Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Worst Thing I Said to a Child: "Herpes!" (Babies find that word hilarious)
Best Restaurant Meal: Cashion's Eat Place with Refugee and Lemmonex.
Worst Restaurant Meal: One in which my companions monopolized the waitress, asked incessant and nonsensical questions, and agonized over each plate as if they were defusing bombs made of glazed chicken.
Best Karaoke Moment: Drunkenly singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" with J.'s family in his dad's living room on Christmas Eve.
Worst Karaoke Moment: Getting up on stage at Recessions and realizing the only part I knew of "It Takes Two (to Make a Thing Go Right)" is the chorus. "It takes two to make a thing go right, it takes two to make it out of sight..." followed by mumbling and baffled silence among me and my singing companions.
Best Dating Advice Received: "You scare the crap out of people. And that's OK."
Worst Dating Advice Received: "Boys worry less about dating girls inferior to them in intellect, since it is generally expected that a girl won't be as intelligent as the boy she dates." (from 1958's best and most enlightened book, "The Art of Dating.")
Best Show: The Swell Season
Worst Show: Aimee Mann (tip: Don't go to a show of all breakup songs with someone you recently broke up with)
Best Film: Wow, 2008 was kind of a dead zone for this. But Wall-E was awesome and thought-provoking.
Worst Film: Synedoche, New York. Move past the pretentious title for a moment, and take in the sort of drear-fest that doughy male middle-aged film critics lose their minds over. Then note the rest of the audience, who are mostly saying, "Since when is 'life sucks, then you die' a novel premise for a movie?" Then count the number of people sleeping through this exploration of how it's hard out here for a wimp.
Best Day at Work: The day I got laid off, and spent the afternoon drinking champagne with Lemmonex. Way better than an afternoon of filing.
Worst Day at Work: When I found out my hours got cut, and I still had to finish out the day.
Best Date: Beer and sausages, followed by a jazz festival, followed by pool.
Worst Date: The one where not even I could get a word in edgewise.
Best Thing About 2008: All the wonderful, cutely flawed and overwhelmingly kind new friends I made.
Worst Thing About 2008: A falling out with one of my oldest friends.
Happy New Year, all of you. And remember: nothing says New Year's Day like Dramamine, Gatorade, and maybe a McMuffin if you're in real pain. See ya next year, LYLAS, KIT, and all that other abbreviated yearbook sincerity. Take care.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Maybe it’s the deluge of Christmas letters, telling me who bought a house, who changed jobs, and the progress of Little Sally’s rehab. Maybe it’s the cold, and all the corresponding time spent indoors. More likely, it’s because I realize I’ve closed out yet another year without the faintest clue what I'm doing. So things get a little sappy while I try to sort out my messy little life.
That's also because the end of the year is my blogiversary. I began this site in December 2002, as a platform to rail against the blatant sexism and haphazard plotting of 7th Heaven. Since then, it’s had four names, 380 posts, nearly 100,000 hits (since I started keeping track in '07), hundreds of comments, one forced hiatus (the Great State Shutdown of ’06), and several voluntary ones. Those 380 posts correspond to six years of a life lived in the silliest way possible: bad television, an impulse marriage, a life of empty leisure overseas, a divorce, new beginnings, several jobs, multiple breakups, amazing friendships, and busting ass in front of a Popeye’s. This site has seen me at my most self-absorbed (er, like this post), philosophical, outraged, silly, unapologetically feminist, and, of course, happiest.
I am both pleased and appalled to say that this blog is my most enduring and intimate adult relationship.
I wouldn’t be who I am without this site. Part of that is my need for a creative outlet: I doubt I want to be a professional writer, as I would find that sort of life very lonely. But I have somewhere safe to go where I can mouth off. I can try out those meaty, fun words I love so much, like “ignominious” and “gawp.” (Sad piece of Shannon trivia: as my vocabulary comes from crossword puzzles and reading, I can’t actually pronounce the majority of the big words I use here.)
