a southern gentleman, he is not.

steel magnolias.

Apparently I'm in some kind of romantic/manhungry mood (never thought you'd see those two adjectives slashed, did you?). Today's post is completely due to the fact that we have just hired an endangered species: a true-blooded Southern Gentleman. It really is amazing, he's 22 and acts just like my grandfather and uncles. I just love it.

I've been asked what qualifies a man as a Southern Gentleman. After thinking about it for a bit, this is what I came up with:

1. They are chivalrous to a fault. Opening car doors is just the beginning for these guys. You know in Say Anything, when Lloyd kicks the glass out of Diane's way? $100 says he learned that from a Southerner.

2. They're friendly. He'll shake your hand, smile when he meets you and he makes a point to repeat your name back. He always introduces people formally, includes others in conversation, and will compliment women genuinely. They will never let you stand, always give up their seat. They always have a great smile and a kiss on the cheek for the ladies and a strong handshake for men.

3. They drink scotch or whiskey on the rocks. A double. During the summer they usually turn to beer, but never light and always in a coozie. They play Hank Williams on the jukebox and will pull you to your feet and dance with you in the middle of a crowded bar. They'll swing you around and dip you and you'll squeal like a little girl and blush and turn red.

4. They're immaculately dressed in seersucker, linen, pastels, and sunglasses. They actually take the time to press their clothes (or take them to a dry cleaner). Shirts are always tucked in with a belt (no frat tuck) and sunglasses are secured with croakies. In the winter they wear Carhartt's and button-downs.

5. They've got the accent. A sweet tone to their voice, a slow drawl that makes the words sound dramatic. "Well, don't you look nice tonight," will make you weak in the knees. They always say "ma'am" and "sir" regardless of how much older the person is.

6. When they fall for a girl, they're smitten. Southern women may act fragile, but we're steel magnolias and the only men who can deal with us are the true Southern Gentlemen.

ps. THIS was the first image when I googled "southern gentleman." WTF, Google?

belated.

My parents' 30th anniversary was on Monday. Apart from the fact that I completely forgot about it, this is a pretty huge milestone. I mean, really. 30 years. They've spent more of their lives together than they have apart. I honestly have no idea how they've done it, or how I'm expected to do the same.

I constantly tell them that they have ruined any shot for me to have a good relationship, or any relationship for that matter. They are just far too perfect together. And not in that annoyingly fake perfect way. Sure, they fight and bicker on occassion, but that's what love is. I mean, they've lived together for 30 YEARS. I have never once doubted their love for each other and its apparent that they honestly enjoy each other's company. I have no idea how I'm expected to find someone that will complement me so well, who I'll never get sick of eating dinner with, who I'll want to father my children.

Last Christmas my mom told me that she undoubtedly loved my dad more than she loved any of her children. After the initial shock of this statement wore off (the horror!), I began to understand her point. She chose him, out of the millions of men in the world, and he chose her. We were a result of that choice and their love (a wonderful, obscenely perfect result). He's got the added bonus of creating us, so that warrants more love, I suppose. Plus, as she said, she only has to live with us for 18 years, she's stuck with him for the rest of her life.

So, I'm screwed. My parents' relationship is 1 in a million and I'm not going to settle for anything less. When perfection is your example, I can imagine it will be hard to find that kind of perfect myself. They say that women often look for men that remind them of their fathers. As I realize that I am turning more and more into my mother every day (evidenced by my control freak-ness and progressively earlier bedtime), I think that's a solid theory. If there is a man out there who was raised by a single mom, has an insatiable work ethic, baby blue eyes, horrendous fashion sense, gives money to Republicans but (I think) is a closeted liberal, only eats Rold Gold thin pretzels, stays up till 4am to discuss world issues with his kids, and will be bald by the time he's 28, give me a ring (no, not that kind of ring... a ring on the phone). We're probably perfect for one another.


*it's a random pic, but i love it. they're drunk, sitting on the floor at fripp and my mom is checking to see if my dad is bleeding after an particularly violent play session with the dog. and no, the dog is not dead.*

"that was easy!"

to the intern:

when you come in on friday and you see this sitting on your desk:
instead of this:


i swear erin and i had nothing to do with it. and yes, that's jello. you can eat it if you want.

c3po's wet dream.

I don't even know if I need to use words here. It's just... awful. I don't care that those leggings cost $100,000 (no, really, they do) it's just bad. Is part of the reason that I hate this outfit so much because Beyonce is wearing it? Yes, probably. But who cares? Her right boob is rather precarious.

However, for how much I hate hate HATE this outfit, I think I'm a little bit in lust with this one:
I know, I know. She looks a little bit ridiculous.... but also a little bit HOT. I mean, really, if you could pull this off, you'd wear it too!

hey men, listen up!

