Sumsumsumma Time and Blogging

Are we already upon the eve of Memorial Day weekend?

How did that happen?

Was it not just threatening to snow?

I think I lost a month or two in there due to complete and total crappiness of weather. I mean, really. April showers, ya, ok, no worries, but SERIOUSLY. I wondered if the latitude of Baltimore had shifted slightly to that of...Seattle.

Hand me a mojito and set me up on my rooftop deck with a book, I am READY.

So, in talking with Lee and various other peoples whose opinions I both respect and often desperately want to hear (because they are hilarious and on-point), it has been decided that I have become entirely too lackadaisical about blogging. Gone are the days of juicy gossip and dating stories, behind me are the endless nights of partying and living the young, high life of Baltimore.

OR ARE THEY?

Mostly I stopped writing about that stuff for three primary reasons:
1. I got a real job. Aside from issues of professionalism, I simply don't have time to be trawling about on the Interwebs all day.
2. I re-assessed the content of the blog and decided I was tired of being responsible for representation of my friends, family, and self. It's a lot to bear. If you get it right, you're golden. If you get it wrong, it's a lot of undoing and apologizing and backtracking. In the end, it just wasn't worth it to me to be constantly assessing what is and is not appropriate content for the Internet. It became too much of a hassle, too much of a burden on my sensitive soul.
3. Refer to #1- I started pursuing other things. Running, working, etc. Blogging kind of fell off of my plate when I decided to write only for myself.

But at Snap's wedding, a lot of stories about the blogging days of yore got tossed around. Those were some crazy years. A lot of them fun, most of them frazzled with that crazy electric energy of being young and directionless and la vie boheme and all of that crap.

My life, I'm sorry to say, is far less exciting now. Thank God. I don't think my sensibilities- or my liver- could handle that level of manic craziness anymore.

Not that I am entirely mellow in my old age of almost-29.

Not that my life still isn't crazy.

Just...different crazy.

So, once again, I'm tasked with finding a balance of writing outlet, drawing in you as an audience, and maintaining professionalism in my work life and enough privacy in my personal life. It's a juggling act, constantly, but maybe one I should pick up again.

I'm thinking that certain statutes of limitations may be up on certain stories, and it might be time to flesh out things from the past that are long gone and dead and buried, but still have immense comedic literary value were I to resurrect them.

Such as...the most awkward date I've ever been on.

I think I might start with that.

Snap's Murried

So, Snap is all married to Sweet-T. No one objected, no one fainted, and everyone showed up on time. Win.

Truly, though, it was a LOT of fun, as you'd expect any wedding with Snap to be. We were fortunate enough to rent a beautiful house with a bunch of like-minded party people ("In the time we've been standing here chatting, you could have had two beers," was one of the first introductions to the weekend). This is crucial for Wedding Fun- locating and sticking with the partiers. Now, in instances past, I myself have been said Designated Party Girl. But given that I was a bridesmaid, I felt the need to be on somewhat good behavior. This doesn't mean alienation from the partiers, however; it means alignment, stealth, and multitasking. Bridesmaidly duties come first, but if you do it right (and I've had some practice), partying can quite easily come in tandem.

Every bride is beautiful, let's face it, but I'm not exaggerating when I say that Snap was breathtaking. I don't know how it's possible to look sexy in a wedding dress (aren't brides usually described as demure? Blushing? Beautiful?) but damn if Snap didn't WEAR that DRESS, if you know what I mean. Pippa Middleton had nothing on this.

At one point over the weekend, someone asked me if I'd ever thought Snap would get married first. I responded that I had never really thought about who might get married first; only that from very early on in Snap and Sweet-T's relationship, I knew they were going to get married. Sometimes you just know. And with them, I just knew. I think everyone did.

I think the only part of the whole weekend that actually saddened me was the knowledge that it would fly by, and Snap and Sweet-T would be back on a plane to San Francisco. And then maybe I'll can catch them at Christmas next year. The one part of the whole deal that chokes me up is that Snap had to move 3,000 miles away.

I guess I need to plan a trip to San Fran.

Also "murried off" last weekend was Catalano. It was heartbreaking that I couldn't go to her wedding, but, well, Snap got the request out prior. How it's possible that I had two such good friends from different circles get married on the same day in 2011 is beyond me. Oh, well. At least I got to go to Vegas for Catalano's bachelorette.

Wedding fun is over for now, work is back in full swing, and it's running, running, running in anticipation for the Survivor 7-miler in June.

Oh, and Lee is turning THIRTY next week. Let us not forget this crucial and important fact. OLD. In a couple of weeks, I will be a mere babe at 29, but Lee will be THIRTY. OLD.

