Every time I think I've got an ounce of maturity....

.... I go ahead and prove myself wrong. Oh so wrong.

Care to hear how?

When I was a wee lass, boy did I love me some Barbie. For serious, she was my homegirl. Between Rocker Barbie, Prom Barbie, Lifeguard Barbie, not to mention the piles of Barbies inherited from my two older sisters, our house had no shortage of six inch-tall plastic dolls. The clothes I had for my Barbies outnumber the clothes I have for myself now, and the accessories didn't stop there. Barbie owned a tricked-out convertible and a sweet vacation camper, not to mention a dream house with a pony tied up out back.

Yep, Barbie had everything money could buy.....but sadly no one to share it with, as I could never convince my parents to let me introduce Ken into the mix. My powers of persuasion having not yet matured into what they are today were no match for what I now realize must have been their fear of walking into the playroom and finding this or similar:

(btw, a Google Images search for "Barbie and Ken bad" is not for the faint of heart. Just sayin', people out there are gross.)

Anyway, years of my childhood were spent in our basement playroom, fixing Barbie's hair and changing her clothes. Rearranging furniture in the dream house or going for a ride on the Barbie pony. Putting in long hours at the office and then coming home and cooking up a feast. As the sacred aria goes, I truly was a Barbie girl, living in a Barbie world.

And aside from the Career Barbie I still have* packed away in a shoebox in my office closet, I thought I had put that phase of life behind me. After all, I am in my thirties. I am a home owner and a triathlete. I do things like vote and pay taxes and wax poetic about wine. I routinely monitor my stock portfolio and 401(k). For God's sake, I host an annual Soup Swap. Clearly, I have matured.

At least that's what I tell myself.

Unfortunately, there is oftentimes ample evidence to the contrary. Case in point:

Last Sunday found Tim** and I sitting on my sofa, leisurely puttering away on individual tasks, Sunday football playing in the background. At one point the scene going down on my laptop caught Tim's eye, and he asked what I was doing. I warned him that what I was about to share would be slightly horrifying and then let him know that I was creating a new Google email account to pair up with the new fake Facebook account I was about to make. See, there's been a friendly little wager going on over here in Charm City, and I needed something of a Trojan Horse to gather potential evidence of a victory. I was quick to defend myself by pointing out that someone who is willing to accept a friend request on Facebook from a complete stranger clearly does not value his or her privacy very much.

I had no additional defense, aside from my sheer shamelessness.

As promised, Tim was horrified.........at first.

I proceeded to let him know that there was room for him in this covert operation. After all, my new alter-ego (let's call him Ken to protect the integrity of the bit) needed to look legit, and for that to happen, he needed a few friends to kick things off. Cut to Tim, typing away, creating his Barbie's entire elaborate life story, including how she went from growing up in Illinois to landing spinning instructor-by-day, Appleby's hostess-by night gigs in Fayetteville, NC. She also quickly "liked" the fact that my Ken was listed as single.

Dr. Shazam, easily accessible via gChat, was also dispatched, and within hours another Ken doll showed up to play. With an impressive opening bid, too, commenting on my Ken's wall, "ur pecs are killin it bro. I gotta amp up my bench press lol".

In subsequent days, my Ken doll has made several additional friends, a mixture of real people I actually know, seeking to spectate this amusement first hand, and utter strangers belonging to this vast parallel society where befriending and allowing someone you've never met have access to a whole lotta personal information is considered completely normal. Preferable, actually, as this is a crowd with a higher than average per capita of fake boobs, fake tans, fake hair color and fake muscles, and I suppose the rationale is that if I'm gonna spend all this money to look like an actual Barbie doll, I'd like as many people as possible to see me. The two targets of the original wager fall firmly into the latter category.

The creepy origins of this endeavor have quickly become a fringe benefit to what has largely become an indulgent game of make-believe, very reminiscent of my games of Barbie, all those months years ago. I get to make up everything about my virtual Ken doll, where he's from, what he does, "what's on his mind" and how he interacts with the others. With a quick search on Google Images, I can even change his appearance. The sky is the limit.

Thus far I've pinpointed two reasons why I've found playing with Facebook Ken a particularly addictive pass time. First, unlike fantasy role-playing type games like Sims or Dungeons and Dragons, this is playing make-believe in the real world. With people who aren't always in on the joke. And whether I'm interacting with them or others who are in the know, that fact makes this all highly amusing. And to be honest I'm not entirely sure why.

