And they called him Oscar

I left the office yesterday at 5 in my blue anchor thong so I could make my 5:15 hair appointment with Soel at Urban Style Lab on Connecticut Ave. We had a great chat while he coiffed my hair into an ultra-Sassy 'do ... I filled him in on the latest goings on with Chaz and he swooned over Jonathon Antin from the Bravo show "Blowout."

After I was done at Urban Style Lab, I walked north on Connecticut to head home before meeting up with Asa and Maverick. I was in the process of checking a voicemail from Chaz when I looked up and to my surprise, he was right there in front of me on Connecticut! He told me he had finished his work and figured I would still be at the sylist, so he came over to walk me home. (Asa calls it stalking, I call it caring.)

So we went to my house and we chatted while I got myself ready for the Sufjan concert at 9:30 Club. Asa and Maverick have turned me onto it; they always try their best to make me a DC scenester (their efforts have been pretty fruitless thus far). And as usual, I was supposed to meet them at their house on 15th Street at 7:30, but of course Chaz and I left the condo at about 7:25 to go grab some Wrapworks. We both got wraps and smoothies and then we split ways as I headed down Q Street toward Asa and Maverick's house and he headed home to New Hampshire Ave.

I arrived at the Gay Villa 10 minutes later with a mouthful of wrap and kissed both of them hello. Asa yelled, "Ew, Sassy! That was the most disgusting kiss I've ever had ... I tasted peppers, chicken, rice, sour cream and something spicy that I can't identify yet!" To which Maverick chimed in, "Yeah, that was pretty gross. What's that British Euro-trash teaching you?" Honey, if you only knew.

With that, we walked up Corcoran Street to go pick up Sid on our way to 9:30. He met us outside and commented on the new hair. (He thinks it's fabulous, which is true.) Being that Sid lives right off U Street, we made it to the club at about 8:15 and bought some beers and found our place near the stage.

As I looked around, I started noticing a startling truth: all the other Sufjan fans are between the ages of 15 and 20! I felt like the field trip chaperone for the Greater Northern Virginia Area High School System!

But once Sufjan came on, it was all worth it ... not only because he puts on a fabulous fun-filled show, but because he was also commenting on how he was so much older than all his fans. Being a gang of people-watchers in such a situation has its perks for Sid, Mav, Asa and I. The socially awkward teenagers provided us with much-needed fodder for our laughing enjoyment:

- There was the kid with bologna lips who pretended to know all the lyrics and ended up just looking confused as he pretended to sing along. "They call him Oscar for his bologna lips" was the best quote by Asa all night. Oscar's a diva.

- I loved when Mav turned to the high-functioning autistic high schooler standing next to him and said "I'm here to listen to him sing, not you! This isn't a Dave Matthews concert!"

-There was an obese 17 year old boy doing "The Monkey" next to the stage. All I could say was "Someone needs to tell him that his dance makes him look REAL skinny!"

-Poor Sid was cruising the crowd for a good twink as he is the only one left single right now ... but all he could find were underage kids trying to have him buy them beers. "Do I have sugar daddy printed across my forehead?" Yes, Sid. You're Indian and you dress well. Enough said.

-What about that kid shouting his name out from the upper level? Wylie, was it? Saying he was turning 20 that night? Is he trying to give me a Botox-induced heart attack???

All I can say is go to Urban Style Lab, let them make you gorgeous(er), then go get the Sufjan Stevens album "Come On Feel the Illinoise." Then you call me and we'll meet up over some scotch and scones and discuss. Kisses ...

"YAY for Baseball!"

Who knew that drinking in public at RFK Stadium could be so fun on a Wednesday evening? I left the office wearing my Tommy American Flag thong at an ungodly hour yesterday afternoon (4:45 to be exact) and went running before I met up with Chaz. I stumbled up to the door of the condo at about 6 and realized I had locked myself out! I quickly devised a contingency plan and called Chaz; he took the bait and invited me to shower and get ready at his house.

