You Just Can't Find Good Help These Days

The exchange between me and a homeless man on F Street as Bon Bon and I were walking back from the bank just now:

Homeless Man: "Hey lady, you got any change?"
Sassy (under her breath to Bon Bon): "These guys should just get a job."
Homeless Man: "I got a fucking job, bitch!"
Sassy (louder, to homeless man): "Well then let me speak to your manager!"

Painting the town Pink

I just want to take moment (as I sit here in my black thong) to thank Asa and Chaz for making the weekend so memorable. I know this is belated by 4 days, but sue me. The condo's been the center of activity the past few days.

Cut to last week: I had received a call last week from my good friend Bob S. He invited me to come to the Ms. Adams Morgan Pageant at the Washington Hilton on Saturday evening. Picture it: 1500 gay men in costumes and drag parading around the International Ballroom at the Hilton ... to die for.

Asa and I were dressed to the nines: Asa was six shades of hunk in his tuxedo and I went with the black strapless Chanel evening gown. We were drinking Prosecco at Asa's Gay Villa when it dawned on us that our first idea of going as "The Straight Couple" might not be the most original idea we've ever had. So in the tux and the gown, we sashayed over to the Logan Circle CVS on P Street and bought the rest of our costumes. Asa put two bolts on his neck and my black MAC on his eyes while I adhered a mis-shapen nose to my face and pulled on a feathered black hat ... voila: we were a witch and Frankenstein.

The driver picked us up around 7:15 and we headed over for the pre-show cocktail hour. We walked in to a wonderland of drag in the lobby of the Hilton. The theme for the Ms. Adams Morgan Pageant was "Back to Skool", so there were cheerleaders, Catholic schoolgirls (not the Britney Spears kind either), and girl scouts aplenty. There was a notable group of attractive men who were all dressed in camo with black t-shirts that read "I'm Going Commando." They also had little walkie-talkies, so when I was standing at the bar waiting for the slowest bartender in creation, one of them said "Don't worry, the commandos will take care of this" and he called his buddies on the walkie-talkie and they were all deployed to help the situation. They didn't make the drink line go any faster, but the display was hilarious.

After what seemed like an eternity standing at the cash bar, Asa and I made our way down to the ballroom for the show. We were sitting at Table 70 with 4 queens and 4 guys who had on shirts that said "Lil Shop of Whores" ... real original guys, let me tell you. The show was fabulous, but Asa and I quickly became ::yawn:: bored. You see three queens dance to Gwen Stefani's "Bananas", you seen 'em all. So Asa and I started playing Guess The Costume. We were standing next to the door to the ballroom, drinking our vodkas on the rocks and stopping people to antagonize them as they walked in the room. Yes, we were the ones tapping people on the shoulder, saying "Hold on there, sailor! Let us guess your costume." And then with all seriousness, we would come up with the most ridiculous things I've ever heard.

Here's a list of some of the actual costumes v. our guesses:

Zombie = Dr. Phil
Condoleeza Rice = Whoopie Goldberg
Feather Boa Man & his escort = Oprah and Stedman
Soccer Player = Harry Potter
Mr. Clean = Christopher Walken
Two Queen Cheerleaders = Mary-Kate and Ashley
Two Pharaohs = Paris and Nicole
Asian Schoolgirl = Margaret Cho
Russian Mistress = Hillary Clinton
Our two favorite crazy queens hanging out in the back of the ballroom = Elton John and Ann Hesche
Three Catholic Schoolgirls = The Heathers

We took our pictures with all these people, telling them we were trying to get as many pics with celebrities that night as we could.

But I think Asa said it best as we worked on dirty Grey Goose Martini #6: "Sassy, you see a room full of gays, I see a photo opportunity."

Sassy needs ...

I'm sitting here in the office, distraught and overworked in my white cotton thong. I've been working with clients (the miscreants) all day and am ready for a tumbler of Scotch, a lot of loud Nat King Cole, my favorite robe, and all the lights out in the condo. Unfortunately for me, I'll be here for a while putting out fires, at which time I'll have to walk through the cold District rain to get home to an empty liquor cabinet and drafty windows.

