Have a Blessed Day. I'll Wait.

First of all, how did my blog surpass 200,000 hits without my noticing? At the very least, I should have thrown myself a parade.

Anywhosits, longtime readers know that I have a talent for encounters with the differently sane. But a few weeks back, I experienced a true winner. Naturally, it was on the Metro, Washington's repository for the mentally overheated.

I trundled onto my train and took a seat. Between stations, my seatmate turned to me and said, "Have a blessed day." Assuming this was a farewell, I said, "You too!" I returned my attention to the Washington Post's Weird Disease of the Week Section (er, Health and Science).

This is where it gets weird. Instead of getting up at the next stop, she remained in her seat and stared at me. For the next three stations.

After a few slugs of my purse bourbon, I was able to formulate some theories. Perhaps she was a guardian angel, and wanted to remain with me to ensure that I had a blessed day. Maybe she was an elaborate social experiment. Or, maybe, she was so intent on my stunning new shade of lipstick that she found herself distracted and she missed her stop.

Or, she was just a loon. What do you think?

Weekend in Maine, or, What Happens When You Mix Microbrews with Floor Tequila

Opening sentences I contemplated using for this blog post:

1. If I had a bucket list of items guaranteed to shoot me straight to Hades, I would have crossed off at least half of them last weekend.

2. Have you ever vomited hot coffee by the side of a road in New Gloucester, Maine?

3. Hallmark does not make an apology card stylish enough to express the regret, "I'm sorry I got sick in your tent."

4. Maine is the South of the North: everyone is terribly nice, they like their trucks and their dogs, and most of all, they love their beer.

5. Keep a close eye on your camera when your drunk tablemate is wearing a kilt. You may get a nasty surprise.

6. He went into that tent a NASCAR boy, he came out of that tent a NASCAR man.

7. When I feel a little low, when I feel a little ashamed, I just have to remind myself that I have never motorboated a pregnant woman. I'm also a little ashamed that I didn't think of that one myself.

8. I did, however, apparently get in a catfight over blankets while both I and my opponent were completely asleep.

9. When the tiny private plane hits turbulence over a graveyard, and there's a funeral going on, there's only one lesson you can learn: turn around! Unfortunately for the state of Maine, we kept on going.

10. I always thought of myself as an impressive drinker. Then I went to Maine.

Since any and all of those sentences give you the gist of the most awesome weekend I've had since the last time I went to a wedding where the groom and one of the guests went joyriding in a golfcart using a cellphone as a flashlight, and people played volleyball in formalwear, and one of the guests showered while drinking a beer, and this sentence is a glorious run-on as it is, I will instead close this post with a song:

Toddy, by Black Taxi. No song better encapuslates my weekend. NSFW due to the fact that most of the comprehensible lyrics are f-bombs, aside from a reference to scratching a truck, and because such unrelenting awesomeness cannot be confined to a cubicle.

The Pants Really Made the Outfit Hang Together

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cluck You Very Much: A Chicken Bus Travelogue

Everyone knows the routes from D.C. to New York. Planes are for the people who haven't figured out that flying is an overpriced time suck, Amtrak is for the people who are willing to pay the "Dahling, I don't do buses," surcharge, Bolt and Megabus are the province of the hipsters, and the Chinatown bus is for, well, the sort of humanity generally only experienced via film and television. Me? I like a good freakshow, and I love the Chinatown Chicken Bus.

Why do I call it the Chicken Bus? Because all that was missing from last weekend's ride was a live chicken, and perhaps a dice game in the aisle and an albino banjo player.

The ride began with various bus company employees gesticulating wildly, trampling one another in their haste, sorting us into a line, and hurling luggage into the bowels of the bus with resentful venom. The driver had a trendy mullet and a phone that blared snippets of dreadful pop music as we lurched our way through a hailstorm.

The women behind me yapped their way across the miles, question talkers both, with nary an oxygen break. One complained bitterly to the other about being pushed out of her family's business. Of course, the fact that she was the sort of person who would loudly air private family information on a crowded bus might have branded her as unprofessional, but I'm not one to offer free career advice. (If I was, I would have told the intern I shamelessly eavesdropped upon during a previous Chicken Bus journey that yes, interns do answer phones, and no, that did not mean their work was "unfulfilling.")

