DC Cookie

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Little Timmy

Three years ago, I was a bridesmaid in the wedding of my oldest friend (oldest, of course, meaning number of years we've known each other). It was a fairytale Christmas wedding, and you could tell by the bride and groom's complete adoration for each other that good things were coming.

Sam 11

When I found out my friend was preggers about five months back, I was elated. This isn't just ANY friend's baby. I've known the girl since I was three; through drool, underwear clogged toilets, girl guides, puberty (she had to teach me everything), bad hair cuts, braces, first kisses, first boyfriends, first jobs at a fastfood joint, driver's ed, sleet, snow, family illness, college, weddings (we're still wondering if she'll ever get to be a part of mine)...you catch my drift. I'm a virtual aunt here, people. Then, a week ago, she sent me these. I cried. Thank you GE technology for melting my heart. I can't WAIT until April.

Little Timmy prepares for a Canadian winter.

Little Timmy laughs at his Dad's jokes (poor kid doesn't realize they're not funny, yet. Or maybe he's just laughing AT you, J.Z. Just kidding!)

Little Timmy ponders the Pythagorean Theorem.

With these break-dancing moves, Little Timmy hints that he's already a Kevin Federline fan. "Play more PopoZao, Mommy!"

Monday, January 30, 2006

Hanging With My Ancestors

It is official. I was spoiled this weekend to the point where it is going to be difficult for me to go to museums during the day. I much prefer the evening tours, dressed in a ball gown, private invitation in one hand and blueberry martini in the other. I'm relatively confident that the day-shift security at the Natural History Museum would not allow me to take photos like this while the sun is up.

Jess in dinosaur mouth
He was hungry.

Hung like a...T-Rex?

Hook 'em horns

jess on dinosaur leg bone
Comparing leg bones.

While browsing through the mineral wing, I had to say, the Hope diamond was a severe disappointment. So it's over 42 carats and flawless. It's also dark, and far less impressive (to look at) than the 100 pound geodes.

Jess with Hope Diamond
Charming Fellow advised me not to get my 'Hopes up.'

I thought this block of carbon (immature diamond) made for a far more impressive finger ornament.

Jess with pre-diamond rock
Personal class with Mr. Micah.

When I left the event I became instantly sentimental. After so much quality time spent over a few [several] glasses of sauvignon blanc with what are clearly my ancestors, I'm honestly not sure the day trips to the Smithsonian will be nearly as enlightening.

Jess' ancestors_cropped
The resemblance is uncanny.

Chris with Easter Island Statue 2
Again, resemblance?

Jess with moose
My homeland companions.

Friday, January 27, 2006


In the mirror this morning I came across a strand of bright, shiny, silver hair. It was actually pretty; I almost debated leaving it there. I don't mind the idea of my hair turning gray. The hues of white and silver in my family tree are extremely attractive. But at 29, I'm just not quite ready. So I plucked it out.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Biased Perspective

I was raised in a relatively skewed environment when it comes to the institution of marriage. We marry, and we stay married. We don't abuse each other. We communicate. Rather than wasting too many words defining my family characters, let me paint the picture for you.

Mom's side
  • Mom and Dad married 33 years (first marriage for both). 2 kids.
  • Mom's parents married almost 55 years (first marriage for both). 4 kids.
  • Mom's first brother married 28 years (first marriage for both). 2 kids.
  • Mom's second brother married 13 years (first marriage for both). 2 kids.
  • Mom's sister married 19 years (first marriage for both). 3 kids.

Dad's side:

  • Mom and Dad married 33 years (first marriage for both). 2 kids.
  • Dad's parents married over 55 years until my grandfather passed away (first marriage for both). Grandma has not remarried. 4 kids.
  • Dad's first brother married 37 years (first marriage for both). Separated for no more than six months, but rekindled several years ago and haven't looked back. 2 kids (both kids married; first marriage for both).
  • Dad's first sister married 25 years (first marriage for both). 2 kids.
  • Dad's second sister never married, but has lived in a pseudo common law situation for over 13 years. No kids.

