DC Cookie

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

If You Are Going There, So Am I...

A former flame once said something to me as we sat together on his couch contemplating his committment issues. The words have stuck with me to this day: "I don't break girls' hearts, they break their own." Despite his douche-bag-itude, this former flame was wise beyond his years. It was this single piece of advice that changed the way I perceived every relationship I have ever entered since then.

It's in a woman's nature to place blame in every corner but her own at the termination of a passionate romance. Women tend to care blindly for men they deem worthy of their affections, despite the inner logical reasoning that desperately beckons to them the warning signs of blissful dysfunction. This isn't to say a separation doesn't sting, but the recovery can only be that much easier when a woman reviews the commonsensical facts instead of flinging blame like a sprinkler.

In actuality, it's rarely the man or the woman who singularly fail; it's the relationship itself, given all the extenuating circumstances. For example, had I not listened to my former flame when my love affair with Charming Fellow ran its course, I could easily have filled my intestines with spite. But the end of the relationship was not his fault, nor was it mine. We were just two kind-hearted souls who were unfortunately mismatched; something I came to terms with easily on the day of our break-up. Because of this, we converse regularly and I continue to have nothing but wonderful things to say about him. As such, my new sweetheart is that much luckier to have scooped up a woman who, instead of dragging along the weight of lovers who may have scorned her, carries with her the intrepid assuredness of having grown from each of her previous encounters.

Here is an important equation that I wish more women understood:

Blaming other people for a break-up (might I add, particularly the 'other woman' who is ultimately an innocent bystander) = unnecessary hatred = bitterness = de-valued sense of self-worth = extended duration of recovery = baggage = less respect from men in general = never-ending cycle of failed relationships.

Men can't stand "woe is me I got dumped by an asshole" lamentations that women so regularly spew. Ninety percent of the time the heartbreaker ISN'T an idiot (nor even a veritable heartbreaker according to my former flame), he just came to the rational determination first that the relationship wasn't right for either one of the participants and moved on. These things should never come to a woman as a surprise. If they do, it's because she wasn't listening to him, nor to the voices in her abdomen.

That's why I just shake my head in pity for the woman who writes that she hates "ex-boyfriends that dump me and then date ugly girls" and plasters it all over myspace for her friends to laud. Because when the "ugly girl" is me to whom she is referring, she has clearly lost her contacts.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

I Cook Three Things

"If I told you you were beautiful, would you date* me on the regular?"

The question 'how fast is too fast' is inconceivable to the woman who gazes contentedly at her lover while he voluntarily washes the pots and pans she used to cook a satiating meal for him. The forearms that have hugged her so earnestly all evening are covered in temporary tattoos placed there in a playful bonding moment by the 3 year old son of a good friend. His soul is gentle. He catches her contemplating his presence in her world and his cerulean eyes smile confidently back at her. No, there is no such thing as too fast when a woman finally perceives the perfection that all this time has simply been awaiting her acknowledgement.

*Artistic license for misunderstanding that harmonious, high-pitched falsetto over the radio.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

The Adventures of Blue Minx

The minx emerges.

It was Saturday night, Namaste was in town, and the over-the-top, fun-having, extrovert of an imp decided that she had to have blue hair for the evening (pink was sooooo last August). Because words alone offer little justice to the ridiculousness that was Blue Minx's appearance (really...bangs?), I offer you a photo montage of some of her favourite encounters of the evening.


Blue Minx and her comrades prepare for an evening of mayhem.

Blue Minx and Namast-Violet flash their lion claws,

and dance the robot.

Suit guy
Blue Minx finds a 'suit'-able dance partner.

Blue Minx toasts a birthday girl.

Blue Minx is scolded by her Lil' Brother to 'take off that ridiculous wig.' After five vodka tonics, he becomes a fan...

Blue Minx finds a super crush,

a bachelor,

and a bachelor's amigo.

Namaste and I are missing Halloween this year, so we figured, why not celebrate a week early. Really, you should try it. People laugh "with" you all night...

Friday, October 20, 2006

D&D Club


When I tell my non-blogging friends that I can't meet them out because I have plans to go to 'blog happy hour,' they can't help but snicker under their breath. Because the words 'blog happy hour' just reek of D&D club meeting. "So, are you going to dress up in your storm trooper costume and drink some Arbor Mist with all your super lame blog friends?" I want to tell them not to knock it 'til they try it.


Blog happy hours are different than Star Wars fan club trivia night! What my non-blog friends don't realize is that at blog happy hours we do 'really cool' things like pose for photos while pretending to play the bongo drums.

Jess plays bongos

Hmmm...maybe they're right.

Kathryn, Jess

At least we're cute...

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Because The Lord Needs Company

My Mom is a bloodhound when it comes to judging a person's character. She can tell humble from cheater, selfless from self-absorbed, energetic from histrionic, reliable from flighty, fun from irresponsible, trustworthy from gossip-monger, elegant from haughty...all within a first impression.


A few years after moving to California, my parents befriended a spirited couple who represented the grand sum total of everything they search high and low for in their friends. In the blink of an eye, my Mom had met her bosom buddy whose very soul was knit from an unparalleled, vibrant authenticity. The bond my Mom grew to form so quickly with the petite and buxom woman who shared the same first name was as kindred as a relationship can be. They danced, they laughed, they golfed, they cried, they dyed their hair platinum blonde, they filled their Christmas houses to the brim with decorations and people, and on the few days a week that they weren't together they were most certainly corresponding by phone. They brought out the absolute best in each other (and each other's husbands), because that's what best friends do.


