Sorry He Hijacked Your Party

Ever meet one of those people who just tries way too hard? A social Sisyphus, struggling mightily against the forces of his own uncoolness?

I recently had the pleasure of meeting The King of That Person. He was loud. Very, very loud. Not as funny as he is loud. In fact, not really funny. At all. But that didn't stop him from making "jokes" for hours on end, and interpreting the pained smiles of others as ample encouragement. If you were going to host a wedding in Hell, this man would be your DJ. This man is the Electric Slide and the Chicken Dance rolled into one epically unfunny package. He was, in a word, oneofthemostdreadfulpeopleIhaveevermetinmylife.

He hit on the host's date, in front of the host. He was punched in the arm for his efforts (by the girl...and while I don't condone violence, this was exactly the sort of person who deserves to be punched by a girl). He also nearly took a sock in the face from another guest. He badgered us incessantly about going to a bar, while the rest of us were quite cozy and quite happy to stay in for the night. Luckily, we were able to tune him out enough to keep the evening enjoyable and pleasant, but it made me wonder...how do you avoid becoming That Guy?

Think about it. If you're a little less than self-aware, and you believe that you're funny, there is almost nothing stopping you from holding your fellow man hostage to your lectures and roundabout, amplified, yet limp flavor of humor. We've all been that person who droned on a little too long, or mistook politeness for interest, or made friends sit through eleventy billion vacation slides. Or we've been that person who felt awkward in a group of new people, and overcompensated by cracking too many jokes. How do you tell when you've crossed the line?

Easily. When you are threatened with bodily harm by more than one person in the course of an evening, you should probably cool it.

In the comments, tell me about the last time you were witness to a party hijack situation.

Etiquette for Urban Couch-Crashers

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

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

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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

Of course, hosts have responsibilities here, too:

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


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


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


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

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

The Frogger Dilemma

Clearly, bus drivers in Washington are a special breed. They do things like punch out McGruff the Crime Dog* (though I have my own issues with McGruff). Then they are reinstated, with back pay for clocking a Crime Dog. Because anyone who punches a mascot is completely mentally stable and ought to be trusted with the safety of Washington's citizens.

And those are just the official drivers. In summer, the city gets flooded with all flavors of tour bus operators, most of whom have no experience with city driving and have never observed a pedestrian in its natural habitat. My daily walk home has gone from pleasant diversion to high-stakes Frogger.

The primary issue is that these tour bus troublemakers have never learned how to yield to a pedestrian. So I get stuck playing this game of chicken where I have the light, put one foot in the crosswalk, and stare down the driver until he stops the bus and lets me pass. Sometimes, instead of stopping, he'll nudge me out of the intersection. In a game of Tour Bus vs. Mighty Munchkin, there are no winners.

I'm fighting back, though. Every day, I carry a pen and a piece of paper. I also keep my cameraphone handy. I write down the bus company, vehicle number, intersection, time, and date, and call their employer as soon as I get home. I don't know how much it does, but it feels pretty good.

In the comments, tell me how you deal with homicidal tour bus drivers. Or just bitch about tourist season in general.

*Am I the only one who kind of wishes the police officer dressed as McGruff had been a woman? Because then the driver could have said, "The bitch set me up?" Just me? OK.

Announcing the Oath of Non-Douchebaggery

Now that I fancy myself a political blogger, I'd like to form the Civility Party. We will wear cool uniforms and have tea and crumpets on the veranda. Or beer and nachos. I haven't quite made up my mind.

Our political action squad will be known as Americans for Everybody Growing the Hell Up Already. Our first order of business will be to put Ronald Reagan's name on every airport and outhouse across America. Oh, wait, that's Americans for Tax Reform.

However, like our friends at ATR, I'd like to encourage our politicians to sign a pledge. Instead of an anti-tax pledge, let's call it the Oath of Non-Douchebaggery. Here are the tenets:

1. I solemnly swear to remember that God (or evolution, if that's your bag) gave us all two ears and one mouth for a reason. We are supposed to listen twice as much as we talk.

