Suck My Guac

Entries from March 2009

Things you can’t do in the work place

March 31, 2009 · 3 Comments

Alright, I recognize that the days of boozing, smoking, and ass-grabbing in the work place are long gone. Companies have policies, procedures, and guidelines to ensure a degree of work decorum. Despite the fatty packet I received at orientation explaining the company policies, there are, nevertheless, some unwritten, even unspoken, rules about the work place that I feel should be addressed directly in order to avoid any confusion.

The thing about unspoken rules is: it never seems fair that you get punished for breaking them. So I’ve started a list – hardly conclusive – of things you just can’t do at work, despite not being told not to.

Swear Unnecessarily and/or Creatively: I don’t work in an office full of prudes, let’s get that clear right away. Everyone would understand shouting “FUCK!” if you dropped a safe on your foot, and an occasional “Shit,” can be muttered under your breath when Meryl from accounting comes over. But when you want to describe a venture capital company’s staff as “a bunch of clitsniffing cocksucksers,” (which is an interesting position to be in, believe you me) the conversation stops in its tracks. Apparently the business term is “irresponsible investors.”

Talk about Sex: Obviously, there are certain sexual harassment issues to be wary of when talking about sex in the work place. Nevertheless, discussion happen. It’s not so much that it’s not allowed, but more that I’m worried about the conversational reciprocation. The last thing I want is to see Carl in legal’s Oh-Face. Also, a lot of people around my office are moms, and moms and sex just don’t go together – only one time.

Scratch Your Balls: This one really gets to me and actually applies to society at large. This is what made me want to write this post to begin with. Everything surrounding this one grievance is filler. I just thought that Kate wouldn’t want entire post about scratching your balls.

It’s not that I have unusually itchy balls, because that’s simply not the case. However, I still have a two-pronged complaint here. First, when they do scratch I have to subtly scoot further under my desk and gingerly give them a little relief. This is hardly adequate. When my boys are screaming they need attention, possibly some roughhousing, but not the subtle pinch-scratch. If you don’t know what that means, I’m not going to explain it to you, it’s either something you do or you don’t do.

My second complaint is that the office does not provide a safe space for me to even put my hands down my pants in a purely platonic way. Now this is a posture we’re all familiar with, popularized by Al Bundy in the early ’90s show Married With Children. Although, unfortunately associated with classlessness and perversion, this position is fucking comfortable. Additionally, it helps me stay focused. I can’t explain why, but when I’m reading or watching something, I’m that much more tuned in when I have my hand in my pants. I’m not jerking off, just thinking.

Napping: This is a no brainer, really. Possibly too obvious to even include in an orientation packet of do’s and dont’s. Even still, it irks me that nap time was completely wasted on me when I had it. As I grew up, I found more and more utility for a scheduled nap time every day, but the System doesn’t allow it. Kate isn’t a napper, but maybe you, reader, are. Maybe, like me reader, you have found the 2 o’clock hour too trying. If only you could snuggle up some place quiet and dark for an hour, oh how different the afternoon would be. Instead, I’m just a big crankypants.

Be Hungover: Well, you can, but it’s a fucking nightmare. This is really just a recommendation. The other items in this list are worth doing, even if just to test the boundaries. But being hungover at work, I just can’t recommend it. Time at the office moves so slowly that you’ve become an expert in quantum mechanics and relativity, now imagine being hungover. Time. Stops. Completely. So. You. Can. Relish. Every. Miserable. Feeling. For. Eternity. Lush.

But these are just my gripes for more personal freedoms in the office. This is my prison; my personal battle. Reader, what do you wish you could do at work, but can’t?

