I'd Call this Wedding a Raging Success

I've been married for 11 days now, and just realized I never got around to updating my remaining readers about the wedding. Probably because most of y'all were there.

It was awesome. Fun. Exactly what we wanted, and totally worth the months of hassles and planning. We should have a wedding every year. It was like the biggest funnest kegger ever, with sliders, pasta and great beer. And very relaxed, despite a few kerfuffles, misplaced mothers, minidramas and broken cake toppers. (I found my cake topper alter ego headfirst in the cake and wobbly, which is exactly how I'd intended to look by the end of the evening.) Oh, and the ceremony clocked in at a luxurious six minutes, leaving lots of time for bonding, dancing and mayhem.

Best of all, it was a family affair from start to finish. That includes the families we were born with, and the ones we've put together for ourselves. Our officiant was the friend who introduced us, all of the decorations were put together with the help of many friends and multitudinous mimosas, three friends volunteered to be the string trio for the ceremony, and everyone pitched in wherever they could. (And, if they didn't, you better believe I deputized them at random. Thanks for putting out the ceremony programs, The Buddy!)

A few memories, from what we can remember:

1. Let's just say Brando and I are not the most graceful of dancers. Well, OK. Imagine two Clydesdales with four left feet, all of which have been encased in Jell-O. During our first dance, a lurching disaster to the tune of "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You," all of the guests spontaneously began to sing along to the, "I love you baaaaaaybeeeee, if it's quite all right I need you baaaaaybeeee!" Which not only made me deliriously happy, it took a little focus off all the flop sweat flooding the dance floor.

2. Not only was there an after party at the hotel bar, there was an after-after party, hosted by my sister. People started randomly wearing each other's jewelry while snacking on fried chicken and bourbon. And a member of the wedding party fell off the side of the bed while attempting to stand. Which is when we all pretty much gave up on standing.

3. Virtually everyone pulled Irish exits out of the hotel bar, which meant we got a very awkward, "Hey, I have a stack of credit cards, what do I do?" phone call at the after-after party. (Related: Refugee, J. has your debit card.)

4. One guest, who shall remain unnamed, woke up still in her clothes and covered in wasabi pea snack mix.

5. Another guest showed up for breakfast still in his suit from the night before. Not for the reason you'd think, but because he'd forgotten to pack a change of clothes. But he was topped by the guy who showed up at breakfast, still drunk in what appeared to be a backwards t-shirt.

6. I thought I'd picked a relatively simple dress. Until we found out the crystal buttons on the back were very, very hard to fasten, leading to the scene in this photo. All five bridesmaids punched me in the stomach to hold me still. (I think it's secretly retaliation for all those Sundays with a glue gun and a tower of ribbons.)

So, it's over, to my mild disappointment but tremendous relief. If you were there, thank you, if you were not, well, maybe we'll do this again sometime.

In the comments, tell me if you've ever woken up in a pile of snack food, and, if so, what were the circumstances?

It's the Final Countdown! (Try not to picture GOB in a wedding gown)

Hello, four remaining readers! Remember me? I've been rather busy lately, what with the fact I'm getting married in TEN DAYS. According to common (and sexist) stereotyping, my life right now should be a fondant-flavored blur of errands, meltdowns, manicures and utter self-absorption. Unfortunately, that's my usual state of being.

My bridal state seems to be one of eminently not giving a flying frick.

I started off with mild wedding hysteria. Towers of magazines, dress excursions, overly complex emails to my ever-patient bridesmaids, and a round robin of color schemes. I even had a nightmare where my bowling-themed wedding was changed at the last minute to a hotel ballroom wedding with ice sculptures, and I fell on the ground and wept. (Note: why DIDN'T I have a bowling wedding?)

A few weeks ago, however, a switch flipped. I achieved bridal burnout, which is sort of like a Demerol high*. If I could distill this stuff and hand it 'round like a flask of bourbon-flavored joy, I would. It's amazing.

I knew it was all over when I ordered a light-up plastic arch for ceremony decor, as, hell, it got stuff off the list and was on sale for $34.99. We'll just glue something festive to it and be done. I realized I didn't have something old or borrowed to wear, and fell upon the idea of kidnapping a nursing home resident for the day. Brando asked me about the menu, my response was, "Is there food on it? OK, that works." I even plan a ceremonial torching of my Martha Stewart Weddings, as there was never a time in my life I'd contemplate baking anything, let alone my own wedding cake.

