Aunt Sassy's Condo

The Spanish Fly

2006-03-07T15:45:00.000-05:00

Cut to me today: adorned in a black mesh thong, green-faced, horrified and staring off into space for most of the afternoon. That's right, my Friday night caught up with me. FRIDAY NIGHT?!?!

Friday, March 3rd, I was at the office like any other afternoon- plans were made with the office mates to go out after work and unwind with some drinks. We decided on La Tasca and headed over there at half past 7 for some leisurely libations. The sangria flowed free (both white and RED ... ohhhh), the Grand Marnier shots were delivered (noooo), and the beer cups floweth over (ughhhhh).

We ate tapas 'til 10 (blehhhh) and then headed over to Fado's.

Okay, I have to stop the story here. I'm gagging just thinking about it. Long story short, I woke up Saturday morning with what I thought was a hangover. Here it is TUESDAY and I'm still hurting. Beware, residents of DC, the pre-spring stomach bug has reared its ugly head.

And P.S. I will NEVER go to La Tasca AGAIN ... EVER! (For no other reason than that it's the start of bad things for me this week)

Make Mine a Mai Tai

2006-02-28T10:03:00.000-05:00

Cut to Wednesday night when I was out in my black polka-dot thong with Cha-Cha and Rizzo at Topaz Bar on N Street. Cha-Cha and Rizz and I were at Vassar together years ago and let me tell you, these two ladies are a couple of hot tamales!

We were having a fabulous time being catty, catching up, and swilling plenty of dirty martinis and gibsons. I turned to go to the bar and asked the girls if they needed refills. Cha-Cha replied "Sure, but make mine a Mai Tai."

She had me at Mai Tai. I thought 'Who in 2006, besides blue haired, Botox-less geri's in Boca would order a Mai Tai??'

"Mai Tai?" I asked. "Yep," said Cha-Cha. In my obnoxious tipsy state, I raised both hands, leaned back, and joked "Why not just make it a pina colada?" I thought it odd that neither Rizz nor Cha-Cha laughed along with me; in fact, Cha-Cha just lowered her eyebrows at me, so I kept on my way to the bar.

I asked the bartender for two dirties and a Mai Tai with extra fruit garnish and chuckled silently at myself while I waited for the drinks. I paid for the drinks on my tab and walked back across the bar with two martinis and a pink drink ... "Martini for Rizzo and Mai Tai for Cha-Cha."

"What the hell is this?" asked Cha-Cha.

(Blank Sassy stare) "Your Mai Tai."

"HAHAHA. I didn't order a Mai Tai. I told you to put it on MY TAB. I was wondering why you said Pina Colada!" laughed Cha-Cha.

So you see, girls, Aunt Sassy's lesson of the day is that when you have one foot in your mouth and the other is knee deep in vodka and olive juice, it's best to just let someone else do the ordering.

Single Awareness Day!

2006-02-15T18:06:00.000-05:00

So Happy Belated Valentine's Day to all of you! I am sitting here in my candy-striped V-string, working late into the night without a soul to bother me. A lot has happened in the past few weeks (including my successful completion of the ING Miami Marathon on 1/29 ... thanks to Asa and Chaz).

But isn't it amazing how the stars can align in just the right way one day and then dismally fail you the next? That's right, although he chugged along with me during the marathon, Chaz and I are dunzo.

Strangely enough, I felt like I had really lost a sense of myself during our relationship. I no longer enjoyed the same activities: I stopped blogging and I lost touch with many friends and acquaintances over the course of our 5-month tumble. It's heartbreaking to know that you once held yourself to such a high esteem and now your feelings don't matter to anyone; not even the only other person who is investing so much time into you.

During the past week though, I have had more than enough engagements to fill my dance card. How funny that although I closeted myself away with Chaz and felt an incomparable loneliness, as soon as I opened myself back up to the outside world people were knocking down my door to go out and reconnect with them. What a refreshing feeling knowing that I haven't lost the very things that make me so Sassy.

For Valentine's Day, I was invited out by 4 people ... but a good book, full glass of wine, and a completely quiet night to myself??? Yes, PLEASE!

Think I'd Better Run, Run, Run

2006-01-25T15:34:00.000-05:00

I'm here this afternoon in my black mesh bikini cut underwear, with my face sagging in sorrow. I will get through this thing with Chaz and I'll be fine ... but on a better note, in less than two days I'll be in beautiful, sunny Miami!

That's right, Asa, Mav, Bandi, and MeatMan are joining me in Florida for the ING Miami Marathon this weekend. I've been training for 5 months now and am ready to finally do it!

So Sunday at 6AM, if you're in South Beach Miami, look for the fabulous woman running 26.2 with the singlet on that reads "Sassy"! Drinks at Rose's condo to follow ...

What's Love Got To Do With It?

2006-01-23T19:00:00.000-05:00

ATTENTION: RANT (Not for the faint of heart)
Here I am tonight, working late at the office in a blue and white polka dot g-string, contemplating love and control. Are they really autonomous of one another as so many people claim? How can you really love someone without wanting to have SOME iota of control over how they feel or what they do? You CAN'T! Anyone who can sit there and tell me that they have never wanted to change something about their partner gets my dowry ... which happens to consist of 7 figures and a goat. And don't lie and give me any of that "unconditional love" crap; that's a hoax that makes this bitter old woman want to spit nails. I'm not buying it.

For instance: last week I was at the bar at Zengo with Chaz and a stranger walked up to me and said "Is this a first date?" To which I replied "No." He then leaned in and whispered "Well unsolicited advice, lady ... you're way more into it than he is."

No matter how drunk he may have been, no matter how badly he reeked of cheap Calvin Klein cologne, that guy got me thinking.

I've thought a lot on the subject and have come to one conclusion ... who gives a shit? I may be way more into it, so sue me! God forbid I'm enjoying myself and just want some drama-free fun. I'm flirting with an ulcer over my relationship and sometimes I wish I could just walk out. But the fact is that I'm a glutton for punishment and I can't turn my back on love, no matter how stale it may have become.

I have done this to myself, I'm the first to admit it. I knocked down the Great Wall of Sassy and for what? For lonesome nights of wondering and doubt? For self-inflicted drinking spells that only leave me more questions? For this feeling in the pit of my stomach that I liken to swallowing cement?

You know, for someone who's always been able to stop the love train, life's getting awfully unrecognizable ...

How To Lose Your Woman (In 7 Steps Or Less)

2006-01-12T11:42:00.000-05:00

God help me for what I've just done ... while wearing my blue anchor thong.

The situation is beyond explanation: at this point it is no longer necessary. Regardless, there is a certain gentleman caller who I have mentioned here who is no longer welcome to call because of a tender issue.

In a cheap attempt to self-medicate without liquor, here they are: Things to Keep In Mind If You Want To Lose Your Woman In 7 Steps Or Less:

1. Your "partner" is the enemy, ALWAYS be on your best defense no matter what she says
2. Keep in VERY close contact with your ex who continues to systematically destroy your life. When your "partner" brings this to your attention, do what any other normal man would do: deny, deny, deny!
3. When posed with a final ultimatum, choose to keep the ex in your life over your "partner." No questions asked.
4. Regardless of her feelings, keep your own hours and consistently forget plans or double-book. She'll get over it.
5. Never put her first before anyone else, you never want to get too attached.
6. Break down her walls, then break her down. She needs to open up to you eventually; if she's reluctant at first, KEEP AT HER! Once she lets you in, tell her she's smothering you and that you can't deal with her baggage.
7. Ask her how she could do "this" to you (whatever "this" may be) if she really loved you. Women come up with all kinds of creative responses when they're under pressure.

Regular programming will return tomorrow, self-medication complete.

Certifiably Certifiable

2006-01-09T16:08:00.000-05:00

You may want to be seated before you read today's post: I sit here today at the office (complimented by my baby-pink thong) with CANKLES!

The urban dictionary defines Cankles as:
n. 1) An aesthetically unfortunate physiological condition which leaves its victims with no discernable narrowing of the ankle between the calf and the foot. 2) The area in affected female legs where the calf meets the foot in an abrupt, non tapering terminus; medical cause: adipose tissue surrounding the soleus tendon, probably congenital, worsened by weight gain and improved in appearance only by boots. 3) An ankle which has no discernable narrowing from the calf to the foot. History: The word is derived from a combination of the words calf and ankle. Victims of this condition are advised to avoid the following: ankle boots, ankle-strap shoes, anklets, ankle socks, ankle tattoos, high-top shoes, and any other footwear or legwear that might draw attention to the cankle region.

Who would have thought? ME? CANKLES? The horror! Thank god we've not yet reached Spring/Summer '06, as I could have kissed goodbye a whole season of cropped pants paired with suede Prada loafers!

I blame the running. I woke up on Saturday morning at 6:08 to prepare myself for 6 hours of pure, unadulterated insanity (read: 23 miles of running). I met my group in Southeast DC and we embarked on the stupidest journey of our lives: running down the mall, around the Kennedy Center, and up the Capital Crescent Trail to downtown Bethesda ... AND BACK!

Everything was going great until about mile 15 when I lost all feeling in my ankles for about 20 minutes. Had I not been running for about 3.5 hours already, I could have predicted what would come next: at about mile 16.5, the feeling returned to the lower region of my legs and I had to run the next 6.5 miles with my ankles on fire. I can honestly tell you that I would not have been surprised if I had looked down and noticed little blue flames shooting out from my inner ankle bones. At about mile 20, I was so mentally exhausted that I let out little lion cub whimpers about every 3/4 of a mile or so. As we finished, I let a couple small tears eek out in what I refer to as "Complete Mental Breakdown Mode."

I ended up having to catch a cab home to Dupont, as the Metro was not even a possibility at that point. I arrived home and crawled up my front stairs on all fours. I showered in a daze, and settled in for what I hoped would be a long nap ... but there's just something about throbbing, apple-sized ankles that doesn't let you get comfortable for more than 6 nanoseconds at a time.

