Mum's the Word: Or What Happens in ___ Stays in ___!

Sorry I haven't blogged in a while.

It's not that I have been busy.
Or bored.
Or uninteresting.

Indeed, quite the contrary. But knowing my luck, the person(s) I really have the urge to blog about would find out...and the consequences could be disastrous.

So that's all I have to say about that.

Stir Crazy: Or How to Entertain Yourself on a Rainy Day

In light of the current weather and previous blog entries, I submit to you the top ten ways to entertain yourself on a gloomy autumn day:

10. Make up a new vocabulary of verbs using various body parts.

9. Tackle the internal conflict generated by your fervent feminism and your love of hip-hop music.

8. Throw a sophisticated houseparty.

7. Listen to some Awesome Aussies make fun of silly, MTV-Spring-Break-type American kids.

6. Get blazed with a seminary student.

5. Count your blessings that you don't travel for work (or count your frequent flyer miles, your choice).

4. Go to the gym and get swole!

3. Look through old pictures.

2. Jump up and down in an elevator.

And the number one way to entertain yourself on a rainy fall evening:

1. Count the she-males on 18th Street in Adams Morgan!

Bally Total Fitness: Or How To Sell Your Soul to a Gym

I suppose that's what I get for being bored one day. P convinced me, while at work, to sign up for a free two-week trial membership at Bally Total Fitness. I think she just wanted some motivation to go herself, and having a workout buddy can do that to you...and how.

So here I am, only one week into the two-week trial, and I've gone to the gym every day. Something about it just sucks you in. There's hard body hotties, and girls in cute exercise gear, there's even a flipping juice bar.

Somehow my psyche has been altered, and Bally Total Fitness has become like crack cocaine to me: Must do CardioFlex on Monday, must make it to Spinning Class on Tuesday, KwandoFlex on Wednesday, more Spinning on Thursday, lift on Friday. Forget about resting on Saturday and Sunday...you've just gotten started.

My eyelids are heavy, my back hurts, my ankles are swollen, I can't feel other parts of my body, and sometimes moving about can be agonizing. So guess where I'm going this afternoon? That's right: Bally Total Fitness.

I give up...and relinquish all control to The Bally.

World of Warcraft: Or Too Much Free Time

So I was talking to a friend online today and we started discussing the different things we do to pass the time at work (work not being one of those things, interestingly enough). My friend told me that he had been sucked into the "world of warcraft," and I'm thinking, okay, he's obssessed with planes and aircraft carriers...whatever floats your boat.

Oh, no. It's better than that, he explained. "World of Warcraft" is a MMORPG, or Massive Multiplayer Online Roleplaying Game (read: Super Dorkfest...disclaimer: I can say that because I'm the biggest dork of all). Apparently the whole world knows about it, except for me. So, for those of you NOT in the loop: Here's the gist...


The storyline is based on the Warcraft game series (again, drawing a blank here). So anyway, you can create your own characters from eight races and nine classes, but the main objective is to align yourself with a certain faction: the Horde or the Alliance. From there, your "team" (as it were) I guess strategizes and works together to defeat the other faction. You may laugh and think, "Who the hell has time to do that?", but worldwide about 3 to 4 million people are playing this RPG.

What fascinates me most is that the people who are playing are most likely highly educated adults. Think about it...kids are in school most of the day, though they may play a bit at night, college students are probably another faction because they have flexible schedules, and people who do not have higher degrees may often have a job that does not necessitate the use of a computer.

You know what that means...governments and multinational corporations are PAYING people to sit in front of a computer all day, avoid doing real work and escape to a fantasyland of elves, orcs, trolls, warlocks and warriors. Plus, think of those faction names: The Horde, the Alliance. Good gravy! We're teaching people how to be subversive and rebel against injustice and oppressive authorities! Gotta love it. If pissing away your day playing Warcraft isn't a clever way of sticking it to THE MAN, I don't know what is.

Thank you, Warcraft players. I salute you for your contribution to the Revolution.

Hump Day Eve: Or Going Back to College

Somehow I knew it was probably a bad idea when I got off the GUTS bus. But S had called me to say hi and see if I would be on campus. I hadn't seen her in a while and thought it would be nice to catch up. Granted, I do live live just a 5-minute walk away from my old stomping grounds at Georgetown University, but actually hanging out on campus is a different experience altogether. There's something familiar and oddly comforting about being there, but at the same time, as I get older, and the familiar faces are fewer and farther between, I feel out of place and uneasy. Nevertheless, I stopped by S's apartment just to chat for a few minutes, but I ended up staying for about 4 hours.

By the way, S has lovely roommates. I wish I'd had that kind of living situation during college. On a random Tuesday night, they were gathered around the kitchen table, gossiping and drinking (Korbel champagne and scotch on the rocks...classy!), smoking hookah, listening to music (house, "Golddigger" and "Shake it Off"), and generally just enjoying each other's company, and for a brief while, I was a part of it...and that was not mildly uncomfortable.

Then...the boys showed up. They arrived, like Santa Claus on the evening of December 24, bearing gifts of Busch Light and ping pong balls and announcing the weekly holiday, "Hump Day Eve" (i.e. the day before Hump Day, Wednesday...hey, some people don't know...). When they busted out the beer pong table, suddenly I had a single thought: I am way too old for this shit.

Final verdict: I miss college and chilling with girlfriends. I don't miss immature boys and drinking games.

Congrats, Erin and Jon: Or "Another One Bites the Dust"

My good high school friend Erin recently announced her engagement to her boyfriend of several years, Jon. I am extremely happy for her and eager to know where I can find a man who worships the ground I walk on (as Jon seems to for her). I haven't met Jon yet, but I have heard lots of wonderful things, and I will be glad to know him finally.

This will be, I know, a marriage that will stand the test of time. Plus they'll have really cute kids! Furthermore, this will be a wedding ceremony at which I will inevitably cause some trouble. Drunken wedding guests only make the party more fun, right? Anyway, Erin is the first of my closest friends to prepare for a trip down the aisle, and I have suddenly realized: I AM GETTING VERY OLD.

Here's to Erin and Jon! :)

Keepin it Real: Or My Definition of Friendship

I fucked up. There it is. Plain as day. She knows what I did and that I'm sorry. She already forgave me for it. That's because she's my best friend.

A best friend:

• Calls you on ALL of your bullshit.
• Forgives you before you've said I'm sorry.
• Holds you to a higher standard.
• Doesn't keep track of who did what nice thing for whom, or if those nice things are equal.
• Thinks of you always, no matter the occasion.
• Keeps it real. Honesty hurts but it's better than sugarcoating the truth.
• Never stops loving you.

Club AJ: Or Two Hot Chicks Throw a Party

AJ Productions, Inc. Proudly Presents
"SausageFest 2K5"

"Two thumbs way up!"

"I laughed, I cried. It was better than AK's housewarming!"

"A stunning first outing by fresh new talent!"

"The jungle juice runneth over..."

"Who wants to be DD?"

"For every drunken party guest, there are two hot hostesses responsible."

"How do I get invited to the next one?"



Thanks for coming out, kids. We hope you had a great time. We really enjoyed having you there.

Girlfight: Or Prof-on-Prof Violence

Fuck what ya heard...Georgetown University streets are tough, and only the strong survive, homie...


http://www.thehoya.com/news/091605/news1.cfm

Professor Accused in Campus Assault By Moises MendozaHoya Staff Writer Friday, September 16, 2005; Page A1

A Georgetown professor allegedly hit a State Department worker outside Lauinger Library last Thursday, prompting the woman to bite him and the professor's wife to call her a "cannibal."
According to police accounts, Ibrahim Oweiss, a School of Foreign Service-Qatar economics professor, hit Michelina Bonnano in her face with a closed fist while she sat inside her car Sept. 10. A Metropolitan Police Department incident report said that Bonnano, a former Georgetown professor and a current employee of the State Department, responded to the alleged assault by biting his right hand.
Bonnano said Thursday that she was packing items into her parked car near Lauinger when she saw Oweiss and his wife, Georgetown French professor Celine Oweiss, running toward her. Bonnano said she got into her car and rolled her window down at which point Ibrahim Oweiss started grabbing the identification card around her neck.
"He started grabbing at my ID and pulling it and he just punched me in my face and knocked off my glasses," she said. "He grabbed me and wouldn't let go and I bit him to get him away from me."
A Georgetown student had to pull Oweiss off Bonnano, she said. She added that she reported the assault to several passing Department of Public Safety officers who took a report.
Ibrahim Oweiss could not be reached for comment Thursday because he was in Qatar but his wife insisted that he had not struck Bonnano and that Bonnano had bit him without provocation.
"We have cannibals on campus," she said. "Her car and another car were blocking the little hole leading to the library. It was urgent for us to leave and we had waited a long time."
Celine Oweiss said that her husband was only trying to look at Bonnano's Georgetown ID tag hanging around her neck when she bit him.
"He did not hit her and she has no signs of attack or anything. This is like Mike Tyson biting the ear of his adversary. It's incredible the aggressiveness we witnessed," Celine Oweiss said.
The MPD incident report said that Ibrahim Oweiss had a cut on his hand and that Bonnano suffered a cut and bruising above her left eye. Both were taken by GERMS to Georgetown University Medical Center and released, the report said.
Ibrahim Oweiss was not arrested, but both Celine Oweiss and Bonnano said that they are contemplating taking legal action.

