The Ultimate Hip Sexy Nerd Girl GRE Studying Vocab Payoff Moment

Two days ago I was reading In Style while riding the bike at the gym. (Pause for laughter.) Actually, I was flipping through it until I came to an interview with Andre 3000 of my beloved Outkast. I read the entire article and right there in the very last paragraph was one of my GRE words: ennui.

Now I will never not associate that word with Andre 3000 and In Style magazine. w00t!

How to Be a Hip and Sexy Nerd Girl

A couple girlfriends and I have decided to take the GREs. We're complete 20-something nerds who - since we have not much else going on in our lives at the moment - unanimously decided that taking the GREs and expanding not only our vocabulary but our fundamental geometry skills would be a productive way to spend the next couple months of our lives. (Well, that and we want graduate degrees so we can become marketable, make tons of money and bust your balls for the rest of our lives.)

I've rather enjoyed studying for the GREs. It takes my mind off crappy things like making lattes, boys, the crippling economy and my completely worthless degree.

There are two ways to study:
1. The Lame Way (I do not recommend this)
2. The Awesome Way (recommended)



The following is a short list of how we have started to study for the GREs (read: The Awesome Way):

1. Pre-pub Quiz studying
See, $3 Newcastles are really a fabulous excuse to get together and study. Not only that but you can sit around a table (which are hard to get at pub quiz unless you arrive early... so why not study? If nothing else, it gets the brain working for those tough pub quiz questions), drink beer, order food and call your waiter things like "ubiquitous." (Princeton Review GRE Vocabulary List 3) Plus the cute boys from that team that always KICKS YOUR ASS (dammit) think it's cute and funny.

2. Check dictionary.com as many times a day as you check craiglist missed connections, then IM each other with the findings

3. Pick up a really cute, sexy, smart boy at a bar, take him home with you and describe the event as "ephemeral" to your girlfriends

4. Type lists of vocab words and sprawl them over your floor while you and your girlfriends are putting on make-up to go out that night while simultaneously glancing at a random word and shouting it to each other in search of definitions.

5. Get your roommate to pick a word and have her scream it at you all the time.

6. Write 5 words and definitions on an index card and stick aforementioned index card under your bra strap, then pull it out at whatever bar/party/club you happen to be at and quiz your friends mid-vodka tonic.

7. Come up with circumstances that might occur throughout the evening and ways to protect yourself (always important). For example: annoying/sketchy/weird/ugly boy is hitting on you and constantly mentioning that he wants to take you out/get your number/buy you a drink. Turn to him and say, Stop being so officious! Hopefully the use of a slightly large word will confuse him long enough to allow for your escape.



I wish all of my educational experiences could have been this fun.

Rejection/Resignation

It is official! I have officially dealt with more rejection from boys and jobs in the last year and a half than I ever have before. But no, this isn't a post about about "oh, woe is me," nor is it a post about various emotional breakdowns, increased apathy, or saturating numbness. This is a post about what you do to prevail, my friends!

While playing the "get to know you" game with the most recent boy who has apparently rejected me I asked him an amazing question: Name the last three compliments you received that you really took to heart. (Brilliant, I know.) His responses were perfect - my favorite of which was "Someone told me I'm a perfect person to go to a baseball game with." Le sigh. My heart, it crushes, dies, weeps... but prevails!

Though he never reciprocated the question back to me as we lay in bed, lounging, half naked, tangled in each other, my favorite most recent compliment that someone payed me resonated in my head: You're so resilient.

Hell yeah.
Hell yeah.

So no, this isn't a post about what it took to get there or how we did it, it's about just being that, about fighting through all the suckiness of being 24, indulging in the awesomeness that can be being 24, maintaining a sense of humor and incredible dignity. It's about saying all you have to say, thanking those who help you along the way, and being as true to yourself as possible.

You know, it's like those little thank you letters you're supposed to send after you have an interview - as one last attempt to be eloquent, professional and courteous before you go in to either interview again or start that first day at work. OK, or never hear from them again. (Or that last phone call to a boy/girl where you sound eloquent, chipper and charming instead of saying what you really want to say which is - if you don't call me back within the next two days you fucktard I will fucking crush your mother effing face the next time I see you you lying piece of shit.)

Anyway, resiliency and thank you notes...


Examples:

Dear Seemingly Amazing Boy I Fell Head Over Heels For:
It was a pleasure meeting with you. The prospects of being in your company truly excite and fascinate me. I feel I am quite qualified for the position of your girlfriend and look forward to developing and maintaining healthy, lasting relationship with you. Please contact me should you have any questions or require more information from me in any way. Thanks again for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Me

Dear Amazing Nationally-Renowned Company With Whom I Interviewed,
Thanks so much for leading me on. I just wanted to let you know that although you seem absolutely amazing on paper you fucking blow major goats ass. When you advertise that your company believes in serendipity and karma and fate, it makes me want to puke. I hope karma comes back around and bites you in the ass. Please never contact me again.
Fuck off,
Me


It seems somewhere along the way I got a little confused...

Can I get a what what for online tests?

These things are hilarious. I used to do them all the time in college to procrastinate. I thought this one was rather appropriate however. Weird how that works...

Katharine Hepburn You scored 26% grit, 33% wit, 38% flair, and 21% class!

You are the fabulously quirky and independent woman of character. You go your own way, follow your own drummer, take your own lead. You stand head and shoulders next to your partner, but you are perfectly willing and able to stand alone. Others might be more classically beautiful or conventionally woman-like, but you possess a more fundamental common sense and off-kilter charm, making interesting men fall at your feet. You can pick them up or leave them there as you see fit. You share the screen with the likes of Spencer Tracy and Cary Grant, thinking men who like strong women. Find out what kind of classic leading man you'd make by taking the Classic Leading Man Test .

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender : You scored higher than 63% on grit You scored higher than 55% on wit You scored higher than 55% on flair You scored higher than 22% on class

Link: The Classic Dames Test written by gidgetgoes on Ok Cupid

Shh... don't let me be the one to tell you that this actually works...

It's Not All Bars and Ball Games

This is a really weird time of year. Everything ending and beginning at the same time. Summer romances fade, the days ever so slowly start to get shorter, the Orioles start to really suck while the Redskins tend to be pretty decent, nights might be cool and it seems although I haven't been in school for a couple years now there is an anticipation that's been burned into my subconciousness that knows something is going to happen... and soon.

So behind all the nights out at bars, random events, ball games, concerts and all around fun that has been my "summer" there's been a very strong, pervasive, irritating anxiety within me.

You see, I moved home to save money and move to New York in October. Turns out I've saved no money and The Date has been moved to November. But I'm thousands of dollars off of my ideal budget, haven't gotten any job I've applied for and slowly but surely started to realize things.

I have started to realize that something larger within me is coming to an end. It's the stumbling and fumbling, the moving, the scraping and scraping by, the selling of things for plane tickets, gas, the part-time jobs, the credit card accounts I opened to buy groceries - it's old. For the first time in years I don't have the urge to get in my car and just move somewhere, the urge to get on the next plane out of BWI or Dulles or National airport. There is no city in the US I want to visit, no country in which I desire to teach english. For the first time in a very very long time I just want everything to stop, to slow down, to settle.

Every night I go out, every afternoon I make a latte or write in here I think, am I moving to New York or not? Will I regret either decision? How much will it hurt to move my boxes from NY to the room in which I grew up in DC while two of my best friends move theirs into what will be a two bedroom apartment in Brooklyn - where I've wanted to live for years.

Sometimes it's great to live life moment by moment, on the edge, adventurous, experimenting, living with some sort of firey urgency. Then, I'm starting to realize, other times it's OK to take a step back, that the world will probably be here tomorrow, that New York City is not going anywhere, that sometimes it's better to stop and let things fall into your lap rather than ferociously chase after them.

I think.

I have four weeks to decide.

In four weeks I might no longer be employed by a Corporate Coffee Shop. I might not have amazing benefits. I might have a waitressing job. I might have a temp job. I will have decided when I'm taking the GREs. I'll probably know where I'm applying to graduate school. I might now know if this is the right decision. I might have landed an internship that will keep me in DC until summer 2006 or an internship that will require me to be in NYC the following Monday for at least a year. Maybe I'll have a contracted, salaried, full-time job in New York or maybe in DC. In four weeks I will put the last four months of anxiety, of pondering, of restless, dreamless nights behind me and be on somewhat solid ground for the first time in years.


Last week I sat at a bar in Baltimore I used to frequent with my old boss. I told him he ruined me, that I had the best boss I would ever have in life at the age of 22. The amount of responsibility he bestowed upon me, the hours he would philosophize with me, argue with me, challenge me, teach me. The last time we hung out before I moved to LA was in the same bar wherein which we sat last week. That night, over a year ago, he handed me a book, hardcover, wrapped. It was the Great Gatsby and on the inside cover he wrote, Read this every year until life makes sense.

Right now that book sits in a box that is taped up along with other taped-up boxes of my belongings in a closet in my old apartment in Los Angeles. Tomorrow (tomorrow) a moving company will come in and put those boxes and our living room furniture, my pint glasses, photos, sheets, and all of my roommates stuff, into a huge pod that will go into storage for a month somewhere and then will be driven across this country and land in New York on November 1st. Will I be there with it?