Summer's on it's way....

Weddings, Brew Fests, Cool Runnings, Et Al

Oh, man.

So, been super busy (as always...not really anything new there) but also working in preparations for Snap's wedding this coming weekend. I've got the dress, the shoes, the awesome date, and am fine-tuning the toast. I don't want to give too much away, but suffice it to say that I tried to incorporate a spectrum of emotion that includes Supreme Humiliation. Ok, maybe not humiliation, per say. A touch of humor, maybe. At Snap's expense. Har.

So I went on a long run on Saturday (working towards the Survivor 7 on June 12), and was running peacefully along in some sort of Zenned-out state when I realized that there were throngs of people lining the sidewalks. So I shifted over and ran in the street. Curiously, no cars. Excellent running conditions, however, and the street was even conveniently mapped out with lines of orange cones. Then I realized people were cheering. Just as I was congratulating myself on such good form, I glanced over my shoulder to see Fifi gliding along behind me. Apparently, I had found my running trail along AVAM's annual Kinetic Sculpture race route.

Slightly embarrassing, especially because there wasn't any place for me to turn off, so I just went with it for probably another quarter mile.

So if any of you witnessed the early part of the route and saw some ass running while everyone else was biking, it was me. Oops.

Also worthy of note here was that City Paper's Annual Brew Fest was a couple of weekends ago. As always, it fell on the most gorgeous spring day. I don't know how they do it every year, but it always seems that the weather is in gross extremes leading up to this event. 90 degrees with 100% humidity one day, 45 degrees and raining the next. And then CPABF comes along, and it's 75 degrees, sunny, no humidity. Just perfect.

I'm digging beer right now. Among my favorites:
Boulder's Kind Blue, blueberry wheat
Allagash White Ale
Hitachino Nest, white ale (harder to find, given present export situation)
Dogfish Head Midas Touch, ancient Turkish fermentation recipe (ridiculously hard to find, and ringing in at a whopping $14 per 4-pack in some cases)

So, spring is in full effect. Which means running outside, beer consumption, weddings, and soon- KAYAKING!

Hooray, spring!

Oh, and somewhere in there I'm gonna turn 29. Awesome.

Hate Returns Hate

"I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that." --Martin Luther King, Jr.

SLAPPIN DA BASS

I'm no relationship expert. But it seems to me that if you harbor blatant distaste for the person you are dating, perhaps there is something fundamentally amiss. Furthermore, if you harbor blatant distaste for the person you are dating, AND are quite communicative with your friends about it, you open yourself up to critique of your significant other by these friends. And by friends, I mean close, trusting advocates for your happiness. Or, you know, perfect strangers and passersby that you engage in conversations about how much you hate your sig-o.

If you are in the process of sorting through this distaste, it's not wise to give your friends details that might be used against their soon-to-be-ex in a court of social interaction. Such as: revealing that this person might have an interesting hobby. Say, playing in a steel drum band on the side.

Your friends cannot be held accountable for the frequent and not-so-subtle commentary that might follow this confession. Especially if they are well aware that your relationship is not long for this world.

"Does he insert the term 'irie' into normal conversation?"

"Does he have a knitted cap with the fake dreads sewn into it?"

"Does he argue intensely that 'dub' is a sub-genre of reggae?"

"Does he refuse to drink anything but Blue Mountain coffee?"

"Cool Runnings, mon."

"Does he talk about SLAPPIN DA BASS?"

"SLAPPIN' DE BASS!"

"SLAPPAH DAH BASS!"

Honestly, we really only want for your happiness. We're not just being asses for the sake of being asses, here.

Royalty

After a hasty run the other night, made hastier by the impending storm (because nothing downs your mins-per-mile like a column of cumulus coming at you), I realized that it's true- spring is here. Mostly. After a long, awkward segue of schizophrenic weather patterns with a light sprinkling of devastation around the country.

I did not get up at 5am to watch the royal wedding, but believe you me I have YouTube'd and CNN'd and Google'd my way through the highlights. The dress, the walk up the aisle, the waves, the balcony kisses...it's hard not to get caught up in something so downright timeless. I'm a bit of a known Brit-o-phile anyway (mmmm, Cadbury's and Jaffa Cakes....) but even people who normally wouldn't give a toss (see what I did there?) about such things seemed tuned into this event.

