the anti dc sheds her pants!

Phew! This was one salacious weekend. Mainly, because I went out without my signature tight pants on Saturday. BUTT (wordplay Goulet!), lest we get all hot and bothered about the prospect of me dropping trou (um, anyone? *sigh*), let me ASSure you (double wordplay Goulet!) that I didn't just de-pants and roll out. No, I did in fact cover my non-proverbial, actual ass. However, instead of spandex-heavy denim, I opted instead to go with a dress. This is quite monumental for me as my tapered pants and I have had a long and fruitful relationship. So monumental, in fact, that I decided to photo-document my experience without them by posting an array of low-resolution self-portraits.

But, before we get to me, me, me and even more me in a dress (that is, if you didn't just stop reading after the first, second, third or -- I'm even embarrassed now -- fourth mention of "me"), I want to preface with a short story these photos of what quite honestly I consider a nice, but hardly groundbreaking ensemble -- especially in comparison to real style bloggers, whose outfit invention skills trump mine by millions (i.e., Dreamecho, The Clothes Horse and, of course, DC's very own Ms. Spinach).

And before you really do click on the upper-righthand corner and close this blog again for veering way, way off of its original course, my decision to post a few photos of an outfit I really enjoyed wearing is in slight retaliation to a DC douchetastic comment I endured on Friday night about a quite different fashion choice. I decided on a whim to pair some little grey glovelets with my outfit of tight pants (duh) and an oversized sweater-vest cardigan. (I had to though; I mean, anything that's good enough for Karl Lagerfeld is certainly good enough for me.)

But in short, get over it DC -- not everyone is happy in khakis and Crocs. Or at least if you're gonna bitch about someone's outfit choices, start a narcissistic blog about it featuring equal parts hilarious condescension, outlandish sarcasm and endearing self-deprecation (sounds so awesomely familiar somehow...). And to the Friday Night Douche: I know fingerless glovelets on a 70-degree night are "unnecessary." Thanks for informing me in such an asstastic, humorless way.

But anyway, on to Saturday's gloveless outfit. Quite ironically, I had a wedding to attend that afternoon so, out of what originally was obligation, I donned a dress. However, after a quick change of accessories and hair style later that evening, I decided I liked the look so much that I would run with it all night. And strangely, making up for the Friday Night Douche, DC actually seemed to like it (which, um, I guess could be a veiled insult come to think of it -- BURN!). Yeah, I'm not really used to fashion kudos around these parts.

Anyway, now that I've sufficiently built up this admitedly unexciting ensemble, allow me to further disappoint you by showing you four times over what I've decided is the first of many dress-centric outfits I'm going to start scraping together for the spring/summer seasons. And, one more thing, please do cut me some slack on the quality of the photos as I currently do not own a full-length mirror (I know, blasphemy, right?) or a workable digital camera (thank the Lord of Street Dice, though, for cell phone upgrades).

Looking past the awkwardness of my sad puppy facial expression, I'd like to give special notice to this dress's pockets -- so handy. I bought the dress at Anthropolgie, by the way, on Boylston Street in Boston in 2006. This is the third time I've worn it.

Ahhh, the belt -- quite possibly my favorite piece of this entire outfit. It was a gift from my southern grandma, who bought it sometime in the 1960s. Thanks g-ma!

And these are the tights, which surprisingly enough, I found at CVS (!) last week. I enjoy patterned hosiery. Please, however, forgive the elfish wedding shoe choice. I was in a bind as the heels I wanted to wear were tucked away at the cobbler's...

And here's where the real genius kicked in -- not only did I discover that I can get a full outfit shot in my bathroom mirror by precariously balancing on an unsteady IKEA stool (oh, the things I'll do for this blog), but I decided to transition the outfit to nighttime by adding boots (Steven by Steve Madden) and a Dorothy Zbornak-esque cardigan (Benetton, although bought in Rome, natch -- equal parts condescension, remember?) It is too bad there isn't a head shot with this one, though, as I managed to somehow put my hot mess of hair in a rather impressive bouffanty ponytail. Note to self: BUY A GODDAMN FULL-LENGTH MIRROR.

XO

doodle me this...

Something horrible happened today. No, it wasn't the Hill staffer whose suit fit so poorly that I had to hold myself back not to run out, buy a needle and thread and literally tailor that sh*t on her person. And no, it wasn't the fact that I attended a full day of hearings, from which only about 20 minutes proved useful. The rest of the time, I doodled stuff like this:

Enchantingly creepy, no?

And no, it wasn't the very fact that I was on the Hill in the first place, although, that is pretty damn horrible.

Nope. The most horrible of horrible happenings to occur today was that one of my crafty coworkers discovered my blog. Zoinks!

And while I love the sick bitch whose deft Googling led her to my little cess pool of an e-hobby, I'm a bit worried now that as word gets out around the office about my online retardulousness, I may be forced to resign Spitzer style (except without the whole "hooker incident"). I mean, I have a reputation to uphold in my office, where I'm known for two things: Loving Norm Coleman and wearing tight pants.

Wait. On second thought, that's pretty much how I come off on the Web, as well. Hmm...come to think of it, what will probably lead to me getting fired is the fact that I just boasted about doodling all day when I probably should have been "listening" or "taking notes" or (*gasp!*) "doing my job." But damn! My doodles are just so tight!

