Haiku

Why, Whataburger?
Your ketchup is so good, your
calories so high.

My Current Shame

Recently, my match.com membership expired. I didn't renew it, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is how depressing it had gotten. But, I am embarrassed to say that I miss it. Aside from the fact that it gave me something to do while awaiting my turn at the bench, it was entertaining. Going on a few bad dates a week was an activity, albeit a dissatisfying one, and I rarely had to pay for my own martinis. Now, I not only have to pay for my own drinks, but I've been reduced to jogging as a way to occupy my evenings. I am so sore that I can't sit on the toilet without groaning aloud and I no longer have an excuse to wear shorts with high heels. Also, I've nearly had a heat stroke twice. Which is the exact number of times that I've been jogging. Damn. The plus side for all of you, of course, is that I am apparently blogging again with some regularity.

The Conversation I'm Currently Having With Myself

Evil Kitty: You know what sounds really good right now? An Oreo Blizzard. With extra Oreo!

Good Kitty: Ooohhh . . . good call. Cold and crunchy and creamy . . . when did we decide to gain ten pounds?

Evil Kitty: Gain ten pounds? It's just ice cream. How often do we eat ice cream?

Good Kitty: Well, Fat Ass, apparently every day since you decided to start making it homemade. And now you want to drive across town to get it with cookies.

Evil Kitty: Yeah, but it'll be a small one.

Good Kitty: But, wouldn't you rather use those calories to drink alcohol?

Evil Kitty: Good point.

Oh, Goody! More gifts!

Today, I received a second piece of art from my client. Apparently, he sent it to the judge (whose name you can probably guess), and the judge returned it. I wonder why? That fringe is painstakingly hand-tied. The two hearts represent the two convicts who were crucified alongside Jesus Christ. Seriously.

Hmph.

I am, once again, conflicted. A union of flight attendants is upset, because one of the uniform choices is only available up to a size 18. Apparently, the union thinks that it should be made up to a size 28. Isn't there some point where we all must sit back and realize that people are not created equal? And by equal, I don't necessarily mean some are better and some are worse, I just mean different. Recently, I went on a cruise, and learned an important lesson from my fellow passengers: Just because you can physically tie something around you doesn't necessarily mean you should wear it. String bikinis are a privilege, not a right.

I went to the mall today, and my eyes were assaulted with young women wearing shorts that were three inches too short and two sizes too small. Why does the mere existence of an item of clothing entitle you to wear it in public? It's as though America has traded it's three-way mirrors for an endless supply of chicken nuggets and soft serve. When I was heavier, I worked very hard to minimize my fat rolls and maximize my better features. There is a limit to what the public wants to see, regardless of how comfortable people are in showing it off. I read the article to which this post is linked (above) and was dumbfounded. The article says that workers above a size 18 are entitled to the same sexy manner of dress as workers who wear a size 2, and that by failing to manufacture the dress larger than a size 18, the airline is essentially telling it's size 20 and larger employees that the airline doesn't want them to wear the sexier options. Why is that a bad thing? How sexy do you need to look as you check my baggage? How much cleavage do these women want to show as they demonstrate in-flight safety? What's next? Victoria's Secret employees striking because they don't get to wear lingerie on the sales floor?

Must've Been the Full Moon

In the past week, the following things have happened:

I got added on facebook by a guy I went out on a date with one time, over a month ago. I told him after the date that I didn't want to see him again. Apparently, he took that to mean that, while I wasn't interested in dating him, I did have available the position of internet stalker.

While checking my email, a guy that I went out with three times (in January) sent me a request to chat. I told him after the third date that I wasn't interested. He is one persistent mofo. If you scroll through past posts, you'll remember him as "Blue".

I saw the ex, Mike, at the courthouse. He's working there. We didn't talk, but we did make eye contact, and because I'm a total dork, I gave him this wave, like, "Hey, there, guy. Sorry I broke your heart 43 days ago. I hope you're faring well."

I got catcalled walking into my office. By a guy in a Ford F-150 that had a PA system mounted in the grill. It was strange, because at the moment that I heard, "Hey, pretty lady," I was torn between two frames of mind. On the one hand, who wants to get catcalled by some d-bag in a tan late model Ford? On the other hand, how cool is that guy for having a PA system installed in his truck?

I got hit on by a child in municipal court. Seriously, he may have been 19 years old.

I received a very special gift in the mail from one of my clients who is currently languishing in the Montgomery County Jail. It's a hand-drawn picture (in ink and pencil) and a cross pendant that has been fashioned from string and tinfoil. I am flattered and totally creeped out.

I tell you this, not so that you'll think that I am hot shit. Oh no. I tell you this to highlight the fact that, in one week, I have interacted, in some way, with six different men who either want to or have wanted to go out on a date with me. None of them are suitable.

Ice Cream and Champagne

I have been making homemade ice cream for the last two days straight. And yet, with each batch, I eat a bowl, just to make sure it tastes "right". Also, I've decided that the appropriate beverage for making ice cream is champagne. I can think of very few occasions on which champagne is not the appropriate beverage, other than funerals. Funerals call for something warm and painful like whiskey spiked coffee . . .

