You down with ADD?

Yeah, you know me...

So it's only 9:54AM on a Wednesday at the office and I am already having an ADD attack. I'm sitting here in my white and black piped g-string, wondering how I can sneak out of work early this afternoon to take advantage of the gorgeous weather in DC.

Anyone who has been in the District in the past 3 months knows that there is a perpetual heat index of 110 degrees here from May to September. However, when I left the condo at 6:30 this morning for my run, it was a mild, breezy 68!! I couldn't believe it!

I sprinted through Rock Creek Park with a revived joie de vivre instead of my usual sweat-soaked malaise. My gazelle-like strides likened my usual summer running-gait to an orangutan on crack. I was pleasant ... hell, I even WAVED at a guy. Had I not risked looking like I lived under the Calvert Street bridge, I probably would have even caught myself whistling. Ahhh, how I love jogging along the front step of autumn.

However, I run a risk each time I leave the house to go jogging, and that risk is the inevitable unveiling of my "Tim Burton Psyche." Yes, that's right ... lodged deep within my id, I have a little part of Tim Burton turning the cogs.

And it couldn't even be something explainable, like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (my burning desire for carbs after a run) or Edward Scissorhands (wanting to jab my aorta with a sharp object for leaving the house before sunrise to go kill my knees) or even Beetlejuice (oh come on, you can't tell me you haven't wanted to "Shake, shake, shake, Sinora" a la Harry Belafonte when you're jogging back up to the steps of your house).

Nooo ... it has to be the song from Tim Burton's Nightmare Before Christmas. Right around the second mile of my run, it begins: "This is Halloween ... this is Halloween ... Halloween, Halloween ... this is Halloween."

That's right, this enchanting little ditty repeats over and over again as I subconsciously begin to pace my footfalls. It plays softly at first, eeking its way to the surface of my consciousness. But as I try to force my focus onto another subject, Jack Skellington chants louder and louder in my head until the song becomes my running mantra. Yes, THIS IS HALLOWEEN!

This morning was no exception: I rounded the footbridge leading up the path to Adams Morgan as Jack began to sing ... but for some reason (maybe it was the October-like chill in the air, maybe it was the euphoric delirium brought on only by running) I didn't really mind the company.

So here's to you, Jack; you're a devilish little bastard (and a mite skinny), but you're the best running partner I have found.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MAVERICK!!!

YAYYY! Today is Maverick's birthday, and he's lucky to have a great friend like Asa to be able to go celebrate at the MCI Center tonight with Dolly Parton. In lieu of attending Dolly's concert with the boys, I have been sitting here (in my blue and green plaid thong) compiling a list of the reasons we all love Mav. So here they are, in no particular order:

THE TOP TEN REASONS WHY WE LOVE MAVERICK

1. The fact that he can go to Puerto Vallarta and come back with a whole new set of Mexican dishes for under $10 USD.

2. He finds fun coupons in the Express (i.e., free California Tortilla burritos) and then eats like he has a tapeworm.

3. He is the only person who can pull off white shoes after labor day. (Eat your heart out, Pee Wee Herman).

4. The Teacups ... enough said.

5. When it comes to Maverick, no fag hags, social inepts, or geeks are turned down.

6. (From Bandi) Maverick is a hot gay nerd, the most elusive of all gays.

7. (From Deb) Maverick has gone from white trash to hard earned cash,
bumping him into a high class. One of the smartest men I know. Here is a fact for you folks: Maverick (at age 19 no less) wrote a book of computer programming, which can still be found at the local Barnes and Noble and other major book stores. I wish Mav was my sugar daddy, unfortunately he has other whores to pay for.

8. (From Sid) Everytime I see Maverick, something inside me does a little dance. He is yum-may!

9. (From Aunt Sassy) Two dozen scientific studies and the nonprofit Center for Science in the Public Interest (CSPI) reported Tuesday that Maverick is awesome. CSPI, in a 32-page document entitled "Maverick: The Life, The Legend", confirms these reports. "It makes a lot of sense," said Dr. Marvin Weath, an awesomeatrician in Woodbury, New York, whose 1994 study found that not everyone could be awesome.

10. (From Asa) Contrary to popular belief, Maverick is actually not a bitch (but damn is he good at pretending)! Mav's a cutie with a heart of gold. xoxoxo


Mav, you're the best agent a girl could ask for and I wouldn't trade you for the world. Everyone should be so lucky as to have a friend as fabulous as you are. I admire your zest for life and your insatiable quest for knowledge (and Steve Madden shoes). Enjoy your day, pumpkin, you deserve nothing but the very best!

