Nautica Guy

For the most part I am not a gawker.

Sure, I notice attractive men on the street (usually if they're significantly taller than me, wearing glasses, etc), but often it is with the same appreciation that I admire a woman's beautiful wool coat or fabulous spring dress.

Recently, however, DC Metro changed their ads. To this fella. CLICK IT.

And I objectify him, okay?

There's no two ways about it.

I admit it.

He is really very good-looking. Congratulations, Nautica. Because while I have always been able to appreciate beauty, I am now the pervy girl on the train. If I am unlucky (read: lucky) enough to get onto a car with this ad, I do my best to stick my nose in the Express or become very interested in my ipod. Else I start ogling like a teenage boy. Ogling an advertisement! Who have I become?!

This is inappropriate and embarrassing. I am not proud of the lip-biting and glazed over eyes that invariably occur when I see cute blue-deckshirt guy. But it is Nautica who should be the most embarrassed. After a few weeks of enjoying attractive Nautica guy, I am retracting my congratulations, and I'll tell you why:

Who in God's name thought it a good idea to couple this photo, of this very attractive man removing his shirt and exposing his perfectly tanned midriff with ads about Father's Day?? What the crap, Nautica? "Father's Day is June 15, make your dad a hottie"? "Is your father a FILF? Let Nautica help."

It was bad enough that he's plastered all over train cars where unsuspecting and sexually repressed 23 year-olds can be captivated without a moments notice. But Father's Day? Let's hope that I'm the only one who's so captivated, or DC is just asking for some weird string of Electra Complexes.

**In the Spirit of Honesty

Of late I have been noticing the socially incorrect elements of my personality. There are an overwhelming number of things that, try as I may, I am incapable of faking. So, in the spirit of honesty! (or, **"things that I have found it, up until this point, impossible to fake, or lie about"):

My room will never be clean. A clean bedroom has a shelf life of about 2.3 days for me. In which I am inspired to rehang all my clothes after I've tried them on and discarded them in the morning. 2.3 days that I'll make my bed or organize my side table. In which I'll fold my clothes before stuffing them back in the drawers (but the drawers will ALWAYS be closed-- open drawers being something I have been unable to abide since as an 8 year old my tall bureau, too many of the drawers left open, tipped over on top of me and the small TV on top hit me in the face, leaving 2 small knots--1 on my forehead and 1 on the bridge of my nose-- that have remained to this day.). I recently heard a radio interview with 23 year old Tony award winner John Gallagher, Jr. in which he admitted to having a messy room. It inspired me. I, too, will wear it as a badge of artistic honor.

I like white bread. I realize this is a completely inappropriate behavior from a young lady raised in the suburbs and educated at Middlebury College. No properly reared, affluent young white person with real aspirations would ever choose white over wheat when given the choice. And should probably even turn down a sandwich, wrap or pasta dish meal in general if white is the flour used. But wheat pasta makes me want to gag. And why eat flax pancakes when you can have delicious pancakes? I will concede that as far as sandwich bread goes, whole wheat sometimes tastes best. But you'll never find me eating a whole wheat bagel. My wheat will always be frosted and mini. This predilection for eating things that taste good to 9 year-olds extends beyond white pasta and white bread. I like my oatmeal in packets and full of brown sugar and vegetables are best soaked in gravy or sauteed.

I can't walk around in high heels. I can barely handle most cute flats: narrow toes, unsupportive arch. Yes, I realize I live in a city now. A professional city. In which, for the time being, I work in an office and commute with the suits and the stilettos. But you will not see me in heels taller than 1 inch. And my shoes will never be as shiny as everyone else's. Even if I bought them shiny, they undoubtedly lost that luster after 1 day with me. My shoes will be comfortable, size 11 friendly (that's right, I'm a drag queen), rubber-soled, practical and probably ugly. (Ugly, because it is a universally acknowledged fact that women with big feet actually would rather their shoes be uglier, less trendy and look like they belong to Cynthia Nixon's girlfriend.) Even if they did make giant sized cute shoes, I still could not wear them like all those beautiful and empowered business women you see on the metro, because I am at my most unpleasant when my feet hurt. I will wear my men's Asic tigers or my hot pink and grey suede diesels with my pantyhose and pencil skirt during the commute and change into my 3 inch heels for walking back and forth from the copier to my cubicle: 9142C. Disregard, for a moment, my plantar fasciatis-ridden left foot. I still wouldn't be rocking the stilettos. I'm just not that girl.

