Snobs Can Be Ghetto Too

It’s hard to pass judgment on other folks when one’s own life is in a shamble-ish state itself, similar to the statement that people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones- people whose lives are crumbling around them should certainly refrain from casting judgment anywhere besides upon themselves. Thus, the second installment of a series that examines the downward spiral of my life.

In today’s edition we’ll examine how now only am I stuck in a rut, but other elements of my life are in such a state that the word ‘ghetto’ is the only adjective that can adequately describe them.

Let’s start with my car- a perfectly good little, red Corolla. In years past she’s served me just fine, with little maintenance required save your routine oil change. However, of late, it seems every time I turn the key something new is wrong. I am 97% sure this is payback from the fact that the front headlight burnt out in December and it took me till April to replace it, but that’s beside the point. After fixing the previously referenced headlight and springing for an oil change, I followed up with a trip to the service station for the emissions and state inspections. Low and behold, my car failed…a fact that I took seriously enough to shed tears in front of the mechanic who delivered the news. Adding insult to injury, the cost to repair the problem preventing passage (alliteration!) was $400. This is not a sum of money that I have hanging around, and if I did I surely would have found something more fun to spend it on than brake pads. Anyways, with a little help I finagle a deal and replace the offending pads, allowing my car to pass inspection and clear the way for it to become a registered vehicle in the Commonwealth of Virginia.

I thought this would be the end of my car related expenses and efforts for at least a week, however I was incorrect. A few days later, upon starting up my car, the check engine light lit up. This did not please me. Not only did I lack the patience for this nonsense, I certainly did not have any money to remedy the situation. Thus I continued to drive it at my leisure, ignoring the angry orange engine shaped light glowing on the dash. Now this may not be the smartest thing I’ve done, as experts (to include my roommates, my brother, my parents, and coworkers) all warned against doing just that, however I bravely took my chances and am sure glad I did as last night when I got into my car after a brief excursion to JoAnn Fabrics (I live dangerously.), the light had turned off. I take this to mean my car has fixed the problem itself, and while others have warned that this is not in fact the case, I stand by my assumption.

Next on the list is my Blackberry. Earlier this week when I was making good on my regular gym session promise, my roommate noticed that the track ball had popped out of its tiny compartment. I was unaware of just how this happened but did my best to pop it back into place and continue on my merry way. Fast forward to the same time the next day- the little round circle that holds the ball securely in place has permanently detached itself from my phone and is no where to be found. I am left, instead, with just the trackball and the little cradle it’s attached to to hold it loosely in place. And by loosely in place I mean not hold it in place at all. Thus my phone currently sits in a Ziploc bag, ensuring that should the ball dislodge itself (it will), it cannot venture further than the confines of the plastic bag. All day I have been conducting furious BBM conversations and Facebook stalking through the protective covering of the plastic.

Genius? Debatable. Ghetto? Definitely.

In a rut.

Allow me to preface this post with an apology: Sorry I’ve been MIA…I’m in a bit of a rut. One that has unfortunately consumed me enough to impact my creative process and prevent any posts…therefore, in a combative effort against said rut- I’m posting about it.

For the past few months neither myself nor my life have ‘sparkled’. I understand that sparkle is a term few use in describing their lives, as it conjures up images of disco balls and drag queens…and for some of us, a period of time during middle school when we would wear copious amounts as eye shadow, but it’s rather appropriate when describing the lackluster feeling I’ve been embodying for the better part of two months.

I can’t precisely pinpoint when I went off course, but at some point I diverted from the path and have landed squarely in the aforementioned rut. My rut has manifested itself mainly in my appearance, as I am fairly certain that 58 of the last 63 days have been bad hair days. This is serious for me- my hair has always been a source of pride…be it during the days of yore when it hung long and luxuriously, or in more recent times when I accidently wound up with somewhat of a butch haircut, it still looked great. Probably better than yours in fact. However, now that its somewhere in between…its hideous. No matter what styling product or tool I use on it, I wind up looking dreadful. As a temporary solution, I’ve adopted the ‘lesbian ponytail’ for work. This involves pulling it back into a stub of a ponytail at the nape of my neck and spending the rest of the day praying it will grow out.

