You Didn't Build That. Your Stupid Meme-Builder Did.

Sometimes - okay, often enough that you wonder if it's some sort of elaborate bet - politicians say dumb things. And, because this is the Internet of the America, those dumb things haunt you like the time you mixed crushed-up Ritalin into a glass of red wine.
Which brings us to Obama, who your thrice-married sistercousin has probably informed you is out to destroy America and was only elected because he's black. (Saying that is apparently NOT racist. Huh?) But, yes, he does hate America and loathes business and wants to reduce our country to a Commietopia. Here's the smoking gun:

"If you were successful, somebody along the line gave you some help. There was a great teacher somewhere in your life. Somebody helped to create this unbelievable American system that we have that allowed you to thrive. Somebody invested in roads and bridges. If you’ve got a business -- you didn’t build that. Somebody else made that happen. The Internet didn’t get invented on its own. Government research created the Internet so that all the companies could make money off the Internet. The point is, is that when we succeed, we succeed because of our individual initiative, but also because we do things together."

These are all perfectly valid things to say. If you think your achievements come exclusively by bootstraps and brilliance, then you're living in a fairyland where you never went to public school, never used a road, and never got a lick of help from anyone. Now, I'll be fair and say "you didn't build that" was a gaffe. All he had to do was say "You didn't build that by yourself," and the political narrative would have stayed in the land of magical tax break dressage ponies, vacation spots and whether it's racist to compare the Obamas to monkeys. (Answer: yes. So very, very much.)

Saying "You didn't build that," scares the crap out of people. That's because it is human nature to externalize failure and internalize success - as in, if something goes well it's because you're awesome, and if it goes poorly it's because somebody (usually the President, an ex, or your parents) screwed you over. It's all very human and normal. After all, if it wasn't for the fables we tell ourselves, society would collapse into a puddle of fetish porn, trans fats and despair.

But there's a silver lining: conservative memes. They're right up there with rapping little old ladies and dads using hipster slang on the Awkwaaaard Scale. Unlike liberals, who amass abundant time to dream up their memes during barista shifts, conservatives have to just sort of throw things against the wall and hope they stick. Like spaghetti made of one-liners. Mostly it's just a rehash of the Most Interesting Man in the World, Willy Wonka...yeah, I'm snoring already.

Sometimes it's semi-amusing, like this one:

Sure, using Footprints is only slightly less embarrassing than trying to make a meme out of Desiderata, but it's an attempt and it's even slightly cute.

But sometimes, in their girlish enthusiasm to pick the least-flattering Obama photo, they kind of prove the other side's point. To wit:

First off, yes, that is a freaking awesome expression on his face. Like the little girl suddenly grew fangs, and only he can see it.

But, well, the little girl didn't build the tower. She was helped by the good people of Lego, who molded the plastic to make the bricks, by the teachers and parents who nurtured her motor skills, and so on. The only way she could have credited herself with "building" the tower is if she worked in a Lego factory. If that were the case, most of us would be up in arms about child labor, while the rest of us would hope this meant cheaper Legos. (I'm Team Cheap Legos.) So, conservatives, thanks for helping Obama prove his point.

To continue the nitpick, I bet Obama helps out the other side by making those ridiculous faces. That expression? You didn't build that, either. (Doesn't feel so good to be on the other side of a nitpick, does it?)

So let's figure out what we've learned, before the narrative takes us to the next gaffe or creepy uterine obsession. The American political process is like that married couple you know who just never stop bickering. Either side will bring up a tiny quote out of context for the express purpose of damning the other, and in the Age of the Internet any quote can become a meme. And our society has elevated ignorance to the point that whoever wins this election will most likely do so by creating a meme that brings together Mordor, cats, Willy Wonka and a political gaffe in a glorious crescendo of all that's wrong with America.

Also, when the best you can do is a Footprints parody, it's time to wonder if your party's half stuffy/half crazy image isn't at least partially earned.

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.

I'm Not Really Looking for Anything Serious Right Now...Except Maybe the Check

Most restaurants are good to me. They usually don't give me chlorine gas poisoning, for starters.