Hoya Staff Writer Alex Schank contributed to this report.

Takin it Back to the Old School: Or a Trip Down Memory Lane

Okay, you ever go through your pictures and just laugh your ass off? Or just smile and remember? Well, these pics do it for me.

Why put this together? Because I was bored and needed a laugh...
For your enjoyment, some of my favorite weird photo ops...



This is my mom. Clearly I learned to doublefist from her. I did not, however, inherit her high tolerance for the spirits.


Case in point: During the summer of 2003, I studied abroad at Oxford University. Here's me during a "wine party." (As Greg would say, welcome to the Bad Idea Club).



Here I am approximately 10 minutes after that first picture, with Liz, JR, Clare and Hemali. After that, I puked in the rose bushes outside in that beautiful courtyard and passed out in my bed by 8:45 PM while everyone else went out partying.



But Oxford wasn't all about drinking...we had some good sober times. Here are two of my very favorite people at Oxford: Kevin and Liz. Kevin's the sweetest, most considerate person you'll ever meet. Liz is an awesome cook, baker and knows more about music than anyone. They made it an unforgettable experience. That guy in the back is nice, too, but I forgot his name. Don't hate me, random guy!






Also, during a trip to Stratford (Shakespeare's birthplace), I dominated John in a DDR battle (Dance Dance Revolution, for you non-nerds).




The last few days at Oxford were to be spent studying for final exams...clearly we studied very hard...Here's my roommate Kelly jumping on the couch in our suite after a card game outside on the lawn.








Here's Arianne nude on the beach in Barcelona...GOTCHA! It's just a strapless swimsuit.





No, that's not a boy. She's one of my dearest friends, Janice. And she thought it would be wild and adventurous to chop off her long beautiful hair before senior year. Bad idea club! I was furious with her and vowed not to let her live it down...so I post the picture online for the world to see. *Sigh*








Also in the summer of 2003, I attended the Summer Venture in Management at Harvard Business School. Or as I call it, Haaaaaahvahd. There I met Ron. He's one of the neatest people I've ever met, and is better at "staying in touch" than anyone. I can count on a phone call or e-mail from Ron at least once a month. Unfortunately, while drinking and talking, he accidentally spit in my eye...hence the weird look on my face.



One highlight of SVMP was the pajama Jammy Jam. Here Alex breaks it down for the ladies...

All in all, a great program. I met a lot of great young people, learned a lot about HBS, and saw some hotspots in Beantown. Who knows, maybe I'll return to Haaaahhhvahd for grad school.





Senior year started out with a bang, to be sure. Here's yet another jam-packed house party at 3616 N St., a Georgetown University townhouse. I'm not kidding when I say the WALLS were sweating...







Here's my derivatives class buddy, Jerry. He happened to catch me before a night on the town. A couple girlfriends and I went to Dream for a Democratic National Convention event starring Bill Clinton. Hehe. It was supposed to raise funds for the 2004 election, but we all know how that turned out...

...Anyway, I think Jerry's adorable. I think he's some kind of secret agent now, so we lost touch, and I miss him. Hope you're doing well, buddy!






Ah, sweet sweet Megan. To this day, she is one of the most beautiful people I have ever seen up close. Granted, this isn't the best picture, but it is my favorite. Megan was doing a striptease for our cab driver on the way back from happy hour. Gotta love it.

Megs is now seeking fame in fortune in Hollywood. Look out, world!





One night I ditched Jerry and derivatives class to go to a lounge called Home. So I wasn't lying to the professor when I said I needed to go home...Here's my cousin Charla and I with some of her coworkers...there's nothing particularly scandalous about this photo until you check out the drunk chick on the floor. She's not posing, she FELL that way. As my friends would say, "Don't be that girl!"



Oh, my dear dear Jason...he was mad I didn't want to dance with him. So he gave me an unsolicited lap dance at Bohemian Caverns. Why yes, he is crushing me and true, it is hard to breathe that way. But we had a good night anyway.

The things we do for the sake of "droppin it like it's hot..."



For the second year in a row, I attended the Business Today International Conference in New York City in 2003. This annual event gathers 200 overachieving college students from around the world to meet with top business executives and kiss ass like it's a full-time job. They should actually call it the Drinking Today International Kiss-Ass Festival. Seriously, it's a great experience and I highly recommend it.

That year, I met Adrienne, a quiet, sweet girl from Kansas...yea, right! Once we hit the bars, Adrienne was anything but quiet! I think in this picture she's saying, "Shhh...Arianne, don't ever tell anyone you ever saw me like this..." Too late. Anyway, Adrienne's da bomb and has come to visit me twice in DC. She makes me wanna yell, "Yo, Adrienne!"





Here is another Biz Today guy...actually I met Kevin the year before at the conference, but he stopped by to say hello.

Here is what I like about Kevin: He is awesome at schmoozing. He knows everybody and will talk to anybody. He (he'll prob correct me if I get this wrong) worked for Bad Boy/BMG, then for Arista, and now works for the new online crack-cocaine: thefacebook.com ! He owns a night club in Cancun and sends me pictures of him with celebs like 50 Cent and Paris Hilton.

My favorite Kevin quote: "I hung out with Puff Daddy...Puff Daddy is the whitest black man I have ever met."



This is Buck. Don't make fun of his name; he's gonna be a senator one day. And frankly, it fits him well (Buck, I mean that in a very serious and positive way). As my fellow RA senior year, we spent countless hours bashing our hall director and generally musing about other useless topics. He came with us to Dream on the night of my birthday party, which I appreciated, and showed us all his awesome dance moves.


Plus, Buck has hot friends from his former life...*wink*...








Here's Lindsey shortly before graduation playing with my camera. Don't you think she should be a model?








During Senior Week (week before graduation), we had a Trucker Party (classy...). Anyway, Teesha and Fatty break it down on the dance floor..













o, after graduation, I had some time to party...my parents had a joint 50th birthday party down in Destin, FL, and basically 100+ black people descended on the Sandestin resort for a crazy good time (doesn't happen often there).

Pictured here is a family friend, Kevin (he was my "boyfriend" when we were like 10). No, he is not touching my boob, but I thought it was a funny pic anyway. There's Molly on the left!




I love this picture. Molly and I got drunk in Destin during my parents' party and got to playing Spit (some lame people call it Speed). Anyway, Molly is a Spit champion, and, maybe it was the Smirnoff, but I beat her that night. I rule.

She got all pissed and started throwing things. It was, in a word, hilarious.









Okay, there's really nothing funny or interesting about this pic, but I like it.

After all, September is Shameless Promotion Month. So why not promote yourself?






Okay, so after some summer fun, I started this job where they pay me a lot of money to do very little work. I highly recommend it. To boot, I met a lot of really nice people to who like to have fun.

One of my favorites is fellow blogger DC Cookie and her constant partner in crime.





Through one of my coworkers I met Osie, the hottie on the right. In the Deep Dark South, they call him Tres.

Thus began what he calls a "loose affiliation." Anyway, he's hot and silly and sweet, and that's all I have to say about that.


So, at this new job, I did what I do best...plan social events. I even got involved in planning the traditional office Christmas party. I brought Osie as my date, and we dressed up as Bonnie and Clyde.

I look so DANGEROUS!







And last, but not least, this is my little brother Max. Okay, not really...but it's an awesome picture of a crazy kid anyway.

Here is my real brother, who has the whole 9th grade girls basketball team on lock...not to mention some models and college freshmen...where do you think he learned his pimpin skills?

Tempted to Touch: Or My Weird Encounters with Men

Hi, it's me again...

So, I've been thinking (scary, I know), and recent events have led me to some conclusions regarding Ari vs. The Male Species. Here is what I hold to be true:

• Men find me unapproachable. Inevitably I will encounter a handsome manboy at school/work/bar/party/church, he will unabashedly stare at me, eye-fuck me, mentally undress me...and never say a word to me. I have had to become quite courageous in going up to men first (at least the ones I am attracted to, unattractive men have no qualms about seeking me out first) and beginning a conversation. At some point, said manboy will quip, "Wow, I'm impressed you came and talked to me. I was a little intimidated by you." I am still baffled as to whether I should take that statement as a compliment or criticism. Do I look constantly pissed off? Do I look like I would never acknowledge your presence if you spoke to me? (Well, truth be told I may ignore you if you a) look psychotic or b) approach me with some crass comment about the ungodly things you would do to my body) Clearly I'm attractive, but not stunningly gorgeous in my opinion...I like to think of my beauty as a sneak-up-behind-you type and very unassuming. Haha...But let's get back to the point. For whatever reason, men are intimidated by what they perceive me to be. My friends often call me their "most self-confident" companion, and that is true to some extent, but as my best friend M will attest, when it comes to boys/men/dating/sex, I can be downright terrified and highly self-critical. It really makes no sense at all. Men see a self-assured, beautiful popular woman; but oh, if they knew the dorky nerd girl that resides inside.
• I must confuse men, because they deeply confuse me. Here's an all-too-often pattern in my love life: Boy meets Ari, boy get's Ari's number, boy calls Ari and asks her out, Ari accepts, Boy and Ari start hanging out on a semi-regular basis. To Ari's delight, Boy expresses an interest in continuing to see her. Ari agrees and everything seems to be going well. One day, Boy stops calling and does not return phone calls or e-mails. Boy apparently falls off face of Earth. Come on...I could understand if this happened once or twice, but really...this shit is bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S. The first couple times I thought, okay, he's just a flake. But now, there is clearly something wrong with ME. Anybody out there got any ideas, do let me know.
• I have no "type." I guess that would make me slutty, but I don't hook up with guys a lot. More likely it just makes me boy crazy. I am attracted to/can find something attractive about pretty much any man I see. Any race, religion, height, weight, etc...I can name a few guys I've tried to nab. Is this really a sign I'm as open-minded as I purport myself to be...or do I just have low standards? Haha...