Speaking of growing out- my eyebrows are excelling in this area. As a child who once suffered from the terrible affliction known as a unibrow, the chance of a reoccurrence is all too real of a fear. On top of this (literally, in some cases), the breakout that’s spanning my forehead is really compounding the issue and driving me further into despair. If a giant sunhat and oversize sunglasses were appropriate office attire, you can bet I’d be sporting them from 9 to 5 daily.

Instead what I am sporting is whatever I can find on my bedroom floor in the morning. Yep, floor. Its my newest storage solution as my recent move has me living in a place I absolutely adore, but the offers me very little with regard to storage space. Up until 5 am this Saturday morning I had narrowly avoided employing floor to store my clothing- instead relying on a freestanding clothes rack to hang all of my dresses, skirts and other work staples. Twice before it had collapsed (once onto the rack of handbags on the back of my door, once on top of me), however Saturday morning saw its ultimate demise. Since then its been resting in pieces on the floor alongside the clothing it once housed. Each ensemble I select from my new organizational arrangement has lead me to believe that I not only need a new closet, but potentially a new wardrobe to fill it with.

Alas, a new wardrobe is certainly out of reach, but I will be treating myself to something I hope will be a kickstart to get myself out of this rut…heres to regular gym and tanning sessions to commence ASAP.

True Life: I'm a Match.com Burnout

So I’ve decided to take an indefinite hiatus from my plunge into the world of online dating. No, not because I’ve met someone…though I have met people, just not exactly anyone who I really hit it off with. Instead it’s a combination of not having found any chemistry with any of my dates, and that Match is INCREDIBLY time consuming and tedious. Corresponding with a bevy of online dates, weeding out the undesirables (read: jorts, hair gel, 42 year old creeps who live in the suburbs, the guy who called me Porkchop, etc.) is exhausting. And those that I did want to get to know better had me glued to my computer, perfecting every single email to come off as smart, witty, and charming. However, despite how well our e-flirtation would go- it would ultimately dissipate once we came face to face. This is not to say that my Match.com days are over, as I can’t rule out the possibility that I may reappear on the online dating scene someday down the road. But until then, I’ll always have the memories…

Take Dave for example…at 6’4 he definitely hit my height requirement. Having earned his degree in some engineering field of sorts, he was now pursuing a masters in the same thing. Fancy. First impression of his photo was – WOW. He’s cute. As my first Match.com date, I was both giddy and apprehensive, but after exchanging some of the best emails to date (yes- I rate on those levels when it comes to Match), I was psyched. We opted for margaritas at my favorite Mexican place, to take place on a Friday evening post-work. Sounds good right? Then he gets out of the car- and by car I mean Volvo hatchback. I’m slightly confused by his choice of vehicle. But I push these thoughts aside and stride toward him to introduce myself. Upon closer inspection, my concern begins to grow, as his ensemble paints him in a far more metrosexual light than I’d envisioned throughout our emails. He had on a white zip-up…which looked nice despite my preference for half-zips, but definitely bordered on seasonally inappropriate slash urban hipster. Again, I pushed these judgments aside. However as he turned his back to get back into his car, I noticed the telltale Rock and Republic R’s on either pocket of his jeans. This gentleman was sporting better jeans than me. I was quite unsure what to think- was I impressed? Disturbed? Puzzled? Perhaps a mix of all three. With his gator skin loafer pressed to the pedal, we sped off in the jaunty little Volvo as that first sentiment dissipated and I was definitely left wondering where the evening would lead.

