I Love a Good Bad Idea

Just ask me nicely, and I'll be happy to start a land war in Asia, or invade Russia in winter. However, in the absence of military backing or abundant vacation time, I'll have to embrace smaller, sillier concepts. Which of the following stupid things that I've done is the most fascinatingly idiotic?

1. Standing on a rolling chair to reach the top shelf
2. Marrying a near-stranger and moving to South America

3. Attempting to put away a glass bowl by tossing it onto the top shelf

4. Opening a bottle of beer with a corkscrew

5. Towing my car with control-top pantyhose

6. Sneaking a flask of bourbon into my 10-year high school reunion

7. Frying bacon while naked

I'm gonna have to go with Number Seven. Now scrub THAT mental image from your pre-caffeinated brains.

Deep Question for Friday...

Is there a difference between breasts, boobs, tits, fun bags, hooters, honkers, headlights, jugs, and bazongas? Are they all mere slang terms, or do they denote any sort of size or value judgment? For example, I think boobs are A and B-cups, tits are C's, and jugs would have to be DD and up. Honkers fall somewhere between tits and jugs. Also, I think "fun bags" denote a certain respect for the quality and attractiveness of the mammarian parts exhibited.

What's your favorite slang term for breasts? And I'd like to hear some more flattering slang terms for A-cups, because at this point all I can think of is, "mosquito bites."

What do you think?

More Musings on Dealbreakers

One of the more interesting things about Tuesday's dealbreaker talk is how they're all so... universal. Nobody really cares for rudeness or cheating, for instance. The only really quirky dealbreaker seemed to be "obsession with a philosopher" (sorry, Brett!). We aren't special snowflakes. (Hey, maybe we ought to all be in some sort of polyamorous bloggy love nest together!)

So I've spent a little time thinking about which of my dealbreakers are more me-specific:

1. Cynicism. Negativity is a dealbreaker, of course, because who wants to be around someone who needs constant propping-up? Cynicism goes a little deeper: I cannot bear to love someone who believes the world is an evil place, everyone is out to get theirs, and we're all hurtling toward oblivion. I know I'm on the rainbows and unicorns, true love and carousels side of the spectrum, but I've always considered that one of my better qualities. Don't try to take that away from me.

2. Gaslighting. If I have a grievance or a concern, I expect to be heard out. If I'm told that I'm overthinking, overanalyzing, or possibly crazy, I'll run for the exits. Because, let's face it: I probably am over-everything at all of it, and it's entirely possible that I'm crazy, but that's just who I am. Take it or leave it.

3. Lack of social skills and friends. Having dated a few lone wolf types, I have to admit it's exhausting to be the center of someone's social world. And I go nuts when I have to babysit someone at a social gathering. We're all adults, pick a victim and say hello!

4. Dislike of children. It's ok to be on the fence about actually wanting them, because it's the mother of all big decisions. And, yes, they're loud and annoying and sometimes it's pretty grody when one of my friends' babies unleashes a stream of shiny drool all over the table. But I'd like to be able to see my parent friends without hearing a bunch of bitching on the way home.

5. Road rage. Oh, macho idiot driving, how I loathe thee! If you're flipping the bird at every U-turn, it's all brittle masculinity and meathead foolishness to me. A real man cares too much about the safety of his passengers (especially me!) to get in some sort of Mad Max road battle on 395.

6. Punchiness. This falls under my general hate of meathead idiocy. If you've thrown a punch in the last decade, for anything other than the strictest of self-defense, get out of my way. I abhor violence and don't believe in solving problems with your fists.

7. Lack of demonstrated fear toward my girlfriends. Hurt me at your peril. My girls will beat you, cut you, and leave you for dead in an alley without a second thought. As a more positive statement, winning over my friends is the fastest way to win me.

8. Picky eating. I didn't always have the healthiest relationship with food, and hearing a bunch of fussing brings back ugly memories.

9. Lack of conflict skills. If you go nuclear to win an argument, or, more to the point, you care more about winning the argument than resolving the problem, I'm going to kick off my sexy heels and run like hell. Also, yelling freaks me out completely.

10. White Knight complexes. I don't need anyone to swoop in and make it all better. Talking me down off my occasional insanity ledges, and offering advice when I ask for it? That's all I ask for.

In the comments, tell me I'm way too picky. Or tell me more about your dealbreakers, and whether you feel they're especially unique.

D.S.I.: Drunk Scene Investigation

As a frequent (and fabulous) dinner party hostess, I have a bevy of morning-after-the-party rituals.

