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?

Holy Roller: Or How to Live Among the Sinners

I recently joined a professional women's organization. They're a great group of ladies, and we get together for social, educational, community service and faith-based activities. I'm really pleased with the group so far, and especially their special emphasis on birthday celebrations. Once a month we get together to celebrate all members' birthdays for the month. This past week we went to a place waaaaaay out in Largo, MD (if you read my entry about why I hate Arlington, VA...that goes double for Largo). Anyway, one young lady brought along a man that I ended up chatting with for most of the evening. Let's call him Y.

Y, it turns out, is from my hometown of Atlanta. His father is a well-known pastor of a large church down there, and, following in his father's footsteps, Y came to Washington to study at seminary. That is, he's a seminarian. That is, he's preparing to be a pastor. You know, a leader. A holy guy. Now, when I think about being a pastor, I think of a few things:
1) People suck up to you.
2) People watch their language/actions around you, lest God strike them down for acting crazy in front of a holy roller.

...and more importantly, I just have a stereotype in my head of the way a pastor (or a pastor-in-training, in this case) might comport himself...
3) That is, pastors don't drink, curse, lie/cheat/steal, use illegal substances or do any number of things the general population might label as "fun."


So, anyway, my first introduction to Y was this: We picked up him and my girlfriend and decided to carpool to the place. Y wanted to move his car first, since he had parked in a questionable spot. We drove him to it, where he promptly removed a fake parking ticket from his windshield and placed it on the car he had stolen it from! I chuckled at this, not knowing at the time he planned to lead a whole congregation of people in deciphering right from wrong. Hey, parking in DC is no joke. You gotta be creative.

While on the way to Largo, I learned of Y's studies. I thought it only fair to warn him that the ladies with whom we'd be spending the evening tend to get a little wild and rowdy. I assumed that, as a seminarian, he probably did not drink alcohol. When I inquired, Y replied (I shit you not!), "Yes, I do on occasion partake of communion." Well, the other three ladies in the car just burst out laughing, as did he. The cat was out of the bag. Y the seminarian was a bit of a drinker.

Now, I said bit of a drinker. Let me rephrase that. He drank me under the table. Granted, I had just given blood to the Red Cross that day, so I didn't drink a lot, but I swear Y's glass was never empty. We had some really interesting dialogue about seminary and about faith and religion in general. At this point, I'm simply thinking, he's still pretty pure compared to the rest of us.

Upon leaving the restaurant, Y expressed an interest in heading to Dream nightclub to blow off some steam and "grind." He wanted to go dancing. Okay fine. I know what you're thinking. Ari, this story is boring, get to the good stuff.

Well, this entry would've never made the blog except for the fact that, when we dropped Y and the other young lady at the club, he leaned into my window and asked if I had any weed on me or where he could buy some! He said that would complete a great evening!

Now, I am not naive enough to believe that many people don't partake in many of the above-mentioned activities. Of course they do...but I ask you this: You ever sit back and get blazed with Father O'Shaughnessy? Ever grind to some Neptunes beat with your Youth Pastor? What about doing a power hour with the Dalai Lama and Rabbi Schulman? Yea, didn't think so...

...these things only happen to me...

Pretty Girl Parade: Or the Men in My Life

I'm a lucky girl. I have sooooo many male admirers. Don't hate. I bet you have them, too. You just don't acknowledge them and treat them right the way I do. And now, without further ado, my favorite pickup lines from homeless men/security guards/bike messengers/janitors/CVS cashiers...

"Where's the marching band?"
"'Scuse me?"
"How you gonna have a pretty girl parade without a marching band?"

"You going to a club dressed like that? It's cold out. Your momma would be ashamed. Either go upstairs and put more clothes on, or come home with me and take them all off."

"You are soooo beautiful." (This one wouldn't be bad, except I saw this guy in several different places all over Northwest. I swear he remembers me, because he always follows me for about five minutes, repeating it over and over).

"lkajflakfdjafdiudjlkvavkjoiauwgraygvnboefdudfiufj3u4297u98tnv!!!!" (This one is the crazy guy with the trumpet at the corner of 18th and H st NW. He always yells something at me when I get off the 32 bus, but I turn up my iPod so I can't hear him.)

And my personal favorite never said a word. While walking through McPherson Square, just two blocks shy of the White House, a bike messenger passed by, honked my left breast as if it were a dog toy, turned around and smiled at me before slamming headfirst into a light pole. There is justice in the world.

