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TKOG Who sings her heart out

December 23, 2009 by That Kind of Girl

Sorry I’ve been swallowed into the earth, guys! Vegas has been filled with much cavorting; apparently the antidote to over-prolific blogging is coming home at sunrise several days in a row.

NTKOG #80: The kind of scratchy-voiced tragic wannabe diva who sings not just absent-mindedly, not just for her own enjoyment, but intensely and often and totally on purpose. There are two types of singers: those who are better than they think and bombard you constantly; those who know they’re still awful and keep doing it anyway.

I am,: for your listening pleasure, neither. Showertime and iPod walks only, please.

I am not: the type to take things seriously when I know I’ll do badly at them.

The Scene: Q Karaoke Lounge in Vegas’s Chinatown, Tuesday night, sometime in the vortex after last call. High-school friend Aviatrix and I have hit a few great local bars, but are tipsy, not trashed. We head to Chinatown for the promise of pho, then drive by a karaoke lounge and agree to head in.

The second we get there, we realize something is wrong: this karaoke bar has … no bar. Turns out instead of sitting around, sipping a drink while laughing at other gravel-voiced schmucks, this is a private-room studio, in which you rent a room with a screen and are your own schmucky entertainment with no schadenfreude breaks.

See, the thing about karaoke bars, is we all love to sing in them, but since it’s an experience of mass transcendence of dignity, we can pretend it’s peer pressure luring us in; to rent a studio, you have to really want to, uh, sing. Aviatrix and I hung back at the counter like a young couple in a joke about a motel, shooting each other shamefully earnest glances.

Long story short, after the first few moments of “um, why are we singing to each other” awkwardness — and a bucket of Smirnoff Ice (so NTKOG) — we actually got in the spirit of the thing and the time whipped past. Turns out it is totally possible to set aside your dignity and aloofness in pursuit of song, no matter how terrible you are.

After an hour of belting, giggling, and, um, maaaybe some impromptu choreography that relied extensively on high-kicking, we went to the counter to pay our bill.

“Man, that was awesome!” I gushed to the woman at the counter. “That was so awesome! We were awesome! I just wish we had like a friggin’ DVD of it or something!”

“Oh, you want DVD?” lilted the counter girl. “We have DVD. We record the whole thing. Ten dollars.”

… So. If you happen to see TKOG high-kicking her way through Korean energy drink commercials any time soon, then, um, just know that it was totally worth it.

The Verdict: Oh yeah, guys. I was amazed by what unbelievable non-embarrassing fun this was. So much so, in fact, that less than 24 hours later, I went back with Sister and three other friends — outspokenly non-karaoke aficionados — and we ended up belting out the questionable classics for four hours. Four sober hours.

I always thought the rooms sounded lame beyond belief, but now I just can’t wait to get back to Boston and go to another one. (Anyone else? I’m sensing a Boston bloggah meet-up here…)

Posted in arts slash crafts, food & boozin', makin' friends, social interactions, totally am that kind of girl | Tagged , , , , , | 11 Comments »

Follow-up: Date with the Dreamboat

December 19, 2009 by That Kind of Girl

This post is actually a little power-tagged because, regret to inform, I actually didn’t get up going out with the guy I met on the T after The Slutcracker. Bummer, right? I was really psyched!

We were supposed to go out on Wednesday, but the snag was that we couldn’t meet until 10pm (which, considering we met on public transportation, raised the sketch to perilous new levels), because I had class ’til 9:30, and Wednesday was the only night I didn’t have jam-packed.

We’d texted a bit on the night that we met — just, like, “nice to meet you!” stuff — and on Wednesday I waited with, I hate to admit, embarrassing earnestness for a follow-up text. Nothing. Finally, around 6pm, I texted him: “We still on?” and twenty minutes later he texted to say he had an early meeting the next day and going out starting at 10pm was just way too late, but “wanna go out tomorrow?” But my Thursday was already overloaded, so I texted him: “Totally booked tomorrow.”

No response.