I'm sure most of this is a sort of stress-induced catatonia. But at least some of it is a rare flash of maturity. Hell, I get to spend the rest of my life with someone who will gleefully watch homicidal bird films like ThanksKilling and Birdemic: Shock and Terror. We love bourbon, good food, and each other. He's my best friend.

And the wedding? Well, I've learned that the people who love you just want to wish you well and have something mind-altering to drink. Anyone who expects a shebang, or makes the event about themselves, isn't a true friend. Your wedding is as good a time as any to learn that.

In the comments, tell me if I should have held a ThanksKilling theme wedding, complete with a malicious rubber turkey as the officiant.

*No, I've never been high on Demerol. (Hi, Dad.)

Who's Got Two Thumbs and Ten Extra Pounds?

What with all the Marie Claire brouhaha this week (just Google "Marie Claire hates fat people" or similar if you want to see it), and my recent doctor's appointment, weight has been on my mind lately.

Yesterday, I asked my adorable Yoda-esque doctor to shove me onto that scale.

Please note that, due to a history of disordered eating, I only weigh myself at the doctor's office. (Also, please note that, due to a history of disordered eating, any icky troll comments will not be deleted, instead, my cadre of commenters will issue a verbal beatdown, the likes of which has not been seen since, "You're no Jack Kennedy." I prefer to let trolls show themselves for their true gruesome nature, vs. just quietly deleting them.)

The results were not surprising, but they were pretty damn scary. I am at the very tippy-top of a healthy BMI range, and 16 pounds more than I was at my physical last June. Ideally, I should weigh about 10 pounds less than the current total. I'm usually a little underweight, and I have never been anywhere near overweight.

I could blame any number of factors:

1. Thyroid and/or metabolism issues. Which, yes, I'm being tested for.

2. Those delicious breakfast Sunny Sandwiches at my deli. Canadian bacon, egg, and tomato mayonnaise on a kaiser roll? Yes, please!

3. My Italian-American fiance's preferred meal of pizza with a side of pizza, and sharing a home with all those carbalicious habits. On average, women who live with a male partner weigh more, because they start eating bigger portions of heavier food. (So sorry Brando, it's not you, it's not me, blame science!)

4. Copious indoor time brought about by Snowpocalypse, followed by Snowmageddon, followed by the new frontier of stretch pants in public.

5. The evils of the fast food industry. Never mind that I never actually eat fast food.

6. Stress! Of which I generally have plenty.

7. The chronic sinus infection that has sapped my energy and made me less active on weekends.

Or, instead of casting blame, I can start making some changes. Due to my medical history, diets are right out. And I don't run unless something is chasing me. And I sure as hell am not turning my wedding into an excuse for a weight-related anxiety freefall. (The second you turn your FB status into "Engaged," you get a bunch of ads exhorting you to lose weight for your wedding. One even cut to the chase and just said, "Hey! Fat bride!" Don't believe me? A bing search of "bridal weight loss program" turned up 2,890,000 results.)

Instead, I'm walking home from work (about an hour), swapping those Sunny sandwiches for an apple with peanut butter, and swapping my beers for vodka and soda with lime. The good doctor Yoda recommends I lose 1-2 pounds per month by making small changes.

I'll admit this is partially about health, and mostly about vanity. I miss my cuter clothes with non-elastic waistbands. And I don't think there's anything particularly wrong with saying that. Looking good leads to feeling good. If I didn't care at all about how I looked, wouldn't that be worse?

In the comments, tell me about your favorite small changes for a healthier life. Or just kick a little encouragement my way.

I'm a Gun-Toting Rapist Slavemaster!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

People, we can do better.

The First Annual Snowmageddies

I'd like to issue awards to all those who gave Washington's week of Snowtastrophe that special tang of fumbling absurdity:

The Any Port in a Storm Award goes to the Irish Channel, which was open and serving...even though they really, really should have gotten off their keisters and shoveled their walk. Drunk people plus a sheet of ice? GENIUS.

