Archive for the ‘Dating blows the big one’ Category

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.



My Reintroduction To The Treadmill, Or Wendy’s Boy: One, Me: Nada

March 12, 2009

This is how it came to pass…

Wendy’s Boy (blathering on about inconsequential matters): Blah blah blah, I like to run, blahdiddty blah blah…

Me (watching Season Three of The O.C., so clearly focused on when they are going to blow Marissa up rather than the telephonic conversation): Uh huh.

Wendy’s Boy (suspiciously perky): Blaaaaahhhhh bladumdeedum blah blah. What time should I pick you up for our Workout Date? Blahblah…


Last night, all annoyingly punctual, Wendy’s Boy arrived at Chez Apartment clad in the snazziest wick-away pants Under Armour manufactures. I was a tad less enthusiastic about the date and still in my Lawyerly Clothes. My brand-new-purchased-in-a-panic-over-lunch workout apparel was heavy on the spandex and frankly, I wasn’t too eager to sausage my Midwestern Sexy bedonadonk into anything black and stretchy.

Wendy’s Boy (totally unaware that his workout pants accentuated the positive, so to speak): I guess you were late getting home from The Place Of Lawyerly Things?

Me (wondering if I could force feed Bionic Kitty my sneakers in the next five minutes): It’s more that I want to give you some disclaimers before I suit up. But first, what’s on the Gym Agenda?

Wendy’s Boy (getting comfortable on the couch): I thought we could do a brisk treadmill run for about an hour, hour and a half. And maybe follow it with some light weights. And for a cool down, I brought my Metal Man Abs DVD.

Me (pretty sure ten minutes of running would necessitate an ER visit to jump start my heart): To be clear, I’ve not been in an athletic facility since 2000. Early ’00. Possibly 1999. Which would mean I’ve not actually exercised this century. You’re going to have to scale back your expectations. Dramatically.

Wendy’s Boy (all smirks and smiles): I was kidding. We’ll easy you back in. Your email outlining the Non-Negotiable Terms And Conditions (Which Must Be Properly Acknowledged And Notarized Proceeding Our Workout Date) did repeatedly mention this was your reintroduction to All Things Gym. By the way, I brought this…

Me (looking at a printout of my email, gussied up with a proper notarial statement and seal): Are you serious?

Wendy’s Boy (trying to suppress the gloat but not really succeeding): I figured if I went to the trouble of finding a notary, you’d feel guilty enough to actually work out. This is my trump card. Now go put on your exercise clothes.

Me (mumbling as I headed to the bedroom to rescue my running shoes from Bionic Kitty): You know me waaaaaaaay too well for the third date.

Wendy’s Boy (shouting after me): I can’t wait to see your ass in lycra!

Unintentionally Recycling My Dating Pool

February 23, 2009

I thought Wendy’s Boy had faded back into the ether, never to be heard from again. But on Thursday night, while I was at Second Job That I Do To Maintain Sanity, he pulled a Jesus and resurrected.

A Voice Behind Me (doing the “Do I know you?” thing): Katherine? Katherine?

Me (turning around, recognizing him and quickly calculating all possible levels of awkwardness): Wendy’s Boy? Um, hey?

Wendy’s Boy (all grins and smiles and goggley eyes despite my apathetic greeting): I almost didn’t recognize you. Your hair is different.

Me (does noticing Hair Change mean he’s gay? Oh God! Oh God! Please say I’ve not unknowingly dated another gay man. Quick, run down the Potential Gay Man Warning Signs Checklist!): Yeah, I dyed it red.

Wendy’s Boy (advancing into Flirt Mode): I like it. You look great. Really great.

Me (knowing there is no way to be subtle about this but accepting I must check out his fingernail status in order to clear the Checklist): Thanks. Um, would you please show me your hands?

Despite that bit of awkward, he got my number again.

Now, with a potentially hazardous Friday re-date looming, I am strangely unconcerned about what to wear, how to respond when he asks what I’ve been up to the last few months, or even if I should engage in some “personal” grooming. Instead, my overriding concern is: can you be your own sloppy seconds?