However, I have a weird jinx with waiters. I always get the over-familiar, kind of creepy ones who practically invite themselves to pull up a chair and join in on the fun.

A week or two back, I was dining with my friend J. at what could be generously deemed the Highly Honored Window Seat, but was more likely to be the Put These Two Weirdos in the Farthest Corner Table Before They Infect Us with the Crazy Section.

The waiter was a piece of work. I wonder if he hadn't been hugged enough as a child, or if his inner rainbow needed a tuneup. Or perhaps his restaurant's training program had included extensive rebirthing and isolation therapy, and he was desperate for human contact.

Hey, the food was great, and I was happy. I'll take a side of creepy with a good meal anytime. (How else would I have survived multiple decades of dating?)

Eventually, it was time for dessert. J had let slip that he had never had a McFlurry, so we made plans to head over to McDonald's after dinner. When our waiter asked us if we wanted dessert, we demurred because, 1. we wanted McFlurries, and 2. We were worried "dessert" might be a thinly veiled reference to the waiter engaging in a sex act with today's gelato.

At that point, J made a fatal error. He told the waiter we wanted McFlurries.

I think we would have gotten out faster if J had said, "No thanks on dessert, we have a Sarah Palin/Dick Cheney striptease to attend. I've emptied my life savings to properly tip them."

The waiter took our McFlurry craving rather personally. He mock-harangued, then real-harangued me over not ordering the restaurant's dessert. Then, he informed me that McDonald's is a chain and if I had the proper community spirit I would at the very least pay an astronomical amount for a trendy gourmet cupcake.

Nothing would dissuade him. We skulked out of the restaurant, ashamed of our pedestrian taste in sweets.

Afterwards, I wondered about the motivations for his behavior.

Theory 1: The waiter had read about pickup artists and was "negging" his way to an upsell.

Theory 2: The waiter was prescient, and was warning me of an upcoming Sugar Apocalypse.

Theory 3: The waiter was kind of an over-familiar douche.

I'm gonna go with Door Number Three.

In the comments, tell me about a waiter who just wanted to be friends.

I'm a Gun-Toting Rapist Slavemaster!

In between a flurry of highly observant, "It's Monday and it's raining!" Facebook status updates, I noticed a fellow Hylton alum had posted his views on health care reform. It was thought-out and interesting, so I added a comment basically saying I hadn't totally made up my mind, but would be willing to pay higher taxes so more people can have access health care. I also expressed a wish that both sides of the debate would engage in more civility.

My viewpoint, according to the next commenter, makes me handmaid to the political traditions of basically everyone who has ever been evil.

Actually, it's even better than that. I'm a gun-toting slavemaster rapist who, in the words of the great political mind of our time:

"You fail to realize that in order to help person B you must rape person A."

I don't know about y'all, but every time I send a donation to UNICEF, I like to make a stop along the way to rape the mailman.

There was also a lot of language about holding a gun to his head to enslave him and his family via his financial dealings with his doctor. Plus, I'm stealing from him so I can feel self-righteous about other people getting health care. Because taxes are theft. Or something. I don't get it, either.

See, I don't speak "Willfully ignorant screaming crazy teabagger man." But I suppose next time I'm out raping and enslaving, I'll have to bring my gun along for emphasis.

Or, maybe, just maybe...we could all chill the hell out? I'll take back my accusations of "willful ignorance" and teabaggery if we can all agree that there are many ways of seeing the world...and not everyone who disagrees with you is a gun-toting rapist slavemaster.

I would have been happy to listen to a conservative viewpoint on health care reform, if it was presented calmly and fairly, with a minimum of insults. But calmness and fairness are all too rare these days.

Demonizing the opposition does not add to a discussion. It only stirs in more vitriol and negativity, which in turn makes more moderate (and less frothingly angry) people less and less engaged in the political process. I'm a former pollster, and every election I worked on that involved attack ads saw depressed turnout. Folks get skeeved out by the nastiness and stay home, tipping the scales to the incumbent - which is one of the reasons over 90% of Congressional incumbents win reelection. New blood and fresh perspectives become more and more scarce.

