R.I.P late night binging

Today is a sad, sad day. Last night, before going to a show at Johnny Brenda's (more on this later) I stopped into my beloved Wawa on 20th and Locust and all of the shelves were barren. Then I noticed a sign that in 3 days they will be closed (you can't see it but a single tear just hit my keyboard.) I don't know what upsets me more, the fact that I was blindsided by the very people who fed me when I was intoxicated, put up with me singing entirely too loud to the muzak playing over the speakers, and gave me feeless atm withdrawls over the past 3 years, or is it the fact that I am actually really upset that a Wawa is closing. Now I have to shlep it aaall the way to 20th and Chestnut for my delicious hoagie treats. Le sigh. But what's the deal? First the wawa on 15th and Walnut now this one? I thought they were doing well. I mean there are like 3 with in 3 miles of my parent's house in the burbs, alone. So I am going to start a petition for a WAWA delivery service. "One hot dog please. Yes, straight to my mouth. Actually, could you go one step further and just chew it up and regurgitate it right in there."

Anyway, so yeah. My emo friend and I went to JB's last night cause he wanted to see this band called the Headlights. I had never heard of them but figured I couldn't pass up the chance of possibly meeting my dream hipsterish fella. The band was actually really good. But the clientele was mostly made up of the bad kind of crunchy hipster. You know the kind with the smelly knit caps and the coke bottle glasses? To each his own. Anyway, it's tough to meet people at bars and it doesn't help that my friend is a dude and it always looks like we're on a date. So I spotted a guy that was pretty cute and decided to ignore the fact that he was wearing skinny jeans. Then my friend (emo) and I realized that he was a drummer of this band and that I had already forced my number on him about a year ago. Is the selection in Philly that small? I've been forced to recycle? Oh well my only other option is hot but has the personality of toast that's been staling on the counter for a few days.

So I went up to him and said "Didn't I force my number on you once?" He remembered, still had my number, gave a good excuse for not calling and we had a nice little chat. So I'll let you know if I hear from him.

More importantly. Here's a question for you. Where are all the hot people in Philly hiding? I know there has to be some. The second part of this question is why am I not invited? I think it's because of those years with braces. Pretty people can sense that shit. It's like dogs smelling fear.

Saint Valentine. Why must you smite me?

It's that time of year. You, the coupled, call it Valentines Day. We, the independents, call it Singles Awareness Day (also known as S.A.D.) While others will be toasting to companionship and the fact that you will most likely be getting some, I will be enjoying my second annual S.A.D. festivities. For the second year, my friends and I (some coupled but they have to pretend to not like each other for the night) will be singing karaoke in our own room atop Fugi Mountain restaurant. I plan on opening with "All by myself" leading into "un break my heart" then maybe up the tempo a little with "love stinks". I kid. In reality it's just an excuse to get drunk with my peeps and crack a few glasses, with what I always think at the time is my angelic voice.

Operation me time hit a snag today. I'm moderately hairy and this freezing weather is blackening my soul. And instead of going out and trying to meet people, I opted to stay in this weekend and play a crap load of guitar hero and sing star for ps2. I justified it cause I was drunk and people came over. We tried to go to Loie and it stunk, and we realized we were having much more fun with the video games. But then I fell outside of wawa when I was trying to get a hot dog. It was so worth it because it was the best late night hot dog ever made. And every time I look at the scab on my hand, I remember. Oh hot dog, will you be my Valentine?

OK I'm going to try to get out of this funk and go to the gym. grrrrrrrr. Oh and I am going to take up yoga. Although I'm afraid I'm going to look like an asshole during the first class. The fact that the place is covered with windows doesn't help.

Tah.

Excommunicated

A few things about me. 1.) I have crazy hair that kind of resembles a mop. A sexy sexy mop, of course. 2.) Sometimes I think I might drink too much but the thought of not drinking makes me sad. I likes my wine. Apparently not as much as I likes my liver. 3.) and the most important is that I think I am perpetually trapped in one of those ice breakers. You know the one where you have the piece of paper taped to your forehead and other people have to give you clues about what's written on there? Well I think I've finally begun to narrow mine down. It either says "rebound" or "Person you want to treat like crap".

