I've Got it Covered

When I was a wee lass of about four, the last time I had brown hair as a matter of fact, I used to cover my nose with one hand while the other hand discretely rooted around for boogers.

Always advanced for my age, I thought I had devised a brilliant plan to keep people from guessing what I was doing under there. The funny thing is that, while I'm sure I fooled no one, especially given the infamous booger trail I left across the Continental United States from 1984 to 1986, I was never called out on it.

Because of the hygienic leeway afforded to me back then, I seem to have grown up believing that I can do whatever the hell I want now. Ya'll will be glad to know that I have graduated to tissues (most of the time), but I found myself in the grocery store tonight for my daily visit to the foodland paradise.

I'd just come from the gym, and my sweaty bra was hindering my shopping experience. Before I could even reason or talk myself out of it, I was shimmying out of my bra, expertly pulling it from out of my shirt like only a woman can (and possibly a few drag queens).

Lest you worry I was uncouth about the whole affair, I had the decency to duck behind the banana "tree" located in the cereal section, aisle 5. There was, however, a gentleman in the poultry section stationed caddywhompus to me. Let's just say he was going to get some drumsticks, but he picked up a package of breasts instead.

Yes! In the Comments section, tell me the last classy thing you did in public without thinking.

Seeing Things

My glasses broke.

I lurve my glasses. They are purple cat-eye, hot librarian spectacles, and they instantly add 10 IQ points when I put them on.

Now, I look like a dweeb because one of the arm thingies broke off, and I have to wear them that way or else all of the words and numbers and words about numbers that I deal with go blurry. Then I get a headache and start hitting people.

(Hey! Totally unrelated picture of Queen Z and me at the happy hour dysfunction! Loverly!)

I was trying to figure what to do about the situation when our very wise security guard wandered by and sensed my distress. It always lifts my heart to hear the sweet lull of his African accent and his very dramatic prose.

"What is the matter going on here? You are breaking my heart. You are much too pretty to be upset."

I held up the two pieces of my eye glasses and gave him a frowny face.

"Ohhhhhhh. Yes that is very bad. Very bad, indeed. Terrible." As he looked around my office, he noted the exorbitant amount of naked baby pictures. "Your beautiful children? Such gifts they are to be treasured."

"Oh, no. Not mine. Now way. Nuh uh. Nieces and nephews."

He was dumbfounded that I wasn't married and/or knocked up. "Why? Why are you so alone in this world? We all need love."

"Um, yes, that's true, but I don't have any children because I don't even have a boyfriend, so it's not really ... um, an option because I'm not, uh, having ... I'm not sleeping wi ... making love to anyone."

"Well, perhapsing then you are a lesbian. That is okay [pronounced okee in the way that only gentle, foreign men can]."

"Well, perhapsing," I repeated. "Only part time," I wanted to say. "The hours are flexible, and though I don't get any benefits, the perks are amazing."

"No," he said. "That would be okee, but I am seeing you with lots of beautiful babies that come right from your body. You will find a prince, and he will will understand your body, and you will have good communication, and he will learn to please you in every way. He is a very sensitive lover, and soon you will be surrounded by babies and love. I am seeing this for you."

"Wow. You can see all of that? Are you sure?"

Now it was my turn to be dumbfounded, largely because of the whole baby business and because he had just alluded to me having orgasms. And lots of them. I don't know the proper etiquette for this situation--when a stranger foretells your future, and it includes a lot of good sex, does a simple "thank you" suffice, or should I have hugged him?

"Yes. And if you get yourself to the opera ... opthor ... optom ... the eye doctor to get your glasses fixed, you will be seeing these things too. Ha ha," he chuckled at his own joke.

Now, every iota in me believes in intuition and our abilities to sense and see things. I don't discount others' talent for prophecy, so I would just about ready to rethink my life plan when, as he turned to leave, the security guard bumped into the door. "Whoops. I was not seeing that there."

Mmm hmm.

In the Comments section, tell me if you see beautiful babies in my future. I was always a bit worried that, since my sisters' kids are all so lovely, I'd get stuck with the ugly one.

Into the Groove

After an obnoxious amount of tater tots and a 14-hour Law & Order SVU marathon, I finally feel strong enough to try and piece together the events of last night.

As Matty reports, my friend, Queen Z, did in fact win a most dangerous happy-hour set up: $20 all you can drink for a solid three hours. Ooof. I trained for weeks before to get into top shape.

Lisa Lisa and I made our way to the bar and waited for the gang while trying to keep our drinks roofie free--no easy task at a college bar where the bartender ripped off beer caps with his teeth. That can't be hygienic.

