Stuart Little's Bloody Corpse

Before I even start with this I’d like to acknowledge that my emotions follow no sensible path of direction, and I know that I’m WEIRD (like puts the EIRD in WEIRD kinda weird). Anyways, the other day my roommate looks at me and all nonchalantly says, “Oh hey by the way I think I saw a rat in the apartment last night.” To which I replied, “What? No. Fuck you no. First of all, who the hell gets rats in their apartment? People get mice. Second, why the hell are you so calm, and not doing anything to kill it?!”

It quickly became clear I had to go Third Reich style on the little Mickey Mice. I’m really OCD when it comes to keeping my apartment clean, and the thought of killing some small animals that might be running around my place made me really happy. Ok I know that sounds all serial-killer-in-the-making like, but doesn’t everyone want to live in a clean apartment?

So I set out a few traps in the hopes that something would get caught, and that maybe someone would get a toe broken in it. Side note- did you know that mouse traps won’t break your finger if they snap on you? I wanna pay a hobo to test this for me. Anyways, the next day I come home to find a mouse in my trap. Yippie right? Wrong. My eagerness to catch a mouse was suddenly cock slapped in the face with the terrifying reality that I now had to get rid of it. GROSS.

So I walked around my apartment for like 5 minutes trying to think of some way to avoid having to dispose of the Stuart Little corpse in the kitchen, and shooting dirty looks at my roommate for being an EVEN BIGGER PUSSY THAN I AM. I finally settled on some latex gloves and a pair of pliers, which did little to calm me when I realized that apparently mice have blood in their bodies and this one had stained my trap and kitchen floor red. MORE GROSS. Why can’t everything just disappear when it dies like Jedis in Star Wars (aka how I thought everything died when I was a kid… Thanks Star Wars).

A dramatic interpretation of what I came home to.

On a positive note I realized that the double doors in my living room that lead to the world’s smallest balcony are a PERFECT place to throw out dead animals and leftover bacon fat (that is to say when I can’t cook my bacon fat into anything else). I don’t think anyone lives below me, but my building’s leasing office might be down there so maaaaaybe not the best place to dispose of my worst garbage?

P.S. I put up a fake Christmas tree the other day and people didn’t like it L I know, I know, I know its fucking September, but am I really the only person out there who doesn’t want constant reminders that snow, presents and drinking with special holiday hats are all coming?! Please tell me I’m not alone, and that putting bows on bottles of three buck chuck under my tree will make drinking more fun.

HOW AWESOME WOULD THIS BE?!?!?!?!

4th of July Redux

Is there anyone out there who doesn’t love the 4th of July? Maybe the French, but they don’t really count anyways. I love the 4th. Despite my lack of patriotism (don’t judge, DC shoves enough patriotism down your throat to make you vomit red white and blue on a day to day basis) I’m obsessed with any day that 1) is a national holiday 2) features explosions in the sky 3) allows for excessive consumption of meat and alcohol. Unfortunately everyone gets spread thin with parties and blood alcohol poisoning which makes it hard to spend that quality stumbley time together. While I did enjoy the fireworks from a few miles up the road with a bottle of stolen Absolut in my hand, I missed being super close to the show on the Mall and felt bad for missing so many of my friends.

Meat Flags- Patriotism the way it SHOULD be expressed.

Enter the Founding of Alexandria. Conveniently, the anniversary of Alexandria’s founding is the weekend after the 4th, and it’s complete with fireworks, tourists and all the usual ‘God Bless America’ crap. So naturally we all got together and cooked up some burgers and mixed a few drinks to celebrate the occasion in my scandalously awesome friend Rachel’s apartment. Day drinking is one of my favorite sports, and one I can actually compete competitively in. Wine, beer, Margaritas and weird concoctions were all freely flowing during our afternoon of fun and awkward photos. Before we knew it Rachel was yelling about how it was time to go, which I heard as ‘hurry up and do some shots before its time to go’.

At some point in the day I had managed to acquire a red white and blue curly bow thing that seemed to hang perfectly from the cords of my swim suit. While it might have clashed with my green shirt that read ‘The Filipino Is Worth Dying For’, I felt like I was making a positive loin cloth fashion statement for America the beautiful. As our merry band made the trek out to Old Town Alexandria we hit a few bumps along the way. This is mostly referring to Rachel’s friend from out of town who had a broken arm.

