Archive for the ‘apropos of nothing’ Category

NTKOG #91: The  kind of classy, elegant woman who — not content with merely nodding approval at happy events — dispatches a proper written thank-you on lovely stationery through the USPS.

I am: grateful for all the awesome in my life, honest.

I am not: super diligent about actually putting it in words, though. Or at least not in my crappy third-grade cursive.

The Scene: Coffee table, my apartment, me working through a box of cute thank-you stationery. I purchased it when I moved in in September and set a personal NTKOG goal of actually getting through the box. Put two letters in the mail today and — bam! — it’s done. First time I’ve ever gone through a whole box of stationery, actually, and hopefully not the last. Although if I’m completely honest, I should have gone through the box of ten measly notes within my first week here. Thanks to my sister for concert tickets, various people for housewarming presents, owners of couches I’ve crashed on and parties I’ve attended — there’s a lot to be thankful for.

But these aren’t stories, so allow me to fill my humble space today (and not much of it, I promise) with a public thank you to one of the people I love most in this crazy, mixed-up world: one of my dear friends, and my bff’s boyfriend: Muscles.

Aside from the syphilis on the nose, this is an eerily accurate portrayal.

Sock portrait self-portrait made by Muscles (who is British and whom we can therefore forgive for not understanding the whole fold-over-the-toe-to-make-a-moving-mouth convention).

Muscles is an up-and-coming theatre manager and was, until recently, a Shakespearean actor (sometimes nude). He is also — in the Elizabethan idiom — a paragon of man. One of those insanely charming dudes who makes the whole room happier when he smiles, and could make a Buckingham Palace guard laugh ’til he got the hiccups. My first hint that Muscles was a prince among men was the day I realized my best friend liked him more than she liked me (THE NERVE!), and I didn’t even hate him for it. Although I did punch him that one time.

He was the earliest and loudest supporter of this silly blog, he always orders the best beers, and he’s totally my pick for benevolent leader if we ever get in a Lord of the Flies situation, ’cause dude could punch out a friggin’ bear. He’s also applying for a few prestigious MFA programs for Theatre Management right now and — I was wondering. I know there’s lots of really heavy stuff going on in the world right now, what with the AIDs and the orphans and the Haiti, but I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind taking just half a second to think: “I hope Muscles gets in!” Sort of an “I believe in fairies” situation? Because I’m a big believer: 1) in positive thought, and 2) that sometimes great things happen to great people, and that’s okay by me.

And if you are accusing me of writing this soppy, lame post just because Muscles had the foresight to send me a box of my very favorite Levain cookies yesterday, to that I can only say: you are suspicious, deeply untrusting, and, what, do you have cameras installed in my apartment or something?! (That said: send a thank-you card this weekend; hug the awesome friends you’re lucky enough to have.)

Oh man, all that emo crap. The other huge faction of people I have to thank — continually, continually, guys — is you for coming here and actually reading my namby-pamby prose every weekday. I crunched a few numbers and realized that as of now I’ve written over 100,000 words for this blog, about the length of To Kill A Mockingbird, but with far fewer racial slurs and smokin’ hot lawyers. I mean, holy shit, can we just talk about that for a sec? I’ve never in my life been able to stick with a project (cue a panning shot of melted figurines from the aborted claymation, sonnet cycles abandoned mid-rhyme, my senior honors thesis finished so fast there was literally blood on the pages), but by chipping away that this day by day, I’ve written something of novel length. Blows my dang mind.

So: 1) if you’ve actually read the archives or been here from the beginning, I just about want to smooch you; 2) I read blogs all day like it’s my job, and want to take a sec to make sure I’m reading yours. Do you run a sweet friggin’ blog that is totally bereft of stupid-clever comments by TKOG? If so, I will no longer stand for it! Heckle me in the comments section, please, so I can add you to my (bloated, oozy) googs reader and, subsequently, to my mornings. Don’t be shy!


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You guys! Because I am the most negligent blogger I know, I’ve committed a terrible faux pas and let a bit of housework pile up: A few amazingly awesome bloggers have nominated me for those ubiquitous blog awards, and I been a TERRIBLE OAF and not given proper credit where credit is due! So, thanks to:

Elliott of Cheesehead Displacement Syndrome, whose movie quote Mondays are always way too hard for me to guess, but whose Fun Fact Fridays I always look forward to. Like this one about the G Spot, which had me giggling at work.