2. I will not disrupt the proceedings of our democratically elected government with inane outbursts, particularly anything along the lines of baby killing, lying or any party being in favor of anyone dying of neglect. This is because my mama taught me how to act. Moreover, if a member of my party engages in said disruption, justice will be swift, and will hopefully involve free doughnuts for everyone.

3. Should supporters of my cause disrupt said proceedings, and be escorted off the premises, I will not hoot and holler like an eighth-grader witnessing a cafeteria slapfight. This is because eighth grade was a very long time ago.

4. The buck stops with me. If any supporter of my cause engages in morally repugnant behavior, such as racial epithets, spitting or acts of terrorism against my fellow elected officials, I will react immediately with something a little less pansyish than referring to said repugnant actions as "isolated incidents."

5. I will not invoke the words socialism, communism, fascism, or any other -ism without a rudimentary understanding of what those terms actually mean. Also, I recognize that the word "Nazi" is not to be taken lightly, in fact, its use should be avoided. This is because I'm not a red-baiting McCarthyist douchebag. Though the term "red-baiting McCarthyist douchebag" is probably also best avoided.

6. I will assume that everyone is just doing their best and their disagreement with my principles is not malicious in intent. In fact, their ideals and views are probably just as heartfelt as my own.

7. I will recognize that the statement, "Yeah, but the other side acts like babies, too," is a total copout. Poor behavior, no matter its source, should be condemned.

8. I will recognize that there is at least the tiniest sliver of a chance that I could be wrong. Moreover, if I am demonstrably wrong, I will say so, instead of hiding behind spurious or flimsy arguments to the contrary.

9. I will recognize that I have been entrusted with a tremendous honor: to help govern a great nation. With that trust comes responsibility.

10. I will laugh at idiotic, senseless and misspelled protester signs, no matter their source. This is because stupid people are awesome, no matter their political views.

Does anyone have anything they would like to add? Or is everyone just hoping for free doughnuts?

Someday, Somebody's Gonna Fix this by Installing a Wet Bar at Gymboree

Apparently, the good folks of Park Slope, Brooklyn, have their skinny jeans in a bunch over whether it's ok to bring babies into bars.

Well, Brooklyn, I can answer that for you: No. It's not OK.

Really. It's that simple.

Despite my tendency to take a random and intense dislike to strangers' children (especially ones with whiny voices), I really do like and enjoy the kids I know. They're usually fun and adorable. Hey, I even like it when the neighbor kids play tackle football in the hallway. Their high spirits are endearing, and they quiet down whenever I ask them to.

But that doesn't mean I want to sip a Manhattan next to your squawking brat. Bars are places where adults go to be with other adults. And I can't imagine being a parent out on their first grownup date night in ages...only to be confronted with a boozy version of Babies R Us. The anti-kids in bars folks in Brooklyn complained about mega-strollers blocking the exits, and being shushed or told not to curse, all while the parent holds a weeping, overstimulated kid who probably just wants to go somewhere quiet. Oh, MAN. I have yet to see that in DC, but I would probably lose my mind if somebody told me to tone down my language to suit their crotchfruit's tender sensibilities.

I get that it's lonely being the parent of small children. Really, I do. It's a relentless series of demands and compromises. But that's a choice you made when you spawned. You don't undergo a change as major as parenthood without anticipating that your life is going to be very, very different from here on out. You're not going to have the exact same social life for a long time to come. Is it so hard to ask your friends to stop by on a Sunday afternoon, or meet for coffee instead of drinks? Just for a few years?

In the end, it's about courtesy. There are so many confined spaces that cram the child-free up against children when they're at their most most miserable: airplanes, transit, casual restaurants, Camelot (just kidding)...so what's so bad about a few adults-only refuges, like bars and R-rated movies?

Oh, heavens. Don't even get me STARTED about kids in R-rated movies.

In the comments, say, "You have a baby! In a bar!" Or tell me what movie that comes from.

