DC Cookie

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

I Can Never Stay Mad

I had a long conversation with my ex-boyfriend one week after we broke up. Our actual break-up had been a blow-out, kicking, shoving, top-of-our-lungs screaming match, so I figured having that conversation was a more dignified way to end our tumultuous love affair. He was adamant at the time that he didn't want it to be over; that he couldn't live without me. I was adamant that we weren't ourselves when we were around each other (can you even fathom the idea of me having a fight with anyone?), and we needed to move on. I was tired of pretending to believe him (see number one on this list). It was time. We made each other miserable.

That conversation occurred over a year ago. I haven't seen him or heard his voice since. Following our official goodbye, I cut ties. Besides sending him an e-card on his birthday, I never attempted to contact him. He'd write me every couple of months trying to find out how I was; I can only assume in an attempt to re-establish a position of importance in my life. My replies were always caustic - if I even replied at all. I didn't WANT to hear from him, so I discouraged all forms of communication.

But today, when I received the requisite "hey, how are you" e-mail from him, I no longer felt the urge to holler "leave me alone, you douchebag!" My anger has finally subsided. My frustrations have become abstract and inconsequential. My utter lack of respect for him as a human being has morphed into indifference. Time apparently does heal all wounds. I found myself, for the first time in over a year, almost glad he reached out again. Not because I want to be his friend; something I believe is very difficult to do when you've loved, sacrificed for, and battled with a person that intimately. But because letting go of my resentment is a far greater closure than any break-up conversation could ever provide, no matter how civil.

Thanks for the apologies, and sorry for the number of times I've referred to you as a douchebag. Maybe karma isn't such a bitch after all.

Monday, February 27, 2006

Chow Down

There I was at Bob and Edith's for a little late night snack on Friday evening. I chose as wisely as possible to fulfill both my nutrition and post-alcohol grease requirements. An egg on whole-wheat toast and some grits with cheese (plus a few long sips of Charming Fellow's chocolate milkshake...does it count if I don't actually order it?).

Before our food arrived, our server and another runner brought 6 plates to the table to our right. Fried chicken, hash browns, pancakes, chili, french fries, bacon, eggs, sausage... 6 plates. For two people. Both of whom could not have weighed less than 300 pounds. My arteries started to ache just watching the cholesterol ingestion.

Sue me if this is an awful thought, but I looked over at Charming Fellow and said "I promise that will never be me..." And then I went running first thing in the morning.

Friday, February 24, 2006

Last Bite

There's a line from the movie 'The Brothers' (not worth watching) in which the matron is explaining to her daughter and her son's girlfriend how to determine whether a man is a keeper or not. Since I can't find the quote on-line at the moment, I'll paraphrase. She insinuates that, when you're all curled up on the couch together at the end of the evening, watching a movie and eating chicken wings, if the man is willing to give you his very last bite of food, that he's head over heels for you and you've found yourself a winner.

Be still my heart...

Jess, Chris - Last Bite

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Skillz, Gosh!

When I have kids, I'm going to strongly encourage them, from an early age, to learn/participate in/appreciate the following:
  • Ice skating,
  • Gymnastics,
  • Hip-hop dancing,
  • Basketball,
  • Autoshop,
  • Math league,
  • Foreign language(s),
  • Swimming,
  • Adventuresome eating (and eventually wine-tasting),
  • Card counting and poker-face betting,
  • Piano and musical theory,
  • Chess,
  • Choir,
  • Anything Canadian.

I'll probably end up with a mini-van and a resentful brood of little ones. But they'll thank me in the end.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Sober Sister

For circumstances within my control, I decided to play sober sister this weekend. Perhaps as a favour to friends who needed a chauffeuse, perhaps as a foreshadowing to the month of sobriety I'll be forced into if I don't win the challenge I made with myself, or perhaps for other reasons. Regardless, sometimes the body just needs a break.

Please note, in my hand is a pretzel, not a martini.

