Charming, but single

Was relatively social this weekend, which was impressive considering that I was swamped at work because we have 50,000 things going on and I’m stressed about half of them and I haven’t even thought about the other half. And, I was going into to a four-day weekend. (Gotta love livin’ in a place where you get Mardi Gras off instead of President’s Day.) In my defense, I actually said I was coming to work on Monday and my boss was like, “No, you need the day off.” (Don’t tell him that I’m actually going to work from home some today. That’s our little secret.)

Thursday evening we celebrated a friend’s birthday with margaritas and a great show at a small venue. At work I’d texted back and forth with my friend about the relative number of margaritas each of us would drink that night. We were both stressed out and busier than can be and we’ve been unable to one-up each other lately since we’re both swamped. (Me: “I would drink now while I’m at work, but that would make the baby Jesus cry.” She told me later that her co-workers thought she lost it when she got that one because she laughed so hard.)

So we munched on spinach queso and fresh chips and let frozen ritas bring us back to life that evening. We knew we’d regret going out the next day at work, but at that point in the evening, neither of us cared.

The show was good. However, as it grew later in the evening, the crowd (our age and older) seemed to get a touch restless.

“Seriously, I have to go to work tomorrow,” she said.

“I know, just one more song,” I argued.

Ten minutes later, she groaned. “Seriously.”

“I know, you would think they’d understand that their audience is getting old now and as such needs a certain amount of rest in order to have a productive day on Friday.”

We stayed to the end of the show, leaving the venue after 1 a.m., grumpy and with our little spirits slightly broken that we’d both become so “adult” that we hadn’t enjoyed the last hour or so because we were obsessed with the running “To Do” lists in our heads. (We were not the only ones. I saw a lot of people checking their Treos or Blackberrys.) (And I refuse to pluralize “Blackberry” the device as I would the fruit, since it is a brand name.)

Friday morning came early. I rolled over and groaned. I’d done a half-assed job of taking my makeup off the night before and my hair was a tangle of curls and flat sections. (I’d botched an attempt at hot roller beauty the night before and had to resort to pining it all back as I ran out the door.) I smelled like bar, my head hurt and I DID NOT want to go anywhere but back under my comforter.

Unfortunately, I pay the bills around here.

I snoozed until well after 7 a.m. The latest possible time for me to leave home and still be in my chair on time is 7:30, so I had to resort to a tactic not used since college one time when I had decided that studying for a very hard final was stupid and had gone out and had my fair share of Jager and then had borrowed someone’s car to drive to the test in my PJs, still smelling like vodka. (I didn’t do well on the test, but I still got a B in the class. So, of course, I didn’t learn the lesson in that experience.)

I am not proud of this, but I didn’t shower.

I didn’t have time. I pulled my curly mane into a clip and bobby pinned the front down and then hairsprayed it to within and inch of its life. (It actually looked kind of cute.) I scrubbed my face and wiped down quickly and then coated my body and my clothes with Cucumber Melon body spray from Bath and Body Works. I threw on a ruby-colored sweater with those cute plum kitten heels and jeans and I sprinted out of the door, patting on makeup in the car.

You know what? I got a ton of compliments on my cute outfit that day. And I have no idea why. This is so unfair. I shower and wash my hair and do nice makeup every other day and the first time I roll into work looking undead and smelly, everyone thinks I’m adorable.

I crankied through work all day and but cried when it was finally time to leave. I swung through Whole Foods for yummy salad toppings (fresh edamamme, tofu and juicy grape tomatoes) and fruit and resolved not to leave the house for the rest of the night. I took a short bath because I was grumpy about not bathing earlier, but I didn’t wash the hair (which, incidentally, had not moved all day) because I didn’t want to go to sleep on wet hair.

I snuggled into bed with a mug of warm sugar-free cider (I am practically 65, I swear) and was all ready to slide into blissful sleep when my phone rang. It was The Lawyer.

“I’m in town. Come have a drink with us.”

“Um, I don’t think I’m in any shape to do that. I didn’t wash my hair this morning.”

“S! Drink! Now!”

The Lawyer talked me into going out, so I climbed out of the warmth and located jeans and boots and a shirt. I looked at my hair, still flawlessly in place and only really a day or so dirty and shrugged.

Half an hour later I was jogging through the rain (not an easy task in my favorite boots) and into a bar I love. I found The Laywer and friends in a dark corner, ordered up a Sauvignon Blanc and relaxed.

We had a good time. The Lawyer is fun and the fact that we don’t see each other as much anymore has increased the amount of fun we have together exponentially. We teased back and forth about boys and she bragged about “not having any commitment issues.”

I almost choked on my wine and a mutual friend did the same. We both laughed out loud.

“What? I don’t,” The Lawyer said. “I have no problem committing.”

