DC Cookie

New Site

2007-09-04T11:08:00.000-04:00

www.streamofjessica.blogspot.com

They Were Right...

2007-02-03T12:19:00.000-05:00

It's not that I have lost interest in writing my fleeting thoughts and witticisms on my beloved DC_Cookie; it's just that with overtime, love and an exercise regimen, I don't have the time to commit to the blog like I used to.

Once a blogger, always a blogger, however. I'll be back...

Before Considering Marriage

2007-01-29T08:27:00.000-05:00

We know the statistics related to the likelihood of divorce in this country is upwards of 50%. One of my best friends on the verge of marriage to her fiance spotted this article in the New York Times which, put simply, highlights the top things couples do not adequately discuss before saying their vows; the most common marriage deal-breakers.

1) Have we discussed whether or not to have children, and if the answer is yes, who is going to be the primary care giver?
2) Do we have a clear idea of each other’s financial obligations and goals, and do our ideas about spending and saving mesh?
3) Have we discussed our expectations for how the household will be maintained, and are we in agreement on who will manage the chores?
4) Have we fully disclosed our health histories, both physical and mental?
5) Is my partner affectionate to the degree that I expect?
6) Can we comfortably and openly discuss our sexual needs, preferences and fears?
7) Will there be a television in the bedroom?
8) Do we truly listen to each other and fairly consider one another’s ideas and complaints?
9) Have we reached a clear understanding of each other’s spiritual beliefs and needs, and have we discussed when and how our children will be exposed to religious/moral education?
10) Do we like and respect each other’s friends?
11) Do we value and respect each other’s parents, and is either of us concerned about whether the parents will interfere with the relationship?
12) What does my family do that annoys you?
13) Are there some things that you and I are NOT prepared to give up in the marriage?
14) If one of us were to be offered a career opportunity in a location far from the other’s family, are we prepared to move?
15) Does each of us feel fully confident in the other’s commitment to the marriage and believe that the bond can survive whatever challenges we may face?

Interestingly enough, as I read through the list I realized Special K and I have discussed everything on it in detail, save #7 (which by default is already a no, since neither one of us care for TV very much), and we're only in our 4th month of couple-dom.

How is it possible that these topics don't automatically make it to the forefront of a communication agenda with a serious significant other? It boggles my mind...

Scarletta in a Blanket

2007-01-25T19:20:00.000-05:00

After a lazy Sunday with the blinds shut, my sweetheart and I emerged in the early evening to discover my car subdued by a thick layer of frozen powder [thick, of course, being a relative term for Virginia]. I took a deep breath and admired the paralyzed landscape. The soft snowflakes pacify my every worry.

I suspect I must have been born during a halcyon Québécois snowfall. At the pinnacle of every temperate white blanketing of winter I morph into a breezy state of absolute inner serenity.

It's the snow-capped exuberance I feel with each flake melting on my eyelashes that reminds me [thankfully] I will always have a gracious, pure Canadian heart.

Gandhi

2007-01-23T01:09:00.000-05:00

There is only one way I know how to fight. With kindness.

Hence, why I sit on the sidelines and shockingly observe these monstrous, scathing, verbal battles that ultimately get labeled 'blog wars' and wonder how my creative acquaintances and friends are capable of existing in that state of up-in-arms that I will never comprehend. How traditionally jovial and pleasant women can become so rapidly venomous and enflamed (at what seemed to me an ambiguous, innocuous offense) that claws are bared and skin is slashed in their ireful, slandering diatribe of a riposte. How the male character, who I spent the summer fondly unmasking to reveal a sensitive, loving, gentle soul, could retort with an equally unpleasant dose of vitriol so glaringly contradictory to his nature.

The reasons are simple. Insult, whether intentional or not, breeds that illogical desire for a grandiose and spiteful revenge. It's natural to want to defend one's honour via the means of personal attack and merciless verbal slaughter.

He's a cocky, douchebag, poser, steroid-monger of a wannabe with no life
She's a porky, psycho, attention-seeking, delirious sloth who can't handle rejection
He's not gay

Whatever the cheap shot, the real question I ask is...how does fighting injury with fire help to assuage the injustice? A scathing defense will garner plenty of attention but will not elicit sympathy nor guilt from the offender. Is a weight truly lifted when you turn into someone more odious, in the name of justice, than the person who insulted you in the first place; or does the burden just grow heavier?

If a group of people publicly lynched you for being a contemptible imposter, would under-handedly seeking out their private information for the purposes of retribution really prove that group of people wrong about you, regardless of the validity or insensitivity of the original defamation?

Didn't we learn anything from Gandhi's formidable example? The only way to eliminate injustice is to fight it with virtue. Basting a rash with lye; sealing a broken dam with a band-aid; masking a pungent odor with Drakkar Noir; treating frostbite with icicles; the initial problem will only be exacerbated ten-fold.

Can anyone count the number of enemies of DC Cookie?

Exactly.

Playette or Poseuse

2007-01-16T10:09:00.000-05:00

Woman, it's winter. Enough with the lace, neon-infused tube tops, especially in January. That was so 1988. Can I offer you a few small pieces of advice? First, square earrings don't match oval necklaces. You might want to consider shopping somewhere other than Claire's for your jewelry. Second, you may think you're 'the shit,' sticking your sizeable amount of junk out for a picture that the photographer wouldn't have taken had you not surrounded him with force; but honey, that good-looking man beside you is double-fisting; he'll talk to anything... Poseuse!

This post was inspired by the dread of finding horrible club photos of oneself online...and Roosh.

Assistance With Your New Years Resolution

2007-01-10T18:54:00.000-05:00

One of my best friends is a personal trainer. She doesn't just teach you how to lift weights effectively, she teaches you how to alter your lifestyle. I've taken her program before (with fantastic results). She just started her own business so she's looking for new clients. I've signed up, and in one week I already notice both a physical and mental difference. Not only does my body feel better post-holiday, but she's literally on the phone and up my ass (as she is for each and every one of her clients; friend or not) to set my targets and discipline me into meeting them. She's an amicable fitness Nazi.

She's hosting free trial classes until the 17th of January. Her strength training sessions are held in residential buildings in Arlington with a maximum of about 8 people in each class. I wanted to throw that out to the blog world to see how many of you want an inexpensive and effective method for sticking to your wellness resolutions.

Added bonus? She's exotically attractive.

If you want more information, e-mail me!

Un-Fashionably En Retard

2007-01-08T21:50:00.000-05:00

There's a difference between being fashionably late for an event and inexcusably delayed. I am the latter - always. When I tell my friends I'll be somewhere at 6:30, I typically don't arrive until a quarter to 8. A 7:00 dinner reservation is simply a suggestion for when to leave my house. It never fails that I'm 5 minutes late for important meetings, 15 minutes late for lunch dates or beauty appointments, 30 minutes late for gala events, work, or group dinners, an hour late for happy hours and upwards of 2 hours late for open-ended social engagements.

Although my friends and family have learned to deal patiently with my consistent and abhorrently dilatory arrivals, that doesn't resolve the fact that tardiness is a frightfully annoying habit. Procrastination is among my most signficant character flaws. I loathe being the last one to find a seat at a theater, but I adore the abundance of diversions with which I can distract myself so extensively past the required time of departure.

I wonder sometimes if my dawdling is the necessary, evil byproduct of my pensive tendencies and natural introversion (of course by introversion I simply mean my need for alone time). Because by no means are my actions torpid or sluggish. I'm eternally occupied and overbooked; but consummately fulfilled as a result. Unfortunately, that frenzied fulfillment comes at the expense of those who are perpetually wondering at what ungodly hour I'm going grace them with my audacious appearance.

I apologize profusely on a daily basis for my laggard soul, but there is absolutely nothing in the world that will change me. I'm going to be late for my own funeral...

Social Ass-et

2007-01-03T08:09:00.000-05:00

The question of what men are seeking [albeit hapazardly] and why they take so long to settle down with one woman was answered this weekend so plainly by Special K that it was as if I heard the hallelujahs amidst all unanswered female dating woes. To paraphrase, he said to me, "You know, all me or any of my friends have ever wanted is a woman who is a social asset."

And by social asset he means a woman he feels entirely comfortable bringing around his friends - all the time. The asset is cute enough that his friends want to flirt with her, but she is not egotistical about it. The asset does not whine or pout when her man disappears for a moment to have an aside with a rugby friend; instead she strikes up a discussion with someone else until he returns. The asset is outgoing, friendly and independent enough that she can handle herself graciously and confidently in a room full of amicable strangers.

That's it. That's all it takes. You can't win the man without also winning the friends' approval. Be good-natured; be fun; don't cling; be open-minded; be assertive; smile often; and engage his amigos in conversation without requiring him to hand-hold. Make it impossible for him not to want you around.

Happy New Year - This Blog Has Been PG-13d

2007-01-02T16:21:00.000-05:00

Because I don't ever want to look back and think "I wrote...that, in public?"

I was meandering the beaches of Santa Barbara watching the sunset for my new year. I'll be back in DC tomorrow and ready to blog again. Because I miss you all...

Controversy Thursday: Ban Soy

2006-12-21T02:54:00.000-05:00

I've always been under the impression that homosexuality is not a choice, but a genetic composition; in much the same way a person is born athletic, or intelligent, or black. There is nothing one can do to change her sexual preference, whether or not society deems that preference deviant or acceptable.

Thank goodness this guy has so scientifically and convincingly persuaded me of the errors in my thinking...

Save DC Cookie

2006-12-18T09:38:00.000-05:00

My blog is in a state of serious disrepair. For a multitude of reasons, this Cookie has not been able to commit as much time to the effort as I would have in the era pre-beau (despite my continuing love of verbal, narcissistic expression). However, it seems my precious 'DC Cookie' at wanderlust year-end has sputtered into something virtually un-readable. The signs have been evident to everyone but me...

Red flag number one: Roosh shakes hands with my Special and says "pleased to meet the man who represents the demise of DC Cookie's blog."

Red flag number two: DC Cookie is nominated "most likely to stop blogging in 2007."

Red flag number three: Webcowgirl, during a phone conversation over the weekend, mentions that her and her husband had caught up on my blog and she was noticing how 'schmoopie' (euphemism for disgustingly vomit-rendering) it had become. That a newlywed could find my blog 'schmoopie' was the final straw.

Thankfully, the need for an overhaul has come to this writer's attention with just a few sparing moments before extinction...

www.curiosity.com

2006-12-13T19:05:00.000-05:00

I don't understand the saying "curiosity killed the cat." I would argue an uninquiring mind insinuates an absence of drive, or ambition to learn. Augmenting our brainpower by unearthing things yet undiscovered is the foundation for the destruction of ignorance. In which case, the saying should be "lack of curiosity killed the cat."

This, my friends, is how I justify the internet-stalking addiction I have. I am curious. People interest me. Hence, I am not afraid to google names, to frequent blog links or to click generously on the myspace pages of friends 6-times removed from my own. I recall an entertaining e-mail exchange between me and my sweetheart just prior to the substantiation of our relationship. I began by showing him the picture that I discovered immediately after having google-searched his name. He responded that he wasn't sure which was more frightening: that such a picture existed in a public domain, or the way in which I had discovered it. Thankfully, he remains humoured that I am so gifted at exhuming little web-nuggets of bitterness, playfulness, intellect, train-wreckage, joy, forgiveness and introspective revelation that keep my curiosity burning. I mean, how else would he have encountered his fur-cladden, photographic likeness if it weren't for my not-so-secret habitude?

As bloggers, aren't we all internet stalkers by default? A term, I argue vehemently, should we adorned with pride.

The Beau Needs A Blog Name - Part III

2006-12-12T11:35:00.000-05:00

As a blogger always considering her work, I have entertained enough nicknames for my sweetheart to write a screenplay.