My name in Cyrillic. Hyphenated. In a lopsided, art deco diamond. Yep.

And, of course, we have sad dog in a suit.

goodbye forever...

Tee hee! Just kidding. I meant that in the same sense that Rod always means it in the hilarious e-series "We Need Girlfriends," which, by the way, if you haven't seen yet, you should definitely check out (if not just so you know what everyone's talking about next year when, God-, Buddha-, Allah- and Zeus et al.-willing, it hits the small screen.)

But anyway, this is a goodbye -- a goodbye for two days. Devastating, I'm sure. I'd offer you some Kleenex or, more my style, some liquor to drown what I'm sure is the saddest moment of your life, but until technology catches up with my mind, I'm afraid that's impossible. Sorry.

While you're huddling in the corner of a dark room sobbing and begging one or more of the aforementioned deities for The Anti DC to return, I'll be in Boston running errands. No, seriously, I'm basically going up there to take care of some overdue paperwork, get a haircut and -- my most favorite task -- stop by the original Filene's Basement, which is so much better than DC's chain Filene's Basements. *sigh*

For reals, I never leave the OG FB without something spectacular -- both for its aesthetic pleasantness and its economic value. To give you a comparison, it rivals New York City's Century 21 in selection, but without the garage-sale-gone-retardulously-wrong environment.

So, I'm out. Oh, there go the tears. I know. Life is hard. But here. I don't want to leave you with nothing but a broken spirit in an empty shell, so let me give you the first webisode, as they say, of your soon-to-be-favorite e-series, "We Need Girlfriends." (You can find the rest here.) Ciao!

the perfect hooker dress

It's no secret that much like pimpin', shopping in DC ain't easy. If in the event you actually find something that isn't khaki, it's generally pretty expensive (see Cusp, Barney's CO-OP, Nana, etc.), thus making shopping in the District -- again much like pimpin' -- pretty hard. I mean, you have your cheap hookers no one wants and you have your expensive, high-class hookers that no one can afford. What's a pimp to do?!

Hmm...something seems a bit off about my simile. I mean, shopping isn't really like pimpin' at all. Nope, clearly shopping is more like picking up hookers than pimping them out. I mean, like a john looking for a good-looking hooker for a reasonable price, all I really want is a good-looking piece of clothing that won't put me into debt, y'know?

Ahh yes. I'm much more satisfied with that. And so, in the spirit of my revised theme, I am pleased to tell you that today I got a really good deal on one helluva high-class hooker. And she is a beauty! Retail price: $415. Sale price: $100. My pimp: Muléh, located at 1841 14th St. NW just off of U Street. Seriously, feast your eyes on this bitch (as modeled by Russian President Vladimir Putin's visage on a tapestry I got for $10 in Moscow):

Tight.

This is a new brand of hooker for me made by a label called Zero by Maria Cornejo. It's hard to tell from the photo, but this hooker is navy blue and white grosgrain -- a fabric I don't usually go for because it tends to look a little apron-esque -- and cut to perfection. The wide straps come together in a V-formation in the front. Here's a close up of the straps on Vova:

Super tight.

Lastly, this hooker has a bubble hem, which, like the grosgrain, I don't often go for. But there's just something about this one. She's special -- and for once, I don't mean that in the remedial way. Pootie likes her too:

Ultra tight!

Yes! Not only do I own this grosgrain, V-strapped, bubble-hemmed lovely, but I also own a gold Putin bust to go with my Putin tapestry and, um, Putin t-shirt:

Putin-on-Putin-on-Putin tight!

Now, all I need is a pair of these and I can die happy. But dammit, where there's a will there's a way! I declare, Putin panties will be mine!

inappropriate subject matter for this blog...

But, eff it. In lieu of going out and finding new things to bitch about in DC, I had a very introspective weekend, having finally decided to decorate the walls of my tiny studio with photos I've taken from trips beyond the Beltway. And well, since I don't really have any new DC-related material (although I definitely will tomorrow), I thought I might as well post some brightly colored memories. So, without further ado, here's the "art" guests of my little home would enjoy if: 1) I had enough space to fit people into my apartment; and, 2) People liked me enough to want to come over, um, I mean 2) I liked people enough to actually invite them over (Zing!).

Playa del Carmen, Mexico, 2007


Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, 2005 ("Swimming in the fountain is strictly prohibted.")


Istanbul, Turkey, 2005


Las Pampas, Argentina, 2006


Punta del Este, Uruguay, 2006


Rome (in the Colleseum), Italy, 2007


Venice, Italy, 2007

So, why no Moscow photos, you may be asking? Well, for one, I didn't own a camera the entire time I lived there so the few photos I have generally aren't wall-appropriate in an "artsy" type of way. But even if I did, I'm not sure I'd have taken too many photos. See, I've never been the type to pack a camera on a regular basis. However, now that I'm (obsessively) committed to this DC-related blogging endeavor, perhaps I'll start snapping locally. Then I can photo-document every single wayward bandage on the street...sweet.

dc needs linguistic lessons

There has yet to be a day during which DC logic makes sense to me. And by "logic," I mean retardedness. Apparently, your dear author here, is a hipster. I have only one three-word response to people in DC who've not only referred to me as a hipster online, but also in real life WHERE THEY CAN SEE AND SPEAK TO ME:

1. Only
2. In
3. DC.

But don't get me wrong. I'm not insulted by this comment at all. I mean, I did crown hipsters the least annoying people in DC. I do have friends who are real hipsters. And hipsters generally amuse and entertain me. But I'm troubled, dear DC, with your linguistic ability because nowhere else in the world, possibly the entire cosmos, would I be considered a hipster. A bit Euro-trash maybe, but hipster? Not really.