Eventually (and this is what I believe the current political scene has come to), it's just a room of people seeing who can scream the loudest. Nobody's listening any more, nobody wants to give an inch, and nothing gets done. All we're left with is shouted threats, fingers waving in faces, and Obama-as-Hitler posters.

People, we can do better.

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.

Great. Now I'm Making Fun of Poor Kids Who Play Polo.

I don’t consider myself particularly charitable or saintly. I do, however, consider my smartassery to be a valuable public service. So color me thrilled when I hopped a few links to the left of the state dinner crashing Scandal of the Century, and wound up at a charity that teaches polo to at-risk youth. (Though nowadays we call them at-promise youth.)

I'm not doubting the value of equine therapy. I rode and cared for horses back in Woodbridge, spent several summers at Camp Wingaroo, and I believe there are few things more gratifying than hanging out with horses.

But, admit it. Take a deep breath, hug your inner smartass, and 'fess up: don't you get a tad giggly at the idea of rounding up a bunch of urban at-risk kids to teach them how to play polo? As in, the world's most hoity-toity rich person Biff-and-Muffy prenups-and-summering in the Hamptons sport? Like, maybe they pulled in some extra funding from the charity that teaches kids to drink tea with their pinkies sticking out? Or borrowed a business plan from the charity that teaches proper deportment at cotillion, or how to drink a G&T on a yacht? My brain is a total flood of hilarious mental images.

Though, perhaps my laughter signifies that I'm the sort of throwback reactionary who would have snorted at Carnegie's libraries. Or that I'm a raging class warrior who hates rich people. Or that I hate kids. Especially poor kids.

Nah. Most likely, I just think polo is kind of dooftastic.

In the comments, invent a charity that exposes at-promise children to the opportunity to try on their very own pair of fancypants.

My Five Rules of Gracious Living

I am not an etiquette maven. I almost always reach for the wrong fork, say the wrong thing, or invite friends to soirees with titles like, "Yes, I Just Evited You to Ask You to Help Me Move." (What's more fun than moving my 83 pairs of shoes two stories and 20 feet? Nothing. That's what. Plus I offer a competitive pizza-and-beer compensation program.)

But I do believe in five rules for gracious living:

1. Offer your seat on the Metro to the elderly, the pregnant, or, hey, even someone who looks tired or like they were on their feet all day. The average Starbucks barista makes $8.55 an hour to deal with caffeine-starved self-important morons all day - why not offer her your chair?

2. Bonus round: Offer your seat by merely saying, "Would you like to sit down?" Don't add a justification, like, "You look pregnant to me." Super-special bonus - this gets you out of being thumped when you tell a non-pregnant lady that she looks pregnant.

3. Never leave someone sitting alone in a corner at a party. Middle school is over, and so is ostracizing someone because they might be uncool. Go over and introduce yourself! Unless they're rifling through the sofa for spare change. Because that's just weird. But, overall, five minutes of potentially boring chitchat with a stranger won't kill you. And you might even make a new friend.

4. When you ask a coworker to do something, don't call out 'thank you' over your shoulder as you walk away. Thank them face-to-face. Don't treat gratitude as an afterthought.

5. When you have guests coming over, and they ask what they should bring, ask if they had something particular in mind. They might have a specialty they'd love to prepare for you. Doling out assignments converts your friends into unpaid caterers. Let them do what they enjoy, even if it means a dozen artichoke dips and four tater tot-and-bean casseroles.

In the comments, tell me what etiquette rules you've invented lately. Or tell me I've tumbled off the Cliffs of Nice into the Abyss of Insufferable.

More Musings on Dealbreakers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Bad Taste Will Get You Out of Everything

I had plans for Saturday morning. Not the usual plans, which involve sending home the sailors and squishing down my hangover with Dramamine and Gatorade. No, I was going to take Foggy out for brunch, and then prance around in the sunlight with my shiny new hair. (Yes, it’s kind of red now. Kind of an Angela Chase effect. Actually, it’s so red that one of my guy friends noticed. So it must be quite red. )

I wound up at Pentagon City with a little time to kill. I wandered into the Best Buy to view all the new technology that I would never want, know how to use, or comprehend the purpose of. It’s like a whole World of the Future Museum in there!

