TKOG Who gets tough on dishes, Felix Unger style

NTKOG #116: The kind of thin-skinned neatnik who spends her evenings wearing a ruffled apron and those ridiculous yellow latex dishwashing gloves.

I am: immune to pain. You’re looking at a dude who ate a steak sandwich twelve hours after getting her wisdom teeth out. I once put an ice pick through my whole palm, then went on mixing mojitos without so much as a schmear of Neosporin.

I am not: so delicate or anal-retentive that I need hand prophylactics just to wash a few dishes.

The Scene: My matchbox-sized apartment, slaving like Cinderella over a teetering stack of bowls super-glued together with soymilk residue. After spending the past year as a kept woman in a palatial converted 1920s mansion, it was a rude awakening to move back into an apartment where the dishwasher is this guy. As a result, I strenuously believe in blasting the water as hot as possible to at least approximate machine-powered sanitation levels.

Problem: I could only wash a glass or two before my skin would scald seventeen shades of fire engine and my finger tips would start peeling off. Great for my secret life as a gentleman art thief (no prints!); terrible for pretty much anything else.

The answer to this, as in all things, came from the charming Muscles. Muscles — as his epithet implies — has the heart of a lion, the physique of a well-groomed bear, and the hands of an 18th century duchess. Last summer, after dinner at his and Justice’s estate, he gathered up the dishes and snapped on a pair of yellow gloves.

“Dude?!” I sputtered. “You look like a promo for The Pacifier 2.”

The power of the gloves was immediately apparent: he didn’t even flicker at my ribbing, just gazed on with the smug serenity of a Bikram instructor. “They’re more helpful than you’d think,” he replied, then thrust his gloved hands into the cloud of steam rising from the sink.

My first purchase when I moved into my Boston apartment was my own pair of dorky yellow dish-washing gloves. And frig it if the ol’ guru wasn’t onto something.

The Verdict: Every time I peel off my gloves after a half-hour spell of doing dishes in 180-degree water, I gaze at my dry, unscalded hands in delight. If I were a 17th century peasant, I would burn these gloves because surely they are tools of magic and of wonder. But I am not a 17th century peasant. I am just a happily unboiled dishwasher — even if I am a slightly dorky looking one.

Also, I’ve fought the draft of this post for months now, convinced that y’all would leave me forever for sharing a story so dorky and banal. But after twenty minutes of passionately proselytizing about rubber gloves to Anglophile the other day, I realized my conviction is too great to keep bottled. If one dishwasher-less person reads this post and goes out to buy gloves, dude, this whole blog will have been worth it.

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TKOG Who needs some advice

Not for me, possums. I’m a few loads of laundry and a rereading of The Great Gatsby away from being pretty okay with things. But my bloggy friend Mel of a little lady’s thug life is at a crossroads with her father and — despite seeming like a dude who would punch you in the dang face if you ever offered her unsolicited advice — really needs some feedback. I know how fraught parental relationships can be, and thought if you had a minute to spare to weigh in on her situation or just offer a little love, it would be a really wonderful thing to do.

Check out her post here.

To give you time to read her post, the shortest NTKOG ever:

NTKOG #115: The kind of Ingalls-lite who bakes crackers. Crackers. Honestly. Isn’t that like the simplest atomic guise of bread? I just assumed they were formed in nature.

The Scene:

The Verdict:

[Edit: for those of you who want to try it, this is Mark Bittman’s recipe for parmesan-cream crackers — which I, naturally, slathered with garlic. Thanks to Leigh at Full Gastronomic Tilt for passing on the recipe a few weeks ago! And apologies that I was too deliriously tired to give credit where credit was due in the first place!]

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TKOG Who Saves The Children

NTKOG #113: The kind of deeply altruistic girl who floods the streets with her tears for orphans, kittens, orphaned kittens, etc., then writes checks to ballast her compassion.

I am: too broke to make more than one or two carefully considered contributions a year.

I am not: virtuous enough to make the sacrifices that would allow me to give more. Regret to inform, I’m more or less pulling a solid B+/A- in “being a basically good human being”.