I ran to the store, bought some couture, and was on my way. When I arrived at Chaz's house, he was looking dapper as usual in a button-down shirt and jeans. We had been talking earlier in the week and I had mentioned that I wanted a Crystal Light Lemonade. So as I walked in, he handed me a Safeway bag and said "I went to three places in the city looking for this stuff. Then once I got there, I couldn't remember what kind you wanted, so I got you one of everything." And sure enough, the bag was filled with all the varieties of delicious Crystal Light. How refreshing.

So we got ready and headed out to meet up with Chaz's friends, Jo and Tony, at the Metro. We went out to RFK and we had GREAT seats right behind home plate ... and James Carville. Jo went crazy saying "No, you don't understand, I am obsessed with James Carville. I have to go get a picture with him!!" So she ran down, breached security, and had him snap a picture with her. Good for Jo.

The boys went and bought hot dogs and beers for all of us and that's when the fun really started. I mean, who really goes to baseball games for the baseball? It only gets exciting once you've had some beers. We ate our hot dogs as I pretended to watch the game, and we flagged down every beer vendor who was walking through the stands.

We all ended up double-fisting the whole time and at one point, I looked over at Chaz as he took a sip of one of his beers. As though in slow motion, I watched the beer pour down his chin and douse the front of his shirt and pants. I saw the look of complete shock come over his face as he tried to figure out how he spilled beer all over himself. Here he had been holding two of his beers with one hand and had decided to take a sip of the bottom one, so the top one just poured out all over him. Priceless.

The Nationals ended up losing to the San Francisco Giants, but it was still a fun early fall evening activity. And who doesn't like to get drunk in public with 20,000 other fans?

Do you want some Chaz with that wine?

Cut to this past weekend at Asa and Maverick's house when they threw an incredible dinner party with all the usual suspects. I was dressed in full regalia of course, complete with my favorite Tommy thong. (It was, as always, a great time.) The wine was flowing freely while everyone laughed and reminisced about all our crazy times together.

At about 9, the doorbell rang and I heard Asa laughing with a deep-voiced man in the entryway. The whole gang was already there, so naturally I wondered who it could have been. The voice was vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it until he stepped into the doorway to the dining room.

In walked a 6'2", broad shouldered Brit with tousled hair, Ralph Lauren pants and sport jacket, and a white Lacoste shirt with the collar down. It was Chaz, our old friend from all those years ago at Oxford. Chaz is half-British, half-Chinese, all gorgeous. Picture Hugh Grant in Bridget Jones' Diary, but with slightly better teeth, slightly squintier eyes, and a more arrogant air about him.

Chaz could very well be every woman's dream date: he's charming, intelligent, charismatic, funny, and athletic. I met him when he was the star polo player for the Oxford University Polo Club ... he was tall and brawny, I was instantly infatuated with him.

Chaz and I had great times together: we would go to the Bird and Baby or the Vicky Arms and chat and laugh over pints. He'd toss his head back and let out his throaty laugh and every head in the place would turn to see him flash his charming smile.

We had a great stint until I had to come home to America. That was the year he quit Polo for good. He was wearing too much cologne during the second match of the season and his horse, Britches, had a severe allergic reaction. Britches ended up having an asthma attack and dying as Chaz watched from the sidelines. Ever since then, he just hasn't been able to bring a horse to a gallop.

Things fell apart from there and we lost touch for years. But this weekend, it seemed like we picked up right where we left off. Chaz is studying law at Catholic and he just moved back into the District ... and the Aunt Sassy camp just launched Operation Mystery Date; could the timing have been any better?

We met for brunch on Sunday morning at the 1409 Playbill Cafe; we had a great chat and ended up going to see a new film at E Street Theater. Tonight we're meeting up with his law school friends and going to the Nationals game (we both hate baseball, but what's more American than beer and hot dogs in September?); tomorrow night it's to a wine tasting and the symphony. At this rate, things may be looking up for Sassy.

Maybe OMD is finally becoming something. Goodbye Operation Mystery Date, hello Operation Wine and Chaz ...

"You're the funniest person I know!"

Or: why I am single.

So I sit here lamenting silently today in my cherry blossom bikini briefs, counting down the hours until I leave the office for the day (we're up to T-minus 2 hours, 41 minutes). But I am dwelling on this nagging email I received this weekend from a potential suitor. Operation Mystery Date strikes again.