Back on the Market

So, in the past few weeks, I've been doing the online dating thing again. Tragic, I know, but it's better than being bored in the evenings. Things haven't really changed. There is one constant on all of my match dates - we all talk about the weird people we've been on bad dates with. It's wildly entertaining, in part because I now know that most women alive today are completely psycho and are all cheaters. It's astounding. Without exception, every single man I've been on a date with in the past month has been cheated on or needed a restraining order against a woman they've only been out with once. It's astounding. That being said, it's no real surprise that a couple of these guys have been cheated on. There've been some doozies. I shall tell you about them now . . .

1. I met a guy for dinner in Bryan. In his pictures, he looked fit, handsome, and young for his age. That's because his pictures were at least a decade old. And had apparently been airbrushed. Because he had horrifyingly pock-marked skin. Also, he had the physical appearance of someone who had recently melted slightly. You, know, when a man's gut sits a little too low and he's started to appear slightly pear-shaped? Ugh. Throughout our conversation, he proceeded to tell me the story of how his marriage ended, which was depressing, because she cheated on him twice. As the conversation progressed, we started talking about his kids (all three of 'em), and how his daughter takes after him, because she's not competitive. The following interchange took place:

"You know, I'm not really competitive."

"Really?"

"Yeah. When you're playing a game with friends, I don't understand why you can't just play for a while and then call it a tie. Why does someone have the be the loser?

*crickets chirping*

Erm . . . because some of us are WINNERS.

When I arrived home, I had an very nice email about how he thought that we really clicked, and he couldn't wait to see me again, etc. I wasn't sure what to say. So I said, "You're a really great guy, but I don't think that we're a good match. Good luck."

Fortunately, he didn't try to contact me again.

2. After that, I went on a date with a guy who told me another sob story about a woman who cheated on him. He was shorter than he said he was, which is a pet peeve of mine. Dude, of all of the lies you could tell, the fact that you are NOT six feet tall is the easiest one for me to identify as being a patent untruth. So, knowing that the guy was deluded, I still had a glass of wine with him. After the first glass of wine, he asked if I wanted another. I declined, mostly because I was tired of hearing him whine. There was an awkward pause, I excused myself to go to the restroom, and when I returned he had paid the check, which was my plan. On my way home, I received the following text message:

Hi, Kitty, seemed great then quickly no-so? Was it something I said or didn't say, or just not interested? I really didn't learn anything about you and aired my history . . . Just curious why to me it felt on then off . .?

Seriously? What about, "Hi, nice to meet you," followed by me listening to you bitch and moan about how hard it's been for you to find a woman for an hour made you think that we were "on"? I don't get it. And your message, after one glass of wine, was weird. Truth be told, you were too old for me, boring and not funny. So, I don't want to see you again. Thanks.

Big News

Good morning, sports fans. It has been more that two months since my last real post. Today, my life changed, and your lives became more interesting. In short, I broke up with the BoFo. I won't rehash the specifics, mostly because I respect that Man, but also because I have consumed a bottle of champagne in a futile attempt to assuage my pain and guilt. I am not drunk, if you're hoping for a well-lubed rant. I am however, heartbroken. In the past, relationships have ended because "he just wasn't that into me," or because there was some catastrophic event that made it impossible for us to see eye to eye. Today, my love affair ended because it became clear that we were "just not meant to be."

Despite my cavalier attitude and sarcasm in previous posts, I was forever hopeful that each date will bring true love and an enduring partnership. This one had potential. Alas, it was not to be. Tragically, I do not have sufficient savings to justify a restorative trip to Louis Vuitton. So, I soldier on, sans man and sans LVs. I'm not sure whether I will pick up where I left off in the online dating world. I'm thinking that a short break is apropos. What I can say is that hope springs eternal. So does my desire to conquer the English language and Strunk and White's. Therefore, stay tuned for more regular installments.

New Idea

It has now been two months since my last post. Penance is probably due. I probably don't have readers anymore. But, I have a new idea. I am going to post on Fridays. Only on Fridays. At least once a week, something happens that inspires a rant, makes me chuckle, or makes me thankful that I don't live in Porter, Texas. So, there's fodder for posts, just not daily ones. And, I know everyone's trying to do anything but work on Friday afternoons. So . . . I shall post. Please tune in tomorrow for something erudite and witty.

Yikes!

I have a dirty little secret. In a few moments it will be secret no more. Here on Luxe, much has been said by me about my addiction to Girl Scout cookies and shopping. There is something else. . .

Leche Quemada. Erika's uncle died, and her parents went to Mexico for the funeral. Knowing my love for the stuff, her mom brought be back a bag of Leche Quemada. I have now eaten more than half of it. I cannot stop. If it wouldn't offend Erika, I would throw it away. Instead, I continue to eat and I can hear my ass spreading. Aces.

Company-Quality Individual Meatloafs

Lori requested it, so here it is . . .

1 lb. ground beef (the lowest fat possible)
1/2 small white onion, finely diced
1/4 c. Egg Beaters
1/2 c. salsa
1/4 c. oatmeal, uncooked
1/2 pkg. Knorr's vegetable soup mix
1/4 t. pepper
1/4 t. garlic powder
Olive oil
3 or 4 yellow or orange bell peppers, sliced into 2-inch rings, and de-seeded and de-veined
ketchup, mustard, and molasses for the topping


Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix first eight ingredients together until combined. Fill pepper rings with meat mixture and then pan fry (in an oven-safe pan) in a tiny amount of olive oil, about five minutes on each side. While that's cooking, mix together two parts ketchup and one part each of mustard and molasses. Slather ketchup mixture over individual meatloaves and then cook at 350 degrees for about 25 minutes.