I’m even more grateful for my readers. You people who click over to see what I’m up to, whether they’re friends, old classmates, random Swedes, hopping in via DC Blogs, or folks who found me by Googling, “my boyfriend thinks I’m high maintenance.” And I’m even more grateful for those of you who comment, who choose to be active participants in this site. I’m amazed by your humor, your support, and your ability to be both classy and crass all within the same sentence. I still get a little thrill every time a new comment pops up.
Moreover, some of you have hopped out of my keyboard and joined my real-life circle of friends. Thank you for enduring my bad karaoke, endless chatter, and inability to hold my tequila.
I’ve had a few trolls, some hate mails, and some dramas. I’ve dealt with some people who, frankly, suck. I’ve had to pay a price, here and there, to speak my mind and keep this little corner alive. If I had to do it all again, though, I wouldn’t change a thing.
I realize this sounds like a commencement speech, like I’m about to hang up my blog hat and bid you farewell. Fat chance. I’ll be here as long as you stop by to see me. And when you’re gone, I’ll type alone in the dark.
I am filled with gratitude and thrilled by my fantastic luck. Thank you, and I'll see you in 2009.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
First up, the Bogota Money Inspectors. Those guys rock – they come up in pairs, and claim they have to “inspect your money” to see if it’s counterfeit. Then they declare that it is, in fact, fake, take your money, and even give you a receipt. It’s genius.
Another genius? Anyone who has ever smuggled a monkey.
I remember being disappointed in Sarajevo, because all the Roma really managed to do is pick pockets and aggressively squeegee my windshield. I felt like I’d come all that way, at the very least they could do a few tricks before separating me from my wallet.
Next up is the New Orleans Classic: “I bet you ten dollars I can tell you where you got those shoes.” “You’re on!” “You got them on your feet. Pay up.”
Back home in Washington, we have the Fleece the Tourists Game. A cursory review of Craigslist tells me that I could rent my piddling studio for amazing sums to people willing to pay any price for a slice of history. Then I could fly off to the Maldives, and return to…an enormous clusterfunk jam of four million of the sort of people who stand on the left side of the escalator. No, thank you. I think I’ll spend the upcoming Touron Apocalypse under my bed, nibbling on my Economic Apocalypse supply of canned goods and gold bullion.
Also, a further review of Craigslist tells me I could significantly boost my income via a boob job and some yodeling lessons.
And now, we have Governor Blagojevich, the man who makes my heart sing and my spellcheck explode. This guy tried to sell a Senate seat, use the Cubs as leverage to bully journalists, and set his wife up with some sweet corporate board gigs. The breadth of the accusations against him aren’t that shocking, really, when you consider it’s Chicago. But it does tell me that it’s all been thought of. It's all been done.
The world has run out of ways to fleece people. It’s sad, really.
In the comments, reaffirm my faith in humanity. Come up with a fantastic scam.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Monday, December 08, 2008
I believed this, until I took the time to read the blurbs from Netflix. These guys are having the time of their lives. They’re also performing a public service by steering you clear of the truly dreadful.
Just check out these samples, taken from my actual Netflix queue (shut up).
A group of high schoolers witnesses Soviet and Cuban paratroopers descending on their small Colorado town, setting off World War III. The teens -- led by Jed Eckert-- take food and whatever weapons they can find and hightail it into the hills to wait things out. But with the communist invaders on their trail, Jed and his young compatriots decide to launch a guerilla campaign and strike back.
There’s the factual aspect of it, the mention of “Jed Eckert” (one of my favorite character names ever), AND the political statement of refusing to capitalize the word, “Communist.” Lovely.
And, now, Xanadu:
Concerned about angst-ridden artist Sonny Malone, Zeus dispatches winsome muse Kira to Earth to inspire the painter. Kira hooks Sonny up with wealthy Danny McGuire -- a musician Kira buoyed decades earlier -- and the trio revamps a vacant building into the world's coolest disco roller rink. Blending nostalgia and 1970s glitz, Xanadu includes tunes by Newton-John and the Electric Light Orchestra.
