The Sexless Innkeeper

Played THAT game last night.

I'm not thrilled about this. Though, in my defense, I tried to leave before he finally just kept me at his place. It's just that when it's well-after 3 AM, and you've made out for over an hour in the car with a guy, you're expected to stay.

Seriously, nothing happned.  I just crashed (and maybe got a hickey or two), but as I think about this, I'm not sure what the eff happened last night.  One second, I'm complaining about another guy, the next, my friend is making a move.  And that was the moment I was turned off (until I got so tired I just went home and curled up with him all night).

He's sweet.  Fun.  Amazing.  And he likes me. Yet, despite the fact that he held me all night and comforted me when I was scared by a car backfire in the middle of the night), I can't bring myself to do this.  I have a serious thing for a college pal who, let's face it, will always see me as "the fat chick."  Yet, I can't get him out of my head. Sexless Inkeeper is Sexless Inkeeper, I just need to make sure he knows that.

Movies I'm watching

I have a plan this weekend.

I'm going to clean the house from top to bottom, including dusting (which I hate) and dusting knicknacks (which I really hate). In between that, I'm going to try to get another 10,000 words done on Til There Was You, my new novel.  That'll get me to 40,000 in all, a hump that I've been struggling with for a few weeks now.

Right now, though, I'm watching the first of the two terrifying movies that I promised myself I watch this weekend.  Forks over Knives is a food documentary that extolls the virtue of a plant-based diet.  Essentially "meat bad; plant good" kind of stuff.  It's part of the reason my friend, Steve, is a vegan now.  I'm about halfway through, and it's definitely making some good points.  It's also probably not what I should be watching on such a BBQ-centric weekend.

Portobellos, here I come.

The other movie is The Exorcist.  I'll be live-tweeting that one.  I also won't be sleeping much tonight....

If I ever

Consider a book by Ray Blackston again, KILL Me.

I’d turn it off, but I don’t have my iPod.  

Description:

Jay Jarvis is pondering commitment.  But his math is getting complicated.

Can he survive a trip from the beaches of South Carolina to the Outback with his cluster of crazy friends?  Or will the allure of a wild roo-chase spoil his perfectly calculated plans?  Ray Blackston’s back with more side-splitting humor, unconventional characters, and electrifying dialogue.

I’m about 4 discs in, and have found no side-splitting humor (unless the fact that the pastor back home has email is supposed to be funny).  I have found a ton of preaching and postulating.  There is no sex – even when the couple is dying in the desert – because the couple is NOT MARRIED.  They’re engaged, but they’re not married, so no sex.  Not that I would want to have to listen to a sex scene while trying to work, but I didn’t sign on for a piece of religious fiction where the guy (after they’re found of course) thinks that it would help his case with the rental guy if he introduced him to his “singles group” back home.  Three guesses where he met them….

It's been a while

3.5 years to be exact.

What can I say, I've been busy.  I've:

• Gained and lost a roomate
• Lost and gained 20 lbs (twice)
• Run 2 marathons (and am training for a third)
• Run 7 or 8 half marathons (they're all starting to run together...pun intended)
• Written two novels (neither of them published...yet)
• Fallen in love twice
• Had my heart smashed twice
• Watched friends marry and divorce
• Met three of my favorite authors
• Watched a friend gain and lose a television show (but he's back on TV now...)
• Lost dear friends to cancer (LET'S FIND A CURE!)
• Joined the Bone Marrow Registry
• Joined the RWA
• Watched my sister meet the man she'll soon marry
• Survived a hurricane and an earthquake in the same week
• Camped in the woods (never again)
• Camped on the beach (again again!)
• Witnessed a full body apparition
• Went to Texas looking to meet a cowboy (and met a biker instead...NOT the same thing)

Interesting stories, all.  One day I might just tell them.  In the meantime, I'm excited to be back, sharing these little snippits of my life...or something resembling reality.