Fortunately, the troops filtered in: Matty, Kate and #1Laura arrived looking all hot and stuff.

I was working on a personal best--replacing my blood with bourbon. The unfortunate side effect was that I spent most of the night in the loo. Apparently, this place is known for getting people obliterated because it had a lotion lady whose sole purpose was to pump soap for me, hand me paper towels and remind me to "pull up your damn pants."

I have guilt issues and thus forked over a small fortune in tips to the lotion lady and heaped on praise like, "Wow! You dispense soap so well!" I tried to hug her, but she was Not. Having. It.

However, one of my many trips to the restroom did yield some superior hugging.

I was drying my hands with the paper towel the lotion lady handed me when I heard, "Val!" coming across the bathroom. My name can be found on a lot of bathroom walls, so I wasn't too surprised at first. But then I looked up to see a lovely sprite of a woman and, behold, it was my friend Tinz--in town to visit with some college friends of hers and Megan Jane's who had converged in D.C. Wheeee! Surprise!

See, Tinz is one of my beloved D.C. Sisters, an online women's group. I've come to know her over the past year, but last night was the first we've met in person.

Oh, there was much hugging and squealing, and I was glad to still be in the bathroom because I kind of peed my pants a little bit. After the rejoicing, I returned my focus to the matter at hand: getting el drunko ridiculoso. Megan Jane Barbara Jones, Har Har Harwell, Sean P.K. and EJ all showed up to help out, too!

I am sorry to report that I knocked back enough bourbon to put my brain to sleep, thus my limbs took over and said, "Dance! Dance, I say!"

I wasn't the only one afflicted with this malady, as some of your favorite bloggers were definitely shaking their groove things. And trying to start fights. In my defense, I never said Matty's Dad "died." I said "passed." If the guy would have listened, he would have heard the full story: "His Dad passed ... out Sweet Tarts at Halloween."

In any case, the guy actually gave me a hug afterward, so all's well that ends well. I'm going to apply to the United Nations and put my diplomacy skills to work. Hugo Chavez is a nut case, but I think he just needs a good hug.

Talking with Megan Jane this morning, she said something that struck me: "You know, V, half the fun of going out is debriefing about it the next day." So true. Well, actually, most of the fun comes from making out with cute boys. Not me, sad to say (High five Lisa Lisa and #1Laura!), though Matty did give me a noogie, and I repeatedly dropped it like it was hot with some of my favoritist peeps. Erm, nah. I still would have preferred the making out.

In the Comments section, tell me if you've ever been in a fight and/or if you like SVU or Criminal Intent more. I lurve Vincent Donofrio, but the SVU kids just come more correct, ya know?

Stop Milking a Dead Cow

Quite by accident, I realized that "astray" and "ashtray" are nearly the same word. Something to consider, my pretties.

Something I'm considering today: matters of the heart should always involve the head, too. The heart should never, ever work independently because it can do stupid things.

When I was 13, my sister, Maryann, got married for the first time. It was mid-August, the day after her 19th birthday. A nice guy, her husband, but everyone objected because he was a bit older, relatively poor and a die-hard Star Trek fan. Further, he had taken her from the right path--she was meant for the stage, not the kitchen. She hadn't even graduated college yet. Maryann was supposed to be consumed with frat parties and exams and cafeteria food, not shopping for China patterns.

All of this made Maryann more intent on having the perfect wedding. They were in love, goddamnit, and she would prove it to the world.

I was in the wedding, of course. The bridesmaids had beautiful black velvet and emerald green taffeta dresses, found on sale--that was a sign, wasn't it, that Maryann was doing the right thing? The dresses were a steal during the Ides of March with the wind and snow whipping about. In the 100+ degrees of a small, fundamentalist Baptist church that did not believe in air conditioning, even in the middle of August, those dresses were ludicrous. And probably a little smelly.

As I stood there watching my sister and her betrothed exchange vows, my head was swimming with the kinds of images a 13-year-old conjures up about love: they would spend their time holding hands watching movies on the couch (with the lights OFF and no parents around), slow dancing in the kitchen and going out to eat at TGI Friday's. That's what love was to me. In many ways, it still is, but TGI Friday's has been upgraded.

Swimming in those beautiful thoughts, my thin frame started to sway. My hands got clammy. Suddenly, my eyelids fluttered and I found myself lying on the church's musty red carpet. Someone was rushing in to pull down my dress and cover up my underpants. I had passed out from the heat. The best man lifted me and carried me out amid the concerned hush of the guests.

