...and, maybe, drink less?

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.

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.

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.

Oh No Honey

What. The. Fuck. Is this???

Why must they taunt me?

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.

"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.

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?

And She Doesn't Even Know How OLD I Am.

Urmila: (Walking out of Starbucks.)
Elderly Woman Behind a Table (in a not-so-small town): (Smiling brightly at Urmila) Are you married, honey?
Urmila: No, ma'am, I'm not. (look how polite I am!)
EWBAT: Oh. Get married, honey. Life is lonely when you're not married.
Urmila: Oh. Okay.

Things men think women find sexy that women absolutely do not (find sexy).

The new Maroon 5 song, "Kiwi," is a paean to the "juiciness" of some girl's lady parts (oh please let them be Jessica Simpson's!) that features a promise that Adam Levine will be "a stronger and a faster lover" than anyone she's ever known. Apparently Bree's erstwhile paramour from last week is not alone in thinking ladies like it "fast." Either that, or he and Levine are friends. Either way, the two have inspired this list of other things that men seem to think women find hot and that we (and I think I speak for at least -- ALL -- of us here) do not. Note: This list is not exhaustive. And I'm sure I'll update it after the weekend.

-- "Fast" lovin'. I cannot believe this needs to be said. Fast? Why fast? Am I in a hurry? Is the house on fire? A sale at Barney's? Well, then for the love of God, fast isn't necessary. And it sure as hell isn't good.

-- How you're going to...in general. The corollary to the Levine Law above. It's just like I used to say as a kid: "Don't talk about it. Do it."

-- Excessive talk of, or actually, coming to blows, particularly at bars. Yes, the ability to protect oneself from harm is an attractive quality. And the ability to protect me from harm is particularly attractive, because as strong a woman as I am, I also lack hand-eye coordination and the ability to land a punch (but man, can I throw one!). However, what we appreciate is the ability, should it -- GOD forbid -- ever come to that. Starting fights, being involved in fights, talking about fights, thinking about fucking fights...just, no. Because I also don't want to think about you getting your -- or more importantly, MY -- ass kicked.

-- Your job. Whatever it is. Just...in general. I admire ambition, passion for what you do, a strong work ethic, intelligence, etc. And I definitely appreciate that you have a job (nice work). But weirdly, I have one too. So, you know, it's not that special. So please don't talk about it like you just infiltrated a terrorist camp on a covert mission to rescue a team of child hostages from the evil clutches of anti-democratic forces. Unless...did you? Because that would be hot.

-- Serenades. Serenades, you say? Who are you, Juliet? You'd be surprised, friends, at how much dudes welcome to opportunity to croon their hearts out. But repeat after me: Singing is only okay if you are the lead singer of a band. Or your name is Justin Timberlake. And even then, maybe not to me. And DEFINITELY not to K. As she says: "Dudes: do not sing near me. You will get punched. And the only place I can reach is your nuts." She's small, but...you know the rest.

There's more, I know. So help me out, ladies. Because the truth remains that I like dudes so much that it really is hard for me to come up with this list...at least, on my own.

Toe-may-toe, Toe-mah-toe.

Conversation between Urmila, pronunciation fascist, and a sommelier. Saturday night, circa 2am.

Sommelier: "I'm a so-mal-i-ay."
Urmila: "Weird, you don't look African."
Sommelier: "What?"
Urmila: "Nothing."

Wishing...and Hoping...and Thinking...and Praying....

Planning...and dreaming...each night of his chaaaa-aaa-arms...that won't get you into his aaaa-aaa-arms!

That song ("Wishing and Hoping") drives me batshit crazy, but it's in my head now (and was in my dream last night, but that is a whole 'nother post). And it got me thinking about "My Best Friend's Wedding," in whose opening credits it was used, which in turn got me thinking about the greatest bachelorette party of all time, which in turn led me to this conclusion: I kind of want to marry all my friends.

That's right, folks. The Love Bug of DC is back.

Said bachelorette party, Liz's, was the greatest of all time because it involved gorging ourselves on really good food, drinking copious amounts of champagne (and the occasional, gulp, pina colada, like it was champagne), and lying around on the beach like it was our job. At one point in the festivities/slothfulness, Liz descended deep into I-love-you-guys territory and waxed poetic about how awesome our lives would be if we were all married to each other.

And you know what? It. Would. Be. Fucking. Awesome.