Categories: Jamie · Work
Tagged: , , , , ,

Speakeasys, Sharks, and Sheets

March 29, 2009 · Leave a Comment

Kate: you need to get some

11:57 AM Jamie: word
you know anyone?
Kate: i mean, in sf
but you refuse to come visit
12:01 PM Jamie: alright alright
well you’re going away when i’m coming
Kate: yeah
well
i can try to get you some hot chicks numbers
Jamie: yeah and just leave it for me in the hotel lobby
12:02 PM so you want my headshots for the ladies?
Kate: yes, please.
12:03 PM Jamie: signed or unsigned
Kate: unsigned
don’t want it to look like you care
12:04 PM Jamie: yeah chicks love guys who don’t care
that’s why i usually open with a tittytwister and then look them in the eyes and say “What!?”
12:13 PM Kate: hahahafail-proof
12:14 PM Jamie: sure is
1:01 PM Jamie: hey do you know about this speakeasy bar in SF?
you need like a code to get in and depending on which code you give determines where in the bar you are let into
1:05 PM Kate: yeah
bourbon and branch
Jamie: i want to go there
Kate: i’ve been there a few times
it’s tight
Jamie: when i come to visit i want to go there and i want to code to the best room
you down for that?
1:08 PM Kate: i won’t be here
oh wait do you just want me to get you the code?
Jamie: i mean when i come to visit you
1:09 PM Kate: ohh
okay
yeah
Jamie: yeah, i’m living in hypothetical land
Kate: okay
well then, i will hypothetically get us reservations
Jamie: hypothetically exciting!
1:10 PM Kate: what date should i hypothetically reserve
1:11 PM Jamie: alright alright you’re hypothetically smothering me
Kate: sorry
i’m a clinger
1:12 PM Jamie: sat. january 10th
hypothetically
1:14 PM Kate: i have a thing that day
Jamie: do you really?
1:16 PM Kate: (no)thing
sharks r kewl
1:17 PM Jamie: how has it been this long without anyone ever seeing a great white pooping?
i mean i feel like i see animals pooping whenever i see animals
Kate: i guess people were more interested in them killing people
1:52 PM Kate: there should be three sets of sheets per bed per household
fyi
Jamie: really
three
that seems like a lot
i understand two
1:54 PM where did you pick up that little nugget?
1:55 PM Kate: i’m fact-checking a thing about linens
1:56 PM an interview with a linen expert
1:57 PM Jamie: but why, kate, why
if your sheets are dirty wash them and while they are being washed then put the spare set on
2:01 PM Kate: one for bed
one for closet
one in the laundry
according to mark scheuer
Jamie: that is ridiculous
Jamie: what the fuck is the one in the closet for
hey i believe you that someone believes this nonsense
2:03 PM how about a quote from man on the street, jamie belsky, saying you only need 2 at most
or you can save yourself a lot of time by putting a fitted sheet on the bed and then a regular sheet on top of that and then taking the top off when it’s dirty
2:05 PM Kate: i slept under my fitted sheet last weekend
by accident
/drunkenness
Jamie: that’s hillarious
2:06 PM Kate: yeah
i woke up next to my mattress pad
Jamie: that’s a big wtf first thing in the morning
2:09 PM Kate: for sure

Categories: Conversations · Jamie · Kate

Seriously, though…how long do I give it?

March 28, 2009 · 4 Comments

You’d think that, with so many ungovernable variables flying around, the world would have been designed in such a way that you’d be capable of at least controlling yourself.  Like, okay I can’t make Safeway put Golden Grahams on special, but I can consciously make myself develop an affinity for generic-brand “Crispy Rice Cereal.”  Or, more fittingly, I can’t make that tall dude in the hoodie drinking Jameson on the rocks like me, but I can decide to like this other dude in the button-down and designer jeans who is engaging me in an earnest and intelligent conversation.  But it just doesn’t work that way.  Crispy Rice Cereal still tastes like slightly salty air, and I, no matter how hard I try, just can’t get myself to like the guy next to me.

That is to say, I met a guy at a bar a few weeks ago who I should, by all accounts, be interested in, but my brain or heart or hormones or whatever proves a fickle and insubordinate creature.  And I mean, this guy is a catch.  He’s an Ivy League grad, ambitious and cultured but not pretentious; he’s read the books that I’ve read and then some, he appreciates quality beer, he’s good to his friends, he has impeccable taste in interior design, and, to top it off, he treats me with respect and thoughtfulness.

We’ve gone on a few quasi-dates and had fun.  He left me a very sweet but laid-back and non-creepy voicemail earlier in the week, to which I have yet to respond.  He seems attracted to me—body language and actual language testify to the fact—but I don’t reciprocate.  In the words of my sixth grade self—which is, apparently, not very different from my 23-year old self—I like him, but I don’t like like him.

