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.

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.

D.S.I.: Drunk Scene Investigation

As a frequent (and fabulous) dinner party hostess, I have a bevy of morning-after-the-party rituals.

First and foremost is making coffee for whichever drunkies made the 4 a.m. decision that an air mattress is the better part of valor. Then, I use context clues to determine the exact level of group inebriation from the night before. There are many ways I can assess this. Here are the examples from my last gathering:

1. Stereo volume. Sunday mornings, I like to toss in a little Sam Cooke or Marvin Gaye. If either one blares out at teeth-shattering Gwar-esque volume, that's about 20 points of drunkity. (If Neil Diamond was waiting for me in the CD player, that's an extra 10 points.)

2. A rain jacket stuffed between the cushions? That's an indication that I used it to cover up a particularly spill-prone guest. Minus 10 points, as I was clearly sober enough to encase a friend in plastic. However, plus 5 points, as I clearly thought that was a classy and tasteful thing to do.

3. Empty beer cans floating in the ice bucket? Either I thought they were full (sad and delusional), or I was having ice bucket races. Nevermind, it's worth 5 points of drunkity.

4. Location of furniture. Far too often, I find the patio furniture inside, and the indoor furniture out on the balcony. So either I am redecorating in my drunken stupor, or my friends are trying to be cute. I'll give it 10 points.

5. Kitchen conditions. If the recycling bin and the trash can appear to have had a bastard child, namely, a pile of cans and napkins piled neatly on the stove, that's worth 10 points.

6. Scariest of all? The fridge. Ever and always. I almost always find something spectacular in there. This time around, I found a Cool Whip flag cake, uncovered, on the second shelf. On top of the cake was a crystal bowl, which had once upon a time held fruit salad but was now empty. The fruit salad could be found in a Ziploc bag, elsewhere. So, somehow, I was able to move the fruit salad into a bag, but decided an empty bowl belonged in the fridge, not the sink...and, moreover, decided it belonged square on top of the cake. That's a good hundred points right here:

D.S.I. Report: High levels of drunkity, marginally more drunk than the time I found a cupcake in the shower, and considerably less drunk than the time I climbed a tree in a dominatrix outfit.

My Apologies...

...if you were one of the (apparently multiple) people who received a text message from me last night which in any way made reference to:

1. Forklift boobs.
2. The weather conditions having any sort of relation to "The urine of the damned after a sixer of Bud."

On that (disturbing) note, I'm on vacation, and therefore not in my proper frame of mind...see y'all next week!

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.

Easter Is Creepy

Easter is a bit like Mulholland Drive, speed dating, and leggings. Not that Naomi Watts would ever speed-date in leggings, it's just that...I don't get it. I get the religious aspects (yay, Jesus!), I just don't understand...

1. The Easter Bunny. I would never take candy from a strange lagomorph. There was a man in one of those giant bunny costumes at my Metro stop the other morning. It was really skeevy, especially with those cold, dead, plastic eyes. I hated the false good cheer of his pastel bow-tie.

Conclusion: I could never be a furry. Also, the Easter Bunny is creepy with a capital FREAK.

2. Those plastic eggs. They make me think of tiny little alien pods, about to unleash a master race of thumb-sized conquering Liberaces.

Conclusion: Just give me the candy.

3. Dyeing Easter eggs. This was one of those things we never did at my house, as my mom attributed it to American inefficiency. Why go to the effort of tarting up something you plan on eating, anyway?

Conclusion: I was in my mid-20s before I stopped eating the garnishes at upscale restaurants.

4. Easter Ham. If it came from a pig, I don't need a special occasion to eat it.

Conclusion: I shouldn't have had mac and cheese with a side of fries last night. I should have had a side of ham.

Oh, there are things I like about Easter. Buying myself a new frock, but never quite making it to church. Church lady hats. Cadbury Creme Eggs. Jesus. Candy, and lots of it. Watching my then-boyfriend's nieces collide in a frantic Easter Egg hunt. And, of course, candy.

In the comments, try to soothe my squeamishness.

TMI Thursday: That Time I Fell Off a Barstool

I have a boundless talent for drunken self-injury.