Say what you will about the monarchy, the ridiculousness, the nepotism, the strict adherence to tradition...there's more than a little element of relatable romance to Kate and Will. For starters, I don't think many royal couples met as hard-partying flatmates. They broke up for awhile, but still went to events together, and then got back together. She's cute, he's the prince my generation grew up with. The public dissolution of his parents marriage was a fairy tale gone wrong. His mother's untimely death was one of the great significant news stories of our youth (along with the Challenger, OJ Simpson, and the Gulf War). We want happiness for this guy. We want to cut him a bit of a break. And, all media showiness aside, Kate and Will seem to have struck a balance of romance and friendship that's enviable for anyone, especially a royal pairing.

For those of us who weren't born when Di walked the aisle, this is the royal wedding we all tuned in to see. And a beautiful wedding it was.

Side note: I really want to party with Prince Harry. Does he not seem like a bit of a badass joker? I'll bet he can shotgun a beer.

Anyhoodle.

So, spring is here, William is wed, I've nearly made it through Working All Of The Days, and the City Paper Brew Fest is tomorrow. Huzzah.

Having to Work All of the Days

So, I went to Philly.

I decided I hadn't had enough vacation. After three days back at work, I determined that I needed to "just get away."

Also, I had not been to the Mutter Museum in two years, and I wanted to make sure it was still gross.

It was.

So this week, it is back to, as Jaunt says, "working all of the days."

The torture.

After two weeks of 2-3 day work weeks, it seems nearly impossible to condemn oneself to a five-day week. It just seems so overwhelming.

Still, I have finally unpacked my suitcase(s). This is Progress. And I did Laundry. This is also Progress. I felt the need to capitalize the "L" in "Laundry" because it was that epic.

I'm 90% sure that the reason the cats are acting like total asses is because I have been gone so much.

I'm sorry, cats.

But, really, was it necessary for one of you (FIONA) to puke little white foam puddles everywhere and freak out my roommate who now believes you to be possessed?

What was the deal with that?

And (FIONA) thank you for racking up another $140 vet bill. For the vet to tell me that your little tummy is upset. My tummy is upset, I chew on some Tums. Your tummy is upset, you spew forth a level of sickitude that might have shocked a nurse in a 19th century cholera tent. How is your tummy even big enough to hold 19 piles of white foam? How is this not rabies?

I would have been grossed out had I not just returned from seeing the Soap Lady.

I forgot about the Soap Lady until I eating a lovely lox bagel. This is not the time to be remembering the Soap Lady. Now I'm grossing myself out.

Anyhoodle.

Working all of the days.

I'm sure I need to write up a Part III of Vegas Vacation but dealing with a cat that needs an exorcism and Working All Of the Days this week. Also trying to determine if I need a liver transplant or not...leaning towards yes...

Next Stop, Vegas Please- Part II

Lest you think I spent the entire trip sulking like an Angsty Party Girl, allow me to speak briefly of the high points of the trip (drinks with Harvey "Celeb Fit Club Trainer" notwithstanding).

THE DIGS:
Catalano's dad scored us a sweet time share. It really was delightful; three bedrooms (I think...there might have been four...it was a confusing weekend), kitchen, dining area, living room, three (or four?) full bathrooms, and a sweet jacuzzi. Mrs. Spaz and I put our bathing suits on and occupied said jacuzzi one evening with a bottle of wine. It was truly magic. The best part about having a kitchen (aside from the fact that we turned it into our own makeshift bar where drinks went for the hefty price of FREE) was the ability to have food on-hand. If Legs hadn't stocked the fridge and cupboards, I believe it's entirely likely we might have forgotten to eat all weekend. Except for....


THE EATS:
Oh God, the eats. We went to Happy Hour at Koi on Friday night and had some lovely sushi rolls at half price (half price being nine bucks a pop). This was lovely, but nothing compared to the two buffets we devastated.

On Saturday we went to brunch (at 3pm, mind you...) at the Bellagio. I am well aware that there are starving people in this world; that countries are pained for fresh water and fresh eats. I felt guilty for a full four minutes until I popped a salmon mousse tart into my mouth and finally clued into the fact that there is a time and a place for human compassion, and a sensitivity for world hunger has to be checked at the door of the Bellagio along with any tight-fitting pants you might deign wear. I wore what I referred to as my "Eatin' Dress," which comfortably allows for some serious eating.

I mean, serious. Sushi, rack of lamb, prime rib, ahi poke, Kobe beef, steamed pork buns, pizza, Beef Wellington...it just went on and on. When one conjures images of buffets, it's usually of overcooked, overstarched college food sitting out to bake into oblivion under heat lamps. This is not that.

