The Red and Mark Show (take 1, 2, 3 and 4)

yum

Every experience is heightened when you're younger; it's why My Little Ponies used to be the most fantastic creatures on the planet and I could spend hours brushing their tails and arranging them in their stables (i.e. old shoeboxes) and writing stories about them, and now it's "Look at this dumb glittery fake horse; Jillian really wants one of these? OK..." When I was thirteen I knew every breath on every album by They Might Be Giants and Tori Amos; I still love music, obviously, but not with the fanaticism of a teenager. As you get older all the things you were obsessed with as a kid sort of get put in their proper place.

Except for one thing. My adoration of ONE THING has endured. Which is quite a feat for me, considering how ADD I am. I have had a massive crush on Eddie Vedder for, um, half my life. And the only reason I didn't have a crush on him for the first half is because I hadn't heard of him yet. And a fourteen year crush should be enough to call it a relationship, don't you think?

Okay fine, it's enough to call it a restraining order.

See, this is dicey because I seem to be younger by about five years than some of those in The Neighborhood, which would put you at enough of an age advantage to find this completely trite; you were old enough to poke fun at the irony of the grunge movement, while I just thought it was all WICKED COOL.

I've tried to break it down and understand it better. I've never been into bad boys, and definitely not into brooding musicians. He's good looking, but he's slight and definitely skinny. He had long, greasy hair for a long time. And yet he gives me the same goosebumps he did when I was fourteen. What he has, my friends, is a quality. He has the most ridiculously hot voice I've ever heard in my entire life. The song Porch is basically like sex to me; I can't listen to it without wanting to, I don't know, bite something or someone. He is, quite simply, the sexiest man on the freakin' PLANET. Can YOU explain this? Because I can't!

OK, I have to cool down, if not for your sake, then for mine.

Joe is a huge Pearl Jam fan so he always puts Eddie back on my brain when he tells me about getting tickets to their shows or downloading their new song. We were totally cracking ourselves up the other day talking about how Eddie was somehow angry as hell when he was like 27 and massively successful and selling out stadiums. Now that he's getting older and is a parent, he must only be more furious. Is he less amped up about bucking the establishment and now seething over having to cut his daughter's peanut butter sandwiches into triangles? What about when she gets older and she thinks he's unfair and too strict and "you're so lame, Dad, you don't understand anything!" I literally cannot imagine a world in which that conversation could take place.

So, yeah. This is my ridiculous, over-the-top, heart palpitation, breathless, sweaty, woozy, I'm sorry I'm really trying to calm down I swear...

Ahem. This is my crush. Big time. Who's yours?

a bunch of swatch dogs and diet coke heads

I literally don't know what to say about this. Except maybe that if you're pissed at someone you knew twelve years ago, don't send them an angry message via Friendster, of all things. Because you're only going to 1) confuse them, 2) scare them a little, and 3) end up in their blog. The funny thing is that I was so not one of those people that was mean in high school! So I consulted with someone who would know.

To: Peter
From: Red
I got a Friendster message from Guy I Sort of Used to Know telling me I was mean to him in high school. Oh my GOD! Can you think of how/why he'd tell me this? And now?

To: Red
From: Peter
That's all he said? Have you talked since high school besides this message? That is very weird. Did you respond to him?

To: Peter
From: Red
Not yet...I'm not really sure what to say. I didn't know him that well. He was two years behind us. His Brother (remember him? I think he was the same year as Your Brother) drove him to my house my junior year and he gave me a stuffed cow as a Christmas present. I wasn't really sure how to respond. Maybe this is all retribution for the unappreciated cow? Do you think I should write back?

To: Red
From: Peter
It sounds like he really liked you (cow) and obviously has been thinking about this enough to get in touch with you. I totally knew His Brother, he was friends with My Brother. It is pretty weird though. I wonder what he wants from you? Some kind of apology or something? Maybe he just had to get it off his chest. Did he ask you to write back or anything? Where does he
live now? Are you on myspace?

[Ha. I love Peter.]

