You're Nobody 'Til You're in the New York Times

Alternate title: Good Lord, Why Didn't Anyone Tell Me I Look Like Mary Poppins?

Yes, that's me. In the Times, like somebody respectable and newsworthy. And it's all thanks to my self-styled status as an etiquette vigilante.

My Sunday was pretty thrilling, what with the well-wishers, the shiny photo (taken by Andrew Councill, who was extraordinarily lovely), and the holycowI'mintheNewYorkTIMES!!!!! that managed to leak through the haze of the world's most brutal red wine hangover.

Except that I'm captioned as "It's polite to prowl." Eeeeessssshhhhh. And there's the whole cringeworthy thing where the reporter left out the repeated assertions I made that adults should not scold other adults, that lecturing others simply compounds the rudeness, and that I don't go around telling people how to act. I simply politely and calmly ask people to stop doing whatever it is that's so annoying, because most people mean well but are just oblivious to the world around them. I don't call people at home to enact petty revenge, like another person profiled in the article. (Reading that made me cringe like you would NOT believe.)

That said, what shall we do with my newfound fame as a schoolmarmy busybody scold? Market myself as an etiquette maven? Correct the posture of strangers with a ruler? Wear a "As Seen in the New York Times" t-shirt everywhere I go? Try to get into VIP rooms by showing a clip of the article and saying, "Yeah, I'm kind of a big deal"?

Would You Still Read My Blog if I Had a Nipple on My Kneecap?

Maybe I wasn’t hugged enough as a zygote, or perhaps all those years of hardcore Pixy Stik abuse have finally caught up with me. At any rate, I’ve started to test the limits of my friends’ affection for me. And I don’t mean by stretching their patience, running to the edge of their compassion, or by mocking them until they cry. That’s just a typical Tuesday for me.

Instead, I construct bizarre hypothetical scenarios and hope for the best:

Would you still find me attractive if I had a third boob? What if it was on my kneecap?

Would you still love me if I moved to New York to try my luck as a ninja pirate karaoke artist and perform vaudeville routines in Times Square?

Would you still be my friend if I invented my own language consisting entirely of taps and squeaks?

Would I still be pretty if I shaved the word “MOM” into the back of my head? How about if I wore a Vanilla Ice “Word to Your Mutha” jacket?

Would you still be my friend if I got a job kicking puppies, then using the puppy carcass to club a baby seal? Would it make a difference if I ate both the puppy and the baby seal? A good difference or a bad difference?

As humor is both my favorite coping mechanism and my first line of defense, I can only assume there’s a deeper reason for all my third boob and ninja queries.

Maybe the pain and brute force of the changes I’ve been through in the last six months have left me feeling wobbly and unsure. My life spun from awesome to painful to damn near perfect, and back again, and landed somewhere near terrific. I’m thrilled and giggly, and, more importantly, I’m content. Life is pretty much where it’s supposed to be.

But, perversely, nothing shakes my confidence quite like the feeling that everything is going a little TOO well.

We’re all just a few wrong turns from disaster. I could lose any number of the people I love, in any number of ways. Or I could lose my job, or get sick. Or the insides of me could change, and I could become someone I wouldn’t want to be. To some degree, I have control over these things, but much of the time I do not. So I try to appreciate everything I have, and to be someone worthy of everything I've been given.

But I have the occasional ugly moment where I’m waiting for disaster. And because I hate uncertainty, I hide behind my imaginary language of taps and squeaks, and wait for the other shoe to drop. I’m afraid to admit how much everything and everyone means to me, and I’m hiding behind jokes about baby seals.

In the comments, tell me I’m crazy. Or, tell me to be careful what I wish for, because I just might get it. Or admit that sometimes you feel like life is going a little TOO well.

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.

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?

Because Claustrophobia Just Wasn't Dorky Enough

You know how I’m kind of a jackass? Well, strap in for this one:

The moment I found a lime in my bed, I knew it was all downhill from there.