But I digress. My good friend Mr. Bartender told me about an interesting experiment he tried on Google recently. You put your first name and the word 'needs' in quotes and hit search (i.e., "Sassy needs") ... it was just about the only thing that made me laugh in the past 6 hours, so I thought I'd share my first ten results:

SASSY NEEDS:

1. A home that will work with her in order to gain her trust in people again (boooring!)

2. A lover (that's more like it)

3. To spend 8 weeks confined to a crate (I hope this isn't directly correlated to #2)

4. A loving home ASAP (this seems to be a recurring theme)

5. To be restrained for car rides, as she will try to assist the driver with her navigation skills (so true!)

6. A sponsor (this one may actually be directed at Bandi)

7. A sugar daddy (I would never straight out ASK for one ... but okay)

8. Mesothelioma treatment (AMEN to that!)

9. Foreign basketball shooting techniques (this must be code for something sexier)

10. Used horse trailers (sick)

Try this exercise and let me know how the results go!

A Comedy of Errors

As I sit here in the office with my heather grey thong on (it's my rainy day favorite), I reflect on the gross unfairness of this past week of my life.

Today is day 6 of not drinking coffee, Americanos, or espresso in any form! I decided to quit drinking coffee last Saturday morning after I ran 8 miles through the city. I thought "Hey, for all this hard work I do to be healthy, I pump (on average) at least 6 shots of espresso into my body every day! I can do better than that ..." Yeah, well guess what? I CAN'T!

After 6 days of miserably going to the iced green tea with breakfast, I've realized that I am going through the early stages of caffeine withdrawal. You see, dear readers, I thought the claims that 'caffeine is a drug' were just a bunch of hocus pocus. Apparently they're not!!! Johns Hopkins even just did a study on the dangers of Caffeine Withdrawal ... wish I had known about that 6 days ago (I blame my new assistant, but more on her later).

I have undergone the following hell in the past 6 days due to weaning myself off caffeine (read: quitting cold turkey):

1) Headaches. These aren't just "Oh I wish I had a coffee" headaches; no no, these are "Somebody get this goddamn Acela train out from behind my forehead before I KILL someone" headaches. Do you think 2 Excedrin could clear up pain like that? Neither did I ... so I took 5. I felt a whole lot better after that, but it left me thinking "Is this really worth it? I could have keeled over like Judy Garland from taking that much anti-inflammatory. OR I could have had one sweet cup of coffee. Hmmm." I found out that the headaches are caused by an overexcessive amount of blood in the head when you quit drinking caffeine. GROSS! "Bleed me doctor, it's the only way!"

2) Nausea. I've never been pregnant and don't plan on being in such a state in the near future, so I have always been a big naysayer when I see the early throes of morning sickness in pregnant women. Well NAYSAY NO MORE! The mere sight of food for about three days had me so nauseated, I didn't think I could stand it. I missed two big client receptions this week because I couldn't even consider food or alcohol. Actually, the nausea may be doing wonders for my figure. Scratch this one from the record; it's a go!

3) Irritability. Anyone who saw me on Wednesday can attest to this one. I fought with Chaz all day over something as low as ... don't laugh ... designer jeans?! First it was the designer jeans, then it turned into a fight over a drag queen pageant. I cried for the first time in about a year over designer jeans and a drag queen pageant. I'm going to let that sink in for a second. Okay, WHAT WAS I THINKING? I even locked Asa out of the condo inadvertantly and then cried about that. Next time I'm going to avoid the insult and injury and just take a quick sip (it's only a sip, I can quit any time I want).

4) Difficulty Concentrating. Okay; I haven't blogged significantly in weeks! I wrote a post about seeing a crack-head? What was I thinking? According to the Johns Hopkins study, it probably wasn't much. I spent Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday at work checking Craigslist, gmail, other DC blogs, and a fundraising website I belong to. That's about it. Snacking wasn't even an option because I was too nauseated to eat! Yesterday and today have been better as far as the concentrating go, but my conversations have sounded like verbal diarrhea I'm sure. And for that, I apologize.