After the first few hours, I thought to myself, "Oh, well, at least it can't get worse." A moment later, both women popped in some globs of chewing gum so they could slurp and smack their way across New Jersey.

The best part was the journey home. The two Question Talkers were in our bus line! I turned to my travel companion and, between clenched teeth, stated that I would lose. my. MIND if those women sat anywhere near us. I said a little prayer to Getoff Mylawn, the Patron Saint of Curmudgeons. My prayers were answered and the yappers moved to the back of the bus.

The victory was fleeting, however, as my new neighbor turned out to be a woman who ranted in sub-Saharan French, while shoveling noxious-smelling kebab into her mouth with nary a break to chew.

In the comments, tell me if you've ever ridden a Chicken Bus.

This Just In: I'm a Pervy Unicorn

I don't know if y'all saw this, but if not, go read it. Now. It's too delicious to pass up. I'll wait. Tea Party Washington Post chat.

Hi, welcome back! It seems the 'liberal media' allowed this gentleman to speak for himself, which involved just enough rope for reputation suicide and maybe a DIY doorstop or two. This Judson Phillips gentleman came across as a raging loony with a somewhat adversarial relationship to the truth. However, he brings up some valuable points:

1. If you don't buy health insurance, our secretive Socialist dictator president will throw you in jail.

2. Moderates are losers, because they don't believe in anything. That makes them worse than liberals.

3. But if you're a liberal, boy howdy. You're a child molester and embarrassed by our country, and not one of the 'real Americans.' (I'd love to hear how a moderates, who are worse than liberals, are worse than child molesters, but that could just be me.)

4. Does my status as an Imaginary American exempt me from taxes? Because, if so, that would be awesome.

5. Bill Clinton was president in 2004.

If you add it up, as an East Coast liberal, I'm a perverted unpatriotic unicorn. I've been called many things over the years, but that's a new one. I'd like to salute Mr. Phillips for his creativity.

I believe in disagreeing without demonizing. In learning something new via intelligent discussion. I like my satire with a side of sugar. And, most of all, I believe in being fair-minded. To that end, I ask my readers to find me a left-wing Judson Phillips. Someone out there who is ridiculous, prone to stretching the truth until it can be turned into a thousand paper cranes, and, moreover, is prone to hurling misinformed insults when cornered. Bonus points if you can find me some juicy quotes I can rip apart with my bare hands, like a plate of shrill, ignorant fried chicken.

The 'winner' gets satirized in an upcoming post.

In the comments, find me a left-wing Judson Phillips. Or debate whether the entire Tea Party movement is an elaborate prank to make conservatives look as misinformed and ridiculous as possible.

Excuse Me, Would You Like to Make a Donation, or Are You a Complete Douchebag?

As a nonprofiteer, I can tell you that charity is a wonderful thing. I can also tell you that I am sick to death of being hit up for money everywhere I go.

Fresh, eerily zitless young fundraisers for Human Rights Campaign and Greenpeace have an ongoing turf war outside of my office. I simply cannot run out for a sandwich without some preternaturally cheerful kid asking if I have a moment for gay rights or the environment. The implication is that if I cannot spare a moment for their sales pitch, I am a horrid person who hates the Earth and all the gays upon it.

But, oh, it gets worse. I can't buy nacho cheese dip at the Safeway without being asked for a dollar for breast cancer. (I'm sure they mean the prevention/treatment of breast cancer, but I like to picture a tumor holding a tin cup.) So I guess I hate boobs, too.

Last night was the final straw: a very nice cashier at Borders hit me with the nickel bag tax (aka, the absentmindedness surcharge), and then asked if I wanted to buy a bag of coffee for the troops. I demurred, because, THE HELL? If Borders wants to support the troops, they should do so on their own dime. Don't make me out to be un-American because I want to buy a few puzzle books and get on with my life.

I told the cashier that I don't throw donations around willy-nilly, instead, I make a budget and a plan, research charities, and give wisely. His response was along the lines of, "So, you're broke. Hey, it's cool."

No, I'm not broke. I have enough money that I can afford to give some away. I just want to do so on my own terms, instead of being shaken down for loose change every time I make a purchase.

So that's the state of modern charity: You're either a selfish uncharitable douche; or you're too broke to support the troops, but you can still afford to buy vacuous fashion magazines. So, you're still a selfish uncharitable douche. Douched if you do, douched if you don't.

