yeah, we’re definitely going outside dressed like this. Come on! Get to dressing like a burrito!
And that’s the story of how our dear friend Amy abandoned her ideas of working for a tight-laced, nose-to-the-grindstone, conservative work force and ingratiated herself with her future coworkers while covered head-to-toe in tinfoil. She thought, “This may be the absolute, bat-shit, craziest place ever, but it sure feels like home.”
Oh, and Nicole’s still working on the total domination by the mountaineering set, but gave up hope of converting anyone in our office. Once she discovered Ann Taylor, though, she too became pretty comfortable in the “big-city” ways.
* = A slight dramatization
**= Appalachian State is in the mountains, and the common joke among those of us who had never actually been there was to imagine it as especially primitive. Yes, we thought we were hysterical.
*** = Obviously, me.
A few jobs ago, there was a Chipotle across the street from the office. Many days of the week there would be a bit of an exodus from the office to Chipotle at lunch time, and I’m sure you can guess who the ringleader typically was. The people who worked there loved me—maybe even more than my friends at California Tortilla, if you can believe it!
As you may know, once a year, Chipotle offers free burritos to anyone dressed up like one of their foil-covered masterpieces. Don’t think I was going to let the office miss out on that most sacred day!
On this particular Free Burrito Day, there was a new girl interviewing for a job, but good impressions were not about to keep us from free Mexican lunch.
Here’s the story.
It was a warm fall day when a bright-eyed, young girl, yet untarnished by the ways of the mean city streets, stepped out of the elevator. She hoped that our office would be the Mecca of professional authority where she would learn the skills that would eventually allow her to take over the world.
A ripple went through the office. At first blush one might think that in such a den of epidemic work ethic my coworkers and I were irritated to have had our concentration broken by a stranger being escorted to the conference room.
Oh, that ripple was anxiety, for sure, at this stranger’s presence. There was no way her interview would interfere with the biggest event of the day. My coworkers and I had big plans, damn it!
Let’s listen in to the conversation that was happening in that conference room*:
My coworker (an Appalachian State University graduate): It’s awesome that you went to Appalachian State! It fits very well into my master plan to convince everyone that the mountains are completely awesome and fussy, city sophistication is overrated. Eventually you and I will teach these fools from their “northern” schools, where they didn’t have to bundle up in four layers of clothes to march across the street to the outhouse in the middle of the night**, what a REAL education was! We’ll have the dress code here in the office changed to hiking boots and flannel shirts in no time!!
Interviewee: Umm… that sounds great, but by the time I got to ASU, we had gotten running water in the dorms and there were very few bear attacks on campus anymore. I’d really like to talk about the work you all do here, though. I’m looking for a serious place where I can build my career on a foundation of appropriateness and utmost professionalism.
Coworker: Right. Did you bring your hiking boots to DC??
Interviewee: Would you like to see my portfolio?
Then, a ravishing young brunette*** burst through the conference room door: Nicole, it’s time.
Interviewee: …And this one here is my award for just being an all-around awesome contribution to humanity… Uh… Excuse me?
Coworker: Oh my gosh! We need to wrap this up! Are people getting ready?
My coworker, Nicole, escorted the interviewee out into the hallway where there was a tinfoil frenzy going on and people were in various stages of head-to-toe tinfoil coverage.
Ravishing Brunette, handing out rolls of foil: Here, Nicole. Oh, we have extra. Here, New girl. Wrap yourself up.
Interviewee: WTF??
Another Coworker: Oh yeah, we’re definitely going outside dressed like this. Come on! Get to dressing like a burrito!
And that’s the story of how our dear friend Amy abandoned her ideas of working for a tight-laced, nose-to-the-grindstone, conservative work force and ingratiated herself with her future coworkers while covered head-to-toe in tinfoil. She thought, “This may be the absolute, bat-shit, craziest place ever, but it sure feels like home.”
Oh, and Nicole’s still working on the total domination by the mountaineering set, but gave up hope of converting anyone in our office. Once she discovered Ann Taylor, though, she too became pretty comfortable in the “big-city” ways.
* = A slight dramatization
**= Appalachian State is in the mountains, and the common joke among those of us who had never actually been there was to imagine it as especially primitive. Yes, we thought we were hysterical.
*** = Obviously, me.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Insane in the name of “naturally” gorgeous
We do a lot of really crazy things in the name of beauty. I mean, if you really think about it, just bikini waxes and Spanx alone might seem truly bizarre to another culture or, say, men. But, this week, I topped the charts of beauty craziness.
I had an event this weekend for which I wanted to look super hot. Maybe less than coincidently, I had also just finished reading (and extensively indexing with those little post-it tab things) the Black Book of Hollywood Beauty Secrets. It’s an incredible book, my new bible and the inspiration for a week-long, pre-event beauty regimen.
At the beginning of the week, that just meant things like manicure, pedicure, wax… As the week progressed, it got a little more involved (and really awesome for my skin!). Olive oil facial steams, maple syrup hair treatments, baking soda exfoliation, potato and chamomile tea eye treatments and the really foul-smelling but miraculously nourishing green tea, sour cream, olive oil, honey and egg yolk facial mask. All in all, a whole lot of things you close your blinds and lock your door before actually doing.