Do you not want to run out, right now, and rent Xanadu? You don’t? That’s because the brilliant minds at Netflix created a mashup of all the worst things about this film, and about film in general: “world’s coolest disco roller rink,” “winsome muse,” and “includes tunes by Newton-John and the Electric Light Orchestra.”
But, really, the genius reaches its pinnacle here:
Programmer Kevin Flynn's video games are stolen, and with help from his friends, he tries to hack the Master Control Program to prove CEO Ed Dillinger ripped him off. But the MCP pulls Flynn into its world, where enslaved programs fight on the "game grid." An amazing mix of Alice in Wonderland, Star Wars, Ben-Hur and German expessionism.
Amazing? Mix of Alice in Wonderland, Star Wars, Ben-Hur and German expressionism? Throw in a Mr. Belvedere reference, and I’m sold. Also, I had always thought of Tron as more of, “That really inadvertently funny computer movie with a distinctive visual style approximating that of the world’s most boring rave club.”
So I have a new career goal: blurb writer for Netflix! I mean, after all, I have a knack for this sort of thing. Just yesterday, I told a supermarket cashier that Wall-E was a, "post-apocalyptic robot love story where even the cockroach is cute.”
Friday, December 05, 2008
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
That first sentence wasn’t sarcastic. It’s really very fun. I spend all day calling people, being transferred to people, and having those people transfer me to other people, until I’ve met 200 new friends and wound up back where I started. It allows me to put on my “Secretary Voice,” the cheery/don’t mess with me “ain’t my first time at the rodeo” attitude.
My favorite people are the postage meter people. People who know postage meter people? The luckiest people in the world. These guys turned chaos into art. It’s a rabbit hole, a mirror, a funhouse of spectacular and cheery incompetence.
Amazing Feat #1: The super-special “high priority” customer service hotline. Which sounds suspiciously like a click, dead air and a dialtone.
Amazing Feat #3: The ability to continue to list our account as Cleveland-based, no matter how many times I explain that I am not, in fact, in Cleveland.
Amazing Feat #4: They split our (very simple) account into three separate accounts, with different account numbers, none of which seem able to interact with any of the other accounts. (People with disassociative identity disorder know that they have alter egos. Postage people, however, lack those necessary alter-ego communication skills.)
Amazing Feat #5: They have totally different setups (and hotlines, and account numbers) for “Renting” and “Leasing.” Yes, folks…ignore everything the thesaurus ever told you. Renting and leasing are totally different concepts.
Amazing Feat #6: That none of their staff would have noticed that there was no Amazing Feat #2.
At this point, I’m thinking that if I start flashing people, it might get us a postage scale. Or a restraining order. Either one.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
I lost my job, just in time for both the holidays and the greatest American economic collapse since...er, the last time our economy collapsed? I can't keep track any more.
I'm still finding all sorts of silver linings. The afternoon I got the "Here's your box, but try to think of this as an opportunity!" talk at work, Lemmonex and I barreled through much of my leftover birthday champagne, and sang along with the infamous "Hot Sundae" video on the "Jessie's Caffeine Pill Downward Spiral" episode of Saved by the Bell.
Good news is always abundant. My dad's health is improving rapidly. The lovely Lady Brett hooked me up with a temp job (one perk of being an admin: you can always, always temp). My friends rock. And my boyfriend has been a truly amazing source of support.
But things are still stressful, and I'm not much for the emotion-barf. So I'm staying on hiatus for a bit longer. I put up this post to explain why I'm not posting, like a Mobius strip of self-indulgence. I'll be back soon...bad times don't last forever.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Thursday, November 06, 2008
I went up to Friendship Heights to attend a jewelry and precious metals purchasing event. Picture Antiques Roadshow without the cameras. Picture crusty grandmas with the dinner plates that belonged to THEIR crusty grandmas, used to hold generations of depressing butterscotch candies. Picture taking a number, sitting down, and waiting as the woman next to you frets and frets until you can feel your blood pressure screaming for mercy.
