Forays into Literary Perusing

It's a balmy 61 degrees outside right now and the sun is shining down on Music Row. I've opened my office window but alas, that's the closest I'm going to get to being outside. Because I have work "obligations". I wish I was obligated to haul a blanket and a book out to a park and sit for hours.

See, I'm a voracious reader. (But I'm going to just cancel out the dork factor by adding that I'm also a voracious shot-taker and booty-shaker). I read so fast that it began to be an expensive habit. Until I recently discovered the gloriousness that is the Nashville Public Library system. Laugh if you must... They have 21 area branches that are guaranteed to have any book you want. And if they don't, they'll order it for you. For free.

Faced with this kind of literary mecca, I tend to overextend myself. As soon as I login to their database, I morph into the likes of a starving refugee at a Golden Corral. I put lists and lists of books that I've been dying to read on request. And before I know it, I get an email telling me that I have "9 books being held on reserve at the Green Hills Branch". There's no chance in hell I'll be able to read that many in my three weeks of allotted time. But aim for the moon, right?

To be honest, I get a little embarrassed going to the library. Because I feel that individual reading selections are very personal things. And the library workers are all either condescending intellectual types or grandmas. Both are intimidating in their own right.

For example: I like many different types of books. Ranging from historical biographies to "beach reads". No biggie. But there's one skinny red-headed prick with a goatee who avidly scans both your face and your selections as he checks out your books. And makes it obvious as to whether he approves or not.

John Adams [NOD]. Angels and Demons [NOD]. The Devil Wears Prada [SUBTLE EYEBROW RAISE].

I want to suckerpunch him. Because really, who is he to judge someone else's personal reading selections? It's none of his business or concern. At least people are READING in this age of video games and on-demand. Maybe, just maybe, if he took his head out of his ass for two seconds, he'd manage to get a girlfriend who could fill him in on the finer points of chick lit. And he wouldn't be so bitter.

The grandmas are a completely different story. They're always super sweet and attentive and act grateful that you're even in the library at ALL...to the point where I just want to hug each and every one of them. But I dread getting in one of their lines with a scandalous (to a 70-year-old) book in my hand. I inexplicably feel like I have to protect their sweet innocence. Like yesterday...I manage to find Good in Bed by Jennifer Weiner, a book I've been wanting to read for a while now. And because Ethel is the only one at the checkout counter, I have no other option than to slide it across for her to scan. She takes a long, squinty look at the title and proclaims, "You enjoy that now, Honey. It looks very...interesting."

I wanted to shrivel up. And beg her not to think I'm a whore in search of raunchy sex techniques. Instead, I turned crimson, politely thanked her and slunk out the door.

But looking on the bright side, I could've been checked out by the emaciated carrot-top creepo who would not only have raised his eyebrows, but probably wiggled them lecherously at me as well.

Home of the Greats

Friday night, I finally got to go to the Grand Ole Opry. At the RYMAN. I figure it's something every native Nashvillian needs to experience.

The main headliners the night Alan and I went were Dierks Bentley, Tracy Byrd, Elvis Costello and Emmylou Harris. It was amazing. Simply walking in to that old church auditorium (that's been graced by the likes of Elvis, Johnny Cash, and Patsy Cline) was incredible. It was hard not to feel a measure of reverence.

Dierks absolutely rocked the house. And he had on the tightest blue jeans known to man. They didn't leave much to the imagination. To the point that I think he stuffs...or is a very blessed individual. Too bad he dedicated a song to his wife. :)


Elvis Costello was great too (but I'd have preferred seeing the original). I found the cheesiest pair of earrings known to man in the gift shop. And I couldn't resist modeling them (but spent the entire time worrying that they'd catch me and make me buy them).


Those are indeed miniature sparkly cowboy hats with long tassels of which I saw an old woman buy a purple pair...which she'll probably wear with gold Keds sneakers. AND in true Opry fashion, the worst female mullet I've ever seen was just two rows in front of us:


Yes, that is a woman. And yes, that is her girlfriend to her left. They turned around right after I took the picture...I had to cover by quickly aiming the camera at the stage (but I'm sure they wondered why I was giggly and red-faced.) All in all, the evening was a success. And it definitely didn't hurt to spot Sarah from The Bachelor at Cabana several hours later...