My female friends did the right thing and tried to convince me that it was impossible he would have lost interest a few days after seeing me, and that he made an earnest attempt to reschedule, etc, etc, etc, but I mean, dudes, he’s just not that into me. It’s cool. Really, there’s nothing lost here: I picked him up in a T station, like a crazy person, and we didn’t even know anything about each other, so, y’know, no big deal.

Man, though, I had been really psyched! I’m usually cool-to-lukewarm on people when I first meet them, and can’t abide touching, so it was pretty thrilling to meet someone whom I immediately wanted to, like, rub my face on. Whatever, though. There will be other guys, not on other trains, whom I’m sure I can rub my face on in future.

—

Leaving for Vegas in a few hours, to spend Christmas with the fam! So, dude, if you’re a Vegas person I know irl and want to go out and have an adventure, let me know! Otherwise, see you cats on Monday with some uncharacteristic Vegas craziness.

Posted in follow-up, guys, love & sex, public transportation, social interactions, the world may never know whether i am that kind of girl | Tagged , , , , | 13 Comments »

TKOG Who gets inside your head

December 18, 2009 by That Kind of Girl

NTKOG #79: The kind of girl who, instead of just speculating on the personal lives of strangers like a normal person, strides up and DEMANDS CONFIRMATION afterwards!

I am: constantly making predictions about the lives of strangers based on small quirks of their behavior, then narrating the whole thing into a mental novel (she noted wryly, tilting her fedora to cover the steely glint of her keen eyes).

I am not: actually that great at interpreting the behavior of others, it transpires.

The Scene: Last weekend at an adults-only bowling alley/bar in Dedham, on a ladies’ night with Sister, Irish Broad and Snowflake to celebrate the fourth anniversary of Snowflake’s 26th birthday. The wait for a lane is about three hours, so even after we’ve thrown back a few drinks and enjoyed surprisingly gourmet appetizers, we find ourselves lulled into silent people watching.

The majority of the bar is filled with clusters of Lady Gaga-lovin’ woo girls, all leaning a little too long over the shared scorpion bowls, their brassy roots glinting in the light. Among all the youthful revelry, though, one couple stands out: a man and woman, maybe late ’20s. She is short and a little chubby, with long, wildly unkempt hair and the perpetual half-snarl of a girl who has had to learn how to be funny; he is medium height, trim, wearing an expensive but ill-fitting sweater and swirling his chair in wide arcs. They are waiting for their check, and she takes out her credit card and taps it along to the beat of the song blaring in the background. They do not talk or even make eye contact.

Snowflake: Think that’s a first date?
Irish Broad: It has to be. They obviously don’t like each other.
TKOG: But if they were a couple who hated each other, they’d be touching.
Snowflake: But she’s paying!
TKOG: Guys. Let’s find out.

The idea of approaching someone in public to confirm predictions I’d made about them I’ll admit I totally stole from an amusing story on Blonde Monde. Just to up the awk, I drilled the table for a few more predictions. We decided that the couple had met online, and that he was a first-year law student.

The couple was so wrapped up in ignoring each other that it took them almost ten seconds to notice when i stopped at their table; she was still click-clacking her card on the table, while he swirled to look anywhere but at her.

TKOG: Excuse me, this is awkward, but I have a question for you guys.
Angry-Looking Maybe-Dater: What is it?
TKOG: Are you two on a first date?

The pair looked at each other and, for the first time in the twenty minutes we’d been watching, laughed. Like, threw back their heads and guffawed.

ALMD: Absolutely not! We’re friends. We’re ooooold friends.
TKOG: So I suppose you didn’t meet online?
ALMD: We met in college, like twelve years ago.
TKOG: And you’re not a first-year law student, are you?
Swivel Chair Speedracer: I’m a reporter.

I fought my impulse to ask if he needed a secretary, and made my way back to the table. After a moment, the girl leaned over and asked the guy, loudly: “Do we really look that awkward?!”

Yeah, I wanted to say, you totally do. And — spoiler alert — I still think it has something to do with the fact that you don’t like each other! But that, like so many other things, is none of my business.

The Verdict: Dude, this was so much more fun than it was awkward or embarrassing! I don’t think it’s going to go in my daily social-skills repertoire, but next time I’m lookin’ at a dude and really going to die if I don’t find out right then whether he’s a socialist horse jockey, I’m just going to do it. It might end up being a great conversation starter anyway!