Operation Find Don

I found the original version of this post in the weeks after 9/11. Unable to believe what I had seen that bright, sunny morning, I sought out the accounts of those who were actually there. Who'd actually be able to put a human face on the tragedy and make me, finally, begin to comprehend that what I had seen with Aaron Brown and Wolf Blitzer wasn't the Jerry Bruckheimer-style action adventure that I'd hoped and I prayed I'd been watching that day.

I know it's morbid, but at the time it actually helped with the healing process.

One of the posts I'd read during that time was a plea from a girl who'd survived to help her find her "disaster buddy." The guy was an African American man who'd she met in the NYC financial district (though not in the WTC complex itself) in the early moments of 9/11. They'd stuck together until he was finally put on a boat to Jersey at the end of the day, and then she never saw him again. She knew almost nothing about him...Jersey, birthday, looked like Blair Underwood around the eyes. All she wanted to do was buy him a beer. Her mother wasn't sure if angels - and that's what she was convinced her daughter's new friend was - drank beer.

After reading the post, I clicked on to the next, and soon it was lost to the millions of blog postings on the 9/11 tragedy. Still, every September I thought about the girl and the man, and while their names had been lost to me - she remained "something with an 'S,'" the blog 'strawberries or a tomato'" - I've often wondered if she'd ever found him.

About an hour ago, I got an update from the most unexpected source, like, ever.

My sister, whom some of you may know has just moved in with me after being laid off in NYC, has been watching the first season of Degrassi High (the old one when both Joey and Snake still had hair) on Netflix. When she got tonight's disc, I found myself trying to catch up. A google search of "Claude Kills Himself" landed me here, and after laughing my way through the post, I noticed the line:

Sarah mixes it up about TV and more over at Tomato Nation.

Suddenly, it clicked, and so did I.

It only took me a few moments to find the post I'd been looking for from September 14, 2001. Even today, seven years later, I found the emotions were flooding back, most especially the ones of peace that this girl, who was my age, had found someone to hold her hand and hope for a future where she could actually buy that man a beer.

Sadly, the update from this past September reveals that while my search for this post that affected me so deeply all those years ago is over, Sarah's search still continues. However, it seems that Sarah has, in the ensuing years, begun to become more and more open to the possibility that Don was, in fact, an angel. By her own admission, she may not believe in them, but there's still that possibility. I don't know. I believe in angels; but I also believe that people, real people, have an inherent good in them that make them appear at the moment you most need them.

Just in case Don is not an angel and is actually a flesh-and-blood man, the search continues. If you happen to know someone who lived in Jersey City, NJ in September of '01, whose birthday is 9/11, and who "looks like Blair Underwood around the eyes," tell him that a girl named Sarah is looking for him, and that her readers are looking for a happy ending.

Image of Blair Underwood shamlessly boosted from his official website.

Happy Happy

Congratulations, Jon and Vinny!!!

Signs to slow down, and other random thoughts

I'm sitting at Grand Cru, and the work network is down.

Actually, I'm not sure if it's "down down" or if it's just not letting me on. Either way, I'm taking it as a sign to slow down, drink some wine, and blog before I pay my bill and move on to Cafe Hon. The food may not be great, but at least the network is secure, which means I can get on to the work network.

Like that's a bad thing. Then again, that means lots more hours tomorrow....

In the meantime, I'm flirtexting with a boy in Charlotte. Of course it's strictly professional and won't go anywhere, but still. :)

The highlight of my weekend was singing at my friend's wedding reception. I sang "Fever" at her real wedding in February. Of course, the music (both copies) then didn't work, so I sang without music. Still, according to the small assembled group of guests, the Elvis hired for the occasion looked at me, singing her up the aisle a cappella and had a look on his face like "Yeah-I-should-just-pack-up-now."

