But what if your mom IS a stripper?



Strange men love to say things to me. Sometimes it is polite ("You wanna sit here?" on the train); sometimes it is annoying ("I just need 87 more cents to buy a bus ticket"); sometimes it is insane ("And then I told the dog jumped why yodel Jesus snork! Damn whitey!"); sometimes it is drunk ("Yo baby, what's up?"). About a month ago, strange men saying strange drunk things to me hit a new low. A low right down there with the woman who told me not to breathe while I made her drink, many years ago when I worked for the Green Giant.



So anyway, I'm out with a female friend at the club, to see a dj from the UK who's here for one night only, etc etc. On the dance floor, my friend starts talking to this guy who was very nice and polite and generally housebroken. He is soon joined by a friend who is (of course!) not as attractive as the guy talking to my friend, but not a total Barney (NATB) either (haha, love how I just randomly decided to revive some Clueless-era 90s slang?). I'm not exactly thrilled about playing wingman, and would prefer to just dance by myself while my friend and NATB's friend chat it up. But, NATB wants to chat. Or rather, yell at me from a distance of a foot and a half, which if you've ever been in a club, you know means I had no earthly idea what the hell he was saying. Our conversation went something like this:

NATB: !!!!!!!!!!

Me: What?

NATB: !!!!!!!!!!!!

Me: I can't hear you!

NATB: (finally figuring out he needed to talk into my ear): Where are you from?

Me: Here.

NATB: HUH?!

Me: HERE!!

NATB: Oh yeah? Where do you go to school?

Me: *Named school*

NATB: Oh yeah? I went to UF/Florida State/someplace in Florida.


Me: Ok.



I'm not having it. Awkward dancing ensues. Suddenly, NATB shouts into my ear: YOU DANCE LIKE MY MOM!


NATB is drunk. He's a wingman. Plus, he went to college in Florida. Clearly, dude isn't all that bright, so I decide to give him a chance to backpeddle out of the horribleness he just created.


Me: I'm sorry?

NATB: You dance like my mom. You're way too hot to dance like that, baby.

Me: (about ready to hit someone): WHAT did you say?

NATB: You heard me, you dance like my mom. You're too sexy to dance like that, all uptight and shit.


I decided to exit stage right and go stand on the far side of my friend. I'd already been harangued by a guy who wouldn't take "I don't want to dance with you. Now. Or ever." without getting huffy, and then this joker comes along with his "You dance like my mom" bullshit. I was really not having it. Where did this crowd come from? Gwinnet county?



Well, naturally, "You dance like my mom" has become a running joke amongst some of my friends. I mean, who says that? It's damn funny, especially since it came out of his mouth THREE TIMES and he had no idea why saying something so fucktarded pissed me off. (On a side note, his housebroken friend did apologize for NATB.) One of my friends let it be known that some guy once told her that she danced like a stripper, and she'd take dancing like a mom over dancing like a stripper any day. Which begs the question, What if your mom IS a stripper? Think about it. It takes "You dance like my mom" to a completely different place.



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Slight personal news update



I dropped the creative writing class. My workload in my two required classes is too heavy (communication law, what?). Also, while I always admire the slacker dudes who are students in a writing workshop, having the professor be the slacker dude was more than I could handle. But the cool thing is my week enrolled in the course forced me to work on a story idea I've had for a long time, and I now have some words on paper.



In conclusion, my aborted mission from God proves that either a) God doesn't know what he's doing when he sends me on these fool's errands or b) I don't listen too good to God.

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I'm on deadline



I'm a deadline girl. I work best when I have a deadline, because if I'm without a deadline I don't do jack shit. I'm on deadline to produce a short story by 8am tomorrow morning, with enough copies printed out for all my classmates. I've already checked to make sure the copy place near the school is 24 hour. I've written a few pages, scribbled some notes, and done quite a bit of research. Now all I have to do is, you know, really write the thing.



Unfortunately, the time crunch hasn't gotten quite tight enough for me to feel pressured to actually begin. Which is why I'm writing this in Blogger instead of writing a story in Word.



Yesterday was the longest day of the year. Literally and figuratively. I got up early to finish some assignments at the library, and soon lost my wallet. I cancelled all my cards and made it to my first class only a half hour late. When that class let out, I checked back at the library and - awesomely - someone had turned in my wallet! All my cash was still there! I didn't have to replace my driver's license! I'd gone from being very let down to having my faith in humanity completely revitalized.



Then I went to my communication law class and all joy vanished.