Sue, Mom Stanford Harvard


So you have to wonder how it is that this woman whose smile sparkled as brightly as a diamond, whose hugs were filled with more vigour than a nutcracker, whose mousy, high-pitched giggle could drown out a live rock band and whose laughter was as necessary and warm as the sun in July, could have been taken from us with such unfairly limited notice. Last night, my Mom's little soul mate lost her very short, but hard fought, battle with liver disease.

Three weeks ago they were planning next year's dual-family trip to Hawaii; today they're planning the 'celebration of life' service (trust me when I say, that's what she'd want it to be called). Three weeks ago the two couples were giggling over a bottle of Cakebread Chardonnay; today the world is silently grieving.

The stars are exceptionally radiant tonight, even through the clouds, because the heavens just inherited one of the good ones. If I know my Mom's friend, she has already convinced the angels that they need to be dancing with her.


Here's to the [very well-lived] life of an extraordinary woman. Her thumbprints will remain impressed on the hearts of the thousands of people who have been blessed to know her. I hope the Big Guy upstairs knows just how lucky he is to share in her company...

Monday, October 16, 2006

Indian Restaurants Don't Serve Sunday Brunch

For a woman who knows how to cook a grand total of three things, the pressure to entertain a man through his stomach can be burdensome. Thankfully the gentleman who currently occupies my meditations had as little patience for the kitchen on hangover Sunday as I do every day. Instead we meandered through the aisles of the local 'not for the price conscious' Whole Foods and purchased enough green beans and tabouleh to feed an Ethiopian village.


In the crisp fall air we trespassed up a slippery hill to relax outdoors in a gazebo belonging to an apartment complex that wasn't mine. As he uncorked the modest bottle of pinot with a car key and my lip gloss, I felt like a teenager on an illicit rendez-vous with the boy next door. We drank from the bottle, ate sushi with our fingers and giggled like school children for the next hour. Chivalry will get you a second date, but making a woman who is pushing 30 feel like a carefree adolescent for a brief afternoon will [eventually] win you her heart.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

New and Improved

I've always wondered how something can be both 'new' AND 'improved.' If it's improved, isn't it just a revitalized version of something we've already seen before and therefore, not truly new? I digress...


What I want to know is...have we really become so desperate for a change of VIP scenery in DC that the only thing club management has to do is take down an out-of-date sign to get us to scratch our way through the line-up of what we're coerced so transparently into believing is the 'new' hot venue?

Take Ultrabar for instance. It's still club Home without the word 'Home' shining in fluorescent pink from the front door. The neon key hole still graces the entrance, for goodness' sake. It's embarrassing that we're falling for the hype when literally nothing has changed.

Remind me again how this is 'new?' Not that the club wasn't suitable for Paul Oakenfold to absolutely kill it last night, but as I sipped my cocktail, I couldn't escape the feeling that I was just one of hundreds of 'hot spot' lemmings, corralled and bled by the hypnotic owners clinking crystal glasses and mocking our naivete over cigars and Johnny Walker Blue.

A word of advice to the owners of Play. Do absolutely nothing. Tell your promoters to spread the word that the club name has changed to 'Rewind.' Within a week the masses will be pounding down your door again, throwing around hundies by the dozens for the privilege of flaunting a store-bought importance and sitting at your crowded, second floor window tables with barely enough oxygen to breathe, because the club will be 'new' and 'hot.'

You're welcome... I'll see you there.

Monday, October 09, 2006


I have decided the most beautiful thing about Manhattan are the bridges leading to and from the island. This weekend as I sauntered 20+ miles across the expanse of the city from Pier 17 to Fort Washington and back through Brooklyn Heights, I crossed over and under three of the most famous of these bridges.

View of Brooklyn Bridge from Pier 17

I hadn't intended to walk that far. My girl friend was nobly participating in the Avon 2-day walk for breast cancer. I traveled up to the city simply for moral support. I brought jeans, a raincoat and a ratty old pair of beat up sneakers; with the intention of standing at the various cheer stations and reading a book while I waited. But when we arrived at the opening ceremonies at 6am with 3500 other walkers all donning pink hats, pink t-shirts and pink jackets, I knew the likelihood of finding her again was slim. So instead of separating, I just...walked with her.

George Washington Bridge

Posing under the George Washington

Across the Manhattan Bridge

Manhattan Bridge

Brooklyn Bridge from the picnic lunch

On top of the Brooklyn Bridge

Despite my incredible ill-preparedness and aching tendons, the scenery alone was enough to make the trek worthwhile. And by scenery, I don't mean the glorious steel stretches between Manhattan and the other boroughs. I mean the lapels on the back of all the young women's t-shirts with handwritten sayings like "I'm walking for - my Mom...I miss you," or "I'm walking for - my best friend Donna...1968-2004."

As tears welled up and muscles throbbed I understood that, although I was not officially signed up, I was walking beside my friend who had tirelessly fundraised in hopes that I'll never have to write the name my own loved one on the pocket of my backpack.
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