Friday night, I had one of my Celebrations of the Mighty Uteri, in which I take several girlfriends, line them up in a pretty row, and lob prosecco and chocolate at them until they wobble. Everybody plunges from karaoke-tipsy to home-in-a-wheelbarrow sloshed at a rapid clip, and these evenings tend to wrap up pretty early.

So, I was all alone at 11:00. I gathered up the (somewhat abundant) wine glasses, found an elusive and mysterious lime tucked between my bedsheets, and arranged the empty bottles into amusing shapes. I washed a few dishes, drank water, sobered up, changed into pajamas, and decided it was time to hit the restroom.

Yes, I hereby admit that I have, on occasion, used a restroom for its intended purpose.

However, that’s not the galling admission. That comes after.

We’ll start with the fact that the doorknob wouldn’t turn, the lock was jammed, and the door wouldn’t open. We’ll continue with a little slice of knowledge: I am not kidding, or being cute, by saying I am claustrophobic. I am, to a crippling degree, unable to deal with being confined. I have my little workarounds, and I don't make anyone else suffer for it, but there you go.

So, there I was, all alone, trapped to a small space and struggling to get free. At some point, I whacked the light switch with my elbow. I was plunged into sudden and complete darkness.

...and what’s even dorkier than claustrophobia? I am also afraid of the dark. I’m pretty much night blind, and find darkness utterly disorienting. So began a very ugly panic attack in which I forgot where I was and hyperventilated for what felt like eons, but was probably mere centuries.
Eventually, I came to. I put my hands out, realized I was touching a bathmat, realized that, statistically speaking, I was probably in my own bathroom, found the light switch, and forced open the door. I got out, stood on my balcony, and breathed in enough night air to quell the panic.

You know, I’m not completely sure why I’m telling this story. It makes me seem like a crazy lady. (Perhaps no more so than usual?)




But I think everyone has had the same freakout: “I’m (AGE), single, I live alone, there’s no rescue.” My version just includes a toilet, a sink, and several layers of full-on crazy. (And, yes, no matter what age you are, tacking it onto the title of your latest freakout gives it an extra air of poignancy.)

Anyhow, like everything else that has ever happened to me, I find it all very funny. I told this story several more times over the weekend, between Connect Four and Clash of the Titans and birthday parties, and everyone was incredibly sympathetic. They all declared they would have likewise lost their heads, or, if not, they could at least cheer me up by telling me about the time they accidentally wound up on Taxicab Confessions.

So, why am I really telling this story? I think it’s fair to point out that, no matter how far we think we’ve come, we’re all still full of foolish fears and complete jackassery. Most of us are three wrong turns away from total wreckage, panic, and being trapped in a dark and tiny space that may sometimes be merely metaphorical. Those dark and tiny spaces belong to everyone, and, the faster we acknowledge them, the faster they fill with light. I also think, just maybe, it’s because:

I live alone. Why was I closing, let alone locking, the bathroom door?

Hrm. Maybe that’s the lesson.

In the comments, tell me something, anything, to prop up my shattered ego.

The Sunny Side of the Skeeve

I’m back. And, by back, I don’t really mean I’m back to daily blogging. I've chosen to stop pushing myself and admit that those days are o-v-e-r.

I mean that I’m back to being my regular, snarky, obnoxiously cheerful self. I feel better than I have in months. After all, even the worst situations can be great opportunities for absurdity and humor. Life gets pretty skeevy sometimes, but I choose to live on the sunny side of the skeeve.

Here are a few examples from last week:

Sunday, Noonish, Frager’s Hardware:

I step up to the register, plunk a new rim cylinder (it sounds dirty, it's actually a deadbolt thingy of some sort) in front of the cashier. She looks me up and down: scraggy hair, sliding makeup, tipsy, wobbly, anxious. She takes a look at the clock. She takes careful note of the earliness of the hour. She says,

Cashier: Breakup?
Me: How did you know?
Cashier: We get a lot of young women in here changing their locks.
Me: *blush* She thinks I’m young!

