This Just In: I'm a Pervy Unicorn

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

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

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

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

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

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

5. Bill Clinton was president in 2004.

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

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

The 'winner' gets satirized in an upcoming post.

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

Since There's No One Around to Read This Anyway...

...Let's all admit something awesome about ourselves. Or embarassing. Whichever. It's a holiday week and no one is around, so...why not? It's cleansing, and fun! (Just like soap on a rope.)

I'll go first:

1. I own a copy of Dr. Laura's Ten Stupid Things Women Do to Mess Up Their Lives, read it several times a year, and find it inspirational.

2. I think the biggest challenge of relationships in your twenties is not really knowing who you are or what you want.

3. I think the biggest challenge of relationships in my thirties is that I know full well who I am and what I want, and have therefore become too set in my ways. (For example, I have become almost completely unable to be sociable in the mornings, and will instead zone out in front of the newspaper. Sadly, I've found that few people can deal with being ignored for hours on end.)

4. I'm grateful to the new readers who came here via the New York Times article...but I'm also grateful that my blog traffic has gone back to semi-normal. I find readership spikes a little overwhelming.

5. I get annoyed when friends suggest I be an event planner for a living, because I don't want to turn my beloved hobby into something money-oriented and stressful.

Your turn! In the comments, entertain us by admitting something awesome.

Behold Your Fashion Future

I like to think of myself as a stylish lady. I fight the frump with killer heels, never leave the apartment without at least a little lip gloss, and have pretty much bought every dress that has ever been made. I figured I would roll into middle age and beyond with fabulosity and age-appropriate cool.

That is, until this morning. I realized that today's ensemble (bohemian top, capris, stripper-hippie heels, jangly bracelets) was just a few steps removed from an all-out Chico's catalogue doomsday. It's an easy and witless slide, like alcoholism or voting Republican.

Step one: Trade the bracelets for the dreaded Statement Necklace.

Step two: Trade the sexy heels for some sensible slides.

Step three: Trade the (somewhat) skin-baring top for something looser and less revealing.

Step four: The worst of all. The horror. The humanity! I'd trade the capris for something with a drawstring waist.

And the final result?


Not that I don't love Bea Arthur, because heaven knows the woman rocked...but that doesn't mean I would ever want to dress like her.

In the comments, tell me your fashion future. Or make me feel better about being only four steps removed from Dorothy Zbornak.

When The Heavens Open Up and It Rains Mr. Amazings

I suffer from a particularly pugnacious form of optimism. If you’re my friend, I’ll try to make you love everything that you hate: Mondays (they’re a fresh start!), bad dates (who doesn’t want a front seat at a freakshow?) and black licorice (so unique!).

But there is one thing I will never, ever tell someone I love:

Once you stop looking, the perfect partner will fall into your life!

Oh, I hate that one. Kittens in heaven, I hate it. It’s a mean-spirited patronizing little cliché wrapped up in gauzy good intentions.

First off, it’s rarely true. When I stop looking, I tend to hibernate in plain sight with my girlfriends and swap out my bloodstream for Heineken. Or, if a man does crash-land into my life, he's married and has an unsettling tendency to email me dozens of times per day in logic-averse Princespeak.

Second, it implies that single people are chumps. We’re too stupid to assess potential partners on their merits. Instead, I suppose I ought to just fall on the ground, put my legs in the air, and see who stops by. The third customer is my special prince! It's all just random luck.

Third, it’s just so goddamn smug. “You’re doing it wrong. You have to be so totally happy being single, but kind of want a partner, but not really look for one, and then one will appear as if by magic and you can be happy like me and spend your weekends doing stuff like explaining to your husband that underpants ought to be replaced every now and then.”

Being single is so much better than being in a bad relationship (if you don’t know that one yet, learn it…NOW). I’m single and surrounded by amazing friends, and every day I'm absurdly grateful for the amount of love and support I have in my life. Doesn’t mean I’m going to stop looking, and it sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m going to leave such an important part of my life up to random chance.

When it comes down to it: most people would rather be in love. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying...if only to themselves.

In the comments, tell me what relationship cliché makes you want to punch things. Or, tell me that the moment I stop looking, the heavens shall open and it will begin to rain Mr. Amazings.

It's Wednesday. I Got Nothin'.

My typical morning goes a little something like this: Drag self out of bed, kick out any remaining sailors, shower, put on clothes, drink coffee, stab self in eye with eyeliner, take Metro, walk to office.