In the comments, tell me if you have a moment to leave a comment. If you don't, you hate me, my blog, and everything it stands for.

The Complex Arithmetic of My Paranoia

I've been living in the land of screwups. No, I don't mean Jersey Shore, I've never seen the show and I never will.*

What I mean is that various people are making various errors that are making my life very complicated. In the arithmetic of my narcissism and paranoia, it all adds up to one thing: they're all out to get me!

For example, I have, in the past, been somewhat...capricious in my romantic relationships. So I was not surprised when the travel agent seated my boyfriend and me together for our flight to Mexico, and then separately for the flight home. I can only assume the travel agent, and his network of spies, have decided that we will spend our entire vacation arguing, to the point that we fly home in stony, two-row-apart silence.

But oh, it gets worse. I ordered a batch of resort wear from J.Crew, because I must emit that inbred preppie glow that resort-goers find so attractive. White pants? Sure. Silvery passport cover? Sure. Size large bikini top?

Oh, hell no. I ordered the size small.

J.Crew does not make mistakes. No purveyor of cashmere tank tops could ever make a mistake. This was a deliberate message that my Nordstrom-verified 34As were insufficient, and I ought to consider surgical enhancement.

Now, a naive person would write these off as moments of human error. But I know better. J.Crew is in league with my travel agent, and they're sending me a specific message:

I can't keep a man because my chest is too small.

In the comments, tell me the last time someone made a mistake, and what their real message was. Or just remind me that I've got a lovely rack.

*You know those people who say they never watch TV, by which they mean they watch TV but are too snooty to admit the truth? I'm not one of those people. I don't watch TV, not out of snootiness, but because it would distract me from my usual schedule of watching Xanadu on a continuous loop while washing down generic Cheetos with gobs of Dr. Pepper.

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.

Etiquette Question: Can I Make the Temp Pay for My Lunch?

Hi Shannon!

Just today I encountered a sticky etiquette issue here at work, and decided to wing it your way. I'd love for you to post on your site, but I'm sure you're being bombarded with real-life etiquette situations such as today's post... poor Billie!

So imagine it's lunchtime at the office, and I've got four powersuits sitting around deciding what they want for lunch. They decide, and then call me over to cater their lunches - they give me money, I run out to so-and-so's restaurant for a salad, and then I return with food and change (with nary a tip for the food delivery service!).

My question is: sometimes the guys will be flitting between meetings and will just call over their shoulder "Hey, could you grabme lunch at so-and-so's?" I say sure... but they are already headed into their office or another meeting, leaving me with a lunch order and no money.

What is the office etiquette on this? Do I just barge into the meeting and demand payment? I have already shouldered about 4 meals for individual partners - and on my scant salary it does add up - and I am the first receptionist to do this lunch-time delivery service, none of the temps before me have lasted long enough to have the privilege of retrieving their lunches. Help me, etiquette master!

Sincerely, Broke in Boston

Dear Living on Beans in Beantown,

I hope to one day achieve the sort of stardom that gets me a personal lunch delivery service. I mean, really, wow. Who stiffs a temp? I've been in your shoes on many occasions, and I totally feel your pain here.

Here's something you may not have considered: these might be company-expensed meals, and that's why the partners haven't always given you cash upfront. It's also possible that they're just absent-minded and need to be told that food doesn't grow on trees. (Well, some of it does, but I've personally never seen a chicken salad bush.) Most likely, they're just self-involved dinks, but approaching them from a sympathetic perspective makes it easier to remain courteous.

From there, you have two paths, depending on whether your strongest relationship is with your agency, or with your jobsite. It's like a Choose Your Own Etiquette Adventure!

Adventure One is if you've been at this job site for a long time (6 months or more) and are considered 'one of the gang' among your colleagues (basically, if you're a temp in name only):

Speak to a more senior member of the administrative staff, such as the office manager, or, if there isn't one, the accountant. "Suzy, as you may know, I occasionally pick up lunch for Partners X, Y, and Z. Sometimes they give me cash upfront, other times they're unable to do so because they're about to head into a meeting. I was wondering if these meals should be expensed to the company, and, if so, is there a petty cash fund or company card that I could use? I have wound up laying out personal money on occasions x, y and z, and I don't want that to happen again."

