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.

Can You Hear My Body Talking?

Apparently, no matter how a woman positions her feet, it means she totally wants to jump your bones. In related news, this article purports to explain women's body language.*

Let's get the obvious bit out of the way: yes, the article is sexist and full of obnoxious stereotypes.

Apparently, like all women, I am a manipulative, hyperemotional weirdo who, "Say[s] "I'm fine" when [I] mean "I am about to start bawling -- and I'll never let you forget it." And you can tell by my posture that I'm "prepared to be obedient." (Unless I'm decked out in bondage gear, an apron, and am making you a sandwich, stay far away from that assumption.) Finishing the article felt like coughing up a hairball of shame in a windstorm of self-loathing.

But that's not the worst part. The worst part is that it's the most godawful advice about women I've ever seen. I was waiting to be told that when I take a special lady to the movies, I ought to yawn and then drape my arm across her shoulder.

Every pose means that the headless babe in the photos totally wants you:

Hand on neck: Trusts you, wants to jump your bones.
Hand on waist: Apparently a very aloof form of zombie, but still wants to jump your bones.
Crossed legs: Obedient (ed note: barf), will sit there forever for the opportunity to jump your bones.
Crossed legs, perched on chair: Wants to aggressively jump your bones.
Sitting up straight: Thinks she's at church, but would jump your bones at church.
One knee on chair: The other knee would like to be jumping your bones.

I could go on, but you get the idea. If this article catches on, every fidget, pose, shifting of feet or neck itch will be interpreted as a blatant come-on. The bars of America will be filled with shrieking women, hurling bar tables and pool cues at the relentless hordes of clueless men, who are just trying to attain the impromptu bone-jumpings promised to them by Asylum. Eventually, women will invent new postures to throw them off the scent, so that every sidewalk looks like an interpretive dance recital. Eventually, women will find a way to live as motionless fleshy mannequins, men will give up, and the human race will die out.

That's right, folks: We're not just looking at awkward and juvenile bad advice, we're staring into the abyss. If this article catches on, it'll be the END OF HUMANKIND.

*Hat tip Adrienne for finding this slice of Internet glory.

In the comments, tell me about your posture, and whether it means you think I'm sexy. Or tell me the plot of your dystopian film, set five years after the Asylum article is adopted as the new gospel.

The More Things Change...

...the more I stand behind some woman who is overcompensating for deficient arithmetic skills by micromanaging her grocery purchases.

I've expended a lot of calories over the years by ranting about my Safeway. It was a nexus of incompetence, wilted vegetables, long lines and short fuses. Now, it is freshly made-over. It's spit-shined, glamorous, and full of cheese bars and nut bars and shiny floors. They even sell wine. And the produce no longer looks like it was grown in a freeway underpass and watered with moonshine.

But let's get back to those nut bars. They're not just a kind of food, they're a way of life at my Safeway.

See, in all the reconfiguring, nobody really came up with a way to make over the customers.

Sunday, I was swanning about my fancy Safeway, skipping my way down the aisles and shopping for fancy cheese. By the time I got to the register, I had a heavy basket and somewhat diminished patience.

Line selection at an urban grocer is a do-or-die proposition. If you choose poorly, you'll lose hours of time. You'll get the folks who want to haggle over prices, or, one better, the people who don't realize that money is exchanged for goods or services. So they stand there, numbly, not sure when or how they should pay. (Hint: Now. With money. Your magic beans are no good here.)

I stood behind a woman who seemed relatively organized. Her cart was neatly lined up. She had her wallet in her hand. I was reassured. That is, until I saw what she was doing. Mayonaisse. On the conveyor. $2.99. Nod approvingly. Bread. $1.79. Total $4.78. Nod approvingly. The cookies can go on the conveyor, too.

I know that game. The customer slowly, gradually, infuriatingly puts one item on the belt, checks the total, and stops when they hit the amount of cash they are carrying. Then the player will scatter any leftovers around the register area, creating an obstacle course for the patrons and a cleanup job for the staff.

As a Nats fan and divorcee, I know when I've been defeated. So I moved to the next register over. There was one woman ahead of me. Yogurt. $.79. Lunchmeat. $3.50. Total $4.29.

Spectacularly, impossibly, I had stumbled into the Urban Grocery Olympics. The I Have Exactly $30 on Me for Groceries Event. And the women in both lines were going for the gold.