5) Exhaustion. I thought at first this could have been because of the increases in running mileage, but the area underneath my usually youthful and mesmerizing eyes tells a different story. I've shelacked every marketed eye cream on these anomolies and there is nary a reduction in the size of my lower eyelids (we don't use the "b" word). Do you know the shamefulness of half a dozen people EACH morning saying "Wow, Sassy, you look tired!" Tired? TIRED? You mean OLD, don't you! (Note: author's irritability may be caused by reduced caffeine intake)

So as if all this wasn't bad enough, I have a new assistant. We'll call her "Shakira." Shakira is, I'm sure, a really sweet girl. She's probably about 24, has three children, and lives in a one-bedroom apartment with her family and her sister's family. How do I know this, you ask? Because SHE TOLD ME. She stands at the door to my office, rambling incoherently, ignoring the fact that the phone is ringing off the hook. She doesn't file, she barely types, she can't speak to my clients, and she has a permanent glazed-over stare when I talk to her. I know from her lack of production that she doesn't understand a word I'm saying, nor does she take the initiative to ask questions when she doesn't. I didn't hire her, if that's what you're thinking. She was hired by HR and sent to torture me.

So I ask you, dear readers, between lack of coffee and the onslaught of Shakira, can this week get any worse?

My first crack-head

I was walking to the office this morning, wearing my pink thong with fuschia hearts on it. I was running a little late, so I was pretty oblivious as to what was going on around me as I booked it down F Street. I was zoning out behind my Gucci sunglasses when I noticed a scuffle going on between 13th and 14th Streets.

As I walked a little further, I spotted a tall man dressed in pretty ragged clothing SPRINTING at full speed down the sidewalk. He would veer into peoples' paths and then juke away at the last second. Who wouldn't be shaken by the incident, thinking this homeless man was going to plow right into them on their way to work? As he came closer to me, I tried to avoid him but I became his 10th victim. He ran straight at me and then howled in my face as he swerved away right before he hit me. I noticed a ring of white chalky powder lining his lips and it was then I knew ... he was a crackhead. So, Mr. FloJo Sprinter Crackhead, take a lesson from Bobby Brown: "Don't do crack, crack is whack!"

How I spent my Summer Vacation ...

By Chloe-From-Milwaukee.

So I met up with Chloe last night at Merkado Kitchen on 14th and P, right across from my FAVORITE Whole Foods (the site of much Saturday morning debauchery by yours truly and Asa). I arrived at 6:30 in my white g-string and in walked Chloe on the arm of her friend, the very debonaire Garrison. We had a few cocktails (dirty Ketel martinis with 4 olives -- the mini olives are key) and sat down for some dinner. Merkado is a surprising fusion of latin-asian cuisine; I was a little skeptical, but it actually turned out really well.

(Side note: It being National Coming Out Day and all, Garrison was trying to figure out whether our waiter was gay or straight. Honey, unless you are blind and deaf [and even then, your service animal would have a pretty good idea anyway], it was PAINFULLY clear that this kid was batting for Liberace's team. So at one point during the meal, I just turned to the waiter and said plainly "Steak or tuna, Ryan?" He looked me square in the eye and replied "Steak" and turned around to walk back to the kitchen. I think Chloe's still trying to figure out exactly what happened.)

We laughed and drank and talked business for a bit and then the topic of conversation turned to the fact that Chloe was/is a corn-fed Mid-western raised kind of girl. She prefers the small town feel of Wisconsin to the big city atmosphere of Chicago and DC and she has an accent that goes on for miles. She told Garrison and I about how she's "in her element" at the bars in Milwaukee because you know everyone by name and you can even wear sweatpants to go and get a drink. SWEATPANTS!!! Darling, I'm too young to have a vodka-induced heart attack!

But speaking of cardiac arrest, she went on to say "Wisconsin is so country, my best friend and I used to package semen on her dad's farm during our summer vacations in high school and college."

Where do I begin with that? (Besides with an X-rated disclaimer ... do not read further if you are pregnant, have a heart condition, are prone to losing consciousness due to shock, or have a weak stomach when it comes to reading about farm animal masturbation.)

I don't know if I really wanted to know about the semen packing, but I was interested to learn that the pig semen commercial retail industry existed and was thriving enough that someone would devote their livelihood to it. Chloe went into complete detail about how the semen collecting cannot be done by machines because it could damage the sperm, so the farmer has to "manually collect" the semen. According to Chloe, this means that the farmer must convince the boar to mount a dummy sow and then he must masturbate the boar until the boar ejaculates. Interesting.

