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[about the author]

i actually like speaking in front of large crowds. freakish, eh?

i work crossword puzzles in ink.

i am the american nigella lawson. or maybe the american eddie izzard. can't decide, really.

i would be a really good mom, but i'm cool with being a really good aunt.

i am sometimes more perceptive than i would like to be.

i am fiercely loyal. sometimes, stupidly so.

i never play dumb. never.

i am way too hard on myself.

i am a change agent.

i sometimes cross that fine line between assertive and aggressive.

i am not afraid to tell people that i love them.

i am militantly pro-choice.

i am pro-adoption.

i know a little bit about alot of things.

i typically enjoy the company of men more than women.

i am capable of being really mean and nasty, but i fight it. hard.

i am a lifelong cubs fan. do not laugh.

i have been known to hold a grudge.

i have hips.

i am not my sister.

i am lousy at forgiving myself.

i am an indoor kind of gal.

i am a bargain shopper. to the point of obsession.

i am 32 flavors. and then some.

[the ones people ask about]
Rittenhouse Review
Investment Banking Monkey
Cheap Ticket News
iPhone News
Hotels and Travel News
Latest on Retirement Planning
Consumer News and Reviews

[in case you were wondering]

[the blogger behind the curtain]

[100 things about me]

[the old stuff]


<< current

[all content copyright 2007 by tequila mockingbird. seriously.]


why i need a three-day weekend - exhibit a
this is an email received from an employee here at the office with a real legitimate honest-to-god problem.

immediately following is my super-helpful response.

my days are, clearly, numbered.

Subject: Reboots


Do you guys know why (or are you aware that) my computer has been automatically restarting all morning? My coworker has had it happen once today; I am up to 3 or 4 times at this point. Should I be doing something?


Dear sir:

We regret to inform you that we do not have any robots working here.

As such, we have summarily trashed your very important email regarding said non-existent robots.

Also, for future reference, "robots" is spelled "robots." Not "reboots." Unless you're in Canada maybe.


The Management

i'd say i have two days, tops.
| [tell me about it] | [link to this entry]


yesterday's post. brought to you today. courtesy of the blaster worm.
i’m standing in my living room when the phone rings.

“jules! hey! what’s going on?”

“not too much. standing here in my living room, ironing a shirt.”

“so, you’re getting ready, huh? i’m on my way over there, thought i’d call and see what time you’re going to get there.”

“whenever i finish ironing this damn shirt.”

“it’s all about the shirt, huh?”

“oh, yeah…you have no idea what a difference the right shirt can make at one of these things. i was going to go with a whole john travolta saturday night fever thing – white suit with a black shirt. but it turns out that i’m more pulp-fiction-john-travolta size than saturday-night-fever-john-travolta size, so it just wasn’t going to happen with the white suit. quite a disappointment, really. anyway, now i’m just going to wear this tasteful, yet sexy-in-an-odd-kind-of-way tuxedo shirt.”

“uh-huh. right. okay. great. i was going to wear my tuxedo shirt, but now i can’t.”


round 1:
guy: hi, i’m some guy.
me: hi. i’m julia…nice to meet you.
me: so…i’m new to 8 minute dating…have you been to one of these events before?
guy: yeah, i come to these all the time. the host is my roommate. i’m a filler. i was just here in case somebody didn’t show up, and some guy didn’t show up, so i’m filling in. usually everyone shows up, so i just get to sit around and eat the food.
me: oh. well. okay.
guy: so…i sell insurance. do you need any insurance?
me: no, i’m good on insurance. but i’m pretty sure i need some more vodka.


round 2:
guy: hi, i’m some guy.
me: hi there, some guy. my name is julia…nice to meet you.
guy: so…where are you from?
me: i’m from west virginia…
guy: i love west virginia. i go over to harper’s ferry a lot. i’m really an outdoors person.
me: you know, it’s funny…i never went to harper’s ferry until i moved away from west virginia. but it seems like everyone over here in the dc area has been.
guy: yeah. that is funny.
me: so…what kind of work do you do?
guy: i’m glad you asked. i run this website called iwillnotshamelesslypromotehiswebsite.com. you should check us out. we’re growing really fast. it’s finally making money. you really should check it out. write down the url.
me: oh, okay. you know, i actually write online myself…
guy: okay, you have a pen? here’s the url…
me: uh-huh. got it.
guy: so…did you do any rafting in west virginia?
me: oh yeah! i love to whitewater raft!