My friend Patrick is in town for PRIDE, so we met up for dinner and then headed to Piedmont Park for Screen on the Green. After two hours of waiting for it to get dark enough to start the movie (and after running into a half dozen people I know) I decided I couldn't sit on a blanket in the park any longer without going mad, and went home.



Then, despite being completely exhausted, I found myself unable to sleep.



I hate summer in this city.

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What I'm watching this summer



Hell's Kitchen, Fox, Mondays, 9PM Eastern

Anyone who doesn't want hometown girl Julia the Waffle House cook to win has no humanity. Also, Ramsay has an American version of Kitchen Nightmares debuting later this year! Very excited.



Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List, BRAVO, Tuesdays, 10PM Eastern

She makes me laugh. Plus, she went on a faux-date with Nick Carter.



Top Chef, BRAVO, Wednesdays, 10:00PM Eastern

I am sad that there are no hotties a la Season 2's Sam and Ilan, but making the chefs cook weird stuff like geoduck and eel for Anthony Bourdain(!!) on the very first challenge was beyond awesome.

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First impressions





Ok, so partying until 4am is probably not the best thing to do before an 8am class, but I did it anyway. I cut myself off from the drinks soon after one and so felt, upon waking, if not good than at least not bad. I did, however, curse outloud when I arrived downtown only to find none of the coffeeshops there open until 8am, the exact start time of my class. I had to try and pump myself up with vending machine hot chocolate, which I assure you is very definitively NOT the same as a proper cup of coffee.





The classroom was locked when I got there, so I had a chance to scope out the other students while waiting in the hall. It was your usual creative writing class collection of freaks and geeks (although, if I'm to be perfectly honest, it was mostly just freaks), skewed heavily to the female side of the gender continuum. As time ticked past 8 o'clock and still no teacher, I began to grow irritated because a) the teacher was late on the FIRST DAY OF CLASS and I'd managed to drag my 24-hour party people butt in on time despite being sans coffee and b) there seemed to be no slightly neurotic dude out of the three present that I would potentially like to date. Where was the dorkily cute guy in rumpled jeans and converse? Every creative writing class has at least one -- it's in the Law of Writerly Things, Section 3.1.2.3.4.





Then the instructor showed up. Oh, but of course! The instructor was the dorkily cute guy in rumpled jeans and converse. It had never occurred to me before that this might be the case, but it made perfect sense once he was there, live and in person. I'd been expecting either tweedy-jacket guy or dashiki-hippie guy, so dorkily cute guy in rumpled jeans and converse was a thrilling surprise.





But of course, this being Atlanta, he had a wedding ring.





Rather than giving you a play-by-play of how the five hour class progressed, I'll simply list a few of my first impressions:


- My choice to not say, "I'm hungover and I hate you all" when I introduced myself to the class was probably a wise one, although as CV pointed out later, "It would probably have been a very apt introduction to you."


- However, I did tell people I was on a mission from God, which produced exactly the anticipated response of 1/3 of the class laughing (whether or not they got the Blues Brothers reference is another discussion for another time), 1/3 earnestly nodding in support of divine purpose, and 1/3 looking confused as hell.

- I had to bite my cheek not to laugh out loud when Larry the Cable Guy's Juicin' Cousin wandered in at 10am and said, "Sorry I'm late. I've been trying to get into the building since 9, but all the doors are locked." True, many of the doors to the building were locked and people were late to class because of it, but hey cuz, class started at 8! Way to make a great first impression.


- There was a lot of talking about writing today, but very little actual writing. I don't think I've ever spent five hours in a creative writing workshop where all I produced was an outline. That's right, we had ONE writing exercise today ("Find a partner and write an outline for a modern allegory." FYI, Group writing = LAME!) Note to dorkily cute instructor in rumpled jeans and converse: Less talk, more rock! I signed up for this thing because I wanted to be given prompt after prompt, with me scribbling furiously into my notebook, trying desperately to keep up with my speeding brain. I did NOT intend to sit around with a bunch of social misfits and pontificate about the writing life.


- Did I mention being hungover and hating everybody?





I also volunteered to be in the first group to turn in stories, because nobody else would and I was one of the few with extensive workshop experience who wasn't completely terrified at the prospect. This is the "Do it now!" push that I was looking for. So this week, I will be out of social circulation as I hole up in the library to bang out my first short story in...a really long time.





Holla.

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Your Score: Rosalind Russell

You scored 19% grit, 71% wit, 4% flair, and 16% class!