The Annals of eCrush, Or The Blog Post My Parents And Assorted Relatives Should Not Read (Seriously)

February 17, 2009

Sometime between the beginning of the month and Saturday morning, I grew a conscience. The pesky thing kept me from over-sharing on the blog, and thus enacting a To The Death type campaign between eCrush and me. Plus, it saved my mom a heart attack and having to enact a parental-tag-team phone call to discuss “boundaries,” “maturity” and possibly “being out of the will.” Much to the disgust of assorted enablers friends, I drew a line in my ethical sandbox and stood firmly on the honorable side of it. At least, that was true until eCrush called me on Valentine’s Day.

Me (not really paying attention to who was calling, since I was much more interested in my gChat discussion of Joss “Please impregnate me in a deliciously naughty way” Whedon’s new television show): Hello?

eCrush (way too confident considering the genital maiming I threatened last time he called): Did you get my flowers?

Me (considering the pros of a new cell number): They went straight from the concierge desk into the garbage chute. When they hit bottom, they make a surprisingly loud thunking sound. Why are you calling? We’ve discussed this. What part of a Communication Cease And Deist do you not understand?

eCrush (mourning the demise of $150 in floral apology): It’s Valentine’s Day and I wanted to let you know I still love you and care about  you; that I’m so sorry —

Me (wishing cells phones were conducive to doing the Hang Up Slam Thing): You told me you didn’t want to be with me, among other reasons, because I was too unattractive and fat. You are no longer worth coming up with creatively mean names for. Stop calling. *And I forcefully pushed the off button*

My phone rang again. I enacted the Screen. A few minutes later, there was a message chirp.

eCrush (all High and Mighty in the voicemail): That was rude. Why are you acting this way? God, are you PMSing? This kind of behavior is why I am now dating (The Other Woman) —

That’s when I decided the message delete option was almost as fulfilling as a sleeve of Thin Mints, that morals were overrated and the vengeful tendencies of my ovaries should not be denied. Bring on Scorched Earth…

(ONE LAST WARNING TO MY MOM, DAD, AND ANY OTHER BLOOD RELATIONS WHO MAY STILL BE READING: I am serious, close the browser. Really. Go away! Hugs, Kate)

Sometime after the Frenzied New Partner Sex downgrades into I Now Know All Your Tricks Sex, a couple generally reaches the Comfort Stage. It’s a sexual holding pattern that comes and goes throughout the course of a relationship, and can occasionally act a warning sign that the Predetermined Menu is lurking. The Comfort Stage is defined by familiarity. Basically, the couple is secure enough to trust each other with their mutual sexual fantasies, but is still motivated enough to act them out. This phase is why women hang onto their Circa 1997 plaid skirts. It also explains the popularity of fuzzy leopard print handcuffs. Or in my case, why I now have a sex toy I don’t know what to do with.

One Saturday evening, eCrush had long since reached the finish line but I was lagging behind, still attempting to complete the race. It had been a night of seemingly endless wine and cheese consumption. I was drunk, recovering from a nasty bout of lactose intolerance and just wanted to see orgasm stars, make eCrush get me a glass of water, and pass out. Hoping to move things along, I suggested he grab an adult accoutrement from my goody drawer. My advice took a moment for him to process, thanks to his Pinot haze, but when he did, eCrush stopped his over-enthusiastic boob grab/finger duet thing, and gave me a look of utter horror. When sleep surpasses orgasm as a personal priority, I’m pretty sure that’s the onset of the Comfort Stage. I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing; it means the relationship is evolving, that the comfy granny nightgown will start making an appearance, and farting has become a competitive group activity instead of a stealth action. Yet, to eCrush, the onset of the Comfort Stage heralded A Big, Scary Manhood-Threatening Change. And introducing a vibrator into the mix was sort of like sending him a Hallmark card that read Ten Loving Suggestions On How To Better Utilize Your Boy Unit. Needless to say, I didn’t get much personal satisfaction that night.

