January 26, 2009 | Filed under: Boys Are Dumb

At the outset, let me just say, if you’re looking for happy! fun! entertainment! you should probably go elsewhere.  Unless you’re big into schadenfreude.

We ended things in December. Yes, “things” is about the only way to describe it, as it was never a real relationship. That doesn’t stop it from feeling like a real break-up, though, albeit with far fewer tears. Strange how that works.

Thus began the long, complicated work of being friends — a strategy I do not necessarily endorse, but did not want to be too quick to rule out. However, let me offer you three data points:

• Building a friendship is hard work, particularly when starting from this somewhat awkward point.
• He does not believe in hard work. Maximum output for minimum input is his M.O.
• In my entire lifetime, I’ve become friends with exactly zero people after dating them. Some people I’ve been friends with, then dated, then reverted back to friends, but that’s it.

You can see why I’ve been deeply suspicious of this approach.

Our first get-together ended in awkward silence, followed by a tortured e-mail conversation, wherein it was promised that things would get better, eventually, but with no game plan as to how “better” would magically come about.

Our second get-together was more civil. I chalk that up to occurring in the middle of the workday and mostly talking about work things.

Our third get-together was fine, until it ended abruptly. And then was followed by a phone conversation with honest-to-goodness yelling. And a terse e-mail conversation the next day, to wrap up some of the loose ends from the phone conversation.

So. This is the point at which I generally tell people to take a permanent vacation from my life. Right now, though, I don’t have a plan, a desired course of action. Part of me wants to be able to be friends. Part of me says it is not at all worth the aggravation. Another part of me just wants to take a nap. (I’d say that part is about 72% of the total.) Do you think I can just sleep this off like a rough night out?

January 11, 2009 | Filed under: Because They Pay Me, DC! DC! DC!

Preparations are in full swing, here in our nation’s capital, where soon five million people* will descend upon the city and surrounding six states for the historic inauguration of Barack Obama.

* Or two million. We’re not sure. Either way, we’re pretty sure it’s gonna be a shit-ton of them and it’ll make the natives cry and wish for the easy, breezy, uncongested streets we see during the Cherry Blossom Festival.

Things started last fall, with the repaving of Pennsylvania Avenue (Confidential to those of you who will see the parade on TV: Yes, DC has had some work done, but let me tell you, the asphalt really does look *that* good in person. It’s not just her make-up artist.); the assembly of the bleachers and podium and whatnot in front of the Capitol has been going on for a couple of months; and in the last few weeks, weekly updates about which roads and bridges into the city will be open on Inauguration Day. (Hint: none.)

In the past two weeks, the activity around my office has gotten quite noticeable.  The street is blocked off a couple of blocks away.  That started right around New Year’s, without notice, just nope, you can’t go there. A police car is permanently parked in the way. Today there were jersey barriers strategically placed on the sidewalk at each corner of the block. And many more bleachers have been set up along the parade route leading to the White House. I was worried today that going to the ATM was going to require crossing a police line — the yellow tape fluttered in the wind. Thankfully, Bank of America appears not to be off limits. Yet.

* * * * * *

So, DC is nearly ready. You know who is not ready? ME.

Work is hosting an Inaugural Ball, which, yay! fun! fancy dresses and guys in tuxes! (Note to self: Hands. Off. 90% of them are married and the other 10% are gay.)

I’ve had my dress for a while (knowing life would be insane now-ish and I would have no desire to go shopping for a dress under such stressful conditions), which sounds very prepared of me. Yeah. Let me tell you, Christmas cookies for breakfast + no gym time + fancy dress made of totally unforgiving satin = not prepared.  NOT PREPARED.

I’m hoping for my own version of an 8-day miracle, and it better not involve any oil.

(The dry cleaner/seamstress lady in my office building really liked the dress, though, and thought it fit perfectly. I agree, if by “perfectly” you mean “it shows perfectly every ounce of mass in my body without a millimeter to spare for lovely supportive undergarments.” I’m hoping for a miracle from her, too, because I’m out of town until the day before I need to pick the dress up, so there’s not much margin for error here. No pressure!)

(And yes, my dress features boobs. Nice, tasteful, work-appropriate boobs.)

* * * * * *

Just in case there was any confusion out there and y’all thought I am a mature, responsible grown-up, let me assure you that I have the mind of a 12-year old boy. That was probably clear from the title of this post, but if not, please know that in the span of ten minutes, I snickered at both of the following quotes from sportscasters calling a football game this weekend:

Not a lot of room for Kurt Warner to get the ball in there.

Just stick it up in there and get three or four yards.

I mean, that first one isn’t even that funny. But it sort of is, especially if you’re only half listening to the commentary, which I was. Similarly, I have a credit card whose online account access page requires you to visit — and I am not making this up – www.servicemycard.com. WHO IN MARKETING MISSED THAT ONE? Really, people? Really? Or am I the only customer out there who can’t keep a straight face while she checks her most recent statement?

Finally, a tip for all of you football fans:  do not date someone with the same last name as a talented running back.  When you cease dating, watching football will become noticeably less enjoyable, as you will continually be reminded of your ex’s existence, and spending the game hoping some horrible groin injury befalls him isn’t really fair to the football player.

January 8, 2009 | Filed under: I Run Therefore I Am, Is She Still Talking?

Eight days into the new year — high time to get myself some New Year’s resolutions. I’m not sure how much resolve I have, so let’s call these goals targets to shoot for pipe dreams.

If there’s one thing I learned in grad school, it’s that goals must be CLEAR and MEASURABLE. That means none of this namby-pamby “be more patient” sort of resolution. (I feel OK giving up on that particular resolution. Ten years running and it hasn’t worked yet.)

Therefore, here are some of my goals for the year. I’m sure it’s not an exhaustive list, but I’m too exhuasted to try to come up with the rest of them.

• Run 800 miles. Now, before you go thinking this sounds batshit insane, please note that 800 miles is approximately 15 miles per week, or three 5-mile runs each week. This is a totally manageable goal which will only become unmanageable if I don’t work out three times a week. And if I don’t work out three times a week, a lot of other bad things will happen, not least of which is becoming batshit insane.
• Blog at least once a week.
• Do not stress out.
• Add weekend days onto work trips so as to do something fun while in other places, rather than the fly in/fly out routine from last year.
• Finish furnishing the house.
• Do not stress out.
• Bike. Like, ever. Buying a bike might be a good first step.
• Send real Christmas cards. Before Christmas.
• Do not stress out.

Did you make resolutions? Have you blown any of them already? It’s OK, we won’t tell.

January 2, 2009 | Filed under: It's Called "Having a Life." You Should Try It., People I Like Even More Than My Job

This pretty well sums up my night: ten hours of champagne. No, I have no idea how many glasses that is. Yes, my “night” started mid-afternoon. Stop looking at me like that.

I somehow ended up with zero group shots on my camera, despite having posed for many, many of them. But I totally won the battle of dueling cameras — Neal’s picture was my blurry hand holding the camera.

This is the drink of choice for my drinking buddy running partner Scott. I won’t touch it, but I can order one like a pro. (Bombay martini, dirty, up. Unspecified number of olives, unless the first drink comes with too many, and then the proper number is one.)

There I am. In a funny hat. My work here is done.

And as long as I’m showing you pictures, here’s the collage of photos from Prague I put in my Christmas New Year’s letter. Which reminds me, I’ve got roughly 345,762,303,957 more pics from that trip to edit and upload before I take another vacation. Drat.