Yesterday when I heard that President Bush is in Bratislava, Slovakia for the U.S.-Russian summit I couldn't help but laugh and remember my own ill-fated trip to Bratislava several years ago.
I was one of those girls who grew up believing in true love. I was certain that I would fall in love once with a great man and stick with him forever. I even saved myself for him when all the other girls in the trailer park were putting out in exchagne for bottles of Boone's Farm.
The luckiest man on earth back in 1991 turned out to be Rob. He was an officer in my unit in the Navy. He was from Texas, tall, southern accent, smooth talker, and both protective and patient with my innocence (if he could see me now!). He was my first love, my first everything, and for a couple of years life was perfect. Both in the Navy, fraternizing, christening Navy property all over the world, and living it up. He would call me and tell me to go to the airport to a ticket office, I wouldn't know where I was going until I got to the counter, and we would meet in some place I'd never been. We would travel somewhere nearly every weekend - to Paris, to the U.S., to Germany, Maui, you name it. Life was exciting and passionate.
Then I got out of the military and headed to college in another state. As happens when people are passionate, possessive and jealous thoughts consumed Rob. He called several times a day and questioned my whereabouts. This led to an ugly but passionate break-up that left me in the more advanced stages of first love heartbreak and him married to his high school sweetheart as an act of retaliation. He actually sent me a wedding invitation with a plane ticket and a note that said "If you show up I won't marry her". I sent the note and plane ticket to her. A gal should know what she's getting into, right? The wedding took place anyhow.
We all know I eventually moved on. I compared every man I met for the next couple of years to Rob and once I found out the unlucky soul wasn't a clone of Rob it was over. Rob would call me about every three months to chat and that would throw me into "What could have been" mode. You know the mode.
Then, one evening in the summer of 1995, the phone rang. It was Rob, he was in Europe working on a project for the State Department and needed to keep the conversation short. He said he had just three questions for me: 1. "Are you still single?", 2. "Do you have any vacation time?", and 3. "Do you want to meet me in Slovakia for a week or two?" Yes, yes and yes. Three weeks later I was on a plane to Slovakia to spend 10 days with Rob. I was so excited to see Rob again and all I could remember was how perfect he was for me, how great life had been.
Upon arrival, I primped in the bathroom to make sure I would look good before exiting the plane. I wanted everything to be just like old times. My haert was racing as I walked down the hall to baggage claim. Then I saw Rob. He had apparantly exchanged half his hair for a pot belly and a pair of highwaters. He came up to me and wrapped his clumsy arms around me and tried to kiss me. This was not the man I remembered from years gone by. Once I recovered from the initial shock and disappointment some signs of the old Rob began to emerge and I decided to just make the best I could out of the trip.
As soon as we got back to the hotel Rob was all over me. I was having trouble mustering any inkling of passion for him so I relied on pity and found the strength to go on. Besides, if I remembered correctly, he was the best lover ever.
Two hours later I found myself lying on my back, two mattress springs sticking into my arse, staring at a water stain on the ceiling of room 216 of the Hotel Bratislava (it didn't have the 'Topless Nightclub Paradise' back then) as Rob huskily whispered obscenities laced with a twinge of Texas accent in my ear while pumping away with his devastatingly small penis. Thank goodness it was over in a few minutes when he whooped and hollered and acted as if the Longhorns had just won the Fiesta Bowl prior to collapsing into a deep sleep.
The next morning, I feigned soreness after the previous night's activities, shared a room service breakfast of sardines and dumplings (traditional Slovakian fare) with Rob and kissed him goodbye as he went to work for a few hours. As soon as I saw him leave the building, I snuck off to the train station and caught the express to Vienna - somewhere I's always wanted to go and that I knew I could find little sausages much more satisfying than Rob's. To this day I still smile and remember the loss of the illusion of the perfect man whenever I see a Vienna sausage.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Thursday, February 17, 2005
This is Your Life - Oak View Style
This morning I was running late to work. As is usually the case when running late, the car was running on empty so I pulled in to the local gas station in Oak View to fill up. Naturally, the machine at the pump was out of order so I actually had to go into the station to pay at the register. Sometimes I forget how little human interaction is required in our society these days. Must be why we are all so conscientious...
A turquoise Pontiac Grand Prix, circa mid-90's, had arrived at the same time as me. A young man, about 25-28, with slicked-back hair and a moustache, wearing baggy pants and a big Raiders jacket got out of the passenger seat, walked around the parking area for a minute, then approached the gas station store. He arrived at the door about two nanoseconds before me and rushed in. Nevermind that he didn't bother with holding the door - a girl never expects that anymore. Not pulling it closed would have been a nice gesture, though. Thank you women's rights activists.
Anyhow, the guy came in to inquire about the Help Wanted signs in the parking lot. He was polite to the clerk saying, "excuse me" and "sir" but there was something off about him. He was one of those white guys who talks like a street guy/gang member, saying "man", "aaahreyt" and "I see how it is". He even walked with an interesting gait, like he had a limp or something. Perhaps he had been shot in the gang wars of Oak View? I, of course, just wanted to slap my $20 down and get back to the pump. But the guy kept talking to the clerk. The clerk, who didn't speak English well - or more likely was pretending not to speak English to get rid of this guy, told him to come back after 2pm when the manager was there. It was clear to me that he didn't know anything about the job opening and the boss would be back after 2 pm. The white guy was getting impatient and wanted an application and continued to press the clerk for information on the job - What shift was it for? Hourly rate? Do employees get discounts on Olde English? After a few minutes he gave up and walked away. I paid the clerk and went out to pump.
As I was at the pump the white guy was leaning against the hood of the Pontiac complaining about never getting a fair chance and discrimination and f***ing Mexicans getting all the good jobs, and how that guy inside couldn't even speak English, yada, yada, yada. I wonder how many people think being a clerk at the local Thrifty Gas is good job, one to aspire to and feel cheated about not getting.
Someone was responding to his complaints, a female. Curious about what sort of woman this guy could attract, I looked over to see who he was with...I hadn't even turned my head when I heard, "It's alright honey, we'll find you something." He replied, "I know mom", then took another drag on his cigarette.
