That sweet nectar of victory is going to go flat if you don't put a cap on it...

So you guys know how, at your elementary school carnivals, you used to do those contests where you guessed how many jelly-beans were in the jar, and if you were closest you got to eat the jelly beans? (...I never won the prize. I always looked at the jar and thought, 'well, let's see. As far as I know, it could be anywhere between 34 and five bajillion jelly beans. I'm gonna go spend my tickets on cotton candy instead.')Well, we're going to do a version of that, but with more alcohol and awkwardness. You're excited, right?

The riddle is this: How long does it take Caitlin Jane Scorpion, after entering a Baltimore dive bar, to muster the courage to order a cocktail? To figure it out, you're gonna need some sort of complex mathematical equation that factors in my fear of bars, multiplied by my fear of looking stupid, exponentiated by my lack of knowledge about mixed drinks, divided by the fact that the sooner I order this drink the sooner I can get the hell out of the bar, all squared by my acute general awkwardness... Or, you could just guess.

Anyone?

OK, if you guessed "about 45 minutes," you win! There are no jelly beans for me to give you, but you do win the prize of knowing that you outclass me in yet another adult social grace. Though I guess, if that's a prize, the world is overrun with champions.

It all went down a few weeks ago on a Friday night. A big group of us went ice skating for a friend's birthday, and decided to go out for drinks afterwords. I figured I could handle it. I really enjoyed chatting with friends over pints in the pubs in Ireland. I thought an American bar might even be pleasant as long as it didn't involve any halter tops or drinks with variations of the words "fire," "balls" or "dragon" in their titles. A member of our group suggested a place he'd been before called "Ale Mary's." When we asked him why he liked the place, he said, "I dunno...the name is hilarious."

We said, shrug, "good enough for us!" and off we went.

When we arrived though, the tiny bar was already overflowing with patrons and couldn't accommodate the extra 20 people we tried to stuff inside of it at once. Before we could telephone a consensus to every member of the group, half of us had already ordered drinks. So, we decided to split up. Apparently, there was another bar across the street where some of us could go for a while. I attached myself to the group that was leaving because God knows how many tightly packed strangers had already gotten their greasy fingerprints all over my pristine personal bubble.

Of course, had I known then that we were going to a place actually titled "Bad Decisions," I might have chosen differently. When I saw the ominous name on the dingy awning and the low light in the bar we were headed to, I begged my companions to turn around.

"Guys, we can't go in there! None of us are nicknamed after predatory wildlife and I don't know the words to any Motley Crue songs. Let's come back when we have some leather jackets and stick-on tatoos."

When we got inside (against my wishes) I was relived to see that most of the bar's patrons were bedecked in jeans and hipster scarves -- nary a Hell's Angel in sight. But my greatest challenge -- actually obtaining and drinking a drink -- was still ahead of me. We settled in at the bar where my super cool friends all started expertly ordering cheap beer. Next to me, my friend Will asked the bartender if he had any specials.

"What?" the bartender asked, as though Will had just asked for a crystal bowl of caviar and a tiara.

"You know, specials," Will said, "Like cheap drinks on Friday nights or pitchers of stuff..."

The bartender snorted. "No, we don't have anything like that. Ever. Never ever. Ever."

Will and I exchanged glances. He, unflapped, ordered his beer like a pro, but I was in a predicament. I don't really like beer. I'll probably drink one if you put it in my hand, but who are we kidding? I like my alcoholic beverages to taste like Jolly Ranchers. And I don't want to spend a whole two day's bus fare on a glorified hand decoration. As I mentioned before, I am entirely inexperienced when it comes to public drinking in the US. In Ireland I had cider. It was easy to order, not uncool, and had a lingering hint of juicebox -- just the way I like it. In the States, the only no-fuss thing they ever have on tap is beer, and all my cocktail knowledge comes from re-runs of Sex and the City on TBS. Somehow, I knew this wasn't the sort of place where one orders a Balaklava Nectar. Something simple like a screwdriver or a rum and Coke would have been safe, but I didn't want to spend my aforementioned bus fare on something a frat boy could mix for me in his basement either.

