All of my meetings should go like this one did

Me: ...blah, blah, blah... here is why you should advertise with us... blah, blah, blah -

Client: You can stop selling now. I will do it. You are pretty.

Me: Thanks. Sign here, please.

Am I the only one...

...who thought that Clay Aiken looked like Lindsay Lohan on a bad day last night?

Third time's a charm

"You were so not into me the first time we met," T.B. Player quipped on Sunday afternoon.

"That is not true," I said indigently, sure that I was blushing, furious that he knew.

"Sure it is. I'm like George Costanza."

"What the hell does that mean?" I say, now even more miffed. It's rare that a Seinfeld reference gets by me.

"He's got some great line about how it takes people three times of meeting him to really start liking him. That's like you with me."

"Humph," I grunt, mumbling something about how ridiculous of a statement that was.

Damn him.

The first night we met, I was sooooo not into him. Mainly because I was busy crushing on two other people at the time, and I felt like his friends were kinda pushing us together.

Two weeks later we met again. It was after the symphony, and he was still in his tails. He and the other musicians had beaten my friends and I to the bar that they knew we would be at. Let me repeat that - the actual performers had beaten us to the bar. My kind of people. I walked into the bar, saw that he was there and sighed. Great, another night of having this guy shoved down my throat. I went over to politely say hi and didn't leave his side for the next four hours.

A week and a half later, we had our first date, and I was hooked.

Damn him.

All this for a measley $75

Well, and a few bottles of wine.

Today I will be spending the better part of a gorgeous Saturday trecking up to Ye Olde Virginia Wine Shoppe in Northern Virginia. (I wish I was making that name up, but I'm not that creative.) Once there I will spend 3 1/2 hours standing behind a counter and pouring Rappahannock Cellars wines - which are actually pretty good - for a large amount of foot traffic moving through the store, consisting mainly of middle aged biddies, tourists, and geeky 20-somethings who are too nervous to actually live in DC.

This time that fat bitch who runs the place had better not make comments under her breath again about how she doesn't agree with the order I'm pouring the wines in. It might be time for her to find out that I'm not as sweet as I look. Remember kids - there's a big difference between having a pleasant disposition and being a nice person.

Um... I think I have a boyfriend now

Almost. Maybe. I don't know. Well, ok...

T.B. Player (That Thing You Do, anyone?) is funny. Ok, hysterical. And kind. And talented. And attentive. And he wants to spend lots of time with me. And he asks how my day was, and doesn't care when I talk forever about something he knows nothing about. And I think he might even find my obsession with Elliott Yamin's success story charming. Or at least, not a turn off.

Ok, so it's definitely not a boyfriend yet. But it's kinda freaking me out. How does one go from five years of singlehood and adapt to something like this?

To Do, Before I Die

Ride on the back of a motorcycle. Wrap my arms around a man's chest while he drives, tightening and then relaxing my legs around his hips as the speed and intensity of the ride rises and falls, and recognize the sensuality of that. Enjoy it.

Wear the helmet and bike jacket like a costume, catch my reflection in shop windows and enjoy the image of myself as a biker chick, even if just for a second.

Get nervous as we reach 85mph, and realize that the only way to overcome the nervousness is to completely trust the person I'm riding with, and then bask in the exhiliration of that trust, of letting go of control.

Check. Check. Check.

The silver one was mine.

Take a sip of Belle

Too busy to come up with inspiring, entertaining, or meaningful words of my own lately, I'm directing you to someone else's.

Belle's advice for her future daughter upon her inevitable move to New York City is beautiful, poignant, and dead-on. Read over my Friday afternoon post-work, pre-Cinco festivities glass of Syrah, it reminded me of the life I used to live in the big city. Some of the memories are wonderful. Some are painful. All cause a sense of pride for having experienced and learned from them.

And isn't that what life is all about?

Impluse buy

It started out innocently enough. I just wanted to get my "Workout mix" all ready. Ready for the time that I finally get an iPod. You know, so that I would just be able to plug it in and go, so I wouldn't have to take the time to organize my music then.

Then I started thinking...

Christmas is almost 8 months away. My birthday is even farther than that. I'll never actually feel like I have almost $300 just lying around, so unless I one day just decide to plunk down the cash, it's safe to say that I will never get around to getting one.

Then I started rationalizing...

You know, I've been really good about jogging lately. I've been going at least four times a week, upping my distances, and losing weight. I need this.

Then came the trigger...

My wonderful gay husband, Jason, gave me his Bank of America employee discount password - 12% off all Apple merchandise.

So now...

This will be arriving in a few days:











Oh, and this too:







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