Sure, I may attend parties dressed like this or this every now and again (and, ahem, those two looks are so much more Euro-trash than hipster), but I don't waltz around DC's streets wearing typical hipster attire. I'm still not a fan of acid-wash denim. I will never wear a leotard unless I'm in a dance class. And I don't wear Cosby sweaters or overalls ironically. In fact, I don't own anything that I wear ironically.

So, what the hell is it? Why has the word "hipster" morphed from describing those who are annoyingly yet enviably cutting edge (the general meaning of the term in the REST OF THE WORLD) to meaning simply those who don't own anything from L.L. Bean or J.Crew?

But wait...there's more.

DC, are you aware that "hipster" also has a less superficial context? It's not just about the way they look, but about what they're interested in. If anything, I might be classifiable as a fringe hipster based solely on my taste in music, my penchant for clubs with live DJs and the fact that I tune into Coast to Coast AM every night (Damn, I miss Art Bell). But even then, it'd be a rare moment that I'd have heard of whatever band any given group of hipsters is talking about right this very moment, although I'm sure there's a chance I'll like it next year.

However, liking something hipsters recommend still doesn't make one a hipster (at least outside of DC). You see, hipsters hear of bands I end up liking first. I hear of them second. And DC never hears of them. So again, is it because I don't listen to Dave Matthews Band that makes me a hipster? Or Rusted Root? Um, that's a band right? Whatever.

Anyway, this concept of "hipster knows first" is a very important -- perhaps the most important -- hipster fact to grasp. If you're not on the frontlines of up-and-coming, you're not a hipster. I'm 28. I watch The Bachelor. I'm clearly no longer up-and-coming, ergo, I am not a hipster.

But returning to fashion, since it is the most tangible example at hand, let me try to ingrain the point into DC's thick metaphorical skull. The skinny jeans fad did not start in 2007. (Oh! Sorry DC! I should add some background here: Imagine your flaired carpenter jeans about 10 sizes smaller, 5 inches longer and without the added strap for your hammer, er, Blackberry) The earliest I can remember seeing skinny jeans was in late summer 2005. I saw them on a hipster. Less than a week later I began wearing them and I never looked back. But even though I've invented several looks around the skinny jean and converted at least three of my friends to the practice, I certainly did not spearhead the movement. Nope. It was some good-looking hipster.

So, my little retarded DC, I hope all this information didn't just make your head explode because you have so much more left to learn. But don't worry, this 28-year-old "hipster" (um, another point, can hipsters be 28 years old?) is here to call you a dumbass and show you the light. But mostly just call you a dumbass.

Photo: V Magazine's picks for best Misshapes looks. Um, and is that Madonna in the top left there?

i've got some 'splainin to do!

Pardon my Ricky Ricardo reference, but my oh my, it seems I may have some clarifying or "'splainin" to do regarding the true intention behind my one-woman DC Fashion Blog Jihad. *sigh* Jihads are so complicated...

First off, I never meant to offend anyone personally (well, maybe the editor of DC Style -- that effing snakeskin wedge certainly says something about a person's soul). But luckily for me, everyone who needs to know that I really do mean no harm -- Panda Head's Morgan and A Serious Job's Johanna -- already knows. But for those of you who may not have gotten it the first time for whatever reason, let me assure you that, really, as much as it seems out of character that I didn't mean to offend anyone personally, I tell you now sincerely that I did not. If I did, surely Morgan and Johanna wouldn't have bothered to craft well-written, rational and thought-provoking responses, or composed entire retorts on some of their own blogs, which I'm sure the author realized would at least decuple my little blog's hits (btw -- thanks Johanna!).

As for Rachel over at Project Beltway, hard as it may be to believe coming from a robot like me that I truly did not mean to personally offend her, despite my now well-known disappointment with the direction of her blog, I really didn't. Like I said, she seems like a perfectly kind person (yes, probably much kinder than my circuitry and wires would ever allow), but sorry, I have problems with the content and presentation of her blog. Boom. I said it...again. So one last time before I reboot, let me repeat -- I don't have problems with her, just her blog.

Anyway, save for PB, I'm 99.9 percent sure that most people understood (although may not have agreed with) my true complaint, which wasn't centered around any sort of argument having to do with me disliking anyone personally or even necessarily disliking their blogs. In fact, I read both ASJiNE and Panda Head regularly (Johanna's for the magazine-style writing and Morgan's for the "random links" to her other projects, many of which help me become a better seamstress). No, no, my main argument regarding Panda Head and ASJiNE, was not about the blogs, per se, but about what subliminal gems they seemed to reveal about DC's fashion sense.

My argument was quite simple and, maybe, quite ridiculous, and, worst of all, perhaps unclear: No new photos on PB and Panda Head = No decent outfits in DC to photograph = Craptastic DC fashion sense. Likewise, the "common sense" (to me, anyway) advice often dished out on ASJiNE and the tsunumi of responses that makes me think some -- not all, but some -- of her more devoted disciples just climbed out from beneath a shelf in the Kathy Lee Gifford section of WalMart = Holy sh*t. Fashion in DC (and other American cities?) is indeed remedial.

