Friday, December 18, 2009

Those Kids on the Street Corner . . . and Then Every Five Feet Afterward

Depending on what city you live in, and if you regularly roam the downtown area of said city, you may have very little experience both interacting with and encountering the individuals I am about to introduce to you.

Seattle, being the liberal city that it is, embraces the 'go green' movement more than any other city I've been in. In addition to this movement, they also embrace the 'support an impoverished country' movement, 'help the kids in under-privileged countries' movement, and the 'here- have a free dog biscuit' movement (no joke). And although these are all noble causes and we all want to give back to the community as much as we want to sponsor those hungry looking children on flyers, we usually like to do it on our own time . . . not while we are running back to the office because we've taken too long on our lunch break.

I have a tendency to avoid these people simply because rather than being kind and approachable, they are rude and obnoxious and shout words at you like, 'do you like killing the Earth?!' And because of this, I have started to pretend that I am on my cell phone when I walk past, just so they WON'T talk to me. I have even begun chattering away when there is absolutely no one on the other line and say important things like, 'well let's just deal with it when I come back to the office,' or 'just run the report and bring it to the meeting on Monday.' I say these things very loudly, while walking with such purpose as to exude an air of not only importance, but also an attitude of unapproachability so that they will keep their distance.

The other day however, I was at a disadvantage. With the Christmas holiday quickly approaching, I was laden with shopping bags, my purse, and Longchamp filled with half of the clothes that I had left at N's house for over a week. It was also raining (duh), and due to my hands and shoulders being absolutely FULL, I could not even manage to hold my umbrella. So not only was I becoming completely drenched, I was also getting very sweaty because I had on my big winter coat and was running (if you could call it that, because let's be honest, we all look retarded when we try to run in heels) to the restaraunt at which my roommate and I were to have our lovely Christmas date . . .

And then I saw him . . . The green peace-looking boy with a page-boy hat holding a binder (WARNING: they ALWAYS have binders . . . and more often than not, page-boy hats. I think you can only be a green peace person if you wear one?). And I had no escape! My only hope was to look away and pretend that I was really busy looking in the window of Ann Taylor. I heard green peace boy yell hello and pretended not to hear (you can call me a bitch, but whatever. Even if i wanted to sign up for his stupid tree-saving cause, I wouldn't be able to because my hands were full!) Then I see a hand extend toward me and I thought 'oh great, now I have to look at him and give him the really apologetic-I'm-in-a-rush face.' Sure enough, he decides to be a dick about it because when I looked at him he says, 'Hi . . . you know, I'm a human . . . You're a human . . . the correct response would be 'hi, yeah, let's talk for a bit.' Ummmmmmmmm . . . are you fucking kidding me?!?! I blankly stared at him for about 30 seconds before I could come up with a response deemed appropriate for a statement such as this. I had nothing . . . so I did the aforementioned apologetic face and ran away. Looking back, I should have said something like, 'actually I'm an avatar,' and just walked away. haha! His face would have been priceless . . . except, I guess you never know with those kinds of people, he could have very well been a total nerdling and responded to me in some avatar-based language that would have made me puke.

Nevertheless, it is a story to be told and I am warning you now to avoid these people. Use the cell phone tactic or the I'm-really-interested-in-something face. They'll usually pick someone else to bother. Also, I should end this by saying, I like to support the economy, homeless, and underprivileged. I'd just rather not be judged for choosing to not stand in the pouring rain with sweat dripping down my face as all my friends Christmas presents become soggy.