James Dean

Sweetness Express

Clark Kent

James Bond

The problem is, absolutely none of them inspire me. Each identity is fitting (except for Archie Andrews), but I have no desire to implement any of them. Similar to the scene in Mean Girls when Gretchen is pathetically and desperately attempting to promote the word 'Fetch' as part of her high school's vernacular, the only nickname that will do my sweetheart justice is the one that I exhale without hesitation - naturally. For now, that special term of blogging endearment continues to elude me...and perhaps there is a solid, predetermined reason for that (although certainly not the reason many of my blog friends have surmised).

The Beau Needs A Blog Name - Part II

2006-12-11T07:46:00.000-05:00

Because I use the word "meow" so frequently, or because I take so many pictures like this, one might surmise that the pose is a Cookie original. Unfortunately, I can't take credit. It is my sweetheart and his Aussie pal who started the trend during a trip down under. They got me hooked on the concept during a wild weekend in Las Vegas two years ago and it stuck.

Before we were sweethearts.

Tiger claws are appropriate even at the most formal of settings.

Tiger claws among friends.

Hence, when Namaste made the acquaintance of my sweetheart and spent a few comradely moments in front of the camera with him, feline fingernails beared, she whispered to me "I hereby blog-knight this man 'Tiger Claw.'"

Namaste's first tiger claw.

This is choice number two...

The Beau Needs A Blog Name - Part I

2006-12-07T06:36:00.000-05:00

As a child learning French, I found reading the quebecois Archie comics to be far more entertaining than Asterix and Obelix. I became hooked. To this day one might even find a comic or two stashed in my bathroom magazine rack. Although I always likened myself more of a Betty Cooper on the inside, there is no question in my mind that Veronica Lodge was the superior-looking vixen (which inadvertently contented me, given my own brunette locks).

Archie and Veroni-cookie

It's no secret that I've been hunting for a blog name for my sweetheart since the moment we started dating; if for no other reason than it's emasculating to call a man 'sweetheart' so publicly on the regular. When I took this picture with the beau on a recent trip to Las Vegas, a lightbulb went off. Although he is not a redhead, he could be my 'Archie Andrews...'

Archie's undisputable preference.

So this is choice number one (the rest to be revealed in subsequent posts). In addition, all other thoughts and ideas are encouraged...

Name That Blogger

2006-12-01T13:33:00.000-05:00

Before I post the super-classy pictures from last night's blog happy hour, I feel the need to insert how blessed I am to have a sweetheart who prepared for me a high-end-restaurant-equivalent, gourmet meal for no reason other than he enjoys cooking (and he's VERY good at it). He loves to cook and I love to eat. It's destiny, I tell you. I digress...

Crab cake and remoulade, roasted spinach and beet and potato salad.

As you can see, last night's happy hour really was for lovers. I believe no further explanation is required...

Putting The Great In Grandma

2006-11-30T12:46:00.000-05:00

Besides being the location of my conception and birth, there are many reasons to spend an exorbitant amount of cash for non-spacious, inconvenient, regional jet flights to Montreal; the top being that it has long been the residence of Grandma Cookie. Lil Sis and I had not been back since our cousins were married (no, not to each other) two years ago, so we planned a Thanksgiving day excursion to spend some quality time with the eldest of the clan.

Big Cuz, Cookie and Grandma Cookie

Prior to shoveling some Montreal smoked-meat.

Lil Sis and Grandma bake the best shortbread in the universe.

Sadly, visits to Grandma are never close enough together, as they are so very necessary for the soul. Her house is a museum of comfort and her tiny hugs quench that indefatigable thirst for acceptance. What I adore about my trips to Grandma's split-level manse is that nothing changes...ever. Her book shelf holds a stack of Maclean's magazines written before I was born; her medicine cabinet is a functioning tribute to a 1950s pharmacy; her walls sport decades-old, tacky Christmas gifts from her grandchildren; and games of cut-throat cribbage are played using a card deck virtually as old as her.

I have often said that Grandma is one of my most notable idols. All of her fascinating tales of adolescent struggle are laced with a positive downplay. She is so much more than a minister's wife who has long outlived the minister. She is a humble, faithful Christian; a healthy, active community member (with, according to her cardiologist, a heart as strong as Lance Armstrong's in training); a doting, generous parent; and a simple, frugal businesswoman who converted a preacher's pension into a reasonable fortune purely for the benefit of her legacy. She is an iconic example of how to live and love in a world devoid of material possessions. Throughout her fiercely independent life she asks for nothing and gives everything.

Our 'great' Grandma becomes a Great Grandma at the birth of Lil' Second Cuz.

Her children, grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren are blessed to share in her continued wisdom and live according to her selfless example.

More Babies

2006-11-28T16:11:00.000-05:00

I can't help myself; I love babies. That statement could be frightening to a man who is not quite ready to fathom the transition from evenings of draught beer to evenings of infant goober. As such, a woman who utters the blanket statement "I love babies" without further clarification risks flaring the otherwise dormant fault line of separation between herself and her significant other.

To a woman "I love babies" means just that; she enjoys being in the presence of cuddly, giggly, warm, drooling little people who willingly indulge her nurturing instincts. To a man, "I love babies" implies an over-active, calculated and eager biological clock preying on his uncharacteristic submission to monogamy.

Cookie teaches Lil' Second Cuz all about narcissism.

Lil' Second Cuz enjoys a new play thing; Cookie's hair.

Auntie Cookie will have to work on convincing Little Timmy that dill pickles ARE the greatest.

Cookie sneaks a snuggle with a friend's sweet little meatball.

What Cookie's college roommate did post-Cookie.

Just be certain that when you're making googly faces over your best friend's six-month-old son in the presence of your man that you stress the word "eventually" throughout the conversation. That way he can rest assured that he's not alone in his desire to cling as long as possible to those late, champagne-fused evenings undisturbed by the wails of diaper-rash.

An Alpha In The Sheets

2006-11-22T06:53:00.000-05:00

Now that I'm off the market I've been reflecting on Roosh's theories about alpha vs. beta males. I've been hesitating to post recently because I'm all-consumed in that dreamy state of mutual infatuation and want to refrain from propeling my readers to vomit in their mouths. The occasional vignette would be relatively innocuous, but otherwise I am certain the beau would prefer that his romantic gestures remain our little secret.

Cookie gets a present.

The question I have been debating is this: What does society consider a man in love to be; an alpha, a beta, or a combination of both? If I understand Roosh's post correctly, the moment a man becomes enamoured of a woman, he is figuratively castrated. Of course, I disagree wholeheartedly. Women don't want to marry granola-eating, ballet-dancing, indecisive, driveling whipping-posts. A contented man is also a courageous man because he has that much more to defend.

The rest I will leave you all to debate amongst yourselves, as I have another rendez-vous with my tough guy.

2006 Cookie Trading Card

2006-11-16T07:31:00.000-05:00

Released a little bit later than last year due to lack of demand and personal, romantic distraction, here is this year's not-so-anticipated DC Cookie trading card:

Front:

Back:

Reflections Of The First Third Of My Life

2006-11-14T20:02:00.000-05:00

After the age of 21, many people begin to fear their pivotal birthdays. But my concerns about aging have always been allayed by the actuarial fact that every year of my life has been better than the last. On November 12th, I reached the first rung of my own downward-spiraling milestone birthday ladder and surprisingly, it felt wonderful.

At the last minute, I decided to host a small and subdued soiree to 'celebrate' (if one can consider a slower metabolism, noisy joints, grey hair and wrinkles worthy of rejoicing) my veritable entrance into adulthood. Upon arrival I grew immediately and blissfully breathless as I was engulfed by the sea of smiles and fervent embraces of 100+ people whose lives I must have touched along our journey. My request for 'nothing big' turned out to be anything but and were it not for my mascara I might have even shed a few tears of gratitude.

From my punk rocker cousin who drove all the way from Allentown to my very first American high school friends; from GQ who hopped on a train from New York to Lil Sis who flew in from Boston; from my co-workers to the ARL girls; from my college friends to many of my cool, classy, creative blogger amigos; from an age-old buddy who ventured from Ohio to surprise me to the reigning party kings of Arlington; from former flames to the love of my life; the lounge was filled to the brim with those I hold near and dear to my heart.

A disappointing reflection for those who might have been seeking a tale of woe, but turning 30 was not dramatic. In fact, it was the absolute opposite of the gut-wrenchingly abhorrent sensation for which I had built myself up. I feel more beautiful, more content, more stable, more adventurous, more blessed, more peaceful, more pragmatic, more poised and (most importantly) more loved than I ever have before.

For those of you who made my birthday the truly momentous event that it was, thank you! You know who you are and I adore each and every one of you.

Earning the Name GQ

2006-11-08T12:38:00.000-05:00

I have always adhered to the philosophy that there is no such thing as “falling out of love.” Despite the inevitable atrophy of a poorly functioning romantic relationship, if you truly love somebody, you will always have a place for him in your heart.

Since the inception of this blog I have consistently referred to my first post-college boyfriend as “the douchebag ex.” My relationship with him was turbulent, as many relationships are between a naive and blindly obliging young female and a stunningly handsome, magnetic, former NCAA athlete in their early 20s. Throughout the prime of our development into prudent and mature adulthood we tormented each other. Our passion was dramatic and intense, but unfocused; our trust was justifiably fleeting; and our uncertainties weighed heavily. In spite of the whole-hearted, unacceptable dysfunction, I loved the man. One day following a harrowing and sordid shouting match, I determined this instability was too much and I cut him out of my life entirely. Debates are one thing, but a love affair that tumultuous was draining, all-consuming and physically unhealthy. Just as we clapped for Ms. Britney yesterday, my friends applauded vigourously the decision they’d been dreaming I would make (and stick to) for years.

After I terminated our relationship, I never looked behind me romantically. I am much wiser and a much more suitable monogamous partner having left the dramatics and the baggage at the back door, but having carried forward an enlightened confidence and exponentially improved sense of calm. Regardless, my former lover had played such an influential role in my youth that from time to time in the period of silence that followed, I missed his friendship. Years later, when I was 100% assured that I could handle a constructive acquaintanceship, I began to converse with him again, slowly.

Our reunion occurred almost a year ago and our journey has finally brought us to the place of comfort that was intended; caring deeply for each other’s well being from afar and rejoicing in each other’s contentment. He told me in a conversation that we had just last week that he was happy to see me beaming about my new boyfriend, that he’d never heard my voice so giddy or my seen my face so youthfully blushed. I understand my ex almost better than his family, and I am certain his words were genuine.

I can finally say that I am thankful, proud even, to have him in my life. He has fought valiantly against his destructive demons to emerge on the greener side as a legitimate friend and as such, I am officially dropping the less-than-affectionate title of douchebag from his moniker.

The Many Packages of a Mate

2006-11-05T01:18:00.000-05:00

I have never been of the opinion that a soulmate has to sport a different combination of chromosomes than me. Kindred spirits can come in all sorts of parcels. I ran away from DC this weekend to spend some quality time in the mountains with a woman who has long sported such a title in my life. She's a best friend because every fiber of her being encapsulates the same inner harmony that I was blessed to have discovered early in life and when I'm with her I mask nothing; I don't have to, she doesn't judge.

Following our lengthy hike, we sandwiched ourselves into a well hidden neighbourhood dive bar for authentic Mexican grub and some eye-poppingly strong margaritas. In a cozy booth we spent time gossiping about old times and new men. Of course, I couldn't help but gush at length about the journey I have taken with my sweetheart, from long-lost friend to distant super-crush to beau, and I droned on with tens of examples to validate why I'm so completely enamoured of him.

After a short pause to sip our margaritas and contemplate all that I'd laid out on the table she said, "You know, Cookie, you realize you're basically dating me with a penis." I coughed on a salty ice cube as soon as she said it, partly because she's hysterical and partly because she's frighteningly accurate...