Stay tuned, kids...I predict my love/hate relationship with the Y chromosome will only become more interesting with time.

The Stiff-Meister: Or Why I love my roommate...

No, not like that...but D and his friend Wouiza came up with a hella funny list based on Stifler-isms (You know, American Pie dude) after we cracked outselves up saying "Hang out with my wang out." So without further ado, for your reading pleasure, you could:

• You could:
  Rock out with your cock out
  Pass out with your ass out
  Hang out with your wang out
  Sit out with your tit out
  Rest out with your breast out
  Jump out with your rump out
  Wuss out with your puss out
  Stick out with your dick out
  Sneak out with your cheek out
  Fake out with your snake out
  Skip out with your nip out
  Fall out with your ball out
  Watch out with your chatch out
  Shoot out with your coot out
  Black out with your crack out
  Go out with your camel toe out
  Get laughed out with your shaft out
  Rot out with your twat out
  Tune out with your poon out
  Hunt out with your cunt out
  Stole out with your pole out
  Blows out with your hose out
  Pound out with your mound out
  Cool out with your tool out
  Trips/Flips out with your lips out
  Bugs out with your jugs out
  Leave out with your beav out
  Rocks out with your box out
  Eat out with your teat out
  Run out with a bun out
  Shut out with your nut out
  Weird out with your beard out
  Dork out with your pork out
  Pork out with your dork out
  Grump out with your rump out
• Crunk out with your junk out (courtesy of DC Cookie)

We're taking more suggestions, people... :)

I take back everything bad I said about Kanye West

Anyone who ain't scurred to rip Bush a new one on live tv can have my $16.99 for an album sale.

http://http://media.putfile.com/Kanye79

Hurricane Katrina vs. The Grahams: Or Why My Family Kicks Ass

Okay, so I know this blog is generally supposed to be about the crazy things that happen to me and me alone...but that mantra seems a tad bit self-absorbed and self-centered at this particular moment.

Besides, I would definitely call Hurricane Katrina a Series of Unfortunate Events, much like my blog.

Just in case you've been living under a rock for the last week, i am indeed referring to a devastating hurricane that ruined much of the beautiful Gulf Coast, one of my favorite regions of America, despite being part of the deepest, darkest bass-ackward South.

For me, Hurricane Katrina became very personal very quickly. Originally, all of my folks come from Louisiana. My dad's side still has reunions in the state. My mom and her three sisters were born and raised in New Orleans, and much of their side of the family lives there, including my mother's parents, my maternal grandparents. Shirley and Joe are now 80 years old, and while dear old grandpa is alive and kicking in spite of a 66 year love affair with tobacco, Grandma Shirley is in the beginning stages of Alzheimer's Disease, and her frail 70 lb body has begun to deteriorate. Needless to say, evacuating her in preparation for a hurricane was not really an option.

Prior to the storm, my mom made sure Grandpa Joe had made adequate preparations with plenty of food and water. As Sunday night began to fall, however, and mandatory evacuations were ordered, I became increasingly concerned for their safety. Monday morning dawned, and it seemed the worst was over. Parts of Louisiana and Mississippi were devastated, but I happily learned my grandparents were safe at home in New Orleans.

Then the unthinkable happened...well, clearly it was not unthinkable, as many experts apparently foresaw a disaster of this magnitude. The levees protecting this below sea-level city (whose dumb idea was THAT?) from the ocean and Lake Ponchartrain failed the citizens of New Orleans, and the floodwaters rushed in. When we didn't hear from Grandpa Joe, we resigned ourselves to the worst. They probably did not make it out of their house alive. But a miracle occured. This is my grandparents' harrowing story as I know it to have happened:

Grandpa Joe said the flood had reached his knees by the time he knew he had to get out of the house. He opened the door to a few neighbors that helped him get grandma to a local high school with 300 other citizens. Later he would tell me that the last thing he saw as he left the house was a picture of myself and him at my graduation ceremony from Georgetown University. It broke my heart. At the high school, they had no food, water or working toilets. By grace and grace alone, my grandpa's cell phone found a signal and he called my mother, who happened to be near the phone in Atlanta. He told her of their conditions, and my father (amazing man, really) started a phone and e-mail chain that touched thousands. We were able to finally get through to CNN, Fox News, FEMA and the U.S. Coast Guard about my grandparents' whereabouts. We still do not know who rescued them from that place. After leaving the high school, the evacuees were dropped off at an onramp to Interstate 10. There they were told to walk about 3 miles to the Convention Center or the Superdome to await buses. Grandpa could not push Grandma that far in her wheelchair, so they waited along the highway with about 100 others. They slept on the concrete of a major interstate for several nights. He said that buses "full of white people" passed him by without stopping, and that conditions deteriorated to the point that he believed "they" (law enforcement forces) were "out exterminating black people" in the street (say what you want about the racial implications of this tragedy, but the simple fact of the matter is this: my grandpa was there, he lived it, you didn't, so shut the hell up. Oh yea, and the "looters" that stole groceries from stores, well they were the ones who probably kept my family alive with their stolen goods. But yea, there's really no excuse for stealing TVs and tennish shoes...). At some point on Friday we got two voice mail messages: one from a woman named Pam who had been with my grandparents at the high school and was calling from Baton Rouge. The other was a National Guardsman with a thick Southern accent, saying, "Dr. Graham, I met your father-in-law, Joe Gaspard. He wanted me to call and tell you he's okay, and to come and get him." Later that same evening, we finally received a phone call from Grandpa Joe in Eunice, LA. He and grandma had been evacuated to a tiny Baptist church in the middle of nowhere. My parents hopped in the car, drove all the way to Louisiana and back in 21 hours. Thank God. My grandparents are now safe in Atlanta.

Needless to say, it was the longest week of my life. I didn't realize how much I really do love my family until I almost lost them. As I said in an e-mail to family and friends, all the anger I had felt over the past week had dissipated. I was angry at my grandparents for not leaving the city in the first place, angry at FEMA and the Bush administration for being incompetent as usual, angry at the crackheads shooting at rescue helicopters, angry at the racist and classist talking heads all over the country that have no clue about the day-to-day life of our nation's poorest citizens, angry at the media for making me sick with worry, the list went on and on.

All of a sudden, the things I worried and obssessed over seem so minute. My job, my love life, my money...bullshit. All of it. I have life, I have health, I have family, I have faith. I am so utterly blessed, and I don't deserve any of it. I do, however, have a new and unrelenting desire to expose evil in all of its forms; be it the Bush administration, government bureaucracy in general, racism, classism and all the other "ism's"...Look out, world, you just got yourself a new champion of justice.

I'll say it one more time: If you don't believe in miracles because you've never witnessed one, then just take one look at my family's nightmare-turned-reunion. If you still don't believe after that, then I feel sorry for you. I am happy to report that the heavens are not closed and the earnest prayers of the faithful are still answered by a merciful and loving God. I only hope that the life I live will be a testament to these statements being true.

Alrighty, I'll get off my high horse now. Just thought I'd share...

Supeer Sweet Sixteen: Or a Tale of the Sloppy, Snobby Sophie-Bitch

She looks mildly retarded, if you ask me. But this is Sophia, star of the premiere of quite possibly the most insipid MTV reality show yet: My Super Sweet Sixteen. But I know what you're thinking, and yes, I know: Ari had to have watched the show to deem it insipid. Guilty as charged. I was sick in bed and was quite literally sucked in (look at the pie-hole on that one, kids!). I do not usually write about things not directly related to my life, nor do I advocate watching bad reality TV, let alone on MTV, but this was just too appalling to pass up. That's saying something, because I am not shocked easily.

So here's the premise of the show. Over-indulged little snot gets to have a birthday party that usually costs more cheese than most people make in a year. This one, I'm hoping, is as bad as it gets in terms of how spoiled the kids are. Anyway, let's get on with it...

Sophie: preppy 15-year old private school snob (I can say that, I went to private school) from West Palm Beach, FL. As far as you can tell, she lives alone with her veterinarian mom who is, well, white. It's not a huge deal, but I noticed that the idea is never addressed in the show, as if someone might mention it to Sophie, she would gasp and exclaim something like, "Are you kidding? Get the fuck out! Take back that horrible insult!" and then maybe keel over and die. Because, aside from Sophie, the show turns out to be pretty much lily white, and Sophie does not register the fact that she is any different, which brings me to my next gripe...