So at this bar I chatted with my boss over a few pints of Yuengling. He reads this blog, he has a good idea of what's going on with me... kind of...
"You could go somewhere like Idaho City," he said, "That'd be way different."
"Yeah... I'm kinda over my small town, cowboy-romance phase." I told him. "I dunno... I'm thinking this whole stay-in-DC thing might not be that awful... stick around, make some cash, travel somewhere amazing like Nepal or Thailand..."
"Oh yeah, Nepal, that'd be fun."
"Trekking in the Himalayas? I've always wanted to do that... or Thailand... my friend's there now."
"Well it's an opportune time to go there now then."
"Yeah. I guess... I mean... yeah... but I just... I love New York, I just do... I don't know what to do." I said and took a sip of my beer.
"You know what would be really different for you, Alli? If you want to do something really different?" he asked me.
"What?" I said.
"Get a full-time job. 9-5. Salary. Benefits."
I sat in silence for a minute and smiled. "Yeah," I said, "That would be so weird."
"You've never done that before, have you?"
"Nope," I said and chuckled. "It's my worst nightmare.... I think."

So we sat there a while longer not really talking about this particular subject. We moved on to easier, lighter topics, things with solid answers. The next day I looked for jobs and the day after that I did the same. I went back to the Corporate Coffee Shop and made your espresso drink and went to a bar with my good friends. I said hello to strangers and asked for help and put myself out there every single day and tomorrow I will do the same. My boxes will be packed and moved tomorrow and the next day maybe my phone will ring, and sometime within the next four weeks something will be a little more tangible, a little more settled, a little easier, a little more real, a little less mythical.

Here's to You Mr. Malt Shop bar of awesomeness!

FYI, the Malt Shop in Tenleytown is awesome. Everytime I go there I think, Man, this bar is awesome. Pretty awesome, huh?

Here are the reasons why the Malt Shop is awesome:




If you look on the far left you will see pitchers of beer. Pitchers! The Malt Shop sells cheap pitchers of the best beer ever: Yuengling!!!

The other night I went up to order a pitcher of Yuengling but the bartender said they didn't have any. I told him this was completely unacceptable. He agreed, looked at the keg of Budweiser that was (thankfully!) almost kicked, turned to me and said, give me 45 seconds. He then switched out the kegs and gave me my beloved pitcher of Yuengling!

I love you Mr. Malt Shop bar of awesomeness!


Crappy pictures hung in crooked frames that are mostly cracked! Photos circa early 1990's of random sporting teams! And while we're at it, the bar is adorned with Redskins, Nats and Capitals paraphenalia! w00t! And of course, Justin. *sniff* We were out for Justin's last outing for the DC Summer 2005 Nights of Awesome. We will miss you Justin!

And we love you Mr. Malt Shop bar of awesomeness!


DART FIGHTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Ash trays! Budweiser in bottles! Plastic cups! PEANUTS IN SHELLS THAT END UP ON THE FLOOR!!!

You never find this stuff in LA.

Here's to you Mr. Malt Shop bar of awesomeness! Here's to you.

How to be a Good Writer: Tip 1

Sometimes it's really hard to remember everything that happens in one night so you can blog about it the next day (especially if the night involves all you can drink martinis for $10, a tiny dinner, a fabulous outfit, more extra-large drinks somewhere else and passing out in a chair in someone's front "yard" in Adam's Morgan, but that's another story for another time). That's why I always carry a pen/marker/sharpie with me and at least two receipts on which to write down funny things.

Observe:



Oftentimes you'll be fortunate enough to be in a place where there are napkins (see above) so you can use aforementioned pen/marker/sharpie on said napkin.

On this particular napkin is written:

"The two ways I want to die are:
1. having sex with a prostitute
2. having eggs at Tastee Diner"

to which someone replied, "well, maybe tonight you'll get lucky and can do both."

See, that's a golden moment. You don't want to let that one pass you by!

People of the world, carry markers and receipts! Be lame! You'll thank me later.

Blogging: What is it good for?

I discovered new blogs today (The DC Male's Perspective and Up All Night Jane) and have come up with the following conclusions:

#1. I need to write more about my sex life because I just wasted an hour of my life reading about the sex life of a complete stranger. And it wasn't even that interesting. Not like mine is interesting at all. My entire sex life is all about constantly getting to the line and then some bullshit occurs and you're like, dude, wtf? But I guess it's kinda funny. Or that's the only way you can look at it, I guess, without going insane(!!!!!jldfihjlsdkjhflsdkji).
#2. I think everyone has a blog. Imagine you're in a bar (for some of us this is really easy to imagine) and you start talking to someone then all of a sudden you're like, "Oh shit, I know you, you're AllDeTime from waybeyondsunset"
#3. Blogs: they kill the mystery.
#4. Blogs: the new reality TV.
#5. I wonder if I stopped blogging if I might have time for a real job. But that's no fun.

You know how you listen to certain songs all the time but you never actually hear them, then all of a sudden you flip on your itunes playlist - the one you always play - and that song comes on and you're goin' about your business and all of a sudden you really hear it? You get it? So you just kinda stop what you're doing for a minute and listen? It's the best.

That just happened to me with this song:


The World at Large by Modest Mouse

Ice-age heat wave, can't complain.
If the world's at large, why should I remain?
Walked away to another plan.
Gonna find another place, maybe one I can stand.
I move on to another day,
to a whole new town with a whole new way.
Went to the porch to have a thought.
Got to the door and again, I couldn't stop.
You don't know where and you don't know when.
But you still got your words and you got your friends.
Walk along to another day.
Work a little harder, work another way.

Well uh-uh baby I ain't got no plan.
We'll float on maybe would you understand?
Gonna float on maybe would you understand?
Well float on maybe would you understand?

The days get shorter and the nights get cold.
I like the autumn but this place is getting old.
I pack up my belongings and I head for the coast.
It might not be a lot but I feel like I'm making the most.
The days get longer and the nights smell green.
I guess it's not surprising but it's spring and I should leave.


I like songs about drifters - books about the same.
They both seem to make me feel a little less insane.
Walked on off to another spot.
I still haven't gotten anywhere that I want.
Did I want love? Did I need to know?
Why does it always feel like I'm caught in an undertow?

The moths beat themselves to death against the lights.
Adding their breeze to the summer nights.
Outside, water like air was great.
I didn't know what I had that day.
Walk a little farther to another plan.
You said that you did, but you didn't understand.

I know that starting over is not what life's about.
But my thoughts were so loud I couldn't hear my mouth.
My thoughts were so loud I couldn't hear my mouth.
My thoughts were so loud.

Lame is the New Cool

I am wayyyy excited about pub quiz tomorrow night.

The Suburban Underachievers might have to get their name back. I think it's time to get the Urban Achievers back up and running.

Therefore, Laura and I invited our dads to join the team to fill Ann's spot (or try), and answer those tough, older-person questions.

We are also bringing along Chloey (Captain of the Thursday Night Out in Adams Morgan crew) who, like Laura and I, plans to take the GREs this fall. We shall meet at 6pm, eat dinner, drink beer and study for the GREs at the bar. We are way cool.

In the meantime we are thinking of a team uniform.

Team uniforms for pub quizzes in Bethesda, MD are simply the best idea of all time.



Actually, that's a lie. Team uniforms for my fake baseball team are better. I sent Laura on a design mission. Sadly the jerseys (the real ones, thank you, no BS for us) were $70 a pop. Therefore I couldn't roll with my homies in our Team Baller jerseys to the 9:30 club on my birthday. Team Baller will have to wait for another outing or perhaps a phatty pay check. Bling!



Team Urban Achievers, however, is back in action.



Hey, I studied. I watched Jeopardy. And lame, ladies and gentlemen, is the new cool.

Waxing Playgirlisophical

Funny about those results in Playgirl that everyone was talkin' about on the radio today.

You know... the ones where they surveyed their readers and found that most women prefer... the average guy, meaning: love handles are ok, chest hair is fine, not rich is good... you know, the anti-stereotype. No rich Brad Pitt or some other god-like movie star.

According to Playgirl, us girls dig the average joe.



I heard about this the second time today right before I climbed out of my car, walked into the spa, hiked up my skirt, lay down, spread my legs and let a russian woman spread wax over my bikini area and then rip all those little hairs out.

This. Is. The. Worst.




This is my second bikini wax in life, my second of the summer because I keep ending up at the beach. Venice Beach in May, Bahamas in June, Outer Banks in July and quite frankly those little red bumps you get from shaving are just the worst. I'm over that. I prefer the hot wax application by foreign strangers who speak in thick accents and ask you what your plans are for memorial day weekend - "BREATHE!!!!" rrrrrip - as you try not to squirm and cry on the table for the entire 2 minutes you are there.

My friend just spent $150 on highlights and a cut.
I spent $40 on a mani/pedi last Sunday. (PS I haven't had a manicure in forever because my job kills my hands. I was off this week though, so I went for it. Dude. It's awesome. I have been staring at my hands for three days)
Today cost me $31.

Being a girl is expensive.
Being a girl is painful.

And sure, you guys have your downfalls too, I'm not being all martyr-like....


I remember reading Seventeen when I was 14 and Cosmopolitan when I was 17 and felt reassured that according to the media men wanted their women smart, funny. Worldly. Able to hang with the guys. Phew, I thought, all those are qualities I possess. I'm golden!

Or am I....?

But now, with the waxings and the nail crap...

At the end of the day I don't think of it as something that makes me look attractive to other people...
I kinda dig it.
I mean seriously, a pedicure is the BEST.
And after a couple hours a bikini wax isn't that bad. I can sprawl out all day tomorrow in my bikini, read more Palahniuk and drink a Corona. No unruly hairs will make me second guess my natural instincts.

I'd like to write to Playgirl and say, right on. Let's hear it for Joe Average. What a guy! Good for him! But dude... can Joe average have, like, a really cool job or... season tickets to the Orioles... or... a phat apartment in New York City....?

Cuz let's not lie. Average is cool, it's aight, I can dig it, I can hang with average... but a little polished around the edges is better. Even for the ladies.