I racked my brain for ten minutes and the best I could come up with was a margarita. Yes... a margarita just might work, I thought. I've never ordered one before, but I know it's widely recognized, tastes like candy, and has somewhere between three and twenty components. And -- bonus! -- it often comes with decorative crap on the rim! Throw in a little pink umbrella and I'm sold! Yet, I still wasn't sure. And not just because I knew in my heart that the pink umbrella was but a wisp of a dream at Bad Decisions.

I took a survey of my friends at the bar: "Do you think they'd give me a Margarita? Will, I really want to order a Margarita but I don't want the bartender to look at me the way he looked at you when you asked about the specials."

Though my friends were ambivalent, I finally plucked up the courage to ask for my beverage of choice:

"Sir, could I have a Margarita?"

The bartender raised his eyebrows, "Sure. I guess." It occurred to me that I was probably the first person to order a Margarita in about ten years at Bad Decisions, but I was pleased he wasn't going to mock me (to my face) for ordering one. He continued, "What kind of Tequila do you want?"

I wasn't prepared for this. The most refined alcoholic nuances I can distinguish are between Smirnoff Watermelon and Smirnoff Blueberry. How am I supposed to choose between Tequilas? I paused for a moment, then said, "Um...the cheap kind?"

The bartender nodded and chuckled a little. "Sure. You got it."

I don't know if the margarita I got was a good one or not. It stuck in my throat like lifesavers dissolved in 7-Up -- just the way I like it. It was also decidedly plain rimmed, but I didn't care. I felt I had won an important victory that night at the bar. It tasted like triumph.

At least, as good as triumph can taste after it's been sitting out for 45 minutes.

Show Some Respect:The Harassment Files, Vol. 1

First of all, let me make one thing clear: Most of the time, sexual harassment is no laughing matter. It's manipulative, degrading, and just plain gross. And, for all the women I know living in Baltimore -- regardless of their shape, size, age or ethnicity -- it's a regular part of life. We get hollered, honked and stared at just walking down the street all the damn time. Usually, it's a drive-by sort of thing, and the perpetrator is gone before you can turn around and say, "stop harassing women!" That's what we were taught to do by Marty, our pint-sized turtle-necked bad-assed safety instructor at orientation. So, before I go on, I'd like to issue a cyber-statement to all the horn-honking holla'ers out there who -- I'm sure -- have this blog bookmarked and filed under "Efron, other fans of" :

Stop harassing women. No one likes it. Show some respect!

Did I do it right, Marty? It might not count if it's on the internet. Oh well. All you non-harassers can bust that puppy out in real life whenever you run into someone who wants you to know they wish they were that bike you're riding.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, I feel comfortable saying that, sometimes? It's a little bit of a laughing matter. You'll see what I mean.

Phew. That was a lot of ado. Let's get on to this edition of The Harassment Files!

Case 1

My housemate Morgan and I are waiting at the bus stop. Now, you should know that the Maryland Transit Association is pretty much Baltimore's swinginest scene for the city's most eligible creepsters. Ladies? Are you looking for that rare special someone who knows all the words to "Calle Ocho" by Pitbull to AND can rock a mullet so hard his achy breaky heart just won't understand? Look no further than route 13. Morgan and I have met some very special gentlemen there in the past, but we have no idea that, today, we are about to encounter someone who will put all the other creepy Casanovas to shame.

He stands in front of us with his eyes half shut. This is where he notices a woman standing about 20 feet away. He's probably swaying in the breeze like that because he's drunk on her beauty. For the purposes of this story, I'm going to have to describe the lady now. I apologize in advance: She's very short -- certainly no taller than five feet. Other than her height, her most distinctive characteristic is her...um...rather...well endowed rear end. In plain language, she's got what kids these days are calling a "badonkadonk." (Please don't tell Minnesota I said that. I promise never to do it again.) It's this badonkadonk (Damn. Sorry, it slipped out) that appears to inspire our skeezy Shakespeare -- or, Skezespeare if you will -- the most. He begins stream of poetic admiration. She's far enough away so she can't hear him, but Morgan and I sure can:

"Mmm. Mmm mmm. Ooh shorty. Sugar baby. Yeah chocolate...chocolate gumdrop. Mmm."