A turquoise Pontiac Grand Prix, circa mid-90's, had arrived at the same time as me. A young man, about 25-28, with slicked-back hair and a moustache, wearing baggy pants and a big Raiders jacket got out of the passenger seat, walked around the parking area for a minute, then approached the gas station store. He arrived at the door about two nanoseconds before me and rushed in. Nevermind that he didn't bother with holding the door - a girl never expects that anymore. Not pulling it closed would have been a nice gesture, though. Thank you women's rights activists.
Anyhow, the guy came in to inquire about the Help Wanted signs in the parking lot. He was polite to the clerk saying, "excuse me" and "sir" but there was something off about him. He was one of those white guys who talks like a street guy/gang member, saying "man", "aaahreyt" and "I see how it is". He even walked with an interesting gait, like he had a limp or something. Perhaps he had been shot in the gang wars of Oak View? I, of course, just wanted to slap my $20 down and get back to the pump. But the guy kept talking to the clerk. The clerk, who didn't speak English well - or more likely was pretending not to speak English to get rid of this guy, told him to come back after 2pm when the manager was there. It was clear to me that he didn't know anything about the job opening and the boss would be back after 2 pm. The white guy was getting impatient and wanted an application and continued to press the clerk for information on the job - What shift was it for? Hourly rate? Do employees get discounts on Olde English? After a few minutes he gave up and walked away. I paid the clerk and went out to pump.
As I was at the pump the white guy was leaning against the hood of the Pontiac complaining about never getting a fair chance and discrimination and f***ing Mexicans getting all the good jobs, and how that guy inside couldn't even speak English, yada, yada, yada. I wonder how many people think being a clerk at the local Thrifty Gas is good job, one to aspire to and feel cheated about not getting.
Someone was responding to his complaints, a female. Curious about what sort of woman this guy could attract, I looked over to see who he was with...I hadn't even turned my head when I heard, "It's alright honey, we'll find you something." He replied, "I know mom", then took another drag on his cigarette.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Mardi Gras - Santa Barbara Style
I spent Saturday running around downtown Santa Barbara in a red feather boa, bustier, mini skirt, garters, stockings, and feathered mask. It was the Santa Barbara Hash House Harriers' seventh annual Mardi Gras event.
I am usually enthusiastic about these events but for some reason I just never got into the spirit of things this year. It may have something to do with my recent bout with sobriety. Nevertheless I reluctantly spent Friday evening at the mall looking for an adequate costume to fit the theme of "red and raunchy". At least it is Valentine season so there was plenty of red to choose from in the lingerie departments. In fact, there was almost too much to choose from because, yes, you can have too much red lingerie. Besides, I am a bit averse to red lingerie ever since A, of Catwoman fame (July 2004 archives), asked me to don one particular outfit so many years back. In the end I found something sufficiently trashy yet subtly innocent. Okay, maybe not innocent, but the theme was red and raunchy...
So there I was, sitting in a bar, looking like I ought to be in a saloon with rooms rented by the hour, somewhat sober, watching the events unfold, when I noticed something terrible happening...People were giving out beads left and right and no one was flashing!!! What self-respecting Mardi Gras participant would ever give up a set of beads without seeing some flesh? What is the point of calling something Mardi Gras if you aren't going to keep with the tradition? I was greatly disturbed and disappointed in those folks - especially the ones constantly begging for a flash without reason or beads. This was their opportunity to ask without seeming so lurid. I am, however, proud to say that I earned the one set of beads I coveted most - the set of little pink bunnies - by doing a half-flash (that would amount to one breast) for a recently engaged, highly intoxicated man. The benefit of this bargain for me was 1. The bunny beads, 2. He was too drunk to remember, and 3. He'd never tell even if he did remember because his fiancee would probably kill him. I also learned it's tough to properly flash while constrained in a bustier.
One of the highlights was watching the games along the way. As I was sober I was not participating. One stop had folks, including my good friend S, giving and receiving Jello body shots. Poor S was attempting to hold her Jello shot between her two enhanced breasts when it slipped and ran down her body and skirt. Luckily, M was at the ready and promptly cleaned up the mess with his tongue. Naturally, someone was standing by with a camera so that S's kids can have a nice vision of their mother with a large man in lingerie shoving his head between her legs...
And then there was something to do with holding a banana between your thighs, pouring chocolate on it, and having a contest of who could eat the banana fastest. I don't know who won that one but do recall that I thought it odd the women had the bananas between their thighs and the men were the ones swallowing...That scenario coincides with the noticeable number of men wearing women's lingerie and dresses. This event did not require, nor even suggest that the men should wear women's attire. I always take note of those men than seem to enjoy wearing women's clothing when not required. I'm not sure what it really says about them but I am sure it means something is amiss and when the police come knocking, I will have the list ready.
Yet another vision that will take years of therapy to put past me is that of one man from San Diego. He was wearing a red satin g-string with a vest, chaps and a cowboy hat. What struck me about the costume, other than the obvious, was the fact that he was a hairy man. His legs and back were hairy. Funny thing was that he had clearly shaved his butt, only his butt. It made for an odd sight because he looked kind of like a little orangutan in a cowboy suit. I didn't ask the method to his madness...why bother shaving just the cheeks? Why not do all or nothing?
In the end it was a rare occassion for me not because of the antics and events, rather because I remembered everything I did, which was nothing too out-of-control, remembered what my friends did, which was a bit out-of-control, and felt fine the morning after. I hope this doesn't mean I am growing up.
I am usually enthusiastic about these events but for some reason I just never got into the spirit of things this year. It may have something to do with my recent bout with sobriety. Nevertheless I reluctantly spent Friday evening at the mall looking for an adequate costume to fit the theme of "red and raunchy". At least it is Valentine season so there was plenty of red to choose from in the lingerie departments. In fact, there was almost too much to choose from because, yes, you can have too much red lingerie. Besides, I am a bit averse to red lingerie ever since A, of Catwoman fame (July 2004 archives), asked me to don one particular outfit so many years back. In the end I found something sufficiently trashy yet subtly innocent. Okay, maybe not innocent, but the theme was red and raunchy...