See? Bizarre. I understand this type of family tree exists in 0.0003% of cases in this millennium, but I revel in our distinctiveness, regardless of how idealistic that has made me. Ask me to point to divorce in my family, even among the second cousins or great aunts, and I'm honestly not sure I'd be able to. Is loyalty part of my family's DNA, or are we just taught to be confident enough to seek out the right partner? Or better yet, are we just hardy enough to work at it?

I wonder sometimes if there's a secret formula that makes us the commitment-enabled family we are, or if we're really just a bunch of lucky bastards. Because seriously, it's just not normal.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Culinary Adventure

When I was 5, my extended family was sitting around the table eating lobster. It was bright red. I distinctly remember thinking it looked disgusting. I had no interest in participating, but my mother was resilient. She handed me a couple of those long, bony legs, and said I wasn't allowed to leave the table until I tried one. I succumbed immediately (my mother was a powerful, passive-aggressive disciplinarian) and was pleasantly surprised by the flavour. By the end of the meal, I'd eaten 8 legs and 2 claws. From that day forward, I trusted my mother's taste implicitly. Even when I didn't enjoy something, I still had to consume a specified amount of it before I could have dessert. Two brussel sprouts. Half a slice of meatloaf. Five generous bites of liver.

Based on my upbringing, there are very few things I don't eat. Although I can't stomach the idea of devouring live cockroaches or swallowing minnows that can still swim, If it's edible and it's cooked, I'm positive I would be willing to try it. I eat sweetbreads, I eat curry, I eat tandoori, I eat cottage cheese, I eat green olives, I eat giblets, I eat guacamole, I eat every fruit and vegetable known to man (prunes, plantains, brussel sprouts, turnip, beets, mushrooms, green peppers, squash, spinach, broccoli, etc.), I eat hummus, I eat feta cheese, I eat ostrich, I eat knishes, I eat bacon, I eat pho, I eat sushi, I eat falafel, I eat dill pickles, I eat bison, I eat fish, I eat crabs, I eat moussaka, I eat duck, I eat tofu, I eat oysters, I eat carpaccio, I eat gumbo, I eat dim sum, I eat pizza, I eat coleslaw, I eat poached eggs, I eat corned beef hash, I eat escargot, I eat tripe, I eat fibrous cereals, I eat poutine...

I have NEVER understood how people can pass up the opportunity to expand their culinary horizons. Food rules, period. I'm just thankful that I was taught from a very early age how to enjoy it [ALL of it].

Monday, January 23, 2006

Important Challenge, Eh?

I challenge my readers, without the assistance of the Google, to name at least one of these men, identified here by photograph only. If you can tell me why I would post these photos today, you win additional points. If you can name all five men, again without the assistance of a web search tool, please know that you are someone I hold in very high regard**.

PM candidate 1

pm candidate 2

pm candidate 3

pm candidate 4

pm candidate 5

**(If you have to use an on-line search engine, that's okay; because I had to as well. If you didn't, however, it's quite possible that you're my soulmate).


I have my office holiday party (aka prom) next weekend (as 'outside-the-box' thinkers, we host our black tie event after the holidays so no one will have to miss it), so I spent a good chunk of the afternoon yesterday in the mall searching for a dress. I had to buy one. I came home with four.

I like shopping in general, but I LOVE shopping for evening gowns. I get to spend hours in front of a mirror in heavy, flowing, beaded silk dresses, playing princess in much the same way that I did when I was eight and pranced around the basement wearing my Mom's silver lamé hand-me-downs from the early 70s.

It's the only time I lament not having pursued a career in Hollywood (or pagentry), for the simple fact that I would be able to dress up in expensive formal wear more than once a year.

Friday, January 20, 2006

Kissy Foot

Two guys from the Salvation Army (A stellar institution, by the way. I'm donating for sure next Christmas.) swung by my crib this morning to pick up a few old pieces of furniture that have been lingering without their own nook since we moved in [4 years ago]. Don't ask. So there I was, in my pyjamas, wandering barefoot and searching for a wrench (we're girls, we don't own a wrench; I just thought I'd amuse them), when the younger esse says "hey, you have toe rings. You must get your feet kissed a lot."

