I've been told by many, including my overachieving mother, that my problem is that I hold people to an unrealistically high standard. Yes, I think we all agree to that especially regarding my dating history. I mean what else would dating an alcoholic unemployed Russian, a trucker, a bouncer, a speed freak, and a dog walker reflect if it wasn't a continuing drive towards idealistic excellence?


This summer was continually complimented on my insight into the Aeneid which would have been a lot more gratifying if it wasn't for the fact that I was the only one who read it. Yesterday, L'Enfant Terrible was burbling on about her third book this year getting published when I interrupted her to inform the meeting about what Barbara Bush said about the improverished survivors of NOLA disaster. (I felt comfortable interrupting her as I had been hearing about her book for a week.) L' Enfant Terrible with a totally straight face said "Who is Barbara Bush?" We actually had to tell her who Barabara Bush was. Crickey she's about as well informed as that poor fool in the DHS who referred to Louisiana as a city. But at least we know that NONE of her books are about national politics.


Today L'Enfant Terrible sees me at the copier and says, "So what is Paradise Lost about?" "It's the retelling of the first three books of Genesis. Why?" "Well because I have to teach it. I am going to be spending a lot of time in your office." Right because why should a university hire somebody who actually, you know, reads what he/she expects the students to read when you hire someone to buy the cliff notes and use my intellectual prowess.


I think I should charge her 85 dollars an hour as a "consulting fee." And maybe an extra twenty for idiot tax.
I am not putting anything Russian in me ever ever again.


Honestly I've been boycotting Russian products for months now, which isn't such a big deal as it largely consists of switching from Stolichnaya to Grey Goose. Of course, Captain Hot was exempt from this rule. Until now. If he got on his lousy Russian knees and begged to give me oral pleasure for hours I would spurn him as I would spurn my Aunt Orca's roadkill surprise souffle.


Yesterday I was hanging out outside my favorite coffee place, the Lion's Den. I had been battling a summer cold, coughing and snorting, telling myself that I'm not really that sick. Of course, it's easy to believe that you're not really that sick when all you're doing is lying on the couch with a cat on your lap watching Sin City over and over again. But I decided to test my hypothesis and went grocery shopping. Any idea I had about not being that sick was quashed when I attempted to navigate the store with a cart and started getting vertigo in the soup aisle. On my way home, I stopped at the Lion's Den to sit when my phone started ringing.


The Asshat with an Accent commented when he was breaking up with me that I have a talent for picking ringtones which capture the spirit of the person calling. Interestingly he nevered inquired about his own ringtone, Mozart's Fifth Symphony.


My phone started with Mozart's Fifth. "Who in the wide wide world of sports could be calling with that tone?" I thought to myself. After all I had erased AA's number months ago.


It was Captain Hot.


Mozart's Fifth was UDR's ringtone originally. When AA came along, I gave it to him. Now it is Captain Hot. I forgot it was the ringtone of the Designated Russian Boy Toy.


I picked up the phone and attempted to talk to him, but he didn't understand me (Yes, we have no bananas all over again.) So I switched to my pidgin Russian. I can't tell you how cool it makes me feel to take a call in a foreign language on the street. Truly I am a harlot for all countries.


In his pidgin English, Captain Hot asked me for a drink later. As I said before, this is not a man to whom I would say "nyet" even if pieces of my face were falling off. So I said yes, and he said he would call later.


Say it with me one time, won't you, every epically huge mistake I ever made in my life seemed like a great idea at the time.


The first thing I did was go home and decide on what bath products I was going to use. Should I use my "You Snap the Whip" bath melt, "Sex Bomb" bath bomb, or "Something Wicked This Way Comes" bubble bath? It was a difficult choice. But Captain Hot always complains when I use body glitter, so Wicked was right out. I decided to go with Sex Bomb coupled with Two Timing Tart bubble bath. It seemed appropriate. (OK right there is an English professor moment-when even your bath products are selected for symbolic interpretation you know you have become "A Scholar.")


Next was the clothes consult. Rabid suggested I wear "that green top which shows everything." "Which one? The one from my birthday?" "Yeah." "You really think so? I think that's a little too over the top." "What exactly constitutes 'over the top' for you? Seriously." "OK but I'm not wearing the light up bunny ears."


As my ex boyfriend Perfessor Multi-Geek used to say "I am a contracts person" which in my case means if you call me and ask for drinks, I expect drinks, not cookies and tea, not borsht and vodka, fucking drinks. Is that really such an odd assumption?


By seven, I was beginning to get nervous. The Captain is not the most reliable guy by his own admission. For example, when he was married in Russia he would go out for five minutes and not come back for three days, which is the most gosh darnedest cigarette run I ever heard of. I mean you vanish on my ass for three days you better have a rip snorter of a narrative. It better involve international intrigue, alien abduction, and illegal uses of Pez dispensers and in that order.


My phone rings. It's Mata Hari.


Mata Hari is a lovely Asian woman who dances at my ballroom studio. It is impossible to hate her and lord knows I've tried. She is just one of those always sweet, always gracious, always thoughtful people who also happens to be almost fifty look like she's twelve and still fits into a size two. Again the urge to puke hot blood from my eyeballs.


She is calling from Jones Beach where she is with the Captain and Liev, another dance student who is also Russian. I control the disappointment in my voice. She is at the beach with the Captain, she is seeing him not only with his shirt off but sweaty and salty and oily and...ok let's just stop there.


"We're going to pick you up and take you downtown for borsht," Mata Hari says. So now it's not only that I got left out of the beach, but it's mouseketeer role call and NO DRINKS.


I call Rabid and give her the rundown. "You still gonna take a bath?" "Fuck that. I'm not wasting good bath product on group activities." Instead I take a shower and throw on Flying Fox shower gel and with a slathering of Fever perfume afterwards. Oh yeah, can you feel the temperature rising?