Just a few weeks ago, I banged up my right arm while attempting to open my door. The weird part wasn't that I decided to cushion the blow...with my skull. It also wasn't the fact my left hand came out unscathed, because that was the hand holding my keys. It's also not that this injury came about because I decided the door did not, in fact, exist. No, the part I simply do not understand is...I'm right-handed. Why the hell was I trying to unlock the door with my left hand?

Anyhow, my most famous drunken fall occurred back in Bogota. I'd been glugging martinis at Pravda, the Russian bar, with a friend, a work contact, and my spouse at the time. We lucky four decided solid food was the better part of valor, and to go get dinner at the Italian joint next door.

We were going to have to wait for a table, so we arranged ourselves along the bar, requested a bottle of wine, emptied it, asked for another. At one point, I decided, etiquette be damned, to pour myself a fresh glass. I leaned over. At that exact moment, a waiter bumped my chair.

I fell. By which I mean, I somehow positioned myself so artfully that not only did it take me full minutes to hit Earth, my head collided with a marble floor. It hurt. And by "hurt," I mean the double vision spiraled into triple vision, angry gnomes did a spike-heeled tapdance in every corner of my mind, and...OK, just this once I'll admit that I'm out of metaphors. That's how much it hurt.

The sad part isn't the hangover I had the next day, though I will contend there are few experiences more singular than a high-altitude red wine hangover combined with an al dente bump on the noodle. The sad part wasn't that I stayed for dinner regardless, as you're supposed to stay awake after you bonk yourself on the head. (I had the veal.)

No, the sad part was the email I got from one of the previous evening's companions, mentioning that he had just gakked into a flowerbed at the Mormon Temple. After all my efforts, somebody out-jackassed me.

Why My Ass Can't Type

Friday was about as classy as you’d expect.

That is, I made a complete and total donkey out of myself.

Yes, I held up my offer letter in the bar and boogied in my seat. I sang, "We Are the Champions." I chucked half a glass of Malbec onto my lap, and wasn’t too worried, because, after all, red is my favorite color. I woke up with my makeup still on, and my eyeliner had migrated to my earlobes.

So, basically, I did all sorts of other immature and ridiculous things, which I hardly remember and someone better not tattle on me for.

But, sadly, the most embarrassing thing I did happened after I was already home.

I tried to do the responsible thing, as in, text Jamie to say that I’d gotten home safely. However, “Home safe. Good night!” came out as:

“Aw. Thx will b rey to crask ourpxeo.”

At this point, Jamie probably thought I’d been sold out by my cabbie and kidnapped by a gang of hand-stealing bandits, and I was tapping out a distress signal with my elbows.

Naturally, he texted back to see if I was OK. Of course I was completely and totally fine, and safe and snug in my bed (nevermind that I was, uh, still in my clothes...though, unlike a certain someone, I at least removed my coat). Which is why I responded with,

“Omg, coppl!c.tnn’”

So, at this point, the gang of bandits had sawed off my elbows, and I was sending distress signals with my nose. Or, I’d sat on the keyboard and allowed my hindquarters to type for me. Who knows?

Either way, I had to call and slurrily and sleepily report that I was, in fact, home, and had arrived in one piece. I wasn’t, however, safe from a hangover so remarkable in its scope and intensity that I was in awe of it myself.

Happy Monday, everybody.

I Worry About the Kids. Because I Care! And Because I Hate iPods.

I worry about America’s children. Not because I think they’re headed for moral decay, morbid obesity, or toward developing allergies to every known food group. I worry because I don’t think they know how to be bored. Follow along, please:

Last night, I went out for tasty food in glamorous Loudoun, at a restaurant I now consider the Eavesdropping Center of the Universe. First, there was the woman who ranted about her money problems for twenty minutes (I do not know if she was on the phone, or dining with an especially patient, or perhaps bound and gagged, partner). Oh, honey, if you’re responsible for paying your own bills (like, uh, most people), including the rent, cellphone, and Comcast, and it’s breaking you, then ditch the cable. Do you really, really need Flavor of Love? I know cable really helps pass the time when you’re unemployed, but really.