Posted in bad behavior, food & boozin', makin' friends, shameless self-promotion, totally am that kind of girl | Tagged , , , , , , , | 9 Comments »

TKOG Who <3s sluts and hula hoops (TMI Thursday!)

December 17, 2009 by That Kind of Girl

Not an NTKOG: The kind of girl who, um, rouses her holiday spirit by watching The Slutcracker: an XXXmas burlesque revue. (Not an NTKOG because, dude, near-naked people humping vibrating candy canes onstage? Yeah, I’m kind of all about that.)

The Scene: The Slutcracker, obviously, at the Somerville Theatre in Somerville. And hey, Bostonians? I’m just going to wait here for a minute while you go ahead and BUY YOUR TICKETS NOW! (Shows tonight through Sunday, 8pm, with a Sunday 2pm matinée. GO GO GO!) After our last hang, I suggested the show to Anglophile and Porn Star. And it just goes to show you how cool they are that they immediately said yes.

“Hey, really awesome eating cupcakes with you erstwhile strangers. Wanna go out in a few days and watch people in underwear do stuff to each other?” …not even I would have said yes to that.

From the second the curtain opened on a large woman, wearing frilly underwear and a mesh body stocking, I think we could all sense there was something magical unfolding before us. When she reached down and pulled her cue cards out of her panties, we were sure of it.

The story is basically a retelling of The Nutcracker, with a few adult twists. Instead of a magical nutcracker, for example, Clara is gifted by her dirty-minded grandma (played by a spectacular 70-year-old burlesque lifer) with a big floppy dildo. And instead of the Nutcracker Prince, she cavorts around with a giant pink vibrator — who, judging by his arm and head movements, is of the rabbit breed, if I’m not mistaken. Don’t worry, though: they didn’t change everything. The dance of the sugarplum fairy, true to the original, definitely involved some people popping out from under skirts…

At first, I will admit, I was a bit horrified by how good the choreography was. At least twenty minutes of the beginning of the show is a straight modern ballet: talented dancers, measured movements, some dang Tchaikovsky. But then. But then. Duct-tape pasties! Male pole dancers! Undergarments that are more confection than function! And, of course, SLUTS AND LIGHT-UP HULA HOOPS!

I just can’t say enough good things about this production! Brilliant choreography; vibrant cast (especially the adorable fiancé!); uproariously inventive take on a holiday standard. I was truly laughing from curtain up until the final bow. Plus, one of my favorite things about burlesque culture is how earnestly enthusiastic it is about sex and the human body, in whatever size or shape or texture it happens to come in. There’s something deeply affirming about being able to openly scrutinize the human body and appreciate its awkwardness and occasional ugliness and, despite or maybe because of these things, dude, mind-blowing sexiness. Plus, did I mention sluts and hula hoops?! By god, kids, this is Christmas.

The Verdict: Absolute must-see, rollicking holiday fun not for the whole family. For my money? Total Christmas tradition in the making.

—

Um, dudes, at one point, a giant penis-shaped candy cane EJACULATED SNOW. So. Is that TMI Thursday enough for you? Check out today’s TMI Thursday greatness over at Livit, Luvit!

Posted in arts slash crafts, bad behavior, love & sex, totally am that kind of girl | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 28 Comments »

GIVEAWAY WINNER! (and TWO guest posts!)

December 16, 2009 by That Kind of Girl

Guys! The mystical powers over at Random.org have spoken, and of the 156 entries in the giveaway, the winner of my giveaway is #19: Dani, from She Laughs Too Easily & Cries Too Hard.

Congratulations, Dani! Email coming in a minute. I’ve got to admit, I’m dying of curiosity to find out whether Wodehouse, soap or sex toys will end up with the winning vote…

Also, thank you marvelous people so much for all the entries and wonderful comments! I was quite frankly overwhelmed by the quantity of submissions and especially with the quality of recommended NTKOGs! I’ll definitely be trying many of them in the coming months (and will remember to give credit where it’s due.)