Second, in order for the original scam to work, this particular Trojan Horse needed to resemble these guys as much as possible. Therefore, there is a huge amount of misbehaving that I now get to do on Facebook that I would never in a million years do under my own name, like speaking exclusively in "text", purposefully misspelling, and grossly overusing "lol" and "lmao". Of course, Dr. Shazam has me beat at every single turn, consistently taking it up a notch with status updates such as, "t minus 2 days until miley cyrus turns 18. happy thanksgiving to me lol"

Go ahead. Snigger. Pass judgement. I'm secure enough not to be bothered. Plus, I know you want to join in. I know you do.....

Wondering what Ken's up to,

Khop

* Um, btw, Career Barbie is legit. She talks and has a laptop and a monogrammed travel coffee mug and a briefcase full of money and her suit skirt flips inside out to a party skirt. I think. But I really can't remember since it's been so long....

** The reason why I have been devoid of internet dating writing material, in case you were wondering.... great for me, but devastating for the blog. Meh, screw the blog.

Reason #26 Why Dating is Rough: "I've come all this way....."

Parking in my neighborhood is a tricky thing, because like most cities there are more cars than spots to hold them. As such I try to avoid using my car after 8PM like nobody’s business. If I can’t scam a ride off someone, my attendance is questionable. Seriously, it’s just kind of the way it is. I think most people I know have grown to accept this, and if there are those out there who at all troubled by the fact that I am essentially choosing an eight foot section of gravel over their company, they hide it fabulously.

Sometimes, though, circumstances of life demand that I fire up the ole Mariner after the sun has set and take her for a spin. The other night was one of those nights, and I must say it was well worth it.

A friend needed a ride home from the airport after arriving from what was supposed to have been one big out of town booty call of a weekend. A few days prior I had left him at the terminal in full supply of optimism and prophylactics, and now I was picking him up ready to hear all the sordid details. Unfortunately, though, the weekend did not go exactly according to plan, and what got into my car that evening was one unopened box of family planning aids and one frustrated hot mess of a grouch.

Oooo, snap.

What happened?? It had seemed like a slam dunk!

Turns out the weekend had been ripe with weather delays, hangovers, a car accident, you name it, it happened. However, these were not the things that stopped our hero. No, no, these were mere details that certainly poured salt in the wound, but fender benders alone would not have proven a strong enough deterrent. What did? Well, as my weary traveler explained, it had been several years since he’d last seen this girl in person, and, well, the Facebook photos in retrospect had clearly been strategically chosen. In short, she was not nearly as asthetically pleasing as he recalled her being. Not even close. As a matter of fact, kind of the opposite. To make matters worse apparently there was quite a bit of baby talking to the four, count 'em, four cats going on. And all that with a three-pack-a-day voice.

Verdict? No bueno. No bueno, indeed. He couldn’t bring himself to lay a finger on her.

When I asked our protagonist if he couldn’t have pressed forward, if he couldn’t have just closed his eyes, strapped on some beer goggles, made a wish and gone for it, he responded, with deep regret, no. No, he could not. He’d thought about it quite a bit, and the conclusion he’d come to was that if circumstances were different, if he’d been able to do the 3AM dash, he could have powered through. But being that he was a two night houseguest with hockey games, museum visits and all kinds of other activities planned for the cold, harsh light of day, there was just no way.

To hear him relay the tale with all the details was hilarious, but I must admit, I was a little depressed for him. After all, the whole thing seemed like such a waste - of time, of energy, of money and anticipation. He’d traveled all that way for nothing. It must have really been, how shall I put this, a nightmare of a bad scene. (Ok, programming note: You know what? I’ve tried desperately hard to not use the word ugly or any synonym thereof for fear of karmic retribution. But, quite frankly I just cannot muster the energy to word-smith this anymore. You get the jist – according to my friend, our girl was ugly. There. I’ve said it.) But it begged a question – much like Barney Stinson’s famed “Hot/Crazy Scale”, wherein a girl must be at least as hot as she is crazy in order to be a viable prospect, is there an Ugly/Distance Scale? As in, “I’ve traveled X far, I don’t care that she’s Y ugly, I’m gonna hit this”? There’s a term for this in psychology called Escalation of Commitment, which is defined as “increased investment in a decision, based on the cumulative prior investment, despite new evidence suggesting that the decision was probably wrong.” It’s sometimes what’s going on when a long term couple persists in staying together, despite obvious incompatibilities. They aren’t ready to admit that the time invested may have been a mistake, and as more time passes, they become more determined to prove themselves correct. Clearly in this case, the distance traveled was not far enough warrant, ah-hem, increased investment, but suppose my friend had hopped on a plane and flown to Chicago? Denver? L.A.? At what point might he have said, “Aw hell. I might as well get my airfare’s worth….”

