Leave those umbrellas at home.

I’ve always been one to go a little over the top when a good tune comes on, whether it be in the car, in the elevator, on the metro, in the dentist’s chair (ouch!), at a bar, or any other social scenario that involves music of any kind. At parties / locales with live or recorded music, my first mission is make friends with the performers and / or DJs to ensure my requests will be played at the wink of an eye (or flailing of a drunken arm… not that I’ve ever done that). If it’s a juke box, I make sure to get prime placement no greater than 10 steps away and always ask the bartender for my change in quarters (no.. they don’t appreciate that on $1 beer nights when they have to break a $20. Trust me, sir. You’ll thank me later).

Depending on the mood, it could be the Rolling Stone’s sprinkling me with a little Brown Sugar that gets the hips moving, or perhaps I’ll Express Myself with some classy, old-school Madonna: “C’mon girls… do you believe in love?! ‘cause I got somethin’ to say about it… and it goes somethin’ like this….” My taste of dance music truly runs the gamut. Clearly, by no means am I saying I’m a skilled dancer; in fact, my skills would be most comparable to that of poor Elaine Benes. But in the words of Gloria Estefan, “The rhythm is gonna get ya…”

Now, we’ve all had our bad days… when that jackass marine keeps talking about his ‘hot date tonight with a young hispanica’ when all I wanna do is close this action and pitch myself out a window eight stories high… or when you get ready for work with no idea that it’s supposed to downpour later and decide to wear your brand new suede boots … only to get called to the navy yard (.5 miles away) for a meeting that’s canceled before you even get there. On these crap-tastic days, very little can cure me of the blues. However, there is ONE song that will get me up, ass-shaking and bootylicious. Someone could steal my ice cream cone (or my car… as it’s been known to happen), cut me off on my commute home sans blinker just to stop short and double park (since apparently hazard lights are the terrible driver’s invisibility cloak), it wouldn’t matter. This song comes on, and I’m READY to go.

A close second would obviously be Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance with Somebody, but they don’t play that nearly as often as the following amazing, ridiculous, timeless masterpiece by the Weathergirls. That’s right, ladies. It’s raining men. So get ready all you lonely girls, and leave those umbrellas at home.

(Please note: This video was sent to me by my office manager with a picture of an otherwise mortifying dance move yours truly displayed at a company Christmas Party in 2008 at Mt. Vernon, Virginia. 10-bucks says George Washington was kickin’ it in his grave. “Hallelujiah!!”)

(Editor's Note: Another $10 says every man in this video is gay.... Typical.)

Happy Friday!

Best. T-Shirt. Ever.

So, during the work day, gchat stays up.  Busy, or not, I will have up to 3 or 4 main conversations going, with random 'Hey, what's up?'s throughout the day.  Staple convos include, my mom, a female friend I've known for 13 years who can pretty much make me laugh at anything (hereinafter referred to as Cheeks), and a few others, to be mentioned as necessary.

I've been known to have a dirty mouth, dirty mind and a dirty ability to drink my face off.  This isn't a fluke.  I've learned these exceptional talents from the two people who made me, whom I must say, have gotten extremely witty with age. As much as I hate forwards, the only two people I will accept them from are Ma and Pa Dukes.  If they're really good, I'll send them to Cheeks for a good laugh.

Today was no exception.

It's about 10:18am when I receive the following IM:
Mom: morning, I just found an icon on desktop, dad must have gotten it from one of his cronies........gross,
but I know you'll laugh at it and may know another 'sick' friend that may laugh [Cheeks]....just be careful when you open...it's only a pic, but not for all eyes to see......ok if I send?
me:  yes ma'am! send to gmail! :)

Subject: A MANSHIRT

Body: I can't believe that there's a shirt like this!!!!!!!  Could you just imagine

meeting a guy in a saloon wearing this!?!?!?!?! 

I don't believe any further comment is necessary, except to say I sent it to as many appreciative friends as possible.  Good work, mom.

Maybe he meant P-H-A-T....

Ok, with the random assortment of backhanded comments (some unintentional, I understand), at least I can safely say I never bit anyone who verbally 'wronged' me...eegads!

Can you just imagine? In the heat of rage, I've definitely had the urge to smack someone, maybe punch, push, whatever... but I've never done it.  I usually put in my two cents of wit (which tend to be rather unladylike) and move on.  I may take boxing 4 times a week, but that doesn't mean I'm a violent person.  I get all my frustration out on the bag.  The bag who can't fight back.

No comment in the world would make me attack someone.... with my TEETH.  I just picture that scene in mean girls, when she hallucinates everyone turning into jungle animals, attacking at will. Apparently 21-year-old Anna Godfrey of Lincoln, Nebraska's animagus (total harry potter reference... what a nerd) is a Hyena.

Lesson learned: Keep the 'fat' talk to a minimum at parties, people. Especially in the Great Plains of Nebraska.