Anyhow.

She left, and I was left with a few options. I could focus on my food, or my companion, or the music. Instead, the family next to us came in with the save.

Figuring out how they were all related kept me busy for fifteen minutes. My best guess was that it was Grandpa, Mom, Single/Possibly Gay Uncle, and Kid One (late teens) and Kid Two (eightish/nineish). It was also possible, due to group dynamics, that Kid One was actually much older, just a sloppy dresser, and the mother or aunt of Kid Two. Anyhow, they were all out for a nice dinner together, to celebrate the visit of Single/Possibly Gay Uncle. And maybe Grandpa. I don’t know if he was local or not.

Anyone who has ever been a kid knows one thing: family dinners are tedious, creepingly slow death. You have to sit still. You must use utensils. You will not be allowed to punctuate every sentence with armpit farts. Worst of all, you must listen to grownups talk about the sort of things even grownups find skull-crushingly dull.

But the Kids had a solution: technology! Kid One was listening to music on her iPod (yes, at the dinner table). Kid Two was watching a movie on his iPod (yes, again, at the dinner table). Kid One eventually unplugged, however, Kid Two kept his earbuds in while ordering, eating, conversing with the waitress, and mostly…while he sat there, sulked and watched a movie.

Mom, Grandpa, even Kid One tried to get him to actually participate in the dinner. Or, at least, to stop watching his movie and take his sulking acoustic. No dice.

This brings me back to why I'm so worried: if we do not teach the children of America how to sit around a table, in polite silence, but so bored they want to scream or bang their heads into a wall, how are they ever going to get by in the business world? They’ll combust at their very first department meeting, the economy will collapse, and we’ll all be reduced to selling fruit at the intersections of the world.

So, parents, please, teach your children well. Make them unplug, then bore the crap out of them. America is counting on you!

PS – No, I don’t have kids. But I will point out that, long ago, I was a kid, and no, we did NOT wear headphones at the dinner table. Ever. I mean, really.

Fake Pregnancy Friday: My Dream Self Strikes Again

Months ago, a friend of mine dreamed about me. Not in any sort of hot or sexy way, no, he dreamed that I stole a bunch of groceries.

That day, we learned that my dream self is kind of a selfish beeyatch. And it's gone downhill from there. In my latest nocturnal adventure, I faked a pregnancy.

I didn't do it as some sort of grand social experiment. I didn't do it to con a man into proposing (from personal experience, all it takes is a huge bottle of Baltika). I didn't do it for attention, for the maternity leave, or even to use the Stork Parking or Metro Priority seats.

In my dream, I faked an entire nine-month, barf-and-bloat pregnancy to compete on a reality show. I lied to my boyfriend, family, friends (you were there, and you, and you, and you!), coworkers, landlord, and pretty much anyone else I could sink my claws into. I sat through an interminable imaginary baby shower for my unfit unwed motherly self, where I had to play appallingly embarrassing games, all while surrounded by cameras (the cameramen pretended to be from that Baby Story show).

The worst part is that I didn't even win. My fake pregnancy wasn't sufficiently convincing, and I lost to a woman who could make her navel go from innie to outtie with sheer willpower.

Come to think of it, losing was the best outcome. The prize was a Chinese baby and I'm clearly an unfit mother.

In the comments, I dare you to make sense of my dream.

Me for a Day? Good Heavens, WHY?

The dog didn’t eat my password.

I haven’t been sprawled on a beach somewhere, drinking fruity girly drinks. Sweet alcohol gives me a stomachache, and I’m at high risk for skin cancer (thanks for being Australian, Mom! I’ll also have you to thank for the cataracts, the paranoia, and the Welsh inbreeding).

I haven’t been off experiencing fabulous things, just so I could brag about them later. Instead, I’ve been weathering one of the more hellishly oddball storms of my 32 years.

