Monthly Archives: March 2011

DEAR SUGAR, The Rumpus Advice Column #69: We Are All Savages Inside

Link: DEAR SUGAR, The Rumpus Advice Column #69: We Are All Savages Inside

Sage advice for anyone dumb enough to want to be a writer and a gentle reminder about jealousy. 


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Tough economy refills empty nests

Link: Tough economy refills empty nests

How depressing— at least I didn’t have to boomerang for longer than 6 weeks.

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Wednesday and nothing much about Thursday

I’ve been staring at my computer screen for the past 45 minutes typing and retyping sentences.  The weather is crap and this week will never end.  Allow me to relay events in a numerical fashion.  And someone please pour me a stiff drink. 

1.  I had a job interview yesterday— for a position that I think I actually want.  There seems to be a work hard/play hard feel to the place, the industry seems interesting and saying my job title and company aloud makes me seem fancy— which is incredibly important to me for reasons I simply cannot explain. 

2.  I have a $300 suit from Banana Republic that has become my official job interview suit, thus I largely associate said suit with rejection.  But at least I looked fine as hell when it inevitably happens. 

3.  My interview started 20 minutes late yesterday.  I was so nervous by the time the interview started, I’m sure it sounded like I was going to cry the entire time.

4.  The CEO is a rugby player.  Rugby players love all other rugby players, just as Minnesotans love all other Minnesotans  Let’s hope he knows the code.

5.  Sometimes when I met a cute boy, I like to think about what our lives would be together— where he would take me on our first date, how he would look in a tux, how he would feel about my handful of social anxieties*, some naughty things that I will go get into for the sake of modesty. 

I also do this for potential employers— how I would feel spending 40 hours a week in their office, would I look super important handing out business cards, what suit I would wear on the first day of work. This is all very awkward to admit.  Maybe I should have kept it to myself.

It is going to be a bit on the embarrassing side if I don’t get this job, now that I’ve blogged about it.  But you know- take back the embarrassment and all that shit.  I was wide awake from 2-5AM and am fairly certain that I am not making much sense. 

And lastly, can we all get a moment of silence for Tacos Impala.

*Like drinking in basement bars— what if there is a fire?  Do you know where the fire exit is?

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Here!  Watch this why I try to write something. 

Here!  Watch this why I try to write something. 

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OMG, we no longer have our second TV in our living room.  What if there are 2 sporting events on at the same time?!

Just returned home from Chair Play.  I am feeling quite tired and very aware of my hips.  T Bone and I have been doing some some serious slacking in regards to our gym schedule and with bathing suit season frighteningly close, we’ve renewed our dedication.  

Bathing suit season also equals white trash season at my house.  Blow up pool, Coors Light in a can, Nascar on the TV (you can’t see in the photo, but it is there), a bikini and a Parliament Light.  I leave you with the most embarrassing photo of me that ever lived.  Might as well walk on over to the trailer park and sign myself up.  

See what we have to look forward to this summer?  June-August, 7 days a week.  

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Is this business casual?

My friend Spano came into town last night.  She has a conference in DC this week, but planned accordingly so we could kick it.  I met her on the street corner with a glass of wine and very briefly mourned the absence of a cigarette in my hand.  I’ve noticed that while I have defeated the physical side effects of smoking*, as expected the habitual ones still pop up from time to time.  And if there was one thing Spano and I loved in college, it was a couple bottles of wine from the 7/11 and a pack or two of Parliament Lights. 

Spano being 2 years my senior took me under her wing when I joined the rugby team my freshman year of college.  We spent a lot of time together bellied up to the bar at Kelly’s Pub and the 24 hour Starbucks in Old Town during finals.  She graduated a year ahead of me and was often my go-to for questions as to how I was supposed to survive in the real world. 

When I graduated, I didn’t own a single dressy article of clothing, as I heavily favored the Free People dresses and cowboy boots look.  I was determined that something- anything- I owned could be considered business casual.  We used to play super fun game** loosely titled: Is this outfit business casual?  It started as true curiosity with I was wearing this dress.

Me:  Is this business casual?  Like if I was wearing a cardigan?


Me:  So, you are saying no…

Following graduation, a whirlwind trip though Europe and some quality time on my mom’s couch with a bottle of Bailey’s and a straw, I landed the job that brought me out to DC.  I was destined to pay taxes and dress in the mandatory business casual each morning- and largely had no idea what that meant. 