Exactly how does one respond to that? "That's what I'm hoping...?"

I love my feet. I think they're pretty cute as far as feet are concerned. So I also love to decorate them (you'd be hard pressed to see me without my toenails painted). But for the sole purpose of enticing someone to kiss them? Not so much.

I'd much rather have a man kiss my...ass.

Thursday, January 19, 2006


FOMO is a term used frequently in the HBS student circle, to which I was introduced over the holidays by Lil Sis (current HBS attendee). FOMO stands for 'fear of missing out.' I was self-diagnosed with a chronic variation of the condition since the age of 3.

Yesterday I had every intention of playing blog happy hour hooky. I was exhausted. My social schedule, work schedule, new handsome man and work-outs have left me with little time for myself. I'm a natural introvert who, despite my uncanny ability to socialize, requires a lot of alone time for self-introspection and decompression. When I don't get it, I become tired and cranky. I was trying to explain my sour-puss face to Charming Fellow on Tuesday night when I uttered, "SOMETHING has to give. I think I'm going to skip the blog happy hour, so I can have one day to myself this week." (I have plans for the next 5 days already lined up; it's laborious.).

I was hoping my subtle invite decline would go relatively undetected, However, I received an e-mail from the dynamic Circle V saying, "It ain't a party with you, sista. What's up with the no show tonight?" Oh, that woman knows how to pull on my heart strings. I then received an IM from the notorious haterade himself that [to paraphrase generously] the happy hour would be far more bearable were I to attend. I almost shed a tear. That's high praise from the Bachelor. Shortly thereafter, I received an e-mail with the subject 'boooo...' from DC Sports Chick that said, "What's this I see about you not going to the HH tonight?!? How is that even possible?" My FOMO then kicked into epileptic gear. I needed relief, so I checked in with Kathryn to verify whether or not she would still be at Mackey's around 9:30. When she said that she would, my fate was sealed. So, following my training class, cardio session, quick bonding moment at my house with my BFF and her precious and huggable tornado twins, and a piping hot shower, Scarletta and I sped over to the happy hour.

I waltzed in Cookie-style (doing the running man), and was astounded to see SO many blog-faces (one can only imagine how many more were in attendance earlier in the evening). With my FOMO successfully quelched into remission, I was satisified with my decision to attend. I have neither the time, nor the energy, to get into massive details about the night, but I'll leave with you a few highlights:
  • My theory about people with the name Jessica (that we all kick ass in many ways) is still fully intact.
  • So is my theory about Canadians.
  • I might just switch from ordering soco-lime or kamikaze shots to Manhattan apples (or whatever the heck they're called).
  • The meet-up is becoming even more diverse...but we're still all a bunch of nerds.
  • It amazes me the information people are willing to divulge when they are surrounded by media-types.
  • Patrick of DC Blogs deserves more than just a 'thank you.'
  • Kathryn's hostessing skills inspire me.
  • Reya and Barbara fascinate the hell out of me.
  • I was in rare form last night (drinking two waters to every one alcoholic beverage and remaining stone cold sober), but enjoyed this happy hour more than any other. Proof positive that I'm not a bona fide alcoholic, just a lush.
  • Also out-of-character, I took only one photo. You'll have to check Reya, i-66 or Marci for the photo log.

i66, jess, marci
Photo courtesy of Marci. Yes, that's a water in my hand. Perhaps it WAS a twilight-zone/zombie event after all.

As I drove the 15 minutes home last night following all the entertainment, positive attention and good times, I have determined, without a doubt, that it's going to have to be SOMETHING ELSE that gives...

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Numbers Game

A buddy of mine IMd me yesterday and said [to paraphrase generously], "You know what really bugs me. When people ask me how many people I've slept with - especially people I'm not dating. It's nobody's business." And I have to admit, I agree with him.

My opinion has always been that I haven't made any such decisions in my life that I'm ashamed of, so why conceal it? But at the same time, how exactly is that question relevant, to anyone? Does the number 'really' matter in the grand scheme of things? Aren't there so many more important questions someone should be asking you instead?
  • Have you always been protected?
  • When was the last time you were tested?
  • Do you sleep with multiple people at the same time, or do you believe that intimacy and commitment go hand-in-hand?
  • Are you any good at it?
  • Have you ever paid for it?
  • Do you blog about it?