I made these for a couple of guys from Nacogdoches and was told it was "mighty fine," which is the East Texas equivalent of a Michelin Star.

Who knew?

Friday night, after a Chamber of Commerce event, I went to a bar with the Bofo and a couple of friends. We're sitting there, and across the way I spy the worst India ink tattoo of a fairy I have ever seen. And it was large. Below the tattoo was a rather tacky strapless top on a rather portly young woman. My friend turned to me and said, "Wanna bet five bucks on where that girl bought that top?" Um, yes.

I am not only a snob, I am a mean-spirited snob. Right off the bat, I guessed Wet Seal, leaving my friend with few options. She guessed Bu-Yah-Kah, which was an even better guess than Wet Seal, seeing as how that store is where skanks purchase their "WannaRagingCaseOfTheClap? clothes". I saw her Bu-Yah-Kah, and raised her the Rue 21 Outlet at the Conroe Outlet "Mall". At this point, we were running out of cash with which to bet, and so my friend went over to inquire about the origin on the top. Mind you, this is a country bar, and we stuck out like sore thumbs. Not because we were wearing J. Crew, but because our "cowgirl clothes" were just a shade too ritzy for the clientile at ol' Johnny B. Dalton's.* When Nicole got back, I was chagrined to learn that we had both guessed wrong. And before you roll your eyes at us, and think to yourself, "Duh. Forever 21," I must tell you that I had considered, and discarded that option myself, mostly because the garment wasn't nearly stylish enough to have been purchased at Forever 21. But, nay, it did not spring from even that bastion of cheap and poorly made clothing. It came from . . . wait for it . . . Family Dollar. I repeat - Family Dollar. I don't even know what that is, much less that they sell clothes. "Going out clothes," no less. If I did know where to find a Family Dollar, I am going to assume that I would probably purchase my Fabuloso(!) there.

* Johnny B. Dalton's is my favorite bar. Probably of all time. The DJ booth is in a covered wagon (complete with a string of Christmas lights) and they have a wet t-shirt contest on Thursday nights. And they don't hose the girls down with water. Oh, no. There's an old guy standing at the edge of the dance floor with an 409 bottle that's been re-purposed, and he gives them a couple of well-placed sprays before slapping those girls on the ass and sending them out there to try their hand at winning $300. Needless to say, there are always a couple of ladies out there who shouldn't be. Think Urban Cowboy. And then scale down the class a bit. That's the level we're dealing with here. The place is classic.

Topics

1. Girl Scout Cookies: Trust me. If shopping is an addiction which is mildly under control, then girl scout cookies are like smack to me. I cannot stop. They call to me from their box in the garage. That's right. The garage. If they were in my pantry, the aftermath would resemble a Garfield cartoon. You know, the ones where he's sitting there, surrounded by bits of lasagna, rolled onto his back, stomach distended like a Somalian refugee?

2. I could just post photos of all the things that I buy, complete with commentary. Like the new boots I bought night before last. They're green and brown. I love them, and will wear them tomorrow night. Nonetheless, they are a pointless purchase, and one of which I am less than proud. Not, however, more shameful than my Old Navy binge just 24 hours ago. What is it about $10 lace trimmed camisoles that makes it seem okay to spend $300? I mean, seriously. And how, mind you, does a brief search for a white button down shirt turn into two dresses, eight tops, two skirts*, and an umbrella?!

3. The new bofo. Does anyone really want to hear that? I didn't think so.

4. I could put into writing all of the crazy stories from my youth. It would be like Tucker Max except with boobs.

5. Recipes: I have a home run meatloaf recipe that I would be more than happy to share . . .

6. Random photos will continue to be posted as they arrive on my camera.

* One is a SIZE 4! I know I've said that already, but whatever. A 4! And thanks to the unnamed attorney who congratulated me on that milestone.

Alright, already!

I'm a terrible blogger, I know. It's been days since my last confession. Here's the problem . . .

I have a boyfriend. I know, right?! His name's Mike, and I'm not going to blog about him without his permission, although I don't really think you guys would want to hear about it anyway, so I'm looking for new subject matter. Demanda suggested herself, but she has a great life with a cute kid and a wonderful husband, and a job she doesn't want to lose, so there's not much to say there. Instead, I'll continue to write about what I know, which is that I spend too much money and am being stalked by Blue. Remember Blue? He just called me. I haven't answered on of his calls in weeks, but he persists. He also text messages me several times a week, lavishing the type of sycophantic praise upon me that (let's face it) I want to hear, but not from him. Is there any way to end this without coming across like a total ass. I think I'm about two phone calls and four text messages away from telling him to eff off.

In good news, I bought a size 4 skirt today. That's right. A size 4. It might run large, but I don't care. Suck on that, bitches.

Whoa!