I did a lot of googling, a lot of polling and a lot of questioning to the Gap sales lady in order to define business casual.  I spent a lot of time in dressing rooms.  Horrible things like khakis and polo shirts were mentioned.  I felt like a little girl dressing up in my mommy’s clothes every time I put on a suit.  I struggled, I had wardrobe malfunctions, I sometimes showed up to work with a white shirt and a purple bra. 

But when I walked downstairs this morning wearing make-up, dressed in a gray wool skirt, tights, black boots and a purple cardigan Spano said, “damn girl, you look good”.

I guess I might have figured it out.  At least for today.

*For the most part- bike accidents aside.

**By we I mean me, and but fun I mean it was annoying to everyone else.

***I totally met Barack Obama in 2007 wearing a black stripped skirt with silver sequins.  For the record. 

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Quote of the day– this is for you, Lou

Louisa went through a Mountain Goats phase during our one year of co-habitation.  We were living in crap second floor apartment that my mother described as a tent— the windows looked and felt like they were going to fall right out, which often left us with $200 heating bills*.  The only saving grace was a back patio that we practically lived on 9 months a year.  It was our favored location for drinking, smoking and enjoying a morning cup of coffee, usually with the music blasting.

When it was Louisa’s turn to pick the music, she often went for the Mountain Goats.  I would wail, “this is like music to commit suicide to!” until we compromised with a little Regina Spektor.  I was reading a book this morning in the comfort of my polar fleece sheets reading a book** when I came across the quote below.  I subsequently laughed my ass off, decided I liked the author a tiny bit better and then went in search of my Chinese food leftovers.  I leave you with this:

“There were differences— the kind that have nothing to do with him liking that band the Mountain Goats when you feel like here that guy’s singing voice is like being stabbed in the eye with a shrimp fork over and over again.”

-Julie Klausner, author of I Don’t Care About Your Band

*Please note, $200 and we were still freezing out asses off.  I studied in hats and mittens.  People wouldn’t come over.  

**A real one!  Not on my Nook.

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Friday round-up


I went for drinks last night with the gentleman who was discussed in this blog post.  He wasn’t anywhere close to as awful as the Hating Dating blogger described him.  I actually thought he was quite nice.  

The fact that I put two and two together— the dude being shit talked about was the same one I was e-mailing at the very moment I was reading the blog— proves that I am destined to be Nancy Drew when I grow up.


Me:  Are they even going to let us in to the bar?

Boy:  Well, I look great.  You look OK.

Thanks, dude. 


Being hungover at my office = lots and lots of people coming up to discuss alcohol with you. 

Co-worker:  Oh, you don’t feel good?  Have you ever had a Dirty Mexican shot?  It is Tequila with Tabasco and some mayonnaise around the rim…

Me:  OMFG, please stop this minute before I die.

Side note:  People always told me that my hangovers would start getting worse as I got older and I think it is happening.  I am incredibly upset about this development.  It took most of my morning and 1 and 1/2 bagels to get right with the day.  Brynn also stole 1/4 of my bagel, which I still think is total bullshit.  Don’t fuck with my bagel, lady.  I don’t feel good and cheese bagels are my only road to happiness. 


She suffered a stroke earlier this week.  From what I’m told, she mentally is still sharp as a tack but she is still experiencing numbness on the left side of her body, which is making it difficult to eat and speak.  Cross your fingers, cross your toes, say a little prayer— she’s putting up a damn good fight but needs all the help she can get. 


Moving here in 3 or so weeks.  Heaven help me.  If anyone knows of an apartment for rent, let me know.  Some place turtle friendly with an April move in date.  Having my old man in my household is so not hot. 

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I rolled into work this morning a little on the hungover side.  While telling Brynn about my nig

I rolled into work this morning a little on the hungover side.  While telling Brynn about my night, I pulled a Gatorade and bagel out of the fridge.

“I like how you’ve hungover proofed the office,” she said.  Can’t say I wasn’t at least fucking organized. 

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I met Carla from Top Chef last week on H Street last week.  I wasn’t entirely sure who she

I met Carla from Top Chef last week on H Street last week.  I wasn’t entirely sure who she was, but her cookies were delicious and I was a couple cocktails in. 

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