This alerts the operations folks that you have been laying out personal money, and puts the weight on them to sort out the problem.

If the partners are indeed supposed to be paying for lunch out of their own pockets, things get stickier. Unfortunately, barging into a meeting to demand your $2 is poor business etiquette. Instead, when you drop off the lunch, hand over the receipt and say, "Hi Bob! Here's your chef salad, the bill came out to $7.50." Then stand there with an expectant smile until he forks over the cash. Or, hey, be proactive: ask for lunch orders in the morning, and ask for payment or credit card numbers on the spot.

Adventure Two is if you haven't been there very long, and, honestly, it's the much safer route:

You can take this up with your handler at the temp agency. Check your temp agency contract. Many agencies require that you work through them to resolve workplace issues. They can intervene on your behalf with the employer, or, failing that, look to find you a new assignment.

And, lastly, a PSA: No temp should ever be laying out any personal money for anything. It is very inappropriate to place that sort of expectation upon a temp. A temp's position at the company is very tenuous, and placing unreasonable expectations upon them takes advantage of that fact. They're also dead-ass broke...a temp receptionist in D.C. makes about $11 an hour. I don't know what Boston is getting paid, but I doubt it's a lifetime supply of Kruggerands and cocaine. Stiffing a temp is like taking your baby brother out for a Sno-Cone...and then making him pay for the both of you. Funny, in a perverse sort of way, but totally not cool.

PS - If you're on the clock, and billing them for the time that you spend picking up lunch, no 'tip' to you is necessary. However, it would be polite for them to tell you to go ahead and pick up something for yourself while you're over there. But I wouldn't hold your breath waiting for that to happen.

Special thanks to my favorite handler, Brett, for tactical support. Got a dilemma? Send it to scannerjockey@gmail.com!

In the comments, tell me what you want for lunch.

My New Neighbors

I have a knack for memorable neighbors. Like Roy, the 72-year-old bike messenger. Or the people who kept a Post-It note message to the UPS guy on their door for months on end, the woman who rotated her wreaths with every solstice, or Extra from The Day After Man, who shuffles around the basement and leers at people.

So imagine my excitement when I pick up the keys to my new place and realize that I will be next door to an amazing hybrid between the People of Walmart and an obsessive cat lady crazy hoarder person. Wide-open front door? Check. Smelly food? Check. Debris to the ceiling? Check. Contents of balcony? Two bicycles, one dilapidated cooler, a derelict hibachi, damp cardboard boxes, various unidentifiable pieces of metal and various unidentifiable pieces of something that was quite possibly once alive.

Of course, all of these things are flagrant lease violations. However, as I tend to do things like throw all-night karaoke fests and sell black market babies out of my home, I can't really judge. Also, remember, I'm from Woodbridge. Throw in a camper top used as a kids' playhouse, and I'll be right back on Bacon Race Road where I belong.

What I can do is offer a money-back guarantee, swear on a stack of Bibles, and promise from the bottom of my heart that my new neighbors will provide a LOT of blog material.

I can't wait.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

I'm moving this weekend. Even though I'm just transferring into a bigger apartment in the same building, I've been talking up the event like it's my biggest life change, ever. Ever ever ever!

So far I have: attempted to develop a mutant with handtrucks for arms, Evited a request to help me move, and asked friends and coworkers to grab a pencil and floor plan printout and take a stab at arranging my furniture. Somewhere in all this carefully arranged hysteria, Brando suggested I plant 'herbs and spices' on my balcony.

Except he typed it as, 'herps and spices.'

Well. I was instantly taken with the idea of my very own urban garden of venereal disease. I picture herpes as a vivid green moss. Chlamydia would probably be a delicate white flower, like baby's breath. Syphilis would be low-maintenance and popular among basement dwellers, like a spider plant. Gonorrhea would be a little more robust and colorful, perhaps like a cyclamen plant.

HPV? Not a plant, but the High Performance Vehicle I borrow from Zipcar to pick up my social diseases from the Home Depot.

When you think about it, most STDs have pleasant-sounding names. It's a rare word that sounds like what it is. 'Flabbergasted,' for instance. That sounds exactly like what it looks like: seeing every ounce of flab on your body, quivering and aghast at what you have just witnessed.