To: Peter
From: Red
I don't think he likes me at all (cow notwithstanding). It would appear that he actually sort of hates me. I can't believe I offended him so much that he remembers it NOW. It actually sort of makes me feel terrible. And did I tell you that Boyfriend who Became a Woman dissed me in her blog? I just blogged about it! WHY DOES EVERYONE HATE ME? Sniff.
No, I'm not on myspace. It seems kind of depressing. Are you?

say my name

Some people have names that they don't like being changed into nicknames. Some Michaels hate Mike, Andrews hate Andy, or Elizabeths hate Liz. (I personally like all those nicknames, but that's neither here nor there.) Some people have names that they don't like being changed into nicknames because the nicknames are horrible; I once knew a Maggie who was technically Margaret and would sometimes get called MARGE... which should really only be followed by "how's your hip feeling today?"

And then sometimes you have a name that contains a variation that is arguably the Worst Nickname on the Planet. Such is the case with me. I don't go by my full name because the only time I've really ever been called it is when my dad was mad at me growing up (as in, "REDIFORD! Get in here!"). And there are basically two nicknames for my name; one is acceptable and is the one I've gone by all my life. I DO NOT go by the other one. Put it this way: It's the name of the girl being addressed in the song Baby Got Back, the one whose friend is complaining about "those rap guys' girlfriends," and in that moment it officially became not only the Worst Nickname on the Planet, but the Most Ghetto Valley Girl Name Ever Uttered.

And it's all MINE.

Except not. I don't go by that name. I loathe that name. I die a little inside anytime that anyone calls me by that name. It's hardly ever someone my age; it's almost always some random old person who mishears my name the first time, which makes me feel bad about correcting them; they probably lived through the Depression! Maybe the Civil War! What the hell do they care about changing a couple consonants around to keep me happy?

I work with this woman who is very sweet and maybe 96. She calls me by the Worst Nickname on the Planet. I really have no reason to interact with her that often, and yet she's always asking me stuff: How do I fix the printer? (Push the green button again.) Can I use your laptop to check my email? (Sure.) Where's a good place to go for Mexican? (Considering you're not willing to leave this town, I don't know; TACO BELL?) And every time she asks me something, she uses That Name. So this was me today:

Me: How do I MAKE HER STOP?
Work Friend: You should've just stopped her right away the first time she did it.
Me: I know. I KNOW!
WF: You could just be like, "Oh, I'm sorry, were you talking to me? I thought I heard you say Worst Nickname on the Planet. I prefer to be called Red."
Me: Do you really think I could pull that off? I'd end up being like, "What? What did you say? For the love of God, don't call me that!" And then I'd make her cry or something.
WF: Yeah, maybe you're just going to have to deal with it, then.

I know I should've nipped it in the bud, but I didn't and this can't go on. In case you couldn't tell, I seriously hate this nickname. (...and I cannot lie, you other brothers can't deny, when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in your face...)

outside the city. way out.

Suburban bars get such a bad rap. Even if you could throw the same place down somewhere in Boston and it would seem right at home, so long as you're outbound it's like it doesn't count.

Subway: Where are you guys?
Me: We're nowhere. We're at Desmonds.
Subway: Oh, okay.

[later]

Me: This was the perfect night to not really go out.
Steve: Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.
Me: Poor Desmonds. I mean, there's nothing wrong with this place.
Steve: Well, there are some drunk girls over there getting thrown out by the bartender. They look nineteen.
Me: Okay, let's go.

ahh, young love

Here's a riddle for you: I lost my virginity to a woman, but I've never been gay (well, not in any way that really counts). So, figure that one out.

I'm referring, of course, to my old boyfriend who became a woman. I've eluded to this now and then, and Darren inadvertently inspired me, as he so often does, to tell the whole story.

Let's call him Chris, shall we? I feel like he deserves a pseudonym; it's bad enough that if you add an "e" to the end of his actual name, it makes a girl's name.

So I met Chris in eighth grade when he moved to Melonberry (Mark's nickname for my hometown) and was put in my lab group in science class. I was happy because he was cute and tall and new. I wrote in my diary, "I have a crush on the new boy. He's from New York." He liked one of my friends, who looked, no kidding, like a young Heidi Klum (and now just looks like Heidi Klum). And then, I don't know, eighth grade ended and I didn't really pay much attention to him again until junior year of high school, when we had a bunch of mutual friends. He was funny and smart and played football, which meant I was bound to have a crush on him sooner or later.