Sunday afternoon, Mimosa ‘o Clock, Starfish Café:

The Refugee and I celebrate Breakup Sunday in high style: brunch, mimosas, Carolina vs. Duke. We order drinks for our mascot, Mr. Rim Cylinder. The bartender makes Psycho-shower-scene noises every time he overhears our conversation, and we race to the bottom of the bottomless mimosa special. (Confidential to Refugee: You must write that Breakup Sunday post!)

Monday evening, Cleveland Park, holding up my end of the bar:

I observe the bartender fishing out an olive from the jar with his bare hands. I become grateful that I’ve never really cared for martinis. Then I ask a friend to (very briefly and from a distance of several feet) skim over all of the potentially compromising cameraphone pictures of me to verify that, should they ever come to light, at least I look pretty damn good.

Thursday, 6:30 pm, corner of M and 19th Streets NW:

Homeless guy: Hey, baby, I’d do you for free!
Me: Oh, you’re very kind to offer, but I have plans this evening. Thanks, though!

Saturday, 8:00 pm, a house party in Adelphi:

Chatting with a dad, and playing with his kid. This baby just loves me. He's laughing, cooing and gurgling out a stream of extremely shiny drool. We're getting along famously. That is, until he punches me in the head. Yes, to make my week complete, I took a beatdown from an infant.

Lessons Learned:
Beer good, photos bad, friends good, new locks good, life good. Also, babies have a mean right hook, anyone I ever date will look like a prince by comparison, oh, and don’t ever order a martini at Atomic.

I'm a Real Boy!

I don't blog about work. And about 75 percent of what's been going on in my life has been work-related. That's why I've been so unreliable the last few months.

So, because I miss you, I'll make an exception. Also, I love to brag.

Today is a big day for me. Monday is an even bigger, ginormous, really fantastic day. That's when I officially start as a full-fledged, Pinocchio-becomes-a-real-boy member of the happy squad. Today is my last day as a temp.

Monday might be a letdown, like those couples who shack up, get married, come home from their honeymoons, check their mail, and then immediately start fighting over whose turn it is to pick coffee grounds out of the garbage disposal. (In my imaginary marriage, I hover gleefully next to the disposal's ON switch and cackle while my hypothetical husband digs in. With no gloves, because he's that manly. Or he's a grotesque slob. I haven't decided, but either way, no gloves.)

But, hey, it's the dreary homestretch of winter, and I could always use something to be happy about. So it's time to party.

I've been celebrating in mature, subdued ways. Like tying my offer letter around my neck, and running laps of the office while whooping. Or performing my killer Pinocchio impression, or by ditching my original plans to chill at home tonight in favor of beer. Glorious, wonderful beer.

In summary: woo hoo, huzzah, hurray!

PS - and, as ever, thanks Brett!

Thank You, Bastards of the Universe!

Sure, all sorts of terrible things are happening with the economy. The drumbeat of disaster is picking up its tempo. Soon, we'll be living off generic ramen and dead raccoons. Mad Max will be regarded as a sort of prescient documentary.

BUT, this news has made it all worthwhile:

Muzak Files for Chapter 11

Whenever you need to seek out a silver lining, remember this: when the economy's Elevator to Hell comes loose of its moorings and plunges us straight to Hooverville...at least we won't have to listen to crappy music on the way down.

Oh, and that thing where you jump just as the elevator crashes, so you don't die? A total myth.

In Which I Seek Meaning, But Find Unflattering Separates

I don't share. I'm possessive, jealous, meticulous, controlling, and downright scary.

I'm not talking about men. I'm talking about closets. The two are closely related, however, and in more than just the Larry Craig sense.

That's because one of the biggest moments in a new relationship is when you offer up a small portion of turf: say, a drawer, a shelf, or Herzegovina. I went upscale and gave J. his own little closet corner, with hanging shelves and a basket for sundries (hey, if I'm gonna give up turf, it's going to be under my own exceedingly anal-retentive terms).

But first, I had to make space.

I disposed of a collection of button-down blouses. I don't know why I even bought those, as nothing creates a boob plateau on the already A-cupped like a button-down. Blouses make me look like John Edwards, except with a snappier haircut. So, no real loss.