I had no idea it had been so long since I posted. Wow. I'm such a slack. In my defense, I've been very busy working. And going out on dates. Unfortunately for all of you, they haven't been bad dates. I won't be writing about them here - it's not like anyone cares about the good stuff. It's so uninteresting. Even work has been going pretty well, so there's not much to bitch about there, either, except for the economy. If you wanted to hear someone complain about that, you could tune in to FoxNews. So . . . I guess what I'm trying to say is . . . I don't really have anything amusing to say. Well, except for maybe this:

I finally sucked it up and told Blue that things weren't going to work out between us. He said that he had figured that out, and wished me all the best. Then, he sent me another message asking what had gone wrong. Um, Blue? We've gone out thrice. Do you really need "closure"? Are you a sophomore in college? Who recently pledged PiPhi? Because, honestly, what difference does it make? Anyway, because I don't want to fry in hell when I die, I politely responded that I just didn't think there was any THERE there. He said [again] that he understood, and wished me luck. So far, he's still a class act, and I don't think he's a giant loser.

Until the next day. I get a text from him, "Just because we're not dating, doesn't mean we can't be friends, does it? I just think you're really great, and still want to hang out." Um, we live an hour and a half apart, and I just told you that I don't think enough of you to continue to see you, thereby rescuing myself from the miasma of horrifying online dates that have stretched [seemingly] from the dawn of time into eternity. WHAT WOULD MAKE YOU THINK THAT I WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND?! I mean, if we were sleeping together, and I said, "but let's still be friends," he should have gotten the message, "I may still want to hook up occasionally." But, after three dates, "It's not going to work out. Good luck to you." How much more final could I possibly be?

This is the second time that I have made a similar statement to somone I've seen more than once, and the second time they've considered it an opening to either continue as friends (I have plenty, thanks.) or I guess attempt to try to sidle their way into a love affair. Nonetheless, "Good luck," is clearly not enough of a door slam to make a point. From here on out, I'm going with, "I hate you. Never speak to me again." Maybe a statement such as that would have stopped Blue from calling me. Twice.

Whoops!

Trooper: "Do you know how fast you were going?"

Kitty: "Probably pretty fast."

Trooper: "Yes, ma'am."

The trooper wrote the ticket for only 24 miles over the speed limit so that I could take defensive driving. That was a nice thing to do. I love my car.

It gets worse . . .

On Sunday, I went out with another guy. We'll call him Wings, 'cause he's a pilot. Get it? I'm hilarious. Anyway, we met at Pappasito's, ostensibly for a beer. He ordered Perrier. Seriously. And guacamole. He raved about it and then ate like, two spoonfuls. No chips. Which I thought was weird. But not nearly as weird as his voice, which was like that of a munchkin. While the grating quality of the sound was a turn off, I was a bit more concerned about whether he had originally been a midget. You see, I read an article in Details a few months ago about how really short guys are having leg and arm lengthening surgery to add a couple of inches to their height. It's apparently all the rage among dwarfs, and has expanded to the merely short. So, he opens his mouth and starts to talk and I am dumbfounded for the next twenty minutes wondering if he spent a couple of months in a Singapore hospital having a growth spurt.

Then, he asks me about me. I started talking and didn't shut up because I was worried I would have to listen to his voice again. He didn't really seem to mind. There was one thing about him that was more disturbing than his voice (and possible surgical height assistance). He's a big tennis player. But that's not what's disturbing. When I mentioned that I took tennis lessons as a child every summer, he got really pumped and wanted to play together. Apparently, pilots basically do shift work, and when he's not flying he plays tennis twice a day. Sometimes I don't even I was like, erm, I haven't held a racket since 1993, I'm not really sure that I'll do anything other than frustrate you and whoever else happens to be struck by one of my wayward serves. He wouldn't let it go. His faith in my tennis playing abilities was almost fanatical, which was what was disturbing. He got this wild-eyed look and was like, "Great! Do you want to play next week? I can reserve a court!" When I demurred, telling him I didn't want to play because I would be terrible, he was like, "No! I'm sure you're great! You're so athletic! We should play!" Yikes, dude. Ease up a bit. The fact that I haven't held a racket since 1993 should communicate to you in some way exactly how passionate I am about tennis. In fact, you might even infer that I haven't held a racket since I got old enough to tell my parents that I would pick up a coke habit and crabs if they didn't let me quit. For pete's sake. Needless to say, we will neither be playing tennis nor seeing one another again.

Daily Haiku

Child support court. Why
is it that all of the peeps
look alike? White trash.

New Year's Resolution Update

1. I have eaten more fruits and vegetables. If you count the grapes used to make Sauvignon Blanc as a fruit. I think there was some celery in my chicken salad yesterday . . .

2. I fell off the wagon this past weekend. It was not only unnecessary, but excessive. I thought of taking a picture of what I bought and posting it, but I'm too ashamed. In penance, I've decided to extend my goal to April 1.

You like me, you really like me.

I didn't know how much entertainment I was giving to the masses (well, the dozens). I've gotten phone calls, text messages, emails, and in person pleas to post something. Anything. I've been busy. Working. And dating. Which is good, because I have new material. Here goes:

I have been out on three dates with a guy I'll call Blue. He has the bluest eyes I've ever seen in person. He's good looking, well-dressed, and has a hella good job. Blue owns a company with his parents, to whom he's very close, and makes, as far as I can tell, somewhere in the neighborhood of half a million dollars a year. He's a good father to his two kids, of whom he has primary custody. And by good father, I mean he does shit like spend the afternoon with them making homemade pizza from scratch. The sauce and everything. He also thinks I hung the moon. He loves spending time with me, compliments me beautifully, and makes plans in advance, which I love. His mom is excited to meet me. He's also a great kisser. There is really nothing wrong with this guy on paper.

