Point and shoot

Memo to the Man on the Street: These headlights are not pointing at you.

It’s 95 degrees outside and my party hats will still be on. Get over it. I was born this way. Well not necessarily born that way, but as close as you can get to it. And if I’m wearing a skirt, it’s not because I woke up this morning and decided I’m going to do the bicycle messengers of this world a favor by showing some leg.

You’re just sayin’ hello, doing it to make me feel good, what’s the big deal, so you say? My self esteem is no danger of being low and as it is, I’m getting married in November. My husband will be contractually obliged to say hello to me and make me feel good about myself everyday.

I have Kathy Bates/Fried Green Tomatoes-type moments, where in my crazy little internal film I become Superwoman. I'm gonna take on the world and tell every street heckler and harasser to just shut the fuck up. I don’t know what’s more insulting: that my enjoyment of the day and sense of space is infringed upon by a smart aleck comment, or the sight/smell of the person throwing the alleged compliment out there?

But then I fear those could turn more into Kathy Bates/Misery-ish moments. And since I prefer not to do time for assault, I strive to be philosophical about it all. If evolution dictates that the size of your brain is smaller the size of these nips, I suppose I can forgive that and walk on by.

Ted was his name

I've got Cat Scratch Fever today. For some reason, I can't stop thinking about Ted Nugent.

Ever since I caught the Behind The Music episode devoted
to him, a strange dormant crush has taken root in my mind, only to surface hardcore every several months. Usually when I'm PMSing really hard, bitching left and right and not making any sense except to myself, I know Ted and that handlebar moustache are the only ones who will call me out on the bullshit and put me in my place. He's a man's man. Different strokes for different folks, you know? You've got Brad Pitt, I've got Ted Nugent.

Wango Tango baby.

Engagement party redux

My brother's engagement party was last Thursday. This was the second one. The first one was two months ago in Atlanta, for all of the bride's friends and family. This one was in NYC, where the rest of us are from. We didn't get a chocolate fountain this time.

For those of us who attended the first one, we greeted each other with uncertainty. No one knew what to call it. Is it The Engagement Party - Part Deux? Do we correct the newbies in attendance that "It's a drinks party honoring their engagement, but not necessarily an engagement party, 'cause we've already done that"?

In Atlanta, there were speeches and the bride's mother serenaded the pair. She had an accompaniment of a dinky little keyboardist, channeling Liberace minus the swish. I still can't answer what song she sang. On the first note, I felt like fleeing the room with the grin/grimace frozen on my face. I could find out which one it was, but I believe part of me is still trying to block it out.

There was none of that this time around, it was much more chilled out, less uptight. In Atlanta, I was going straight to hell for getting drunk at my own brother's engagement party. Here, it's not considered unusual to see a brunette chick all hopped up on coke, five feet away from where my dad is eating the prosciutto.