Monday, January 03, 2005

Throw Your Hands Up At Me

I came to fully realize that my life has been, well, let's call it "outside the box" when I was able to recognize a drag queen's shoving a Destiny's Child poster into my netherregions as an affectionate greeting. My homecoming to Bounce night club (the site of this peculiar salutation) as well as the greater Cleveland area was nice after three solid months of back-breaking photocopying and spirit-crushing book ordering.

I flew to Cleveland after work on Thursday ("work" consisting mostly of "eating soup" and "cutting paper snowflakes") on one of the tiniest planes ever to take to the sky. However, before I was allowed to board, I was yet again singled out for a special security check. I understand that with my nerdy glasses, impractical hot pink heels and completely superfluous belt I do look like I might take down a plane in a fit of fundamentalist religious rapture. However, do they have to refer to me as a "detainee" while they're searching my stuff? It's embarassing enough having to stand shoeless in an airport while someone picks through your underwear, but do they absolutely have to scream out, Guantanamo Bay-style, "WE'VE GOT A FEMALE DETAINEE OVER HERE, CAN WE PLEASE GET SOMEONE TO PAT HER DOWN?"

The rest of my trip was mainly uneventful, except for the man sitting next to me who consistently picked his nose throughout the entire one hour and nine minute flight. From take off to landing, he emptied the contents of his sinuses onto his fingers, the seat in front of him and, God help me, the in-flight magazine.

Brad picked me up in mini-glamour in the gold Mini-Cooper, and I saw his mini-dog (puppy) and very full-sized new house, all of which I grande liked. I also met my very favorite mini-person, Bella, who despite being sick showed more personality at the ripe old age of three months than I do now.

Brad and I spent a weekend of quality time in the flattest state in the Union watching The Office, touring the mall, picking up appliances from hot (if somewhat gaunt) guys, eating Taco Bell, watching some drag, and listening to his cat wheeze. We rang in the New Year ten seconds after a drag show finale involving much hair-flipping, two splits, and two middle-fingered salutes, and all in all I think it represented a solid begging to the oh-five.

We drove back to my house on Saturday. In the interest of engaging you, the undoubtedly snoozing reader, here's a game for you. Which of the following horrible recording artists did Brad and I not listen to on the eight hour drive?

(a) Hoku ("Another Dumb Blonde")
(b) Enrique Iglesias ("Escape")
(c) Britney Spears ("Toxic")
(d) The Sounds ("Anything They Ever Recorded Is Bad")
(e) Dolly Parton ("Me and Little Andy")

And the answer is: ha, trick question, we sang along to each and every one of those, bitches, and that's why so few are man enough to survive the drive with us.

On Sunday we jet-setted our way to the rock-star photo shoot, and, as protagonist, the only picture I'm going to share is the one of me, included for your edification below.
I call this outfit Flight-Attendant-Chic.

The photo shoot went well, and the band was nicer than I expected them to be. The only teeth-gnashingly stupid part was when the two musicians Brad was photographing took a five minute diversion from the conversation to muse about how rough it is getting people to take your music seriously when you're a really really hot girl. I mean, it's tough. People just look at you and they don't care that you play the bass because you're JUST SO HOT. I swallowed my creeping bile and enjoyed the rest of the shoot, which they were very nice to do for us, although any niceness or enjoyment on may part have been the direct result of a contact high. Like I said, jet-setting.

Afterwards on the subway on the way home, I saw the most devastatingly attractive man I've ever seen in my twenty-two years walking this planet. The idea that we were not making out almost brought me to tears. It's hard to come up with a good pick-up line on the subway, though. Maybe I should just have some invitations to my vagina printed up. Come on, it's a party in there. Destiny's Child's played the other night.


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