BEGIN 50th OPERATION MYSTERY DATE DISCLAIMER HERE
I have never had a problem being single: I'm independent, I have great friends, I love to travel at the drop of a dime (or a couple thousand dollars once all's said and done ... read: Hawai'i), and I have a great job.

But while I've been travelling quite a bit this summer, it's become more and more difficult to come home to an empty house. So I decided what the hey, Operation Mystery Date can allow me to go out there and give the dating scene the old college try (the fact that I use phrases like that may also have something to do with my singlehood).

I've been going out, doing the Car-Wash (a signature move, you can't mess with the classics), breaking hearts, and taking names. But the event in question occured this weekend. I met someone at Kramerbooks last week. I'm a huge fan of people-watching, and Monday early-evening was no different as I sat on the back patio, sipping my Americano, and re-reading Edith Wharton's "The House of Mirth" for what seemed like the hundredth time since I fell in love with it at age 16. And as I sat there, someone approached me and asked if I was I wouldn't mind sharing my table. Condensed version: Over the next half hour, we exchanged names and emails ... I left shortly thereafter.

We ended up exchanging hilarious, flirty emails at work last week and I thought "This is GREAT! An intelligent, funny flirter! Where did I miss such a rare find?!"

Until Friday, when this piece of literary and grammatical genius came through:

Have mercy, Sassy. Your last message was so funny that I snorted and choked out loud, then forwarded it to two friends. The feedback is that: 1. you are REALLY REALLY funny, 2. I am not keeping up and should stop embarrassing myself with weak material Ala early Ben Stiller (the MTV days).There were two things that kept me from responding right away. Friday is a relief for me but also a festival of guilty overcompensation for all the goofing off I did Monday - Thursday. Also, I really don't think our email relationship can be reciprocal. I would love to send you an email as fun as the one you sent me, but come on, if I even try to keep up itwill take me an hour to write an email and it will be obvious that I am trying to hard. Do you write for a living?
-Kramer

Therefore, is it true that if you are a funny and intelligent woman, you will never get a date in this city? Should I have dumbed myself down more for this insecure stranger? Can The Golden Girls ever be brought back into syndication?

Who Will Be My Mystery Date?

I'm in the office a bit early this morning in my light blue thong (it's adorned with bananas, which is what I'm going to be if my client doesn't get hit by a bus ... soon). Operation Fruit Basket has now turned into Operation Mystery Date. Operation Mystery Date (OMD for short) is not really about finding an actual relationship (because that Operation could get stale really fast), it's about uncovering the ridiculous rituals and recent revolution of the dating scene in DC.

- One thing that remains important to dating is the preparation for a good night out on the town ... beginning with my favorite part: the selection of the right underwear to make your "I'm a cunning minx" statement. Cut to last night when I started my research for OMD by going to the Victoria's Secret on Connecticut Avenue to buy some lingerie. One of the saleswomen there stopped me and asked if I needed help, and I said, "Well I'm looking for something very sexy... any ideas?" And then to my amazement, she said, "Sure, you can find it downstairs in our 'Very Sexy' line." Right ... we are now that lazy.

- Remember what it was like before cell phones when men would try to get a woman's phone number? They'd spend an hour looking for a pen ..."Who's got a pen? Who's got a pen? Arrrgghh who's got a f@#$ing pen? Maybe a crayon, a marker, a golf pencil???" All I have to say is thank jehovah for Verizon.

- Sometimes I let my nephew spend the night at The Condo to ensure that he doesn't drink and drive on the weekends. On one such occasion, I saw him at the breakfast table with an illegible phone number smeared across his forehead. "Here, let me get that for you, pumpkin," I said as I approached him with a clean washcloth. He screamed and said "Is there something on my forehead? IS THERE A PHONE NUMBER ON MY FOREHEAD?? Quick, Aunt Sassy, to the bathroom! We have to get it before it fades!" We couldn't make out the numbers in the mirror, and as he perspired with frustration, it just smeared some more until it looked like it was Ash Wednesday. Thank god that doesn't happen with cell phones ... now he looks in his phone on Sunday mornings (read: afternoons) and he starts muttering things like "Who's Crystzzzrrrfg? And why does her cell have 14 numbers??" To which I respond from behind my Post "Maybe she was British ..."