Understanding the math behind the number is key. For instance, you could have a man who has only slept with 2 women, but is absolutely wretched in bed. Or, you could have a man who has only slept with 2 women but spent his time deeply exploring those 2 partners and learning how to be a mind-blowing lover. You could have a man who has slept with 58 people, but has never overlapped his women, has committed to 1/2 of them, and makes it his sole mission to satisfy each one. Or you could have a man who has slept with 58 people, most during the same time periods, is phenomenally selfish in bed and rarely uses protection. Catch my drift? Quality over quantity any day. I haven't asked CF his 'number,' and I probably won't. Why? Because I couldn't care less. The answer is far less important than the equation itself.

Maybe this is what Douglas Adams was mocking in his Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, when he wrote that "The answer to the Great Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything is....42." In essence, without understanding what the questions need to be, how can an answer of '42' have any distinct value?

My advice to my frustrated friend: The next time somebody asks you how many people you've slept with, tell her "the answer to the great question of life, the universe, and everything is 7,842," laugh cacophonously, and then change the subject.

Monday, January 16, 2006

Big White Lies

Do you ever tell tall tales to strangers when you're intoxicated? Namaste and I could have written 'The Liars' Club' on Saturday night. We spent the last three hours of our night out in hysterics, knowing we had fully entertained several local Charlottesville residents with our antics.

The evening began respectably. I had received an impromptu evite from an old college suitemate who was celebrating her 29th birthday. Since both her and my 4th year roommate would be there (who, between the two of them, have 4 four gorgeous children, meaning, I never see them), and since Namaste lives in the same town, and since that handsome man I'm seeing was away for the weekend, it was a no-brainer. I slid gracefully into Scarletta's front seat and sped as fast as I could (except for Greene County) down to the 'Ville through pseudo-snow and torrential winds.

When I saw the birthday girl, and my 4th year college roommate, I decided that I do, in fact, look forward to motherhood. They were both glowing. Four children later, and they're even thinner than they were when we lived together (perhaps the lack of free Biltmore grasshopper pie has helped us all). Amazing!

Lindsey, Jess
Birthday Girl.

Mandy Sue, Jess
4th-Year Roomie: 1122F!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Unfortunately, I had somehow missed the memo that said I needed to wear teal to the party; and since Namaste and I are neither homeowners nor parents, we decided the night needed to end with a few RBVs and Petron shots on the Downtown Mall, single-dom style.

This is when the evening began to spiral towards out-of-control entertainment. At this knob-tastic club, Namaste and I, with a grand total of $3 in cash between us, edged our way past the large bouncer collecting cover, the blinder-ized Italian coat-check man, and the significant crowd of cheezoid townies, to the center of the dance floor where we absolutely dominated. No, seriously. We were like Cha-Cha and Danny Zuko, approached by no fewer than 20 men (and a few women) attempting to join in our fun, each of whom received a big, phat "nope" or a hip-check. When Nam and I are in a groove, that groove cannot be penetrated (except by the ARL).

Becs Dancin
Um, Whatevs...Back off, Dude.

Our shift is just about over.

Half an hour later, we decided we couldn't take the sweltering humidity of the dance floor, and rushed out to the refreshingly cold outdoors, sans jacket. We agreed on one more martini at Blue Light, but first...some ridiculous photo opps.


Jess, Zocolo fence
Management at Zocolo closed the place for a private party. We weren't letting it go without a fight.

Becs, Jess climb Zocolo fence

The bars eventually shut down (and despite the pleas of the male bartender who was very fond of Nam, the busted-ass female bartender told us we had to G-O. No really, she spelled it), but our night was not done. We needed chow and Little John's beat the White Spot. There we were in line, discussing our absolute takeover of the dance floor, when the man behind us said "what, you think you can dance?" He should NOT have said that to Cookie without expecting obnoxious comical relief. I began to girate all through the sandwich line singing 'I've got skillz.' Similar to the two dudes in the Nextel commercial. I demonstrated my excellent running man and toprock, and did a freestyle rap about the Little John's cashier (who liked it so much I got extra pickles free of charge).