Because honestly, my friends are the funniest, smartest, most interesting, best-at-everything people in the whole wide world. Their sheer awesomeness has sort of ruined me for men everywhere. I mean, what dude would want to lie on the beach and talk about his top 10 favorite uses of irony in literature while simultaneously listing his top 10 Lindsay Lohan outfit mistakes (from memory)? What dude, I ask? And yet, I fully know Kristi and Eleanor would. And Dana and Liz and Paige, because they were there. And Bree, because I'd make her, after she stopped rolling her eyes at me. And yes, that quality in a mate actually is that important to me.

So come on, ladies. Will you marry me? I know I could make you happy.

The B Word Scares Me

But you can't say "the guy I'm hanging out with" indefinitely. I would say more, but, as previously noted, the internet scares me. Don't worry, Urms, I'll get over it just around the time you shut down the blog for good.

Based on my posts, the world is a terrifying place.

Fortunately, the person whom I am now referring to as the B word is much less scared than I am...and seemingly infinitely patient.

A Little More Testosterone, A Little Less Lameness.

Working in an all-female environment has, quite possibly, been the most harrowing experience of my life (irony heavy here, okay). Don't get me wrong (don't you HATE it when people say that? it's like, I'm not getting you "wrong," buddy, whatever I'm thinking is the obvious implication of what you're saying). Anyway, I'm just saying that generally I love me the ladies. I really do. I love my friends, and my mom, and random ladies on the street, and bartendresses, and...blah blah, ad nauseum. I also love the ladies I work with, on an individual basis.

Here is what I do not love. I do not love meetings to divvy up tasks for office clean-up day. I do not love the forming of "decorating" committees. I do not love being assigned to bring in cupcakes -- for any occasion. I do not love bulletin boards. I especially do not love bulletin boards on which someone has posted an article titled, "Exercising Sense in the Shoe Department," where said article advises against wearing stilettos and wedges, and recommends instead that one wear one-inch heels or the "fashionable" Crocs that are the subject of a Bree Williams harangue below. (Also, just a postscript: I do not love even the insinuation that we take our fashion cues from The Washington Post. Come on.)

And if said bulletin board also has a "Water Watch," which you will be pleased to know is a chart wherein we track, via hash marks, whether we drink enough water daily for optimum health? Well, you KNOW I don't love that.

And I realize that I sound vaguely mysogynistic, and that these things aren't necessarily unique to women, or women-only work environments. Of course it's possible for men to congregrate around a bulletin board and kvetsch about their aching feet. Which is why I'm just asking for a little more testosterone. Just a little.

Oh who am I kidding. I'm a hater.

What. The. Hell.

I hate to follow Bree's brilliant anti-Crocs rant with another fashion-related post, especially one whose subject is also footwear.

But there are times in one's life where one must put aside one's feelings about rightness and propriety and just speak one's mind freely. That time is upon us (me), friends.

I said it before, but I'll say it again. What. The. Hell. Is that a wedge? A sneaker? A party-ready going-out sneaker-cum-horseshoe for an extremely avant-garde satyr? I mean, is that even a shoe?

Anyway, I hate to try to one-up you, Bree, but I think I just found a "shoe" that's worse than Crocs. Kudos to me, I guess.

* Sadly, this photo (and the shoe) is from shopbop.com, my very most favorite online shopping site. Say it ain't so, shopbop.com buyer. Seriously.

CROC of Shit

I am vehemently against the Croc. Living in DC makes this especially hard because tourists from bumblefuck (insert state in the South here) find Crocs to be (surprise!) quite comfortable and in some sick way, fashionable. My mind doesn't do well comprehending this so during summer months I can be seen cringing rather often at the sight of these monstrosities. Look, I get it if you want to wear these shoes around the house or gardening or for whatever purpose they were initially intended to serve - I, for one, am all about comfort when I sit down to watch Season 1 of 90210 on dvd for the fiftieth time and can be seen wearing pants with holes or my Nike t-shirt I've owned since Eighth grade. But...about the town?? Ugh, they are ugly as sin and you cannot convince me that a pair of running shoes or even flip-flops wouldn't be better than GD Crocs.

But, as I just discovered, they have now customized these specifically for my alma mater? Why??? And I'm sorry but I have to share them with you.
And don't think us Huskies are a privileged few. They've customized them for a whole host of our nation's fine universities. You can find them here (not to buy; to gasp and share in my pain, obvi.) - http://shop.crocs.com/CrocsSubProducts.aspx?from=collegiate%20models&grouptype=3&reqid=1008&reqProdTypeId=4&subsectionname=collegiate&section=products

So, if you have a school with "special" Crocs (and it seems no one is safe; public/private/second-rate matters not), join me in my cringing and absolute refusal to fall for this marketing ploy. Much like John Mayer rapes my ears, Crocs rape my eyes.