In the comments, tell me what various STD words sound like to you. Or just tell me your favorite word.

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.

Among the Things I Regret...

I wish I hadn't given two of my neighbors an eyeful of underpants on Sunday morning. And, how I wish I hadn't said, "Hi!" to them in my best Sunday voice, and given them a friendly wave and a big-ass smile as I fumbled about in my t-shirt, struggling to cover up my hindquarters.

And I truly, to the bottom of my squishy marshmallow heart, wish these neighbors hadn't both been under the age of five.

But really, people...like any of YOU put on pants to go get the newspaper.

In the comments, tell me about the time you flashed a preschooler. Or am I the only person who does this?

A Guest Post by My Cell Phone

I just got back from a few days in Atlanta, catching up with college buddy The Professor, consuming gallons of sweet tea and a bucket of beer. Hrm, possibly more than one bucket.

But I don't need to tell you about my weekend. That's because my phone has decided to do it for me:

Dear People Who Observe the Daily Freakshow That Is Shannon,

Hi, everyone! It's me, that frequent character here known as Shannon's Cellphone. I live a pretty rough life - she's forever jamming her thumbs into my tummy, dropping me off of barstools, and keeping me up til all hours. I've tried rebelling. I've shut down the mp3 player, turned off the cameraphone (because all she was using it for was photographing whatever haircolor monstrosity she was trying that week). And I've made sure the number 6 is a little wonky. Let's see how she does without the letters m, n, and o.

The next step is taking over her blog. Maybe, this way, I can humiliate her into submission. Here's a log of her classiest outbound text messages from her weekend in Atlanta. (Note: none of these have been edited in any way.)

Wednesday night:

Why do people at dca eat such gnarly smelling sandwiches?

Also, am being hit on bx persistent skeevy guy.

You may have to fake being my angry bf bubba.

Actually it was an old lady playing freecell on her laptop. Helped her find the mute button.

Thursday:

[Professor] has monogrammed towels. I find that sort of endearing.

at a baseball game. Is raining like the urine of the damned after a sixer of bud. but am having the most wonderful time!

Thanks. My hungover ass will check in once tomorrow. Then coke n whores.

Friday:

I apparently befriended a woman w a head wound. Atlanta is awesome.

If i can remember. I'm just thrilled i have pants.

rikki tikki tavi is my homeboy [note: this went to Shannon's dad.]

It is entirely possible I partied with a mongoose.

Saturday:

Who invented autoerotic asphyxiation? Like, if I had a noose and no pants, i still wouldn't think that up.

well, i thought if i bought her a drink she'd get stitches

About to drink. More pearls of wisdom to follow.

Am at a pool party in atl. everyone is playing beer pong and has perfect hair. It's just like the real world house

I think the chick is a tranny stripper

just gave someone a ride on a handtruck. [Shannon's note: Really? I did? Awesome.]

And saw a girl on girl beatdown. Best weekend ever.

If I'm a jumbled pile of beer and jackassery, you'll know why.

What an amoeba weenie. Well, you'll always have me. Drunkass sweet sweet me.

Oh snookums. Watched a girl on girl beatdown. [Professor] says girl 2 had a brazilian.

And i still can't figure she was post op or a really good tucker. Either way? Tranny.

Sunday:

Through security in no time flat. Did see a woman almost put her baby in the xray.

If i lived here i'd be a total degenerate.

Flight delay. What, did delta catch my hangover?

Well, folks, there you have it. Shannon's an idiot, her friends are depraved, and Atlanta is just strange enough to turn her into a drooling degenerate within 72 hours.

Love,

Shannon's Phone, aka, Her Favorite Enabler

In the comments, just don't ask me if I've seen Texts from Last Night...isn't it enough that I lived Texts from Last Night?

I Might Be an Amnesiac Stripper

When I visit people's homes, I tend to leave little pieces of myself behind. And not just pieces of my heart, or the final shards of my dignity.

No, I have possession leprosy. I have shed something I own at virtually every gathering I've ever attended. Umbrellas. Xanadu. Jewelry. Tupperware. Or, most often, articles of clothing, like shawls, sweaters, or socks. I spend my weekend afternoons revisiting the scenes of my various crimes, recovering my scattered belongings.

