Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: , envy, international, James Bond, life, random, thoughts, travel, women
Last night’s drink: Domaine Fontaine Rouge
After helping to successfully pull off my annual HUD training for the collaborative I lead at work, I offered to take our department assistant out for a celebratory drink. It was early, so we were the only people in the bar, and the assistant and the bartender began exchanging travel stories about Budapest, Belgium, Switzerland, Amsterdam, etc. etc. Of course, I have only been to England and Italy, so my contributions to this conversation were pretty bland. But I was still generally pleased with myself for being able to properly announce the name of my wine, so I was content to listen, even in my jealousy.
The green monster of international intrigue was aroused in me again this morning when I happened across this article in the Guardian Unlimited about an 18-year old who led an international hacking ring. I know the gods of karma are going to strike me down for this, but my immediate thought – actually more like an internal exclamation – was, “Woah cool!”
It isn’t that I think hacking, stealing, or generally hurting others for personal gain is great or right – it’s more that this “man” set up an international operation that affected 1.3 million computers – and he’s barely through puberty. I don’t care if you set up an international ring of spitballs, or banana peel booby traps – an international ring of anything of that magnitude, constructed under the radar, is incredible.
I always wanted to be James Bond. To travel around looking debonair, carrying pens with little poison darts in them – I have the ability for stoicism and determination that Moneypenny would have enjoyed. I bet I would have had a slight leg up on Bond, too, as Moneypenny and I could have exchanged stories of female sexual conquest. Then I’d slip into my wetsuit and weld bond’s tiny submarine craft to the chain of a cruise ship’s anchor, just to play a joke on him.
That’s not to say that I could ever bring myself to kill people, or steal valuable things. Truth be told, I don’t know if I could do those things – I’ve never tried. In a perfect world, I’d be the Bond of tranquilizing people so that they’d lose their productivity for the day. Or, I could be the Bond of doing away with dogs that won’t stop barking. I like driving to remote locations in the countryside.
It’s raining in San Diego right now, and the promise of an overcast Friday is only feeding into the romance of my Bond aspirations. Instead of auditing programs and turning in reports today, I would get dressed in a pencil skirt and pumps with a poppy colored mohair sweater and upswept hair, shoot a few tranquilizing darts into the necks of certain people at Claire de Lune while I sipped my espresso, steal a few chihuahas for “Frank” the florist, and finish up by 2 p.m.
Time to get in the shower.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: alcohol, anger, articles, disrespect, fighting, life, men, Napoleon complex, thoughts, women, YouTube
Last night’s drink: more Rex.
Every morning I wake up with a million things I want to write about, and I have to find a way to parse them out before my head starts spinning and I finish the contents of my four-cup coffee maker.
Last night, I came across an article in Slate called “Sucker Punch – The art, the poetry, the idiocy of YouTube street fights.” Aside from some debatable points, such as purporting that street fighting is the contemporary take on Martial Arts, and some excellent tips on how not to accidentally become the star of one of these videos, the article takes on a sort of reflective and even endearing view of the clips he has chosen as examples.
As I was reading through the article, I was reminded of some incidences that I had edited out of my original Thanksgiving post, which included two separate occasions where I came uncomfortably close to getting into physical altercations with men. This is not run-of-the-mill for me, not really. I’ve never been in any sort of fist fight before, but I have had more of these sort of “close calls” in the past two years than I have had in the time preceding. Which leads me to ask two questions: 1) Why am I suddenly so scrappy? and 2) Why do these guys want to fight a girl?
There are four or five instances where I’ve come close to calling out. The first happened at the Lamplighter, where my gay friend Kyle and I were standing outside smoking. A young guy probably five inches shorter than me started bashing him with a bunch of homophobic B.S. I think I probably just told him to shut up at first, but he continued to yell these awful things across the patio, which just pissed me off more. We finally decided to walk down the street and get Mexican food, and as we did, I pushed this guy directly in the chest with one hand, which sent him stumbling, drunk, off the curb and into the gutter. Lucky for me, I suppose, he was too drunk to know who, or what, had hit him. So that was one.
