The ability to provide judgment-free advice to a friend in need (who, frankly, could probably stand a little judgment) is a truly rare quality. The ability to do so and be effing hilarious at the same time? One in a billion. If that.
So, sometimes, my friend -- we'll call her Shmurmila -- does and says dumb things when she's drunk. I mean, that's not terribly unusual, right? We all do that! Don't we? Don't we???
Anyway, Shmurmila, or "S" for short, got spectacularly drunk on Monday, and in the poetry of Chris Isaak...baby did a bad, bad thing. Baby did a couple of bad things, actually, the worst of which is beyond embarrassing and in the territory of sheer mortification.
Realizing through her drunken haze the error of her ways (let's just say cellular devices were involved, okay?), S calls her lovely friend Dana. Dana is, shall we say, accustomed to such calls. And remarkably adept at cutting through my -- um, S's -- hysteria and dispensing sage, loving advice. In fact, during one such conversation, the lovely Dana actually coined the phrase that is not only the title of this blog, but also the inspiration for our judgment-free lifestyle!
And true to form, Dana reminded S not to beat herself up, and to apologize to the (several) victims to whom she'd laid waste that evening, and to remember how much she, Dana, loves S and thinks she's great. Be kind to yourself, said Dana!
...and, maybe, drink less?
Buttons will be forthcoming.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Monday, June 11, 2007
Oh, Monday.
Being in New York for a weekend is like hanging out with your super fun friend who does not know how to chill out. Street fairs! Two brunches in one day! Bars that don't close! Excess! But I am never, never sad to go home. In fact, I may have once called the flight from my home town to Newark - "the saddest flight in the world". But I think that was bitterness about having to go back to school.
Also, I really like this book which I saw someone reading on the plane.
http://www.amazon.com/River-Town-Years-Yangtze-P-S/dp/0060855029/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/002-9334674-7740839?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1181584565&sr=8-1
Also, I wish I knew how to put a picture of it on the blog.
Also, I wish I had a job that allowed me the long attention span necessary to make a longer. more coherent post.
Also, I really like this book which I saw someone reading on the plane.
http://www.amazon.com/River-Town-Years-Yangtze-P-S/dp/0060855029/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/002-9334674-7740839?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1181584565&sr=8-1
Also, I wish I knew how to put a picture of it on the blog.
Also, I wish I had a job that allowed me the long attention span necessary to make a longer. more coherent post.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Talkin' 'Bout a Heat Wave...
Today Bree said to me words I had hoped never to hear.
"You're going to have to hang up your jeans till September."
Putting aside for a minute that I'm not a freak who hangs up her jeans (Bree can tell you, I barely hang up my work clothes), let's talk about how sad this directive made me.
I have been a bonafide jeans girl since I was about 3 years old and my mom first let me pick out my own clothes because, God bless that lovely lady, she really wasn't qualified to do it herself. I love me my jeans. I own way, way too many, too similar pairs and I genuinely believe each is special and different. Wide, skinny, boot, straight. Dark, light, red (yes, friends), grey. Thin, rigid, stretch. Literally every possible permutation.
In college, I endured tsk-tsk's by constantly rocking "going-out jeans" before it was socially acceptable to wear them to nice bars and restaurants (the kind without jukeboxes and peanut shells on the floor). And it would take a serious weather system to prevent me from wearing jeans at every opportunity. I wore them in India, for God's sake.
But, like much else, DC has worn me down and beaten my stubborness out of me. Today I arrived at work with a centimeter-thick film of clammy sweat covering my entire body. I don't think my forearms have ever perspired before, but they sure as hell did today. It is so unbelievably disgusting today that our fair government allowed its employees to dress "casually" today. Those of you familiar with DC fashion can just imagine the aesthetic shitshow that downtown DC provides you today.
And I too am falling prey to the perils of the heat. I am, as Bree suggested, "hanging up" my jeans. And wearing dresses like it's my job. God, that would be a good job.
So if you stumble upon any denim dresses -- oh yeah, I said it -- let me know. I am, for example, seriously contemplating purchasing the ensemble above.
"You're going to have to hang up your jeans till September."
Putting aside for a minute that I'm not a freak who hangs up her jeans (Bree can tell you, I barely hang up my work clothes), let's talk about how sad this directive made me.
I have been a bonafide jeans girl since I was about 3 years old and my mom first let me pick out my own clothes because, God bless that lovely lady, she really wasn't qualified to do it herself. I love me my jeans. I own way, way too many, too similar pairs and I genuinely believe each is special and different. Wide, skinny, boot, straight. Dark, light, red (yes, friends), grey. Thin, rigid, stretch. Literally every possible permutation.
In college, I endured tsk-tsk's by constantly rocking "going-out jeans" before it was socially acceptable to wear them to nice bars and restaurants (the kind without jukeboxes and peanut shells on the floor). And it would take a serious weather system to prevent me from wearing jeans at every opportunity. I wore them in India, for God's sake.