Jess' Running Man at Little John's
Cookie does the running man in the sandwich line.

As I bit into one of my dill pickle slices, someone beside me said, "Hey, do you work for XYZ Consulting Firm?" Say what? I admitted I did. Oh, the professionalism of it all - and how the heck did he know that? Apparently he was friends with someone we hired last year, and the last time I had seen this kid, I had been buying multiple pitchers on a Sunday night before a recruiting event. Some things will never change...

Becs and Bobby 8-Pack
Nam meets Bobby 8-Pack.

With half a sandwich to go, in walks Bobby 8-Pack with a large duffle bag. He slid into the booth adjacent to Namaste, and that was when the white lies began rolling from my tongue. Bobby 8-pack joined in the conversation, although he had little to offer except that his girlfriend had kicked him out (hence the duffle bag) and that he'd been working out a lot (he flashed us his abs no less than 3 times). I introduced Namaste as my sister-in-law, who I had set up with my brother (I don't have a brother) back in college and who now had two children (no children) and this was the first time in a month she'd been able to go out on the town (we'd just been partying in DC last week). I told him I'd come from a blue-collar family, that my father was a miner and an odd-jobs construction worker (my dad is an actuary), that I was the first person in my family to go to college (first to go to college in the US), that I'd paid my way through university by working as a waitress (paid for my drinking habit by working as a waitress), and that I hated big cities (I live in and love DC). Bobby 8-pack then told us he was 40 and didn't have any kids, but that he wasn't "queer or nothing," that he loved women, but just hadn't had kids yet. I told him not to worry - that my boyfriend was in his mid-40s (mid-30s; semantics) and hadn't been married yet either. That he had plenty of time, and he should ditch his mean-ass girlfriend and find a new one.

Lying to perfect strangers (who will most certainly remain strangers after the evening has ended) is SO MUCH FUN!

Nam - may the good lord help this city when you move here...I fear DC won't know what hit it.

Friday, January 13, 2006

Vegas Table Service

My friend Antsy-Pantsy just got back from an entertaining, but expensive and disappointing trip to Vegas over New Years Eve. Last weekend he was sharing his experience, and I almost spit out my Chimay I was laughing so hard. I can't help but share this "who does that?" story with you all.

Picture it. Four attractive men, three of whom have little concern for how their money gets spent (we're talking i-banking, family business, MBA grads...) jump on a plane to Vegas for the New Year holiday. They get executive suites at the Venetian, throw on their Armani digs, and head to Body English at the Hard Rock to party and meet girls. $250 each to get in the door, but this ticket price includes a seat at a table. They get inside, determine that the location of the table is not to their liking, and fork over another $700 for a table beside the DJ booth. No liquor has been poured yet. Bottle service (2 bottles of Grey Goose) is another $1,600. After all this money has been burned, Antsy-Pantsy figures there's no WAY they won't get the attention of some of the club's hottest women. Which they do! Isn't that the point of having crapped out all those benjamins in the first place? About three drinks into the night, the ball drops, the guys clink champagne glasses, and the girls start heading their direction. Antsy-Pantsy commences a solid conversation with a couple of cute Swedish ladies, and introduces them to his friends. A few more Goose and tonics are poured. The vibe is good. These girls will certainly be coming back to the Venetian with them.

At least, that's what Antsy-Pantsy thought, until around 2:00 am when he discovers that all his amigos (aka wingmen) are conspicuously absent. He finds one friend at the ATM withdrawing $1,200, and asks what the deal is. Friend says "Oh, we're done with this scene. We're heading to Spearmint Rhino." SAY WHAT??? They just spent $3,300 for a hot table at one of the sexiest clubs in Vegas, and they're leaving early to chill at a strip club and lust after punani they can't even have? Ridiculous! Especially because there are FREE [it's all relative] hos standing right beside them at the table!! I ask you, what in the hell were Antsy-Pantsy's friends thinking?

