the great thong incident of 2008

Thongs. The word alone sort of skeeves me out. It reminds me of strippers and wedgies and fills my mind with images of girls in jeans that are too tight who unapologetically walk around exposing their underwear to the world. Nonetheless, I frown upon pantie lines even more and have learned to accept thongs as a necessary evil.

Back in October I was in the middle of a traveling stint between Chicago, Buffalo, NYC and back to Chicago. I refuse to travel with a suitcase that needs to be checked and so I was forced to find somewhere to do laundry along the way. A guy friend of mine with a washer/dryer at his disposal offered the solution. I washed every article of clothing I had with me and I was on my way.

[Fast forward one month]

I was out at the local bar in Buffalo after the latest Sabres victory over the Penguins. After a few beers I went to the bathroom and received a text from the aforementioned guy friend that said, "I am wearing the thong you left at my place." I brushed it off and fired a text back that said, "What?! I am assuming this is meant for someone else."

When I returned to my drinking buddies, I told them about this text and immediately I was pulled aside and informed that I left a thong in the dryer and for the past month the infamous underwear has been floating around the greater Buffalo area (or at least among my group of friends).

I was drunk, I was heated and there's no stopping me at this point. So naturally, I stormed across the bar, pushed the thong-thief and politely said, "What?! You think you're cool sh*t for showing people a thong that belongs to a girl you're NOT hooking up with?!"

His response was confusion and shock and I told him to look at his cell phone for the text that set this whole thing off. Although the text did come from his phone, the author was actually another girl at the bar, who had also been exposed to the thong.

Embarrassed, he retreated to a seat at the bar and several minutes later sent me a shot. To add to his humiliation, I told the bartender to send it back.

This story should end here. I mean how could this possibly get any worse? But it wouldn't be a good story without even more drama.

That night I brought my sister out to the bar and she got involved in trying to resolve the thong incident. During her investigation the story only got better.

The dryer where the thong was discovered was in a shared washer/dryer belonging to my friend and his neighbor in the condo above him. The neighbor, a 20-something year old with a two year old child, had been doing laundry, and discovered the thong that clearly did not belong to her. In response she placed the thong on my friend's doorknob to return the mystery underwear.

Several hours later, stumbling home from the bar, my friend saw the thong hanging on his door waiting for him. His drunken, freshman-like thought process led him to the following conclusion: my neighbor totally wants to hook up with me. It is only natural that the thong bandit then attempted to break into his neighbor's condo, thong in hand, to cash in on the invitation.

What ensued next was screaming, a threat to call the police, and severe embarrassment. Now imagine everyone at our local hang out witnessing this entire thing unfold.

Lesson learned: you should have just mailed me my f-ing thong!

10 days

[ring]

"It's now or never. We're doing this!" I said.

"I don't know. I'm nervous," she replied.

"I just clicked 'Purchase.' Now we're locked in. No excuses," I responded.

Pretty soon now we'll wake up in Nicaragua.

listen lisa

Tonight is my last night (or as far as I know) in NY for work, although I have a sinking feeling I'll be back here. Not going to lie, it's been bad speckled with awesome.

Listen Lisa -

You were the speckle. We were forced together whether we wanted to or not - destined to travel across the country each week together. You gave me perspective. You made me embrace, "Bitches get things done!"

For the first time in so long I spoke without pre-thinking it. That felt awesome. You reminded me of someone I knew so long ago.

I spilled everything to you because I just couldn't help it, and I thank you for not making me feel embarrassed, or shy, or ashamed. I thank you more for keeping it between me and you without me ever needing to ask you to.

We laughed because there was nothing else to do. You had my back and I had yours.

We've gotten lost, found our way, and became the experts. We car danced.

I worry that we'll fade apart and pray that we won't.

So listen Lisa, thank you for breaking up the awful with awesome. Let's laugh again, donkey.

Shake, shake, shake, shake, a-shake it,
mn

suspended

I used to dread the time I spent traveling. I felt as if life was moving without me while I was suspended in transit hovering thousands of miles above the earth. I wasn't making an impression on the world and I was completely cut off from everything. I couldn't help but wonder what was happening below me and wishing I was apart of it.