Now is probably a good time to tell you what most of my friends know all too well: I am ridiculously specific in what type of guy I'm attracted to. He has to be big. Not big-big, but Jason Varitek big. That's the best (albeit extremely Bostonian) example that I can give you. When I met Steve years ago, it was a good thing he liked me too because I probably would've had to climb on top of him regardless. Party Jen and I spent a couple nights in Mexico hanging out with the Armenian mafia (don't ask); I ended up getting paired off with one of them but I preferred his friend, whom they called Big Jack. He had no personality but he was perfect in his bigness. I actually tried to rationalize to Jen why it might be okay to ask my guy if he'd switch with his friend. If boy-swapping on vacation is wrong, then damn it, I don't want to be right!

My point is that Chris was big and very guy-ish (oh, the irony), so it was only a matter of time. He was dating one of my friends, who over the years had morphed into Drama McDepressington, pulling stunts like running out of school and down the street because someone had looked at her the wrong way. (I feel compelled to put in a disclaimer that she was probably legitimately depressed and I hope she's okay now, but at the time she was all over the place and it was more than any of us knew how to deal with.) Chris and I initially bonded over what was going on with her and how we could help, and then she started pulling away and becoming friends with weirdos from another town, and he and I just became friends in our own right. We had a radio show together at the school station on Thursday nights, he taught me how to drive on highways, and we just hung out all the time.

After graduation, he and Drama broke up, and then he and I were together. Even now I still have the wooziest, giddiest memories of that summer after senior year; I was just on a cloud the whole time. We thought this was IT, we decided we'd get married, the whole nine yards. Needless to say, I was ready to break up with him basically my first week into college. So began the cycle of dysfunction: He'd call and I'd be out and he'd get insecure, and then it was the old song and dance... the more needy and hurt he became, the more I pulled away. But then I'd come back to Melonberry on school breaks and he'd be there to occupy my time. I should've just ended it completely, but we went back and forth like that for the next two years.

Then I finally broke up with him during my junior year, in the parking lot of my dorm. I used a line from a song by Jackopierce, which of course he never knew, thank God, but how ridiculous is that? Then I went inside and basically had an impromptu party with my friends; tacky, I know, but it was a huge relief. He called me the next day and told me how everything that had gone wrong between us was his fault. I didn't want to even hear his voice; we just needed to leave each other alone for awhile.

Three or so months later, we reconnected and sort of became friends again. I knew he was over me when he explained to me how everything that had gone wrong between us had actually been MY fault. Hmmm. Anyway, we were never friends again like we used to be (nothing like a dysfunctional relationship to take the fun out of a friendship), but we still hung out sometimes.

Then I was home for the summer after my junior year, and I had dinner with a friend who had just graduated from high school. He told me that a girl in his class was getting a sex change as a graduation present from her parents. I vaguely remembered the girl and I'd never heard of anything like this. When I got home, I called Chris.

Me: You'll never believe this! I just had dinner with Jeff, and he told me that So-and-So is getting a sex change for a graduation present!
Chris: Oh.
Me: She's BECOMING a MAN!
Chris: Yeah.
Me: Is this not UNBELIEVABLE TO YOU?
Chris: I guess so.

After we hung up, I figured he was just being moody. Then he called me back.

Chris: There's a reason I didn't react to your telling me about So-and-So.
Me: There is?
Chris: It's because, well... I'm a transsexual.

Silence. About a YEAR of silence.

Me: What?
Chris: I'm a transsexual.
Me: What?
Chris: Yeah.
Me: What does... what?

So, yeah. What a way to find out, huh? I mean, what are the odds that I heard this random story and called him to revel in its weirdness, and it turned out to be his deepest, darkest secret?

This was eight years ago, and I can still hear him saying those words to me. Even my friend Dave, who never even met Chris, told me recently that my telling him "I just talked to Chris and he told me he's a transsexual" is permanently embedded in HIS brain.

We were still friends after that, but then he told me he wanted us to get back together, and... I don't know. This was someone I truly cared about and I don't doubt that this was a massive struggle for him and who knows where it all came from. The situation is altogether heartbreaking. But it was not for me to date.

And you know what's funny? A few months ago, when I didn't see him at our ten year reunion, I became compelled to find out what the hell had happened with him. I ended up finding his blog. And yeah, he's a she.