Thanks to Tara at Wife of a Newly Wife, who’s basically so adorable I want to hug her and whose monthly anniversary posts about her (five-month-ago!) wedding are too cute to miss.

Thanks also to Dating Is My Hobby, whose thoughtful and “omg so true!” posts are a must-read for any other single girls!

Thanks to Sada at 30 is the new 13, about whom I can only say: even when there are 500 unread entries in my Google Reader, I still scroll the sidebar specifically to check whether one of those unread entries is from her. If so? It totes jumps the queue.

Callie at The Secret to Success, on whose archives I’m very happily binging even now.

Ali at My Travel Rambling, whose gorgeous photography and lush descriptions give this happy Bostonian a big ol’ case of wanderlust!

Okay, guys, not going to lie: these blogging awards all come with stipulations to name ten things that make you happy or seven dwarfs that signify  life fulfillment or your fifteen favorite consequences of the fall of the Ottoman Empire — whatever — as well as the requirement to re-tag a few bloggers. But since the format of my site makes reposting blog awards awkward (not that I don’t love receiving them! Hint?), I don’t want to bore you with a million lists.

A compromise: I’ve finally stopped being a total beast and updated my blogroll, on the bottom of my right sidebar. Go check out all those blogs (as well as the ones that awarded me!). Seriously. And you can go ahead and take that as a sign that I’ve tagged you, because obviously I adore you.

Okay, really can’t make up your mind? Blogs that I’ve discovered since the last time I awarded and are most on my mind right now: Nostomanic (Amber, I basically consider this post a let’s-be-besties proposal, dude); Restaurant Refugee (this post is the one that sealed the deal); Hyperbole and a Half (does everyone already read this? I’ll never think of “Apologize” the same way again).

Happy Sunday, dudes. Now I’m off to ride the T with no pants on.

[Edit: Oh my gosh, I am QUADRUPLE OAF WITH A DOUBLE SIDE OF BEASTLY! I completely forgot to thank Sadako at Dibbly Fresh for the Beautiful Blogger Award! This is doubly offensive as I spent much of Sunday going through her archives in honor of her one-year blogiversary! Click that link to see her own top ten posts, and might I add this one on iconoclastic chicks of ’90s pop culture!)

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Have y’all entered MY GIVEAWAY yet?! If not, you probably should. I guarantee this story will make you want to take a very cleansing bath.

Tonight, while catching the Top Chef finale at Sister’s to root on my imaginary boyfriend, Kevin (so cute!), Sister and I became aware of an uninvited guest in her kitchen. I was headed in to grab some water when a huge mouse scampered across the floor. And let me say, though I’ve always mocked the cartoonish stereotype that any woman in the presence of a mouse immediately shrills “EEEEK!” while jumping on the nearest ottoman — dude. Totally came to pass. The wonderful experience also reminded me of the time earlier this year when my house in California hosted its own plague.

For much of last March, I woke up every morning from dreams that minnows and crawdads and other hideous beasts were swimming underneath my skin. I’d jerk myself to consciousness in the wee hours, scratching bloody rivulets through my thighs and lower stomach. But since this was a pleasant change of pace from my usual nightmares (killing former flames in car crashes is often thematized), I bandaged myself up and thought surprisingly little of it. As the days passed, I started scratching a lot, but none of the four guys I lived — not even The Ex — had any bites or complaints, so I chalked it up to an overactive imagination.

Then, on April Fool’s Day (of course!), I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, and saw a little speck scuttle across my thigh. Holy friggin’ shit. I scoured my skin and saw two of the little dudes — translucent beasts, the size of a pencil point, looking in every respect like miniature crabs. Wait, did I say translucent? Right before my eyes, one of them turned a glowing crimson. The little dude was recharging his hit points by DRAWING IN MY BLOOD.

After some discretionary shrieking, stared down the bathroom and everything looked normal except — jesus, the whole wall by the toilet was moving. It was covered with the bugs so thick that the drywall looked like it was shimmering. But translucent, right?, so you could only see them if you were looking for them. Judicious application of my google fu revealed that not only did we have tropical rat mites, but, inevitably, somewhere, rats lurked.

Frantic calls to all the big extermination companies could only get us an appointment for a screening a week later, with treatment beginning after two weeks. TWO WHOLE WEEKS. During which time, The Ex and I had no choice but to launder our sheets every night and sleep while under siege.