***

Okay, that said, I have no NTKOG goodness for you today, but, because I am the most popular person on the internet, have TWO GUEST POSTS UP on wonderful blogs!

First: a guest post up at The Secret Society of List Addicts describing the top five headaches that regularly send me reaching for my Excedrin. My personal favorites? The “my ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend” and the “holy shit, when was my last tetanus shot?!”. Two endearing migraine classics. Third favorite? The SHEER JOY-graine you’ll get when you inevitably read the rest of the archives over at Secret Society of List Addicts. Seriously, love it.

Second: an article about statement necklaces over at Her Southern Heart, which is a great site to check out if you love looking at pretty things. (Not that I would know. Currently: google imaging skin diseases and writing erotica about them.) I’m nobody’s fashionista, but seeing as how I regularly rock the meat cleaver necklace, felt it my duty to pass my love for statement necklaces onto the general pop.

I have no idea why it looks like I'm not wearing clothes in this photo. I am indeed wearing clothes. Well, a sundress and flipflops, in mid-December, with a meat cleaver necklace, while photographing myself in my bathroom. So. Maybe naked isn't actually the weirdest interpretation here.

Just to up the random factor on this grab-bag post, a blurry photo of said meat cleaver necklace. Isn't it magical?!

Happy Wednesday, kids!

[Edit: Just heard back from Dani, and she quite cleverly chose the sex toy! What would y'all have chosen?]

Posted in GIVEAWAY!, fashion & style, guest post, shameless self-promotion | Tagged , , , , | 9 Comments »

TKOG Who ACTUALLY steals stuff

December 15, 2009 by That Kind of Girl

NTKOG #78: The kind of girl who gets her Carmen Sandiego on and actually boosts some items from the general populace.

I am: well recovered from my  pre-teen shoplifting phase; generally law-abiding.

I am not: actually pickpocketing anyone, so get your finger off your 911 speed-dial.

The Scene: Agganis Arena, for Friday night’s hockey game against RPI (close ’til they scored two rapid-fire goals on us in the last two minutes). Sister had won four free tickets, so we invited along Picasso and his fiancée, Hot Hands. The reason for her hot-handedness apparent in a moment.

We arrived right at game time, and only then realized that our tickets came with Club Lounge access for food before the game. We rushed in and were braced by the embarrassment of culinary riches. Of note: a fantastic cheese platter decorated — just decorated — with half-pound wedges of brie. The whole place was actually done up with every attempt at turning a sweaty, sterile environment into a winter wonderland. Little evergreen trees sprouted from silver tablecloths; poinsettias, er, wilted at every turn.

Problem: within the ten measly minutes we were in the Club Lounge, we missed the first five minutes of the game and the FIRST THREE GOALS. wtf, right?

Sister: We should just walk out of here with stuff.
TKOG: Oh my god, that would be unbelievably tacky. … okay.

Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words. Sometimes a blogger is lazy and tired and pictures are all you’re getting anyway:

Nothing classes up a sporting event like smuggled sandwiches made of half-pound blocks of stolen for-decoration-only brie.

Once Hot Hands cleared out her purseful of stolen rolls, she did us all proud by sneaking back to the scene of the crime for a second heist:

Hot Hands with the liberated Christmas tree.

The Verdict: I’m going to go on record as saying I totally approve of some light-hearted semi-thievery, and chalk it up as another case of: “nobody cares when you do embarrassing stuff, so just go ahead and do it, champ.” Although in this case there is the caveat that this is all stuff that would have gotten thrown away slash had no monetary value.

I will further admit that this jocular banditry might have extended to a full-out spree this weekend, wherein Sister and I possibly liberated further winter decorations from a shopping center in Deadham. But that one I actually felt terrible about. Until I decided to pretend to myself that the giant glittery snowflake picks probably would have been stolen by juvenile delinquents anyway. Aaaahh. Much better.

Giveaway! Today! Enter by midnight! And if you blogged or tweeted about it but haven’t left me a comment letting me know yet, please do so!