This time, I sang "Making Whoopee" for their "first dance." They're such wonderful friends that it was an honor to do that for them. J told me I was "pitchy" when I was practicing at the house, but the bride was happy and everyone who didn't realize I was a recording told me I sounded great, so I'm thinking I did something right. After all, this was the girl (J) who told me, as I was walking into the American Idol auditions to switch the song to "9-5." Bad idea, that one. ;)

Then, as I was walking off, the Groom's Grammy walked up to me. She hugged me and asked if I would sing "Fever" again. She had told me in Vegas that Peggy Lee was her favorite singer, and when I put the music together for the party, I had included the song on the off chance "Whoopee" didn't work in the DJ's equipment. Not that, upon reflection, the second song on the SAME CD wouldn't suffer the same fate, but at least I tried.

Needless to say, I met the request. I checked with the bride and groom, and both of them had the attitude of "whatever Grammy wants, Grammy gets." She's such an awesome lady that I was glad to do it for her and them. Seriously, the groom reminds me of my dad in ways that I can't quite believe and the bride is the type of friend that I thank God daily that I have in my life. Though, I still had to focus away from everything when I looked out of the corner of my eye and found the groom's hot-but-young cousin and cousin-in-law snapping across the floor like extras from West Side Story. Otherwise, yeah, I would have laughed my ass off. ;) Still, this time I had music and Grammy was happy. Yay!!

My next "gig" is Walt's Inn this Friday. Come by, bring your vocal chords, and let's boogie!! ;)

I am

A big skinny loser!!! 3.6 lbs in a week.

Frankly, I think my body owes me. For the last five weeks, I've been slowly inching my way up into the territory that drove me to WW a year ago. Then, I run a half marathon last weekend (2:48:10) and I still go up!!! I wasn't expecting anything big this week, but I played by the rules (translation: counted the points), practically lived in the ladies room at work (drank the water), and ended up pleasantly surprised.

I also stopped going out to dinner every night. Yeah, that probably had a lot to do with it.

If it's nice tomorrow, I'm going to try to get a walk in before devoting myself to the hell that is Summer Reorg. I've tasted [the] blood (of a loss) and I WANT MORE!

The language of the kiss? Yeah, more like Kiss Off!

Sigmund Freud would probably have something to say about me having these thoughts on Mother’s Day (Happy, Happy, Mom!), but I swear that was a coincidence. I had these while vacuuming, which, upon reflection, Freud would probably have had something to say about as well. Oh well, I never denied being neurotic.

Nor have I ever denied being romantic. I believe in fairy tales, true love, and perfect kisses. That’s where I tend to get into trouble.

There are a lot of truths in kisses, and I remember the important ones: My first tongue-kiss, on the bus on the way home from the Band Competition; being attacked by “the octopus” in front of my sister and her date at Ring Dance; the crazy near-kiss at Chanco; the one in the Godwin parking lot that cold November night; and the one when I turned my back on one friend and my heart to another. That last one was a mistake, but I’m glad I remember it. It taught me that I should never, EVER do that again and to always be grateful to a friend who knows the power of forgiveness.

I also remember the first kiss I shared with the last guy. The one I initiated, the one with a man I very nearly fell in love with this year...until I realized I was initiating every kiss we had shared during our relationship.

I’ve never been the aggressive type. Sure, I’ve initiated my fair share of kisses, but when we’re both on the same page, the split has been so minimal, that I’ve never really noticed it before. I guess I’ve assumed that it’s 50/50, and if I’m to the point where I’m not interested in kissing someone anymore (it happens), I break it off with a pretty little speech. I don’t leave someone hanging for six months, waiting, praying for me to kiss them, and then playing hot and cold with their psyche -- disappointing them time and time again.

And yet, that’s what happened. I swear, it was like dating me in high school. A very nice person who was connecting emotionally, but refused to connect “physically.” My defense back then was that I was a “good girl.” Still, while I wasn’t giving up the goods, I was giving up enough of the above-the-jaw action to make it clear that I was into the guy. Plus, I was way under 18, and in Virginia “abstinence counted.”

I’m not 18 anymore. I’m also quite cute, skinnier than the average American, have a drawer full of hot lingerie, pushing 30, and at my sexual peak. That means that when I date a guy for six months, I expect to get laid. And yet, he wasn’t even kissing me...A girl could get a complex. Believe me, I seriously did.