But, like much else, DC has worn me down and beaten my stubborness out of me. Today I arrived at work with a centimeter-thick film of clammy sweat covering my entire body. I don't think my forearms have ever perspired before, but they sure as hell did today. It is so unbelievably disgusting today that our fair government allowed its employees to dress "casually" today. Those of you familiar with DC fashion can just imagine the aesthetic shitshow that downtown DC provides you today.
And I too am falling prey to the perils of the heat. I am, as Bree suggested, "hanging up" my jeans. And wearing dresses like it's my job. God, that would be a good job.
So if you stumble upon any denim dresses -- oh yeah, I said it -- let me know. I am, for example, seriously contemplating purchasing the ensemble above.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Ready for the Funeral
As emo as it may sound, I LOVE Band of Horses. I know their cd came out a while ago but I recently discovered them and they are most excellent.
So, now you're awares. Enjoy.
So, now you're awares. Enjoy.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
"I'm country, y'all."
It has been ages since I have posted. I had a tres long vacation in the glorious Big Sky state to attend my baby sister's high school graduation. I would've posted but it's totes impossible to post when you barely have electricity and you ride "to town" in a covered wagon and you get your water from the well in the field out back, all the while scared shitless that you might have a run-in with the natives and get bow-and-arrowed in the ass. Wild west, indeed. But, now I'm back in the sparkling metropolis that is DC. Thank God...tourists, humidity, black people.
The graduation I attended was in a town of about 7,000 nestled near the Rocky Mountains. It was, um, interesting. And, I imagine, eye-opening for one that has never had the privilege of visiting Montana. Now....I love my sister Brailey. She is stylish, witty, beautiful, interesting, and a touch o' crazy (the good kind). But her friends? And her school? Awful. The senile grandma sitting behind me talked throughout the entire ceremony. The salutatorian showed a clip from "Finding Nemo." The valedictorian began her speech by saying that her goal was to inspire at least half of her fellow graduates and went on to base her entire speech on a quote from a song by the Game, repeating over and over that "It's not that I can't stop, It's that I won't stop." (The next line being, "I make it hot - I do it.") Catchy but not so much about improving the healthiness of one's life. The featured speaker (the history teacher) went through each of her class periods (one through seven) naming her favorite students and then after a twenty minute un-funny (obvs) speech began singing "You've Got a Friend".......unironically. And she had that church-lady singing voice. Ya know, the one that can't really hit the high notes and thinks she's really good cause she's singing about/to the Lord?? Jesu Christe. The dude in front of my mom kept flipping his mullet hair from side-to-side and my mom and I started laughing uncontrollably at him while the principal was doing a tribute to a girl that died. Air horns and cow bells rang throughout the gym after almost every graduate's name was uttered. And there's more (but these are indicative of any large function that occurs in this area)....a lot of people wore jeans and t-shirts, it started late, bad dye jobs, etc. All-in-all, it was a complete test of my ability to be poised and appear to be enjoying myself - as opposed to looking like I wanted to kill myself...I failed.
But I have to give propers to Ms. Urmila, who travelled for eight (yes, eight) hours to reach my vacation spot. And she had to endure the graduation ceremony. But it was followed by an evening soiree complete with an inordinate amount of pictures of Brailey, Prosecco, hanging with Britney and Brailey (always a treat), baked beans, chats about the appeal of small towns, and mint wafers from The Parrot (everyone should try them. Urmila had like fifty.). So, I think she enjoyed herself.
This post started as a description of the hein graduation ceremony but thats really just secondary to my main objective...to thank Urmila for coming (my first post-high school friend to visit my home) and for being such an awesome friend. I love her (NULLUS). Please excuse my sappiness/lovey-dovey ness. It's a rarity and generally followed by bitchiness. Speaking of, I saw a woman walking to work today wearing socks with sandals....disgusting.
The graduation I attended was in a town of about 7,000 nestled near the Rocky Mountains. It was, um, interesting. And, I imagine, eye-opening for one that has never had the privilege of visiting Montana. Now....I love my sister Brailey. She is stylish, witty, beautiful, interesting, and a touch o' crazy (the good kind). But her friends? And her school? Awful. The senile grandma sitting behind me talked throughout the entire ceremony. The salutatorian showed a clip from "Finding Nemo." The valedictorian began her speech by saying that her goal was to inspire at least half of her fellow graduates and went on to base her entire speech on a quote from a song by the Game, repeating over and over that "It's not that I can't stop, It's that I won't stop." (The next line being, "I make it hot - I do it.") Catchy but not so much about improving the healthiness of one's life. The featured speaker (the history teacher) went through each of her class periods (one through seven) naming her favorite students and then after a twenty minute un-funny (obvs) speech began singing "You've Got a Friend".......unironically. And she had that church-lady singing voice. Ya know, the one that can't really hit the high notes and thinks she's really good cause she's singing about/to the Lord?? Jesu Christe. The dude in front of my mom kept flipping his mullet hair from side-to-side and my mom and I started laughing uncontrollably at him while the principal was doing a tribute to a girl that died. Air horns and cow bells rang throughout the gym after almost every graduate's name was uttered. And there's more (but these are indicative of any large function that occurs in this area)....a lot of people wore jeans and t-shirts, it started late, bad dye jobs, etc. All-in-all, it was a complete test of my ability to be poised and appear to be enjoying myself - as opposed to looking like I wanted to kill myself...I failed.