To add insult to injury, I decided it would be a SMASHING idea to join Asa, Mav, and Sid at Halo that evening. I spent about an hour on my feet and then had to make a plea for a return back to Asa's house (where we spent the greater part of the evening with some therapeutic red wine and the Oprah 20th Anniversary DVD).

I iced what Asa so affectionately refers to as my "cankles" all day Sunday, and felt like I was ready for stairs and a full workday in heels by 7:30 this morning. Cut to my cankles swelling right out of my heels today by about 1:30PM.

So now I sit here in misery, chained to my desk because I'm bare in my stocking feet, calling my assistant every 2 hours or so to bring me some more Excedrin.

And poor Chaz, his first day back in the States and he's in for quite the evening of massaging the heck out of some cankles ... what he doesn't know can't hurt him, right?

100 Things About Being Sassy

2006-01-05T11:58:00.000-05:00

As much as I know that I am wearing my bright pink boyshort underwear today, I also know that on first glance these lists are viewed as trite and sophomoric ... but I received a newsletter from an old friend last week detailing things she wants people to remember or know about her as she is losing a long and brave battle with a terminal illness. So as a testament to being a stranger in the internet void, here are 100 Things About Being Sassy:

1. I was born at precisely 11:43 AM on December 4th.
2. I live to know little pieces of useless trivia.
3. I could use dessert as sustainance for the rest of my life, but am not a fan of chocolate.
4. People who don't use correct grammar make me mad.
5. I am in love.
6. I'm a better speaker than writer.
7. Mexican is my favorite type of food.
8. My mother wanted to name me Michelle.
9. I go through sporadic bouts of interests.
10. I believe in reincarnation.
11. I love vocabulary.
12. I want to live in Australia.
13. I secretly love fur coats (the real ones).
14. My bookcase in my office looks like a graveyard: I have systematically killed every plant I've owned.
15. I wanted to grow up to be a Harvard-educated pediatrician.
16. I also wanted to be Judy Garland.
17. I aspire to be a successful marathon runner.
18. I want to learn how to dance the Argentine tango.
19. I secretly love to wear flip-flops.
20. I am NOT a morning person.
21. I know how to type properly.
22. I pay off a loan each month for an Acura that I don't drive.
23. My favorite alcoholic drink is the Dirty Martini.
24. Je parle français. Mais seulement un peu.
25. I like British slang.
26. I love accents.
27. I actively vote. And I campaign for my presidential candidate.
28. I'm right handed.
29. I have an acute astigmatism.
30. I love trivia, but I always hated History class.
31. I can't drive a stick.
32. I am a textbook Sagittarius; restless and ambitious.
33. I do not like The Who.
34. I consider myself a perfectionist at work.
35. I think Secret Service agents (or anyone with an earbud) are sexy.
36. I hate gold jewelry.
37. I love going to concerts.
38. I don't cry at movies.
39. BUT, hearing a live singing of The National Anthem or watching a parade gets me all choked up.
40. My favorite color is blue, but I look much better in red.
41. I am a middle child.
42. I do not have an appendix.
43. I am obsessed with show tunes.
44. I used to be a stage actress.
45. I have an incredibly accurate long term memory but my short term memory fails me quite often.
46. I am very bad at returning phone calls.
47. I have three tattoos.
48. I once had my nose pierced on a whim.
49. I tend to lose part of myself in each of my relationships, and therefore regret all of them to some extent.
50. I experience deja vu ... a lot.
51. I believe in ghosts.
52. I secretly say the rosary every day.
53. I'm intelligent.
54. My most comfortable piece of clothing is a long, purple hippie skirt (which I only wear to bed when I'm visiting my mother).
55. I (again, secretly) hate being confined in airplanes.
56. I can't fall asleep in any position other than lying down.
57. I hate wearing high heels.
58. I love wearing suits.
59. I hate shopping, but I love owning things.
60. I'm afraid I'm becoming boring.
61. I wish I could relax on vacations.
62. I sometimes forget how to "be free".
63. I can't live without coffee.
64. I used to write songs as a child.
65. I wish I could finish the sentence "If money were no object ..."
66. I hate khaki.
67. I wear sunglasses so people don't know I'm staring at them.
68. I've secretly never been completely grateful at Christmases or birthdays.
69. I'm a closeted Joni Mitchell fan.
70. I have an obsession with Sudoku.
71. I have an infatuation with Christmas Carols.
72. I hate any weather colder than 65 and any weather hotter than 83.
73. I only use MAC makeup.
74. I love underthings.
75. I love museums.
76. I love playing board games.
77. I still don't have a television in my bedroom.
78. I have read every Stephen King novel.
79. I secretly skip over all the photos in a pack until I get to ones that I am in. Then I critique myself too harshly.
80. My favorite poet is Emily Dickenson.
81. I believe I was French in a past life.
82. I have been on the Internet since 1994.
83. I want to speak fluent Italian.
84. Evangelical Christians scare me.
85. I believe in life on other planets.
86. I've been told that I don't know how to whisper, but in reality, I'm just afraid I'll spit in someone's ear.
87. I prefer to live alone.
88. I am an outgoing introvert.
89. My favorite author is Maeve Binchy.
90. I am a descendent of Polish royalty.
91. I love bathrobes.
92. I sleep under 4 blankets.
93. I hate clutter, but I can rarely find anything.
94. Instead of being at work, I would secretly love to get drunk right now.
95. I hate all slang for female body parts.
96. I fall in love too quickly (and likewise, I fall out very fast).
97. I wish I was in Aruba right now.
98. I've known my best friend since I was two weeks old.
99. Sometimes I don't believe in marriage.
100. This list took me over 4 hours to complete.

Baby, We Were Born To Run ...

2006-01-04T10:34:00.000-05:00

Here it is already January 4th and I'm in the office wearing my white Body By Victoria thong, listening to the "Big in 05" station on Radio VH1 (nice choice, except for the repeated shuffle of "Pussycat Dolls" songs into the mix). I'm sporting my new lime green dress shirt with my most powerful black suit, as I'm taking Mooney to see "Wicked" tonight at the Kennedy Center for her birthday. But a dark cloud falls on the festivities, as I sit here thinking about Chaz soaking up the sun in Aruba with ANOTHER WOMAN (oh the horror!).

The plans for this trip were in effect before I ever reaquainted myself with Chaz, but regardless, it still doesn't make it any easier to quash the musings of that little green monster of jealousy. Aruba: sun, drinks, bikinis, missing American teenage girls, the threat of the lucrative sex-slave trade. What more could one ask for in a mid-winter getaway? What more could he want ... besides me, of course?

At least we had a good New Year weekend. Chaz had been in Boston visiting his old mates for Christmas, so I joined him up there on December 29th (if it was only that easy). I had awoken at 4:30 AM on the 29th, all packed and ready to go to National for my flight to Boston. I was beside myself with excitement, as I was going to land at 8:15AM and we would have the whole gorgeous day to enjoy Boston together. I hailed a taxi at 5:15 on the Circle and made a bee-line for National, arriving just after 5:30 with still an hour prior to departure, I'm such a consciencious traveler. I tried checking in at United and they directed me to US Airways. For the next hour, I was berated and treated like common trash as it was discovered that I was actually booked to leave from Washington-Dulles. To make a long story short, I didn't arrive in Boston until close to 4 that afternoon (nearly 8 hours after I was originally scheduled to land).

But we let that bother us not, as Chaz and I checked into our suite at the Boston Marriott Copley Place and had a wonderful afternoon exploring the area around our hotel. On Friday, we had wonderfully pleasant weather and decided to be extra-touristy and board an Old Town Trolley for a 2 hour tour around Boston and Cambridge. We had a great time laughing our way through Boston, thanks to our tourguides Mr. Wiley and "Peter" (whom, I may add, may have missed his calling as a Broadway star). Then we went shopping on Newbury Street and bought new pairs of designer jeans -- I mean, WHO DOESN'T need new jeans?

That evening, we had dinner at Troquet on Boylston Street ... a definite recommendation for any wine fans. The oxtail canneloni is to die for -- and the chef's tasting paired with (5) different wines is definitely a must. After Troquet, we went to the Wang Center and saw "White Christmas" and laughed our way through the $17 balsamic vinegar (read: red wine) we had at the theater. Later that evening, we found ourselves sitting in the lounge at the top of the Prudential Center, enjoying some drinks and hearing some great jazz with a breathtaking view of Boston.

Saturday, we woke up at 8 and went for an 8 mile run around the Charles River with a victory lap across the Harvard Bridge, of course. We napped that afternoon and then ventured back to Newbury Street for some more shopping and an afternoon stop at Tealuxe for some refreshments. It began to snow at about 5:30 as we enjoyed the New Years Eve parade down Boylston Street. We had some drinks in a bar and went back to the hotel to prepare for our festivities that night. We were all dressed and ready to go, but at the last minute, decided to stay in and enjoy each other's company.

We had a wonderful night, only to be marred by Chaz having to leave at 4:30 on New Years morning to be at the airport to go to Aruba. I can't say I don't miss him terribly, because I do. Can't wait for him to get back on Sunday ...

Hold it with TWO hands!

2005-12-28T08:56:00.000-05:00

Cut to this morning: I was wearing my pink angel thong when I walked into the 13th and F St. Caribou Coffee for my decaf skim herbal chai latte and Reduced Fat Cranberry Orange Scone. I felt like a million bucks decked out in my new black angora/cashmere blend dress coat (it's heavenly, I'm telling you).

So there I was at the counter, ordering my drink and reaching in my purse for my lip balm. CLEARLY minding my own business when this jerk next to me began to forcefully pry the lid off his very full, very scaldingly hot dark roast coffee. I knew what was coming, the scenario had disaster written all over it.

I had just retrieved my lip balm when suddenly the jerk's arm spasmed out of control and he proceeded to splash half his grande cup's contents all over me. My jacket, my stockings, my shoes.