I. Don't. Get. It.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

Lifestyle Change

Time when Cookie normally gets to work: 9:30 am.

Time when Cookie needs to arrive at client site for the next 2 months: 7:30 am.

Can anyone say 'UGH?!' I'm going to have to rearrange my entire internal clock for this project. System shock, here we come...

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Playaz Resolution

Rumour has it that my boyz, the Playaz, made a new years resolution for 2006. Despite the booze, the cookies, the cigarettes and the blow, they want to maintain a healthy heart. They decided to hit the gym 5 days a week. They kept true to their word on Monday, by heading in for a power cardio session with DC Cookie.


Looks like they got a pretty sweaty!! Nice job Playaz... Oh, and by the way, Tac totally gets the best part of the deal...I'm a bit of a lefty.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Keeping It Real

Thursday evening, my friend Amesbootie leaned over to Namaste and whispered, "You know why I like Charming Fellow so much?...Because he lets Cookie be herself." This tidbit of a conversation occurred at the very moment I hopped onto the non-existent dance floor, and cut-a-rug with an intoxicated local and a pool cue. All the while, Charming Fellow just sipped his beer and smiled.

The thing is, I'm a flirt. I've been that way since I was six months old. I hug, I fondle, I cuddle, I kiss on the lips, I bat my eyelids, I smile, I dance on chairs, I squeeze tooshies, I make bedroom eyes, I talk dirty, and I offer gratuitous compliments as they're deserved. This past Friday night, when Charming Fellow escorted me and some friends to Spank for a Mink Event [VIP-style], I did all of the above.

Please note the subtle cop-a-feel.

Justin, Jess
Host with the most.

My flirty co-horts made the evening flirt-normously flirt-tastic.

Jess, Becca
Booth 22 style.

Jess on chair
Sofa dance.


But at the end of it all, Charming Fellow understands that this whole flirtation gig is just my way of dousing the world with my affection, and that he is the only person I would consider going home to. A strong, confident, non-jealous man is such a turn on...MEOW!

Jess, Chris
So barfaliciously adorable.

Monday, January 09, 2006

Celebrity Look-a-Like

So Wiz sent me this link that lets you upload photos of yourself (ah...Cookie could have hours of fun with this), reads your facial features, and provides you with a photo of your celebrity look-a-like. The results are in! I look...[insert hater comment here]

66% like Tori Amos

70% like Brigitte Bardot

72% like Annette Bening

72% like Scarlett Johansson

and 73% like John Cusack (yes, I am a dill pickle fiend, what of it?)

I can't feel too bad about this, though. The site also told Charming Fellow he looks like Penelope Cruz. Penelope and John - that's one sexy, gender-confused couple. MEOW!


Friday, January 06, 2006

Cool Factor

You know you're cool when you've been wearing a big 'M' (for medium) sticker on your new shirt all day long at the office. Even cooler that nobody pointed it out.

If You Can Only Have Two

This has been a recurring thought of mine since I was in grade school (I've spent a lot of time on this one): "What if you had to be somewhere public, but were only allowed 2 articles of clothing? What would you choose?" Just after my post-workout shower yesterday, the thought revisited, as it often does when I'm getting dressed in a hurry. I imagine an emergency situation, and whether or not it is possible to cover oneself completely with only 2 articles of clothing.

A southern belle would naturally agree that it's possible. A long dress (with enough built-in support for the twins) and a good pair of thongs would cover all necessary bases. But what about an adolescent growing up in the midst of a blistery, Canadian winter? It becomes more complicated. Do you choose socks? Do you choose a caribou-fur-lined parka and one-sy long-johns, but suffer the abrasion of free-balling or no breast-support (not to mention the mockery of your peers)? Do you choose a tuque and snowpants? Or do you go the 'southern belle' route and freeze your titties off?

And what about shoes? Do shoes count as clothing? Do socks/gloves count as one or two items?

Really people, this is a logic puzzle that I have yet to solve, and clearly, it's driving me bananas.