"I Want to Go Home, Mom." But We Just Got Here, Honey.

Not surprisingly, I am already sort-of "over" having a blog. I mean, I'm not over reading Bree's posts. I could do that all day. I'm just over writing my own posts.

As I mused earlier, in a demonstration of both wicked foreshadowing and remarkable self-awareness, I am pretty capricious. I think I also said that I was "whimsical" but of course that's euphemistic. Truth is I'm just fickle, and I get bored really easily, and really quickly. Actually, that's not true either. Basically, I get really into something -- such as this blog, or a song, or a boy, or an idea, or [insert pretty much anything here, frankly], and I immerse myself in it totally. After total immersion, however, comes oversaturation, and then ennui, and then, eventually, complete indifference. It's kind of where I'm at with John Krasinski right now (sorry, Bree).

Sometimes, however, I make it to the completion of the cycle, that rare post-indifference stage: pure rapture. It's how I feel about champagne (see earlier posts), and Bree and Kristi and Eleanor and Kenyon and Dana and Lindsay, and the song "Romeo and Juliet" (and also, "Trying to Throw Your Arms Around the World"), and a really good steak (and bacon, but not together, God forbid), and the book "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter," and my family (usually), and running on the beach, and David Foster Wallace, and pretty much anything to do with words in general. These are things (and people) of which I will never tire. So there's hope for you yet, oh blog of mine (and I guess you too, John Krasinski).

And speaking of David Foster Wallace, this post was actually intended to be a rumination on the meta-post, wherein I wrote about this unbelievably hilarious Go Fug Yourself post on Kelly Clarkson (solely for this line: "Today, I'm going to put leftover lasagna on a baguette and call it the Carb Lovers Sandwich.").

http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/go_fug_yourself/2007/05/fugaway.html

Buuuut...I'm over it already.

Pink the color, Pink the person, snow cones, basically anything that is awesome...

Last night, Urmila and I went to the Ben Gibbard show in the music capital of the world that is Washington DC. It was a good show even though people talked through Johnathan Rice AND Ben Gibbard and there was bad fashion to be seen left, right, up and down. However, those things matter not, for two reasons:

1) Ben Gibbard sounded really good live. I love Postal Service and I do like some Death Cab stuff (I love "The New Year") but overall I wouldn't describe myself as that big of a fan. He can sometimes be really vag-y and too "whiny, tortured emo boy." That said, his voice sounded excellent; even better than recorded. Not whiny, a little more intense and bass-y. "Soulful" was the word Urmila used to describe it. And I totally agree.

2) John Krasinski CAME OUT ON STAGE. He looked hot in his green tee and backwards hat. He had a guitar slung around his shoulder and while he probably doesn't know how to play anything but "Stairway to Heaven," that's okay because he looked the part and he joked back and forth with Gibbard and it was really cute. This was eerily coincidental and just plain bizarre, because an hour earlier when we were listening to the music on the pre-show mix, Urmila noticed that the music was almost identical (order and song-wise) to the mix she just made for Sunday morning brunch at her soon-to-be-established restaurant. I responded by saying something about vag-y music and then she said, "I bet John Krasinski would like my brunch mix." In fairness, she said this because she is random, and because John Krasinski is her celebrity crush. And then he came on stage. Weird, non? Also, no one cool comes along with any of the bands that play DC. Why would you?? New York's right there and the crowds in DC suck (Gibbard even pointed this out. Aggressive, testosterone-y, talking over the music, etc. He actually had to ask the crowd to shut up at one point.) And yet, there was John Krasinski, happy to just to peek his head out on stage and do a quick little song and dance for Urmila. Coincidence? I think not. Indicator of things to come? Most definitely.

UPDATE: Anyone interested can listen to the show: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=9935188

The Love Bug of DC

Someone called me that the other day. And Bree told me today that I'm "sunshine" (which she did not intend as a compliment).

In light of that (get it?), I'd like to share why I am so happy that God/Craigslist brought Bree to me a few short months ago. Because here is a totally non-exhaustive list of the awesomeness Bree has brought into my life, in no particular order:

DeVotchKa
The expression "JTM" [just too much]
The WP
The expression "i-f-ing"
Illy Medium Roast Fine-Ground coffee
"Alias"
Free Bumble&Bumble products (thanks Britney!)
The expression "totes" (the girl's got a vocabulary on her, what can I say)
The Unethicist
Romantic dinners/long walks on the beach/stolen moments/etc.

