Waiting to want

Most of my friends in relationships want and are waiting to get engaged (and/or recently have gotten engaged – so excited for all of you). But for me, I am waiting to WANT to get engaged. Granted this is probably the result of calling off two engagements, and then promptly having my heart broken by a guy that I would have married in a heartbeat. So now, I’ve just lost all motivation for the sport, and I am content to be contractually bound to myself (and several credit card/student loan companies) only.

In theory that is good…I won’t rush into anything.

In reality this is bad…I am totally going to be that old crazy aunt to all of my friend’s children. You know the “aunt” I’m talking about – she’s not actually a blood relative. She shows up to events with two bottles of wine (one for everyone else, one for herself). She gets drunk and starts talking about inappropriate subjects regardless of who can hear. She has a string of live-ins that you can remember only through nicknames (“the one that never had a job”, “the one who is going to leave his wife,” etc.). She offers to watch your children but you fear they would end up watching her – and they would likely never fully recover from the experience. That’s going to be me.

Looking forward to it. I am available to babysit anytime.

Disgruntled in DC

Dear Roomies,

I am sorry if my incessant coughing is keeping you up.  It sure as shit is keeping me awake and watching bad British comedies at 2:30am.  This is COMPLETELY unnecessary.  I adore sleep.  In fact, last night I got nearly 15 hours of sleep due to the wonders of Robitussin…glori-f*cking-ous.   Tonight, assuming that sleep settles in asap, I will be looking at no more than four hours of sleep.  Do you know how poorly I am going to have to treat my coworkers and the lovely constituents of my boss’ district because of this???  It will be a blood massacre (and that’s not good for business).

So, please accept my sincere apology and please join in my letter to nyquil.  I have attached it for your reference.

Lots of love,

Your favorite coughing (and out of Robitussin) roomie, fanrickingtastic

Dear Nyquil,

You Mother F’ers.  If I remember correctly, you are the “the nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever so you can rest and have a good morning medicine,” are you not???  Is that supposed to be ironic?  Because I am nighttime coughing, sniffling, and pissed off, and your meds are doing nothing.  How is this possible?  Nyquil is practically a date rape drug with it’s sedative qualities, but here I am wide-eyed and COUGHING at 2:30am.

I demand a refund for this injustice.  Tomorrow night is NYE and I need my beauty rest so that I can be a sparkly little dancing queen.  SO not only do you owe me a refund, but you also owe reparations for the good time I am now NOT going to have tomorrow because I will be tired and very likely STILL coughing.  Please send a check and some Robitussin to the lovely ladies of Euclid St. immediately.

Kthnxbai,

Fanfrickingtastic and the lovely roomie duo, Mariffany

The boot

“No.  Absolutely not.”  That’s what it sounds like when you get SHUT DOWN after putting your pride and wallet on the line to avoid getting booted out of your apartment.

As mentioned previously, our landlord wasn’t too pleased to have three people living in a two bedroom apartment (even though it more than fits three of us and four people were living in the same space before us).  So we approached him to ask if there was anything we could possibly do so that all three of us could live here (even though it’s in a super sketchy neighborhood, it has the most ridiculously creaky floor boards, and living below our landlord feels nothing short of 1984 Big Brotherish).  So what can we do to make this better for him?  Nada.  Zip.  Zero.  Zilch.  Not more money.  Not “sexy time” with my roommate.  Nothing.

So we did as all girls do when faced with a crisis.  Cried.  Laughed.  Watched Gossip Girl.  Wished Sex and the City had an episode on getting evicted that we could turn to for guidance.  Debated the level of douchebagedness that Zac Effron displayed in High School Musical 1 & 2.  Looked for new apartments.  Cat-talked the landlord.  Cat-talked gossip girls.  Cat-talked Sarah Palin.  Laughed.

So take that evil landlord!  We will not be oppressed by your creaky floor boards any longer.  We are moving on up and moving on out.

See ya never,

Fanfrickingtastic, Fro-tastic, and Teachtastic

Being Baltimore’s Bitch

At 4:30am, I backed around the corner of the abandoned building and pretended I couldn’t hear the man yelling at me from his car, “how much for a good time, young thing?” Though I started the Baltimore girls’ weekend with high hopes for grand adventure, being confused for a prostitute in the Baltimore hood was not exactly what I had envisioned. Yet there I stood in the cold, dark street waiting for a nonexistent taxi to save me from myself and my long string of misguided (and highly unauthorized), drunken decisions.

Eight hours earlier, my beautiful group of girlfriends and I were sitting at a lovely dinner in the downtown business district of Baltimore. A cold walk in short dresses, a cab ride to the clubs, and several delicious shots later, we had officially hit high gear on girls’ weekend. After fifteen minutes of dancing, we flew right passed pleasantly buzzed and straight into drunksville, USA. That’s when the following unfortunate series of events unfolded:

• We met the Boston Boys (what up, boys!). Meeting these fine gentlemen from Boston wasn’t necessarily an unfortunate event, but it did prompt all of those that followed. Shockingly enough, my tall, gorgeous, blonde leggy friend, Sara, had drawn in a tall Bostonian (we’ll call him Joey Fatone). Joey and Sara started a terribly boring conversation about the Red Sox….zzzzz….so I looked around to find greener pastures…
• Instead I found ginormous professional Ravens football players…yum! After a brief convo, I learned that the delicious new quarterback draft pick was in need of both a girl and a quick public piss. Classy. After he peed against the wall, he and some nice girl from San Diego asked to feel my tats. On the street. In public. I probably should have said no. Oh well (swear I will do better next time OR at a minimum look to see if anyone was taking pics). Shortly after, football/san diego girl threesome were jumping into a taxi (note: absolutely no good could have come from getting in the taxi with the football players, except a potential paternity test and subsequent child support nine months from now). My friend Sara was still with the Boston Boys so I went back to find her.
• Enter the man, the myth, the legend (the boy wonder in pink)…D-Rag. D-Rag is one of the more nefarious members of the Boston Boys. In our short time together, D-Rag stole his friend’s car keys (yet could not find any such car), found two girls and one guy sleeping in his bed, insulted no less than two minority groups while insisting he was not racist, and tainted Boston’s entire reputation.  D-Rag’s most respected talent is blacking out hard and fast and leaving girls stranded in his ghetto-fabulous neighborhood. This is how I found myself looking like a 2-dolla holla on the corner of rape alley and murder street at 4:30am.
• In the two and a half hours it took the taxi to get to me, I was propositioned by every third or fourth car (I could have made some seriously decent cash…like the guy who stalled his 94 ford escort trying to “take me for a ride” probably had at least $10.50 to his name…instead of earning the big bucks, I just cried and prayed for the taxi). Finally, Mr. Cabbie arrives. Yay!!! Salvation! I was feeling pretty good about life until the cab driver stopped at a red light. The light turned green and still we were just chillin there. I lean forward in the cab to see this:

That’s right the f’in cabbie was passed out. I woke his ass up. He drove two blocks, stopped at a stop sign for three seconds, and he fuckin fell asleep AGAIN! Asleep while driving me…I hate Baltimore. After a rude awakening from yours truly, he managed to make it four more blocks to the house, then he passed out in the street for the next 45 minutes. Stellar service, Raven’s cabs of Baltimore, absolutely f’in stellar. I want my $8 back.

• I finally made it back to the house d’Boston Boys, who were holding the beautiful Sara hostage. I must say, after a night of horror and grave disappointment, the Boston Boys and their animated antics at 6:30am were the only saving grace of the entire shitshow night. Between Stifler swinging his dick wildly around while describing his heroin-addicted cougar nutting experience [according to witnesses on the scene at 6:30am, ""there was a scuffle upstairs and some haggard 40 year old lady just left looking angry"] to the many precious tales of how D-Rag has defrauded college students into paying for his gambling problem donating to worthy causes, banged single mothers within ear shot of their kids, continued to live at home well past the age of 22, and cheated a stupid, drunk girl from a totally memorable night with a ginormous football player (wait a second…that last one sounds strikingly familiar. DAMN IT!).
• Finally, our friends came to pick us up. They were none too impressed with any of our tales, but we love them forever for finally saving us from the never ending night of debauchery.

I am glad to be alive. I hate Baltimore.* I think Boston’s school system failed their male students (I’m not sure they understand at all how girl parts work). I wish the Boston guys lived in DC so that I could watch their ridiculous sordid tales in person. I also hope they quit harassing me to post about this weekend…this is the last time I ever want to think of this weekend again. (However, hopefully they’ll fill in the blanks on any part of the night I may have forgotten.) So long Baltimore, NEVER again (until the next time).

* Except for the lovely ladies of 305 Chuckie Ave. If I had only stayed inside that beautiful, high ceiling, palace with my most favorite girls on earth, I would not have nearly lost my life on the street corner. But let’s be honest, the next time I come to town we won’t be in the apartment, we’ll be stuck on that street corner together (probably visiting Tabs’ boyfriend, Inmate #36729). Love you girls, sorry for trashing your city.

fanFrickingtastic Recommendation: Cooking in Heels

First and foremost, I have never been known for my skills in the kitchen.  My mother always said that you have to choose a room to be good at…and well, I did NOT choose the kitchen.  However, I recently bought these fabulous peep toe cream heels.  Once I had them on my feet it was positively impossible to take them off.  So that is how I found myself cooking up some fierce scrambled eggs (at 4pm) in leggings, a t-shirt, and said fabulous heels.  Despite the fact that I was rocking a pony tail and the only trace of makeup was yesterday’s perfectly smudged eyeliner and mascara, I felt crazily sexy.  I might even go as far to say that I felt domestic.  Gasp!

So with the impending arrival of heart-shaped commercial crap Valentine’s day might I suggest that you glam up your night with a little 50s housewife domestic goddessness.  Note: if you are “dating” a DCD, then you should only be using your heels to kick his ass straight out the door.  Smug, oppressive, yet intensely insecure assholes do NOT get meals cooked for them.  Additionally, if you’re single like me (note to self – perhaps that is because I crap all over every man in the city on this blog) then rock those heels while you’re pouring copious amounts of wine and arranging delicious cheese slices for the best girlfriends in the world.

P.S.  I secretly love heart-shaped commercial crap.  I’m a disappointment to feminists everywhere.

To the beautiful ladies that decorate my life…

Thank you so much.  You are the brightest part of both my best days and worst days, and every day in between for that matter.

Thank you for 3-shot challenges, misguided attempts to go anywhere during rush hour, for telling off cashiers and cab drivers alike (criminal!), for punting your Louis Vuitton purse in a fit of rage across my lobby at 2am, for fighting about a man whose name we can not remember (it was not Javier!), for crashing republican shindigs, for stolen bottles of absolut,  for tears and laughter over thin-crust pizza, for two hours of Sunday morning political shows followed by eight uninterrupted hours of the style network, for dresses that are never too short or cut too low, for never judging, for hysterically laughing, and for always being a safe place to fall and/or pass out.  I love you so much.

And to the lovely ladies holding down the northern front, I miss you dearly and can not wait until for our love to be reunited.  Come visit!