Posted in bad behavior, food & boozin', makin' friends, sports and/or leisure, totally am that kind of girl | Tagged , , , , , | 12 Comments »

TKOG Who hits you with her digits

December 14, 2009 by That Kind of Girl

NTKOG #77: The kind of girl who catches your eye in public then, brazen as you please, gives you her number so you can meet again.

I am: skeptical of the whole concept of giving strangers your number. What’re you supposed to say when you call? “Hey, remember me? We met waiting in line for the restroom at the ice cream parlor?” Heck no.

I am not: even currently dating.

The Scene: The Davis Square T station, waiting for an inbound train with Anglophile and Porn Star after seeing The Slutcracker (a must-see for you Bostonians! details during a special sluts-and-hula-hoops edition of TMI Thursday!). As we walked by, I noticed a dreamy guy standing alone by the platform and shot him intense live eyes. I figured nothing would come of it, as he was too cute to even be looking at me. But. Not only did he not look away, but he wandered close to us and kept looking at me. Big-time electricity.

I pulled a standard TKOG move: started being extra charming and funny in the conversation to catch his attention. After I made a joke, he laughed, so I engaged with him. A few pleasantries, then I told him we’d just seen The Slutcracker and recommended he see it. He would, he said, but he just moved to town and doesn’t have friends yet.

TKOG: Me too! Tell you what. I can be your friend.
Davis Square Dreamboat: I’d like that.
TKOG: So what do you do? Student? Grad student?
DSD: I’m a software engineer.
TKOG: Love.

He laughed like I was joking. Um, like I’d ever joke about my love for engineers. Then — heart in my throat — I asked if he had an iPhone; he said no. “Too bad,” I told him, “or I could bump you my contact info. There’s an app for that.”

“You could just give me your number the old-fashioned way,” he said, whipping out his phone. I gave him my number, and afterwards he typed in my name without even asking me to repeat it, even though I’d only said it in passing before. My heart puddled and slid around the floor like a Capri Sun commercial. I got his number too, then the train came.

On the train, he sat across from me, then started chatting again, so I sat near him, but left a buffer seat because I hate touching. After a bit of normal exchange, he put his arm on my elbow:

DSD: So now that we’re friends, what are we going to do when I call you?
TKOG: Something exciting. We could get acupuncture together! Or indoor skydiving! [he grimaced at these] Or we could go get a drink at a bar with the periodic table on the wall?

Long story short (TOO LATE!), we’re going to Miracle of Science on Wednesday night after my writing class. You guys. You guys! I have friggin’ BUTTERFLIES! I can’t remember the last time I had butterflies. Oh em gee. One other stellar moment from the interaction on the train. We had to shout a bit to hear each other better, so I scooted a few inches closer to him on the buffer seat:

TKOG: Sorry, is this too close? Am I invading your personal space?
DSD: No! Why would you ask that?
TKOG: I just have personal space issues.
DSD: Are you usually the invader or the invadee?
TKOG: Oh, the invadee. I’m like the friggin’ Poland of personal space. I try to be respectful because I know I don’t like it when other people get in mine.
DSD: Wait, so you wouldn’t like it if I did this?

And then he put his hand on my shoulder, like kind of close to my neck and — it is a Christmas friggin’ miracle: not only did I NOT freak out, but … I liked it. It felt, I mean, electric.

Aaaaaack!

The Verdict: Oh my gosh. So remember when I said I wasn’t going to date just for the sake of dating, and was going to wait to meet someone with whom lightning struck my heart at first glance, no matter how many months or years it took to find? Yeah, okay, so it apparently didn’t take as long as I thought it would. Gosh. Ever since we parted, I’ve been an all-singing, all-dancing tornado of giddiness. I’m so going to savor this feeling, so even if on Wednesday it turns out he loves Dan Brown novels and has an anime tattoo, at least I’ll have these few days to look back on fondly.

Of course this couldn’t have happened at a less convenient time in my personal/romantic life (going back to Vegas for two weeks, then The Ex is coming out to Boston to visit me), but I’d be an idiot not to pursue it. Because it turns out I am totally that kind of girl.

Also, in re: number giving: a really sweet girl who witnessed my T station pick-up started chatting with me afterwards, and we ALSO hit it off! I ended up getting her card and vowing to call her to go see some opera. And while I would usually just throw the card away, y’all know I’m actually going to do it. ROUSING SUCCESS!