Clearly, this man is a wordsmith.

His platitudes continue for a little while. Eventually, he decides to approach her. We can't hear what she says in response, but judging by her body language, it's probably something along the lines of, "Oh my gosh. That's the most shockingly beautiful thing anyone's any said to me. 'chocolate gumdrop'. It rolls off my tongue like a silken pearl. It's so beautiful that I can't be around you anymore. I need some time to be alone with all these new feelings."

Skezespeare obliges. He cleaves himself from the side of his new muse and resumes his earlier position in front of Morgan and I. Poetry continues to spew from his lips:

"You don't want to talk to me? That's alright. I'll just have a conversation with yo' butt.

The bus arrives. Me, Morgan, Skezespeare and Chocolate Gumdrop all get on. Skezespeare is far from finished.

"Mmm. That ass goes on for days. You could take a vacation on that ass. Oh sugar baby. Gumdrop. You remind me of one of those people who sing, (He begins actually singing in a munchkin voice) 'the lollipop guild...'"

Now, how she hears these musical overtures and is still able to resist jumping this guy right then and there will forever remain a mystery to me. But Morgan and I watch her exit the bus a mere three stops later, where she turns her back on the 13 and her devoted suitor forever. They were like two Baltimore city buses passing in the night, I guess.

Case 2

I am walking away from the opening of a new neighborhood restaurant with a plate full of free pizza and samosas. When you're living on a volunteer's stipend, free food is pretty much the best thing that can happen to you on any given day, so needless to say, I was pretty jazzed. When I pass a middle-aged man who appears to be eying my lunch, I excitedly tell him where he can get some of his own. It only dawns on me later that encouraging a perfect stranger of the opposite sex to get some "tasty fritters" may be sending the wrong message. Also, it probably wasn't the samosas he was eying. He stops and introduces himself. I am new to the neighborhood and still trying to get a feel for the place, so I figure it can't hurt to chat for a bit. He can probably tell I'm in a hurry, so he doesn't waste much time getting his game on.

"Here's my card," he says, "I'm a painter here in the neighborhood."

"Oh thanks!" I reply, "Here's my card." I relish the opportunity to hand one to him since I have a box of about ten-bajillion brand-new business cards sitting on my desk. "I'm working out of the Church down the street."

"I can call you at this number?"

"Yep. that's my Work number."

He gives me a sly smile. "What's your cell phone number?"

"Aah you can't have my cell phone number."

His gives a sheepish, yoooou got me! shrug and says, "What? Your boyfriend wouldn't like that?"

"Um, no." I say thinking, my boyfriend would, indeed, NOT like that. But even if he would -- even if this was an alternate swingin' seventies universe where my boyfriend had a Burt Reynolds mustache to match his man-perm, and I had Farrah hair and eight pairs of polyester bell-bottoms, and we believed in free love and went to kinky poolside key parties every weekend -- I still don't think I'd want to give you my personal number.

My pizza has stopped steaming. I think he knows that he's losing me, because he attempts pull an advanced maneuver: "Would you like to see some of my work?"

Before I can say anything, he pulls a photograph of a painting out of his wallet. Whether or not this man actually painted the picture in the photo is unclear, but it's also irrelevant to the story I'm telling. At first glance, It looks to me like a generic pharaoh standing in front of a generic pyramid. I am quite wrong. "This is Michael Jackson." my new friend the painter explains, "See? I painted him here in ancient Egypt."

Ah, yes. Now I see it. The aviator glasses probably should have been my first clue. Also, I don't seem to recall the Jerry Curl being King Tut's hairstyle of choice. He continues, "This was before he changed skin colors. That's just not right, going black and white and black and white. Not the way God intended it. You know?" He consults my business card, "You do know. You work at a church."

"Mmm hmm." I nod. I don't recall the subject of "skin color changing" coming up in confirmation class, but it's possible I was sick that day. The cheese on my pizza is starting to do that gross congealing thing cold melted cheese does.