First, my hours (and salary) got chopped in half. Then, I got sick and my adorable 200-year-old doctor put me on Anthrax Antibiotics for ten days. Then, my dad’s cyborg surgery had complications, and I spent a week semi-planning to semi-move to North Carolina, for the semi-time being. Oh, and I woke up Sunday morning with a cold. Like the cherry on top of a bad-luck sundae, I’m hacking and sneezing and not altogether pretty right now. And, oh, I almost forgot to mention that Aunt Flo has stopped in for a visit. (TMI? Never! But, "not pregnant" is always one for the plus column.)

Of course, there are a lot of good things happening in my world. Good people, the four bottles of Champagne rattling about the bottom of my fridge, cupcakes for breakfast, the new slats on my bed, the uh...other thing going on that I'm not telling you about. Nyeah.

But, overall, my Optimism-Meter is running low, and I don't want to torture y'all with my sad-sack not-currently-amusing existence. Life needs to get a hell of a lot funnier before I'll have much to say.

Or, you people could step up and be funny. To that end, I’m recruiting guest posters, at least until I can get my act together. (Well, not COMPLETELY together, because y’all live to watch me metaphorically faceplant my way across every aspect of my life.) Or you can write me for advice - I do love telling y'all what to do. Either way, I'm outsourcing this blog for a bit. So step on up and be my Indian call center, my Malaysian child laborers, my Temp-a-Tronic no-wage workers.

Submissions should go to scannerjockey@gmail.com.

Happy Birthday to Me...Thanks to the American Voter

I jolted awake at 2:00 in the morning, another year older (I'm 32 today) and with a fabulous birthday gift...an Obama victory!

Thanks, America. It's just my size, exactly to my taste, and totally makes up for those times you chose a president based on who you'd rather have a beer with. (And then, to complete the cycle of stupid, you decided you'd rather have a beer with a teetotaler. Sigh.)

I spent Election Night sprinkling myself in free booze at the Qorvis party...to the point that I said "excuse me," to the wax Obama. I also wore that Washington classic, a name tag. Except mine said, "Anne Chovy," and my date's said, "Benjamin Dover." I also told an FCC employee that he ought to auction off the Janet Jackson boobie screenshots on Ebay. I figured I'd get as much out of the end of Year 31 as I possibly could.

I'm spending today off work, lounging, and possibly a little hungover. More tomorrow.

So Very Unsexy, on a Scale of 1-10

My dear friend Foggy sent me an article called, “Five Times You’re Sexy to Men.” The usual suspects are there: when you smile, when you flip your hair, when you’re a drunk chick on prom night, blah-de-blah. Most of these, we already knew.

So I thought I’d subvert the script, and list five times I was NOT sexy to men, and rate them on a scale of 1-10. Awesomely, they all occurred in the last 24 hours:

1. I told the Blond's readers that my safety words are, “OUCH!” followed by, “The hell?” Why bother with a code word when you can get right to the point? Unsexy quotient: 7.5

2. This morning, I freaked over the mysterious relocation of the toothpaste, and turned the entire bathroom upside down to find it while muttering to myself and yanking at my hair. (I go a little bonkers when I can’t find something.) Unsexy quotient: 4

3. I used generic Windex to clean a recalcitrant DVD, after popping store-brand Claritin and pouring a glass of fancy Pennsylvania wine. Cheapskates are hot…right? Wrong! Unsexy quotient: 6

4. I called my dad to see how his cyborg surgery went, and, upon hearing Dad’s sad, scratchy, tube-down-the-throat voice, demanded he perform some tunes from the Shaft soundtrack. That’s me, Daughter of the Year. Unsexy quotient: 3

5. When I brushed my teeth last night, I spread some of the foam around and pretended to be a rabid dog. Unsexy quotient: 10, possibly 11.

Oh well, at least I find me sexy.

Say 'So Long' to Your Civil Liberties?

I’m not much of a conspiracy theorist, revolutionary, or alarmist. I don’t think fluoridated water is a form of mind control, I’m pretty sure Barack Obama is not the Antichrist, and I doubt Neil Armstrong’s moonwalk occurred on a soundstage in Texas.

But Metro’s announcement of random bag searches definitely got my attention. There has to be more going on than what we've been told.

