A Very Interesting Day

The first half of the day was dandy: my fabulous gay friend (not my gay husband or gay mistress), my deceptively innocent friend and I laid out by the volleyball courts and watched half naked sweaty men roll in the sand while we soaked up some sun. And that was lovely. Afterwards, as practice for traveling abroad, I took a siesta, spent some time with the boy when he got home from teaching, got pretty.

I went for a girls night organized by someone who I suspect is very much me on 90% of levels. We went for hibachi, which was good. A girl there just got engaged, which is cute, but my mind automatically shuts off if the story includes the words “candles,” “beach” or “Mexico.” So I continued to look in her general direction, but right over her head at the Playoffs game. [can you believe the Sixers ebbed out another close win?!?]

After hibachi we went to Capogiro, which is in my top 5 favorite places in the city. Flavor selection was at an all time high: cucumber, thai iced tea, champagne mango, dark and stormy, rosemary honey goat milk, single malt scotch, sea salt, AND orange and cardamom?? Half the ladies had to leave and the other hung out on the street corner watching a couple across the street play an accordion and a ukulele.


We crossed the street to hear better, and a man in a top hat, vest and old fashioned goggles herded us to the upstairs of a used book store for “the show.” Now, not knowing what kind of show this is, minds went reeling. Maybe it’s a Vanilla Sky-esque masked swingers club. Or maybe it’s storytelling or a sacrificial hog offering. There were a couple general misfits in folding chairs, but a stage with some familiar instruments likely ruled out anything with nudity. Damn.

Then a very creepy man in a purple and yellow swirled overcoat with not a hair on his head offered us absinthe and heroin. We took the absinthe, and got silly in our seats listening to the accordion and ukulele. By the end of their set, four white college girls and eight members of the societal fringe engaged in an enthusiastic sing-a-long rendition of Edith Pilaf’s “La Vie en Rose,” enhanced by the inability of everyone to clap to a beat.

This is where we bounced.

Outside, I handed off one friend to a gentleman waiting and two other girls and I headed to the
subway so I could go to the Drexel Sierra Club Drinks Day, which is just a way of saying that the head hippies are having a party. I was heckled the entire three blocks from 40th St. Station to my friends place. A fine young gentleman and his clique told me I was a turkey, which I looked up this morning on urbandictionary. Neither option is flattering but I think he meant this definition:
turkey (noun): The opposite of virgin for a girl, because they have "received a stuffing"

and probably not these definitions:

(noun) a loser; an uncoordinated, inept, clumsy fool
(noun) a tool; a person who is not in with current culture and slang or is just generally uncool.
This slang usage of the word "turkey" was mostly used during the late 60's and 70's by urban-dwelling blacks.


(noun) a country that's incredibly fun to be in because it's not quite European, but not quite Asian either.

So whatever. I get there. I have a Lionshead, sing a little happy birthday to our gracious host. Then shots ring out, which shots are wont to do in West Philadelphia. Within five minutes of my arrival, there are helicopters with search lights scanning the area and the sirens of cop cars are so loud, I can’t hear the person next to me. Yet beer pong continues.

Looking through the rickety fence that encloses the tiny backyard, that gives a false sense of security, we see hundreds of people pour into the streets. Four kids sprint past. The man next door leans his head out the window and tells us that someone has been shot. People yell. Glass shatters. Car horns are going off everywhere.

We watch from the roof as cop cars try to herd people away. Sunshiny Hippy and I make the poor decision to go outside to see what’s going on. [I know as soon as the boy reads this, I will get a talkin to] So after asking “hey, what’s going on?” and getting “Imma tryna get cho numba is whats goin on” as an answer, a classy broad of perhaps nineteen tells me what happened.

(Translated) Two high school kids got in a fight, one pulled out a piece and fatally shot the other, and then the cops came and beat people up, thusly prompting the crowds.

Plans for walking back with a couple of the other ladies and risking harassment, kidnapping, rape, gun wounds, knife wounds, etc. were quickly reevaluated. I could wait for someone to sober, but that would take time and really, game over, I just want to go back to my white bread dorm room and finish off the Yuengling in my fridge and watch “Tough Love.”

The boy, bless his soul, was quite concerned and came and picked me up. Traffic, of course, wasn’t moving, but he persisted while I perspired. Meanwhile, the party people were doing “shots for shots,” which means they are significantly more badass than me. I just talk a good game.

When back to my comfortable existence, I curled up on the boy’s bed, ate a pb+j with gourmet blueberry jelly and watched as Aviola took the hot seat because she didn’t take the “Cute or Crazy” game show well.

Also, during this debacle I was utilizing the popular micro-publishing site, Twitter. Within ten seconds of posting that shots were fired, I got four texts asking me if I was okay. This tells me that if I happened to be kidnapped and I could make one phone call, I’m texting Twitter.