Love me, love my ugly shoes, delicious pasta and messy room.

(ham and) Egg (croissant) on my face

Today I was called out.


I stopped into Heller's (awesome neighborhood bakery) on my way to work this morning. The same cool, tall, black guy with diamond studs and braids past his shoulders that usually helps me, called me over to the counter. I had to sidestep a ridiculously cute Mt. Pleasant family with an infant and a toddler in tow while their dog was chained up outside in order to reach the counter. I walked over and ordered my usual, perhaps a little embarassed that he might recognize me and my order from my 4 or 5 visits since I've moved to the area.


Me:"An apple fritter, please."


Now, this guy is pretty cool. He's way too cool to just be working in a bakery. He definitely has a funk band. Or does multi-media installation art using found materials. Probably he also bakes some of the delicious pastries and adds a secret Dominican flare that he no doubt learned from his senile island grandmothr. So, ordering a doughnut from him makes me a little nervous. I tend to get a little nervous like that around super hip and/or attractive people (Like when the Canadian and her boy are together, I shut down just a little-- there is just too much beautiful in one room.) Anway, his response was not what I expected.


Cool dude:"That's not how you really talk is it?"

Me: (thinking 'What does that mean? What is he talking about? Why would he say...?....Oh *realization*....I definitely just used my waif** voice.)
**The "waif" voice is what one Professor of Theatre Douglas Sprigg used to accuse me of having in Acting II, Voice and Body. It's where I sound like a pretty mcpretty little lacoste wearing Theta, and not a 6 foot tall hoss.
"Um....yeah....in the morning...."

Cool dude:"Really?"

Me: "Yeeeaah. Why?

Cool dude: *looking at me, trying to decide how not to offend me

Me: "Cause I'm tall?"

Cool dude: "Yeah, you're, you know....you're not...you're a..." (goes to get my fritter) (comes back) "You look like you know how to swing a bat at something!"


I guess "swing a bat at something" is a figure of speech that I never learned growing up in the suburbs. I know how to swing a bat at a softball. Or an intruder.

I left, mildly offended that super-hip counter help guy thinks he knows me and how I should talk. But then I realized he was totally right and even though that is how how I OFTEN talk, it's not how I REALLY talk. It's a fake voice. A lie-- trying to get people to think I'm sweet and charming and young. "Oh, she's such a sweet girl, what a quaint little voice she has!" The dumb voice came out because I was embarassed that I was having my second apple fritter of the week. And afraid that he was going to remember that I'd already been in once this week for the same sugar-loaded, deep-fried goodness.

Doug Sprigg would be overjoyed that a layman (despite the fact that he must surely be an artist of some sort) has assisted me in remembering my Linklater and freeing my natural voice.

Apple Fritter: $1.50
Impromptu Theatre Lesson: priceless

Retaining my cool factor

How do you tell your boss that you cannot, in fact, create talking points on biotechnology to assist General Colin Powell's staff in shaping his keynote address for the 2008 Biotechnology International Convention in San Diego because you're STILL NOT SURE WHAT BIOTECHNOLOGY IS?

Stewing Quietly

I've recently acquired a three month long temping gig. If I had any work at all to keep me busy it would be a pretty sweet gig. I'm under the impression that all of my bosses/people in my department are aware of how little I have to do (read: nothing). It would be overkill for me to be constantly emailing them to tell them that I have nothing to do and to please give me more work. I tell them when I see them in the hall or they come by to give me a 10 minute long project! But, apparently, they don't need me. And are perfectly fine with paying me 15 dollars an hour to use their internet and drink their apple juice and ginger ale.