You Look a Little Tense

After perusing ABC's website out of sheer desk-sitting boredom, I have one single question. Why do so many of the "dates" on The Bachelor consist of intimate couples' massages? Is this really an appropriate activity for a first (or even forth) date? I don't think so.

These massage scenes are sometimes so awkward that I find myself averting my eyes in embarrassment. Like, maybe if I don't watch, it will never have happened. There they are, laying naked on tables while two ambiguous white-clad figures commence prodding. As the two stare into each other's eyes and hold hands across the tables...I just want to leave the room. And wretch.

There is absolutely nothing that appeals to me about this "date". If I was on the show, I'd be dragging MY massage table into the adjoining room. Or better yet, high-fiving the other girls left back at the house out of sheer joy that I didn't get chosen for the naked-stranger-touch-fest.

Let's just step back into reality for two seconds. I mean, you barely know this person. And you're being asked to strip naked (which the logistics of doing so without being seen are mind-boggling) and then make (highly uncomfortable) conversation in front of two diligently working strangers. While holding hands. Because you so obviously have a "connection".

Now, I've never actually HAD a massage. To be honest, the whole thing kind of scares me. See, I'm uberticklish. To the point that I can barely get through a pedicure. Let alone a masseuse kneading my butt cheeks.

There I'd be, in this contrived romantic setting, gripping this poor bastard's hand while squirming mercilessly...until managing to fall off the table, losing not only my scrap of a towel, but my dignity as well. TRULY the stuff of nightmares.

Get Thee to a Nunnery

With yesterday being Valentine's and all, I got to thinking about relationships. Romantic and friendship. And when the two collide.

I love my friends' boyfriends. I think that most of them are great and I love to spend time hanging out in a group. But with that being said, I've never once had the inclination to sleep with any of them. EVER. The thought has never cross my mind. I think a normal person's brain subconsciously says, "This person is great. But he belongs to ______. No touching allowed."

Yet surprisingly, there seem to be a lot of women who are missing this logical part of their brain. They assume that since a) they have a vagina and b) the other person has a penis...it's okay to put those two things together. To the point that there is an entire Facebook group of girls who have been burned by slutty friends.

I just don't understand. I don't get how someone can have such low self-esteem that they'd jeopardize a great friendship for a few minutes of feeling wanted. How they'd intentionally hurt someone they care about just to prove how desirable they are. Especially if they were once roommates.

Granted, some blame should be placed on the boyfriends. They should never have strayed. But let's face it, men generally think with their penises. They have a dick/they are a dick. Same difference. It's always going to hurt when he cheats, but it will hurt exponentially worse when he does it with your friend. Because a friend is supposed to support you, not betray you. You trusted this person with intimate details of your life...and yet a roll in the sheets with your boyfriend is obviously worth more to her.

I don't even have a name for this kind of person (apart from hooker, trollop, whore, slut, tart, hobag, prostitute, harlot, floozy, strumpet, tramp, hussy and jezebel). These people need a name that sets them apart from the average "loose woman". They need a name that signifies that not only do they possess low morals...they have total disregard for others' feelings. I'm opening the floor for suggestions...

And I hope, for fairness sake, that these actions come back to bite them in the end. The only possible option I think is fair is them discovering their perfect mate having an affair.

ON THEIR WEDDING DAY.

Loving...and Hating

Ahh, Valentine's. It's been a nice one so far because Alan has apparently planned little surprises for me throughout the day. Including leaving something on my car early this morning and stopping by my office with Christie cookies. He's too good!

I feel like I didn't have much of a weekend. Probably because I worked part of it. My company put on a breakfast event in Chattanooga yesterday morning and because the dang thing started so early, we had to go down to set up the night before. Thankfully, our boss took us out to a nice dinner to make up for it. Where I proceeded to get a tad tipsy and tell him about testing my landlord with panties. Good thing he laughed his ass off. I might have died on the spot if there'd been nothing but awkward silence.

