The Etymology of "Raw"

Astro Lux was indeed evaded last night. Despite the effect that a bottle of wine, 4 G&Ts and a beer usually has on my judgment, I was finally convinced that evasion was the only viable option after Lux described *read: warning!* his friends as "raw". Now, "raw" reminds me simultaneously of potentially fatal meat and condom-less sex, so the possibility that an entire group of people that one chooses to socialize with can be described as "raw", led me directly to the fountain of all knowledge: Urban Dictionary.

"An adjective describing something completely hardcore and awesome; anything truly amazing and cool; anything tight in the ultimate way; frequently followed by shit, as in 'raw shit'". [HAHAHA] Note: I was not completely remiss. This listing was directly preceded by, "Sex without a condom. i.e. I did that bitch raw." Nice. Ah, and in case we were unconvinced how ultimately tight the word "raw" can be, the sample sentence provided details, "I got a job. My boss smokes bud, dude! Like, we'll have hour-long breaks and he breaks out this bombass nug and I get paid! That's raw!" [Really, you have a job? Although, I do applaud the proficient use of syntax, so OK, you've convinced me.]

The real travesty of Urban Dictionary as a tool in general is that I find the synonyms listed at the top of the page to be slightly unreliable. As a mere budding scholar in the pursuit of a more hood-rat vocabulary, I feel misled by the listing of "sushi", "krispy", and "vagina" as possible options to replace "raw" in conversation. (Clearly I need to avoid redundancy, as to maintain the ultimate-ness of my krispy sushi vagina ways; In combination, that probably means triple raw.)

The official Etymology of "raw" includes descriptors such as, "thick fluid", "serum", "bloody", "sore", "inexperienced" as well as "damp and chilly". In sum, this all still sounds more like someone losing their virginity than a group of purportedly "hardcore and awesome" amigos. Conflicting sources left me momentarily waylaid trying to decide whether the raw-ness of Lux's friends was in fact positive or not.

Ultimately, after consulting Kelly, her text summed up all I needed to know: "Hahahaha, yeah that can't mean anything classy."

Diesel trauma & Astro Lux hones in

So recently, (we already knew Diesel was evil...and yes his name MAY have been inspired by the malicious band of trains in the Thomas the Train series) my "relationship" with Diesel as was (casual dating etc.) went from holding hands and public and snuggling at night, to being ignored for a week and *OH THE KICKER* finding out from FACEBOOK that he's in a relationship with another girl. Free bonus? It tells me they started dating December 13th...before he even contacted me at all. Now, I knew this guy was a jerk and thought it was a maturity delay...come to find the bastard has not one scrap of integrity. In retrospect, I feel he did me a favor by bowing out- who needs someone like that!?

Unfortunately, these events- having severely impacted my self esteem, especially after noting Diesel girl's fake tan and bleached over-processed hair- lowered my man filter, and in snuck Astro Lux. Now, the real gem of this information is that that is a self-inflicted pseudonym. I generally delight in creating them, but really none could top what this character in question had created for himself as a facebook name. I suppose if there is a real piece de resistance of this story, it would be that he randomly friended me and started facebook chatting me a few months ago...and I finally ran into him last week completely randomly at Christian's Pizza at 1 am. Ugh. After survivor hour + 5 more drinks, chatting him up seemed like such a good idea. After Astro Lux explained to me last week that he prefers to be "inclusive" (aka be in open relationships with multiple people at the same time), I successfully avoided him and ignored a weekend text message. Hush: 1. Astro Lux (haha, I can't even type that without laughing...): 0. At any rate, yesterday he sensed weakness and rushed in for the jugular. I may have agreed to meet up at bars this weekend. Hopefully surrounded by a posse so deep he can't find me.

Clearly, this chain of events necessitated a night out at bars with friends and multiple rounds of G&Ts. Sidenote: channeling my good friend Hannah (hope you're reading this- love you!), I felt an overwhelming need last night to move from bar to bar in a joyous skipping, dancing fist-to-the ground pumping motion. Imagine a sort of tribal dance of the drunken hero. There was lots of hopping, butt bumping, and low kicking involved too. Reflecting on this, I realize my friends are very tolerant people and allowed me my fun sans comment.

