Top 10 reasons I like being not being a high roller:
I can’t afford a drug habit, hence no drug problem.
I’m not crazy for being a childless woman who doesn’t belong to CCV
I don’t have the fashion sense and flat ass necessary to be an heiress
I can make the Fraternal Order of Police consider sending me $10 per month
It’s acceptable, expected even, to get wrecked while pre-gaming. Notice that “cocktail hour” contains a singular noun.
I can give hand-made Christmas gifts. It’s the thought that counts.
If I were arrested, for say, lighting a hat on fire in public, I would not make the news.
I truly like Miller High Life Light.
I’m not lying when I tell homeless, er, displaced persons that I don’t have a dollar to spare.
I prefer Sidewalk to Bookbinders any day (except our anniversary, Mr. Barista)
I have received your prayer request. Your approximate wait time is 20 minutes. You are currently behind Barista, who is asking for strength and patience to not choke a bitch today. Her Barefoot Coworker has over shared the following information this morning:
- She loves to watch bats eat bugs out of a pool at night. So do her kids. That’s why the fambily didn’t mind having a bat in their home on Saturday. She just hollered for the cat to take care of it. When the cat failed to do his job, she trapped the bat in a pair of her sweatpants and left it in her basement.
- She ate oatmeal for breakfast this morning, and vomited before she came to work.
- She made a GYN appointment this morning for her oft-recurring yeast infections. She assumed that hearing one-side of that conversation was not enough, so she repeated it in detail to the entire office. Then Barefoot followed up with a meeting request sent to everyone documenting her appointment info. The Barista declined the invitation to attend that fun-fest.
Your Higher Power,
PS – You are right on with your bar guide. Thanks for the chuckle. Hee hee, lobster-pants. I’ll be speaking with Vineyard Vines about that shortly.
Are you there, God? It’s me, TLW. Hey listen, I know you’ve been super busy lately with all the celebrity deaths (Billy Mays! Why?!) and all but I was wondering if maybe you could make it so Tsaur could stop coming into work 45 minutes early every day? See the thing is the main reason I come in at seven thirty is so I have an hour of T free time a day and lately he’s been coming in at like 7:45. I hate it so bad? Plus also I’m barely getting here before him which is also cramping my style. I consider 7:30 more of a goal I shoot for rather than hard “start time”.
One more thing, too, God. And again, I know you’re dealing with the Iranian election and that whole thing but if you could maybe make him stop cc-ing me on every goddamn (whoops, sorry God!) email he sends that would be great, too. I hate coming back to work from a long weekend and having 55 unread irrelevant emails from him.
I hate him, God. I really, really do but I understand we all have our crosses to bear and Tsaur is mine. Thanks in advance-I really appreciate it!
Style Weekly’s annual Bar Guide
is out and if you haven’t picked up a copy, please do. It’s hilarious and spot on. What they didn’t mention, however, is what the ladies can expect to have to endure upon entering said bar. In response to that and through much thought and extensive research I have been able to categorize the douche bags that inhabit the bars in the RVA. I hope you will find my research helpful so you may avoid these people at all costs.
The Richmond Douche. Where you are: City Limit, Can Can or any other over priced restaurant in the city. You can identify the Richmond Douche with ease, so do not fear. He will be wearing pink pants with lobsters on them (I don’t get this AT ALL by the way-can someone please explain this to me?!?! ), boat shoes and a polo shirt. Drink of choice-probably just a brewskie since he’s been drinking all day on the golf course but don’t be surprised if he’s living it up and drinking some whiskey. He only smokes when he drinks so his pick up line is to bum a cig. Simply smile, hand him said Marlboro and calmly walk away. He won’t really care that he didn’t score since his girlfriend is at home anyway.
The Hipster Douche. Where you are: Sticky Rice, Helen’s, New York Deli, Ipanema, Cous Cous or any other bar you’ve never heard of. You can identify the Hipster Douche by their use of irony, vintage tees and skinny jeans. Drink of choice? PBR. They have their own natural smokes so their pick up line will be to ask you who your favorite band is. You can immediately get them to leave you alone by responding that you enjoy Matchbox 20, Creed and Linkin Park. Be careful to not say this with sarcasm, however, because then they’ll think you’re being ironic and hence forth, one of them. Follow up by asking them if they were as upset as you were about the American Idol finale. Watch them slip away quicker than you can say “My scooter’s parked in a tow away zone-gotta jet”.
The Ed Hardy Douche. Where you are: Star-lite, Bandito’s and anywhere Downtown. The Ed Hardy Douche is the easiest of the three to spot due to his love for Ed Hardy and Affliction apparel. Hair gel is not optional. Drink of choice? Long Island Iced Tea. Tribal arm bands are standard. Their pickup line is the most direct and involves simply coming up from behind and grinding on your ass like wow. It may be hard to escape from the grasp of an Ed Hardy Douche because he has already placed his man tanned hands on your hips in an attempt to simulate sexy times on the dance floor. Your best bet is to tell him that you think you’re ovulating and tonight would be a great night to make a baby. Look pleadingly into his eyes and ask him to make you a mommy. He’ll immediatly release you from his grasp since he can’t afford any more child support and will move on to his next victim.
Like grandma used to say, “Douche bag me once, shame on you. Douche bag me twice, shame on me”. May your nights be long and your bar tabs small, my friends!
TGIF y’all. It’s Friday so it’s time to reach into our reader mailbag and answer your most burning questions. Note-if it burns when you pee, you may need a shot of penicillin.
Dear Cafe Darkness,
I am contemplating stealing the most perfect looking spaghetti I have ever seen from the refrigerator on the first floor of my office building. I have never stolen a lunch before; but this gorgeous pasta is a like temptress luring me to Buenos Aires. What should I do?