I want to punch him in the face. He is the 2nd most annoying person I have ever met. He doesn't stop talking. Ever. And he's not funny. He thinks he's funny, but he's not. He's not without a sense of humor, because he gets my jokes, but he's not funny. So, to recap, here's a guy who's successful, good-looking, a great parent, has a good relationship with his family, no prior criminal history, and is really into me, and he bugs. Aces. So now, not only do I have to summon the courage to tell this really nice guy that I am so not that into him, but it's back to the drawing board. Ugh.

And, I'm not looking forward to being back to the drawing board, because I have recently been matched up with a truck driver on eHarmony. And not just any truck driver. No. A truck driver who is hoping to get a job driving hot shots. He's an unemployed truck driver. Who, in his best cowboy boots, stands at 5'6". And since all men in the online dating world give themselves an extra two inches, he's only 5'4". eHarmony, I call shenanigans. There is absolutely no way that I am a good match for short unemployed truck driver from Porter, Texas. I don't care if he does believe in Jesus. That's probably all that we have in common. I mean, I have run out of options here. This is not good.

I'm ALIVE!

Just really busy. I've been storing some thoughts up, though, some come back near the end of the week. There'll be new posts galore.

Daily Haiku

Long weekend. Big day.
Life goes on whether it's my
choice for us or not.

Erm . . .

. . . I've been emailing with this guy on match. We exchanged numbers, and because I have a wee bit of a vocal issue right now, we've been texting. So, he sent me a text asking me to send him a picture so he could have one in his phone. I could not be more weirded out than if he asked me to mail him my underwear. Why does he need a picture of me in his phone? Is he going to tell people I'm his new girlfriend? Does he want something to compare it against in case we happen to be at the mall at the same time and he wants to know if the girl who just walked by is me? What reasonable explanation could there be for anyone needing a picture of someone he's never met in his phone? Creeper.

Daily Haiku

There is nothing worse
than an idiot who thinks
they know ev'rything.

I think Daisy likes the cold weather . . .

Profile Pic Roundup

Dear Online Dater:

I'm afraid that the only person who's going to want to date you after seeing a close-up of your nipple and those shiny black trunks is the hunka burning love behind you. Although I appreciate the brevity in your profile, I worry that "meeting a girl who likes to work out and who [you] don't hate to be around after a while" may be too tall of an order for a man such as yourself.

Yours truly,

Kitty

Ugh.

I am on day 2 of a bout with laryngitis. And not the sexy-voiced-and-otherwise-feeling-great laryngitis. Oh no. I mean the fever, tight and sore throat, can't talk AT ALL laryngitis. When you add that to an upper-respiratory infection that may or may not develop into pneumonia, you get one seriously pissed off Kitty. I look bee-yoo-tee-ful, too. Simply GORGEOUS. On the plus side, Roadhouse is on A&E. Sweet.

Cheat Chili

I have perfected "Cheat Chili". That's chili that could never be entered in a contest, because it uses a spice packet (the sacrilege!), but is oh so good. Here goes:

1 lb. 96/4 ground beef
Olive oil
1 medium white onion finely diced
1 T. minced garlic
1 packet of low sodium chili seasonings from McCormick
1 can of organic tomato sauce
1 can of organic "no salt added" diced tomatoes
1 can of jalapeno Ranch Style beans, well drained
2 beers
ketchup
cumin, salt, pepper

First, open one of the beers, and start to drink it. Saute the onions in olive oil over medium high heat until they become slightly transparent. Add the beef and garlic, and season liberally with salt, cumin, and pepper. When beef is completely browned, add tomato sauce, tomatoes, beans, spice packet, and 1/2 of the second beer. Add about 2-3 tablespoons of ketchup. Stir, and reduce heat to low. Simmer for about 45 minutes to one hour.

I feel bad, but . . .

I just read a headline on Yahoo! It said, "Craze over touch-screen gadgets not shared by the blind". I am so sad to admit it, but that made me laugh out loud. Hard. It sounds like a headline from The Onion.

Top 10

So, this guy that I've gone out with a couple of times has taken to emailing me the occasional "pop quiz". Last night's quiz? What song moves you most, with a limit of three songs, no explanantion needed. This is a difficult question. So, I gave him three songs, chosen at random from my Top 10. In case you didn't know, I have impeccable taste in music. Effin' impeccable. Seriously. I make a mean playlist, typically sorted according to mood or activity. For instance, Chillaxin Inside has an entirely different vibe than Chillaxin' On the Patio.

In an attempt to organize my thoughts, and be a bit more thorough, here are ten songs with which I have had long-term love affairs. I've purposely left out obvious choices like "Under Pressure" by David Bowie and Queen. Who doesn't love that song? If you're one of my ex-boyfriends who read Luxe, enjoy what might be a trip down memory lane. These are in no particular order. You might want to iTunes some of these:

1. "Be Here Now" Ray LaMontagne
2. "Hurt" Johnny Cash
3. "Touched" Visual Audio Sensory Theater
4. "Sometimes (Lester Piggott)" James
5. "Whatever (I Had A Dream)" Butthole Surfers I don't care if it's from a soundtrack. "Yeah, rock out. Whatever." That's a great lyric.
6. "Got You (Where I Want You)" The Flys
7. "Vineyard" Jackopierce [The Live From the Americas Version]
8. "Can't Find My Way Home" Blind Faith
9. "New Favorite" Alison Krauss & Union Station
10. "Lay Lady, Lay" Bob Dylan

Now that I'm looking at this list, compiled, I'm thinking that it's a wonder that I'm not terribly depressed. This is not exactly uplifting stuff. Geez.