I am a lucky girl.

Analogies Are...Awesome (as is alliteration)

You know the classic "other fish in the sea" phrase?? While I love analogies, I hate phrases like this. If I was like.....omg I really like this guy - he's so cute and tall and has curly hair and is smart (looking, because c'mon people of course I haven't talked to him).....and then someone told me that he has a girlfriend and then someone else was like, oh its okay, there's other fish in the sea - I'd probably kick that someone else in the face (it was Urmila). Not too long ago, my annoyance/hatred of this particular phrase came just from the tackiness of it and the fact that only Grandmothers who wear sweaters with cutesy kitties on them (mine included) would embrace this statement and think that it was something a) uplifting and b) true. But recently, I've become aware of the problem of over-fishing and the fact that if we continue on this path of depleting our once well-populated waters, we'll reach a point where there actually aren't other fish in the sea - hence the importance of sustainable (WORD OF THE DAY.....AHHHHHHH) fishing practices. So now I despise this phrase not only because it is geriatric and cliched but also because it is WRONG.

Although, now that I think about it, with my recent track record in the boy department perhaps the overfishing comparison holds truer than ever. I mean its like, there's other fish in the sea/there's other guys out there...NO. Over-fishing is sucking the oceans dry of delicious fish and all the good ones have girlfriends. So now I've realized that saying this is really just a big fuck you to a disheartened girl who just found out her crush is betrothed. So, while I don't condone violence against Grandmothers, it would take a lot to restrain me if this analogy is made in my presence.

So hard...and so FAST????

Dear "Men,"

It's hard, I know, to know exactly what to do when you see a pretty girl on...say...a Thursday night at...say...your neighborhood bar and you want to...say...sleep with her. Harder still, I presume, when you are very successful in your career, which happens to be in a profession that women find (very) attractive.* I imagine that, generally, you get hit on a lot, and are used to having lady business thrown in your face. I also "imagine" that you were not exactly working with the full range of your senses at the time, having just celebrated being done with work for the night.

Fair enough.

On top of all this, my lady friend Bree is quite lovely, and, having been in her company on Thursday, I can say she was looking particularly fetching that night.

So taking all of this into account, I am going to empathize with you as much as possible, before saying this:

Please don't ever ask a woman within 30 seconds of meeting her whether you're going home with her. Just don't. But if you must, please don't follow it up with, "Because I will f*@$ you so hard, and so fast."

So...fast?

As the lovely Bree said in response, "I'm not sure that's what I want."

Best of luck (and congratulations on all those accolades coming your way),
"Women"

*In the interest of protecting the...well, I mean, he's kind of a douche, but whatever...we're going to leave out some salient, identifying details. But you know who you are, dude.

The (Not So) Simple Life

Cheers, Friends.

We now have our official blog picture.

Celebrate.

This is almost as bad as "Person of the Year: YOU"

Well friends, my hatred of John Mayer has grown to unmanageable levels. He is now being celebrated as one of the Time 100 People Who Shape Our World and this is what someone (clearly a fool) wrote about him:

John Mayer doesn't radiate courage. With his sunken eyes and a wardrobe you might generously call agoraphobic chic, his aura of passivity is an artistic achievement.

Jesus fucking Christ. And THIS:

His empathetic voice and emotional fearlessness elevate songs like 'Your Body Is a Wonderland' and 'Daughters' from pop ballads into more meaningful territory; give them half a chance, and during vulnerable moments, they'll be your friends for life.

Thats like saying, "If your boyfriend just broke up with you and you're drowning your sorrows in bottle after bottle of Boone's Farm and happen to hear one of these two shitty songs, John Mayer's sweet, sweet lyricism and salty rasp will capture your heart and tell you to put down the Ben & Jerry's and wash your hair cause, girlfirend, he's not worth it."

And finally (shoot me in the face and nuts. the "kicker," if you will):

...he knows that the blues are less about melanin than about truth and technique.

Melanin, MELANIN. Its like, "BLUES...not just for Negroes with a geetar." I mean, c'mon. Eric Clapton is like 65 or something. Wasn't this all said back when he was sunken-eyed and agoraphobic chic?

(Emphasis added to the quotes above, obvs...to highlight the grossness of it all.)

"I love words."