But then we got to the weird stuff: my mother's wedding gown, which is a hand-embroidered hippie monstrosity. I wear it on Halloween sometimes. My wedding gown, which is lovingly preserved in such a way that it looks like Headless Me in a Box. A shoebox of my sister's old school reports, helpfully labeled, "Skye's Crap." My old school reports, including one from kindergarten claiming I have "issues with spatial relations." Coats I never wear. Dresses that don't fit and probably never did. Dresses I wore once (like, the, er....wedding gown.) And more, and onwards. The absurd jumble of a life lived in the silliest way possible.

A more insightful blogger would find meaning in all this: "making room" in a literal and figurative sense, to allow a new relationship to grow. She'd find symbolism in these bits of family, past relationships, and prior selves. She'd set up her little Boyfriend Corner with a weepy sigh, a sense of purpose, an exploding heart, and a wry smile. Then she'd tell you all about it and you'd each come away feeling like you've learned and grew and changed. Like dandelions on a sunny field, while the cows do their cowlike mooing in the gooey twilight. Or something.

But that ain't me. So, instead, I'll tell you how I announced the Grand Opening of the Boyfriend Closet Corner:

"This is where your stuff goes. You have shelves! This is your basket. Now I don't have to look at piles of stuff everywhere. Cool?"

Clearly, I haven't learned a damn thing.

A Silver Lining in My Cloud of Superiority

I’ve been looking for silver linings. Upsides. The good news. There has to be something positive in having my salary cut in half.

I can vote in broad daylight. My precinct is in the projects. If you follow the crime reports, look for the number of robberies and beatdowns that happen within one block of my polling location. Yeah…I lived in Bogota and I’m worried.

I can obtain amusing second jobs. I’m debating applying to be a CVS clerk. While I’m worried about possible permanent damage to my IQ, I’ve always wanted to wear a smock.

Daytime drinking. Who’s up for starting happy hour at 2:00? Give me a call, I’m down for it.

Not having money is the fastest path to being better than everyone. My impoverished state allows me to sit here on my cloud of superiority and mock you soulless consumerist nitwits. I can’t believe how much useless crap you buy. You are all that is wrong with America!

My apartment is the cleanest it has ever been. My refrigerator is stocked, I have all the time in the world to make Crock-Pot comfort food, and I’ve even ironed some clothes.

Bad days build character.

I get to keep my health insurance.

Half a job is better than no job at all.

My friends rock.

I think it’s going to be OK.

Photo credit: Jeremy Brazell

Sometimes, It's Not that You're Paranoid...

...it's that your job is being reduced to 20 hours a week.

Worrypalooza in Anxiety Town

I’m a bit of a worrywart. It’s my own fault. I read the Gloom and Doom (aka, Business) section of the newspaper every day. I drink too much coffee. I don’t get enough rest. And, whenever I try to meditate or do yoga, I get bored and start worrying all over again.

Anxiety makes me feel better. It’s an ice-cold hug from an inconstant lover. It’s a little slice of control in my crazy world. It’s just…my way of doing things.

I spent much of yesterday worried sick. The least of my problems was that the iron might have been left on. If the iron was on, it was also probably face down on the rug. Meaning it was burning the rug. And then my entire sale rack wardrobe would go up in flames.

And now follow the bouncing ball, chain reaction freakout: If I don’t have clothes, I can’t go to work. And if I can’t go to work, I can’t pay off my student loan. Can the repo men take my college degree? And what if I can’t pay rent? Not that it matters, as I’d be living inside a burned-out hulk of an apartment with winter on the way.

Maybe I should become a survivalist. I could live in a shack and grow my own food. There’s the ticket. But then I wouldn’t have friends. Unless I could get my friends to come live in my shack, so we could be our own little commune. But then we would have to sell those stupid, “Stop Bitching…Start a Revolution” t-shirts. Then I would wonder what’s so revolutionary about 100% cotton, and if selling t-shirts is just a more commercial way of bitching. Then the universe would implode from the paradox, and we would all die horribly explosive deaths.