We arrive eventually at Baja Bean for karaoke and sign up for, what I believe I wrote down as the Spicy Girls. Fresh. Enter (stage right): Busta (it was karaoke...you riddle it out), an eager beaver JAG school UVA Law alum. Anyone who runs at 4am carrying a deadly weapon and wearing combat boots is automatically insane, I'm sorry. (For those of you who never rowed crew at UVA and did not have the pleasure of getting up at 4:30am for morning workouts on the reservoir, JAG-ers do this like 3 times a week rain or shine and it looks excruciatingly un-enjoyable). And Busta was a toucher. A close talking, arm patting, shoulder rubbing toucher...GA I just met you dude, stay in your bubble, yea? Alas, he had good teeth, I was still feeling the need for validation after the Diesel trauma... agreeing to give him my number seemed like a good plan at this juncture. To Kelly, Willa, and Erin: I tip my hat, you tried to stop it. *Sigh*

On a more positive note, Blade was in fact coaxed out to bars. The aforementioned ladies and I had worked out a series of basic hand signals so they could let me know whether they thought he was attractive or not (they never agree with my taste). A simple hand motion around the ocular area was all that was necessary to indicate that yes in fact, he is hott. Trying to keep myself together became impossible, when I looked over at Kelly for "the signal" and she was rubbing her temple so vigorously, had it not looked so ridiculous I might have been worried. At least we were all in agreement.

Expect updates after Saturday. Forseeable hijinks in the near future!

Hitler rang my doorbell

Now, I’m not usually one to write about dreams; I generally think they’re pretty boring. Some of the worst conversations I’ve ever had started out when I was trapped in a car with a friend, and they say, “So, I had the weirdest dream last night!” The obligatory, “Oh, really!? What happened??” ensues, and I take a mental nap for the next 20 minutes. Hypocritically enough, I am about to do this exact same thing, except we’re not stuck in a car together, so feel free to exit at any point.

It’s 1:20 AM and I’ve just woken up, heart pounding covered in sweat, by what may have been THE most fucked up dream I’ve ever had. You be the judge.

So…the doorbell rings. I peer through that creepy little peephole (does anyone else ever feel like they’re offering their eyeball up to unnecessary risk when doing this?? Perhaps I was a mobster in my former life: food for thought). “Who is it already,” you ask? Ah, well, obviously it’s one of my best friends Kelly, a guy I recently went on a few dates with (I henceforth christen thee ‘Diesel’, an unidentified sidekick, and Hitler. Yes, Hitler rang my doorbell.

It was all there, from his prickish fancy boots, the belt stamped with “Gott mit uns” and what was undoubtedly the most unfortunate display of facial hair since Rip Van Winkle awoke from his 20-year siesta. And I KNOW what he wanted: one of the new-born kittens that was hiding under my bed.

“What the fuuuuckkk,” you think. Coincidence: me too. It was one of those dream sequences where your brain throws you a curveball. The current scene was now entirely dependent upon the existence of kittens under my bed, the birthing of which would remain elusive to me, but they were there; and Hitler wanted one.

At some point around now, Hitler took a proverbial backseat, and Diesel took center stage along with his real-life best friend/roommate- henceforward: ‘The Trigger’. Now, Diesel was pissed. I believe it was at this point his countenance turned in to some strange amalgamation akin to, how I would imagine the fusion of 2-faces burned bottom layer and his Joker mask. As this point, I believe my heart rate took a distinct leap. The asshole was also equipped with a machete.

Luckily, I was prepared with my trusty Glock (no, I do not in fact own anything of this sort) and I emptied a few clips that seemed to serve no purpose other than to irritate machete-packin’ Diesel. At the very moment, when I was sure he was going to wield that blade high and slice me to pieces, I awoke. I was flailing more violently than when you wake up after a fun (and gin)-filled night at bars, crack an eye and don’t recognize the sheets on the bed you’ve found yourself in. I threw on the light, panting, and grabbed my journal and pencil to excise this event from my mind. It’s now 1:53. I stop. I smile.

Hah. At least Hitler never got his kitten.

SUPER AZN SKILLZ YO LOL

I have fallen, within the past 6 months, into the deep dark pit of online dating; during this period, my surprise about the utter weirdness of people has somehow managed to intensify daily. The title of this posting in fact, was lifted from an actual Match.com user's account because it made me laugh out loud. Hilarious? Yes. But you have less than 10 words to sum yourself up to a potential date and all you can come up with is, "SUPER AZN SKILLZ YO LOL"??!