“Of course not, sweetie. You just commit too soon,” I said, trying to sound comforting.

There was a beat of silence. I was afraid I’d crossed the line and was dipping into my crisis communication training and wondering what to say. And then our mutual friend busted out laughing and said that she totally agreed. The Lawyer seemed only mildly bothered by it, but eventually let a smile spread across her face.

The conversation was good. I talked shop with a guy with similar career aspirations. Our Lawyer pals gave out free legal advice.

The conversation turned to sex, as wine-laced talk among adults tends to do. We discussed such important topics as why it was important to “test drive before you buy,” the myth of multiple orgasms and porn. (Future Nobel Prize Winners, all of us.)

I managed to be in bed before 1:30 a.m.

Saturday morning I groaned as I rolled over when my alarm went off. I had to go to a bridal shower two hours away with a good friend and co-worker (also a PR lady who helped me get my job). We needed to leave her house at 11:30 a.m.

This was problematic as it was pouring rain outside and my hair had become matted and gross overnight. As I scrubbed the hairspray and petrified smoke smell out of it in the shower, I mentally went through my closest for an outfit.

It was cold and rainy and as such I was not wearing a little skirt. All of my shirt options seemed too work oriented or too slutty. After some hemming and hawing, I ended up in black wide-legged trousers and a black button down with purple and gray stripes. Probably totally inappropriate for a bridal shower, but I was not prepared to freeze all day just to wear the classic bridal shower garb. (Flowy skirt and a twin set.)

I ran out of the house. And then back in because I’d forgotten my present. And then I realized I hadn’t wrapped it and it was probably too big for a bag, so I was looking at a stop somewhere else for paper.

My tires screeched as I swerved to avoid being hit by a little silver sports car that cut me off as I attempted to turn to get on the Interstate. I screamed and ended up missing my turn. I didn’t have time to circle back around, so I cursed and went the long way through town. I fiddled with my cell phone and attempted to call my friend and warn her that I was running late. No answer. Damn.

The rain slowed as I pulled off and into a Target parking lot a few minutes from my friend’s house. She lives in an area of town that I just don’t really go in a lot and I was pretty turned around at this point. As I looked for a parking spot, the rain doubled. It was coming down hard and I was pissed.

I grabbed my umbrella and prayed my slingbacks wouldn’t fail me and I jumped over puddles. Each time I landed, I heard a small splash and felt water tickle my ankles, soaking the hem of my pants. My hair had gone from wavy and voluminous to frizzy and poufy. I’d had the presence of mine to not put on makeup before I left, so at least mascara wasn’t running down the side of my face. (I applied makeup on the way out of town.)

I grabbed a (huge) gift bag and a wonderful woman left me skip her in line since I only had one item. (May good karma and blessings come her way.) I ran outside on my tiptoes.

It was 11:47. Crap.

My tires screeched again as I peeled out of the parking lot. I turned the wrong way, but finally ended up at my friend’s house as 11:55. I jumped out of the car apologizing and she smiled and said it was ok. She knows me and apparently had taken into account that I would be late when she picked a starting time. (My friends know me so well. One time when I was a bridesmaid, my friend gave me a itinerary for the weekend of the wedding. I compared it to the rest of the wedding party’s and my times were always at least 30 minutes earlier so I would always be on time.)

We jumped into her car and I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw her in black pants, looking like she was heading for work as well. And she’s married, so I was pretty sure she knew the rules of bridal shower attire better than I did.

We picked up coffee and muffins (as if I’d had time to eat in all of my running late!) and pulled out the directions. I gave her a rundown since she was driving.

“Are we driving to the end of the world?”

“Yes. Basically, go toward New Orleans and then south before you get there.”

So, the first hour was work gossip. (Be nice to your PR people, everyone. We know what happens at work because it is our job to know this stuff. I’m just saying.)

“Ok, the directions say that we’re to look for a motel on the side of the road after a gas station,” I said.

“What?”

“First a gas station and then a motel.”

“Who made these directions?”

“The Bride.”

“Oh. How long has it been since she’s lived here?”

“Um, six or seven years, ‘cause she double majored and then she’s been out of state for, um, at least a year and a half.”

“Right. Well. I feel like we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“We are.”

We finally found the house and the shower was very nice. The Bride has a very large family and they are just the nicest people in the world, very down-home, not pretentious. Just good people, as we like to say. The salt of the earth and such.

The Bride circled the party oozing happiness. It was odd to see her in a fancy suit with a corsage and a ring on her finger. How many nights did I sit across from her in a bar as she drowned her latest man sorrows in a Killian’s? Too many to count.

And here she was. Glowing and happy in a light khaki suit with her eyes sparkling as she balanced a plate of dainty finger sandwiches and a cup of some sort of green punch and welcomed her guests, friends and family members and the women whose weddings she’d been to over the years. She exuded this confidence and contentment. She opened presents and got more kitchen things than I think she’d ever use.