PS _ If you're one of my friends, and you're reading this, I really do like your child. Kids I know are awesome - it's just the random ones who tick me off. And you can bring them over anytime. Just please, don't bring them to Recessions!

PPS - I predict this will be a big controversy in Columbia Heights in 5-10 years.

Sally Quinn: Let Them Eat Cake. At My House. Or Else.

Oh, Sally.

Does anyone else picture Sally Quinn in an elegant room, typing away as uniformed butlers slice her tethers to reality one by inevitable one?

Her latest batch of pap is not quite so great as the Great Editorial Page Freakout of 2001, where she advocated we all buy gas masks and carry them everywhere, stock beans and peanut butter in our cars (for the protein!), and eventually barricade ourselves into our homes with tarpaulins and duct tape. (Where, thanks to the duct tape and tarps, we'd promptly suffocate. Which, to be fair, is probably better than slow death by nuclear mutation.)

But it's a hoot nonetheless. First, she compares herself and her posh Georgetown friends to the kindly Na'Vi of Avatar...then, thankfully, completely drops the analogy on the grounds that it makes no sense whatsoever.

Then she bitches, at length, that the last six or so presidents haven't hobnobbed enough with her for her liking. In an acrobatic feat of logic, she takes this as a sign of the increasing irrelevance of the Presidency, and not of her own increasing irrelevance. Then she advocates that the Obama administration make it mandatory that their staffers come to her dinner parties from time to time. Which I am sure would be the best HR move ever, considering these folks already work 12 to 20 hours a day.

Unfortunately, there are a few apples spoiling the Semiannual Shredding of Sally Quinn. Some folks take this as an opportunity to accuse Quinn of sleeping her way to the top, having her job only because she's Mrs. Ben Bradlee, looking a little too much like the Crypt Keeper, or various other 'Sally the Unpretty Skank' broadsides.

I have two issues with this. One, is, of course, that it's appallingly sexist. Until no-talent men are accused of sharing their goodies for success, we need to just drop the notion of a journalistic casting couch. And her looks? Just. Not. Relevant. At all. Drop it. Now.

The second issue is that there are so many wonderful and fair-minded reasons to mock her, so why focus on the unsavory? She has nothing to say, and no interesting way to say it. She's odiously elitist. She lacks the self-awareness to realize that bitching about her fancy dinner parties in a city with 12.1 percent unemployment is on a "Let them eat cake" wavelength.

Worst of all, her writing is ponderous, dull, and lacks craft. It's like slogging through a ninth grader's book report. On a macro note, the fact that the Post retains her while exfoliating legions of copy editors heralds the death of substantive journalism.

So, folks, let's band together. Stop the sexist insanity. Let's hate Sally Quinn for all the right reasons.

In the comments, tell me why you've been turning down invitations from Sally Quinn.

Ask the Etiquette Vigilante

Since I'm now a semi-famous schoolmarm, I thought I'd turn that useful-but-unsexy reputation into a public service. I'm adding a semi-regular feature called, "Ask the Etiquette Vigilante."

Want to know how to cope when your married friends start bickering at the dinner table (I mean, aside from not ever getting married yourself?). Unsure how to politely turn down a second date with Mr. I Pick My Teeth at the Table? Wondering if you can bring your newish boyfriend to the Wedding Event of the Century, names listed on inner envelope be damned?

Look no further. Well, look over here: scannerjockey@gmail.com. Send your dilemmas and awkward moments, I'll post answers.

Disclaimers: All letters are mine mine mine, to publish, or not. I may not be able to publish every letter, because sometimes I like to gaze at shiny objects or run off to find Shermer, Illinois. All letters will be open to reader comments...though as real people with real feelings are involved, I will monitor comments to make sure everyone plays nice and shares toys. Names may be changed to protect the innocent...and the guilty. The People's Court may be shamelessly quoted. Readers may shamelessly read to the end of the disclaimer to see if I say anything embarassing, so, fine...when I was a kid, I thought Oil of Olay was Oil of Old Lady. Also, I accidentally put my underwear on inside out this morning. Happy now?