I wondered if the farmer had to wear a special cologne for the semen collecting, whether he lit any candles or put soft colored scarves over the lamps in the pig pen, and if he had to have a legitimate license to masturbate his boars. And besides, how does one "convince the boar to mount a dummy sow?" Is that legal?

Anyone with any information regarding these questions wins themselves a free drink at the condo.

So cut to today: Chaz and I met to go running together at 6AM. We started in the Circle, went down along 17th Street, around the White House and back up to the condo. It took about 45 minutes and it started to rain ever so slightly as we finished up our last half mile, but it felt GREAT! While I was in the shower, Chaz went and bought breakfast from Bagels Etc as a surprise.

I was getting ready for work when I heard a knock on the door ... and there he was, breakfast in hand. These brits get way out of hand with their breakfast though: he had bagels with eggs, bacon, and cheese; strawberry smoothies; hash browns; home fries; and two coffees. It was nice to stop for once to have a full breakfast before I had to leave for the office.

The only problem was that I couldn't help but think where the bacon may have come from ...

In Fourteen Hundred and Ninety-Two ...

By the way: Happy Columbus Day!

Columbus, you were a crazy boat driver and a bad public speaker. I only say this because had you been a tad more popular, we could have ALL had off work today. Ever notice that private businesses only close for the great orators?

Your thoughts...

Singing In The Rain

Came into the office this morning at 8:45 (late as usual) in my sheer black lace thong to find an email about a client dinner this evening. My reply to that? "After a long weekend in the office, I don't wanna SEE THAT!" Ahh, woe is me.

The invite is to a place called Marcada?? If anyone has any information as to the whereabouts of a certain "Marcada", please send it along post haste.

But speaking of the weekend, cut to Friday night when it was pouring rain and I was sporting the white cotton boy short underwear. I had a dinner appointment with my former client Chloe-from-Milwaukee who was in town for the weekend. Chloe is a sweet, sweet girl who likes to party ... a lot: she sets up dinner appointments with me that in turn become all-night events of drinking, eating, and picking up men. Considering that I had to be up at 8 on Saturday morning to go for a 7 mile run, I was not looking forward to my dinner with Chloe as much as I should have been.

We met at La Tasca in Chinatown for drinks at 7; one of my work partners was there keeping her entertained while I finished up my last few tasks in the office. We had a couple glasses of wine before Chloe and I decided to head up to Dupont for some sushi dinner at Raku.

We braved the torrential rain and traffic, arrived at 18th and R, and were seated immediately in the front of Raku. We ordered some sushi and (in true Sassy style) began downing Raku Coolers (you try it, you like). We had some dinner, some more drinks, and ended up somewhere in the next hour chatting over after-dinner shots. The wait staff at Raku were chomping at the bit to take our table for the next round of waiting diners, so I grabbed the Louis and we were on our way.

At the door, I noticed that the rain was coming down harder than before. I turned to Chloe and said "Darling, I'm going to teach you a lesson in sharing." And at that, I reached down and rifled through the umbrella stand, finding us each a dry one to take out into the cold October Friday night.

We made it about one block south towards the Circle before Chloe turned to me and shouted through the rain "Sassy, it's coming down in SHEETS! Can we stop into a bar and dry off for a few minutes before we keep going?" A pit stop for drinks?! But of course!

Chloe and I ducked into Biddy's and grabbed a couple spots at the bar ... prime location for being seen. We each had a rather small glass of vodka (read: shots) and chased them with V&T's while we chatted about going to Argentina in the winter. I've never been on a mini-break to Buenos Aires -- how smashing would that be??? (Note to readers: never ... and I mean NEVER start talking travel over your fourth shot with Aunt Sassy. Before you know it, you'll be riding in first and praying your liver can withstand the weekend)

But I digress. We left Biddy's at about 10 and walked down to The Big Hunt so Chloe could find herself a date for Saturday night. We sat down and bought some Jager shots (Chloe's idea of course). I drank mine down as I was muttering "7 miles in the morning ..."

Suddenly and without warning, in walked this gorgeous man with fabulous couture: a camel-colored blazer, jeans, D&G shoes, and a winter scarf around his neck. With the hands-shoved-in-the-pockets look, he was straight out of the clean side of Kosovo. Chloe always did go for the refugee look. He sat down next to C and ordered a Guiness ... I could tell she was instantly infatuated.