Yeah, I said that. I also said, "I love beer," and "I love everybody," so I mean, I don't think words should get too excited about it.

Seriously, though, words are awesome. [Ed. note. I am not drunk right now. I am, however, a little hungover and tired, and jittery from my pathetic attempt to compensate for both with caffeine.]

Anyway, forget it, okay? I realize the irony of being profoundly unable to find the words to describe my love for them. In fact, I'm at a loss...for...words. In so many ways.

Word of the Day.

Sustainable.

Word of the Day: Not to be confused with "Boyfriend of the Day," though in this case the two are most definitely linked.

Champagne Gives Me a Toof-Ache.

And so does Prosecco. And Cava! Weird.

Last night the lovely Jean was visiting from LA so I took her to Hook, my favoritest restaurant in DC, an interesting title for a restaurant that has only been open for a week. But as I've said before, I am super into novelty, and I am also...what is the euphemism I'm looking for...capricious? Mmm, let's call it "whimsical," shall we?

Anyway, the point is that the staff and management of Hook is beyond lovely, because they plied us with 3 free bottles of Prosecco, which is my favoritest fermented grape drink -- and that is long-standing and fairly widely known. The beauty is, I'm pretty sure they knew we were not rogue food critics or anyone with a serious capability to either boost or harm their business, so this seems to have been pure, unadulterated human kindness (and I seriously appreciate human kindness in the form of free booze).

But I woke up with a toof-ache this morning. Apparently, the high sugar content plus the acidity plus the carbonation...equals...toof-ache. At least in my experience. I wish I could say this would have any bearing on future carbonated alcohol consumption, but I fear it does not.

Also, I actually had a dream last night about the sable fish from Hook. It is like ichthial heaven.*

*I totally made up the word ichthial. But I think it works here.

Ed. note: The decor is awesome.

Panda Porn.

I tried to think of a boyfriend of the day, but... I'm not really in the mood.

Much, it seems, like China's panda population.

http://www.cnn.com/video/player/player.html?url=/video/tech/2007/04/29/vause.panda.porn.cnn

Dude, I'd way rather have panda porn than a boyfriend of the day.

Eff. Marry. Kill

Because I'm a huge bitch and Fuck/Marry/Kill happens to be my most favorite game EVER (well, that and Would You Rather), here's a really tough one...

Jake Gyllenhaal
http://popsugar.com/230450

John Krasinski
http://img86.imageshack.us/my.php?image=johnkrassz7.jpg

Ryan Gosling http://images.askmen.com/men/celeb_profiles_entertainment/37_ryan_gosling.jpg

Please click on the links - they make it that much more difficult. I am wont to include Shia Labeouf who, as you can tell from a previous post, is a major crush of the editors of DHA. However, I feel as though our other lady friends do not share our enthusiam (obsession?). YET, my dears...YET. No matter. I challenge you to feel comfortable with your answer to the above (and you HAVE to respond people). Oh and comment your answer.

Thanks, friends.

Ou est La Beouf?

Classically, when we see tongue during a movie makeout scene we think: "Hey buddy, keep that in your mouth."

Now, when we saw Shia Labeouf's tongue (twice -- not that we were counting) making out with some ho in "Disturbia," we thought (in tandem), "Hey buddy, put that in my mouth."

You know what we love about inordinately hot 20-year-old actors? We get older...they stay the saaaaaame age.

An Ellipsis is Worth a Thousand Words

Bree: Dude, Urmila, he is definitely gay.
Urmila: That makes zero sense. Why is he always calling and emailing and trying to hang out with me then?
Bree: Because you're cool?
Urmila: I'm not that cool.
Bree: ....
Urmila: ....
Bree: That's true.

The Internet Scares Me

So the internet scares me. Or rather having any information about myself on the internet scares me. I am, I think, just a couple years too old for MySpace. Kids these days. But I hear MySpace is on the downslope anyway.

I found out a few days ago that someone at my company has posted on their MySpace page, a picture of their enormous fake boobs. Amazing. I mean, not that I wouldn't have done it - at least if my surgery hadn't been horribly botched.

The surgery "mistake" is really less of a problem and more of an opportunity because, hey, fused nipples - really the wave of the future. Plus it makes a great cupholder.

Anyhoo, rather than post under a fake, but realistic sounding name - I've gone with Luddette. It's like "luddite", but more feminine. And, Urmila, you can just call me "L".

And I look nothing like Queen Latifah.