I’ve mentioned this issue before in a slightly different situation, and it continues to plague me.  Seriously, guys, what do I do?  Do I let the voicemail linger and let the fledgling courtship fizzle out?  Do I call back and tell him that he’s a great guy but I just don’t see this happening?  Or do I call back and arrange for another date and see if, somehow, my feelings toward him change?

Because sometimes things like that do change; sometimes it’s possible to meet someone, appraise them as being incapable of inspiring any feeling even marginally resembling lust in you, and then proceed to do a mental 180 and enter into an emotionally and physically fulfilling multi-year relationship.

Man I am so glad I don’t have to date me.

-Kate

Categories: Dating · Kate
Tagged: , , , , ,

Missing a connection…

March 27, 2009 · 1 Comment

The public has been clamoring for an update on the date with my Craig’s List suitor. I wish I had something definitive and exciting to say—I wish he had been either my soul mate or a grotesque and socially inept toad. But my verdict after last night is just that, well, he was okay.

First, some brief background on the meeting that inspired the Missed Connection—I sat across from him on a bus. I immediately observed that he was drinking something and reading something; upon further inspection, I saw that he was drinking a Full Sail IPA and reading Moby Dick. Be still my heart, on every level. I was reading a collection of essays that I was reviewing for the magazine, and he struck up a conversation about books.

So last night we met, again, at a bar near my apartment. I thought that I might not recognize him—during our first meeting, I was tired and had a hat on and mainly kept my eyes trained on my book, only looking up now and then while we spoke—but I did. He was shorter than I remembered, although that makes no sense because I only saw him sitting down. Anyway. We drank beers and played darts and talked, and it was, for the most part, wholly enjoyable. He was interesting and inquisitive and positive.

There were, however, some uncomfortable moments—he exposed perhaps a bit too much emotional baggage considering the embryonic nature of our relationship—a lengthy narrative about his first true love and his parents’ painful divorce; he tried to do the arm-around-shoulders move while we were walking down the street, which always results in a painfully awkward dance to remain at the same pace and compensate for height discrepancies and keep purses from causing awkward obstructions; he seemed to have no qualms about getting absolutely wasted on a first date, guiding our path from bar to bar and declaring, as the minute hand crept toward midnight, “I want to go OUT out!”

It’s hard to pass real judgment based on just one night, especially given the stressors associated with first dates, and this date is rendered even more immune to judgment by the copious amounts of alcohol that lubricated our conversations. But, you know, I just don’t know if I see this happening. There are the above-mentioned SNAFU’s, and also, to be frank, I can’t really see myself being attracted to him. Which may be superficial, but trying to get romantic with someone who you can’t imagine kissing without a little internal grimace is generally a bad idea.

The fact that physical attraction can’t be faked has been a scourge of my existence and a deterrent to possibly really functional relationships since 6th grade. Sometimes it can grow over time, but that’s a pretty slim chance, and no guy deserves to be strung along for weeks of dating while I wait for a tiny drop of incipient chemistry to incubate. It’s a conundrum—where do you draw the line between giving a guy a fair chance and leading him on?

-Kate

Categories: City Life · Dating · Kate

Come to My Windshield: The Fallout

March 26, 2009 · 9 Comments

Well it happened. I met windshield girl. Let me tell you, reader, if you’re worried that my questions from last post weren’t answered, worry not. Why? Because I asked her.

She is an actress. That explains the picture on the business card. I couldn’t tell how she felt about me thinking she might have been a prostitute. It wasn’t flattered exactly. Once that particular segment of the conversation got around to, “So you thought I might be an escort, but you called anyway? Huh,” I wished to be hit by a sudden, yet incredibly curable, case of lockjaw. Think before you speak was the big learning experience of the night, but not the only one.

Let me give you the quick and dirty:

1. She went to go see Watchmen opening night (i.e. Friday 12:01 am). You go, girl. She had even read the book. Dope.

2. She plays video games. Hummina, hummina, hummina. In all fairness this is smoking hot. Here’s what I imagine tell my guy friends, “Yeah we were just playing Guitar Hero, all of a sudden she hit pause, we fucked, then went right back to video games! Suck on that, bra!” If only that was where it ended.

3. She goes to comicons. For those of you not in the know, comicons are conventions for comic book fans and creators. People dress up – so does she – and walk around, listen to lectures, trade gossip, all while dressed up as a the Norse god, Thor. Suddenly the Watchmen thing seems a little less cool.