Sophie's Hair!

Okay, it was a cheap shot, but this is seriously a close approximation. Somebody get that chick a hotcomb! Look, I know what it's like to be the one of only a few black girls and live in a place where very few hairdressers know how to "deal with" my hair. Still, that girl has more money at her disposal than any 15-year-old should, so there's really no excuse. I'm just going to blame her racial identity issues. Sorry, Sophia, it will not turn blonde and straight, so stop praying for the day that it will. You can't change the hair you were born with, but you can change a couple things...like you could drop forty pounds (those Dunkin Donuts and Moolattes go straight to your middle, apparently), and you could also adjust...

(Sophie and her blonde mom...still can't figure that one out. But for a designer dress, you could find one that don't make her boobs look fat and floppy...)

Sophie's Stank-Ass Attitude!
Once, in a department store, I saw a child slap her mother across the face for making her pick one sweater instead of buying two. I thought that woman was the worst mother in the world...until I saw Sophie's mom on TV. This woman is the obviously the source of the trouble. She lets the kids walk all over her, telling her to "shut up", "stop being annoying," and yelling and screaming all the time. Keep in mind this is the woman signing the check for the damn party.

The mother pays for the party, a new car, and whatever else Sophie asks for, despite several verbal assaults. I guess my question is, what happened to a good old-fashioned ass-whooping? Seriously, let's entertain the idea for just a second that my parents would throw such a party for me... if I dared utter a disrespectful retort, not only would the party be off but my mother would personally ensure that I could not sit down on my rear end for at least a week.

But Sophie is a bitch to everyone...so I guess her mother just takes it. Sucker.

BOTTOM LINE: If you happen to be home when it reruns, just try to watch without wanting to backhand the selfish little twit. And you know what my punishment will be for bad-mouthing her? I'm gonna have a daughter who is Sophie reincarnated. God have mercy on me.

Sowing the Oats: Or Things I Must Do Before Settling Down

I've been thinking a lot lately. I should grow up. I should settle down. With one person. Knock out a couple rugrats. Call it a day.

But before I do, there are some very important things I must take care of. Stuff I haven't gotten to in life. Stuff I'll always wonder about if I don't ever do it. So here it is, a list of five absolute "musts" before Ari retires from the playalistic life:

1. Live alone/Live with another girl. Don't get me wrong, I love my roomie D to death, but the thought of going straight from living with him to living with another bundle of testosterone is more than my feminine mystique can handle. I like my home clean, toilet seats down, sinks free of stubble, and everything smelling nice and flowery, thankyouverymuch.
2. Conquer the "hit list." Don't even act like you don't have one. You may have not consciously made it like I did, but somewhere in your mind, there's a list of people you're attracted to, a "wish list" if you will. You know for certain it probably wouldn't work out long-term, but you've just gotta find out "what if" or die trying. My hit list, I'll admit, is quite ambitious and even a tad lengthy, but I'm on it. And I'm not talking about sex, for those of you quick to slap the "ho" label on my forehead. It could be some juvenile hand holding, a make out session, or even just blurting out, "You know, I was always hot for you." It's cathartic, really. I highly recommend everyone get in touch with their inner hit list.
3. Go back to school. This should be interesting, since I currently enjoy not being broke and have not studied for anything in over two years, and thus lack the motivation to do so.
4. Own a house and/or car, all on my own. Because I gotta have my own shit together before I add my name to somebody else's bad credit.

And last but not least...

5. Spend a weekend (or longer) completely in the nude. By my damn self. Because it might be the first and last time I can do it before being tackled by a significant other...

Thank you. That is all.

Youth is Wasted on the Young: Or the Older Folks that Have More Stamina Than Me

It was another long day out at the client hospital in suburban Chicago. You see, I travel four days a week and work, along with a team of 8-10 other consultants, at our client's hospital. Folks were stressed, tensions running high, but it was Wednesday, the second-to-last weekday (for us), and by the afternoon all thoughts turned to our favorite Wednesday pastime: TEAM DINNER.

Once a week our managing director takes the whole gang out to some swanky Chicago hotspot for a nice meal, a small compensation for being away from family and friends most of the week. If it's on the menu, we pretty much order it. Appetizers, salads, entrees, dessert. And don't forget the wine. Lots and lots of really good wine.

This particular week it was my turn to the pick the restaurant, and I chose a favorite of mine and my grandma (also a Chi-town resident): The Chicago Firehouse. I highly recommend it. What began as an early dinner (about 5:30pm) quickly became a marathon meal, wrapping up about 10:00pm, after my teammates became sufficiently soused.

You see, aside from me and another girl in her 20s, everyone on the team is aged 40+. I, being the lucky girl I am, had a freak allergic reaction to something in the air or in the food (still a mystery), and my eyes swelled to the size of golf balls (I put on my sunglasses since we were seated outside, and no one seemed to notice except when I attempted to scratch my eyeballs out). So why did I hang out? Well, the networking opportunities are endless, and if you're known as "that girl that bailed out early on dinner," your career just might never recover. So I sat, miserable and itchy.

As we left the restaurant, the ringleader, a director in his mid-60s (with 5 grandkids, I might add), announces that we're all going drinking. S (the other girl in her 20s) and I tried to make a mad dash for the rental car, but the director called after us, indicating the activity was not optional. S looked at me and pleaded to go back to the hotel to pack and get to bed, which was exactly where I wanted to go, exhausted and itchy as I was. We were met with taunts and jeers from the other team members (bear in mind, all grown-ass adults themselves) who called us "weak" and "no fun" as they jumped around on the sidewalk, yelling and carrying on for all of downtown Chicago to witness. Well it was clear what had to be done: S and I were going drinking with the bully consultants, swollen eyelids or not.

Thankfully, my coworkers relented long enough to let me make a mad dash for Walgreens to buy some benadryl to decrease my Quasimodo-like swelling. Then they took me to the bar and insisted on shots and beer (bastards), knowing full well I had just taken some medication. Peer pressure is a bitch. I can't believe I was being bullied by people with their own spouses, children (and some with grandchildren!) I can't tell you how many times I heard "Come on, Ari, don't be a pussy!" that night.

Final verdict: It was a good night. Didn't spend a dime, got drunk enough to forget about my itchy eyes, networked with some great contacts to further my career, and just enjoyed myself with some folks I happen to like very much.

But, seriously, why do people twice my age have twice my energy?

Hair, Steak and Houseparty: Or the Best Weekend in a While

J, Ari, D and P at Mortons Georgetown (aren't they all hot?)

It was Friday, and I was tired. I didn't really want to go out that night, but S the intern reminded me that I had promised to hang out all summer and had yet to follow through. I relented, and by midnight we were on our way to Dream. Her sketchy connection C got us in for free just in time to see 112 perform, and then on to the VIP section where I met Slim. After four apple martinis, though, I don't remember what all I said to him. But that's not the story at hand...

Saturday morning I felt a bit icky, but P, my roommate's coworker and friend, came over to do my hair. He comes to my apartment to do it and charges me less than a salon (rave!) and does a fabulous job. Tell me if you want his number. He does my hair free every time I get him a new client. While chatting, we decided to try Mortons for dinner since he and roommate D are servers there and get a 50% discount. I invited my hot girl friend J, and off we went. At dinner, we were comped a bunch of side dishes and dessert, and it was only $100 for all four of us to eat (rave!)!

After that, we hit up a houseparty in Capitol Hill. The crowd was just OK, but there were plenty of jello shots to be had, so that kept us busy. Later on, our foursome hopped into a cab driven by a Sudanese dude (actually half Sudanese, half Irish, he explained, saying he was "all Irish" from the waist down. GROSS!). Roomie D suggested we take a detour to a strip club...and then...well, what did happen after that? Maybe I'll remember next time...

...But to recap: Good hair, good food, good fun? All in a day? These things ONLY happen to me... :)

Holy Crap: Or How Capitalism Raped Christianity

In J's words, "I mean, I am a baller." So it was no big deal to switch my plans at the last minute and fly to Orlando for the 4th of July weekend to visit two of my favorite Gtown grads. We'll call them J-Squared.

Besides an awesome shopping spree at the outlet mall and a day of rides at Universal Studios, our happy threesome stumbled upon another interesting attraction just off of I-4: The Holy Land Experience. I'm telling you, had I not been there, no way we would have stumbled across an attraction so ridiculous.

Oh, yes. It IS what you think it is. The Holy Land Experience is a theme park/amusement/attraction designed to transport the 21st century visitor to The Holy Land. Israel. Jerusalem, to be specific. Nevermind the fact that you're not in an actual desert locale in the Middle East. You're in the middle of muggy, touristy, Disney-esque Orlando, right smack in the middle of the Red State/Bible Belt.

