Chinese Take Out & USA Pride

Unfortunately some of my clients are getting a bit needy and I’ve had to focus my time on the ole’ day job rather than this little electronic diary. Even more unfortunate, numerous factors prevent me from discussing the juicy details of my job. First, there is the attorney client privilege…blah blah blah…; however, I mainly worry about Short White Men & Cranky Unmarried Women LLP discovering the libelous posts and suing my fired hiny. I mean even the cast of 90210 The New Class can figure out who would win that battle. Long story short, you’ll have to buy a round of Patron shots to hear about my thrilling day in juvenile court with my shirt on backwards, or how I can’t stand the fact that people ask what’s in my candy jar even though it’s a clear, glass vase.

But, I don’t have to work tonight and I, like the majority of Americans, sit on my couch watching the Olympics, eating Chinese take out, and switching to Family Guy during the commercials (unless they are the ones with the Morgan Freeman voice-over – those almost motivate me enough to get up and get a napkin to wipe the duck sauce off my face – almost). Go USA!

While Lenzak pushes himself to Navy Seal limits to prove that a 32 year old American can swim faster than a pansy, trash-talking Frenchmen, I further indent my bum into my favorite couch cushion and challenge myself to finish an entire carton of lo mien before the gymnastics start. (After I realized that my calf is the same size as the waist of that mini Asian who is so small that her leotard is saggy, I decided there would be no eating during gymnastics.)

If I were really filled with the Olympic spirit, I would host my own veritable 400 IM and eat a piece of pizza, followed by a wanton, French fries, and conclude with German Chocolate cake. I suppose this also could be performed in relay fashion and I could train a team consisting of my college best friends who revere food as much as I do. (We have our Homecoming eating schedule determined and plan to dominate the Vermonster at Ben & Jerry’s on Franklin St.) It is a modern wonder that anyone in this group managed to land a husband and that the rest of us still occasionally make out with hot boys.

However, since most of my old college girls live in North Carolina and all the wantons are gone, olympic food relays are not in the picture. Instead, I settle for chasing Bijou around the coffee table after she snatches the fortune cookie. This ends in me taking her to the ground like a gay man on anyone who changes the channel from men’s swimming. With expert skill, I pry open her mouth and dig out the paper fortune. I watch as she sassily chomps on the cookie pieces and smirk because I wasn’t even going after the cookie. (But then I realize I’m smirking about outsmarting a dog so I stop smirking). I stand up; dust the carpet off my knees, and check to make sure all of my digits are still in tact. Kristy: 1; Bijou: 0. Guess we know who gets the Gold tonight.

I settle back into my cushion just as Phelps adds another gold necklace to his collection and some tiny American girl dominates the uneven bars. I open the fortune: “Your road to glory will be rocky, but fulfilling.” Amen, Fortune Cookie Gods. Amen.

Why I'm Single (Installment 2)

Ok, so I realized last night sometime after I gave myself a cramp on the treadmill (running at a tough 0% incline) but before I almost finished a bottle of Nobilo (those New Zealand peeps really do know how to churn out a good bottle of sauvignon blanc), that the article upon which I’m basing my analysis (see, Installment 1) has almost 40 reasons why one might be single. I haven’t done that much self-analysis since... well... yesterday when I talked to Katie, Joel, Karen, Ginny, and Rebecca (turns out using fake names takes too much creativity) about why co-counsel will not have drinks with me. However, for the sake of saving you the agony of reading my take on all 40 reasons, and because I’m already over this little mini-series (um, maybe I should revisit Article Reason #2), we’re going to pretend like this is 11th grade AP English and I’m going to give y’all the book report version (i.e. I’m going to pick out the reasons I think are funny and talk about them in an authoritative sounding way).

Article Reason #11), My Reason #6) Because You are Obsessed with Your Pet:

Hmm, we may have hit a nerve with this one. But “obsessed” might be a little overkill.

I am not ashamed of the fact that I love Bijou as though she were my illegitimate love child with that hot male actor that ends up with Katherine Heigl in 27 Dresses (oh ok, or Zac Efron). And sure, I stay home from work when her poo doesn’t look right in the morning, refuse to board her when I go out of town, and let her sleep in the bed… on the side with access to the alarm clock… bunching up all the covers… with all the pillows, but I am not obsessed with her.