But sometimes, my two favorite morning companions join me. No, not Smith & Wesson. Not coffee and whiskey. Not even Captain and Tennille can compare.

See, some days I'll run into this awesome homeless dude. He has the habit of stopping dead in his tracks, pointing at me, and bursting into hysterical laughter. The first time he did it, I flashed back to 10th grade gym class. The second time, I asked, "Is it my outfit?" He nodded, laughed again, and shuffled off. There is nothing worse than having your style mocked by a man whose pants are held up by a jumprope.

My other favorite morning companion is the one-legged pigeon who likes to hang around my office building. I don't know why, but the idea of a one-legged pigeon making a life for himself in this big, tough town warms my heart. I like to picture him as a vermin version of Mary Tyler Moore, wearing pantsuits, hanging with a rodent Rhoda, and throwing his little beret in the air. Because, "He's gonna make it after all!"

In the comments, tell me what you saw on your way to work.

I Can't Stand Up (for Falling Down)

I fall down a lot. In fact, just yesterday, I busted ass in front of a Popeye’s.

I’d just finished my two-piece chicken dinner (what? Hangover food, people), and was walking back to the office with a spring in my step and a sloshy cup of empty calories in my hand. The ground gave way. As in, I tumbled to Earth and skinned my elbows, my knees, and my butt in the process. Also, somehow, I scraped off my toenail polish.

How I managed to dent both the front and backside of me is a total mystery. I imagine the arc of my fall was downright beautiful, and passersby thought they were experiencing Cirque du Soleil. Well, Cirque du Soleil as performed by a woman holding a soda from Popeye’s and dressed like a pregnant hippie.

It hurt. But it was also pretty funny. And I believe when life hands you a choice between laughing and crying, you should opt for laughter. So I sat on the ground, soda rolling across the sidewalk, legs akimbo, cackling at my own dumbassery.

I looked up and down the block, and noticed that nobody else was laughing. In fact, two young women had stopped dead in their tracks, and were headed my way. They both asked if I was OK.

I asked, “Say, has anybody seen my dignity? I’m sure it was around here someplace,” and went back to laughing hysterically. Then I noticed that my soda had come through the ordeal just fine, and felt a whole lot better. Woo, caffeine and empty calories! Two of my favorite things.

A random young man trotted up, helped me to my feet, dusted me off, asked if I was hurt, and went on his way. The two young women kept asking if I’d broken or sprained anything (wow, that fall must have looked like a doozy). They also examined the sidewalk to see what I had slipped on and asked if I was going to be able to get back to my office. After a few moments, I was able to gingerly head back to work. I'm still a little sore, but nothing a couple of beers can't fix.

So, anybody who says DC is cold and unfriendly, the people are lame, and nobody has any manners: bust ass in front of a chicken joint, and see your faith in humanity restored. It was really very lovely.

Enlightenment Is Really Very Ordinary

I'm not much for deep thought. Feelings scare me. Meditation is boring within 30 seconds, yoga makes me think of Cosmopolitan's absurd sexual acrobatics, and massages give me the creeps. Nature is boring after a couple of hours. "Hey, guys, look, it's another tree! Can we go for a burger now?"

So, overall, I'm pretty shallow. Oh well, I still like me.

One thing I do have a handle on is this: if it was purchased, it probably didn't make you a better person. Integrity is not a commercial transaction.

If your parents paid for you to rebuild schools in Kenya, while your classmates worked at crappy retail jobs all summer, then you are not more profound than they are. Backpacking across Europe and getting schnockered in Prague does not make you a philosopher. Railing against poverty, racism, and The Man from a comfortable couch does not make you morally superior. Freeloading in Sarajevo didn't put me over the edge, karmically speaking. It's all commerce and tourism.

So what does make you a better person? The same old, everyday trauma that the rest of mankind experiences. Getting your heart stomped. Stripping down your life, digging out, and starting over. Joy. Independence. Commonality. Goofiness. Gratitude. Understanding that even if you are one in a million, there are a thousand of you in India. No one person is all that great, and very, very few of us have anything original to offer. So the path to enlightenment is to find and love your place in the world.

So if you're special, disabuse yourself of the notion. If you're deep, get a ladder. And if you're better than the rest of us, find your own planet. The guy in the photo can help.

And please, please do not corner people at parties and tell them what a deep thinker you are.