So what have I learned? Easy. No more cheese dip before bed.

In the comments, tell me what you worry about.

Warning: Post May Contain Actual Human Emotions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I promise I’ll be funny tomorrow. Today I decided to have a feeling or two (in case you were wondering, blog-as-therapy is usually a sign that I have writer's block).

Hangin' with Mr. Creepy

I don’t follow the skeevy, the skeevy follows me. Let me explain.

Last night, I decided to take a break from petty theft, hard liquor, and my own catastrophic character flaws. I wanted to stay in and focus on clothes: conduct the Great Seasonal Wardrobe Swap (summer-to-winter, which involves a meticulous rearrangement of my closet), do some laundry, and peruse the latest issue of Lucky. Thing is, I have terrible luck with laundry.

6:45 Carry basket of clothes to basement. Note the existence of Mr. Creepy loitering by the Coke machine. Take very careful note of excessive facial hair, shabby attire, dead eyes, and the weird shuffling walk. Realize he resembles an extra from The Day After.

6:55 Dump clothes in washer, return to elevators. Note the continued presence of Mr. Creepy, who is staring at me like I’m a tasty dessert with a magical unicorn candy bar on top.

7:30 Return to basement to move everything over to the dryer. Note the continued presence of Mr. Creepy next to the Coke machine. Wonder if he’s just really, really thirsty.

8:00 Return to basement to retrieve and fold clothes. Mr. Creepy is still there. Decide to heed the heebie-jeebies and ask a neighbor in the laundry room if he’s ever seen that guy before. He’s never seen that guy around…and he has now been loitering by the Coke machine for more than an hour.

8:10 Walk up to lobby, take elevator from there. Feel like a resident of Mayberry/Tombstone/Camelot when a chivalrous neighbor offers to go “check out the situation.” Decline the offer.

8:15 Call Security. Call the everlovin’ heck outta Security.

8:30 Call Security to follow up. Find out that Mr. Creepy does, in fact, live in the building (great!). The guard explains that Mr. Creepy is “not right in the head” (even better!) and has a habit of hanging around the Coke machine (whee!), to the consternation of virtually every woman in the building.

Don’t get me wrong, I dig the mentally ill. Otherwise, I’d have no one to spend Christmas with.

But it seems to me my building could be doing a little more about a “not right” gentleman in shabby clothes, who hangs around a Coke machine in a basement for hours on end, staring at women. He's probably harmless, but I'm not going to bet my personal safety to find out. I believe in listening to my instincts, and Mr. Creepy was setting off all kinds of alarm bells.

In totally unrelated news, anybody wanna come over tonight while I wash the rest of my clothes? Especially if you're musclebound and intimidating? I’ll make you a lovely shepherd’s pie.

Taxi-Slob Confessions

The day before my fake wedding in Dothan, my girlfriends, my sister and I had a Confession Session with my mom.

One example: Mom, I wasn’t really at the library. I was barreling down Old Delaney Road with various teenagers poking out of the sunroof of Dad’s ancient Volvo. It was fun! Gravel roads, low branches, and delicate machinery be damned, it was fun. And Dad totally had no idea I'd stolen his car.

The confessions felt good. Cleansing. Glorious. And, of course, my mom already knew everything anyway.

But I feel the need for another confession session. I'm about to spill my guts to every man I’ve ever met up with on a first date. It isn’t pretty, but I’ve learned to cheerfully embrace my own imperfections. Maybe someday I’ll meet someone who finds all of this funny...

...and maybe even kind of hot.

My Secrets:

My dad isn’t really a gun collector, and I don’t have a big brother named Bruno.

If I met you online, I forwarded your profile to at least two of my girlfriends. One, so they can amuse themselves with it, and two, so you can be identified if I turn up dead in a ditch.

I really do worry about turning up dead in a ditch. There’s a reason for that, which I don’t explain until the fifth date or so. I have a schedule for these things.

I’m sorry I got drunk and face-planted into the side of a taxi. It’s nothing personal. (Please please tell me you thought it was cute!)

It's not nervous chatter. I always verbalize every thought that stomps around my brain.