But I have to give propers to Ms. Urmila, who travelled for eight (yes, eight) hours to reach my vacation spot. And she had to endure the graduation ceremony. But it was followed by an evening soiree complete with an inordinate amount of pictures of Brailey, Prosecco, hanging with Britney and Brailey (always a treat), baked beans, chats about the appeal of small towns, and mint wafers from The Parrot (everyone should try them. Urmila had like fifty.). So, I think she enjoyed herself.
This post started as a description of the hein graduation ceremony but thats really just secondary to my main objective...to thank Urmila for coming (my first post-high school friend to visit my home) and for being such an awesome friend. I love her (NULLUS). Please excuse my sappiness/lovey-dovey ness. It's a rarity and generally followed by bitchiness. Speaking of, I saw a woman walking to work today wearing socks with sandals....disgusting.
Friday, June 1, 2007
My Love/Hate Relationship with Lady-kind.
I realize that my appreciation of my gender is well-known and frequently the subject of my posts. And that I'm in danger of soon sounding suspiciously...sapphic. Ooh, tongue twister! (That's what she said.)
Anyway, sometimes ladies are nice! In particular, a lady really made my night last night. I was walking down 18th street in (gulp) Adams Morgan, feeling kind of good about myself and my decision to embrace the 90-plus degree humidity-soaked night air in a white sundress (but feeling less good about wearing my past-my-bra-strap hair loose and sweaty-like). And a lady waiting outside a bar stepped out of line to tap my arm as I walked by and say, "You look really pretty tonight." (Yes, I know, self-aggrandizement alert.)
Honestly, though, how nice is that? How often do you see a girl walking down the street and think that she looks nice? (Though less so in DC, fairly often.) But how often do you tell her? (Never.) And yet I promise you, it will make a lady's night if you, a fellow lady, pay her a genuine compliment, be it aesthetically-themed or not. And provided, of course, that she's not an asshole. Lady-on-lady compliments are few, far between, and truly flattering. I mean, I was pretty much channeling a peacock the whole rest of the night. I'm sure I was pretty awesome to be around.
Which brings me to the "hate" part of the equation. Because like the Lord, the ladies give, and they taketh away. See, towards the end of the (remarkably sober) night I encountered a lady bartender who, shall we say, is not a fan of mine. She never has been, despite my sensible, non-girly ordering of whiskey and beer, and excessively (excessively) large tips. But last night I managed -- perhaps by virtue of the self-love generated by the earlier compliment, or perhaps by my general cheeriness, or perhaps by my just being an asshole -- to truly offend said lady bartender with nothing more than my...existence. I'll spare you the details, and frankly, I'm not really interested in her motivations or her intentions, but let's just say it was...unpleasant.
So my (characteristically long-winded) point is this: it is easy to make someone's night. It is equally easy to make their night shitty. Given the choice, why choose the latter? Seriously, lady bartender...why?
Anyway, sometimes ladies are nice! In particular, a lady really made my night last night. I was walking down 18th street in (gulp) Adams Morgan, feeling kind of good about myself and my decision to embrace the 90-plus degree humidity-soaked night air in a white sundress (but feeling less good about wearing my past-my-bra-strap hair loose and sweaty-like). And a lady waiting outside a bar stepped out of line to tap my arm as I walked by and say, "You look really pretty tonight." (Yes, I know, self-aggrandizement alert.)
Honestly, though, how nice is that? How often do you see a girl walking down the street and think that she looks nice? (Though less so in DC, fairly often.) But how often do you tell her? (Never.) And yet I promise you, it will make a lady's night if you, a fellow lady, pay her a genuine compliment, be it aesthetically-themed or not. And provided, of course, that she's not an asshole. Lady-on-lady compliments are few, far between, and truly flattering. I mean, I was pretty much channeling a peacock the whole rest of the night. I'm sure I was pretty awesome to be around.
Which brings me to the "hate" part of the equation. Because like the Lord, the ladies give, and they taketh away. See, towards the end of the (remarkably sober) night I encountered a lady bartender who, shall we say, is not a fan of mine. She never has been, despite my sensible, non-girly ordering of whiskey and beer, and excessively (excessively) large tips. But last night I managed -- perhaps by virtue of the self-love generated by the earlier compliment, or perhaps by my general cheeriness, or perhaps by my just being an asshole -- to truly offend said lady bartender with nothing more than my...existence. I'll spare you the details, and frankly, I'm not really interested in her motivations or her intentions, but let's just say it was...unpleasant.
So my (characteristically long-winded) point is this: it is easy to make someone's night. It is equally easy to make their night shitty. Given the choice, why choose the latter? Seriously, lady bartender...why?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