The jerk had the nerve to cover his mouth with one hand and eek out the words: "Oh miss, I spilled my coffee all over your jacket!"

And with fire in my eyes, I spat: "Yeah, I got that!"

I wanted to cry, and not just because the coffee has scalded a hole in my silk stockings and was running down my leg and pooling in my shoe. No, I looked down and saw that there were great streaks of coffee and a large splash mark marring the sanctity of the cashmere.

I began blotting furiously with napkins and a wet washcloth they passed me from behind the counter, as the jerk stood there and kept saying, "At least it's coming out." And while I normally would have bitten my tongue, I was taken aback by his complete lack of remorse. So I looked the jerk in the eye and said, "I'll be needing your business card so I can send you the dry-cleaning bill." To which he replied, "Dry-cleaning bill? What for? It's already coming out! See, you can't see anything."

Now I have to take pause here and ask why every straight man in the free world thinks that just because you can't see it, it's not there. Do you know what festering coffee can do to cashmere??? Do you know how hard it is to get the smell of half a grande cup's worth of coffee out of wool??? So, as any red-blooded woman would do, I demanded his business card and told him I would be in touch.

The irony of the situation? It is a balmy 43 degrees today in lovely Washington, DC. So while my jacket was nearly ruined, all I have to say is YAY for Global Warming! Keep using that aerosol hairspray and driving your Humvee 65 miles roundtrip to the office each day! I could use a couple more warm December days.

Happy Belated Birthday to ME!

2005-12-07T12:03:00.000-05:00

Here it is, lunchtime on a Wednesday and I'm wearing my red Tommy thong and slowly starving to death. I'm waiting for a client to come in and ruin my day before I go to the company Holiday Shindig this evening (hence the reason for the festive undies) ... so I can't grab lunch yet. Thank Jehovah that Chaz doesn't let me leave the house without an apple and half an Israeli chocolate bar anymore.

This past weekend was wonderful though, thank you to all of those people who made it so special: Asa, Maverick, Sid, Chaz, Woodsy, Bandi, and Mooney. It was truly a pre-birthday wonderland that left me reeling. Woodsy and Bandi surprised me on Friday night by meeting me in the circle while I was wearing my new Lollipop Running Suit (fabulous, thanks for that). Saturday, I ran 17 miles and then went out with the whole crew to the Blue Gin in Georgetown for some scrumptious coconut martinis. Sunday, Moons had all of us over for homemade lasagna, confetti cake, and presents galore (too fun ... thanks for the invite to the suburbs).

But I think the best part of the whole weekend was when Bandi sent out one of those "Bill Gates will send you a check for $24,000 for every person you pass this on to ... he has to because the class action suit would be way too much for Microsoft to pay ... blah blah blah." When Asa and I confronted him for distributing such garbage, Bandi innocently said "Are you serious? I was still waiting for my check!" To which Asa replied "Bandi, it's the end of 2005. Welcome to the internet!"

Why I give thanks!

2005-11-23T14:49:00.000-05:00

I sit here today in my red boy short underwear contemplating not only things I am thankful for but things I would be thankful to not have anymore.

We all make mistakes. We date the wrong people for too long. We chew gum with our mouths open. We say inappropriate things in front of grandma.
And we buy leather pants.

I can explain these pants and why they are in my possession. I bought them many, many years ago under the spell of a man whom I believed to have taste. He suggested I try them on. I did. He said they looked good. I wanted to have a relationship of sorts with him. I’m stupid and prone to impulsive decisions. I bought the pants.

The relationship, probably for better, never materialized. The man, whose name I can’t even recall, is a distant memory. I think he was short.

Ultimately the pants were placed in the closet where they have remained, unworn, for nearly a decade. I would like to emphasize that aside from trying these pants on, they have never, ever been worn. In public or private.

I have not worn these leather pants for the following reasons:
I am not a member of Queen.
I do not like motorcycles.
I am not Rod Stewart.
I am not French.
I do not cruise for transvestites in an expensive sports car.

These were not cheap leather pants. They are Donna Karan leather pants. They’re for women. Brave women I would think. Perhaps tattooed, pierced women. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say you either have to be very tough, very gay, or very famous to wear these pants and get away with it.

They’d probably look great on the right lady. And I'm thankful that ladies can get away with leather pants much more often than men can. (It’s a sad fact that men who own leather pants will have to come to terms with.)

They are size 6. I am no longer a size 6, so even were I to suddenly decide I was a famous gay biker I would not be able to wear these pants. These pants are destined for someone else. For reasons unknown - perhaps to keep my options open, in case I wanted to become a pirate - I have shuffled these unworn pants from condo to condo, closet to closet. Alas, it is now time to part ways so that I may use the extra room for any rhinestone-studded jeans I may purchase in the future.

These pants are in excellent condition. They were never taken on pirate expeditions. They weren’t worn onstage. They didn’t straddle a Harley, or a guy named Harley. They just hung there, sad and ignored, for a few presidencies.

Someone, somewhere, will look great in these pants. I’m hoping that someone is you.

Please someone, just take these leather pants.

Candy Is Dandy, but ...

2005-11-14T21:17:00.000-05:00

Ever notice that the deeper we fall into Winter, the shorter the weekends seem? Saturday and Sunday flew by without my consent, so now I sit here at the office yet again in dismay in my white monkey g-string (heck yeah I support the Sierra Club ... so?).

I woke up this morning with every intention of going for a run at 6 before heading to the office. Unfortunately, Chaz had ulterior motives ... blushing. So instead, we stayed in bed and ate candy for breakfast (this is NOT code for anything, we seriously just laid there and snacked on IceBreakers Sour Candy for about an hour). And as I finally braved out into the cool fall morning, the overcast sky reminded me that Hannakuh and Christmas are just around the corner.

I was reminded of afternoons filled with tree-trimming, piping hot apple cider (with or without Jack Daniels, it's an acquired taste), and the sounds of Bing Crosby lilting through the air, wintery walks through Central Park with thick mittens toasting my hands ... and my father drunk on Christmas morning when I was but a girl, trying to light a fire with wet logs from the heap out back, burning off his eyebrows and half his right pinky finger (hahaha, ohhh how the circle spins right round, baby, right round).

That was the year I thought I'd be SO crafty as to buy him a religious gift for Christmas. My father (Tony) is a big Catholic fanatic who was raised in the Northeast before Vatican II came around. He doesn't believe in the mass even being said in English (we're all going straight to hell according to him ... too bad I've had all this alcohol, I'm going to ignite IMMEDIATELY upon entry!).

But I digress: so I thought I had come up with this ingenious idea to get in his good graces one year. I bought him this great gift that really embodied all his beliefs ... something tangible that could really send the message that I was ready to be an adult about the Church. So I wrapped it all up and put it under the tree, barely able to contain my excitement until Christmas morning.

When December 25th rolled around, I was the first one downstairs on the couch waiting for everyone else to wake up to open presents. I can clearly remember the rage in my father's eyes as he opened the gift that said "To: Tony, From: Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Christ" ... I don't think I'll ever understand how a Virgin Mary Paperdoll could disintegrate so quickly in a December fire.

But then, isn't all religion based on faith and mystery?

A Grand Re-Opening???

2005-11-11T10:31:00.000-05:00

I know, dear readers, that I have taken a week and a half hiatus. Babies, I've gone through scores of underwear in that time (of which I am today wearing the black satin), but I hereby promise to keep you informed of all the comings and goings of Sassy.

That's right, raise your glasses even if it is only 10:34AM! Take a moment to have the happiest hour of your day and say (in true Chaz style) "Chee-ahs" because the Sass is BACK!

So to fill you all in, I've comprised a list of a few goings on in the past week or so ... we can start clean slated and return to regularly scheduled programming tomorrow morning:

-A huge round of applause is due to Asa, who completed the 30th Annual Marine Corps Marathon on Sunday, October 31st. His race time was 5:11:10, #12898 overall, and 8434 for his gender! We're so proud of him ... these results are QUITE admirable for a first time marathon runner! (And his nipples weren't bleeding or anything ... trust that I checked!)

-Chaz and I are planning our first (2) mini-breaks for the week before and the week after Christmas. First stop Philadelphia for time with some of my nieces and nephews ... then off to Boston for plenty of drinking and an old-fashioned Boston Tea Party over New Years. (Hey, if a week with me kills him, it kills him)

-Big interview yesterday with the Executive Committee for another promotion (read: any excuse for me to go spend over $500 on a new suit). Wish me luck, but like I'll need it. ::insert one eyebrow up here::

-I had to go to a funeral last weekend in Philadelphia: my Great Aunt Ruth died at the age of 94. She was born in 1911 and lived through the Roaring 20s, The Great Depression, World War II, Vietnam, the Soft Drink wars ... you know, pretty much everything "We Didn't Start The Fire" covers. She was the original spitfire in the family and I learned much of what I know from her. Any woman who can get away with "Is that a banana in your pocket? Because I sure know it's not your manhood" at the age of 75 is aces in my book.

-I swore off the hard stuff for about 4 days, but then stumbled over to Chaz's place on Wednesday night with a bag full of dinner and a head full of red wine. I think the world's a more pleasant place as long as I can have martini's.

-A moment of silence for Bandi's autistic now-ex-boyfriend. I wish I could say I miss seeing-and-not-hearing you, dear, but the fact remains that I DON'T.

So that's a start for now ... I promise that I have un-boarded the windows of the condo and the champagne is back on ice!

You Just Can't Find Good Help These Days

2005-10-27T12:08:00.000-04:00

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

2005-10-26T10:11:00.000-04:00

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 ...

2005-10-25T17:38:00.000-04:00

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

2005-10-21T10:28:00.000-04:00

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

2005-10-19T11:28:00.000-04:00

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 ...

2005-10-11T12:40:00.000-04:00

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 ...

2005-10-10T15:13:00.000-04:00

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

2005-10-10T11:53:00.000-04:00

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 ...