Yes – I really am thinking of stealing this lunch.
Hangry in the West End
I totally get it. You’re starvin marvin from boozing too much last night and all you want is heavily carb laden meal, a cig and then maybe a nap. Trust, I’ve spent many a Friday in the office dreaming of the perfect hangover meal. (Steak and Cheese sub with extra mayo for TLW).
However, even though you are H to the Izzo, stealing someone’s lunch is something that not even this morally questionable lady would do. I implore you to not steal this lunch. Instead, take a two hour lunch break and leisurely enjoy the meal of your dreams. Once you get back to the office you’ll be so sleepy and contended that you can internet the rest of the work day away before you go out and do it all over again.
Always truly yours,
Your marriage is donezo. Congrats!
Oh happy, happy day. I just got written confirmation that the divorce is finalized. Yippy! So what does that mean? It means that today, June 25th , is my Special Divorce Day. The only thing bringing me down is that I didn’t find out that today is my Special Divorce Day until two o’clock this afternoon but I’ll get over it as soon as the clock strikes five.
Since Barista and I will use any reason to booze celebrate it has been decided that since it’s the Year of Best Practices, one celebrates their Special Divorce day with cocktails and Marlboros. Now the only question is where to go. Options are as follows:
The original Café Darkness, better known as Café Diem. We heart the low ceilings and clientele.
City Limit. I haven’t taken it to the Limit all week. I like it there. Old men buy me drinks and call me ma’am.
Three Monkey’s. Why not celebrate one’s divorce at the place where you’ll see everyone you want to see least?
I’m not sure where we’ll end up, but I’m fairly certain that woo woos, fist pumps and high fives will be involved. GO ME!
By now, it’s no secret that TLW and Barista are coworkers. When we aren’t busy taking breaks, we occasionally email each other to see who can crack whom first. It’s so silent in our tomb that any unexpected laughter will immediately make you the center of unwanted attention. This one goes to TLW:
Barista: You? (from Missed Connections)
Extremey blonde haired woman who lives in Kensington Court
I’m positive this will go unread but I am kicking myself for not introducing myself to you. I’ve seen you a few times and unfortunately I work 80-90 hours/week so I’m not around much so bumping into you is a rare occasion. Anyways, I was the Indian fellow who lives on your floor and now I won’t be able to go to sleep for some time because I will be thinking of what an idiot I was not to say hi. Do email me with a ‘hi’ if by some bizarre coincidence you come across this. Thanks =)
- Location: Keningston Court
TLW: Dear Indian fellow,
I not sure if you mean to say hi to me or not. I am extremey blonde haired woman. You say you work 80-90 hours a week. Is that because you are extremey busy being a doctor at MCV? If so, I’m extremey interested.
Not my mom....but someone's mom.
I love my mom. No, really. I really do. She put a lot of work into raising TLW into the fine lady I am today and for that, I’m eternally grateful but lately mom has been acting a little cra cra. She fancies calling me at night with the most bizarre and random questions I’ve ever heard. This is especially awkward when, as Grandma would say, I’m “keeping company” and it’s an inopportune time to get to the phone. Ahem.
Every phone call is a 911 emergency. Just last night she left me message stating that it was important that I, “call her back right away! What was I doing that I couldn’t answer my phone!?!”.
Sensing the urgency I waited until this morning to call. Her question? What’s going to happen to Jon and Kate + 8 now that they’re divorcing? How are they going to work that out? What about the kids? I’m confused about how they’re going to do the show from now on? Other questions she has asked me in the past six months are as follows:
What’s Twitter? How does it work? Why would you twitter? What’s the difference between a tweet and a twitter? What would I say if I were on twitter? You know that Ashton Kutcher? He’s on Twitter. He apparently tweets quite often!
What’s Facebook? Are you on Facebook? Who are your friends on Facebook? Can I be on Facebook? Would you be my friend if I were on Facebook?
Who is Miley Cyrus? Who is Hannah Montana? Are they the same person? When does Miley Cyrus become Hannah Montana? What’s the difference?
What is text messaging? How does it work? How do numbers become letters? How does my phone get text messages? How do you read a text message? Could I text message you? Could you text message me? Would we be texting if I sent you a text message?
What’s a blog? How does it work? What do they do? Do you have a blog? Do I? Would you read my blog if I had one? Could I read yours?
……and so on and so on ad nauseum into infinity. It’s fine though. I really don’t mind answering her very important questions. After all she did grow me in her bellers for months so I guess answering her questions about sexting and Scientology are the least I can do.
Dear Barefoot Coworker,
If I let you win the competition you are in with everyone, will you please put some shoes on? Pretty please? How about if I promise to always refill the printer when it’s empty? Will you then put your shoes back on? Would you wear your shoes if I put little tiny thumbtacks all over the floor? Oh, I see, your soles are like tough leather baking in the summer sun. So that’s a no on the shoe wearing?
I know that your feet swelter and swell inside those orthopedic sandals. I know that the dirty office carpet feels so good up on your tooties. I know that you think your floral wallpaper dress looks best accented with bare toes. However, I think that vomit that sits in the back of my throat burns. Can you cut me some slack and at least try some flippy flops?
I don’t really have severe allergies that force me to tape a Kleenex to my face. I do this because I find your particular brand of foot stench repulsive. Your hairy toes remind me of a balding man with a bad comb-over. Your chipped and peeling nail polish makes you look like a street walker. Correction – a lazy street walker.
Put on a pair on shoes. Puh-leez. I implore you. Please put on a pair of shoes right now! Otherwise, I will be wearing roller blades tomorrow. Ice skates the day after that. Know what I’m saying?