Me: It’s a wedding set, 18 karat white gold, from an upscale jeweler in Bogota. I’ve included the certificate and the receipt.
Buyer: It’s very clean.
Me: That’s because it’s been in that box for several years. I do take it out every divorceaversary, place it in the center of my floor, and do a tribal dance of joy to celebrate my freedom.
Buyer: And how does that work?
Me: Pretty well. Except when I don’t get my left leg exactly right, and it rains for the next three days.
Buyer: Ah. So, here’s the bad news. The stone is smaller than what we’re looking for, and we don’t really resell wedding rings unless they’re antique.
Me: You mean people aren’t clamoring for jinxed wedding sets?
Buyer: No, at least, not ones with a small center stone.
Me: I knew I should have let my ex buy me a bigger ring. Next time around, I’ll be more materialistic.
Buyer: So, basically, we’d break this down and sell it for parts. Like a Buick.
Me: Or a dead body. And how much are these parts worth?
Buyer: If I make you an offer, you’ll be insulted.
Me: I guarantee I’ll be amused, not insulted, by whatever offer you make.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Thanks, America. It's just my size, exactly to my taste, and totally makes up for those times you chose a president based on who you'd rather have a beer with. (And then, to complete the cycle of stupid, you decided you'd rather have a beer with a teetotaler. Sigh.)
I spent Election Night sprinkling myself in free booze at the Qorvis party...to the point that I said "excuse me," to the wax Obama. I also wore that Washington classic, a name tag. Except mine said, "Anne Chovy," and my date's said, "Benjamin Dover." I also told an FCC employee that he ought to auction off the Janet Jackson boobie screenshots on Ebay. I figured I'd get as much out of the end of Year 31 as I possibly could.
I'm spending today off work, lounging, and possibly a little hungover. More tomorrow.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
I can vote in broad daylight. My precinct is in the projects. If you follow the crime reports, look for the number of robberies and beatdowns that happen within one block of my polling location. Yeah…I lived in Bogota and I’m worried.
Daytime drinking. Who’s up for starting happy hour at 2:00? Give me a call, I’m down for it.
I get to keep my health insurance.
Friday, October 31, 2008
I spent much of yesterday worried sick. The least of my problems was that the iron might have been left on. If the iron was on, it was also probably face down on the rug. Meaning it was burning the rug. And then my entire sale rack wardrobe would go up in flames.
And now follow the bouncing ball, chain reaction freakout: If I don’t have clothes, I can’t go to work. And if I can’t go to work, I can’t pay off my student loan. Can the repo men take my college degree? And what if I can’t pay rent? Not that it matters, as I’d be living inside a burned-out hulk of an apartment with winter on the way.
So what have I learned? Easy. No more cheese dip before bed.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
So I thought I’d subvert the script, and list five times I was NOT sexy to men, and rate them on a scale of 1-10. Awesomely, they all occurred in the last 24 hours:
1. I told the Blond's readers that my safety words are, “OUCH!” followed by, “The hell?” Why bother with a code word when you can get right to the point? Unsexy quotient: 7.5
2. This morning, I freaked over the mysterious relocation of the toothpaste, and turned the entire bathroom upside down to find it while muttering to myself and yanking at my hair. (I go a little bonkers when I can’t find something.) Unsexy quotient: 4
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
My décor is exactly how I like it, I don’t have to use any of the top shelves if I don’t want to, and nobody has to know how many sailors slept over last night. I can categorize my skirts by length, have bourbon for dinner, or only change the sheets upon the changing of the seasons.
But I don’t really take full advantage. I don’t know whether it's because I’m a recovering housewife, my inner Miss Priss is a domineering witch, or I've lost my ability to really grab life by the man-parts. But today’s post by Lemmonex made me think of all the living alone clichés I have yet to embrace:
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
But Metro’s announcement of random bag searches definitely got my attention. There has to be more going on than what we've been told.