It wasn’t halitosis: I brush and floss regularly, and I verified the minty-fresh quality of my breath with trusted friends. It wasn’t smoker’s mouth: apart from an occasional cigar, I never touch tobacco. I have all my teeth, my gums are in the right place, I have no piercings that would be off-putting to anyone who was about to put his tongue in my mouth, I wear normal shades of lipstick, and I (as I said) am pretty damn cute. I also, shall we say, studied French in high school. Believe me, when a man kisses me, he wants to do it again.

And yet, he didn’t. I couldn’t figure it out then, and I still can’t now! Here he was, a perfectly normal guy who seemed to be content with the idea that I was doing all the work!!! Where was the fun in that, I ask you? I already work 50 hours a week!

I couldn’t even ask anyone. After all, his best friend was dating my best male friend. The guru who before had helped me decipher the intricacies of the male mind was suddenly someone I couldn’t talk to for fear that my insecurities would get back to HIM. When I did attempt to talk to my boy, his girlfriend would remind me that HE had been hurt badly in the past and that I needed to tread carefully with his heart.

That part I got. You guys all know I’ve been badly hurt myself. Therefore, I wasn’t going to push him into a physical relationship when he wasn’t ready, and I was going to work to foster the emotional side. Still, the kissing thing continued to bother me, and with no one to turn to, I made a command decision.

I stopped kissing him. Granted, he was in Virginia and I in Maryland, but it was still three or four times from the time I made my grand decision to the last time I saw him. I would hug, I would talk, I would do everything I could to keep the conversation going, even if it meant self-monologuing. I was going to make this work, dammit, I had to. Just trust me.

And I never got kissed.

And so it was over. I devoted exactly enough time to the break-up as I felt he granted to the fostering of our relationship over the course of our six months together. I was satisfied, and I have high hopes for us being friends in the future.

So why am I bringing it up now? Simple: I’m starting to date again, and I’ve found that my confidence has foundered. Instead of being the funny, beautiful, confident girl that I was a year ago, the combination of Phoenix and this last round has made me start to wonder if there is something seriously wrong with me. (Preparing for inappropriate comments now).

I hate when the only type of fuck a guy offers is a mind one. At this point, I’d settle for an elbow ala RHPS!

On second thought, maybe not. Rif Raff had his own neuroses to deal with....

Did you miss me?

I'm sure, but your aim is probably getting better.

Something to think about....

Last night

You guys haven’t gotten a story from me in a while, so here we go….

Last night, I get home, and I’m walking from the car to the house when this guy probably around 22 stumbles out of a cab (thank God), tries to open the gate to the fence surrounding the house (um, there actually wasn’t one – fence OR gate) and failing to do that, falls face-first on the concrete stairs leading up to the house. This is the side of the street with a ton of stairs, so I’m not feeling too confident about his chances of actually getting up them without the police and a CSI unit being there in the morning (of course it’d be eventually ruled accidental, but still). I offer to help the guy up them. Not quite sure what I can actually do about that, but I figured I’d try. He lolls his head over and yells at me to leave him there. Nice. The driver sees this, gets out and goes, “Do you know this guy (I didn’t); does he belong here? (Not a clue).”

We decide not to leave him on the front steps so the driver grabs him around the waist, and I go up and start banging on the door. Then, when we realize no one’s home, we start dragging him up the stairs so at least he’ll be on the porch and not lying face first on the sidewalk. Even if it’s random, it’s better than nothing. Since he’s 100% dead weight, this isn’t fun. The driver is yelling at him to at least help (yeah that’s gonna work). We’re most of the way up, the guy’s pants are falling down, and the door to the house finally opens.

First thing I notice, stuff is EVERYWHERE. Seriously, it’s like the packrats from hell live there. Second thing, the guy who answered the door is preparing to yell at ME for getting what I presume is his son in that condition (completely obliterated and now half-naked! – Kinda sounds like an ad for a sleazy club on the Block, but I digress). Cab Driver steps in and goes, “Do you know this guy?”