4. She goes to rennaissance fairs – also in costume. No elaboration necessary.

5. She wants to get her concealed weapons permit so she can carry a gun and wear a big trenchcoat over it. EJECT!

As I was learning all these things, I couldn’t help thinking over and over again, “But you’re so pretty. Why are you saying these terrible things?”

Maybe it’s time Clay cut me down to size for being a snob, so let me just get ahead of that. I am the first person to admit and embrace my nerdiness. I’m a dork. Anyone who knows me can vouch for it. There are plenty of girls that are simply too cool for school, and I’m pretty much school. But comicons and dressing-up! I’m sorry but if I don’t look down on them, who do I have to look down on? I know what you’re thinking: the illiterate, but that’s not enough for me.

Kate texted me tonight, she is going to meet her Missed Connection. She asked me why did she sign up for this? All I could text back was, “This is your life on guac.”

- Jamie

Categories: Dating · Jamie
Tagged: , ,

Come to my windshield

March 24, 2009 · 4 Comments

Yesterday, as I got into my car after a(n) (adjective) day’s work, I spied a business card on my dashboard. My reaction, of course was, “Who the fuck put a god damn flier on my car?” I got out and pulled the offending paper from under my wiper.

But it wasn’t a flier. It was a note. “Fuck, I hit someone” and “Cha ching! Someone hit me!” passed through my head. Wrong again. Apparently, some woman/girl/dame/tranny had seen me in the parking garage and taken a fancy to me. She wrote that she worked down the street and if I’d like to go out, I should call her.

Obviously, I was filled with questions:

Question 1:

How come women can just see a guy, think he’s good looking, write a note to that effect, and expect to get away with it? I’m not a piece of meat. What about Jamie the person? Not just Jamie the stud driving around in his paint-chipped, dented bumper, gas guzzling, Jeep while blasting “Hot and Cold,” Jamie the mind. As far as Suck My Guac is concerned, the jury is still out as to whether or not this is a good technique for guys to use. As for a girl’s success, read on reader. Read on.

Question 2:

Why can’t I find you online, windshield girl? I have your business card and on it there is a phone number, an e-mail address, and your name. Now, not to be overly creepy but you did start this, I ought to be able to find you somewhere. Facebook, no hits. Google, forget it. I had a false lead through classmate.com, but when I Googled her area code it didn’t match up. Who are you?

Question 3:

What kind of person puts their picture on their business card? Oh, reader, had I forgot to mention that nugget? My B. Yes, her picture is on her card. Albeit a beautiful picture, it is important that we ask the tough questions. For instance…

Question: 4:

Are you a prostitute? It is hard to conceive of many professions where a picture would be necessary on your business card. To be fair to windshield girl, I can think of a viable alternative (although, far less interesting in the greater narrative of life), she could be an actress. This is Los Angeles, after all. It would be important that whoever you meet remember your face.

But let’s not lose the prostitute angle just yet, because it really does make at least some sense – no digital fingerprints, picture on the card, innocuous day job down the block from my office. The question then becomes…

Question 5:

When are you going to tell me you’re a hooker? Being a prostitute and coming onto a guy totally unsolicited seems a bit like a man wearing toupée, at some point, the truth has to come out. Right? You can’t live a lie like that forever. Which brings me to my final question…

Question 6:

Will I give a shit when you reveal yourself to be a strumpet? Reader, this is the conclusion of my tale. I’m going to hear her out. I called her and we have a date tomorrow night. I hope you’ll agree with me in thinking that trick-turner or not, a girl like this must be met.

Truthfully, she sounded sweet on the phone. She even said, “You know, I didn’t think you were going to call.” All I could think was, you obviously have never read Suck My Guac.

- Jamie

Categories: Dating · Jamie

My Mandate

March 22, 2009 · 2 Comments

Frank Sinatra once said, Saturday night is the loneliest night in the week. Sometimes that’s true, sometimes it’s a Tuesday. But this Saturday night I went on a mandate. My buddy and I do not get together often, and this Saturday we decided to do something.

Originally we planned to meet in the afternoon, but one thing led to another and we ended up meeting for drinks, dinner, and a movie. We knew what was happening and we acknowledged it. It’s a mandate – especially because he payed for everything (to be fair in exchange I was giving him an 1/8th, nevertheless the imagery is evocative).

