Archive for May, 2009

Why The Fantasy Is Never As Good As The Reality

May 20, 2009

I am in the middle of a self-imposed Man Moratorium. Initially it stemmed from the emotional fallout of my last relationship but now it’s more that I’ve developed a general state of disgust when it comes to anything with a penis. The idea of dating just feels daunting these days. I’m not in the mood to wade through the sea of pleated-pants-wearing, workaholic, overachievers to find the lone intelligent, funny, snappy-dressing-but-still-not-gay manicorn that has miraculously managed to avoid full-blown Douchedom. Yeah, I’m bitter. And chancing another Wasabi Death Incident or potentially encountering Puker: The Sequel is more than I’m willing to endure. Instead, single, with on demand battery-operated sexual fulfillment, is working out just fine. My taxi light is firmly off and I’ve accepted that by taking a dating break at 30, it is totally possible my future could involve Crazy Cat Lady. But being in a Man-cation doesn’t mean I can’t look. Or shamelessly fantasize about random men.

Anyway, last night I left Lawyer Utopia kind of late. When I log the hours, I typically grab the 38B instead of Metroing home. There’s a stop directly in front of Soviet Safeway and my single state has devolved to a nightly dinner of box wine and the hot bar dregs. The other 38B appeal is the cute 30-something guy who gets on right before Georgetown, sits somewhere in the back of the bus and reads intellectual books. Last week it was Nixonland. This week it’s The Lazarus Project. He’s pleated-pants free and so far, I’ve not spotted any indications that he’s in a relationship. We’ve never talked, let alone made actual eye contact. But he’s reasonably attractive, seemingly harmless, and a fixture on my evening commute home. Thus, he qualifies as the perfect target for my reoccurring Bus Boyfriend fantasy.

Aside from Bus Boyfriend, my Fantasy Man Life usually involves Prince William, David Hasselhoff: The Early Years, or Scott Baio. It’s always G-rated. Sorta heavily-edited Harlequin or slightly tawdry Disney. Anyway, in my daydreams, Fantasy Man and I meet in a generic yet still great-story-to-tell-the-grandkids sort of way. Often it involves a random run-in at a Metro stop or a blind date we were both reluctant to go on. Because the greatest love stories of all time involve boy initially hates girl/girl thinks boy is a schmuck scenarios, we don’t get along. But fate keeps throwing us together until Fantasy Man Du Jour and I realize our love is destined. He proposes in some romantic yet still unnauseating way and that’s it. End of fantasy.

I’m sure my therapist would go all Freudish about these, especially in light of my current Anti-Man Stance. But whatever. To me, they’re just flights of imagination. Like a trashy romance novel in my head. And until last night, my imaginary Cinderella-like existence with Bus Boyfriend and his cronies was great. But, as fate would have it, I now have to remove Bus Boyfriend from the fantasy lineup.

Per usual, Bus Boyfriend got on the 38B last night. It was surprisingly crowded and instead of following his normal head straight to the back M.O., Bus Boyfriend looked around, spotted a free seat and beelined. Within nanoseconds, he was sitting in the empty next to me. I was eight shades of thrilled. This was my chance. An honest-to-God Metro Bus encounter that would make for great Ahhhh-isn’t-it-cute-how-they-met type wedding toasts. All I had to do was strike up a conversation about something innocuous, flutter my eyelashes enticingly and if that wasn’t enough to keep Bus Boyfriend enthralled, flash a little boobie. My breasts are like a dating tractor beam: point, shoot, score a number. Yet, instead of employing my usual flirtactics, I sat there. Mute. For 23 agonizing minutes I didn’t say a word. Opening lines kept popping into my head but I’d instantly reject them as not witty enough or as feeling rehearsed.

As the 38B went over Key Bridge, it hit a meteor-sized pothole. My iPod flew from my hand and landed on Bus Boyfriend’s lap. It was a moment ripe for a witty remark. But instead, I reached over on a retrieval mission and accidentally fondled his package. Still, I said nothing. No apology for the inadvertent molestation; not even an awkward complement on the endowment of his Man Parts. Speechless mortification had set in.