Father: Yes, what the HELL happened (this is directed at me)?

Me (smiling, attempting not to provoke): No clue. I’m your neighbor, this is the cab driver. I was just walking by…

Cab Driver (who’s pissed that he’s now dragged this guy up the stairs and doesn’t know if he’s going to have to drag him down): His friend gave me $20 to take him home. Is…this…home?

Father: Yep.

Instead of taking his kid from the cabby, he just opens the door to let him inside. I drop the arm I’m holding, but seriously, there is an established order to these things. Whether it’s a pizza or a drunk-ass kid, if a stranger shows up to the door to deliver something and it’s not from IKEA, you accept it with a smile and a tip and you transport it inside yourself.

Thinking about it though, I bet the driver didn’t even get a tip.

The very model of a modern major rap song

Love this!

Dating the living is hard enough

By all accounts, I'm a level-headed girl. I have a job that requires analytical thinking, and I'm constantly looking for the most logical, most simple explanation for, well, everything.


When I can't find a logical explanation, however, I am perfectly willing to accept a paranormal one. Let's face it, I'm just a little quirky that way. Plus, if the guy I'm out with turns out to be a total dud, mentioning my personal history with the paranormal is usually enough to ensure they'll never call me again. It's a lot more sanitary than smoking, and if I find myself flailing, I can toss in the fact that my (seriously, non-existent) "spirit guide" sees us having at least five children and a huge church wedding. CHECK, PLEASE!


Sometimes though, it just comes up when I'm not looking for it. The guy could be perfectly nice, truly amazing even, and yet there it is. When it comes up, I present what I know logically, and pray that he isn't completely frightened of me, this cute, sensible girl who just happens to see dead people on rare occasions. What can I say, I believe in being honest.

That's exactly what happened last night. TechGuy was up from VA, visiting a friend in the hospital. Since it's a bit of a distance thing and this week is crazy enough, we decided to grab a drink in Fell's Point. The chosen place had the dubious distinction of being named, "Baltimore's best 'Dive Bar' in 2006," but at least it wasn't Max's. :)

While we were sitting there chatting, barely a few sips into our beers, the lights came blazing on. Slightly strange, but we just figured someone dropped a contact (not that you'd want one back if you dropped it on that floor). Then, when the bartender walked over from the other side of the bar, grabbed the remote that was right in front of us, shook her head, and fired, I started to think something else was up.

Before I realized quite what I was doing or remembered that I was with this awesome guy who I had no intention of scaring off, I opened my mouth: "Any other ways that light could have come on?"

"Nope, and you saw where I was, and where that remote was," she replied.

"What's his name?" I asked - still forgetting that TechGuy was getting an interesting first-time look into my secret life.

Over the next ten minutes or so, TechGuy and I got the full story on BOTH ghosts. One, a sailor shanghaied during the War of 1812 was a fun-loving prankster. The other, a life-long abuser who lived upstairs until he was murdered by his own son in the '80s, well, wasn't. We weren't positive which one we were dealing with, but when the lights came on a second time, and the AC kicked on, we knew we were dealing with something.

Now, I've seen enough episodes of Ghost Hunters to know that provoking a spirit can either be a really good idea or a spectacularly bad one. Either way, it tends to produce results. Since I was still showing no signs of scaring off TechGuy, I decided to go "all in."

"If you were a real man, you'd turn the fan on," I said to the light (now off since it was starting to annoy the other patrons who, trust me, needed all the low lights and beer goggles they could get). "Lights and fan. Come on, you wimp, show me what you've got."

And...Nothing. So much for "guaranteed results."

I still wasn't 100% on how TechGuy felt about this whole situation, but I got my answer soon enough. He was sitting on his chair with no one except me within easy reach. All of a sudden, he pitched forward a little.

"Did you do that?" he asked me.

"Um...no...."

"He's behind me then," TechGuy declared matter-of-factly. "My chair just got bumped."