Happy Holidays! :)

Thursday, December 10, 2009

F*ing Eight Five

Most of you are well aware of my open hatred for the football player known as Eight Five, due to the fact that at the mention of his name or face on the screen, I openly spit his name and rant for about 5 minutes about what a douche he is. I would seriously consider him one of the top five 'Banes of My Existence.' I call him Eight Five because he is the biggest fucking idiot on the face of the planet. He did not even possess the right of mind to check if 'Ocho Cinco' really meant eighty-five in Spanish. So instead he took it absolutely literally and named himself Eight Five. I could seriously go on and on about this bastard but am going to refrain from doing so given that the author of this article did it for me. Not only that, he did a phenomenal job and put into words what a joke Eight Five actually is.,207862

Next time you better watch your t.v. kids, because I might actually throw my 5-inch pump at it, if 'Hachi Go' appears on the screen . . .

I have to go scream my head off now . . .

Monday, November 30, 2009

Beer in Purse

So although this occurred about 2 weeks ago, it has taken me this long in my crazed life to write about the incident. Ridiculous- I know, however it is still completely noteworthy and definitely worth writing about.

Day drinking is absolutely FANTASTIC, however we all know that there comes a time during the day where there is simply no turning back, and sobriety will not be achieved until 5 p.m. the next day. You can do one of two things: 1. Go home and go to bed (never a real option in my book) or 2. continue the drinking binge until the wee hours of the morning. On this particular Saturday, I chose option 2. I had started drinking with my boyfriend and his friends at 12 p.m. because the Vandals were playing Boise State (if you know the rivalry between these 2, you realize why drinking was necessary). So we meandered to a bar still slightly hung over from the night before. I decided to be a champ and the girlfriend that everyone loves because she's drinking Mac & Jack's before noon, and join in the fun. Needless to say, the Vandals loss took a heavy toll on everyone, and there was no better way to fix it than watching the GU game at a different bar, where the Bulldogs would crush whomever the unlucky contender was. More beer drinking ensued . . . followed by more beer drinking during endless games of shuffleboard, etc.

Following these events, my boyfriend and I had agreed to attend one of his roommate's work events at a swanky little night spot where they were providing drinks for the amazing price of $4 each (which is a steal in Seattle). So I was forced to forgo my usual order and accept Vodka Cranberries instead of beer, which I truly do love if they're made correctly. And inevitably this one was no different than all the others you order at a bar that either A. is serving alcohol for half the price, or B. caters to college students who really aren't capable of differentiating between Vodka and Rum because they're so fucking inebriated. It was a rank drink, but I downed 2 in 15 minutes. Then we got bored, so we decided that bar hopping was really the way to go.

Onward we went! . . . to a typical college hangout that appeared as though too many underage kids were present. At this point, I was in the I'm-drunk-and-will-not-listen-to-you phase. As was displayed by my IMMEDIATE need to sit down. Most all of you are aware that if I want to sit, I will sit. And anywhere I goddamn please . . . whether it be on the sewered streets of Poland in a jean mini-skirt or on the bar floor of an overcrowded Seattle favorite, much as I did that evening. I took my post below the bar on the floor, you know the place where your feet go when you're leaning over the bar to get the bartender's attention to order a drink? Yeah, I sat there, with everyone towering above me. I was only encouraged in my decision because my friend C's girlfriend joined me there as well. (I would later find out that my friend, P, apparently finds it hilarious to piss IN bars, ON the floor . . . much like the one I was sitting on. Evidently he had pissed on that very floor at one point in time and advised me that I should refrain from taking refuge there again. I think that might be the only reason I will NEVER sit there again.)

Anyway, during my little pow-wow with C's girfriend an incident occurred in which I took great offense. I should actually rephrase that . . . DRUNK ELISE took offense to this . . . SOBER ELISE would have said, "what a dumb bitch" and maybe said something to this chick's face, but feathers would have remained in tact. However, upon being pulled up off the ground by N (also known as boyfriend), he informed me casually that some stupid girl had tried to come and talk to him and C while us girls were not present. He was saying it simply because he thought it was funny, little did he know that the following information would have dire consequences for the girl in question. I am told the conversation went like this:

N: Some stupid girl came up and talked C and I's ears off while you girls were gone.
Me: Really? What did she say?
N: Well she kept trying to talk to us and ask what your names were. When we kept ignoring her and not answering she flipped out and called me a douchebag and said that I probably hadn't been laid in over a year
Me: WHAT?!?!?! YOU GOT LAID LIKE AN HOUR AGO!!! Where the fuck is she?!

