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Point Break of the Speed Matrix

Keanu is my Mac. He helps me reach you, Interwebs.

Tag Archives: Awkwardsies

Today I bought floss and I thought of Pretty Woman.  The only thing less believable than the entire premise of the film is the fact that any Hollywood hooker would floss…further still, would floss mid-appointment.  “What’s with this screwy detail?  This doesn’t make any sense to me,” I whisper to no one in CVS aisle 7.   

 Let’s go back to the beginning, shall we?  We are first introduced to Vivian Ward as  a gal trying to pay her rent and has to hunt down her drug addled roommate to collect the money (see Blue Banana sequence).  I get it.  She’s responsible and sober.  Clearly this is no run of the mill hood rat.    But do we buy it yet?

She picks up Richard Gere and instead of having the filithiest road trip discussion on the way to his hotel, she riddles him with…wait for it… TRIVIA.  She’s got knowledge!  Nice touch, Gary.  We ,the audience, have all but forgotten that she refers to three handjobs and letting someone watch her pee as a “slow night”.

Now how ,as a film maker, do you drive this point home?  Well she does bring a “buffet of safety”  to the hotel… but this is life and condoms are not strictly hooker territory.  Gary needs something else… something that says this is the second time she’s ever done sexing for money and before that it was just her high school sweetheart who was killed in a terrible football team bus auto collision.  But what?   *LIGHTBULB*  Oral hygeine!

I can just hear Gary Marshall’s raspy Brooklyn accent at the writer’s meeting:  “Let’s give her some sawt of characta trait so that subcawntiously the awdience knows she’s clean down theh.  Yah know, if she cares about her mouth she cares about her love burger**.  How do we show this people?  Everybody brushes their teeth.  Maw specific maw specific.  Maybe a Sonic Care treatment befaw she leaves faw the night… nah.  What’s cheap?  What can a hookah affawd?  I got it!  FLAWSS!  Write it up!”  

**I like to think that Gary mixes up his euphemisms.

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The big guy upstairs must be laughing preee-hih-teee hard right now.  Because how do we make God laugh?  Make plans.

At the moment all dog adoptions plans are suspended, as Annabelle Blanche has made it crystal clear that there’s only room for three bitches in this condo…  Apparently SOMEONE  didn’t like it when I left this morning for work.  Apparently, when you spend almost all day and night playing with SOMEONE for the past four days and then on the fifth day rationally explain to them that you’ve got work but you’ll be back promptly at 6:30pm before shutting the door behind you that’s when SOMEONE decides they don’t understand English.   Apparently, even though you walked SOMEONE in the morning and were confident they did their business SOMEONE decided to unleash their SECOND and GREATER poop reserve on my lady couch to let me know just HOW upset they were that I left.

Ah yes dogs… so cute, so loving, so full of POOP.  As I hit send on this latest entry Annabelle is sitting on my feet licking her front paws and passing gas.  I continue to look for the hidden cameras that I am sure are somewhere in this circus condo.  Production crew, reveal yourselves!

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If you are a stranger and you are touching me, these are what my thoughts look like.

If you are a stranger and you are touching me, these are what my thoughts look like.

I am pretty sure that two swingers were trying to pick  up my friends** the other night… maybe me too.   I arrived late to a restaurant in Georgetown for a quick drink  and when I showed up the girls were being chatted up by a couple that was probably between 40-45.  I directed my tardy for the party apologies to my friends and explained to all four explaining that I had just come from one of the more bizarre performance experiences of my life and I was a little out of sorts.  This couple was very friendly and very interested in hearing about my night of professional mishaps . 

 I’m not trying to be a jerk but having been involved in a similar scenario with a girlfriend, a few years back in New York, my spidey senses told me they were a little too friendly.

Here is what I know:

1.  They are in an upscale restaurant alone and not waiting for friends to join them or to be seated for dinner.

2.  They live together and are long time DC residents… therefore no real need to go out and make new friends.   Why not just sit at a table?

3.  They were celebrating his birthday.

Very friendly convo ensues and they make multiple references about getting together.  My precious roommate has already furnished them with her email address (sighs-looks up) and when they get up to leave he proceeds to give us an all too familiar hug from behind as we stay seated at the bar.   WTF?  I just met you.  Please stop.  Thank you.

By the time we get home, my roommate has a new friend request on Facebook.  After viewing some unseemly photos involving a proud showing of chest hair, we take a look at his profile information and as it would turn out, if given the choice between sausage or taco, he simply says yes to food. 

I will say that I could be very wrong and a little too cynical for my own good.  But if I wanted to hang with other couples I’d probably be half of one first.

**These two girls are lovely Southern belles that go to church regularly and are “glass is half full” kind of people.  Whereas, I am the suspicous New Yorker that asks the question, “Are you guys trying to invite us to a party in your pants?  Because this ain’t the Regal Beagle pal.”

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Brian No!Rookie mistakes = Worst possible scenario realized. 

I wake up.  Brian wakes up in his crate.  I start getting ready to take a shower.  Internet, please contain yourself, I get naked and put on my thin gauzy bathrobe ( I make note of this because it is a skosh too thin to wear publicly outside of Amsterdam).  Brian starts to whimper.  The whimper gets louder as I gather my shower stuff.  His “in crate” whimper is heartbreaking to hear. 