When the bus pulled into the Rosslyn Metro, I realized time was running out; the next stop was Soviet Safeway. But not even that was enough to get me to make a move. Instead of professing my undying fantasy love or my belief that we’d produce Gerber-label-esque babies, I just pulled the Stop Request cord, did the universal bag shuffle that signaled to Bus Boy I needed to get off, and scotched past him. As I inched around his knees, I finally broke the silence.

Me (in mumbly sort of way): Excuse me.

Bus Boyfriend (with a disturbingly knowing smile): No problem. Good night.

If my life were a trashy romance novel, those four words would have been the quintessential, defining sentences. But Katherine Land is a far cry from Danielle Steel; Bus Boyfriend’s voice was pitched astonishingly like Alvin’s, of “And The Chipmunks” fame. Except an octave higher and with a squeakiness reminiscent of somebody taking a hit of helium.

It was enough to reaffirm my singlehood and move Don Draper into the Fantasy Man rotation.



I Wish I Were Making This Up But I’m Not

May 15, 2009

I am lactose intolerant. It has been previously documented here, here and here. For years, I’ve dealt with it. But due to deep rooted psychological hang-ups the resulting obstinacy issues I am currently exploring in weekly therapy, I refuse to take lactaid pills. Consequently, I have figured out the magical amount of dairy I can eat without setting off The Shits. General stomach pain and excessive gas? Fine. I’ll deal. But suffering long years of lactic hell has taught me exactly what I can eat while still avoiding Total Tummy Annihilation.

For lunch today, I suggested the office order in pizza. We’ve had a rough week and it seemed like a suitable Managerial Band-Aid. Plus, I could eat two or three slices and stay within my dairy sweet spot. After debating the pros and cons of various pizza providers, the majority finally settled on Papa Johns. It came, I ate two slices, and returned to my regularly scheduled work program. As expected, about 20 minutes later, my stomach started to rumble. Five minutes after that, I got gas. Chair rumbling, lift-up-your-leg-to-let-it-all-out, registers-on-the-Richter gas. With my office door closed, the Lawyerly Ventilation System creates hurricane worth air circulation, so I thought nothing of sitting at my desk, doing research and farting away. Until I shit my pants.


It was one of those farts where you have to push a little to get it out; where there’s just a tad bit of thrust behind it. I guess the combination of forceful fart and lactose-induced stomach unrest was just too much because as soon as it broke the butt cheek barrier, I knew something was wrong. For about eight seconds, I was in denial. I mean, who wants to admit they shit their pants two days into their 30’s? But reality is reality. I was sitting in my stink-bombed office in poopy panties.

Panicking, I got up, grabbed the bathroom key and waddled to the facilities. Thankfully, the Ladies was empty and I could rectify the situation in peace. It took half an econo-roll of TP, three enormous wads of damp paper towel and surgical-like hand washing to make me feel clean again. Not to mention that I trashed my undies in the sanitary napkin receptacle and am now experiencing Workplace Commando.


I’m just about to walk down to CVS and buy some lactaid pills. And possibly a diaper.

Katherineapalooza XXX: It’s Official And Stuff

May 15, 2009

Dear Ladies And Gentlemen of Blogland:

It’s that special time everybody has been waiting for…

That awesomely amazing night where, if feed enough free top-shelf vodka, I will do my rendition of Let Me Entertain You, complete with leg thrust and boob shake…

It’s the party that will Live In Infamy. At least in my mind…

Yep. It’s Katherineapalooza XXX, otherwise know as My 30th Birthday Party, Bitches!

So, whatcha need to know:

Who: All the cool kids. That means YOU! Hopefully…

What: Katherine pushing the limits of her liver and doing her best White Girl Jive, most likely flashing her boobs for shots and other assorted debauchery. There will be pictures. And possibly video.

When: This Saturday. Which is May 16th. Things are officially starting at 9 o’clock, but keep in mind that Stella is habitually late and thus I am habitually late.

Where: The funtivities will commence at Policy and at some point in the evening, will move to Saint Ex, where there might be a Dance Off.

Why: Because Katherine is turning XXX!

You know you want to come…

Hugs and Kisses,


Today’s Metro Lesson: I Hate Monday

May 4, 2009

8:17: Send text message to office receptionist: Just awoke from dream involving Zac Efron, Chuck Bass and hot sauce. Can’t decide if my alarm is faulty or I have a previously unrecognized fetish for turtlenecks which necessitated I oversleep and finish the dream. Either way, I will be late.