Cojones

2006-11-03T10:43:00.000-05:00

A girl can be nothing but blushfully flattered when a man is so fleetingly taken with her that after a handshake and a thank you he realizes he cannot let this be the last moment you converse. Despite the presence of 50 of her fellow recruits and colleagues lingering at the tail end of a private dinner, the upscale server throws caution to the wind and chases the girl down the block as she departs towards her car.

Server: "Cookie!"
Cookie: "Oh, hi. Shoot, did I forget something?"
Server: "No, no..." (catches his breath) "I wanted to see if you had a business card."
Cookie (surprised): "Okay. Sure, let me check..." (hands him card).
Server: "Thank you. I was hoping that you would be free to meet me for drinks sometime."
Cookie (uncomfortably blushing): "Oh, that's incredibly thoughtful! I'm so sorry, I'm actually engaged [artistic liberty, I will be soon enough] so drinks would be out of the question, but that's very kind of you and I'm sincerely flattered."
Server (awkward pause): "Yes, well, my brother is looking for a job, so perhaps I can e-mail you his resume?"
Cookie: "Okay! Please do." (Server returns to the restaurant).
Cookie (to the recruiting candidates watching the episode unfold): "Wow, yes, our waiter really did just ask me on a date...how hysterical?"

I must admit, that took a ridiculous volume of courage to race after me on the street like that. I wish more men in the world had those kind of cojones.

Jalapenos Don't Grow In Ethiopia

2006-11-01T11:33:00.000-05:00

May I present to you a fleeting vignette also titled "only things that Cookie would do." Last night I sat down to a radiant evening meal with my sweetheart and his mother who I was meeting for the first time. The choice was a small ethiopian venue in the heart of the mayhem that is Georgetown on the night of Halloween. Following our beet salad the waitress filled the table with a platter of spiced meat and vegetables. For my first bite, I decided to sample the cabbage and okra that was closest to me. The problem was, what I thought was a large piece of okra was in fact a pepper so spicy I would have happily squelched the fire that was my tongue for the next five minutes with a glass of habanera juice. I giggled as graciously as I could while a few tears streamed involuntarily down my cheeks and the waitress raced a small cup of milk to my aid.

Although we'd broken the ice much earlier with discussions of our similar career paths and mutual admiration for her offspring, this certainly helped to melt away any potential remaining awkwardness. Because what parent would not embrace a goofy girlfriend who can swallow a flaming jalapeno with dignity?

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

2006-10-31T11:18:00.000-05:00

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.

I Cook Three Things

2006-10-25T16:30:00.000-04:00

"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.

The Adventures of Blue Minx

2006-10-24T11:51:00.000-04:00

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.

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...

D&D Club

2006-10-20T10:59:00.000-04:00

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.

Hmmm...maybe they're right.

At least we're cute...

Because The Lord Needs Company

2006-10-17T20:39:00.000-04:00

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.

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...

Indian Restaurants Don't Serve Sunday Brunch

2006-10-16T22:28:00.000-04:00

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.

New and Improved

2006-10-11T13:02:00.000-04:00

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.

Bridges

2006-10-09T12:08:00.000-04:00

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.

It's In My Blood

2006-09-27T10:58:00.000-04:00

My favourite beer.

Despite the maple leaf tattoo on my lower back, there are a lot of Americans who are surprised to learn that, despite my 12 years of domicile in the US, I'm still a Canadian citizen functioning comfortably with a greencard. The answer when I'm asked if I'll ever become an American is always a posthaste and steadfast "No."

For those who think of the US as the land of opportunity and possibly the best country in which to live, I'm inclined to agree. The rugged terrain is aesthetically breathtaking, inflation is regulated, verbal freedom is a legal right not a flitting daydream, intellectual expansion and amicable competition are encouraged, and the weather is temperate. I doubt that anyone who did not grow up with icicles hanging from her childhood bedroom windows in October, or parents who coaxed her away from her after-dinner recreation with a jolly "It's abooot time for bed, eh?," will ever comprehend my lack of desire to engage in the US beyond habitation, higher learning, employment, dating and tax-paying.

Family ties.

Ask my handsome model/actor cousin who, although studying theatrical arts seriously, has no desire to emigrate to Los Angeles, the traditional hub of the movie industry. For a Canadian, the bond to her homeland is inseverable. I may have physically left the country, but my heart remains encapsulated in the concrete of the GTA.

On my way to visit my friends and family before running the half-marathon along Toronto's scenic waterfront, I puttered across the Rainbow Bridge in my rental car, stared for a emotional moment at the water barreling over Niagara Falls and smiled outwardly [as I always do] at first glance of the sign saying "Welcome to Ontario."

American citizenship is not my destiny, because the words "Welcome to Virginia" do not elicit a fraction of the same response from my heart strings.

Just as I will never marry a man I don't love, I will never become a citizen of a country I don't love. The US and I are quite content with our status quo, common-law friendship.

Post-race pose.

How to Finish a Half Marathon

2006-09-26T10:58:00.000-04:00

Some tips from the successful half marathon I ran this past weekend in Toronto.

1. Remember, 10,000 of your closest friends are there to pull you along.

Race start.

2. Give the guys with the low bib numbers a head-start. It's easier to enjoy the striking view of the water without a Kenyan elbowing you out of the way.

The elite pack.

3. Find the really old guys in the crowd. the 75 year old breaking a new course record for his age group, or the 94 year old running the 13.1 miles in 2.5 hours. At 29, you absolutely have to push through the heat you feel in your quads when a 94 year old is right at your heels.

Ed Whitlock breaks barely misses a sub 3-hour full marathon finish.

Ajit Singh, 94 years old and in better shape than the average 25 year old.

4. Have fun!

This was my first half-marathon, but certainly not my last. I've caught the bug. Anyone want to run the Ottawa full marathon with me next May?

MySpace.Bomb

2006-09-22T13:22:00.000-04:00

As my hero in our IT department worked diligently to salvage my computer from a coughing, wheezing, drooling mucus-fest of a near-fatal virus, the first question he asked me was "Do you ever visit myspace.com?" I couldn't lie. The answer was yes. Frequently. He just looked at me, smiled and said "Don't."

Not sure what it is about myspace, but apparently it's a breeding ground of technological bacteria and a hacker's paradise. I'm totally done with it.

Payback Isn't All It's Cracked Up To Be

2006-09-20T17:31:00.000-04:00

When an ex-boyfriend who treated you [euphemistically] with minimal respect enters a relationship with another woman, there are a lot of sentiments that run rampant among your neurotransmitters.

“God, what is he thinking, I’m SO much cuter...”
“I feel sorry for her, she is currently doomed to co-dependency and servitude...”
“Karma is a bitch and I hope she dumps his sorry ass...”

When you finally forgive the man in your heart for being the young, stupid puppy that ultimately YOU had allowed him to be when you were together, these kind of thoughts ebb back into your subconscious where they belong. Regardless, karma doesn’t forget. After time has coaxed you far beyond that dark period of your life, and you find yourself sitting affably at a café with your ex as he somberly spits out his poignant tale of devotion to a woman only to be cheated on and dumped for a less attractive man, you don’t smirk. In fact, you wish you had never intuitively felt anything more than apathy. The guilt associated with retribution is really quite bitter.

Absentee

2006-09-14T19:38:00.000-04:00

I can't make the happy hour. I have had a few too many margaritas with a dirty ol' senor and need a break.

In actuality, I don't get home from Chicago until midnight. Have fun kiddies!

Not For the Faint of Heart

2006-09-12T23:45:00.000-04:00

I have a 13.1 mile race to run in 12 days. Now, most people at this stage in the training game would be treading carefully in preparation. However, I was not so fortunate to be blessed with graceful genes.

This is the aftermath of my run-in today with two loving and conspiring inanimate objects. At the training facility in which I am currently attempting to broaden the minds of some of our new hires, I felt some hunger pangs at lunch time and thought it might be a good idea to quench them. My pointy-toed heels, however, had other plans for me.

The pathway from the cafeteria back to my room includes a grandiose, carpeted, wide and open (i.e. visible to a large percentage of the students and staff), Scarlet O'Hara-style spiral staircase that one must ascend following the take-out packaging and drink pouring. Apparently my shoe fell head over heels (pardon the pun) with the third stair on said staircase and clung to it like a wartime lover begging not to be separated. As diet coke flew through the air in slow motion to splenda-soak carpeting and walls, my knee, being the gentleman that he is, jumped forward to brace my fall. Thankfully for those of us with such grace, the facility has decorated the right angle of each stair with a copper foot grip. Knee? Meet metal stair corner. Metal stair corner? Meet knee.

And there you have it. My courageously swollen saviour, proudly adorning a deep, one-inch gash requiring 4 stitches (the first of my family ever to require them, I might add). I believe it was my ego, however, that took the biggest beating of the day.

Let's just hope this suturing heals me in time for my 1/2 marathon...

United Flight

2006-09-11T11:36:00.000-04:00

On this September 11th I'm flying a Chicago-bound United flight. Sadly, it didn't even dawn on me to be concerned. Perhaps it's the false sense of security I have now that passengers are required to check their shave gel, but more likely it's because I was already de-sensitized two weeks after the event. I wonder when this innate feeling of invincibility will start to fade?

Controversy Thursday: Cookie Dough

2006-09-07T13:33:00.000-04:00

You may have noticed that as of late, I have not been particularly inspired to write; leaving you all to be entertained by each other's comments rather than my own wit. What is the controversy in this, you might ask? Well, I'm debating taking a leave of absence from blogging. I've considered it before, but my attention-whoring tendencies always prevented the actualization of my departure from the scene (trolling excluded).

My ultimate reason? Through my addiction to blogging, I have found my creative voice. As with any drug-like dependence, I no longer experience the same height of euphoria from posting a particularly well-written vignette that I used to when I was first flirting with extremely pubescent writing skills. The more I hone, the more I want. A narrative that's more substantial in content and length. A wider audience. Both of which I fear a blog [and its bromidic, high maintenance demands] will never fulfill.

It is this that I will leave you all to debate for me as I wallow momentarily in this unfamiliar state of verbal sobriety. I'm hoping this intermission is just that; a fleeting recess, rather than an end.

**P.S. Based on your input, I'm moving to once a week instead of quitting. I'm just not ready to say goodbye.

Controversy Thursday: Sam Walton was an Evil Genius

2006-08-31T09:41:00.000-04:00

For years my coupon-cutting Grandma refused to shop at Wal-mart preaching the evils of an American behemoth, heartlessly devouring mom and pop shops like an obese hippopotamous. But when she realized her crusade was costing her precious pension dollars, she stubbornly converted.

Personally, I have never had a problem with Wal-mart. Perhaps because my finance-mind knows that big-business is vital to the economy; perhaps because I can always find the loopholes in studies like these (Wal-mart employees could be using more public welfare services because they have been educated to know they are available?); or perhaps because the entrancing low-low prices have forced me into an un-jaded, coma-like ignorance.

Regardless, you have to respect a company that single-handedly has the 19th largest GDP in the world (higher than Sweden). So what if a typical Wal-mart employee earns $18,000 and can't afford health insurance coverage? So what if Wal-mart employs illegal immigrants as janitors and steamrolls suffering independent businesses in non-cosmopolitan economic regions? So what if Wal-mart abuses international labour laws and refuses to hire unionized employees?

What do I care? Last week I saved $4 on a 32-pack of toilet paper...

JT's Hot Spot (Literally)

2006-08-29T10:17:00.000-04:00

Dear Play,

I hear JT was 'illin' at your place on Friday night. FYI, his new song is called "SexyBack" not "SweatyBack."

Seriously, if you can't afford AC, I'd be happy to return and buy a few more rounds so that you can. When the humidity in the club is worse than outdoors, people are going to stop coming...

Besos,

Controversy Thursday: Casting Stones

2006-08-24T13:20:00.000-04:00

Has anyone seen Lance Bass' boyfriend? Holy hell, he's beautiful (oh wait, I forgot, I don't believe in hell).