I'm starting to wonder what this really means. See, I'm obsessively organized, and I tend to freak out a little when I can't find something. I'm not at all forgetful by nature. And I don't think I'm attempting to move in with any of my friends so incrementally that they don't notice until I haul in the sofa.

Maybe there's something I'm not telling myself, and I think I know what it is:

I'm moonlighting as an amnesiac exotic dancer.

That must be why I get invited to so many parties! I take a shot or two of some kind of CIA memory-erasing medicine, shake my money maker, earn just enough for my cab fare home, and roll out of there. Or maybe one of my friends is secretly my stripper-pimp, and is skimming a little too much off the top. Because, at the very least, I ought to find the occasional stray dollar bill in my underpants. (That is, if I remembered to take my underpants home with me.)

In the comments, admit it. You're my stripper-pimp.

A Date with Me, as Imagined by my OkCupid! Personality Awards

This week is all about preparation. Imagine a training montage set to soaring synthesizer music, in which I practice Slow Wallet Reaches, firm handshakes, changing names in my phone to Handsy McInsincere and I'm the Tooliest Tool Who Ever Tooled, and climbing out of ladies' room windows.

I even briefly considered dusting off the old online dating profile. OKCupid! has you answer a bunch of personality questions, then they place little icons on the bottom of your profile. These are called Personality Awards. My awards, however, are so incredibly and hilariously man-repellent that I may as well change my screen name to DaddyDoesn'tLoveMe or TickTockBiologicalClock.

Here they are:

More literary
More optimistic
More spiritual

More compassionate

More extroverted

Less dorky

Less ambitious

More well-mannered

Less kinky

Less interested in sex

More emotional

I'm trying to see the humor in this. OK, the humor is hitting me square across the jaw. If all those things were true, and taken literally, could you imagine what it would be like to go on a date with me?

First, we'd go to a book signing, most likely for a self-help book with a title like, Hugging Your Rainbow: How to Love Yourself When You're Not Really Worth It. On the way, I'd probably adopt a puppy and introduce myself to every homeless dude on the block. Afterwards, we'd go to a cool, trendy little coffee shop. But you'll have to pay, as my job as a greeter at the Wal-Mart doesn't pay very much. I'll drink tea with my pinky stuck out, and perhaps correct your posture.

Afterwards, I probably totally wouldn't put out. But, if I did, it would be missionary, lights out, and I'd definitely keep my shirt on. Then you'd have to hold me while I cry for a period of 45 to 60 minutes.

So maybe I'll stay away from the Internet for now. Especially since, shortly after I logged on, I received a message from a polyamorous dude in Waldorf. What makes it even more awesome? He was my SECOND polyamorous admirer from Waldorf.

What the hell is in the water out there?

The Secret of My Social Success

I like to take my social compass, spin it ‘round once or twice, shuffle a few things, and invite an ever-changing cast of friends and randoms over for what they believe is a small, friendly, casual cocktail party.

It’s not. It’s actually an experiment of sorts, in which I serve them a potent (possibly lethal) substance known as Shangria. Then I watch the ensuing jackassery, take careful notes, and store the memories for later. (If I have any memories at all, that is.)

The original recipe came from allrecipes.com, back when it was a mere Classic Sangria. I’ve spent the last five years refining the recipe, building it into something light, tasty, refreshing, and destructive to your immortal soul. At some point, my friends dubbed it Shangria.

You start with rum. Lots of it. And sugar, and some sliced-up citrus fruit. Put all of that in a Tupperware, and chill it in the fridge for at least two hours. When time is up, pick out the citrus, and pour the rum and sugar into a punch bowl. Pour in some orange juice, and, once you’ve taken a deep breath…chilled Burgundy jug wine. Top it all with cut-up apples and pears.

I’m not kidding about that jug. If there’s a cork involved, you’re way too classy to party with me. Go sip tea with your pinky stuck out or something. The jug should weigh significantly more than your head, cost no more than $15, and should have a “Refrigerate After Opening” label. If it has an expiration date, even better.