BINGO!

Cut to Tuesday when I was sporting my new Adam and Eve thong; I was going stir crazy in the office and was ready to be 'ON my way.' (said in a very Aunt Sassy way)

I made plans for Happy Hour with Sid and Maverick; we met at 6:35 on the Gallery Place Green Line platform. (I will say that the boys were looking especially mazel that night in their metro couture.) We rode up to U Street on the Green Line and went to the new lounge/bar/club called Tabaq.

You could smell the snobbery in Tabaq like a cheap cologne, but we were troopers and stuck it out for at least a new experience. We shanked each other as we perused the drink menu that consisted of novelty martinis. "I think I'll have the anus," Sid said nonchalantly to me and Mav. We looked at him stunned (although with Sid we shouldn't have been surprised). I pulled the menu over and saw that the drink was actually called Anis ... but trust that after we tasted it, it was decided that Anus would have been a much more accurate monicre.

So although we had high hopes for Tabaq, the drinks weren't very good and our waiter was more interested in his harem of waitresses-in-training than in making an appearance for second drink orders, so we left.

The boys and I decided to venture out to another new spot on U Street: Creme. (This is pronounced like the word "cream" and they will get very offended if you pronounce it the french way it is spelled). When we walked in, we were greeted by the owner/chef, Bryan. We sidled up to the bar with the bartender Bach ("like-the-composer") and enjoyed many martinis -- my favorite being the French Martini.

After chatting for a while and guzzling martinis, we ordered some food. I highly recommend the mushrooms. The food there was very good after 5 martinis, but I'm sure it would be just as enjoyable on a dry night. We went outside so we could have a smoke (as Creme is all non-smoking) and a homeless man sidled up to us to bum a cigarette. As Maverick handed him a cigarette out of his pack, I turned to the homeless man and said "Now I'm sure you run into countless people each day and you're probably a pretty good judge of character ... here are some of my business cards. If you see someone you think I would like to date, you give them one of these cards. Once you have given out all the cards, I'll come back and give you $20 and a carton of cigarettes."

You may be asking yourself why, but after all those drinks I was asking myself why not. As Mav and Sid stood there laughing at me, I shook my hair out, smoothed my suit and said "Well nobody can ever blame a girl for not being resourceful. Let's go."

At this point, the situation gets pretty fuzzy. I do remember ending up meeting all the chefs in the kitchen and profusely complimenting them on the food. What I don't remember is how I ended up with a signed menu from Creme later that evening.

Signed. Menu. Chefs aren't sociable, they're not the type of people who are charismatic, they just want to cook. If they were shmoozers, they'd be restaurant managers. I can't even imagine which turn we took in order for a chef to put his signature on a menu.

We must have left Creme shortly after that, because I regained consciousness as we were stumbling along U Street on our way to Drag Bingo at Club Chaos. Cut to Mav relieving himself on the side of the road and me walking past some girl SQUATTING BETWEEN TWO CARS on 14th Street! As Sid walked by, he sneered "Looks like somebody had a good night in DC!"

We finally made our way down to Chaos at 17th and Q St. If you have never been there, some words of caution: do not go if you are already intoxicated (stories for another time). Also, in order to get into Club Chaos, you must first walk down a steep flight of concrete steps (I've seen people fall, trust me it's not pretty).

It's all worth it if you make it down the steps because the best part of going to Chaos is the number one diva, Xavier Onassis Bloomingdale. Xavier is the i-ching of drag; she's fabulous, wonderfully decorated, and has a mouth like a sailor. Xavier also happens to be the co-emcee of Drag Bingo (along with her counterparts Gigi Couture and Miss Regina).

Drag Bingo is a fun night of bingo, crazy comments, and gag prizes. Mav and Sid and I sat down and ordered some more drinks while we played a couple rounds of Drag Bingo. Cut to Aunt Sassy standing up about 4 times thinking I had bingo. It was a mess.