On a more comforting level, it's nice to know that gentrification hasn't changed the basic character of my neighborhood.

In the comments, tell me about your favorite event in the Urban Grocery Olympics.

The usual caveat: Lots of you know where I live. That doesn't mean you should mention it in the comments (lots of creepazoids out there.)

And Now for Something Completely Gizzardy

Boy, it's sure been a lot of Big Life Stuff around here lately. I'm sinking under the weight of my own profundity, here on my mountain of brilliance, above the valley that is the petty hum of everyday life. I am, like, so much better than all of you.

I'm getting a little sick of myself. This isn't a Big Life Stuff blog...we have Wil Wheaton for that. So, in no particular order, here are my most frivolous, petty thoughts of the last 24 hours:

1. Honking doesn't get you home any faster, so knock it the @@$*%(%! off.
2. Inebriated Facebooking is a hazard not because you might say something embarrassing (let's face it - even my sober status updates are embarrassing), but because undoubtedly someone from your 9th grade English class will come along and correct your grammar.
3. You're comfortably sitting inside your nice warm car. It won't kill you to wait a moment for me to get across the street. Also? It's the law.
4. When reading Yelp reviews, do you find yourself horning in on the worst review of the bunch? Like, if one person out of a thousand finds a fist-sized cockroach at the Ritz, does that make the Ritz a bad hotel? Or does it mean some prankster is going around planting cockroaches?
5. I understand that men are visual and all, but I don't get what's alluring about pornography crotch-shots. It's all gizzards and McNuggets to me.

In the comments, tell me something random.

Can I Be Completely Honest? Oh, Like Anyone Wants THAT

I come from a long line of excessively blunt people. Dinner with my family can feel sort of like going through a carwash in a top-down Mini Cooper convertible, as you are bludgeoned and buffeted by a thousand brushes and walls of soap.

Don't believe me? This is what my mother said when I asked why we had so many baby photos of Skye, and none of me: "Well, by the time the second baby comes, it's just not that exciting." She went on to point out that my sister and I looked astonishingly similar as infants, so she didn't want to waste the film.

My mother's take on childrearing might be slightly out of the ordinary.

Since every woman turns into her mother, my own honesty can be a little frightening. I must cross the line a dozen times per day, and never even notice. I've probably offended all of you without even trying. Hell, some days I offend myself.

I ought to know better. I know that if a friend says, "Can I be honest?" it means, "Can I be brutal?" I know "I'm just being honest!" means, "I'm being mean, but cloaking myself in forthrightness so I seem like a good person." And I know sometimes an indirect answer could keep me out of a whole mess of trouble.

But I also know direct questions deserve direct answers, that the truth will come out, and that nobody wants to be seen in pants that make their butt look like the hind end of the Hindenberg.

How did you decide your level of honesty? Or do you think it is predetermined, like hair and eye color?

I Feel as if I Ought to Say Hello

I'm not going to do that annoying blogger thing and apologize for not writing. Instead, I'm going to do that even more annoying blogger thing, and tell you WHY I haven't been writing.

For the last month-and-change, I've been in ohmygodIcan'tbreatheswampedcrisisstaylatearriveearly mode at work. This has left me with very little mental energy to spare. Just so my readers don't feel left out, here are the other slack-ass ways I've been conducting my life:

1. As I walk home from the Metro at one ungodly hour or another, I wave hello to my assortment of clothes languishing at the dry cleaners'.
2. All invitations have received the same response. "I'll come if I'm not in a darkened room somewhere, stabbing myself in the nostril with Maybelline Lash Stiletto." I've never used the "maybe" response on Evite with such heady abandon.
3. All requests for help with menus, fete planning, weekend ideas, and other Queen Bee Social Chair items that I normally dive into get the response of, "Dude. Ask me again in October."
4. Mashed potatoes from a packet for dinner? I'm nostalgic for those classy days.
5. My life is ruled by mental countdowns. Two weeks from today, my hell season will be over. I will have my feet up and my hair down and my brain in utter drool mode.

So, it's not you. It's me and everyone else. I'll be back soon, and more obnoxious than ever.

You Can Pick Your Nose but You Can't Pick Your Readers. Unless Your Readers Are Boogers.

