Tickle My Kittens

I’ve just recently started taking the Metro to work again, after 2+ years of being one of the pissed-off drivers on I-66 every day. Riding the train has always been one of my dorky pleasures. Maybe it’s because I’m from the Midwest where public transportation is unheard of. Maybe it’s because I like silently judging all the horribly dressed Hill workers each morning. Maybe it’s because I like that the guy who hands out the Examiner says things like “Girl, you looking GOOD in your shades! You have a hot weekend.”  Whatever the reason, though, I’ve been enjoying the train — for the most part. What I’d forgotten about is that, much like in a car, people forget that although they may feel like they’re in their own little world, other people can see them.  I’d like to offer some advice to these passengers, for the benefit of all Metro riders:

Dear Man on the Bus,
The Fairfax Connector is simply not the appropriate place to reapply your Axe body spray. I know the Axe Effect is hard to pass up and if you’re on your way to a romantic rendezvous at 9:30 a.m. I salute you, but let’s consider the proximity to other passengers here. Do you really want to excite the overweight woman who just applied Benadryl cream to her rash-y legs? Although maybe the two of you would be a match made in heaven: You’re both treating the bus like a bathroom.

Dear Girl Sitting Across the Aisle,
I’d appreciate if you could keep that mannequin head hidden properly in the bag you just removed it from. And I’d really appreciate it if you could refrain from brushing said mannequin head’s hair. This action is obviously making you happy, based on the goofy/psycho grin on your face, but your mother should have taught you that disembodied heads — even fake ones — should not be on public display.

Dear Man in the Seat Next to Me,
You are literally inches away from me. This means that I can tell what you’re doing, especially when what you’re doing is totally staring at me. Not stealing glances, not reading over my shoulder — full-on, head-turned-my-direction staring at me, from 4 inches away. May I suggest investing in a periscope? That would be much more covert of you, and would allow you to stare at several different girls more efficiently.

And there you have it. I think those notes should be added to Metro’s roster of clever little etiquette posters, don’t you?

Part of my job is dealing with publicists. As a general rule, publicists tend to say and ask a lot of stupid shit, so I generally know what to expect. But earlier this week I had a surprisingly stupid conversation with a publicist. She was angry that we had written about her client (who’s publishing a book next month) in my work blog, and were planning to do so again. (Yes, I am actually a professional blogger as well. I bet you didn’t know you were in such distinguished company.) She was unhappy with the prospect of us writing about her client before the book’s release, and told me that “All this Internet stuff — these daily blogs and things — are really screwing things up!” Oh, really, publicist lady? Those daily mentions of your client, which can be linked to and read and discussed over and over, are screwing things up? Interesting. I was under the impression that, as a publicist, your job was to get publicity for your client. Apparently not. This got me thinking about all the other newfangled inventions of late that really are just screwing everything up. A few I feel most strongly about:

Cars. You know who I bet feel really neglected these days? Horses. We should start riding those around again. Leather chaps can and should make a serious comeback, and there’d be fewer emissions to deal with. (Insert joke about horse poo here.) Also, 495 would be way less backed up if we brought back the equestrian mode of transportation.

Cell phones. So what, now I’m expected to call people when I’m running late, and I don’t have to wait until I get home to find out if DA is drunk, again, off Sprite and gin? You mean I can just call him and find out, so I know to just head straight up to my room instead of getting sucked into watching The Hills with him? That doesn’t seem right. If he’s been drinking gin again he probably just wants to have a meaningful conversation about the state of affairs in Israel or Harry Potter, and I shouldn’t deny him that.

Microwaves. Now, I do not currently own a microwave because BAL threw his out before we moved in (DA and I moved into BAL’s old house. Several of our favorite commenters also used to live there. It’s all very Circle of Life.) But I can tell you that my life is exponentially better for it. Cooking in four minutes or less? What a pain in the ass.

Seatbelts. Much like Tracy Jordan, all I want to do is go crash my car and see if the airbags go off. And if those airbags do go off, I’d like to gently rest my face on the pillow-top-like softness of the airbag. Seatbelts be damned.

Band-aids. Wait, you want to cover up your gaping wound so it’ll heal faster? You pansy.

So, as the token female on this blog, clearly I am required to respond to the oh-so-lovely and not-at-all-angry-sounding post about meeting decent guys in DC. It took me a while to figure out just how I wanted to respond: Do I do my own ironic post, flipping the perspective? (No, because the guy perspective of “Why can’t I meet an only slightly crazy girl in a tight halter top in DC” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.) Do I write a rebuttal about why girls should be allowed to both go to Chloe and expect to find a decent guy? (No, because that is clearly untrue and just stupid.) Do I do some post about how RCR seems kind of angry about the ladies? (No, because despite his drunken ranting, he was pretty spot on with most of that post.)