Finally, we decided to call it a night and we parted ways outside of Club Chaos. Cut to the next morning: I woke up and found my suit from the night before crumpled in a ball on the floor next to my bedroom door. Then I checked the damage on my shoes ... turns out, I must have stomped through sand and glass all the way home from Chaos because the heel on my shoe was completely SHREDDED! (What a night)

When I arrived at the office yesterday, I had some stellar correspondence from Mav and Sid:

From: Maverick
To: Aunt Sassy & Sid
Glad you made it home safely. I woke up at 6am this morning with a bowl of cereal at my head and a pounding headache. After a few gulps of water and an additional 3 hours of sleep, I stumbled to work. Trust I'm staying away from anything important today after my last snafu (plus that gives me an excellent excuse to simply browse the web all day). Had a great time! Maverick

From: Sid
To: Aunt Sassy & Maverick
Coffee today is tasting like never before! I feel like I’m in heaven! I had a good time last night as well. I wanted to limit myself to a drink or two, but things just fell apart from there. Creme is going to be my new hangout place. So if you ever want to find me come see me there! Those Mushrooms tasted like they came straight from heaven! Hopefully you didn't lose the Chef's autograph! Let's plan for next Wednesday! -S

Sassy's parting thoughts: go up to check out the new U Street; don't bring any business cards.

H-Town: Take 1

This past weekend, I spent 72 hours caught up in the debauchery that is Bandi's life in Houston. The highlights were many, which could only be explained in a traditional "Sassy, Hot, or Not" list.

SASSY: The new underwear Woodsy gave me-- a rainbow thong that reads "Jesus Loves a Gay Boy." I will wear them with pride and think of you, Woods.

NOT: Why those underwear were ever manufactured in the first place.

HOT: Seeing Rhondda-Baby at Chance's with the whole Alohamo crew. Hey Rhondda-Baby, can't wait to see you in the District in November!

SASSY: The Bandi and Ro Show Friday Night Abba Lip-Synching Extravaganza ... enough said.

NOT: The 800 degree weather that made me perspire like it was my job. We tried to go running on Saturday morning and poor Bandi was a little puddle of gay by the time we reached the gate to his apartment complex. "Go on without me," he panted. But I shouted back to him, "What do you think this is? A soldier never leaves a man behind." (We all really know that I'm not a soldier and he's not a man, but I get dramatic sometimes.)

SASSY: In spite of losing the running battle with the hot Texas sun, we went back to the Gay-Villa and enjoyed pedicures and Bette Midler movies instead.

HOT: Spending the afternoon sipping (read: guzzling) margaritas at Cafe Adobe and issuing fashion citations on Westheimer to the sounds of ice clinking in our cocktail glasses.

SASSY: Tweezing Bandi's eyebrows and applying his makeup to go out Saturday night.

NOT: Trimming his hair and accidentally (really, accidentally) shaving a little line into his hair right above his neckline. PS- Call him Patches, he hates that.

HOT: Breaking into the apartment complex pool with some Hummingbird juice at 3:30AM on Sunday morning ... after all, Sunday is God's day and Bandi still hasn't been baptized.

NOT: Getting caught in the pool by the apartment security team.

HOT: We did manage to jack the security golf cart to go joy-riding around the complex (at a whopping 5 mph, no less). Then we ended up getting the officers drunk while on duty (so irresponsible of them) and coerced them into the pool with us.

SASSY: Bandi stole one of the officers' underwear as we left the pool area.

NOT: Cut to Bandi back in the apartment, cooking pizza and showing-off his steal: a heather gray pair of Tommy Hilfiger boxer briefs that were RIDDLED with holes!!! UGH! Then when I asked for an explanation as to why he would keep such a find, he replied "In case I ever have a guest over who needs to borrow some." What??? Wait, WHAT? First of all, we're all aware that the kind of guests Bandi has sleep over at his apartment are NOT the type of people who would even wear underwear, let alone want to borrow some filthy, used, holy ones!

SASSY: Walking into Chance's and having the bouncer look at Bandi and I and say "Watch out for these two." It's Party Boy and Party Girl all over again!

Although Houston could best be described as the Texas Armpit of Hell, I love my weekends with Bandi and I can't wait to see him again ...

Running On Empty

Last night, I left the office around 8:15 in my white monkey g-string. I was hungry, exhausted, and more than ready to be away from the harsh glow of flourescent lights for at least 10 hours.

As you all know, the Red Line will only run once every 20 minutes (read: 48) after about 7pm, so I was in no rush to get there just to wait in the stifling heat of Metro Center. But as I was making my way past the turnstile with my SmartTrip card, I noticed the Metro idling at the platform below with its doors already open!