You are one wise-cracking lady, always quick with a clever remark and easily able to keep up with the quips and puns that come along with the nutty situations you find yourself in. You're usually able to talk your way out of any jam, and even if you can't, you at least make it more interesting with your biting wit. You can match the smartest guy around line for line, and you've got an open mind that allows you to get what you want, even if you don't recognize it at first. Your leading men include Cary Grant and Clark Gable, men who can keep up with you.

Find out what kind of classic leading man you'd make by taking the
Classic Leading Man Test.

Link: The Classic Dames Test written by gidgetgoes on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

No sex. No drugs. No rock and roll.


Ok, so maybe there's been a little rock and roll...if the Arcade Fire and Fergie count as rock and roll (anyone? anyone?). But really, I've gone practically straight edge these days...or at least the straightest edge I've been since...uh...um, I don't wanna think back that far.



I think I've mellowed a lot in 2007. Selling the car has helped a lot with that, what with cutting out the stress of driving in ATL traffic (although I still have to WALK on Atlanta streets...more on that later) and creating a whole mental shift in how I order my life (when you're dependent on public transportation and your own two feet, with the occasional ride from a friend, you have to put more thought into going places and doing things). I've lost a little weight, my legs feel all strong and awesome, I'm saving tons of money, I'm hardly contributing to the horrid smog, and the Clean Air Campaign keeps sending me $25 Visa gift cards. In short, selling car=awesome.



(Oh, and speaking of cars, Atlanta now has FlexCar and I am officially all enrolled and stuff, though I have yet to drive one of the cars. If any of you lovelies decide to join, list me as your reference so I can get a credit. Thanks!)



A New Order moment


In the mornings I often listen to my ipod on my way to work to get me all pumped and ready for the day. A few days ago, as I stepped onto the down escalator after exiting the train station, New Order started playing (I can't remember which song, but it's not really about the song), and something popped wistfully in my brain and I was suddenly very aware about me being on that escalator in that moment with that song, with the imaginary opening credits flashing just below my flip flops. At the bottom of the escalator, when I stepped off, I broke into an even jauntier stride than usual. I smiled to myself, and everyone who passed me smiled back. It was great. I was great. The morning was great. At the crosswalk, the car in the lane closest to me stopped just as he should, without me bullying myself into the intersection, and I waved as I began to cross and shouted "THANK Y---" just as the car in the next lane over nearly clipped me. My "thank you" immediatly morphed into a "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" and an angry glare.





Thus ended the New Order moment.





On a mission from God



Earlier this week, completely out of the blue, someone from Portland found me on myspace and sent me a message. She wanted to know if I was still writing poetry. Taking this as a sign from God, I immediately registered for a creative writing class.



My mission starts a week from tomorrow.

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New hair is an endless fascination



I had my hair cut a few weeks ago into an easy, no-fuss no-muss bob that can withstand the heat and humidity of Atlanta in the summer (ie 91 degrees today) combined with my increased walking around in aforementioned heat and humidity. It is cute; it takes about two minutes to blow dry and style; it is professional; people like it. In short, it bores me to tears. Last summer I lusted for Sienna-Miller-as-Edie-Sedgwick hair; this summer I am 100% for Victoria-Beckham-does-LA hair (minus the blonde, the tacky dress, and the my-chest-looks-frightening-because-I-weigh-98-lbs/44.55 kgs). Focus on the cut, people. O! the cut! It is amazing. The gossip bloggers claim it is "razored eighties" but I personally see it more as a modern take on angsty nineties' style, a la Daria's friend Jane Lane. I am seriously considering a similar cut...

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Tastey Tastey



I managed to get myself a free ticket to see Fergie Saturday night at The Tabernacle. (Yes, I love the Fergie. I own her album. I know all the words. There are worse things.) The show was freakin' awesome (aside from almost getting into a fight---but I remembered the wise words of Michael Jackson and BEAT IT before things got ugly). For all you Fergie haters, let me just say that doing FOUR ONE-HANDED CARTWHEELS IN A ROW WHILE SINGING AND HOLDING A MICROPHONE more than makes up for (perhaps?) peeing on stage. Plus, she wore some crazy wicked knee socks for her opening costume, and y'all know how I feel about my knee socks. Plus, she had the best back-up dancers this side of early-nineties Madonna/Janet Jackson. None of my camera phone pictures turned out, of course, and this is the only video posted so far on YouTube (come on, all y'all who had your cameras at the show, share the love!)



Other than that, just the usual shenanigans.

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