DUDEstyling

Every now and then, I come across something super-fantastic and think: I must share this! (Except for with my little sister, who will take it over and make it hers, which will do nothing but breed resentment and cause me to seethe, “Give me back my life!”)

When I come across something super-fantastic that involves someone I know, that’s even better.

I went to college with a girl named Jen Hohensee. I was always jealous of Jen’s lipgloss, which I think came from The Body Shop, because it was so shiny and nice-looking and made me feel inadequate with my chapstick. Since our halcyon days at Emory, I’ve wandered the Northeast Corridor, while Jen has set herself up in Boulder, CO, from whence she will direct the next great fashion revolution.

Kids, I am not kidding. DUDEstyling.

The concept of DUDEstyling is simple: Men’s style is on the rise … and most dudes don’t like to shop.

I’m going to take that one step farther (to give you further insight, if you happen to be the special kind of asshole who would take me on a date and correct my grammar) and say that most dudes can’t shop.

Take a man shopping for a pair of jeans just once and the problem is apparent. (I’m talking to you, Riggs.) You all have no idea what you’re doing.

Now, especially for those of you who are looking for new jobs, new girls, or both, there’s nothing wrong with some wardrobe updating and little style advice from someone who knows what she’s doing.

I encourage you all to take advantage of this awesome service and get your shit together.

I’m a crush-having maniac

Okay, I’m the first to admit that I’m, well, a little crush-crazy. If you’re a dude and I know you, chances are that, at one point or another, I’ve had a crush on you. (I’m much more selective about my women, but you lucky ladies know who you are.)

There are many factors that contribute to this state, the foremost being that I find a very wide range of people attractive. All of you picky, oh-but-her-arms-were-too-short, he-had-a-big-nose, I-can’t-think-of-anything-of-substance-that’s-wrong-so-I’ll-just-make-up-some-bullshit-physical-excuse dopes can shove it. First of all, not a one of us is going to look the same way we do now in ten years and second, most of what I have in mind can happen (a) in the dark or, (b) with my eyes closed, or (c) over the phone, so I don’t really care so much that you’re not the spitting image of a young Paul Newman with the body of Shemar Moore. (I think that would be strange.) Also, I have this strange compulsion to, oh, I don’t know, enjoy the company of the person with whom I’m spending my precious free time.

Really, when I walk into a bar, or any other place where many young men have congregated (you know, like the local branch of the Alexandria City Public Library or a Curves Fitness Center or Planned Parenthood), I find the majority of people attractive.

Too skinny? I just want to take him home and make him a sandwich. Too short? That just means I don’t have to stand on my tip-toes to kiss him. Too tall? There is no such thing. Too big? Don’t you remember how much you loved your teddy bear? Too dorky? He was reading fantasy adventure novels during his formative years and thus knows how to romance women! Do you think it’s easy getting an elf princess to give up her immortality? Too shy? Can you imagine how happy he will be to talk to someone who makes him feel comfortable? Too cocky? It will be so fun to break him.

I get very annoyed at people who don’t understand that (a) people get more attractive as you know them, (b) your partner’s relative “hotness” has no bearing on you and (c) to quote Mr. Big (which I never, EVER thought I would do and promise never to do again unless under extreme duress): After a while, you just want to be with the one that makes you laugh.

Most of what I crush on is someone’s personality. I’m a sucker for the smart ones and I cannot resist the well-spoken, carelessly intellectual types. I like boys with funny laughs and boys with pretty eyes and boys who secretly think of appropriate background music for the scenes of their lives. I like boys with tattoos and boys with glasses and boys with accents and boys who dance and … well, basically everyone with a penis. (And that requirement is not set in stone.)

I like flirting (though some of you have never seen me do it) and I like the feeling of being interested in someone. I think the world would be a much happier place if we all just had crushes on each other. It’s such positive energy and it just means that you see something neat in the other person. In my perfect world, we would go around saying, “You’re neat,” to each other all day.

That said, sometimes a crush comes along that eclipses the other crushes. It’s the kind of crush that’s accompanied by a whole lot of sighing and daydreaming and general smiling-to-oneself about silly little things that, if spoken aloud, would lead everyone to believe you are either (a) mentally unstable, (b) a method actor preparing for a role in which you have to make everyone throw up just by being cute, or (c) twelve.

I’ve got one of those monster, I-eat-your-other-crushes-for-breakfast crushes at the moment and I have noticed the following (somewhat disturbing) things:

1. I am smiling, for no reason. If you know me, you know that my “resting” face could fake out a linebacker and my “listening” face would unnerve Charles Manson. I, of the perpetual furrowed brow, was told that I look “happy” by the guy at the Sprint store today. And I was decidedly UNhappy, as I was there to get a new phone, because the old new one, which I got a couple of months ago, no longer holds a charge and the battery runs down in about ten minutes and I keep accidentally hanging up on people because I can’t talk and hold the power jack in exactly the right position to keep that devilish little red light lit. So, you know, that was weird.

2. I send cute text messages. Is there anything more perverse and disgusting than the text-message-as-love-letter bit? I didn’t think so. But here I am, sending ridiculous, semi-inappropriate texts back and forth into the wee hours of the morning. Who am I?

3. I had a pleasant conversation with my father the other day. (Note: This is not just strange, it is a sign that the end of the world is nigh. Repent.)

4. When I think about what I want to do with my weekends, I’m planning activities for two. (Except for my favorite: Getting Drunk and Dancing Around in My Underwear. That, I still do in my alone time. Some things, you can’t share.)