UNSOLICITED HINT TO OUT-OF-TOWNERS: Do NOT try to nudge your way through a Metro door that is in the process of closing. You are now in DC and, like the people, the automatic door-closing mechanisms here are ruthless. Those doors are not like the safety kind you have installed on your garage. Nooooo, they will hinge their death grip upon anything that stands in the way of them closing, be it your pocketbook, briefcase, hand, leg, and/or child.

Now, although it would normally be fruitless to try to rush down the escalator to catch the Metro, it was late and I was experiencing elongated lapses of sanity ... so I decided to go for it. That's right, folks, it was Aunt Sassy v. The Big Red.

So I clutched my bag and I took off at a sprint: high heels, business skirt and all.

As I was booking it down the steps, I was overcome by a small, balding man who was trying to catch the train as well. We raced neck and neck down the stairs, every person for themselves.

Just as the woman was saying "Doors Closing" in her come-hither voice, balding-man and I eeked our way through the shutting doors ... right at the last moment.

We stood there together in the doorway, breathless as the Metro lurched forward. I turned to him and said "Beat you" as I walked away to find a seat.

The golden part: as he slithered past me, he sneered "Only 'cause I let you!"

From Rags To Riches

This morning, I was exiting the Metro Center Red Line on 13th Street in my satin baby-blue thong and was almost bowled over by a homeless man screaming "Street Sense, get your Street Sense. The only newspaper published by the homeless, for the homeless. STREET SENSE!"

Don't get me wrong, I have no problem with buying a Street Sense every month; I see the same guys each day on 13th and F and I give them credit for trying to be entrepreneurial every once in a while. However, I was slightly disturbed by the S.S. vendor I saw this morning.

He was dressed to a T in his finest couture: olive-green flat front pants, ecru oxford collared shirt, well-shined brown shoes, and a necktie. So you're going to tell me that he wouldn't have access to this same ensemble to attend a job interview in order to get himself off the streets? I hear that all the time: they don't want to be homeless (I mean, who would?), but how are they supposed to clean their act up enough to go to a job interview?

Well, go to 13th and F today and look for the dapper Street Sense vendor barking at the Metro riders and let me know your thoughts on cleaning up an act ...

It's National Underwear Day!!!

Yes, folks. It's the most magical day of the year for Aunt Sassy: August 10th. National Underwear Day! In celebration of National Underwear Day, I am sporting my White Lace boyshort underwear. (Similar to what is shown here)

For those of you who also celebrate National Underwear Day, here are some interesting stats on what lies beneath (chock full of Aunt Sassy commentary, of course):

· In 1991, the average bra size in the United States was 34B; today it's 36C. Do you see that? Breast implants are raising the average bust size of American women, which leads to unrealistic expectations and then poor self-image. Thank god I have the twins ... 36DD and worth every penny.

· Married men change their underwear twice as often as single men. This is because married women will not put up with their husbands wearing skanky, stained briefs day-in and day-out.

· Italians wear red, Argentineans wear pink, and Brazilians wear brand new underwear on New Years Eve. Of course they do. That's because they lost their other ones during all those company Christmas parties.

· The loincloth is both the simplest and the most popular form of underwear. It was probably the first undergarment worn by human beings. I thought crotchless panties were the simplest form of underwear, no?

· Bras did not exist until 1913 when Mary Phelps Jacob tied two handkerchiefs together with ribbon. In 1928, Maidenform introduced modern cup sizes. Hats off to you, Mary Phelps Jacob. Without the invention of the modern bra, women would still be sporting that corset/long underwear combo ... and this goes without saying, but let me tell you, wearing long underwear on summer days in DC would be a real bitch.

· In 1935, the first men's briefs appeared. They had a Y-shaped front and overlapping fly on knitted drawers and came in both short and long styles. Y-shaped front? I'm getting itchy just thinking about this ... next!

· Panty hose, which combined panties and hose into one garment, made their first appearance in 1959, invented by Glen Raven Mills of North Carolina. The company later introduced seamless panty hose in the 1965, spurred by the popularity of the miniskirt. "Pantyhose" (as they refer to them) are the bain of every working woman's existence. Who hasn't rushed to a board meeting and done the once-over before walking in and noticed that snag in their stockings? Awful! To make matters worse, you then have to sheepishly walk into the meeting late while trying to cover up the huge run going up your leg and avoiding the darting glances and the "You two-bit 14th Street HOOKER" stares! Ugh ... two thumbs down to Glen Raven Mills.