Now it's that suspension that I crave - for my cell phone not to ring, to not receive an email, to not be interrupted. The time I spend on a weekly basis flying between Chicago and New York is comparative to a sigh. It's an exhale from everyone and everything.

Give me a cramped airplane seat and my iPod. Give me a single serving friend in the aisle seat to my left.

[sigh]

loser

My working theory is that we're all losers desperately trying to hide it. We could be losers because of a hobby, or because of an off-center sense of humor, or because of our history, or because of natural social awkwardness.

We all try and hide our loserness. Desperately attempting to be cooler than next guy. And we're lucky in life we can find a handful of people who won't mind the loser. So here it is.

(Finally a chance to list!)

I am a loser because:

1. I secretly love databases - they make sense when there is none.
2. I pretend not to care when really I'm a romantic.
3. My favorite food will always be chicken fingers.
4. I know how to knit - no excuse for this one.
5. I learned to play the guitar in my church's rock band. Rockin' it for Jesus!
6. My mother suffers from manic depression and my step-father was an alcoholic who over-dosed on drugs.
7. There's nothing better than the smell of gasoline.
8. I've cried to my share of Lifetime movies.
9. I wish I grew up to be a rockstar. I sing in my livingroom and pretend it sounds good.
10. I believe in the power of soundtracks and often think my iPod is the backdrop to my own personal movie.
11. Shoes are my guilty pleasure.
12. My father doesn't recognize me as his daughter.
13. I dance alone in my livingroom on a regular basis.
14. I always wish I was something more.

the wallets

It's a given that women in IT are sparse, and in being one of the few, I occasionally find myself mixed in with a group I call the Wallets.

At around 9pm last night I found myself at a dimly lit round table at The Old Homestead Steak House in Manhattan with 10 senior managers and senior executives - all of which were men. From a distance the scene may have looked like a semi-official business dinner as we engaged in serious conversation and they continuously consulted their Blackberrys.

As the only female and by far the lowest ranking member of the group, I was clearly an outsider catching a glimpse in. I think the natural reaction to being placed in such a situation would be severe discomfort and a tendency to retreat from conversation. But something I discovered along the way is how very little the men I was sitting with have changed from the nerds I knew in school. Conversation topics have transitioned from computer specs and cartoons to project bids and stock portfolios. But what hasn't changed is the underlying context of these conversations. It's status. It's knowing whose penis is bigger than the next guy's. It's proving to the rest of the room that you're better, richer, smarter, whatever.

My role in the boy's club is an easy one - to remind them of the insecure nerd they really are and to knock them down a notch. The fact that I'm a girl gives me a safety net.

After dinner and a few bottles of wine, a nightclub seemed like the most appropriate destination. Table and bottle service of course. Here's to you boys!

the jig is up

It's those moments when you have the perfect crowd-stopping, silence-invoking thing to say mapped out in your mind when the words become trapped in a net somewhere in the back of your throat. It's when you have an entire speech formulated that is just the right mixture of powerful and strong without becoming too emotional that somehow becomes frozen at the sight of your target.

I find myself brewing over these words, precisely choosing each one knowing full well that I won't ever say them. I'll spend my morning commute, my daily shower, my nights meticulously editing and revising. Even five minutes after writing this, I'll come up with something better. This is what I'll never have the courage to say.

You humiliated me. You humiliated me with such ease and comfort it almost seemed routine. I pretend to be fine but that's all I am doing - pretending. I'm not even sure if I am pretending for your sake or mine anymore.

To say that I hate you would be too easy. I am disappointed in you and what you turned out to be, but even worse I am disappointed in myself for choosing to ignore it for so long. I got lost in what you could be so much so that I became blind to what you are.

I became that girl who ignores the obvious when it is staring her in the face. You made me that girl and I allowed you to.

I cannot change you or what you have done. I can only change the open door I've held for you. I will no longer waste another night on you. I won't wait for your calls or search for meaning when there is none. And perhaps you won't even notice but at the very least I'll know that I deserve more than what little you have to offer. At the very least soon I'll be fine and soon I won't even remember you.

The jig is up. I'm onto you.