She posted something recently about a band that she was going to see and how the last time she'd heard them had been with me. I didn't remember and posted a comment asking her to refresh my memory. She commented back and told me that while we hadn't actually seen the band together, they were playing at a place near my college one time when she was visiting and she remembered hearing the music. Then she said that the day after, she drove home wondering who I was and what I'd done with her friend.

Seriously? Suddenly I remembered all the whiny voice mails and guilt trips from forever ago. I read that blog entry and then found myself saying out loud, "Fuck that shit."

Yup... we may be almost thirty, but turn up the Stone Temple Pilots, because this is definitely like being 17 all over again.

scarred for life

OK, so I'm clearly the world's biggest scaredy cat. The reason that there isn't a better term for it when it applies to adults is because adults shouldn't be as scared of dumb crap as I am. Someone once asked me why I see so many scary movies if I terrify so easily, and I really don't; in the past ten years, I've seen maybe four, but they made a HUGE impact, so much so that I think I've even mentioned them here before. Two of them aren't even considered scary by normal standards but still traumatized me (Scream and The Mothman Prophecies), one was debatable in its scariness (Blair Witch Project), and, of course, there was The Movie That Will Not Be Named, which actually ruined my life a little bit. Obviously I can't name names, but let's just say that Naomi Watts is permanently on my shit list.

Anyway, I've finally realized that the solution is to not see any movie that looks remotely scary. Easy enough. And I don't watch any of what I affectionately refer to as dead people shows, you know, Law and Homicide Crime Scene Victims Justice Unit. I used to watch Lost and even that would really scare me on occasion. Luckily Joe was almost always on instant messenger afterwards to calm my nerves.

My point here is that I don't often get paralyzed with fear in my bathroom at seven in the morning while drying my hair and brushing my teeth and getting ready for work (which I actually do try to go to now and then). I had the radio on, as I always do, and then there was a woman's voice: "I'm so addicted to my cell phone. All my friends have their own personalized rings. People say that my phone and I are attached at the ear! Ha, ha, ha." I'm vaguely assuming it's an ad for Cingular or something. And then: "Some people might think it's annoying, but I think it will come in handy..." Then her voice gets low and creepy. "...in helping the police figure out who murdered me last night." I gasped out loud and got full-body chills. I was so mad at my radio, I almost put on Imus.

My friends always make fun of what I think is scary, so tonight I figured telling Elusive Jen about it was a safe bet.

Me: "...in helping the police figure out WHO MURDERED ME LAST NIGHT."
EJ: WHAT!!!!!
Me: Yeah!
EJ; OH MY GOD! WHY DID YOU TELL ME ABOUT THAT? I JUST GOT CHILLS!
Me: Wait, so this is legitimately scary, then?
EJ: Um, YES.
Me: I just assumed it was only scary to me.
EJ: NO, it's not.
Me: Oh. Sorry.
EJ: My GOD.
Me: I'm so glad it's not just me!
EJ: I have to go, my cell phone is dying.
Me: ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
EJ: I'll call you right back from home.
Me: CALL ME RIGHT BACK IMMEDIATELY RIGHT THIS SECOND NOW.

Yeah, maybe it's just me.

a new low

I didn't go to work today. I'm not sick; there are no sniffles to be had and the bird flu remains at bay. I'm not hungover; Ryan and I did hit up the Kinvara for awhile last night, but that's not the sort of place you'd pick to fall off the wagon of decency. I didn't have anything in particular to avoid at work; my Mondays are actually pretty mellow. But here's the thing: I didn't call in. I didn't call anyone. I just had stuff I wanted to get done outside of work and decided to not go or inform anyone that I wouldn't be there and see if I could get away with it without having it count as a sick day. Really, what the hell was I thinking? Who does that?

I took blatant, selfish, unprofessional advantage of the system. The system wherein there isn't an omnipresent boss to notice my absence; she appears now and then from "headquarters" when there's a crisis but is mostly a voice on the phone, like Charlie (which I suppose makes me an Angel). The system wherein everyone assumes that if they don't see me that I must be at a meeting or something. The system wherein I knew that my office wouldn't look empty and uninhabited because Supergirl would be there bright and early to open the door and turn on the light. I may have to contend with her tomorrow, but hopefully she's the only one.