Having an X-chromosome, and thus biologically predisposed to talk things out, I addressed the situation the next morning. My part of the conversation was very “I like to get my jollies, and I’m not opposed to mechanical assistance when needed.” eCrush’s was more of the silent, awkward blushing variety. The attempt to introduce my Republican boyfriend to PG-13 rated sex was not going well. I saw a rush Amazon delivery of The Joys Of Sex in my immediate future. Trying to ward off a lifetime of missionary, I asked eCrush if there was anything he’d ever been curious about, anything he’d ever wanted to try. I expected blind-folding or maybe a desire to break in the dining room table, but instead, I got a request for butt plugs.

Let’s be clear, Webbernets: my pooper is Exit Only. There was no way I was letting anybody astro up my glide. For all sexual purposes, I have no backdoor. So, while eCrush waited on one heck of a sexual limb, I mentally ran through eleventy seven different ways to express my reluctance, and rejected them all. There had to be some way to say, “Hell no! You aren’t shoving anything up my rear!” while still encouraging eCrush be more sexually adventurous. Except, I couldn’t find it. This was a quandary above even my analytic abilities; I needed outside help. So, I racked my brain, trying to devise some way to pause the conversation with eCrush until I could call an Emergency Girl Summit and get advice on proper butt plug denial etiquette.

Then, in a moment where I swear Heaven hand delivered me a Get Out Of Jail Free card, eCrush clarified. He wanted to be the butt plug recipient. In fact, over the years he had assembled a sort of Introduction To Anal Kit. eCrush had just never thought I’d be open to anything beyond vanilla sex, so he never mentioned it. Frankly, I was so relieved that my ass would remain a sacred zone, I probably would have agreed to anything short of hamsters or three-eyed midgets. If my boyfriend wanted me shove something up his tooshy, I would do it as long as there was a no-give-back guarantee. And that, boys and girls, was when I secretly realized the madras pants and pink Lilly shirts were the least of my problems.

Why I Am Questioning The Wisdom Of My Diet Coke Dependency

February 11, 2009

I think I broke my foot this morning. This oh-so-medically-informed conclusion is based on extensive Googling, the helpful input of several Lawyerly Place colleagues, and the fact that it hurts like a Mother Effer. I’ve an appointment with my podiatrist to confirm my self-diagnosis and hopefully, to get some Vicodin. But until then, I am carefully studying diagrams of foot bones, reading up on I-dropped-something-on-me type injuries and comparing all that to my current Purple Marshmallow Foot Status.

To better understand the events leading to my gimpdom, I need to rewind several weeks. On some random weekend afternoon, when I was still in the throes of misguided eCrush love, I ran out of Diet Coke. A continuous intake of caffeine is pretty much the only way I’m able to function and reduced calorie Coke products are my beverage of choice. That day, when I opened the Frigidaire to find my household Diet Coke supplies were low, I freaked. I need at least two available cans to maintain a continuous Diet Coke intake. Otherwise, my caffeine level dips, I get a rager headache and I sometimes decapitate small children. But my reaction to the soda situation was laughable compared to eCrush’s. His caffeine dependency far exceeds mine. It’s sort of like comparing a hardened heroin addict (him) with a kindergartner who has just learned to say no (me).  When I informed eCrush that I was out of liquid crack and we’d have to ration until I made a grocery run, he gave me Panic Eyes. Without a word, he got off the couch, grabbed my collapsible shopping cart and scurried to Soviet Safeway. Twenty minutes later, eCrush was back and armed with six fridge packs. Diet Coke crisis averted.