The Scene: The little town square across the street from my work in the pouring rain last Wednesday. Weather forecasters had called for several inches of snow (never showed up) and we were all grimly excited about the blizzard; no greeting was complete without a “whew, it’s going to be a rough one”.

As I walked past, a Save The Children volunteer beckoned me near. His hair and beard were already plastered down to his face. I started my standard response: “I admire what you’re doing, but I’m just really broke,” and the guy smiled at me like I’d just bought his mom a new car.

“Don’t worry about it!” he grinned. “I don’t need money. Just thirty seconds of your time.” When you look at the words they seem banal, but his face was limpid and radiant — even as water flumed down the side of his nostrils he remained serene as a mountain, transparent and bottomless as a freshwater pool. Even his face moving to form words looked like nothing more than the wind rippling sweet meadow grasses. Real Pocahontas-style voodoo shit, is what I’m saying, and I knew immediately that he was deeply religious but one of those dudes who never brings it up unless you ask and doesn’t think you’re going to hell, not even if you have sex with robots and punch foreign dignitaries.

He gave me a lightning-round history of Save The Children, talked about their low corporate overhead, showed me pictures of some kids in the Congo, then checked his watch. Exactly thirty seconds.

“Dude,” I smiled at him. “I’ll bet people are awful to you sometimes, aren’t they? I always see people shouting, ‘Save the children? I want to eat the children!’ and stuff like that.”

“Oh, I love those people!” he grinned with genuine enthusiasm. “When they tell me they want to eat the children, I ask them to come over and swap recipes with me. When they tell me they hate the children, I say I’ll sell them a black market slave child! You just can’t take yourself too seriously. I love those people.”

I don’t know what happened but somehow, magically, my Visa was in my hands. As the man took my information, he told me about atrocities in the Congo and what the program’s money was doing. And, I dunno, a particle of dust must have wormed its way in or something, ’cause my eyes started to emit a transparent salty liquid.

After he handed me back my form and card, and had thanked me a few times, I took one last look at his drenched skin and clothes. Really sucks having to be out in this weather all day, I told him — and what about when the blizzard hits?

“Oh, we’re not supposed to be out here today. The company is closed. But I woke up excited this morning. I knew I had to come out here no matter how bad the weather was, just in case someone needed to hear what I had to say.”

Oh jesus. My eyes. They’re malfunctioning.

The Verdict: Made a one-time donation and have vowed to myself that if my temp job becomes permanent, I’ll set up a recurring monthly payment. Pretty psyched about the research I’ve done about this particular organization. That said, I take absolutely zero credit for pretending to be a good person on this one. This guy was a thinly disguised angel in Converse, and the next time I see him out there, I’m bringing him a cup of coffee to thank him for helping me keep my faith in people. And to warm him up ’cause, dude, it is cold out there to have a canvassing job.

This post too chipper for you? I know! Vom! Balance it out by checking out Secret Society of List Addicts and reading my list of phrases I would be perfectly okay never hearing again (and will punch you repeatedly if you say to me).

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TKOG Who hates men

NTKOG #112: The kind of angsty, chocolate-smeared loneyheart who spends V-Day with her equally man-hating girlfriends jabbing stickpins into the crotch of dumb-boy voodoo dolls.

I am: single.

I am not: bitter.

The Scene: My glorious cinnamon- and chocolate-scented apartment, V-Day evening. Anglophile came over and we discussed the douchebaggery of men in general (and a few men in particular) before deciding on our plan of attack for the evening. Dude, we decided, let’s list all the reasons we never liked them anyway! Then make voodoo dolls! And burn effigies of the pathetic motherfuckers! Uh, and did I mention chocolate?!

We gathered voodoo supplies and fired up the fondue pot. Cute idea, I thought, but we’re not actually going to do all this stereotypical shit. We’ll probably just end up watching a movie or something…

As for how it turned out. Um, I’m going to let the following pictures tell you a few thousand words. Don’t worry, though. I weeded out all the shriekingly scathing ones.

Turns out it only takes two vindictive girls, three pens, a jumbo pack of Post Its and one hour to completely cover the walls of a small apartment. Also, dude, some of these were so scathing that they burned my skin when I took them off the wall.