· The thong first gained popularity in Brazil, in the 1980s as a swimsuit style. By the 1990s, thong underwear became popular and today it is one of the fastest selling styles. Those Brazilians: first waxes, then thongs. What next?

Percentage of Men who...
Prefer Boxers: 25% (Frat boys and other straight sluts)
Prefer Briefs: 32% (Gays and models)
Prefer Boxer Briefs: 28% (Boys who think they're straight but are actually gay. Read: Bandi)
Prefer Thongs: 4% (These men don't exist)
Prefer Other Styles: 4% (i.e., loin cloths?)
Prefer to Wear Nothing: 7% (Scottish men who wear skirts)

Percentage of Women who...
Prefer Panties: 49% (Baby Boomers and other social rejects)
Prefer Thongs: 28% (You're my girls!)
Boyshorts: 13% (See: Prefer Thongs)
Prefer Other Styles: 4% (What other styles? These people must be Brazilian)
Prefer to Wear Nothing: 6% (As reported on 14th and K at 1AM)

And conclusively, we will now recite Aunt Sassy's National Underwear Day Oath. So stand up at your desk, strip down to your underwear, place your right hand over your heart, and pledge the following:

I, (state your name), do hereby celebrate the establishment of National Underwear Day on August 10.
I firmly believe that my underwear is under-appreciated, under-mentioned, and that too often it remains under my clothes.
The second amendment gives us the right to bear arms. For one day out of the year, I should also have the right to bare my stomach and legs.

Sangria

Tonight! 6:30 Happy Hour at Cafe Citron on Connecticut Ave! Come tibble drinks with the really, really, ridiculously good looking (or at least Asa, Maverick, Sid, Alvin, and I).

Hail To The Queen Mum

I am sitting here at my desk this morning, very tired, very hung (and very cute in my black cotton Calvin Klein thong). I slept in this morning and have already been to Caribou twice; hopefully this isn't an indication of things to come this week.

I haven't been hungover on a Tuesday morning in quite some time, but my British friends Nigel, Loopy, and Bon-Bon were out and about this weekend and I just couldn't steer clear of our usual antics.

Bon-Bon and I met at work about a year ago when she was transferred to DC from our London branch. Since then, we've made a name for ourselves as the most fabulous DC socialites in the office. It's amazing how much insanity we cause and yet we're still invited to expense-lunches each day and continuously promoted to better positions within the firm.

Cut to Friday: Bon-Bon called me at about 12 and said we were being taken to Cafe Mozu at the Mandarin Oriental hotel for the close of Restaurant Week. We headed over there at about 1 with "The Geniuses" as we so lovingly refer to the Executive Board. Cafe Mozu is nothing short of a disappointment: poor service, food that is mediocre at best, and bland pseudo-80's decor. But while at lunch, the Head Genius turned to Bon and I and said "What are you two ladies up to this weekend?" Bon-Bon immediately responded "Actually, that's a question that I've been told is not up for debate. Nigel and Loopy will be here from London, so Sassy suggested we take them to Atlantic City for a good time."

I stared at Bon-Bon ... I was shocked ... I was speechless ... I was amazed at her cunning attempt to trick me.

So at 8:30, after Nige and Loopy arrived, we hopped in a rental car and headed north to A.C. We arrived at the Taj Mahal at about 12:15AM and the craziness began.

I went to the ATM first, where the machine immediately spit my card back out and gave me a message that read "Your card is either damaged or unreadable. Please try again later." I was pissed that I had no money; when I looked in my wallet, I had a measly $5 bill that said "I love you, Santa" on the back in children's writing. How could I be expected to spend that bill, it broke my heart just thinking about it.

So I grumbled my way to the Western Union booth, where there was a sign that read "Closed. Be back at 1:25." 1:25?! What was this? A casino or a factory of inconveniences?

I went and hung around Loopy, Nige, and Bon-Bon to reap the benefits of free drinks until the booth opened again. When it did, I was sur-charged $17.99 to take out $200. Again, ridiculous. It was 1 in the morning and I was being swindled already.

We gambled all night and then ended up in a hotel on the Boardwalk with Nige's $1400 winnings.

