Alcoholics Anonymous

Things that get better after drinking:
1. Karaoke
2. Pool
3. Conversations with Strangers
4. Ability to Blow Smoke Rings
5. Role Playing
6. Writing

Things that get worse after drinking:
1. Karaoke
2. Sex
3. Conversations with Friends
4. Ability to Play Scrabble
5. Walking in Stilettos
6. Ability to Stick to One Kind of Alcohol

Things we think get better but actually get worse:
1. Dancing
2. Sense of Humor
3. Conversations with Boyfriends/Girlfriends

I have to come to terms with it...

I am an Old Married Man Magnet.

Last night, before going to the Metreon for a scary movie, Erik and I stopped in for a drink at the sports bar across the street. I was telling him about the latest developments with the pervs at work and he turned around to me and said:

Erik:
I’m going to be one of those guys. Old, committed, and harassing pretty young things (boys).

Me:
Why are you in a committed relationship anyway?

Erik:
Cause I need to be committed. (He points to his head).

Me:
You’re not old. And you’re cute. You could harass me anytime.

Erik:
But I’m thinking… you really do have a problem.

Me:
I know. Is it something I do?

Erik:
I don’t know what you do but you do it everywhere you go. Remember J--- Adams?

My vendor, when I still worked with Erik, was always flirting with me, coming over to see me, wanting to take me out to lunch. Now that I’m working across the street from Erik, at another architecture firm, I still see J Adams every once in a while. Erik went into vulgar details about J Adams and what he probably dreams about doing to me and I “Ugh”-ed and “Eeewww”-ed, freaking out the crowd of after-work happy professionals around us. Then, satisfied by having captured the attention of our immediate neighbors, we went to see our movie.

This afternoon I got a call from him:

Erik:
Ok. Guess what you conjured up.

Me:
What?

Erik:
I got a call from the receptionist saying she had J Adams on the line for me, and I’m thinking of course. Of course you have J Adams on the line.

Me:
That’s funny.

Erik:
It gets funnier. He asked about you and wants to take Enrique, Tyrone, myself, and YOU out to lunch. And you get to pick where.

Me:
Aaaaggghhh!!! What is it that I do?!!!

Erik:
I don’t know but if I had even a quarter of your magic, I’d be in heaven.


(As I was writing this, my HR friend came over to tell me she had to talk to me. Apparently, my manager had complained to HR on my behalf, about the other day’s incident with the perv.)

Absinthe is Legal!

Oh yes, it is. And tomorrow night Lele and I are going to Elixir where they're serving it again after many, many years. The plan is to have some "fun" with the other Absintheans. He he! But depending on how much "fun" we have, I may end up calling out sick Friday...

...and having some more drinks with Dr. Joey? Hmmm... There's also pool. Not the diving kind, in which I'd probably drown after all that alcohol (especially considering I don't swim), but the shooting kind. The one that gets better the more alcohol you've had.

Seriously, though. I'm not an alcoholic.

Really.

Crossing the Line...

When it comes to flattery, at what point does it shift from innocuous and amusing to creepy and uncomfortable?

Today, the pictures from our office holiday party were finally posted. There are two pictures (well... three) of me, with a group of friends. An hour or so after the receptionist sends out the announcement that they're now available for viewing, one of my perv-y, old, married admirers e-mailed me:

"Where’s that red dress I had picked out for you???!!"

Later, passing through the kitchen, on my way back to my desk, he called out to me and said, "But you were still a babe in black!"

And my managers heard. They were shocked. Amused. Creeped out. Concerned. And they talked to me about it.

Hmmm...

El Patron

Ahhh… The office tequila bottle. Comes in handy sometimes. Especially on the last day of the beloved office manager/friend.

Pour me a Prosecco, please!

Met up with Dr. Joey on Wednesday evening for a few drinks at Bar Bambino- a cute little wine bar on 16th Street, close to Mission. It seems they have a little outdoor patio, too, but lost in our conversations, I forgot all about it and didn’t get a chance to check it out. We also forgot the “Cookie Plate”.

How is it that some people you meet for the first time and you can have great, absolutely wonderful, fun conversations with for hours on end- and then some people you are constantly stumbling, thinking of things to say to? I guess we did have our blogs to talk about, and everything about us that relates to our blogs; Narcissism, Voyeurism, Crazy Exes. We decided that our exes should meet. They might find they have quite a bit in common and end up falling in love and getting married and having little psychotic kids… or maybe not… we don’t need any more crazies in this world. At least not the psychotic type.

Anyway. One thing that Dr. Joey did make me realize (besides that I’m not really a narcissist- because that would require a certain level of unhealthy competitiveness that I don’t have) is that I have no obligation to be nice to Doug. There were BIG, HUGE reasons that I left him. I don’t need to continue to watch out for him any more and protect him from my own happiness. I’m done placating him. I’ve made attempts to be friends, but I realized that I have been the one constantly going out of my way to make sure he’s ok, being careful that I don’t upset him by bringing a guy to the baseball game, wondering if he’ll be upset if I talk to him because he’s not ready to talk to me yet… Yeah. Don’t need to do any of that anymore. Done. (phew!)