There’s a $20 bill in a hidden corner of my wallet, so I can run outside and hail a cab if you’re truly appalling.

I’m reaching for my wallet with total sincerity, and totally don’t mind paying, but would kind of prefer for you to pick up the check.

It's a successful date if I feel like I've made a new friend. I rarely feel instant chemistry, and when I do, it's because I've got a wild craving for a bad idea. I've outgrown that sort of thing, though. Mostly. Dear God, I hope so.

If I think you’re a complete jerk, I will hang around to see how awful you can truly be. I’m not trying to lead you on, it’s just that I love a good freakshow.

I'm totally comfortable with my body and my appearance. However, what I'm not comfortable with is not being taken seriously because of the way I look. It happens, a lot. Especially on dates. And I hate it.

If I’ve seen your apartment, I’ve probably mentally moved my stuff into it. This isn’t because I’m clingy, it’s because I love to decorate.

If I don't like you, I will change your name in my phone to something insulting. "Hell No," "You Can Do Better," "Handsy McOctopus" and "Handsy McInsincere" have all at one point lived together inside my address book.

I totally don’t mind being asked about my divorce. In fact, I'll bring it up myself to see whether you’re judgmental or uptight.

If you found my blog, and don't own up to having read it, I will feel violated.

I can tell you’re wearing lifts in your shoes.

I’ll be sad if you don’t call me.

In the comments, confess something to me. It'll do you good.

In Other News, People Are Stupid

I love conspiracy theories and baseless rumors as much as the next girl, but, really...if we just got rid of Ohio, would anyone miss it?

Today's Post tells us all about the people of Findlay, Ohio, who apparently believe all sorts of awesome untrue things about Barack Obama. It's not the ignorance of the Findlayans that kills me, it's the willful stupidity. And if that makes me an urban Starbucks-toting snooty lily-livered elitist, so be it. Money quote:

"I understand he's from Africa, and that the first thing he's going to do if he gets into office is bring his family over here, illegally. He's got that racist [pastor] who practically raised him, and then there's the Muslim thing. He's just not presidential material, if you ask me."

So, Obama's an African Muslim, but he was practically raised by a pastor (who are, generally speaking, Christian) in America. That's not just being a bit misguided. You would really need to do some mental backflips to twist yourself into that one. That level of idiocy takes perseverance and effort. If we could harness the willful ignorance of America's Findlays, along with the mental power used to make bongs out of honey jars and soda cans, we'd have a cure for cancer by now.

The other hilarious part is that the locals believe whatever their friends and neighbors tell them. As one man says, "These are good people, smart people, so can they really all be wrong?"

Because if you love someone, they must be right. Right?

I love my mom, and she believes Clearasil is carcinogenic and that the FBI keeps a file on me. I have a friend who sends me at least one (easily discredited) chain email rumor a week, usually that antiperspirant causes breast cancer or that Microsoft will give me money for forwarding stuff. I also know a guy who thinks the Trilateral Commission sets gas prices. Just because these are all lovely, God-fearing people doesn't mean I'm going to banish benzoyl peroxide and antiperspirant from my medicine cabinet.

Look, voters are dumb. They are thick and selfish and willfully silly. I was a pollster, and I can tell you, empirically, within a margin of error of three percentage points, precisely how dumb voters truly are. Our current president was chosen based on whom we'd rather have a beer with. Apparently, a majority of us would rather have a beer with a teetotaler, because we're just that smart.

So I guess what I'm trying to say is this: it's not just Findlay, Ohio. And I take back my assertion that we should just get rid of the entire state.

All we can do is cross our fingers and hope the next president improves education enough that perhaps the next generation won't be choosing presidents based on what Joe down at the bait shop thinks.

In the comments, pretend you're Joe from the bait shop and tell me something outrageous.

Baby Shower Games of the Damned

I’m attending a close friend’s baby shower on Monday. Moreover, I’m on the Game Committee.