2005-10-08T15:26:00.000-04:00

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?

2005-10-06T07:29:00.000-04:00

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?

And they called him Oscar

2005-09-28T16:41:00.000-04:00

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!"

2005-09-22T11:19:00.000-04:00

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?

2005-09-21T10:40:00.000-04:00

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!"

2005-09-19T15:21:00.000-04:00

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?

2005-09-16T06:47:00.000-04:00

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)

2005-09-15T15:04:00.000-04:00

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

2005-09-14T10:55:00.000-04:00

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

2005-09-09T07:58:00.000-04:00

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.

You down with ADD?

2005-08-24T09:54:00.000-04:00

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!!!

2005-08-23T19:11:00.000-04:00

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!

2005-08-18T09:46:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-17T09:56:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-16T18:01:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-16T09:58:00.000-04:00

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!!!

2005-08-10T10:37:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-09T15:13:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-09T09:51:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-04T10:21:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-01T14:38:00.000-04:00

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.

A Night With The 5-Star Generals

2005-07-31T22:37:00.000-04:00

Saturday night was amazing!!!

Mav and I spent the evening with Thievery Corporation at the 9:30 Club. Trust that I was front and center in my black lace boy-short undies, having the time of my life.

To begin with, Mav and I had planned to meet outside the 13th and U Street Starbucks, where I waited impatiently for about 25 minutes. I was pacing U Street, sipping on my red-eye, listening to the iPod in one ear, and yelling at Mav on the phone telling him to hurry up, when Ryan (my regular Caribou barister) walked by with his current boytoy. I was like an autistic kid at Cirque de Soleil = total sensory overload. I ended up losing the call to Mav (which cost me another 15 minutes of waiting time), spilling half the red-eye, dropping the iPod, and losing one heel as I threw my arms around Ryan. (He's such a cutie: go to the Caribou on 13th and F any day, tell them Sassy sent you.) We chit-chatted for a few minutes while I felt like a traitor with my white paper cup adorned with the Starbucks Green Circle Logo ... it may as well have had a pentagram on it.

Mav showed up to meet me sometime around 9:45 and after a right-lashing, we scootched over to 9th. Once we got to the club, the one doorman was beaucoup d'intent on not letting anyone in with a fake ID. He literally scrutinized mine [a bona fide drivers' license] for a good minute before he admitted me as over 21. It was mildly flattering, but also a big annoyance.

Once we were in 9:30, Mav and I immediately made our way to the bar for some drinks. We ordered and talked to the bartender for a few minutes and then worked our way through the growing crowd to find a spot near the front of the stage.

"Sassy, look at all these instruments here for our enjoyment," Mav commented as we admired the stage with awe. We had been pondering how much Thievery Corporation actually mixed off their vinyls and how much was performed live, but once we were there, we were AMAZED. On the stage was a drums set, a bongo set, a sitar, three guitars, a keyboard, a trumpet, a saxophone, two basses, and turntables with a mixer.

The crowd was pretty eclectic, there were a bunch of scenesters milling around, a girl sitting on the floor with her head in her hands (we couldn't figure out if she was praying or sleeping or dead), and a guy we swear was Jesus (he was even drinking wine and wearing sandals). At about 11:00pm, the two main DJs with Thievery, Eric Hilton and Rob Garza, came out onto the stage and drove the whole crowd wild.

For the next two hours, Thievery provided 1200 DC concert-goers with a mind-altering experience. Their sound was the most amazing thing I have ever heard: the pair's top-shelf aural cocktails involve a smooth mixture of dub reggae, trip-hop, acid jazz, tribal, and Middle Eastern musics. I'm definitely looking forward to seeing more of them at 18th Street Lounge now that their summer tour is finished.

"Thievery Corporation formed in Washington D.C., a city the duo often refer to as 'the real Babylon." One major by-product of life in the heart of empire is the diversity of the people it attracts to its riches ..."

Camp Closed By Order of Health Inspector

2005-07-29T10:57:00.000-04:00

Last night marked the occasion of "in-person encounter #2" with Ant Elmer. I was wearing my transparent pink polka-dotted thong and I was sitting at work actually WORRIED about being stood up by this guy. All I was trying to do was turn him into the culture chameleon I knew was hiding in there somewhere: send him through Sassy's Culture Camp LeJeune if you will. But if he isn't going to work with me, there is nothing more I can do.

To begin, I came out of work at 7:45pm to hear this message on my voicemail:

Hey there!
What’s happening ... lady? It’s Elmer.
I’m uhhhh, I know you said about 8 o’ clock; I think you have a reception or something.
So I’m just hanging out, having some cocktails after my meeting with the Leader team here in Bethesda North.
But I’m actually getting ready to take off. Just wanted to try to catch you.
Hopefully you’re still up. Love to do it. (nervous laugh)
And I will drive in, I don’t know if you want to meet at your place and then we could walk somewhere or I’ve got my car, would love to take the metro but it’s not really convenient (nervous laugh).
Call me back. I’m gonna be wrapping up here pretty soon.
I’ll send you an email now too just in case.
SEE YA!

First off, why WOULDN'T I be "up" at 7:30 on a Thursday night? And what's with all the nervous laughter? If I'm not answering my phone, leave a perfunctory message with times and places. Don't go on and on and follow up with an email "just in case".

I rolled my eyes, called him back, and made plans to meet for drinks at Zaytinya's at 8:15.

Message received while I was on the Metro at 8:10:

Okay, you told me to call you if I was gonna be late, I’m gonna be late.
I got lost trying to get out of Bethesda. Again: rookie boy.
It’s 8:08 and I’m on George Washington Memorial Parkway. I’m like trying to move it. Call me back if you get this message you’re probably on the Metro. Call me at work too.
I’m trying to think of where to get off this Memorial Parkway.
I’ll try to find it; 9th and G.
I should be able to find it, but if you’ve got a quick tip, give me a jingle.
See ya soon.

Oh how I wish I could be a huge nerd so I knew how to post these sound bytes from my mobile onto my blog. The trepidation in his voice paired with the weird accents he uses to sound suave are almost too much to handle. (The "Memorial Parkway"-verbage rendered my ears useless for a few moments.)

I think I may be truly sick, because at that point, I called him AGAIN and gave him directions over the Roosevelt bridge to Zaytinya. I thought maybe he was just a nervous caller; he couldn't really be that socially inept. This assumption was probably my third mistake, but the first I am willing to admit I made.

We met outside the restaurant on the corner of 9th and G, went in and took a seat at the bar. After ordering drinks, he immediately began to grope me (uninvited and RIGHT IN PUBLIC) and say things like "Hey, baby. I've missed you. You look hot tonight." SICK! The sugar-daddy sitting behind him tapped him on the shoulder TWICE and told him he didn't think I was interested. Thank goodness for the sugar-daddy ... maybe I should have taken his phone number.

But I TRIED to make conversation with Elmer:

"So, where did you go to school?"
"Uhhh, well. Georgia Southern University."
"Great, what was your degree?"
"Ummm ... well ... ummm."
::staring:: "Okay, well it doesn't matter."

"Have you been with many men?"
"Excuse me?!"

"I don't really go out, baby. This is my first time out in a long time."
"I couldn't tell."

"So how old are you again?"
"How old do you think I am?"
"It doesn't really matter, I was just asking."
"Oh my god, it's killing you that I won't tell you. Isn't it?"
"No, not really. I was just trying to make conversation."
"You're DYING cause I won't tell you, right? I can tell!"
"No, I'm fine. Do you want to get something to eat?"
"FINE, FINE! I'm 34. Do you believe me?"
"The hummus is good here."
"For real, here. Look at my ID. I'm REALLY 34!"
::eye rolling:: "WOW! You're right. 1971. Great."

I turned to him and said "Look, I'm sorry if I've given you the wrong impression, but I'm not 'picking up what you're putting down' or whatever. So why don't we just call it a night?"
I thought I made it clear at that point that I wasn't interested.

So he drove me home and as I was about to get out of the car, he pulled over and turned it off.
"What are you doing?"
"I thought I was coming in with you."
"What would give you that impression?"
"Well, you know. We're going out and all."
"You've got it all wrong, Elmer. We went out once, we're not 'going out'."
"Come on, Sassy. I want you. I want to take all your clothes off." I SWEAR, HE SAID THAT!!!
"No, I'm really tired. I'm just going to go in."
"Come on, I'll just go in with you."
"EW!"

And with that I slammed the door and ran into the house. Why do I always end up being nice to people and only get mentally molested in return?
WHY????

Take Him To The Glue Factory

2005-07-27T09:05:00.000-04:00

ELMER UPDATE:

Last night, I was sitting at the office [wearing my sky-blue Tommy Hilfiger Anchor thong], finishing up some work for a deadline and listening to my iPod on shuffle. I heard the tell-tale "ding" that indicates a new Outlook email and sighed as I opened the envelope. Much to my surprise, it was an email from Elmer ... his first correspondence in over a week since the UFIA incident. (Urban Dictionary definition for UFIA: unsolicited finger in the ass)

From: Elmer
Sent: Tuesday, July 26, 2005 6:40 PM
To: Aunt Sassy
Subject: Hi There
Hey – Just wanted to drop you a quick note to see how you are doing. I had a great time with you, I hope we can do it again. Would you be interested in getting together sometime soon?
Elmer D.

From: Aunt Sassy
Sent: Tuesday, July 26, 2005 6:45 PM
To: Elmer
Subject: Re: Hi There
Sure thing! I’m just taking a peek at my schedule and it looks like I’m a little busy this week, this weekend, next week, and pretty much the rest of the year. Call me in 2006; I should pretty much be open by then. Have a good summer, fall, and winter.
Ciao!
Sassy

From: Elmer
Sent: Tuesday, July 26, 2005 7:08 PM
To: Aunt Sassy
Subject: Re: Hi There
How about Thursday?? (I left you a voicemail too)
Elmer D.