“Do you even cook now?” I heckled as she opened my present.

“Of course!” she exclaimed with mock surprise. “I can cook a lot of things. Like coffee …”

I gossiped with two of her single bridesmaids from where she lives now.

“Do you think they will make us play, um, games?” one asked me.

“Shower games? I hope not. That would be horrible.”

They didn’t. Bridesmaids and shower planners of the world should know that making adult women play stupid guessing games is always inappropriate and borderline insulting. Let us talk and pretend to be grown ups, please.

After the gifts, we had cups of coffee and The Bride joined us to discuss the wedding. We gave her a run down of who was coming in from our circle of friends. We have a group of good friends from college who see each other sometimes during football season and at weddings.

“Oh, you can bring B as your date,” The Bride said. “ I don’t remember if I responded to your e-mail about that or not.”

“Oh, um, ok,” I said. I was ambivalent about it all on that particular day. B, The Bride and I were a nice little unit for almost a year before she moved. We had a designated night where we drank beer and ate raw oysters and bar food together. We were happy and inappropriate and even B got a bit misty eyed the last time we’d met for drinks before she moved.

“But,” she interrupted my daydream. “I don’t believe for a second that you won’t make out with him.”

Everyone laughed and I blushed. The Bride had witnessed the two of us and our terrible flirtations firsthand, including one night when we’d actually made out in front of everyone up against the bar.

“We’ll see,” I said. (Truth be told, I left B a message asking him to be my “guest” (not date!) at her wedding so that we could reunite our little gang. I actually didn’t realize that he hadn’t been invited. He hasn’t called me back.)

We made plans for the Bachelorette party in New Orleans and then we headed back home.

We almost immediately got lost in this little town. Bayou to the left, wilderness to the right. We made a wrong turn down a one-way street in a not-so-nice area and my friend suggested that she go ask for directions.

“Stay in the car, Ann Taylor,” I deadpanned. “We’re going to stick out like sore thumbs here.”

Now, I do not live some huge city. They’re really aren’t a lot of HUGE cities in the South where I live. However, people from this area know the difference between “City” people and “Country” people. When you’re surrounded by towns of less than ten thousand people, those with several hundred thousand start to look pretty big.

So, for this afternoon, we were city girls lost in the country looking at directions that referenced roads “that may be paved now” and tiny mom-and-pop stores. And it was raining. And we had two hours of driving ahead of us.

I called back to the shower and someone gave us directions that involved “following the bayou” to another small town 30 miles away and then turning on some street that she didn’t know the name of (she said we’d know it when we saw it because it was in the middle of nowhere) and then following the highway until this bridge. I took notes and when I hung up we decided that the devil we knew (our directions) was better than the devil we didn’t (her directions). References were made to dueling banjos and squealing like a pig and we finally found our way back to the Interstate.

“This is why country people hate us,” I said. “Because we act like being lost for 15 minutes is the End. Of. The. World.”

“Hey! I can hang with both because I’ve lived in both.”

“Sweetie, you grew up in New Orleans until your family moved to the Burbs, not the country.”

Seeing no coffee shops on the way out of town (seriously, I found the one area of the country that Starbucks hasn’t colonized) we opted for big diet cokes from Burger King.

We talked about love and marriage on the way home. I relayed my feelings about wanting something like what I was surrounded by growing up, but being frustrated with the looking.

“I have to believe that I’ll just know. And it will stop being stressful because I will just know,” I said.

“And, see,” she said. “That is exactly how it is.”

She relayed the story of never thinking she’d want to be married, right up until she met the man she’s now married to, because she just knew he was right. Like he fit.

It gave me hope.

We finally got home around 7 p.m. and I headed home to make dinner. I intended to stay in, but The Lawyer was going out again with a friend that I love. She’s a sweet Southern Belle type, with this thick accent and quirky mannerisms (she refuses to drink a beer unless it is “properly dressed,” meaning wrapped in a napkin) and a boyfriend I also love. He is great and for some reason we get along like two peas in a pod. I wouldn’t have thought we’d like each other so much, but we have a really fun friendship. The Southern Belle and SB’s Boyfriend are one of my favorite couples.

We drank beer and caught up (I haven’t seen him in months) and generally had a blast. I’d missed them both. Because The Lawyer introduced us, when she moved, we hadn’t kept up like we should have. But not anymore. We had too much fun Saturday to not hang out again. The Lawyer left early, but I stayed for another round.

“So, what are we doing next weekend?” SB’s Boyfriend asked as we left.

“Call me,” I said, giggling, feeling like this couple had just asked me out on a date or something. I should have said, “Anything as long as you bring your nice single male friends along.”