I posed this question to a neighbor who without even thinking debunked my theory by denying such a scale would exist. “Under no set of circumstances,” he firmly stated, “would I allow that to happen. I’d leave, find some other girl, then get on the plane to come home.”

Fair enough.

Desperately hoping I’m on the right side of both scales,

khop

Travel Woes I Brought On Myself.

I used to be a frequent traveler. In fact I used to write about my adventures quite a bit. The toilets at Philadelphia International Airport, almost being left behind in Richmond, etc, etc, etc, more writing material than all the dating websites in the world combined!

But that life is no longer mine. These days, I work in the same metropolitan area where I live. Hallelujah, the office with my name on the door is not several states away, and I no longer spend weeks on end hopping from city to city in the name of God and Corporate America. Furthermore, it seems I have finally gotten over this absurd habit I used to have of choosing to date men that live in different states or different countries. Nowadays, if you want to date me, you gotta live near me, because, no, I’m not gonna come visit. As such, my Gold frequent flyer status has expired, and despite all our deep and meaningful chats, the ladies at the Raleigh, NC US Airways Club have probably long since forgotten me. I lay my head down on the same pillow night after night after night and never ever have to call down to the front desk anymore to request a different room because, “I’m sorry, but this one smells real funny, like something died in the walls or something....”

All is so very well in my world. Really, I could not be more thrilled.

And just to remind me of that, just to give me a dose of appreciation for all that my current life is and all that it is certainly not, today Jesus sent me Snaggle-Tooth Old Hag and her band of cronies at Delta.

Thanks, buddy. Good times. Way to be my homeboy.

I write this to you from the terminal at BWI, and as my fingers type this sentence the time is two hours past when I should have arrived in Atlanta to visit dear friend Beth, and soon-to-be dear friend Johnna. Who knows when I will arrive. I’m starting to think never. It’s all good, I can hang. And although I will go to my grave blaming Snaggle Tooth Old Hag (STOH or Delta Demon 1/ DD1), The Lady Who Would Not Help (TLWWNH, Delta Demon 2/DD2), and Supervisor Who Will Burn In Hell (SWWBIH, Delta Demon 3/DD3), I am cognizant that they have the ironclad defense that I brought this on myself. Yeah, yeah, I know I did. Y’all got me good.

BUT COME ON!!!!

Ok, let me back up several hours. Being an enthusiastic user of modern technology, I checked in for my flight online this morning. In the midst of zooming around town, I hooked me up to dem interwebs, plugged in a confirmation number, selected a seat, check, check, check. What I could not do, and which proved to be my downfall, was print the boarding pass, as a few months ago one of Charm City’s finest stole my printer out of my car (another story). Now, I am well aware that all passengers must be checked in thirty minutes prior to take off; however, am I the only one on the planet to realize that they will not print a boarding pass for you after this unshakeable deadline passes? In all the years of constant air travel, for all the flights I have cut as close as humanly possible, maintaining my perfect record of never missing a single departure, I have never been faced with this truth. I have always either arrived more than 30 minutes prior to departure, or failing that, had in my possession a piece of paper granting me entry onto the plane. Today was different. Today, I walked up to ticketing literally 29 minutes prior to departure, with no paper in hand. And instead of giving it to me, upon my well-mannered, WASPY request, the kiosk rudely turned me away, insisting I see a live agent. Enter STOH/DD1 stage left, as she strutted around, manning the kiosks, chewing on cud and spreading evil. I shall slip into dialogue for ease of storytelling:

Khop, mock helplessness: The kiosk told me to see an agent. Can you help?

DD1: Oh absolutely not. You need to get in line.