In the span of our 1 mile trek to the restaurant, Dave made roughly 7 racist/sexist/bigoted jokes. Now, I’m not a bleeding heart or really even a nice person…but this astounded me. Um sir, WE JUST MET. This clearly wasn’t an issue for him…as he continued to put down everyone (myself included) but himself. This guy was way into himself- he purchased the hatchback himself- bought the condo he was currently residing in, refurbished the kitchen. He literally dominated the conversation…my eyes bugged out wondering how I could get a word in edgewise. And when I finally took a stab at contributing to the conversation, I was sorry I had. Thus, I downed my margaritas, and enjoyed my fajitas. Then the check came. He instructed we split it- and while I was prepared to pay my way, I did not take kindly to the way this subject was broached. Once our respective cards were run and the receipts returned to the table, I shared my absolutely love for the mints included within. Big mistake. Evidently these mints were subpar…just like every other interest of mine I’d shared that evening. Hesitantly I followed him back to the hatchback, and prepared for the car ride home. I reached into my bag to check my phone (probably rude, but whatever) to find numerous concerned texts from a friend…including one inquiring as to if I were dead in a ditch. I shared the message with Dave…who came up with what he clearly thought was a clever response:

“Tell her you’re smoking a cigarette after your third orgasm.”

I nearly vomited…and not from the mix of margaritas and Mexican sloshing in my stomach. This guy was a skeeze. Thank god this comment came from him right as we pulled up to the ambiguous corner near my apartment where I met him. I got out of the car, so confused by this person I’d just spent the past two hours with. I was both majorly creeped out, and somehow hoping he’d call me? The latter of these sentiments definitely arose from the fact that I absolutely did not want to be a Match.com failure.

The next day I sent him a polite text thanking him for everything (and considering I paid for my dinner, everything really only consists of the awkward hatchback ride, the one-sided conversation and the crass humor), and headed out for some wine at a friends.

As girls do, my friends eagerly plied me for details on the date- I explained my reservations…how he seemed like a jerk, was definitely full of himself, and had questionable taste in music. Then I shared one final detail- his username. My friends eyes lit up- he had asked her out at 2 am that morning…roughly 5 hours after our date had finished, and probably about an hour after returning from McFadden’s with his broskis. This somehow made me feel so much better- we determined this guy was a serial Match-er, and a complete dbag, for lack of a better term.

And that was the last of Dave…may he and his hatchback be eternally happy.

Gymservations: Vol. II

I’ve recently switched gyms, and though the ambiance of the new locale falls far beneath that of my previous arrangement, I’m going to have to say that this one offers a neat little perk not offered at the WSC up the street. And it’s name is Kyle. Cute Trainer Kyle (CTK) to be precise. Now to be fair, I am pretty certain I am known to him as Severely Uncoordinated Chick (SUC?). But that is both A) beside the point and B) detrimental to my fantasies.

Upon first meeting CTK, I was alarmed by the amount of chemistry that sparked between us. Especially in comparison to the last four fellows I had so closely encountered (yes- Match.com men, updates to follow). I’m pretty sure I went home that night and reported precisely that to my roommate.

Cute Trainer Kyle gives me something to look forward to…twice a week. Which is exactly two more things than I had to look forward to prior to signing on with him. After work I mosey over to the Bally’s location caddy corner to my office building, I wander down the steps into the dark basement…where black walls meet black rubber floors, and windows and natural light are no where to be found- but amidst the otherwise dungeon-esque surroundings is the ray of light that is Cute Trainer Kyle. Now by conventional standards, CTK is not so much hott (if he were, we’d call him HTK…), nor is he what I’d typically describe as my type. However…in the glare of the fluorescent bulbs down in the Bally Total Basement…he’s enchanting. It doesn’t hurt that he’s funny…and more or less guaranteed to have a bangin’ bod either. Unfortunately his presence makes me more than a little nervous…which doesn’t help the fact that I clearly lack the coordination necessary to look graceful out there on the floor. Regardless, CTK does not appear to hold this against me. 