Things were a little hazy after that, but I remember that nothing went according to the plan, foiling my sister's hope that everything be perfect. In fact, I would love to show you a video of the Famous Fainting of 1993, but the cameraman forgot to turn on the camera to record the ceremony. It's alright, though, because it only would have captured the pianist's botched attempt to play The Wedding March, which ended up sounding more like Brick House.

The milk fountain they had got in lieu of a champagne fountain curdled in the heat, and my Uncle Andrew brought his dog, a yippie Pomeranian who kept biting people. The food was horrible and resulted in several cases of food poisoning. The bathroom toilets overflowed. Oh, yeah, and my sister and her husband got divorced less than a year later.

My sister said she knew all along that they shouldn't get married, but it's just that she wanted to so badly that none of the logical arguments, anxious pleas or signs would impede her. She basically told her brain to shut up, "The heart's running this show."

Fortunately, I've always been able to learn from my sisters' mistakes. As the youngest of three, I've had the benefit of seeing them make a ton of messes and figure out how to clean them up. Forcing something or charging ahead with a bad idea has never been my scene. I've been called impartial, objective, even cold, because I can seemingly switch off my feelings if evidence presents itself that a change of course is a good idea. I'm not unfeeling, just practical.

Because, seriously, kids--who wants a flipping milk fountain at their wedding?

In the Comments section, tell me a favorite wedding memory of yours.

A Freaky-Deaky Sneeky Peeky

To continue with yesterday's theme, I am weird. Or at least do weird things. Behold:

2. I am a thrice certified Subway sandwich artist. In high school, I was a star employee who knew the correct ounces of lettuce per foot long (2), the appropriate amount of mayo (two lines, unless the "guest" requested more), and the exact number of pepperoni slices on the BMT (6). You can laugh, but I looked damn good in that visor.

3. I wear a sleep mask. Mine is pink and matches my poodle, Fifi, and the bon bons I keep beside me in bed.

4. I have a deep and troubling fear of escalators.

5. I just ate a whole box of Girl Scout Tagalongs. If you knew me in real life, you would understand how weird this truly is.

6. My first serious high-school boyfriend's name was B.J., which stood for Baby James. Literally. On his birth certificate. We lived in North Carolina--that may help explain it.

7. I don't really like babies. Kids are great because you can reason with them, but babies just piss me off a little bit, what with their unfocused eyes and aloof attitude. Look at me when I'm talking to you!

8. I have always relied on the kindness of strangers.

9. I read the Baby Sitter's Club #24: Claudia and the Sad Good-bye last week. Those girls are so resourceful.

10. My great-grandmother ran a brothel in Cleveland. Swear to Pete--I come from a long, proud line.

Tag! You're it Average Jane, EJ Takes Life, Es Locura, Hyacinth and Biscuits, Janee, Starboard Tack and You'd Never Guess.

In the Comments section, tell me if you're feeling out of sorts today. I'm just a schwee bit off kilter. I think it was the Tagalongs.

Parr For the Course

So, UHaveGot2BKidn tagged me with a request to offer up 10 weird things or habits or little known facts about little 'ole me.

I have to put some thought into this because I always seem to cross the line between interesting and creepy. I'll post the other nine freaky things about me and the lucky recipients of the tagging love tonight, but here's one to get ya'll started:

1. I listen to Russ Parr's morning show. I know I'm a little outside of the demographic, but funny is funny, my pretties. I particularly like the Horriblescopes that come on right before the show ends. (Gemini: While your pastor is being arrested on TV ... why is he giving shout-outs to members of his church?)

Oh, that Russ Parr. He cracks my white ass up.

In the Comments section, tell me what you listen to in the morning.

Solo Hablo un Poco de Español ...

I am writing to you from the bubbly bath--I just love the modern world.

But, that is not my point. No. My point is to illustrate what an asshat I am, especially when it involves trying to speak to native Spanish speakers.

JennyJenny8675309 hired some contractors for new flooring and what not this week. She'd worked with them before. Nice cats. They happened to be Mexican. Fortunately for them, or not, the fact that I love Mexicans and have two years of collegiate Spanish under my belt always makes me think I am aptly qualified to converse with people who speak Spanish.

I am not.

When I came downstairs, I had to walk across the newly-tiled floor. "Should I take off mis zapatos?" I asked.

"No, no. Shoes are fine," said the head guy, Emmanuel. But, he told me, the guys were finishing up and needed a mop.

"Lo siento," I said. "No tengo una fregona. Lo siento," I repeated to show that I care. "Acaso neccesitas una toalla o una cerveza o una abrazo?" I offered, quite proudly. (Thanks to both You'd Never Guess and Es Locura for helping me out with my translation. I do know Es Locura means "crazy" OR "mini bus." I can't remember.)