Yes, I actually sputtered the truth out loud, in the crowded bar in defense of my boyfriend who so clearly did not give a shit. I decided to go on a quest to find this ridiculous girl who probably had never been laid in her LIFE. Once I saw her I found even more justification for what I was about to do. She was wearing a disgusting bright pink floral shirt (the kind we wore when we went to Hawaii when we were 8 years old), a jean skirt (that appeared to be from Wet Seal or something . . . ps: its fucking NOVEMBER so why are you wearing a jean skirt?!), black tights, and black boots. Any of my close friends will tell you that I am extremely judgmental when it comes to clothing. If someone is so clearly not dressed appropriately, I will most like say something to the individual beside me. People actually love me for it, but that's neither here nor there. The fact that this chick was wearing that outfit was just the icing on the cake. Plus, she was fat. So I decided that I would pour the last half of my pint into her purse. You know, to teach her a lesson (seriously Elise? wow). Anyway, you shouldn't be surprised that that's exactly what I did. I walked up to her on the dance floor when she wasn't looking, and expertly poured all my beer into her purse, like I was sharing. And I got away with it too . . .

Obviously, my boyfriend and his friends found this hilarious and still proceed to talk about it to this day. I guess it's a pretty good testament to my feelings for N. But even I agree that I took it a little too far. I promise, I'll try to be better next time ;)

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

A Note to the Little, Gay, Asian Man in the Gym:

Dear Gay Little Asian Man,

Please refrain from continually choosing to stretch inappropriately a mere 3 inches away from me while in the stretching room in the gym. I do not enjoy seeing your icky, gangly man thighs as a result of your all too-short purple shorts, which you still choose to wear every single day. I only hope you wash them just as much. And although I respect your decision to wear your gayness loud and proud, the Obama rainbow shirt has got to go. It is too short and too tight. P.S. Obama won, so shove it. I would also appreciate it if you would cease from doing headstands in the middle of the room while talking on your iphone. We are not in your native country and therefore do not condone doing weird-ass poses in public places (such as the individuals located on the grassy knoll at Pike Place Market do . . . on second thought, maybe you should just ditch the gym membership, as all you seem to be doing there is stretching your body where it need not be stretched, and join them instead?). Additionally, I take offense to the fact that you think it is perfectly natural and acceptable to spread eagle your legs up against the public mirror while lying on your back on the gym floor. Nobody wants to see that. Put it away, you're not that flexible anyway.

Needless to say, I can only assume that you are one of those people who thinks exposed, full-out nudity is okay in the gym locker room. I also have a HUGE issue with your type of people. I am making a plea for the gentlemen being exposed to the uglier parts of you to STOP IT! Hairy ass cracks, sagging skin, and cottage cheese in places where it most definitely should NOT be are all things people will vomit upon once they are exposed to it. Just because you are with "your type" and you all have the "same parts", it is still gross to be greeted with an ass wave upon entry to the room. I won't be hypocritical here . . . the same goes for women. I do not enjoy looking at your man thighs anymore than I enjoy turning away from my locker to see the hairy creature growing between the I'm-so-free-and-natural girl's legs. I think it would be best for all involved if you and everyone else, practiced a bit more modesty . . . if not for the sake of keeping everyone from vomiting all over the place.


Tuesday, November 3, 2009

The Kells Chronicles

A repeat offense occurred this weekend . . . on none other than the evening of Halloween, while surrounded by flappers and Colonel Mustards in a crowded bar in Fremont. And of course it happened to me . . . again, because I don't learn from my mistakes. Or I drink too much. Maybe we should go with the latter . . . just to make myself feel better and pretend that I'm not that much of an idiot. Anyway, you, my friends, are very lucky because this particular incident segues quite well into a series of stories that I will deem 'The Kells Chronicles,' so really, you're getting 2 stories in 1 (actually- you're getting 5 in 1, but that doesn't matter. Just be grateful your life isn't mine.)