What surprises me as I sit here writing is the amount of clarity that comes from a weekend when party-girl-101 stays home and sends her bookish twin out in her place. Her twin is quieter, but more thoughtful with her choice of words. Her twin wakes up in the morning and remembers verbatim why she had so much to smile about. Her twin plays alligators and lions with buttery-sweet toddlers without requiring ibuprofen.

Yano babies and Jess

I'm great at being the life of a lackluster party, or clambering to the center of a raucous one. I honed those skills my third year of college (the same year I learned that writing french papers and drinking Private Stock did not have to be mutually exclusive events). 90% of my acquaintances are drawn to the ebullient energy I carry with me to the nightclubs. My perpetual happiness is addictive. However, what is not obvious when you first meet me is that my happiest moments are never floating at the bottom of a bottle of pinot. Intoxication is entertaining, but fleeting, just like the memories attached to it.

When my friend's cherubic two-year-old burst into uproarious laughter over my impression of an orangutan this weekend, I knew that was a memory that was actually worth holding on to.

Friday, February 17, 2006

Red Flags

Which red flags would you pay attention to?
  • Man who solves all your problems by telling you how much he loves you, how amazing you are, how much he needs you, but doesn't really ever seem to act on those 'feelings.'
  • Man who spends tons of time with you, is physically affectionate, incorporates you into his life, but never tells you how he feels about you.
  • Man who tells you he wants to be the father of your children within days of meeting you.
  • Man who is verbally intimate, but not physically intimate.
  • Man who gives you amazing compliments, but uses those same compliments on everyone.
  • Man who never compliments you, but also never compliments anyone else.

I would argue all of the above...

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Barefoot In The Kitchen

Last night, as my every saporous desire was being satisfied by a pepper-rubbed filet, grilled asparagus and sauteed mushrooms with roma tomatoes, I concluded that I am not a feminist (despite my 'equality in the bedroom' and 'you-go-girl' style blog posts). I had not prepared the feast I was devouring, and a small part of me felt guilty about that. Granted, it WAS Valentine's Day, when men are commercially tasered into being romantic. With flushed cheeks, I graciously accepted Charming Fellow's gesture. In fact, I ate up [literally] every cheese-soaked minute of his doting (as most women would).

That role reversal, however, is something I know I would struggle with were it to be a regular occurrence. Here I am, a university-educated female consultant, hailing from an extremely liberal country, who also happens to subscribe to the fairytale ideals of the traditional female responsibilities in the household. I look forward to preparing the meals, separating the socks, scrubbing the bathtub, rinsing the dishes, preparing the budget, massaging tired feet, grocery shopping, buttoning the dress shirt collars that I've ironed...

I have often wondered if this conservative instinct is a sign of weakness. But after much internal debate, I have concluded quite the opposite. I'm a woman; which by virtual default, makes me a caregiver. I want to provide for the man in my life the way my mother provides for my father, and my grandmother provides for my grandfather. What I've discovered with age and wisdom is that my desire to nurture has yet to obstruct the weight of my intellect or the authority of my voice. One characteristic does not have to hold back another. I can work, play, delegate, support, debate, learn, speak, manage, love, comfort and protect; all with equal vigour.

Bring on the cookbook...

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Will You...

...be my Valentine?

Valentine Kid Chris

Monday, February 13, 2006

Boston Is A 6-Hour Drive...

...or a 16 hour flight. I left to catch my flight at 5pm on Friday evening, and didn't arrive in Boston until 11am the next day. Late arrival of our plane, mechanical issues and lack of crew. I HEART United Airlines. Oh, and I'm still here. Snow. Reminds me of Canada. It was the perfect weekend to travel north (::oozes sarcasm::).

Alright, so I have a question for the women who are actually flattered by aggressive beau-hunks who violate their personal space at the club. But first, let me provide you with an extremely euphemistic description of an actual late-night encounter to set the stage. I am on the dance floor, surrounded by a gaggle of Lil Sis' grad student friends. A random man spots me, walks straight up to me, takes my left hand without asking, and begins to dance suggestively against me. I say "no thank you," while I put my free hand on his chest to politely decline his gyrations. He doesn't let go of my left hand despite the fact that I'm attempting to pull it away. I can't STAND that. It's just as bad as grabbing my wrist as I walk by; incredibly demeaning. He continues to pull me close to him, and I continue to back away saying, "thank you, but I'm dancing with my friends." He then leans in and says "I came over to invite you to an after party." I say, agitatedly, "no thank you." I finally succeed in tugging my hand out of his grip. He doesn't leave me alone until I blatantly move to a new spot. He then grabs the hand of one of Lil Sis' married classmates whose husband had just left to get her a drink. Shameless.