Except for some freaky reason (I blame menstrual pheromones?), rat mites are more attracted to women and children than men. So despite the fact that The Ex was sleeping next to me, he woke up with his skin whole and smooth as a fresh-baked dinner roll, while my stomach and thighs were bitten into a purple, craggy mess. In fact, I’m not prepared to swear my skin wasn’t oozing at some point. (Forgive me. I do so relish the grotesque.)

All that said, the grossest part of the story? I called in the biggest-name extermination company in the area to take a look at the problem, and ended up taking a day off work to show the guy around. What’s the problem?, he asked; tropical rate mites, I told him with authority. He didn’t even ask where they were — just flipped over the mattress, said he didn’t see anything and couldn’t diagnose the problem without a live sample, then got ready to leave. But wait!, I said, and showed him the squirming wall of arachnid delight. Without a living sample, I can’t diagnose the problem, he said, bolting for the front door.

Um, dude, what about all those live mites I just showed you? I asked, then forced him to come upstairs and look yet again. Again, he shook his head and charged toward the door.

I don’t understand why you won’t take a sample, I told him.

There aren’t any mites in your house. It’s all in your head. Are there any men who live in the house? Maybe I could talk to one of them, he conceded to calm down the poor little lady.

It can’t be in my head! I may or may not have shrieked. Look at me, I’m a fucking leper. I showed him my upper arms, purple and bloody with little raised bumps the exact size of tropical rat mites.

Whether he used precisely the phrase “menstrual hysteria” is for historians to debate, but he finally agreed to take a sample of the mites from upstairs, incorrectly (it transpires) identified them as avian mites, then told me to have my boyfriend call him.

I didn’t, of course. I called another extermination company, who managed to eradicate the vermin in less than a week and not even reify the patriarchy while doing so. Still, I ended up feeling shitty and mistreated for weeks after the encounter, but never got up the balls to do anything about it — not even write a pissed-off Yelp review.

Just one of those stories that reminds me of the kind of girl I was, and the kind of girl I’d really like to never be again. Now, of course, it would seem like child’s play to call a manager and complain my way up the corporate ladder until I was sure the incompetent jerk would feel some repercussions. It’s nice to look back on what I’ve done for these past few months and think that I totally wouldn’t take shit from this guy again; I wouldn’t take it from anyone. Except vermin, I guess, ’cause you kind of have no choice about that.

[Edit: My mega apologies! The Ex wants the world to know that he was bitten as well! I just didn’t remember, because apparently he suffered in silence and anyway I was too busy fending off rogue vampires and leper colony recruiters! So spare a little sympathy for him, if you’d like.]

These lovely descriptions of my feasted-upon flesh provided under the auspices of TMI Thursday, hosted by LiLu. Be sure to check out her Post Secret TMI Thursday today, where I promise I am not scarring your eyes with any more of my grostesque secrets.

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[Wednesday morning edit: A winner has been picked, but not yet contacted! Waiting for a guest post to go up before I link. Winner should be up by noon!]


Get psyched get psyched get psyched! You guys, since the dawn of this little blog, I’ve wanted to be one of those fancy bloggers who bribes her readers to delurk celebrates her badass readership by strewing them with prizes galore. Then I remembered, of course, that a) am kind of the antithesis of fancy girly bloggy giveaway-ness; and b) am funding this out of my own wallet, in which generations of moths are happily breeding. Thus, this giveaway is going to be weird, as you have come to expect from TKOG.

Um, can we talk about SOME PRIZES?!

We can, guys. We can. Because it is my ambition to be universally pleasing, I’ve selected a variety of three prizes from which you can choose:

PG Wodehouse novel. Chosen by TKOG. Probably something out of print. If you haven’t read Wodehouse, let me tell you that if my absurd wordplay brings ever the faintest glimmer of a smile to your face, then Wodehouse will change yo’ dang life.


Yummy Lush goodies. Something floral or sweet or citrusy or masculine — whatever pleases you. If it’s not obvious, I’m totally obsessed with Lush, and would be happy to spread their gospel. We can talk about your preferences and I’ll send either a massage bar (good for sexytimes!) or some yummy soap (good for all the times.)


Something fun from Good Vibrations. I still have a coupon there from the blowjob class I took a while back, and could use it to pick up something vanilla, suitable for solo play or couples, of either gender.

Do none of these prize ideas work for you? Well, if you don’t like reading, bathing or fornicating, I think you might be at the wrong blog. Apologies, loves.

Okay, what do I do to get my hands on some of this magic?