As I was leaving, I set off the alarm. The guard pulled me aside and asked to search my backpack.

“Do you have any electronics with you?”
“No, just a cellphone.”
“That wouldn’t do it. DVDs?”
“Actually, yes.”

I opened up my backpack and began to root around. Out tumbled:

Xanadu, the Pirate Movie, and...Dolemite. Gene Kelly on roller skates, The Pirates of Penzance as re-imagined by the year 1982, and a sleek action film featuring hooker ninjas and frequent appearances of the boom mike.

The guard looked at me, looked at the movies, and tried not to laugh. I cracked up, he busted out a grin, and I said, “I would hope at least I’d steal better movies.”

“Yes ma’am, now get that out of here! Those are some bad movies.”

So, if you ever want to take up shoplifting, use Olivia Newton-John as a cover.

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.

Top 'o the Tequila To You

I have always had a tenuous relationship with St. Patrick's Day.


1. Whenever I wear green, people assume I am a leprechaun and begin demanding my pot of gold.

2. My name is Irish, which does not actually make me Irish. This means I spend St. Patrick's Day wincing every time someone says, "Shannon, eh? A fine-sounding Irish name, that is!"

I've developed a few dodges. I used to give out a fake name on St. Patrick's Day. "Valerie" has served me very well over the years. (A bully in sixth grade told me I look like a Valerie, and proceeded to call me that until I eventually changed schools. Where I got pooped on.)

In my mid-twenties, I became the sort of person who couldn't handle crowds. By which I mean, I get bizarre (and often funny) panic attacks in which I speculate how to evacuate the survivors in the event of a fire or explosion. Incidentally, if that were ever my job, you would all die due to my utter inability to manage spatial relations or sound even remotely authoritative.

Once the claustrophobia kicked in, I needed a new strategy. Here's what I came up with:

If you don't like a holiday, dodge the crowds and invent your own! My special holiday is Cinco de Patrick, a fantastic two-part imaginary mashup Holiday Experience. It celebrates the life and times of St. Cinco de Patrick, who rid Ireland of snakes by pouring tequila on them, thereby ensuring Mexican independence.

More practically, it means I go for Mexican food on St. Patrick's Day, and to an Irish bar on Cinco de Mayo. While the rest of you suckers pay outrageous amounts for watered-down green beer, I'll be enjoying a margarita, on the rocks, extra salt, no puking frat boys or young women working out their daddy issues Girls Gone Wild-style. I may even don a shamrock sombrero and perform a Lord of the Mexican Hat Dance.

I'm sure I'll think of you fondly. I'm also sure I'll drop-kick the next person who asks me to recite the Lucky Charms slogan.

Have fun tonight, be safe, and if you can't be safe, be careful!

TMI Time: Let Your Geek Flag Fly

One of the most enduring maxims in life is that everybody is at least a little bit everything. Everyone’s a little bit gay, everyone’s a little bit racist, and we’re all a little bit messed up.

But few of us will admit to being even a little bit geeky. Years back, I took a job as a Community Liaison Officer at an embassy. I never developed a talent for accurately describing the State Department universe to outsiders. (I also never developed a talent for correctly spelling the word, “liaison.”)

I was explaining the new job to some friends, and one of the cooler ones busted out with, “You’re like the Deanna Troi of the Embassy!” Naturally, I called him out on his geekitude – how often does someone say something so...dorky? What was worse, though, was that I immediately caught the reference.

The first truth is this: I've spent a lot of time explaining new jobs to friends.

The second truth is that I’m a geek, and so is everyone else. In my case, it's not in any sort of technologically proficient or useful way. I am convinced that gnomes inhabit my laptop and that tiny musicians live inside my stereo.

No, I am a geek in ways that will never be profitable:

I own every episode ever of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD.
I love old-school Doctor Who. I even own an awesome Tom Baker-esque scarf.
Same goes for Red Dwarf, the animated version of The Lord of the Rings, and Mutant X.
I make a lot of jokes about Vogon poetry.
I was in the gifted program throughout school, and was actually sort of honored to be there.
I played Dungeons and Dragons until a frighteningly late age (14).
I didn't have my first kiss until age 15. This, and the previous two facts, may be somehow related.
I catch about 99% of the geek references that come my way (though I’ve never seen Firefly, so those usually have to be translated).