That may, officially, be the grodiest title I've ever chosen. Don't worry, it's not Thursday yet and I won't be writing about boogers. In fact, I promise this is the last time I'll ever use the word "booger."

Instead, I'll strike up the perennial blogger favorite (hey, did anyone ever notice how similar the words 'blogger' and 'booger' are?):

Virtually every blogger has written a post like this: "My mom/an old boyfriend/my boss/all my cousins discovered my blog and I told them to not read it! But they did it anyway. It's so disrespectful of them! It's an invasion of my privacy! Especially because I want to bitch about them at length without any consequences."

My response, now and ever, is, "Fat chance." Once you've hit that 'publish' button, you're accountable for everything you say about anyone who might stop by. That includes everyone you mock, anyone you've hurt, and the truth about any stories you tell. It's simple, really: don't write anything you wouldn't say.

And blogs are open to anyone who might stop by. You don't get to dictate your audience. Don't like it? Take it down, slap up a password, or watch what you say. I mean, really. The Internet is hardly private property.

I wish I could change my mind about these things, because it would make the second half of this post much easier to write.

Recently, I was found by someone I'd hoped could lose me forever. Someone I haven't seen in over a decade emailed with the sort of lengthy, emotion-dredging manipulative intrusiveness that made him such a negative part of my life to begin with. My response has been to not respond at all. I think that's best.

I don't know if he's changed, and I hope he has, but that's beside the point. The point is that I have changed. I've had enough love by now to know that I don't have to open up my life to anyone who stops by. I can pick and choose, something I get better at each and every year. I don't have to be that love-starved mess from long ago.

But I know I don't have the right to dictate who can and can't read this site. And I've always understood that blogging under my real name carries a price. On the whole, it's worth it, because I think anonymous blogging can make it too easy to be heartless or slippery.

Living in the open makes me remarkably easy to find. I briefly considered closing up shop or donning an alias, but we all know that wouldn't happen.

There are over six years of emotion-barfs, opinions and stories to choose from. I stand behind them all, even though I'm far from perfect and could always have further to fall. I like to think my stories are worth sharing. And I'm glad I have all of you along for the ride.

I just ask that those of you who belong in my messy past don't contact me.

In the comments, object to my repeated use of the word 'booger.' Or explain to me exactly what the hell I'm talking about. Because I have no clue.

The Underlying Reason I Don't Post Photos of Myself

There are oodles of reasons why bloggers don't post photos of themselves. A yen for anonymity. A desire to not have one's attractiveness assessed by eleven-toed basement trogolodytes. A desire to swat away the Internet freakdoodles. A prehensile tail.

In my case, it's about 25 percent warding off the freakdoodles and 50 percent wanting to be judged on the merits of my words, vs. the merits of my bone structure, figure type, and hairstyle.

But there's a 20 percent I haven't told you about. I am, to put it diplomatically, not the photogenic sort. Posting photos of myself would cause a clutching of pearls across the blogverse, a collective gasp, and a rapid drop in traffic.

(If you aren't looking at me, I cease to exist. Hello? Hi! Look look look! Aren't I fantastically adorable and so funny that you could just pick me up and cuddle me like a fluffy little snarky bunny?)

There are the obvious photographic indignities. Most of the time, I am snapped swilling Boone's Farm, being headlocked/molested by one of my girlfriends, gesticulating wildly, or dressed in some sort of monstrosity that makes me look like I'm about to give birth. At Woodstock. In a tent. After a few go-rounds with the brown acid. Eeeeesh.

But sometimes, I just plain mutate. There's the Feral Child version of me, with wild eyes, curiously hunched bunny-walk posture, and an expression that makes viewers wonder if I regard them as dinner.

Even better is Devil Baby Shannon. She has red eyes, mysterious cleavage, and oddly elongated teeth.

Sometimes there's Every Woman Turns Into Her Mother Eventually Shannon. That's when I look angular, Australian, and vaguely disapproving.

Then sometimes, a bad angle makes my chins be fruitful and multiply. I call her Shannon the Hutt.

But I'm guessing the math whizzes among you are less concerned about a feral man-eating demonic multi-chinned blogger, when you can focus on the mysterious five percent missing from my formula.

I have a prehensile tail. You heard it here first.

In the comments, tell me if you're photogenic.

Let's Face It, I Probably Really Do Have a Relative Who Stirs Kool-Aid with Her Arm

Summer always makes me think of vacations. This is not necessarily a good thing.