Liquid Sustenance

Liquid Sustenance

Fast forward to Sunday. Thanks to the previous day’s eCrush Confrontation, I was still at DEFCON emotional levels. In an effort to quell my instincts, which demanded I inflict injury onto his Stupid Smooshie Dog, I was rampaging through Chez Apartment and ridding myself of all leftover eCrush paraphernalia. During my Anger Storm, his fancy pants $150 whirly twirly toothbrush was repurposed; I found it cleans the litter boxes superbly. I played Balcony Basketball with his iPod. And the homeless guy who sleeps by the Rosslyn Metro looks rather dapper in the $195 Versace Shoulder Snap shirt eCrush orgasmed over. Then, towards the end of the evening, I found an unopened Diet Coke 12-pack tucked into the No Man’s Land Nook (that space above the fridge but below those basically purposeless cabinets that are only good for stashing random kitchenware, like fondue pots and vegetable steamers). Instantly, I knew it was a pack that eCrush had purchased. At some point, he’d written cutesy “I Love You” type notes on the cases and this one was graffitied with his lies. I was all quandarified about what to do. On one hand, I felt anything associated with eCrush carried some level of taint; a sort of a residual emotional toxicity and I wanted it gone. Otherwise I was probably going to maim his dog, be arrested for animal cruelty and, really, that would suck. Yet, the 12-pack was half a week’s worth of perfectly drinkable caffeine and I hated to throw it away just because it was purchased by eDouchehead. I wondered if there was some sort of cleanse I could do. Maybe something involving incense and Clorox Wipes? But eventually, my addiction won and I opted to keep the soda. With a nod to my sanity, I cut eCrush’s note off the end of the fridge pack and stashed the Diet Coke back in the Nook, intending the cans to be an emergency stash brought out when only I was desperate enough ingest tainted caffeine.

The Fridge Pack Of Doom

The Fridge Pack Of Doom

So, this morning, I went to the grab my a.m. dose of Functionality In A Can. And I guess the Curse Of eCrush was at work because as soon as I opened the fridge door, the end of the 12-pack, the part that keeps all the cans nestled in the cardboard confines, burst. One by freaking one, the Diet Cokes rolled from the carton, off the top of the fridge and Kamikazed directly onto my foot. And one of them exploded as it hit (what I’ve since identified as) my medial cuneiform.


Spikes of pain shot into my toes and up my leg. There was a thunking sound every time a can hit my foot, like a herd of drunken sorority girls stumbling down the stairs. Then, barely five seconds after it began, the Diet Coke Attack was done. There was no way I was opening the freezer to get ice for my swelling foot. If there was an errant Diet Coke can up top, I was not about to jostle it and be knocked unconscious. Instead, I sprint-limped from the kitchen to put my mangled foot under a stream of freezing tap water. And as I sat on the edge of the bathtub, I dialed eCrush. Wisely, he screened. But when eCrush listens to his voice mail, I hope he hugs his little doggie tight and fears the day I carry through on my threat to kick him and his Gay Dog in the balls.

Endings, Or The Last Of The eCrush Chronicles

January 22, 2009

Looking back at my Personal Dating Timeline, I realize there are distinct eras. But instead of Mesozoic and Jurassic, I have “Binge Dating: The College Years” and “The Great Law School Drought That Was Only Relieved By A Mediocre Sex Buddy And, Mercifully, Graduation.” There are also the men who have become the milestones of my dating history. The first shiny star was Russell Arnold, who married me under the monkey bars and sealed the deal with a saliva-heavy kiss placed half on my lips, half on my cheek. And there’s the guy I made out with on the back of the high school ski club bus. It was an awkward introduction to male genitalia and led to my shortest relationship on record. We clocked in 14 hours of coupledom before I dumped him, citing the classic “it’s not you, it’s me.” Over the years, the guys have been many and diverse but each interaction has taught me something. It’s been a string of important dating lessons, like pubic hair waxed into a star shape is a massive, red warning flag and that I like guys with a suppressed geek side.

It seems it’s time to officially add another dating era to the Timeline. The eCrush Chronicles have ended. It all went down in the wake of a girls’ night. After the last leg of our martini spree, I found myself a few blocks away from eCrush’s apartment and thought I’d take advantage of proximity for a booty visit. I taxied over and pulled out his apartment key. Many moons ago, when eCrush gifted me with that little piece of metal, I thought it represented more than the ability to physically get into his place. In my head, it meant he had nothing to hide; that our relationship was honest and trusting and transparent. I felt like he was essentially sharing everything. That was the point where I buried our past issues and began to trust him again. Little did I know that damn key didn’t just unlock his front door; it also opened Pandora’s Shit Box.