After determining Post-Its weren't sufficiently violent, wrote and popped some of the things we hated about dudes.

Voodoo dolls. To stuff them, we wrote down things we used to like about the guys, then shredded 'em. (But before you get all z0mg-dark-energy with me, yes, I believe in karma too much to have actually wished ill on anyone. It was pretty positive energy.)

Putting the "eff you" in effigy. What up.

The Verdict: It’s funny. This is the first Valentine’s Day in five years that I’ve been single. It’s also hands-down the best Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had — maybe one of the best days I’ve had, like, period. I thought all the V-Day man-bashing would feel too forced or stereotypical or just plain ol’ negative, but it was actually a pretty liberating night. One attempts to resist using the phrase “girl power,” but one doesn’t resist too hard.

The emphasis of the evening was less “I hope you get chlamydia of the face and die” and more like “dude, remember the shitty details and don’t let yourself get hung up on something that just really doesn’t matter that much.” Okay, okay, and there may have been a certain amount of emasculating joking. And doodling. And pin-sticking.

Still, this gets an A++ from me. Sometimes bitching about guys isn’t about men being idiots. It’s about remembering that the women you’re doing the bitching with are total badasses.

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TKOG Who bakes bread, Ingalls style

NTKOG #111: The kind of thrifty, homey domesticator who eschews preservative-pumped store-bought bread for the fruit of her own kitchen.

I am: a woman living in the 21st century. You know, the one in which the phrase “best thing since sliced bread” is archaic because nobody bakes bread?!

I am not: sure I’ve even bought a loaf of bread since I moved here. I’m more of an English muffin person.

The Scene: My postage-stamp apartment, armed with a few ingredients  and a fantastically easy bread recipe from The Simple Dollar. Although the ingredients are all pantry staples, I had to run to the convenience store for milk and butter, ’cause I don’t keep any moo in the house. Dragged my goods up to the dude at the counter and whipped out my Visa.

Cashier: Ooh, sorry, your total is $3.89. We have a $5 credit card minimum.
TKOG: Bugger. Do y’all sell Nutella?
Cashier: Happy Valentine’s Day.

Love it, sir, and love you. Went home and after twenty minutes, the little cutie was rising. After I rolled it out for the second rising, decided to cinnamon swirl that motha up. My addition to the recipe: mixed two tablespoons each cinnamon and sugar; brush rolled dough liberally with moo juice; sprinkle with delicious. Let rise and bake as noted in recipe.

Look how cute! Now imagine it slathered with Nutella and warm caramelized bananas! Now stop drooling on your keyboard.

The Verdict: Holy friggin’ gosh are you kidding me?! The whole shebang took less than half an hour of active time (plus two and a half hours of passive rising/baking time) and was some of the best bread I’ve ever eaten. For $4 and with pantry staples, I got enough supplies to make dozens of loaves. Which I’m totally doing the next time I have a free afternoon.

Also: whaling on the dough for ten minutes is the second most satisfying thing ever. Waking up hungover and inhaling a warm slice of this smeared with Nutella is the first most satisfying.

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TKOG Who catches an eyeful in the men’s room

NTKOG #105: The kind of rule flouting bladder-centric dude who lets an urgency to pee eradicate the societal construct that is separate-gendered restrooms.

I am: a lady.

I am not: sure what y’all other ladies are doing in there that make our lines so much longer than lines for the men’s room. Seriously, girls.

The Scene: Restrooms up and down this fair city for the past month and a half. If there was a line for the ladies’ only, I dashed into the men’s. And, dude? If it’s a single-occupancy restroom (as is the case in so many of the space-starved commercial lots in this pinched city), there is virtually no difference between the rooms. You can use whichever one you want with literally no repercussions. WHY HAVE WE BEEN WAITING IN LINE WHILE PERFECTLY GOOD RESTROOMS SAT OPEN?! We’re like some primitive bladder-masochism tribe that stands around worshipping the blue and white triangular dress idol. What will future cultures think of us. Honestly.