So the ex, I have now erased him from my life. Finally. It's a New Years resolution that just kind of fell into my lap. And I have his douchebaggines to thank for it. We never talk but he always seems to pop back into my life whenever he likes to and give it a metophical noogie. Usually just around the time when I start seeing someone new or haven't thought of him in a while. I think all exes posses this gift. And I allow him to. Why? Cause he was hot. And even though he was a good guy, he definitely took advantage of me. So last night was the straw that broke the camel's back. He IMed me out of nowhere to wish me a happy new year and tell me that he's sorry he didn't come to my party but he is seeing someone. Oh and that he thought getting drunk around me would be a bad idea and that it was probably bad that he really wished he could be there. Am I missing something? I don't know when I subscribed to updates about his personal life. UNSUBSCRIBE! UNSUBSCRIBE! Remove me from your mailing list. I mean I certainly didn't think he was celibate but I also don't need to know when he's seeing someone. That was one of the benefits to having him hundreds of miles away. Anyway, I feel like I said my piece. That we are not friends, we don't need to talk and him telling me this was purely selfish on his part. He is now blocked. The initial upsetness has been replaced by a weight off my shoulder. I no longer have to wonder when he's going to decide to barge back into my life.

Onto other men. I tried match. I'm only doing it for this month. I've talked to a few nice guys, got winked at by people I'm pretty sure aren't guys yet and decided I am very shallow. It's not for me. While it's kind of addictive, almost like shopping for dudes, it feels a little forced to me.

Oh, and in random news. I get a text from sidehugs (remember him? Cause I barely do) on Friday at like 8 pm. It said "sorry I was such a dick 2 u". A.) This makes me nervous because I didn't realize he was such a dick to me. And b.) I've come to the conclusion that he's either going through the steps or it was part of a new years resolution.

So now I'm option free, but also ex free. So it's a good feeling. I think I'm going to try to enjoy being on my own a little more rather than trying so hard to look for a cuddle buddy. That's what cats are for. Now if I can only keep them from scratching my face.

New Year, New low?

You know what they say about New Years Eve? That how you spend it will reflect how your year will play out. I'm starting to believe this. Last year I made out with my ex and that pretty much spelled out how this year went. Until September, when we realized what we realized the September before that. We're better off as exes. This new years may very well be my first that is completely kiss free in about 7 years. I say this, but there is possibility of the exes attendance again and I can't tell what my state will be around the stroke of midnight. I've enlisted a few of my girlfriends to distract me through whatever means necessary. That being said, I'm hiding my frying pans. My only other option at the moment is Texty McGee. We've been playing a very dull game of phone tag.

In other news. I was at the Aunt and Uncle's for Christmas when my two hot cousins were talking about their adventures on match.com. I was surprised. Now I'll admit, I tried match once before and it scared the shit outta me. All I could do is judge the boys I talked to. I mean I guess I think it's unnatural for a guy to actually be looking for a girlfriend. At least the guys I've dated. Which is making me realize why I'm in my bathrobe writing a blog at 10 pm when I have off from work tomorrow (in my defense, my lungs are full of phlegmy goo and I probably only have 2 days left to live.) Anyway back to match, when i was on it last January I went on 2 dates. One with Handsy Greaserson. He followed me to a bar afterwards and presented drinks that my sister bought as if he had paid for them. The second was OK he just wasn't my type (which admittedly is pretty specific--rugged hipster.. yummmm). So I thought since they were digging the match, maybe the selection had gone up. I just checked it out. FUGVILLE. But dammit, they got me. Someone sent me a message and I can't view it unless I pay the 39.95 to "enroll". Should I do it? I mean if I do it, I will actually have to force myself to go on dates. Has anyone had positive experiences? This whole thing gives me the willies.

But so be it, I'll put my dating life in your hands. If more people think I should do it. I will. And if 2008 sucks I will hunt each one of you down. And give you a case of my crackly lung. Now I'm going to look on web MD to self diagnose.

Call me old fashioned.. Hell, just call me.

I've noticed a disturbing new trend on the dating front. More disturbing is that it doesn't seem to phase other people. I think I'm part of a weird generation that started dating right around the beginning of the cell phone era. It's been really interesting to see how it's playing out in the whole dating scheme of things. In addition to the normal awkward struggles, "who pays", "who calls first", now we have to deal with the dreaded text message (if I could insert dramatic music here, I would.) For example. Italian stallion only picked up the phone once and that was to tell me that he was at my house. He asked for a second via INSTANT MESSENGER. omg. Sidehugs texted to cancel a date with me, AND texted to reschedule. Which we did aaaall via TM. The latest of the men (my nickname for him is too inappropriate for your innocent eyes) well let's just say his "courting" of me (his own words) consisted of a follow up text to our first date 2 days later saying "Drunk texting. Yup I'm doing it." I think this guy got scared away after the third time we went out, last Thurs. I mentioned that it would be nice if he picked up the phone to actually call me, you know after we made out and everything. To which he replied " I don't know that I'm ready for a girlfriend." WHAT??? I just wanted to know that he was capable of conversation aside from the 70% boob jokes I was getting. Haven't heard from him since. Since when does a phone call upgrade a relationship status. Crap, I talked to a bill collector today, who told me I gotta get crackin on my bill, does that mean I have to hop on myspace and change my status to "swinger?" Oh and also when he texted he would leave out vowels. Lame. Vowels have feelings too, you heartless bastard. I'm glad you have no problem discarding them, as you've discarded the fact that you are 28 years old.