I typically don't mind searches, as long as they're not onerous or silly. Airports can run me and mine through as many machines as they could ever want. In Bogota, I would be searched an average of five times before I could board a plane (and that's with a diplomatic passport). A man with an Uzi would root through my handbag every time I went shopping at Andino Mall, and men were patted down before we could enter a club. But that’s just part of life in a country that’s been at war for generations.
But America isn’t Colombia. And this bag search policy is laughably ineffective. You can refuse to be searched, leave, and walk the two blocks to a different entrance. The random search policy is all for show, and the show itself is going to cause rubbernecking, anxiety, and delays.
And I haven’t even gotten to the real meat of it: random searches are an affront to who we are, our Constitution, and our culture. If I’m just trying to get to work, what law have I broken? Why are my movements being restricted? Where’s the probable cause? I refuse to play a role in the dissolution of my right, as a citizen, to go wherever the hell I want for whatever reason I see fit. Moreover, I refuse to turn the most ordinary part of my day, my ride to work, into a security theater freakshow.
So what will I do if I get pulled aside for searching? Simple. Politely refuse, hand over a printout of the Fourth Amendment, and leave. I can always walk, use another station, or take a cab. Inconvenience is a small price to pay for freedom, and I'll put in my buck-oh-five.
For those of you who don’t remember Civics class, I've included a copy of the Fourth Amendment. Print it, carry it, hand it over to the Metro goons, and walk the extra blocks. It’s good for the body, and even better for the soul.
The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Watch the intricate mating dance of Guidos vs. Women in Glorified Tank Tops. Recall the Law of Dressing Pretty Without Looking Like a Hooker: The higher the hemline, the lower the heel…unless you’re in Atlantic City and it’s butt-ass freezing. In which case, wear even less than what you’d put on in July. (And, yes, I’ve become the grumpy old lady who thinks girls ought to cover up a little.)
Spend the drive grousing about tolls, and telling each other New Jersey should be paying YOU to visit, and not vice versa.
Wonder why, in the glorious state of New Jersey, it’s illegal to pump your own gas. Is it just to add that extra dash of suck?
Friday, October 24, 2008
But there’s one drawback: Washington is lousy with romantic failure. My failed romances, to be exact. I work five blocks away from my first boyfriend. I pass my ex-husband’s apartment (and my ex-car) on my way to a friend’s house. I routinely run into guys I’ve gone out with, everywhere from the sidewalk to the bar to the police station.
This isn’t as bad as it sounds. I’m friends, or on friendly terms, with almost everyone I’ve ever dated. My Facebook friends list is a veritable Ouija board, conjuring the Ghosts of Beaux Past. It’s no big deal, and I can make small talk with virtually anyone.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
...Give up? It’s Martin Luther, apoplectic with hate for Henry VIII.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
I generally don't respond to “stuff about me” tags, on the grounds that I’ve spent the last six years of DSJ incessantly prattling on about myself. And I’m really only so fascinating. Plus, tags kind of remind me of the pass-along survey from Sixteen Candles. ("Have you done it? Have you seen it? Have you touched it?")
1. I don’t watch television. Ever. Really. This isn’t a culture snob thing, I’m just too cheap for cable and don’t have bunny ears. I will occasionally Netflix a series on DVD, but that’s usually several years after airing. One thing I find astounding about human nature is how often people will ask if I watch a program, then, when I say I don’t watch any TV, they’ll keep talking about TV. Dear Humanity: I really and truly haven’t seen your favorite show. I’ve probably never even heard of it. Can we please talk about something, anything else?
2. I can’t operate lighters.
I’m supposed to tag other people. But as the blogosphere is tag-heavy these days, I’ll just let this one die out with me.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
When I was done signing a death warrant for Shamu, my other client asked me to spend a week touring small museums. It felt like a small-town bandit road trip, except this time for pay.