A Sad Night in Bethesda

Ladies and Gentlemen I regret to inform you that pub quiz was not so successful tonight. We lost our best player to her senior year in college just the other day, so the lack of her presence hurt us greatly (though we finished top 5 - at least - , natch).

Le sigh.

So it is with great displeasure that I announce to you that our team has modified itself slightly and is no longer deemed the Urban Achievers, but instead we now do (and must) deem ourselves the Suburban Underachievers.

Perhaps next week there will be a great upward swing in our performance.

We didn't even win a free round this time!

Grr....

And yes, we know we are nerds.

But seriously, this is the greatest thing to do in Bethesda.

3 sets of 12 reps and... ooo... what?

Someone just hit on me at the gym. I've never understood this.

I do not look cute when I go to the gym. I do not look happy at the gym. I do not go to the gym to meet people.

I think most people feel this way. Women anyway. At the gym you feel fat. The machine counts down the calories you've allegedly burned off. There are mirrors everywhere. Gyms are not happy places. Gyms are places where you go to kick some ass; your own, someone else's. Gyms are places of focus, intensity, pain, sweating and all around disgusting-ness. You go the gym to feel better about yourself. Better. Maybe even good about yourself, if you're lucky.

So I imagine if you get hit on at the gym it's a little disconcerting. It was for me anyway. Someone stopping you in passing is one thing.

But I was on that weight machine.

You know the one.

C'mon ladies...

You know, the one where you spread your legs as wide as possible and squeeze them together? It targets the inner thighs. You know, that bodypart you hate.

So this kid - Charlie - comes up to me when I have my legs spread wide and tries to talk to me.

"I like how you work out."
"Excuse me?" I look at him with my legs spread wide, sitting down as he towers over me...

Now, call me crazy, anti-social, grumpy, whatever, but I have a little bit of an issue with people trying to talk to me when my legs are spread. I mean... isn't it basic human knowledge that you should not talk to a woman when she has her legs spread unless you yourself are between them?

I mean, I even find it weird when my gynocologist talks to me when he's down there doing his job. He likes to talk to me about traveling and Europe. I'm like, dude, you're testing me for gonorrhea, but yeah, southern France is nice that time of year....?

But anyway, Charlie likes the way I work out. "It looks like you're not doing anything," he says. Um, thanks? How offensive is that?

"Uh...." I stammered, legs spread, looking up at him. I squeezed them together and tried to not let the pain of holding the weights in this position for a while show on my face. "I've been sick," I said, "For a week. I haven't been here in 10 days or something." I released, legs spread. I couldn't stop thinking about my vagina. Your vagina is not something you want on your mind when talking to a stranger.

I looked down. I looked away. I squeezed my legs together and held. And held. I looked away. I closed my eyes. Do not think about your vagina. There is a stranger here. No vagina. NO!

Finally, he left.
"Well, it was nice to meet you!" he exclaimed.

Yeah. Right. It was a pleasure meeting you too. Really.

A Little Self-Promotion

An excerpt of an essay I wrote a couple years ago has been chosen to be a monologue in the NYC-based Legitimate Theater Company's production of What Is Legitimate Theater - a variety show of sorts.

So if you live in the greater NYC are or want to road trip up that'd be rad.

Check out Legitimate's website here.

My piece will be performed on Friday, August 19th and Friday, September 2nd.



What is Legitimate Theater?
The Slipper Room
167 Orchard Street (corner of Stanton)
Tickets $5
Shows are 21+

August and Everything

Up until this past Tuesday I thought it was July. Though I think I thought it was Monday on Tuesday and I definitely thought yesterday was Friday. I'm not sure what is going on.

I do know that all of a sudden it's August and I still think it's July. Or June.

And I know that yesterday I ran errands at 4:30pm, when I finally started my day, and I listened to a football game - of all things - on the radio.

I also know that when I was listening to aforementioned football game while I sat in the car that I'm borrowing at the intersection of East-West Highway and 16th Street, for one second (or maybe a minute) I was convinced I had the heat on, that if I opened my door it would be freezing cold outside and I honest to god thought, man the sun is setting early these days. It's totally November.

Luckily it's not Novemeber, it's still August. At least for a couple more weeks.


"When do your classes start, Ann?" I asked my friend on our way to Georgetown last night.
"The 29th" she said.
"So," I pulled out my cell phone - my only time telling device - "OK, so it's the 14th. That's two weeks dude. Dude... that's the end of the month. That's so soon."

You see, Ann and I were in her car driving - of all things - to Georgetown on a - of all times - Saturday night. Neither of us even likes Georgetown. This was quite evident by our tense silence, irritation at the traffic and little argument we got into when we finally found a place to park.

The reason we were in Georgetown on such a god awfully hot summer (August, actually) night is that Ann is going back to school and wanted to hang out with one of her friends who works down there. I was along for the ride because I love Ann, and I can't believe it's August and she's leaving.

What happened to the time?

So we park after we drive down Wisconsin Avenue, me playing DJ, her in her Gringos T-shirt she got in Haight-Ashbury and my in my $2 Salvation Army T shirt. Everyone else was so fancy in black and lace. I do not like Georgetown, but I love Ann.

We sat in a boiling hot bar. I was quiet most of the time, watching her with her friends from college. We said good-bye to them, I walked her to her car, she drove me back up to the intersection of Wisconsin and M and dropped me off. I hugged her good-bye, told her I loved her, she said I have to come visit her this year, I said I can't believe she's leaving, told her I love her again and shut the door. We've been through this a million times. It's not even a real good-bye.

But I shut her door, and stood there on Wisconsin Avenue with all the over-dressed crazy rich kids feeling really out of place and couldn't help but think, it's August?!

So I walked to another bar where I met up with a new friend and his old friends and drank some more and there was air conditioning and I text messaged my friend Laura who was in Adams Morgan where it's a little rougher around the edges and a lot more like home.

And I thought about how I ran out the door to meet Ann earlier that night so I could say good-bye to her really good friend Meghann who I became buds with this summer.
"Meghann really wants to see you, Alli, can you get here soon?" Ann said to me.

But I was interrupted in my rush to get out the door by an instant message from my friend in Los Angeles who could say nothing but, where are you? I need you here. I'm going to a toga party for a major talent agency and I need a wingman. You're so good at this shit, where are you?

And I hadn't talked to this friend in months.

And my other friend is in Telluride and I hardly even realized she left.

And my friend in Florida just booked a plane ticket to come visit me one year after we last saw each other.

And my friend Josh wanted to talk to me about shorts and steaks and Federal Hill but I was running late to see Meghann and say good-bye to Ann and get to Georgetown. Josh lives 10 minutes away from me. I haven't seen him since I've been home.

Around 2:30am I was walking across the Key Bridge with my new friend and his old friend. They talked and talked. I said nothing. Nothing at all. I looked at the Washington Monument. I looked at the Potomac. I looked up at Rosslyn. I touched the stone that divided the three of us from the cars that whizzed by. It was hot, humid, I was sweaty. All I could think was, where am I, what I am doing, and how is it already August?



It hits me really hard sometimes, this "where am I, what on earth am I doing" feeling. I always want to just stop moving for one second and have the whole world stop with me so I can take a brief inventory.

It's August. You don't have any money. You are living at home with your parents. You've met a ton of new people this summer. You've reunited with random old friends and acquaintences. You've hardly hung out with your best friends because you don't even know what day it is let alone what month it is. You're standing on the Key Bridge. That is the Potomac. Yes, you grew up here. No, you don't know how you got back here. Yes, you don't really know where you are going. No, you don't really know the people you are with. Yes, it is OK. Yes, you will be fine. Yes, it's August. Yes, that was a football game, that was Georgetown, Ann left, it is really hot and you are going to be ok.

O is for...

Two weeks ago I took my dad to the Orioles/White Sox game for his birthday. I wrote him a card, "O is for old, old school and Orioles!" See, the year Camden Yards opened I bought tickets for the two of us for his birthday. He later took me for my birthday. This tradition has gone back and forth for years.

So there we were years and years later driving up to Camden Yards. We parked in the new parking areas - thanks to Raven stadium occupying the once parking lot for Camden Yards - we walked the new walk, and sat in our seats at what is now considered the old-school Washington DC area baseball team. I dont know what's up with that.

Behind us sat a whole bunch of thirty something, or late twenty something, couples - the kind who kind of make me cringe. They were all sweet, clean-cut, the women wore jewelry, they never cussed. (This is a far cry from when I saw the O's/Yanks game earlier this season.)

My dad and I made the usual stops: beer, BBQ and a crabcake for me. I love Baltimore sometimes, really. Crabcakes at a ball game? Awesome!

We plopped into our seats, I propped my feet up on the chair in front of me and we looked out at the stadium in silence. That is, until I started to laugh.
"What?" my dad asked.
"I love this place! LOVE IT!" I said.
I think second to the beach, Camden Yards is the only place on earth where once I get there I just totally relax and feel at peace with the world.
"Um, Al," my dad said, "I haven't seen you this happy in a while..."

One couple that sat behind us was pretty cool. In eavesdropping on their conversation I got that the guy had been in Baltimore for a little while but never been to a game at Camden. He pointed out our BBQ to his girlfriend, as well as my crabcake.
"Where'd you get that?" he said, pointing to the BBQ.
"Over there, behind the bleacher seats," I said, "Boogs."
"And crabcakes at a baseball game, huh? This stadium is great."
"I know."
"Is it worth it?" he asked.
"The BBQ or the crabcakes?"
"Both."
"Well, I'm a vegetarian but I hear the BBQ is great. Definitely worth the walk over there. The crabcakes are pretty aight."
"It's a good spot to watch the game too," my dad chimed in, "Stand in line, grab a beer, order BBQ, maybe catch a ball..."
"This is such a beautiful stadium," he said, "have you seen a lot of games here?"
"I try to come as much as I can," I say, "This is the greatest place on earth. Forget Disney Land, Camden Yards is where it's at."