Now, if my mama were single, we most definitely could cite this as the reason. Her two pups, Bella and Bonny Button, may or may not have an entire wardrobe. Actually, wardrobe, really doesn’t give it justice; Bella and Bonny have an actual rack with hangers in addition to their Rubber Maid storage bin that can’t fit through a door frame. There are so many matching outfits and hair ribbons for the two of them that they do not have to repeat an outfit now through Obama’s inauguration. Of course there are special holiday edition outfits as well. Nary a 4th of July, Valentine’s Day, Veteran’s Day or Arbor Day goes by without Bella and Bonny sporting commemorative dress (the army fatigue is cute, but the yamakas are just silly; we aren't even Jewish).

As long as I have my mama as a compass, I will never steer in the direction of pet obsessed. See ya later Reason #11/6). Onward soldiers.

Article Reason #23), My Reason #7) Because You Work Till All Hours:

Since I am a lawyer, some of you will guess that this is the main reason why I’m single. And God love your hearts; this means you also think I’m a hard-working attorney and that my personality and looks have no bearing whatsoever on the dismal fact that I do not have a sparkly boulder on my left ring finger. Most likely, you are also my parents.

However, being the honest Abe that I am, I’m going to politely disagree. Let’s not got into the ugly details of this issue, because, well, I’d like to keep my mortgage/shoe/handbag/wine/gourmet food/vacation/US Weekly-buying job. But, HELLO - I HAVE A BLOG. How busy could I be? Clearly I have enough time to strut my stuff and let a man buy me dinner and booze a couple nights a week.

Article Reason #36, My Reason #8) Beacause You’re too Picky:

Here is another perfect example of why the article is completely non-applicable to me. No way I’m picky. I’m not a huge fan of my food touching (yes I’m the girl who dirties 15 plates at a buffet) but if my cheesecake accidently touches the big pile of chocolate mousse plopped on the other side of the plate, I’ll eat them both anyway, in addition to the trio of mini key lime tartlets they contaminated during their merge. And just last Friday, I ate a Bugle chip that had been sitting in spilled beer at the creepy Asian karaoke place in Doraville (no, I’m not proud of this moment but feel that it is a great example of me being the opposite of picky).

Nor am I picky about guys. Anyone who is privy to my string of ex-boyfriends knows that I operate on the principle that everyone deserves a shot. Everyone that is except the 298 e-harmony trolls I closed out, the 2 friends my neighbor tried to set me up with, and that guy at Starbucks who still carries a chain wallet (those things died with Kurt Cobain, buddy). I mean, a girl has to have some criteria or she’s just desperate - a clear violation of reason #1).

I feel like I’m leaving the door wide open. I want a good looking guy that is intelligent, funny (but not goofy funny), sweet (but not a door mat), polite, aggressive (except when it comes to giving me what I want), determined, social (but not loud or fake), spiritual (but not a righteous Bible-beater type), passionate (but not a horn ball), romantic (but not cheesy mushy), successful, generous, and not cheap. Oh and I would prefer that he didn’t wear short-sleeved button-downs, tapered jeans, cargo shorts, any type of sandals other than flip flops, excessive hair gel, or ridiculous man jewelry.

Picky schmicky.

Article Reason #38), My Reason #9) Because You’re a Homebody:

I could totally agree with this one if it weren’t for one little exception - I’m a closet homebody (not to be confused with homeboy, which is a different post entirely). There is nothing I like more than putting on my fat pants (i.e. the ridiculously large lounge gauchos I stole from an ex that make me feel what Meredith Gray must feel when she puts on a pair of scrubs made for a normal-sized person), opening a bottle of wine, ordering take out, and watching a Law & Order: SVU marathon (TNT has been picking some really good ones lately). And after a hard day of work, I will pretty much pre-sale my first born to anyone who is willing to walk Bijou so I can slide into said fat pants and flop onto the couch 10 minutes faster.