I really like Local 16. Its close to our apt. It has a roof deck. The bartenders are nice and cute. They have an inexpensive pinot noir that I looove and delicious medjool dates stuffed with bacon and feta. They generally play decent music. So, Local...awesome.

Please take note that the aforementioned positives that make Local awesome have NOTHING to do with the people that go to Local. I seem to remember a while back that it was written up in one of the daily (weekly?) papers that DC has (okay, maybe it was the Post) as THE super-dooperest place to meet/hook-up with people. Surprisingly, tons of BnT'ers read this article and now they crowd my local bar making it impossible for me to go there weekend nights - well, thats not entirely true cause these people tend to leave around 11 to meet their fellow BnT'ers and hang with 21-yr-olds in Adams Morgan (hot!). Anyways, this is a conversation had one lovely evening atop the roof deck with the typical sort of, ahem, gentleman that hits on unsuspecting ladies like me and my lovely roommate at this establishment.

Patrick (to Urmila): You remind me of someone.
Urmila: Uh-huh.
Patrick: Have you seen The Office?
Urmila: (under her breath) Sweet Jesus.
Bree: ...
Patrick (to Bree): Do you know where I'm going with this?
Bree: No.

Self-hating, bad

Its a real rarity that there will be a song that I like that makes me feel icky for liking it (btw - I have really good taste in music). I mean, I'm comfortable with saying that I like some shitty pop. I like all Avril Lavigne songs (okay, except that one at the end of her first album where she starts rapping; that one's not okay) even though I think that most people with decent taste in music and/or half a brain think she sucks devin's balls. That is fine. I still feel okay (good even, happy-type) for liking her music. The same can be said for a few Hilary Duff songs and that arms race song by Pete Wentz's penis. Come to think of it, I can only think of one song that I genuinely like that makes me feel like a bad human being and, well, hate myself (on par with how I can imagine I'd feel if I liked any Moby songs, cause, ew).

Blah blah blah...what I'm trying to say is FUCK JOHN MAYER AND THAT GRAVITY BULLSHIT.

Boyfriend of the Day

Today's boyfriend not only wrote a very funny, albeit self-conscious, book about the soul-crushing despair of the modern workplace, but he also inspires a clarification about "Urmila's Boyfriend of the Day." Namely, that there's nothing untoward about being named my boyfriend of the day (though past boyfriends may disagree). It's not...romantic. Or whatever. In the case of today's bf, Joshua Ferris, it is especially unromantic, because he is already married, and not to me. And if there is one thing I respect -- if -- it's the sanctity of marriage.

Anyway, I also heart Joshua Ferris because he's the butt of tons of Gawker jokes, and that's always a good barometer of one's awesomeness.

http://gawker.com/news/joshua-ferris/joshua-ferris-remembers-getting-puke-on-the-little-people-248918.php

Short-alls.

Here at DHA we are allowed to hate not-awesome things. And one such thing is the "short-all."

Shortalls. Legless overalls. Or shorts with a bib.

Now I have made some (several) questionable fashion choices in my time. It's the price you pay for being such a visionary. And yes, I did rock the overalls several years after leaving junior high, and several years after Dylan McKay wore them with only one of the straps attached (the other hanging loose and free). And I wore them with, if I recall, pointy boots and a silk camisole, so.

But I still think I'm within my non-judgmental rights to say that this is NOT OKAY:

http://www.chipandpepper.com/Wiley_Overall_Short_in_Neff/r/3042507/pd/np/2140/p/1116.html

Is that made of chambray? Um, and are the bottoms pre-rolled?

And even Dylan wouldn't know what to do with that halter neck.

I am so disturbed.

Ha ha ha, roommates

In honor of Day 1 DHA, a laundry list of what we find to be awesome and our, er, dislikes –

The former: day drinking, puppies, francophile-ness, law students (former, current, ourselves) Morningstar farms, stealing (hearts), champagne, Avril Lavigne, the left coast, the right coast, sexy time, handbags and shoes, family, ellipses, jello shots, boys with names that begin with J.

The latter: too many to name but odds are, you. HA - kidding (a little!). Mostly we dislike people that take themselves too seriously. And people that are not awesome, obvi.

Happy birfday, bitches.

Ed. Note. One of us may try to hide the amount of alcohol consumed by this online diary (hint: not me!). Do not be fooled. Alcohol is most definitely a major component of said awesomeness.

Summer Rain

You know who's awesome, and like, an incredibly underrated lyricist?

Belinda Carlisle.

"And his kisses hotter than the Santa Ana winds."

It doesn't get more evocative than that.