For starters, I haven't gone anywhere for more than a long weekend since, oh, 2006 or so. And that was a somewhat misguided trip involving the World's Largest Manmade Illuminated Star, a Ford Focus that I kept losing in parking lots, and an accidental visit to an illegal off-track betting parlor. (Oh, wait, that trip was AWESOME.)

But mostly I think of the summer trips of my childhood. What's funny is that I can never remember where we went, what we did, or who we saw. My parents could mention that time we went to Upper Caledonia in the Zebulon Galaxy and battled three-headed cross-dressing Amway representatives, and I would not recall a thing.

Instead, this is what I remember:

I remember my mom's AMC station wagon, which was wood-paneled in homage to the Family Truckster. This was way back when booster seats and child seats were yuppie fripperies for the weak of spirit. (If I were a child today, parental paranoia would demand I wear a helmet and some bubble wrap.) My sister and I sprawled across the storage area on a pile of blankets, while our luggage was comfortably ensconced in the backseat (you know, where there was actual seatbelts and safety features, well, such as they were in the early 80s). I remember the gooey plastic ceiling cover which would melt and land on us in disturbingly vomitous chunks.

I remember the endless loop of our only two 8-tracks, Olivia Newton-John and ABBA. I remember being the only girl at Casita Elementary who knew all the words to "Fernando", which may have marked the beginning of my plummet into nerd-dom.

I remember the endless driving from hotel to motel to resort, as all lodging options in town were exhausted due to my dad's philosophical objection to making reservations.

I remember the endless driving as the source of my endless horking by the side of the road, at rest stops, and sometimes I-swear-it-was-an-accident onto my sister.

I remember leaving my favorite doll on the roof of the car.

I remember leaving my retainer at a Burger King.

I remember the time we returned to find my pet parakeet Sydney had committed suicide by trapping herself behind my dresser mirror. Upside down. And staring directly at me. Gross.

I also remember the time we returned to find a pescetarian Jonestown, as all of Skye's fish had jumped out of their tank in the week we were away.

I remember the funny way my dad would stick his tongue out just a little when we'd pass the same intersection half a dozen times from a dozen different directions. (The laws of physics never seemed to apply to my family in any real way. This is how we'd visit four states in an hour but teleport back from Tijuana.)

The one trip I do truly remember, we aimed for the Finger Lakes and landed in Montreal. I met a lottery winner and saw Turner and Hooch.

It's funny how family vacations have achieved a sort of American mythology. The food, the accommodations, all of it, is usually...just plain bad. It's all about bickering, getting lost, getting all the way to Wally World only to find out it's closed for repairs. But it's still something we do.

Voluntarily.

And I'll be damned if my hypothetical future kids, Union Carbide and Enron, get out of this fine American tradition of intergenerational torture. I may even drive a custom-built Truckster.

In the comments, tell me about your summer vacations.

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?

There's a Reason My Doctor Only Does this Once a Year

I just went in for my annual physical. In my twisted little brain-sized universe, this is about the most fun thing ever. The reason? Doctor-patient confidentiality. No matter how poorly I behave, my doc can't rat me out.

My doctor, who I have dubbed Dr. Methuselah, is somewhere north of a hundred years old. He probably made house calls with a horse and buggy, he does consultations in a leather-chair swank sort of office, and he's adorable. It's worth it for the exam alone, as I don't think I'd ever before gotten felt up by Yoda.

Dr. Methuselah is calm in the face of my dizziness. As most of you know, a stretch of alone time with me requires heavy sedation and the patience of a saint. Today, as I disrobed, I realized I was wearing red panties and stripper heels...and not once did he think I was coming on to him! I mean, it's better than the time a doctor asked if I was sexually active, but not by much. What a classy guy.

He's also direct and deflects my insanity in a way that I really and truly need.

A few gems:

During the consultation:

"I have trouble seeing Metro signs."

Diagnosis: "You need glasses."

During the exam:

"I have a funky red mark I've been referring to as my 'Check Engine' light."

Diagnosis: "It's a new mole. It'll turn black in no time." (Sexy!)

During the blood oath portion of the exam:

"I don't have any veins. I think my blood is transported by a system of levers and pulleys."

Diagnosis: "There's one vein on your left arm. Make a fist. A real fist. Thank you."