Anyway, I know what you're saying. "Colleen, they're just not that into you." And I'm perfectly willing to admit that may very well be the case. I think what really sticks in my craw is that some girls I talked to consider this text messaging as a sole means of communicating perfectly acceptable! Is it too much to ask for a strained awkward phone conversation? Or a good ol' fashioned drunk dial? You know what, screw it. If we're taking all of the communication out of dating, I'm going to build a robot that will go on my dates for me. Or I'll at least participate via webcam. That way I won't have to wear pants. And that's really at the heart of the issue. I hate pants.

Hire Me, Please.

I remember a time, at the tender age of 22, when I was excited to bid adieu to college and start my wildly successful career. Oh the paychecks, the working woman clothes (I would look great in a classic Chanel suit), glamorous business trips, the promotions, the sheer grandeur!

Then I woke up. The cold, harsh reality of monotonous administrative office work began to eat at me from day 1. Alright, so maybe I never had " career goals" per say. Sure, I thought things would simply fall in to place if I could just be patient. Granted, I work at a place that has skyrocketing levels of executive turn over, and all the money makers are chauvinistic/egotistical lecherous men, and we teeter dangerously close to bankruptcy each year. Still, I used to have pep talks with myself while fighting back tears in the shower each morning before work. In each chat, I'd assure myself that "my talents would be recognized and I'd soar, all the way to the top". Oh, poor naive girl.

This unfortunate tale leaves me where I am today, dear reader- in the same dead end job for 3 years. Sadly, still light years away from the Chanel suit. I fear I'll never know anything but H&M. Every day I job hunt. I interview every now and then too. Still, nothing. While frustrated and anxious, I haven't given up. I remain hopeful. One day somebody will hire me. And I will be one step closer to the ideal job I've so skillfully created in the inner chambers of my mind.

Hawk Attack

I am a shopper. I love the art of the big find - that amazing vintage dress or that pair of shoes that makes the heart beat just a bit faster. I don't really shop online, because I really do enjoy perusing the brick and mortar houses of style, browsing the isles and holding the latest Tracey Reese up to my reflection in the inevitably skinnier-than-reality mirror. I had decided that my next GAP posts would chronicle my adventures through some of Philly's best boutiques. But before I do that, there's something I must get off my chest.

This evening after work I strolled westward down Walnut St., and popped in BCBG, lured by an open door and balloon-lined entry. As fate would have it, the store had a 15% off event going on. I learned this from the pleasant yet hawk-like sales associate that swooped in at me from outside of my peripheral vision. As if I did not understand English or her verbal description of the sale was not comprehensive, she then thrust an oversized postcard into my hand to really hammer home the message. A little much, but still manageable.

I then turn to begin my perusal, and Hawk #2 swoops in, a younger, perkier version of Hawk 1, delivering the exact same message. I smile and say a quick thanks, careful to turn my eye contact away so as to clearly communicate my lack of interest in continuing our conversation. I resume perusal. No more than 20 seconds pass, and I am attacked by Hawk #3 informing me of the sale. REALLY? During this time, I have moved...maybe five feet. Did Hawks 2 and 3 not hear Hawk 1 deliver said message? I thought that hawks had keen senses.

Thus describes the ebrasive and off-putting experience of chain store shopping. The constant attacks of sales people who know nothing about fashion and even less about connecting with a target audience. During this particular five minute stint, Hawk 2 swooped in for a second round, squawking about some sale dresses on the lower level. I have at this point lost my patience. Now, even if I had found any items of interest I would not make a purchase solely on principle. After this I may have shot Hawk 2 a sarcastic "uh huh" and a mildly dirty look. Just like that, the hunted becomes the hunter.