"No, we just need a mop. It's okay, miss," Emmanual said.

"Is it something Jenny and I could do? We just need to apply what's in that amarillo bottle, si?" Quiero ayudar. Por favor, ayudo. Ayudo." After the third time, Emmanuel realized what I was trying to say but misconstrued my meaning a bit. "Oh, okay. If you want to help, you can get us a pizza. That would be good. "

"Una pizza?" I asked. I wanted to get in the trenches, do the dirty work, sweat along side the men, and he wanted me to fetch a pizza?

"Erm, esta bien. Que tipo?"

"Meat Lover's. Pan crust. Extra cheese. Thanks."

"Carne. Mucho queso. Bien. Da me vientes minutos," I said.

"Alright. We'll see you in 20 minutes," Emmanual confirmed, then he shook his head sadly. I could feel his pity for the mensa gringa con cabello roja imitacion.

My pretties, why is that in an effort to unite and connect with someone, all I usually manage to do is prove what an goober I am? Perdon me--una idiota.

In the Comments section, tell me about a time when you were trying to be helpful, but you came off looking like an ass. The winner gets the left over Meat Lover's pizza pies.

A Bad Combination

"Matty, I apologize for any noises you might hear coming from the other side of the door."

With that disclaimer, I gingerly made my way to the bathroom and wrapped myself around his porcelain toilet bowl, where I wretched and heaved and yakked and garfed and burbled for the better part of an hour.

If we were playing Clue, this would be the point where you could exclaim, "Ah ha! It was General Tso's chicken in the tummy with the food poisoning." Actually, it wasn't General Tso's, which is what Matty had and was fine. No, it was the dreaded combination pan fried noodles. Wily fuckers, those noodles.

By combination, they really mean to say "leftover stuff that's probably bad, but if we mix it all together with a savory brown sauce, no one will ever know. "

In any case, that is how I found myself curled around Matty's toilet bowl on a simple palette made of towels. At one point, just after I vomited up my spleen, I was hallucinating a bit and had a short, but poignant, conversation with his floor tiles.

Beads of sweat pooled around my temples, so I slowly rolled my head off of the towel bed and onto the black and white grid pattern. "Hi tiles. Thank you for being so nice and cool. I'll never forget how you were there for me in my time of need. I love you so much. Please don't ever stop being so cold."

Finally, the misery abated enough for me to crawl out of the bathroom.

"Can I get you anything?" Matty sweetly asked.

"No, I'm afeayv twos linbe hwarels," I muttered unintelligibly. I felt bad because I know how much Matty likes for people to speak English, but I just didn't have it in me. And, bless his heart, Matty chose that point to try and recap how wasted he was the night before at my friend Scotty's Dead Prez Party.

"I was so baked last night, ha ha ha."

As I lay there, trying to think of anything else beyond the pestilence dancing around my intestines, I had several flash backs:

• Someone may or may not have gotten their nose broken that night. I had had a lot to drink, so I'm not exactly a reliable source.
• There is a stereotype of angry lesbians for a reason. One half of a lesbian couple at the party seemed to want to scrap, which prompted Matty to proclaim that he could easily win a fight against 97% of lesbians. I told him that 80% is probably more realistic.
• There really are some intense douche bags walking among us. You can usually scope them out by their circa 1993 haircuts.
• Megan Jane's eye for redecorating is unmatched. She turned Scott's comfortable bachelor pad into a swinging party complex with only a table cloth and some cinnamon potpourri.
• One of my friends is now "new and improved" with 50% more gay, so that's fun.
• Some people really don't change, and it's for the better. I got to hug my friend, Lindsey, whom I hadn't seen since I was 13, and she was even more lovely than she was at 13. Well, I guess we all are. I hope.

I tried to articulate all of that to Matty, but all I could manage was a half-hearted, "Mmm hmmpf." Sometimes, though, that's all that needs to be said.

In the Comments section, tell me what your favorite Chinese food is and any recollections you may have from Scott's party, if you were there. Maybe even if you weren't there--that would be some trippy time and space travel, kids.

A Meating of the Minds

So, I thought to myself a few weeks back, "I'm almost 27. I should probably get over my fear of giant hunks of meat."

Roasts, tenderloins, London broil, top rounds, rumps. Big cuts of meat can be intimidating--in the kitchen, anyway. Between the sheets is another matter. In any case, I thought there's no better way to conquer fears than with a bunch of friends around to support you and lots of alcohol. "I know." I thought, "I'll have a dinner party. On Valentine's Day. Splendid!"