Day of the event was a WHOLE other level of insanity that not even I had ever previously reached in all my years of striving for the just-out-of-reach, red-carpet-worthy level of gorgeous. The day started with the same crazy facial masks, etc. and a few doses of diuretics. You know, to get rid of any extra water that wasn’t absolutely vital for survival. Hey! If it’s good enough for pageant queens, it’s good enough for my slinky, black dress, right?
As I’m coating both my legs in the strongest ground coffee I could find at the grocery store, mixed with just a touch of water, and then wrapping them in plastic wrap to sit for fifteen minutes, I can’t help but laugh and admit that yes, I have just crossed several lines in the name of cellulite invisibility.
It was only as I lay shaking on the couch unable to stand for fear of accessorizing my hot dress with a huge black-and-blue mark from passing out and smashing my head that I realized mixing the highly caffeinated water pills with the infusion straight into my system (via my legs, naturally) of really dark coffee spelled disaster. Combined with an empty stomach and going cold turkey on caffeine all week, plus the dehydration from the pills, and I was facing a major caffeine overdose.
My crisis in the name of beauty, in stages:
Stage One:
“Tonight is going to be awesome! I suddenly feel so energized! I’m sure it’s just excitement. Can’t wait for the party!!”
Stage Two:
“Whoa. I feel a little like it’s Sunday morning, and I spent all last night drinking Red Bull Vodkas.”
Stage Three:
“Huh. My hand’s kind of tingling. Weird.”
Stage Four:
“MMMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!! I think I may need to go to the hospital. Do you think I need to go to the hospital? Do you think my kidneys might fail? I think I’m going to throw up. Wait? Chugging a gallon of water was a bad idea? Oh, sip it! Wait, so hospital… Or no hospital… Hospital? No?”
(The hospital/no hospital conversation is one I often have with my mother, so it is not ever really an actual indication of level of imminent danger. It’s only when I call our friend at work in the ER that one should really worry. Wait for it…)
Stage Five:
“Falon, are you at work? Feel free to track down a doctor. I think I may be dying!”
Don’t worry! I made it to my event and looked gorgeous, if I do say so myself, but six other people (strangers even!) also volunteered similar reviews! So, I’m not saying the fear of death was worth it, but…
Now, I’m definitely not recommending it, but if you ever find yourself hit by a beauty-induced tidal wave of over-caffeination and mild dehydration, know that the only remedy is LOTS of water (sipped!), Gatorade, a balanced meal (which, considering what I had in my house, constituted of two bananas and a handful of almonds. Hey, it’s even amazing I had that!) and just waiting it out.
So, the lesson learned: That coke habit I had once imagined adopting as a diet plan? Not really looking like a viable option anymore.
I had an event this weekend for which I wanted to look super hot. Maybe less than coincidently, I had also just finished reading (and extensively indexing with those little post-it tab things) the Black Book of Hollywood Beauty Secrets. It’s an incredible book, my new bible and the inspiration for a week-long, pre-event beauty regimen.
At the beginning of the week, that just meant things like manicure, pedicure, wax… As the week progressed, it got a little more involved (and really awesome for my skin!). Olive oil facial steams, maple syrup hair treatments, baking soda exfoliation, potato and chamomile tea eye treatments and the really foul-smelling but miraculously nourishing green tea, sour cream, olive oil, honey and egg yolk facial mask. All in all, a whole lot of things you close your blinds and lock your door before actually doing.
Day of the event was a WHOLE other level of insanity that not even I had ever previously reached in all my years of striving for the just-out-of-reach, red-carpet-worthy level of gorgeous. The day started with the same crazy facial masks, etc. and a few doses of diuretics. You know, to get rid of any extra water that wasn’t absolutely vital for survival. Hey! If it’s good enough for pageant queens, it’s good enough for my slinky, black dress, right?
As I’m coating both my legs in the strongest ground coffee I could find at the grocery store, mixed with just a touch of water, and then wrapping them in plastic wrap to sit for fifteen minutes, I can’t help but laugh and admit that yes, I have just crossed several lines in the name of cellulite invisibility.
It was only as I lay shaking on the couch unable to stand for fear of accessorizing my hot dress with a huge black-and-blue mark from passing out and smashing my head that I realized mixing the highly caffeinated water pills with the infusion straight into my system (via my legs, naturally) of really dark coffee spelled disaster. Combined with an empty stomach and going cold turkey on caffeine all week, plus the dehydration from the pills, and I was facing a major caffeine overdose.
My crisis in the name of beauty, in stages:
Stage One:
“Tonight is going to be awesome! I suddenly feel so energized! I’m sure it’s just excitement. Can’t wait for the party!!”
Stage Two:
“Whoa. I feel a little like it’s Sunday morning, and I spent all last night drinking Red Bull Vodkas.”
Stage Three:
“Huh. My hand’s kind of tingling. Weird.”