But I am not that quick on my feet.

I’d left my cell in the car on accident and when I checked my texts (just after midnight), I saw one from The Producer from around 11 p.m. inviting me out for a drink. I texted back, determined that she was still out and headed over to meet her, feeling quite the popular social butterfly.

I stopped to smooth my hair and check my makeup when I got to the parking lot at the next bar. I was about to bound through the doors when I stopped to compose myself. The last time I’d met The Producer and her co-workers out at this bar (where they practically live), I’d met The Engineer (still hasn’t called). I had to prepare myself for the reality that he could be there and I would have to be able to either ignore him without looking childish or confidentially blow him off if he talked to me without looking too concerned.

I stepped away from the door, embarrassed. But my phone rang and The Producer was coming to find me, so I went it like a big girl. I stopped to order a glass of wine and followed her into a back room. I quickly scanned the group, realized The Engineer wasn’t there and let out a big sigh of relief.

I texted B a bit and he said he’d call when he got off of work. I had a good time with The Producer and her co-workers and made plans for them to join my pals and me for dinner and a good show in a few weeks.

I paid out my tab and stayed around to drink a big glass of water (the bartended laughed when I asked for a pen to sign my receipt and some water). I wasn’t drunk by any means, but I’m one of those “better safe than sorry” types.

One of The Producer’s co-workers teased me about the last time I came out with them and I braced myself for a round of “You made out in the parking lot with a boy,” but he joked more that I hadn’t kept up drink-for-drink with them.

“I had to drive home!” I protested.

“Excuses, excuses,” he teased.

I headed out a bit before 2 a.m. and fell into bed hard. At 2:30, B called and invited me over for more drinks. I told him I was in bed and I would have to meet him another night.

“You barely just left the bar!” He complained. “How could you be in bed already!”

“I work quickly.”

You asked, I wrote more than 4,000 words in an answer. Yeah. You’ll never ask again!

If you could only continue to read one blog, which blog would you choose?

Um, hello, mine? I am so sort of joking. Kind of.

This is a bitch of a question, because I’m sure I’ll forget some wonderful blogger or look like I’m trying to suck up. So I’ll name some I love love.

My favorite of the uber-populars are Go Fug Yourself and Wonkette.

My favorite of those who date are This Fish, I am, Therefore I date and CityFlirting. (I was a huge proponent of A Singular Man, as he did a great round up of the Dating Blogosphere, but he left and never came back.)

My favorite of the mens are Neilocka and Anonymous Coworker.

My favorite Southern blogger (even though she lives above the Mason-Dixon now) is Belle in the Big Apple.

That’s just for now. Stay tuned, they change a lot.

Favorite wine?

I’ve been really into whites lately. I don’t have the money to drink the expensive stuff, so I usually go with Chateu Ste. Michelle Riesling or Eco Domani Pinot Grigio. This weekend I was all about the Sauvignon Blanc. But I also really like this one kind of inexpensive wine from South Afria, KWV Chenin Blanc Steen. (The Banker turned me on to it, even though she’s more into reds right now.)

The Beatles or Elvis?

The Beatles. Duh.

What exactly ARE grits?

Girls Raised In The South … everyone together now, “Ooooh.”

I actually looked this one up. I’ve eaten a grit or two in my day, but I’ve never had to explain them to anyone. They’re actually parts of a broken corn kernel, apparently. Quaker has a good explanation.

I eat them mostly for breakfast, although they are acceptable side or main dishes as well. (In New Orleans, they eat Grits and Grillades, but I don’t eat meat, so I pass.) A lot of people do grits with red eye gravy or cheese grits, but I like mine plain with maybe a small pat of butter mixed in. Really hot. And, yes, I make them in the microwave even though they are best made over the stove.

Mmmmm. Now I’m hungry.

What’s the big appeal with Crocks?

Ok, I have to say that I was so anti-Croc until I got my pair. I mean, I thought they were so crazy stupid looking. But yes, they are that comfortable. They are. I think it is because the material is firm with some give and really light (unlike some tennis shoes). Plus, I love anything that slides on like a slipper. And the colors are great. If you’re wearing ridiculous foam shoes, you should get them in the loudest damn color possible, right? Mine are bright pink.

Do you keep anything under your bed?

The bodies of the boys who don’t call.

No, I am serious.

Actually, usually there’s a missing shoe, a random pair of panties and my day planner.

What’s your favorite color?

I know half of you think I’ll say pink, the color of girlieness.

And the other half think I’m going to pick clear, the color of vodka.

Well, it’s actually blue. A really deep bright blue.

Where is the absolute best place to get an inexpensive (less than $50) handbag?

Can I just say that I loved this question because it gave me a chance to shop online in the name of research?