You have to realize that to get down to the waterfront in Alexandria it is best to take a free trolley (not a bus, a trolley), and the area is filled with old rich white people, families (with their damn kids) and tourists. If we didn’t stick out already, we sure as shit did when Rachel’s friend projectile vomited all over his arm sling and door on the trolley. At first I thought the kid had a nose bleed, as he was hunched over, but the smelly truth soon hit me like a pimp hits a lazy hoe.
"I'm going on the trolley to... where am I going again?"

We hopped off the trolley as the rest of the passengers were ‘getting wind’ of the situation, and I reverted to ‘fuck this, not my gross problem’ mode. Fortunately my dear friend Aria is just as much of a bitch as I am, and was more than happy to go to the bathroom in a nearby hotel (aka crack open a flask) while Jen and everyone else figured out what to do with the puking problem.

By the time we finally made it down to the waterfront we were down a puking man, but thoroughly enjoying ourselves and taking pictures. The fireworks were very meh, and I thought they were over a few times when they weren’t. But nevertheless it was fun, and for a place like Alexandria it was as much as could be expected.

Our metro home was awesome, because what’s better than a group of drunk college kids on a train filled with families and kids? I’ll tell you. A group of drunk college kids on a train filled with families and kids where I end up belting out the theme song from ‘The Golden Girls’ to my friends and everyone else on the train. I realize the intense gayness of this statement, but if you don’t like the Golden Girls and haven’t ever gotten ‘Thank You For Being A Friend’ stuck in your head for days at a time then you probably shouldn’t be reading this.

LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE

Mormania

When it comes to religion I’m pretty much a ‘whatever floats your boat’ kinda guy. That being said, the more strict/fundamentalist (aka crazy) you are the less likely I am to have anything to do with you. While the religious right might be amusing to watch on TV and make fun of, they are not the kind of people you wanna split a bottle of vodka with. High up on the list of religious sects that I avoid are the Mormons. Aside from their weird beliefs and missionaries that brainwash poor people all over the world, they seem to have a certain ‘eyes glazed over by the glory of God’ look that just weirds me out.

With this in mind you can imagine how fascinated and scared I was to learn that the another intern in my office was a Mormon. I quickly learned that he was the real deal. From Utah, goes to Brigham Young University, never stops smiling, makes awkward small talk in the morning when I’m OBVIOUSLY hung-over and want to be left alone (I swear they have a sixth sense about knowing when to bug you to piss you off the most), etc. He fits in perfectly with the incredibly awkward group of people that madeup my office, yet I still wonder everyday who the hell let him out of Utah?

While weird shit happened pretty much everyday, I’ll give you some of the highlights. First, the church quartet. Since he’s only in DC for the summer as an intern he’s found temporary spiritual relief at some church that’s too far away for any sane person to go to. Apparently he joined a singing quartet (even though when asked if he sings his response is- Well… I guess I do now). In what can only be described as the most awkward invitations ever he invited a bunch of people to come watch. Since the office was silent I could hear everyone’s awkward scramble to make up an excuse not to go, and I silently prayed that he wouldn’t ask me. Thank God (not the Mormon God) he didn’t.

Later I overheard (and I overheard all of this since I don’t ACTUALLY talk to people in my office) him asking about some bullshit paper he was going to write. The thing that scared me most was his apparent interest in contacting a lobbyist group that supported ‘the movement to keep the family unit together’ since he was still concerned about the whole ‘Prop 8 thing’. I was tempted to ask him if I could marry my boyfriend at his church and then maybe take on another couple of husbands later, but I felt it would be crossing a line even for me.

The culmination of my awkward Mormon stories was far and away the 4th of July. Why you might ask? Because he proposed to his girlfriend! While I wish them nothing but happiness in Utah, I found a few parts of the whole story hysterical. Let’s start with the fact that he met her during a FIVE DAY LONG CHURCH PAGEANT. Jesus Christ even Ben Hur kept it under four hours. So after about a year or so of what must have been some old fashioned ‘courting’ he popped the question in a park near Rochester where apparently Joseph Smith saw Christ the Lord Our Savior or something like that and set the whole Mormonia thing into motion.