8:17 and 22 seconds: Response from office receptionist: That does not explain the hot sauce.

8:18: Power shower. Actually take Diet Coke in with me. I view this as multi-tasking.

8:24: Attempt to blow dry my hair. Realize that Washington, DC has three seasons: Winter, Tourist and Living In A Bajillion Degree Sauna. Since it’s currently the third season, figure there’s not much point in spending time perfecting my coif. Even with no blowout, I refuse to forgo the other elements of my beauty regimen. But time is limited and I have to get to Lawyer Utopia. In desperation, I run to the front door, grab laptop bag and do a one-armed sweep of all beauty products residing on the vanity. Time permitting, I will make an emergency pit stop in Lawyerly Bathroom to stave off Hag Look.

8:32: Locate questionably clean underwear. Recognize that laundry has become a Major Priority. Decide I should wear my panties inside out and thus maximize Girly Bits Sanitation.

8:39: Dressed. And matching. Huzzah!

8:40: More Diet Coke, the Elixir of Life.

8:42: Fly out door. Forgo elevator for stairs. It’s faster and I try to convince myself that it doubles as cardio.

8:47: Warp speed to Rosslyn. Have adopted new mantra: I can make the 8:50 Metro. I can! I can!

8:47 and 42 seconds: Stupid woman is slow poking down middle of Megascalator, preventing passing on left or right. Irritated commuters abound. Contemplate throwing something at her head but don’t have anything I’m willing to sacrifice for the cause. Instead, decide to engage in a little self-hygiene. Open laptop bag and rummage.

8:48: Realize I forgot to put on deodorant while at home. Mentally explore the logistics of public application.

8:49: There is no subtle way to put on deodorant in a Metro station. Smell prevention beats out dignity. I apply.

8:50: Tourists on Up Escalator point at me and break out camera. If I am going to be immortalized in a stranger’s Adventure In The Big City Photo Montage, I might as well live it up. Strike a pose worthy of a Secret ad.

8:51: Metro pulls into station just as I hit the last escalator stair.

8:52: Sprint! Which for me means walk at a minimally increased pace.

8:54: Apparently, Orange and Blues are delayed and my train sits on the platform for several minutes. I hop on without having to Door Dive. Thank you, Suspicious Package At Farragut West!

8:55: Text office receptionist with update: Unibomber has struck the Metro. Delays. ETA is unknown.

8:57: Continue with beauty regime and put on powder and lip gloss. Pregnant Lady offers to hold mirror for me while I attempt contact insertion.

8:58: Office receptionist response text: See you at noon o’clock. Happy travels! Don’t kill anybody in your irritation. I’ve only been in my new job for a month, yet she knows me so well…

8:59: Metro movement!

8:59 and two seconds: They were just taunting us. The train actually only moves an inch and three quarters. Time to break out the eyeliner.

8:59 and six seconds: This time the train actually leaves the station.

9:00: Eyeliner application is not going so well.

9:01: I avoid tragic eye poking incident by millimeters. Begin to weight the pros and cons of blindness over vanity. Opt for vanity.

9:02: One eye done. Pregnant Lady Holding Mirror is snickering.

9:08: Complete eyeliner application. I resemble a drunken raccoon. Decide to delay the remainder of my beauty regime until I reach Lawyer Utopia and can utilize the bathroom. I fear that if I try for lip liner, I’ll end up biting off the pencil tip and face the age old conundrum: spit or swallow?

9:12: Arrive Farragut West. Suspicious Package has lead to a Commuting Cluster Fuck. Text office receptionist: I am in a stampede of people at Farragut West. If I die, please fix my eyeliner before they bury me.

9:13: Response text from office receptionist: Noted.

9:19: Emerge from station, proceed to 17th and I. Truck passes and sends up tsunami of puddle water directly at me. I am soaked.

9:24: Enter Lawyer Utopia and proceed directly to bathroom. Office receptionist follows.

9:25: As I begin to sponge myself off, office receptionist risks life and limb to voice an opinion: You should have stayed in bed. At least you had Zac Efron. But I’m still confused about the hot sauce.