But here’s the thing, my tendency to be a homebody is kinda like the hole in the ozone; you have a strong feeling that it’s a fact and may even do things to prevent it from happening to a greater degree, but no one actually can prove it. I set foot outside my condo and socialize with the good people of Atlanta (and other states when i have enough Airtran points) just enough to keep people from knowing that I’m a total homebody. Sure my closest friends, old roommates, and the bakery clerks at Publix know this about me, but I like to think I’ve kept this tendency otherwise hidden.

Just last weekend I fought a summer associate for the remote to the karaoke machine and convinced multiple partners to partake in Irish Car Bomb races (yes, races, plural), before sneaking off and telling a cab driver that I would pay him $40 to drive me home and stop by the ATM on the way (a total of 2.3 miles). (Yes, Joel, I realize this is like paying a waiter $40 to bring an $8 burger all the way to your table.) Then, I went out the very next night to a cook-out for married people. My social life is alive and kicking, my friends. It is no more the reason why I am single than lack of fluoride in their water is why British people have wacky teeth (we all know that's genetic).

Article Reason #29), My Reason #10) Because You Blog About Everything:

Ouch.

However, this blog is a recent occurrence. It doesn’t explain why the previous 14 years, I have been the Washington Redskins of dating.

I'm beginning to think that being single is my destiny. Years after my death, people will simply refer to me as the Virgin Associate, or maybe the Virgin Blogger Chick that Liked Dessert. Hell, if it was good enough for Elizabeth I, it's good enough for me. (But hold the phone. I will never get that pale.)

Why I'm Single (Installment 1)

This is a different type of post for me. But since there have been only two previous posts and this blog’s readership could fit into the trunk of a Smart Car, I doubt that my foray into comedic posts will cause any shock waves or life changes. However, hopefully, the new post will prevent my mama from buying me more self help books from Costco. Um, the clearance sticker is there for a reason. See, Cathryn Michon’s, The Grrl Genius Guide to Life: A Twelve-Step Program on How to Become a Grrl Genius, According to Me! (Now, I’m a girl who is known to miss a mean typo in an important professional email every now and then (such a shame when opposing counsel finds out that you still struggle with “hear” vs. “here”), but I’d like to think that even I would spell “girl” right when titling a book proclaiming to show the fairer sex how to realize their inner genius. Also, instead of simply referencing “me,” I’d cite to some sort of study, Harvard in general, or at least the lady in Parade magazine that always knows whether Jimmy or Harry will get to the train station first when one leaves an hour earlier driving a scooter and coming from a distance 30 meters away and the other is driving a Porsche and stuck in Atlanta-like traffic.) Note, mama, please feel free to buy me all the Costco wine, cheese, and mini egg rolls you can fit into your Texas-sized cart.

Ok, for those of you still reading (all of you now likely fit into one of Bijou’s sweaters), having completed the above disclaimer, I’ll get on with the post. I stumbled upon an online article the other day. I wish I could say that it was a link from a cnn.com article or posted on the NY Times website, leading to the conclusion that I was catching up on meaningful current events, but that would be false. I found the article on someone’s facebook page.

Yes, I will admit it, I am a facebook stalker. Even if I haven’t talked to or seen you in years, I will always know your dating status, of what or whom you are momentarily a fan, and that your favorite book is Horton Hears a Who even though you are a graduate from a top ten law school. And yes, I will judge you based upon the photos you post. Knowing that you and your buddies got drunk one night and Hayward Preston Johnson IV got his foot lodged in a toilet makes me feel better about my own drunken antics, but I doubt your boss feels the same. And I certainly don’t want to see baby Madison’s first ultrasound. Unless most of your facebook friends also happen to be OBGYN’s, no one knows what the hell is going on in that picture. For all we know, it is a satellite photo from the Sputnik program documenting UFO’s in the 1960’s; best to wait till lil’ Maddy is out of the uterus with her eyes open (and not spitting up or hanging from your teat). Oh and also, I seriously doubt that major modeling agencies are scouring facebook to discover the next Kate Moss; so, no need to post professional head shots of yourself with your lips pursed together. Then again, these helpful suggestions are coming from a girl who created an entire page for her dog and gave said dog a political affiliation. (PS, Bijou is barking for Obama and totally respects his appearance on Letterman even if he doesn’t have a family member she can befriend on dogbook.) (PPS, Bijou’s friend requests to all 24 of McCain’s pets remain unanswered.)