Thanks for the permission Dr. Joey. Now where’s that champagne flute?

Magnetic Poem of the Day

today we tear pages
as emotions play silently
and broken hearts ache
exposed to the truth

"The Fire in My Loins"

From: clele75
Date: Mon Nov 26
Re: The fire in my loins

is all but extinguished. I’m a 75 year-old man with a large heart, and an even larger bank account.

I find you very attractive and want you to be my mistress. All you really have to do is bite me. Yes, that’s correct. I’m so old (been there done that) the only thing that gets me off (and that I can feel anymore) is when young hotties sink their teeth into my flesh.

As long as you don’t mind my wife (she sleeps most of the day) I think we have a win-win situation.

Your truly,

Geriatric and Jonesing


- – - – - – - – - – Original Message – - – - – - – - – -
From: LaPoette
Date: Mon Nov 26
Re: The fire in my loins

Being an extremely gorgeous woman in my twenties, I have received several similar proposals from men like you. One even had a Scrabble fetish. And liked to be molested in the middle of the street. Shrug. But you know, whatever gets you off. I am, after all, a very loving woman.

As you are well aware of, I am big on biting. My only concern is that men of your age tend to bruise very easily. And I suppose if I bite and you scream, and we wake up your narcoleptic wife, I would have to run really fast in my stilettos, and run the risk of (oh look, a pun) breaking an ankle or my jaw or dislocating my shoulder. Because of this, I think it is only fair that I be taken care of financially and be included on your will. (Your sleeping wife won’t need anything since she’ll probably sleep until she’s ready to die, and then probably die in her sleep). I also think that a car (a brand new hot pink Lexus will do) as a gift, would be very thoughtful of you. That way, it will be waiting for me on my way out. A private chauffeur would also make things smoother. For that, I will take a young, good-looking man, with hair on his head, and a thick wallet in his back pocket. Another thick… uh… wallet in the front pocket should be part of your selection criteria. In fact, I could make things easier by selecting him myself, if you’d like.

Do you have a big bed? I like big four poster beds. And do you know your cuff size? This will be part of my gift to you. It’s a surprise.

Also, how fast do you run? (uh… you know, just in case… it’s good to know how much energy my man has.)

Only yours,

Chrystale Diamante


- – - – - – - – - – Original Message – - – - – - – - – -
From: clele75
Date: Tue Nov 27
Re: The fire in my loins

Look I’ve had a completely unfilling life. If you do half of the things mentioned in your naughty little Email, I’ll knock off my wife so you don’t have to.

Cuff size? Hell, I want you to strap one on. Damn it! Why not just fasten my ol’ Lousiville slugger around your waist and have a homerun derby on my ass.

That’s right my azure-coiffed siren. I still got a lot of howl left in this bark. Bite off a piece of my sagging man boob if you have to. As long as you keep it fresh, you can have two flamingo pink Bentleys and the man toys to go along with it. But you must promise me you’ll let me watch when you use the Lousiville slugger on these unsuspecting hunks. (Gotta to relive them Army days.)

And one more thing—I’ve always wanted to be molested while playing Scrabble. I say we do it right in the middle of the fucking road.

Mercy, I already feel two decades younger. Now I just got to find that bat.

-Your Roaring Lothario

(but you can call me Grampkins!)


- – - – - – - – - – Original Message – - – - – - – - – -
From: LaPoette
Date: Mon Nov 28
Re: The fire in my loins

Dearest,

Well… now I’m not so sure. I like my men servile. In your previous e-mail, you sounded like the sweet gentleman who would gladly do as I asked, whatever I asked, if only I nibbled a little here and there, bit your lip hard, your neck, drew blood maybe a couple of nights… the submissive man who would open up his heart (and his checkbook), shower me with diamonds, and please my every whimsy, my every caprice. The kind of man they call “whipped”- but without the leather.

Here, you sound like a demanding tyrant. The kind of man who deserves to be whipped- with leather. Chained up to posts and slapped a few times, have his Louisville piece ground into him until he cries out for his mama. I already got me one of those.

I am, however, a respectful woman, with honor and will not agree to anything until a bank account is opened up in my name with a couple hundred grand deposited. I also think that before we begin this venture, we should have an agreement that you will not come anywhere near my property (which you will buy for me) on nights that I am not with you, i.e. you will stay away from my “man toys”. I will gladly film our… liaisons… for you to enjoy while you lie in your bed next to your ever-sleeping wife. (Have you checked her breathing lately? Is she alive?)

I look forward to hearing from you- and before that, I look forward to the little package that will arrive on my doorstep tomorrow morning from Tiffany’s, holding a beautiful watch- so that I may be on time to keep our appointments. I like this one: Watch

Until then.