I finished my crabcake and we got a few more beers. The O's didn't get totally demolished at first so it wasn't that painful. The girl who sat in front of me had a poster for Raffy. The lineup included a couple original players from, well, back in the day we'll call it. Raffy, Surhoff...

It was a beautiful night out. We could see up Howard Street. The couples behind us chatted politely. They wondered if anyone used the warehouse. They wondered how old it was. They thought there was some time someone hit a ball out there. They thought. They weren't sure.

The dirt dudes ran out onto the field. An old couple sat a couple rows in front of us taking notes as the game went on. The beer guys had funny accents. The parking woman said hun to us. I looked out at third base where I remember hanging over the edge the night there was a two and a half hour rain delay when my dad took me to a game for my birthday. I was 15? 14? Who knows. The crowd cleared out that night, back when Camden Yards used to be jam packed. My dad stood with me waiting for the rain to stop because I didn't want to leave. They did the "guess the attendance" when the rain passed.
"50!" I'd yell.
"35!" my dad chimed in.
I leaned over the edge, got dirty looks from the 3rd base coach. "BRADYYYYYYYY!!!!!" I yelled and yelled until he finally looked over at me and I fell over laughing.

Now a few years past legal drinking age I sat way up high over home plate with my dad quietly watching the O's lose and the couples talk behind us.
"Have you ever seen a game at Memorial?" one guy asked to another.
"Years ago," the guy said. "Haven't seen one since."
"Ah, so you're an OG?"
"What?" replied the guy.
"An OG, an Original Gangster," said the first guy.
His friend laughed. "I guess... but that was years ago and I haven't been back since."

I smiled and took a sip of my beer. I told my dad about the time I saw the Nats play at Dodger stadium the week before Ieft Los Angeles. I told him how everyone says Dodger stadium is the most beautiful place ever. I told him how I remember sitting on the third baseline, nonplussed.
"Nothing compares, dad," I said, "This is the most beautiful place on earth."

This is freakin' hilarious.

I hope he didn't really mean the take-back. Hahaha.

A Night So Incredibly Awesome I Don't Know What to Title This Post

I think it all started when I decided which shoes to wear. Opting against my Pumas, I chose my flip flops. I was off to the Nationals/Padres game with my friend Laura. I won't be walking much, I thought. Just from the Metro to the stadium. I think that's when it began.

Sometimes you make friends in class or at work. Other times you meet people through friends and bars and such. And then there are the friends you meet somehow, once, you don't even remember, but at sometime over the course of your epic friendship something huge happens that bonds you together: the death of a friend/sibling/parent, studying abroad, driving cross country, almost getting hit by lighting, or that time you went to the Nationals/Padres game.

Exhausted from our respective previous evenings , Laura and I met up at the Bethesda metro stop. I sat drinking my Diet Coke with Lime in an attempt to wake up.
"You got anything in there?" she asked gesturing towards my bottle.
"Nah."
"Cool." She reached into her bag and pulled out a water bottle, "I fit a whole bottle of wine in here."
"Awesome," I said and we headed down to catch the Metro to RFK for the game.

Not only was last night one of those atrociously hot and humind on-the-brink-of-thunderstorm nights in Washington, but it was one of those nights where the Metro was packed and the air conditioning was off. Sweat dripped down our backs. We looked at each other with half-open eyes as we passed the water bottle of wine back and forth.

"Alright dude," Laura said to me at some point, "When we get to the stadium three things need to happen. In no particular order: beer, bathroom, hat."
"I don't want a hat," I said.
"So beer first, then hat and bathroom, because I need a hat."
"I thought you already had a hat."
"I want a new hat."
"Whatever."
"Do they have grey hats?"
"I dunno. Hmm. That'd be rad."
"Yeah, I want a grey hat."
"Cool."
Sometimes hanging out with Laura is like living in an Abbot and Costello routine.

When we get to the stadium Laura makes a bee-line for the hats. It doesn't take too long to pick one that is quite adorable on her. Meanwhile, I get us beer, we hit the bathroom and get to our seats.

I love Laura to pieces, but Laura does not like baseball. She doesn't mind baseball, but we went to the game together with the sort of idea that for three hours I'd give her a play by play of the game. This did not happen. In fact, I'm still not really sure what happened.

Our seats were above the first baseline. Laura kept inquiring about shin guards, whether we could break into the press box or move down below. I told her no, I didn't want to miss any part of the game.
"Something really exciting could happen, Laura! That's what's so great about baseball! You just never know what can happen!"

Well, I caved when I had to pee. We walked outside reminiscing about the times we went to concerts at RFK when we were in high school. We decided it would be really cool to call the guy who's name appears on the back of my shirt (a 2001 Capitol Hill little league Expos shirt that attracts a lot of attention), and thank him for providing us with a fun piece of clothing that gets a lot of attention. Laura dialed. "Hi Mario," she said, "This is Laura and you don't know me, but I'm at a Nationals game with my friend Alli who is wearing one of your little league shirts and I just wanted to thank you because it's really awesome and if you have any more can you please send them to me? My phone number is..." and she left her number. She hung up the phone and, giggling like two stupid blonde girls we hit the bathrooms, grabbed two beers before last call (It IS the 7th inning, I told the beer man, I promise! I need my drink now!), and passed by a sausage stand that was closing. Laura walked right up to them. She has an amazing ability to get whatever she wants, or at least try as hard a humanly possible to get what she wants. It's so fun to watch.

"Hey, can I get a sausage?" she asked.
"We're closed," they said.
"I know," Laura said, "But you're gonna throw them away, right?"
"Yes."
"So just give me one. Don't throw it away."
The sausage people looked at each other. They caved.
"You want one?" a sausage guy looked at me and said.
"Nah, I'm cool. I'm a vegetarian."
"I know!"
"How did you know that?" I asked the sausage man.
"'Cause you so sexy!"
We all laughed out loud, the sausage people, Laura and I.

As we got back to our seats we noticed that two of Laura's younger brother's friends were sitting a section over from us so we joined them for the latter part of the game. For $6 a beer we got as tipsy as we could afford and I suggested going back to the Madhatter since with your game ticket you get half-price Bud Light all night. I hate Bud Light. I must have been tipsier than I thought when I made this suggestion.

Somehow we got these two boys to drive us from RFK to Dupont Circle on their way home to Bethesda. As we drove around 395 and hit the city streets I was rather pleased... Beck playing in the car, a little beer in my veins, good company, free mini-coolers courtesy of the Washington Nationals for all their fans, going to a bar, exhausted. Good times.

The boys dropped us off at the circle in Dupont and Laura and I walked really quickly to the bar.
"You're gonna like this place, Laur," I told her, "It's super cool. The bartenders are really cute. Last night I only paid $14. I hope they're here again. This is gonna rule!" I chatted really quickly as we practically jogged down the street as it was beginning to rain. "And it's so cool we just went to the game," I chattered on, "I mean it's perfect! Look at us, my shirt, your hat - which looks so awesome by the way - we're gonna have the best time. And I want you to do me a favor! Whenever someone comments on your hat, which I know they will I want you to say to them, I was at the game. You'll be so in, baby, I swear!"

By this point we hit the bar. It was packed. We push our way through the crowd and walk straight up the bar. I see that my favorite bartender - the one I totally flirted with my first time there, who Julie and I had just been thinking about - is working. I punch Laura in the side. "We're so golden tonight," I tell her.

There are two stools waiting at the bar for us. We slide into them and one bartender comes up to us. We pull out our tickets from the game. "I want whatever we can get with these," I say and smile. He says it's just for Bud Light. We pout. He opens to bottles of Bud Light but doesn't even charge us for them. I love this bar. We toast each other and start drinking.

Not long after we've been there I make eye contact with the cute bartender from two months ago. We'll call him Alex. He comes up to me and I tell him that I was here two months ago, relayed the conversation back to him, asked if he remembers and he says, yes, he remembers my face, definitely. I ask his name, he asks mine.

Then some guy comes up behind Laura and I and I ask him if he needs a drink. He says yes, to get him one. I say to him, I will not just get you a drink... you can move up here and get one or you can pay me to order you a drink. "Fine," he says and hands me a $10 bill. "I want a Heineken. Tip him whatever you want. Keep the change." I just made $3.

Things get hazy about now. All I know is everyone and their mother is commenting on my shirt and Laura's hat. "We were at the game," we say, and smile at each other knowlingly. Alex hands us jars of candy, he tosses bottle caps at me all night and winks at me every time he walks by. Bartenders... they are so much trouble. And so much fun. And really cute, especially when they put their hats on.

I know I told you about how I met the love of my life. This happens right about now in the night, when Laura and I are well on a roll picking people up left and right without ever getting out of our seats. While I'm macking on Love of My Life and Alex the bartender keeps tossing stuff at me (seemingly as to get me away from Love of My Life... because when Love of My Life went to the bathroom Alex walked right up to me and gave me all kinds of grief about him. I told him not to worry, he was my first love anyway, and hey, a girl is certainly allowed to have some fun), I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and standing right in front of me is the DJ I met from the other night. (I told you these pieces would come together sooner or later)

"You know," he says to me without saying hello, "I was standing over there and I was like, man, who is that girl sitting at the bar!? I mean, that couldn't possibly be Alli because she would most definitely come up and say hi to me..."
I burst out laughing and give him a kiss on the cheek. "Sorry,"I say, "I didn't see you! This is my friend Laura and this is..." I make introductions all around. I love this feeling - everyone having fun.