I may kill my neighbor . . .

He's getting divorced. This is no surprise, seeing as how the cops were called a couple of months ago. He came to me asking my advice about what he should do, what his obligations are with the house, etc. I told him what I tell everyone who does stuff like that. "I may be A lawyer, but I'm not YOUR lawyer. I cannot, as an ethical and financial matter, give advice to people who aren't my clients. If you'd like to schedule an appointment, call my assistant at the office. She's responsible for my calendar." So, what did he do? Nothing. I referred him to a couple of other attorneys because I think that mixing neighbors with divorces is generally bad bull. He has yet to hire one. He has called me nine times in the last week asking me questions. On my way home from work tonight (at 8:30, mind you) he called, wanting to know what he should do about the papers he was served with today. I felt like shouting, "UNTIL YOU PAY ME I AM NOT GOING TO TELL YOU WHERE THE COURTHOUSE IS!" Instead, I was mature and an example of mannerly restraint. I told him what I've said every other time he's called. "It is my policy not to give any advice, especially without seeing the filings, unless we have an employment contract in place, and I have received my fee." Polite, right? He asked what I was up to, and I told him I was on my way home from work.

Approximately 2.643 minutes after I arrived at my home, so did he. RINGING MY DOORBELL. With the filings. Oh. My. God. That was a literal prayer. Not a blasphemy. Dear Lord, please help me not to start screeching at this man like a howler monkey. I pray that the people to whom I have referred this thick-headed colhane will not take out their ire on me by referring me all of their "civil rights lawsuit" phone calls. Please.

I'm not sure where to go from here. Should I post a "No Trespassing" sign at the foot of my driveway. Write a cease and desist letter? As in, cease and desist pestering me or I will be forced to drain your pets of blood and hang them from the roll bar on your Jeep as an example of what I will do to you IF YOU DON'T LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE! I'm at a loss.

Social Experiment Part Deux

So, since Pickles McGee chickened out when I asked him about his "VERY IMPORTANT" job in federal law enforcement, I needed to move on to another subject. And then, today, it happened. I was winked at by a "cutie with a booty". Outstanding. Considering that I've already bagged this guy out for his crappy profile pictures before, I'm kind of pumped that he contacted me. Now, I just need to set up a date. I'll keep you posted.

An unnamed friend thinks that my experiment will go horrifyingly awry when I meet and fall in love with someone who I've tagged as douchebag because of their online dating profile. I find this to be highly unlikely, mostly because I don't think he would have fun with any of my friends. I mean, we're not cool enough to wear Affliction, so they would probably think we're unsavvy idiots who must be from the sticks.

Daily Haiku

I have been freakin'
productive today. You don't
know how much was done.

Important Announcement

GIRL SCOUT COOKIES GO ON SALE THIS SATURDAY! I think they should be tax deductible. It is, after all, a fundraiser for a non-profit organization . . .

Update: New Year's Resolutions

1. Do canned tomatoes in homemade chili count for a vegetable? I'm thinking yes.

2. I have not purchased anything. A friend threw down the gauntlet today, and claimed that I would not be able to make it until March 1 without shopping. He may be right. As an incentive to succeed, I may dangle a carrot on the end of a string. If I am successful, what should I promise myself as a reward? I have decided to forswear purchasing Louis Vuitton for one year. I think I may have enough. A new range? Slide-in, stainless, gas and with a warming drawer? A kick ass party for all of my friends?

PS - Welcome to Luxe, Bill, if you're reading this.

Profile Pic Roundup

Dear Online Dater:

I am embarrassed on your behalf.

Yours truly,

Kitty

Daily Haiku

Shoes, you look freaking
fabulous. Wooden heel. Why
are you so painful?

Update: New Year's Resolutions

1. Today I ate at Shogun. There were mushrooms in my hibachi chicken, and it was served with sauteed onions and zucchini. While I'm not counting the fried rice, I am counting the tempura fried eggplant, sweet potato, and zucchini. I'm also counting the pickles and olives I've eaten for dinner.

2. I have not made a purchase of anything other than food, even though I feel an almost visceral need for casual brown boots. Thus far, I have resisted temptation. Luckily, the weather was warm enough last night for me to wear sling-backed platforms on my date. (It went pretty well, so you're not going to hear about it. No one wants to hear the good stuff, anyway.) As a matter of necessity, and because I'm almost out of foundation and my medium-toned copper eyeshadow, I'm adding the following addendums to my resolution:

a) It is not 'shopping' to replace items that I use every day, like skincare and makeup. I'm rationalizing this by refusing to consider this as shopping, and more like purchasing necessities, such as food. However, in the spirit of maintaining my resolution, I am going to economize wherever possible. For instance, instead of buying M.A.C. makeup remover wipes, I'm going to try Dove. They're going to suck, and smell funny, but if I get the small package, they'll be used up by March.

b) If I happen to be in TJ Maxx or Marshall's, and they happen to have flame Le Creuset, I'm buying it. I just got the small casserole on December 31st. Like having sex with Chris Isaak and refusing to call it cheating, I feel that discount Le Creuset is an opportunity that should not be squandered simply because silly things like ethics and morals declare it to be ill-advised.