I breathed a sigh of relief. Here, I thought, was a real man who was just as logical as me about this whole thing. Squee!!!

Apparently, someone else was anxious to prove that TechGuy wasn't the only "real man" in the room. As soon as I shared that thought with him (without the "Squee" of course), the light flared on. Again. And this time, the fan was spinning at top speed -- just like I had demanded.

The bartender showed us the remote, and we could very clearly see that NOTHING was actually turned on. I gingerly reached forward and hit the fan's speed button, anxious to see what would happen if I turned the not-on-now-speeding fan up. I did not, I assure you, touch any other button - much less the one that turned the lights off. But that's exactly what happened. I turned the fan up, and it and the lights turned off. Then, the AC turned back on.

After that, all was quiet. I tried to provoke once more by asking the guitarist (dive bar had one of those!) to sing "Son of a son of a sailor," but it turned out he didn't know it. Bummer. We left the bar shortly after. After all, TechGuy still had to get to the hospital, and I to the cleaning I had abandoned. Still the evening was, if you'll excuse the pun, enlightening.

A moment of silence and a speedy recovery

For the fencing team at The College of William and Mary.... (pulled directly from the team website).

The William and Mary fencing team was traveling to Haverford PA this weekend to compete in our 2nd of 3 MACFA team events. We were traveling in two vehicles, a
van and a car, when the car was involved in a crash on I-95.

It brings us great sadness to report that our longtime coach, Pete Conomikes, died in the crash. Three fencers from the team were also in the car and are being treated at
Medical College of Virginia in Richmond. Their injuries range from minor to critical.

We mourn the loss of our coach and are hopeful that our teammates will make a complete recovery.

Pete has been an amazing influence on so many in the fencing community. We ask that you keep those involved in the crash and their families in your thoughts and prayers over the next several days. We also request that the privacy of our team members and their families be respected in this time of great stress and uncertainty.

We will update this post with further information as we receive it.

Thank you for your concern.

William and Mary Fencing Team

11/11/07, 1:30 PM Update:
Matt Peppe has been treated and released from MCV. Spencer Butts remains in critical condition as does Ben Gutenberg.

Entertainment Report

Since most of you have probably missed SNL since Molly Shannon, Jimmy Fallon, Will Ferrell, and the rest of the "good cast" left, you probably weren't aware of last night's completely incredible episode. Since the writers' strike starts Monday, you'll probably get a chance to see it in repeat real soon. I highly encourage it. The host was Brian Williams, of the NBC Nightly News, who is already one of the funniest people on the planet, in my opinion. While I'd never heard of the musical guest, the episode was absolutely HYSTERICAL and featured cameos by Senator Obama and Horatio Sanz.

But that's not the piece of entertainment news that I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around. It's this one about former All My Children star and uber-hottie, Justin Bruening:

On November 2, 2007, it was announced that he would be starring in a new spin of the original Knight Rider series, portraying the original Knight Rider's son, Michael Knight Jr., for a two-hour special on NBC. The original having been portrayed by actor David Hasselhoff, newspaper The Hollywood Reporter immediately took notice to the similarities between the two castings:

“	...the choice of Bruening closely resembles Hasselhoff's casting a quarter-century ago. Like Bruening, Hasselhoff was a soap star (The Young and the Restless) with few other credits when he landed Knight Rider. He was almost the same age as Bruening, who is 28.

My sister will see the irony in this one right away, but for those of you who aren't intimately knowledgeable about the backstage workings of daytime TV, I'll warn you that it may be enough to make your head explode. Here's the story....

Once upon a time in the early 1980s, there was a young actress named Catherine Hickland. Hickland was married to David Hasselhoff, who of course, played Michael Knight on Knight Rider. In 1989, Hickland and Hoff divorced, and in 1992, Hickland married Michael E. Knight (yes, that's his real name) who had been starring on All My Children since the early 1980s as a character named Tad Martin (we'll kindly forget that Ted Orsini debacle, after all, it's not really important right now). From 2003 through August of this year, Tad's son Jamie was played by none-other than Justin Bruening who is now starring in NBC's new Knight Rider movie as the son of The Hoff's character, Michael (No 'E') Knight, Jr.