So there I was, sitting in a bar, looking like I ought to be in a saloon with rooms rented by the hour, somewhat sober, watching the events unfold, when I noticed something terrible happening...People were giving out beads left and right and no one was flashing!!! What self-respecting Mardi Gras participant would ever give up a set of beads without seeing some flesh? What is the point of calling something Mardi Gras if you aren't going to keep with the tradition? I was greatly disturbed and disappointed in those folks - especially the ones constantly begging for a flash without reason or beads. This was their opportunity to ask without seeming so lurid. I am, however, proud to say that I earned the one set of beads I coveted most - the set of little pink bunnies - by doing a half-flash (that would amount to one breast) for a recently engaged, highly intoxicated man. The benefit of this bargain for me was 1. The bunny beads, 2. He was too drunk to remember, and 3. He'd never tell even if he did remember because his fiancee would probably kill him. I also learned it's tough to properly flash while constrained in a bustier.
One of the highlights was watching the games along the way. As I was sober I was not participating. One stop had folks, including my good friend S, giving and receiving Jello body shots. Poor S was attempting to hold her Jello shot between her two enhanced breasts when it slipped and ran down her body and skirt. Luckily, M was at the ready and promptly cleaned up the mess with his tongue. Naturally, someone was standing by with a camera so that S's kids can have a nice vision of their mother with a large man in lingerie shoving his head between her legs...
And then there was something to do with holding a banana between your thighs, pouring chocolate on it, and having a contest of who could eat the banana fastest. I don't know who won that one but do recall that I thought it odd the women had the bananas between their thighs and the men were the ones swallowing...That scenario coincides with the noticeable number of men wearing women's lingerie and dresses. This event did not require, nor even suggest that the men should wear women's attire. I always take note of those men than seem to enjoy wearing women's clothing when not required. I'm not sure what it really says about them but I am sure it means something is amiss and when the police come knocking, I will have the list ready.
Yet another vision that will take years of therapy to put past me is that of one man from San Diego. He was wearing a red satin g-string with a vest, chaps and a cowboy hat. What struck me about the costume, other than the obvious, was the fact that he was a hairy man. His legs and back were hairy. Funny thing was that he had clearly shaved his butt, only his butt. It made for an odd sight because he looked kind of like a little orangutan in a cowboy suit. I didn't ask the method to his madness...why bother shaving just the cheeks? Why not do all or nothing?
In the end it was a rare occassion for me not because of the antics and events, rather because I remembered everything I did, which was nothing too out-of-control, remembered what my friends did, which was a bit out-of-control, and felt fine the morning after. I hope this doesn't mean I am growing up.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Ethics and Rabbit Ears
Thursday night I found myself at the sight of my junior prom surrounded by 80 suited up lawyers and judges grazing at a buffet table under the guise of garnering continuing education credits. No, it wasn't another wild dream, I was a guest at the local Inns of Court meeting.
Inns of Court is basically a group of lawyers and judges who meet once a month and put on skits mocking unethical behavior among lawyers. Art does, after all, imitate life. Oh, and if you join the Inns of Court you get required education credits relating to ethics. I bet you didn't know they require lawyers to continue to take ethics courses throughout their careers. That's because so many lawyers are afflicted with ethics amnesia. Yes, it is amusing. Actually, the group seems like fun and is yet another way to "network" - something I am learning lawyers also must do, even though it's nowhere in the Cartel membership handbook.
Anyhow, B had been hounding me to attend for months and Survivor doesn't start until next Thursday, so I figured "what the heck?" I hoped it would shed some light into the elusive lives of America's most beloved professionals. After all, what do those rich lawyers do with their free time? More importantly, a certain judge that I have a crush on is in the group and I wanted to go harass him a bit. So I met B after work and we carpooled over.
On the drive to the meeting B and I were discussing the crush and made a bet. She bet that the crush would give me a hug when he saw me. I said no way. Her theory was that he likes me and he gives everyone a hug at the meetings so I would most certainly get one. I put my money on the fact that he likes me in the sixth-grade-playground-boy-girl kind of way so he wouldn't dare touch me. In fact, I went so far as to predict some sort of childlike behavior such as a punch in the arm or a wet willy (not that kind!). Hands were shaken and the bet was on.
Upon arrival I headed to the 'new-lawyers-sign-here' desk. I didn't notice the object of my affections but he saw me. Indeed, he approached and said hello. As we stood next to eachother in front of B chatting, I saw his hand come up as if to embrace me. I thought "Oh no! B was right and I am going to lose the bet!" Just as I was considering that a hug from a crush might be more of a win than a loss, I realized he was merely giving me some rabbit ears by placing his hand with two fingers extended behind my head - just like in sixth grade.
The incident reminded me how fun it is to have a crush, a nice, innocuous, never-going-to-go-anywhere-but-still-great-to-see-you-and-oh-here-are-some-rabbit-ears-ha-ha-aren't-we-silly kind of crush. Oh yeah, and B owes me dinner.
Inns of Court is basically a group of lawyers and judges who meet once a month and put on skits mocking unethical behavior among lawyers. Art does, after all, imitate life. Oh, and if you join the Inns of Court you get required education credits relating to ethics. I bet you didn't know they require lawyers to continue to take ethics courses throughout their careers. That's because so many lawyers are afflicted with ethics amnesia. Yes, it is amusing. Actually, the group seems like fun and is yet another way to "network" - something I am learning lawyers also must do, even though it's nowhere in the Cartel membership handbook.
Anyhow, B had been hounding me to attend for months and Survivor doesn't start until next Thursday, so I figured "what the heck?" I hoped it would shed some light into the elusive lives of America's most beloved professionals. After all, what do those rich lawyers do with their free time? More importantly, a certain judge that I have a crush on is in the group and I wanted to go harass him a bit. So I met B after work and we carpooled over.
On the drive to the meeting B and I were discussing the crush and made a bet. She bet that the crush would give me a hug when he saw me. I said no way. Her theory was that he likes me and he gives everyone a hug at the meetings so I would most certainly get one. I put my money on the fact that he likes me in the sixth-grade-playground-boy-girl kind of way so he wouldn't dare touch me. In fact, I went so far as to predict some sort of childlike behavior such as a punch in the arm or a wet willy (not that kind!). Hands were shaken and the bet was on.