The movie wasn’t starting for a few hours so naturally we headed for a bar. The first place we considered was far too crowded. The second place we happened upon was Hooters. Finally, the third place didn’t seem too crowded, and there were two spots at the bar. Well, almost. An elderly gentleman was sitting at the bar with an empty stool on either side of him. We asked him if he wouldn’t mind moving down one and he turned, looked at us and said, “Oh! I thought one of you was a woman.” Not tonight, friend.

Now the place we went to illustrates a perfect distinction – and possible plus – of the mandate. Never in a million years would I ever consider going to a place like the place my buddy and I went to tonight with a date. Only looking back do I realize we went to a tikki bar. It was loud, played top 40s on the jukebox, looked as if Party City threw up all over the place, but it was having a 2-for-1, there was a spot at the bar, and the waitresses were good looking.

Dinner turned out to be 20 buffalo wings, and 1 round too many just too keep flirting with cute waitress, Leah. Another point – or several – for the mandate. I realize that a lot of girls like wings. Possibly even you reader, you may have a vagina and like the spiciness of a drumette. That’s not the point. It’s not the best form on a datedate to hardily defend a bartender giving you both of your beers simultaneously during a 2-for-1 special using the argument, it makes you drink faster.  You just don’t do that. On a mandate you do.

Now the movie, it’s almost too predictable really, but my buddy and I appreciate the meta in life as much as the next couple of dudes. We went to see I Love You, Man.

Let’s just say that there were a few moments in the film that hit a little too close to home. We laughed heartily, thank you extra round, but mostly it was funny because it was true. The title of the film perfectly encapsulates the level of intimacy of our mandate. We enjoy one anothers time, but absolutely must throw the “man” on at the end. It’s the verbal representation of finishing up every man-on-man hug with a series of pats as if we’re trying to dislodge a chicken bone from the others throat.

Of course always adding dude, or bro, onto the end of any honest statement of emotion, and brusquely patting one another on the back during hugs can be seen as cheap. But embraces, empathy, responsible drinking, those are meant for dates. That’s not what this is. This is something better. I’m not going to call him tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, and he’s not even going to notice. But I went out to drinks, dinner, and a movie tonight. If that’s cheap, honey, call me Trixie the four dollar whore.

- Jamie

Categories: Dating · Jamie

G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S

March 21, 2009 · Leave a Comment

My job as a fashion assistant usually involves sending e-mails to PR girls, navigating baroque websites of high-end designers, and opening up boxes of scuffed-up size-12 Christian Louboutin heels, but sometimes it involves things like going on photo shoots.

Next Monday happens to be one of those occasions.  In preparation for the shoot, the style director (a.k.a. my boss) and I headed downtown to a high-end department store to pull (“pull,” in fashionspeak, means “borrow”) some clothes for the shoot, just in case the items we’d requested from designers didn’t turn out to fill all our needs.  This is usually pretty fun.  It means sifting through piles of Theory tees, critiquing John Varvatos button-downs, holding Diane von Furstenberg dresses up to my body to imagine how it would on me if I made anywhere near enough money to buy it.  It means smiling at salespeople and telling them nonchalantly “Oh, I’m just pulling for a fashion shoot,” and blushing inwardly at the absurdity of the statement, feeling about as sophisticated as a little girl in her mom’s high heels with lipstick all over her face.

Once we’d thoroughly scoured the men’s and women’s departments and plopped all our goods down on a counter, waiting for the designated PR girl to come down and check us out, my boss spotted a pair of Burberry shorts she thought would be good for the shoot.  The size we needed (i.e., model-size) was, annoyingly, on the display mannequin.  Betty, the kind saleswoman, informed us that the visual team had already left for the day, but that she would help us take the shorts off herself.  My boss then realized that she wanted to grab some Oliver Peoples sunglasses from the lower level, and dashed off.  The task was left to me and Betty.

Betty crouched on the ground to unscrew the mannequin’s feet from the stand, while I spotted up top.  We slid the shorts down with no problem, exposing the mannequin’s generic but still strangely suggestive nether regions.  Immediately after, we needed to put a different pair of shorts back on, because few things provoke more embarrassment than a naked, porcelain-white mannequin ass, complete with gluteal dimples and stylized pubic V.