And the Lord said, "It is good." Then He changed His mind with a bunch of snow and ice and general misery. So, it was actually a Post-Valentine's Day dinner par-tay.

But, the important part is that some of my most favorite kids came out to play: my friend Billiam, #1Laura, Lisa Lisa, Matty, Megan Jane Barbara Jones.com and Queen Z, who ventured all the way up from Froggy Bottom, which to you non-locals is essentially a six-day trek involving pack mules, dehydrated foods and maybe even a Sherpa.

I like Billiam because he always brings whiskey, and #1Laura always brings cute shoes. Lisa Lisa contributed the necessary hot Jewish action, not unlike our favorite Sarah Silverman. Matterhorn arrived in fine form, though he swears he wasn't (he said he was "flummoxed" which proves he wasn't if he could pull out big 5-cent mayonnaise words like that). And Megan Jane? Well God bless Megan Jane for always bringing the conversation back 'round to the clitoris.

I should also mention that the contractors and I were working in tandem--as I was slicing mozzarella balls for the bruschetta, they were busy slicing ceramic tiles in my kitchen sink with a machine that made the most hellacious "Reeereeereeereerrrrehhhhhhhhaaaaa" sound and using my counter space for band sawing. (That's not really a verb, is it? Oh well.) It was a lively scene, for certain. A little saw dust never hurt no one.

So, with a heck of a lot of help, I managed to pull off the dinner--big hunk of meat and all--only 1.5 hours late! Go 123V! The conversation flowed and, even though we were eating on tiny plates, the ideas were big. A good group dynamic, to be sure.

Then Lisa Lisa unveiled her fancy pants chocolate-covered strawberries, and, again, the Lord said, "It is good." This time he stuck to it. I think it's because she's Jewish.

In the Comments section, tell me your secrets for big pieces of meat.

Bowled Over

Living with JennyJenny8675309 means, among other cool things like a permanant stock of ice cream and lots of power tools, that toilet seats are never left up in our house.

So, you can imagine the suprise when my bum was shocked awake by the Artic cold of toilet water this morning.

"Yiieeeeeehhhhhha," is a pretty close approximation of what I said. Then, "Holy Christ, what the fuck? Goddamnit, shit fire asshole."

Suddenly there was a polite knock at the door. "Mees, es you okay?" Ah hah. Contractors. JennyJenny's having some new flooring put in.

"Yes, thank you. Just the toilet seat was up, and that doesn't happen much around here, so, you know, it's cold. "

Blank stare. I was trying to find the Spanish word for toilet seat to no avial. Anyone know? They're going to be around all week, so it's best we get this straightened out now.

In the Comments section, tell me if you know the Spanish word for toilet seat. Muchas gracias.

Feelin' the Love

Ya'll, can I be honest--between us friends? Valentine's Day bums me out. There I said it. I just conceded to every flipping stereotype this society has to offer about talented, intelligent, socially adept women with amazing racks who happen to be single. Happy now?

I do have one saving grace, though. A reason to smile in the dreariness of Valentine's Day--it's Kirstin's birthday. Isn't that just the sweetest thing? She's such a dear heart. It fits.

So, that is good news, but, in general, Valentime's Day, as my dear Dad calls it, leaves me cold. Why aren't those of us who cherish the love of family, good friends and Internet porn stars given a holiday? More importantly: Why don't people celebrate their love for each other every day?

I'll tell you why. It's because no woman wants that many stuffed animals or sets of red, lacy lingerie (ling-ger-ee, as some of my family members call it).

Boys (and lesbians) can I let you in on a secret? No self-respecting, intelligent woman wants a stuffed animal, period. Past the age of 12, what use does one have for a wad of fake fur and some polyester filling that's probably going to give us a rash anyway? (Okay, outside of the mascot for the Youngstown Scrappers, and that was just one time, so you can shut up now.) Further, no woman not posing for Penthouse would be caught dead in one of those snappy, crotchless get ups.

Alright. Alright. I might be up for wearing one, but that's my business. Don't judge, and trust me when I say that your classy lady doesn't want to wear it.

So, in an effort to enjoy this flipping holiday, I invited some wonderful friends over for dinner and wine. Lots of wine. Then the heavens had to go and barf out a bunch of snow and ice, so we're postponing, which means Wonder Dog Bean and I will be enjoying a Sex and the City marathon for V Day.

Maybe "enjoying" is not the right word. Tolerating, while muttering curses against the world and chowing down Tostino's Pizza Rolls is probably more accurate.