Upon arrival I headed to the 'new-lawyers-sign-here' desk. I didn't notice the object of my affections but he saw me. Indeed, he approached and said hello. As we stood next to eachother in front of B chatting, I saw his hand come up as if to embrace me. I thought "Oh no! B was right and I am going to lose the bet!" Just as I was considering that a hug from a crush might be more of a win than a loss, I realized he was merely giving me some rabbit ears by placing his hand with two fingers extended behind my head - just like in sixth grade.
The incident reminded me how fun it is to have a crush, a nice, innocuous, never-going-to-go-anywhere-but-still-great-to-see-you-and-oh-here-are-some-rabbit-ears-ha-ha-aren't-we-silly kind of crush. Oh yeah, and B owes me dinner.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Would you stop for a girl with a big strap-on?
I don't know what is more surprising about today: the fact the CalTrans was doing work on my road, or the fact that I was doing work in my yard.
Wednesday is normally my day off and today I was at home attempting to regain control of the yard. It's a big yard. Over the past six or seven years I have gone through three lawn mowers and four or five weed whackers. This year I decided to get an industrial strength 4-cycle, needs-a-harness-to-handle-it, brushcutter/weed whacker super deluxe. I should have known better. It only weighs about 35 lbs. and it has a shoulder strap and all that, but it is almost too much for me to handle (keep in mind that I would never admit to anything being too much for me to handle).
So today I strapped the monstrosity on and began whacking away. That sounds more fun than it really is, but keep your mind in that place if it is happier there. I must have been quite a site because someone from CalTrans (highway department) actually stopped to make sure I was okay. I can't imagine what I looked like - all 5'5" of me wielding a 6 foot pole with a motor on one end and a brushcutter on the other. And the whole time those useless goats of mine were just laughing at me. You see, I have the only two goats on the planet that won't eat grass. Actually, it turns out they like cut grass - kind of like people who like sandwiches without the crust. Ridiculous.
All that whacking got me thinking about hiring a gardener. Last year I broke down and hired a pool man because his son works out at my gym and they gave me a heck of a deal. And I absolutely hate cleaning the pool in the off-season. It's like having a convertible in Seattle, you don't want to deal with it unless the weather is perfect and you can play with it. I can justify the pool man, but a gardener? It seems so bourgeois to me. California is full of people who pay other people to do everything for them. I love how people in tract housing communities pay gardeners $200 a month to mow and weed a 10 foot swath of plugged lawn that turns your feet green when you walk on it barefoot. I think those folks just like saying, "My gardener was at the house last week and left the hose off the reel. That darned Juan, I had to go out there and reel it up myself. I don't know what I'm paying him for." Funny, neither do I.
Next time I'll try have some cold beer ready for the CalTrans guys. They are always on break anyhow.
Wednesday is normally my day off and today I was at home attempting to regain control of the yard. It's a big yard. Over the past six or seven years I have gone through three lawn mowers and four or five weed whackers. This year I decided to get an industrial strength 4-cycle, needs-a-harness-to-handle-it, brushcutter/weed whacker super deluxe. I should have known better. It only weighs about 35 lbs. and it has a shoulder strap and all that, but it is almost too much for me to handle (keep in mind that I would never admit to anything being too much for me to handle).
So today I strapped the monstrosity on and began whacking away. That sounds more fun than it really is, but keep your mind in that place if it is happier there. I must have been quite a site because someone from CalTrans (highway department) actually stopped to make sure I was okay. I can't imagine what I looked like - all 5'5" of me wielding a 6 foot pole with a motor on one end and a brushcutter on the other. And the whole time those useless goats of mine were just laughing at me. You see, I have the only two goats on the planet that won't eat grass. Actually, it turns out they like cut grass - kind of like people who like sandwiches without the crust. Ridiculous.
All that whacking got me thinking about hiring a gardener. Last year I broke down and hired a pool man because his son works out at my gym and they gave me a heck of a deal. And I absolutely hate cleaning the pool in the off-season. It's like having a convertible in Seattle, you don't want to deal with it unless the weather is perfect and you can play with it. I can justify the pool man, but a gardener? It seems so bourgeois to me. California is full of people who pay other people to do everything for them. I love how people in tract housing communities pay gardeners $200 a month to mow and weed a 10 foot swath of plugged lawn that turns your feet green when you walk on it barefoot. I think those folks just like saying, "My gardener was at the house last week and left the hose off the reel. That darned Juan, I had to go out there and reel it up myself. I don't know what I'm paying him for." Funny, neither do I.
Next time I'll try have some cold beer ready for the CalTrans guys. They are always on break anyhow.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Yes, but is he really a Scotsman?
If he is, he'll claim Glasgow is the be-all, end-all city of the land of Lochness. I'm partial to Edinburgh but I'm just a yankee gal who is easily impressed by castles and palaces and numerous pubs in between, including the World's End pub (site of the famous World's End Murders.
What is all this gibberish about? Why it's Next Blog Tuesday! Where else would I find all this Scottish inspiration than at Up Yer Kilt, today's Next Blog.
Up Yer Kilt is chock-full of Scots words, which look like gibberish to me. Fortunately, the author provides a link to a dictionary for translation purposes. Unfortunately, I was too lazy to look them up. I was, however, able to piece together than one of his posts involved "a fair bulk o a man" in boxer shorts on his porch with police in the wee hours o tha morn. Sounded interesting but not interesting enough to continue.
The best part of the blog? No sheep being taken advantage of. Second best? The "Things to Do in Boring Office Meetings" post. This one was in English (cut and pasted from a Yank site, no doubt). My favorites included: "Bring a hug jar of Vaseline to the meeting. Display it prominently", and "Bring an doughnut cushion to sit on", and having a poor looking young woman with a baby interrupt the meeting, stare at the speaker, then cry and leave. Good stuff. Do they even work in Scotland? I thought all the did was wear kilts, drink beer and eat haggis.