Jenn and I debated about going out for some drinks for approximately 0.3 seconds, but then decided we'd rather watch Grey's Anatomy. And man, was it intense. But let me just say...I don't think I'd be too upset if Grey had gotten blown up by the replica WWII bomb. She's whinny and annoying and should be punched in the throat (or at least force-fed some brownies) every episode. Granted, she's the title character...but I think the show would do just fine in her absence. But I didn't start feeling this way until I saw Ellen Pompeo on Punk'd. If you haven't seen it, I'd suggest you watch it:



Anyways, the breakfast started at 7:30 which meant we had to be there before 7:00...which meant I had to get up at 5:45 (4:45 CENTRAL) to outfit myself in a crisp suit and perfectly made-up face. (Hard to do when it's darker than Charles Manson's soul outside.)

We headed back to Nashville as soon as it ended. But considering we gained an hour by switching from eastern time to central...we only got back to Nashville at 11:00. Which made me want to ram my head into a wall. Because I'd already been up almost 8 hours. And yes, we had to stay till 5:00. The majority of that time was spent fighting the urge to crumple up discarded newspaper into a makeshift nest and fall asleep under my desk. Ah, the glamorous life of a PR girl...

But despite my absolute raggedy-ass weariness, I managed to stay up for The Bachelor. Because it would have been a "Travis-ty" not to. (Oh snap. Yeah, I said it...and it was bad.) As of last night, I am over Travis Stork. Completely. Over. Him. Because ANY man who is that infatuated with the likes of Moana (the unstable tramped-stamped whore) is NO man for me.

No Regrets

I feel like hell. I just want to lay my head on my desk and sleep until 5:00 hits. My eyes are gritty, my mouth is dry and my head is throbbing. But despite my current misery, I wouldn't trade last night's fun for a full 8 hours of sleep for anything.

Jim, my favorite ex-boss in the entire world, was in Nashville for a conference and I had the pleasure of showing him around. We headed out as soon as I got off work yesterday in order to get a good seat at Mafioza's. On any other night it wouldn't have mattered, but Tuesday nights are two-for-one drinks and pizza slices and you can't get near the place after 7:00.

We met up with Jenn and Greg...Ritchie, Jennie and Andrea came later. And man, was that pizza good. Especially being washed down by a plethora of Coronas. Which quickly took effect. Especially after Jenn and I took the free shot offered by the cute bartender. That's when our stories started to get really funny and raunchy...and we bet the cute group of guys beside us to take off their clothes if UNC lost to Duke (and we'd do the same, but switched). Lucky for us, Duke won...but unluckily, they didn't keep their side of the bargain. They got all shamefaced and coughed excuses.

After several hours of beer drinking, we decided to move on to The Greenhouse (which in my opinion, is the coolest bar in Nashville) for some stiffer drinks. The bar is an actual greenhouse with fairy lights and fountains and stone paths. You feel like you're in another world when you're there. Jenn got the strongest martini I've ever tasted (and subsequently passed out on her bed wearing only a half-opened bathrobe). HA! :)

On the way home, we definitely swung by Travis Stork's house and yelled out our windows (Jim included). We thought that maybe he'd open the door to see what the ruckus was about...but no dice. Oh well, it was still funny as hell.

Sadly, Jim left for Oxford this morning, but he's coming back soon! Here's hoping we'll have a repeat performance in March...

Please Take Me Back Home...to Mississippi

Ugh. Back to work. Which is especially hard after a weekend of pretending I'm still a college student in Oxford. God, I miss that little town. And everyone who's still there.

It's amazing how much Oxford changes in so little time. I haven't even been out of school for a year and new things have gone up like crazy. (The Library's new sports bar is really nice and Oby's is fantastic.) But sadly, old things have also come down. (I honestly teared up seeing the empty lot the Tiki once sat on.) I guess that's life...out with the old and in with the new.

But the one thing Oxford will never be without is drunk hookers. I think they're bred there. I had a good laugh at the sheer number of (probably freshman) girls prancing around the square in tank tops. And it was 34 degrees Saturday night. I don't care how cute you think you look...put a damn jacket on while you're walking to the bar.