On Saturday night after too many Pink Panty Droppers and numerous failed attempts to secure chow mein (don't ask . . . for whatever reason, I was desperately craving the stuff. My dear friend S was unfortunately on 'elise duty' as my roommate had gone home gravely ill and my boyfriend was out of town. So he was forced to suffer through my whimpering cries for greasy noodles. Eventually S was able to shut me up by providing me with mediocre (at best) frozen pizza), the evening was coming to a close and I was obviously acting as such. While nursing a 40 of PBR (apparently I was pretending to be in college again . . . I know that my cousin D is judging me heavily for publishing this, as he is the ultimate beer snob, and looks down upon drinking such revolting liquid) I secured my seat on the bar stool by anchoring the heels of my 4-inch peep-toes on one of the rungs of the stool. A few minutes later, my friend C showed up to the bar, who I had been unnecessarily freaking out over because he was nowhere to be found (for all of 15 minutes . . . which is basically an eternity in drunk elise time). I, of course, decided that I had to hug him immediately if not sooner and leaned forward to give my best hug ever. In doing so, I clearly neglected the fact that my heels were still wedged on the stool and the red sea departed and I proceeded to fall (in what seemed like the slowest slow motion ever) on both my knees on the floor, with nothing and no one to break my fall (which is pretty amazing considering how packed the bar actually was). Immediately blood seeped from both my knees through the fabric of my white dress. A throng of people suddenly surrounded me to help me up, and all I could say in response to their 'are you okay?' inquiries was, 'it's fine . . . this has happened before.' And with that I give you . . . The Kells Chronicles:

1. The barstool:

Really I should just say 'see above' but that would be boring. So indulge me. Last February, my girlfriends and I fell in love with a local Irish bar called Kells. It is fantastic. If you ever want to hear live Irish music and see a hot little Irish girl dance (our friend M is amazingly good at this and has actually been approached while dancing in the bar to join a Women's Irish Dancing Group), you should go here. Anyway, pretty much the same thing that happened above, happened here. Except I was leaning over the bar to give the bartender my phone number and then fell. Yeah, I was real classy that night. Oh- of course he never called. This was also the same night that I yelled at a man for wearing a Hawaiian shirt and proclaiming him as 'old.' Q was super embarrassed and kept telling me to stop. One thing about drunk elise . . . she really doesn't listen- so you have to actually force her out of a situation, rather than just tisk-tisk-ing her.

2. Sweat and napkin glitter:
A few weeks later, Q was in town so we went back to our favorite abode to get more free drinks (the bartender there is way too good to us) and try and pick up hot men . . . but basically we were there for the drinks. Anyway, most of you should be well aware of the fact that my body overheats much more than most. And when you are freezing, I am most likely opening up the window and sticking my head in the freezer while exclaiming, 'omg it's SO HOT in here!' I like to joke that I'm premenopausal . . . but seriously, I think I am. Either that or my body temp is just off the charts and I am somehow able to survive. Anyway, as a result of this over-heating issue, I have a tendency to perspire in crowded, sweaty, dancing bars . . . a bit more than most. This of course happened this evening (see photo) at which point I just had to ask the bartender, Joe, for some napkins with which to soak up the brita filter that was choosing to pour out of my head. As a result of the dabbing, and completely unbeknownst to me, little pieces of these napkins chose to remain plastered to my face and neck, thus enhancing my outfit and making me look that much better. Q and Mac eventually realized this and saved me from looking like a complete moron the entire evening, but not before openly laughing at me. When we walked into Kells the next time, upon walking though the door and waving at Joe, he greeted me by waving napkins at me. Bastard.