I think the world is ending. I don’t much read the news unless it pops up on digg or google, but in the last week I’ve heard that pirates are now a considerable threat. Pirates. Next, we should worry about a plague of ninjas and saber-toothed tigers.

Then I heard someone tapped into the US electrical grid and installed software. I don’t even know how this happens, logistically.

And now, I’ve read that Phil Spector has been convicted of murder after over 30 hours of deliberation. This man has been dead for what looks like a decade.


Fabulous Yacht of Fashion...of Love

While watching VH1, aka the “Broken People Channel,” I have often said that I would be a shoe-in on any of the dating shit shows we like watching. I think this because I’m not an idiot, I think I’m at least moderately attractive and I can make pancakes, hook up a sound stage, and hurdle floating beds, at the same time. A dream I had last night, however, tests my confidence:

I’m on a helicopter with 8 glittery-titted sluts. Seth Rogan is flying, which would be terrifying if this were real life, and the challenge is to jump from the helicopter onto a yacht, sponsored by Tresseme Professional Hair Care Products. After the jump, we swim to the yacht and get our next challenge. And remember- tonight is elimination!

So in walks our Ray J/Bret Michaels/Bachelor, Marc Jacobs, who I have never even seen a picture of, but in this dream, he is strikingly handsome and wearing a kilt (since that’s springs must-have piece for men). Seth Rogan stays on as his Brandy who will obviously hand out passes or something tonight at elimination.

In the library (as if my competition could read), we are presented our challenge: to pretend we’re schoolgirls and present our best argument to get out of detention. Of course, we all interpret ‘schoolgirl’ as if it’s Halloween. And while other girls writhe on the floor sans panties in a puddle of bisexual tequila, I try to impress Marc Jacobs by balancing a stack of books on my head and reciting the Obama inaugural address. I feel this is a better strategy than trashing my competitors because Becky “Buckwild” has already shanked two other chicks and I may be next.

We don’t find out who won the challenge yet, because there needs to be the prerequisite solo date. On our date, Marc Jacobs and I sit in a hot tub surrounded by tubs of cool whip, which Seth Rogan is somewhere salivating over. Marc told me that he thought my ass looked immaculate in my skirt, and I look at him quite plainly and say, “aren’t you gay?”

He replies, “uh, I’m an American fashion legend. Of course, I’m gay. I’m fucking fabulous.”

And then we make out, I wake up, and eat copious amounts of candy in celebration of the resurrection of Christ.


Cotton Undies

I only date long-term, as in preferably at least one academic year. Over fancy cocktails, a friend asked me why this is. Like I’m young and not getting younger so I might as well not waste the pretty, right? To my friend, I offered this explanation:

1. Dating is hard.
Using my collegiate career in marketing and studies by Reinartz and Kumar, I have learned that it is less strenuous to retain a significant other than it is to prospect for new ones. When my immediate networks were getting a little threadbare in the attractive mate section, I played with okcupid for a tiddle and found that to be a momentous disaster, fraught with Jeff Goldblum lookalikes and not-really-lesbian lesbians. And then when you find someone who you’re initially attracted to, you have the awkward task of figuring out what’s wrong with them.

2. Dating is expensive.

Date Night, 6 mo.
Bottle of wine…. $11
Indian Takeout… $30
HGTV marathon… FREE
Sweatpants… FREE
TOTAL: $41

Date Night, first week
Glass of wine x 4…$32
Dinner out…$65
New Date Outfit…$60
TOTAL: $168

3. Long-term means low maintenance.
I remember the first time my magnificent other told me I had a visible booger, and then got it for me. There’s a lot less self-consciousness as time goes on. You learn to pee with the door open. Drama is significantly reduced and less brain space can be devoted fretting on where he is at any given second.

4. It keeps bad guys at bay.
Having a steady beau means never having to make excuses for not spending time with other guys you have no desire to see. For instance, I have a gentleman in my life that has requested to be first on the list when I’m single. If I’m not ever single, then I won’t have to be straightforward and say “actually, I’m not interested in you outside of bubble tea and literary discussions.” In the meantime, we can have a lovely time discussing Salinger, during the daytime, in public.

5. I have a surplus of cotton undies.
Personally, I think plain white cotton undies are pretty sexy in an understated way, but I understand that many men would disagree. I would estimate that 90% of my underwear collection is cotton-based, meaning my limited arsenal of pretty, lacy, frilly, impractical underwear largely inhibits frequent flings. Because the opposite is true of my little sister’s panty assemblage, I can deduce that more than one young lad has seen her britches in the last couple of months.

6. It feels fuzzy.
Best friend you can make out with? Awesome.