Though I’m only three sessions in, I’m fairly certain CTK and I will end up being at least best friends by the end of our six weeks together. If I re-up for another three or four, we’re pretty much guaranteed to take our relationship to the next level, right? Impressive sales tactic Bally…

Love Thy Neighbor? Ha, thats for the birds...

I reside in a charming little neighborhood in NW, bustling with young professionals, new families…aaaand old people. My complex itself may as well be a retirement community, but I can’t complain- the silver set make excellent neighbors. They’re neat, they’re quiet, and save falling and throwing their hip out once in a while, there is very little drama associated with them. Since moving in in October of 2008, I’ve avoided all neighborly conflicts…a welcome change from some of the nut-jobs who lived next door, upstairs, one building over during my collegiate years.

However, my good neighbor streak came to an end just as the last round of snow began to melt. Allow me to introduce you to Bird Lady. Though Bird Lady does not live in my building, she does park next to me in our designated spots. Being that I’ve fully embraced the public transport system here in the area, my little car remains parked for the majority of the time, where it rests beneath the shade of a large tree. The aforementioned tree provides plenty of problems; in the fall- my vehicle is awash in freshly fallen leaves. In warmer months, it becomes the landing pad for bird droppings.

Now I first met Bird Lady while shoveling out my car from this February’s blizzards. While I struggled to remove tons of snow from beside, on top of, around my vehicle…Bird Lady was calmly brooming two inches of white powder from her car’s roof onto the snowy ground beside her car. Two inches, you say? Yes- because she’d already flung the other 46 into the area between our cars and watched as I broke a sweat (something I do not enjoy doing outside the confines of the gym) hauling it away. The other side of Bird Lady’s car was completely plowed/shoveled/scraped down to the asphalt, courtesy of the Georgetown North HOA, as she has the good fortune of parking next to a building entry. On a related note, I have bad fortune of parking next to Bird Lady. As my roommate and I worked furiously to free our cars, Bird Lady retreated to her building and emerged with a bag of bird seed. She immediately dumped the contents of the bag onto a snow drift between our cars and instructed us not to shovel any snow onto the seed. I should’ve spited her blatant lack of snow removal respect, and dumped a huge shovel full on the bird seed, however I suppressed this urge and left the seed unburied- a decision I now regret.

Now, upon my first interaction with Bird Lady, I sensed something was a little off....though she just seemed like a harmless old bat. However, my tune has changed. After successfully freeing my car from its snowy den, I was proud to behold the gleaming reddish paint sparkling against the heaps of white we’d shoveled away- a beauty that has faded with the melting snow. You see, after the birds partook in what I can only assume was a literal feeding frenzy, indulging in the roughly 3 lbs of bird seed left for them- they understandably needed a place to rest. And what better place than the large tree directly above my little car? I think you see the problem…the landing pad thing- yeah, this is like that times about a hundred.

And as for Bird Lady, this is war.

Confessions of a Snowed in Snob

A half day of work on Friday, plus a sublimely snowy Saturday and Sunday, immediately followed by four days of less than blissful blizzarding and here I am...probably 15 pounds heavier and severely lacking in both the motivation and human interaction aspects of my life. I've spent these past days indulging in various food stuffs I would not otherwise have kept in the house, ie; chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, sour candy, Smart Food popcorn....in related news I am also indulging in elastic waste pants more than usual. Despite falling off the wagon in terms of eating well and working out (hey...shoveling counts, right?), this time off has allowed me to keep up with some of my other resolutions- particularly the cooking and baking, which may be contributing to the sweat pant trend I'm rocking. Recent creations- Pepper Jack Mac & Cheese...and last night I whipped up some homemade oatmeal cookies. Yum. 