The Are You Freakin' Kidding Me? Award goes to....the woman blocking Mass Ave in her stalled-out big ol' Mercedes. Why anyone would see a big pile of slush and ice and drive straight into it is beyond me. It's sort of like horror movies, where you always want the dippy blond to kick off her shoes and run, instead of breaking a heel, losing her will to go on, and hyperventilating her way to a grisly death.

Honorable Mention: Metro. Holy hell.

The Graciousness Under Pressure Award goes to the four men who, upon seeing the woman in her stalled-out Mercedes, tried to push her out despite her limited grasp of English, reality, and basic driving skills, and her assertion that she under no circumstances would call a tow truck. (At that point I gave up trying to help and told her I'd check in on her in the spring.)

The C'mon, Folks, Is That the Best You Can Do? Award goes to the two yuppie women in the RAV-4 who, upon seeing the stranded Mercedes lady, flipped her the bird and tried to get around her by jumping the sidewalk.

Honorable Mention: The Smithsonian, for not doing a damn thing to dig out any sort of pedestrian pathway on Fourth Street. My walk to work was a very slippery game of chicken with some very cranky motorists.

The Power to Say No Without Laughing Outright Award goes to the Associated Press reporter I ran into on the aforementioned Fourth Street slushfest. His SUV was stuck, so I stopped and offered to help. I'm sure he looked at me all, "Well, here's the strapping, muscular Colossus who can shove a two-ton truck out of a snowbank!" But he kept a straight face regardless, and even interviewed me for a story he was working on.

The All Life on Earth Would End Without You Award goes to the maintenance crew of my apartment building, who have been sleeping onsite for the last week to keep the walks shoveled and the residents safe. Way to go, guys!

Honorable Mention: Mint Chocolate Bailey's.

In the comments, award some Snowmageddies.

The End, My Friends

Well, it's the end of the week, the end of my awesomeness, and the last two guest posts. Enjoy!

Hammer imagines I'd watch Hee-Haw with his grandma, which not only rhymes, but might be one of the sweetest things anyone's said to me in a while:

You know, I don't let just anybody get in MAH TRUK, much less insist they do so, but Shannon settled right in like my old Ford was custom-built for her. The hound dogs took to her immediately, and the fact that she's on the petite side just means we get to haul an extra cooler of beer up front. You don't need to have dropped out of the management certificate program at NOVA Community College to know that what you got right there is a win-win, I tell you whut.

When she wasn't telling us young 'uns to simmer down so she could watch Hee-Haw in peace, my grandma was always fond of saying, "Now Hammer, you make sure you surround yourself with good people." Although she never met Shannon, I'm sure she'd approve of our association. Grandma wouldn't know a blog from a bag of Fritos, but she knows that your 500th anything is a pretty big deal. I can see it now... "Good day!" she'd exclaim, listening patiently to Shannon try to explain what the hell a blog was and why a person would write one for so long - under their real name no less - and then she'd start to drift a bit, perk back up after a while, and say, "Shannon, do you think there are any stations showing Hee Haw tonight?"

And you know what? Even though there ain't nobody showing Hee Haw anymore except The Playaz, Shannon would actually make an honest effort to scroll through the listings and check. You never know, stranger things have happened. In fact, stranger things do happen. To Shannon. All the time. And because she writes every bit as well as she improvises, we're able to share in these experiences and exploits from the comfort of our own homes and offices.

It's not as fun as hanging out with her in person, but your odds of ending up on an episode of C.O.P.S. are a hell of a lot lower.

Meanwhile, J credits me with e-pimpage:

Shannon's blog is filled with things I'd like to say, but didn't think of first. But more importantly, it's a focal point for discussion. And a segue to socialization.When you read DSJ, you come face-to-face with so many of life's absurdities and strange coincidences. And incompetent Krispy Kreme clerks.When you meet DSJ, you find that there is an amazing ball of charm who will always look out for you, throws fantastic parties, and shares stories of goulash at gas stations on the Croatian-Hungarian border. Last but not not least, she's also the finest e-pimp DC has to offer :)

Thanks everyone for participating! Come back next week for my top decorating peeves, why I get paranoid so much, and a recap of whatever weird thing happens to me over the weekend.