My mouth gaped wide open as we drove past. The Holy Land Experience? Are you kidding? My God, whose brainchild was this? And what venture capitalist agreed to finance such an undertaking? A huge replica of the Holy Temple blocked my view of the rest of the park, so my mind began to wander and imagine the types of attractions held within:

• Test your agility in the "Dodge a Suicide Bomber" room! Avoid cafes, markets and public squares! Those bombers are tricky, and those who avoid getting blood and guts on their clothes WIN!
• Sing along to the crucifixion! Dress up as an actual Roman guard and pose with the Savior!
• Amaze your family as our holy magicians teach you to change water into wine! Great party tricks for all!
• Challenge your friends to play peace broker b/t those feisty Israelis and Palestinians! Ceasefires and treaties get you bonus points, and the highest score wins!
  
  All this and more at the Holy Land Experience!

Ok, so I'm bordering on sacrilege, but I'm trying to make a point. Christian or not, I hope most people were as appalled at this eyesore as I was. What's worse is that the park attempted to gain property tax exemption, a distinction reserved for venues such as places of worship. I feel violently ill just thinking about it. Capitalist pigs.

Riches, Rent and the Real World: Or Why Being a GrownUp Sucks

That's it. Somebody build me a flipping time machine. I'm going back to the 80's and my blessed, blessed childhood innocence. I've been nostalgic for my youth (relative youth, I'm still in my early 20's) since college graduation, but a little incident recently made me long for the old days:

I called my mom for our usual weekly chit chat session. She reminded me that she, my dad and little brother would be out of town from June 27 to July 4, and that I should call grandma in the event of an emergency. I completely blanked. "What? Where are you going?" I asked, utterly confused.

"Ari, you really should pay more attention," said Mom. "I told you about this months ago. The family is going on an Alaskan cruise." What? I hadn't even packed yet! Family vacation? Alright! But wait, I didn't request off from work...and suddenly it hit me. I was not going on this family vacation. Mom clearly said "the family." But apparently she didn't mean me this time.

"Why aren't you taking me?!?!?" I whined. I want to go on a cruise!

And my mom said (and these are her words), "Excuse me, but didn't you just come back from Greece less than a month ago? And San Diego? And L.A.? (I still assert the last two don't count, they were work-related, well sort of...) You're a rich bitch now, and I don't finance your vacations, and that is all there is to say about that."

"I hope you run into a bunch of lesbian whale-watchers. Lesbians love whale-watching!" I said spitefully to my semi-conservative mom. I was mad. I was no longer entitled to the perks of being a minor and a member of my family. No more free vacations, no more free health insurance (not to mention a personal assistant to make those doctor's appointments for me, aka MOM), no more free food, no more free shopping trips, basically no more FREE stuff. Period.

When I get sick, who will make me chicken soup and watch TV with me? Certainly not my roommate. When I can't make up my mind, who will make the decision for me? Not a boyfriend, heavens, no. When I get dumped, who will tell me it's his loss and I'm the sexiest thing to ever walk God's green earth? Luckily, my mom, dad, grandma and friends all tell me this lie on a regular basis, so I'm safe.

But despite being a bright, educated, hard-working yuppie, I miss the days when no one expected anything in particular from me. I miss describing my occupation as KID, job description: playing games, watching cartoons, discovering the world (within a two-block radius, that is), and just generally annoying the bigger people around me, but in a cute/lovable way.

Now what have I got? Bills, bills, and bosses. Somebody always wanting something, expecting something, demanding something. Ari, you have to finish this today, Ari, you have to go to [insert chic new club here] on Saturday, Ari, you have to make out with [insert hot boy here] tonight, or else! Or else what? I don't have to anything but be me and die doing it.

Ugh, I'm just so tired! Tired, tired all the time...between work, happy hours, shopping, clubbing, traveling, talking, bonding, kissing, smiling, hugging and just loving life, my calendar is full!

I should just move back in with my parents. They'd accept me, just as I am. They'd feed me, take care of me...charge me rent. Make me do some chores. Ask a lot of questions about who I'm going out with, where and when. Grill me about lifestyle choices and chide me for the bad ones...

...WHAT THE HELL AM I TALKING ABOUT? There's clearly a cocktail with my name on it and a boy waiting to be smooched and to be lured to my apartment...just forget all that other shit I just said. Ciao!

Belching, Babies and Bonus Points: Or How to Make Business Travel Work For You

Okay, so about six weeks ago, I started traveling for work. I asked my longtime manager, who's been traveling about two years straight, to delineate for me all the pros and cons of business travel. She laughed and said there are way more cons than pros, but there is a way to make it work for you. So far, she's been right about everything. So here are some of my observations and tricks of the trade:

• Riding "bitch" sucks. You thought it was bad sitting in the middle seat of a car, but the middle seat of an airplane (in coach) is much worse by far. Why is it that the people on either side of you, Mr. Aisle and Mr. Window, whom each have an armrest to themselves, feel the need to jab their elbows into you, leaving you with not one, not two, but ZERO armrests for the duration of the flight? Selfish bastards. Here's a tip: Raise up your arms, stick out your elbows and rest them on TOP of Mr. Aisle's and Mr. Window's arms. They'll move faster than you think. Hey, just because the rest of the general population is obsessed with personal space doesn't mean you have to be. Take advantage and get TWO comfy armrests.
• Bitch, get your hand off my fan! No, thank you, old mouthy woman...I do not need nor desire you to fiddle with my booklight or my fan. I am quite capable of handling both on my own. Guess what else? I really have no desire to chit chat with you about 1) your grandkids, 2) the weather, 3) that bitchy flight attendant or 4) the status of my love life. Now step, off grandmama, or I'm stealing your peanuts.
• Get off your "crackberry", you're not as VIP as you think. Damn the man that invented a PDA, cellphone and portable PC all-in-one. I hate you. I loathe you. I dream about your death as much as I dream about dancing on Dr. Atkins' grave with a bunch of baguettes in my arms. You are the reason people don't watch where they're walking, have diminished social skills, and yak incessantly about NOTHING while in the airport security line, prompting yours truly to go for a swift kick to the arse and send said irritant flying through the terminal. Guess what? The rest of us don't give a crap about the TPS report, your boss' wife's cleavage, or the case of the clap you got from the cheap downtown hooker. Shut that thing off before I do it for you.
• Seriously, who let you reproduce? It's not the kids that annoy me, though they come pretty damn close. It's you, the parent, that sits behind the newspaper or smiles that retarded smile, while your child(ren) raises holy hell in the middle of a crowded airport, that makes me want to scream. Wow, it is incredibly irritating that your kid is kicking my seat from behind every five seconds. And yes, it would be considerate of you to control said kid from doing so. But I can't bother you to do that...you've got three other rugrats in your arms to take care of. Ever thought of spacing them out a bit? How about using some birth control? I bet you regret that all those margaritas and romantic nights now, don't ya, you oversexed pimple on the butt of humanity?!? Get out of my way!
• These Egyptian cotton sheets had better have a thread count of 3000-plus, or your ass is mine! Traveling so much makes you a really big hotel snob. I used to tease my dad about only staying in nice places when out of town, but now I understand. I am not in college anymore, and I have seen my last hostel. Period. It's the little things that make the difference between me doing my job well at the client site and falling asleep on my spreadsheet. I HAVE TO have a hotel with a concierge level, a free gym, in-room internet and a bathtub/shower combo. Don't put me by the ice machine or the elevator. Don't put me on a low floor where I can hear street traffic. I also need a personal pillow fluffer. Ok, kidding about the pillow fluffer, but not everything else. And, oh yea, if I don't get "points" (Marriott Rewards, Starwood Preferred Guest, etc.), I'm not staying.
• I'm not paying that bill! You'd be surprised how often you get away without paying for something if you were dissatisfied with the service, but that's not what I'm talking about. One of my project managers took us out to dinner, and when the bill came, he flipped it over and said casually, "I'm not paying that." Everyone got nervous and looked at each other, thinking, "I shouldn't have ordered that appetizer and dessert! I can't pay the bill either! My baby mama gave me bad credit!" The project manager then smiled mischievously. "You guys better order more wine or something. That bill is way too low for me to pay!" Gotta love living on an expense account...except for the excessive weight gain...
• Who do you love more? Being in your homebase only 2-3 days per week will make you savor your free time. You can't be the social butterfly you normally are and hang out with the people you would normally see all week. So what's a girl to do? PRIORITIZE! That's right, choose. Come on, admit it. You know you like some people better than others. Now you gotta be honest about it. This should also keep your friends on their toes. Sally blew you off for happy hour last week? See if that bitch gets a phone call in the next six months! Boyfriend wants to have a guys' night when you're home? Kick his ass to the curb; he had 4-5 days to be led around the world by his testosterone-fueled buddies. Dammit, I want my quality time!
• Habib? Joe? Or Ali? If you take a cab or car service to and from the airport, just accept it: once in a while, your driver is going to want to make idle chit chat. You may be tired, it may be 5:30AM, but it doesn't matter: He's got stuff on his mind, and you're just the empty vessel to be filled. From "I love USA" to "All women are golddiggers"(hello, you're driving one!) to "Why you no vote for Bush?", drivers are some of the most chatty cathy's I have ever or will ever met...and talking to them was way more fun when you were drunk in college and on the way home from a bar.

All in all, I can't complain too much. I'm gainfully employed, making ends meet and doing really interesting work. But this is a fun topic, so as the weeks and months pass, I might be adding more. I'll keep ya posted, bitches!