I was proud of Lance for coming out of the closet. Shoot, if I were dating one of the hottest men on earth, I would too. Doesn't change his wholesome, good-little-christian-boy image at all...or does it?

In a people magazine article, one female reader blasted Lance for claiming to be a Christian given the "abominable" lifestyle he has chosen; one which is (according to her) strictly understood to be forbidden under Christian law. This mindset is something I've always struggled with. Do the old school chronicles written way back in say, 5 A.D. 'really' describe homosexuality as repugnant and sinful, or is that just man's contemporary interpretation? Isn't the base of Christianity really about ethics and faithfulness? And who does that woman think she is judging Lance Bass' devotion to Christianity? It's not her place to determine who is truly a Christian and who isn't; it's God's. She who casts the first stone...

The Challenge

2006-08-23T11:06:00.000-04:00

Being on the road for work can be tough on one's figure. Especially when you're burning the midnight oil and ordering room service. So instead of lamenting the few extra pounds I've gained, I'm making it interesting and easy for myself to drop them again.

The terms: $200.
The competition: My co-worker.
The duration: 1 month.
The goal: 8 pounds (yeah, that's a stretch for me). Weigh-in Aug. 21. Weigh-out Sept. 21.

If I reach my goal, then I keep my money. If I don't reach my goal, but my co-worker does, then she gets my money. If I reach my goal, but my co-worker doesn't, then I get her money. If neither of us reach our goal, the buy-in goes to charity.

With a little petty cash on the line, the discipline is no longer voluntary.

Wish me luck.

Returning

2006-08-16T09:30:00.000-04:00

Promise to return for the controversy post this morning. Long nights at work have left me with little room for verbal creativity...

The Necklace

2006-08-14T06:03:00.000-04:00

Some women have the uncanny ability to accept gifts from a man without feeling any sense of obligation; be that a round of drinks, dinner, jewelry, a spa vacation, or anything equally as generous. Regardless of the magnitude of the present, I unfortunately am not one of these women. Splurge for a first date, I'll pay for the second (shoots DCB's theory to shit). That's just the way I was raised. I have particular difficulty accepting gifts, no matter how innocuous and kind the gesture, from men whose relationship with me I know with certainty is not going to progress beyond the status quo.

It all began with my wonderful college sweetheart with whom I parted ways officially a few months after I graduated. We kept in close contact through long distance correspondence, but it was clear (at least to me anyway; I was young and much more ambiguous with the verbal expression of my intent back then) that our continued interaction was not going to lead to any aisle walking. As time passed and I became loosely involved with someone else, the frequency and intensity of our verbal exchanges dwindled. Two years later, on my birthday, I received a small package in the mail addressed from him. I opened the parcel to a dropped jaw; he had sent me an exquisite diamond-studded necklace with a card suggesting that the beauty of the accessory paled in comparison to my own, but when he spotted it in the jeweler's case, he knew he had to buy it for me as a token of my inestimable value. At which point my heart became overwrought with guilt. However he felt about me to have made such a purchase, I could never reciprocate. It broke my heart that the proof of our disparate feelings for each other was hanging as physical evidence at my collarbone. Instead of simply saying thank you, I tried to give the necklace back, which in hindsight was probably the equivalent of pouring brine into his scar tissue.

This is not a lone incident. I have offended a multitude of men whose kindness I equate with expectations that I cannot fulfill. In my gentle heart's effort to be tender with people's affection, I frequently seem to end the match by throwing an unintentional blindside of a left hook. I'm just completely incapable of taking without giving back in return; and although I won't apologize for this trait that makes me the predominantly selfless person that I am, I will ask forgiveness of my college sweetheart and all men who have followed for the emotional confusion I may have caused.

Controversy Thursday: Cain and Abel

2006-08-10T00:14:00.000-04:00

I wear rose-coloured glasses. I was raised to see the bright side, to encourage the positive, to rejoice in happy moments and to laud smiles over frowns. In this warped state of perpetual happiness, I am virtually incapable of believing in hell. I believe in mercy. I believe in forgiveness. I believe that if a higher supreme being is all these things, how could [s]he possibly permit any of her painstakingly hand-embroidered souls to 'burn' so-to-speak for "eternity." Couple days maybe to torture us back to the straight and narrow path, but forever?

F*ck that. I don't buy it.

The Adventures of Pink Minx

2006-08-07T21:59:00.000-04:00

HAPPY one-day-ago BIRTHDAY KATHRYN!

Blog happy hour began all innocently - The Dynamic Trio and the double fist representing.

But then out came 'Pink Minx' and tame was thrown by the wayside.

Pink Minx fixes her lipstick.

Pink Minx canoodles with her co-hostess.

Pink Minx hides from her paparazzi.

Pink Minx has a shy moment.

Pink Minx goes extra light on the mayo.

Pink Minx plays the bongo drums.

Pink Minx befriends some patrons.

Pink Minx dances to some house.

Pink Minx ponders her next saucy beverage.

And shares it with her BFF.

Namast-Fed goes Minx for a minute.

Pink Minx has her drinks purchased for her.

And her club covers waived.

But when she loses interest in men as play-things for the evening...

She hails a taxi to take her and Namaste to late night brunch with virginal waiters.

This, my friends, is just the beginning...

Friday Surprise

2006-08-04T11:00:00.000-04:00

Yesterday in the early morning hours I got a call from one of my very BFFs as she waited in London's Heathrow airport. She had been in Israel for just over a month. Her stay was supposed to last 60 days, but after a car bomb exploded on the side of the road too close for comfort to the bus on which she was traveling, she went straight to Tel Aviv and booked a flight home. The country, after all, is at war. I picked her up at the airport last night and in all my delirious exhaustion from business travel, I still couldn't help but smile and be ever thankful for her safe return.

And since she's in town unexpectedly, I thought, why not surprise the bloggerati with an appearance by the dynamic trio. Is it the end of the work day yet?

Controversy Thursday: For the Kids, a Mug of Molson

2006-08-03T06:52:00.000-04:00

This topic brought to you [very loosely, because I am appalled that Mel Gibson's DUI is front page news; so much so that I don't even want to write about it] from a suggestion made by my faithful reader WiBber.

Maybe it's the European influence from my Canadian upbringing that causes me to say that I think the setting of a legal drinking age is moronic. I firmly believe that my ability to hold my liquor and act [relatively] responsibly while intoxicated stems directly from the fact that a) I have responsible parents who I emulate (ok, so they don't dance on stages after doing soco-lime shots with hot bartenders...but that's beside the point; I did say 'relatively') and b) I was not coerced by government-imposed limitations into associating alcohol with rebellion. I was raised on juice and milk with my meals, but once I hit my teens, if I wanted to share a cold one pool-side with my pops I was always permitted. A small glass of pinot noir during a momentous family gathering was encouraged instead of proscribed. I have always viewed alcohol in moderation as a welcome social garnishment because, where I grew up, we were not endoctrinated to think of drinking as illicit and anarchistic. We didn't pound, we savoured. We didn't gorge, we relished. Given my upbringing, by the time I got to a college, getting fall-down blotto from a keg stand just didn't appeal to me.

Believe you me, when my kids are mature adolescents I will absolutely share a frosty Sleeman's honey brown with them on a 100+ degree day like today. And I won't give two hoots that Mr. Washington (or maybe even Mr. Ottawa) mandates that I legally have to wait until they're 21. Horse-dung. I'd rather have them learn early on how to taste the grapes in their reisling than chug 4 bottles of Boone's Farm behind my back.

Don't Forget

2006-08-02T06:58:00.000-04:00

Sorry - when you work until 2am and you're back up at 6:30am to rinse and repeat, it's hard to come up with more content than this.

See y'all there!

Birthday Etiquette

2006-08-01T06:43:00.000-04:00

Because my old 'douchebag ex' (as I so fondly labeled him before we reconciled) is celebrating his birthday in a few days and because Lil Sis debated this very issue at the commencement of the summer when her ex-boyfriend's birthday approached (it was the first birthday of his in 7 years that she hadn't helped him celebrate), I thought it apt to broach the subject. What exactly is the etiquette around contacting a former flame on his birthday? I personally have always said a little "hey, hope you have a good one" to all of my exes on their birthdays, no matter what the circumstances of our separation. Birthdays are shrouded with significance. Because it means something to me to receive that pat on the back for reaching all my requisite milestones towards infinite wisdom, I like to return the favour by wishing those who are, or were once, close to me their due 'Feliz Cumpleaños.'

Besides, even if you hate your exes, you could always say "Congrats on making it one year closer to your death..."

Congrats Webcowgirl

2006-07-30T22:42:00.000-04:00

Have I ever mentioned that I love weddings? Well, Webcowgirl's simple and elegant gala was no exception. It was a storybook evening with just a touch of creative spice. The bride, outfitted in a petticoat suitable for royalty, walked down the aisle to a Beatles tune and glowed as she shared her honest, handwritten vows laced with 'honies' and 'sweeties' that made the guests both giggle and cry. The reception tables were lined with homemade toffee and miniature bottles of bride and groom tobasco sauce. The pomegranite martinis and ahi tuna hors d'hoeuvres wet the palate. The speeches were concise and heartfelt. The scenery at the venue was exquisite. The company was warm, classy and welcoming. And the love is genuine. For that reason above all others (including the Grateful Dead cake and the sparklers), despite the epidermis-melting humidity, this may have been one of the best weddings I've ever attended.

And yes, I did virtually bowl over 20 other women to catch the bouquet (I had made a deal with the little bridesmaid that I'd get it for her). Never a dull moment...

Congratulations to an inspiring couple!

Toilet Statistics

2006-07-26T02:33:00.000-04:00

When you wander into a public washroom (that's Canadian for restroom) that has multiple stalls, which one do you instinctively choose? Believe it or not, the math geek in me ponders this question every time I relieve myself away from home. So I'm putting it to the test.

For ease of discussion, let's assume there are 5 stalls in our sample public loo and all of them are empty upon arrival.

Do you use the first stall because it is the closest, or because you have waited until the brink of explosion?
Do you use the handicapped stall because you prefer the leg room?
Do you use the fourth stall because you presume that this is the stall that the fewest number of others would choose?
Do you use the same stall each and every time because you are a creature of habit?
Do you use one stall for #1 and a different stall for #2?
Do you choose the fifth stall because you want to take a quick two-minute power nap and you are least likely to be disturbed there?
Do you choose the first or fifth stall because you want to be as far away as possible from the next person who might join you in your waste disposal?

When your dad is an actuary, this is how you are raised to think...

Airplane Chivalry

2006-07-25T06:24:00.000-04:00

It takes a lot to get my blood boiling, but when common courtesty is foregone, I lose my patience. On the airplane the other day, a petite little woman struggled to the very back of the plane with a large carry-on. She asked the flight attendant for assistance and he offered none. In my good samaritan nature, I spotted a few small gym bags taking up space in a large bin and offered to help her rearrange the bags so she could fit her larger bag overhead. I removed one of the gym bags and went to place it gently in the bin directly across the aisle. The owner of said gym bag happened to be a large and very angry man who proceeded to yell at me for "touching his stuff." I explained exactly what I was doing, that there was room for his smaller bag directly (did I mention directly?) across the aisle, but he was so lost in the 'entitlement' he felt he had to that particular bin that he failed to see the bigger picture. He got out of his seat, removed the bag from my hands, shoved it back into it's original place and cursed me out for being 'rude,' (interesting perception of rude, I might add). At this point, I told him in a very loud and uncharacterstically stern voice that I was sorry that his mother raised him to be so selfish. We exchanged a few more words as I proceeded back to my seat. The woman with the larger carry-on had already taken off to (presumably) check her suitcase. Poor thing.

Did I also mention that the gym-bag man had an empty center seat under which he could have put his bag without disturbing his leg room? Did I also mention the male flight attendant just stood in the back of the aircraft watching this all take place?

I have no tolerance for selfishness. I also have no tolerance for US Airways. I just switched my business travel to Southwest.