Congrats to Justin on the new role, and congrats to everyone who followed that without their head exploding!!

Smalltimore

I haven't done a thing of substance today. All right, a thing of substance that has required me to get dressed. I wrote over 1,000 words for my Nano novel, and got a little bit of "real work" done, but I'm kind of digging the idea of spending my Sunday in my pj's belting songs from my Natalie Cole CD.

Thanks to Charissa and Danielle for organizing the Blogger HH on Friday. I really enjoyed meeting everyone!! I promised I'd look into organizing January. Hope people like karaoke.... ;)

I also figured out just how small this town really is this weekend. Friday night, it turned out that Summer and hubby (Matt) were neighbors of my friend Kristen. That was random enough, but after what happened Saturday, I'm more convinced than ever that this really is the "Biggest Small Town in America" (a much better slogan IMO than "Get In On It"):
When I'm nervous about a big decision, and after I get opinions from my friends (who are the most wonderful people in the world and who would totally have my back in any bar fight I may happen to find myself in), but I still don't know what I'm going to do, I employ the tried-and-true "man on the street opinion." Of course, in this case, it's the "Random Chick in the Bathroom" approach.

Yesterday, I asked the opinion of this girl in the bathroom, and we started talking (boys, this is normal female behavior, I assure you), and then we walked out. Never exchanged names, because that kills the "random chick" part of the whole thing. Plus, you'll never "see this girl again." To exchange names is kind of against the "random chick in bathroom" advice column code. I headed out the door to meet my friends again, and I was halfway up the street when this guy came rushing out of the bar yelling, "Hey Stranger!!!"

Turns out, "Random Chick" wasn't as random as I thought. I worked with her husband at T. Rowe for four years!!! He met her after I left, and married her about a year ago. Considering I had never been in that bar before IN.MY.LIFE. it wasn't supposed to happen. Yet it did.

One thing: I was named MVP of my football game yesterday. I actually made four catches and then, apparently, posed with the ball like I was dancing. Not sure what happened there, but I made four catches!! ;)

AND NAVY WON!!

Good weekend all around.

A (potential) wardrobe malfunction

Sadly, not what you may have in mind. This one's a bit more innocuous.

The first Sox game is tonight. Even though I harbor a love for the O's that, at times, rivals Jimmy Fallon's in Fever Pitch (the love for the Sox, not the one for Drew Barrymore), I can't help cheering for the Red Sox in the post-season. I'd like to blame Johnny Damon's super-hot ass, but I really thing the fault lies with Ron Goldstein and that Roger Clemens game freshman year.

But yeah, back to the wardrobe issue.

See, some friends and I are going out tonight to cheer on the team at a supposedly Boston-friendly bar (we'll see how this goes). I have a cute hat. It's from Cheers, so it fits the whole Boston thing. The only problem is that it's pink, and the Sox colors (blue and duh, red), if I chose to wear them, would completely clash. It's rather unfortunate.

If I didn't wear the hat, I may face the wrath of the monsoon outside.

Either way, I'll look like a doofus. But would I rather look like a doofus who got caught in a rainstorm or a doofus who doesn't know how to match her clothing?

It's all very confusing.

Blasts from the past

When most people take a look at their college graduation photos, it's with a wistful eye and a longing for a fleeting youth.

I, on the other hand, wonder where the hell the baby I was so-obviously carrying in those photos is.

My friends look freaking awesome and still do. I'm glad I finally discovered the gym.