I made it about two steps in before I saw eCrush standing in his living room, sportin’ his birthday suit. There was something surreal about walking in on my boyfriend totally naked. His wanker suddenly looked less like a Pleasure Inducing Man Appendage and more like something awkwardly comical. I was trying to mentally adjust to eCrush’s nudist status, when I looked past him. A little further into the room, on his couch, was a woman wearing nothing but a tank top and butt-floss. Every single, solitary body-related insecurity I’ve ever had was suddenly embodied and magnified in her size four thighs. As I envied her skinniness, I knew there was no explaining this situation away. It couldn’t be like last time, when I gave into love and faith by accepting a far-fetched explanation for a mysterious pair of lacy panties. The Ghost of Underwear Past was literally sitting on eCrush’s couch, giving me the once over. In an instant, my dreams of being Mrs. eCrush and producing a handful of Republican eCrushletts were gone. At some point, I must have shifted my gaze and looked eCrush in the eye. That silent glance was the most profound conversation we ever had. It said everything. Without knowing what else to do, I fled. And as I sprinted towards the stairs, the Earth literally shifted. But it could also have been the force of me slamming the door. All in all, that was undoubtedly the longest two minutes of my life.

Since the unexpected nuclearization of my relationship, I keep examining every point on my Personal Dating Timeline and reliving every moment of my relationship with eCrush. It’s like rubbernecking at some tremendous accident, but the wreck is actually my life. I search for reasons to explain what happened with us, trolling for answers in each of our conversations and from the archives of my dating history. But after hours spent over analyzing and crying, I know there are none. Well, at least none beyond him being an overly horny fucking tard-faced jackass.

After the initial hysterical crying jag, the sudden and complete breakdown of our relationship has left me emotionally numb. I’ve been existing in a form of quasi-blissful emotional denial. My brain understands that it’s over, but all other types of comprehension are in deep freeze. The real legacy of eCrush will hit later, in the form of a walloping dose of neurosis that’ll take months of therapy and a heavy investment in Kleenex to resolve. Until then, I’m investigating the logistics of a drive-by Zipcarring at the dog park.

Declaration Of Intention To Commit

January 8, 2009

In lieu of the findings of the Independent Council on Determining Gay in the Case of eCrush and “Smushee” v. Katherine the Great and the Loathing of the “Frenchie, (see post comments, near the end) the Defendant has opted to forgo a Request for Review of the Initial Application for Determination of Gayness. Also, the Defendant will decline the Council’s proposal of a Guardian Ad Litem to asses Plaintiff with Gaydar. Instead, the Parties mutually request the Council to place this Declaration of Intention to Commit into the Official Record. To wit:


WHEREAS, ECRUSH (hereinafter ECRUSH) recognizes that he loves Katherine (hereinafter KATHERINE), even more than the Damn Dog.

WHEREAS, ECRUSH concedes that finding a female who shares his love of Battlestar Galactica, tolerates his overt worship of Newt Gingrich, and willingly indulges his desire for mutual showering is a once in a lifetime event.

WHEREAS, ECRUSH knows he can be a monumental fuck up and/or fucktard upon occasion.

WHEREAS, ECRUSH comprehends that a relationship is not just about “me,” it’s about “us.”

WHEREAS, ECRUSH acknowledges his “unique nature” and, despite all evidence to the contrary, publicly states he is NOT gay, merely inordinately meterosexual.

WHEREAS, ECRUSH understands that KATHERINE wants to know his intentions and that it is only fair for him to inform her.

FURTHER, ECRUSH recognizes and understands the following:

  • A significant investment of time, emotion and sexual energy has been put into their relationship by KATHERINE.
  • KATHERINE is entitled to have input into planning her future lifestyle. Nobody likes to waste time and/or their biological clock unnecessarily.
  • Madras pants are Fugly.

THEREFORE, ECRUSH HEREBY engages in a historic and courageous departure from General Male Behavior by actually making his intentions clear:

  1. ECRUSH does intend to acknowledge KATHERINE’s existence in public before the age of 70. This includes, but is not limited to, an introduction to his parents, bestowing a mutual Facebook relationship status, and being a Plus One at Little Brother’s wedding.
  2. It is ECRUSH’s wish for the parties to cohabitate in a Georgetown house together. He will be making a mortgage application on or about 01/15/2015. Viva Yuppiedom!
  3. ECRUSH will be making a proposal of marriage KATHERINE in the next decade. He understands that the longer the waits, the bigger the rock must be.
  4. ECRUSH will NOT acquire any more pets, with the exception of goldfish and possibly kittens, without KATHERINE’s prior written approval.
  5. It is ECRUSH’s ambition to have children with KATHERINE before her eggs shrivel up and die.
  6. ECRUSH sees KATHERINE as his “rock,” an enduring source of stability in an unpredictable and often mean universe.