at this point, i get really excited because i really do love whitewater rafting. a lot. and i’m sort of an…um…animated person, and i’m gesturing around and, suddenly, everything is in slow motion. and i see the pen leave the grip of my fingers. and fly through the air. and hit him squarely in the forehead.

me: oh my god! oh my god! are you okay?
guy: [looks dazed] uh…yeah. yeah.
me: um…

and then i can’t help it. i start laughing. because…well, because, come on...that was awesome. i mean, he’s perfectly fine. i didn’t put his eye out. that was a classic moment right there. except i seem to be the only one at our table who thinks so.


guy: well, it was…uh…nice to meet you.
me: i’m so sorry about the whole hitting-you-in-the-head thing. really. but, you know…at least no one lost an eye or anything, right?
guy: yeah. well, good luck. you’re a very…um…energetic person.

round 3:
me: hi, i’m julia.
guy: hello.
me: how are you doing this evening?
guy: i am very well. thank you very much for asking.
me: so…what was the best movie you saw this summer?
guy: i do not go to movies very often.
me: oh, okay…well, were you lucky enough to take a vacation this year? go anywhere exciting or fun?
guy: no.
me: okay…so, what do you like to do with your free time?
guy: i do not really have free time. i work very long hours.
me: oh, so what sort of work do you do?
guy: i am a systems engineer.
me: i work for a law firm.


round 4:
my friend: so, how’s the shirt working?
me: oh, it’s golden. this shirt? like a flame to a moth. like honey to a bee. like…water to a duck.
my friend: so, you haven’t met anyone either then?
me: nope.
my friend: so, we’re just getting drunk at this point then?
me: pretty much, yeah. and hoping they bring out some more free food.

round 5:
me: hi there…i’m julia. it’s nice to meet you.
guy: hey.
me: so, are you having a good time so far this evening?
guy: not really.
me: oh…sorry about that.
guy: where are you from?
me: i’m from west virginia. how about you? are you from this area originally?
guy: you don’t really seem like someone from west virginia.
me: huh. well, i get that from time to time. for some reason i seem to get a lot of guesses for chicago…not sure why, though.
guy: you don’t seem like someone from west virgina.
me: yeah…right…but i am. go figure, huh?
me: so…where would you have guessed i was from? just out of curiosity….
guy: i don’t know. but i would have guessed you were from some rich family.
me: huh. well. um. no…i actually grew up pretty poor.
me: so…again, just curiosity on my part…what made you think i was rich?
guy: i don’t know. that shirt, i guess.
me: hmm. okay. so, what about you? where are you from?
guy: i’m from the area around here.
during this silence, the guy is just kind of looking around. he’s looking at other tables. he’s even looking out the window. he even goes so far as to make a comment about some guy he sees out the window. all of these things lead me to believe that maybe – just maybe – he’s not really paying very much attention to me.

all doubt is erased moments later.

guy: so…where are you from?
me: texas. i grew up on a ranch in texas. we raised llamas.


round 6:
guy: i like your shirt.
me: oh, thank you!
guy: it’s very…pirates of the caribbean.


round 7:
guy: i like your shirt. it’s pretty cool.
me: thanks!
guy: yeah…it’s kind of…i don’t know…prince.


round 8:
guy: that’s a nice shirt you have there.
me: yeah, i’m beginning to get that impression.
guy: what do you mean?
me: well, my shirt seems to be quite the topic of conversation this evening. i think one person said it was, basically, the shirt of the rich. or at least the shirt of the upper middle class. i don't know...it was a little vague. then, someone else said it was very pirates of the caribbean, which might be a very high compliment, but i haven’t seen the film, so i’m not entirely sure. then, the last guy said it was very prince. and by prince, i am assuming he meant the-artist-formerly-known-as and not prince william. not sure what to make of that one.
guy: well, i can see how it would be confusing.
me: how so?
guy: well, did he mean it in a purple rain kind of way, or was it more of a diamonds and pearls kind of way?
me: excellent point.
guy: i think that makes all the difference.