The others have a similar bar theme, though not all of them involve drinking on my part. The next close call happened when I was bartending alone on a busy night and this short guy, who was being a jerk anyway, came in with a lit cigarette and while staring straight at me simply dropped the cigarette on the floor and twisted it out with his foot. The other two guys were also short and disrespecting me to my face, though one was just a small man in terms of moral character. He took my phone from my purse and called his phone after I told him I wouldn’t give him my number. I think he also broke into his ex’s house and stole all her underwear. But that’s another story.
The running themes in these encounters is that I really don’t like being disrespected, the guys that want to fight me are typically shorter than I am, and alcohol is usually within reach. The easy answer here is alcohol, but I don’t think that’s the whole answer. I go out all the time, I see short guys all the time, and I get disrespected on occasion - this is just the magic combination for flipping my fighting switch. And for some reason, my being tall, confident, and liqoured up is theirs. I’ll leave you with your own theories on the Napoleon complex, et al… though I’m sure Napoleon would have kicked my ass.
Looking back to the variety of the sort of fighter memes in the article, I try to imagine what I would look like on YouTube if any of the above actually had progressed. I think it’s safe to say that I’d be pretty uncoordinated, about the whole thing, but that doesn’t mean I would lose. One factor I haven’t mentioned yet is the growing impatience and anger I have inside of me for mean people in general. It’s true that it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.
Thumb wrestling anyone?
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: , alcohol, behavior, education, family, life, thoughts, wild, women, work
Last night’s drinks: Pietra something Merlot.
Kyle and I had an extended happy hour at Modus last night, which then continued in my apartment with pita chips, Rex Goliath, and Little Miss Sunshine. I think we both passed out around 10 p.m.
Of course, I woke up this morning at 4 a.m., stumbled to the restroom, and looked in the mirror to review the mess I’d made. It wasn’t too bad, but it prompted me to think immediately of work which, in turn, prompted me to give my reflection a look of disapproval and consternation. Normal girls don’t act this way, I thought to myself.
So as I washed up, I started to think about what normal girls do do on Tuesday nights instead. I could come up with some hypotheticals – like, they make dinner, watch television or read, work out, talk on the phone, maybe lay out their clothes for the next day. I do these things, too, on weeknights (except for the clothes thing – that’s just over the top), but hardly ever on a consistent basis. I’m all busines in the morning and throughout the workday, but at night I’m hit or miss.
It prompted me to want to figure out who these normal girls were that I was comparing myself to, and why I wanted to be them.
Are they business women? Well, I do feel really good wearing suits and black leather shoes, and I like being on committees and working on projects. I also really enjoy having business cards and a job title with “manager” in it. I like my desk. I like my office. I like shaking hands with people and coming up with strategies for how to get these done, and done right. But I only like working in the business world when it’s not interfering with my social agenda. And business isn’t my passion, it’s more like a lucrative game. So, I don’t think it’s the business women.
Are they wives and moms? It’s hard to deny wanting to be a wife someday – and if I’m being realistic, also a mom. Even though I’ve talked about my ability and enjoyment of living alone, and my acceptance of probably dying alone, there’s no denying that I really enjoy the partnership of a good man. No one wants to marry a woman who spends more time leaning over a drink than she does leaning over a stove – or at least, the man I would actually consider marrying doesn’t want that. And I would never be caught with more than one glass of wine in front of little kids. So, obviously, I’m not putting myself out there as a potential for either of those things – because I’m not even close to being ready for that. So, it’s not them, either.
Are they law school students? Yeah, right – I’ve seen them party.
Are they good daughters? My dad’s very proud of me.
Are they good Catholics? You know those are the wildest chicks of them all.
Maybe I’m just trying to be a bad girl after all.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: addiction, alcohol, insanity, life, love, lust, men, personal, sex, thoughts, women
Tonight’s drink: Capsula Viola Galestro.
As I sit here and enjoy a second glass of wine on a Monday night, I start to wonder: How do you know – really know – when you’re addicted to something?