I did realize there is a word for me in Scottish: gash-gabbit. Look it up.
All this Scottish stuff reminded me of my time in England when I would take the bus up to Edinburgh to meet my Scottish crush, Ian King. When I met Ian he was in the Royal Navy and we were working on a joint task force project outside of London together. I was a wee 18 and living it up after the Gulf War (part 1). By the time I left England, Ian was unemployed, lived with his parents and smoked like a chimney. I called him "Nosmo". Get it? Nosmo King? Yes, I've always been like this. I can't remember what I liked about him other than hanging out at the pub together until one of us fell off our barstool or he was asked to leave. And his mother's stinky couch that I slept on in Edinburgh (I was still innocent back then). Oh, and hiking up to the top of some hill in the dark when it was freezing one night where Ian began singing then fell over and rolled down about twenty feet. One thing about Ian: I never saw him wear a kilt.
What is all this gibberish about? Why it's Next Blog Tuesday! Where else would I find all this Scottish inspiration than at Up Yer Kilt, today's Next Blog.
Up Yer Kilt is chock-full of Scots words, which look like gibberish to me. Fortunately, the author provides a link to a dictionary for translation purposes. Unfortunately, I was too lazy to look them up. I was, however, able to piece together than one of his posts involved "a fair bulk o a man" in boxer shorts on his porch with police in the wee hours o tha morn. Sounded interesting but not interesting enough to continue.
The best part of the blog? No sheep being taken advantage of. Second best? The "Things to Do in Boring Office Meetings" post. This one was in English (cut and pasted from a Yank site, no doubt). My favorites included: "Bring a hug jar of Vaseline to the meeting. Display it prominently", and "Bring an doughnut cushion to sit on", and having a poor looking young woman with a baby interrupt the meeting, stare at the speaker, then cry and leave. Good stuff. Do they even work in Scotland? I thought all the did was wear kilts, drink beer and eat haggis.
I did realize there is a word for me in Scottish: gash-gabbit. Look it up.
All this Scottish stuff reminded me of my time in England when I would take the bus up to Edinburgh to meet my Scottish crush, Ian King. When I met Ian he was in the Royal Navy and we were working on a joint task force project outside of London together. I was a wee 18 and living it up after the Gulf War (part 1). By the time I left England, Ian was unemployed, lived with his parents and smoked like a chimney. I called him "Nosmo". Get it? Nosmo King? Yes, I've always been like this. I can't remember what I liked about him other than hanging out at the pub together until one of us fell off our barstool or he was asked to leave. And his mother's stinky couch that I slept on in Edinburgh (I was still innocent back then). Oh, and hiking up to the top of some hill in the dark when it was freezing one night where Ian began singing then fell over and rolled down about twenty feet. One thing about Ian: I never saw him wear a kilt.
Hurry up and date.
As promised, last Thursday L and I attended the free speed dating promotion being put on by Ventura County Fast Dating at the local brewery. My intent was to go and observe the madness whilst smugly snickering behind a pint of ale. As you may have guessed, I soon became one of the snickerees. No sooner had I grabbed a pint than I was wearing a name tag and assigned a table. How I get myself into these things is beyond me but it was good to get L out and conversing with men other than relatives and neighbors.
Keep in mind that this promotion was advertised on country radio and open to the public. Add to that the fact that it took place at a brewery and you are certain to get a good mix of freaks. And then there was the fact that the people putting it on were grabbing anyone and everyone off the streets and you can imagine the dating pool.
As soon as they had wrangled in and branded nine men and nine women, including yours truly, they laid out the ground rules. Everyone was numbered. The tables were numbered. Ladies would stay at the table corresponding with their respective number while the men started at the table with their number then moved to the next table in proper order. It was so refreshing to meet a man I knew would be moving on to the next woman. Each man would spend three minutes at each table. When the three minutes were up a whistle would be blown and the musical chairs would begin. We were given charts to fill out and check "yes" or "no" if we were interested in someone as a match, or just as a friend, or not at all. There was also a space for notes. The service would notify mutual matches and exchange e-mail addresses between us. If you checked yes and the other person checked no, they send the nay-sayer your information and leave it to him or her as to whether or not to contact you. Sounds simple enough, right?
Round 1 found me a table #1 with Aaron, a 60-something married man who was there for his birthday dinner with his wife and friends. They signed him up as a joke and were conveniently seated adjacent to my table making comments like the two guys in the balcony during The Muppet Show. This allowed them to monitor my entire procession and give me advice in between victims. In the end they determined that I was best suited for their son in Colorado, even asked for my number. Really folks, are they that desparate there too?
Next up was Mike, a guy in a Harley Davidson shirt with flames on it. I immediately told him he looked hot. I'm not sure he got it and he did end up marking me as a match. Give a guy a compliment and he's all yours. Actually, he was nice and reminded me of one of my brother's friends. He said I looked familiar but had never been to China so I don't know where he knew me from. I do tend to get around.
After Mike there were two young boys, both very cute but too young for me. They had been roped in by the hostesses. Next was Gary, a mentally challenged man with a dog named Booger. I'm not kidding about the challenged part. His mom had dropped him off to get some social interaction. Not surprisingly, his conversation was more interesting than some of the other guys. The rest in round one were nondescript middle-aged guys either recently separated or recently divorced. None asked me many questions about who I am or what I like but that's just self-centered me wanting all the attention again. The last guy however, Greg, sat down and grabbed my hands and said he thought I was beautiful and wonderful and knew we were destined to be together from the moment he saw me and that he loved me. I asked if he wanted to know my name or anything and he said he wasn't interested. Then he told me he was rich and would buy me a car. I've got to give him credit - he only had three minutes to work and definitely laid out his intentions. He was later seen making out with a blond who had grabbed her boobs and proclaimed something at the start of Round 3. So much for spending our lives together.
I stayed for Round 2 because, well, it was fun and L said she wanted to stay, and what the heck?