Good question, guys. Sad to admit that aside from giving one of you guys something COMPLETELY AWESOME, this, like every other blog giveaway, is a bit of a promotions game. I’m sorry! That makes me feel like a jerk! I assure you it’s uncharacteristic of me even to engage in! Buuuuut:

Participants can earn up to five entries; one each for the following tasks:

  1. Leave a comment on this blog entry. It can just say “hi” or “dude” or you can leave it blank — I’m not picky!
  2. Follow me on an RSS reader (or already have been following me.) and let me know in a comment here. Honor system.
  3. Tweet about this giveaway. Be sure to include my twitter handle — @WhatKindOfGirl — and a link to this entry so I can verify it.
  4. Mention this giveaway on your own blog. With a link, please! No need for anything elaborate — just a mention, and possibly a link, and, ooh, maybe you could Photoshop a picture of Hugh Laurie gazing soulfully at me, or — wait. What were we talking about?
  5. Suggest something I’m Not The Kind of Girl to do. Have any ideas for NTKOGs that might be funny/embarrassing for me to do, and utterly delightful for you to read about? My only specifications: nothing too $$$, and not karaoke. I’m already the karaoke queen. Leave suggestions in a comment here, email ’em, tweet ’em, mash ’em, fry ’em — whatever.

But TKOG! I don’t have a blog/what is RSS/Tweeting is a Web 2.0 tool for the sexting generation!

That’s cool, kittens. You can go ahead and get UP TO FIVE ENTRIES for suggesting NTKOGs, even if you don’t do any of the other options. Sound fair?

Deadline is noon, Tuesday, December 15! At which point, I’ll shoot all the entries into a randomizer and pick a winner.

You guys are you JUST TOO EXCITED?! I for one am just too excited.

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A non-NTKOG entry for you guys — a rare peek into the life of TKOG when I’m not busy taking risque classes or indulging in casual eating disorders for your entertainment.

Tonight, after a long, tiring weekend doing absolutely nothing (after a grueling week of unemployment), I decided to give into my five-day craving for buffalo wings and watch a few episodes of House. Because pajamas were the order of the day, I used campusfood.com to place an order for delivery from my favorite wings place in Allston.

After about forty-five minutes, my buzzer screamed to life. Lest you think I live and write in the lap of luxury, a little context: the buzzer system for my ancient building isn’t one of those fancy intercoms that allows you to buzz people in. It’s a screaming Mickey Mouse cartoon-style alarm clock ringer that shrills incessantly until I run downstairs and beg you to, for the love of god, loose your trigger finger.

So I ran barefoot and in pajama pants to find the delivery guy, standing impatiently in the building’s foyer. He was a big dude with long, flowing curly locks, and wearing what I’m not prepared to swear wasn’t a leather vest. The kind of guy who, in an ’80s teen comedy, would tie your bike handlebars into a knot for lookin’ wrong at his gurl.

TKOG: Sorry, I can’t buzz people in.
Delivery Guy: No problem. I called your roommate.
TKOG: What are you talking about?!
DG: Your roommate. I called her after I buzzed.
TKOG: That’s impossible. I live in a studio.
DG: Well she knew all about you.

!!!! Um, “the calls are coming from inside the house” Stephen King time, anyone?! I signed the receipt and ran upstairs to check my phone, where I had two missed calls from Sister. I called her back, the puzzle pieces falling into place.

TKOG: Hey, uh, did you just get a phone call about me?
Sister: I got two calls. And a weird message.
TKOG: What’d it say?
Sister: It was kind of muffled. All I heard was: “This is the WING MAN. [something something]. I got yer wings.”

She had, it turns out, subsequently called him back and figured out that he was delivery my guilty-treat dinner, and made sure he had my address right. Apparently one day when my phone was dead, I entered her cell number as my own on my campusfood profile. Still. We spent about five minutes just giggling over the absolute absurdity of the message and, indeed, the whole exchange.

One of those silly little things, probably, but I’ve been on an absolute giggle bender since it happened, a few hours ago. Absurd Sunday night delight!

(Also, in the interest of being fair: despite the WING MAN’s daunting appearance, he was perfectly nice and very articulate. Not at all a creepy pseudonymed stalker/vigilante justice type. Nonetheless, that won’t prevent me from stealing his identity and calling my sister from blocked numbers to grunt: “It’s the WING MAN” every few months ’til the end of our days. Amazing.)

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