You know, if I didn't like my friend, and was an envious and passive-aggressive hag, I could really have a great time with this. I could pick out some really, really awful games. There are so many to choose from! (The problem is that then, I would have to play these myself - so, Mom-to-Be, no reason to panic just yet.)

Anyhow, in order from mildly insulting to all-out godawful, here are the top five Shower Games of the Damned from BabyShowerCentral.com:

5. "Pin the Diaper on the Baby Boy"

This is a gag game, so make sure mom-to-be is in a mood to be messed with before attempting. Ask the mother-to-be (or daddy-to-be or anyone else you'd like to play a joke on) to go first. After putting on the blindfold, have someone sneak up on mom and spray her with a small water gun, to prepare her for the "surprises" we get when changing a baby boy's diaper!

Translation: This is a gag game in which urine and public humiliation are HILARIOUS.

4. "My Water Broke"

Give each guest a water balloon, and have them place the balloon between their knees. Pair guests into teams if desired. Have the guests run or walk without dropping their water balloon. Once a balloon is dropped, that player/team is out of the game.

Translation: I can think of nothing I’d rather do in a sundress and heels than run around the backyard, making sweet love to a water balloon in front of two dozen strangers.

3. "Be the Baby"

Choose one guest, usually the father-to-be, to be the baby. Have guests take turns performing actions such as dressing/feeding/burping the baby.

Translation: Wow, who can pass up such a golden opportunity to manhandle your friend’s husband?

2. "Name that Poop"

Fill baby diapers (real or made from napkins/paper) with things like crushed candy bars, rocky road ice cream, mustard, chocolate cake, etc. Have guests determine what each "poop" is.

Translation: Oh, wow, this is just too disgusting for words. OK, we all know that many new parents become dull people who talk about nothing but their babies and the texture of their poop…do we really need to suffer through all that BEFORE the baby even arrives?

1. "Teddy Bear Kiss"

Pass a teddy bear, or baby doll, around the room and have each guest kiss the bear. After everyone has kissed the bear, have them kiss the mom to be in the exact same spot they kissed the bear.

Translation: And here we have it, folks, the Most Appalling Baby Shower Game Known to Man. Or woman. Or little green Martians. This game is, basically, a lesbian gang rape of a pregnant woman. Which is illegal in all 50 states, but I am sure is a popular sub-genre in the porno universe.

Or we could just do a word jumble and get on with our lives.

In the comments section, tell me the most appalling thing you ever saw at a shower, or take a moment to thank sweet baby Jesus that you’re a man and you can skip these things.

How Life Gets It Wrong

I spent an exciting Saturday evening playing a new edition of The Game of Life.

I miss the Life of my youth. Mainly because, upon retirement, you could trade in your children for cash. I just loved the idea that procreation had a cash value of $2,500. Also, it was entirely possible to go bankrupt or lose your job. The Life of my youth was uncertain and somewhat challenging. Much like the real thing.

Today’s Life reflects a certain gimme-gimme bourgeois sensibility. For starters, the cars are now minivans instead of sedans. The game order is college-career-marriage-house-kids, with no deviations. I married a fellow pink peg, just to inject a teeny slice of counterculture. Nobody gets to stay single, nobody can say “screw you” to the housing market and rent forever, and there are enough “It’s a Boy!” or “Adopt Twins!” spaces that kids are virtually compulsory. My own pegwife was astonishingly fertile, spawning twice within three turns. If she’d had arms, I would have jammed some teeny-tiny Norplant in there.

Additionally, all of the career options are a child’s-eye view of prestige. Entertainer, doctor, teacher, policeman. The lone dullard is the accountant. I’m surprised there was no “astronaut” option. Nobody becomes a bartender, carpenter, or secretary (boo!).

It was all too easy and absurdly lucrative. You could earn upwards of $250,000 just for landing on a random space and getting a Life Tile. You could earn $90,000 a year as a rookie cop. Tax payments involved luck instead of law. Everyone retires a millionaire. I wonder if this game is warping children, convincing them that adulthood is a lockstep of success with little to no effort. Who am I kidding? Kids today think that way anyhow, without the influence of Milton Bradley.