Anyway, the article is entitled “Why You’re Single” and, although a shameless marketing attempt to encourage single trolls in NYC to go random places, is very humorous in its own right. See, http://www.timeout.com/newyork/articles/features/2552/why-youre-single. While reading the article I contemplated my own single status (for the thousandth time that day) and the reasons behind it (other than the fact that I make up games requiring the ability to name foods that can be dipped in more than one of the following: ketchup, ranch, chocolate and/or butter). I ultimately decided to compare my own behaviors with those cited in the article. Here's the comparison:

Article Reason #1) Because You’re Desperate:

Clearly the authors of this article did not grow up in the South and do not know how to gingerly discuss a subject without making someone want to crawl under a blanket and cry. I mean I know a Southern woman that can convince a man he needs a penis enlargement without bruising his ego, and these jokers can’t come up with a better #1 reason than this?

I immediately discredit this reason for its circuitous logic. Is one single because she is desperate, or desperate because she is single? This is kind of like putting the Budweiser mug before the Clydesdale, isn’t it? This type of thinking makes my brow furrow and my eyes squint which leads to forehead crevices and crow’s feet. It also makes me want a Bud Light, so let’s move on.

But for the record, I honestly can say I am not desperate. If I were desperate, I’d still be dating that eharmony weirdo whose big life goal was to invent a massaging shower head. I’d appreciate a massaging shower head as much as the next girl, but I don’t plan on supporting a man while he tries to build one in my guest parking spot.

Article Reason #2) Because You’re Afraid of Commitment:

Now this is a much more palatable reason and one that I am known to invoke even though I know it isn’t true. I tend to get bored and restless fairly easily, but I have no problem committing. After all, I have watched all six seasons of Sex and the City in their entirety, and I didn’t leave the house for 3 days once I realized I could download episodes of Lost from itunes. And come on, I commit to a $79 room at the Holiday Inn for UNC Homecoming every year, months before football season even starts. So maybe I had to eat the cost of two tickets to the game last year, but seriously, NO ONE saw that break up coming.

Article Reason #3) Because You Love the Sound of Your Voice:

This one is clearly non applicable to me. I need 30 takes and 2 hours to record an out of office voicemail message and I cringe every time I have to listen to the playback. I would use robotic bitch voice 2000 if I didn’t get a chuckle out of the idea that people will start talking to me before they realize that it is a voice recording.

Whether or not I love the sound of my voice in a figurative sense may be a trickier determination. Then again, I only tell stories that other people will find entertaining and endearing. And I only loudly state my opinions when they are clearly more correct and enlightening.

Sianora reason #3.

Article Reason #4) Because You’re too Shy:

Um, no. I can talk to just about anyone, anywhere. In fact I think the lady that runs the deli in my building may be close to suggesting that we play the who-can-go-the-longest-without-talking-game next time I bebop in for my vanilla latte. My friendliness and outgoing nature are such polar opposites to shyness that shy people should hide in my purse, side-car style just to come along for the ride.

Of course this end of the spectrum is no picnic. I have personal knowledge that equity partners do not like to be hugged at new associate orientation dinners. I also know for a fact that you should always ask for your best friend’s permission before you talk about her sex life in front of her uncle.

Article Reason #5) Because You’re Too Controlling:

I don’t like to be called “controlling.” I prefer “cruise director.” And in all fairness, there are totally justifiable reasons behind my somewhat controlling behaviors. For example, I like to drive because I get motion sickness when I don’t. Plus, I tend to know the quickest routes and do not subscribe to the theory that half the fun is the journey. No, the fun is wherever we are tying to go which is why we are in a hurry to get there. Fun is not stuck behind the stinky MARTA bus, grandpa’s Buick that is taking up 2 lanes, or that work truck in the left lane going 45mph and about to lose a ladder and an orange igloo water cooler to the jaws of I-85. The journey is what we have to live through to get to the fun because no one has invented a real life Jetsons’ car. (If eharm dude had been on a quest to invent that, then there may have been a 2nd date.)