Ah well, best laid plans, though I'd settle for plans that involved a mediocre lay right about now. Welcome to Mercury Retrograde, my pretties.

In the Comments Section, please wish Kirstin a Happy Birthday and tell me what you're doing for Valentime's Day. The winner of the the best plans gets some of my Pizza Rolls.

Epcot Up In the Moment

This is the kind of memory that 8 glasses of Riesling, a good-hearted, yet insincere, offer to accompany an Asian investing guru to Epcot Center and getting caught up in the moment will get you:

Our Asian Friend is altered slightly to protect the innocent. That's my friend and co-worker Shaun there in the middle, whom I wrangled into this slightly uncomfortable field trip, and that's 123V looking a mite chubby, I will confess. No crunches during the week in Palm Tree Paradise.

Overall, though, the trip was a resounding success, even if the conversation wasn't. "Oh, you just bought a new yacht? Cool. Yeah, I just bought some new deodorant, so I'm totally feeling you on the buyer's remorse thing. I mean, they say it's supposed to keep me dryer, but I think I got duped. I just hate to have wasted all of that money."

There were rides and margaritas in Epcot's "Mexico" and our Asian Friend's intense enjoyment of the fireworks. At the end he declared, "I had a great time! I hope you can go back to the office and tell them that I know how to cut loose!"

You betcha, Asian Friend. Or something like that.

Apparently, though, Shaun and I are such good corporate companions that our Asian Friend is already planning next year's trip to Animal Kingdom. I think we're just one step away from being escorts.

(The whole Indecent Proposal thing ran through my head a million times, by the way. I think I would probably do it. Hell, who I am kidding? I would do it for 12 hot wings and a bottle of Beam.)

In any case, other people are getting caught up the moment these days with a myriad of consequences. Break ups and make ups and shake ups and wake ups--even an upchuck from a poor, sick Matty. Actually, I think I'm making that up. I don't know what Matty is sick with, but it is not good, so please leave him some get well comments on the blog, if you're so inclined.

In the Comments section, tell me if your world has gone topsy turvy lately. I know my friend Glynnis' has because she's planning a wedding, which would frustrate the spit out of me, so hang in there, lovely lady.

Why In the World Would Anybody Put Chains on Me?

Do you find Lionel Richie offensive?

See, after a big wig dinner last night with all of the billionaires who make my company a lot of money, I was heading to my room when a certain financial celebrity (who has a giant head, by the way. Literally. Huge noggin.) grabbed my arm and said, "Hey Red, you're having a drink with us."

Not one to ever turn down a free drink, I suddenly found myself standing around with the top bio-tech investing advisor, the editor of a very-well respected congressional publication that comes out quarterly (hint), our company president, the industry's leading expert on Asian investing and The Giant Head.

Alright. Okay. I can do this. No biggie.

I ordered a bourbon and water, which blew these cats away. I don't know why. I like bourbon, and it's hard to get a strawberry kiwi Bartles and Jaymes these days.

Anyhoo, it started just fine. For the most part, I nodded and smiled--it seemed safest. Then, a Lionel Richie song came on (Easy, by the way) and I had to go and open my big trap about how much I LOVE Lionel Richie, and I love him because he reminds me of my dead Mom, who died from cigarettes, so I hope none of you gentlemen smoke because you're all so handsome, and I want to hug you, and who decided that handshakes were a more acceptable greeting, I mean c'mon there are so many germs on our hands, we might as well lick each others' faces. I might have been drunk.

There was a bit of silence after that. They were obviously offended that a white woman could have such open and ardent adoration for a black man. Not my problem--it's 2007, gang. Get with it.

No one knew where to go from there, so I excused myself to use the loo.

Then, because I am a beacon of sound judgment, upon returning, I ordered another drink. I shut up, but not before accidentally agreeing to go to Disney (Land or World? I never know) with the Asian investing expert. He wants to hit Epcott, which is fine because I've never been.

Ya'll, seriously-I don't know how I get myself into these situations, but all of this crap is going in the novel.

Hug It Out

I am a hugger.

I hug everyone and everything. Trees. My knees. Corners. I am indiscriminate and often inappropriate in my hugging.

I have hugged potential bosses on job interviews, the locksmith that AAA called to jimmy open my car door and the deli supervisor at my local Giant grocery store--ya'll, she ordered thick-sliced peppered bacon just for me. C'mon.

So, some of you may realize that I'm at at one of the world's driest, most conservative conventions EVER. It's a bunch of investors. This is not to say it isn't enjoyable or there aren't good people here, but there's a reason we use the term "suit" to describe an uptight individual (i.e. not prone to hugging).