Attack of the She-Males: Or How I End Up in Adams Morgan Every Weekend

I don't care. Don't tell me I'm wrong. Don't tell me there's another way. It never fails...

Now, having been a DC resident going on five years, I consider myself educated, knowledgeable even, about the nightlife of this city. Wanna know where to grab some good Ethiopian grub? Gotcha. Mexican? Covered. How about some sushi? Just say, "Konichiwa, bitches." I'll even dress up all chic-like and escort you to Seasons or Capitol Grille, Mortons or Milano.

I've been to every cheesy club in NW. I've been to the hotspots in NE, SE, and SW...even on the evenings of various shootings (I'm telling ya, it's just my luck). I frequent the many lounges of downtown, hell...I'll even occasionally hit up the frat boy bars of Georgetown. Just keep me out of Arlington, for the love of God...I don't even wanna touch on that subject.

MASSIVE RUN-ON SENTENCE WARNING...NOW:
So, how is it, being the hip young urbanite that I am, that almost every Saturday night, rain or shine, wind or hail, presidential election or terrorist attack (pretty much the same thing in my book), when the bartender yells "Last call" and turns up the lights, I wink and slink away guilt-free from the hottie I was chatting up and from whom I took plenty of free drinks, and I then stumble to the door in a vodka-drenched stupor to...what? What's this?

OHMIGOSH! The horror! The humanity! What is this swirling leviathan of chaos? Kiddies, prepare yourselves: It's 18th Street at approximately 3:30AM on any given Sunday morning. Well, I'll tell ya, nothing sobers you up quicker than that scene. Geez Louise Almighty! Upon leaving the haven of the bar-cum-danceclub-cum-meatmarket, it hits you: the stench of 18th Street. Sweat, stale alcohol, vomit, blood, pizza, gyros and Ethiopian food mix with a not-so-subtle hint of sweaty balls in pantyhose (but I'll get to the she-males later).

I promise you, I can never quite remember how I ended up in Adams Morgan. The evening must have taken a turn for the worst at some point. It usually begins with a great meal or a cocktail in some stylish DC venue. Maybe we stopped at a houseparty and a few beers turned into a power hour, complete with jello-shots, flipcup, and drunken sorority girls, nay, sorority girl wannabes, dancing topless on couches (you know who you are, but lucky for you, you all look alike to me). Or maybe it was a really lame houseparty, and we drank all their booze just to punish them for being so uncool. Regardless, at some point we ran out of ideas, or one of my drunken friends just yelled out, "Adams Morgan!" and off we go, skipping toward the threshold of hell.

Inevitably, when I arrive on the 18th Street scene, I'm in that delightfully giddy, drunken reverie-type mood. All the people are "beautiful", even the bum by the ATM. The ladies are decked out in their cutest jeans, halter tops and stilettos, makeup flawless. The guys are resplendent in khakis and button downs, having just lacquered on some gel to keep their hair from fro-ing out in this humidity. I don't even notice the long lines outside Sake, Tom Tom or Heaven & Hell. There don't seem to be any at all...if there was a cover charge, I sure don't remember it. There's a seemingly endless wad of cash tucked in either my bra or the back pocket of my too-tight jeans. It all seems so glittery, so energetic, so perfect....ahhhh....

THEN EXPLAIN TO ME HOW IN THE HELL THIS MOSHPIT OF HUMANITY IS THE SAME UTOPIA UPON WHICH I ARRIVED JUST THREE HOURS EARLIER?!?!?!? Now, the scene is chaos. People are shoving, trying to get out of the bar, trying to get a slice of pizza, trying to get to their cars, trying to get a phone number, AND OBVIOUSLY TRYING TO ANNOY THE HELL OUT OF ME. Where are the beautiful people from the beginning of my evening? I saw them in line...I saw them dancing beside me...but they have all disappeared. The chic and fabulous are nowhere to be found. I shit you not. Upon leaving any Adams Morgan bar at closing time, I encounter only one thing: a SLEW of black men, most with more gold teeth than regular teeth at all, fumbling all over themselves to touch me, hold my hand or get my number. Now, I do not say this as if I were the hottest thing to ever walk the planet. In fact, it was positively terrifying the first time it happened, because I have never ever received that much attention from one man in my entire life, let alone a dozen all at once.

Once I break out of the Dating Game, I come face-to-face with a herd of people (most of the females looking like they skip most meals, anyway) literally wolfing down gigantic, gooey slices of pizza. You ever tried that stuff when you're sober? I promise you'll never eat it again when you're drunk. I turn away in disgust, searching for my friends, when I hear someone call my name. I whirl around in response and gasp for breath as someone grabs me in a bear hug and lifts me off of my feet. Nevermind the fact that I have no idea who it is.

"You look great!" He says, as I choke for air and struggle to remember where I've seen that face before. Oh, my precious Lord. My mind rewinds back to high school and a certain group of neanderthals that took such utter pleasure in making the lives of others (not just mine) so unspeakably miserable for four years. I know that face, dammit. He's that guy. The asshole. The one they called...

"[Insert cocky, third-generation-over-indulged-snob name here], it's been a long time. How are you?", I say, smiling my fakest smile. (He's really drunk, that's how he is. Pizza goo is hanging from one lip as he introduces me to his friend, an equally troglodyte-looking dude in those awful J.Crew shorts and a polo with, yes, you guessed it, a popped collar) Several moments of awkward silence pass after a cursory "what-are-you-up-to now" type convo, and I announce with great relief, "Well, nice running into you...(and not knowing what else to say) um, see ya at the reunion, I guess?"

"Yea, baby! October 7! Are you gonna be there? You gotta come! It will be so great! Just like old times!" I'll never know if he saw my jaw drop to the ground. I couldn't even think straight enough to remember how long I'd been out of high school, let alone remember the date of an upcoming reunion that will surely make for an interesting blog story.

"Er, um, sure." I say, waving goodbye and quickly making my exit. I quickly find my friends, including [insert hot boy who inevitably "just wants to be friends" here] and some astonishingly beautiful girl he's decided to bed down that even, er, morning, er, whatever.

After nearly having to arm wrestle some belligerent chick trying to get to her boyfriend at oh-so-holy Catholic U. while shouting expletives at me and questioning my African-American-ness repeatedly because my party didn't want to split a cab with her, I finally arrive home just in time to pass out naked on my bed. Alone. As usual.

At some point, hopefully many hours later, I'm awaked by my blaringly loud cell phone. Oh, joy. It's [Hot boy who wants to be "just friends"]. I muster the strength to speak. "So how was your night with what's-her-face?"

"Oh, yea. About that." He pauses. "I respect women, but I swear, if you tell anyone, I will punch you in the face without hesitation. She, well, she...[Astonishingly beautiful girl] wasn't really a she."

Aha. Balls in pantyhose. Gets you every time.

Birthday Cuddles and Arranged Marriages: Or Adventures in My Big Fat Greek Vacation

So, my best friend M decides to go "teach English" in France for a year following graduation. Oh, really? Is that what you call an all-expenses-paid snogfest across Europe? Just kidding. Well, obviously, being the great friend that I am, I had to come and visit. One small problem: I HATE FRANCE. And no, not for the anti-Bush, anti-war reasons you Red Staters might think. I love wine. I love cheese. I love people-watching. I love fashion. I JUST HATE SKINNY BITCHY CHAIN-SMOKING SNOBS. There, I said it. You know you were thinking it. But I digress...

Well, I made it abundantly clear to M that I wouldn't come to France to visit. I suggested we meet somewhere else. Somewhere neither of us had visited before. Somewhere with culture. Somewhere with hot boys. Somewhere with beaches. Somewhere called Greece!

Here's the highlights:

Day 1:
M and I arrive in Athens in the early evening. We navigate the subway system, choose a hostel for the night, and M marvels at my newfound ability to pack light. We enjoy a yummy dinner of Greek salad (of which M and I become INSTANT fans!) and spanakopita (spinach pie). Our waiter ogles our hot bodies while telling us which islands we should visit.

Day 2:
M and I get up early to try to make our way to Rafina, a lesser-used port of Athens, but to no avail. No one speaks English and we don't speak Greek. Great. We settle for a frappe drink (Frappe: an awful, frothy, nasty cold coffee drink Greeks drink 24/7) at McDonald's (yea, no breakfast food, just frappes) before returning to the hostel for more planning. The "helpful" staff and travelers at the hostel tell us that it will be "impossible" to get to the islands via ferry that weekend because we unwittingly chose the holiday of the Greek Orthodox Easter to travel. So impossible, in fact, that we had to walk write into a ferry office, request ferry tickets, and buy them straight away...wow. Real impossible. M and I decide to not take anyone's advice for the duration of the trip.

Oh, yea. That day also just happens to be MY BIRTHDAY!!! We spend the evening with some wonderful Aussies from the hostel, including B (to read more about our Aussie friends, check out my post on "Spring Break! Wooo!"). At some point between the ouzo shots and my flaming birthday tiramisu, B asks me if I want (loose translation here) "Eh bahthdie ku'ul" in his thick Aussie accent.