Ok, I have to say that I have found some cute, inexpensive purses at department stores on the sale rack. Sure, there are a lot of duds and leftover “Mrs. Kutcher” purses or bags with your zodiac sign on them (That was a trend? Why?), but you also catch the occasional gem, like a Kenneth Cole mini bag. The change of season is a great time to shop these sales, especially if you are like I am and your every day purse is big and black.

If you’re looking for inexpensive, you can also try Target, because it has a large array of styles. The problem I have with Target is that some of the bags look pretty cheap. You get what you pay for.

So, it is kind of touch and go sometimes. But there are some generally cute finds, like this in bright white, this small straw clutch and this cute blue East West tote. Also, Target has really embraced designer lines, like Issac Mizrahi, Luella and Fiorucci. (Although the Luella bags are totally not my style. At all. That cherry coin purse is okay, though.)

I think the key to finding inexpensive handbags is to watch the fabric of the bags. A faux leather bag is going to look a lot cheaper than a microfiber, straw or canvas bag. And thankfully canvas totes and straw bags are great for spring and summer. (Oh! And I must say that I do not like the cute little laptop bags that everyone gets from Target. I brought mine back because, yeah, my damn ThinkPad didn’t fit. Well, the laptop did, but the cords and wires and headphones and my camera didn’t. So why bother? I actually use old every day purses to carry my laptop in now. My retired Chinese Laundry Hobo is a perfect fit for the computer, cords and camera.)

Also, since we’re talking shopping on a budget, one way to get good deals is to register online with the chains or designers you frequent and for sites like Bluefly. I have a junk e-mail address for this purpose. You can get free shipping, special coupons and notification of online sales. And, if you shop a lot, pay attention to things you’d like to buy if only they weren’t so expensive and then watch for them to go on sale online. I know people hate junk mail, but I promise I have saved a lot of money using promo codes and coupons.

And, you know, I want a damn Paddington bag as much as the next girl. But I’m realistic and I know that I simply cannot afford it if I want to be able to eat and not be evicted and live. The converse of this is that I don’t feel bad about spending more than $50 on a big bag I will carry every day. It certainly isn’t necessary, but don’t beat yourself up if you have nice taste. I think I’ve maxed out at $100, but if I had the money I would have no qualms about spending more on a nice bag.

What’s your best memory?

I have so many awesome memories, but one of my favorites is stepping off of the plane at Charles de Gaulle when I was 18 for a 10-day whirlwind trip to France. I’d paid for almost every penny of the school trip (and the one the year before to D.C.) myself with babysitting and summer life guarding money I’d saved all throughout high school.

I’m the oldest and my parents would have given anything to be able to just give me the money, but there was no way they could afford it and still have me and my siblings in private school and buy a new car so I could drive the old one. (They did give me the last $100 for my plane ticket and a great all-weather coat for Christmas. And many relatives and family friends gave me small amounts of money, like $10 or $20, on the sly in the days before I left.)

I didn’t have a ton of extra money to spend on fabulous shopping or to buy anything more as presents than cheap trinkets of the Eiffel Tower. But I appreciated those 10 days more than any of my classmates who had their parents’ credit cards for limit-free shopping. I remember every sip of wine and bite of crepes and Croque Monsieurs and poulet frites and Orangina and even the dry beef dish on the airplane ride over there. I could tell you that they showed reruns of “Home Improvement” and “An Officer and a Gentleman” on the plane. I cried when I lit a candle at Notre Dame (and a little again now) and when we passed where Princess Di was killed. I would have just STAYED in the Louvre if they’d let me. Each time a chaperone offered to take us for an evening coffee at a café or for a night stroll through whatever city we were in, I went.

I pissed off French shopkeepers because I couldn’t quite figure out the money. One woman even reached in my wallet and pulled the money out for me because I did not know how much to give her. I tried in earnest to speak as much French as possible, which I think people appreciated.

I may never go back, but I hope I do. Those 10 days were worth every diaper changed, every sunburn earned and every obnoxious child refusing to go to sleep. And my parents did more for me by making me pay for it myself than they would have done if they’d put me on the plane with a thousand in “fun money” in my pocket.

My mom still has a picture of me in front of Chenonceau on the shelf in our living room.

If you have to be out of the house at a moment’s notice, what’s the one item of make-up you refuse to leave without?

Uh, wow, so I leave the house without makeup a lot. A LOT. And I was going to say Burt’s Bees Chapstick, but I actually don’t consider this makeup at all. It’s part of my maintenance and upkeep.

The truth is, I keep three products in my purse for quick polishing. Clinique Stay Matte Sheer Pressed Powder in Stay Neutral, Clinique Glosswear For Lips Sheer Shimmers in Sunset and BadGal Lash mascara by Benefit. So, I’m cheating again, but that’s it.