Again, not once (at least regarding Panda Head and ASJiNE) did I poo-poo the person behind the blog. In fact, in both cases, I believe I commended the authors either on their grammatical skills and/or their valiant undertakings, again, both reasons why I read ASJiNE and Panda Head regularly. Hell, I even added links to them in the righthand column because I feel it is due diligence on my part to help promote some of DC's better blogs. But, I refrained from adding PB and DCStyle to my list for obvious reasons (not because I hate them necessarily, but simply because I don't read them).

Anyway, this 'splainin exercise has turned out far less cheeky and snarky than I'd like any post to be on The Anti DC. Seriously, sincerity hurts my brain. So, allow me to pop some metaphorical aspirin now and add just a few sentences directed at those readers (possibly those women who have yet to figure out how mirrors work and/or rampant PB supporters) who either 1) didn't understand my original post; 2) don't have a sense of humor; and/or 3) hate me because I'm beautiful (I kid! Come on now! I'm hideous!):

I don't know where you asshats (I mean that endearingly) come from, but the hardcore streets (um, of south central Minnesota) in which I spent my formative years not only gave me apparently a keen eye for flat-front pants and fine leather shoes, but also a rational response mechanism on how to deal with statements I don't necessarily agree with.

Sure, you can tell me to take "100 midols" (anonymous) or "go on Prozac" (Auntie DC -- sidebar: love the pun!). You can even tell me I'm "ignorant" (miranda priestly) or "ghastly boring" because I blogged about other people's blogs (laura). And yes, you can call my delightfully witty rants "tiring" (rdhd) and tell me to move to "Blacksburg, Va. or Durham, NC or any other tiny town" (rdhd -- for the record, besides growing up in rural Minnesota, I spent four years in Grinnell, Iowa, pop. 9,369, so in fact, I already have lived in "any other tiny town," a category I wouldn't necessarily put either of your two suggestions in). And hell, you can even call me a "feisty hipster" (from a guy's perspective).

In the end, I doubt anything anyone could ever type could top the best and possibly most creative public haranguing I ever received. And that was in a competitor print publication (albeit in Moscow, Russia) with a circulation of 25,000+, so Bring. It. On. I love attention, in case you couldn't have guessed.

So, until an actual fatwah is put on my head,

Ciao!

PS -- I'll be back to my "normal" bitchy self again soon. Ta!

buon anno, if you must

Auguri! I am back (regrettably) from Europe!

I know, I can barely believe it either, but against my better judgment, I decided to actually board my plane in Venice, succumb to my insensibilities and return to my "full-time job" and "life" in this wasteland of pleated pants, windbreaker fleeces and bad footwear we call Our Nation's Capital.

And, after a harrowing journey comprised of 24 sleepless hours, a 30-minute pre-dawn water taxi ride, a two-hour early morning flight, a four-hour wait in what must be the worst airport on Earth (the honor goes to you, Frankfurt, Germany), two inappropriate concentration camp jokes, a nine-hour flight in the cheap seats, two bad airline meals and one flat tire, I missed my final connection to New York City last night. So instead of two girls and a gay donning the three Venetian masquerade masks I brought back and gallivanting around Manhattan, I ushered in the New Year in my DC apartment -- alone and unconscious.

But don't feel bad. I love sleeping and hate people so I had a fine time and am now well rested and ready to blog. So brace yourself for some upcoming ultra-tight Italy-DC contrast-and-compare compositions, which may will simultaneously blow your mind and confuse you.

Yet what would such a breezy 24 hours be without one last snafu? It seems I am without the cord needed to upload photos from the digital camera to the computer, which means unfortunately you will have to wait to see some of my epic photog skills. Anyway, until then miei amori, stay gold like a Venice hotel room.

my office loves me, they really really love me!

Those of you who know me personally realize that I am not one that necessarily is full of holiday cheer. I'm no Scrooge, but I tend to think the best kind of gifts are those that come in a particular shade of green. As in cash money green. Yeah, that's how I roll. Deal with it. But once in a while, a gift will come along that manages to top the appeal of cold hard cash. And that gift is now safely in my home, prominently displayed on my massive bookshelf.

Isn't it great? No, it's not the gold Putin bust. Or the vodka. Or the wine. (Although, again, those of you who know me realize next to cash, booze and Putin-related presents go a long way with me.) No, no, no. It's this:

Yes, that's the hottest man in the legislative branch, Sen. Norm Coleman (R-Minn.). And (sadly?) this is one of the few times I'm not being sarcastic. Whereas Ed Markey (D-Mass.) is the most entertaining member of Congress, Coleman takes the prize in the sexy-time category. (Don't ask me why. If you don't see it then you haven't seen all the other members of Congress are blind.) So, while I'm unsure whether I'll crack open Shared Vision: Norm Coleman and the Remarkable Revitalization of St. Paul, you can bet that Coleman's da Vinci Veneers™ grin will remain displayed on my top shelf, snuggled up in the vines of my pothos plant as if they were my arms. Um, OK, that was creepy. Sorry.