Khop: That line over there? But my flight is due to begin boarding very soon. Is there any way you can help? (Beaming hopeful, kiss-ass smile that usually works. Shit - usually works on men. She is not a man. Or is she? Clearly not, because....)

DD1: Oh that’s why it won’t print - because you’re too late. Yeah, BWAHAHAHAHA, you’re not going anywhere, anytime soon, so you might as well get in line. HA!

At this point, she actually turned, showed me her rear end and walked away.

BITCH!

Not to be defeated, I turned that smile on the meek little asian man standing in the front of the line. Damnit if I’ve still got it, ‘cos dude let me cut. Alright, back in business!

Not quite. I proceeded to wait at the front of the line for a full 16 minutes, and as every minute ticked passed, my concern notched a bit higher. I went from a state of complete confidence, to intellectually curious (after all, this may be a new record for me), to actual panic. Every time the agents would finish with the people they were helping, instead of beckoning to me to step forward into the light and receive blessing, they would disappear. Coffee break, lunch break, crack break, help khop break, whatevs. No room at the inn.

If you’ve done the math, you’ll note that by the time I was called forward, it was a mere 12 minutes before my flight was scheduled to leave, and I was told, this time by DD2, that I was out of luck. But I was determined to go down fighting, after all, I had ladies to see and some a’visiting to do. Dialogue, once again:

(T minus 11m55s) Khop: Are there any exceptions to this rule I’ve never heard of?

(T minus 11m45s) Stoned-faced DD2: No.

(T minus 11m44s) Khop: None at all?

(T minus 11m30s) SFDD2: You’d have to talk to a supervisor.

(T minus 11m29s) Khop: Where is one?

(T minus 11m10s) SFDD2, pointing stubby, unhelpful finger of hate: Down there.

(BTW, are you grasping how slow this conversation is moving, tick, tock, tick, tock...)

(T minus 11m9s) Khop: Helping that long line of people?

(T minus 10m52s) SFDD2: Yes.

(T minus 10min51s) Khop: If I go over there, will she help me next?

(T minus 10 min 35s) SFDD2: Probably not.

(T minus 10 min 34s) Khop: Can you ask her to come over here?

(T minus 10 min) SFDD2: Fine.

Enter the third in our cast of characters, DD3, who once she found out that I had arrived at the airport a full twenty minutes ago, when something very well could have been done to get me on that flight, did at least feign sympathy and support, calling the gate to see where they were in boarding, typing in the code that over rides this whole 30 minute baloney, even going so far as to call DD1 over to “coach” her to handle the situation differently next time. The flow of support ended abruptly, though, when she spotted her ace in the hole. She looked down at my bag and deemed it too large to carry on. Now reader(s), we have all seen many who abuse the carry on allowance. Travelers who carry coffin-sized roller bags onto the plane, take three rows worth of space in the overhead bin and feign surprise when the flight attendant objects. And even though this entire post is recounting my attempt to buck the system, I can assure you, this was one area where I was playing by the rules- the size of this roller bag was legit (emphasis was). So in receiving the news that my beautiful Samsonite “Business Traveler’s Elite” roller bag, the bag that has served as my faithful sidekick for six years, the bag that has flown all over the country in the overhead bin without so much as one raised eyebrow, was now apparently one inch too long to qualify as a carry on and would have to be checked, my jaw dropped and my eyes teared. Parting with that bag was like the moment in Castaway where that blessed volleyball floats out of Tom Hanks‘ grasp. It was so sad. Plus, it meant that I had lost. Definitively.

And DD2 knew it too. She beamed a smile that could be seen from space, re-ticketed me for a later flight and snatched that bag out of my hands before you could say “disgruntled union employee”. As a courtesy nod to my inconvenience, the supervisor waved the baggage fee. Awesome of her, don’t you think?

It was because of that checked bag that all of my remaining methods of maneuvering the situation disappeared into thin air. When 15 seconds later, while I was still in the midst of being re-ticketed, the flight board showed my flight delayed 30 minutes, I was out of luck. When I got to my gate and watched my original flight sit and sit and sit for two hours, pushing all subsequent flights back as well, I was still out of luck. When I tried to go standby on the next departing flight (still earlier than the one for which I had been rebooked), out of luck I remained.

All in all, the final equation looked something like this:

One printer-stealing hobo + one minute too late + one inch too tall rollerboard

=

One Sad Panda Air Traveler.