3. 'Ew, what is that smell?!':

About a month later we were perched at our usual spot at the bar with our favorite bartender, when I decided that it was really important for me to lean over the flaming tea-light candles on the bar in order to get Joe's attention. In doing so I apparently caught my hair on fire because Joe made a very surprised and scary look on his face and then proceeded to clap his hands multiple times over my hair. The result looks-wise wasn't bad . . . the smell, however, was horrific and naturally multiple inquiries rose . . . 'ew, what is that smell?!' And I was in prime-time drinking mode that night and so very loudly and obnoxiously whined out loud . . . 'IT'S ME!!!!! MY HAIR CAUGHT ON FIRE!!!!!!' :( I think I shut everyone up but at that point I most definitely did not care and felt it necessary to share my story with the innocent bystanders who really didn't give a shit.
I know it's amazing that we kept going back there after all this, but we seriously love it too much to give it up (and I apparently just don't give a damn about what happens to me or how much self mutilation I have to go through to enjoy my time there). Although we've neglected it since July . . . it might be time for a trip down memory lane. Maybe I'll have an addition to The Kells Chronicles come Monday ;)

Friday, October 30, 2009

The Reason I Blog

. . . I'll warn you, this isn't a funny post, nor is it all that interesting. But I figured I'd at least need to explain my reason for blogging before I invade all your minds with ridiculous stories. I decided to blog because some things in my life are simply too good to not share with the rest of you. Plus, it saves me from having to relay the story 50 times ;) Aside from that, I've been told that things that happen to me usually only occur in the movies and not in real life (except for Gerrie's) . . .
I figure if I can provide a bit of comedic relief to your tedious work day, then I've contributed my bit of 'giving back to the community' so to speak. Also- I need an outlet to rant and rave about various pet peeves I have . . . things that my dear and loveable roommate has to hear me scream about on a day to day basis, this one's for you Mac :)
Furthermore, I aspire to be a fiction writer someday and if blogging helps me achieve that goal, then I look at this being a pretty sweet deal.

Thanks for reading! (and then texting me to tell me how much you love it, as most of you already have :) hahaha)

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Thank You Sir, for Making Me Feel Like a Fatass

So let me preface this by saying yes, I have been frequenting Specialty's (if you don't know what that is, it is the most fantastic, amazing food establishment on the face of the Earth, and if you come to Seattle I will personally take you there and shove their cookies down your throat) in the mornings due to the fact that I have become really terrible at eating breakfast prior to leaving for work. This is mostly due to the fact that the weather here has become so terrible that upon looking outside, and seeing sheer blackness and sleeting rain, I simply lie in bed in misery before my boyfriend has to pull me out. Anyway, this place probably has the best fruit and yogurt parfaits I've ever tasted, plus they have pretty bomb chocolate and almond morning buns too. Naturally, I go in this morning following the regular Starbucks stop and upon paying the cashier (who I have seriously seen like TWICE . . . no joke) says, "What's your name again? You're in here like every day." Ummmmm . . . first of all, I never told you my name nor do I have any desire to now and secondly, thank you, pooface, for so publicly pointing out my addiction to your pasteries and that I might possibly be a fatass. So I respond with, "Elise . . . and that's embarrasing." Cashier boy then says, "Well, not like every day." Thank you, sir, for admitting that some days, in fact, I do not come into your establishment at all. Is it my fault that your store is conveniently located next to my work and makes amazing food? I think not. Plus, sometimes I cheat on your store with the establishment across the street that so lovingly provides me with bacon-scallion cream cheese on my bagel! Sue me!

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Additions to the Douche Vault

Yes, I have decided to start a blog. And though the title of this entry is perfectly inappropriate for the introduction of a blog . . . don't be alarmed. That part comes later. I decided to run with the reason for why I began a blog in the first place. Upon reading my dear red-headed twin's blog, and not only becoming inspired, but also finding myself wanting to contribute my own hot mess of stories to the outrageousness on the web, Gerrie (her blog is 'The Be All End All' and I suggest you all follow it, as she is sheer genuis and might make you pee your pants a little) made me want to make some additions to her entry titled, 'Douche Vault' (look for the entry in her blog. You will die.) So here I am. Let's dive in, shall we? . . .