[ding ding ding]
| [tell me about it] | [link to this entry]


t minus five
that's right.

it's five short hours until yours truly sits down for her first 8-minute date.

it's all too terrifying exciting!
| [tell me about it] | [link to this entry]


a star is born. and promptly gets the shaft.
i recently saw the movie dirty pretty things.

it’s one of those movies where you’re sitting there thinking, “why didn’t i write this? i totally could have written this. i am, officially, an idiot for not writing this.”

basically, a very clever screenwriter took a very well-known urban legend, asked himself “what if?” and wrote a fine little script.

not a great little script. but a fine little script. well, maybe it's great in a couple of places, but mostly it's more really good than great.

did i enjoy this movie? yep, you betcha i did. was this a great movie? nah, not so much. at times, the pacing lags, in moments a couple of the characters verge on caricature, and the denouement is clearly visible from about 10 miles back.

so, why did i like it?

it’s engaging. it’s smartly written. it has enough moments of levity and sly humor to keep you awake. it’s a fascinating look into two worlds that most of us never see – the world of illegal immigrants, the world of the unseen army of workers who make our world run overnight while we sleep.

but the real prize here is the rare opportunity to see a star being born.

the lead in this movie is an english actor who you may [or, more likely, may not] have seen in amistad. his name is chiwetel ejiofor, and i can honestly tell you that, from the moment he came on the screen, he was absolutely mesmerizing. his quiet, subtle, beautiful, honest performance is completely captivating. he is undeniably likable, and totally engrossing. he carries this movie squarely on his shoulders, and does so without even breaking a sweat. to my ears, there was not a single false note in his performance. period.

the last time i was so captivated by a performer completely unknown to me? audrey tatou in one of my all-time favorite films, amelie. which has a certain sense of appropriateness to it since ejiofor’s co-star in the film is none other than…audrey tatou.

but, make no mistake: this movie belongs to ejiofor and ejiofor alone.

not that you’d know it from the blatant pandering that’s passing for marketing on this film.

last night, i saw a commercial for this movie, and whose face is in every single scene in the commercial? audrey tatou.

the voiceover kicks in, “audrey tatou in…dirty pretty things.”

yes, audrey tatou is in dirty pretty things. but, she is not the star of this movie. not by a long shot. and don’t be sucked into the marketing machine here: this is not amelie.

and don’t even get me started on the poster.

apparently, this woman is the cinematic equivalent of crack.

you know, i’ve been thinking that my site needs an overhaul in celebration of my upcoming one-year-online anniversary. maybe there i should take my lead from the miramax marketing machine. maybe i should do some sort of audrey tatou tie-in. maybe change the name to “tatou mockingbird.” or maybe “if you like that movie amelie, you’ll probably like this blog because it has pictures of audrey tatou.” of course then i’d have to add a bunch of pictures of audrey tatou, which seems like a lot of work. maybe i’ll just change it to “people in france read this blog. audrey tatou is french. so, audrey tatou might read this blog, or have read it in the past, and, when she did, there's a slim chance she was naked and wearing red lipstick.”

clearly, i am a marketing genius.
| [tell me about it] | [link to this entry]


just because i write an epilogue doesn't make me an epilady
before i post my "real" post for today, i thought i should revisit the landing post to bring closure to some of the issues and questions raised in the comments section, and in emails i received.

- i did report the incident to the appropriate authorities -- both at the airline and at several government agencies. i have learned i was not the first, or even the third, passenger to have done so.

- obviously, this piece evoked responses from many…including my first official hate email. oh, sure, i’ve had the occasional voodoo curse. the occasional pox placed on my house. but no real full-fledged hate mail before.

i wrestled with posting this piece. i tried to be as honest as i could in writing it, knowing that i was probably going to evoke cries of racism, or, at the very least, racial profiling. i won’t pretend: it's a hard thing to do, to put yourself in that position, knowing your inbox is about to runneth over with allegations of prejudice and paranoia.

and so it did.

but, i think my experience was a very human one, and a very true one, and, therefore, worth sharing. and, while i won't even waste my time defending myself against allegations of racism [those who know me know just how ridiculous -- and ironic -- such charges are], i would like to make it clear that i was simply telling a story. my story. it was not my intent to pontificate. not my intent to raise the hue and cry that we should all beware of middle eastern men flying on airplanes and not speaking english. not my intent to mold or influence the opinions of others. certainly not my intent to incite hatred.