Cocktail shrimp posed sexily on mountains of slivered ice molded to look like bowls. Grilled quail splayed on a bed of rosemary. The whole thing was nothing short of food porn- and all of it up for grabs. (Although Legs's sister did comment that my mom's Beef Wellington is better than the Bellagio's...a compliment she took as the highest of praise, and rightfully so.)

And the desserts.

Oh, the desserts.

Everything dressed up to look like designer couture, complete with hardware. Chocolate buttons, marzipan bows, edible gold etching. These desserts made other desserts look like trusty farm hands. I shall now scoff at things like Milano cookies, which are overweight and clumsy compared to the slivers of shortbread and chocolate delicately placed headfirst into an air-whipped bed of chocolate mousse.

Sunday, we hit up the famous Spice Market in Planet Hollywood. Same deal with the "Eatin' Dress." Same deal with the ridiculousness. I wish I had brought three extra stomachs with me. I would have gladly paid Delta to check them.

THE AMENITIES:
I'm well aware of the dangers of skin cancer. I know that tanning is a blight upon humanity and has even prompted legislation (the "Anti-Snookie" bill preventing teenagers from tanning and asking for higher taxes on tanning services) .

I KNOW THIS.

However.

One of my most favorite things is Lying Out With A Book. I'm like a cat. Give me a puddle of sun, a nice towel, and I'm in it to win it. And our hotel came with a gorgeous outdoor pool. Multiple pools, in fact, and one very nicely reserved for "Adults Only," and outfitted with a tiki bar. My kinda place.

I probably laid out in the sun for all of three combined hours this weekend and walked with a tan like the one I got after four days in Ocean City last summer.

Why?

Well, funny you should ask. My masseuse (I'll get to that...) informed me: "Enjoying that sun? Don't stay out there too long. There's no smog here, you know. Nothing to block pure sun rays. Coming straight through. You'll burn in less than ten minutes."

It was at that moment that I realized that Vegas, despite being disgustingly full of sin, is a delightfully clean city.

Say what you will about hookers and gambling, there ain't no smog. Or grime. Sure, the tap water tastes a bit off (it is the desert), but after having spent a lifetime on the east coast and four years in what is ranked one of the dirtiest cities in America (sorry, Baltimore...) it was rather a treat to breathe in a lungful of humidity- and smog-free air.

So, the pool. The laying out. Oh, the luxury. Which leads me to....

THE COUPLES' MASSAGE:
Mrs. Spaz and I, and Catalano and her sister opted for the couples' massage package that included a hot stone session. Nevermind that it was couples' massage. It was a deal we weren't gonna pass up, and no one asked any questions about the all-girl pairings.

And there was nothing even remotely romantic about it, believe you me.

Our masseuses were a pair of what I assumed to be sisters, bred of the same football coach stock and hailing from Flatbush. And, lemme tell you, while I'm sure either of them could crush my very being between her pinky and ring finger, they had the lightest touch of any masseuse I've ever had. Which was good. Because they took one look at us, raised their twin eyebrows, and said, "We are not going to do the deep tissue."

"Why not?" we pestered.

"It releases too many....toxins." They eyed us up and down. Hungover and guilty, we were.

Let me tell you things you should not do before getting a hot stone massage. First and foremost, nobody should be getting a massage after two days of hellish behavior in Vegas. Talk about toxins released. Secondly, nobody should be getting a message after falling asleep in aforementioned direct sunlight for an hour after two days of hellish behavior in Vegas.

You know that sick, cold sweat, headachey feeling you get from sunburn-slash-heatstroke? Combine that with severe self-induced dehydration, and then lie- FACE DOWN- on a massage table and have someone put hot stones on your back.

Oh, the torture.

I paid someone fifty bucks to put burning hot stones on my sunburned back, thus causing me to sweat out what I can only assume was pure champagne and sin.

IT WAS NOT PLEASANT.

I saw black spots before my eyes for roughly two hours afterward. A shaft of sunlight came in through the hotel window, and I shuddered and curled up in the corner. If anyone had approached me at that point, I might have yelled "I PUT THE LOTION ON MY SKIN."

Stay tuned for Part III.

Next Stop, Vegas Please- Part I

There's not too much I can say about Vegas that hasn't been said by any of the nearly 40 million people that grace the Strip each year. It's flashing LCD lights, it's quick, it's loud, it's nonstop, and it's pure spectacle.

Thankfully, so are we.

The first night, we went to Tao. It was shoulder-to-shoulder packed, and from the looks of it, most patrons had given up any sense of attempting social graces and commenced immediate lap-sitting purely to save space.