Spring is off to a lovely, if unmotivated, start.

other career options

Saturday morning I'm in the ladies of the company in NYC where Jason works. There's a woman at one of the sinks and we exchange hellos. Then she turns to me and asks brightly, "Are you one of the new document processing hires?" She's friendly, but there's a hint of condescension there; not the sort of tone you'd use with a 5-year-old, but maybe a 15-year-old.

Is it because I'm wearing jeans? The fact that I'm brushing my teeth? I spend the next several minutes obsessing over what about me, exactly, screams Document Processing Hire--HIRE, not coordinator or executive or even PERSON--when I'm standing in the law firm of Ginormous and McFancyton and would hope to most logically be mistaken for, oh I don't know, a lawyer? Preferably one who slams her first on a table and screams at no one in particular, "Damn it! Bring me the McKenzie file!"

It occurred to me to say "I'm the new partner" but instead I went with "Oh, no, my friend works here, I'm just visiting." What a wasted opportunity.

Beyond all that, document processing hires work on Saturday mornings? Yeah, thanks, not applying for that job.

A few minutes later, a guy from the mailroom hands me a package and asks me to put it on a table for him. In the time it took for him to pause in the doorway, ask me, and point out the location of the table, he could've walked the three steps to the table himself, put the package down, then jumped on top and serenaded me with Eternal Flame.

Data entry on the weekends and transporting packages across a room... I guess my work skills are better appreciated in Beantown.

integrity sprains take awhile to heal

Dirty Dancing* is so deep in the middle of nowhere that there isn't any cell phone reception (not that this is a problem for me; see previous entry). And it's so far north that the radio stations are all French-Canadian talk shows. Having the only music that I'd hear all week be from the six piece orchestra in the ballroom right underneath my room, instead of the incessant overplaying of Coldplay and Gwen Stefani, was always just another tiny detail of being up there that made it unique and lovable.

There was one show that my bedside radio could pick up now and then, and sometimes it would be on when I came back to my room for the night. For years, that was the only time that I ever heard the show, so I had this sweet little association. Lately I've heard it around these parts occasionally when I'm flipping the dial in my car on a random evening, which is so wrong... where's my big soft bed with the covers turned down, summer night, windows open, and the music drifting in from downstairs where people are still dancing?

Well, it turns out the show is Radio Delilah, and let's just say that hearing it in my car on a Tuesday night when I'm not on vacation causes it to lose everything that I once found endearing about it. Her tagline is "looove someone tonight," which is sung, naturally. A typical call: "Hahhh, Delilah. I laav your show. I have a problem, mah boyfriend and I had a faat, and he thinks ahh don't laav him, but ahh doo." Needless to say, she has a lot of Southern listeners. In fact, I'm sure they block Northeasterners from their switchboard altogether to avoid the rasied eyebrow snarkiness that we cold weather folk bring to the table. We may not prolong our vowels, but we can always be counted on to destroy pretty much anything that is still remotely pure and good and hopeful. (Incidentally, I simultaneously love and hate this, but that's a whole other can of worms.)

I caught part of the show tonight. Someone called up with a problem, and it became abundantly clear to me why Delilah has a nationally syndicated call-in advice radio show and I don't.

Suzy: Hahhh Delilah. This is Suzy.
Deliliah: Hi, Suzy. Who are you thinking about tonight? Who's on your mind? Who's left footprints on your heart?
Me: Hahhh Crazy.

Suzy: Ahh'm thinking about mah husband. Ahh did something wrong and ahh hate that I hurt him.
Delilah: What was it you did that caused his heart to ache, Suzy?
Me: Yeah, Suze, details.

Suzy: Well, ahh just realized that you never know how much ahh man's integrity means until you accidentally do something to hurt it.
Delilah: And what happened to injure your beloved's integrity?
Me: Huh?

Suzy: Ahh had only the best intentions but ahh'm afraid that I hurt his integrity and men can have such a hard time expressing their thoughts.
Delilah: I see. And you want nothing more than to regain his trust and true love?
Me: Huh?

Suzy: Ahh'm hoping you can play a song to let him know how I feel.
Delilah: Of course I will. I have just the song.
Me: Why don't you just call him and apologize, genius?