Round 2 had a few of the same folks as round 1: Mike and Gary. It also had Trevor, who I found to be a bit strange. He had bandages on one hand and explained that he had tripped over the tv cord and fallen into a window. All the while he was talking to me he was doing some sort of odd simple-man's flirt with the lady at the table next to me. I offered to switch seats lest they have a true connection but she seemed horrified at the thought of it. I later learned from L that Trevor was a product of the foster care system. How she learned that in three minutes is beyond me.
Round 2 looked primising when I saw Phil, a nice, clean cut mid-30's guy who promptly used the entire three minutes to give me his resume. At the end I merely asked what position he was applying for. He seemed perplexed. Amazingly, he checked me as a match. I must have seemed intriguing and mysterious. Also in Round 2 was Rodger, a tall, good-looking Aussie. I knew he was trouble when he proclaimed that he came to the brewery so often that he had his own personalized mug with something about a kangaroo on it. I'm always suspicious of men who are into marsupials. Something about the pouch. He also knew way too much about kangaroo sex. Really, who even ponders kangaroo sex? Oh yeah, Australians...
After Round 2 I attempted to sit down with L and PDM (formerly MM), who had shown up and been roped in to Round 2 by the event hostesses. They were seated at a table and I was about to sit down with the hostesses told me they needed one more lady. I hesitated then sat down for another round, there were only 8 people in this round, four of whom I had met. Round 3 saw Rodger, Phil, Gary, and Trevor again. And some other little Navy guy with a very disturbing smile who was allergic to dander. His smile looked like an angry chihuahua and frightened me. That and the fact that within three minuts he was willing to get weekly shots so he could be around my pets. I appreciated his devotion but his snarling while feigning interest in my pygmy goats was too much. There were also two guys in Round 3 that spent too much time explaining that this was their first time doing this. I knew they were lying because they were very familiar with the hostesses. One was too effeminate for my tastes, and did not know how to spell very well. Yes, I peeked at his copious notes and the editor in me, that never checks my own blog material, immediately found fault. His friend, a man unable to make eye contact and with hair like a Brillo pad, claimed to work with troubled teens. When I told him I teach the little delinquents and mentioned the program I teach through he got very defensive and said he was retired from it...Those were three of the longest long minutes of the night.
Of course, the highlight of the evening was an odoriferous and bizarre, possibly even disturbed man. He was wearing a hat and sweatshirt from Ventura College so I asked what he was studying. He said he was getting is bachelor's in SCUBA diving. I said I didn't know they had degrees in that to which he replied, "it's a special program" and then went into becoming a photographer even though he'd never owned a camera. The worst part was that my table was in a corner and someone farted while he was there. I'm not saying who, but it was bad. That, compounded by the diver's B.O. did not help the ambiance. He continued to tell me he travelled a lot. When I asked where he said Europe. Having been to Europe I inquired about where in Europe and he assumed a strange, Vincent Price voice and said Norway and Greece. That he lived there for 12 years. Yep, you guessed it, he thought I was a match too.
With that my first, and last, encounter with speed dating concluded. I had a much-needed pint and realized I had just relived in two hours what I had been trying to forget for 32 years.
Keep in mind that this promotion was advertised on country radio and open to the public. Add to that the fact that it took place at a brewery and you are certain to get a good mix of freaks. And then there was the fact that the people putting it on were grabbing anyone and everyone off the streets and you can imagine the dating pool.
As soon as they had wrangled in and branded nine men and nine women, including yours truly, they laid out the ground rules. Everyone was numbered. The tables were numbered. Ladies would stay at the table corresponding with their respective number while the men started at the table with their number then moved to the next table in proper order. It was so refreshing to meet a man I knew would be moving on to the next woman. Each man would spend three minutes at each table. When the three minutes were up a whistle would be blown and the musical chairs would begin. We were given charts to fill out and check "yes" or "no" if we were interested in someone as a match, or just as a friend, or not at all. There was also a space for notes. The service would notify mutual matches and exchange e-mail addresses between us. If you checked yes and the other person checked no, they send the nay-sayer your information and leave it to him or her as to whether or not to contact you. Sounds simple enough, right?
Round 1 found me a table #1 with Aaron, a 60-something married man who was there for his birthday dinner with his wife and friends. They signed him up as a joke and were conveniently seated adjacent to my table making comments like the two guys in the balcony during The Muppet Show. This allowed them to monitor my entire procession and give me advice in between victims. In the end they determined that I was best suited for their son in Colorado, even asked for my number. Really folks, are they that desparate there too?
Next up was Mike, a guy in a Harley Davidson shirt with flames on it. I immediately told him he looked hot. I'm not sure he got it and he did end up marking me as a match. Give a guy a compliment and he's all yours. Actually, he was nice and reminded me of one of my brother's friends. He said I looked familiar but had never been to China so I don't know where he knew me from. I do tend to get around.
After Mike there were two young boys, both very cute but too young for me. They had been roped in by the hostesses. Next was Gary, a mentally challenged man with a dog named Booger. I'm not kidding about the challenged part. His mom had dropped him off to get some social interaction. Not surprisingly, his conversation was more interesting than some of the other guys. The rest in round one were nondescript middle-aged guys either recently separated or recently divorced. None asked me many questions about who I am or what I like but that's just self-centered me wanting all the attention again. The last guy however, Greg, sat down and grabbed my hands and said he thought I was beautiful and wonderful and knew we were destined to be together from the moment he saw me and that he loved me. I asked if he wanted to know my name or anything and he said he wasn't interested. Then he told me he was rich and would buy me a car. I've got to give him credit - he only had three minutes to work and definitely laid out his intentions. He was later seen making out with a blond who had grabbed her boobs and proclaimed something at the start of Round 3. So much for spending our lives together.
I stayed for Round 2 because, well, it was fun and L said she wanted to stay, and what the heck?
Round 2 had a few of the same folks as round 1: Mike and Gary. It also had Trevor, who I found to be a bit strange. He had bandages on one hand and explained that he had tripped over the tv cord and fallen into a window. All the while he was talking to me he was doing some sort of odd simple-man's flirt with the lady at the table next to me. I offered to switch seats lest they have a true connection but she seemed horrified at the thought of it. I later learned from L that Trevor was a product of the foster care system. How she learned that in three minutes is beyond me.