First, I try to identify my current feelings. Yes.. they feel unusual, but when do I ever feel usual? Yes, I get excited thinking about it, but since when did excitement absolutely mean something was the real deal? Yes, it sort of makes everything seem a little bit brighter, but so does glitter. So those are dead ends.
So then, I start to compare these feelings to other feelings I’ve had before. The urgency of wanting it, and the extreme relaxation once it’s been obtained. The way you feel like, if you don’t have it right now you’re going to rip patches of hair from your body and implode. But I feel that way on long car trips when I just want to be home, or when I really -really- have to go to the bathroom. So that can’t be the tell-tale sign, either.
Is it that I think about it during the day, or make sure that I can at least have it within reach when I get home? I could say the same thing about my bed, or my blog, or Milton’s 12 grain bread. I don’t think I’m addicted to those.
Addiction must be more than emotions. Just like love is more than that butterfly feeling in your stomach, or sharing a milkshake. Addiction must be more masochistic… where it hurts if you can’t have it, or you feel like you’d do anything – even kill big crunchy bugs – for it. It must be something that rips you apart inside and then grabs you in an infinite swing and launches you into the blue where no one can touch you. It’s very peaceful. And then, just like that, you’re falling again. And even though it tosses you to oblivion, in Hokusai waves and Oz tornados, you can’t get enough of it. Eventually, it gently sets you down, and you forgive it. Then you forgive yourself. And you vow you’ll never do it again.
Until you do. And it makes you warm. And it makes your eyelashes flutter. It makes you talk nonsense, and smile a lot at work. It makes you suddenly artistic, open, and unafraid. Until the gears start to lurch in their forward motion, all over again.
This must be what addiction is like. And for once, I’m not talking about alcohol.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: , advice, education, family, life, thoughts, women, work
Tonight’s drink: Penfolds Shiraz/Cabernet.
Not to hold on to the past, but I’ve been thinking a lot about the blog conversation I had with Pawel, Edward, and Francois in Vegas. At the time, I was very self-conscious and deprecating of my blog, because I was in the midst of a bunch of people that actually knew what they were doing. But when they said that they liked it, I was encouraged, and I tried to pay attention to the pointers they gave me for how to make it better.
In the past, I would’ve maybe shunned criticism of someting as personal as a journal of my thoughts. But I think your late 20’s constitutes a time when you start to take a look at what you’ve done for yourself to date, and wonder how you can make it better or more sensible. Like tonight, when I skipped the soft scrub and just poured bleach in the sink. Or last night, when I just parked five blocks from Croce’s and walked into downtown instead of getting ripped off at a parking lot.
I’ve been planning for the last few months to get a second bachelor’s in journalism, but I can see now that I’d rather just go to law school like I’ve always wanted to. No more listening to people’s poo-pooing. I’m only going to listen to people that have advice on how to succeed. As I write this, it almost makes sense to the point of idiocy. Why would I take pointers from someone who thinks I’m going to fail?
A lot of people that don’t know me, and are exposed first to my carefree side, automatically assume that I’m stupid. I think part of it has to do with the long legs and dorky shell. It’s insulting, yes, but I’m getting over it. It does leave me to wonder if I’m shooting myself in the foot with all this partying and generally saucy behavior. I guess as long as I’m not posting nude pictures of myself on the internet, or participating in amateur night at Deja Vu, I’m within the confines of reasonable behavior. Feel free to argue that point - sometimes I live in a dream world.
Like the poo-pooers would influence me, so, too, would the idiots that think I’m a moron. I often wondered, after expressing my dreams, how I could ever think that I would cut it in law school. The more practice LSATs I take, and the more I enjoy taking them, I’m beginning to see that I’d not only cut it, but I’d slice it, dice it, and turn the drippings into the best freaking gravy you’ve ever had. Let’s face it – dorks are good test takers.
After that, the spectacular blog.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: alcohol, drinking, family, life, men, personal, Thanksgiving, thoughts, warnings, women
Last night’s drink: chicken wonton soup broth.