ADDENDUM: "Get some rest, Pam. You look tired."

After yesterday's comment, I may or may not have spruced up extra nice today, if only to prove to Mr. Jim (... and maybe myself) and the rest of the 300+ people at this afternoon's meeting that I'm FAR from weathered. 

Outfit as follows:
Black Pencil Skirt, thin faux-snake patent leather black belt
White collared short sleeve shirt tucked in, accentuating my new Famaican tan (faux-Jamaican....oops!)
Kelly Green Cardigan
Leopard print flats, black pumps for meeting later

This morning's comment from Office Manager: I love your shoes. They look so... comfortable.

HA. I'm 0-2 people. Or perhaps just need a couple dozen chill pills.  Blame it on the full moon.

"Get some rest, Pam. You look tired."

Yes, that is a quote from the Bourne Ultimatum, the final installment of the best modern trilogy known to man (dramatic, I know).  Suspense, action, little bit of romance / love, and of course, Matt Damon.  This particular quote is said to Joan Allen's character as Jason Bourne chats with her on the phone, looking on secretively from another building.  It is in this circumstance, and no other, that I will let the 'You look tired,' statement slide.

As a government contractor, there are moments of high stress / panic in my day-to-day...and there are also moments of extreme boredom. Nevertheless, there will always be people that are more tired, more stressed, more mentally exhausted than the likes of me, I assure you. Regardless of how tired / busy I am, when it comes to clients, I will always put on a 'happy face' and act my most professional-self until I can slouch back down at my desk and stare at the SE (south-east) DC construction out my enormous cube window (not bragging, just a fact).

This particular afternoon, I had to find the effort to produce and drop off a binder at a building half a mile away, which entailed hoofing it down the street in heels (I'm a lady...) and climbing two flights of stairs (rinse and repeat for the trip back).  I'm not complaining, either; I love getting out into the fresh air when possible; cube life is excruciating if sitting all.day.long. Now, to accommodate the client, this had to be done under a time crunch.

Upon arrival...

Me: Hey, Jim. How are you.
Jim: Hey! How ya doin'!
Me: Good, just dropping off [blah].
Jim: Oh great. So really, how are you? You're looking.... weathered. You ok?
Me: [amazement]..... oh yeah, you know. It's congressional season. Makes everyone weathered, I guess....
Jim: Yeah... I guess....
---further awkward conversation ensues about his wife and the turmoil with her business trip.. because that's relevant---

Really? Really, Jim?  Weathered?!  I'm sure Mrs. Jim would appreciate it if you called her weathered after a long day of doing work for YOUR boss and catering to YOUR schedule.... I bet you kick puppies for fun, too, don't you. Son of a ...

Lesson learned for all readers, male, female, shims: telling people they look tired, weathered, etc., is another way of telling them they look like shit.  Unless your name is Matt Damon and you're trying to escape the confines of an FBI operative program that has you listed under 'people to shoot on sight,' DON'T tell me I look tired.  Unless you want a left hook to the soul.  That's all.

Now... on to some food porn.  More on that later...

Shaken, Not Stirred.

Yes, it's Friday, and a spring Friday in DC can only mean one thing: Happy Hour / Drinks / Debauchery.  I feel like I'm 17 with a month left of High School.  There's nothing I want to do more than... nothing (of importance, that is). Sadly, I actually remember riding by bars with outdoor seating on the Friday late bus thinking, 'I cannot WAIT to be that age. No homework, no tests to study for... Just fun!'  I will say, aside from the unfortunate addition of bills, budgets, work, the gym (as metabolism has a nasty, indirect relationship to age), and other miscellaneous responsibilities, it kind of ... is.. all that it was cracked up to be. 

Nothing makes me happier than sidewalk seating and hours of cocktails while people-watching and feeling the sun set with a cool spring breeze in the air. The young teen in me still gets giddy at the fact that I have no one from whom I must seek permission... I can continue as short or long as I desire. No one to answer to, no one to check in with, no one's mouth to feed, no one's self-esteem to boost (other than my own... with that next vodka gimlet...).

So.. as Happy Hour quickly approaches.. just wanted to cheers the interwebbings with a little cocktail hour mix of music.  Slainté !

How Did You Know?

Happy Friday.  As I'm sure many of you can relate, mornings are for my gmail account to be bogged down with deals, recommendations, recipes and the like for various sites... Like today, for example....

NYGiants Pro Shop - 50% OFF Entire Store
Live Nation - DC Concert Update
The Washingtonian - Homemade Brunch, Plume Review, a Coffee Obsession, and More!

Then, I received my daily 'Amazon.com recommends....'  Now, as I've mentioned, I'm a late-20-something... single, living alone, own my own car, fairly active social life.  Nothing more needs to really be said that isn't already implied.  But, as far as Amazon knows, I'm a late-20-something with a diverse taste in literature and .. sometimes electronics and gifts around the holidays.  How in the name of all internet marketing did they have these to recommend?