Further, my running fashion advice to those I love (i.e. my mama, my baba, my boyfriends, the concierge in my building, my BMW service advisor…) is only meant to help them present better versions of themselves to the world; it is really more charitable than controlling.

Oh and I only like to make the plans and set the agenda because I am so good at making plans and setting agendas and most people really suck at making plans and setting agendas. I bet people really appreciate my ability to make a reservation to the perfect sushi restaurant (even when they don’t eat seafood), plan a weekend trip to the beach (even though they already booked a B&B in the mountains), and generally tell them what to do with their lives (unsolicited advice sold here). Everyone needs a cruise director, except for maybe Nazis, people with OCD, and, well, cruise directors.

Reason #5? Definitely not it.

To be continued...

Old Soul Song

I’m sitting in my condo on a rainy Saturday in Atlanta. Plans of running errands, filing papers and doing laundry forgotten like the quote I heard the other day and really tried to remember. I love that it’s raining. I let the downpour bring a wave of relief now that I have an excuse other than laziness.

Because it goes with my gloomy mood, I turn on depressing music. The acoustic guitar slides down my ears like a shot of whisky – burning at first then numbing. I sit all the way through the song that Chris used to love and said reminded him of me. I imagine it still does. Good songs are unforgiving like that. I don’t cry this time.

I feel the overwhelming need to write. Realizing that I will never write a soul-wrenching piece like my friend Melissa whose words make a friend she hasn’t spoken to in years feel as though only a bottle of wine and small bistro table sit between them. Realizing that my writing will never be as humor-filled as Kassia’s whose astute observations coupled with her keen wit make her words linger in your mind for years after you’ve had the privilege of encountering them.

I write because the sadness has filled every nook and cranny of my soul and has nowhere else to go. It pours onto the page – spilt Merlot on white carpet. I write because the loneliness, so physically painful, makes saliva fill my throat. The words stare back – the non-judgmental expression of a friend that has heard it all before and knows that it is best to sit and listen.

I stare at the clock half relieved, half annoyed that I only have 13 minutes to wallow in the melancholy – the promise of more alcohol and superficial social interaction energizing but defeating. I know that the crisp mandarin vodka is the perfect partner for strange humid breath on my neck and cheek. I can already feel his heavy hand on the small of my back making me realize that my dress is damp. The hope that my smiles and laughter will be genuine is enough to get me into the shower. The knowledge that it will be temporary tells me to drink it all in because I'll want it tomorrow.

Coconut Cake

She sat at the tiny wooden table in the country store and attempted to delicately eat the hot sandwich with its cheesy filling seeping out over the sides. She wondered if her nimble fingers picking at the sandwich made her look neurotic.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed two weathered, blue collar men coming in the small mart for their lunch break - most likely locals that had been coming to the store for years, possibly since they were small boys. She thought she heard the faint jingle of a brass bell in the door frame but didn’t know if one was actually there or if her mind assumed that one would be appropriate.

The men’s dusty clothes and tanned faces were the badges of a life much harder than hers and yet she found herself envying their leisurely saunter into the store. She marveled at how they approached the counter and roamed the quaint store with such ease and content. Their relaxed faces revealed a deep inner satisfaction. The men did not smile at the young girl behind the counter as a gimmick or a façade meant to convince others and themselves that they were happy – their demeanor was genuine. No sign of worry or apprehension clouded the deep furrows in their brows. They were two men on their lunch break using the precious hour to rest and gear up for the grueling afternoon that stretched out before them.

Perhaps the demons of life awaited them at home and their peaceful composure was not permanent. But she didn’t ponder the possibility because she didn’t care. At this time, during that hour, she envied them.

They boy’s voice penetrated her thoughts and she nodded slowly and deliberately as though she understood and agreed. She hadn’t listened to what he had been saying and she barely recalled hearing the words he spoke. She quickly searched her memory bank to string the words together again. Grandmother. Coconut. Cake. They were discussing their favorite desserts. He had asked her about hers and she had said coconut cake.