I typically don't mind searches, as long as they're not onerous or silly. Airports can run me and mine through as many machines as they could ever want. In Bogota, I would be searched an average of five times before I could board a plane (and that's with a diplomatic passport). A man with an Uzi would root through my handbag every time I went shopping at Andino Mall, and men were patted down before we could enter a club. But that’s just part of life in a country that’s been at war for generations.

But America isn’t Colombia. And this bag search policy is laughably ineffective. You can refuse to be searched, leave, and walk the two blocks to a different entrance. The random search policy is all for show, and the show itself is going to cause rubbernecking, anxiety, and delays.

And I haven’t even gotten to the real meat of it: random searches are an affront to who we are, our Constitution, and our culture. If I’m just trying to get to work, what law have I broken? Why are my movements being restricted? Where’s the probable cause? I refuse to play a role in the dissolution of my right, as a citizen, to go wherever the hell I want for whatever reason I see fit. Moreover, I refuse to turn the most ordinary part of my day, my ride to work, into a security theater freakshow.

I understand that terrorism is a very real risk. I've lived in Washington for long enough, and read enough newspapers, to be highly aware of that fact. But that's the risk we run as members of a free society. I'd rather take that one-in-a-million-billion-whatever chance of getting blown to bits than the sure odds of seeing my normal, workaday life irrevocably altered by the infringements of a police state.

So what will I do if I get pulled aside for searching? Simple. Politely refuse, hand over a printout of the Fourth Amendment, and leave. I can always walk, use another station, or take a cab. Inconvenience is a small price to pay for freedom, and I'll put in my buck-oh-five.

For those of you who don’t remember Civics class, I've included a copy of the Fourth Amendment. Print it, carry it, hand it over to the Metro goons, and walk the extra blocks. It’s good for the body, and even better for the soul.

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

What will YOU do if you get pulled aside for a search?

The Express is Scheduling My Intervention

The editors of the Post Express BlogLog are famous for their lack of reading comprehension skills. I don't read the Express, and 90 percent of the time I don't even know when I've been quoted. But every time I do see the quote, I find some sort of lazy factual inaccuracy in the snarky postscript.

For the last time: I don't live in Petworth. I don't live anywhere near a 7-11, and I did not want to buy convenience store sushi on a Saturday (it was a Friday). I have mixed feelings and squishy opinions on gentrification, as well as many other subjects the Express has implied I see in cliched black-and-white.

But yesterday was the last straw in the Scarecrow of Remedial Reading Skills. They accused me of being an alcoholic. The wording I used was, "Between the beer, the beer, and the beer on Saturday." This implies several beers, as in more than two, but fewer than seven. My fourth-grade teacher (a suspected lush herself), would probably say I had three beers on Saturday.

Their wording, "Over many beers..." implies a much more substantial amount of booze. Perhaps a more substantial amount than would be strictly sensible for a woman who barely weighs triple digits.

Maybe they meant my friends and I shared these "many" beers. But I prefer to believe the Express editors pictured me hunched over a table, a row of empty bottles wobbling before me like a Rockettes line of the damned as I drunkenly ranted about child rental services.

Express, put this in your crack pipe and smoke it: When I was a child, my Barbie doll was engaged in pro-woman imaginary pursuits, such as founding her own business (a unicorn pony farm!), running for President, and establishing a women's art collective. She also had torrid, frequent, and wildly anatomically inaccurate sexual relations with Ken.

Add it up: I'm a feminist, and a bit of a pervert. Clearly, this means that in Monday's Express I will have announced that feminism is a perversion.

PS - Seriously, men, every woman you know did all sorts of icky things to Barbie. We may not admit it before the third (OF MANY!) rounds, but we so totally did.

PPS - I'll admit that I am a bit of a lush, but seriously...read for comprehension, Express people!

PPPS - And go check out that Gilahi post that I linked to...it's terrific.

Announcing a New Business Venture

Between the beer, the beer, and the beer on Saturday, my friends Sean, Mike and I started to kick around a new business idea.

ZipKid. The Kid-Sharing Service!

See, not everyone can be a full-time parent. But there are times when you just need a kid.