So, after a round of Life on a Saturday night, I felt like a bit of a loser. Not because I should have been out at a swank club instead of playing children’s games on the floor of my little studio. Instead, I wondered why nobody’s ever handed me $90,000 a year, a house by random selection, a trouble-free fruitful marriage, or the ability to pay off my college loans within three spins of the wheel. Why does everything in my life happen out of sequence and take so much effort?

On the other hand, at least I don’t have to drive around in an orange plastic minivan.

Love, Money, and Everything In-Between

My relationship with money isn't terribly complicated. That's because I don't have any.

And that's where the complications come in. And this is a post on behalf of my fellow broke Washingtonians.

Being broke when you're in college isn't so bad, because nobody else has any money, either. But once you hit your thirties, everyone else is financially stable while you're still at the paycheck-to-paycheck kiddie table. (I call myself a P-to-P'er.) It ain't easy, and this is an absurdly expensive town full of marginally affluent, possibly overextended people.

(It's especially fun when you're a P-to-P'er because you dropped your career to get married to a virtual stranger and move overseas for a while, then had to come back and start over, which is what I did. So I really only have myself to blame. Oh, and the fact that the job market is really tough. Because it is. But, this post isn't specifically about me, it's about all of us broke folks.)

So you look at money-in vs. money-out, gasp at the discrepancy, devise a budget, and mercilessly chop out any form of frippery. Lunch is from a Tupperware, sodas have names like Dr. Skipper, and socializing revolves around half-price cheeseburgers and horrifically watery beer.

When you're broke, big group dinners are best avoided. Friendships can get strained when you order a salad, and everyone else orders the entirety of page 3 of the menu. Plus wine and dessert. Then they want to split the bill evenly, which is more efficient. This makes the P-to-P crowd want to scream and throw things (yes, it's an overreaction, but you try spending $10 and getting told to chip in $65, which is your food budget for the week, and see how you feel). Or when you can't make an event because it's too expensive, or you simply can't go anywhere at all for a while.

Dating is complicated, too, because if you always want to go to a museum or cook dinner at home, eventually someone is going to call your bluff. And who wants to look like a pauper in front of someone you want to impress?

Which brings us to the whole issue of pride: we're all supposed to have fabulous jobs and steady incomes and be able to go wherever we want. It's no fun to look like a tightwad because you're holding potlucks instead of dinner parties or dropping completely off the social map. And the deeper fear, of looking like you're incompetent at adulthood. And the deepest fear of all: that you may actually be incompetent at adulthood.

Which brings us to the anxiety. Don't read the business section of the Post, because you'll start hoarding rubber bands like a Depression survivor. Any reports on unemployment rates make me want to hide under my bed. But there's no room, that's where I've been stashing all of my economic Doomsday canned goods and penny jars. The recession isn't coming, folks, it's already here. Any of your unemployed and underemployed friends could have told you that months ago.

So maybe all of us will be in the same boat soon enough. And this entire post will be a moot point, because all of Washington will be at 15-cent Wing Night, tossing back discount beers together in a heartwarming moment of economic unity.

So, affluent Washingtonians, next time you think someone's a cheapskate, maybe they're just broke. And remember that it can happen to anyone, including you.

Aging Before Your Very Eyes

Today is that day I love so much. My birthday. I'm 31. Technically, because I was born on the other side of the International Date Line, I really turned 31 yesterday. But as yesterday was devoted to DVDs and hangovers, I guess today will suffice.

Compared to turning 30, 31 has been kind of anticlimactic. Age 29, I got divorced, moved back to DC, and started my life over. Age 30 was a cakewalk by comparison. I expect 31 to be even easier.

But forces are conspiring to make me feel old. I tend to be mistaken for someone much younger. On a typical bar excursion, I am carded once at the door, and twice by the waitress. People ask me what college I go to. Nobody ever believes my real age. Well, until now.


Saturday, for the first time ever, I was not carded buying beer at Shopper's Food Warehouse. It's the end of life as I know it. I am no longer being carded! Next stop will be a dozen cats and a penchant for knitting.