- I love how the doormen at bars and clubs in DC are so obsessed with proper footwear. I've never overheard anyone (outside of New York) make a comment about someone's shoes like: "Can you believe they let him in here wearing those Pumas? What is this world coming to?"

- For a laugh one time, Asa and Maverick and I decided to go on one of those singles booze cruise's down the Potomac. You ever notice how people act like complete retards when they get on a boat? Everyone feels the need to do two complete laps around the balcony just to find the perfect view. Then someone always leans off the front doing the Leonardo DiCaprio "I'm king of the world." (And this time it wasn't me!) Then everybody feels that they need to wave to the passing boats. You're not fooling anyone because HELLO, when did DC get so friendly? The patrons of our "RV of the Sea" (as I liked to call it) kept trying to talk to the people on the luxury yachts down in Alexandria. They couldn't be heard, but I'm sure I can picture the guys on the other boat: "Priscilla honey, when did they let migrant workers on rafts go south of Anacostia?"

- I love when I see guys miss out on an opportunity with a girl in a bar they try to act like it's nothing: "Yeah, F them, they weren't even hot ... we're better than that." Right, but they're not going home alone.

- Clubs of this generation need to be defined by one syllable: "Light", cool; "lighthouse", not cool. "Attic", okay; "Attica", run like hell! Whenever we're behind the rope at one of these places, one guy always tries to convince us "Hey, you're cute (side note: I hate this adjective), and we're a lot of fun. So what do you say we get our own music, go party somewhere else and fuck this line!" Hey, while we're at it why don't we just make it into a commercial for Smirnoff Ice?!

- The worst is when you're dancing with someone and they try to do the suave "Armpit Check." This is a move that should only be attempted by those with the most adept prowess, because I'll tell you that raising your arm in mock-party-mode and smelling one of your underarms is about as sly as when they tried to switch Chrissy's on Three's Company and nobody thought we'd notice.

So to those of you who are trying to break out on the dating scene in DC, I hope these anecdotes can help you deal with how completely out of control this city can be.

SWF Seeks UDL (Unrealistic Dreamy Lifestyle)

I’ve been doing a lot of introspective life-examination today while sporting the blue and white striped g-string. I’ve realized that sometimes being single isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I love having my independence and being able to enjoy life without boundaries, but every once in a while I get the feeling that it would be nice to have someone to look forward to after a long day at the office.

So under the suggestion of my coworker, I have laid out everything I’m looking for in a relationship and described it in 2000 words or less:

While I'm working 60 hours/week on weekdays; volunteering at soup kitchens, animal shelters, and orphanages on weeknights; working out 4-5 days a week to stay in shape; and leading grass-roots political drives in support of various causes on weekends, you are skyrocketing toward the top of your profession; educating underprivileged youth at nights; leading discussions at colleges and bookstores on weekends; and hosting wildly entertaining dinner parties while maintaining your sun-kissed, taut body in spite of it all. At home, when we're not engaging in 2 day long sessions of wholly satiating, mind-boggling, acrobatic episodes of, uh, poetry readings, we kill what little time we have by reading high-brow novels, skimming political journals, and watching serious TV like "Meet the Press," "Da Ali G Show" and "The Comeback." I smell like Chanel from head-to-toe and expect you to be equally as conscious of your hygiene.
Oh yeah, and we have access to the type of cash that makes Saudi royalty blush. A really classy ride that won't attract too much attention and simply says "dignified" (like his/hers matching vespas with racing stripes and stars of David and horns that honk to hatikva). On holidays, we host parties on our 120' as we sail up to the Vineyard or down to the Bahamas. Well-connected politically, we have no qualms about taking month-long jaunts to play at friends' myriad villas around the world. Condos in Jerusalem and Venice. A beachhouse in Santorini. A nice apartment in downtown Baghdad and Kabul, where we open our new "Liberation" coffee shops. I'm thinking something with a green logo and a mermaid. I'll be in the back, being fanned by natives and sipping strong coffee while ordering couture by satellite.