But let's be honest- none of that is really what you all came to read about. Unfortunately blizzards don't really provide much fodder for judging...though my own antics during it certainly did. For example, after venturing out on Saturday night with my snowbound companions for far too many libations at our local watering hole, we wandered down Wisconsin to meet up with the bro & co for Sunday brunch. I perused my phone for hints as to how I spent the hours between nine and three the evening before. And here is what a discovered...I googled 'where the f is cornell'. 

Ummm, what? In what context did I need this information and why was I so demanding of the search engine? I am severely disappointed in myself. And can only forgive this behavior because it was a snow day and things like this are excusable, right? Probably not...in which case I'm looking forward to rejoining the real world tomorrow, where I can redeem myself. Just one problem-sweatpants are CERTAINLY not acceptable office attire...

Colder Than My Heart...

Welp, it’s officially miserably cold here in the city again. The past few days have managed to be just warm enough to offer a hint that Spring is just around the corner- and by just I mean a couple of long, grueling, frigid months away. Yesterday as I indulged in a manicure and brow wax downtown, I was pleasantly surprised to find I hardly needed my wool coat, and instead could manage fairly well in my jumper/blazer combo (don’t judge, it was cute- and revolved entirely around the previous days $25 lunch hour find). However, I found myself experiencing a bit of hesitation when it came to forgoing the coat- after all it was January 28- the dead of DC winter, and I did not want to push my luck.

Evidently many other women around town had no issue doing so, and for that reason I am holding them directly responsible for the fact that it is miserably cold today and will continue to be for the foreseeable future. I am saddling the blame on two ladies in particular, both of which I had the pleasure of passing en route to my beautification sesh.

Guilty Party #1: The Hippie Chick

Dear lord- whoever let this lady off her commune, please come back and claim her. I had the joy of walking behind the Hippie Chick, providing myself a safe distance in which to assess the absurd ensemble she was sporting. The first item I took offense to (and of which I am certain angered the Gods just as much- thus causing them to unleash tundra like conditions upon the Metro area) was her tiered peasant skirt. This bothered me not just because it is entirely inappropriate office wear, but also because it was WHITE. STARK WHITE. A stark white, tiered peasant skirt? Perhaps frolicking in a field somewhere in June…but strolling the streets of DC in January? No. Seasonally, age, and locationally inappropriate ma’m. To top it off (literally), this lady’s locks mimicked the tiers of the skirt, though in the case of her hair, the divisions amongst tiers was not bright white satin ribbon. Instead, each layer was distinguished by a different color of hair-dye. The bottom was a reddish brown, above that more of an ash, the third (and most perplexing) was a grayish color, before ending in a shock of blonde at her roots. I can only imagine that this hair style further angered the aforementioned Gods, and this lady is not only responsible for the chilly temps but also the impending snow. Way to go.

Guilty Party #2: The Mystic Maiden

Alright, so back in ninth grade I was the proud owner of a pair of black Steve Madden slides. They were basically like an inch and half high platform with a stretchy black band over the top and open toes, of which I made good use displaying my hot pink toe nails and their accompanying floral design. They were cool, and by extension I like to think that I was too. However, like many a trend, this one fell out of favor before the end of sophomore year and I retired the look. Unfortunately, my new friend the Mystic Maiden kept them around long enough to break them out yesterday and sport them along with a pair of black leggings. A look that exposed just enough of her ankle to display the obvious remnants of a poor quality Mystic Tan (someone clearly did not watch the instructional video…). There was so much wrong with this picture that I had to pause to take it all in…and to type a note in my Blackberry reminding me of this sighting. Open toed SANDALS in JANUARY. Why was this even a consideration when she was getting dressed this morning?! My assumption is that she was blinded by the fact that her skin was the unnatural color of Cheet-o’s, thus preventing her from seeing the major faux pas she was committing, nonetheless, I am appalled and absolutely not excusing this behavior. Hopefully she wore those same slides today, and the cold of the air will reach her toes and shock her into realizing her circa summer 2001 shoe choice brought this upon the rest of the city.

Let this be a lesson…