Sister Geekfest Part III - The Physicist

2006-07-21T08:42:00.000-04:00

I love getting these e-mail debate forwards from my brainiac Lil Sis. The geekitude makes me so proud...

The Setting
From Lil Sis to Cookie: "I went to bar trivia last night at Fado and this guy and I got into a debate about what a neutron was made of (he said it's a proton + an electron; I said it's not. I mentioned that I thought there were quarks involved, but only took a stand on the fact that a neutron was NOT a proton and an electron mashed together). He then told me his sister was a particle physicist. I said my dad invented particle physics. You can imagine how the conversation went from there...at any rate, we wound up betting a beer on it (that I will not have to repay, since I will probably never hang out with him again)."

The Discovery
From Guy to Lil Sis: "...it is also well known that a neutron will decay into a proton and electron. Outside the nucleus, neutrons are unstable...decaying by emitting an electron and antineutrino to become a proton" I forgot the antineutrino. Still, though...I win teh internets!!!1!!"

The Rebuttal
From Lil Sis to Guy: "While I am impressed at your industriousness (googling neutrons at 2:30am), I'm not sure I agree with your conclusion. 'A neutron is classified as a baryon, and consists of two down quarks and one up quark.' I think I remember busting out the quark during our intellectual debate on particle physics last night. Not sure what's involved with the 'decaying process, but if it involves any sort of chemical change then I don't think you can actually say that a neutron is made up of what it decays into. And we've officially reached the bounds of my knowledge. Turns out 10th grade chemistry really only takes you so far."

The Counter-Rebuttal
From Guy to Lil Sis: "I don't think the bet was whether, at a quantum level, all this stuff was made of quarks. I was saying that you can treat a neutron, in terms of mass and charge, as a combination of a proton and an electron. And the articles I quoted say that a neutron is more massive than a proton, and its charge is different, by the mass and charge of an electron (plus an anti-neutrino, which I don't really know what that is, and frankly sounds made-up.) I'm really looking forward to that beer you owe me. You can go ahead and bring it to me at work. Because clearly I'm don't have enough to do."

The Closing Argument
From Lil Sis to Guy: "I believe your exact words were 'a neutron is made up of a proton plus an electron.' When, as everyone knows, a neutron is *actually* made up of two down quarks and one up quark. You're right enough that I'll buy you a beer, next time I see you out (safe bet - I'm leaving DC in a week and a half). But you gotta give me the quarks. We're talking about something I learned 11 years ago. High five?"

Definitely!

Controversy Thursday: Druggin' Grandma

2006-07-20T06:21:00.000-04:00

I ignored this story the first few times I heard it, because what are a few more year-old deaths when there are bigger stories of mass slaughter in the brink of far more 'current' crises? I just become desensitized with my daily dose of bombings, knifings, tsunamis and torture. The pictures of the accused nurses did nothing to reel me in, but then I spotted the photo of Miss Rose and I instantly had to jump into the details of the story head first.

Rose Savoie.

She reminded me of my own grandma. Innocent. Unassuming. Humble. Incapable of even swatting at a fly.

Jess, Grandma and Lil Sis at a wedding celebration.

My gut reaction? If anyone even attempted to lay a hand on my perfect grandma, let alone euthanize her, I'd put out a mafia hit on the culprit. Those nurses deserve to rot in Hades.

But then I thought about my own nurse roommate who has selflessly sacrificed time, money, freedom and often her own physical well-being to save lives on a daily basis. Her job is not glamourous (strenuous, draining and even demoralizing at times) and the perks are far fewer than the hassle, but in her generous spirit, she knows that the contribution she makes to the betterment of life (even if unrecognized until she hits those pearly gates) is reward enough to carry on.

What if Miss Rose, pre-Katrina, had been just like my grandma, and the accused nurses, pre-Katrina, had been just like my roommate? The problem with this story is that the media has not offered us more than a headline. Imagine the accused were faced with the absolute last-minute, last-helicopter-out choice of "save yourself, or stay with your patients to perish." Would a sane nurse sacrifice her own young life to die holding someone helplessly past her prime? But would a caring nurse really run from Miss Rose's room and leave her to drown painfully? In a crisis involving futility, how many of us know that we'd react any differently?

I'd still put out the mafia hit, but I'd be happy to know that my family stronghold went without pain because someone cared enough, even in a panic-stricken moment, to ensure she didn't suffer.

Florida Is Hotter Than Hades

2006-07-16T23:40:00.000-04:00

For a Cookie, many a weekend night has started off like this. Nothing new.

Purchasing sex on the beach for the bachelorette.

But add an ARL destination trip to South Beach (to celebrate the upcoming marriage of our own Miss webcowgirl) into the mix and 'just your average weekend' becomes extraordinary. What begins as a quiet dinner turns to absolute mayhem in a matter of hours.

Their offices closed down when they heard Cookie would be in town.

For three straight days we were ridin' dirty...in my Ferrari.

The actual owner of said vehicle might question the use of the word 'my.'

Stories [along with pared down PG-13 photos] to be continued post-hangover. Until then, this Cookie needs a few moments of beauty sleep before returning to the airport at 6AM.

Controversy Thursday: Copy Cat

2006-07-13T06:31:00.000-04:00

Remind me again what the heck the big deal is over stem cell research? Cloning human cells could lead to cloning human organs which could lead to cloning humans...the horror! However, imagine a world full of DC Cookie clones. I can't fathom there is any god who would deny ownership of such a population.

And on the 6 billionth day, the Cookie clones restored equilibrium and serenity to Eden... (but on the 7 billionth day, god was not resting; his Cookies had him on the center of a dance floor with a V&T).

Bring It Cookie Style

2006-07-11T21:54:00.000-04:00

Alright, so I'm a little behind on my posting for this event, but I'm traveling for work at the moment, so bear with me.

I'm ecstatic to be co-hosting because I have done a lot of missing out as of late. The last happy hour I arrived late and left early because of work obligations and a 10-K the following morning. The happy hour before that I missed because of my redneck concert obligations. The happy hour before that I showed face for the equivalent of an Indy 500 pit-stop because of [ex]boyfriend obligations. The happy hour before that I was ill.

Well, on August 4th, my calendar is obligation-free. As a consultant, I often evaluate incentives, drivers, return on investment, etc. Here are yours in relation to this Summer Event:

Incentives: DC Cookie will be in attendance for the duration from start until...well, the next morning if need be; Cookie style for the first time since the happy hour at Eyebar in November.
Drivers: Alcohol and boobs (er, I mean, conversation).
ROI: Gossip-worthy photos and a possible upgrade (or downgrade if you misbehave) of your blog-ebrity status.

Basically, you have no excuse...

Lost Dog Syndrome

2006-07-10T03:31:00.000-04:00

In multiple occasions over the past month I have initiated encounters with people who, on various levels of intimacy from acquantance to ex-boyfriend, have proved at some point over the course of our interactions (or relationship, if you will) capable of full-blown asscorn-itude. And in every instance, out of loving concern, my friends have questioned why I still deem these people worthy of my time.

Basically, it boils down to two things; my huge heart and my uncanny ability to shed my grudges. I don't forget, but I do forgive - openly, happily and wholly. Forgiving does not mean losing sight of who a person is and what s/he has done in his past. Forgetting would leave me vulnerable to repeat a mistake, but forgiving relieves me of the negative energy I might otherwise be burdened to harbour. Every person I have met on my life journey has taught me something valuable and the way I see it, as long as I understand exactly what each person can contribute to my growth, prior sins should not necessarily result in total ex-communication.

I have so much kindness to share with the world and if I refuse to (for example) talk to a man just because he was a total jackass of a boyfriend, how in the world will he ever become the better person I'd still love to think he is able to be if I completely shut him out as a friend (provided it is blatantly clear that I would never be willing to cycle back to our prior state of uber-flawed romance)?

My mom once told me she believes that I have a "stray dog syndrome." In my desire to save the world, I am drawn to people with problematic self-character issues that need fixing. She's probably right. Hence why my version of "worthy" is ultimately skewed.

At least I'm aware...

Controversy Thursday: Til Death Do Us Part

2006-07-06T12:47:00.000-04:00

Traditionalists believe that the union of marriage is intended between a man and a woman for the purpose of raising a family. I believe that vows should be taken by anyone who is willing and able to make a lifelong commitment. Man and woman. Man and man. Woman and woman. It shouldn't make a difference as long as the pledge is solemn and the devotion is boundless.

But then I got to thinking, where should the boundaries be set, if at all. What about the shearer who wants to marry his ewe? The polygamist who wants to marry his granddaughter? The Hazzard who wants to marry his General Lee? The porn star who wants to marry a cucumber?

In which case, perhaps I understand why a federal bill to allow same sex marriage has not yet passed. You know, because if you let one non-conformist 'get away' with something 'unnatural,' then you let them all...

View From A Canadian Soap Box

2006-07-05T08:02:00.000-04:00

This year on Canada Day, I surrounded myself with several of my Canadian relatives. We wore red 'Canada Kicks Ass' t-shirts, ate moose jerky, said eh? after every other sentence and sang the national anthem at full volume before our main course (I stumbled on one of the stanzas, it had been so long since I'd sung the words. Lil Sis just shook her head in shame).

As we sat around the dinner table quizzing each other with questions from a Canadian Trivial Pursuit game (aside: if you guess Timothy Eaton, you have a 50% chance of being correct), our national pride brewing, my aunt began to excoriate Americans who know so little about Canada. Her story about her hair dresser not knowing where Ottawa was (hello, it's the national capital, d-uh) made us all cringe. Leave it to Lil Sis to be the rational one who interjected "Who is the President of Mexico?"

Silence.

That's the thing about Canadians. Our soap boxes exist in a tiny bubble north of 30 degrees latitude. So what if we know more about the United States than Americans know about us? That depth of knowledge is not unique to Canadians. What country doesn't know about the US, the most powerful nation in either hemisphere and arguably the leader of the free world?

So, until we multiply our population tenfold, exploit developing nations for oil and natural resources, elect a leader who can't speak his own language (but wants to enforce that language as official) and build a huge army that is highly skilled in blowing stuff up, I'm perfectly content with Ottawa remaining unknown...

Happy Belated Canada Day. Oh, and Independence Day, eh?

It's Chronic

2006-06-30T11:15:00.000-04:00

If you've spent any amount of time with me, you will have experienced my chronic illness. It's related to my romantic relationship with the camera. I love my reflection, whether good or bad. It could be 7am after a morning jog (no makeup, dripping with sweat) and I'll still be drawn to my own visual facsimile. If there is a mirror in my vicinity, I will look in it. A puddle, someone's sunglasses, a reflective vending machine, a glass-framed painting, a beer stein, a computer screen, a Rolex, a car window, a microwave, a calculator, a water bottle...

So if you go out to dinner with me, don't be surprised if my eyes wander around the room to...myself. I just can't help it.

Controversy Thursday: It's All Relative

2006-06-29T00:28:00.000-04:00

So the media has hyped up these "deadly northeastern storms" so much that you'd think a hurricane just hit Manhattan. Perhaps we lost one Mass-hole to a freak of nature hydroplane because he was driving far too fast in a downpour, or a Quaker who thought it would be entertaining to dive into the Schuylkill's rapids on a dare. And I'm sorry that a few houses in Binghamton have 7 feet of water in their basement. But up-staters are currently chilling out on their porches playing guitars and drinking beer. They're happy about a few days off from work.

Please don't call these flash floods "deadly." Have some respect. Katrina wasn't even a year ago.

I Am My Own Paparazzi: Hey Sexy DJ

2006-06-28T00:38:00.000-04:00

Despite that I'm not really any good at it, I've loved dancing since I was in my mother's womb. I love shaking my toosh, because I love music. All music. Particularly, great trance music. When did I really get hooked? When I met Darude in 2003 and befriended him (to the extent anyone can befriend someone who lives in Finland and only gets to visit me three or four times a year - and by 'me,' I mean, North America).