Don't get me wrong, a really good salesperson with a sense of style and the ability to read a customer can be a lifesaver. I find that many boutiques employ such people (except for the now-defunct former midtown village occupant Bshehu. Pushier salespeople have never existed.) But for the larger chains, a word of advice. Stop training your salespeople to resemble large birds of prey. Less is more. If I need help, I'll be sure to ask.

Confessions of a Drunk Dialer

I have a problem that I think most people conquer in college. It just so happens that my condition has only gotten worse since college. I am a chronic drunk dialer/text messager/ emailer. My condition knows no boundaries. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since I’ve talked to you or the last conversation we had. It doesn’t matter if you’re an ex boyfriend, ex best friend, ex guy that said hi to me that time in that bar. I’m a monster.

It’s such a problem that when I was coming out of anesthesia, after having my wisdom teeth pulled, I told the hygienist who was walking me to a bed, that I felt like drunk dialing. What could she do? She smiled politely and made sure I was in a recovery room, far from the phones.

I’ve tried to deal with the problem. I’ve deleted numbers from my phone, deleted email addresses, and even tried writing notes to myself. But where there is a will there’s a way. Just recently, I listed a particular person whom I so kindly reached out to and who is so very very bad news, in my phone as Do Not Resuscitate. I have a bunch of these in my phone- strange but true.
Obviously, there is no way to bar me from technology. It’s better than me showing up at your house, right? Drunken Megan in person with something to say would be way worse. So I warn you innocent people that you should never answer a call from me past midnight, nor should you read emails from me that may seem perfectly coherent but have subjects like “I just need to say this, but definitely don’t write me back”. But, the good news is that apparently I’m not the only one with such a severe problem and cell phone manufacturers in Korea have found a solution- a breathalyzer for your phone! Check this article out http://news.com.com/2061-10801_3-6088879.html .

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drunk_dialing

Raining Stupid

It's cold and wet and you're soaked, already the day sucks. As you wade through the sea of umbrellas and newspaper shields(buy an umbrella dude), you can't help but notice at least a couple of grown women with children's umbrellas. I'm talking miniature Disney umbrellas, even the kind with the name in fancy script! I don't think it's a matter of running out of the house and taking your kid's umbrella, I think these twisted freaks are buying juvenile umbrellas because they think it's cute. Um, no. It's kinda scary. Scary in that, "I wouldn't let me kids trick or treat at your house" kind of way. As I wandered in to the Girl About Philly headquarters this morning, I had to walk by a business woman, smoking a cigarette with a bright yellow Spongebob umbrella over her head. Automatically, I thought a) eww people should stop smoking in bad weather and b) why are you holding such a stupid umbrella that doesn't even cover your entire circumference.

I'd like to suggest that these women invest in grown up umbrellas for the sheer practicality of the matter. They can live out their bizarre juvenile obsessions in other ways, like buying Tigger and Pooh figurines at the Disney Store.

Happy Election Day

Happy Election Day! Obviously, everyone should vote, especially the ladies, as we’ve only been allowed to vote in the good old USA since 1920, and many of those hot issues out there are about us. And could the Democrats finally be getting their asses in gear? Only time will tell. But aside from all of those reasons, today is a special day because it signals the end of those horrible commercials that have bombarded us for the past 2 months. Don’t get me wrong, I love how each female candidate has to show footage of her with her kids and husband, as the loving mother, and then the ass kicking politician. As long as she has her priorities straight, just like her male competitors. Ha.

But seriously, who are the voices behind these commercials? It gets darker and scarier as each day passes. Wait until Hillary runs for Prez in 2008, those are going to be some awesome commercials.

Finally, good riddance to the campaigning! Now, I can go back to watching Grey’s Anatomy in peace, with the occasional car commercial interjection. Oh bliss.

Please Stop Spitting on Me

Spitting. There appears to be no great divider, not by race, age, economic status or religion, among men who spit. Is there anything more disgusting than walking down Broad Street on your way to work, and having to jump out of the way to avoid being spit on as some guy hocks a luggie on the sidewalk?

Why do men have to spit on the street to get from Point A to Point B? How come neither I, nor any of my female friends, have to stop in our tracks to spit? I’m pretty sure that I’m able to swallow any excess saliva in my throat. And I’m forever repulsed that many people cannot do the same. Furthermore, why is it acceptable to do this in the daylight, on a very crowded street, in your suit and tie? Perhaps there is some cowboy fantasy element that comes in to play. Or maybe it’s some kind of marking of territory so everyone knows that you have virtually no regard for those who walk along next to you or behind you? Better yet, what happens when they go home? Do they do this in their homes too? Are there spit buckets in every room or does the urge to spit only come when outside with others?