Also, loves, remember you only have ’til 11:59pm tomorrow to enter MY GIVEAWAY! Get those last-minute entries in, or you’ll always regret it!

Posted in guys, love & sex, makin' friends, movie cliches, public transportation, social interactions, totally am that kind of girl | Tagged , , , , , | 30 Comments »

TKOG Who heckles you on the street

December 13, 2009 by That Kind of Girl

NTKOG #76: The kind of girl who, as you go about your daily business, decides to shout a few well-placed criticisms about your actions and lifestyle.

I am: like basically the foremost living authority on how you should live your life. Duh. As evidenced by my own picture-perfect life.

I am not: actually crazy enough to shout out any of the little thoughts or comments that pop into my head.

The Scene: Coolidge Corner in Brookline, waiting for the light to change outside of the CVS. A jogger pounds his way across the intersection during the walk light and, as he gets back on the sidewalk, runs across the path of a grizzled old man.

“HEY!” the old man shouts at the jogger’s retreating back, “Those thirty seconds worth the rest of your life?!“

Dude. A fellow street-shouter! Surely, I figured, this prince among men would appreciate hearing a few of my views on him!

TKOG: May I share an observation?
Grizzled Old-Man Muppet: What?
TKOG: Well you asked him if those thirty seconds were worth the rest of his life. which is what people say to chastise other people for doing stupid, reckless things and putting themselves in danger. But it seems to me you were actually more upset that he almost ran into you. In future, I’d suggest the classic “Watch it, buddy!” in this situation.
GOMM: Fuck you.
TKOG: See, that one’s appropriate.

Then he stalked away before I could hit him with a few more of my salient observations. To wit: it takes at most ten seconds to cross a street, so in fact the jogger saved himself significantly less than thirty seconds; the jogger’s life was at no point in danger, because he crossed during the walk signal; ironically, engaging in regular cardiovascular activity will prolong or even save the jogger’s life, and certainly doesn’t risk it.

The Verdict: Sadly, it seems my caustic old pal dished it a lot better than he took it. Which just shows the obnoxiousness and futility of street-shouting. I mean, what are the odds he’ll walk away from my critique thinking: “Man, words really do mean stuff, and I guess I should be more articulate in future” or “The fact that being criticized on the street made me feel defensive and threatened is a powerful motivator for me to reform my heckling ways”?! Hell no, guys. Instead, he’s just going to keep bellowing judgmentally at random pedestrians — now with an extra side of “oh those golldarn disrespectful kids!”

Please don’t be a street shouter, is all I’m saying. It turned me into an asshole. It will do the same to you.

Posted in bad behavior, evidently not that kind of girl, makin' friends, social interactions | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 13 Comments »

TKOG Who kleptos your pants off (well, or the things inside your pants)

December 11, 2009 by That Kind of Girl

Your comments on MY GIVEAWAY entry are warming my heart, dudes slash ‘ettes! Remember, you still have ’til Tuesday to enter to win a Wodehouse novel, Lush soaps, or a (non-used) sex toy! Which basically sounds like the best evening ever.

NTKOG #75: The kind of girl who quite liberally slips her hand inside your pocket. Non-metaphorically.

I am: actually pretty nimble of finger when it comes to boosting random objects like bar glasses and steak knives.

I am not: sure about the ethical ramifications of applying my dark powers to THE CONTENTS OF YO’ PANTS.

The Scene: Charlie’s in Harvard Square, after my Thursday night writing class, hanging out with Anglophile and Porn Star, a girl and guy from said class. Which actually makes it a night chock full of NTKOG: after class, choking on pre-teen-esque nerves, I asked them if they wanted to just chill and imagine my joy when they actually said yes! (Dear Diary: I finally made some friends!). After chatting for a while (Dear Diary: intellectually stimulating conversation!), we decided to embark on a misadventure.

A target immediately presented itself — quite literally — in the form of a white dishrag tucked into the, um, quite tempting pocket of our server. “Come on!” I told Anglophile, “You wanted a misadventure! You should just grab it from him!” She giggled and steeled herself up, but couldn’t dredge up the nerve.