Delilah: And remember that God has a plan for you, Suzy, and if this is meant to work out then it will. You are worthy of love and happiness and all the best things in life.
Suzy: Thankuuue, Delilah. Thankuuue you so much.
Me: Who are you kidding, Delilah? You biblical whore.

I know, I'm going to hell. But have you heard this show? Because, really, you gotta. Or, actually, don't. Just find a friend, play a game of "who had the worst day" and crank the Celine Dion.

*The place I've spent a week every summer with my family since I was six. I sort of enjoy the pointlessness of calling it by its nickname but still including a link to the actual site. But see, they changed management, fired a lot of my friends, and eliminated the afternoon wine tastings, so I really have no loyalty anymore.

call waiting

I got a new cell phone this weekend. As some of you may know, I am not A Cell Phone Person. I'm part of a dying breed that really only owns one in case my car ever breaks down on a dark street or I'm trapped in an alley with ninjas. To be fair, I'll definitely use it if I'm on my way somewhere and need directions, or if I'm running late, or driving to the Cape (read: lots of time to kill on a long, straight road). But there are people who live and die by theirs (some of them are even people I know and love) and I'm not one of them. When these people are available, they can be yours within five seconds, and when they're busy, they still usually take a few seconds to tell you that they're busy. And if I actually make it to voice mail, half the time I get a call from them while I'm leaving a message. That's efficiency for you.

In any case, I'm probably the last person that a cell phone salesperson wants to deal with. The last time I got a new phone, it was two years ago and only because I had a StarTac that got me mocked at Radio Shack. I kid you not, an employee actually called the other employees over: "You have to see this girl's phone! I didn't even know they made these anymore!" Ouch. So I upgraded, two years went by, and then this one stopped working. So the phone guy asked me all the important questions to determine my wireless personality.

Him: So, what are you looking for in a phone?

You know, the usual... sense of humor, stability. How many times a day do you think they have to hear crapass jokes like that?

Me: Not much, to be honest with you. I'm only replacing this one because it's broken.
Him: Are you interested in bluetooth capabilities?
Me: And what are those, exactly?

My apologies to my dad and Jason, both of whom took the time to explain this phenomenon to me on separate occasions. During which I apparently tuned them out and started thinking about something else, like the sociopolitical landscape or what those feisty Gilmore Girls might be up to. So phone guy takes a stab at it.

Me: Oh, okay. I don't think I need all that, but I do want a headset.

He laughs at me.

Me: And I think I want a flip phone.
Him: Great! Here are some of your options.

At this point I realize that every phone in the store is a flip phone.

Him: Do you want a camera phone?
Me: Maybe. Are they expensive?
Him: No, this one has a camera, and this one, and they'd all be free to you with the rebate [and contract and mortgaging of your soul].
Me: Oh. Well then yeah, okay.
Him: Do you text a lot?

I texted everyone I know while I was at jury duty, and adult driver's ed, but I suspect that doesn't really count.

Me: No, not really.
Him: Do you ever find yourself going over your minutes?
Me: No, never.
Him: Right. Stupid question.

I considered the Razor, but it was very shiny and metallic, and overall just a little too much phone for this girl. Plus God knows when I'll trade up again, and the Razor will undoubtedly look reallllly dated in 2008, by which time everyone will have a cell phone brain implant and you'll be able to call someone just by thinking about them.

Yeah, that could be a bad thing. Like tonight, watching Armageddon, I would've been a little embarrassed if my brain suddenly called Steve Buscemi. I mean, I would've talked to him, but I would've felt bad if I interrupted his dinner or something.