Also, on a logistical note, I won't be able to update this hilarioualy entertaining and newly creepy blog next week. Why? It's time to jet-set again. I'll be in Rome and Venice taking in all the history and culture shopping for the week, which will leave very little time for nerding out online. But, chillax all, I'll be back before you know it. Unless, of course, I come to my senses and decide to leave DC behind for good and stay in Europe. Ciao!

milkshake wishes and chimichanga dreams

If there’s one aspect about city life that truly irks me, it’s the purposeful rudeness and total neglect of how your actions -- or inactions -- affect those around you. Having lived in small Midwestern towns until the age of 21, I grew up in an environment that coached (beat) its children to follow the Golden Rule at all costs. " Do unto others as you wish others to do unto you," our elders told us. And if you chose not to follow that policy, you’d be immediately scolded (beat).

The point is, I grew up learning to hold open doors for people with babies or the elderly; to not start a conversation in the middle of a crowded stairwell; even to make sure that when I put my groceries down on the conveyer that I do so as to accommodate the people behind me so they, too, can relieve their arms of frozen chimichangas, Cherry Coke Zero and Reduced Fat Cheez-Its.

I carried on with my very Midwestern behavior until, well, I left the Midwest. Of all places, I went to a mecca of rudeness, Moscow, and learned that just because you’re friendly doesn’t mean everyone else is. I’ve been literally pushed off trolleys by babushkas for no apparent reason; I’ve been nearly spit on (albeit inadvertently) by hobos with TB; and more than once I’ve had doors slammed in my face because, apparently, it’s just too much trouble to hold them open for the person directly behind you.

So, after a few months (days), my small-town mentality quickly eroded and I became a bitch, a demeanor I’ve perfected through much practice over the past seven years. Ahhh...the memories.

But, in all honesty, Moscovites have a pretty damn good excuse for being such impudent jackasses. As a South African diplomat friend of mine once said, “This is the Third World ... it’s barbaric.” While I don’t think Moscow qualifies as Third World in the traditional sense, there is (well, at least there was from 2001-2004) a certain barbarism that prevails in everyday life: It’s perpetually dirty; the temperatures are below freezing and it's dark from October-May; it's dichotomously classed and priced; and, well, Moscow is just kind of all-around bizarre. In essence, it’s a warped simulacrum of New York City, but much, much more rough around the edges.

So you could imagine, while living in the sh*t, my view from afar of America morphed from realistic to fantastic. When I finally moved back to what had become "happy fairy land" in my mind, I expected strangers to stop me on the street just to smile and say “hi.” I expected people to offer to carry me around on their shoulders so my shoes wouldn’t get dirty. I expected people to fetch me delicious milkshakes whenever I thought to myself, “Wow. I could really go for a delicious milkshake right now.” Well, my friends, I am still waiting for my impromptu milkshake.
Washington, DC, while not nearly as bad as Moscow, is still a pretty rude city. Well, let me clarify, parts of DC are really rude. Mt. Pleasant, where I spend a quality chunk of my time, is actually, well, pleasant. I’m going to go ahead and non-politically-correctly chalk that up to there being a lot of immigrants in that neighborhood. Immigrants not from Moscow. Friendly immigrants.

However, other parts of DC are real downers. I went shopping in Georgetown a couple weeks ago and felt rather like a hobo with TB. Rarely, did one of the uptight salespeople greet me or ask me if I needed help. Now I’ve worked in retail and I know how horrendous it is. Customers are, for the most part, the most annoying people you’ll ever meet. “Do you have this in a small?” they’ll ask. “Probably, asshole, just hold on a damn minute,” you’ll think, but what you’ll say aloud through a smile is, “I’m not sure, but I’ll be glad to help you.”

You’re getting paid to be fake nice so just do it...and I won't spit on you. I’m not asking for a milkshake here, I’m asking you to do your damn job in a civilized manner.

I know it's possible. I've seen it done, most recently at the Potbelly sandwich shop at 4300 Connecticut Ave., near the Van Ness metro stop. They smile, they’re polite, they do their job and they do it wonderfully. And, yes, for my ultimate cheesy ending, they make a good milkshake.

mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the douchiest of them all?

Egads, something happened today. Something hideous and nasty. Something life-altering. And it was all my fault. I did something I never thought I’d do and I am so ashamed.

And to think I preach nearly every day here on this glorious blog about all the sh*t that isn’t tight in DC and here I am -- a hypocrite. I always thought I was the type to rise above. But alas, after seven months in hell, I too have become part DC, part douche, if you will. O! The horror! Just seeing it in print is...well, it's damn near unbearable.

But before rumors start spreading that I bought a pair of pleated khakis or (gasp!) a pair of these, I better just go ahead and tell you what happened…*closes eyes, inhales, exhales, open eyes*

I…I, um…OK, IgotreallyexcitedaboutthenewBlackBerrysmybossjustgotforus!

*crickets chirping*

I did. I really did. I got uncharacteristically giddy over a piece of technology, and not even a piece of technology cool enough то get giddy over like a time machine or a transporter. Oh no, I was all elated over a goddamn BlackBerry. *shudder*

But (oh man, I can’t believe I’m about to try and justify this sin), you have to understand, the BlackBerry I was using before, the 7250, was on its last pixel. The buttons often malfunctioned; it would freeze up incessantly; the battery life was down to about three hours; and, perhaps most importantly, the display lost its clarity, impeding on my BrickBreaker abilities. How was a girl supposed to react?

Well, here’s how I should’ve reacted. I should’ve just accepted the shiny new BlackBerry (it’s an 8820, by the way, which features the roller-ball -- my BrickBreaker game has never been so good) like a professional, instead of like a mega douche.