The other strand of the evening: Anglophile and I were trying assiduously (and, I’ll admit, teenager-ishly) to come up with titles of the fine feature films in which we imagined Porn Star had earned his epithet. Usually I have just about the dirtiest sense of humor of anyone I’ve met, and am an endless fount of puns, so you’d think the intersection of these traits would yield epic success, right?

TKOG: I’m feeling something science fiction. How about — Star Balls?
Anglophile: What are you talking about? Star Whores.
TKOG: Damn.

The server walks past our table, the bar rag swish swishing against the back of his thighs. Anglophile and I reach toward it, then our courage deserts us.

Anglophile: How about a horror movie?
TKOG: The Pecs-orcist?
Anglophile: What?! No! The SEXorcist.

As I hang my head in shame, the server takes a step back toward our table. Swish, swish.

I jump up from the table and track the server from one end of the bar to the other, sneaking out my hand like a cartoon cat reaching into the goldfish bowl. But to no avail: he wriggles out of my grasp at every turn. The man is good. The three of us divvy up the check and I decide I’ll just steal the rag and run. So I sneak up behind server, pluck the rag out of his pocket and — goddamnit, my fatal flaw when it comes to staging a rear attack: make the mistake of engaging in conversation.

TKOG: I really like this bar rag. It’s like the perfect size and color. I want these for my apartment.
Empty Pockets: Uh, thanks? They’re okay, I guess.
TKOG: Can I keep this one? I want to keep this.
EP: Yeah, no. I can’t. We technically rent them from the company.
TKOG: Okay, so can I have something else to remember you by?

The server grabs a beer from the bar and starts to hand it off, then says something about open container laws. He scours the rest of the bar, looking for a souvenir, then finally settles on a fork.

TKOG: Thanks so much — [nametag glance] — Chris. I’ll always remember the night you forked me.

The Verdict: So my pun sense abandoned me for the bulk of the evening, but IT CAME BACK WHEN I NEEDED IT MOST. A really gorgeous tying of the two strands of the evening, if I do say so myself. Although I accidentally stabbed myself about fourteen times, carrying the fork in my pocket on the T.

This is officially the second-cheesiest pick-up line I’ve used on a bar employee in Boston; definitely also the most genuinely amused I’ve been while behaving totally inappropriately with a guy. Totally surprisingly to my anti-touch self, I would not only attempt the klepto as a pick-up again, but totally want to go back and try it again WITH HIM. Except this time I’ll pass on the cutlery and go for the free beer, please.

Also, if you couldn’t guess by the immature shenans and non-stop porn discussion, I would 100% recommend hanging out with random, cool-seeming people who you don’t think you know well enough to hang out with. It’s just not worth being too embarrassed to ask, because the potential reward is so high.

Posted in bad behavior, food & boozin', guys, makin' friends, social interactions, totally am that kind of girl | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 18 Comments »

TKOG Who gets eaten alive by parasites (a TMI Thursday from the vault)

December 10, 2009 by That Kind of Girl

Have y’all entered MY GIVEAWAY yet?! If not, you probably should. I guarantee this story will make you want to take a very cleansing bath.

Tonight, while catching the Top Chef finale at Sister’s to root on my imaginary boyfriend, Kevin (so cute!), Sister and I became aware of an uninvited guest in her kitchen. I was headed in to grab some water when a huge mouse scampered across the floor. And let me say, though I’ve always mocked the cartoonish stereotype that any woman in the presence of a mouse immediately shrills “EEEEK!” while jumping on the nearest ottoman — dude. Totally came to pass. The wonderful experience also reminded me of the time earlier this year when my house in California hosted its own plague.

For much of last March, I woke up every morning from dreams that minnows and crawdads and other hideous beasts were swimming underneath my skin. I’d jerk myself to consciousness in the wee hours, scratching bloody rivulets through my thighs and lower stomach. But since this was a pleasant change of pace from my usual nightmares (killing former flames in car crashes is often thematized), I bandaged myself up and thought surprisingly little of it. As the days passed, I started scratching a lot, but none of the four guys I lived — not even The Ex — had any bites or complaints, so I chalked it up to an overactive imagination.