Incidentally, I’d like to go on record as saying that some the most beautiful women I know aren’t terribly made up or overdone. I don’t wear much base during the day. I have a basic five- minute routine that serves me well. (Sure I take more time when I can, but I am almost always runing behind schedule.) I do a light application of Clinique concealer to cover blemishes and even out underye circles, a light dusting of the aforementioned powder, a light pink or perhaps a violet shadow all over my eyelid and a swipe of light white on my brow bone and in the corner of my eye. A few swipes of Bad Gal Lash on the top lashes (and maybe the bottom), lip gloss and go.

At night I may add a bit of base or more conceler. And I also add either a rosey-brown or a deep purple to the crease of my eyelid and a dusting of blush (I actually use one of those cheap Covergirl blushes is a rosey color). And maybe a darker lip (Almost Lipstick in Sheer Blackberry by Clinique), but otherwise that’s it.

And I don’t mean to shill for Clinique. I’ve been wearing Clinique for years (my mom wears it and when I was young I always took her cast-offs from the fabulous Clinique bonuses) and I find it applies well, it doesn’t irritate my skin, the colors compliment my skin tone. While it isn’t drug store cheap, it is worth the little bit of money you spend on it.

And I’m serious. The lady from the Clinique counter at the mall called me to tell me it was “Bonus Time” a few weeks back. And you so think I’m joking and I’m not.

OK, you seem to be an interesting and fun person on the page? In what big way are you different in real life?

I’m actually not fun and interesting?

Kidding!

In the “real world,” I think I’m less confident, less willing to speak my mind, more fearful of rejection. The blog allows me to do two things. First, it allows me to just get out an emotion and be done with it. And it is allows me to edit myself and not share every little aspect of everything. At times, in real life I am even more neurotic and fall into those painful single-girl traps. (“If I go to his favorite bar, maybe he’ll stop by!”)

Also, I get in these moods. This weekend, I went out for three nights in a row. But I’ll go weeks without social occasions and ignore my cell phone and just brood.

I can be really catty and bitchy at times. I am a loud mouth and terribly inappropriate at times. I don’t think before I speak, especially when I am drunk. And I definitely hold a lot of stuff in to avoid conflict. I am not always Charming. Sometimes, I am just super unfabulous and cranky. It is not all wine and heels and manicures, trust me.

While I am infinitely more confident than I was years ago, I still have these moments of sheer terror where I worry that I’m making an ass out of myself or that people are laughing at me and not with me or that I really really really am going to wind up totally alone and living in a retirement community with no visitors ever.

And my kitchen is always a mess.

Top five worst pick-up lines (or attempts, whatever you like) you’ve unfortunately been forced to endure.

Oh, this should be fun.

Well, one time a guy leaned over and gave me a soft kiss on the lips and then pulled back and said, “What was that? Let’s find out!” and then totally went in for the full-on lip lock tongue attack. It was. Just. Wow. And not in a good way.

Another night a very intoxicated dorky friend of a friend was talking (I use the term “talking” loosely as “slurring” would be more appropriate.) to me and trying to be all cool. I don’t know what I said or didn’t say, but the next thing I knew, he had extinguished a lit cigarette ON HIS TONGUE. And he was proud of himself and thinking I would be impressed. I just paid my tab and left.

“Are those real?” I’ve gotten this more than once. Assholes. All of them.

“I need love. S, we all need love,” said a male friend of mine who unfortunately is nowhere near my type. He was drunk, we were dancing at a bar and he leaned in and was going to go for the full-on kiss. Fortunately I don’t think he remembers that I just smiled and grabbed another male friend of mine and thankfully the song changed. Or if he does remember it, he doesn’t say anything about it. He’s a nice boy, so I didn’t make a big thing about it. (Although I will admit that there was some bitchiness shared with my girlfriends in private.)

One hysterical night I made out with the same (younger) boy as my College Roommate. We’d just moved into a new complex and had been bragging about our hot tub all night. The younger guy we’d both kissed was so impressed by this and it took him awhile and a few minutes of bad conversation to realize that, under no circumstance would he be getting roommate-on-roommate action in the public hot tub at our apartment. No way.

Those are in no particular order. And actually, they’re just the first five I thought of.

As someone who has no idea what they want to be when they grow up, i’d like to know more about what is involved in PR work–it sounds like it would be right up my alley. I have thought about getting into it. Any advice? Things I should know?

PR is awesome work because you get to be involved with the hustle and bustle where you are working. You have to be in the know in order to do your job. I’ve never worked for a firm, but I enjoy working in my current job because I get to work with a lot of people across different departments and specialties and I have greater access to the decision makers here than the average mid-twenties staffer in an entry-level job. I get to write and do some light graphic design and some media relations work.