We chatted him up for a bit and after a few drinks, I found myself jostling around the bar with a bad case of the hiccups (of course I did). But it was the perfect time for me to take my exit and leave Chloe to her more interesting endeavors. So I stumbled home in my Choo's and fell asleep on the sofa in the condo nursing a bottle of Aleve and a glass of Evian.

I woke up Saturday to a morning of rain and a full voice mailbox cancelling the 7 mile run (thank Jehovah!). I spent the day with my feet up and my eyes closed. What could be more invigorating than a day full of nothing?

At about 5, my phone rang to a frantic Chaz who was worried that I was going to cancel on the black-tie wedding we were attending that night downtown near the White House. (HOW COULD I FORGET???!!!) But silly Chaz, don't men know anything? Why would a woman give up the chance to dress up and be seen in public with a debonaire Anglo-Asian dreamboat? All I needed was a teensy reminder!

I threw on the Gucci sunglasses, grabbed the keys to the condo, and was on my way to Andre Chreky before you can say "Marc Jacobs!"

Ahh the life of a bachelorette in the city ...

Support Asa's Little Sister Lizzie ...

I was sitting at the breakfast table this morning in my silky black thong when I received an email from Asa's little sister Lizzie. She is now training for the Miami Marathon in January, 2006, with the National AIDS Marathon Training program that benefits Washington, DC's own Whitman Walker Clinic. Please take a moment to read her request for your help in order for her to help so many others:

Dear Aunt Sassy,

This may come as a HUGE shock to you (as well as a much bigger shock to my system), but I'll be participating in my first marathon being held in Miami on January 29, 2006. I know what you're thinking: any excuse for Lizzie to go to Miami Beach, but really, it's 26.2 miles of running! During the next six months, I plan to log in over 500 miles of running in preparation for the race. (My head spins just typing the words 500 miles.) But it's all part of the National AIDS Marathon Training Program that raises money for the Whitman-Walker Clinic, the leading provider of AIDS services in the metropolitan Washington, DC area.

Despite recent advances in the treatment of AIDS, the epidemic is far from over. More than 700,000 Americans have died from AIDS and thousands more are becoming infected each year. In DC alone, 1 in every 20 people has been diagnosed with AIDS! Worldwide, the numbers are even more staggering: 21.8 million people have died and another 36.1 million adults and children are currently living with HIV. This is no longer what was once believed to be an isolated killer, but a non-discriminating destroyer of innocent lives.

My goal is to raise at least $3000 by November 18. I know it sounds like a lot, but with the help of my generous friends, family members, and co-workers, I know I can make this possible. There are times when this training seems like such a foolish idea and I wonder if I can actually do it. I am not a runner; in fact, I have never really liked to run. But by doing this program, I am doing something that less than 1% of the population can say they've done: I will complete a marathon and I will raise thousands of dollars for the men, women, and children living with HIV/AIDS in Washington, DC. I know that this is the least I can do to help them win their battle.

This program is certainly the most arduous physical challenge I've ever faced. As you can imagine, I've spent many evenings nursing sore knees with ice packs and Advil. Ben-Gay and I are on a first name basis already. But I can't think of a better way to do something to help in the fight against AIDS. My running will bring a name and a face to the many AIDS victims who do not have a voice in our society.

For your part, I am hoping that you will please take a moment to help out the Whitman-Walker Clinic logging on to www.aidsmarathon.com and go to the Sponsor a Runner icon; I am runner 5063. All donations are tax-deductible and most companies will also match your donations, so please do not hesitate to ask your employer.

Thank you for supporting me in this incredible undertaking. When I hit the road on January 29th to complete the Marathon, I'll know that you helped me and so many others along the way … making each mile that much more rewarding.

Thanks in advance,
Lizzie

Isn't It Ironic?

I know I have been on hiatus ... it's that time of year again at the office: that time when my panties are in a bunch day in and day out (including the baby pink g-string I'm wearing today).

So, my dears, if you bear with me for another week or so, I will be happy and delighted to fill you in on the goings on of Aunt Sassy.

But for now, I leave you with a question:

How absurdly annoying is it that last night I was criticized for not wearing my seatbelt in the back seat of a car driven by the intoxicated owner of said vehicle?