I don't know what we ladies are going to have to do to get through to you! Women are always complaining about the lack of decent guys in this city, and after this weekend, I'm beginning to agree with them. You all obviously didn't have the proper father figure to teach you how to talk to women, so I'm going to give you a couple of pointers.

1. It's 2007 so I thought this was a well known fact, but apparently not. Pick up lines do not work. They never will, unless used in a completely ironic/funny way.
2. When talking to a woman wearing big hoop earrings, it's probably not a good time to expunge your theory on how women who wear big earrings just want to get laid.
3. Don't wear gold chains. Ever. That also applies to rings with any kind of gem in them, shoes that have both leather AND velcro, and pants with a hammer loop.
4. When getting ready to go out, lay off that extra spritz of cologne, the second pass of hair gel, and button that button right back. We all know you're a man, we don't need to see your chest hair.
5. When you're talking to a woman, it might help to actually pay attention to her reaction to you. Are her arms crossed? Is she scanning the room for someone, anyone, an exit of some sort? Does she answer your questions curtly? Does she turn down your offer for another drink? Does she tell you she has to go to the other side of the bar to call a friend? If so, just thank her for her time and walk away. Don't ask for her number. That's just awkward. And for the love of God, don't touch her. Not even on the arm. That's when you get bitchslapped.

We're really not all that scary. Feel free to approach us. If you're funny, not skeezy, and don't take yourself too seriously, you'll probably have a good conversation.

i heart southerners.

Yesterday, in addition to being the summer solstice and the day of the best concert of all time (Wilco!), was Annual Seersucker Day up on the Hill. Trent Lott started the whole thing about 10 years ago and it has caught on with many of the Southern Senators and staffers. Even Hillary Clinton's Executive Intern was caught in the faboo fabric! :)

And yes, the guy in the black shoes is Ted Stevens, from ALASKA. White Bucks, Ted, white Bucks...

seriously, i wish i was black.

i miss atlanta.

Sure, DC has the crazy "The Vatican Hides Pedophiles" guy and workout man on 19th St., but neither of them can hold a candle to my man with the master plan: Baton Bob.

Baton Bob, in my opinion, has recently beat out Bob Barker as the greatest Bob on Earth. He is out in Midtown every day, twirling his little baton heart out. After Christopher Reeves died, what did Bob do? Well, he wore a Superman costume to honor our fallen hero. He dons reindeer antlers at Christmas and an Easter bunny costume in the Spring. Why does Bob do this, you ask? Bob lost his job in the aftermath of 9/11 and decided that this country needed something uplifting. Apparently, the best way to put a smile on someone's face is to crosdress and twirl a baton like there's no tomorrow. Ah, I love this man.

THIS is why i hate my job.

Conversation I just had with my boss:

Him: "Do you have the letter we sent for the Judicial event?"
Me: "Yes, I can print it out and we can go over it."
Him: "Great. How about you print it out and we can go over it?"

I swear I'm stuck in Office Space.

these crazy kids and their rap music!

I just have one question: what the hell is a cholo and how on earth do you lean like one? Apparently only the homies know what he means, and therefore I must not be a homie. Damn. I'm the one on the dance floor, "shaking what [I] got till [I'm] sweating out [my] pores." I mean, really? That's pretty gross imagery. Can't we still shake it like a polaroid picture?

Apparently some guy named Young Joc (or is T-Pain? I never understand who is who when a song is "featuring" someone) wants to buy me a "drank." Not a drink. Apparently this new thing called a "drank" will cause me to snap my fingers, be attracted to guys in Oakley sunglasses (weren't those hip circa 1997?), and make my legs hit the chandelier (does that mean we're having sex? I don't even know anymore). This man can also apparently drive both a grey Cadillac and a Ferrari. Maybe there is some ghost riding involved.

Also, just to put it out there, I'm hot cause I'm fly, you ain't cause you're not.

happy birthday to me.

Well today is the day. I officially turn(ed) 23. I have no idea what time of the day I was born, so I'm not sure what time I enter my 23rd year, but I digress.

Birthdays are not nearly as fun when you're old. I mean, I've been at work all day, no one even knows its my birthday. I got a card and some chocolate from some co-workers, but it's not quite the pomp and circumstance when you're turning the big 1-0. Typical with everything in my family, birthdays were a big deal, celebrated over the course of entire weekends or weeks. I was queen for several days, got to eat whatever I wanted, had my hair curled, stayed up late, and got plenty of extra hugs and kisses. Come to think of it, it really wasn't all that different from today, it's just now I do these things for myself rather than having someone do them for me. I guess it's all part of this whole painful growing up process. Lame. It was a lot more fun when all of my bff's were in a 10 mile radius and we could get together for sleepovers and pool parties. It's not the same when my mom isn't at the bottom of the stairs when I wake up, belting out "Happy Birthday" as I rub my bleary eyes. I guess birthdays don't get fun again until we have kids, and we can live vicariously through them. I look forward to it and I think I'll definitely treat birthdays as specially as my parents did.