I guess what I think aspiring PR people need to know is that there are A LOT of different kinds of marketing and communication jobs. Sometimes you’re doing PR for a company or an organization or an issue and you do a little bit of everything. But you can also work in a more “event planning” role and work on specific functions for different clients. I knew someone who did fundraising and event planning and she LOVED it. I would hate working with caterers and florists. Bo-ring!

I think some people watch Samantha on “Sex and the City” or PoweR Girls on MTV and think, “Fun! Celebrities! Big paychecks! I want to do this.” And while that may be the reality in small subset of PR in large cities like New York or Los Angeles, I would wager that most Public Relations professionals do far less exciting things, like write articles for the company newsletters and prepare correspondence for the high ups.

That said, I love my job. And I think I play an important role, because it doesn’t matter how great your company, organization or client is if no one knows what you do or understands how you fit into the larger picture or if you just don’t communicate your goals well. (And I have NEVER wanted to be the person promoting the charity golf tournament. Ever.)

There are a lot of ways to get your feet wet. If you are in college, I would recommend getting some practical experience however you can. Too many people don’t do anything in college and then expect to get great jobs and it isn’t going to happen. Colleges have A LOT of opportunities for aspiring PR people in addition to just classes. Some schools hire students as interns in their public affairs departments. There are PR student organizations you can join and some local professional PR organizations have a student rate (especially if they’re in a college town).

Also, some large college organizations have a PR person for their club who promotes membership and helps plans events and fundraisers and may even deal with local or college media some. (I know this sounds lame, but say you go to a large college and you are a member of a organization with several hundred members. Chances are you have a Web site (which you can help maintain and produce content for) and an award or scholarship fund and ALL of these things have to be planned and promoted well. And if you can go into an interview for an internship or job and say, “I helped plan this fundraiser for the Young Business Sharks, designed this ad about our Jaws party that ran in our college newspaper and we had two news items published about this and raised $5,000 to help pay for our members to attend an Eat or Be Eaten business competition, where we placed third,” then you are going to be much more impressive than someone who just got a B in Campaigns, but really “is, like, a total people person.” Because colleges are like little cities and if you show that you can do your job well within a small community, then chances are you will be more likely to duplicate that success than someone who just went to class and that’s it.)

Also, you have to be able to write well. You have to be able to explain complicated things (your company’s financials, your organization’s position on an issue, D’orsay heels versus slingbacks) clearly and quickly. While smiling. (Unless smiling would be inappropriate, like if you were doing PR for that mine that collapsed or something.) I would actually recommend writing for a local publication or college paper if you can. You want to be able to bring something into an interview to show that you’ve got skills. I CANNOT stress the importance of honing your writing skills enough. As a PR professional, people in your organization will look to you for well-written, effective messaging.

If you’re not in school and are just considering a career change, I would keep my eye out for volunteer opportunities. Civic organizations and nonprofits often need some PR help, which may be a good way to get some experience part-time AND will help get you connections. (For example, if you’re helping with a fundraiser for a group, you will probably have to deal with the PR people for companies making donations.)

Ok that’s a long answer. But yes. PR rules. Dude, we should so start a PR chicks blog ring or something.

Favourite shoes? Describe to tiniest detail please. Possibly with a picture. Where you found them, why you love them.

I’m going to go with my favorite right now, because I change my mind a lot. You will see pictured a pair of black, high-heeled, pointy toe boots from Nine West. They are black with a side zipper and an almost stiletto-like heel. They come up about two inches above my ankle, so not quite mid calf.

I bought them in October at the Nine West boot sale. I think I paid $50 for them on sale, so they were probably originally between $80 and $100, I suppose. They are definitely a great purchase because they are very comfortable and have a really classic shape. I imagine I will be able to wear these next fall and winter just as much as I wear them now.

The heel is high. It is probably less than three inches, but more than two. But I like it because in the past I’ve had boots with such clunky heels that were big and square and not ladylike at all. And so I still feel slightly dainty with the stiletto heel instead of a thick, stacked man heel.

Also, you might not be able to see it, but there are very small treads on the ball of the rubberish sole. They’re tiny little raised bumps and you really cannot see them at all when I have them on. But they give the lightest bit of grip, which makes it easy to walk. I don’t slide or slip and because the sole isn’t hard and it gives some, it took me an almost negligible amount of time to break them in. They’re great with trousers or jeans, so I can wear them to nights out at the bar (as I did this weekend) but also to dinner with nice black pants.

All around, worth every cent I spent.

Has anyone found out your identity?

Uh, no. What have you heard?

What’s your favorite drink?

Anything vodka-based is fine by me. But lately I’ve been drinking a lot of wine. Although I do still shake up a Cosmo every now and again.

Would you wear socks with sandals?