"A what?" I ask cautiously. B, the gargantuan Aussie (maybe the equivalent of an American redneck), smiles his toothy grin again. "Ye know, eh bahthdie ku'ul. I wanna give ye eh bahthdie ku'ul."

Well, I don't want to be rude in a foreign country. I say, "Um, sure. That would be nice." How bad could it be? Well, B grasps me in a huge bear hug and kisses me on the forehead. "Ah knew ye'd like me bahthdie ku'ul." All of a sudden it hits me. Ooooh, he was giving me a BIRTHDAY CUDDLE. Haha. Awesome. From now on, when you see me on your birthday, look out. You're getting a birthday cuddle!

Day 3:
M and I make our way to Piraeus to board a ferry to Mykonos, one of Greece's Cycladic islands. A crazy horde of hotel and hostel owners meet us at the port, trying to get us to stay at their place. After not much haggling, and M shooting me a few worried looks, we get a place near Ornos beach, away from the main town, but still very nice. We feast on some yummy bits from the local grocery store and go into town that evening, where we witness a candlelight procession in honor of the Greek Easter...this is an interesting departure from the Mykonos (so we were told) that is the epicenter of gay nightlife in the Greek isles.

Day 4:
M and I chill on Ornos beach. We meet some American students and convince them that I am actually a business owner on vacation from Montana. My business? Funny you should ask. I own and operate a rodeo clown school. M can barely contain her laughter, but I think we had them going for a while.

Day 5:
M and I set sail for Santorini, or Thira, one of the most famous of the Cycladic islands. It is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen! We get a great room for only 10Euro per person, per night. We enjoy a romantic (too bad no boys around) dinner high atop the caldera cliffs. After having a bit of a grumple dumple mood swing on my part, M kicks my ass but then gladly accompanies me to Murphy's, an Irish pub in the middle of the Aegean Sea. Random.

Day 6:
M and I decide we love Santorini and would rather stay there for the duration of the trip then move on to another island. We take a morning cruise to the active volcano nearby and swim through freezing waters to the hot springs before lunch in Thirassia, another small island off of Santorini. Upon returning to the hotel, we run into B and T, our Aussie buddies from Athens! How random!

During dinner, M and I spy a guy eyeing us from a nearby table. He recognizes us speaking English and starts up a convo. His name is J, from Cali, and works for NASA. I think he's a nice enough guy...I find out later that M thinks otherwise...Hehe. He invites himself to walk around the town shops with us after dinner.

J, M and I stop into a jewelry store where I find some beautiful silver rings. The shop owner, G, turns out to be an American from Virginia. He's somewhat handsome, but considerably older than me. He tells us all the great places to visit on the island and absolutely insists we must visit a restaurant called Santorini Mou. He knows the owner. In fact, he says, he'll accompany us there the following evening...

Day 7:
After a day of roaming the countryside, M and I meet up with J and G at the restaurant. Mikhalis, the owner, is a perfect caricature of the old Greek taverna owner. He sits at our table with us, drinks his ouzo, and serenades us by guitar. Mikhalis and G tell us about their adventures with famous patrons of the restaurant, such as Jennifer Aniston and Green Day. Meanwhile, G makes sure my and M's wine glasses are never empty.

G, Ari, J and M

Ari and Mikhalis, Owner of Santorini Mou

After a while I'm buzzing, and I notice a small gold glint. "G, is that a wedding ring?" I ask, pointing to his right ring finger. I had checked his left already, because, as a woman, that's just what I do. G smiles, not a bit concerned as I about the fact that we had not heard a peep about Mrs. G up to this point.

"So, where's the Misses?" inquires M.

"I dunno, probably at home," says G nonchalantly. "Waiting on me."

"What about your kids?" I wonder. "Don't they care you're not home with them?"

"Kids?" G laughs. "God, no. My wife's way too young for kids. We've only been married four years." M and I blink rapidly. How old is she? we're thinking. G then elaborates, as if reading our minds. "Well, my parents weren't too thrilled with me, running off to Greece to start a new life. So, since we're Greek American, they preferred a marry a local girl. A family here on the island presented me with their three daughters, and told me to pick one. I chose the middle one, who was 17 at the time (bear in mind G is probably pushing 50), and took her to a pizzeria for our first date. After about an hour, she says, 'Okay, I love you.' I tried to agree, saying, 'Why, sure. I think I could grow to love you, too.' She cops an attidude and says, 'You think? You think you love me?' I caved in, said I loved her, and three days later I was hungover and married."

In the meantime, I'm thinking, where the hell is that cab G promised he would call for us? J, M and I were sightseeing tomorrow and needed to get to sleep soon. M is incensed at this point. She and G start debating the idea of arranged marriages. I found Mikhalis and asked about our cab. Mikhalis looks confused and says, "G never called a cab...I'll get one for you." Now, I am sketched out. G had no intention of letting us leave soon.

Back at the table, G explains himself to Molly, saying marriage is an institution necessary to procreate and maintain familial stability, but "I could be in love with many people. When you walked into my store, I just fell in love with both of you," he says, gesturing to M and myself. I laugh, thinking, Okay, G, I'm not buying any more jewelry from you. AND WHERE THE HELL IS THAT CAB? At that moment, the taxi arrived and we bid adieu to Mikhalis. J, M and I jump into the car, with G trailing on his motorcycle, no headlight on. I swear he looks like Batman, his black leather jacket flailing behind him like a cape as he follows our taxi, a scary red glint in his eye. M and I leap out at our hotel as G exclaims, "Come on! Let's grab one more drink at Bar Tropicana!" I look at my best friend and run for our bedroom door.

Day 8:
J graciously rents a car and lets us tour the island with him. We go to an ancient excavated Greek village, the Red and Black Beaches, so named for the color of their sand, made from volcanic ash. We stop at a small, almost deserted beach taverna, where the owner makes us a fresh lunch of fresh fish just caught and goat cheese made from his very own goat. M puts on a brave face, but J and I enjoy the fresh fishies.

Ari, Greek Guy, Fishy, and M

Ari and the Fishy

At one of the beaches, J can't seem to start the rental car. M almost bursts into tears laughing so hard at him when he gets out to ask a local for help. At this point, she admits to me J reminds her of Napoleon Dynamite, and that's why she's been so annoyed with him all along. Now that she mentions it, I see the resemblance too, and I can't help but laugh.

M's description of J (in her own words):

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOh do I remember... I wish (sometimes) I didn't... actually that's a lie, Napoleon Part Deux was freaking hilarious and whilst being extremely nice and informative, I found most of his "little-known-little-cared about" factoids somewhat annoying as HELL! :)

So let's start with:
1) "Did you know that artichokes are indigenous to Greece as well as California?!" - Nooooooooo brainy-ack I didn't, but don't I care... that's what you really should be asking me. And again, the answer would be an enthusiast NOOOOOOOO.

2) Then how about the 'ice plants' that he thought to have discovered on the roadside of Santorini. - Yes, I know about ice plants and the purple (sometimes pink) flowers that bloom from them. Next time I have a medal for "Plant Discoverers" I will be sure to award it to Napoleon. Oh wait - actually I don't give out medals for whacked out things like this.

3) Next up -- starting the car. Now I am not (hopefully) trying to sound judgemental when I say this... but is it particularly difficult to start a car you have been driving around all day, if -- you are a NASA employee, are in your mid 30's, and can drive a stick shift?!! I dunno, apparently it is. The "Wow, this is really interesting"'s and "Gee whiz, what the geepers is the problem with this VEHICLE"'s were so amusing that I almost wet my pants.

That combined with the fact that he thought he was discovering "ancient" rocks on the beach (but they really turned out to be broken pieces of clay vases) and completely humored himself by skipping rocks (remember how he would laugh and say "OHHHH WOW, Gee that was so swift!!") made for a memorable day.

Now I add this disclaimer... I am being bitchy by making fun of him this bad. He was a really sweet guy, someone who was really well intentioned, good humored, very accomodating, etc. so in the end that all out weighs any of the above mentioned hilarities.

Red Beach

M can't take much more of J and stays behind while I tour the town of Oia with him. He takes literally 200 pictures of a beautiful sunset while I chat up a freshly divorced Aussie who's taken off work for a month to travel the world. What a life! That night, I say goodbye to J. Whew.

Day 9:
M and I are sad to leave Santorini as we head back to Athens. We happily find that T, an Aussie friend from Athens, is on our boat. We also find out that he ditched B on Santorini...just couldn't stand traveling with him anymore. He made up some "family emergency" and fled. Some friend, I'm thinking.

Day 10:
M and I stuff ourselves with what will be the last few authentic Greek salads for a while, hop a flight to London and go our separate ways. It will be a few more months before I get to see her again in the States, so I hug her tight :) I remember that I'll be going to work on Monday and suddenly feel depressed.

Bottom line: Go to Greece. Do it. Do it TODAY! You'll never forget it.

Spring Break! Wooooooo!: Or Why the World Laughs at America

It was our second evening in Athens, Greece when M and I decided to venture down to the courtyard in our hostel and meet up with some fellow travellers. What better way to ingratiate yourself with new friends then by buying a couple beers and sitting down amongst them in the fray?