Which are telling beverages for me to be drinking. Full of high fructose corn syrup, but lacking anything adult--hopps, tannins, caffeine. Moving to the big city has not made me more grown up. Instead it has made me a poser grown-up.

These
beautiful illustrations I found on Etsy



that I'm currently fawning over

and with which I cannot wait to decorate my new apartment, are merely symptomatic of a greater Peter Pan syndrome.

But, seriously, I would be unable to stop myself from impulse buying these right now if there wasn't a couch stuck in my brand new room. Which leads us to another problem of mine, semi-related to my truth telling dilemma. I hate asking people for things. It's a really bad problem. It's why I end up with overdraft charges on my bank account. And is definitely why our couch is stuck in my room-- I don't have the juevos to ask the boys upstairs to carry it out again (cause I made them bring it in there in the first place) and possibly up and down several sets of stairs. Which is why I'm sleeping in the same room as a cat hair-covered sofa. And, yes, I am allergic.

Fitting Room Faux Pas

Know what little, tiny, non-verbal lie makes me nervous every time I have to do it?

Handing clothes back to the fitting room attendant with a bored but vague smile, saying "thank you" and going back to my iPod. Pretending the clothes I'm handing back to her are in just the same coniditon they were upon my arrival in the store. It wasn't me who popped the button, ripped the seam, somewhow managed to pull the price tag off. Acting my ass off so as to not get caught and then high tailing it away from the 19 year old girl with the bad weave and the menial job who could totally take me with her 4 inch fake, Korean leopard nails.

Or option two--pretending I'm actually going to purchase the item. ("Did these items work for me? You betcha!") The item that clearly was too small too fit in the first place, and she knows it, just so I can take it back out on the sales floor myself and stuff it quickly and awkwardly into the most packed Clearance shelf. Between the tshirts with hoods and drop waist dresses.

The awful feeling this lie brings is 3 fold.

• I've made some poor girl's minimum wage job harder. Now she'll have to sew a button, repair a seam or refasten a price tag. And if I chose option 2 she'll have to fish the faux satin babydoll dress I would have never worn anyway out of the hooded t-shirts and put it back by the leggings and patent leather clutches.

• It's a reminder that my body is such a wreck, so abnormal, that it causes damage to property.

• But also, if I'd just told the truth, I'd have been a little embarassed, sure, but since I mainly shop at TJ Maxx and Marshalls, leopard nails girl wouldn't have given a shit.

That's reason number 1 I don't go into JCrew. The uppity sales staff doesn't like it when you break their clothing. Bitches.

How to Procure an Apartment When You're Too Poor to Slip the Landlady a Jackson.

So, the Canadian and I FINALLY found an apartment. It's cute. Exposed brick, open kitchen. It's in a great location. There is outdoor space. And I only had to be minimally dishonest in order to get the place.

I could tell right away that the property owner, let's call her Laverne, likes to talk. She's the kind of woman who doesn't have very many friends. Probably one best gal pal that she's had since her days at Smith in the 60s. That might be it. The poor mess of a woman has arthritic joints and can barely get up and down the stairs of her own property. She wears sweaters with a very large knit without anything underneath. This is not the kind of woman with a lot of personal relationships. That's why, when she let slip that she was designed the floorplan when the basement was renovated into an apartment, I knew I had to pounce.

The "beautiful" exposed brick would be beautiful had it not been painted over and then painted over again by an "artist" to make it look like actual exposed red brick.

The chandelier is "lovely." It's gaudy 90's brass, sure, but nothing a can of spray paint can't fix.

The big bedroom really is spacoius. It's just too bad that the closet has sliding mirrored doors. And a seafoam green "brick" wall.

And the small bedroom is very light. It has two big windows. No big deal that the pipes are exposed and hang down into the room. It's not like 7 foot ceilings are short. Or I'm 6 ft tall or anything.

My Canadian roomate? A student, of course!

Am I employed? Why yes, I'm a temp. (It just so happens that I got hired less than 24 hours ago, isn't that great!?)

And yes, of course I have 7,500 dollars in the bank. (I realize a lie is more illegal when you sign your name to it, but the Really Important Question is: is it also more immoral?)

Okay, probably.