It wasn’t exactly true. Coconut cake wasn’t her favorite desert – she didn’t have favorites. But lately she had been craving coconut cake and she remembered enjoying it the last time she ate a piece. But the coconut cake was not permanent, it was not steadfast, not a memory from childhood that clung to her. It was merely what she desired right then – a reflection of the person she was at this moment in time. She would obsessively indulge in it for a time until she got bored with it or ate so much of it that she tired of it and it began to repulse her. She didn’t have favorites.

Coconut cake. She smiled at her ability to piece together her broken, distracted memory and he thought she was smiling at him. He smiled back, making the crows feet wrinkle up at the outer corners of his eyes. She found it odd that someone so young had such deep set lines of age and began to wonder what put them there. She saw him pouring over books as a young boy, squinting in the dark as he read them under the covers past his bed time. She pictured a life of constant laughs and smiles – smiles so frequent that they left scars of happiness. She imagined a handsome, much older man with salt and pepper hair – her mind’s decision on what his father must look like. They had the same deep, dark eyes. Honest eyes her mother would have called them. And despite herself she liked him. It was the eyes, the honest, old-man eyes.

She wondered if he knew she was starring, studying him rather than listening to what he was saying. She knew he was talking about his grandmother’s coconut cake and how much he liked it, got cravings for it. She smiled again. She was glad that she had come up with the right answer, happy that they could share coconut cake.

The happiness was almost enough to squelch the familiar fear rising up from somewhere deep inside, creeping up into her mind, reminding her that time was temporary, that this moment would not last, that the happiness was fleeting. The conversation, the warm feeling of giddiness that had momentarily washed over her, the delight in meaningful human interaction was gone before it even began. She knew better than to think the euphoria would last much longer.

After all, coconut cake wasn’t her favorite. She probably wouldn’t even like coconut cake in a few months. She imagined herself choking on the little white shards and dry-heaving at the taste of vanilla blended with coconut flavoring. She knew eventually that she wouldn’t be able to think about coconut cake without her mouth turning inside out.

She had the strong urge to push back from the table and run out the open door letting the spring breeze and dust in. But as the fear took over, she relaxed in the familiarity of the feeling. The fear told her that this wouldn’t last. He wouldn’t last. Present reality was simply the mind’s summary about a particular moment in history. And moments were constantly changing, sometimes changing history right along with them.

She could see him disintegrating from the chair in front of her. Perhaps she should reach out and cup his hand while it lay on the table next to his paper plate – a small attempt to make the moment more memorable, more stagnant. She wondered if such a gesture could make time stretch on forever and cancel out the inevitability of the future – align tomorrow with today, make them the same, blurred together without stark rises and sets of distinction. The fear scoffed at the thought. Both of her hands remained in her lap.

The fear was defeating but empowering. It reminded her that she was in control. She was the one who understood the future. She knew that one could never completely stop time by holding on to another – the other, like she, could not stop the rolling change of reality and perception anymore than one could take words back after they’d been said. They would be different people by tomorrow, perhaps by the end of the day.

The dramatic irony of the situation soothed her. She was an observer to her own life, an audience member who knew things about the characters – today, her acting self and the boy with the honest, old man eyes – didn’t know. She knew that the moment was almost over; the afternoon with the boy with the old man eyes would hang in the country store forever while the present avalanched forward.

The fear signaled it was coming. She knew. The prophetic elixir diffused the desire to run and she locked eyes with the boy and smiled. He smiled back. He didn’t know. He suggested that they should go – there was never any expectation that they would sit there forever. Already, the present changing.

She stood up in agreement. She thanked him for lunch and he put his arm around her and brought her in close. She could have nested her cheek into his body had she wanted to. But she had been comforted enough – not by the hug, but by her resignation to the fear. She knew to resign because the fear was always right. The quicker she accepted the fear’s truth, the quicker the peace came. She knew.

As they excited the store, the boy extended his left arm and let her walk through the door frame as he paused behind her. She looked out into the parking lot and saw another dusty man approaching. He caught her eyes and smiled comfortably. He knew it too.