A Short Monday Story

So, there I was, standing in the kitchen, eating leftover Chinese food over the sink.

Suddenly, an errant and goopy snow pea lodged itself in my throat. I started to cough, and hack, and gag. At that moment, my fiancé came to my rescue, running in from the living room.

“Here, Shan, have a glass of water.”

Unfortunately, there wasn’t any water. In his haste, he left it sitting on the coffee table. Instead, his hand was in almost a perfect pantomime of holding a glass of water.

Thought one: Oh, so this is how I die.

Thought two: This is hilarious.

Luckily, the helpless laughter dislodged the snow pea. Call it a Heimlich via hilarity.

Fever Kvetch

Sometimes, it's a blessing that Netflix delights in sending me defective DVD's.

Last night, I sat down to watch Fever Pitch. The American version about the Red Sox. Can we just rename the movie, "Every Annoying and Oppressive Gender Stereotype, Ever?"

See, Lindsay (Drew Barrymore) is around 30 and single. Which, in this film, means she's chomping at the bit to settle down. Especially because she's the last single person in her group. In rapid order, we learn that she's single for the same reasons all movie women are single: she's too into her career, her success scares men off, her girlfriends aid her in overanalyzing every relationship, and, oh, she's too picky.

In fact, there's a whole scene where it takes hours and several trendy workouts for her friends to alternately convince her to go on a first date, or cancel, with the Jimmy Fallon character.

Could we, just once, have a movie where the woman is single because she just hasn't found the right guy yet? Or because she's focusing on other things, or, even more radically, just prefers to be alone?

Enter Jimmy Fallon, playing Jimmy Fallon. I'm sure his character has a name, I just don't remember it. So Jimmy is this goofy schoolteacher, and romance blossoms amid all the vomit (really...there's a food poisoning vomit sequence).

He goes to meet her friends. The girlfriends are all astonished that he's "still single" (at 30ish! Horrors!) and hadn't been "tagged and bagged." So they all begin to speculate on what is wrong with him. (Maybe he just hasn't met the right person?) All this movie needed was a woman saying, "All the good ones are either taken or gay."

At this point, I may have started yelling at my television.

As it turns out, he's a nerdy sports fan. And sort of immature, and he dresses like a "man-boy." Because what this movie really needed to do is remind us that all men are immature twits until some woman comes along and makes them over and forces them to grow up. And then they don't have any fun anymore, because women are harpies who press a man to commit, then suck all the joy out of his life.

Anyways, there was something about a pregnancy scare and a trip to Paris. Right then, in my Kevorkian cinematic moment, the DVD died.

So I tried to imagine the rest of the movie. In my version, Lindsay realizes she could just go to occasional games, and let Jimmy nerd out all he wants because that gives her more time to hang out with her friends. And she figures out that it's OK for a guy to dress a little schlubby, if he's nice to you and makes you laugh. And Jimmy undergoes a neurological testing, and realizes he has some sort of curable disorder that makes him all schticky and annoying. And he gets cured, and her girlfriends stop being total pills, then they all live happily ever after.

In the comments, be a script doctor for Fever Pitch.

Have You Hugged a Bridezilla Today?

Opinions on weddings are like dead salesmen under the staircase: everyone has a lot of them.

Or is that just me?

Anyway, the moment you say you're engaged, you will absorb opinions from virtually every corner of the Known Universe. Weddings are too stuffy nowadays. They've become tacky and gauche. Registries are a courtesy to your guests! Registries are gauche! Dollar dances are fun! Dollar dances are gauche! (Note: I hadn't even heard of the 'dollar dance' until recently, and let me just say I am not combining an open bar with people safety-pinning money to my dress. It sounds like a great way to get stabbed.) And the saddest, most common opinion of them all: weddings are stupid and lame and expensive and everyone should just elope.

Killjoy, party of one!

I want a wedding. I love to throw a good party. I just don't want to throw a good party that is filled with people I don't know or care about, that adds up to years of debt.

But I'm just a few weeks in, and I can see why some brides lose their headpieces altogether. There are very strong, and often conflicting, expectations on How Weddings Are Done. And you feel like virtually anyone will hurl the word "bridezilla" at you for virtually anything, from demanding your bridesmaids get matching haircuts (yes, 'zilla) to not wanting their single guests to bring a random date because it will shoot the budget to hell (no, not 'zilla).

One bride on the wedding forum I frequent (shut up) asked the group if what she was doing was bizarre and unheard of or totally inappropriate.

At this point, I thought she was going to enter the reception on a carousel horse that had been mounted on a giant Pogo stick, to the strains of "Babalu." And I was ready to applaud her unique vision.

No. The poor lady just wanted to have a dessert buffet with cannolis and tiramasu, instead of a standard cake. And for this, she fully expected to be shamed and hassled. And, honestly, I am sure some nosy, badly-in-need-of-a-life old biddy relative will lay on the guilt because she expected to see a flavorless mass of white fondant.