1. "And it's Really Sad He Pretended to be Gay Because Now We Can't be Friends":

I was a sophomore in college when I met this hunky senior ROTC boy. I have to say, I was surprised that he took interest in me, as at that time (and in the remainder of my college years, as it so happened) I tended to fall for the Man Boys who were not-at-the-top-of-the-attractive-yet-decent-enough-with-a-semi-good-personality list. But this Man Boy was very hunky . . . and appropriately waited to hit on me until after my boyfriend and I broke up. Also, he was more of a man- as he was a senior. And we all know what dating an upper-classman does to your ego. But I digress . . .
We dated for a few months, during which I skipped entirely too many 8 a.m. ballet practices attributed to the comforts of ROTC's bed and arms, and spent too much time in an outfit deemed the 'gray monster,' which consisted of his gray sweatpants and gray sweatshirt. I looked awesome, believe me. After a few months, ROTC and I began to fizzle . . . however we kept in touch. Shortly following his graduation, I had moved back to CA for the summer and he was in some disgusting desert training for war. I was slightly drunk from my brother's confirmation party (believe me, I know how bad that sounds . . . and we all know that by 'slightly,' I mean 'tanked.' My 18-year-old sister actually had to put me to bed in all my glory of phone clutched to chest, empty beer bottle in hand, and Gucci heels still on feet. I also might have been wearing a jean skirt. Or sweatpants.) Naturally, I thought it would be a fantastic idea to drunk dial ROTC, during which time he must have picked up on how inebriated I was beccause he began babbling to me in a very serious tone about how he needed to discuss something with me. He then proceeded to tell he that he was gay, had been the entire time we dated, and was just keeping up appearances by dating chicks because he hadn't come out yet. And I, the drunk girl with a heart of gold, took the sympathetic route. But not before exclaiming, "BUT YOU WERE SO GOOD IN BED!" He said he sometimes slept with girls, but that was only so no one knew he liked weenis. At this point, you are probably screaming at your computer screen, 'Elise, you are an idiot.' But at the time I completely believed him and got off the phone relaying my full support, etc.
The next morning, while nursing a hangover and eating bacon (duh), I was on aim when said ROTC boy messaged me with a 'ha, ha, ha.' Of course, I asked him what he was 'ha, ha, ha-ing' about. He then revealed to me that last night's conversation have been a whole joke, 'sweetie' . . . and that he was, in fact, not gay. What is more is that he and his equally not gay army friends were all sitting around while ROTC had me on speaker phone. Now, I'm fine with a practical joke, but keeping me on the phone with you for 2 hours, while tearing sympathy out of me for your fake gay angst just pisses me off. Furthermore, the time to admit it was a joke would have been at the end of the conversation . . . not 24 hours later. While relaying this story to my friend C I said, "and it's really sad he pretended to be gay, because now we can't be friends."

P.S. Six months later a housemate of mine would mention to me that she saw ROTC in a porn video . . . with both a woman and another man. Hmmmm . . . .

P.P.S. What straight man pretends to be gay?! Seriously.

2. 'The Convict Boxer':