This year, I had the most inebriated, belligerent, hungover Thanksgiving I’ve ever had – and I was the most sober of them all. From aunts to grandmas, the bar was rocking with tequila shots and Sonoma County chasers. It was a new experience to see not one, but many of my relatives about one open-toed shoe away from dancing on the wet bar. I suppose it’s a blessing that I was on dish-duty, otherwise I’m sure I would’ve jumped right into the competition for most photo-worthy topple.
The alcohol experience wasn’t the only one that raised my eyebrows over the short time I spent in Northern California. On our drive from the airport, my dad and I had a great conversation in which I discovered that: 1) he actually respects my opinion a lot, and 2) he would prefer that I date (and probably marry) a man that can instinctually whip out 50 ways to kill someone. While in the academy, my dad was told to approach everyone you don’t know as if you will have to kill them, and he’s lived, dare I say survived, by that mantra. Now I understand why my father wore his ankle piece to Disneyland.
Of course, I had my fair share of vodka after we bid our relatives a happy recovery. My sister and I carried on our new post-Turkey tradition of going to a dive bar and playing pool after we tried, unsuccessfully, to get the party started at the Hilton (I swear, one of these days I’m going to write a full blog about my hatred for the Hilton). There was some removal of clothing, stealing of numbers, casual death threats, blackjack, moonwalking, bad music, and passing out. Oh, and we kicked ass at pool. The Color of Money, baby. Or, so I’ve been told.
I can’t escape the feeling that I’m getting too old for these pictures, though. I was wearing a blazer for gosh sakes.
The trip was a whirlwind, no matter how you slice it. I landed drunk on Thursday and came back more wrecked on Friday. I saw sides of my relatives, and people in general, that I didn’t know existed. I got up close and personal with my current extreme frustration with men. I came back to San Diego and felt around for an anchor that wasn’t there. When the spotlight spins around you like that, you have to really focus on what’s being revealed to you. More importantly, you have to decipher whether or not it’s a warning that you’re about to crash into the coastline.
It’s not going to stop me from visiting Edward in L.A., though. At least once.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: , children, eggs, family, fertilization, genes, independence, life, thoughts, women
Last few drinks: dirty martinis, wine, etc. (since Saturday.. don’t get too excited).
There’s something about bedding sets that seems tacky to me. Or should I say seemed, since I am now the proud owner of a Mervyn’s Fall-Sale Special Bed-in-a-Bag. It came with sheets and shams and all the other things with names that don’t really mean anything to me – except for comforter. I love comforters.
So as I reclined atop my new bedspread this evening, I sent self-portraits via email in response to a phone call I got this afternoon from Lisa at SurroGenesis. About six months ago, I submitted the paperwork to become an egg donor for couples who have difficulty conceiving on their own. When I told this to Big Josh, his only comment was, “Woah.. creepy.” I was expecting something like that, actually – I’m still a little freaked out by it myself. The potential lasting health effects, the fact that I’m officially spreading my genes, the inevitable trip to Modesto.. all of these propositions make me uncomfortable, yes – but more than anything, I’m worried that I won’t like the parents.
The unofficial yet undeniable genetic trait of the Bull Family is hyper-independence. Bull kids don’t get kicked out of the nest so much as they just sort of naturally migrate away from it at the earliest age possible. I swear, the only reason my dad kept us in the house during high school was because he was still legally responsible for the stupid things we would do. Otherwise, my Oldsmobile would have taken to the streets years before it actually did.
There’s a strange naturalness to the way our family separates, too. We love eachother, no doubt. But there’s that feeling that, if one of us died, we’d be sad, but it wouldn’t really change life drastically for any of us. We all live in different cities and maybe talk on the phone once a month. Our lives are simply autonomous. There’s no anger or annoyance involved. No one’s going to therapy for it.
So, when I think about my little haploids coming face to face with that of some random guy, my first thought is, “Will this guy’s sperm be manly enough for my eggs?” What about the mom? Is she going to be some overprotective hen who won’t let my little half-me play in the dirt or watch Dirty Dancing? It would stifle the Bull-ness that gives my genes that extra special something. Frankly, they won’t be getting what they paid for.