"Five days? Fuck you buddy."

My immediate thought upon hearing all this was ‘You look like a baby. You can’t start having them!’ It admittedly was kinda cute the way he was all excited and happy, but I kinda laughed a lot when he said, ‘Yeah its so exciting. I’m sure there is so much we are gonna learn about each other.’ Uh huh… like what the other one looks like without clothes on?

The next day all had seemingly returned to normal when I heard the unmistakable screeching of someone’s kid. Kids never belong in an office, EVER. For the love of God just keep them sedated back home where the rest of the world doesn’t have to deal with them. So I hear these little spawn making noise over in the next little cubical area thing, and the voice of what had to have been their mother. When the boy started screaming if everyone had heard ‘the big news’ I knew there were more Mormons in the office, and they had brought the next generation of crazy (aka MORMAYHEM!). Being the quick thinker I am, I grabbed my headphones and pretended to work in the hopes that I would be spared the inevitable awkward introduction to people I will never see again, never remember the names of, and probably don’t want to meet in the first place. My plan worked, and I was able to sneak out for the day a happy heathen.

The point of all this is twofold. One, crazy religious people scare me and are REALLY fun to make fun of. Two, Mormonism is on the rise! Keep your intellectual guard up, but never be afraid to listen to their hysterical stories.

P.S. Has anyone ever met a Gideon? While we are on the topic of religion I might as well see if anyone has seen these spiritual ninjas. Every hotel Bible says it ‘was placed here by a Gideon’. When? Ever seen a Gideon? No. Ever met a Gideon? No. But they’re all over the world putting Bibles in hotel rooms. If anyone has seen these mysterious people of the faith will you please let me know?



P.P.S. Have you heard about mormon underwear? OMG I WANT TO SEE THIS IN REAL LIFE. They are "viewed as an either symbolic or literal source of protection from the evils of the world." I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. Newsflash to the Muslim world- you can ditch the head to toe burkas guys. The Mormons have everything you need to resist temptation because there is no way in HELL that anyone could be tempted by a person in these hideous undergarments.

Sexual Unicorns

I knew the afternoon was getting weird when I realized I was trashed in a black lesbian bar in the basement of an office building, but that’s getting ahead of myself. My day was going fairly normally, and after a long day at the awkward nursing home that is my office I was more than ready to have a drink or eight at an open bar where my bf and old office were hanging out.

The reunion was basically awkward hellos from people I never really talked to, and sassy gossiping with everyone else. The bar (which I used to think was a classy strip club since there are like no windows and a big wooden door from Medieval Times at the entrance) had shitty service, but who the fuck cares as long as the vodkas free? After about an hour of chitchatting the bf suggested we go meet up with a crazy girl we worked with and her girlfriend, and I was happy to roll out to see this crazy bitch.

Now this girl deserves some explaining. Our last (and only) encounter was my last day at my old internship, and I quickly learned that this black lesbian Muslim activist meant business as the pain killing pills started flowing as freely as my vodka tonics. Several hours later we put her in a cab home, and I honestly knew I would miss seeing her around (cuz who doesn’t love people who wear Public Enemy hats around professional offices?).

Anyways, back to the story. BF and I left for a bar called Bravo Bravo, which I assumed to be like any other in the heart of DC’s financial district. I knew something was a little off when we finally got there and walked down the stairs into the basement of the building. The interior decorator must have been going for a mix of ‘DC Capitol’ ‘80s Neon’ and ‘Los Burritos Mexican Restaurant’ because the décor was THAT fucking weird. While there were two bars, a huge dance floor and an abundance of lounge/dinner tables there couldn’t have been more than a dozen or so people in the place.

Before my eyes could adjust to the dim lighting we were heading over to a dark corner where eight or so black lesbians were eating and drinking their hearts out. I mention that they were black not because I’m some racist ass hole (or at least not racist), but to form a better mental image of how out of place my skinny white ass looked there (though to be fair I DID look pretty fucking cool under those neon lights with my excessive whiteness).