Pickles McGee

I asked him directly about his work with federal law enforcement, and its been radio silence for several days. Either he somehow stumbled upon Luxe, or he's a liar who really works in construction. I'm hoping for choice #2, because if he rats me out to match.com, I think it's a foregone conclusion that I'm getting the boot. Then I would only have the chucklenuts at eHarmony to write about, and I'm not that mean-spirited.

Ew, awkward.

So, I just got matched up with someone I know on eharmony. When you see someone on match.com that you know, it's kind of odd, but not otherwise terrible. I mean, it just so happens that they are one of 200 single men between the ages of 30 and 40 who live within 25 miles of your zip code. Being matched with someone on eharmony is like being told that you've just made out with your cousin. It's disturbing and intriguing at the same time. He's a lawyer. I don't know him know him, but the next time I see him in court, all I'll be able to think about is that one of the five things he can't live without is 'intimacy'. Ew. Even worse, he's probably thinking the same thing about me. On the plus side, I said I can't live without "chips and hot sauce". So I kind of feel that if there IS an awkward silence, it will be his fault and not mine. I would also like to say that it's fairy certain that his photos are either a decade old (which is unlikely, because they don't look scanned), or heavily airbrushed. Industrial Light and Magic would be proud of the work done on those photos. He doesn't even look like the same guy.

Very Interesting

Did you know that you can have people write testimonials for you on match.com? There's something awful about that. And yet . . . I'm intrigued. You know someone's a pretty good friend when they're willing to draft a letter of recommendation on an online dating site. That's really pushing the envelope as far as I'm concerned. In order to protect the innocent, I don't post pictures with my friends in them. I'm not sure what mine will say, but it's hopefully better than, "She makes a mean meatloaf, even if she is a bit expensive." I haven't seen any profiles with 'testimonials' yet, but when I see a good one, I'll certainly post it. And by good, you know I mean hilarious.

Happy New Year!

2009 has appeared on the scene. It's going to be a good one, I can tell. Except for the fact that instead of working for the government until April or May, I'll be working until July. More rants about that later. In the tradition of well, everyone, I've made a couple of resolutions. Here they are:

1. Eat the recommended amount of fruit and vegetables each day.
2. Do not shop until March. I can do it.

Pickles McGee

I sent him an email today. He hasn't "been active" in over two weeks. I'm wondering if that's because his profile isn't getting him the response he was expecting. We'll see if he responds . . .

On A Mission

After posting the photo (and profile text) of Pickles McGee the other day, my friend has encouraged me to try to get a date with the guy so that I can report back on Luxe. Now that the glow of a six pack has worn off, I'm starting to see the value of expanding my social experiment to include going out with guys who I would never in a million years be attracted to or interested in. I'm going to limit this to people who think they're something special. It seems unfair to bag out a nice dork just because he hasn't changed his hairstyle since 1988. The only problem is that I don't think I'm empirically hot enough to get this guy to go out with me. I guess we'll find out soon enough.

The Sting of Rejection

I emailed this guy, "I liked your profile, blah, blah, blah," on match.com. He responded by telling me that he was 0-2 with lawyers, and as a result, he had a strict 'No Attorney Policy' when it comes to dating. I am fascinated by this. I get lawyer jokes. I understand people who, due to lack of understanding, believe that attorneys try their hardest to profit from people in their time of need and despair. I disagree with them, especially when my student loan payment is debited from my bank account every month, but I know that in their toughest times, people are tempted to make someone the scapegoat. I will gladly take on that burden. However, what I cannot understand is refusing to converse with someone because she is an attorney. It's as though we are some monolithic being, like an aspen grove, one with the State Bar.

How badly could this guy have been stung by these two women such that he would write off an entire profession in an attempt not to experience the same type of pain? He's not even divorced. I just have this vision of him standing up in court, defending himself against a suit for breach of implied contract when he failed to marry his first attorney girlfriend (plus child support for Junior), with the second attorney girlfriend jumping in and interpleading her own claim for some crap, and him without a rudimentary understanding of the Statute of Frauds to save him from a judgment. Only later to find out that he should have been able to get the engagement ring back after all because girlfriend #1 was knocked up by her landscaper and had fallen in love with girlfriend #2 over the mediation table, and they were running off to Boston to get married as soon as the verdict came back from the jury. I can't think of any other circumstance so wounding that a man would forswear double-blind email exchanges with lawyers on dating websites for the rest of his life.

Daily Haiku

My car is so gross.
Getting it washed today for
sure. Please don't rain. Please.