From: Aunt Sassy
Sent: Tuesday, July 26, 2005 7:14 PM
To: Elmer
Subject: Re: Hi There
No dice. I have a reception on Thursday night until about 8:30.
Sassy

From: Elmer
Sent: Tuesday, July 26, 2005 7:16 PM
To: Aunt Sassy
Subject: Re: Hi There
You want to try to meet up after that for a couple drinks?
Elmer D.

From: Aunt Sassy
Sent: Tuesday, July 26, 2005 7:16 PM
To: Elmer
Subject: Re: Hi There
Fine, fine. You know I can’t resist the drinks.
Sassy

From: Elmer
Sent: Tuesday, July 26, 2005 7:18 PM
To: Aunt Sassy
Subject: Re: Hi There
What you doing working so late you good girl?? I’m impressed or are you already gone?
Elmer D.

From: Aunt Sassy
Sent: Tuesday, July 26, 2005 7:19 PM
To: Elmer
Subject: Re: Hi There
No, no … be impressed, I’m still here. I’m tied down with all these activities. And work. And junk.
It’s a tough life being so fabulously unexpendable.
Sassy

From: Elmer
Sent: Tuesday, July 26, 2005 7:24 PM
To: Aunt Sassy
Subject: Re: Hi There
WHATEVER….you need to take some “sales” training classes cause you can’t fool me woman (You are talking to a Sales guy you know)
Ok cool – look forward to getting together – of course I’ll come to you since I’m still a “burbs” guy for now. I’ll just ping you Thursday after work and we’ll plan a meeting spot, or let me know a good one and I’ll be there. I’m in a meeting all day (big presentation with my boss to some of the Leaders – yikes no pressure – I’ll need a couple drinks by then)
Elmer D.

From: Aunt Sassy
Sent: Tuesday, July 26, 2005 7:30 PM
To: Elmer
Subject: Re: Hi There
You’ll ping me??? What the shit kind of jargon is that? Ping. Geez, well I guess by the end of Thursday we’ll both need a good ping. I’ll look forward to that at least.
Have a good one and we’ll talk soon.
Sassy

Then I walked out of work and this little number was waiting on my phone for me:

Hey Sass, it is Elmerrrr.
How are you … dahhhlin?
What’s happenin?
Hey, ummm yeah, I wanted to see, how about Thursday night?
I’m actually, ummm, I’ve got, let’s see yeah, we’re having a goin- oh birthday party for a girl on my team Wednesday night. And then Friday night I head back to Atlanta. I’m actually finally officially relocating. So I’ll be home for the weekend and then there Monday and Tuesday.
My movers come on Tuesday and then pack me up and bring me here. I’ll probably get my stuff by the following week and then I’m officially moving in on the 8th or I think by the 8th or something.
Yeah, uh, Thursday I have a meeting but I don’t have any plans that night
So let’s shoot for then if that works for you. We can just meet up after work, maybe go out.
Shoot, Thursday nights I’m sure are good for goin’ out too.
And then I just have a day at the office on Friday, so I’m cool.
Hey, give me a call later. My cell phone battery is a little bit dead right now so if you get my voicemail just leave me a message and I’ll call you back. Bye.
Oh … 301-555-3189.

I have so many reactions and questions pertaining to that voicemail right now.

Elmer:
1) Who starts a message with 4 different salutations?
2) Were you just sitting there reading to me out of your Franklin Planner?
3) I'm so happy that you're like 32 and finally moving out on your own into the District, but I don't need to know your annotated moving schedule for the next two and a half weeks!
4) I am not socially retarded: shoot, I'm sure Thursday nights are good for going out TOO!
5) Thanks for saying goodbye and then leaving your number as an afterthought. I really appreciate that effort. Just when I thought it was okay to feel the relief that the agony of your verbal incontinence was over, you snuck in your phone number at the very end!

But for real, this guy is in desperate need of a social makeover. He needs to have some people to show him the ropes of DC couture and culture. With a lot of guidance and a big man-muzzle, we can sass him right up ... I hope.

Luck Be A Lady ...

2005-07-25T14:44:00.000-04:00

Summers in the District are SWELTERING hot! You can walk outside and turn into a puddle of body odorous-sweat in about half a second, which is the state I found myself in on Friday afternoon ... it was about half past 5 when I decided that Mav and I were going to play hookie from the city and set off on a weekend mini-break to Atlantic City.

I changed into my glittery-pink thong and stopped off at Wrapworks for some road snacks. I went to pick up Maverick at his pad on 15th, we threw our match luggage in the trunk, jumped into the car, and blazed off on the open road.

Then we got stuck in traffic leaving the city (of course we did) and I ended up with half a "Big Juan Wrap" all down the front of my shirt and on my shorts. "You look like you just had disgusting sex," commented Maverick. I laughed out loud, but I was crying inside.

We jammed to iPod mixes of Thievery Corporation, Ace of Base, Abba, Madonna, and Prince; then we stopped along the way at Maryland House for our requisite Starbucks Red-Eyes. This is when all the trouble really started. See, Mav and I each have our respective caffeine addictions. We have far surpassed any kind of "coffee of the day" dependence. No, now our mornings consist of Red-Eyes. Red-Eye = "coffee of the day with a shot of espresso." So imagine the state of one's bladder once one consumes a Red-Eye and two bottles of Deer Park water while cruising north on I-95 and then South on the Atlantic City Expressway. For those of you who cannot imagine this bliss, it is because you have never driven the length of the Expressway before. The ACE is about 80 miles of pure bladder-mayhem, basically because like its counterpart (the New Jersey Turnpike) there are NO exits save for one every 15 miles or so!

So cut to me turning to Mav and saying "Mav, I really have to go." Two minutes later: "Oh my god, I really have to go." One minute later: "You know when it really sneaks up on you and you ... AHHH, oh my god I think I'm about to pee my pants." During this last comment, I began to swerve the car violently over to the right shoulder of the road, forcing myself into a standing position in the drivers' seat of the car by flexing my left leg in an ungodly way while maintaining constant speed with my right foot on the accelerator. I don't know why I was trying to stand in the car, but it seemed to really make some sense at the time. I happened to pull over enough that I was about halfway onto an off-ramp. This whole time, I was thinking (and Mav told me later I was screaming) "Oh my god, I'm not going to make it. I'm an adult woman about to urinate all over her messy-sexed shorts." I switched on my hazards and ran around the back of the car, I ripped my shorts down, and started peeing the most forceful pee I have ever released. Mav was in the car, laughing his head off, as The Jackson 5 sang "I Want You Back" to the sounds of my Red-Eye relieving itself of the confines of my bladder. Through his laughter, Mav shrieked, "Sassy, are you sure you made it? It looked like the expression of relief washed over your face before you got your shorts all the way off!"
I replied, "Shut UP! Ahhh god this feels so good. Don't you ruin this for me! Oh god, I think a car's coming!" Of course, we hadn't passed anyone on the Expressway for quite some time ... the road was virtually empty. But I'm here to tell you that during the 3 or so minutes that I was squatting on the side of the road, about 6 cars got a full view of my lily-white ass hanging out over an embankment. I was mortified, but Mav got a huge kick out of it. I'm always glad I can entertain him for even a few short moments.

So I hopped back into the car and we were on our way again. We showed up at my Aunt Katilda and Uncle G's South Jersey house at about 11:30PM. When I say "South Jersey House", it is because it is the epitome of Jersey White Trash. On the lawn are pink flamingos, a gnome holding a mirrored ball, and a hummingbird feeder. In DC, people would stop and think there was a yard sale; in Jersey, people stop to admire the representation and craftsmanship of a mirrored ball.

When we arrived, Uncle G was awake and he poured us some "Dego Red" (his version of cheap red wine) to help us unwind from the trip. We made ourselves comfortable in my cousin's bedroom and fell asleep quickly.

In the morning, Mav woke me up with a shriek. "Where are we and what has happened to our couture?!" I groggily opened my eyes to see what the trouble was: my cousin had painted her bedroom pitch black and there was evidence all over the walls of why Spencer's Gifts is still in business. "I'm the Bitch My mother always wanted me to be", "Daddy's Little Girl", "Pot is reason that God loves us and wants us to be happy" are just some of the stickers adorning her wall. I turned to Mav and said "Don't worry, we'll just put on our bathing suits and head out to the beach ... just think of this room as a place to sleep."

So we packed up our beach things and headed downstairs to leave. Katilda and G had made us blueberry pancakes and they were already going back and forth with each other.
"Have her take the cooler." "No, we'll take the cooler, have her pick up the sandwiches." "Well if we have her pick up the sandwiches, she'll need the cooler or they'll go bad."

Back and forth this went on and on. We finally decided that Mav and I would take the cooler and Katilda and G would pick up the sandwiches from White House Subs (if you ever go to Atlantic City, you HAVE to have a White House Sub ... these are the best sandwiches in the world!).

So then it was a discussion about beach chairs: "You need to go out to the shed to get her some beach chairs." "No, the beach chairs are in the car." "The beach chairs are NOT in the car, you left them at the beach with Mario." "Sassy, the beach chairs are at the beach with Mario." "Mario Beneducci, not Mario Fanacelli." "You want the skinny Mario, not the pregnant Mario." "You tell Mario that you want our beach chairs, he'll give them to you." "Well now she needs directions to the beach." "You go to the Texas Avenue entrance." "You'll go all the way down Arkansas. (Pronounced: Our-Kan-Suhs)." "You'll see three entrances, you go all the way to the one on your right." "You'll see a lifeguard tent." "Well, it's not a tent, you see. It used to be a tent." "Now it's just a tent." "You go right all the way down the beach, we'll be right behind the lifeguard stand in front of the lifeguard tent."

And so with all that, we were set on our way off to the beach.