Stage Four:
“MMMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!! I think I may need to go to the hospital. Do you think I need to go to the hospital? Do you think my kidneys might fail? I think I’m going to throw up. Wait? Chugging a gallon of water was a bad idea? Oh, sip it! Wait, so hospital… Or no hospital… Hospital? No?”
(The hospital/no hospital conversation is one I often have with my mother, so it is not ever really an actual indication of level of imminent danger. It’s only when I call our friend at work in the ER that one should really worry. Wait for it…)
Stage Five:
“Falon, are you at work? Feel free to track down a doctor. I think I may be dying!”
Don’t worry! I made it to my event and looked gorgeous, if I do say so myself, but six other people (strangers even!) also volunteered similar reviews! So, I’m not saying the fear of death was worth it, but…
Now, I’m definitely not recommending it, but if you ever find yourself hit by a beauty-induced tidal wave of over-caffeination and mild dehydration, know that the only remedy is LOTS of water (sipped!), Gatorade, a balanced meal (which, considering what I had in my house, constituted of two bananas and a handful of almonds. Hey, it’s even amazing I had that!) and just waiting it out.
So, the lesson learned: That coke habit I had once imagined adopting as a diet plan? Not really looking like a viable option anymore.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Show Tunes Boy
I once went out with a guy who spent the entire evening talking about how much he loved show tunes.
Wait. Time out. The way this is starting, this blog post could be about either of two guys I’ve been out with. Hmm… There is a slight chance I need a better screening system for dates.
Well, on this particular date there were drinks, there was dinner, there were more drinks but most of all, there were show tunes. Lots of show tunes.
We talked about songs he particularly likes, songs he particularly doesn’t like, songs he has performed, songs he’s dreamed about performing, songs that made a real impression when he saw them performed… And, when I say “we” talked, I mean he talked.
I’d throw things into the conversation just to see if he was paying attention: “Did you know I have a make-believe dog? No? Her name is Lolly.” All that got was, “Huh? No. I also like Show Boat. It’s an old show, revived a lot, but it’s got pretty good songs…”
We talked about college. I said, “I went to Americ—” before he launched in with, “My friends and I weren’t in a fraternity, but we’d go to fraternity parties because their kitchens had great acoustics. We’d gather in the kitchen and sing while the parties were going on! It was great.”
Right. I don’t know. He was cute?
I’m not really sure how this date lasted so long, but after dinner we were going to get more drinks. I suggested a bar at which we could watch the NCAA basketball championship game. I had a bracket going (which was obviously a ploy to drop into conversations with guys, you know, along the lines of the Sports Illustrated subscription) and I needed to see where I was going to come out in the bracket pool. I am not really 100% sure he knew what that meant.
Somehow we ended up at a piano bar with one tiny, tiny TV. I sat so I could see the TV. He sat so he could not. You know what he could see? The piano man. The rest of the evening went a little something like this:
“I can’t believe he picked this song to sing!”
“Oh. He is awful at that song!”
“I can definitely sing this a LOT better than he is!”
“If I were the piano man, I’d definitely sing much different songs.”
And then I tuned him out. Again.
So, the lesson here is maybe one should not pick up guys at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Or at least, don’t do it again.
Wait. Time out. The way this is starting, this blog post could be about either of two guys I’ve been out with. Hmm… There is a slight chance I need a better screening system for dates.
Well, on this particular date there were drinks, there was dinner, there were more drinks but most of all, there were show tunes. Lots of show tunes.
We talked about songs he particularly likes, songs he particularly doesn’t like, songs he has performed, songs he’s dreamed about performing, songs that made a real impression when he saw them performed… And, when I say “we” talked, I mean he talked.
I’d throw things into the conversation just to see if he was paying attention: “Did you know I have a make-believe dog? No? Her name is Lolly.” All that got was, “Huh? No. I also like Show Boat. It’s an old show, revived a lot, but it’s got pretty good songs…”
We talked about college. I said, “I went to Americ—” before he launched in with, “My friends and I weren’t in a fraternity, but we’d go to fraternity parties because their kitchens had great acoustics. We’d gather in the kitchen and sing while the parties were going on! It was great.”
Right. I don’t know. He was cute?
I’m not really sure how this date lasted so long, but after dinner we were going to get more drinks. I suggested a bar at which we could watch the NCAA basketball championship game. I had a bracket going (which was obviously a ploy to drop into conversations with guys, you know, along the lines of the Sports Illustrated subscription) and I needed to see where I was going to come out in the bracket pool. I am not really 100% sure he knew what that meant.
Somehow we ended up at a piano bar with one tiny, tiny TV. I sat so I could see the TV. He sat so he could not. You know what he could see? The piano man. The rest of the evening went a little something like this:
“I can’t believe he picked this song to sing!”
“Oh. He is awful at that song!”
“I can definitely sing this a LOT better than he is!”
“If I were the piano man, I’d definitely sing much different songs.”
And then I tuned him out. Again.
So, the lesson here is maybe one should not pick up guys at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Or at least, don’t do it again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