it's a little warm here on the back burner

Mark: I have to cancel our plans for Sunday. I made plans with That Girl I Met Online.
Me: What?
Mark: Yeah. Sorry.
Me: What!
Mark: She's having an Oscar party.
Me: You're ditching me for a GIRL?
Mark: I'm going out with her beforehand to see if I want to go to her party.
Me: So she's pre-screening you?
Mark: I'm pre-screening her.
Me: You're a terrible person.
Mark: For pre-screening her?
Me: No, for blatantly ditching me.
Mark: I'm sorry.
Me: But we were going to have sushi [at my favorite sushi place which is in an obscure part of his neighborhood that I never get out to]!
Mark: I know. I'm not even sure I'm going to like her.
Me: You're ditching me for a girl that YOU'RE NOT EVEN SURE YOU LIKE!
Mark: Well, I MIGHT like her.
Me: I have never felt more special.
Mark: I'm sorry, Red. I still love you. You're still my best friend.
Me: I don't care about your friendship. I care about sushi.
Mark: We'll do it soon.
Me: You better marry her, is all I can say.
Mark: Yeah, I don't know about that.
Me: You better marry her, and then when I meet her, I can be like, "Oh, hello. I was going to have the spicy scallop maki that is like CRACK to me, but instead I gave you a husband." That's the only way this will be okay. And even then, it's a stretch.
Mark: Well, if we do get married, you can be the best woman. Groomsmaid?
Me: Goodbye. I loathe you.

friends don't let weird guys bike drunk

The problem with having people that you know in real life read your blog is that every now and then one of them will say, "Hey, you should really blog about that time that we..." and you want to be all, "I don't take requests, punk, what am I, your wedding DJ?" Except that you wouldn't really say that. Anyway, this is one story-by-request that was fun to write about and required very little prodding.

So my friend Tim and I are out way too late this past Monday, of all nights. I'm coming back from the ladies and I spot Drunk Guy talking to him. And by talking, I mean babbling while Tim avoids eye contact. He'd been at the bar for awhile and only made his approach when I was away. Hence, Tim was basically getting picked up. I loved this.

Drunk Guy said his sister thinks he drinks too much but that he'd only had 11 or 12 that night; I said he should call her right then and let me talk to her. He said he lived down the road and mentioned his cellar, and then said that if we brought beers we could all go there. What? We quickly declined, or as Tim put it, diffused that movie-of-the-week murder spectacular. He said he was 37 but he looked 57.

It actually reminded me of that girl from grad school that I didn't really like but that I felt guilty about not liking, until I had a reason to. Although, really, his being drunk and interrupting our conversation might have been enough of a reason in the first place, but I guess I was feeling pretty patient. Or was, until a few minutes went by and then he decided to sit down with us. He sat next to Tim; I was starting to feel like the poor guy would've been molested if I hadn't been there.

So, then Drunk Guy says something about "the Jews." Then he busts out with the n word. I thought I must have heard him wrong; this is 2006, right? And we're in the capital of arguably the most liberal state in the country, RIGHT? I asked him what he'd said, giving him the benefit of the alcoholic doubt. He repeated himself. I looked at Tim and shook my head. Not a "can you believe this guy?" shake, but a "NO NO NO absolutely no more of this" shake.

Then Tim said, "Could you excuse us?" Drunk Guy said sure, and then when he saw we weren't getting up, he figured out what that request meant and left. Left on his BIKE to ride home at least a mile in SUBZERO temperatures, because that's what you do on a Monday night.

So, yeah. It will always be the night that my (male) friend got hit on by a drunken, racist, anti-semitic, frostbitten bike rider, and for that I will always be grateful.

so I guess arranged marriages work, sometimes

At a department meeting today, Supergirl was in typical form. She was going a mile a minute but making a salient point, as she usually does while sucking in all the oxygen in the room. Someone we don't work with interrupted her mid-word by bursting out laughing: "Are you always like this? I don't know how Red does it! I think you'd annoy the hell out of me!"

It came off even harsher than it did in print. Supergirl's face fell. And I surprised myself by immediately and dead-seriously responding, "Hey, back off my wife."

odds are they won't put me in the brochure

[Picture removed, because all the tried-and-true tenters already had the schmantastic opportunity of seeing it, and also I HATE IT... on some level it's just a stupid picture of me from a long time ago and on another level it's adolesent discomfort captured on film forever. And on another level, who cares?]

Mark: This is the bitchiest looking picture I've ever seen of you.
Me: Holy shit.
Mark: When was this taken?
Me: I don't know, a zillion years ago?
Mark: What's wrong with you?
Me: I don't know. Maybe I read something on that paper that made me really mad.
Mark: Yeah, like, "Red, we like your ripped jeans."
Me: And I'm right in front of the sign, like the worst advertisement ever. "Come to this school and be miserable."
Mark: Seriously.
Me: This is so awful. I should blog it!