I recently found (re-found, actually) , some rolls of film that I hadn't had developed since I moved to Baltimore. On a whim, and because I was bound and determined to do it before the photos were completely lost, I developed three of them. Oddly enough, I learned that unlike most women who find themselves pushing thirty wishing for the "killer bod" they had in high school and college, I wouldn't trade the body I have now for anything. All right, I may give up something (leg, ear, probably-not-arm, etc.) for George Clooney's body, but that's a totally other thing. :)

I may decide to share them with the masses, but not yet. I'm still pretty embarrassed. For right now, they're just a reminder of good times, fleeting youth, and the fact that I'm healthier at 29 than I ever was in college.

Whose @#$#%@ Idea Was This?

Actual sign worn on a woman's shirt on Saturday. The woman running with her had a sign that read: It was YOUR'S, Mom!

Some of you guys got text messages from me on Saturday claiming that I finished the Baltimore Half Marathon in 2:50:40. If you didn’t, I’m sorry, the phone was dying a slow and agonizing death. Kinda like me at that very moment. ;)

Turns out that my time was based on the clock that I passed as I went wheezing and hacking (though still running) my way into M&T Bank Stadium. What I didn’t take into consideration, however, was that it took 2 minutes (we started and stopped a few times because, well, I don’t know why) to get to the “official” starting line from where I was standing (without my iPod b/c I followed the rules – still bitter) when the bell went off. Soooo, my OFFICIAL finishing time shaved two minutes off of that.

2:48:40

Is it great? Not really. I’m in the 39% of my age group, and I don’t think they offer an ISAT curve. However, I did finish before the VT/Duke game reached the end of the first quarter. Small victories, right?

A few observations:

• Apparently it’s ok to take candy from strangers when you’re running along a marathon course – though, had I looked at the girl with the Swedish Fish, I would have realized I actually knew her. Dude with the gummy bears, not so much.
• According to the guys with the beer shots, you’re allowed to drink before the 3 mile mark (where the half- and full marathons merge). I passed, but major props on the idea.
• When you know you’re not going to win, it’s more fun to run in costume…Elvis, the New Jersey Light House, a few Miller Light Cans, a couple of guys in kilts, an old guy in a powder blue tuxedo, and a juggler made for interesting watching. Any chance someone out there knows where I can get a Duke Dog costume for next year?
• I am more than willing to jog through parts of Baltimore that I would NEVER dare to drive through without the doors locked, the windows rolled up, and a can of mace in the glove box – provided I have 15,000 people with me for backup.
• Funeral processions and marathons do not mix – we won.
• “It’s all downhill from here” is not any sort of encouragement unless it’s true. If you’re yelling it on Mile 11 and you’re standing in front of a hill, do not be surprised when 30 participants “miss” your extended high five and get your face instead.
• Skinny courses – though flat – around a lake and BANANAS (whole) do not mix. I’ve seen enough Marx Bros. movies to tell you how this was going to end.
• When a pregnant woman (due in 6 weeks!) beats you to the half-way point, it’s time to rethink your training strategy.
• If my friend Jen and I were antelopes and there was a lion on the course looking for dinner, Jen would escape with absolutely no problem. I, on the other hand, am best served with cranberry sauce and a nice Pino Grigio.

Officially, I'm hooked. The Frederick Half-Marathon is on May 4 (more than six months away!), and it's only $40 to sign up before New Year's Eve. Who's with me?

Shut up and drive

To the woman who was at the red light outside of the Superfresh about 4:30 this afternoon, let's go over a few basics...

1. This is a STOP SIGN. When you see it, you DO NOT MOVE YOUR BIG-ASS CAR!!
2. This is a WALK SIGN. When you see it, and me, you DO NOT MOVE YOUR BIG-ASS CAR!!
3. This is a CELL PHONE. If you ever move your big-ass car while talking on it and ignoring both the previous two signs to the point where I scream like a fucking banshee and slam both my hands on the big ass car that is rapidly approaching me, I assure you that I WILL rip it out of your hands, call the police to report an attempted murder and then shove it up your ass.

And no, when I am screaming like a fucking banshee because your GMC truck has almost run me over, the little smile and wave doesn't work. You roll your window down and actually apologize for being a dumbass who thinks their phone conversation is more important than actually watching out for someone who's trying to walk.