Round 2 looked primising when I saw Phil, a nice, clean cut mid-30's guy who promptly used the entire three minutes to give me his resume. At the end I merely asked what position he was applying for. He seemed perplexed. Amazingly, he checked me as a match. I must have seemed intriguing and mysterious. Also in Round 2 was Rodger, a tall, good-looking Aussie. I knew he was trouble when he proclaimed that he came to the brewery so often that he had his own personalized mug with something about a kangaroo on it. I'm always suspicious of men who are into marsupials. Something about the pouch. He also knew way too much about kangaroo sex. Really, who even ponders kangaroo sex? Oh yeah, Australians...
After Round 2 I attempted to sit down with L and PDM (formerly MM), who had shown up and been roped in to Round 2 by the event hostesses. They were seated at a table and I was about to sit down with the hostesses told me they needed one more lady. I hesitated then sat down for another round, there were only 8 people in this round, four of whom I had met. Round 3 saw Rodger, Phil, Gary, and Trevor again. And some other little Navy guy with a very disturbing smile who was allergic to dander. His smile looked like an angry chihuahua and frightened me. That and the fact that within three minuts he was willing to get weekly shots so he could be around my pets. I appreciated his devotion but his snarling while feigning interest in my pygmy goats was too much. There were also two guys in Round 3 that spent too much time explaining that this was their first time doing this. I knew they were lying because they were very familiar with the hostesses. One was too effeminate for my tastes, and did not know how to spell very well. Yes, I peeked at his copious notes and the editor in me, that never checks my own blog material, immediately found fault. His friend, a man unable to make eye contact and with hair like a Brillo pad, claimed to work with troubled teens. When I told him I teach the little delinquents and mentioned the program I teach through he got very defensive and said he was retired from it...Those were three of the longest long minutes of the night.
Of course, the highlight of the evening was an odoriferous and bizarre, possibly even disturbed man. He was wearing a hat and sweatshirt from Ventura College so I asked what he was studying. He said he was getting is bachelor's in SCUBA diving. I said I didn't know they had degrees in that to which he replied, "it's a special program" and then went into becoming a photographer even though he'd never owned a camera. The worst part was that my table was in a corner and someone farted while he was there. I'm not saying who, but it was bad. That, compounded by the diver's B.O. did not help the ambiance. He continued to tell me he travelled a lot. When I asked where he said Europe. Having been to Europe I inquired about where in Europe and he assumed a strange, Vincent Price voice and said Norway and Greece. That he lived there for 12 years. Yep, you guessed it, he thought I was a match too.
With that my first, and last, encounter with speed dating concluded. I had a much-needed pint and realized I had just relived in two hours what I had been trying to forget for 32 years.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Just what we needed...
...yet another excuse to get drunk and stumble around town.
Sunday was the annual Superbowl Pub Crawl in Ventura. My day began with a 9:15 am phone call from a club member asking where I was with the beer for the start. Of course, the "run" was to begin at 10:00 and I was still home in bed. Silly me.
Upon arrival I was greeting with demands for better beer (people expect a lot for $5 these days...) and then kudos for bringing Jello shots in the colors of the teams competing that day. Is there really any other way to kick off a Sunday morning than chasing a tequila with lime Jello shot with a Miller Lite? There is something about Jello, cheap booze and whipped cream that makes everything all right. After the cooler was emptied by the participants we headed off on the pub crawl. I was staying sober as I was driving the beer and bag wagon so I followed along on foot for a few miles then turned back to go pick up the truck and meet the frightening crew en route for round two of the Jello shots. Five or six bars later, the group arrived (barely) at a sports bar just in time for kick off.
I have never actually watched the Superbowl and let me just say I was more confused than anything. First off, when you are in a sports bar for the game, you can expect not to hear anything. So when I saw Michael Douglas on screen I wasn't sure we were on the right station. I still don't know what his role was in the game. Then there were Bill Clinton and George the Elder. What the heck were they doing there? I couldn't hear a thing until the bartender screamed for silence so we could hear the national anthem. I felt very American as I sat at the bar drinking my imported beer surrounded by drunks with a lottery game on the screen next to the one playing the anthem while displaying a flag billowing in the wind. Rarely have I felt so patriotic.
I missed the kick off because someone was painting my fingernails green to show support for the Eagles. The game itself was lame. Men in tights and knee highs running a few feet then hitting eachother. Oh, and the dances in the end zone were priceless. Don't these men know how stupid they look? Because I couldn't stomach watching the game I took to watching the spectators. Highlight of my experience included dispatching a search party to locate one inebriated club member only to find him walking out of the women's restroom. When we pointed out that he had been in the women's restroom he merely commented, "No wonder is was so clean and quiet in there."
Another highlight was watching three club members vie for the affections of a cross dresser. Three of us sober folks watched as the three men made advances toward the 6'4", wearing-a-choker-to-hide-the-adam's-apple, large handed vixen. Of course, we encouraged their antics so we could watch things unfold. At one point we caught a new guy, J, propped up against a pinball machine by the she-man. Later, he was seen in the parking lot with her, er, him, er, whatever. I just wonder how he's feeling this morning...
After the game we parted company. I was starving and stopped at my favorite pizza place for a slice. They were so slow they had no slices so I had to get a whole pie. While waiting I chatted up the two boys that work there. They were upset at having to stay until close and bored out of their minds. After checking their ID's, I took them out to the truck and gave them some of the leftover beer from the days' events. You'd have thought I was Santa Claus, well maybe not if you were their employer. Then you'd have thought I was an evil cheap-beer-donating employee ruiner. Either way, it was fun and they were grateful.
Sunday was the annual Superbowl Pub Crawl in Ventura. My day began with a 9:15 am phone call from a club member asking where I was with the beer for the start. Of course, the "run" was to begin at 10:00 and I was still home in bed. Silly me.