Yours, C.D.

But of course the night didn’t end there...

After the obligatory hour of face time at 111 Minna, Sara, Rohna, and I headed off to District, again. I have to say, I really do like the place a lot. But I think I was tired, and distracted by earlier, and just kinda not really in the mood to schmooze with strangers.

And another thing, and this may be a bit un-PC, but hey, I gotta say it: I get tired of Sara getting all worked up about the Black issue. How no non-black person can ever relate to her, how her experience is so totally different than everyone else’s, and so much more important. It bothers me. I feel like, as women, we have a lot in common- and as women-of-color, even more. All three of us are single, so we’re all in the same boat, then why does she feel like it’s so much harder for her to find the right guy?

Whenever the conversation starts going there, I feel like tuning out. I get pissed because of what ensues. We actually got into a pretty heated argument once at a bar, a few months ago, and since then, I feel like I can’t even say what I’m feeling or thinking when this conversation comes up. Sara is extremely offended when she sees black guys with white girls. She says there aren’t enough “good” (meaning educated, cultured, ambitious, career-minded) black guys to begin with, and the few there are, should be more loyal to their race and date/marry black women. She feels that black guys are disrespecting black women by dating white women, after what all the black race went through. It implies they think white women are more beautiful, and that it’s a status symbol for them, to have a white chick hanging off their arms. Sara thinks that black guys should only, ONLY, date black women. "Or women of color," she adds as an afterthought (Rohna, from Trinidad, is still dating, and madly in love with, her black ex-boyfriend), though I know she’d really rather they just date black women.

My problem with that is that I believe everyone should be able to date whoever they want- whatever their color, race, religion, etc. I guess because that’s my battle. My family strongly insists that I be with a Muslim guy, but I don’t remember the last time I met a Muslim guy who I was interested in. The last one I dated was back in college. It’s not that I refuse to date Muslim guys, it’s just that I don’t meet any who are my type. I feel like my personality, my likes and dislikes, are more easily matched in the larger pool of non-Muslim guys. Those are the guys I relate to,

So when my own friends start saying that people should not date out of their race (religion, culture, etc.), I feel like maybe I’m making friends with the wrong people. I feel like they’re disrespecting my decisions to date whoever I want to. Especially, since it turns out the last few guys I’ve dated have all been white.

So when this conversation took off once again, when we were sitting with a large group of good-looking (one in particular was extremely hot), smart, intelligent black guys, I started feeling really out of place. Plus I was distracted by my first real interaction with Doug- my white ex-boyfriend- and needed some time to ruminate. The guys were really, really nice, insisting that I go with them to their next destination, Swig, instead of calling it a night. But I did, anyway.

It turns out the next destination ended up being their apartment, not Swig, as they had said. So when my friends called me this morning at 9 am to say that they were in a cab, just on their way home, now, I was glad I had dished out the $15 for a cab home, last night.

Happy Hour (a.k.a. An actual, whole conversation!)

It was the proper etiquette. I knew him and had always really gotten along with him, so it would have been rude not to say hello. So I stood in the main room at 111 Minna talking to Steve, Doug’s friend, who looked lost in a sea of people from my office; people he didn’t know. Doug had stepped away to get them drinks. A couple of minutes later, when a hand reached past me and placed a glass of beer in Steve's outstretched fingers, I realized Doug was back, and that I was now standing between him and Steve. After an awkward minute or two, there was nothing I could do but turn around to face Doug.

Me: Hey Doug. How are you?

Doug: I’m good, Uzma. How are you?

Me: I’m doing really well, thanks. How’s the writing going?

Doug: It’s going ok. I’m doing Playground again.

Me: Oh yeah? What month are you guys on?

Doug: This will be the third month. We’ve had two topics so far. I thought my last play was really good and was hoping it would get selected, but it didn’t.

Me: Oh, I’m sorry.

Doug: How about you? Are you still working on the novel?

Me: No. I’m writing a lot more poetry. And also working on some non-fiction stuff, trying to be funny. I always wanted to be a funny writer.

Doug: But you’ve always been a really funny writer.

Me: You think so? You mean the e-mails?

He gave me a blank stare and then nodded. I guess I had ventured into the territory that was too raw, still. The e-mails were the foundation of our relationship. The funny, long, ranting, raving, mad, philosophical discussions about poetry and literature and Stein and the idiosyncrasies of writing dialogue and how many syllables there are there in ‘hour’ or ‘iron’. The trespass ended the conversation. There was nothing more to say in a bar full of people. I casually turned around, after a minute, and walked away.

Later, I saved Steve from death by boredom when our weird new IT guy was holding him hostage in a conversation about rats and chickens. Steve had given me a look across the room, which screamed, “Save me!” When we got to talking again, Steve told me I looked really happy.

“I am,” I said, smiling. “I am really happy.” And with that I said goodbye and walked out of the bar.