I try to inch away, but my new friend has a few more stops to pull out. He says, "You have a very nice face. I would like to paint a face like yours."

I have the simultaneous urge to roll my eyes and laugh awkwardly. Awkward laughter wins.

He continues, "I can tell, it will be good when you are old too. When you are 50, your face will still be nice."

I kind of want to ask him if he says that to all the girls, but I'm sensing an escape window I don't want to pass up, "Um...thanks. Say, I better get back to the church! Lots of work to do."

My new friend shrugs and continues on his way. He doesn't seem too disappointed to see me go. There are plenty of fish in the sea and he's got time. After all, he's not your average player in the game of love. He's an artist.


...And that's it for this obscenely long edition of the harassment files! Sorry, didn't expect to waste so very much of your time. And, I know, I know, it's been about a week and a half since my last entry, but that's a heck of a lot better than six months! We're doing baby steps here. Also, Chris told me it was OK if I was a few days late, so kindly direct all your hate mail to him.

I'm trying to stick to my guns, even if it doesn't seem like it. Expect to hear from me again in seven days or less!

Don't Know What You've Got 'Till It's Gone

Hey Blog? Let's have an intimate chat about a few things. I'll give you a second to get your PJ's on and grab a cup of hot cocoa. I'll light the candles.

OK blog, I'm back. Are you ready for some startling openness and honesty? Here goes: The thing is, I realize I've been undervaluing you for a while now. I knew I'd been neglecting you a bit, but I didn't realize the extent of it until I almost lost you a couple weeks back. That fateful evening, I thought to myself, "Hmm. I'm overdue for a blog entry, as usual. I've got so much wit stored up, it's probably leaking out of my brain as I sleep. I better put some of it in the internet before more is wasted on my pillow and the stuffed fraggle I sleep with." So, I tried to log on here only to discover that I had forgotten my password. No big deal. I just pushed a button to have the password e-mailed to myself. But, when I tried to retrieve the e-mail, I discovered that it had been so long since I checked the e-mail I signed up with that my account had been DELETED. I had no way to access the password Blogspot had sent me!

-- Which, sidenote, is really a shame because, though I obviously didn't check that Excite account very often, I have a soft spot for it in my heart. I've had it since I was fifteen, and e-mail addresses with "scorpion" in the title never really go out of style. Am I right, future employers? Also, I may have let the infamous Larry departure letter slip into the great cyber-cinerator. Did I ever have the presence of mind to forward that to any of you Concert Choir kids? If not, I may never forgive myself. --

But anyway, additionally, there was an IMMEDIATE BLOGGING CHRISIS at hand! I tried password after password unsuccessfully, quickly slipping into despair. All the words on these pages were locked in place like dinosaurs who took baths in tar pits. It was MELT DOWN CITY! And then -- just as I was beginning to think all my brilliant words would be trapped behind velvet ropes and glossy museum glass forever -- success! I remembered the correct combination of capital letters and numbers and Jim Henson characters to unlock the path to my beloved Unnecessary Anxieties dashboard.

So now, here we are blog. You and me. I never realized how much you meant to me until I almost lost you. The experience opened my eyes to how cruel and careless I've been. So, I'm making some changes. I know you're hurting. I know it's going to be hard for you to trust me with the shards of empty broken promises still lying all around you. You've heard me whisper these sweet nothings before. But I'm telling you, it'll be different this time. I'm going to write at least every week. No, I mean it! Most people make new year's resolutions, but not me. (Partially because I'm super alternative...but mostly because I've procrastonated making any resolutions until now.) I'm making a birthday resolution;

I, Caitlin Jane Scorpion, hereby declare that in my 23rd year on this planet, I will change for the better beginning with you, dear Unnecessary Anxieties. I will post something new here at least every seven days until we dissolve into dust and pixels. Or, at least until I write the great American novel, become rich, and can afford to pay someone else do it for me.

It has been written, and I will make it so!

So, what do you say?All of Baltimore is snowed in, huddling together for warmth. Want to huddle with me, dear blog, and create something beautiful?Do you think you can ever trust me again? What, you still don't believe I'll come back? Well, I'll prove you wrong.

I'll see you next week.