Again, Betty crouched on the floor and I spotted up top.  I won’t go into the complex mechanics of trying to slide shorts under the feet and up the legs of a 6’0” mannequin, but I will describe the resultant effect:  Betty squatting by the mannequin’s feet, invisible to passerby, me up top, stabilizing the mannequin.  As Betty fiddled with the screws, giggling, the mannequin teetered more and more, and I was forced to embrace the mannequin.  I demurely tried to keep my hands on the back of its (her?) thighs, but this precarious grip proved unsustainable, and finally I had to give in—one hand firmly placed on each sculpted polystyrene buttock, my face pressed between two nipple-less breasts, shoppers and staff passing in my peripheral vision.

And that was when I knew I’d made it.

-Kate

Categories: Kate · Work

We’re all just trying to connect…

March 20, 2009 · 8 Comments

I always thought that when it finally happened, the sky would open, a ray of sunshine would thrust itself through the parted clouds and bathe me in golden light, trumpets would play, my hair would be flawless and would billow slightly in a dramatic yet gentle breeze. But that’s not the way it went down. When it did happen, when I learned that—at long last—someone had posted a Missed Connection about me on Craig’s List, the world seemed remarkably indifferent.

I had just hurtled down the aisle of the 22, throwing myself ungracefully into one of the side seats, slightly breathless from the dash to catch the bus. Seeing that I had one missed call, I dialed the number for my voicemail.

One new message: “Kate, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that someone wrote a Missed Connection for you!”

For those of you who don’t know what a Missed Connection is, I have three things to say to you: 1) Seriously? 2) Missed Connections is a section of Craig’s List where people post valiant, deluded, and/or creepy attempts to reconnect with a special someone they met in a bar or passed on the street or bought a yogurt from at Jamba Juice. A sort of tangible plea to the universe to give them one more chance at meeting the ephemeral object of their affection, this time with the balls to say something. 3) You are stronger people than I, and probably lead more substantive lives.

Anywho. As the 22 caromed down Fillmore St., past Fell, past Oak, past Haight, I stared, dumbstruck, straight ahead, waiting for the universe to acknowledge the import of my new life development. The seemingly homeless man in front of me muttered to himself, staring at a point in space slightly to the left of my ear. The head of the old Chinese woman across from me jounced up and down along with the rhythms of the bus as she, against all odds, peacefully dozed. The cute redheaded girl next to me gabbed away on her cell phone, trying to explain to her disembodied conversation partner why she absolutely could NOT go lingerie shopping with her uncle’s new girlfriend. Not one random stranger seemed to care that a different random stranger had thought I was cool. Clearly they were all blind, or just in denial about my random-stranger-attracting pheromones. For a brief moment, every passenger became an anonymous avatar, existing solely as an online entity, a registered Craig’s List user whose physical manifestation had ventured into the material world to gather information for later Missed Connections postings re: me.* But then the automated voice said “16th Street and Mission,” and the Stop Request bell rang, and I swooped up my purse and bounced down the steps and into the street, and mostly forgot about the Missed Connection for the rest of the night.

I had to wait until this morning at work to finally read it myself, because the Internet at my apartment has decided to stop working. The posting itself was minimal, straightforward, very un-creepy, and very clearly about me. It was from a guy I had spoken with on a bus last week, a conversation that had, in fact, stuck with me afterward. I kept the window with the posting open all day at work while I did other things, subconsciously debating whether to respond, and if yes, then how or when.

Right before I left work, I wrote back. My e-mail felt clumsy and bashful, strange qualities for a format so decidedly forward.

And now the ball is back in his court. Now I wait.

-Kate

*Ohh man, I can only imagine the field day Clay is gonna have with that sentence.

Categories: Dating · Kate

Does Kate suck?

March 18, 2009 · 15 Comments

Readers, we’re calling upon you once again to settle something, once and for all.

A Suck My Guac reader, Clay, seems to have a serious problem with Kate (Here and Here). We can’t understand why. Or to be more precise, why only Kate? And actually, why be a hater at all, Clay? Maybe it’s just our Californianess talking, but chill bra.

But then we thought, maybe Kate sucks. Hopefully we can put this to rest once and for all.

Categories: Kate