So my question is...exactly which women out there accept this kind of behaviour from a man? There has to be someone who encourages these types of advances; otherwise, you would think the man would 'get' that he's being painfully offensive and isn't likely to score.

This particular guy was just lucky that I grew up in Canada (passive-aggressive), or he would have been graced with a sweet shiner to nurse for the week.

Friday, February 10, 2006


I admit it. I am the one who cuts the outside corners off of the danishes at breakfast and eats just a small bite. I don't want the whole thing. So I share. For those of you who are upset at the 3/4 of a danish sitting in the breakfast tray, feel free to step into my office to discuss.

Monday, February 06, 2006

And the Kissing Oscar Goes To...

Although we may not remember all the guys we’ve kissed over the years, I believe it’s safe to state that we can never forget the gold-medal winning performances; men who make smooching a priority and take the time to perfect the craft. A friend and I were reminiscing the other day about our most notable lip-lock sessions, and it surprised me how quickly I was able to point to my top 5. It was virtually instantaneous. What also surprised me was the variance in the demographic of those five men:

  • Two boyfriends, three non-relationship-materials
  • One black man, four white men
  • One college sweetie, four post-college amours
  • One international DJ sensation, four people who enjoy said DJ’s most famous song
  • Two men who went to UVA, three men who didn’t
  • Three men who are an integral part of my life, two men who aren't
  • One man I first kissed at a frat party, one man I first kissed at a wedding, one man I first kissed at a club, one man I first kissed on my couch, and one man I first kissed in a hotel.

Interestingly, they all have something in common. The first time we kissed, that’s ALL we did…for hours. No roaming hands, no attempts to add another notch. I don’t believe this to be coincidence. I would argue that the man who is able to linger contentedly in that pre-foreplay zone with ease and confidence is the man who makes a woman’s history book.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Creative Audience

My Big Cuz is a Director with the administration at a small [but cool...he'd be upset if I didn't add that clause] university in Canada. It's the same university at which he used to play basketball; and for which, at 13, I used to sit in the stands and drool over how delectable his teammates were (and still are...Hi Fish! Meow!). He e-mailed me yesterday to voice his discontent about the current students, and their lack of creativity as basketball fans. Apparently the favourite student chant is "you fucked up."


In an effort to rekindle the students' wisecrack originality, he wants to reach out to the them with suggestions for more inventive disses. PG-13 rated versions of slurs like "They're big, they're red, they give each other head!" (This chant makes more sense if I explain that McGill students are called tomato-heads). He asked me if I knew of any potshots that get passed out by the fans at American universities. I couldn't think of anything interesting (sadly, I laughed at 'you fucked up.'). But, I know my blog-readers are a demiurgic bunch.


Wednesday, February 01, 2006

That's Like, Hot, Okay?

It's one thing to use the words 'awesome' or 'cool' when shooting the shit with your peers. It's another to blurt them out [multiple times] during a client interview.
  • Client: "I'll get those reports for you so you can audit this formula."
  • Cookie: "Cool, that would be awesome."
Holy god, are you kidding me? Has Paris Hilton's social decorum overwhelmed the influences of my finance degree and public speaking virtuosity?

And how in goodness gracious am I going to correct this? With 8 weeks of daily client interviews ahead of me, this has to be an expeditious refinement. Electric shock therapy? A cassette tape reciting 'that's hot' and 'awesome' repetitively throughout my slumber until I can no longer stand the sound of those word combinations? 50 push-ups every time the words escape my mouth? No sex for a month if I say 'awesome' more than once a day, or ever during a meeting with a client. Whatever it is, it has to be drastic. This teenager-speak has got to go.

free webpage counters