At some point I get up from the bar and go to the bathroom. Pushing my way through frat-ish boys in polos and button downs and baseball hats I find my way to the DJ.
"Hey girl," he says, "What's going on?"
"Oh man, I don't even know, I was at the game, and now I'm here and I met the love of my life, I think..."
"What?! I thought I was the love of your life. You're breakin' my heart here Alli."
"Aw, sorry dude! But maybe you ARE the love of my life! I didn't say it wasn't you... hey, will you play me some Roots, I really wanna hear some Roots."
"I dunno Alli... my heart..."
"C'mon dude, please? I love me some Roots, remember? I told you yesterday.."
"Okok, I think I can do that for you babe..." I thanked him and walked off to the bathroom. 15 minutes later I got my favorite Roots song. This is what we call being on top of the world.

When the Love of My Life leaves it's like every single guy in the bar flocks to me and Laura. "We were at the game!" we keep saying and try, desperately to restrain ourselves from laughter. Laura is getting basically accosted by two separate sketchy dudes and one non-sketchy lawyer dude and I decided to go back to my original flirtation. I lean over the bar and make eyes at Alex. He comes right over and leans on the bar and fixates his eyes on mine.
"Hello there," I say to him.
"Hi Ms. Houseworth, how's your boyfriend?"
"He left."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yup."
"Too bad."
"Not really... hey... I'm gonna tell you something, Mr. Bartender, ok?"
"Alright Ms. Alli, go ahead."
"That first night I was here... I thought you were really cute and last night when I was here for like 6 hours my friend and I kept debating over whether or not to ask when you were working again... soo... fancy meeting you here tonight."
He laughs. I'm not one to hide true sentiment. Not at 2am anyway, at a bar. "Can I close my tab?" I ask.
"You leaving?"
"Yeah... gotta catch the metro home."
"Stay."
"Stay?"
"Yes, stay. Stay until, oh, 3:15."
"Oh, is that when you're leaving?" I ask.
"Yup."
"So why should I stay?"
"I'll buy your beer for the rest of the night."
"Done."

I fight my way through guys to get to Laura, telling people no, I don't need a rose from the guy who has walked into the bar selling them and I don't need their phone numbers either, but thanks. When Laura and I discuss whether or not to stay it occurs to me what I might be getting myself into. I told The Love of My Life that I don't make out with random people at bars and I told Alex, despite what he saw I don't make out with people at bars, and I do not go home with bartenders. Bartenders are trouble. We all know this. But bartenders are also really cute. And I sensed some trouble on the horizon and, I'm not gonna lie, I was all for it.

"He'll buy us beer if we stay," I tell Laura.
"Done."
"Awesome."
"Wait, how are we gonna get home?" she asks. We look at each other.
"Dunno... cab?" I suggest.
"Or we could walk," she says. We giggle and stay.

They ring the bell. About 10 people stay, all of whom are trying to get our numbers. Finally it's me, Laura, and the non-sketchy guy Laura was talking to who are the only ones left. I notice someone walk down stairs and it's the bartender from the night before with the "Nice work" comment.
"Hey!!!!!!" he says. I burst out laughing. "It's good to see you again!!!!" I put my head in my hands and laugh and laugh.

Once the bar has been swept and the tabs have been closed, the tables put back in place, and our beers finished Alex walks up to me.
"Hey," he says.
I smile up at him. "Hey there."
"So, you ready?"
"Yeah, where are we going?"
"I live in Reston."
"Reston?! I'm not going to Reston," I say.
"So are we going to your place?"
"No," I say, "I live in Bethesda. And I'm not going home with you."
"What?"
"I told you," I said and stood up, "I don't go home with bartenders, AND despite what you saw earlier, I don't even make out with people in bars."
"So why did you stay?"
"Because I... well, I want to galavant around DC for a while, play. Have fun. Maybe make out or something. You should have made your intentions clearer, mister."
"Well," he says, "Who else stays?"
I paused and looked at him. "You know what? You're right. See ya later," I turned to Laura, "Laur, let's go!" and we left.

But we didn't get too far. Outside clubs were closing up and people were walking up and down the street getting in to cabs. You don't see this much in DC. I wanted to watch. I like to watch.

I watched as Laura and the non-sketchy dude talked by a parking meter and I sat on a stoop. I watched people walk by us at 3:30am and wondered what on earth I was still doing out when a guy walked up to me and sat down.

"Mind if I share this step?" he asked.
"Nah, it's cool."
"Where were you tonight?"
"Here. Madhatter."
"Fun?"
"Definitely."
"You got a smoke?" he punched a few buttons on his phone. "My buddy, he's passed out over there on the stoop." I looked over. There was a guy laying on the steps all spread out like a starfish. Apparently his name is Brian. I laughed.

"Hey Alli!" I hear Laura yell. "Do you think, in our lives, we've been sheltered from prostitutes?"
"What?! Hellllll no," I yelled back, "I lived in Baltimore.. and Los Angeles for God's sake." We all laugh, including the kid next to me, who some how or another convinced me to walk up to Brian and kick him. So we do so, this kid and I, walk up to Brian and kick him and start yelling at him and laugh and laugh, us strangers.

Then Alex walks out of the bar and catches my eye. "What are you still doing here?" he asks.
"Just chillin." I smile. He motions for me to come over. He's holding a glass of water.
"Let me get some of that," and take the water out of his hands and sip it.
"You know, you're very sexy Alli."
"And you're very forward Alex." I stare at him in that "don't even try to say or do anything to me right now because you know you overstepped a boundary you're just waiting for me to cross" kind of way. I love being in control of a situation like this. He leans in and kisses me on the cheek.
"Come back soon," he says and walks off. I chuckle. Brian is now up and stumbling down the street with his friend. I hug both good-bye.
"Laur," I yell, "Cab time!" and she says good bye to the non-sketchy guy she's had wrapped around her finger for the last hour. I love us.

We hail a cab at the corner of 19th and M and climb in.
"We want to go to Bethesda Metro," laura says, "But we know it costs money to cross the line so just take us to Friendship Heights."
"That's $25," the cabbie says.
"No way, it's not $25," Laura says, "It's one zone."
"No is not. Four zone," the cabbie says. "Look at map," and he tosses the sketchiest, lamest map back at us. I take one look at it and have no idea where we are on the map or where we need to get to.
"This is ridiculous," I say, "I'm not paying $25 to get to Friendship Heights." I decide to let Laura take care of this situation since she's taken cabs all over the city and is much more aggressive than I am when it comes to these situations.

One thing leads to another and within the time it takes us to get from Dupont Circle south to Dupont Circle north we have gotten into a huge screaming fight with the cabbie as to what the fare should be. We hear $7.40 plus $1.50 surcharge and $1 for gas and then $10.10 plus all that extra, then $15 then $25. None of it makes any sense. Not like anything has made sense all night, but at this point it's 4am and I just want to be home asleep.

We hit a red light not far from where Laura and I sat about two months ago this same time of morning and there was a cop car stopped across the street from us. By this point Laura is pissed. Or, I think she is. I can't really tell. She likes to cause trouble and I'm wondering if this is one of those times or if this is one of those times when she's just flat out dead serious pissed off.

"You want me to call the cops?" she yells, "Because I will." I turn and look at her. "There's a cop right there!" she says and rolls down the window. "Hey!" she yells, "We're having a dispute over fare here, can you please come over?! This guy is being ridiculous." The the cabbie starts to yell at us. Then I get a little nervous. He stops the car in the middle of the road and gets out, leaving Laura and I in the car. The cop lights flash behind us. They tell him to move the car over to the side of the road. I look at Laura, she looks at me. The cop comes up to the window.

"This guy is being completely ridiculous," she yells, and goes on to explain the dispute that just occurred. The cabbie yells at us for wasting his time. The cops tell him not to talk to us at all, to keep his mouth shut. I look out the window to my right and see five cops standing on the corner. I look to my left at Laura animately explaining the situation. The cabbie hands the map to the cop, and the rule book.

I look to my right at everyone standing around. There are now four police vehicles behind us and the main cop is getting very angry at the cab driver who is getting very angry at the cop. I look at Laura. I can't tell if she's laughing or hypervenitlating. I can't tell if I'm hysterically amused at this situation or really nervous.
"I just want to get out of this car!" Laura says.
"I'm not getting out of this car," I say to her. "I'm not standing next to that guy."
"Get me out of this car!" She yells. I can't tell if she's being serious. I'm not sure she knows either. Finally a cop comes to her side and opens the door for us. Shaking with adrenaline we walk to the corner with four cops separating us and the cabbie.

Eventually it is decided that he is wrong, but so are we. We are to pay him $10 for driving us 6 blocks or go to jail.
"I'll go to jail!" Laura says. This is very typical for Laura.
"I'm not going to jail for $10 Laura, don't be ridiculous!" I yell at her.
"It's ridiculous to pay $10!" she yells.
"I know it's ridiculous to pay $10," I say, "But it's more ridiculous to go to jail for $10!" We both burst out laughing. The cops look at us.
"Fine!" I say and pull a $10 bill out of my wallet. "I'll pay $10 but I am NOT giving it to the cab driver." I look at the cop. "Will you please give it to him?"
"I'm not giving him $10," said the cop. "Put it on the seat."
"I'm not putting it on the seat," I say.
Laura grabs the $10 from me and goes to place it on the seat of the cab. The cabbie drives off.