5. My apartment is clean(er). Why? Why, when that piece of mail sat on the table for three months would I suddenly feel the need to move it? And why am I throwing it away instead of putting it in one of the unoccupied kitchen drawers? And why am I organizing those unoccupied kitchen drawers to hold things and OH. MY. GOD., did I just vacuum?

6. I’ve become terribly boring for Misty to have lunch with, as my list of conversation topics has shrunk considerably (though a certain Switzerlander will always be up for discussion).

So, if you see me and you can’t figure out why (a) I’m being pleasant and smiling at you, instead of making you think I hate you with a single glance, (b) the backseat of my car no longer resembles the interior of a tent at a refugee camp, (c) I appear to be sober and well-rested and it’s a Tuesday, or (d) I won’t go home with you, it’s because I, well, I’m in the clutches of something that’s bigger than all of that. I have fallen prey to the Monster Crush.

Working from home

Just because I’m not in the office doesn’t mean I’m not working.

I spent three hours today trying to convince my car that it’s fun to drive on ice and he should try it. Shtookie was having none of it. (Shtookie is my car. My friend Ali named the car junior year of high school. Her car was named Huh Puh, which should be read as the sound made by snorting and then blowing a raspberry, so you see the sort of person I was working with.)

I put down sand. I snuck into Tiki’s supply of kitty litter when she wasn’t looking (she was too busy climbing the curtains in the bedroom) and tried that. No. Also, standing in front of the car while it was running and cursing at it didn’t work. Doing the quick-reverse-quick-forward didn’t work; in fact, I think that made things worse. I begged, I pleaded, I promised nice presents and a bath and to FINALLY clean out the trunk. But my car has heard all of those promises before and knows they’re empty and meaningless. So, he sat right when he is, three wheels on ice, refusing to move.

I did what any sane person would do at that point. I put on stockings and a skirt and walked to Panera Bread across the street in my little snow boots, stopping to talk to the delivery drivers at Giant to assure them that I wouldn’t freeze and yes, I knew it was only 14 degrees, but thermal tights are warm – probably warmer than jeans. I bought some french onion soup and checked my work email using the lovely free wifi and then decided to get comfortable – I’m going to be here for a while.

I was here yesterday, too and there were only three or four other people here. Today, the place is packed. Students, older couples, suits and a group of four young women, three of whom are pregnant and one of whom spent the last 45 minutes defending that fact that she’s been married for two years and she’s not pregnant yet.

Pregnant Lady #1: Don’t you want kids?
Non-Pregnant Lady: Yes, but we’re just not ready. We just bought the new house and we’re going to take our time.
Second Pregnant Lady: That’s fine, just don’t take so much time that you’re too old to have kids. Remember, it gets harder the older you get. I had my first two by the time I was 29.
Non-Pregnant Lady: Well, that gives me about two years and I think we’ll try for our first by then.

WHAT? The woman is 27 years old and you’re pressuring her to have kids? She’s 27 and married and a home owner, don’t you understand what an amazing feat that is? No, no you don’t pregnant ladies, you jealous Gorgons who miss the freedom and independence of being childless and newlywed. For shame! Being 27 and married for two years means she was my age when she got married. I can hardly do my laundry. And while I’ve got home ownership down, if I manage to get married and buy a new house in the next two years, do you know what I want? Kudos. Brownie points. Gold stars. Not pressure to get pregnant. Stretch marks never go away.

The other fun table was a couple of women who are either lesbians or visit a hairdresser who wants the world to think that they are. They spent an hour and a half talking about women in the church, so you know I had my best eavesdropping hat on. It was really nice to hear that again; I’ve missed it since leaving CFFC. They talked about inclusion and liberation theology and women’s ordination and a bunch of other things that made me want to say, “Excuse me, can I come talk to you? The pregnant ladies are scaring me.”

At a booth across from me, there sit a young man and a young woman who are either (a) just starting to date, (b) friends who like each other as more than friends but haven’t told each other or (c) two people who don’t really like each other all that much. First, he made fun of her SAT score. (REALLY? Okay, can anyone give me a concrete way in which your SAT score actually impacted your life? You know, like, “My boyfriend dumped me because of my SAT score,” or, “My SAT score killed my goldfish,” or something like that.) Then, he made fun of her hair, which was, according to him, “highlighted to death.” This coming from someone who has clearly bought into the it’s-not-sufficently-gelled-unless-you-can-see-each-individual-strand-of-hair school of styling. Then, he made fun of her sweater, because it’s green, the SAME. COLOR. AS. HIS. He accused her of stalking him and dressing like him to make him think they have more in common than they do. OH. MY. GOD. He just said to her, “Well, I have to check my lacrosse schedule.” That explains so much. Douchebag. OH. NO. HE. DIDN’T. He just put on his fleece jacket and … POPPED. THE. COLLAR. People, I am not making this up.

There’s a man sitting next to me who has two calculators. Because two are always better than one.

There is a table of three women who are poring over a Weight Watchers point book and arguing about the chicken salad. It’s safe to say that if you’re eating here, you’ve exceeded your point limit. Which is why I don’t do Weight Watchers – I hate golf. You should want to get MORE points, not fewer.

Okay, I think I’m going to do the crossword now. What’s an eight-letter word for peace out?

Fun people

I want to thank Misty and Amber for being such fun ladies. We had the best time ever at the Groundhog Day party, thanks to the fact that we have (a) keen fashion sense, (b) trivial knowledge about the movie Groundhog Day, (c) a love of kegs, (d) the ability to ignore old people, (e) a sixth sense for looking in the right direction when someone trips up the stairs and (f) access to a digital camera.

A bunch of queerbags and douchebagonias if ever there was.