Then, on April Fool’s Day (of course!), I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, and saw a little speck scuttle across my thigh. Holy friggin’ shit. I scoured my skin and saw two of the little dudes — translucent beasts, the size of a pencil point, looking in every respect like miniature crabs. Wait, did I say translucent? Right before my eyes, one of them turned a glowing crimson. The little dude was recharging his hit points by DRAWING IN MY BLOOD.

After some discretionary shrieking, stared down the bathroom and everything looked normal except — jesus, the whole wall by the toilet was moving. It was covered with the bugs so thick that the drywall looked like it was shimmering. But translucent, right?, so you could only see them if you were looking for them. Judicious application of my google fu revealed that not only did we have tropical rat mites, but, inevitably, somewhere, rats lurked.

Frantic calls to all the big extermination companies could only get us an appointment for a screening a week later, with treatment beginning after two weeks. TWO WHOLE WEEKS. During which time, The Ex and I had no choice but to launder our sheets every night and sleep while under siege.

Except for some freaky reason (I blame menstrual pheromones?), rat mites are more attracted to women and children than men. So despite the fact that The Ex was sleeping next to me, he woke up with his skin whole and smooth as a fresh-baked dinner roll, while my stomach and thighs were bitten into a purple, craggy mess. In fact, I’m not prepared to swear my skin wasn’t oozing at some point. (Forgive me. I do so relish the grotesque.)

All that said, the grossest part of the story? I called in the biggest-name extermination company in the area to take a look at the problem, and ended up taking a day off work to show the guy around. What’s the problem?, he asked; tropical rate mites, I told him with authority. He didn’t even ask where they were — just flipped over the mattress, said he didn’t see anything and couldn’t diagnose the problem without a live sample, then got ready to leave. But wait!, I said, and showed him the squirming wall of arachnid delight. Without a living sample, I can’t diagnose the problem, he said, bolting for the front door.

Um, dude, what about all those live mites I just showed you? I asked, then forced him to come upstairs and look yet again. Again, he shook his head and charged toward the door.

I don’t understand why you won’t take a sample, I told him.

There aren’t any mites in your house. It’s all in your head. Are there any men who live in the house? Maybe I could talk to one of them, he conceded to calm down the poor little lady.

It can’t be in my head! I may or may not have shrieked. Look at me, I’m a fucking leper. I showed him my upper arms, purple and bloody with little raised bumps the exact size of tropical rat mites.

Whether he used precisely the phrase “menstrual hysteria” is for historians to debate, but he finally agreed to take a sample of the mites from upstairs, incorrectly (it transpires) identified them as avian mites, then told me to have my boyfriend call him.

I didn’t, of course. I called another extermination company, who managed to eradicate the vermin in less than a week and not even reify the patriarchy while doing so. Still, I ended up feeling shitty and mistreated for weeks after the encounter, but never got up the balls to do anything about it — not even write a pissed-off Yelp review.

Just one of those stories that reminds me of the kind of girl I was, and the kind of girl I’d really like to never be again. Now, of course, it would seem like child’s play to call a manager and complain my way up the corporate ladder until I was sure the incompetent jerk would feel some repercussions. It’s nice to look back on what I’ve done for these past few months and think that I totally wouldn’t take shit from this guy again; I wouldn’t take it from anyone. Except vermin, I guess, ’cause you kind of have no choice about that.

[Edit: My mega apologies! The Ex wants the world to know that he was bitten as well! I just didn't remember, because apparently he suffered in silence and anyway I was too busy fending off rogue vampires and leper colony recruiters! So spare a little sympathy for him, if you'd like.]

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These lovely descriptions of my feasted-upon flesh provided under the auspices of TMI Thursday, hosted by LiLu. Be sure to check out her Post Secret TMI Thursday today, where I promise I am not scarring your eyes with any more of my grostesque secrets.

Posted in TMI Thursday, apropos of nothing, domestic slavin', guys, social interactions, the kind of girl I was | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 26 Comments »

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