I found the last leg of my trip, to a submarine in Michigan, cancelled due to my delay in Fort Wayne. Then, by a wonderful stroke of luck, I found myself in Milwaukee with a four-hour layover. I spent most of those four hours tossing back beer and brats, making new friends, and watching my bad habits absorbed by the generous expense accounts of the Ford Motor Company.
Eventually, my Midwest Express flight was called. I wobbled on over, ready for home and a hot bath.
When I reached the gate, I was pulled aside for further inspection. My ricochets around America, last-minute flight changes, and imposing demeanor had landed me on a terrorist watch list.
I began to touch my nose with my pointer fingers and recite the alphabet, in the manner of a field sobriety test.
The TSA agent cracked a smile and waved me on board. When I reached my seat, the flight attendant gave me a cookie and a glass of champagne.
The lesson? Never turn down a chance to make a drunken idiot of yourself in front of Homeland Security. Because if you do, you'll get a cookie!
Monday, October 20, 2008
The problem is that I am cold. I can’t think proper unless I am warm. During my Sarajevo year, I became too stupid to operate telephones, buy milk, or even realize that I shouldn't have been there in the first place.
I got nothin’. So, in the comments, ask me anything. Want my advice? Want to know something about me? Trivia quiz, anyone? I’ll answer, if only because the typing keeps my fingers from clamping together.
Friday, October 17, 2008
I don't care if it puts me in "You kids, get off my lawn!" territory, or makes me the Princess of Prudity, but I'm sick to death of sexy nurses, sexy fairies, sexy French maids, sexy stewardesses, and sexy construction workers. To me, the average Halloween party looks like the opening scene of a very cheap and derivative porno film. Imagine it: boom mike hovering into the action, *boom-chicka-wow-wow* on the hi-fi, nubile, surgically enhanced barely-18s hanging out by the punch bowl.
Sexy Fairy: Ooooh no, my faerie wings have lost their sparkle!
French Maid: I'll shine them up for you!
Sexy Nurse: Don't worry, I'll make you feel better!
*cue tickling with a feather duster and frolicking among the thermometers*
Really. If you're going to trash it up for Halloween, show a little imagination. Give some sex appeal to those occupations that so desperately need it. Both men and women can get into the action (so to speak). Be a sexy colonic irrigation aesthetician. A sexy undertaker. A sexy fishmonger, a sexy laundromat manager, or even a sexy proctologist. Hell, even a fry cook can be saucy if you try hard enough.
If you're out on Halloween, look for me dressed as a sexy toll collector. Nothing spruces up a miniskirt and tube top like an orange vest and some rolls of quarters!
PS - Post based on tipsy girl talk at Liv's party.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
I promise I’ll be funny tomorrow. Today I decided to have a feeling or two (in case you were wondering, blog-as-therapy is usually a sign that I have writer's block).
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
In the hour we were there, HP and I managed to critique the uniform for being less than figure-flattering, get in a long discussion about favorite shades of lip gloss, and debate whether the lack of utensils meant we were supposed to use our um, chestardly bits as “really sensitive chopsticks.” (That awesome mental image you just had? You’re welcome!)
After about ten minutes, Foggy pretended he had accidentally sat down at the wrong table, and had never met these two women before in his life. Or maybe he was just watching the game.
My sojourn at the Hooters did make me contemplate some serious questions:
The Chinatown Hooters opens at 10:00 am. Who can take the sight of Day-Glo orange short-shorts before noon? And do they have a breakfast menu, or do people really eat hot wings with coffee?
Is there any footwear less flattering than bright white sneakers with poofy 80’s style white socks?
Is wearing a low-cut top to Hooters like taking coals to Newcastle? Or is it just one more lovely addition to the scenery?
Why is it so much fun to say the name, "Hooters"? Hooters hooters hooters!