Only if I had some terrible foot-related disease and I was required to cover my feet en route to the hospital and all I had to wear were sandals. But, otherwise, hell no.

Do you like Metro cards?

Metro cards? As in the things you use to ride the Metro in DC? I mean, sure, I guess I like them as much as people in New York like subway tokens …

Who’s your pick on American Idol?

Taylor Hicks. I mean, I have to cheer for the man my mom wants me to marry …

Would you like fries with that?

Only if they are baked sweet potato.

What is the story of losing your losing your virginity?

I contemplated answering this. I really did.

But ultimately, I’ve never wanted to be a sex blogger and I’ve never wanted to dish too much about this particular activity we all enjoy so much. (Go back through the archives, you’ll see that I always stop before it gets too steamy.) Some people mix in details with their stories, and I envy their ability to be so frank.

Also, I am a lady. A LADY! ;P

What’s your funniest date story?

I went on this terrible set-up one time. We saw “Cruel Intentions” and he was not cute and there was a trailer for the South Park movie and the guy spoke in his best Cartman voice FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT. And I was miserable because he was just very dorky and awkward and should have been at home playing Magic: The Gathering or something. Afterwards we went to get snacks and hang out at someone’s house and the guy was so lame, so cheesy and just terrible. He kept saying, “I want some CHEEEEESY POOOOUUUFS!” and insisted that we get root beer in the bottle because “it looked like we were buying beer.” (I think we were 19 at the time, maybe.)

I bought a mini container of Ben and Jerry’s and suffered through the rest of the evening by starting my routine of erasing the memory of a horrible date with ice cream BEFORE THE DATE WAS EVEN OVER. And the guy so leaned in for a kiss when he dropped me off at my dorm and I ducked really obviously and gave him a hug and all but ran into my dorm, never to see him again.

Have I told that one before? I think I have. It is funny now, but it was terrible at the time. I still convulse when I think of “Cruel Intentions,” which is ironic because I took a class on Laclos and Les Liaisons Dangereuses in college and I have seen four or five versions of the “Dangerous Liaisons” story told via movie. And my final paper compared how different filmmakers interpreted an aspect of the book and why. So I actually own “Cruel Intentions” now. But I still shudder when I put it on.

Last night I was at my parents’ house for a few hours while my Dad tried to fix my windshield wipers, which have not been wiping. At all.

So we’re watching American Idol and I’m helping my mom fold laundry. I’m giving her updates on each of the performers. (”He’s got his brother in the crowd.” Or “They barely showed him at all before this, so he’ll never make it through.” “Man, I hope Brenna gets cut.”) She doesn’t like Simon very much, but she is mildly amused by the show.

And then gray-haired Taylor Hicks comes on.

“Oh Mom, listen to him. I like this guy,” I said. “He sings really well and is really passionate about it and he just reminds me of the sweetest of the good ol’ Southern boys I know.”

“You like him?” Her ears perked up.

“Yeah, listen to him. He sings differently. Listen to him sing with that great strong voice with a bit of understated rasp. Not to mention, he seems cool. I could have a beer with him and he can play the harmonica.”

“How old is he? He’s got gray hair!”

“Um, late 20s? I don’t know, he’s older than I am.”

“Well, is he single?”

“What? How would I know that?”

“Well, I mean, is he? You know other things about other people. So, you should know if he is single. You seem to be really into him.”

Ah yes, my mother is trying to set me up with male semi-finalists from American Idol now. She has given up on random young men she sees at work, various sons and grandsons of people she knows and the occasional cute waiter or guy on the street. Poor mom. She just wants me to get married so very, very much.

Sigh.

So, call me, Taylor. A nice Southern boy like you would make my momma one very happy lady and my daddy a proud poppa.

It has been seven months since I last opened the floor for questions. Since readers seem to cycle in and out (and because I am having a long workweek) I thought La Charming would answer questions again.

You can read the previous answers here. The same rules as last time apply, meaning– I am not doing anything to further crumble my already damaged anonymity. I probably will not answer repeats and I reserve the right to ignore you if you are being mean, offensive or otherwise obnoxious.

So, post your questions in the comments. They can be about me, about blogging, about men, about dating, about shoes, etc. And, you can ask as many as you like, be‘cause if you get annoying, I will just ignore you like a drunk drooling boy at a bar. You ha’ve been warned.

Just remember that I a’m a professional question-answerer and I can be pretty slick.

Just what the Internets needed … another bored blogger posting pictures of her mundane existence.

Just in case you wanted a glimpse into the life of La Charming, I present (for your viewing pleasure) my Sunday evening:

Oh wow. Look at that grout up close. Remind me to bleach that.

This is me breaking in some new, inexpensive slingbacks I bought for work purposes. I had to take off my Crocs to accomplish this. I like to break in new shoes whilst houseworking …