this was a story about fear. about being human in the face of the unexpected, indefinable gut feeling that each of us has had at some moment in our lives. we can't explain it, don't know why we feel it. but when your chest tightens, when the hairs on your arms stand up, when you can feel the blood in your veins growing ever so slightly colder...you can't deny it. as for comments that these were my interpretations of events, or that, somehow, recounting my impressions of events is unfairly accusatory to the men in question, my only response is, "i don't what else i could have written other than my impressions. this was my experience. what i saw. what i felt. what else could i write?" there probably is some perfectly reasonable explanation for the behavior of these men. but i do not know what it is. and i will never know. i can only know what i felt. and what i saw. i cannot know the truth; only my truth.

the closing line of this piece was, perhaps, deceptive in its simplicity. for, this is the one thing i know to be absolutely true: i cannot fully explain to you why i cried in that bathroom stall. was it because i was terrified? certainly. i am, after all, human. was it a release after three hours of tension? probably. was it because, despite our best game faces and our pledges of "i won't let them win by changing the way i live", this was irrefutable gut wrenching evidence that our world has forever changed? yes. was it shame that maybe i had been too quick to make assumptions based on the skin color of these men? could be.

this recounting of this moment in my life -- my feelings, my reactions, my observations, was simply put here as an honest account. a way of asking myself questions: would i have felt the same were these men not middle eastern? if events had played out differently, would i have had the courage to try and stop them? what would i regret not having had a chance to say to those i love?

this story was, obviously, a hot button, bringing record numbers of visitors to this site from around the world wide web, filling my inbox to capacity and sparking interesting and intelligent conversation in the comments section. for that, i am very grateful. well, for the hate mail...not so much. but, you know, you take the good with the bad.

at any rate, i hope that you -- even those of you who leveled accusations that this was a telling insight into my prejudices and paranoia -- found this piece to be a worthwhile read. at the end of the day, what i do here is simply tell stories. i try and tell them with as much unvarnished truth as i can. some might make you laugh. others might make you think. as long as i evoke some response – even hate mail – i feel i have, in some way, done what i come here to do every day. and that is to simply tell my stories in an effort to connect with other people.

as always, thanks for reading...and now, back to the mindless posts i'm internet-infamous for.
| [tell me about it] | [link to this entry]


the flight didn't start off on the best possible foot.


completely full.

i was trying to focus on my entertainment weekly fall movie preview guide, but was driven to distraction by the screaming child throwing tantrum after tantrum in the waiting area. i'll admit that my tolerance for screaming children is pretty low, but, still, this child was really screaming. and...tantruming. a lot.

as they called for my boarding section, i was relieved to see that the mother did not get up.

as i make my way to seat 12e, i realize that i've been given the dreaded center seat. on an overbooked flight. this does not please me.

five minutes later, i am even less pleased as the aisle seat occupant and i must vacate to allow the window seat occupant to sit down. with her diaper bag. and her tantruming child.

of course.

before we have even pushed back from the jetway, the child has left an adorable baby gap sandal print on my pants. before the engines have started, she has thrown her bottle on me, literally dousing me with milk. my shirt. my hair. my face. even my ankles. i am covered in milk.

as i'm wiping my face, doing my best "no, no, it's fine. really," i notice the young men who have boarded the plane.

there are five of them.

my heart is pounding.

i've flown plenty of times in the almost two years since 9/11. it's not as though you can really forget what happened that day...especially when you're standing in a mile-long security line with your shoes off and your cute little up-do undone because your hair clips have metal in them. but, i don't let it keep me from flying. i'm not someone who sees a passenger of middle eastern descent and feels compelled to run for the door. it's just not me.

but on this day, when i see their faces, i can't shake this feeling. it's a tight, gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach.

something is wrong.

three of the men sit in the row immediately in front of me. two in the row immediately behind me.

from almost the moment they sit down, they are huddled together, talking. it is the one in the center seat -- the one directly in front of me -- the one who i can't really see -- the one whose eyes seemed coldest, whose eyes locked on mine -- he is the one who scares me.