But somehow, we began graduating upwards in the club. First, we were being Night-at-the-Roxbury'd down on the dance floor, then somehow a velvet rope was lifted, and our group was escorted onto the second, less-crowded tier. The one populated by bottle service and paid dancers.

$9 for a domestic bottle later, another rope was lifted and we found ourselves in this dude's VIP lounge. I used to be addicted to Celebrity Fit Club. Seriously. Taking in bottle service with Harvey was pretty high on my list of top moments this past weekend. Say what you will about random celebs, at least they let you drink their free booze in a place where a vodka soda will run you a stifling $12 a pop (before tip).

Eventually we tired of the oomf oomf oomf and Katy Perry remixes and decided to head to the casino. In my mind, it was probably around 1 or 2am. I had forgotten two things:
1. We'd gotten into Vegas around 11pm. Then gone to dinner. Then gone out.
2. Nothing ever closes in Vegas.

It wasn't 1 or 2am. It was probably closer to 4:30 when we left the club. Which, given that we had all just flown in, was approximately 7:30am to our internal clocks.

At approximately 8:00am EST, a friend from Baltimore called me, not knowing I was in Vegas.

"Hey! I know it's early, but I just HAD to tell you before you head in to work-"

"WHAT?"

"I said I know it's early, but I had to tell you what happened-"

"WHAT TIME IS IT?"

"Um, like 7:50, why? Aren't you getting ready for work?"

"WHAT DAY IS IT?"

"What? Where are you?"

"A CASINO. IN VEGAS. IT'S 8AM THERE????"

"Um, yeah..."

"I HAVEN'T GONE TO BED YET. I HAVE BEEN UP FOR 27 HOURS."

Such is Vegas.

Day Two was also a blur of activity. I think we all got a whopping 4.5 hours of what I'm sure was completely rejuvenating sleep before we headed to the pool. I might have gotten a nap in between the shot Catalano's sister got us and the pina coladas. Maybe.

After the pool...off to Planet Hollywood to blow some cash. I was out of chips within about five minutes of getting to the casino and clearly didn't know The Rules of playing roulette. The dealer kept barking commands at me, and I felt shifty and uncomfortable. I didn't know any secrets or classy lingo. I just put chips down and she took them away from me and the freakishly affectionate couple next to me kept winning things. The whole thing made me angry, and so I stormed off to the penny slots where I proceeded to immediately lose five dollars.

Devastated.

I'd been filled with thoughts of cashing out, walking out of Vegas with pockets stuffed with cash. COME ON, THAT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME.

I'm still getting over it.

What happened next is a blur of insomniac-like haze (you know, when you haven't slept in 2 days and you start to feel like you housed a bottle of NyQuil). There was dinner at Koi. There was champagne. There was the Getting Ready (the best part of traveling and living with girls- the Getting Ready), there was an intense discussion of which strip club to take Catalano, there was a limo, there was more champagne, and then there was a Very Rude Stripper.

I did not want to go to the strip club.

I did not want to go to the strip club, and I was tired and cranky.

I made this very evident by sitting in a chair and emitting the word "huff." Arms crossed. Someone, I think Mrs. Spaz, gave me some more champagne, which briefly placated me. And then I got angry again when Very Rude Stripper came over and began using my chair as a dance pole.

"Hey," he purred, leaning in to me. "What's your sign?"

"Gemini," I barked. I did not like this shaven-greased-up-man-dude, but I didn't know yet that he was Very Rude, and so I was only mildly bitchy towards him.

"I'm a Taurus. We get along." At this point, Very Rude Stripper was now straddling me, his mouth very near my neck. This was Uncomfortable. I did not like this.

"You want a dance?" he breathed into my ear. I became Very Angry. And Very Grossed Out.

He was clearly having quite a good time, whereas I was the one suffering. And so, I calmly informed him: "You should pay me."

Very Rude Stripper did not like this one bit. In fact, he disliked this so much, he nipped me on the neck.

HE BIT ME.

VERY RUDE STRIPPER BIT ME.

I believe this might have been the moment that pushed me over the edge. I spiraled from Angsty Party Girl straight into Three-Year-Old-Tantrum.

I believe we left shortly afterwards.

Stay tuned for Part II.

Shake the Glitter Off Your Clothes

(Insert random photo here.)

As soon as I get all of the casino chips out of my suitcase, find my liver (which I'm pretty sure I might have left floating in the jacuzzi), and get more than five hours of sleep, I shall post (some) of the ridiculousness. A quick perusal of my Twitter feed should tell you all you need to know at this point.

Except for the part where the stripper bit me.

Yes, that happened.

Viva Las Vegas.