This elusive cooler they were fighting over weighed about 50 pounds. It carried two cases of Heinekin bottles, and two quarts of Aunt Katilda's own special "Hummingbird Juice." We walked onto the beach at Texas Avenue, following perfect directions, and set the cooler down finally somewhere in front of the Tropicana. We shlepped a beach chair, a 50 pound cooler, and about 6 bags full of stuff we didn't end up needing. After we set out our plot, we went into the water and had a grand time in the waves, where Maverick reminded me 86 times that he couldn't swim. We came out of the water to find that I had 10 missed calls from Aunt Katilda on my phone. Turns out, we had gone about a half mile in the wrong direction down the beach. So we found ourselves packing up the bags and cooler and making our way back down the beach. "How will we know where to find them? There are so many lifeguard stands on this dang beach," said Maverick. "Trust me, Mav. I'll know."

About 20 yards later, we heard a woman screaming, "If you touch me again, I will rip your face off. I am in no mood!"
"What the hell was that?" asked Maverick.
"Believe it or not, we've found them," I said.

That screaming woman was Katilda's sister, Tricia. Tricia is everything you would expect an Atlantic City yenta to be: covered head to toe in gold jewelry, always burned to a crisp, and has a cigarette-gravelly voice with only one volume ... loud.
These women were born and raised in Atlantic City and spend EVERY SUMMER DAY from 9AM to 8PM on the beach with their chairs in a row, drinking, and yelling at their kids and husbands. This day was no exception.

"Sassy and Maverick, you get down here with that cooler and pour us some beers!" "No, let's all take a shot!" "Sassy, do you see this freckle on my shoulder, does it look bigger than the last time you saw me?" "SHOTS!" "Have you seen Mario for the chairs?" "What, you never come visit anymore? I could have cancer and she never comes visits!"

Maverick stood there in utter shock.

But we played their way: we took shots, we poured beers, we ooh-ed over the irregular borders of Aunt Tricia's melanoma. About 5 glasses of Hummingbird Juice deep, Tricia turned to Mav and I and said "You's want to hear a story?" And before we could answer, she said "I was in Church the other morning, like I always go. You know, Sassy, you tell him. I go every day." "Every day she goes." "Right, every day. So I'm in Church the other morning and I rode my Pink Mercedes bike down there. I parked it in the vestibule, right up next to the choir loft and I went into mass. Well, after mass, my Pink Mercedes was M ... I ... A! [She proceeded in her Christine Baranski-esque voice] SOME LOW LIFE STOLE MY PINK MERCEDES RIGHT OUT OF THE CHURCH! I was livid! I thought I was going to kill someone. I ran out of the Church and saw a homeless man with all his bags on my Pink Mercedes right across the street. I lost it. I ran over there and grabbed hold of the handle and said 'You skank of a man, how could you steal my Pink Mercedes from the Church. You stole my bike, get off my bike, this is MY BIKE!' Well he said, 'This ain't your bike lady.' So I said a quick Hail Mary and promised God I would never curse again and I said to him 'You son of a bitch, my husband is on his way and when he gets here, he will kick your ass unless you get off my BIKE!!!!'" So she got her bike back from the homeless man after verbally assaulting him. Mav just stared at me and whispered, "I finally understand why you are so weird and I apologize for ever calling you crazy."

About 10 minutes later, Maverick and I passed out from near-alcohol poisoning and only awoke at dusk to go get changed for the Casinos. We started at Caesar's where Mav won $25 at the slots. We weren't getting our free drinks from the cocktail waitresses, so we made our way to Bally's and had some drinks at the famous Blue Martini lounge. But lo and behold, the sea sang her salty siren song to us and we found ourselves back drinking on the beach at Bally's Bikini Beach Bar. There was a great band playing and Mav ordered us up some "Girls Gone Wild" shots and Strawberry Daquiris. We left from there at about 1:30 and ended up playing craps at the Taj. Call it beginner's luck, but after 5 free vodka tonics each, Mav and I were up $400 and I was a hot roller.

By 5 AM, we were back down to our $200 and we called it quits. We ended up walking down the boardwalk with our vodka tonics from the Taj Mahal back to Caesar's as the sun rose over the Atlantic Ocean. We stumbled into Aunt Katilda's and Uncle G's finally at 6.

Sunrise is quite the way to see Atlantic City, and Mav and I agree that Luck has a funny way of manifesting itself throughout our laughter-filled weekends ...

People of Washington, BEWARE!

2005-07-22T13:20:00.000-04:00

There I was Thursday night, decked out in my bikini-cut Union Jack underwear (everybody loves a Brit). Maverick and I met for happy hour and decided to head over to Bar Pilar on 14th Street NW.

It was our first time going there since it opened a month ago, and my initial impression was that they should have just named it H&M. The place was packed with scenesters who were there for after-work libations in the standing-room only space. If you don’t know what a DC scenester is, it is because you are a hermitted moron ... these people are EVERYWHERE. They are the pseudo-intellectual, humorless, fashionista Bohemians that inhabit the downtown area from P St north towards Columbia Heights.

But I digress, cut back to us: Mav and I ordered some drinks while we waited for a table. We tried to make the usual idle chit-chat as we people-watched from the back wall of the bar (observation: the food looked good, the women did not). Finally, Mav said "Enough with this, Sassy. I am so over the Bar Pilar crowd." So as usual, we began to devise a plan for mischief and instead ended up working out a whole new shtick.

I pulled out my spiral notepad, I looked over at an approving Mav, and we let the games begin.
I went up to the bar to order us another drink and said, "Hi, I'm Sassy ... I work for The Daily Planet. Can I get your recommendation on a good beer?"

The back of the bar was suddenly abuzz with whispering "They're with The Planet ... The Planet ... psss, The Planet's here!" [Two side notes: 1) I have replaced the name of a well-circulated DC paper with "The Daily Planet" as I can't afford another law suit right now. 2) I have realized that EVEN scenesters become fame-whores when the thought of being acknowledged by mass media is presented to them.]

Before we knew it, we were receiving free drinks galore! We would order beers and say "Put this on the tab for Maverick" and a bartender would say "We know who you are, this one's on us." HELLO! How did Sassy and the 80 pound 3 cent queer not think of this great plan sooner?!

About 10 minutes after the whole scheme had begun to play out, the OWNER of Bar Pilar (Mike) came over to talk to us. Mike was a very personable guy with scruffy hair, yellow tinted sunglasses (sunglasses inside a bar at night? That's like 80's hot!), and a t-shirt that read "Viva La Disco!" He started to tell us about the concept of Bar Pilar and his other neighborhood scenester bar, Saint Ex. Mav was engaging Mike with most of the questions as I scribbled down illegible notes and drank more beer. I even tried to look pensive at one point, but ended up with ball point pen all over my chin instead. Mike told us about the history of the 40 foot bar, which started as an island bar in the Washington Hilton in the 1950s. He also commented on the artwork that he incorporates into both Saint Ex and Bar Pilar (prime example: the Long-John-Silver-esque mural of Hemingway on the wall overlooking the bar). Both Mav and I loved the fact that Mike hung out in his own bar on a Thursday night, just drinking a beer and watching TV.

As we had more drinks, we made our way through the crowd to interview people. It's funny how people will open up to two complete strangers holding a notepad with nary a credential between them. We told people that Mav worked for the Metro section and I worked for Style and that we were on assignment to write a series of articles about DC nightlife that we hoped to consolidate into a book someday.

My notes became more and more scrawled as the night wore on ... the lies and treachery seem even worse when they are nearly illegible. On our walk home, I think Mav said it best as he stumbled into an obese woman: "Sassy, no matter what happens and how many lies we spread, I know that ONE thing is true: I love to watch a fat woman jiggle ..."

(This is a picture of me and Mav when we were little during one of our first photo shoots. Our moms thought it was so cute to dress us up in matching scratchy-yarn outfits.)

My show got cancelled ...

2005-07-20T02:01:00.000-04:00

I lost my best friend tonight ... and I wasn't wearing any underwear.

Is that your hard drive, or are you just happy to see me?

2005-07-19T19:21:00.000-04:00

Cut to last Friday: I was wearing my hot pink mesh g-string, slaving away at my job, counting the nanoseconds until Happy Hour.

"The Man" had sent a software trainer from Corporate to make sure we were compliant with a program we are consolidating in 2006 (ch-ch-ch-changes). I don't know if you've ever seen the Pixar film "Antz," but this guy looked like the head ant in that movie. He was the type of guy who probably drank glue in elementary school, which is why I'm going to refer to him as "Elmer" from here on out. Elmer had all the right features of a hot guy, they were all just arranged in a funny way. It was kind of like a bad Mr. Potato Head. His face was too small for his head. Picture that for a second, I'll wait.

But just like a lot of other men, Elmer was all into Sassy. I seem to have a nerd magnet somewhere on my person, but that's fine because I have a soft spot for the nerds. And I'm confident enough with my sass that I have no problem being seen with the nerds. I know I can possibly make their lives a little more fun ... and that is all the satisfaction I need. But I gave Elmer my mobile number and told him to call me when he was leaving the office.

So cut to 5:30 when my agent Maverick and bodyguard Siddartha showed up at my office to pick me up for happy hour. After Hair and Makeup and Wardrobe, we ended up sipping red sangrias at Cafe Citron in Dupont Circle. Elmer called at about 7 to say he wasn't going to come out with us -- he had been caught up in "a conference call" or else he would have shown up earlier. Now, I'm not claiming to be a genius or anything, but a conference call at 6pm on a Friday??? Don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining! I'm not buying it! I know he was just afraid he was either: a) intruding, b) not invited, or c) not going to have fun. So I let him get away with bitching out on us; which is where Maverick comes in. I'm so lucky to have an agent with such a good head on his shoulders. He's always looking out for what's in Sassy's best interest (it's like Touched By An Angel without that crazy Della Reese). Mav insisted I help this guy and force him to meet us in the city.