Lick my face: Or a Trip to the Dog Park

Being that it was a beautiful Saturday, I took a trip with a friend to the nearby dog park. While minding my own business and reading a very good book, a friend of my friend shows up. Let's call her X. Now I met X on a handful of occasions before, but I was always either very tired or drunk. So this was the first chance I had to have a real convo with X, who seems like a nice enough girl.

She brought a sandwich from a nearby deli to eat. In my head I'm thinking (but will never say), good, that sandwich is pretty gooey. Maybe it will provide some much-needed moisture for her pencil-thin lips (I'm not kidding. X's lips are constantly chapped and flaking...to the point where you can't really focus on what she's saying because you're staring. My friend says it's because she drinks too much and is always dehydrated). She adjusts her two sizes too large jeans and sits down next to me to eat. Before eating, though, she goes out of her way to show me the open sores between her big and second toes from where her thong sandals had dug in. She touches it before opening her sandwich. Gross, but I've seen worse. So I continue to smile and be nice. I go back to reading.

Satisfied after taking the sandwich to the face (I'm talking maybe 2-3 minutes, tops), she curls up on the blanket we're sharing and plays with her little dog. I looked at her, horrified because several gooey gobs of some mayonnaise-based product are ALL OVER her face (huge chunks...unless the sensors in her skin are dead, no way I'd believe she couldn't have felt them). I politely inform her she has a bit of food around her mouth (I mean, entire face) and she giggles and goes, "Yea. I'm a really messy eater." Okay, fine. She then proceeds to let the dog lick the remains off of her. Only at this point am I really grossed out.

These kind of people, I think, are attracted to me...but what can you say? She's really nice, so I'll just put up with it.

Damn You, I-395: Or Why I Hate Arlington, VA

Seriously, why live there anyway? It's not any cheaper than the city and you can't find any damn thing. Stick to the District and you'll be fine...until you get married, have kids and want them to go to a good school, then you'll have to have tons of cash. But I digress...

So there I was, heading to Shirlington (most useless part of Arlington) for Janice's birthday dinner. A few friends met me at work and we took the Key Bridge to 395.

I don't know how it happened (and of course it was obviously NOT MY FAULT), but we ended up exiting at Pentagon City. We got turned around, got back on 395, and somehow ended up back in the District, but in Southwest, by the waterfront. I looked for signs back to 395 South, drawing us closer and closer to Southeast DC (no matter how many nice condos they build, I will never forget what my father told me when he dropped me off freshman year at Georgetown: "STAY OUT OF SOUTHEAST, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!")

Finally, and only by the grace of God (who was done screwing with me for the moment), we found the highway and got to Janice's apartment just as Lost was beginning. Too bad it was a rerun.

When Life Gives You Lemons: Or How to Make Tequila Shots

Here is a copy of the e-mail I sent to many of my coworkers after my elevator incident:
*****************************************************************************


Dear friends and colleagues,
I am writing to warn you of a potential hazard of working at [my office]. While leaving the building yesterday evening, I became trapped in elevator Number 2. I don't know what happened, but somewhere around the 2nd floor the car just stopped. I panicked, pushed all buttons frantically and finally pressed the "Call" button, where a very nice young man answered the phone on the other end and helped calm me down. Before hanging up, he told me to call back in 3-5 minutes after he called the fire rescue unit, the elevator engineer, and security. When I did, he assured me that someone would come and get me: in about an hour. So here are a couple of things you should keep in mind while trapped in an elevator:
1) It's good to have a cellphone. I called my manager hoping she would appreciate the hilarity of the situation, but she did not pick up. I called my mom, and she laughed at me but kept me company. To that end, if you have Verizon, you can still achieve decent service.
2) Make sure you are well-groomed that day. I happened to have two very handsome firemen rescue me in about 30 minutes.
3) Do not try to make jokes with the man on the other side of the call button. He is your only lifeline besides the cellphone. He at some point asked me if he could get me anything. I laughed and asked for Subway and a diet coke.
4) Make sure you do not have any after-work plans. I just barely made it to Whole Foods as they were closing.
And most importantly, #5:
Ever hear anyone tell you not to jump up and down in an elevator because it might get you trapped? Completely true. Let's just say I was ecstatic to be leaving work "early" at 8:30pm. Lesson learned.
Well, I hope we all learned something here. Have a great day and PLEASE...take the stairs.
Best,
The (un)graceful One

Ashlee Simpson: Or How I Became Trapped in an Elevator

Nevermiiiind the fact that I worked 14 hours on Monday. There I was again on Tuesday, the minutes and hours creeping by precariously, the chance of watching American Idol slowly slipping through my carpal-tunnel-doomed hands.