Our friend wasn’t at the table, and the BF quickly ran away to the bathroom leaving me with a table full of awkwardness. I knew one person who didn’t recognize me, despite the fact that she walked past me every day for eight months. She was about 50 with 2 inch nails (with nail art OF COURSE), and some nappy hair. After talking to her for about a minute I was still kinda scared of her, but managed to find an issue she wanted to talk about- how much she fucking hates everyone she works with. I’m sure the cheap drinks had made her more chatty and willing to bitch about people (at least I pray it was the drinks), but I was still a little worried she might get violent.

After a few minutes of that I faked like I needed the bathroom (aka the bar), and wandered into the path of my friend who ran screaming to me and gave me a bear hug. I quickly remembered why I missed her, and how much I love listening to her. We quickly hit the bar for another drink, and made our way back to our fun fun table.

It turns out that her girlfriend, Fresco, was in town from Chicago. This was mildly strange as she was like 18, drinking vodka or something out of a Gatorade bottle (not that I haven’t been THERE before), I kept thinking her name was Prosecco, and she had a streak of white hair that I was not drunk enough to ask about. The conversation turned to the difference between the ‘LGBT’ and the ‘Queer’ movement. I had no idea what the difference was, and honestly didn’t really care at that moment in time. The more pressing issue for me was how pissed these women were getting over the issue, and my rapidly disappearing drink.

As I tend to do when I’m in ‘altered states’ I got hungry as shit. All I wanted was a bite of the sliders the woman next to me was eating, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask for a bite since she seemed to be keeping the mini-burger together by impaling it with her long glittery nails. I settled for mooching some cheese fries caked in salt and ketchup, and it was delicious (and by delicious I mean it was cheap greasy bar food that I crave on an hourly basis).

In what seemed like the blink of an eye, or perhaps the downing of a drink, the sassy women had left. The BF and I were in a heated debate over strong the drinks really were (since I tend to feel fine until I’m on the floor), when we happened upon two white lezzies. Somehow we managed to start talking to them, and by ‘we’ I mean me because the BF wanted to leave but couldn’t just leave my Chatty Kathy ass there.

While their names escape my impeccable memory, I do remember that they were from somewhere far far away. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the fact that they lived beyond the reaches of the Metro, and that they had actually driven into the city to spend time in this awkward basement. Our conversation continued for a good 15 minutes mostly because of my drunkenness and the fact that I consider lesbians in DC to be like sexual unicorns (they are said to exist in our fair gay city but you NEVER SEE THEM).

Finally, the BF and I parted ways. He left to ride the catastrophe that is his bike home, which unsurprisingly had a flat tire a hobo pointed out to him. I, on the other hand, was feeling no pain, and decided the best course of action was to accept my friend Kate’s invitation to have a bottle of wine on her balcony. Let’s keep in mind that the sun is barely setting at this point, and her balcony is a perfect 10th story setting to watch the sun set over the city.

I’ll spare you the details of our conversations as they somehow always end up resembling an episode of ‘Sex Talk with Sue Johansen’, and I’d like to leave a little bit of my dignity intact. Needless to say we had a great time until I broke a wine glass, and I attempted to clean it up. I know I got all the big shards of glass into the trash, but I miiiiight have swept all the little pieces I didn’t want to deal with off the side of the balcony. I later realized the entrance of the building is directly below her balcony, but that’s beside the point.

Having reached my limit (aka running out of wine) we said our goodbyes and I walked a perfectly straight zigzag line home past the Ritz Carlton, and reminded myself that I am in fact a classy bitch. I felt slightly less classy at 3 AM, however, when I woke up with all my lights, music and N64 on. On the plus side I was in my own bed, and there were no puddles of Kool-Aid under me (that’s another story for another time).

P.S. I returned to the basement bar a while later to give a classy start to my date with the bf to see the symphony. Unfortunately there were no angry black lesbians to be found, but the experience was still made awkward by the table of white people next to me bitching about how their kids are growing up Democrats and liking Obama. At one point (while waiting for their friend Queenie, who turned out to be another Republican GUY) a woman bitched about having to buy her 4 year-old a $70.00 bathing suit. I almost lost it. Who the fuck spends $70 on a bathing suit FOR A 4 YEAR-OLD, and then bitches about it over a dinner of $3 drinks and onion rings? I’ll stick to my Wednesday Dyke Nights, at least they have better nails.