I know my mother is reading this shaking her head. And maybe you are, too. So allow me to reiterate that I am cognizant that I brought this on myself. If I had left earlier, if I had arrived sooner, none of this would have happened. In fact, I probably would’ve been able to sneak that one-inch-too-tall rollerboard on the plane, all Delta employees none the wiser. But I didn’t - I was late, and that’s that. But the real kick in the crotch of it all, the piece that was so mind numbingly infuriating was how much joy DD1 and DD2 took in the fact that I screwed myself and how little they cared to disguise that joy. They were right, and I was wrong. And my mistake gave them a blank check to be as unhelpful and dismissive as they wanted. As one who’s profession is sales, who is paid to take a beating day in and day out, looking for something, anything that will make my customers happy, this came as a sucker punch. I have had customers tell me they hate the food I brought them for lunch, as they are stuffing it in their pie hole. I have had customers tell me in all sincerity that their version of Utopia is a world where sales representatives do not exist. I have had customers lie to me, be mean to me, throw me under the bus, and literally swat at me with a fly swatter. And yet I smile, climb out from under that bus, and ask them what, pray tell, type of sandwich I should bring next time. Or similar. So when it’s my turn to be the paying customer, and I’m in a jam, and the people I’m stuck with can’t even muster up the effort that day to pretend to care, I’m left feeling sad. And a little bit like kicking a small animal.

I’ve heard horror stories about what those in the air travel industry must endure from my fellow passengers, so I get that there exists the possibility that DD1 and DD2 are lovely women who go to church every Sunday, make better-than-average bundt cakes, and tip the manicure lady well. I get it that their wickedness may be a product of too many years and too many run-ins with too many jerks. But it’s a total chicken/egg thing. Maybe I wouldn’t be such a jerk if you would help me. Maybe you would help me if I weren’t such a jerk.

I know, I know - I could fry the chicken and scramble the egg if I’d shown up just one damn minute earlier.

How tiring.

Have I mentioned how glad I am to no longer be a frequent air traveler?

Flying the unfriendly skies,

khop

The Weather is Here, I Wish You Were Beautiful.....

The other night found me sitting in Old San Juan sipping a mojito. A damn fine mojito, I might add. The occasion warranted a photo, and that was all good. Glasses up, smiles flashed, click! Aw, such a good shot. But before I knew it, that photo was posted and tagged on Facebook courtesy of “Mobile Uploads”. Over one thousand people (my 300+ friends, as well as the 300+ friends of each of my two companions) were suddenly given a window to my dinner in Old San Juan to watch me enjoy my mojito in real time. And I must admit, even through the heady haze of vacation euphoria, I was annoyed by this.

I love you all (well, most of you, anyway), but honestly, you weren’t invited.

Right now, I am away. I am on vacation, on a remote Caribbean island off the coast of Puerto Rico, sitting on a patio overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, sipping my morning coffee. The only sounds hitting my ears are the waves crashing on the beach and my fingertips clicking on my keyboard. I am in heaven, doing something that refreshes me in an environment that simply oozes endorphines. There are no conference calls to attend, no sales figures over which to fret, no parking spots to find. If you call my cell phone, the outgoing message is a somewhat politely worded way of saying “unless you are about to tap me on the shoulder, you are shit out of luck until I return.”

There is a rooster crowing in the background, reinforcing my point.

As one who pens a blog regularly featuring her dating life, who is an avid Facebooker, and aspires to Twitter more frequently (if only to quell the peer pressure from one Mr. O’Neill, but still), I am cognizant that writing a blog entry ranting about not wanting to appear on Facebook during my vacation, while that vacation is still taking place, seems highly hypocritical, even nonsensical. But there it is.

You ask a hundred different people about social networking, and you’ll get a hundred different opinions. As a consequence of where we have landed in time, every living, breathing human being in the Western world falls somewhere along this new continuum, from those who tweet, blog, Facebook, or Google buzz (or for God’s sake all four - seriously, We.Get.It.) every time they pick their noses to the total boycotters, who between firing up their VHS recorders to watch reruns of Mr. Belvedere, judgmentally take their own noses and throw ‘em way up in the air. They then look straight down those antisocial noses at us and all the perceived narcissism that comes with assuming that people to whom you haven’t spoken since high school graduation care to know that your kid peed like a big boy today, you got concert tickets to that thing you wanted to see, your fibromyalgia is acting up, or you just posted a new blog entry about Booty Call Shrimp.