Finally: I have ovaries, which makes the above items about 100 times sadder.

Now that I’ve let my geek flag fly, it’s your turn. Tell me something hopelessly dweeby about yourself. I promise not to laugh (well, I'll be laughing in painful recognition).

Tell Me the Bright Side of Bethesda

Yesterday, I had to get up at first light and go to Bethesda for a training. This is even worse than it sounds.

I don't like Bethesda. I used to work up there, and I hated it for more than just the endless, rickety, barf-inducing Metro commute. A friend and I call it the Nexus of Evil, because the air is a little colder, no one ever smiles or holds the elevator, and the minivan mamas see pedestrians as little more than sentient speedbumps.

There are bright spots: if you're going to be stuck outside for a while, the Hyatt has outdoor heaters. There's a great cheap Chinese joint. There's also a Booeymonger and a Rock Bottom. And there was this great Red Line operator who would call it, "Betheeeeesda." But, once I stopped working up there, I never saw a reason to visit.

Which brings us back to yesterday: the Back to Bethesda Reunion Tour. I went, and nothing appears to have changed. None of the stores and restaurant had changed over. The same carpet joints still had the same, "Going Out of Business!" banners. (The least they could do is put a note underneath, "This Time, We Really Really Mean It!") The Bethesdians (Bethesdites?) wore the same downtrodden expressions they'd super-glued to their spirits two years ago.

It was all the same, and I hated all of it. But last night, as I teared up at the end of that inspirational tale of a delinquent-runaway-turned-teen bride, The Little Mermaid, I was hit with a ray of hope. Bethesda can't be all bad, after all, it's slightly warmer than Sarajevo. I don't like to write off an entire town (...except maybe Sarajevo). And, most importantly, I'll probably have to go up there for another training.

So, please, change my mind. In the comments, tell me something cool about Bethesda. If you can't think of anything, lie. Lie like a rug from a store that's been going out of business for two years. Just...help me.

Warning: Post May Contain Actual Human Emotions

If there is one thing on this Earth I have a sense of humor about, it’s my height. Or, rather, the lack thereof.

During my first attempt at Algebra II, I sat next to my very lanky friend Jim. He often wore green, so we called him the Jolly Green Giant. One day I wore green, and became Sprout. That nickname stuck for umpteen many years. Also, whenever I wear that color around my sister, she'll start shaking me and demanding my pot of gold.

On the whole, I’ve learned a valuable lesson: don’t wear green.

I’ve learned another valuable lesson: know your boundaries. And communicate them, with calmness and clarity.

I’m amused and pleased when Lemmonex offers to carry me home in her purse, or when my former coworkers would stuff me into small spaces around the office to see if I’d fit. Because I know when I’m being picked on, and when it’s just adorably warped affection. I don’t expect my friends to carry around a comprehensive list of what does and does not offend me. Of course, the list of what does offend me would be ridiculously short (racism, sexism, saying something mean about someone I care about).

But one thing that drives me nuts is this: implying my figure is somehow inferior or a symbol of what’s wrong with America. I’m short, I have a small frame, these are my factory settings and they cannot be altered. I wish people would stop referring to plus-size or curvy women as “real women.” It implies women like me are somehow imaginary. All bodies are different, and it’s possible to feel good about yourself without tearing others down.

And, women, stop asking me to apologize for how I’m built. I cannot tell you how many conversations I’ve had with groups of women where they comment on my smallness as if there’s no “me” attached to any of it, then demand my dress size, measurements, and bra size. And after that, they want an apology for the grossly unfair beauty standards of twisted America. I wind up feeling picked on, belittled, and objectified.

This isn’t a cry for pity. I’m aware of how ridiculous it sounds to be all “woe is me” about life as a size 2. I wouldn't complain that my pile of pirate treasure takes up too much space, or that I can't decide which Porsche to drive. I like my body, and I wouldn't trade it for anyone else's. And, honestly, I don’t care all that much about how I look. What I do care about is being judged for it, being taken less seriously because of my appearance, or being treated like that’s the sum total of who I am.