Last night I had a first date with a fellow match.com-er I thus dub "Blade" (inspired by a true fantasy of lycra and sequins that was a Blades of Glory Halloween costume). It was a truly great, and if you know anything about me personally, un-blogworthy event. Absolutely nothing disastrous, awkward, embarrassing, or completely dangerous occurred (clearly something is amiss...what about the days of meeting strangers under the ball in Times Square on New Year's Eve? What about sleeping over in the greyhound bus station in Richmond because I was snowed in and intent to visit aforementioned New Year's Eve Loser?? Am I becoming...average???) He was even as attractive in person as his online pictures suggested, which makes telling this story that much less interesting (if positive potential for my future dating life) and made the two bottles of wine we polished off at The Local a pleasantry as opposed to a necessity.

I digress from the original intent of my post momentarilly to mention that Blade is 30. Recently I have been applying a new dating 'technique' shall we say...date progressively older men until you find one at an age where he has finally progressed past the stage of hormone-obsessed, unreliable, pre-teen with a boner. Alas: success!

I continue my digression (because I have piqued my own interest, and it's my blog and I can do what I want). I've discovered, from gritty in-the-trenches research (the things I do to amuse myself...) a discrete series of man stages that occur between 20 and 30. I'm going to lay them out here, but they are in no way set in stone. Feel free to comment, add insight, or suggest additional stages of man you have discovered (must be based on personal research however!!) and if you add a slightly embarrassing story that led you to your discovery, to you friend: instant props.

Stage 1) 20-22: This is a no-brainer. These are little boys doing keg stands and bong rips. If you're looking for a serious commitment, or even someone who rolls over in the morning and remembers you're there (if he remembers your name, he is completely advanced for this stage and a possible qualifier for Stage 2 upgrade) keep walking.

Stage 2) 22-24: Who's getting married? Military men. If you're more interested in getting the rock, than nabbing the ideal man, just look for one in uniform. Otherwise, men at this age are just settling into their careers. They are obsessed with what they do, how they will make money, and are basically self-centered in general. These guys are fun and cocky. If you are looking for a one-night-stand, Stage 2 is your man. Looking for more? They're not ready yet, pass Go, collect $200 and move to stage 3.

Stage 3) 24-26: These men start to think, "Oh shit, I might almost kind of be getting old." Don't be fooled: almost only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades. They quickly rebound from the shock of being a quarter of a century old and start enjoying the benefits of having more money and independence while being simultaneously (and for the last time in their lives) sporting a full head of hair and no noticeable fine lines or wrinkles. This comes at a cost however. There is some sort of crisis that goes on at this stage that prevents our bachelor in question from getting really serious with a girl. The aging party boy is starting to feel like he needs a new niche. Our ex pledge master craves a new and classier brotherhood void of strange hazing rituals, sorority brats, any type of Miller beer, and bitchy girls in general. They start to take into consideration both brains and boobs, but need time to complete this little quarter life crisis alone. I suggest waiting until they've come out the other side and discovered the world of good wine, better conversation, and women that don't look like strippers or ballerinas.

Stage 4) 27-29: This is the final stage of our man stew we've been brewing up here. Let it simmer, sample it, throw in some seasoning and be patient. The previously described crisis is wrapping up, but shows intermittent peaks of rediculous and inexplicable behavior as men start to attend their guy friends' weddings and realize they are still single...and almost actually kind of old. Shotgunning beers on your back porch alone is not as fun as it may sound, and the dog they got at 22 is either dead, getting close to it, or just not cutting it anymore. Make yourself available to a stage 4 man but turn and run if he shows flakiness, general unpredictability, and unreliability. You don't need to beat around the bush with these guys anymore, they respect women that command respect, know what they want, and refuse to settle. Be that hot bitch (and still be nice).

Stage 5) 30-33: Our amazing bachelor has achieved his best single self at this point. It's your turn to show him he can only be truly better under your influence. These guys will be gentlemen, take things slow if they are interested in you, and generally try to woo you if they are interested; there should be no guesswork involved. If they do not display ALL of these signs of maturation: leave. They may never grow up, and if they need a woman to show them how, are they really worth the effort?

The birth of a hypocardriac

While riding in the car with my friend Sarah to get coffee the other day, she cocked her head to the side, wrinkled her brow, and if it were actually possible to see her ear strain, it might even have quivered with exertion. "Do you hear that?...I think my car is like...vibrating more than normal or something?" And so it was coined: Hypocardria. The obsessive, nit-picking, irrational sensitivity we all harbor towards our vehicles.

You all know what I'm talking about. The: I-feel-like-it's-pulling-a-little-to-the-left-(Haha, that's what she said)-weird-clunking-do-you-smell-burning?-do-you-hear-rattling-on-your-side? kind of supersonic perception humans develop when riding in their very own heap of $10,000 + metal. Mysteriously, 99% of the time, only the owner of the said heap of metal notices any of these non-existent maladies.