there is no other way to say it. no way that sounds less dramatic. less paranoid. less ridiculous.

he scares me.

i am scared.

halfway through the flight, they are still talking. not in english, but in hushed tones. they are all leaning over the tray table of the man in the center seat. the man in the aisle seats stands up. he is counting, holding up his fingers to his fellow seatmates.


four fingers.

he sits down and they continue their conversation.

i crane my neck to see.


four what?

and then i see.

it is four rows.

four rows to the exit door.

i reach into my carry on bag and pull out my cell phone. i slip it into the pocket on the back of the seat in front of me. the seat where he's sitting.

the woman to my left notices it. she leans over to me.

"you feel it too, don't you? something isn't right," she says.

i can't breathe.

to this point, i have convinced myself that the lack of sleep in the preceding week has left me paranoid. that somehow i've become one of the xenophobes quick to be suspect of anyone who doesn't look like me. i chuckle at the irony...after a week in florida, my own brown skin and nebulously ethnic features might cause someone else to be suspicious of me.

but now it's not so easy to dismiss. it's not all in my head. not all imagined. she feels it too. something is wrong.

"i said something to the stewardess," she continues, her voice low and her eyes still looking straight ahead. "but she said that there wasn't anything to worry about. that they've flown with them before, or something like that." she managed a smile. "i told my husband -- that's him over there with our two kids -- to be ready...just in case."

i looked across the aisle at her husband. he was reading to his son who was next to him. the boy looked to be about six. his little sister, about four. they both had beautiful blue eyes and blonde hair that had been bleached platinum by the florida sun.

be ready. just in case.

i knew the flight attendant's words were a placebo. i had been paying attention. they thought something was wrong, too.

the shorter of the two attendants -- the brunette -- had been watching the men like a hawk since take off. and the taller of the two -- the blonde with the pearl drop earrings -- had spoken to them every single time she passed through the cabin. without fail.

"how is everything?"

"do you gentlemen need anything?"

"i have some extra snacks, if you're interested."

i thought about how much time i might have. the phone calls i would need to make. my parents. my sister.

i also thought about the fact that i would be one of the first. one of the first to notice something happening. one of the closest to them. one of the first to have a chance to maybe stop them.

then, the man in the aisle seat reached into his bag. from it, he took a bandana that had been folded into a headband. he tied the headband around his forehead and stood up. as he reached toward the overhead bin, he looked at his fellow traveler in the row behind me.

and nodded his head.


but, before he could open the bin, the man in the center seat spoke to him in angry tones, pulling at his shirt. the two argued for a moment before he sat back down.

then, one of the men from the row behind me got up and joined the three in front of me. they talked for a while, and although they were not speaking english, their gestures and behavior made it very clear to me that they were talking about the plane.

they sent the aisle seat man, with his headband still in place back to the plane's bathroom. when he returned, they stood in the aisle talking, as he gestured back toward the bathroom. his gestures made me think he was talking about the width of the aisle.

i unbuckled my seatbelt.

the woman beside me did the same.

next to me, the young mother was apologizing as her daughter hit me repeatedly with her doll.

i turned to her and smiled. her little girl had beautiful brown eyes. clear and bright. she wore tiny diamonds in her ears.

as the man from the row behind me began talking to the man in the center seat, the man with the headband reached up and unlatched the overhead bin.

my chest tightened.

across the aisle, the brother and sister watched a dvd. their father's eyes met mine, and then his wife's. i noticed his seatbelt was unbuckled, too.

from the overhead bin, the man took down a large blue bag. he unzipped it and took out three smaller bags, handing one to the other two men in his row.

and then they began filming.

with their videocameras, they filmed the aisle of the plane. the man with the headband walked up and down the aisle, filming the plane.

in the meantime, the man in the window seat was also filming. he was filming the wing of the plane. as he filmed, he and the man in the center seat were pointing and gesturing and talking.

they're filming the inside of the plane.

this can't be happening.

for a moment, i felt as though i had slipped into some parallel universe. all of this was so over the top. so obvious as to be ridiculous.

i mean, there are air marshals on every flight into dc. and you have to take your seat for the last 30 minutes of every flight into dc, so this would be insane -- to try something on a flight into dc.

and then i remembered...i wasn't flying into dc. at least not reagan national. i was flying into dulles. the air marshals are primarily on flights into national. the 30 minute restriction is only for flights into national.

and then the pilot's voice came over the speaker.