Maybe you want to take a little hell-monster to a barbecue, so you have something to talk about with all the mommies and daddies. Or maybe your nag-fest of a mother is coming to visit, and you need to furnish her with a temporary grandchild. Or maybe you’re a dude, and want to carry around a "nephew" to impress chicks.

ZipKids have health benefits, too! They’re a remarkably effective and cheap form of birth control. Just one hour with a two-year-old can convince any woman to spay herself on the kitchen table with an electric carving knife. With cheap whiskey as a sedative.

ZipKid can also be fun for couples. Most young couples test out their parenting abilities by getting a dog. Then they spoil the dog rotten, with gourmet food and organic flea dip. Eventually, the costs rack up and the couple is too broke to contemplate babies. ZipKid allows them to test drive parenthood without the accompanying veterinary bills, ruined furniture and dog-walking services.

And with the economy dry-heaving over a metaphorical Toilet of America…who can afford a kid? Only the very same rich golden-parachuted twits who got us into this mess in the first place. So what is going to hold the economy’s hair back? ZipKid! Kid-sharing is a low-budget, elegant solution to the perennial drain that kids exert on America’s finances.

Supply is an issue. Where would the ZipKids come from? Fifteen years ago, we could have replenished our coffers with Romanian babies. Nowadays, cheap kids are hard to come by. So, in the comments, I need some women to volunteer to be ZipKid suppliers. It’s like being a brood mare, except, er, it’s people. Bonus points if you have good genes. Turkey baster included.

Skeezy Like Sunday Morning

My Sundays are pretty much all the same. My head is pounding, I have grass stains in surprising places, and there's an array of dead sailors on the balcony. So I like to take it easy: read the paper in bed, drink gallons of coffee, and putter around on the Internet.

As I’m shopping at the online Man Mall, my IM window flies open.

SkeevyDude4U: Hi! Would you like a cute guy to do a striptease for you?

DisaffScanJockey: Uh. No. Thanks!

SkeevyDude4U: :(

SkeevyDude4U: :(

SkeevyDude4U: :(

The lesson? If you are a man, and you use emoticons, I probably don’t want to see you naked.

Happy Monday, y’all.

Lazy Wednesday Phone Transcript Post

My family excels at saying offensive and odd things to medical professionals. It's a wonder any of us are left alive.

When my mother got skin cancer (one free lesion with every Australian citizenship!), she told her doctor she was excited about the, “Free boob lift. Well, on one side, anyway."

When my dad had a massive heart attack in a Kaiser Permanente lobby, he got so sick of the doctors arguing over who was in charge he selected a doctor at random. “Tag! You’re it!”

All of this brings me to my phone conversation with Dad the other night.

Dad: So, they’re doing some sort of experimental surgery on me.
Me: Cool! Like what?
Dad: They’re putting something artificial in my aorta.
Me: So you’re gonna be a cyborg? Will it make you evil?
Dad: I hope so. I asked the doctor for a lifetime guarantee.
Me: Did she get the joke?
Dad: No. She just stared at me. Then she said it was a five-year program. I told her she was being optimistic. (Note: Dad does. Not. Die. He was given six months to live. In 1994.)
Me: I wonder if there’s a penalty for early withdrawal, like with a 401(k). By the way, did I ever tell you about the time I completely freaked a doctor out?
Dad: No.
Me: I was in high school, and went to the pediatrician with Mom. The doctor asked, with her right there in the room, whether I was sexually active.
Dad: I’m glad I never took you to doctor’s appointments.
Me: (singing) The cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon, little boy blue and the Man in the Moon…Well, anyhow, I told the doctor, “No, I just lie there, usually.” Mom cracked up. That may be why the priest at the baptism I went to Sunday stared right at me whenever he said the word, "Satan."
Dad: No, that's because of the time you got in trouble at church camp. You traded your Bible for an ice cream sandwich.

Ladies and gentlemen, my family.

PS – yes, I know it’s lazy to reconstruct a 10-minute phone call, move some stuff around for comic effect, and call it a post, but I’m not exactly quaking with bloggy ambition these days.