My dad, and rightful owner of my car, runs out and whips open the door when I go home before even giving me a hug. He turns the key and cocks his ear to the wind like a hungry desert lion listening in for its next meal. Please note, this man was exempt from going to war in Vietnam because he is partially deaf in BOTH ears. There is an audible intake of breath as he listens for the phantom rumbles that convince him I have abusing his real child while driving it around. Step away from the Trailblazer dad.

Then, comes the inevitable "walk-around" check of the car. He finds the fleck of paint from where someone opened their door and hit my car ("You haven't been parking in the furthest spot!") and smudge on my bumper from where someone tapped me getting out of a tight parallel spot. He grows increasingly red-faced, and strangely even my reminders that the first day he bought the car he accidentally mowed it down with the snow-blower and send it in for thousands of dollars of repair, do not assuage his fury. Hypocardria exhibit A.

Inevitably, I succumb to this strange psychological disease last week. While driving to the gym in the morning, I was convinced my car was literally leaning to the left like the leaning tower of fucking Pisa (clearly I had not really thought this through). I frantically parked, ran around my car and checked my tires. Alas, all was well with the Blazer. Unfortunately, there I stood, freezing my ass off in a random parking lot at 7 am staring at my perfectly fine car. Hypocardria exhibit B.

Please do not put your hand in your underwear

I begin my tale with a recent story about a friend I will call Web Cam Casanova, or just Cas since we are among friends. A remnant of what was a wine and gnocchi-filled semester "studying" in Italy two years ago, the friendship between Cas and myself is maintained mostly via facebook chat at odd hours late at night. More often than not, these convenient conversations occur around 10 pm EST, or 4 am his time when he is rolling back from bars and feeling frisky.

Being naive, and eternally optimistic that Italian men are not actually as sleezy as their general reputation paints them to be, I saw these mini-conversations as an opportunity to stroll down memory lane, practice a little bit of my Italian, and laugh at Cas' supremely terrible English. Until two nights ago in fact, this was indeed the comfortable formula of our chats...and then we skyped.

While any normal, average 20-something girl would immediately run when hearing the words "skype" and "you have cam, no?" uttered in the same breath from a foreign male acquaintance she has not seen in two years, I, not being one to shy away from a potentially ridiculous situation agreed hesitantly, uncoiled the cable on my dusty web cam and logged in to Skype.

Prepared to "parlare un po' d'Italiano" I accepted Cas' video call and positioned myself so that the light would catch me at my most flattering and slimming angle (does anyone else watch their own video to make sure they still look good on Skype more than check out the other person??). As if speaking broken Italian/English staring at an egregiously pixilated screen would not be awkward enough, Cas appeared, reclining in bed wearing just his boxers and a set of bedroom eyes. All that was missing was a red rose clenched between his teeth.

And so began a strangely-worded debate about the merits (or lack thereof) of...skbanging I suppose I will call it. Cas starts heating up down south and decides to whip out his penis and checks in with me, "It is big no? tell me...what you think?" (Mental dialogue at this point: "Sign off. Not hard." Yet curiousity gets the best of me.) "E io che pensavo che il David fosse piccolo!" (And I thought that the David was small!) Cas laughs, and I see that this will take more a more direct explanation of why this situation is really fucking weird.

I proceed to explain in the simplest English I can, after many failed attempts at explaining: "We...just friends...solo amici!"

Cas: "Ahh yes, but, you tell me, it is normal or not normal, this?"

Me: (REALLY!? I have to answer that for you??) "NOT NORMAL! Weird. Strano. In America, this is weird."

Cas: Continues trying to convince me to try a little digital get-down sesh. (Oh yea N'Sync late 90's).

Me: Last try. "Ok. It is not normal. You and me= only friends...When we talk...Please do not put your hand in your underwear."

Sign off.

Intro

A friend recently suggested I begin a blog about the trials, tribulations, and mostly hilarious misfortunate events that are my life (more specifically: my less-than-fabulous dating life). I prefer to believe she thinks my stories are so hilarious they should be shared, and not just so bored that she's hoping I become so consumed by my blog she doesn't have to listen to them anymore.

I've been recently described by various people as glamorous, fun, socially awkward, and a booze-hound (thanks mum, for that last one). I plan to make these entries thoughtful, witty, original, and mostly entertaining. If you have ever dreamed of having a weird, fun, drunk online friend you've never actually met, this blog is for you. Welcome.