I digress.

At any rate, my acquaintanceship with Darude gave me a previously misunderstood appreciation for the difficulty of the DJ's employment. He is responsible for the toe tapping of an entire room for several hours back to back. And, if he's any good, he gets to be the center of admiration for those hours. I was hooked on the concept, to the point where I mildly debated getting into the industry myself.

Well, In Hooville, Namaste and I were given the opportunity to live it up Darude style.

I believe I have found my alternate career...

Favourite Memorial

2006-06-23T10:37:00.000-04:00

Without a doubt...the haunting, realistic emotions portrayed in the faces of the statues blows me away every time.

What's yours?

Controversial Thursday: Fix Me

2006-06-22T06:13:00.000-04:00

I just read a stat that 9 million Americans had cosmetic surgery performed last year. ONE YEAR! That is the equivalent of 3% of the population going under the knife in 52 weeks. Statistically, at that rate, every single person in America will have made a bodily alteration within the next 30 years. Startling.

But seriously, what the hell kind of message are we sending to our children when the status quo has become teenagers getting fake boobs and nose jobs instead of studying for the SAT, men getting shin implants instead of doing bench presses, the elderly getting face lifts instead of moisturizing and the obese stapling their stomachs instead of getting on a treadmill.

Come to America. The place where superficial confidence has a price tag and laziness is a religion.

Going the Distance

2006-06-21T06:37:00.000-04:00

Somebody please ask me how on earth I thought it would be a good idea to go from running a 10-K to running a half marathon? I just officially signed up for this race. I have 95 days. In this god-foresaken Mid-Atlantic summer humidity (which makes outdoor training much closer to a Kenyan expedition than a traditional Canadian climate), I'm going to need all the discipline I can muster.

Somehow I think 6 miles on a Marriott treadmill twice a week is not exactly adequate preparation.

Mother Knows Best

2006-06-20T07:31:00.000-04:00

Ever had your mom try to set you up with someone who she thinks would be "peeeeeerfect" for you? Well, Mrs. Cookie met an eligible bachelor at a wedding out in California about four weeks ago, who happens to reside in the DC area. Despite being in a relationship at the time, I know she couldn't help but brag profusely to this poor stranger about her fantastic daughter who he just HAD to meet. I suspect he feigned polite interest, as I probably would have had the situation been reversed.

Well, following my change in status, Mom took it upon herself to do a little investigation and sent me the guy's e-mail address last night. He won't be a dud - my Mom wouldn't dare attempt to set me up with an unattractive bonehead. In which case, I would argue that I'm open to the idea of meeting him; but what in god's name do I write as my introduction?

"Hey, my name is Cookie. Want to enter my contest?"

Someone Loves A Camera

2006-06-16T10:25:00.000-04:00

Apparently I don't even stop posing in front of a camera to run a 10-K. Perhaps in a former life I was a movie star. I just can't help myself.

Controversy Thursday: Pick Me!

2006-06-15T15:17:00.000-04:00

Here is a pet peeve of mine to ponder; I absolutely loathe hearing some white dude use affirmative action as the excuse for not getting into his grad school program of choice, or landing a lucrative job offer. First of all, sadly, our society is made up of a plethora of racist jerkoffs, whether or not that's intentional or understood. Without affirmative action in place, it's not entirely inconceivable (aside: every time I hear that word I think of Vizzini from The Princess Bride) that 95% of our workforce would be comprised of supremacist wasps. Fairness in education and fairness in the workplace are basic rights that I'm all for the government protecting.

Something to consider - If there are 1,000 people being accepted into a program; the two guys vying for the last slot are a white man and a black man; and the program accepts the black man for affirmative action purposes; I argue that instead of complaining about the horrors of a left-wing political regulation whisking his 'rightful spot' away, the white man should suck it the hell up and work a little harder to be top 10 instead of top 1,000 (which is really what put him in this precarious situation in the first place).

Cookie has spoken.

And The Winner Is...

2006-06-14T08:47:00.000-04:00

June 14th. A momentous day. It is both the anniversary of my blog, and the birthday of a very creative blogger with whom I became acquainted my first week of writing. Besides having drinks for said blogger's birthday this evening at Dragonfly, I will also celebrate this joyous day by removing the veil of suspense about the contest results. In a unanimous decision by all judges, the lucky winner** is....

RYAN REYNOLDS!

For your reading pleasure, here were his swoon-inspiring responses to the survey:

1. Explain how a date with a Canadian girl might be different than escorting a woman of another culture out for an evening on the town?

You said it better than I ever could. I'm Canadian. You're Canadian. We'll just get each other without even trying.

2. What female celebrity just does it for you? Why?

It used to be Alanis Morissette. But now, I have to admit, it's DC Cookie, because she's a platinum.

3. What makes you the man who should win this contest (i.e. better than any other entrant)?

Have you seen my nude scene in Van Wilder?

4. How long was your longest relationship and why did it end?

Four years. It was not a coincidence that the public announcement of the demise of my engagement occurred on the very day you announced this contest. I have been mesmerized with you since you attended the Toronto premiere of Just Friends. Life is far too short to for regret. When it was brought to my attention that you were single again, I had to leave my fiancee immediately. Besides, I heard you'd 'go down on me in a theater.'

5. What do you say to a woman when her appearance blows you away?

"I want to memorize every freckle on your body...eh?"

6. What is your favourite alcoholic beverage?

Molson Export and/or Sleeman's Honey Brown.

7. If we made it to date number 2, where would you take me?

Banff. I heard you always wanted to vacation there...

Ryan, you can cash in your prize any year, any day, any hour, any minute. Call me!!

**Of note, I did get some relatively serious, creative and well-crafted responses, all of which I found intriguing. That took Balls with a capital B to enter - more than impressive. I'll be in touch with all of you (you know, when this Ryan Reynolds thing doesn't work out). Oh, and I won the over/under. Lil Sis owes me a phatty, home-cooked meal.

It's The Little Things

2006-06-13T07:43:00.000-04:00

I'm going to let the hapless male 'players' in on a little secret. The art of seducing a woman has everything to do with your choice of words and your execution. Becoming single again, and having a very low tolerance for wasted conversation (or general b.s. at all), I am incredibly attuned to the power of a strong pick-up line. Although a line is just a provisional means to an end, it can make or break an opportunity.

For example, let's take the following real-life introduction attempts from three different (but equally handsome) men and I'll explain who actually kept my attention in each scenario.

The status question

First Guy: "Where is your boyfriend?" That has got to be the lamest question in the book. He's prying about my status so blatantly that it's almost...desperate.
Second Guy: "Can I be your boyfriend?" Yes! Absolutely! I met you three minutes ago. Clearly, I have enough information about you to make such a committed decision.
Third Guy: "Whoever gets to be with you is a very lucky man." Not bad. A little cheesy, but the difference here is that he a) doesn't assume anything about my status and b) leaves it in my court to offer him more information at my own discretion. Subtlety is key. Throw the bait of self-assured interest, and most women will bite.

The compliment

First Guy: "You're hot." So is Chasey Lane, but she's a ho. The word 'hot' implies sexual desire, rather than appreciation for my natural physical comeliness.
Second Guy: "You have a beautiful smile." Alright, that's seriously a nice compliment and I always say thank you. The problem here is that I hear that phrase from everyone, including my grandparents, my hairdresser and my cleaning service. Just like "You have beautiful eyes." It's not memorable.
Third Guy: "I love your freckles, you must be Irish." The man who said that to me got a full hour of my time and my phone number. Given my tan, and the shape of my nose, I usually get asked if I'm Italian, Jewish, Spanish or Greek - never Irish. Thing was, he was dead on. Grandpa was red-headed and straight off the boat. The shock of a man picking up on that impressed me.

The close

First Guy: "You'll have to give me your number, I want to call you." Nope, I don't haaaave to do anything. Too aggressive. Instead, I'll suggest that he write his on a napkin, which I'll use to hand off to the nearest bathroom attendant when he's gone.
Second Guy: "I'd love to take you out this week." This works, sometimes; but only when the man is Eric Bana hot. Otherwise it oozes 'lack of other options.'
Third Guy: "I've really enjoyed talking to you. I'd love to continue this conversation." Again, this type of close gives me opportunity to provide my number willingly before it is officially requested. Women much prefer the power of choice over obligation.

It Was The Wine

2006-06-12T10:13:00.000-04:00

The happy hour was, unfortunately, scheduled the night before my annual 10-K. I said that I would stop by for a quick glass of water and leave by 8:30. I missed the last happy hour and wanted to represent, even if my attendance were brief. When I couldn't get to the event until 8:00 because of work, and showed up frazzled, in my work clothes, with my hair in a pony tail, I decided to reset my departure deadline to 9:00 and augmented the controversy of my beverage by ordering an orange juice spritzer. However, that did not relax my impatient heart beat. I downed a highball of H2O - still no luck. With FOMO and frustration kicking into high gear, I feared I would never get to sleep that night and I would be wholly enervated by gun time. So with Circle V's coaxing, I said screw it and ordered a glass of hideously insipid, but momentously soothing sauvignon blanc. I reset my departure time again to 9:30...max.

Robin teaches Cookie some dirty words.

At which point, one of my absolute favourite bloggers joined the festivities with her husband. My conversations with Barbara are typically the highlight of a blog happy hour for me. It's refreshing that, in the midst of lap-dances, naughty sign language, strategic avoidance of anything romantically obvious or dramatic, walk-offs, loud music, alcoholic self-indulgence and flirtation, I can have an extended and honest conversation with someone as magnetic as myself. The creative connection masks our demographic differences. After each encounter, I am left just that much wiser.

I digress. By the time Barbara made her exit, I had, yet again, reset my departure time to 10:00 at the latest (which became 10:30 in what we fondly call Cookie-time). There were still a lot of people I had to meet, hug, kiss and fondle before making my abnormally early exit.

And since you're dying of suspense, the next day I woke up before the sunshine and ran the fastest 10-K of my life. For that, I'll thank the glorious weather, the break-up diet, and the droll DC bloggerazzi (a word, I believe, I just made up; but we'll let that slide).

Psycho-Meter

2006-06-08T10:00:00.000-04:00

My thoughts on this post need to be expanded. Yes, all women are inherently "psycho." It's called estrogen. We're sensitive little creatures who think a lot (men might argue we think too much).

At Science Club a while back, I was reviewing a picture of a periodic table on the basement wall, and humourously began comparing the stability of the elements to the stability of the female psyche.

On the left side, you have your 'laid-back' metals. It takes a lot of drama to get them to react to anything. Their men can walk all over them, and they'll accept it blindly. They prefer to oxidize, rather than expressing any variety of emotion. Stay far away from these women, they present zero challenge. They're basically a subservient womb without a voice or a personality.

On the right side you have your non-metals and your hyperactive gases. The further to the bottom of the chart you go, the more dangerous and explosive. These are the women that get jealous if you spend a 1/2 an hour with your sister and think you're cheating on them if you switch your cologne. Stay far, FAR away from these women. They are constantly in therapy because they don't listen to their therapists advice.

The ideal woman is a PT (platinum). She knows that she is high quality, so she doesn't have to throw a temper tantrum to get a man's attention. She is incredibly confident. She will cry when there is something worth crying about, but she won't be unreasonable and her extreme emotions never linger. She will tell you what she desires. She won't settle for less than her deserved, complete satisfaction, but she will compromise to achieve it. She will speak her mind, but she will debate and discuss instead of fighting, and she'll happily admit when she is out of line. She has a solid and mature grasp of her array of feelings, and will explain her infrequent, hormonal outbursts in words that a man will understand and appreciate. When she is angry, it is likely that she has reason to be. But she is quick to forgive and she never holds a grudge. She is perplexing and deep. She enjoys compliments and attention, but does not require nor demand them (she is not high maintenance). She is easy-going, but she is not a pushover. She recovers quickly from a loss, but remembers with adequate fondness. She has substantial character; a strong awareness of self and a broad empathy for her peers.