I actually agree with what much of RCR said, with the exception of mocking the love of Jim on “The Office.” That was just a low blow — he’s not even an embarassing choice. Someone like David Boreanaz, then I’d understand the mockery. But I digress…

I did, however, want to respond, because I am an ostensibly cute girl living in DC who’s had a hard time meeting a “decent guy.” The difference is, I do frequent the dive bars and places so often recommended for meeting normal guys. Let’s take a look, shall we?

Monday, I had a dinner date with a guy who was both funny and above average-looking. The meal was great, we had some wine and laughed a lot — it was one of the better dates I’d been on. He dropped me off, then called 10 minutes later to leave a voicemail telling me he “thought the goodbye was awkward, that maybe there could have been some kiss potential” but wanted me to know it wasn’t me. He just doesn’t kiss on the first date. Yes, dude, it was awkward, and now you have made it exponentially more so by pointing it out.

Tuesday, I went to Chipotle for lunch, where i watched two dudes compete to see who could eat their burrito the fastest. The one in the George Washington University Rugby sweatshirt just barely beat his buddy in the “I put the ‘me’ in Awesome” t-shirt. I’m not sure “awesome” is the word I’d use.

Wednesday, I was minding my own business on the Metro, when a very small man riding the escalator behind me oh-so-gently cupped my ass. Twice.

Thursday, I stayed home and watched The Office. Suck it.

Friday, I got hit on by a guy at Buffalo Billiards to whom I was able to respond, “I will give you my number if you button three more buttons on your shirt.” I don’t think that needs any more commentary. And then I saw “I don’t kiss on the first date” man making out with a girl in the corner.

Saturday, I met a few guys at the Big Hunt, who I chatted with for a while, but then overheard getting the address for “the Korean brothel right up the street.” (Clearly, I immediately passed that info along to BAL.)

Sunday, I went out to swim at Hains Point, where a man far too old to be wearing a Speedo asked if I wanted any pointers on my breaststroke. Funny, sir. You’ve had 30 more years than me to come up with sexual innuendos, and that’s still what you’re bringing to the table?

So there you have it. After reminiscing all those lovely encounters, I’m too worn out to come up with a witty or even coherent conclusion. Who knows what the problem is. Maybe I’m just ugly. Maybe my drinking problem is a lot more obvious than I thought and even random guys in bars are scared. Maybe the fact that I surround myself with people (and by people I mean trainwrecks) like DA and BAL is hampering my social skills. Perhaps I’ll just stay at home and stare at John Krasinski on my TV until we figure it out.

OK, while we’re all waiting for Scott’s update to the Missed Connections I figured I might as well get on it and do my first post. I’m clearly not going to be anywhere near as funny as Scott has proven to be, so the plan is for this to fly right under the radar as soon as he updates.

I realize I’m a bit late to the game on my inaugural post. Most of you probably assumed I’m actually just a figment of Bad at Life’s imagination because, really, who expected that he’d have any females other than his mom in his world? But here I am, live and in type. As the Token Female I should probably take this time to introduce myself or discuss something female-y, but off the bat, I feel the need to correct a few things Bad at Life said. And really, that’s probably what most of my future posts will be as I have very few original thoughts. I’ll be like the stern, sexy teacher who continually cuts you down, but you kind of like it, so welcome to it.

First, I will not spend most of my time whining about how hard it is to meet boys on Late Night Shots. I will actually spend most of my time pointing out what an idiot he is (and, for that matter, the Drunk Astronaut, too. My love for Scott, though, knows no bounds). Then, if there’s time, I may expound on things like why dudes in this city are such asshats, why The Office is arguably the greatest show of all time (and how/why I would like to do dirty, dirty things to John Krasinski), and why I am much, much sexier than anyone else involved with this blog.

Second, I am quite sure I love Tang more than the Drunk Astronaut. For real — I drink it almost daily. Unless, of course, BAL was trying to make a veiled joke about tang of the lower-case variety — then the Drunk Astronaut really is the bigger fan.

Third, if anyone is looking to the Astronaut as his (or her) expert on women, he (or she) is in deep, deep trouble. I think he himself summed it up best in this text message he sent me one Tuesday night, while out with his underage lover: “I am in Georgetown and I’m a trainwreck. I sort of hate myself.” Then again, maybe it’s that kind of self-awareness that will bring him great success. That, and the unabashed tit staring.

Fourth, I need to commend Scott for using “panty” in what I think is the only situation ever in which I haven’t been made uncomfortable by that word. I’m not even going to bother expounding on the Craigslist thing, because that is just so beyond words.

There you have it. And now back to waiting for the Missed Connections reveal…