"Sir, listen," I go on, like the 4:30am philospher I can be, "I know you were just doing your job, but don't you think it's ridiculous to pay $10 for that cab? If I had known that I would have walked the six blocks."
The cop looks at me. "It's ridiculous."
"It's fucking ridiculous," Laura says, "Excuse my language." The philosopher and the aggressor. Like Abbot and Costello standing on a DC street corner at 4:30am surrounded by cops.

One officer hands us a piece of paper with the cabbie's license #, tags and registration and suggests we report him. We're all smiling buddy-buddy at each other, the cops, Laura and I.
"For now," the cop says, "I suggest you ladies just get another cab and get home."
"I'm not gettin' back in another cab," Laura said.
"Me neither," I agree. We both want a ride home in a cop car so bad, I just know it.
"I'll give you $10 to give us a ride home," I tell them. They laugh. "Sorry, was that inappropriate?"
"We'll just walk home," Laura says.
"Do you know how far that is? You can't walk home," the cops says.
"We're from here," I say. "It's far, but not so bad."
"Don't be ridiculous girls, catch a cab home. Have a safe night."
Laura pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. We make eye contact, she smiles at me, hands me one and we giggle.
"Let's go."

So off we went heading north on Connecticut Avenue laughing about what happened.
"Were you really upset?" I asked her.
"Kinda, I mean he was being a total jerk, but at the same time I couldn't stop laughing."
"Me neither," I said and we both burst out laughing.
We got to the Calvert Street bridge and I thought we'd give up by the time we hit the other side.
"I've always wanted to walk across this bridge," I told her, "for 24 years I've always wanted to do this!!" We laugh and laugh.

We don't stop when we hit Calvert street. In fact, we don't stop when we hit the south end of Woodley Park either, or when we're standing outside the zoo around 5:20am. We make a few calls to people we know in the neighborhood, but sadly no one answers their phone at 5:30am on a Saturday. We don't stop when we hit Cleveland Park, or even when we get to Van Ness. We do decide, however, that we should pick up the day's Express for a number puzzle.

"Hey Laur..."
"Yeah?" she asks.
"So if I marry this kid will you tell the story of this night at our wedding?"
"Absofuckinlutely. Hey, at this moment in time, right now, if you married this kid, would I be your maid of honor?"
"Totals. Damn... I hope we get married. I wanna hear your speech."

As we reached the crest of the hill north of Van Ness I look up.
"Hey Laur, the sun's gonna rise! I haven't seen the sun rise in... well, at least a few weeks."
"I saw it this morning." We laugh and keep walking. We pass more streets and empty buildings, stop to play in a sprinkler, wonder what on earth we think we're doing.

"Hey, Jenifer Street!" I say.
"Change of scenery!" and we turn down Jenifer as the sky turns a little lighter.

Our flip flops scrape along the ground and I mention that maybe I should have worn my Pumas, but I didn't think I'd be walking much further than from the Metro to the Stadium. We laugh. Laura starts to hum...
"When the night has come... and the land is dark..." I join in, "And the moon is the only light we see... No, I won't be afraid... Oh, I won't be afraid... Just as long... as you stand....Stand by me..."

We laugh and laugh shuffling down Jenifer street running our Express newspapers along people's buhes and trees, hopping over cracks in the sidewalk.
"I feel like I'm at camp," Laura says and we laugh some more.

By the time we hit the end of Jenifer street and turn onto Wisconsin the light is bright and Friendship Heights looks like our own personal Mecca. We sit on the steps of the Chevy Chase Pavillion and look across Western Avenue to Maryland.
"I can't believe we just did that," I said.
"It only would have cost us $7.60 more," Laura said. "Are you sure you're not a jew?" We sit, laugh and rub our feet.
"Hey," she continues, "If anyone asks us what we're doing sitting here I'm gonna tell them we're waiting for JCrew to open."

Finally we get up and hobble over the DC line into Maryland where we collapse on a bench at the Friendship Heights Metro stop and wait for a bus to take us to Bethesda.
"You know," Laura says, "No one else would have done this."
"I know. I can't think of anyone else who would have done this with me either."
"Yeah."
"Def."
"This is crazy."
"We're absolutely insane."

Finally a bus arrives. We each pay $1.25 and ride in silence along with a few others who are on their way to work.
"So... Tastees?" I say to Laura.
"Sounds so good."
"It's gonna be the best. Grilled Cheese with tomato at 6:30am?"
"Perfect."

We climb into Laura's car and drive over to the greatest diner in America. We get a table, run to the bathroom, pee for what feels like days, order our food and inhale it down. A bus boy walked around hanging balloons around the diner and a man sat reading a newspaper next to us. Laura and I did not speak a word to each other. I looked at the man's paper.
"Oh my God, Laur..."
"What?"
"The cover... the front page of the sports section of that man's paper... the first story... it's about the Nats/Padres game..."
"Oh my God..."
We laugh. "That means that story had to be written, edited, printed-"
"-and distributed..." we said in unison as we looked at each other, still in our baseball game gear and laughed.

We tossed some dollars on the table and paid the check at the cashier. My eyes started to cross at this point.

"What's this? You wanna pay in cash?" the sketchy cashier man who has worked there as long as I can remember, said.
"Yeah." I handed him my last $10 bill.
"What's with your shirt?"
"What?" I kinda looked at him annoyed.
"Your shirt. They're not the Expos anymore, they're the Washington Nationals."
"I know," I said and rolled my eyes. He didn't get it. I was too tired to explain.
"And you! With the hat!" he said looking at Laura, "What's with you?"
"Um, we were at the game..." Laura replied.
"What?! That was hours ago!"
"Yeah, we know."
"What'd ya do, walk!?"
Laura and I both looked at each other and cracked a smile.
"Um... actually, yeah...."



When Laura dropped me off at my car we hugged each other and shared one of those silent smiles where there is nothing that can really be said.
"I can't wait to get home and wash my feet," she finally said. "And I'm totally going to have separation anxiety..."
"I know..."
When I got home I washed my feet too, climbed into bed and slept all day. I have blisters on the bottom of my feet and I'm a little sore, though in a very short amount of time they will heal.

The night, however, will not. It's one of those times when something has changed, when 15 years from now you'll be wherever you are in life and say to that one person, hey, remember that time we went to the Nats/Padres game....? That was the best....

Everything I Want to Hear

NOTE: Readers, although this post precedes that which lays out all the events of the evening during which this post occurred, I find that this particular situation deserves a post of it's own. For the broad picture check out the next post. For everything I've ever wanted to hear, read on.

I think I met the love of my life.

Wait, maybe we should back up a little bit.

OK, so I'm a girl, right? And guys always think that every girl can get whatever guy she wants, right? Well, there are some girls who do that: go out to bars, pick up guys, go home with them and that's that. That girl, however, is not me.

I walk on eggshells. I know that most of the bar world does not behave like I do. I know that because I'm female most guys will just try to sleep with me instead of talk about cool stuff, which is what I like to do... ok, and flirt too. I know I'm not stupid, I know I'm not easy, I know what to look for. I know to look to see if the guy is checking out other girls, I know within two minutes of talking to someone what their intentions are, and I'm not afraid to call you out on your shit.

I also know how to play the game, the getting-to-know-you game. I ask the "What are your top 5 favorite movies of all time" question on the second date, I don't tell people I lived abroad or like baseball or know all the rules to football or like beer unless they ask. If you're a guy out at a bar and want to play the get to know you game, I'll dance around with you all night long, toss a bone here and there, and spend most of the time sitting back in my mind being amused at the situation. I've been single for three years so I'm really good at this game. I find it amusing.

Since I've been back from Los Angeles I've had a trememdous ability to go out to a bar, scout the crowd, pick out one guy, think "I will take him, thanks" and succeed. It's amazing. What it really is, however, is knowing what you want and being confident enough that you're confident enough in your decision that you will acheive your objective. For some reason, at a bar, I know who I am, I know what I want. Last night I found it, a 110% match.

My friend Laura and I sat at a bar adorned in our Nationals gear, which seems to trump spaghetti-strapped tank tops as "best thing to wear to a bar and get attention from guys." I turned around and saw a good looking guy behind us. "Nice shirt," he said and smiled at me. I was wearing my fashionista baseball shit - a 2001 Capitol Hill little league Expos shirt that is so incredibly awesome these days.

The Scoring: Alli: 1 Boy: 0. Tactic: Awesome baseball shirt.

"Are you a Nats fan?" he asked.
"O's fan." I said. *insert reason-why-blah-blah-here. "Who's your team?"
"The Yankees."

The Scoring: Alli: 2. Boy: -55 Tactic: Alli's amazing explaination as to why she likes the Orioles. Boy - liking the Yankees.

"No, but listen," he said.

The scoring: Alli: 2. Boy: -109. Reason: Boy's defensive explaination as to why he's a Yankees fan.

I laugh. "What?!" I ask. "You're just like every other Yanks fan! You say you're a fan and when someone gives you a look of disgust you act all defensive. We just hate you, get over it, ok?"

The scoring: Alli: 89. Boy: -109. Reason: I am so awesome and know exactly what I'm talking about.

I let him finish his lame reason - he grew up in Louisiana and they only got two stations on the TV, and one of them broadcast the Yankees and - that's when I cut him off. Pathetic. And that's when his friend walked up.

His name is John. He is taller than me. He has brown hair. He has light eyes. He has a great smile. He is not wearing a polo shirt or button-down. He is wearing a T-shirt from Belgium. He is drinking a beer. He is smoking Parliament Lights.
"Hi Alli," he says.
"Hi..." I say and smile.
"Alli's a baseball fan," Mark says, steps away and walks back to his other friends.
"Oh yeah?" John asks. "Who's your team? The Nats? I like your shirt by the way.