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).

Chicking Up the Hooters

Saturday evening, HP and I did a terrible thing: we chicked up the Hooters. We joined FoggyDew at this pre-verbal penile paradise for an early dinner. Why Hooters? Because a former Marine and two feminists hanging out there would make for a fantastic sitcom. Also, the Carolina-Notre Dame game was on. And, most importantly, why the hell not?


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?

Face Jam, Not Facebook!

Yesterday, I alluded to a troubling cultural shift: the ascendancy of social networking over Internet porn.

First off, what is wrong with you people? It’s porn, and it’s free! It’s free porn. How can Facebook even begin to compete with that? Sure, it’s fun to convert nouns into verbs (“to friend someone,” “to author a book” and so on). And it’s great to find out that the kid who pulled your pigtails collects Dungeons & Dragons figurines and is still living with his parents. But, people: PORN.

Second, I’m worried about how this is going to affect our society as a whole. Recent trends have taken us toward social isolationism. Examples include the ascendancy of longer workweeks, the breakdown of the nuclear family, and increased mobility.

Porn reinforced the lone wolf in all of us. With the popularity of social networking, people are beginning to interact again. No longer is it every man for himself, facing a landscape of implants, acrobatics and improbable social situations. Only in the world of porn is “You're not the usual cabana boy,” an effective pickup. (I know, I tried.) Instead, people are interacting. Messaging. Announcing their status. And connecting…with no nudity whatsoever.

This is deeply, deeply troubling. I hate people, and I do not want them to band together and conspire against me. So I say we start a movement: No More Scorn for Porn (NMSFP, which really rolls off the tongue). Together, we’ll go and download and much porn as we can possibly find. Who's in?

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be Googling "Grosse Point Spank."

PS – Disclaimer for Dad: I’m not really a porn freak. And I never knew about your Playboy stash. Also, that time in high school you busted me for sneaking out? I was totally taking candy and schoolbooks to disadvantaged syphilitic legless orphans. I was NOT making out with a 19-year-old in a vintage Mustang. Really.

Go Ahead and Hate Me, But...

I have many qualities that could be considered downright un-American. I mean, aside from only being half American and all. I don’t drive a big car. Big houses with big lawns strike me as a whole lot of pointless backbreaking work. I can’t remember the last time I watched a SuperBowl, ate apple pie or called my mom.

But the least American thing about me is this: I don’t care for dogs. I don’t get what’s so great about them. I hate itchy, hot fur, slobber, the clack-clack of paws on linoleum, and being jumped on. Barking is the most piercing sound known to man (except possibly the two neighbor kids who slurp and gasp their way through their boxes of milk every morning on the elevator with me).

I’m completely skeeved by the people who buy expensive toys, gourmet food, and outfits for their dogs. Doggy spas appall me. I wonder if these people might be better off just adopting a Romanian baby. And there is a special category of hell for those who convert their dogs to a vegetarian diet.

I suppose there are exceptions. Mellow dogs, I can handle. Well-disciplined dogs, great. Ones that don’t bark are even better. Stuffed ones are the best option of all. I guess it’s like kids: I like the kids I know, and am generally annoyed by the ones I don’t. So if I know you, I'm probably cool with your dog.

I just compared dogs to children, which is another peeve of mine: dogs aren't kids. No matter how much you love them, they're still pets. Last week, I overheard a pet owner say, "I should be able to bring my dog into a store, after all, people can bring their kids!" I wonder how big a trampoline their brain needed to make THAT leap of logic.

But it all comes back to one of my laws of life: If I had wanted to be jumped and slobbered on, I would have dated more in high school.

Wow, that felt really good. It was cleansing and lovely. Anyone else want to make a confession? In the comments, tell me something you can't stand that everyone around you seems to adore.

Rebuilding the Real America, One Tampon at a Time

We sprawled across our Screen on the Green camp of blankets, McDonald’s bags and Twizzlers, as well as the newspapers, bags, and shoes used as placeholders until more blankets arrived. At one point, we debated jamming tampon flags into the ground to claim our space.