With the exception of the one week a year, when you may have the flu and some funky stuff going on in your throat, I sincerely request that men please stop spitting in public. Take it to the woods. Or at least a desolate street. Better yet, why not stop altogether? I’m pretty sure you’ll find that you get more girls that way.

My Date with Man Bag

It’s no secret that I am the queen of unlucky in love, er lust. I’m sure there are a zillion explanations as to why. Maybe I should take the advice of friends and loved ones and stop being attracted to men that shower without prompting or maybe even go for the ones with jobs or goals. So recently, I tried to adopt a new attitude. I got myself a date with someone I would never normally be in to. We agree on a dinner date. I meet him outside of the restaurant. (He says, pick a sushi restaurant. I did. He thought my choice was not a good one and chose another.) I stroll up to the restaurant. He is standing there holding a bag. I figure it is a wine bag for a BYOB. We walk over to the new sushi restaurant of his choice and sit down. Looking at the menu, I see that they serve alcohol so I order red wine and he orders white zinfandel (enough said). I was just excited to be on a date as it had been awhile so I let the white zinfandel go. Our food comes. He keeps calling the waitress “honey” which is making me nauseous. A baby cries in the distance and he says “who would bring a baby here”. I say “maybe people who eat dinner and have a baby.” My eyes wander over to the far corner of the table and I spot the “bag”. “What is that”, I say regretting the question as it leaves my mouth. He replies, “It’s my man bag”.

Ok now my heart is racing as I notice a little tag on the front of the bag that reads “Hercules”. Jesus, the bag has a name and it’s Hercules. Now dear reader, please know that this did not look like a messenger bag or backpack. There was nothing acceptable or masculine about this bag. He says “I love it.” At this point, the wine has clearly kicked in and the thoughts are racing through my head. Who do I call from the bathroom to report this to? Instead I say, “What’s in there?” He tells me “body spray, phone, deodorant, toothbrush, wallet and keys”. I try and mask my look of horror as I picture a bottle of AXE body spray resting so very close to me, when he asks me what’s in my purse. “Tampons”, I scream.

After dinner, I get my purse and he gets his and we walk out of the restaurant. He makes some off color comments about people we pass on the street and then he wanders in to a bar. I stand outside thinking I could run but I was wearing heels. Stupid girl. I meekly follow behind him; he walks to the back of the bar not saying anything to me. He begins to talk to a waitress. And then starts to walk out. Still, no words are spoken. Outside, I say “um what was that?” He says he was looking for somebody. Awesome. Then, eyeing my tattoo he goes, “let’s say hi to my friend in that tattoo shop.” What? Basically, man bag is running errands on my watch. Cursing man bag in my head, I muster up my excuse, “listen I have to go, I’m tired.” (Who cares if the sun was still out?)

Of course, I got home and called everyone I know to say that the man bag was not just a Seinfeld episode. I lived it. But worse. And the lesson learned is that there is a reason you don’t date people you are not attracted to! Needless to say, I’m done dating for a while. A long while.

The Knights of Whole Foods

I walk by them everyday. They’re lean, either freakishly short or tall with near flawless skin. The girls have perfected the art of daytime MAC eyeliner. The guys have that detached, yet scrupulous stare down to a science. And every third person has a kick ass dog who never barks. No, I’m not talking about the impeccably cool people at The Last Drop. I am speaking about the legions of youth (oh, they never age) who sit outside of Whole Foods on South Street, each and every day, all day. I like to think of them as the knights of Whole Foods. Dare some kind of over processed, artificially flavored hooligan try and walk through those doors.

Who are these people? Are they students? If they’re students, how can they possibly afford Whole Foods and their $8 grapes? Do they work? Bike messengers perhaps? I mean even bike messengers have to deliver something at some point. More importantly, how do I get their damn job? I want to sit at a table and eat vegan treats and stare adoringly at my shelter rescue. I envision what they do after Whole Foods. God, their lives are probably so exciting while I race home to catch Everybody Loves Raymond on TBS. When I walk home from my 9-5 job (ok, 11-5 job) and stop to pick up dinner at Whole Foods, I glare at them, green with envy. I schlep my 3 paper bags (or plastic, I can’t decide which is the right answer) right on by them, dreaming of the day I can be the girl who sits outside of Whole Foods all day, people watching while snacking on a vanilla vegan cupcake. A jealous girl can dream….