Ultimately, I don't agree with the people who say, "It's your day! Do what you want!" Because if that were the case, wouldn't we just do away with guests altogether? But it's a feat of tact and class to balance what you want and what your intended wants, all while making sure your guests will be pleased and the expenses won't haunt you for years to come.

Now, this post isn't me complaining. I have a long and storied history of not giving a damn about what people think of me. But if you have an engaged friend who left her better senses somewhere in a pile of tulle, cut her some slack. She's probably just stressed and doing the best she can.

In the comments, tell me the fine line between bride and bridezilla.

The Pants Really Made the Outfit Hang Together

After the debacle of the Bridal Book, I decided to swing by Staples last night to pick up some office supplies and make my own Bridal Book.

While I was there, I noticed that Cleanser with Bleach was on sale for a dollar. (Yes, I know it’s bad to wash your home with chemicals. But I don’t have pets or kids, so I will use chemicals until such time as I catch party guests licking the kitchen counters. At which point I will continue to use chemicals…once I have moved to a new home without leaving a forwarding address.)

Anyway, I picked up a bottle of Cleanser with Bleach from the bottom shelf. The bottle, as it turns out, was unscrewed. A torrent of cleanser and bleach washed across the floor, my arms, and my pants. With tingly arms and a wounded spirit, I wandered up to the cash register. I asked for a restroom, paper towels, and a chance to wash up.

The very nice Staples clerks, discombobulated as they were, granted my requests. I washed up, and again, and again, until the bleach tingliness had subsided.

After I left the store, I deliberated on my next course of action. I’m pretty sure Staples owes me a pair of pants. I decided to write a letter. An angry letter demanding restitution for the dishonor done to my pants.

I was set upon this course of action until I remembered one thing: I’d watched The Big Lebowski over the weekend. And, since I’m pretty sure it’s a totally true story, demanding a new rug led the Dude to a dead friend, a trashed apartment, a kidnapping mystery, and a destroyed car. So maybe I ought to not tempt the Fates in such a way.

However, it’s somewhat gratifying to know that, no matter how happy I am, the real world will always be there to ruin my pants.

In the comments, imagine the movie where I get involved in a Staples-centric film noir.

I Promise this Won't Be a Wedding Blog

So, now that I'm engaged*, I get to plan a wedding.

Goals: Have a fun party the guests enjoy, not have crushing stage fright in a room stacked full of random strangers, while not going into debt, not putting anyone else into debt, not getting any urge to dress up like that bride there on the right, and, most importantly, to get married. Yay!

Last night, I decided to kick off the process by swinging by the going-out-of-business sale at my local Borders. I seem to recall, from weddings past, that you can buy these "wedding organizer" binders. And they have pockets. For receipts and contracts and things! And checklists! And you can walk around with your big-ass Bride Binder and watch as legions of strangers on every sidewalk stop and swoon with joy! Because it's all about me! Me! Wonderful me! (And maybe my fiance.)

As you can probably already tell, this excursion was not a raging success. First I had to ask the staff member if wedding planning books could be found under "Political Science," or, "History of Warfare," as those struck me as the most logical locations. Apparently they live in a land called, "General Reference."

Then I went to the Bride Shelf. It was hell. Arsenic-laced cotton candy with a side of dead puppies hell.

Everything was this shade of pink I can only describe as "flourescent gynecology textbook." There was the pink Budget Bride. The pink Elegant Bride. The pink I Have a Life Bride. There was even a pink "Anti-Bride's Guide." (I briefly considered stacking The Bride's Guide and the Anti-Bride's Guide on top of each other to create an explosion. But that would have only improved the aesthetic of the Bride Shelf.)

Eventually, I gave up and bought a box set of Ed Wood movies. Hey, at least the Ed Wood box was pink, right?

*As my friend Worth pointed out, Monday's post never mentioned whether or not I said "yes." I did. So there you go.

EEEEEE!!!!!!, EEEEE!!!!!, !!!!, and !!!!!!!!!!!!!

Here's the thing. I'm not what anyone would call "observant" or "prone to paying attention to anything at all." I've fallen for "gullible isn't in the dictionary." More than once.

So, Saturday, when my boyfriend said we had to get up early and go to brunch at Belga Cafe, because his parents were arriving around 1:00 and we should eat first, I didn't put two and two together. (Let's face it, I can't put one and one together before noon.) I was just grumpy that I had to drag myself out of bed at the ungodly, unreasonable hour of 10:00 a.m.

Things that did not occur to me, but probably should have:
1. It was our anniversary, after dating for a year.
2. We went to Belga Cafe on our first date.
3. There was no logical reason for us to take a walk down Pennsylvania Avenue after brunch. Especially not to "find out the schedule for the World Cup."

So, let's just say I didn't add it up until there was a bended knee, a beautiful ring, and a whole lot of shrieking and bouncing up and down. And being congratulated by the bouncer from the 18th Amendment.