IN THE EVENT this August and Official Body determine ECRUSH has BREACHED any of said covenants, or that he has MISREPRESENTED his sexuality/love for KATHERINE/other, KATHERINE is entitled to ALL possessions in her apartment or the aforementioned Georgetown residence EXCEPT ECRUSH’s comic book collection (defined as all comic books EXCEPT the Buffy The Vampire Slayer ones which will revert to KATHERINE because she likes them). The Relationship Prizes include, but are not limited to, all DVDs of The Wire and Battlestar Galactica, the Sonicare Toothbrush, every last bit of Le Creuset cookware, any fancy wine on the premises, all Apple products (yep, even the MacBook Air), the Diet Coke stockpile, and all political memorabilia regardless of party affiliation.

THIS IS A SOLEMN and TRUTHFUL declaration.

Signed and dated by ECRUSH, on this 8th Day of January, 2008 and witnessed by the Webbernets At Large.

If It Walks Like A Duck And Talks Like A Duck, It Might Be A Gay Boyfriend, Or eCrush Gets A Dog

January 6, 2009

For as long as I’ve known him, eCrush has wanted a dog. And by want, I mean, we make monthly Animal Shelter pilgrimages so he can engage in baby talk with every canine on the premises. But he’s never actually considered leaving with a puppy. eCrush knows his heavy-on-the-networking Sexy Republican lifestyle does not lend itself to dog ownership. So, several weeks ago, when I got a “Can’t stand it anymore, must go see dogs!” text, I figured this was just another Saturday devoted to quasi-emasculating behavior. But the next text, the “What a great breeder” one, perked me up. This was not eCrush’s usual aren’t-they-so-cute puppy fix, but an actual fact finding type mission. My internal Holy Shit Alarm Bells started going off and I frantically texted back, “You are at a puppy mill? How Michael Vick-Lite of you!” It was the best play at his conscience I could come up with in 20 seconds and I went about my business, confident it was enough to keep any impulse dog purchases at bay.

But two hours later, I received a picture text of a puppy with the message, “Meet Apollo.” Seems the French Bulldog is eCrush’s previously unidentified dog kryptonite. He’d walked into the breeder’s, taken a single look at the squashed up faces and pointy ears, and handed over his credit card. What immediately followed was a phone call I now refer to as the He’s Gone Bat Shit Crazy Conversation.

eCrush (in his drooling over babies/puppies voice): He’s so cute. And I got him a manly collar so the other dogs won’t push him around at the doggie woggie park.

Me (disgusted and in disbelief that I’m actually having this conversation): YOU GOT A (*^%$&$(^&#&*(^$(*&^&%#&*^$(*#^^#^%$@%*)&^%(*#^%^#&^#(*&^$#*&$(*^$#^$&%% FUCKING DOG?

eCrush (too blissed out to appreciate my cuss-word creativity): It has a skull and cross bones on it and he looks so little and cute and manly. I could just eat him up! Yes, I could! Yes, yes, I could!

Me (holding the phone away from my ear, staring at it in disbelief): *silence*

eCrush (not even noticing my lack of response): …just adorable. Yes, you are Apollo. You are just snugglishicious.

Me (perturbed): Call me back after you reattach your balls.

A dog in and of itself wouldn’t be so bad, but eCrush, my supposedly-straight boyfriend, got the gay version of man’s best friend. And I am not alone in this thought. Woof! A Gay Man’s Guide To Dogs calls the French Bulldog the “gayest of all breeds.” No skull and cross bones collar or Camo Dog Jumpsuit (purchased online within hours of the acquisition of Apollo, along with $438 in dog gear) will void the latent homosexual-factor. By purchasing a French Bulldog, it’s like eCrush is doing the gay hokey-pokey: one foot in and one foot out. But even worse is the name. While eCrush claims it’s a tribute to Battlestar Galactica (I am on board with the concept, but only if he had gone with Starbuck), Apollo is firmly on the questionable list. After all, Apollo was the second most gay of all the Greek Gods, right behind Hermes with his snazzy footwear. Again, Woof! backs me up and lists Apollo as a Gay Name for Large Dogs.