Diana Ross has got some pipes and my roommate and her dog are sleeping in the other room.  I decide to let Brian out of his crate so that 1) no more whimper and 2) he can chill in the bathroom with me while I shower and then I will take him out when I am dressed.  No.  That’s a fantasy, Tara.

The reality is that 7 seconds after openning the crate Brian is taking a hearty smash on the hardwood floor of my bedroom.  [CUE music from Halloween and a circular crane shot around my head] I panic.  I run and take two leaps toward the kitchen while yelling, “No, Brian.  Bad puppy!” Then I realize I’ve just turned my back on him again!  Great Zeus’s beard! I can’t do that!  What if he starts to pee?  What if he starts to eat the poop?!  Great Ceasar’s ghost!  I have to go back!  I stop midway to the kitchen and flip violently back towards the scene of the crime (the robe is now flying akimbo).  “Brian come!  Brian, no!  Come!  Brian get your face away from there!”  I make two generous leaps toward my room but OH MY JERRRMAJESTY!  I’m now stonewalled by a stench that can only be described as WET HOT SUMMER DOG SHIT.  I screech!  I flail!  Sweet Jon and Kate Plus 8!  I need to get this excrement machine outside, but I’m naked.  AND I need to get the poop off my floor!  But if I turn my back on Sir Shits A Lot he’s going to pee somewhere, destroy a childhood teddybear and eat my grandma’s pearls.   For the love of humanity!  I try to coax him back into the crate but he’s not having it.  I try to pick him up but he flees back again toward to poo.  Son of a donkey!  What the hell are my options?!

My only recourse is to wake my roommate and her dog… in a FRENZY.  I knock on the door and my roommate’s dog (Annabelle Blanche) starts barking.  This prompts Brian to start barking louder.  Dang!  Bunk!  Hornfwaggers!  That’s just great!  My roommate wakes to a loud bang on the door, two lap dogs barking, the smell of dog shit and a barely robed Tara about to commit puppycide.

The household in an unbelievable state of upheaval.  My roommate is getting her bearings and has two bananas dogs at her feet while I run with Fantastic, papertowels and trash bags to my room cursing and explaining what happened to a still half asleep Southern Belle.

God bless her for taking the dogs out immediately and walking them.  God bless her for also taking the bag of poo out with her so that I didn’t have to walk outside in just my robe.

“Tonight will be better,”  I say to myself.  I have to believe tonight will be better.

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Locker Room

Please disregard this letter if someone stole your underwear.

Dear Nudie,

Excuse me.  Hi there.   Did I startle you?  No?  Oh that’s weird.  I was convinced that you were unaware of anyone else in the locker room as you stood in a turtle neck completely buck nude from the waist down while brushing your hair in front of the full length mirror for quite some time this morning. 

This is awkward but do you think you could find some underwear and then like wear them?  I mean, I hate to be a total square here but I’m Irish Catholic.  And although we’ve never spoken, based on your sitch downtown, I’ve deduced that you’re more of a free spirit.   Good for you.  While I do appreciate the personal preference for your shame shame to air dry, can I ask that you do that on your own time in the privacy of your tee-pee or wherever hippies live? 

Listen, just hear me out.  I’m a woman.  I get it.  Be comfortable in your own skin.  Right on!  I also understand that a little bit of nudie pudity is necessary in public lockerrooms.  But I think the key element that you’re missing here is brevity.  Call me crazy but here’s how it should go: towel off, bra on, undies on.  There.  You don’t even have to put on all of your clothes.  I’d just prefer that you do the bare minimum before you park it in front of the mirror.  See right now you’re doing: towel off, bra on, turtle neck on and then just stopping.  See how that’s not making any sense?  You’re adding an extra element to the top and completely ignoring your lower half.  I think maybe your brain is a little mixed up.  It’s like dressing dyslexia.  After you put on your bra your brain told you do put on another garment but then instead of going for what should naturally go next (underpants) your brain flipped it and added another element to your top half.  Does this sound right?  I’m no doctor but I think I’ve just diagnosed you.

So in the future, after you cover up your top, ignore that first instinct to keep layering and just address what’s still bare.  Got it?  Fantastic. 

And while I do appreciate the gods sense of humor, yours was not the muffin I had wanted for breakfast.

Sincerely,

Tara

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Yes.  I finally added this dreaded to scenario to my list of “awkward conversations that exist only on film and in my life” .

I ran into one of my bosses while waiting in the elevator bank and he was dressed nicely in a dark suit.  The dress code at the job is casual.

Me:  [Smiling] Morning!  You’re all poshed up!

As he is a lawyer I am expecting one of two possible answers: SEC meeting or Board meeting

Boss: [deep breath] Funeral.

debbie-downer   And scene.

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I just realized that other than “Fridays” the tags I’ve created for my posts have absoultely no rhyme or reason.  Jesus.   My brain is like a goddamn “Alice in Woderland” pinball machine, the Esperanto edition.

I have three tags called “Awkward”,  “Awkwards” and “Awkwardsies”.   I cannot explain to you their differences.

I will now go and mis-tag this post.  Awkwardsies it is!

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