But that wasn't the end of the surprises. My future in-laws came down from New York to celebrate with us, and take us out for dinner. We decided to pop over to Capitol Lounge for a quick drink after dinner.

Things that did not occur to me, but probably should have:
1. It was almost impossible to get anyone on the phone Saturday. Seriously - it was like all of Washington had vanished.
2. Capitol Lounge? In the basement? Was the basement even open yet?

It was open. Moreover, about twenty of our friends were gathered there to celebrate with us! A surprise engagement party! There was champagne! And brownies! And decorations! And people! From all over D.C. and even New York! And there was shrieking! So much shrieking it was like the Jonas Brothers were in town! EEEEEEE!!!!! And photos! Lovely photos! And lovely people! And so much love!!!

In related news, Cloud Nine is composed almost completely of exclamation points.

Etiquette for Urban Couch-Crashers

Whenever I read an article about houseguest etiquette, it always includes suggestions about "keeping the guest room neat" and "not monopolizing the washer and dryer." Of course, these laws are quite welcome in the McMansion fairyland of the outer ‘burbs. But for urban dwellers, they're pretty laughable. My "guest room" is an air mattress, tucked in a nook between the stereo and the balcony. And I drag my laundry to the basement, as our good deities of rent control intended.

But that hasn't stopped me from running a highly unprofitable friends-and-family youth hostel out of my apartment. (My current visitor/college roommate is my fourth houseguest of the month.)

So what are some etiquette rules for urban houseguests? Well, I'm glad you asked:

1. Determine arrival and departure dates well in advance. As much as it's wonderful to see friends and family, I want to know when I can go back to my usual routine of eating Popsicles on the couch, clad in nothing but Underoos and cowboy boots while watching Xanadu on an endless loop.


2. Ben Franklin apparently coined the expression, "Fish and houseguests stink after three days." I would like to update it to, "Guests who remain longer than three days get a pair of kitchen scissors to the neck, and their carcasses thrown over the side of the balcony.” A long weekend is plenty, especially in a small space.


3. Don’t scatter your crap. Keep your belongings in neat piles in one or two places in your host’s home. Bonus: Don’t unceremoniously shove/move/dump on the floor any of your host’s belongings to make room for your stuff. Need more space? Ask.


4. Respect household timing and routines. You’re on vacation, but your host might not be. Don’t stay up late cranking music, and don’t wander into the bathroom to take a shower right as your host is trying to get ready for work. (That is, unless you have a burning need to flash your host. I shower at 7:15, come hell or hot water, and I personally don’t care if you’re already in there or not.)


5. If you’re driving, make parking arrangements with your host in advance. Cities are not car-friendly, and you probably cannot just pull right up and park anywhere you want. You may have to get up at the butt crack of dawn to move your car to a metered space, you may have to pay for it to be garaged, or you may have to cruise for an hour to find a spot. None of these things are within your host’s control, so please keep your frustrations to yourself.


6. Speaking of keeping things to yourself, don’t criticize your host’s cleanliness, décor, neighborhood, food, or, really, don’t criticize anything at all. If you’re that picky, you can have things however you want at the Holiday Inn.


7. Back to cars…cities are not car-friendly. Most of your destinations will involve walking and public transit. Wear appropriate footwear and don’t insinuate that your host should be driving you everywhere. If they offer to drive you, accept their kind offer graciously. (Especially don’t insist your host drive you to Adams Morgan on a Saturday night, in fact, don’t ask them to take you to Adams Morgan at all. It’s the Howard the Duck of nightlife districts.)


8. Don’t forget to thank your hosts for their hospitality. A bottle of wine, a dinner out, or even just a nice note or email will do.

Of course, hosts have responsibilities here, too:

1. Your home doesn’t have to be immaculate, but stay away from gnarly. Give the kitchen and the bathroom a once-over, and if your guest room is an air mattress, sweep the floors. Nobody wants to wake up next to last month’s tortilla fragments. While you’re at it, try to clear a little closet or luggage space for your guests. They’ll be a lot neater if there’s a designated area for their stuff.


2. Chill. Out. Don’t program every minute, or freak if a vase gets moved two millimeters to the right.


3. Find out if your guests have any dietary issues or allergies, and make a small grocery run. You definitely don’t have to cater every meal, but do keep coffee, a few breakfast items, and maybe some snacks on hand. And if your guests are anything like mine, triple up on the booze.


4. Sometimes, tourist traps happen to good people. Be a good sport if your visitors want to go somewhere odious, like the Air and Space Museum. However, if your guests want to go to Ben’s Chili Bowl, cold sober in the harsh light of day, and wait in a ridiculous line for watery chili, you have my permission to tell them it’s an overrated tacky tourist trap that only tastes good after the bars close.

In the comments, tell me about your houseguest rules. Or, tell me about your worst houseguest ever.