Basically, this week is about hob-schmoozzling with a bunch of billionaire, white guys. I don't mind--I can hang with anybody, and good people is good people, whether you've got $3 in your pocket or $3 billion. The majority of them know me from past shows and understand that I am going to hug them no matter what.

Most of them embrace it (pun totally intended, kiddos). They fall into my bosom with a sigh of relief; in my heels, I tower over most of these guys.

A few, though, sort of brace themselves and go rigid as I approach. For those uncomfortable with my hugging, I have tried to modify it with a two-handed shake, but then I still lean in a la Carson Daly welcoming P Diddy to TRL, touching my shoulder to the chests of their Armani suits. (I know Carson Daly doesn't do TRL any more, kids, but I don't know the names of any of MTV's new spiky-haired whippersnappers, okay?)

As I was giving a particularly good hug to one of our guys tonight, it struck that I might be a little too soft for corporate America. Over his shoulder, I looked out at the sea of black pinstripes, and I suddenly felt very out of place in my kicky lavender suit.

In the Comments section, tell me if you like hugs. I will gladly give a hug to anyone to who wants it.

Room Service

One of the things I like best about hotels is that you can hear other people having sex.

I know. It's not as useful as a shoe mitt or as decadent as room-service Corn Flakes, but I enjoy it. Problem is, because I know that I could possibly hear other people having sex at any time, I constantly listen for it.

"Was that ...? Nah, it was just the plumbing," I reason, dejected.

"Ooohhh," I'll say to myself rushing up from the bed to put my ear against the wall, only to find it's a housekeeper straining to push the vacuum. I've only been checked in for five hours, and already I'm a figidity mess from trying to catch anonymous strangers engaged in coitus.

In other hotel news, this one has a button on the phone, in between the Wake Up Call and Valet Parking buttons, that reads: Consider It Done.

I called and left voice mail after voice mail, but no one has been up to Do me yet. I want to speak to a manager, especially that cute blond one. I may have to Consider Doing It Myself, but then at least I can listen to me.

In the Comments section, tell me if I should get the three-cheese omelet or be good and get the oatmeal for breakfast tomorrow.

Flaw-ri-dah or Busty

I never know how many pairs of underwear to pack for trips.

I'm leaving for Florida tomorrow. It's a work thing--a convention of investing celebrities. Jealous? I can tell.

I'll be back on Sunday, which by my calculation means I'll need 37 pairs of underpants. You never know when a hurricane or blizzard is going to strand you, and, really, in the midst of a natural disaster the last thing I want to worry about is having enough skivvies.

Speaking of undergarments, I learned the hard way during my last excursion that it's best to wear something underneath suit coats, cause those TSA bad boys will make you disrobe.

"Jacket off, too, miss," a salty TSA agent sighed, then scowled at me. His name was Robbie and he smelled like Gouda.

"I don't have anything on underneath," I protested.

"Not my problem," he countered.

I got three buttons undone before he realized I wasn't kidding. Just me and my Maidenform,

"Okay, okay, that's enough. Geez," he said, like it was my fault. I mean, they're only boobs, for crying out loud. I understand he probably doesn't see a lot of them outside of Cinemax, what with living in his Mom's basement and making it to the 13 millionth level in War of Warcraft (or WOW to those of you sadly in the know), but he needn't have been scared. My girls have healed people.

As usual, I've gotten off track and deviated to my boobs.

I love trips, and, actually, despite this trade show having the kewl factor of a combo Rennessaince fair and Trekkie convention, my tendency to be easily amused ensures I will dig the room service and 14 hotel pillows ALL FOR ME. Even if it means presentations on hedge funds, incessant questions from blue hairs and constant notes to myself that it is not acceptable to suggest to the company president that we have ourselves a Red Headed Slut before dinner so we can "chill."

I am bummed that I will be about three hours away from the great James Burnett, but we have already slated a MIRL for the sweet, sweet summertime to do our part for geographic connectedness and the bourbon industry. We might even let Matty come.

Let me know if any of you want to show me some Florida love while I'm there. And I do mean show. I hear there's a mouse or something nearby that I should meet, but I've found the happiest place on Earth can easily be a hotel bed with a bellhop named Rico.

I'm just saying.

In the Comments section, tell me what you like best about hotels.

Two MIRLs Make a Right

Ya'll, it's pretty hard not to get excited by someone who promises to bring "healthy boob and ass action" to a meet 'n greet, so I was right psyched by last night's big MIRL with the lovely Kate from Hey Pretty.