We social networkers participate for versions of the same reason, to stay connected to someone or something. Although for many of us, our individual desire and quite frankly our need for it seems to cycle through peeks and valleys. I can site several examples where a friend has moved to a new city, is rendered firmly outside of his comfort zone, and a very noticeable spike occurs in activity. My news feed will light up like a Christmas Tree with updates on the his first day of work, a new sofa purchase, the discovery of a place that makes a mean Italian sub, just like the place back home. Perhaps to calm anxiety about the new place by solidifying connections to the old as if to say, “Please don’t forget me!”, perhaps to blow on the embers of a new local connections, probably both. Then, as time goes on, those embers become flames, and the spike of FaceSpacing goes back to the pre-move baseline.

I’m a shameless example of this myself. And a lot of you know this because you access this site through my Facebook page. Khop’s doing this, khop’s up to that, khop just commented on my status, khop just posted a highly inappropriate eCard on my wall. Woops, looks like khop might be drunk right now. At least, I hope she is.... And why not participate? It’s fun, and it keeps me engaged with so many people I can’t see on a regular basis. The downside, though, is that all that online living puts me at terrible risk for not fully living. Instead of being present, I’m distracted. Instead of entirely focusing on you, the person at whom I’m looking, I’m somewhat focused on them, the couple hundred people I’m so anxious to tell about what I’m doing, I’m not really gonna experience it myself. So this time, I’ve gone rouge. I’ve pared down the activity, instead turning my attention this iguana crossing the street (seriously, there’s an iguana crossing the street). And even though I know that the masses greet each new day in utter terror that today will be another khop-absent day, I have to think we’ll all survive.

Social networking tends to strike a nerve in folks, and I’m cognizant that the tone of this post may rub some the wrong way, as plenty (myself included) have documented their way through many a vacation without missing an online beat. We get off the plane - tweet! We have that first margarita - status update! Off to a massage - buzz! In fact, several of my friends are currently on vacation themselves. How do I know this? Facebook, of course. No judgement intended - who am I to say boo on this, anyhow? It’s not like I succeeded in going completely off the grid myself, nor did I want to. I checked my email everyday, caught up with a few people over gChat, took a peek at the ol’ news feed, even posted a buzz (albeit completely unintentionally) that my cousin rightly heckled. But what I did want was to practice the art of being completely immersed in the present moment, not only with all five senses, but also with my thoughts, something I so rarely do, but so keenly long to do more. And now, several days later, on the plane ride home, I’m happy to report success. How refreshing.

Besides, would you really want to have seen any of the following in real time anyway?

khop may have just found the most beautiful beach on the planet.

khop scratch that, *now* may have just found the most beautiful beach on the planet

khop if there is a downside to banging out a 2 mile open water swim in the Caribbean, it’s the tan line left by the damn swim cap across my forehead. Heavy emphasis on *if*.

khop just saw a guy riding on a horse through town, carrying a rooster. Can I move here?

khop thinks there’s no shame in taking a ride back to shore from pirates. In fact, there’s glory in it.

khop just glowed in the bio bay. w.o.w.

khop just finished her third 2+ mile open water swim in three days. This last one hurt. But I-ah beat-ah Steve-ah!

khop has some horrific tan lines, compliments of Speedo.

khop is zooming back to san juan in a taxi driven by a man drinking Johnny Walker Black out of a coconut.

khop just kissed Puerto Rico goodbye. :(

Postin’ the photos on MyFace,

khop

PS: Emphatic, eternal thanks go to Oscar and Kara for welcoming us onto their island and into their home.

Booty Call Shrimp with Tomato, Basil and White Wine over Pasta - Subtitle, “Hey buddy, I’m lofting a softball right over home plate.”

Note: Since I've been slacking a bit on the writing and am a bit desperate for content, I'm going to be selfish and post this here, instead of guesting over here.

We all have a repertoire of “go to” moves. Moves we whip out when we’re aiming to woo, impress, or make the sexy time. They might be smooth lines, a specific pair of booty-enhancing jeans, or just the raise of one eyebrow. Whatever they are, they’re there in our pockets, ready at a moment’s notice to stop the object of our affection in his or her tracks.