All Washed Out

I've been in and out of meetings all morning and I FINALLY have a second to breathe (while sporting my black and white polka dot thong). I still blame jet lag for my tiredness a week later, but who wouldn't? Looking at my depleted (read: nonexistent) vacation time on my recent paycheck, I am taken back to a time two summers ago when I was preparing to go to Sydney.

Two days before I went to the land down under, I was so excited to pack that I accidentally ended up washing my passport with my laundry. I’d pulled out all my washed clothes from the machine and noticed a small, wet, dark blue ball at the bottom. At first I screamed ... then I went into panic mode and e-mailed photos of my wet passport to everyone I was traveling with. I spent the entire next day at the passport office in the city, begging them to make me a passport so that I could go overseas. Thankfully, I had proof that my flight was the next day, so they made an exception. Idiot.

On the flight to Sydney (which is amazing ... GO if you can get your hands on some Xanax for the flight!), I tried to dry my old passport on the spare food tray next to me. There was no real reason to salvage it, unless you can appreciate a sentimental traveler like me. I didn’t realize that passports could retain so much water: it still isn’t quite dry. And I think the man across the aisle from me thought I was strange because I kept adjusting it and putting it in new positions like it was my pet.

I'd like to think he just didn't understand posterity and that maybe he should be more introspective before calling people strange; but then again, maybe a wet passport is something worth questioning.

Getting Lei-d

Aloha from Aunt Sassy!

Just spent 8 beautiful days in Hawaii for Loopy and Bon Bon's wedding and I'm sitting here in the office wearing my monkey g-string and losing my mind as jet-lag continues to take over. (Dears, you can trust that I was not catching up on my sleep this weekend.)
The week with Loopy's Oxford mates hasn't settled enough for me to discuss it yet, but the office has just been out of control since I've been back.

Cut to me working late as usual last night:

Reading budget projection reports at 7:36pm made me really hungry for a snack; a snack in a small 5 inch by 3 inch shiny mylar bag. I chose Fritos. I don't know what posessed me to pick Fritos, I probably haven't had them since they were in my lunchbag in third grade, but I can now say that I am addicted to them. I am now so instantly addicted, in fact, that I went on their website and looked at all the varieties of Fritos that I could enjoy in the future (I'm REALLY productive during the early evening). The fun thing about Fritos is that they didn't sell out for what one would normally think of as the run-of-the-mill flavor list. Noooo ... the folks at Frito Lay took the regular barbecue and made it "Chili Cheese Fritos", they scoffed at sour cream and onion and decided on "Cheddar Ranch Fritos"! But my favorite one that I saw would have to be the "Texas Grill Flamin' Hot Fritos"

These things are so authentic that Frito Lay pulled out all the stops and even put GRILL MARKS on their Texas Grill Flamin' Hot Fritos. Reminds me of when I was a kid and we'd be grilling in the backyard and I'd yell: "Hey Dad, flip mine over, you know how I like my Fritos!" (This message was in no way endorsed by Frito Lay)

My only problem now was that I had greasy fingers from those delicious Fritos... my mouse is still all shiny and grease-coated. My coworkers' suspicions are going to be confirmed when they walk by and catch me licking my mouse. Yeah, that's right: I've considered going to first base with my computer machinery. But no further than first, I'm not like that.

So for now, wish me luck, sweethearts: I've just downed my second Americano of the morning before I go to battle with a client (this woman is so ridiculous in her attempts to get a free ride that I have now begun to call my phone conversations with her "Operation Fruit Basket.") I've taken to calling her daily to try to light a fire under her, as she is probably the most evasive client I've ever had. To really get Operation Fruit Basket rolling, I have figured out that I need to be extremely passive aggressive until this insane crack-woman-of-DC goes crazy and starts ranting on Craigslist about it (because you know she will). At that point, I'm going to start calling TWICE daily. Operation Fruit Basket knows no boundaries.