So, what does 23 mean? Am I where I wanted to be by 23? The truth is, I have no idea. I'm relatively satisfied with my life. Sure, I don't love my job, I have no money and no real plans for the future, but I'm happy. I'm completely independent, living in a fabulous city, and experiencing new things almost every day. Isn't that what your early 20's is supposed to be about? I hope so.

Lelaina: I was really going to be somebody by the time I was 23.
Troy: Honey, all you have to be by the time you're 23 is yourself.
Lelaina: I don't know who that is anymore.
Troy: I do. And we all love her.

metro opens doors.

The scene is about 2 weeks ago, 8:40am, I get on my regular D1 bus for the morning commute to work. As I scan my SmarTrip card, the following conversation takes place:.

Driver: "Hey, do I just keep going straight down this street?"

Me: "Ummmm. Wow. Yeah, until you hit 37th, then you take a right there."

Driver: "Oh really? So, do you know the route?"

Me: "Yeah, until I get off on K Street. Do you NOT know the route!?"

Driver: "Um. Would you mind showing me where to go?".

So, I directed the bus driver downtown and hopefully he knew where he was going from there. I definitely got some strange looks from the other riders as I told him where to go. Apparently, he had no idea that Glover Park even existed (ouch) even though his route takes him in and out of it several times a day! At this point, the very little bit of faith I had in the metro system was substantially hurt.

Flash forward to this morning. I decide to get off on N Street, pull the cord and then notice the bus driver just blow through the stop. He didn't even slow down. I shrugged and decided I would just get off at K St, per usual. Imagine my surprise (and those of the other riders) when my faithful D1 driver decided to turn down L Street! WTF? My office is on L St. so I just chalked it up to door-to-door service, but I'm curious how all of the other commuters on the bus got to their final destination.

I would think that knowing the route would be a prerequisite for all city bus drivers, but apparently that's a course that good ole' Metro doesn't really bother with. I'm curious where all of the money from fare increases is going, because it's obviously not driver education or safety.

goodbye, ruby tuesday...

It's only day 2 and this is already the longest week in the history of the world. It feels like it's at LEAST Thursday. Oy. Not going to be fun. I think it may be in part that this week really doesn't have much going on but the next two weeks I am crazy busy.

Today I had to go over to a big law firm's office to plan our upcoming Board meeting, and I've decided that being a lawyer wouldn't be all that bad. I mean, the paychecks are sweet, you work in incredible offices, and people respect you. I'm so done with this whole non-profit thing, its just not what I'm cut out for. I mean, we met today to discuss our conference room furniture and there was actual discussion of buying it from a thrift store. I mean, really. It's a little.... sad.

The past weekend was pretty good, nothing exciting but I'm totally cool with that. I don't think I left the house until 9:30 on Saturday, but I got some great cleaning done! God, I'm old. Sunday was really gross out but Alli and I still trekked to Eastern Market, had my orgasmic crab omelette, and did a quick lap among the vendors. The fire damage is really upsetting and its crazy to see how quiet the area was (although the majority of that could have been due to the nasty-ass weather). Because it was so gross, we decided to go see Knocked Up, which was hysterical. I highly recommend it to anyone, especially as a date movie. I think the guys liked it just as much as we did. Soooo good. Also, holy shit: Paul Rudd. Mamma mia.

friday is for lovers.

Oh man, 4:42 on a Friday and I am SO ready to get out of here. Shocking, I know.

No honestly set plans for the weekend, but that's how I like it. Leave everything open to chance, see how the mood moves me. Tonight I think I'm going to meet up with my old friend Neil at my old friend Dr. Dremo's. Oh man, it's been a while. And yes, I will break South Beach and drink a Delirium. I'm not going to Dremo's for their vodka and soda collection, I can tell you that much. Tonight is going to be about Delirium, the jukebox, and maybe some darts and I cannot wait. Seriously. I haven't seen Neil since drunk brunch on Easter and I haven't seen Dr. Dremo's since New Years! It's been exactly 6 months.... 6 months too long.

Speaking of 6 months, how in God's name is it already June?? I mean, really. It just kind of snuck around the corner and slapped me silly! This time last year I was in Spain.... ooh, I shouldn't even talk about it. I'll get all wanderlust-y.

The only other thing I've got on my mind for this weekend is a crab omelette from Tunnicliff's over by Eastern Market. Oh man, that thing is the SHIT. So much crabmeat, so much goodness. Can't wait till Sunday! I'm a little nervous to see the Market post-fire but I'm hoping that things are recovering quickly. It's my most favorite place in the city and I just couldn't stand to see it hurting. Tear.

Oh, and ps to all of my loyal readers (all 3 of you): I'm sorry for yesterday's post. It's rare that I drop the f-bomb but I was a messy combination of tired, angry, and HUNGRY. In fact, I'm still hungry. This is no way to live! Grr.

As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again.