The platinum still has "psychotic" moments. No matter where a woman falls on the table, her estrogen levels will always ebb and flow. But on the psycho-meter of femininity, it's the platinum a man needs to hang on to.

Win A Date With DC Cookie!

2006-06-06T02:06:00.000-04:00

So the little black book is being reopened. It had quite a lot of dust on it, and the business model will be changing slightly, but in a month it will be fully operational again. In the meantime, as I restock the inventory of eligible bachelors, I have this gift certificate I won for a free dinner that I can either use for a night out with Lil Sis, or as second prize in a contest I have devised to promote Cookie's black book grand opening (the first prize, of course, being the pleasure of my company).

Have you ever lurked, trolled, or wandered through my blog archives and been intrigued enough to daydream about what it might be like to spend a few hours in Cookie's world? Or have you thought "Wow, this chick is the kindred spirit of my drop-dead gorgeous, single brother..." Well, here is your (or your acquaintance's) no-holds-barred opportunity to wow the judges and win a free dinner with an easy-going sweetheart.

The Requirements: To participate you must be an educated, handsome, currently unattached male who is (for a change) emotionally available (Do you have a heartbeat? You're perfect). You must also be able to find your way to DC for an evening. Although sense of humour, style, disgust for cigarettes but love of fine wine, solid rhythm, height, stability, kindness, confidence, artistic appreciation, gift of conversation, chivalry, good grammar and a sense of adventure for travel beyond the coast of Delaware are all qualities that will assist you in a win, they're not pre-requisites, only suggestions.

The Contest: It's simple. Answer the 7 questions listed below as honestly and creatively as possible. Send your responses to dccookie@gmail.com, along with 3 photos of yourself. The decision will be made on June 14th (the anniversary of DC Cookie's first blog post).

Explain how a date with a Canadian girl might be different than escorting a woman of another culture out for an evening on the town?
What female celebrity just does it for you? Why?
What makes you the man who should win this contest (i.e. better than any other entrant)?
How long was your longest relationship and why did it end?
What do you say to a woman when her appearance blows you away?
What is your favourite alcoholic beverage?
If we made it to date number 2, where would you take me?

The Judges:

Lil Sis stands to lose a free dinner here**. She knows what I like and what I need. She will be merciless. Remember, I'm witty, but she's wittier. If you don't step up your game, she will annihilate you. Answer inventively and thoughtfully to win Lil Sis' vote.

Kathryn will see through your b.s. immediately. If your answers are canned, she'll call you on it. Answer sincerely, with correct spelling, to win Kathryn's vote.

Good luck!

**Lil Sis and I have a little side bet on the over/under number of responses here. Not saying who picked the over and who picked the under, but the stakes are actually a bit higher than originally noted.

Industry Night

2006-06-05T10:24:00.000-04:00

Also known as Sunday Fun-day. After spending a few of these with my boy Frank and his bartender amigos, I am fully convinced that for a kick-ass, hilarious, no-holds-barred good time, the people who do it the best are the people who run the show themselves.

This is how the industry folks cook hamburgers - Dirty Dancing style.

The thing is, the only time they get a break from serving up V&Ts all night long is during those few quiet days while the common party-folk are recovering from their hangovers; namely on Sundays. When I got the invite to hit up a bartenders-only cookout yesterday (that began at 2, and shots were still being poured when I left at 10), I felt like the gates of a jovial secret society had been opened to me. Behind the scenes with the kings and queens of rock-stardom.

This is why it pays to be kind to your bartenders...because they'll show you what your own pathetic attempt at a good time is missing.

Look Out DC

2006-06-02T11:14:00.000-04:00

It just dawned on me, that these three blogger BFFs are all, at the same time, single. Just like women who spend a lot of time together might have their period schedules aligned - so aligns the romantic lives of Cookie, Kathryn and Namaste.

God help DC this summer...MEOW!

And Then...

2006-06-01T10:58:00.000-04:00

You wake up, the sun is blazing, you go for your 8th jog in the last 6 days, you shower in soft, lukewarm water, your clothes are loose because you've lost 5 pounds in the last week, you ride to work with your perfect Lil Sis in your perfectly gorgeous convertible with the wind whipping your curls against your cheeks, your favourite co-worker buys you breakfast, and the first e-mail you open is one from a promoter who tells you that you've just won a free dinner for two.

And you recognize, that everything you could ever want is right at your fingertips, and life is beautiful.

**Controversy week resumes tomorrow.

Censor-shit

2006-05-30T20:42:00.000-04:00

When you see something blatantly obvious and incredibly offensive (and possibly even laughable) on the internet that involves a person you care about, and when the first draft of an angry and frustrated e-mail response starts off with the phrase "eat shit you insensitive, pathetic, douchebag excuse for a human being," you're probably better off to wait 10 minutes to calm the fuck down before allowing yourself to hit send. Because mature adults don't actually say those kinds of things out loud.

How To Train For A 10-K: The Break-Up Diet

2006-05-29T22:51:00.000-04:00

Who knew that all I needed to do to prepare for this 10-K that I'll be running in mid-June was to suffer a painful emotional loss? Based on my success this holiday weekend, I bring you Cookie's 15-steps to training for a distance race:

Force feed yourself a bowl of cereal in the morning, and then don't eat for the rest of the day.
Travel to a location for the weekend where your ex will be so you are guaranteed to run into him 15 times. Be sure to surround yourself with no less than 8 of your best girls, and maybe even a few of your boys too. They are excellent diversions and roadblocks.
Drink a handle of Grey Goose on an empty stomach. For kicks, mix in a few shots of Grand Marnier.
Dance your tail off and then shovel a slice of pizza to absorb some of the alcohol. This is the only time you'll actually be able to eat more than 200 calories.
Cry.
Go to sleep at 3:30 am. Wake up at 8:00 am. Your energy won't be coming from adequate sleep anyway.
Drink 12 ounces of water, pop 2 Excedrin, and suit up for a jog.
Bring a sympathetic running partner, and a fully-juiced ipod (however, be sure to skip past 'Incomplete' by the Backstreet Boys, because that would just be self-torture).
Run past your ex's beach house. This will help you set a faster-than-average pace.
Feel the endorphins kick in and realize that you just can't stop running. This is the best you will feel all day.
Pass some gardners to get hosed down and stay cool while you emulate Forrest Gump.
When your legs finally give in (this won't happen for at least 80 minutes), stretch, shower, and sit out in the sun for a few hours.
Force feed yourself a liquid smoothie and more water. Don't eat again for the rest of the day.
Cry again, get your girlfriends to make you laugh, shake it off, then take your time getting ready for a long, fun day.
Repeat steps 3 through 14. Twice.

By the end of this intensive weekend training process, you will never want to see another vodka drink or slice of pizza, but you will absolutely be ready to race. And it might help, temporarily, to take your mind off what it is that you're missing so terribly. Besides, you know that in a few weeks, you'll be just fine...

**Oh, and on an unrelated note, thanks to Maureen (I think...because I was at least 5 drinks in when I met her) for having the guts to introduce herself to me and ask me if I was DC Cookie. It's encounters like those that keep me wanting to write. Hope to see you at the next happy hour.

I Have Loved A Gentleman

2006-05-25T12:18:00.000-04:00

There are men who come into your life who are sweet, tender, and treat you with the sort of gentle kindness that a woman deserves. There are men who come into your life who are reliable, safe and trustworthy. There are men who come into your life who make you laugh and help you take yourself less seriously. There are men who come into your life and physically blow you away, so much so that the thought of another man’s touch never enters your mind. There are men who come into your life whose embrace makes you feel as secure and warm as you did in your mother’s womb.

And then…there is Charming Fellow; the kind of man who is greater than the sum total of all the other men who have tried to win my heart before him. A man who stands so far apart from the pack that the minute he entered my life, I became a better person. I’m stronger. I’m more patient. I actually shave my legs now.

I have adored Charming Fellow since the moment we met, in a dusky bar, at the most inopportune of times. When the dust of previous lovers settled, we managed to find each other. After our first un-date (we both swore we were just friends), I came back to Namaste’s humble cottage and jumped around like a squealing teenager. When our first kiss left me in a puddle of speechlessness, I instantly stopped considering anyone else. When a few reckless, unguarded tears streamed from both of our faces during a heartfelt conversation, and I understood for the first time that I did, in fact, make the same lasting impression on him that he has made on me, I fell in love.

The clouds this morning were a welcome relief. In all my months of denial, even the electron-infused emotional connection that we so tenderly shared in those aching moments of hopeless expression does not change that I am vinegar and he is oil. Our desires are polar. There are more than one hundred things I would do to change this, but for now, the effort would be futile.

With nothing but the most honest admiration, Charming Fellow remains securely steadfast on the pedestal on which I put him from day one, and a piece of my heart will always belong to him. I would never ask for a single second of our time back. He is, without a doubt, a gift from above.

So with overwhelming and surprising sadness, forgive me if I disappear for a few moments to regroup. This Charming Fellow character has made quite the momentous impact on my sensory glands…

Besos,

Cookie

Controversy Week: Road Kill

2006-05-24T12:18:00.000-04:00

I remember reading this post a while back, and feeling incredibly disturbed by the pictures and the related links, in much the same way I am disturbed at the sight of a dead raccoon on the side of the road with his head imploded by the pressure of a 5 ton SUV**. The images don't make me contemplate the issues at hand; in actuality, they just make me want to stop eating my lunch. I don't believe that's the reaction our protester friends are looking for, but it's the reaction they get. When I see their propaganda, I think "Get a life...and put that road kill where it belongs - in the soil."

Here is my issue with abortion protesters, dressed up in devil costumes, holding plastic babies and carrying pictures of a bloody fetus. Nobody gives a crap! Nobody going into the clinic, at any rate. People who linger outside of a doctor's office in an attempt to shock and frighten have little to no affect on the actual decision-makers themselves. When a woman enters a 'family planning center,' you can bet that she has taken a long time to think through her decision, no matter how many people are standing outside of her window praying. I roll my eyes at the pro-life argument that "abortion should never be used as a means of birth control." As if an abortion is some simple pill that a woman can take and never look back. Abortion is a complicated, emotionally draining, life-altering procedure that takes days of contemplation, and years of recovery. I know - I've helped multiple friends through them. Given the magnitude of such a decision, I believe steadfastly that it's something a woman should be allowed to contemplate, no matter how she became pregnant; irresponsible sex, rape, or monogamous, committed intercourse.

Protesters...go home. If you really want to make a difference, talk to your daughters. Openly. They're really a lot brighter than you think.

**Although I must admit, the sight of a Michelin-squashed opposum gives me an immense sense of pleasure.

Controversy Week: Hablo Ingles

2006-05-23T11:20:00.000-04:00

If politicians vote to make English the official language of this country, that’s one thing. It’s really no different than having an official flag, an official bird, or an official song; all perfectly acceptable national identifiers. Frankly I’m surprised the matter wasn’t constitutionally settled in 1776 by the radical former Brits who penned the Declaration.

What really gets my blood boiling, however, is hearing the phrase “You’re in America, speak English!” Expressions like that just reek of entitlement. It’s basically the equivalent of saying “I’m too ignorant and lazy to learn how to communicate with you via any other tongue than the germanic one that my aryan dumb-ass was ever forced to learn.” You don’t hear Belgians bitching about foreigners not knowing Dutch. You don’t hear Italians shouting “Imparano Italiano, idiotichi Americani” Why? Because they can all speak four to six different languages fluently, and probably understand the basics of an additional three.

How embarrassing for America that, as one of the leading nations of the free world, its people have the ability to communicate only with themselves. Not to mention, this fact is virtually flaunted. I am personally humbled that I have gone from speaking and reading English and French effortlessly, as well as Italian with relative proficiency, to barely being able to utter a single coherent sentence in either of the latter languages. I don’t find the opportunity to practice, and hence, I find myself envying my friends who are so considerably multi-lingual that they even dream in foreign dialects.