Non-fortress-style men’s rooms, however, were a bit more difficult a prospect. As moxious as I am, I did my utmost to avoid entering one where a guy was peeing at the time, both out of respect for guys’ privacy and because I didn’t want to catch an eyeful of anyone’s junk. (Figurative eyeful, that is. Although, uh, literal too, now that you mention it.)

However, one night, out with the ladies at a bar in Brighton that skews to the youth demographic, I may have had a drink or two too many, and was emboldened to duck into the men’s room. A dude stood in there, poised to decant over the urinal. He locked eyes with me and barked: “What the fuck are you doing here?!”

Ladies, if ever you get in a similar situation — face burning with embarrassment, social reputation on the line — and are already wearing heels and lots of make-up, allow me to give you the five magic words to instantaneously extricate yourself:

“Pre-op. Wanna feel my genitals?”

I’m all class, y’all.

The Verdict: Chalk another one up for “nobody cares what you do, dumbass,” ’cause, truly, nobody seems to care a whit either way which restroom you use. Unless you’re, y’know, watching them pee or whatever. (Please don’t watch other people pee without their consent. Or if you do, please don’t write about it in the comments section.) Although my days of recreational restroom switching are officially past me, if I’m ever at a restaurant with single-stall restrooms and one of them is open, dude, I’m totally using it, regardless of what the little pictogram on the door sign is wearing.

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This would have been more of a TMI Thursday if the guy had actually taken me up on the offer to feel my genitals; nonetheless, I submit it for your approval. Go check out Livit, Luvit for more TMI hilarity! And have you entered to win my iPod Nano giveaway yet?!

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TKOG Who has no tanlines (TMI Thursday, just a little)

NTKOG #90: The kind of vapid, beauty-obsessed reality TV contestant who – not content with just photoshopping every photo of her on Facebook – resorts to real-life editing, in the form of a full-body airbrushed spraytan.

I am: already extremely happy with my skin, which holds a hint of tan even in winter.

I am not: even vain enough to wear make-up on a daily basis – let alone the semi-permanent whole-body equivalent!

The Scene: Perfect Tan in Allston, where I have purchased a half-price coupon for a custom airbrush spray tan session, courtesy of the brilliant minds at Groupon. I bought the coupon more as a joke than anything: I simply couldn’t think of a less-me activity. Standing naked while a total stranger sprays your whole body with ice-cold liquid vanity? Ha. The whole T ride to the tanning salon, my heart froze with condescension, horror, and deep-seated girlish insecurities.

What I thought would happen: A taut, gleaming blonde named Kandi would glare judgmental at my paper thong and crack out – between snaps of her gum – “So, what, is your waxer like semi-recently deceased or something?” While I attempted to mumble an answer, she’d pop a cartridge of spray out of the airbrush gun. “Yeah, um, there wasn’t enough paint to cover you. On account of you being a beast and all.” As I re-dressed, I’d catch a glimpse of myself in my mirror, smeared with neon streaks of a color that can only be described as JERSEY SHORANGE.

What actually happened: A taut, gleaming brunette named Lori (thank you, universe, for sharing my sense of humor) asks if I’m getting sprayed for a particular event and, in a moment of weakness, I admit that I’m doing it for a blog and I’m kind of nervous. “Ohmigod, don’t be,” she says, her eyes round with enthusiasm. “You are going to look so good.” For eight minutes we chat about Boston and reality TV, and I forget that I am wearing nothing but three square inches of disposable fabric. The whole experience is, like, less awkward than a haircut. After she leaves, I dress jauntily before peering in a mirror and realizing – shit, I really do look … so good.

I mean, better than my previous winter pallor, anyway. The color is a natural bronze – the sort that my skin acquires after the first few nice days of spring. My limbs look thinner, my teeth look whiter, and I’ve acquired the deep, resonant glow of someone with a really good relationship with god. Or, at the very least, a time-share in St. Maarten. My fixation on the cosmetic benefits of spray-tanning hits an extreme when I catch myself staring at my own reflection in the dull metal siding of the Planned Parenthood across the street from the tanning salon.