But no, here’s what actually happened. I get handed the new BlackBerry and immediately exclaim, “Suh-weet!” before boasting (and here’s the really ignominious part), “All the other reporters are going to be so jealous!” *sighs, shakes head* I know…I know…

My saving grace (and I hope to holy heaven I have one here) is that as soon as I said what I did, I recoiled in disgrace. I, myself, couldn’t believe what my larynx, vocal folds and palate just unwittingly shaped. I knew it was wrong, which brings me to my point: Apparently, after seven long months, a little bit of DC made its way into my subconscious. I am officially part douche and I had no idea. But now that I’m aware, hopefully my ego can keep id (get it? LOL Freud!) in check. For instance, I vow never, ever to utilize the 100-percent genuine leather hip holster that came with it. (And no, I’m not wearing it right now!)

Anyway, all I’m sayin’ is watch your back -- you never know when the DC in you might rear its gnarly, pleat-clad face.

if the white house is rockin' don't come a-knockin'

Recounting some ridiculous story about when some random dude hit on his gigantic ginger wife in front of him, Democratic presidential hopeful Dennis Kucinich told the Washington Post in a Dec. 5 article, "Now you know why I think I can be president? ... If I can marry this incredibly brilliant, beautiful woman, I mean, why wouldn't I think I can be president of the United States?"

Hmm, small man, what a concept because, I mean, it's not like it's that common for ugly, but rich and powerful men to wrangle willowy foreign women into marriage. How novel!

Ahh yes. Isn't sarcasm the best? But seriously, what an utterly moronic sounding statement to make. (Although, for the record, I do think he was joking...at least I hope.)

OK, I think it's time we have a full disclosure moment: I spent most of my early-20s living in Moscow, Russia, where, at one point, I worked as a paralegal for an American immigration lawyer. I did this for about a year in-between jobs as Embassy whipping girl and editor of a now-defunct English-language nightlife rag, in which I would tell tales similar to what I'm about to tell you now.

My main duty as a paralegal was to fill out K-1 fiancee visa applications for young, diaphanous teenagers and run them over to the U.S. consulate. After all, no one wants a little paperwork to get in the way of true love! And by true love, I mean, green card. Dang, I don't mean to be a cynic, but, um, mein eyes hath seen some sick sh*t. (OK, maybe one time out of 100, some 19-year-old village girl from Sergeev Posad really did want to marry her fleshy, 50-something, pock-marked, toupee-topped man-of-her-dreams because she was in love, but in most cases, the look of frightened dread shone through the feigned excitement.)

The most depressing "couple" I had to work with was a mail-order 17-year-old girl for a 61-year-old man. The paperwork for that was extra tough because, well, the union between a child and a swarthy old U.S. citizen isn't exactly street legal. After that, I soon realized my legal pimping days were over, so I left the law biz and never looked back.

Anyway, my point here is that tricking, er, I mean, wooing a young, good-looking woman into marriage qualifies old men for nothing, unless being qualified as creepy is their actual intention. Most definitely, although I'm sure Kucinich said what he did in jest, acquiring a young wife is not a reliable indicator of a qualifed president.

So instead, I'll chalk Kucinich up once again as just being a crazy old hippie. And actually, because of that, he and his wife may just be that one couple out of 100 that is truly, madly, deeply (Savage Garden, anyone?) in love. See, she's also a crazy hippie. And, as we all know, hippie love is ageless since hippie love is all about "soul connection" or some other such mystical tomfoolery.

To illustrate, let's once again turn to the Post, "The story of Dennis and Elizabeth Kucinich involves: Indian nuns, a bust of Ghandi, a portrait of 'conscious light,' a mystical opal ring, congressional legislation, an Indian guru and the meeting of souls. " And probably a lot of weed, although, strangely, the ol' wacky grass doesn't appear once in the 3,216-word Post article. Hmph. Glaring omission? I think so!

dc in ac -- an epic, epic journey

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Or, as I prefer, fool me twice, punch you in the face. While I and the Golden Touch Dice Revolution! crew (and so what if by "crew" I really mean one other person?) weren't fooled per se, we did leave the Tropicana's craps tables in Atlantic City feeling cheated out of a good time, not only because we lost there, but because we were flagged by its employees...while we were losing.

First, I understand it sucks to work. Second, I understand it sucks even more to work holidays. But please, don't crap (pun very much intended) on my parade, Tropicana craps table workers! We started off in the black, gaining about $100 each in the course of about 15 minutes. It really was downright amazing...until we started losing. However, instead of commiserating with us or offering encouraging words, one Tropicana employee decided to flag us. While on the surface this is a bit flattering, considering most of the time bring snitched on means you're some sort of magical player, in this situation, it was simply retarded. See, by the end of 30 minutes of gaming, the GTDR! crew was in the red. So, why did this asshat employee tell her coworkers to "watch those two"? Well, either she's really bad at math, or she was, as I alluded to exactly 24 words ago, a run-of-the-mill asshat. Not tight.

After we each lost a triple-digit chunk of change, we realized the Fiesta buffet and its mythical cornucopia of king crab legs was clearly beyond our budgets. So, instead, we veered left for our Thanksgiving feast and headed for Hooters, where incidentally, most of the waitresses sported beer guts (Hott). After drowning our sorrows in a pitcher of sangria and a lovely, surprisingly delicious grilled cheese (only $4.99!), we thirsted for revenge at the tables.