The next afternoon, I stumbled out of bed and onto the Boardwalk while everyone else gambled. I began to notice that the majority of the people on the Atlantic City Boardwalk were overweight and slovenly. I adjusted my Hermes sunglasses while secretly ogling pudgy knee-caps and mu-mus along the entire length of the beach. Then I went down to the Trump Plaza beach bar and spent my afternoon sipping Stoli Raz and Cranberries while listening to the sound of the surf and eavesdropping on the conversations around me (PS- some guy named Barry's leaving his wife at the end of September, he wants to see that the kids get off to school okay before he tells Jane that he's found someone else. He's such a family man.).

I strolled and people-watched and judged for a good 5 hours before I met up with the boys and Bon-Bon at about 6. They had collectively won about $3600 that afternoon, so we had a Boardwalk feast to celebrate before returning to DC. In a little more than an hour, we consumed corn dogs, apple covered funnel cakes, custard, cherry italian ice, a root beer float, fried clams, cheddar popcorn, caramel apples, boardwalk fries, pizza, and fudge.

The car ride back was pleasant to say the least. While battling acid reflux, I was serenaded to a stirring rendition of "Under the Boardwalk" in Loopy's best cockney accent. Bon-Bon argued with Nige over the smell of the cheddar popcorn, telling him to toss it because it smelled like dirty feet. We laughed over the mental image of popcorn flying all over I-95 and before I knew it, there was a large bag of bright yellow snackery being flung out the rear passenger window. Cars behind us swerved, but I'm sure they thought it was funny later when they had arrived safely at their destination.

The rest of the night was spent pouring double-Patron shots while playing fashion show (best of all time: Nige and Loopy squeezing into my best Dior dresses to dance to "It's Raining Men"). I swear, if I know any men who aren't already gay, I'll take the social liberty to convince them to prance around for my enjoyment.

Aunt Sassy Opens Halfway-House Exclusively For Bush Children

I was sitting at my desk, wearing my red cotton bikini briefs, reading an article on AmericaBlog about Jenna dry-humping her boyfriend in a drunken state at Zucchabar last weekend when I decided that it was time to take action! The Bush grandchildren are O.O.C. (out of control)!
In my rage, I went about securing permits, hiring social workers, and procuring plenty of Lithium as I prepared to open the first “Bush-Child Halfway House.”

The line-up: George Prescott, Noelle, Lauren, Jenna, Barbara, Pierce, Jebby, Ashley … and Bandi.

Bandi is also going to be put in there, because I told him he had to … he’s very opposed to any kind of intervention, but he does have quite the thing for Jebby.

I figured these snotty little rich kids would be quite a handful. But once I took on this project, I realized that this clan puts the OIL in SPOILED.

Cut to this week:

Monday
Upon my return to the Halfway House at 6:45pm, I was forced to interrupt Pierce and his Columbia Heights gambling ring on the front steps. I stopped short, threw down my Louis attaché and yelled “After a long day at work, I don’t want to see that!”
I will say one thing for these kids: the stakes they gamble are high.
The caveat: countless prescription inhalers and airplane liquor bottles had probably changed hands before I ever got home.

But I had to press on. I traipsed through the house in my Choo’s to go pour my usual post-work adult bevvie. Once in the kitchen, I broke up a rousing game of “What Would Jenna Drink” being played by Noelle, Jebby, Ashley, and Bandi. Bandi had taken the liberty of turning his Travelpro roller bag into a three tiered top shelf bar. (The boy can’t do much, but he can pour a mean shot of tequila.)

Infuriated, I set about finding George P. I had left him in charge, as he seemed to be the most responsible. However, while storming through the parlor, I witnessed Jenna clinking the ice in her glass at him and slurring out “Georgie, be a dear and refresh my Jack and G … and not so much icey-ice this time.” Much to her chagrin, he was busy doing runway briefings with Lauren. “No, you fat-assed loser! I said pivot on 7, NOT 8. Now let’s start from the top … 5, 6, 7, 8!”

Tuesday
Noelle and Jenna have become Bandi’s new fag hags (I usually hate that term, but there’s nothing else I can say for these three). The anomaly is that Noelle’s Xanax dependency makes her drool when she talks. It makes conversations with her very funny when you’re face to face; but being an intervention specialist, I signed a contract that stipulated that I couldn’t laugh at any personal plight/defects involving the patients. I’m going to have Mav fine-tooth comb that contract and find me a loop hole. My current laugh cover-up of “I had to cough, I have a thing” while motioning to my throat may not work for much longer.