Lame before and after cobbled together from iPhone pics, because I'm at work and even though my company is lax, I think they'd frown on my locking myself in the bathroom to take fifteen billion MySpace pictures of my tanline.

Later, The Ex compliments my tan as I sat gazing with liquid adoration at my clear, lustrous skin. “I know, it’s great, right? I only wish I’d gone a shade darker,” I fret, not for the first time.

“Whoa, babe,” he says. “You went from non-tanning to tanning, and now you’re obsessed with going darker and darker? You’re two steps away from running around town in blackface.” (Yes, this is the man who won my heart.)

The Verdict: Man, there is nothing I love more than being COMPLETELY WRONG about a NTKOG. It’s the kind of thing that reminds me exactly why I started this blog in the first place. I walked into the salon prepared to feel self-conscious and ridiculous, and to emerge looking like a refugee from Dr. Moreau’s island. I came out feeling recharged from the crappy winter weather, and psyched beyond belief for Sunday’s no-pants Metro ride.

I’m not sure I’d ever pony up the full $40 to get airbrushed again, but I did sign up for the parlor’s mailing list, and will definitely go again any time they offer a great coupon. Or if I have a big event coming up. Or if I just need a little pick-me-up. Goddamnit, I want to go back right now.

So, dude, where’s the TMI Thursday, you ask me? After I got my tan, Lori warned me I couldn’t get at all wet — no showers, no gym, not even crying — for eight hours; The Ex came to town a few hours later. If you couldn’t guess, we had a very, very friendly break-up. Aaaafter we said hello, as it were, I ran to the bathroom to check on my tan.

You know that phrase “bed head”? Yeah, I have a new one for you. Spraytan back. Yikes. Do not try at home, kids. Or at least put down your second-best sheets. (But worry not, my tan survived and still looks awesome.)

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TMI Thursday! Go to Livit, Luvit for more TMI Thursday magic! By now I’m sure you know the dang routine!

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TKOG Who finds you, wherever you are

NTKOG #89: The kind of hopeless, anonymous romantic who meets a man at random and — after losing him in the crowd — throws a (metaphorical) message in a bottle to catch him again.

I am: in the habit of falling in love with half a dozen men a day.

I am not: so short of great lost loves that I need to dig them back up on the internet, it stands to reason.

The Scene:  The Brookline Booksmith (aka: Brookline’s literary Disneyland), shortly after moving here. I had a moment with the clerk after purchasing a book from the bargain table and — thuTHUD, is the sound of TKOG falling in love. For months, I would get all dolled up before browsing the bsmith, in hopes of meeting him, but alas, I never saw him again.

Enter Craigslist Missed Connections. Because surely a dude who reads George Saunders can read a measly little personals ad, right? Attached, verbatim, is the ad I posted last Thursday:

Bookline Booksmith former employee with taste for postmodern lit – w4m – 23 (Brookline)

You: hulked-out Korean (I think) former Brookline Booksmith employee with badass tattoos and a taste for postmodern literature.

I: came in sometime in September. Fast-talking brunette with black plastic-rimmed Weezer glasses.

We: bonded over a mutual love for George Saunders when I bought a copy of “In Persuasion Nation” off the bargain table.

You: asked if I had read any Barthelme.

I: am reading “60 Stories” as we speak.

You: were my imaginary boyfriend until you stopped working there at some point within the past few months.

I: miss having a reason to put on make-up on Saturday mornings.

You: got any more great book recommendations?

Looooove,
Your Former Imaginary Girlfriend (unbeknownst to you)

No word back yet; not even a book recommendation from a stranger. Oh well. That’s the thing about messages in bottles, I guess: sometimes they’re washed away forever, sometimes they’re found by someone else entirely. Almost never are they discovered by the person you intended.

The Verdict: I still totally support this one. In retrospect, I’m not sure why I was nervous about posting a Missed Connection in the first place — aside from the fact that when I see a guy I like, I tend to do something about it. But next time I miss my chance with someone, I would completely try this again, because what’s the worst that could happen?