So we called Elmer back and insisted he come out with us to Dragonfly. He tried to act cool like he didn't really want to come, but I wouldn't take no for an answer this time. He said he was comng from VA, so in the meantime, Sid and Maverick and I made our way over to Dragonfly and went up into the VIP area on the second floor (as if you had any doubts that we were VIP). We took our usual reserved table in the front and settled in with some Stoli Ras and Sodas.
If you have never been to Dragonfly, it's because you're crazy: Dragonfly on Friday night was packed with beautiful gay men (Sid and Mav were in HEA-VEN). There was one particular blonde boy who was very yummy. Maverick (always being the trickster) bet Sid that he wouldn't go talk to the guy and get his phone number. So Sid sauntered over with his best limp wrist and started talking to the guy; they ended up coming over and introducing him to Mav and I.

As Sid walked away to go get everyone drinks, [the new guy] Josh turned to me and Mav and said "So I hear I'm a bet. Well, the joke's on your friend because I'm actually straight." And then he held up his left hand and we saw he was wearing a wedding band! So this MARRIED STRAIGHT GUY is pretending to be a gay to f with Sid! How dare he be so cunning! I was intrigued.

So we chatted it up with Josh, turned out he bartends at a gay male bar on 17th St., he works out at Results, he has great fashion sense, not a hair on his head was out of place, and he knew funny quotes from Big Business and Best In Show. Again, you have to wake up pretty early in the morning to pull an "I'm straight playing gay" on Aunt Sassy. This guy was a grade-A friend of Dorothy's! So here I am, up against a gay playing a straight playing a gay. Think about that for a second ... this is like some kind of Socrates shit! I loved this guy!

About 10 minutes later, Elmer called me in distress. He was downstairs, not being allowed to come up to VIP (poor thing, I don't even know how that would feel). So I went down with Mav to have him let up to our table, and we spotted his little ant head in the crowd. He was dressed in black chinos with an oversized blue polyester button-down shirt that was open a little too much at the chest. Aw! Poor thing! I could tell he had really tried, and he probably left the house thinking he looked like SUCH a lady killer! But once he got up to VIP, this guy was ALL hands (or feelers, however you want to view it). It was pretty disgusting. There's a fine line between asking someone to come out to up their street cred ... or letting them paw you all night.

So I tried to distance myself from the pleasure paws (easier said than done). When I was in my dance-off with Sid, Elmer would position himself any way he could to get a good cleavage shot (not too difficult). Even when I was turning all the gays' popped-collars down, there was no shaking him. Then we all left Dragonfly at about 1 and Elmer said he would like to keep staying out with me ... I was completely abandoned by Sid and Maverick (I'll not soon forgive them for that).

Elmer and I ended up drinking some more at Rumors on M & 19th. As we were leaving after last call, the nerd pushed me up against the wall and started making out with me! THE AUDACITY!! He even tried to stick his hand in my ass! That is TOTALLY off-limits, even to those in the inner circle. UGH! The nerve of some people. So I put him in a cab and sent him on his way home ... sometimes enough is enough.

Cut to yesterday when I showed up at work, there was an email from Elmer sitting in my in-box. Here is how the day of emails turned out:

From: Elmer
Sent: Monday, July 18, 2005 8:40 AM
To: Aunt Sassy
Subject: Hi Sass
Hey - good morning!! How was the rest of the weekend? Did you get my message? Had a good time hanging out with you and your good pals Fri night….thanks for showing me the nightlife on my first "real" D.C. night out!! It was a grand time - hope you had fun too. Let's stay in touch.
Elmer D.

From: Aunt Sassy
Sent: Monday, July 18, 2005 8:54 AM
To: Elmer
Subject: RE: Hi Sassy
Hey there!
Hope the rest of your weekend went well!!! I felt rude for not calling you back yesterday, but c'est la vie. As far as staying in touch, I don’t think that’s a good idea … unless you pass me through the SME training. I mean, a promise is a promise.
Gotta run, but I hope to hear from you soon!
Cheers,
Sassy

From: Elmer

Sent: Monday, July 18, 2005 10:01 AM

To: Sassy

Subject: RE: Hi Sassy

Hi- I'll buzz you later - you're funny! I'll check on that SME status of yours and we'll chat….oh and don't let out to those "gals" in your office who may spread gossip about us going out Fri night - I could tell some of them like to chat :-)
Talk to you soon.

So there it is ... more to follow soon on the Ant Elmer and Aunt Sassy face-off!

DC Metro (Take 2)

2005-07-14T12:37:00.000-04:00

Welcome to our Nation's Capital. While I'm wearing my pink monkey-angel thong, I want to let you know that I'm glad you're here.
I've realized that my rant about the Metro may not have been effective because I didn't offer any guidelines.
So here are a few simple Metro tips to make your trip more pleasant:
1. Don't take Metro during rush hour. We poor working stiffs aren't footloose and fancy free, giggling and wearing vacation perma-grin like you. Our mood may spoil yours.
2. On the escalators: walk on the left, stand on the right. Don't stand on the left side of the escalators and let your 6-year-old children stare at me as I say "'scuse me!" to walk up/down the escalators on the left. One time, I was walking up the escalators on the left, and everyone was standing on the right (during rush hour), except this big old black lady. One like you'd see waving her raised hands, singing in a church choir. I said, "'scuse me," and she slowly turned around and said, "I'm not gonna scuse you - you can wait!" And I said, as I walked up the stairs beside her, "No ma'am, I'll just pass you on the right." She yelled something mean but I was long gone.
3. Don’t stand still when you step off the escalator. Be sensitive that there are many, many people in one small area, and many of them are right behind you, coming down the escalator. Today, someone stood still as they stepped off the escalator, and it looked like business suits playing dominos.
4. Don’t stand still in the middle of a crowded walkway. I understand you don’t know where you’re going, but stand out of the way to look for signs, landmarks, or if your white sneaker shoelace is untied.
5. Don’t eat on the Metro. I will strut right into the next car, intercom the driver, and report you faster than you can say “Cheetos.”
6. Don’t stand in the doorways just inside the train. I will say “’scuse me” as I step on your white sneakers.
7. Do share your seat. If there are two empty seats side-by-side, take the one on the inside. If you don’t, I’ll say, “’scuse me,” and step on your feet as I take the inside seat. Same goes for putting your stuff on a seat. I will sit on it as I say “’scuse me.”
8. Do wear something besides a T shirt, jean shorts, white sneakers, fanny pack, and clip on sunglasses. And, old ladies: you don’t need that much hairspray.
9. Don’t complain about how much you have to walk. If you walked more like we city folk have to do, you wouldn’t be so fat.
10. Do be quiet. Commuters hate to hear your children screaming, “Is it the next stop, MOMMY?!????” or “I’m THIRSTY!” or “I don’t WANNA SIT DOWN!!!” Control your bratty rugrats.
11. Don’t pool in the center of the train platform. There are lots more cars than just the middle car. Use them.
12. When you hear a chime, the doors are closing. If you’re in the way, they will close on you. You will scream, squirm like a rat in a trap, and I will snicker.
13. Do not let your children practice their pole-dancing skills while the Metro is in motion. They will spin out of control, crack their scranium open, and the rest of us will have to suffer "minor delays" as Metro declares another medical emergency.
14. Have your Metro fare card accessible (read: in your hand, ready to be inserted into the slot IN THE DIRECTION THE ARROW ON THE CARD IS FACING) before you approach the turnstile. The regular commuters will mow you down and leave carnage in their wake as they zip by you with their Smarttrip cards.
Enjoy your ride!

Confessions of a Catholic Schoolgirl

2005-07-13T20:19:00.000-04:00

Today is my most fertile day of the month, which is why I'm wearing my lily-white g-string that says "Jesus is My homeboy" over the crotch. It keeps me pure and holy, but I'm surely going to hell for even purchasing something like that.
Speaking of hell, I'm realizing more and more that my Catholicism probably has a lot more to do with the fact that I'm being stalked by a male stripper than I'd originally have thought. Another thought: growing up Catholic, I was exposed to more self-loathing than a lot of my friends. Which would be fine if I wasn't at this stage in my life wishing my peers hated themselves as much as I despise them.

For those of you who weren't raised in the constant fear that is the Catholic regime, here are some things I have learned from the Church that may help you in life:
1) Flatter Jesus or you'll rot in hell
2) If you give your love to Jesus, that bastard will never call
3) Yes, Jesus does watch you masturbate
4) When you pray before you go to bed at night, you're probably making Jesus vomit
5) God says for us to love the sinners, but I can still hate their clothes
6) Baptists are Jesus's very own Taliban
7) If I loathed you any more, I'd be Jesus
8) If they didn't want sluts in the Church, Jesus wouldn't have been in so tight with Mary M.
9) I think Jesus watches over me ONLY because I have a big rack
10) Dear Mormons: To tell you the truth, I think you are all ignorant
11) Pedophile priests have every right to support traditional marriage
12) Yes, you are a disgusting sinner who deserves to be tortured on earth and then burned in hell
13) There are many recipes for your forbidden fruits that come out DE-LISH!
14) Emulate Jesus in everything you do and pretty soon you'll be a self-righteous bitch just like me
15) The more you complain, the longer God makes you live
16) Any time you look at pornography, God will turn you into a pillar of salt (thanks, Tony!)
17) Jesus cries when you blaspheme, and that's why your sister was sent away
18) And finally, my favorite: this lifetime is just a test -- yes, a test to see how much you can hold up once you've crossed the threshold of hell.

[The views expressed in this Blog do not necessarily reflect those of God, Jesus Christ, or the Holy Spirit.]