And then there was the moment eCrush found out “Frenchies” (every time he says it, I insist on air quotes) are colloquially called Smushes. As in, breeds with faces are all flat and jacked in.

eCrush (gazing adoringly at Apollo): You are a Smush! Yes you are! Smushnose! Smushie smush smush! And I am going to take you to the Saturday Arlington Smush meet up and you can socialize with other Smushables. And if you are good there, then we’ll go to the Frenchie meet up in Shirlington and you can find a nice lady Smush and have Smushable Frenchie baby Smushes and…

Me (continuing with the dog-centric muttering I’ve been doing for weeks): …freaking pet induced dementia…got a case of damned dog derangement…hope that thing gets hit by the G2 bus…

It looks like I’m staring down years of Overtly Gay Boyfriend Behavior and the way it’s going, I’m going to turn into the Bitter Beard Who Was Preempted By A Dog.

A List Of My New Year’s Resolutions And What Will Realistically Result From Said Resolutions

December 31, 2008

New Year’s Resolution: Lose 15 pounds.

Predicted Outcome: Over the course of the year, my secret love of cheese will be too strong for me to repress and consequently, I will consume vast wheels of Gouda. Ounce by ounce, I will in fact gain 15 pounds until my thighs are the diameter of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline.

New Year’s Resolution: Develop a taste for cheap vodka. Or learn to filter it. Thus, saving money because crap vodka is tons more bank account friendly than Grey Goose.

Predicted Outcome: A liver transplant will become an immediate necessity instead of a theoretical possibility. I will be stuck with hefty co-pays and outrageous health insurance deductibles, thereby eradicating any savings I might otherwise have achieved.

New Year’s Resolution: No longer surf the interwebs while at the Place of Lawyerly Things and devote time saved to becoming a model employee.

Predicted Outcome: I will continue with the current No Working On Friday schedule. And maybe expand this demanding schedule, because everybody knows Thursday is the new Friday.

New Year’s Resolution: Learn Chinese.

Predicted Outcome: I will order lots of Chinese food.

New Year’s Resolution: Meet Chuck Norris.

Predicted Outcome: Get all episodes of Walker, Texas Ranger from Netflicks and watch incessantly. Maybe practice my roundhouse kick. Hi-ya!

New Year’s Resolution: Think of a password other than “password.”

Predicted Outcome: Start using “password2.”

New Year’s Resolution: Stop making fun of people on the Metro.

Predicted Outcome: Such wishful thinking.

New Year’s Resolution: Perform a Service to Humanity and burn eCrush’s madras pants.

Predicted Outcome: He will most likely replace the pants with a wardrobe item equally as offensive and emasculating, which I will likewise have to publicly make fun of and covertly steal. This in turn will begin a vicious cycle of wardrobe confiscation that will only end when all madras fabrics are banned from the earth.

New Year’s Resolution: Remove all Miley Cyrus songs from my iPod.

Predicted Outcome: I will download Jonas Brothers, Selma Gomez or similar up and coming D-Rock in an effort to fill the teenbop void. I will continue to put this music on my “Music of Shame” playlist, which is actually what I renamed my Top 25 Most Played.

New Year’s Resolution: Put Bionic Kitty on a diet.

Predicted Outcome: She will eat my couch in protest. It will sorta be like Ghandi’s hunger strike, but in reverse.

New Year’s Resolution: Engage in random acts of kindness. Like no more drunk dialing, drunk texting, or drunk yelling.

Predicted Outcome: I will substitute drunk mooning, drunk boob flashing or drunk Insulting A Metro Employee and eventually be arrested for my rowdy behavior. It’ll make great blog fodder. And because I engage in “post now, think later” blog posting, my mother will read it. I’ll then receive a phone call in which she will repeatedly threatened to enroll me in Betty Ford, AA, or Promises.