The kids told me they were walking up to St. John’s for afternoon church services. I was almost fooled that time, but once Bandi walked by triple-doused in his Orion scented Axe Body Spray For Men, I knew these kids were heading straight out to Halo’s 2 for 1 Happy Hour. As usual … up to no good.

(Side note: later that night, I caught Bandi and Pierce Bush making out in the utility closet while Noelle and Jenna mud-wrestled to “Sunday, Bloody Sunday” for a bunch of Georgetown brothers.)


Wednesday
I have reminded the kids that when Aunt Sassy is hung and the office calls for an early morning Power-Breakfast, the post-11pm noise must be kept to a minimum. On such an already adventure-filled Wednesday, I got up twice to stifle a Drag Queen singing competition in the living area (complete with a coffee table stage and kerosene pyrotechnics). In the process, Jebby tripped on his stilettos and impaled his cousin Ashley with a spike to the tib-fib. I would have never been there in time to stop the bleeding had Bandi not been invoking Celine Dion. Bandi is quite the chanteuse (rumor has it he beat Justin Timberlake in an impromptu sing-off in LA last summer), but he has some serious voice modulation problems. He’s doing a lot better with his lyric-retention, but he needs to work on his tone so we can control his American Idol-audition-like singing … his high E is a dead give-away for any Republican Debauchery in the Rec-Room.

Thursday
This morning, as I made my way downstairs, I overheard Jebby and Bandi singing two-part harmony of En Vogue’s mid-90’s hit “What a Man” in the shower. I would have broken this up, but I figured the water was probably sobering them up at the very least.

I was lint-rolling my suit in the foyer prior to my work departure when I found Jenna lying face down in nacho vomit with a death grip on a bottle of Peach Arbor Mist. Barbara was stumbling around in the kitchen, mumbling something about “the hair of the dog” while she tied one on with a double snifter of Jim Beam.

I’ve been trying the best I can to keep them on the straight and narrow, but I recently discovered that the kids have started communicating using only clicking sounds so as to plan their debauchery without being caught. I have to give it to them for being so resourceful with their tongues.

More to follow …

This city is too small

I just came back from lunching with my usual crew; I was wearing my blue and white striped g-string because I was feeling very nautical this morning.

This being the first day of Restaurant Week in DC, the crew and I decided to head over to Butterfield 9 to grab a quick bite (which extended to our usual hour-and-a-half lunch break). We were seated in the middle of the dining room and were just ordering our first course when I turned to my right and locked eyes with Mighty Mouse.

For those of you who don't remember, Mighty Mouse was a first date back in early April. We had first met at a happy hour with our respective coworkers and there ensued a great build-up for an exciting and successful first date. Mighty Mouse and I had all the trimmings of a delightful Spring Fling: good conversation, witty repor, sarcastic humor, a shared love for going out, and frequent mid-workday emails and calls.

After three weeks of schedule conflicts and business trips, we finally met for our FIRST DATE one rainy evening at John Harvards on 13th and E Street. Prior to the date, I was a wreck ... I'm even going to go so far as to say a complete mess. This was very out of character for Aunt Sassy, as I am not usually like that before dates: I'm actually pretty good at them. But this one was different, I was actually nervous about spending a couple hours with Mighty Mouse.

Our date began at 7pm and extended to a whopping 11:30! I had never had a 4 and a half hour first date that consisted of such intelligent and hysterical bantor! It was great, Mighty Mouse was everything a first date should be: polite, unassuming, funny. When Mighty Mouse walked me to the platform at Metro Center and then waited for my train with me, I thought "Mighty Mouse is the bee's knees! This is the Spring Fling I've been waiting for all winter!"

So what happened? How did it all fall apart? It turns out that both of us play some serious dating games: a recipe for disaster. I waited for Mighty Mouse to make the first post-date contact while Mighty Mouse waited for me. I thought MM wasn't interested, and vice versa. Finally, one afternoon in early May, my email inbox dinged and I saw one last email from the Mouse. It was a short message saying that with better timing, maybe something more substantial could have come of our first date and that the feeling was mutual: it was probably the best first date in the history of DC.

So cut back to today: I locked eyes with Mighty Mouse across the room at Butterfield 9 and we smiled at one another. Maybe under different circumstances it could have worked itself out; but nevertheless, it was still nice to feel that Mighty Mouse flutter once again.