Profile Pic Roundup

Here's the text to his profile:

First things first. I am not trying to be or sound arrogant or conceeded. However, I must start off by saying that if you are not being truthful about each and every detail that you have listed on your profile, then I am not interested. I DO NOT PLAY GAMES. Do not try to hook me and reel me in with your charismatic personality. If you are untruthful, I will know.Ok. Sorry about that, but it had to be said. I'm a 36 yr old, mature, never married, with no kids bachelor. I hold a Masters Degree and a very important position within a United States Federal Law Enforcement Agency. Away from work, I am spontaneous and fun loving. Family is definitely the most important part of my life. I have had all the fun I need or want to have in dating the Ms Wrongs. I am interested in finding that special someone, who I can settle down with. I never have played and can not stand playing games. I am looking to meet and grow to know a mature, sweet, loyal and sexy woman, who shares many of my intertests. I am well versed, articulate, strapping, intelligent and I am eager to make new friends by surrounding myself around positive people. I work a bit more than the average person. So, I am looking for someone who works as much as I do, or who will understand my work schedule. I enjoy lifting weights and running at least 3 days a week and would love to work out with my girl, if she so chooses to do so with me. I've learned from experience how much work a healthy relationship requires, and I am eager to find her...Ms. Right that is. Are you her? If you think you may be, then drop me a line. My match will be a sweet, well moraled, beautiful, young woman, who truly knows the meaning of love. She is fun loving, with strong values, works hard, plays harder, and is the happiest person I will know. She will want to spend every waking moment with me and our children, once we have them. She will be independently strong and together we will possess a unified strength, not to be matched. She will share my same family values, and will allow me to take care of her, when need be, and she will do the same for me, when the tables are turned. She will make me smile, if I'm feeling blue, and she, in turn, will smile when I support and comfort her. My match will be a lady in life and a tigress in the bedroom. She will always know she is safe with me. My match will have to learn to accept roses on the 1st day of every month. Wherever she may be, I love her now!

Dear Online Dater:

Point of fact: conceeded is actually spelled "conceited". Okay. Sorry about that. It had to be said. Also, one should never describe oneself as 'strapping'. Aside from the general ick factor, you sound like your grandmother, which isn't hot. At all. Moreover, at least twice in your profile you describe your job in federal law enforcement. Thank you for your service to our country. However, if your work was so important that you can't discuss it on online dating sites, then you would have a better cover than "very important position within a United States Federal Law Enforcement Agency". If you were that big of a deal, you would say that you're in training to become an auditor for the IRS. Also, I question whether someone who thinks "well-moraled" is an attribute, much less a word, would be entrusted with national security secrets. Did I mention that your bodybuilding photos are disturbing? While there's something to be said for truth in advertising, I'm not sure that a banana hammock is the best way to score chicks. At least not one with who you will "possess a unified strength, not to be matched". Which, wow. It seems like your toughest hurdle to overcome will not be finding a girl who is a tigress in the bedroom, but someone who will believe that receiving roses on the first of every month is somehow an even trade for having to wake up next to an Oompa Loompa who's still excited that LSU won the National Championship five freaking years ago. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is, good luck with your search.

Yours truly,

Kitty

Profile Pic Roundup

Dear Online Dater:

I'd like you to reconsider your hair. And your shirt. And the soft-focus lense. And whatever medication it is that you're taking that causes your chin to swell.

Yours truly,

Kitty

Christmas is now Christmas Past

Which is probably a good thing. I've decided that SH 105 is God's way of teaching me patience. I am invariably stuck behind a Honda Accord or Merry Miler travelling at 55 miles per hour when I make the trek back and forth to the 'rents. No matter how diligently I tailgate, no matter how wide the shoulder, people are determined not to let me pass. It's as though they see me in their rearview mirror and shout, "Not this time! HUH UH, NO WAY!" It is always this person's personal mission to make sure that I spend that particular stretch of highway on the verge of being overcome by the red haze of a homicidal rage. Today I was in a hurry to get home because I was jonesing to try one of my Christmas gifts, a rather large Le Creuset saucepan. In "Flame". As it turns out, wonderful saucepans DO make better sauces.

Ugh.

I have just been on one of the worst dates ever. And, since I shared a glass of wine with a parolee just three months ago, you know it was pretty bad. There was nothing glaringly wrong with this guy. He was appropriately dressed, is employed in a position that does not require a nametag, and his physical appearance, though unremarkable, wasn't repulsive. When we spoke on the phone, he seemed intelligent and laughed at my attempts at humor. I thought to myself, "This one might work out." And by "might work out" I don't mean, "maybe we'll fall in love, get married, and fall into suburban bliss." I mean, "maybe I won't have to avoid his calls for three days while I craft an appropriately polite email blowing him off." Alas, I am not so lucky.

I have not been that bored since I took business entities in law school. The conversation was stilted and uninspired. Any time I have to ask, "So, what's your favorite thing about your job?," it's pretty certain that we're not going to be back for round two. When, in a moment of conversational desperation, I asked, "If you could do anything in the world and be guaranteed an income of $1 million per year, what would you do?," he responded, "Well, I like to work out, so probably be a personal trainer." He went on to expound about going to the gym and watching people lift weights with improper form, and how annoying that is. Apparently, the days that he works out his arms and lats are his shortest workouts. You know what I find annoying? Men who say that they're six feet tall, when it is apparent upon our first face-to-face that they are indeed only 5'7". In my second lowest pair of heels, I matched this guy for height. I am 5'4".

Have you ever conversed with someone and wondered what they do when they're not with other people? I have this mental image of my date going home and sitting in the dark while contemplating a ball of lint clinging tenaciously to a throw pillow. If every person has an internal soundtrack playing in their head, his is the sound of a clock ticking in a library, with only the occasional rustle of paper or "Shh," to break the endless passage of time.

Daily Haiku

Date tonight. Ice cream
flavor? Vanilla. Don't like
sushi? Then say, "GROSS!"