New Year’s Resolution: Move from NoVA to the District.

Predicted Outcome: This will actually happen. In fact, it’ll usher in the Golden Age of My Social Life, which I will fondly refer to as the Ascendancy of Glory when I reminisce about it during my kid-rearing years.

New Year’s Resolution: Travel more.

Predicted Outcome: Hello, Maryland.

At Home Dentistry, Or, It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time

December 30, 2008

eCrush is on a perpetual crusade against plaque. He’s so hyper-vigilant about oral care that on his Personal Hierarchy of Evil, I’m pretty sure cavities rank above Darth Vader. As a result, eCrush has slowly built up a tooth decay prevention arsenal. My medicine cabinet now contains two types of floss, prescription mouthwash I suspect eCrush acquired on the dental black market, whitening strips, fancy toothpaste which costs $9 a tube, and a toothbrush that needs electricity to work properly. Compared to his Mouth Shrine, my classic Oral-B is pathetic.

On Sunday night, as we were brushing our teeth, eCrush offered to let me use his swanky toothbrush.

eCrush (sort of like a playground drug pusher): Wanna try?

Me (all raised eyebrow): Ewie! No way. It’s got your germs on it. Sharing a toothbrush is a relationship line I won’t cross.

eCrush (shrugging as he put his toothbrush away): Better my germs than gingivitis.

Me (after a thoughtful pause wherein I seriously weighed the pros and cons of having dentures by age 33): Give me that!

After two minutes with eCrush’s Mach 9 SuperTurbo Whirly Gig Plaque Elimination Machine, I rinsed, looked toward the mirror and smiled pretty. But the reflection wasn’t the picture of oral perfection that I expected. Amidst all the twinkle and sparkle was my chipped front tooth, glaring like a big neon sign flashing “Dental Problem.” The Unfortunate Skittle Incident that caused the chip was months ago, but I’ve yet to get it fixed. And standing there, I couldn’t help but focus on it, all flawed and taunty.

While I admit that looking like JoBethBob and Bubba’s dental love child is not my idea of a good time, what are my other options? A good dentist is DC’s version of the Loch Ness monster: it may or may not be out there, but either way, a hell of a lot of people are looking. Trust me, I know. Dentists who are Metro accessible, believe in the copious use of calming drugs, and who take dental plans are closely guarded secrets around here. And when you find one, they are usually too busy capping the teeth of Congresspeople to accept new patients. That’s left me with months of chipped tooth glory.

So, there I was, smiling at the bathroom mirror, annoyed that one Skittle had so easily ruined the perfection that a lifetime dedication to flossing and two rounds of braces had created. I was cursing my front tooth, wondering where my mouth ranked on the Hick Scale, when I got an idea: I could fix my tooth. I mean, who needs a dentist when there’s a perfectly good manicure set, complete with nail file, just under the sink?

Seven Loyal Readers, this is your Public Service Announcement:


After I got the nail file angled into my mouth so that I could smooth the chip without sawing off my tonsils, I started to rub. There were a few wee flakes of tooth grit and then the most awful, squeamish feeling in the world engulfed my tooth. It was exactly like fingernails on a chalkboard. Except in my mouth. And then, suddenly, the Most Horrific Pain Ever radiated from my tooth into my entire head. I swear I felt it in my ear drum hairs. I only made it through half a swipe with the nail file before the pain had me hyperventilating on the floor. eCrush heard me whimpering and come in to investigate.

eCrush (at a loss): By all that is holy, what are you doing?

Me (still clutching the front of my mouth): Trying to file my tooth.

eCrush (clearly questioning how I came from a supposedly evolved gene pool): WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? YOU DO NOT HAVE A DENTAL DEGREE! YOU ARE AN ATTORNEY! AND APPARENTLY A DUMBASS!

Me (whiny): But I hate this chip and don’t want to look like Bubba and JoBethBob’s spawn anymore.

eCrush (in that self-righteous voice he gets): Well, filing your own tooth is something their inbred second cousin would do.

Me (still in agony): I realize that. Now.

And yeah, I still need a dentist.