I realized we had rebuilt Woodbridge, the epicenter of trashy Americana. All we needed was a spare tire, a camper top (used as a playhouse), and some poorly trained dogs, and we’d be my childhood neighbor’s front yard. Our little group even looked like a vignette from Cops. One of the girls was wearing a wife-beater, and we drank wine out of cheap plastic keg party cups.

Our neighbors were Fairfax. They had bags from Whole Paycheck, fancy blankets, wine in special plastic wine glasses placed in artfully designed wine glass holsters, and so-precious-you-could-die retro picnic baskets. They occasionally glanced in our direction, wondering why we had forgotten our fancy cheeses and custom tarpaulins. Much like our beloved Woodbridge, we were an oasis of redneck in a desert of yuppie hell.

OK, I admit it. Sometimes, I’m kind of a yuppie. And so are most of my friends. We like tapas, movies on E Street, and independent record stores.

But I don’t think I’ll ever stop being a girl from the WB. Give me burgers, breakfast all day, modular homes, outlet shopping, and cars with abnormally large tires. While you’re at it, throw in some guys in trucker caps and man-pris (how Kevin Federline can NOT be from the ‘Bridge is completely beyond me).

I like simplicity. I like foods I can pronounce, utensils that I can recognize, and junk food. If Slim Jims with mustard are wrong, then I don’t wanna be right. Because there's nothing more American than carcinogens with condiments. Bless you, America.

Blogroll Update
I can never make up my mind which depresses me more about the blogosphere: the number of people who believe they can write, or the number of people who believe they have something to say. Fortunately, my dear friend Kevin can write - he's a former journalist, even. So let’s check him out, and find out whether he has something to say (signs point to yes!).

Never Say No to a Woman in a Bustier

Last weekend, I had a college buddy come to visit. And the Buddy, well, he's trouble. He sobers up with Jager bombs, runs up prodigous bar tabs, and goes on blind dates with crazy foot fetish ladies. So I knew I was in for a time.


Saturday night rolls around, and we decide to round up a few friends, and a few of their friends, and hit the bars together. After a few hours, one of the guys offers the classic D.C. Hipster Invite:


"Hey, I know of this club near here, where we can go dance and won't pay a cover, because I know people."


See, I hate clubs. I hate cover charges, I hate lines, I hate noise, I hate crowds, and I prefer to do my drinking from the comfort and safety of a barstool. But, the Buddy's in town, and it's just around the corner, so why not? Let's boogie!


We get in, find seats at the bar, and settle in. I catch up with my old friend the bartender (he was working the night my sister got in a brawl at Asylum). Eventually, I begin to notice things around me. Like, everyone in the bar is a couple. It's like Noah's Ark in there. And the women are all wearing bustiers and fishnets and clearly took hours to put their faces on.

Hints are dropped, and my powers of observation finally kick in. I decide to play it cool.


"HOLY MOLY, KITTENS IN HEAVEN, CHECK IT OUT! I'M AT A SWINGERS' PARTY!"


And not, like, that Jon Favreau movie that annoying guys quote from all the time. I mean, keys-in-a-bowl, shag carpet and Ultraseude swingers. See, back in my day, when life was simpler and beer cost a nickel, the swingers hung out at Bar Nun. I had no idea they'd moved.


So we did what any sensible person would do: we stayed until closing. This meant that I was invited to the after party, by a lovely curly-haired woman wearing a bustier and little else.


"Why don't you join us for the after party?"

"Oh, no thanks. But you're very sweet to ask."

"You don't have to do anything you don't want."
"I guess I would sit there and watch?"
"Do you like to watch?"

Then she let me play with her ringlets for a bit. Not flirtatiously, mind you, but because when I drink I tend to play with people's hair. It's so bouncy and tactile!


We closed down the bar and went out to hail a cab. On the way home, the Buddy and I debated whether we should have gone to the after party. Nice girls from Woodbridge don't swing. But, man, just showing up would have been one hell of an experience. I missed out on a great story.


The Lesson: when a woman in a bustier invites you to a party of questionable morality, always say yes.


PS - No, I'm not in the business of judging what people do in their bedrooms. But I appreciate the absurdity of the experience. And, no, I'm not naming the club.