"folks, there are some pretty serious lightning storms going on in the area. i'm afraid we're being put into a holding pattern. looks like we'll be circling the area for another 45 minutes."

45 minutes.

it seemed like hours later that they finally announced our final approach. the gentlemen headed back to their seats.

it was then that the man in the center seat stood up. he turned, looking down at me. his eyes were riveting. cold. unwavering.

without a word, he turned around and sat back down.

they announced the connecting gates as we landed. from their reactions, it was clear the five gentlemen were continuing on to frankfurt.

as i made my way down the jetway and into the terminal, the five of them were standing together. the center seat man locked eyes with me again. this time, he smiled. it was a knowing smile. a quiet smirk. a dare.

i walked into the first ladies room i could find.

i closed the door behind me, sliding the latch into place. i pulled off my jean jacket and hung my bag on the hook on the back of the door.

i sat down on the toilet and wrapped my arms around myself, rocking back and forth and crying.

and, even now, i'm not entirely sure i could tell you why.
| [tell me about it] | [link to this entry]


time to go
you can probably make a pretty safe bet that you stayed in tampa one night too long when the previous evening's events included your boss joining the reggae band playing at the bar for an impromptu performance of "i shot the sheriff."

and, of course, before he starts the "singing," he decides the performance would be much more...something if he took off his shirt.

between the lack of sleep and this fresh hell, i can honestly say: "mommy, i wanna go home."
| [tell me about it] | [link to this entry]


vengeance is mine...saith the girl with the dark circles under her eyes

[note: for those of you who are planning to read the davinci code, you might want to take a pass on today's entry. it's chock-full-of-spoilers.]

bleary-eyed from my involuntary weeklong sleep deprivation experiment, i staggered to the elevator lobby in the hotel last night. of course, with the gospel music convention's activities having just ended for the evening, there was quite a crowd.

"oh, excuse me," said the petite blonde with the gold sandals, gold dangle earrings, gold bangle bracelets and gold nail polish.

"is that book good? i see everybody reading it and i just thought, 'well, it must be awfully good if so many people are reading it!'"

i look down at the copy of the the davinci code in my hand.

"honestly, it's like a great summer movie -- it's smart and it's quite the page-turner. i haven't been able to put it down."

i also couldn't help but think, "and thank god i've had an entertaining read on hand since i certainly haven't been getting any sleep thanks to the 24/7 choir in the hallways." but, instead, i just said, "i highly recommend it."

"oh, i'm not really so much of a reader, really...i was just curious. you know, since so many people are reading it. it seems it's either that or that harry potter book. you know, i just don't think kids should be reading that stuff, that wizards and black magic stuff."

the elevator dinged and the crowd pushed forward as the doors slid open. the blonde and i were among the last to make the cut.

most of our fellow passengers were her fellow conventioneers. i could hear two of them talking to one another about how the week had been so refreshing and exciting. "it's just so good to see the righteous spirit alive and well in so many people. so many faithful people."

"so, what's it about, anyway?" gold-plate barbie asked.

"well, it's a little hard to explain," i started.

"i guess i could sum it up this way: basically, it's about the fact that christianity is based on a mysogonist mythology. that the chalice that modern religion has told us was the holy grail wasn't really a chalice at all. that the holy grail was actually mary magdalene, you know, the woman that we've been told was a whore? well, actually, it seems she and jesus were married. and they had a child. so, there's this whole bloodline of jesus' descendants. oh, and there's even a theory that jesus intended for mary magdalene -- his wife -- to carry on his ministry after his death! how cool is that?! there are also some secret societies that engage in some pretty interesting rituals, if you know what i mean."

she stared at me, wide-eyed and silent.

then i noticed that all the conversation had stopped and gold-plate barbie wasn't the only one staring at me.

"oh, and there's some car chasing kind of stuff, too," i added with a weary smile.


as i stepped off the elevator, i turned just before the door closed.