The best moment was my run-in with one of the drunk hookers. We were both closing our tabs at Parrish's and she was playing with her pink Razor phone. Being that I'd never seen a pink one (minus Paris Hilton's in US Weekly), I glanced over at it. And she had the gall to say to her friend, "This stupid bitch is looking at me funny."

I stood there shocked for a moment, then turned to her and managed to utter between clenched teeth, "It's only because I think your phone's cute, hooker."

Boy, did she get embarrassed. She apologized umpteen times, told me that she was just plain rude (to which I replied, "Damn right you are"). And then offered to let me play with said pink phone (to which I declined). So if someone's being rude, the worst thing you can do is pay them a compliment. Because they'll inevitably look like a jackass.

Despite the hookers, I hate that I only had two days there. I could have stayed for another week. But I want to do it again. And I want everybody to plan to come the same time (a little reunion if you will.) Maybe for a football game in the fall? If we start planning early, it just might happen. Because I miss all of your beautiful faces...and judging by the (no) quality of girls there now...Oxford misses them as well.

Hold On To Your Panties...

Literally.

We finally proved that our landlord/neighbor is a pervert. But let me start from the beginning...

Jennie and I got a call from some friends last night because they spotted our landlord at a bar. Drunk. Talking very loudly. Pitching cigarette butts into a trash can for amusement.

Jennie and I seriously debated going up there to check it out for ourselves, but didn't want to be spotted and have to talk to him. So we stayed put. About 10 minutes later, they call back to say that he just hit on them (gross)...and getting nowhere, decided to leave.

We figured he was on his way home...and had a bright idea. We'd test him! So we got a pair of panties, and dropped them in our mutual hallway--like they'd been dropped out of a laundry basket on the way up from the basement. We inched the shade up on our door and waited. We sat there for about 10 minutes watching the hallway until we heard his key in the outside door lock. He fumbled with it for awhile...finally got it open...and then proceeded to work on his door's lock. But he paused, looked down at the ground...and picked up the panties. And examined them. We couldn't see much of what was going on because his back was to us...but he finally went inside his place.

Lo and behold, the panties were gone. HE TOOK THE PANTIES INTO HIS HOUSE. We freaked out for about 10 minutes--alternating between hysterical laughter and retching sounds.

We were admittedly a little shocked. We just wanted to see how he'd react to the panties...we didn't think he'd actually TAKE them.

So what do you do? Do you just pretend to not know that your landlord has a pair of your panties? And hope to God he's not using them for anything? Or do you knock on his door, tell him he failed the test and ask for your panties back?

I'm stumped.

And a little freaked out.

Uninspired

I really don't feel like writing...so I'm just going to make lists...

People Who Drive Me Nuts:
1) My landlord
2) His on-again-off-again "fiance" (she's baaack!)
3) People who brake for no reason
4) Drunk girls who think their dancing is totally sexy
5) Sarah "the stoner" Canada from the Bachelor
6) The man who runs in my neighborhood wearing a bike helmet
7) People who still have their Christmas lights up (and plug them in!)

Bad Things I Need to Stop Doing:
1) Hitting the snooze button
2) Tailgating bad drivers (which ironically makes me a bad driver)
3) Obsessing about Travis Stork because he's probably engaged
4) Going to happy hour with co-workers before Bible study
5) Buying random shit on eBay
6) Watching "Flavor of Love" because it kills brain cells
7) Coasting into gas stations on fumes

Scary Steps Into the Grown-Up World:
1) Got my own health insurance policy
2) Opened an automatic-withdrawal savings account
3) Filed my income taxes
4) Bought real furniture
***Thankfully, this list is still pretty short***

Things I Absolutely Couldn't Live Without:
1) Up-for-trouble girlfriends
2) Books (dorky, I know)
3) Sunny days (eff Seattle)
4) Sugar--in any form
5) Senses of humor
6) Thai food/Cheap Mexican food/Sushi
7) COFFEE