Upon arrival I was greeting with demands for better beer (people expect a lot for $5 these days...) and then kudos for bringing Jello shots in the colors of the teams competing that day. Is there really any other way to kick off a Sunday morning than chasing a tequila with lime Jello shot with a Miller Lite? There is something about Jello, cheap booze and whipped cream that makes everything all right. After the cooler was emptied by the participants we headed off on the pub crawl. I was staying sober as I was driving the beer and bag wagon so I followed along on foot for a few miles then turned back to go pick up the truck and meet the frightening crew en route for round two of the Jello shots. Five or six bars later, the group arrived (barely) at a sports bar just in time for kick off.
I have never actually watched the Superbowl and let me just say I was more confused than anything. First off, when you are in a sports bar for the game, you can expect not to hear anything. So when I saw Michael Douglas on screen I wasn't sure we were on the right station. I still don't know what his role was in the game. Then there were Bill Clinton and George the Elder. What the heck were they doing there? I couldn't hear a thing until the bartender screamed for silence so we could hear the national anthem. I felt very American as I sat at the bar drinking my imported beer surrounded by drunks with a lottery game on the screen next to the one playing the anthem while displaying a flag billowing in the wind. Rarely have I felt so patriotic.
I missed the kick off because someone was painting my fingernails green to show support for the Eagles. The game itself was lame. Men in tights and knee highs running a few feet then hitting eachother. Oh, and the dances in the end zone were priceless. Don't these men know how stupid they look? Because I couldn't stomach watching the game I took to watching the spectators. Highlight of my experience included dispatching a search party to locate one inebriated club member only to find him walking out of the women's restroom. When we pointed out that he had been in the women's restroom he merely commented, "No wonder is was so clean and quiet in there."
Another highlight was watching three club members vie for the affections of a cross dresser. Three of us sober folks watched as the three men made advances toward the 6'4", wearing-a-choker-to-hide-the-adam's-apple, large handed vixen. Of course, we encouraged their antics so we could watch things unfold. At one point we caught a new guy, J, propped up against a pinball machine by the she-man. Later, he was seen in the parking lot with her, er, him, er, whatever. I just wonder how he's feeling this morning...
After the game we parted company. I was starving and stopped at my favorite pizza place for a slice. They were so slow they had no slices so I had to get a whole pie. While waiting I chatted up the two boys that work there. They were upset at having to stay until close and bored out of their minds. After checking their ID's, I took them out to the truck and gave them some of the leftover beer from the days' events. You'd have thought I was Santa Claus, well maybe not if you were their employer. Then you'd have thought I was an evil cheap-beer-donating employee ruiner. Either way, it was fun and they were grateful.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Boom Boom Sanders
Oklahoma legislators are trying to reinstate one of the state's favorite spectator sports - cockfighting - by mandating the use of tiny boxing gloves and safety vests on the chickens.
Not only do I find this hilarious, but possibly fortuitous for me seeing as how I am both the former fried chicken spokesperson of southern China and a scrawny wanna-be amateur boxer. I need to update my resume and get in on this $100-million industry.
Not only do I find this hilarious, but possibly fortuitous for me seeing as how I am both the former fried chicken spokesperson of southern China and a scrawny wanna-be amateur boxer. I need to update my resume and get in on this $100-million industry.
Courtship & Amphetamines
I usually listen to NPR or Howard Stern during my morning commute. What that says about me, I am not sure, but it keeps me amusing and informed.
This morning, our local NPR affiliate, KCRW was in the throes of its winter fundraising drive. I already pledged and am, quite frankly, sick of having my free programming interrupted every 30 seconds with another great offer if you pledge in the next 30 minutes. This morning's big draw? Nine gift certificates to the 99 cent store...Glad I got the 10 CD pack.
Whenever I am dissatisfied with NPR's offering during the commute I switch to Howard Stern, where I either tune in just in time for a 30 minute commercial break or am lucky and catch the shock jock doing a bit in between commercial breaks. Today I caught him between breaks but he was doing a bit where a desparately single Jewish girl was earning $1,000 and the right not to be called annoying by Howard by allowing a turgid man to fart on her face 500 times in 10 minutes. As stimulating as this may seem to some of you, I opted to tune outat number 24.
I switched to my third alternate, the local country station, KHAY. They too were in the midst of mindless babble but something caught my ear...Speed dating in Ventura County tonight at the local brewery. I had heard this was coming to town and considered signing up but never followed through. And now that I know the location of the event, I figure I can just show up and watch the carnage.
So I called a couple of friends and we are meeting at the brewery this evening to watch the speed dating in progress and then snatch any eligible singles. The whole concept of speed dating intrigues me, just not enough to spend $35 to gamble on it. Besides, given the number of dated I've been on in this county in the past 6 1/2 years, it's likely I would be matched up with someone already adjudicated to be unsuitable for me. Anyhow, that experience should provide some new fodder for the blog by tomorrow...
This morning, our local NPR affiliate, KCRW was in the throes of its winter fundraising drive. I already pledged and am, quite frankly, sick of having my free programming interrupted every 30 seconds with another great offer if you pledge in the next 30 minutes. This morning's big draw? Nine gift certificates to the 99 cent store...Glad I got the 10 CD pack.
Whenever I am dissatisfied with NPR's offering during the commute I switch to Howard Stern, where I either tune in just in time for a 30 minute commercial break or am lucky and catch the shock jock doing a bit in between commercial breaks. Today I caught him between breaks but he was doing a bit where a desparately single Jewish girl was earning $1,000 and the right not to be called annoying by Howard by allowing a turgid man to fart on her face 500 times in 10 minutes. As stimulating as this may seem to some of you, I opted to tune outat number 24.
I switched to my third alternate, the local country station, KHAY. They too were in the midst of mindless babble but something caught my ear...Speed dating in Ventura County tonight at the local brewery. I had heard this was coming to town and considered signing up but never followed through. And now that I know the location of the event, I figure I can just show up and watch the carnage.
So I called a couple of friends and we are meeting at the brewery this evening to watch the speed dating in progress and then snatch any eligible singles. The whole concept of speed dating intrigues me, just not enough to spend $35 to gamble on it. Besides, given the number of dated I've been on in this county in the past 6 1/2 years, it's likely I would be matched up with someone already adjudicated to be unsuitable for me. Anyhow, that experience should provide some new fodder for the blog by tomorrow...
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