For the love of education, stop being so self-righteous and enter your children into some foreign language programs. The only possible result from broadening our minds is an improvement to the American image and influence abroad.

Meet the Kids

2006-05-22T09:56:00.000-04:00

Controversy Week begins this evening. In the meantime, meet the new banes of Charming Fellow and Lil Sis' existence (both of whom are chronically allergic).

I've always been a dog person, because that's how I grew up, but one snuggle from these friendly, cuddly, dog-like kittens had Aunt Cookie melting into a pile of driveling adoration.

New Roommate

2006-05-19T11:47:00.000-04:00

Lil Sis and I tried to share a room when I seven and she was four. Mom and Dad moved my bed into her room, and every night was a slumber party. Problem was, I was so excited that I annoyed the piss out of her by talking all night. About my crush on Marlon Jackson, about how plump her tummy was, about our dog's flatulence... Each night ended with her squealing at the top of her lungs and my irate parents having to sit outside our door until I fell asleep. Our cohabitation lasted a grand total of 5 nights.

As my maturity finally caught up with my age (I think it took until first year of university), my sister and I began to revisit the idea of becoming roommates again when we graduated from college. I couldn't imagine a better living arrangement. Me and my favourite person on earth sharing a roof without the constrictions of parental guidance.

But alas, I graduated and moved to DC; Lil Sis graduated and moved to New York. She also had a very serious, long-term boyfriend, so I assumed the roommate idea would remain an unfulfilled dream.

Slowly, however, the obstacles have unwound. She left New York to go to grad school. She broke off her relationship. She got a summer internship in DC. My current roommates adore her even more than they like me. She moves here tomorrow...

For the next two months, I will be living out what will be, without question, the best summer of my life. Me and Lil Sis. Roommates for the first time since I was seven.

You're Getting Called Out - Part Three

2006-05-18T10:39:00.000-04:00

This guy is a moron. All that effort to terrorize 6 community banks for a grand total takeaway of $361,000 to be split six ways (assuming there were about 6 banditos). For those who need me to do the math for you, that's only $60 grand each. Not to mention the cost of the artillery, protective costuming, and getaway vehicle gas. Granted, robbing banks is tax free; but for the same amount this guy could have been making as a manager at a McDonald's for a year, he gets life in prison PLUS 95 years (you know, just in case he beats the odds and lives 95 years past the end of his life).

Clearly this guy didn't calculate the risk vs. reward correctly (shame on his finance teacher). Estimated ROI for six bank robberies? $60,000. Actual ROI for six bank robberies? $0 and a lifetime in the can. Hope he likes it up the...

Oil and Vinegar Debate Commitment

2006-05-17T12:43:00.000-04:00

A commitment-phobe is not necessarily indicative of a man who is incapable of being in a relationship. I know many commitment-phobes who are perfectly content to have a significant other. What makes the monogamous commitment-phobe tremble is not the idea of loyalty, but the concept of change. The girlfriend in the relationship thinks about all the wonderful additions she has made to her man’s life: regular, safe sex whenever he wants it, companionship, conversation, a listening ear, compassion, cooking and ironing [unless she’s me], a boost to his already ample self-confidence, eye candy, an alternate perspective, energy, encouragement, warmth and laughter. On the other hand the commitment-phobe boyfriend, instead of appreciating his girlfriend for all her positive contributions (that in essence, he hasn't asked for), spends his time imagining all he stands to lose the closer he gets to his special lady.

The reality of commitment is really somewhere right smack dab in between the female’s idealistic, Pride & Prejudice-esque perfect, everlasting romance and the male’s innate anxiety that women precipitate upheaval, drama, unreasonable expectations, suffocation and a neutered identity. Relationships do require some effort, and they do force the participants to veer from the status quo, but the commitment-phobe cannot envision an ideal state outside the comfortable walls of his existing condition, and that stubborn perspective only hardens with age.

The question is, are there any female wiles enduring enough to entice a doubting alpha-male commitment-phobe to remove his phobic-lenses and view her in the same light that she sees him? Should the rare trillium* of a lady who represents the virtual antithesis of her commit-phobe boyfriend’s trepidation spend time attempting to allay his concern? At what point does her effort become futile?

*Please note the subtle significance of that flower as it may, or may not, relate to a particular female we know.

Enough?

2006-05-16T12:44:00.000-04:00

At a barbecue at our house for Mothers' Day in LA on Sunday, as I sat on the patio drinking a glass of viognier with the mother-of-honour (mine) and a few friends of the family, the conversation went from "Hey Mrs. Cookie, did you paint the living room recently?" to "Yeah, we did it after the Christmas holidays" to "Hey Cookie, remember when you had all those Christmas decoration pictures all over your blog? Are you still writing your blog?" to "What's a blog?" to "Um, that wasn't common knowledge among my family until...right now" to awkward silence.

Thankfully, Mom didn't ask how to find this blog. She was disturbed enough to know that I have a myspace profile. As entertaining as I can be at times, and as sentimental as I am about my family (she would love my ooey-gooey 'I love my sister' posts), I still maintain that there are things about me she would rather just...avoid?

At any rate, I lay awake for quite a while that night wondering if it's time to call it quits. Do I really want my Mom to read about my drunken antics one day when her curiosity gets the best of her? Would she laugh with me, or would she be embarrassed? The latter would be difficult to stomach, because I love to make her proud. Or worse, what about my co-workers? There are so many of them (at all levels in the firm) that know about my hobby, and check in from time to time. My colleagues appreciate my extra curricular lifestyle and embrace my social personality, but I certainly don't want there to be any misperceptions about my work ethic based on what I write. And what about boyfriends, acquaintances, friends, strangers? Is this DC Cookie image a burden that I really want to continue to carry?

The temporary answer is contained in the picture below...

Now shut up already about this confederate flag guitar or I might really stop posting...

If That Ain't Country

2006-05-11T11:59:00.000-04:00

This guy rocks my socks.

His fans, however, are seriously questionable!

The Girls Come Out to Play [Lounge]

2006-05-10T09:40:00.000-04:00

Play Lounge is a cheesy hell-hole. It's pretentious, it's expensive, it's humid, and it's SO last season. So why do I keep going back? After a day of drinking in the sun, then dinner and post-Gold Cup beverages in Arlington, when Namaste and I were debating where we wanted to shake our [significant] tooshies, my first and last thought was Play.

15 minutes later we were in line.

16 minutes later, we were ordering a tasty RBV at the bar.

18 minutes later we were in the middle of the dance floor.

Here's the thing. The reason I still like Play is because people who go there get really, really wasted. You can dance like this, and nobody notices. You can let loose like it's your job and nobody will remember (well, provided you leave your camera at home).

If that's not enough to entertain you, there's also delectable, security-guard eye candy (who will, in fact, dance with you...and let you play with his...flashlight),

Wasted, half-naked DIPs getting arrested outside the window,

and Julia's right next door, which kicks the crap out of Jumbo Slice any 3am of the week.

Yep - it's guaranteed. I will continue to frequent the place until it shuts down, much to the chagrin of some of my blogging compatriots.

Riding in Cars with Boys

2006-05-09T15:24:00.000-04:00

When your boyfriend drives a sexy car, it's inevitable that he is going to be surrounded by women. Which is never a problem provided one of those women is me. Women have a thing for men who 'wrench on cars.' Expensive cars, even more than just cars. Antique cars even more than just expensive cars.

When Charming Fellow picks me up for a date in his classic saffron-tinted beauty, I froth at the mouth. She's an instant aphrodisiac. Bench seats, loud engine, manual windows, chrome. Swoon...

She made her third annual appearance at Gold Cup this year, and 'illed out in the glorious heat while we all boozed and copped and boozed and copped and boozed and copped and boozed and copped and boozed and copped and...WHAT!

Ahhh, Gold Cup. And for the record, I knew it wouldn't rain. I just have good karma like that.

Biz

2006-05-08T18:38:00.000-04:00

Sorry kids. A business trip and all-consuming images of Charming Fellow in that sexy cowboy hat he wore to Gold Cup are occupying 125% of my time at the moment. Debaucherous posts that will make their way to the big screen tomorrow afternoon (promise) can only be mentally conceived for now...

Until then, you get the lion claw...

Google Me

2006-05-05T11:02:00.000-04:00

These are always funny. How some people came to discover DC Cookie:

oil and vinegar homogeneous
beast debutante
Brad Pitt hygiene
hot woman cookies
cashews and gas
or will stay awake just to watch you sleep. ... The one who turns to his friends and says 'that's her'
scarlet johansson lookalike
what does fomo mean in a sandwich
"Britney Spears Flip Flops"
tom brady in las vegas october 2005
"for women" playgirl

It also appears that Europeans enjoy my photos. Please give me and Kathryn a round of applause for this picture, being featured on this french website under the caption "oops clips." Oh the pride. I also made this portuguese website under the caption "ass drunk" for this photo (in which, I really don't look drunk at all - they could have found something much better...)

I guess that's what you get for posting pictures on the internet. Wonder when I'm going to see my head photo-shopped onto someone else's nude body? Oh wait...

Cat Call

2006-05-04T10:11:00.000-04:00

It never fails. This morning I went for an extended run that took me past an active condominium construction site. The boys in the hard hats whooted from the minute they spotted me until I was out of view. How did I respond? I picked up my pace. Not because I wanted to get away from the cat calls, but because I suddenly felt obligated to impress the men who were admiring me. Same thing happens when I pass a hottie on the street, or a young professional in a parked convertible. This winter I jogged an extra half an hour on the treadmill after a good looking man stepped onto the machine next to me.

And don't think if Eric Bana were jogging beside me that I wouldn't run at a 7-minute mile pace until my legs no longer functioned... That would be a weight-loss plan that I could handle.

Freedom Trail

2006-05-02T12:22:00.000-04:00

Can I get a shout out for Boston? That city is alright...

Remember when I said I could spend every day just hanging out with Dad? Well, the same is true for my mom and my sister. Mom and I flew to Boston from our separate corners of the country this weekend to be Lil Sis' objects for show-and-tell in her MBA classes. I wore a 'Harvard Mom' sweatshirt for encouragement. Lil Sis received a standing ovation from the class no fewer than three times during our visit. She's just so wicked smaaaht (okay, it was planned, but she's still wicked smaaaht).

Prior to our show-and-tell debut, we spent the weekend doing so much walking that my feet went numb. I heart my family!

After a full year in Boston, Lil Sis still refers to her 'Boston for Dummies' guide.

What any sane person does prior to a multiple hour city walking tour...buys 5 pairs of shoes to lug around.

I agree with taxless tea, but did you really have to dump it in the harbour to make your point?

Me and my nice ass.

They wouldn't let me in to the Capital. They must know I'm Canadian.

Boston Common

And that's all you get. Because I yawn when people do a play by play of their weekend (unless they are incredibly gifted and humourous), and I've already bored you enough.

Brunch for 85, please. We're hungry.

The Question of Oil and Vinegar - To Be Continued

2006-04-28T14:16:00.000-04:00

Take olive oil and vinegar, the two main ingredients in this relationship salad dressing. Oil is attracted to vinegar because she is spicy and daring; a little nutty, a little tangy, a little unpredictable. Vinegar is attracted to oil because he’s suave and even-tempered; reasonable, reliable and loyal. They make each other laugh. They make each other happy.

Oil and vinegar can spend hours, days, even months together in the same jar, frolicking and boozing, laughing and dancing, kissing and sleeping, but at the end of the day, they don’t [yet] cohabitate. As the boisterous entertainment and infatuation settles, their weighted masses bifurcate; their needs are divergent. At which point they realize they’re not ‘really’ a salad dressing, but just the main ingredients feigning.

What happens now is up to the oil and the vinegar...