Actually, the worst that could happen is that Booksmith Guy could email me back:  “You, TKOG, like so many other George Saunders-loving brunettes, have been driven to the brink of madness by my pomo literary tastes and badass tattoos. Based on your prose style, might I recommend The Da Vinci Code?”

Man. That would be horrible. Please don’t do that, Bookstore Guy! Otherwise, I’m down with Missed Connections.

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TKOG Who drops her pants at the drop of … more pants

NTKOG #88: The kind of spontaneity-embracing girl who assaults public decency and public transportation mores by taking place in a group display of public pantslessness.

I am: modest; not prone to getting naked around strangers without at least a drink or two in my system. (This upcoming Thursday’s post notwithstanding).

I am not: actually wearing pants now either, since you mention it.

The Scene: Alewife T Station, around 12:40pm. No Pants Day is a national event spanning some 40 American cities, all of which featured pantsless Metro rides today; Boston’s chapter was organization by the Boston Society for Spontaneity who, it turns out, are Boston Sticklers For Punctuality. The Ex (he’s in town) and I, despite taking a cab to the Harvard Square Station in an effort to save time, missed the sign-up and registration tables.

“Damnit, we missed it,” we heard a girl hiss on the bus. “I’m wearing cute underwear for nothing! Are we just going to go home?!”

SUCCESS! Another group of girls wandered the platform dejectedly, wearing sweatpants and apparently not psyched about it; not far from them, a group of MIT boys wearing silly shirts and kneesocks, with not much in between. The Ex and I introduced ourselves and asked whether they’d like to join us and become a renegade group of no-pants. And, I mean, who could say no to an offer like that?

The first rule of No Pants Day, per its creators, is that you don’t talk about No Pants Day. You also don’t giggle, exchange significant glances, or pose for risque photos in the T you’re supposed to be pantskrieging. But apparently giggly girls didn’t get the memo, so we were less than subtle for the first few outbound stops on the Red Line train, and older folks looked at us with only wry amusement.

On the way to Park Street, though, the train filled up, and the new riders commented with some discomfort on the pantsless trend. As far as I could tell (though I was distracted, listening to music and playing Text Twist, a game so riveting that for twenty minutes I forgot I wasn’t wearing pants), reactions fell into three categories: 1) younger people who just didn’t even care about the massive pantslessness; 2) middle-aged men trying very, very hard not to look; 3) older people (especially women) who literally clutched their hearts and muttered about rapscallions.

Oh glory friggin’ be, guys, I am NOT EVEN EXAGGERATING about the last one! The Ex had the fortune of sitting next to a sixty-something woman on one train and according to all reports, she spent the entire ride glaring at his thigh, making sure not so much as a hair touched her stockings. Amazing. When I walked up and stood in front of The Ex, the lady stared at me and started muttering under her breath. Which might have something to do with the fact that, unlike the other girls on the train, it didn’t occur to me to wear boxers, so I looked like I was wearing a hot pink silk blouse, snow boots and a fedora. Period. Kind of yikes, right?

Other great pantsless occurrences: one of the giggly girls decided she was hungry, so we pantslessly stormed the Dunkin Donuts at Boylston, where a car ran a red light in the street while looking at us; I sat in a train next to a very old man who whapped my calf repeatedly with his cane to edge me away; we ended up meeting the whole group at the end, where a bunch of MIT boys took grave interest in The Ex’s London tube map boxers (how appropriate!) and Nexus One; afterwards, pantsless pub assault, where the hostess took a look at forty pantsless dudes flooding the bar, and asked only: “Shit, did you have a reservation that we lost?”

Amazing day — hard really to capture all of the magic. And so, let us put to the test that thing they say about words and pictures. you know, the one where math is involved.

I've never had a T rider voluntarily leave so much room between us. This lady was NOT AMUSED by my pantslessness.

Stormin' Dunkin Donuts like it was Versailles or something.

Pantslessness and cowboy boots! Now why didn't I think of that?! A slammin' combination.

We all felt very close to each other by the end of No Pants Day.