And vindication we would *almost* get! We moved up the boardwalk to the Trump Plaza, where we immediately found better craps tables. However, by "better," I simply mean the casino's employees were nice to us as we handed their employer our money. Even deeper in the red, we decided Thanksgiving in AC was dead to us and returned to the room poor and tired...but mainly just poor.

That must've struck a nerve with the heavens as we woke up the next morning after a lovely 3.5 hours of sleep with a wholly different attitude. And sure enough, the day after Thanksgiving was certainly not dead to us. Oh yes, it is very much alive! We wanted, nay, we needed to roll one last time. Now whether this change in mood was divine intervention or the onset of some sort of manic mental disorder, we did not care. It was time to take this bitch of a city down. We targeted the Taj Mahal.

Like the Plaza, the Taj Mahal's craps jockeys were much more personable than those at the Tropicana. However, unlike the Plaza where we came away as losers, setting foot in the TM proved the best decision we made in that fateful 36 hours (aside from dining at Hooters, that is -- that $4.99 grilled cheese was delicious). Through the magic of the GTDR! crew's collective right arm, we were able to triple our monies, allowing us to just about break even. And breaking even was good enough for us.

Now, you may be asking, "What does all this betting nonsense have to do with DC?" Absolutely nothing. However, of course, our trip did not fly by without at least one known run-in (as you will see shortly, that pun is also intended) with DC.

Just feet before we were going to turn into the Tropicana's parking lot and commence our holiday, a DC-area driver rammed into the side of our rental. 'Tis the season!

Alas, while I can't say Thanksgiving in AC was all I had imagined (mostly because my imagined version included winning stacks and stacks of cold hard cash), I can say that it was still kind of awesome -- minus getting rear-ended by some douchebag from Capitol Hill. But let's not dwell on the bad, let's instead review the good: I got out of DC, I spent it with the GTDR! crew and did I mention that $4.99 grilled cheese? Best deal of the night.

the anti dc thanksgiving

There seems to be a major disconnect between me and the general populаtion of DC. In fact, I'd venture to say this barrier may also extend between me and most of America. Let's see if you and I would make good friends.

Would you use the word "depressing" to describe spending Thanksgiving at a casino in Atlantic City?

If you answerd yes, skip to Section II.

If you answered "hell-to-the-no" and I'm now your hero then stick with me. We're tight.

You guessed it -- I'll be spending my holiday brushing up my Golden Touch Dice Revolution! skills at one or more craps tables in Atlantic City and, not only am I not depressed, but I'm ridiculously excited. This may just be the best Thanksgiving ever, possibly eclipsing my Christmas '05 at Foxwoods with dinner at the IHOP.

While Foxwoods may be a classier affair (and more appropriate for the Thanksgiving holiday, if you know what I mean) than anything found in New Jersey (um, no offense), the IHOP Christmas dinner was a stretch. Thanksgiving dinner '07, however, will most likely surpass the meal I would've eaten otherwise since I don't dig turkey. Tomorrow I'll be at the Tropicana's Fiesta buffet, where I'm hoping a festive layout will allow a literal cornucopia to be overflowing with king crab legs. Seriously, how ridiculously awesome would that be?! Oh man, wish you were coming! When I return after pillaging the casino's vault, we'll do brunch. My treat.

Section II

Hmm...I'm going to Atlantic City for Thanksgiving. Feeling sorry for me? There's really no need. Riddle me this: In what world is lining your pockets with hundreds of dollars cause for pity? That's what I thought. Although, I'm guessing that it's not the act of gambling that necessarily led you to initially feel sorry for me. It's probably because you instantly thought that either I don't have family to hang with for the holidays or that they didn't invite me to hang with them. Fortunately, neither of those situations are true. I do have family I could theoretically break bread with, however, they live nowhere near here. Weighing my options, I reasoned that I'd rather avoid airports and high ticket prices for the holiday weekend and just go see them all some other time -- a cheaper, less annoying time. (Um, love you, family!)

However, let me assure you that I won't be gambling alone. (Although in all honesty, I don't think solo gambling on a major holiday is necessarily depressing. Sitting alone and crying is depressing, but having a good time in a casino? That's tight!) The budding Golden Touch Dice Revolution! crew travels in packs of two or more.

If you're still not convinced, then maybe this will change your opinion. Although I heart the USA, I despise traditional American holiday food. Save for the delicious pumpkin pie, I don't like turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, greenbean casseroles or most of the other "fixins." I'd much prefer (and sorry for the repeat if you didn't follow the instructions and skip directly to Section II) a literal cornucopia chock full of king crab legs at the Tropicana's Fiesta Buffet. God bless it!

Now, if you still think celebrating Thanksgiving (um, or Christmas -- Foxwoods '05) at a craps table is depressing, then, well, I'm afraid we might not ever get over our disconnect. Hate to say it but, that's more your loss that mine as I will be fleecing the casino while you're getting fat. Zing!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

ground control to major douche

Throughout the course of an average person’s life, I’d venture to guess he or she makes maybe a dozen or so radical revelations. Some of the more universal of these include realizing money isn’t just magical paper or plastic that spontaneously sprouts in your parents’ pockets; realizing that your actions can and usually do affect those around you; and, realizing your carefree days of youth are gone and it’s all downhill from here (What? Is that one just me? Oh.).