I'm free as a bird because I wash with Dove

2005-07-11T15:41:00.000-04:00

Before I put on my black satin thong this morning, I washed thoroughly with my Dove brand Soap and then slathered myself with my Dove Brand Fat Girl Cellulite-Blasting Moisturizer.
You may be asking yourself, "Why all the Dove?" ... because that's a good question.
If you've been walking along K Street in DC recently, you may have noticed all the big, beautiful women celebrating their size on the sides of Metro bus stops. I happen to be one of those big women. It was really a wonderful experience and I feel truly blessed for having been a part of it. Dove did a great job of preserving the integrity of every obese girl in the photos: I really felt like the photographer was laughing WITH me, not at me.
People keep asking me what I remember as the best part of the photo shoot (another good question). The best part about the photo shoot was the other models. They were all such beautiful spirits and at the end we all exchanged emails and promised to stay in touch forever.
But for real, who am I kidding? They were a bunch of fat hungry bitches. You couldn't pay me enough to be in a room with them again. That blonde girl looked like she had a penis in her underwear and when she started sweating under the photo lights, she smelled like roasted garlic. The best part was the food: the catering service area at the studio was something else. They had a great spread of crudite, but I didn't touch a stitch of it. In lieu of the veggies, I grazed over at the huge spiced meat display (of course I did). I didn't care for the bar nuts because it reminded me of the time in Bally's casino when I lost my wallet and my virginity all in one night.
Anyway, my endorsements for Dove have been going pretty well; I've received a lot of positive and negative feedback from new and old fans alike. Some exciting news: I have already been signed to other "Real Beauty" campaigns for ProActiv, Aveda, and Nivea. My agent, Maverick, tells me that New York is really the center of plus-sized activity right now; so don't be surprised if you hear from my big bootie in the Big Apple.

Get me off this crazy train

2005-07-08T20:27:00.000-04:00

Today I'm wearing my white cotton thong: it makes me feel like a girl again. A girl with a wedgie and a sublimely hot ass, that is.
I have a rant today and that is that the DC Metro area population is ridiculous.
If I see one more "popped" Polo shirt-collar on a DC gay, I'm gonna lose it.
Well, if I was being fair (which I'm not), I guess I'd have to say that the straights also fall victim to the popped collars. What is that??? Didn't that go out in the 80's? This isn't Laguna Beach, people! It's like the summer uniform is LaCoste shirt, khaki or obnoxiously plaid knee-length baggy J-Crew shorts, flip flops, mirrored sunglasses, and truck driver hats. (I blame Britney and Lindsay for the in-flux of these garbage hats.)
Then there are the working class older crowd. I attribute these style faux pas to the commuting Marylanders. It's the older guys with the facial hair, Nationals ballcap, sweaty golf shirt, and black jeans with the HUGE belly hanging out over top. Have you ever noticed how these people are always hiking their pants up? It's like they have no ass to hold up the pants and they are waistless because of the belly. What a mess.
Riding on the Metro is the worst! You get all these things thrown at you all at once. Everyone living in Arlington creeps onto the Orange Line with their suits and puma shoes, their iPod cords dangling precariously down to their faux leather Kenneth Cole attaches, and their mobiles vibrating at every stop. The worst is when they actually answer them while still under a tunnel. "Hello? HELLO? No, I'm on the Metro. I can't hear you. I SAID I CAN'T HEAR YOU! I think we're under a tunnel or something. What? Hello? Dan? HELLO? Can you hear me? Hello?" Then they FINALLY hang up the phone looking all pissed off that they lost their call, paying no mind to the fact that they just interrupted the solitude of 75 other people.
The good thing about this town is that there is zero customer service. You can get away with just about anything in DC because people don't want to put themselves out to do the right thing. Everyone just goes to work, punches the clock, and then mentally checks out.

God I love this sonofabitch of a city!

Stink and Drink

2005-07-08T00:07:00.000-04:00

Today I had to go to all-day training again while I was wearing my heather-grey cotton thong. I've realized that the people I work with are all narrow-minded IDIOTS with no common sense. I spotted this girl at lunch who looked like Chris Farley in drag. She was like a bad car accident, I couldn't take my eyes off of her. As I was watching her talk to her table, I noticed something shining at her neckline. Turns out she was wearing a Tiffany choker. "But Tiffany doesn't make chokers," I quipped silently to myself. Then I realized that her neck was SO CHUNKY that the necklace was cutting into her neck fat and that when she talked, her adams' apple bobbed the charm on the necklace up and down against her throat. UGH!
Speaking of neck fat, I snuck out of the training at 3 to enjoy some Haagen Dazs; before I knew it, I had taken the Metro all the way home. So much for ending up in good standing with my boss.
I later went and met up with my old co-worker/ boss, Lisa, who admitted to me that she used to be annoyed by me because I talk too much. So much for being honest. She's just pissed because she didn't think of all the funny quips first. Have you ever noticed how bitter people can get when they are threatened by your superiority? I may have a complex, but I'm sure it's better than yours.

The twisted hand of Fate

2005-07-06T22:15:00.000-04:00

Today's been hell, but at least I'm wearing my monkey g-string.
I'm going to rewind to last night because that was when this all started. I had just settled in after a long session at the gym, curling up on the sofa with Love Actually and a bowl of noodles. Suddenly, my phone rings and it's my freaking-out coworker telling me that I missed a whole day of mandatory training. Needless to say, my relaxation episode was OVER.
So today I went to an all-day training course and ended up sitting through THE WRONG CLASS for 8 hours like the dumbass that I am. Only me.

I used to be a stripper ...

2005-07-05T20:54:00.000-04:00

Cut to Saturday night when I was wearing my black nylon Tommy Hilfiger thong and was out & about with my three gay husbands: Asa, Maverick, and Bandi. For all intents and purposes, we will say that these are their real names. Trust that they're not innocent, so I have nothing to protect.
The boys and I were out at Camelot, a Gentleman's Club in Downtown DC ... which was lovely. We met plenty of very nice girls paying their way through med school (I'm sure) and even one pregnant dancer who was overheard saying "I'm sendin' my baby to Stanford" midway through her signature step, bump, round-the-pole move.
Maverick left the group at approximately 12am Eastern Daylight Time, at which point Asa says "Let's have some real fun, now that the old balls and chain is gone." (You have to see Asa do this to really get the full effect, but he swaggers his thumb through the air as he says "balls and chain")
So the three of us ended up in a cab heading to "Secrets", the premier all-male go-go club in Southeast DC. We arrived in full regalia, making a b-line to the bar. Asa headed to the bathroom, or so we thought. Before we knew it, we spotted Asa looking breathless and very distraught. "Ditch the drinks, girls, and come see this," he panted. We followed him over to the main stage, picking our way through drooling gay men. There, I saw the strangest anomoly this side of the Mason Dixon -- a four foot male dancer with a 10 inch ... private part. He motioned Asa and I over and we tried to play it cool. We watched him pull tips from sweaty gay palms, and we were even rewarded with a stirring, albeit naked, rendition of the Pledge of Allegiance before his show was finished. We then left to go see the drag show in the adjacent "Ziegfeld's" club. Asa again went to the bathroom (what could have been in the bathroom that was so compelling, I wonder), and again came running back to me saying "Aunt Sassy, follow me right now! I saw that same stripper you were interviewing and he asked where my hot friend was. I asked him if he meant the guy or the girl and he said the girl! SO LET'S GO!" So he half-dragged me to where the midget was up on his stripping pedestal, clad in nothing but a dirty pair of white tube socks. The midget and I bantered back and forth for a few minutes, which was when I found out his name was Jay. He told me I had a sharp wit and that he was very turned on ... he seemed to forget that he was completely naked, so I could TELL he wasn't turned on. Helloooo! Don't even be trying to lie to Sassy when your 10" privates are exposed!
He then said "Look, I'm trying to give you my number, but if you don't want it I understand." So I took out my cell phone and he put his number into my phone book. I'm going to interrupt myself right here and say that I've never had a stripper give me his number before; it was mildly flattering in a mildly flattering kind of way.
For the rest of the evening, we kept finding ourselves drawn eerily to this stripping version of Willow. It was approximately 2:40am EDT when the main incident happened. He got me to touch him in that way ... you know which way I'm talking about. Then he squatted over me and proceeded to defile my chest through my dress (you do the math). He then propositioned me for later that night. He said (and I quote), he would "make [me] feel real nice." GROSS!
He told me to call him in an hour so we could rendezvous at his place in Rosslyn (Arlington ... VA ... the suburban side of the Potomac). Well Asa just lost it. He started telling people he was selling tickets to see me F the circus freak. He also told everyone that Jay was an extra in the most recent Willy Wonka movie (which would make him an Oompa Loompa ... LOVING IT). Needless to say, I didn't meet up with him that night. However, I will keep you all posted on the subsequent voice and text messages. More to follow ...

How you say?

2005-07-05T16:52:00.000-04:00

Everybody needs a shtick. Mine is underwear. Today I am wearing my Tuesday panties, but I guess you already knew that. These are the periwinkle Victoria's Secret thongs that are part of the Body by Victoria line. Body by Victoria ... right! As if putting them on will whisk you away to the land of VS models, splashing through sess pools in the South Pacific. I'm still waiting to be whisked today, minus the sess. I do have to hand it to Victoria, though, she's onto something with her 5 for $25 deal.
In lieu of working today, I've been doing what I do best: judging. I can't help but judge every person I talk to or see in a day. I've learned a few things about myself during this journey of judging:
1) I don't deal with people who can't speak English well, especially those who frequently use the phrase "How you say?" Cause I can certainly tell you "how I say," however, I'm almost positive that you don't want that kind of attitude all up in your biz (this is accented with a lot of hand movements indicating "the biz").
2) Most of the time (who am I kidding? ALL of the time) when I'm holding a conversation with someone, I'm trying to block out all the nasty comments I'm thinking concerning their choice of couture, their poor grammar, the way they use "like" as annoying filler, and the general malaise I feel for all things external to myself when speaking with someone on an intimate level.
3) I have a real problem with selfish people. Don't confuse my judging with being self-absorbed; I know I have my flaws (and when I forget them, I'm constantly reminded by my coworkers, friends, and family). But here's a general rule I'd like to extend to all people who are looking for approval from Aunt Sassy: if it's all about you, I DON'T WANNA HEAR THAT!