"I think I might be a pterodactyl."
Diagnosis: "Now you're just being silly."

OK, the last one might be a joke. But, really, if I could someday meet a man that patient, I'd marry him and only impersonate a pterodactyl once every 25-30 days.

I'm Saying This As Your Friend...

My friends tend to say the same stuff to me, over and over again.

"Hey, that's my beer!"

"You know that's not strictly food, right?"

"Let me reach that down for you."

"You are too much!" (Really? I tend to think that I'm just enough.)

"You do realize you're a teeny little white girl from Woodbridge, right? And this can only end in a shanking?"

"Pants buddies for life!"

However, no sentence is more popular than, "I'm saying this as your friend." "I'm saying this as your friend," means, "Your motivations and behavior make no sense to me whatsoever, but, because I care, I am going to be honest with you about how ridiculous you're being."

Here are a few (paraphrased) versions I've heard in the last week:

"I'm saying this as your friend, you really need to let go of your weird loathing for canoes."

"I'm saying this as your friend, you spend a lot of time obsessing over the insignificant."

"I'm saying this as your friend, you really need to stop discussing things like fetish videos and skin cancer on the first date."

I can draw a few conclusions. The main one is that I require A LOT of adult supervision.

The next is that I have wonderfully honest friends who will confront me if I'm headed for trouble. (Even better, they'll support me even when they don't agree with me, which is the truest test of friendship.)

The final conclusion is the most vexing, because it's something I'll need to decide:

At what point does the sensible gathering of information and advice morph into the gutless crowdsourcing of your very existence?

I let my friends weigh in on everything from whether I should move (yes! but no! but yes!) to what color my hair should be (red! brunette! red! brunette!). Most of the time, I listen carefully, give a contemplative nod, then do whatever I'd made up my mind to do in the first place. More rarely, I take all of the advice to heart, sift through it for the wisest parts, and make an informed decision. Other times, my brain gets so filled with packing peanuts, rattling noises and static that I just wind up doing whatever the last person I spoke with told me to do.

I don't know when I wound up both stubborn and indecisive, but at least I'm self-aware enough to realize when I'm bullheadedly dithering for days at a stretch. The next step will be knowing when to listen to my inner drummer, and when to pummel him into submission and do whatever Foggy tells me to do.

In the comments, tell me something as my friend. Or, ask for everyone's advice on something absurdly insignificant that you've decided must be The Most Important Thing Ever.

The One Trend I Never Tried

I was pretty trendy in my twenties. Platform shoes. Ecotourism. Sleek sushi restaurants. A quarterlife crisis, starter marriage, fancy beer and bootcut jeans.


Somehow, in all that inadvertent love of the Next Big Thing, I never got a tattoo. My shoulder is not adorned with the mystic Chinese symbol for strength (which is far more likely to be the mystic symbol for Egg Foo Young, lifted off a delivery menu). No roses march across my ankle, my lower back is sadly free of a sunshine or butterfly tramp stamp, and a jailhouse strip search won't reveal a fairy or daisy.

Mostly, I'm relieved. Now that mortality is a slightly more concrete concept, it is far too easy to picture myself as that saggy, tarty, inky old lady on the beach. Also, back when I was a member of the tattoo demographic, I thought red pleather pants were pretty rockin'. I had loud taste, by which I mean you could generally hear my outfit from across the room. So I'm sure I would have picked something tacky and horrid. A battleship on my breast, perhaps, which would drop anchor in a few years.

Sometimes, though, it makes me a little sad. See, I believe that one should not pick up the ink habit after age 30. It's undignified, like developing a sudden prurient interest in the Jonas Brothers or taking up binge drinking. Tattoos, jailbait and booze are all habits best carried over from our twenties, not undertaken as new journeys after blowing out those 30 candles.

So I've missed the tattoo train, and one more option in life has been taken off the table. Life sometimes feels like the constant narrowing of options. However, the saving grace of maturity is that we realize not everything is right for everyone, and that narrow worlds are fine if those are the proportions we've asked for. I don't really care what sort of body art other people have, and I'm sure most people have a very good reason for getting inked, but I'm grateful I have none of my own.

And, best of all, I've been spared the sight of my slowly reconfiguring* early-30s posterior, graced with the face of Ozzy Osbourne. So, all in all, I'll consider my inkless body a win.