These "big ideas," have the power to single-handedly alter the course of your life, helping to formulate you, "the person." However, unfortunately, some people either purposely deny these life-changing moments or stupidly misunderstand them, which, in my opinion, is how douchebags are born.

On the surface, my Theory of Douchebagism is already pretty tight. One need only superficially glance at the likes of functionally retarded Paris Hilton and greasy Brandon Davis for fairly solid conclusive evidence. They both used their heiress/heir status to gain fame, they clearly don’t realize most of their actions annoy and, in some cases, could harm those around them, and, well, while Hilton and Davis are not "old" meaning elderly, they are arguably too old to be acting like everyday is high school prom.

However, my Theory of Douchebagism does not apply solely to the rich and famous (or not-so-famous in the case of Davis). Oh no, my hypothesis suggests that this theory is universal, breaking through boundaries of age, sex and social/economic status.

Let me present for you Exhibit A:

Last week at a soiree to celebrate the golden anniversary of Sputnik (wow, I just made the grand revelation that I’m a huge dork), I met one of the creepiest, most douchey men I’ve ever come across not only in DC, but, fittingly for a space-related event, in the entire cosmos. His name? Rusty Cox. (Sadly, or awesomely, I am not making that up.)

He embodied every stereotype of "lecherous old man," however, in his mind I imagine he thought he was being "dapper older gentleman." Clearly, Rusty Cox has yet to self-realize that he is, indeed, a major douche. When you tell a joke to a girl 30 years your junior and she doesn’t laugh but gags instead because your breath smells like a cross between stale Pall Malls and general ass, the last thing you should think appropriate to do is grope her and ask her if she’s married.

Now, had Rusty Cox realized the extent of his douchiness, I assume he would have taken a step (or 10) back, assessed the situation, and left me the f*ck alone. However, my Theory of Douchebagism suggests that, like Hilton and Davis, Rusty Cox has continually failed to make the revelation that he is a douchebag of the highest order. And so Rusty Cox shall continue douching up DC and grossing out the ladies until one day, if there is a God, his douchebag status dawns on him.

***

In case you’re wondering, Rusty Cox did try to follow me out uninvited. I managed to ditch him by the coat check when I ran Forrest Gump-style straight out the front door and hid in the shadows of the bus stop until the 42 rolled up. I’d never been so happy to hop on an overcrowded public bus in my life.

wait, wait ... you're how old again?

About three weeks ago a stranger made my day. He mistook me for a college junior. I'm 28.

"Victory!" I thought to myself (OK...and aloud). "Botox is still decades away!" (That last thought remained strictly in my head.)

For the rest of the night I was beaming from ear-to-ear just thinking about how damn youthful I must've looked all college-coed like in my weekend uniform of skinny jeans, ankle boots and T-shirt couture.*

Then I went home.

As I cleansed my mouth of the aftertaste of the night's beverages (the burn of Listerine never felt so refreshing), I looked up to admire my newly noticed youthful features. Uh...what is that...what the hell is that? A wrinkle?! I took a closer look and realized for the first time the lines that are only visible when I smile will soon be permanent. Damn it all to hell. Nascent they may be, but wrinkles they still are. Not very college-coed-like.

It was then that I realized I am probably often mistaken for being younger than I am because of my general attitude toward life, rather than my appearance. While (hopefully) I look slightly younger than "almost 30," it was probably my staunch refusal to act "almost 30" or almost 40 or 50 or 60 that led to my delightful, yet so very imaginary return to college earlier that evening.

In DC, however, I often find myself thinking people are older than they are. I've run into 20-somethings who act (and dress) middle-aged. Whether it's the old-man Dockers on 25-year-olds or the misconception that "being a grown-up" means you have to give up anything remotely non-serious in your life, including sense of humor, spontaneity and general personality, DC has found itself with a giant proverbial stick embedded in its collective ass. It's like the entire city is set in a permanent up-do upheld by two bottles of AquaNet. That sh*t won't budge.

Yet all hope is not lost. To stick with my unfortunate metaphor for one last tortured statement, hair can always be fixed (OK, I'll stop...). But seriously, there seems to be enough people in DC (and the blogs to match) that recognize the shortcomings in DC. So what the hell? Why not work together to remove the stick swiftly and permanently?

Let's start by leaving our Blackberrys at home when we go out. And if you simply must have it on your person in your free time, for the love of all things sacred, please, please, please do not adorn it to your belt unless you really are a card-carrying AARP member.

Second, let's lighten up, please. I'll freely admit I have a ragingly immature sense of humor, which falls somewhere in-between South Park and Pee-wee's Big Adventure. While I usually err on the side of inappropriate, DC can stand to laugh at itself little more. And I'm not talking only about having a chuckle about a New Yorker cartoon (although many of them are quite hilarious). No, no, let's regress a little and laugh when someone says "poop" or gets kicked in the nuts.

Lastly, let's all make DC a more liveable place by not being so ridiculous about politics. I get it, you're either red state or blue state and never the two shall meet. Well, I don't care. If you can't see that Pee-wee's antics or Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo have the power to negate party lines, then you probably need to sit yourself down and really think about the direction your life is headed.

Let's do this, DC. Let's really do this...together.


*A term that first originated on travels through Southeast Asia, referring to any stylish item made out of cotton jersey.