A TROJAN SUPRA Lubricated 36-Pack of Condoms.  I admit, I certainly utilize one or two from time to time... but Amazon has nothing to do with that.  I don't know whether to be slightly miffed or extremely appreciative.  Why, thank you, Amazon.  Have you been talking to Susan Miller? Should I be expecting a plethora of gentleman callers in the coming months?

Flashback to 1990

Yes, talking about Mrs. Fiorello's first grade class got me on an old music kick as well..... check out this beauty. Eesh!



I remember playing this song over and over... AND OVER... with an assortment of brushes as microphones depending on my mood... and outfit.  No doubt, I did it on my 7th birthday... wearing this classy ensemble.

And I won't eat tuna to this day.

Everyone Still Remembers Time You Threw Up In 5th Grade

After reading the above link from The Onion, a publication I frequent when work is slow (or extremely busy... procrastination is a disease, people), I took a few moments, regained my composure and started reminiscing about the countless times in elementary school that sounded exactly like those mentioned.

I wouldn't say what I've had since birth is necessarily a fear of vomit, but just the thought of sickness always made me shake, panic and usually vomit later that night. As an adult (which in itself is debatable), I can say with almost 100% certainty, this is probably the result of a stomach flu passed through the 25+ students before the first gurgle ever entered the puker's throat.  But, as a child, I often linked it to the fact that I saw one of the most disgusting bodily fluids known to man at school that day and any other lessons learned will be erased from memory.

The first, and most memorable incident (with the deepest scars), was in the 1st grade. It was a couple hours after lunch and I was in Mrs. Fiorello's class, starting to close up shop for the day. I remember some commotion going on by the teacher's desk, which was at the far end of the room, a straight shot from the only exit.  Of course, as a curious 6 year-old, I look to the crowd just in time to see Casey open her oral flood gates and spew her semi-digested tuna sandwich across the floor and blackboard.  There were screams, squeals, and of course boys pointing fingers and laughing with a resounding "ewwwwww." Then there was poor Mrs. Fiorello, doing her best to cover the hatchet with the industrial sized garbage can and run/lead poor Casey to the door.  Again, as a fellow 6 year-old, with something large and annoying in her face, Casey swatted the pail away to give herself enough room to release the rest of her lunch right in the doorway; the doorway 25 kids now had to pass through to catch their bus. Whomp. Oh the joys of teaching. It is to this day, the thought of tuna (from the can) still gets me nauseous. The instant the smell hits the air, quiet echoes of retching and the feeling of urgency come flooding back.  I've certainly tried to overcome these so-called 'fears'; like an arachnophobe sitting in a tub of spiders, I've tried indulging in my mother's alleged 'Famous Tuna Salad,' but to no avail.  I'm scarred for life.

As we grow older and graduate through each school of education, even moving into careers, the instances of puke become exponentially fewer. Whether it's our immunities being boosted or our improving self- control, it's rare to see a person getting really sick or witnessing/experiencing vomit that isn't alcohol- or motion- induced (which is a whole other type of 'sick').  But in the, probably, two dozen instances of my elementary education, I've definitely gotten to know people by their vomit types. For instance, the surprise puker, who was fine up until the second you looked away, turned back and saw them covered in white, smelly goo.  The panick-er, who the teacher would try to 'calm' them before the 'storm,' but who'd run around until the monsoon of sickness arrived, spraying students, desks, and the like. The one who ALWAYS puked (we're talking every year for 6 years, sometimes twice in a grade), forcing the teacher to keep that nasty can of Nilosorb (is that the right stuff??) at arms reach in the off chance something didn't sit well in Mike's stomach.  The cleaner stuff usually smelled worse than the puke but would allow the Janitor to come up and sweep it all away... as if the memory wasn't already burned in our young, impressionable minds.

It's amazing the things that stay with you from your school days and affect you as an adult. As a 'late' 20-something (eegads!), sitting next to/ near a bus, plane or train puker never ceases to get me all jittery and shakey, like I just got rear-ended on 395N.  At least I can safely say, I won't be remembered as the 'puker' in 5th grade... probably more like 'that girl with freckles and messy bangs.'  I can live with that.

Whomping.

Main Entry: ¹whompPronunciation: \ˈhwämp, ˈhwȯmp, ˈwämp, ˈwȯmp\
A versatile word that can be used in multiple grammar forms.
1. Exclamation. Generally used to signify something bad that has happened to someone. It is an amalgamation of “shit!” and “that sucks”. It is used primarily as an interjection or verb.

2. Verb. To strike with a sharp noise or thump; to hit or slap sharply; to defeat decisively : trounce to create or put together especially hastily —usually used with up