In the comments, tell me about your ink. Especially if it's a good story. Or, be silly enough to take me seriously here, and call me a judgmental unfunny twit. Or, tell me why you don't have any, or...try to erase the mental image of my naked hindquarters adorned with the grimacing face of Ozzy Osbourne. Can't do it, can you?

*Yes, girls, after age thirty, stuff, uh, moves around. Not necessarily smaller, bigger, higher, or lower, just...reconfigured. Like your body has reformatted your fatty hard drives without your consent. So be ready to laugh, get over it, and go buy some new pants.

Behold Your Fashion Future

I like to think of myself as a stylish lady. I fight the frump with killer heels, never leave the apartment without at least a little lip gloss, and have pretty much bought every dress that has ever been made. I figured I would roll into middle age and beyond with fabulosity and age-appropriate cool.

That is, until this morning. I realized that today's ensemble (bohemian top, capris, stripper-hippie heels, jangly bracelets) was just a few steps removed from an all-out Chico's catalogue doomsday. It's an easy and witless slide, like alcoholism or voting Republican.

Step one: Trade the bracelets for the dreaded Statement Necklace.

Step two: Trade the sexy heels for some sensible slides.

Step three: Trade the (somewhat) skin-baring top for something looser and less revealing.

Step four: The worst of all. The horror. The humanity! I'd trade the capris for something with a drawstring waist.

And the final result?


Not that I don't love Bea Arthur, because heaven knows the woman rocked...but that doesn't mean I would ever want to dress like her.

In the comments, tell me your fashion future. Or make me feel better about being only four steps removed from Dorothy Zbornak.

I'm a Costco of Emotion

I have a surplus of feelings. I pull them around after me, like a little red wagon that comes to life and squawks for attention at irregular intervals. I laugh too loudly, and turn pink and ooze tears at the slightest provocation. I smirk at my own reflection, wince constantly, and jump out of my seat every time the phone rings.

My school reports had two main assessments: "has trouble with spatial relations," and, to no one's surprise, "high-strung."

I have yet to find a way to harness this surplus, and pass the savings on to you. I had a week of accumulated traumas and stresses, the sort that would be deemed a perfect storm if 'perfect storm' wasn't my second least-favorite cliche in the world. (The least favorite? "At the end of the day." That one makes me laugh, turn pink, cry, smirk, wince, jump, AND groan. I hurl metaphorical Gummi Bears at anybody who says it.)

So let's just call the last week one big honking mess.

And now I'm left with a new supply of surplus emotions, and nowhere to put them. And I think the best test of emotional maturity is knowing that you can't help what you feel, but you can help what you do about it. So what do I do about it?

Am I supposed to squash down all my ugly feelings until they explode from my ears, flood everything in sight, and eat away at the furniture like a hot-pink acidic Pepto-Bismol of the damned?

Or should I go condiment-style? Should I let out my feelings in tiny bursts at inappropriate times, like ketchup bottle explosions in rousing protest against receiving mayonnaisse on my hamburger?

Should I go numb, like a soul that has been strapped to a low-velocity vibrator for over twenty years?

Shall I do something constructive? I could build a beautiful cathedral out of the Popsicle sticks of my stress and pain and self-doubt. But with the real estate market being what it is, maybe I ought to be building townhouses or Dickensian debtors' prisons.

Or, I could mold my feelings into abstract clay forms and sell them at auction. But would there be any buyers?

Or, I suppose I could tell you all about it, but not really tell you, because these images don't even make sense to me. As far as outlets go, it's a pretty good one.

A Dear Mom Travelogue

Back before the Internet, when we'd wear bonnets and churn our own butter, I used to come up with all sorts of ways to practice writing. I'd write letters to whomever I happened to be thinking of at the moment, from wherever I happened to be. I've decided to get back in the habit, because everyone loves to get a letter. But, as a nod to modern times, I'll be posting them online as well. (Next step? iPod. Oh, who are we kidding?)

Dear Mom,

I write this from somewhere between Minneapolis and San Francisco. The family in front of me is wearing surgical masks as a classy nod to swine flu. It's a level of paranoia that would do Australia proud. I am in the window seat, and the young man next to me is so profoundly asleep that he is most likely still drunk from the night before. Naturally, this is the time that my bladder has decided to assert itself.

More pressing is the teenager in front of me, who feels compelled to punch me in the kidneys every time she rummages through her seat compartment.