And, lastly, is going to Hooters for the wings anything like reading Playboy for the articles?
Our waitress Cha-Cha rocked, and my cheese sticks were very delicious. So, squicky objectification issues aside, hooray for Hooters! Who's going with me for breakfast this weekend?
Monday, October 13, 2008
"Hey, I only got to first base!"
"Dude, don't tell people that sort of stuff! Be a gentleman."
"You're right. Sorry. High five!"
Because really, doesn't a chivalrous bathroom makeout session deserve a high five?
PS: Happy birthday, Liv! Here's the famous recipe (originally from Bon Appetit):
Gin and Tonic Jell-O Shooters
3 cups tonic (divided)
One cup gin (I used Beefeater)
2 tablespoons sugar
3 packets unflavored gelatin
About six limes, sliced
In a small saucepan, boil two cups tonic with the sugar. Meanwhile, pour gin and one cup tonic into a large mixing bowl. Sprinkle unflavored gelatin on top of gin/tonic mixture, allow to set for one minute. Pour boiling tonic/sugar into bowl, stir until well blended. Pour contents of bowl into a 9x9 inch pan, allow to set overnight. Cut shooters into cubes, serve on lime slices. Pretty, classy, tasty, and not obscenely alcoholic.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Learn how to walk in a freakin’ pair of heels. Last night, as I wandered down Fourteenth Street with the Refugee, he took appreciative note of my fabulous four-inch Victorian streetwalker shoes. And, also, my ability to effectively perambulate in them.
Most women in this town take tiny, very deliberate steps, planting each foot down with ridiculous care. It's like watching Bambi wade across the Miljacka. Moreover, they don the nasty plastic flip-flops even to cross the street, so they just don’t get enough practice.
I had to practice walking in heels before I was allowed to wear them in public. I have an advanced degree in Heelology. And, like many of my more civilized qualities, all credit is due to Mom. She had me walk in a straight line, in heels, arms out, a book balanced on my head. (I can still do this, even after a half-dozen beers. It's my favorite party trick.)
So, ladies: If you’re going to rock the sexy heels, learn how to ROCK them. Take long, confident strides, and waggle your hips for balance (…and attention). Make sure your shoes actually fit – if you’re spilling over the sides of your slingbacks, you aren’t going to be able to walk in them. And don't stomp. You aren't a two-year-old in the throes of a sugar tantrum. Remember: long steps, and a bit of a wiggle in your walk. I swear it isn't hard.
PS: I rarely wear high heels, on the grounds that I’m 5’2” and not fooling anyone. But if I’m going to wear them, I’m going to ROCK them.
PPPS: I'm a little disjointed today, so excuse me. Thursdays tend to hurt.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
ZipKid. The Kid-Sharing Service!
ZipKid can also be fun for couples. Most young couples test out their parenting abilities by getting a dog. Then they spoil the dog rotten, with gourmet food and organic flea dip. Eventually, the costs rack up and the couple is too broke to contemplate babies. ZipKid allows them to test drive parenthood without the accompanying veterinary bills, ruined furniture and dog-walking services.
And with the economy dry-heaving over a metaphorical Toilet of America…who can afford a kid? Only the very same rich golden-parachuted twits who got us into this mess in the first place. So what is going to hold the economy’s hair back? ZipKid! Kid-sharing is a low-budget, elegant solution to the perennial drain that kids exert on America’s finances.
Supply is an issue. Where would the ZipKids come from? Fifteen years ago, we could have replenished our coffers with Romanian babies. Nowadays, cheap kids are hard to come by. So, in the comments, I need some women to volunteer to be ZipKid suppliers. It’s like being a brood mare, except, er, it’s people. Bonus points if you have good genes. Turkey baster included.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Last night, I decided to take a break from petty theft, hard liquor, and my own catastrophic character flaws. I wanted to stay in and focus on clothes: conduct the Great Seasonal Wardrobe Swap (summer-to-winter, which involves a meticulous rearrangement of my closet), do some laundry, and peruse the latest issue of Lucky. Thing is, I have terrible luck with laundry.