I sauntered into the Capitol Lounge accompanied by the statuesque beauty of my friend Lisa, and, as I'm wont to do, I squealed with delight and kind of did a spastic jump upon meeting Kate. There was a lot of arm waving and seat dancing on my part, 'cause, my pretties, Kate is just as funny and warm and intelligent in person as she is in print.

I love this MIRL thing!

Fortunately, so do all of my other peeps, and it was wonderful of Kristin from Candy Sandwich, Kate's friend (and now one of my new ones) EJ in full stripey gloriousness, Matty from Animal Mind, Scotty from Broke Kid, Scotty's wicked cute Peace Corps friend Ryan, and, of course, Megan Barbara Jane Jones and Har Har Harwell to come out and play, too.

I accidentally wore two different shoes, and Matty kept hitting me for inexplicable reasons, but other than that, we had ourselves a lively, lovely time punctuated by some Jager shots and whatnot. Last night totally underscored my enthusiasm for meeting up with blogger kids in real life.

So, who's next, my pretties? There are more than a few of you in the D.C. Metro area. Who's brave enough to plan a meet 'n greet with me, my boobs and Mr. Jim Beam?

In the Comments section, tell me about someone lovely that you've recently met.

Parallel Universe

While watching the premier of The Sarah Silverman Program (Sweet Jesus, I am probably going to hell for enjoying it as much as I did, but at least I'll be in good company), Matty and I were talking about the idea of parallel play.

Aside from being a really good name for a band ("Thank you, Cleveland! We're Parallel Play!"), it's the neat notion that two people can engage in separate pursuits whilst in the company of one another, though it largely refers to interaction between children. However, Matty and I each had tales of significant others who couldn't effing leave us alone to read or do a jigsaw puzzle for 20 minutes. (So as not to tarnish Matty's image, I'm the one who does jigsaw puzzles. Pictures of cats, mostly. They're so cute!)

In any case, to me parallel play seems an ideal for which to strive. In my head, I envision that my imaginary sweet love schmoopy doll face is reading The World According to Garp, while I'm building a model train set or making pudding. At the same moment, we look up from our activities to meet each other's eyes, smile and bask in the contentment that comes from being together, but independent.

I've always thought a relationship should enhance my life, not take it over. Interestingly, one of the biggest complaints I get from those who dare brave the 123V waters is that I'm too detached, too independent, too caught up in my own pursuits. (Though, to be fair, I do get a lot of compliments on my breasts, my good nature and my vegetable lasagna.) I usually counter that the other person doesn't have enough going on and that they're a stupid head who smells bad. I'm still building my argumentative skills, my pretties.

Anyway, no real point to this post. It's just good to know that there's an actual name for one of my crazy ideas.

In the Comments section, tell me one of your crazy ideas. The winner gets to come over and help me with my latest jigsaw puzzle. A lovely photo of hot air balloons. I think there are cats in them.

123Valerie Strikes OUT Again

My pretties, I'd like you to officially welcome JennyJenny8675309 to the group.

See, um, I've happily lived with JennyJenny for a while now, and she hasn't seen my blog. Kind of on purpose because, well, ya'll know me (some of you even in person), so you know I can be a bit, erm, out there sometimes.

I didn't mean to not show her, but for some reason, I never got around to telling her about how I like the girls sometimes, which is odd because I've never kept that from anyone--my family has known for more than a decade. But, several months in, there just never seemed a good time, and I didn't want to freak her out, and so I knew if she read the blog she would realize and then she might feel weird, like I was going to try and hit on her. (Which, while JennyJenny is totally lovely, she is in no way, shape or form, my type. At all. Not even a little bit. None.)

You can understand why it would be easier to just skirt the issue, which was working out swimmingly.

Then, as per usual, my *plan* failed. See, I took some liberties in mentioning some of JennyJenny's activities--all good things, in my book, but my book is definitely a different read than most others'. So, long story short, JennyJenny stumbled on to this here blog, and Lucy had some 'splaning to do.

This is a good lesson that this is my dysfunctional blog, and I need to protect the innocent. This is also a good lesson for you kids, as I know a few of you have had some issues with people finding your blogs unexpectedly with disasterous results. The Internets are not private, kids, and some people do not want their privates discussed or shown. Though many people do, and I could give you the addresses of a few good Web sites if you're interested.

In any case, because the Internets are not private, let me make this very public apology to JennyJenny and XXXX for postulating about their affairs simply because I didn't have much going on in my own life.

In the Comments section, say hi to JennyJenny and tell her your favorite ice cream flavor.