On the plus side, I had the entire row to myself from Washington to Minneapolis. And, on both flights, I was gifted with a full can of ginger ale. (Though, considering I've yet to extricate myself from the big sleeping dude, I may live to regret that one.)

Victory! Restroom achieved! On behalf of my entire endocrine system, thank you Jesus.

Come and visit me soon, just try not to sit next to the sleeping Colossus on the long haul from Sydney.

Love, Shannon

I'm Narcissistic and Overly Imaginative, What Else Is New?

Friday, I alluded to one of the greater challenges in my life: Murphy’s Law of Inverse Hotness.

Essentially, the sloppier you look when you leave the house, the more likely you are to run into an ex, and the more significant the ex is likely to be. I went out with frizzy hair, a slowly unraveling top, and jeans, and ran smack into my former husband.*

Once I’d arrived at the office, I posted a Facebook update declaring that if I left the house in pajama pants, no makeup, one shoe, a baseball cap, and drunk at noon on a Thursday, I’d run into a support group of everyone I’ve ever dated.

Naturally, as with everything in my life, the gates flew open and the mockery ensued. “The support group actually meets on Tuesdays,” said one old flame. “I have trouble making the Tuesday meetings but I did receive a copy of the newsletter,” said a former flicker.

This got me to thinking. Not about why my Facebook friends list is the Ghosts of Beaux Past. No, I’m enough of a narcissist to imagine what a support group of everyone I’ve ever dated would look like.

It would take place somewhere blank and depressing, like a VFW hall, or north Raleigh. The meeting would be called to order by a guy with floppy hair and a bullet still lodged in his thigh (people, I’m from Woodbridge). Then there’d be an affirmation:

“Going out with a woman who believes there are tiny musicians living inside her stereo does NOT diminish me as a person.”

From there, men would get up one by one and tell their tales of woe.

“I showed up with a dozen roses, and she STILL didn’t know it was a date!”

“Yeah, well, at least she’d learned how to cook by the time she met you…you have no idea how soggy grilled cheese can be when it’s prepared by an iron.”

“Does she still scream and run away when someone walks in on her while she’s brushing her teeth? Or does she save the insanity for when someone tries to take her picture?”

“She’d be cuter if she was Jewish. Told her that on the first date. Don’t know why there wasn’t a second one.”

“Yeah, well, on our first date she got drunk and face-planted into the side of a taxi!”

Then there’d be group photos, perhaps one in height order from that mid-twenties phase where the men I dated got progressively shorter and better-educated. Then refreshments would be served (I’m picturing danishes, fruit display, and free-flowing Makers Mark). Then everyone would shake hands, pledge each other to secrecy, and return to their everyday lives.

In the comments, imagine a support group of your exes. Or, diagnose me with narcissistic personality disorder.

*Incidentally, I behaved like a dork. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, people will talk,” is not an invitation to say, “Dude, my dad would be THRILLED.” Also, when one’s ex alludes to seeing one another at a mutual friend’s birthday party, one does not say, “See you there, I’m bringing my girlfriend HP along, she can’t wait to see if you have horns! Bye now!” Someday, someone will invent a device that snatches all the doofy things I say out of the air, before they reach the ears of the intended recipient. That will be the happiest day of my life…however, I will have to shut down this blog as I will be fresh out of jackassery to write about.

TMI Thursday: Trim One for the Zipper!

I've been having nightmares about man-bush Mohawks. I'm tripping over tattooed men, freakin' cats with freakin' laser beams on their heads, and Pepto-pink Tasers. My Gmail ad is: "Explorer: Pursuing Belize’s Feathered Treasure." This can only add up to one thing: years of therapy.

Oh, wait, it means that other thing: once again, I've loaned my blog to Zipcode, and, as ever and ever shall be, she's chosen to write about pubes.

Take it away, Zip!

Its TMI Thursday and Shannon asked me to guest post with an update on manscaping. If you recall last year I did a guest post on manscaping and skeeved out half of blogger world, (Shan's note: funniest comment thread, EVER) which was damn funny.

So, Zipcode broke her own damn rules. Ya know how I preferred my man trimmed or it all shaved off. Well - ya know Satan, well he wasn't the best manscaper in the world. The whole branch in the bushes theory came with him. He advised, after much bitching on my behalf, he would trim it down. Well, its a good thing he doesn't work for a landscaping company, because he does a really bad job of trimming down things.