"so, listen, you guys have a really nice evening. and may the goddess bless you."

it was dead quiet in my hallway last night.

i slept like a baby.
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what i would ask is this: wwjs*?
i know it's only tuesday. and i know i'm here in tampa until saturday. but, i gotta tell you: i am pooped.

can't sleep.

tossing and turning.

last night, i was almost asleep when i was awakened by the sound of singing.

in the hall.

turns out there's a gospel music convention in town.

and some of them are staying in my hotel.

on my floor.

and they don't turn in early.

i mean, i'm talking about them roaming the halls, singing...something hymnal and praise-laden...at, like, midnight. what, you can't be all amazed by grace at noon?

i'm so punchy already that when placing a lunch order, i pretty much lost it when i saw the following item on the menu:

battered mushrooms

all i could think of was these little mushrooms, all abused and knocked around.

and i couldn't stop laughing.

not that i think abuse is funny. even if it's just vegetable abuse.

and by "just vegetable abuse" i don't mean to minimize the importance of our vegetable brethern. power to the radish!

yeah. definitely punchy.

and i'm feeling pretty guilty that the class i'm teaching today probably isn't going to leave with a vastly improved skill set. sure, they're entertained, but i don't think there's a great deal of knowledge transfer going on here.

in other news, trying to put together some sort of "wardrobe" for a week isn't really easy when all of your clothes are still in boxes helpfully labeled "clothes". let's just say that i'm not exactly wowing the folks down here with my sartorial prowess.

hmmm...what was this post about, anyway?

*when would jesus sleep?
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there's nothing like the smell of desperation in the morning. unless it's the smell of desperation in the evening. or the late afternoon.
i got talked into it.

it wasn't my idea.

i was drunk.

i was unconscious and they manipulated my head in such as way as to mimic me nodding affirmatively and agreeing to participate.

i'm now officially signed up for...

8 minute dating

sweet mother of god.

"it's not pressure...it's a party!"

"a lot can happen in 8 minutes!"

yeah, like me lunging across the table and choking some guy. or some guy saying, "i don't know why they paired me up with you...i only date girls under 30." or me standing up all eight of my "dates" and just parking myself at the bar and getting sloshed while devouring all the "free" snacks.

a group of us is going. we're all putting on our game faces, pretending that we think this is spectacular. like it's the best idea since sliced bread.

we're liars.

the age range is 25-35, meaning i'm on the, uh, "high end" of the scale. so i have visions of being in a room full of 25 year-old-girls with super-low-rise bebe pants and one-shoulder shirts and spray on tans and perky little asses.

i think we all know that i'm not perky.

no part of me. not my ass. not my hair.

well, maybe my tits, but i think we've all heard quite enough about them.

so, what am i supposed to ask in eight minutes that will reveal to me whether or not this is my prince charming?

"so...why aren't you married yet?"

"so...what are we talking here, six inches? five inches?"

"so...everything seems to be in order. now if i could just get the phone number of your last two girlfriends so i can phone them, we'll be all set."

"so...if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?"

and what if nobody picks me?! i mean, it's one thing if i none of the eight guys is interesting to me. but what if none of the eight guys is interested in me?! this is a serious concern.

i guess i have to come up with a plan of "attack." or at least a list of questions. i guess using the inside the actors studio questionnaire is probably not an option. nor is a "do you like me? please check 'yes' or 'no'" note.


i've been out of the loop, out of the scene, off the market, in the dark for about, oh...seven years. is this really what it's come to?

suddenly, i feel very very old. and decidedly not perky.
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yet another post that will bring to a screeching halt the comments from men throwing themselves at my feet*
i always thought that if i could start the day by saying to a friend, "i swear to god, i have no idea where my underwear are," that there would probably be some hot raucous bad-ass story of debauchery to follow. maybe even some polaroids.

but, no.

instead it's, "this will definitely be a lesson for me that, when moving, you should label boxes as specifically as possible. 'clothes' just doesn't cut it."

for those of you keeping score at home, i believe this puts me at somewhere around -6,478 cool points.

*for the record, it was scott-san who said that there were such comments in the first place. me...i don't really see it so much. i mean, i get no proposals. no dates. not even any nude pictures. so don't go thinking, "man, someone thinks pretty highly of herself." uh, no.
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