If I’m going to do it, I have no choice but to get over all of these thoughts and let my Bull eggs do what they would have done anyway: simply move on to their own lives. Besides, if my long-lost child is anything like their biological Mom, they’ll embrace the Bull they were born with.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: business, culture, evolution, life, machismo, men, random, SEO, sex, thoughts, webhosting, women
Last night’s drink: white wine, followed by Gelato Vero.
The brute force behind Web Hosting Bluebook is a breed of a man that I don’t run into much these days. Years ago, when I went through my exotic, Romance Language days, I dated a couple. But once the Spanish has been spoken to death, the crowing starts to wear you down.
I’m referring to that kind of man who exudes, almost gushes, machismo. Machismo is often considered to be a Fisherian runaway trait – one that overexerts sexuality, even in the face of fitness for survival. Like a peacock’s tail, which is too large to be practical, but gets second looks from the ladies. So while the man with machismo may attract many women with his overt sexuality, in the end it comes back to bite him when he doesn’t get a second date.
This theory on machismo probably doesn’t apply to those cultures that expect machismo from their men, such as the Latin American or other Old World cultures. But I can’t imagine that all women in these cultures are taken over by machismo, unless there is a second, gentler side to uncover. Machismo is overpowering whether it’s the exception or the norm. Like the essence of women, as I wrote about in this post, there is something potent about pure masculinity. In straight doses, it knocks you over. Tempered with a more subtle spice, it becomes simply delicious.
Relative to the brute force mentioned above, I found some evidence of this temperance on his site. Over dinner, this man was agressive and cut-throat; on his site he has tools that cradle even the meekest of bloggers. In conversation, he was confident and hardened to points other than his own; yet his forums embrace discussions and ideas without his direction. This man is barrel-chested and succinctly upkept in his severely manly appearance; but his free WordPress themes are organic and flowing – maybe even a little poetic. And I know he picked him them, becuase they are described on his site as the “Best.”
It makes me wonder what the Fisherian runaway traits are of men in cultures that I haven’t yet explored. Do French men have them? Scandinavian men? African men? Chinese men? Masculinity is definitely open to interpretation, so I would imagine so.
As for the Brute: for the sake of your personal evolution, you should let your site show a little more.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: facade, infatuation, insecurities, life, love, lust, men, people, random, sex, thoughts, women
This morning’s drink: SLO Roasted Peruvian.
Infatuation is a hole we all slip into every now and then. It feels great for the first few days, until you realize how exhausting and draining the whole charade really is. It’s a fun charade – don’t get me wrong. If you don’t get back in touch with reality in a short time, though, you get slapped with it soon enough.
I call it a hole because it takes you by surprise, and it’s completely situational. If you meet someone and infatuation ensues, it’s foundation is nestled in where it all began. You become infatuated in a bar, it has that sort of vodka flavor. You meet them in a club, it’s got that high energy booty-bump going. If it begins in bookstore, it has that delcious coffee warmth to it. Once infatuation tries to build up into different atmospheres, though, you’re threatening its already shaky structure.
I have the most fun meeting people in bars, because it’s less inhibited and more forgivable. But I have a hard time keeping the infatuation there. I’m not a party girl, but I do act like one when I’m drinking. When I’m sober, though, it’s an impossible act to follow. I’m back to the crocheting and the crosswords, and the cat that’s got my tongue.
A big part of the problem is that I don’t tell people about certain things, because I’m afraid of what their reaction might be. Things like smoking, blogging, music, tarot – even though they are all pretty mainstream. It’s not like I’m some freak in the bedroom that can’t find a guy who likes to be pelted with tomatoes during sex… or something. Nope.. these are your basic insecurities, I suppose. They are completely irrational.
Anyhow, I’m crawling out of the infatuation hole this morning, and having my coffee and my blog before I start the day. I need to get back to me, without all this beeswax of lust and batting eyelashes.
Whoever keeps up wins the magic prize!