There is no easy way to dive into this one so I'll just come out and say it. I dated my boxing instructor . . . which obviously had issues in and of itself. I think I dated him because I just wanted to date someone. Honestly. So I lowered my standards . . . much more than I had intended to. Boxer was a mocha baby, which was probably the only attractive part about him. His weenis was small and he had a somewhat chubby middle section. Which is totally fine, but let's be honest, you'd expect something a bit more from a boxing instructor, no? Anyway, truth be told, I kind of ended up falling for the guy and we dated for 3 months. Much of this relationship however was spent either a) in the gym or b) out at his house in the burbs where we had to wake up at 6 a.m. every day so he could get me back home to change, and he could get to work on time. Nevertheless, I appreciated his meals of chicken strips in bed and homemade nachos on Sundays while watching 5 hours of football (the 5 hours of football part I wasn't so into).
Anyway, one evening I had not heard from Boxer at all, which was weird because we spoke pretty much every hour (ah, the joys of texting). I woke up the next morning with an empty inbox and heavy heart. Upon walking into the gym that afternoon, he was not there, which got me worried that something had happened. I texted him, but still heard nothing. The next day he finally responded that something had in fact happened, but he wanted to tell me in person. I, of course, pushed him to tell me. The response I got left my jaw on my work desk for about the following 3 hours . . . "Last night I was arrested and they threw me in jail." Ummmm . . . ? The conversation went as follows:

- Me: Why did they arrest you?
- Boxer: My license was expired.
- Me: Why is your license expired?
- Boxer: It's a long story but basically I have had some issues with the law between the states of WA and CA for the past decade and it just caught up to me.
- Me: Ummmmm, ok. We'll talk about this tonight.

Needless to say, I broke up with the douche. He had a suspended license for 7 years (I still to this day do not know why, however it may have had something to do with Boxer selling vacuum cleaners in Southern CA when he was 19), during which time there was a warrant out for his arrest. And the bastard was driving around with me in his car the entire time, with no consideration for my well-being whatsoever. He never told me because he knew I'd break up with him. No shit!

P.S. Three months after our break-up, he started dating the skinny Asian girl from boxing class who had black hair down to her ass and nipple rings (I'll grace the pages of this blog with my issues concerning nudity in the gym locker room at a later date) . . . Three months after that she started showing a very visible baby bump. Hmmmm . . . .

3. 'Taps':

Following Boxer, I met yet another seemingly normal individual whom we will refer to as 'Taps' and I will tell you why. I met Taps at a legal conference downtown (good, solid place to meet people right?) after which, we went out for drinks with other people who had attended. Taps was attractive, nice, a little full of himself- but I was willing to overlook it due to the good looks thing, and he made me laugh. Shortly thereafter we started dating. And then I started feeling like I was in 'Little Women' or something. It felt like a courtship. You see, Taps liked to show up to my office, completely unannounced and have the receptionist call my desk to notify me that he was waiting in the lobby. I'm sorry, did my blackberry stop working? Is my computer dead? Do I not have actual responsibilities at work, and am therefore free to run out of my office to come meet you for an hour long coffee date? Things got old for me fast. The guy was into bodybuilding and I swear to you that in every conversation we had, his weight was mentioned at least 3 times . . . by him. Hello obsessive girl! Are you trying to date me or have I become the sounding board for obnoxious comments concerning your diet of leaves and water? Plus, not to be whatever, but the guy made me dinner one time . . . steak, actually and he put it in the oven! Yes, I had to call Mama Bigley for cooking instructions.
Anyway, I somewhat ceased communication with Taps for a while, however once day he showed up (the receptionist called me . . . again) and I felt obligated to say hi, as I hadn't seen him in a while. I told him I was very busy (not), but could spend a few minutes to grab coffee with him. As we were walking to the elevator Taps said, "it's so funny, our shoes are both making that clacking noise." My response: "uh-huh." What was going through my head: Have you turned into a 5-year-old and I am now responsible for congratulating you when you go pee pee? Taps said, "See, I get these taps put on all my work shoes." He then proceeded to shoe me the taps on his work soles. I asked, "Why?" And he said, "because it makes a statement and is intimidating." Yeah, a 5'9", 26-year-old man wearing a pink tie and taps on his shoes is real intimidating.

P.S. My sister's best friend from high school loved tap shoes when she was little. When she was five, she made her mother put taps on ALL her shoes. She is a chick . . . AND WAS FIVE!!!

They still live among us ladies . . . beware. You think they're normal. You're probably wrong.