Shangria has many achievements on its record. That astonished, rueful moment when guests realize they’re consuming rum-fortified jug wine (fortunately, by then they’re too plowed to care). A duet karaoke performance of “Tiny Dancer,” performed as “Hold me closer, Tony Dannnzzzzaaaaa.” A pervy voyeuristic hot pink shower cupcake. A stray can of Yuengling, found inside a low-top Chuck Taylor. A “Screw It, Nobody’s Walking Right, Anyhow,” impromptu slumber party. A ninja houseguest who vanished before anyone else woke up. World peace. Endless jackassery. And that was all in the same evening.

I think it's my Australian half that compels me to make this. I was born on a continent full of adorable tiny animals of outsize lethality. That has extended to both a pretty fair description of myself, and to my taste in party punches.

Because I’m generous, here’s how you can make your very own batch of Shangria. This should fill one large punch bowl. However, if your friends are anything like mine, you may want to go ahead and double the recipe.

Shangria:

Start with:

One each, sliced: lime, lemon, orange
3 cups rum (I like Bacardi, however, anything in a plastic bottle will also work well)
1 cup sugar

Chill for at least two hours. Then, pick out the citrus and pour the rum and sugar into a large punch bowl. Add:

2 cups orange juice (any more than that, and you’re a coward)
One each, chopped: green apple, red apple, pear
Top it off with as much of that glorious jug wine as will fit. Stir.

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!

For Once, It Was Hard to Write About Myself

Recently, I had to submit my bio for work. Considering I’ve spent the last six years expending copious amounts of bandwith on myself and my varying levels of awesome, this proved surprisingly challenging. I had no idea what to say.

So, today, I submit the (sadly, completely true) bio I wish I had written:

Shannon Stamey is our Administrative Ninja. Her duties include barking at vendors (when she isn’t requesting free ponies), making inappropriate editorial comments during staff meetings, and running every aspect of the known Universe.

She is on her third, or perhaps fourth, career. She started out as a secretary at a fancy hotel. Then she was a political consultant for a few years there, where she slept under her desk many nights and lived up to her Cherokee heritage by occasionally trading her cubicle for some shiny beads.

There was a wilderness year or two, when she inadvertently killed some minke whales. Consumed with guilt, she upped and married a near-stranger and moved to Bogota. There, Ms. Stamey specialized in newsletter editing, overly detailed festive party decorations, shopping, and daytime drinking.

She continued her illustrious career in Sarajevo, where she served as a Community Liaison Officer. Her most brilliant achievement was the Shot for a Shot Happy Hour, in which she encouraged her colleagues to receive flu shots by promising Jell-O shooters in return. Her other tasks included the invention of Sarajevo Rules Karaoke Revolution, ordering a divorce over the Internet, and achieving a level of depression spiral that she is still finds quite amazing. After all, why shower or sleep when there are 12-hour crying jags to be had?

After she crash-landed home, she took a part-time temp job as a file clerk at a government agency. She ran documents through a scanner, fooled the IG into believing all the required informational binders had actual contents, and occasionally left staples in the documents for the awesome screechy sound they would make. This job, and her continued apathy with regards to showering, inspired her to rename her blog, “Disaffected Scanner Jockey.”

Ms. Stamey has temped her way across the administrative offices of virtually every nonprofit in Washington. Her favorite assignment was two weeks of formatting boobs in a breastfeeding manual. For a period of several months, she could not look down while showering without picturing ducts, machinery, and properly positioned infants.

Ms. Stamey has a (still in the box, minty fresh) degree in Journalism from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Her Spanish language skills are rapidly deteriorating, but she has retained the entirety of her six-word Bosnian vocabulary.

Ms. Stamey is intermittently single and, to the relief of many, has no children. Her hobbies include falling off of things, orchestrating the social lives of her friends, and hugging pretty much anybody who will let her hug them. She showers daily.

In Which I Outwit the Mentally Ill

It's 8:25 in the morning. I'm crossing Farragut Square, heels clacking, hair flying, and on time for work (which, to me, means late). A gentleman with no hair, craggy face, gray overcoat, and a ladies' sparkly totebag falls into step with me. He mutters:

"You walk like a pigeon."

"...Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You walk like a pigeon."

"Yes, sir, and you dress like a child molester."

He's taken aback, blinks twice, and I take the opportunity to slip in among the other commuters and dart across Connecticut Avenue.

Someday, I'll stop having battles of wits with unarmed men. Also, I wish I'd come up with something better. Anybody else want to give it a whirl?