First of all, everyone was sooo friendly! We found ourselves in the midst of many, many, many Australians (whom I assumed all knew each other, but none of them did), a few Brits, Canadian neighbors from up North, a Japanese, a Korean, and just four other Americans. We joined the large circle, and in true pre-school "Hi, My Name Is" style, introduced ourselves and our hometowns. Note to self: Don't bother learning people's names. You'll find, especially after a few Greek Mythos beers, that you won't remember them anyway. You will, however, know where they are from. Hence, the friends from down under are "the Aussies," the English pastry-chef turned-barman was "Johnny English," the filthy-minded nerdy girl (swear she looks just like the chick from 'The Princess Diaries') and Cassa (our roommate) were known as "Blame Canada," and somehow I remembered the one Irishman as "T." Go figure.

So anyway, as we went around the circle introducing ourselves, the Aussies kindly informed us that we must state our name, hometown/country, and then exclaim, "SPRING BREAK! WOOOOO!" M and I were still fiddling with bottlecaps, but obviously confused. Why would we pretend to be some retarded TRL'ers on Cancun Spring Break? No flipping clue. Well, to clarify, a lovely Aussie, who paused only briefly from downing her classy wine in a plastic bottle, informed us that she and her countrymen had just returned from the Greek island of Corfu in the North, where they had encountered a mercilessly unruly bunch of American (presumably college) kids on Spring Break. These Yanks apparently cannot go two minutes without screaming, um, well, you know: "SPRING BREAK! WOOOOOOOOO!"

M and I looked at each other and cracked up. How many of our own college spring break adventures had involved those infamous words, or some frat boy from our party screaming them out? But why did we do that, we wondered?Even M, more so than I, having actually lived in a sorority house and partied with the stereotypicals in question, could not really comprehend why it was Americans felt the need to scream out such things in alcohol-induced euphoria.

Regardless of why we do it, just know this, America. They're laughing at ya. Oh, yea. The whole world. You look dumb and silly and are the butt of an international joke. But given the last couple of years, this should come as no surprise. Just thought you'd like to know. :)

The Misogynist Within: Or My Secret Love of Hip-Hop

Okay, so I consider myself a feminist. Not a femi-Nazi, for those of you misinformed souls out there. I believe in the inherent equality between male and female, on almost every imaginable level. Where we differ in ability, there tends to be some sort of balance. For example, you, caveman, can benchpress a small truck. I, a lady, can push a baby the size of a watermelon out of a hole the size of a lemon (*ick*, but not any time soon). I can openly discuss my feelings and emotions without anyone calling me a sissy, but you can check your emotions at the door in order to make a rational argument (especially important when your debate partner only responds to rationale). You can fart and belch without fear of reprieve, but I can flash a winning smile (or a strategically placed pout, your choice) to get what I want. I want equal pay for equal work. I want it to be publicly recognized and valued that a parent (male or female) who chooses to stay at home and raise children has just as demanding a career as their corporate attorney spouse (by the way, women who work and raise babies better not ever hear their husbands talking smack about anything). Men and women are equal in the eyes of God, and it is the manmade constructs of organized religion and patriarchy that have convinced us otherwise.

So, I'm a feminist, and it is my duty to oppose all things degrading and demeaning to women. An obvious target: rap and hip hop music. Now don't get your panties in a bunch: just as with any stereotype, what applies to the group does not necessarily apply to each individual. This genre of music covers a great many topics of interest, and plenty other genres haven't been kind to women, either. However, decades of "bitch" this, "ho" that and scantily-clad "video hoes" submissively shaking their badunk-a-dunk booties all over the place, while the rapper describes all the things he's going to do to her body (because it's an object, a mere plaything), has got me fuming.

Recently a male friend of mine began sharing with me his genuine love of hip-hop, and I must admit: I was floored. Who knew there was so much to learn? Well, obviously he did. I got to hear everything, and believe me, he knows a TON. So, in turn, I decided to give it a chance. More often I started tuning to my "Hip-hop/Rap" playlist on my iPod (most prized possession). It was only then that I started to actually LISTEN to the lyrics of the tunes I was grooving to. Then I felt ashamed. Dirty. A traitor to my gender. For you, readers, a glimpse at possibly the most offensive songs on my iPod...

*Head Sprung - LL Cool J. Presumably titled to liken a woman's head to a spring coil, bouncing up and down as she...ooh, I'm getting nauseated....
*Can I Get A... - Jay-Z. Okay, this one goes both ways. J claims women all are all gold diggers, and the chick on the track pretty much confirms it. Count how many times he says bitch....oy.
*Overnight Celebrity - Twista. I like the line about, *ahem*, "dessert condiments." Essentially, sleep with me (but you'll have to close your eyes and imagine it's Denzel, because Twista's a big boy), and I might get you a recording contract.
*Sugar (Gimme Some) - Trick Daddy. He dedicates this one to all the "nice, clean, decent women." Then proceeds to compare all the ice cream flavors (different kinds of women) he likes to sleep with. Pure poetry...
*Superman - "Put anthrax on a tampax and slap you (a woman) till you can't stand." LMAO...I mean, that is not humorous at all! Well, sort of funny...
*Spread - Andre 3000. To his credit, Andre also has a song called "Behold a Lady", which I just love. And spread does refer to what you think it does...
*It's O.K. - Slimm Calhoun. This is where Ari learned what "cutting" or "to cut" means. Apparently "all these lonely girls" wanna cheat on their man to get with a guy who hasn't had a hit record in...well, wait. Who were we talking about again?
*Big Pimpin' - Jay-Z - The opening lines are "You know I thug 'em, fuck 'em, love 'em, leave 'em Cause I don't fuckin' need 'em Take 'em out the hood Keep 'em looking good But I don't fuckin' feed em." From what I hear, video hoes thrive on sperm and cocaine alone, so I guess you don't have to technically feed them...
*What's Luv? - Fat Joe feat. Ashanti. Now, this is really Tina Turner's fault. She said first, "What's Love Got to Do with it?"
*Holiday Inn - Chingy. Video hoes + cognac + weed + economy-priced hotel chain = blazed-out-of-my-mind enough to drop my panties for TWO ugly rappers (Snoop and Chingy)? I must protest...
*Nasty Dancer - Kilo. Again, I blame Tina Turner. Kilo did sample this song from her. But he gave it an ATL booty beat and called her a "project ho." Classic.
*Love in Ya Mouth - Kilo. What he really means is he wants to kiss? Make out...right? RIGHT? Well, he does mention being really "hizzard" and not feeling her "teefez".
*Get Low (remix) - Lil John. I guess the depravity of this one doesn't really hit you until you hear your 50 year old suburban mother singing along with this one in her minivan (WHAT DID I TELL YOU? THESE THINGS ONLY HAPPEN TO ME...).
*Ignition (remix) - R. Kelly. I "remind you of" your Lexus Coupe? Didn't you do that song a couple albums ago?
*Hot In Herre - Nelly. Well, you gotta give him credit. He explicitly tells you to get naked. At least you know what you're getting into...
*Tip Drill - Nelly. This video features a credit card being swiped down the crack of a video ho's behind. Now that's art.
*Gigolo - R. Kelly feat. Nick Cannon (let's call him Kells, hehe) - Watch out ladies, ladies. He's not tryin to be your man, he's tryin to leave the club with a groupie (and get herpes, you sick SOB).
*Project Bitch - Cash Money Millionaires. The gold-toothed New Orleans clique regales us with their love of the good women who grow up in housing projects; you know, "hood rat chicks." They apparently have some amazing *ahem* skills.
*Back that Azz Up - Juvenile -"I wanna walk you like a dog." Really? And just how does that work?
*B aby Got Back - Sir Mix-a-Lot. Now, I know none of you have ever heard of this song, but seriously, it's really degrading to women. If you heard it, no way you'd ever dance to it. Promise.
*Oh Boy - Camron. He's awfully confident about being so misogynist considering he's the UGLIEST RAPPER IN HISTORY.
*Hey Ma - Camron. See above.
*Still Not a Player - Big Pun feat. Fat Joe - He "regulates every shade of that ass." How romantic. Afterwards, get your clothes, you gotta get out, biatch!


Haha. As the above-mentioned friend would say, most of this music isn't even "real" hip-hop. It's actually pop music, played in constant rotation on radio stations and in clubs...and that's probably why I like it, because it has a catchy hook and you can dance to it. Nevermind the fact that I'm essentially slapping every feminist icon in the face with my blatant disregard for their efforts...I gotta shake my groove thang on Saturday night. Sorry, Gloria Steinem, you wasted a lifetime trying to eradicate the objectification of the fairer sex because I, a female, silently approve these misogynist songs by bobbing my head in time with the beat.

What's even worse is when other women objectify themselves. Case in point, a favorite Janet Jackson track from Damito Jo:
"You need to make love to me like you don't love me. Don't have to be gentle tonight. Just be an animal tonight...Do me, baby, come on and drive me crazy. Act like I'm not your lady. Do me like you wanna do them other girls..." ~"Like You Don't Love Me"

Question, WTF is wrong with me? I must be seriously sick in the head. Somebody ought to slap the crap out of me...but in the meantime, where's my iPod?