First and foremost is making coffee for whichever drunkies made the 4 a.m. decision that an air mattress is the better part of valor. Then, I use context clues to determine the exact level of group inebriation from the night before. There are many ways I can assess this. Here are the examples from my last gathering:

1. Stereo volume. Sunday mornings, I like to toss in a little Sam Cooke or Marvin Gaye. If either one blares out at teeth-shattering Gwar-esque volume, that's about 20 points of drunkity. (If Neil Diamond was waiting for me in the CD player, that's an extra 10 points.)

2. A rain jacket stuffed between the cushions? That's an indication that I used it to cover up a particularly spill-prone guest. Minus 10 points, as I was clearly sober enough to encase a friend in plastic. However, plus 5 points, as I clearly thought that was a classy and tasteful thing to do.

3. Empty beer cans floating in the ice bucket? Either I thought they were full (sad and delusional), or I was having ice bucket races. Nevermind, it's worth 5 points of drunkity.

4. Location of furniture. Far too often, I find the patio furniture inside, and the indoor furniture out on the balcony. So either I am redecorating in my drunken stupor, or my friends are trying to be cute. I'll give it 10 points.

5. Kitchen conditions. If the recycling bin and the trash can appear to have had a bastard child, namely, a pile of cans and napkins piled neatly on the stove, that's worth 10 points.

6. Scariest of all? The fridge. Ever and always. I almost always find something spectacular in there. This time around, I found a Cool Whip flag cake, uncovered, on the second shelf. On top of the cake was a crystal bowl, which had once upon a time held fruit salad but was now empty. The fruit salad could be found in a Ziploc bag, elsewhere. So, somehow, I was able to move the fruit salad into a bag, but decided an empty bowl belonged in the fridge, not the sink...and, moreover, decided it belonged square on top of the cake. That's a good hundred points right here:

D.S.I. Report: High levels of drunkity, marginally more drunk than the time I found a cupcake in the shower, and considerably less drunk than the time I climbed a tree in a dominatrix outfit.

Swamps Make for Awesome Analogies

On rare occasions, my friends will ask me for dating advice. On even rarer occasions, I'll spout something approaching wisdom. And so that brings us to a sunny day, a plate of Tex-Mex, and a boy with girl troubles.

My advice? "Not every personal swamp is there for you to wade into."

Once you're OK with how ungrammatical and obscure I'm being, it's a pretty good point. Dating is a reductive and nerve-wracking process, and sometimes you're better off cutting your losses and staying out of the muck. There's a point where you have to look at someone, decide that your flavors of crazy match up, and go for broke. Sometimes, however, you take a look, then you take a second look, and you run like hell.

I've done my share of running, when the dealbreakers became abundantly obvious and the relationship felt more project-oriented than it ought to be. And there have been times I've looked at the swamp and plunged on regardless, miring myself in the muck of yet another man's shortcomings. I've been talked down to, abandoned, failed, cheated and bullied. But I've come back each time as a slightly better version of myself.

I like to think I've learned something. And here's what it is: We've all got our swamps. Each of us is a bundle of raw emotions, childhood hurts, petty fears and impractical hope, and we're all doing the best we can with the emotional equipment we've been given. In the best cases, we're doing the best we can with the emotional equipment we've built for ourselves.

In the end, you have choose someone who doesn't drag you into their muck, because they have the strength to meet you halfway.

In the comments, tell me your dealbreakers. Or tell me how Clash of the Titans is the most awesome movie ever.

Among the Things I Regret...

I wish I hadn't given two of my neighbors an eyeful of underpants on Sunday morning. And, how I wish I hadn't said, "Hi!" to them in my best Sunday voice, and given them a friendly wave and a big-ass smile as I fumbled about in my t-shirt, struggling to cover up my hindquarters.

And I truly, to the bottom of my squishy marshmallow heart, wish these neighbors hadn't both been under the age of five.

But really, people...like any of YOU put on pants to go get the newspaper.

In the comments, tell me about the time you flashed a preschooler. Or am I the only person who does this?

The Results Are In...

...and ready for the three of you who still care about my bra size.


After last week's Great Bra Size Debate, the terms of the bet were renegotiated to allow for a recount. So off I went to Nordstrom, home of the mass-market upscale bra fitting experience. After repeated instructions to face the wall and put my arms out, I was measured by a clerk, verified by a manager, and forced to try on about two dozen bras. After all that, I turned out to be...a 34A. As ever, and ever shall be.

Sorry, Thunderbird. Better luck next time!

Also, I have never been so thoroughly sick of my boobs.