The Verdict: Goddamnit, guys, it’s going to be impossible to get me to keep my pants on after this. (Which if, if you’re counting, the third time I’ve disrobed on public transport for an NTKOG.) As The Ex and I were leaving the bar, I turned to him: “Wanna take our pants off again?” He thought about it for a few seconds and said, “It’s cold. Let’s do it on the way home.” Dudes. Dudes. I cannot take any responsibility for my further pantsless actions.

Also, A+++ for seeking out events with like-minded strangers (er, emphasis on strange) in this sometimes tight-laced city. I’ll definitely be checking out more Boston SOS activities. Even the ones that, lamely, do not require public nudity.

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TKOG Who likes internet people more than people people (we all knew it would come to this)

NTKOG # 87: The kind of internet-obsessed blogger who feels the needs to meet complete strangers to discuss shenans like google pagerank and hit counts (and drink a lot of gin).

I am: prone to social-anxiety-induced panic attacks — big time — when meeting strangers.

I am not: sure, anyway, that I want to let who I am on my blog define me in my real actual life. (Oh who am I kidding. I totally do.)

The Scene: Dante, a swanky and really quite tasteful cocktail bar in a Cambridge Hotel. Emrlds put together an impromptu blogger tweet-up and – undaunted by the world-ending vortex potential of hanging out with other people who sometimes tweet about RSS readers – I messaged her psychedly about it all week. Never mind the fact that at her last tweet-up, in December, I skulked in the foyer of Cactus Club for a full twenty-five minutes before giving up the game and hyperventilating the whole way home. (I think there are medications for this?)

When I approached the bar, Emrlds was sitting alongside Julie, Petey Pumpkin, and Kristen — later to be joined by Susan. Bar seating; limited mingling; god someone get this girl around a few ounces of gin. I leaned into the bartender (who, point of interest, rather resembled Muscles) and requested something, anything, with a manly splash of Hendrick’s. Dude obliged me with a really quite excellent Aviation and once I got halfway through it, I felt almost up to meeting my peers.

And let me tell you guys: if you’re a blogger, there’s nothing more liberating than spending an evening in the company of your peers. Dudes who get things like taking pics of food and libations, being outrageous for fodder, and all the backstabby drama on 20SB – I mean, jesus, sign me up all night long. Emrlds and Peter had a multi-tweet exchange about Emrlds’ (excellent) drink while they were sitting three feet away from each other.

After a while, two other bloggers Steven and Alison walked in. “Who are they?” I hissed to Emrlds, “What are their blogs?” She lowered her voice and replied: “They’re tumblr people.”

Ah my friggin’ homeland. I love it. (And before you accuse me of webhost-ism, the marginalized tumblr people were completely cool. Don’t hate.)

Still, the whole site felt a little like a round of speed-dating (who are you? who are you on your blog? How long you been at it? What platform?) until – until. The night broke up very pleasantly, and when the girls begged off, Peter and I headed to the Cambridgeside Galleria to grab cigarettes slash restroom. On the way, we realized we were hungry and decided to grab a bite at Cheesecake Factory.

Hold the phone, guys. A hot gay guy and yours truly, fag-hagging it up at the most bourg eatery this side of TGI Friday’s?! Holy jazzhands, kids, I’m finally back in my element. Or back in high-school. Either/or.

Peter — who is one of the all-time great dudes — and I ended up having a beautiful ladies’ night, discussing vital and hilarious topics including but not limited to: our server’s hoohahs, why boys are dumb, and the stark haunting ladyhood of Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl. Siiiiigh. I’m in heaven.

The Verdict: Despite the fact that I had about nineteen and a half panic attacks on the way to the tweet-up (oh god, they won’t think I’m funny. I’m not as cute as I write – someone’ll say something! What if no one there reads my blog?!), this ended up being a divine night with some really quite outstanding dudes.

So much so, in fact, that I issue to you gorgeous Boston Bloggahs (and blogficionados) a solemn vow: let’s get the frig together the week after next to sing karaoke. Yes? No? You guys in?! If so, I’ll be the xanax-popping neurotic brunette belting “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy”.

[Also, I never do this, but if you have a few minutes to remind yourself to be a better person, I thoroughly recommend you check out The Meanest Mom’s funny and beautiful entry today.]

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