The scoring: I don't even know. At first glance he's beating me by far. But then again it seems I don't even have to say anything and have already banked some points. It goes on like this for over an hour.

NOTE: What follows is the honest to God truth. If this were fiction, however, and I were to tell you about the perfect boy I met at a bar, I don't even think I could come up with a description this good. The catch is, this boy is real. I think. I hope.

"So, Alli. What do you do?" he asks.
"What do I do for money, or what do I do for... real?"
"Both."
"I make over-priced espresso drinks for yuppies,"I tell him, "and I write. And I want to run a theatre or something. What do you do for fun and money?"
"Well," he says, "What I do for money is what I do for fun."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"You're so lucky," I say.
"I know," he says.
"So.. what do you do."
"I assitant produce shows for Redskins radio," he says.
I freeze. "What?! Are you serious??"
"Yup. I have to wake up at 8 to get to the scrimmage tomorrow."
"Oh my god."
"I have weekly phone interviews with Joe Gibbs."
"I think I just fell in love with you," I said.

But there's more. He went to Dickinson and got a degree in Philosophy. "It's even more useless than your degree," he says. He adds, "All I do is sit around and think about things and write all day."

Scoring: Alli: lost already.

He asks, "What was the last book you read?" I think, man I'd ask this question to guys in LA all the time and most of them said they don't even read books. I tell him my answer. He asks if I have read Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs. I say it's next on my list. He says I'll love it, I can borrow his copy.

I turn to my friend Laura to make sure she is watching this unfold and at least hearing part of the conversation. John turns back to his friend before turning back and grabbing my arm. "I'm really sorry, Alli," he says, "But... you're just... I mean.. it's so nice to... I mean... you're not... stupid. It's so refreshing!" I laugh.

"Do you feel old being 24?" he asks.
I laugh. "Oh lord, yes," I say.
"So do I. It's like everything I thought my life would be like at 24 is not the case now."
"I know exactly what you're talking about," I say.
"Where did you used to see yourself at 24?" he asked.
"Well, I thought... I thought my life would be beginning," I said. "You know... a job I cared about... not making stupid coffee for people... and... I mean, I want - or wanted kids - by the time I'm 30, but that's so soon now..." I continued, "And I want to married a while before I have kids..."
"I want to be married 5 years before I have kids," he says.
"Yeah, that sounds about right," I say, "But that's like, 25, and I want to be in a relationship for at least two years before I get married so that, well, that was like last April!" We both laugh.
"My parents got married two weeks after they met," he said.
"That's insane."
"They've been together ever since."
"That's more insane."

... And then there comes a point in the get-to-know-you dance when you realize everything you could ask is worth the risk and you don't have to play the dance around game anymore. This is one of those times.

THE Q & A SECTION:

A: Tell me your top five favorite movies.
J: American Beauty, Royal Tenenbaums, Raising Arizona (and two others I forget)
A: Good. Nice, nice.
He asks me mine but I can't remember the last two. This is because my mind has been blown.

A: OK let me ask you this. From what you know of me, what would you say my last two favorites are?
J: Thinks for a while. Um... The Big Lebowski....
A: Oh my God... and....?
J: Uh... High Fidelity.
A: You're incredible.

After graduation he lived in: New York. London.
In college he studied abroad in: India.
He's traveled to: All 7 continents. "I was in Chile and took a ferry to Antarctica just to say I did it. I saw penguins and shit. It was really cool."
His family has: had season tickets to all Washington sports teams' games going back three generations.
Since the age of one: he has never missed a Redskins/Cowboys game. Except that time he was in London.

"Alli, look," he says to me about a half hour after we meet, "I know this is... this is weird but I have to just ask. What are you doing on Sunday?"
"Um nothing."
"OK, look, the Daily Grill in Georgetown has half price bottles of wine Sunday nights. Come split one with me?"
"Absolutely. Yes." I turn back to Laura. She has heard this. I mouth, oh my GOD. She smiles.

At some point his friend leans in and asks if I want a beer. I say sure, I'll take a Yuengling. He grabs John's hand. "Dude," he says, "Did you hear what she just ordered?"
"No."
"A Yuengling!" Mark says.
John turns to me. "I'm sorry but I'm totally in love with you."
"I'm OK with that," I say.

So after we establish that we have almost everything in common and can't stop gawking at each other he looks me dead in the eyes and says, I want to know everything about you. He starts firing away:

J: What are the top 5 best albums of all time?
A: The best or my favorite?
J: Your best.
I'm glad he understands the difference between the best and my favorites.

J: When you order chinese food, what do you get?
A: Shrimp with brocolli. You?
J: Noodles. I like noodles.
A: They're good. I'm a vegetarian though, so I can't get the good stuff.
J: So am I.
A: What?
J: I'm a vegetarian.
A: You're kidding me.
J: No. Got in to it in India.
A: You're unreal.

Now it must be said that this last part took place after he kissed me. I HATE kissing people in bars. Apparently he does too because when we stopped we both looked around and laughed and apologized to one another.

He left the bar earlier than I did (because I closed it out and stayed there til 4am, but that's a story for the next blog), kissed me again, got my number and promised to call on Sunday. Not only that, but he wants to pick me up which is insane because he lives in NOVA and I live in Maryland.

After he left I turned to Laura.
"What just happened dude??" I asked her.
"I dunno man," she said, "I think you just met the love of your life." We smile at each other and reach back towards our beer, not knowing when we left for the night what would be in store for us, and what would come.


It's like this... for 24 years you make a list of everything you want and it changes all the time but gets more and more specific. Some moments everything matches up and you can run down a list and check off each little box and say, yes, I got it all. But then tomorrow the list might be gone, or maybe you wrote the details down incorrectly. Even so, though, it's nice to know that for a moment, an hour or two, on some random day it all makes sense and you can't help but think, yes, this is it, and all you can do now is cross your fingers and wait to see what happens next.

Chillin' on a Sunday Morning (or Back in the Game)

On Thursday night I met up with my friend Julie (again) at The Madhatter (again) for happy hour (again). It was her last day at her stupid job so we were there to celebrate. However, it was not my last day at my stupid job so I had to be at work at 8am. Luckily happy hours are designed for poor 20-somethings and people have jobs where they need to be awake at the most atrocious hours of the morning.

Madhatter has the best happy hour in life. You get $2 (or something) vodka tonics and half price (I think appetizers), really cute bartenders to stare at, and a baseball game to watch. They hook you up during the game as well. Last time I went there Julie and I were there longer than anyone who had come in for happy hour and my tab was $5.

This time we rallied a couple in the corner, drank at least 8 drinks a piece, had three appetizers, watched an entire baseball game, flirted with a few boys, doubled over laughing a few times more, and finally stumbled out of the bar six hours after we got there with a $14 tab and a farewell wave and shout from the bartenders, "Nice work, ladies!"

I don't know how we go from "we'll just meet for a drink or two" to "we'll spend more time at the bar then we did at work today." Julie and I, however, do have a history of rockstardom. I'm not sure how...

But at some point during the Nats game (vs. the Dodgers that night, of all teams), Julie started talking to this guy next to her who was definitely older than us. It should be mentioned that Julie likes to call herself my pimp and for most of the night we tried to remember what this one bartender looked like who worked the first night I went to the Madhatter - one Julie was convinced was TOTALLY in to me. Truth be told, I was a little upset he wasn't working this night.

So Julie's talking to this guy and the next thing I know I hear her say, "This is my friend Alli. She likes baseball. You should talk to her about it." As we start to talk to this guy we find out he's married and has two kids - girls. One is 8, the other is 13 and the 13 year old apparently hates him. I keep trying to tell him that he needs to take her to a game, that that is how my dad and I bonded and keep bonding and that's how I know everything about the game and one huge reason why I love it so much. He doesn't think this will work. He asks how Julie and I know each other and we say we lived together in London. He asks if we knew each other beforehand and we said, no. Then he asks, so you never knew each other, met in London, lived together and now live here and go to happy hours together? We look at each other and smile. "That's really cool," he says. We agree. Soon enough he realizes he should maybe get home to his family, and leaves the bar with Julie and I shaking our heads at the sadness of the situation.

NOTE: A few of the aforewritten and following anecdotes really have nothing to do with the rest of the above statements, nor do they come together in any sort of story that will be finished in this particular blog. However, with anything else, if you step back and look at how all the details fall into place - in this case, over the next 30 hours - it all becomes hilariously amusing. Look forward to more blogs about aforementioned 30 hours.

So at this point we're a little drunk, the lights have been dimmed, the bar is full, the bartenders have learned our names and keep flirting with us, and we're not trying to leave any time soon. I turn to Julie at some point around now and say, "Jules, after a month long hiatus I think I got my game back." She laughs at me and nudges me, encouraging me to flirt more.

Two big black dudes sit down next to me while I'm staring at the Nats game. One turns to me and says, hey, you like baseball. I turn to him and smile. Yeah, I do.
"The Nats?" he asks.
"I mean... kinda... but I love the Orioles."
*insert now-getting-old-explaination-as-to-why-I'm-an-O's-fan here*
"You come here often, Alli?" he asks.
"Kinda. A few times. I love it though!"
"Look, I throw parties around the corner here sometimes, you should come out."
I get jazzed and tell him I'm missing some "booty-bumpin'" in my life (I miss Baltimore for this reason), and can he hook me up with some good hip-hop. He gives me his number and tells me about a party Saturday night I should go to. Then he starts to flirt with me a little bit, pauses, looks me dead in the eyes and says, "Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," I say.
"So... you like baseball... do you like football too...?"
I grin. "If you think I like baseball... haha... I love football."
"Really?!"
"Yup."
"So... like... you could go out Saturday night and wake up Sunday morning and hang on the couch all day watching the games?"
"That's my favorite thing to do."
Then he gives me his phone number.