Jet Packs and the Secrets of Optimism

I believe in all sorts of cheesy needlepoint throw pillow philosophies. "The greatest pleasure I find is in my garden," for instance. Not that I have a garden, but a metaphorical garden of sorts. OK, that was a stretch. So let's just admit that my worldview is populated mostly with Hallmark sentiments, squishy full-body hugs, and the air-raid siren that heralds my latest terrible idea.

If I had to pick a guiding philosophy, it would be, "Happiness is a choice." I'd also add, though, that happiness involves careful planning and robust organizational skills. My version of happiness is simple, but takes a lot of hard work: a well-prepared dinner, routines, the occasional surprise, people who pick me up when they hug me, long-term friendships, that look coworkers give me when they haven't yet realized that I'm kidding, a closet full of great (deeply discounted) outfits, and always having something to look forward to. I think that last one is the most important.

In the short term, I have a four-day weekend coming up, a new duvet cover, a hike with friends, my birthday, a Michelob the size of my head, Sundays slobbing on the couch while pretending to care about football, and wiping the dust off my Crock-Pot.

In the long-term, I have that point where I can finally get away with letting my hair go gray, a lifetime of love, dreams about everything from marriage and family to a trip to Buenos Aires, the chance to be a batty old lady who hands out stale cookies to the neighborhood kids.

And jetpacks. I'm astounded and kind of pissed that we don't have those yet.

In the comments, tell me what makes you happy.

Everybody's Uterus: Population One

One of the hallmarks of an early thirties urban existence is the frequent and rapid impregnation of one's friends. This means a lot of things that we already knew about: Baby showers. Early bird dinners. Learning how to simultaneously amuse a toddler and chug a beer. Learning that every baby, everywhere, finds the word "herpes" completely hilarious.

But there are the parts that no one tells you about. Or maybe these are the things that only happen to me, because I'm weird. Either way, here are some lessons from years of proximity to The Pregnant:

1. You will always say at least one Wrong Thing. Tuesday night, we were reviewing ultrasound photos at the dinner table (I am an awesome friend and therefore comfortable enough with my girlfriends to learn the complex topography of their wombs). I began to see shapes in the ultrasound clouds, and remarked upon those shapes. Note to self: Don't compare your friend's baby to a dragon's head.

2. Pregnant lady food is awesome. Seriously. There should be an entire restaurant of it! Tater tots, slathered in chili with cheddar cheese and sour cream on top? Awesome in theory, even better in practice. Of course, karmic justice being what it is, I'd probably get preggers and wind up developing a taste for normal food.

3. Pregnancy is a public-private partnership. So much of it, besides the belly, is public. A lot of this is because pregnant ladies will tell you more than you'd ordinarily ever want to know. (Been horking a rainbow of fruit flavors? If you're pregnant, I'll listen with patience and sympathy. Otherwise, ew ew ew gross ick shut up now before I shut you up!) But with all that information Out There, For Everyone to Know, it can be tricky to know what ought to remain private. Some couples don't want to give away the potential names, due date, sex, whatever. When in doubt, don't ask.

4. Have a mentioned that comparing a fetus to an eyeball within the dragon's head of a uterus is completely poor form?

In the comments, tell me the worst thing you ever said to a pregnant woman. Or, tell me if you've ever asked a non-pregnant woman when she's due, and tell me how you survived the incident.

PS - Between this post and the one about nausea, I'm sure there's a bit of suspicion going on...the answer is no, and I'll raise you to a hell no. Why? Because I'd have to be a World Champion Ovulator for that to be even remotely possible.

PPS - My hypothetical baby names? Union Carbide and Enron. They're gonna grow up tougher than that boy named Sue.

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

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

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

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

Instead, this is what I remember:

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

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

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

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

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

I remember leaving my retainer at a Burger King.

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

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

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

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

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

Voluntarily.

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

In the comments, tell me about your summer vacations.

Swamps Make for Awesome Analogies

On rare occasions, my friends will ask me for dating advice. On even rarer occasions, I'll spout something approaching wisdom. And so that brings us to a sunny day, a plate of Tex-Mex, and a boy with girl troubles.

My advice? "Not every personal swamp is there for you to wade into."