Finally my manager and I finished up for the evening, and she gave me the green light to head home. I was damn near joyful to be leaving work "early" at 8:30pm! While waiting for the elevator, I got to thinking about my excess nervous energy...and a random stream-of-consciousness made me think of another person who probably had nervous energy. Ashlee Simpson. I thought of her lip-syncing on SNL...and even more hilarious, her little hoe-down dance that followed.

Once on the elevator, I was trying to picture the dance in my head. Ah, there it was. NOW WHAT ON EARTH POSSESSED ME TO RE-ENACT SAID DANCE BY MYSELF ON THE ELEVATOR I WILL NEVER EVER UNDERSTAND. I almost wish someone had been in there with me...maybe I would have been too embarrassed to do it. So while performing my jig, I must have jumped up and down a little too hard, because all of a sudden the elevator car shuddered...AND STOPPED.

Good Lord almighty. It didn't even cross my mind to be scared. I just frantically pressed all the buttons and waited for something to happen. I finally sat down, called the "Call" button and the security guard informed me it would take about an hour to rescue me. And I had to pee. BAD. And I had plans to go grocery shopping for my friend Janice's birthday dinner the following evening. I guess kiwis, strawberries and raspberry vinaigrette would just have to wait.

So I sat down and pulled out the cellie. God bless you, Verizon! I had service at least. I chatted with my mom (who laughed at me), and Osie (who didn't). Two sexy fire fighters got to me about 20 min later, and I made it to Whole Foods with 15 min to spare.

Chalk it up to one of the weird things that happens to me...

Sodom and Gomorrah: Or the Only Straight Girl on the Planet

It was a beautiful weekend in Washington. Not a cloud in the sky! Unseasonably warm temperatures greeted my roomie David and me as we headed toward the National Mall with David's puppy Logan.

In fact, we were on our way to meet dear friends A and K (names have been changed to protect the temporarily insane), who had set up shop with a delightful picnic on the Mall. Not even the last vestiges of the Cherry Blossom tourists (most annoying ever) could dampen my happy mood.

Upon arriving at the picnic, I met several of A and K's other friends, all young women about my age. We ate and chatted, played truth or dare, and somehow the conversation turned to sex (what a shocker)...maybe this was a truth question; I don't really remember. Anyhow, the question posed was this: "Have you ever (if you are female) kissed/made out/had sex with another woman? If yes, what happened? If not, would you?"

Now, perhaps you readers need a little background about me. I don't know when this new wave of girl-on-girl action took the country/world by storm (yes, I know it's always been a popular male fantasy, but I feel it's been particularly out there as of late), but I for one am patently, ridiculously tired of seeing scantily-clad, low self-esteemed females making out/groping each other for the satisfaction of an observing male. Let me be very clear: This does not make me homophobic. If you're a lesbian, great, whatever, go do your thing. DO NOT, i repeat, DO NOT, go to a bar, get drunk, pick out whichever skeeby, J.crew-wearing-trustfund-having sorry excuse for a man you want to blow that evening, and proceed to make out with the next hot chick sitting next to you in the hopes that the object of your affection will think it's hot. Don't lie. You know that's why you're doing it. And you better hope the chick sitting next to you isn't me, because YOU WILL get a slap on the fanny (unless you think that's hot, then I'll just slap your face). Non-lesbians making out lesbian-style is not cool. Period. You're setting back feminism like one gazillion years...

Back to the story: So my answer to the question, as if you couldn't tell, was no, I had not, and no, I didn't plan to. I thought I'd have one or two of the group agree with me....NOT ONE, I TELL YOU! NOT ONE! In turn, each proceeded to reveal her hot lesbian experiment or hot lesbian fantasy, AND THEN proceeded to chastise ME for being so conservative and close-minded (meanwhile, anyone who knows me knows I lean fairly left, but anyway...)

Well, I just sat there feeling like the last straight girl on the planet...needless to say, they didn't invite me to their "naked party" (which is exactly what it sounds like).

Genesis: The birth of the blog

In the beginning, there was Ari. God made Ari, just like God made all things, and saw that it was good. "It" being all creation, including Ari...that would be me.

I don't know. I have a sneaking suspicion God has a sense of humor and likes to laugh at a select few of us, especially me. Before I get to my crazy misadventures, I'd like to point out how good I've got it...

1) I'm alive and healthy.
2) I have faith.
3) I have a loving family.
4) I have friends that care about me.
5) I'm educated.
6) I'm gainfully employed.
7) The weird and quirky things that happen to me are the extent of my problems in this world.

Great. Now that we've got that over with, on to the mayhem!