Thursday, January 05, 2006


I live in a beautiful big townhouse with two other girls. The townhouse used to be owned by a very elderly lady with alzheimers. She passed away in the house. Her daughter is our landlord, who is so happy that we bring so much 'joy to these walls her mother loved so much.' My bedroom was her old bedroom. The loft above my room was her book den. Her name was Edna, and we sometimes refer to her as our fourth roommate.

I have never seen Edna. I have never heard Edna. I technically don't even believe in ghosts. So what the heck is it that, as I'm turning all the lights off downstairs before heading to bed, makes me race up the darkened staircase as if someone is chasing me? Why do I sleep with the covers pulled up to my eyeballs? Why, when I can't get to the bed fast enough, do I whisper sweetly, "Goodnight Edna?"

Secretly, I think I just like to freak myself the hell out sometimes. Not to the point where I'll be joining Jinxy on the range, but I definitely let the creative juices flow. Keeps the heart in good condition.

I shouldn't have watched Ghostbusters as such an impressionable young lass.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

The Caterpillar

Hate cigarettes (contrary to drunken 'statue of liberty' appearances from time to time after three, or six, martinis); LOVE hookah pipes.

Hookah 3

With hookah smoking comes a delicious aroma, a subtle allure, a long-lasting mellow buzz, a sanitary solution to oral fixation, late night kisses that taste like apple candy, and...

Hookah 1

...humorous photo opps.

hookah 2

Monday, January 02, 2006

Start Your Year Off Right

New Years Day 2006. Kick it off with a bang. Get shit-canned on kamikaze shots and shamelessly/unapologetically make out with boyfriend at bar. This is going to be one hell of a year... MEOW!

Terms of Endearment

Ever wonder how I got the nickname Cookie? It originated back in college when I used 'Cookie' as a term of endearment for many of my close friends, especially my favourite fourth year 'hook up buddy,' who adopted the name and started to call me Cookie right back. It suited me more than it did him, so it stuck.

Bestowing special friends with atypical soubriquets is something I do naturally (read unintentionally). I also have a tendency to refer to people by underused variations of their common name. If you're Mike, I'll call you Mikey. If you're Wes, I'll call you Wesley. If you're Kathryn, I'll call you Kat. Or maybe I'll use your initials, or your middle name, or an inversion of your initials; or I'll add a 'ski,' a 'ster' or a 'ness' to the end of your first name, or a 'Mc' or an 'O' (or both) to the beginning of your last name. Depends on my mood and how many martinis I've shared with you. Regardless, nicknaming has always given me warm fuzzies (perhaps part of the draw of this blog thing?).

These love-isms are not necessarily unique for each person on whom they get used, but they're uniquely mine. Especially because I combine them together, or use them with certain idiosyncratic vocal intonations. Some of my favourites include (often preceded by 'my little,' or 'my sweet'):
  • Peanut
  • Sweet Pea
  • Rock Star
  • Sweetness
  • Bubba (mostly reserved for Lil Sis)
  • Mama (borrowed from ARL's VP)
  • Handsome
  • Meatball
  • Gorgeous
  • Darlin'
  • Silly Goose
  • Lucky Chicken
  • Sucker
  • Poohead
  • Playa
  • Dorkbutt

You get the picture. All of these are simply unconventional alternatives to the generic 'baby,' 'sweetie,' and 'honey' that everybody else uses*. I just prefer to get a little more inventive with my affection**, because I'm so ridiculously overflowing with it. I can't help it. It's in my bone marrow.

*Disclaimer: Charming Fellow sometimes calls me Sweetie (I'm not even sure he knows he does it), and when he does, it takes me about 30 seconds to re-solidify. But that's because he's not the complete cheese-dick that I am, and the terms of endearment are few and meaningful. Keep calling me Sweetie, okay Handsome? I heart that a lot...

**I also feel it imperative to give props to my friend Golden Bear who creates a different variation of the word Cookie every time we IM (often daily). Cook-ster-ific. Cook-a-lookie. Cook-less-ica. CookieDookieDoo. He sits atop the C-Suite of the nicknaming board; a creative level to which I aspire.

***Jordan Baker - I apologize in advance for pirating your footnote technique. One shot deal (or so I say until you approve). It just worked well here.

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