Seriously, I know from personal experience its no fun to dive into the bushes to find the branch and his two friends. Trim it down. That was number complaint sexually with Satan -- he didn't trim his stuff down. Buy some scissors, a razor, whatever and trim your hedges dudes!

Sometimes, I Like to Pretend That I've Learned Something

Three years ago tomorrow, I crash-landed home after a disastrous sojourn in Sarajevo. I'd spent a year in the three smallest, bleakest rooms of my mind: “Woe Is Me,” “Man, This Sucks,” and “Why Doesn’t This Country Have Any Root Beer?”

My marriage was whirlwind, mad, and unworkable, but my biggest problem was me. I’d turned into little more than a seething ball of resentment with an eye for party decorations. Running away was the best of all my bad options. I packed my things, filed for divorce, and landed at Dulles Airport on April 4, 2006.

It’s safe to say I was slinking home in defeat. My scorecard read something like this:

Successful marriages: zero
Job: none
Prospects: zilch
Plans: nada
Home: a rent-free futon crashpad among sympathetic friends.

I am often asked what divorce feels like. Whether you were married six months or sixty years, it’s hell. It’s like being reincarnated, but you take only your ugly bits with you. It’s seeing every plan for your life evaporate, replaced by feelings of confusion and catastrophic failure. Plus, you exude this vaguely toxic, self-loathing substance that can poison even the most promising relationship. But that's OK, because you're scared and run hell for leather towards the relationships that hold the least promise. Oh, and if the divorce was your idea, you can tack on some overwhelming guilt for good measure.

Basically, it’s horrible and it sucks.

I tried to see the whole thing as something better. All that emptiness meant I could start over. I could put together the sort of life I could be proud of, that allowed me to be someone worthy of all the good things I'd been given. I had a second chance.

And what does a second chance feel like? Well, it's like jumping off a diving board into an empty swimming pool, and hoping there’s water by the time you hit bottom. But there’s never any water. In Douglas Coupland’s Girlfriend in a Coma, there’s a line that's both right-on and hilarious: “Most people, given a second chance, f*ck it up completely.”

And, boy howdy, did I screw up. A lot. There’s that Lost Weekend-esque Summer of 2006. And a whole slew of bad choices, from bad friends, iffy men, and McJobs, to more important things like hairstyle and wardrobe. I trusted everyone without regard for instincts or history. Somewhere around the fifth chance, though, things started to click.

I learned to surround myself with good people. Every day, I hear from at least one person who loves me. I learned that self-esteem is something you earn. It's not something handed to you by your parents, or by some guy with a hot car and a dozen roses. I learned that caring about the right people can patch even your biggest potholes, to give more than you get, and that the most important thing you can do in life is just show up.

Which takes us back to Dulles Airport on April 4, 2006. My dear friend of 14 years, the Foggy Dew, took the afternoon off to meet me at the airport. I was jet-lagged, shellshocked, and more than a little freaked. He dragged my suitcases out to the car, opened the door, and I hopped in. Foggy said there was a surprise in the backseat.

You bet your sweet asses it was a cooler of root beer. And, you bet your sweet asses that's when I knew I'd come home.

UPDATE: In a spooky coincidence, I wrote this on a friend's annivorcery. Ah, the Divorce Club. We meet every second Tuesday and have a secret handshake.

Happy April Fool's Day!

I'm not doing a prank post. Frankly, everything I've put out there is so, well, out there, that you'd probably believe anything I tell you.

Granted, I do love a good prank. I used to veeeerrrry gradually shift an old boss' carseats every time I moved his car, so he thought he was growing bigger or smaller, based on which side of the caterpillar's mushroom he'd eaten that morning. I also instituted a bathroom hall pass rule at an office, and, of course, there was the time I told my mom I was both gay and pregnant. (I had to wear clompy boots and eat a ton of pickles.)

Instead, I'll pass a hearty congratulations to my parents, Beth and Bill, who met at a party on this date many (many) years ago. I think meeting on April Fools' Day tells you anything you would ever need to know about my family. (If not, Factoid #2 is that my dad goes by Skeeter.)

In the comments, tell me something I could have said that would have been prankworthy. Also, tell me why people seem to have a preconception that I'm blonde.