Once you're OK with how ungrammatical and obscure I'm being, it's a pretty good point. Dating is a reductive and nerve-wracking process, and sometimes you're better off cutting your losses and staying out of the muck. There's a point where you have to look at someone, decide that your flavors of crazy match up, and go for broke. Sometimes, however, you take a look, then you take a second look, and you run like hell.

I've done my share of running, when the dealbreakers became abundantly obvious and the relationship felt more project-oriented than it ought to be. And there have been times I've looked at the swamp and plunged on regardless, miring myself in the muck of yet another man's shortcomings. I've been talked down to, abandoned, failed, cheated and bullied. But I've come back each time as a slightly better version of myself.

I like to think I've learned something. And here's what it is: We've all got our swamps. Each of us is a bundle of raw emotions, childhood hurts, petty fears and impractical hope, and we're all doing the best we can with the emotional equipment we've been given. In the best cases, we're doing the best we can with the emotional equipment we've built for ourselves.

In the end, you have choose someone who doesn't drag you into their muck, because they have the strength to meet you halfway.

In the comments, tell me your dealbreakers. Or tell me how Clash of the Titans is the most awesome movie ever.

Sexy Secretaries Always Get the Best Stuff

I really only have time for a half-assed update today. Which is sad, because I tend to prefer to go after things with my whole ass.

Instead, I offer a vignette:

Yesterday morning, when I walked into the office, there was a big box of Godiva chocolates waiting for me, in honor of Administrative Professional's Day.

Observation: Being an executive assistant on Administrative Professionals' Day has netted me more chocolate than seventeen years of dating.

Conclusion: My job rocks. Also, more people should give me Godiva in honor of my awesome-osity.

Showering with Cupcakes Makes Me Super Profound

I spend far too much time inside my own head. I like it in here. Once you get used to the air raid sirens, bear traps, and the floating image of Mrs. Duggar’s box falling out and being pulled behind her like a little pink wagon, my brain is pretty cheerful place to be.

Sunday, I was faced with little other to do than push back the corners of a blazing hangover. Oh, and figure out why there was a cupcake in my shower (migrating foodstuffs have become a big problem in my apartment lately).

So I did some thinking about forgiveness. First, there’s forgiveness for those who have hurt you, damaged you, or changed you for the worse in one way or another. For me, that’s always been the easy one. It takes a very long time to run to the edge of my charity.

I don't mean that in a wimpy victim sort of way, like, "Oh, Bobby slept with my sister and took all my money and conned me into going on Jerry Springer to tell me he'd legally changed his name to Monkey Spanker...but I love him SO MUCH!"

It's a little more like this:

If you’ve ever wronged me, I can promise you’ll be forgiven. That may not mean I want you around. I’ve learned over the years that some people can grind your soul into powder. But I’ve tried to drag some sort of lesson out of all my sorry messes, and I’m thankful for everything I’ve learned.

Then there’s forgiving yourself. I’m utter crap at that one. I’ve never learned to be as charitable and kind with myself as I am with others. I will torture myself over the smallest transgression, apologize in triplicate for forgetting the cocktail napkins, and I’m not quite over that time at horse camp when I accidentally busted my cabin-mate for dating a counselor.

The biggest challenge of all is forgiveness for the things I’ve done to myself. The list is extensive and messy: I’ve slathered my body in booze, wasted years on a complicated relationship with food, wasted further years on complicated relationships with virtually everything and everyone else, given an all-access pass to emotional vampires, squandered acres of opportunity and talent, mixed my best intentions with some of the worst men, and allowed my pride to block me from asking for help when I needed it most.

It’s not about failure. I can colossally screw up, and scrape my dignity off the floor in no time flat (once you’ve failed at marriage, hey, you can fail at anything!). It’s those sucker punch moments, when I see that I’m far from my best self, and that there’s always further to fall and no easy path to anywhere. I don’t think I’m all that unusual: ask your friends for the top ten worst things they’ve ever done, and I promise the things they’ve done to themselves will rank the highest.

There’s no easy way to wrap this up, so I’ll throw it out to the commentariat: among the worst things you’ve ever done, how many were things you did to yourself? And how did you forgive yourself?

TMI Thursday: Trim One for the Zipper!

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

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

Take it away, Zip!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Basically, it’s horrible and it sucks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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