I am, I’m afraid, one of very few moves. In fact, historically speaking, the more I consciously try to impress the opposite sex, the less successful I am. My smooth lines will be awkward and mildly offensive. I can’t rock the jeans-in-boots trend, so I’m horribly out of fashion. And if I try to raise just one eyebrow at you, you’ll probably think I have some sort of neurological tic. I am bitter about this. I wish slow, embarrassing deaths on the women who can purposefully spin webs that men actually compete to dive into, because I just cannot do it. It is only when I’m not really trying at all that I have any luck with the menfolk. For someone who has spent a lifetime seeing her efforts in academic and professional arenas translate directly into positive results, this is frustrating, to put it mildly. But it is what it is.

One move I do feel I have is in the culinary arts. Simply put, I know my way round a stove. This comes into play when I’m trying to woo a man with my womanly vibes, swaggering around my kitchen with my gingham apron and my skull ‘n crossbones spatula. (kidding about the apron, not about the spatula). I send out evolutionary pheromones that make him go all cave man and subconsciously link me with warm, delicious food, my hope being that he will keep coming back for more.

Of the food. Of course.

The very fact that I need to keep pulling this move out as relationships end and new ones begin, indicates that there may be some flaw in my logic. But that’s really neither here nor there. Back to the kitchen!

Over time Booty Call Shrimp has become one of my signature dishes. To be clear, it is not reserved exclusively for romantic evenings (I have made this dish for my parents), but certainly it is one of the dishes I think of first when there is a man on my radar screen. It has come out as early as Date 2 (shockingly slutty, I know), and it has been held back until later in the game. But it almost always makes an appearance. In fact, I wonder how many Men I’ve Tried To Impress are reading this now, feeling slightly cheap and thinking, “Really? That was a move? I thought I was special.....” Of course you were are. But for all women everywhere who they themselves have fallen victim to a move (perhaps one of your own), consider this as one small drop in the bucket towards evening that shit out.

Booty Call Shrimp is terrific because it’s seafood, thereby slightly fancy, and almost fool proof. The original recipe came from an issue of Cooking Light, but I’ve long-since lost it, and now I just cook to taste.

One last programing note before forking over the recipe. I must give a shout out to my swoop, who had never seen this move show up on his plate until an impromptu dinner party for six last weekend and who also was not phased by the angle I planned to take with this post. I had bounced this idea around with Wise Cassie quite awhile ago, but I have not had a taste for Booty Call Shrimp until this past weekend. Way to roll with it.

And now, I give to you Booty Call Shrimp with Tomato, Basil and White Wine over Pasta

Subtitle, “I shaved my legs today.”

1/2 lbs uncooked shrimp per person. I’m persnickety about springing for larger, fresh water shrimp, but do whatever your budget will accommodate.

1/4 cup kosher salt

lots of tomatoes, I like a mixture of plum, vine ripened and cherry

green onions

lots of basil

a few cloves of garlic

salt

pepper

olive oil

a hunk of butter

white wine (cooking or drinking)

pasta

parma cheese

optional additions: spinach, lump crab meat (although i find this to be a low ROI addition)

• Peel and devein the shrimp. Make an ice bath with kosher salt and brine the shrimp for 30 minutes.

• Meanwhile, quarter and seed the big tomatoes. Discard the seeds and juice. Dice the flesh

• Chop the green onions, garlic and basil.

• In large saute pan, heat olive oil and butter to medium high. Saute garlic for a minute or so. Don’t let it burn! Add shrimp and green onions. Saute for 4 - 5 minutes, until you can see that the shrimp are fully cooked. If you don’t know what fully cooked shrimp look like, google it. Turn the heat down to medium. Add spinach here, if you’re doing it. Saute until it’s wilted and reduced. Add the diced tomatoes, basil and the white wine, about a quarter of a cup if you’re cooking for two, then splashes as needed. Not too runny! Add salt and pepper to taste. Add cherry tomatoes and cook until they are still intact but the skins look like they’re gonna break. At the last minute gently fold in lump crab meat (if doing), just enough to warm it, but not enough that it breaks up and is lost in the slush.

• Serve over cooked pasta. Top with parmesan cheese and crushed up roofies. Fluff your hair, touch up your make up, and enjoy!

Workin' it,

khop