NOTE: Dear readers, I promise you this isn't supposed to sound self-indulgent. Please keep reading as this little puzzle piece will come in very handy 24 hours later in my life... in one of the best stories I have to tell... ever.

Before I went to the Madhatter that night I talked to my friend who said a friend of his DJs there on the weekends. I asked my friend his friends name and promptly forgot about the conversation. As Julie and I were thinking about closing out our tabs a group walks up, shakes the bartenders' hands, leans in, gives them kisses on the cheek and all that. The bartenders turn to us. "Alli, Jules, this is blah blah and blah. Some of our regulars." Julie and I turn and introduce ourselves then all of a sudden a lightbulb goes off. I look at this one guy. I laugh out loud and say, "oh my god, you know my friend. I was just talking about you!"

This kid is awesome and tells Julie and I to come back some other night and see him, yadda yadda. By this point the bar is full and I have to be at work in less than eight hours so Julie and I leave the bar, laughing, carrying her last-day-at-work presents (a kitty litter container and kitty perch) on our shoulders up a few block to the metro. We take the train home together, slumped down, giggling like you do when you realize maybe you've pushed the limit a little too far, and it was worth every second.

NOTE: Readers, if you feel like I felt at this point this particular night you probably think this is the end of The Ridiculous for the weekend, week, or perhaps month. If you feel like I felt at work the next morning you're really freakin' exhausted and hungover. But if you feel like you know there's more excitement in the air then keep reading...

Note:

Please, dear readers, note that the aforewritten post about that aforementioned unnamed actress (AUA) is not a post about that time I met someone who had the second best part time job in Hollywood: catering, nor is it a post about how the AUA was at some party they catered once, nor was it about how this person found AUA's purse after she forgot it in the bathroom, nor is it about how AUA's purse contained a bag of a certain powdery white substance that does not have anything to do with AUA's recent weight loss.

;)

Hahaha....

Mean Girls! For real.

OK Kids, it's time to get down and dirty here. I can't help but notice Ms. Linday Lohan's prominence in the media, and I can't help but wonder why the hell anyone cares.

On that note I want to tell you all a little story I heard out west about some barely legal, overly publicized "actress" who may or may not have developed early or undergone surgery.

I worked on a play in Los Angeles with a girl we'll call Sam. Sam is freakin' gorgeous and really really cool. Born and raised in LA, Sam decided not to go to college and is trying to become a professional actress.

After the show we worked on together she got the best part-time job one can have in Hollywood: valet parker. For gobs of money per hour, plus tips, you get to park celebrities' cars.

One night at a certain party, Sam told me over burritoes, a certain aforementioned unnamed actress drove up. Sam, bein' the cool chick she is said to the actress, sorry we're full. There were no parking spaces left.
"What?! Park my car!" the actress yelled.
"Sorry, I can't. We're full," said Sam.
Then the actress actually said this, "Do you know who I am???!?!?!?!?!?!!!!!!!"
To which Sam cooly replied, yeah, of course I do. Then the aforementioned unnamed actress threw a hissy fit which culminated - I shit you not - in this statement, "I'll make sure you NEVER work in this town again," to which Sam furrowed her brow, looked the aforementioned unnamed actress straight in the eyes and asked, "As a valet parker....?" and laughed.

Ah yes, Los Angeles. All the stories you hear are true. It's like living in one big high school where everyone will lie and cheat their way to get to the top. Except for Rachel McAdams. I hear she's really awesome.

Assertive Service

I've been working on becoming more assertive. I think I've been pretty successful on this venture. However, there is one place where no matter how much you want to stand up for yourself, you can't. That place: WORK.

Yesterday at the Corporate Coffee Shop Where I Work we were under-staffed. This is a glorious thing for morning rush. Our manager was out, our shift supervisor is new and was in the back fixing money stuff, our strong barista was ill and sent home early, so that left me and three people who are, to say the least, not strong partners at all. My shift supervisor left me in charge, mumbling something about, "back them all up... somehow," so I did.

For those of you who don't know me, or who have never worked with me in stressful conditions I have to tell you that I'm a rockstar. I pretty much fall into this uber-zen state and do about 85 things at once. This was noted in the six month review I got the other week - the one whereinwhich I received a 28 cent/hr raise for my amazing skills and abilities. Anyway, needless to say, yesterday morning I was superstar. Everything stayed re-stocked, coffee was made, I was five steps ahead of everyone and their mother, but I was not smiling.

I don't smile much when I'm not feeling totally ridiculous. When I don't smile I look sad. It's so annoying how people ask me what's wrong when I'm not smiling. I tell them it's nothing to worry about, it's just my facial structure. Anyway, when I'm in Zen-state, it looks like I'm in Mad-state, when really I'm being a rockstar. Listen and learn people, listen and learn.

This is when a customer walks in, male, 30's, kinda brash looking. Instead of walking up to either register he looks at me, points at the pastry case and says, I will have that. (This is a pet peeve of mine for two reasons: 1. I cannot see what the hell you're pointing to and 2. You will not HAVE it, you may ask for it politely because if it weren't for me you wouldn't get what you want anyway. I swallow this day in and day out over and over again)

So I say to the man, one of what? Keep in mind there is a line out the door and 3 baristas asking me questions all at the same time.
"One of those. Sandwiches," the man says.
"Which one, sir? I can't see where you're pointing."
"That one. In front."
"The bacon?" I ask. There is bacon clearly hanging out the sides of the sandwich. There is also a sign on it that says, Bacon Egg and Cheddar. I know this because I put the sign there.
"Yes the bacon."
"OK, is that to go?"
"Yes," he says and wanders away. I keep an eye on him to make sure he will pay for his food. He does.

I do about 18 things in the minute it takes for the sandwich to warm, one of which was assure the aforementioned man that yes, I did have his sandwich, when he inquired as to its whereabouts less than 30 seconds after I told him I had it. He also asked me at this point what "my problem" was. I kinda gave him a confused look and said, uh, nothing?

Then it gets really busy. There are 4 sandwiches and a couissant to be warmed. One barista is having trouble with a customer that I try to troubleshoot. We're almost out of coffee. I'm exhausted. The oven beeps, I pull the guys bacon sandwich out, toss in another, make eye contact with him from across the store, meet him at the counter and toss the sandwich onto the counter and turn to take care of another problem.

This is what I get:
"What the HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM?!?!" he yells. I turn around. Every customer in the store looks up.
I pause. "Excuse me?"
"You just THREW this sandwich at me!"
"Um, I'm sorry sir, I didn't mean for it to seem as if I threw the sandwich at you..." I began to say in my extraordinary 5 star customer-service voice.
He then takes the sandwich and slams it down on top of the pastry case. "I don't WANT this sandwich!"
"OK, um, well I can make you another if you like sir or.. you don't have to pay for this one at all. I'm really sorry. You didn't pay for it yet did you?"
"I COME IN THIS STORE EVERY DAY!!!!!!!! I DONT KNOW WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!!!!!!!!!"I think I might have heard him say I was acting like a bitch but by this point I turned and walked away and noticed him walk out the door. Then I was really charming to everyone else in line.


Now, if you didn't hate your job enough already, this is an instance that will make you loathe it even more. Sadly, I don't care about this job enough to be so scared that I'd get fired for this. In fact I knew I wouldn't. Instead I spent the next two hours coming up with little scenarios in my head as to what I should have done in order to enterain myself and make this guy feel like the total jackass moron he is (a la High Fidelity). Sure, was I wrong to not kindly hand the sandwich to him directly, make eye contact, smile at him, thank him and tell him to return like we're supposed to do in Corporate Coffee Land. Yeah, according to the rule books I was wrong. But I don't care about those rule books as much as I care about myself. This is what I came up with as alternative ways to handle the situation:


1. When the man asked me what the hell was wrong with me, I should have told him that my mother was just diagnosed with cancer or today is the one year anniversary of the time I was raped. Call me a horrible person, but I imagine the look on the yuppy asshole's face would be just priceless.
"My mother was just diagnosed with cancer. Please, Yuppy, enjoy your bacon sandwich."

2. I ask him if he wants me fired. When he says yes, I hand him our district managers business card, tell him to call her and say that Alli from store #XXX was a raging bitch and you want her fired. What he does not need to know is that last time I saw our district manager we talked about South Beach and staying out all night drinking. I think she kinda likes me.

3. Invite him back for another bacon sandwich, one that I would actually throw at him as to differentiate between THROWING a bacon sandwich and LACKADAISICALLY TOSSING one in his general direction.

4. Kindly asking him what his problem was and why he was so upset about his stupid bacon sandwich. Offering to send flowers for a problem that must clearly be bigger than this one, and if there is no such problem punching him in the fucking face for getting so worked up about a sandwich when there are people dying all over the world at that very second.

5. Telling him to go ahead and fire me. I'd give him my manager and district manager's card and say that I would really like him to get me fired that way I could file for unemployment and instead of getting paid to warm up his bacon sandwich I'd get paid to sleep in and blog about what a fucking irrational asshole he is all day long.


Alls I gotta say is that guy better watch his back the next time he comes in, and ya'lls better keep an eye open for the entry whereinwhich I talk about hitting the lowest of the low and actually getting fired from my stupid ass Corporate Coffee Shop job. Although, now that I think about it... maybe I'll do something bad every day just to see how far I can test the system. Enjoy your lattes kiddies, and remember, there isn't that much of a difference between a 160 degree latte and a 170 degree latte anyway, and if you really care about this sort of thing might I kindly suggest that you get over yourself, buy an espresso machine and leave me the hell alone.