Monday, October 06, 2008
As I’m shopping at the online Man Mall, my IM window flies open.
SkeevyDude4U: Hi! Would you like a cute guy to do a striptease for you?
DisaffScanJockey: Uh. No. Thanks!
The lesson? If you are a man, and you use emoticons, I probably don’t want to see you naked.
Happy Monday, y’all.
Friday, October 03, 2008
I am about to cancel a 1st date with a guy but wondering if that would be a mistake. Here's the background:
My Match profile has (7) very recent (only weeks old) photos of me in various angles, some face only, others full length. Good representations, I think.
After emailing with "Johnny" he asked me for some additional photos, esp. if I had any in which I am wearing tank tops/flip flops. I said "oh you must have been burned before by someone who didn't look like their pics, but you don't have to worry about that because all my photos are recent, i really am a size 4, and i cannot tell a lie." I told him that if we meet and we like each other that he can have all the tank tops/flip flops photos he wants of me and was flirty about it.
He will not relent, he keeps asking me for more pics and I keep ignoring those parts of his emails because I have liked everything else about him on email and the phone, even after he (unsolicited) sent me additional photos of himself with his 2 kids. When I emailed him directly (rather than via my talkmatch address) he wanted to know why I didn't email him from my work email and I was like "oh I am a cop's kid, I can't help but be cautious about personal details."
So today he sent me this email:
"Did you ever think that maybe I wanted to do my background check on you?? There are just as many crazy women on the net as men, believe that… That's not too cool though, you even have pics of my kids!….I can understand the last name, address or home phone number but pictures?? C'mon now it's online dating for crying out loud! You trying to hide your hand with six fingers or something? The fact that you keep avoiding it makes me want to keep asking. Hey we found the first thing to disagree about…fun… Wait, you ask if I was at the Sprint in Reston, I think that's too personal of a question, you might stalk me. Let's just say I'm in Virginia…."
I know he's partly being sarcastic, but he is also kinda disrespectful, right? I am about to email him and just cancel the date and wish him the best. Or should I send him some damn pics and go on the date? I just think it's weird he wants more pics when I am confident the ones I sent are very good.
Thanks in advance!
OH MY GOSH. THAT GUY IS FREAKING AWESOME!!!! He’s nitpicking your lack of a flip-flop/tank top photo? Is he for real?
Tell him that not only do you have six fingers on your right hand, you have a penis, a prehensile tail and four earlobes arranged in a ridge formation across your left elbow. Plus, you sleep with a bunch of stuffed animals, and you snore.
On a slightly more serious note, if he's creating that much aggravation before you even go on one lousy coffee date, imagine what it would be like to be in a relationship with him: "Thanksgiving? With your family? I'll need a complete menu, including recipes and potential allergens, photos of your entire family in all forms of footwear, and about a dozen Haldols before I can even contemplate such a step."
It's possible he's a decent guy with an unfortunate lack of social skills, and you've just gotten the wrong end of the stick somehow...but, really, why bother? He's being weird and hostile and he's badgering a woman he’s never even met. There are three billion other men in the world, plus all sorts of high-end electronic gadgetry, so listen to your instincts and run like hell.
And for a dose of actual seriousness: Don’t ever feel guilty for listening your instincts. If your gut is telling you that something is off, don’t worry about being “nice” or sparing this guy’s feelings. He’ll get over it. You don’t need anyone’s permission or validation to say, “Thanks, but no thanks.” And if he tries to drag you into yet another stupid argument about flip-flops or extra fingers, you are under no obligation to reply to him.
Lastly, if he is starting to give you the creeps, vs. merely being annoying, I would also recommend reporting his behavior to your dating service.
What do the illustrious members of the commentariat think? Additional advice/insights welcome…with the usual caveat that an actual person, with actual feelings, wrote in. So don’t be a jerk.