My Opinion on Perfection

When you ask a man to describe his “perfect woman,” you usually wind up with a glorified golden retriever, or Mother Teresa in a thong. Women don’t fare much better, as they usually talk about a square-jawed plastic action figure who loves to do the dishes. As with anything romantic, the clichés are pervasive and suffocating. There is too little room for quirks, flaws, or surprises.

Nobody will ever be perfect, which is a blessing. We can’t heap all of our love, needs, and passion onto one person. Soulmates are for suckers. Life is about building many, many connections, until they add up to something perfect.

But we all have times when we’re our best selves. And I'm on the record as saying that men are pretty cool. So here are a few of the “perfect” men I’ve known (mostly friends, as that’s where I’ve been the luckiest):

The man who remembered how much I love Gerber daisies, researched them on Wikipedia, and brought them to me for Valentine’s Day.

The man who talked me into bagging work for the afternoon to go play on some waterslides.

The man who could derail any staff meeting by weighing in on Asian hookers, or by washing down PopRocks with Dr. Pepper.

The man who walked around DC with me until seven in the morning, just because I was at loose ends and had worn flats that night.

The man who, despite the tough-guy sarcasm and home tattoo, sent me soup when I was sick and will always have the bail money ready.

The man who kept a SuperSoaker in the gun rack of his truck.

The man who decided to join the girls’ team, because life is just more fun that way.

The man who has spent eight years of his life listening to the same stupid story about bartering for hamburgers at Tysons Corner.

The man who flunked me for misspelling Albuquerque, because that’s where I learned that details matter.

The man whose album collection could eat Texas, and still have room for dessert.

The man who showed up at the airport with a cooler of root beer.

The man who knows everything, from GPS autodrives to why I decided to climb a tree in a dominatrix outfit, but isn't afraid to admit when he’s wrong.

All the men who have let me take care of them when they’re sick, lonely, or afraid.

The men who were everything I didn’t need: the players, the providers, the psychos, the stalkers. And the men who were exactly what I needed at the time: fun, encouraging, solid, brave, rebellious or silly.

I could go on forever, because I’ve met so many amazing men. All of my “perfect” guys are flawed, none of them will grace the cover of Vanity Fair, and I bet none of them dream of washing the dishes while massaging my feet.

Perfection has nothing to do with arbitrary ideals or conventional romance. Instead, the “Perfect Man” is one who inspires you. He makes you want to be your best self. You want to be kinder, sweeter, smarter, wiser and braver. The “perfect man” makes you wish that you could be perfect yourself.

"Perfection” comes from within. Seek out the people who turn you into your best self, and the rest will work itself out.

Temporarily Yours

I'm breaking a rule here, because I almost never discuss work. If you read between the lines, though, it's pretty obvious that I'm an office temp. I do mostly higher-end, longer-term assignments, and have been with the same agency for five years (not counting my stints overseas when I worked for the guv'ment).

There are some really great things about being a temp. Actually, if it paid more, I'd temp forever.

The Highs:
I'm always meeting new people and learning new things
If a position isn't a perfect fit, it isn't forever
I have contacts all over town and have made a lot of friends
I can refer to myself as an "office anthropologist"
I really and truly enjoy (and rock the house at) administrative work
People are very appreciative of the work I do, and I get lots of coffee gift cards and free food

The Lows:
Not much stability
Would YOU want to be 31 years old and paid by the hour?

I've been hunting for a permanent job for a while now. I specifically took time over the summer just temp and write, but started my job search in earnest in the fall. I'm grateful for the experiences I've had, grateful to have a roof over my head, and really happy I got the chance to try out so many different industries and jobs. The last year has given me a much better idea of who I am, what my strengths are, and who I want to be.

So, if you're at loose ends, give temping a try.

A Lucky Lucky Leap Day

I have a particular good-luck charm. If I start my day by running into someone I went to high school with, I have a wonderful, perfect day. Doors open, worlds collide, I get the best tables in the best restaurants, flower merchants give me an extra daisy just for smiling, and the sun shines.

Today looked like it might be unlucky. I didn't have any clean, matching socks. The clean underwear options were equally dire. I forgot my lunch. My Metro train was being driven by some sort of batty old man who kept slamming the brakes. I was running late, crabby and in a hurry.

Then it all changed: I heard my name, turned around, and there was an old friend waiting for me. Back in Woodbridge, I used to give him a ride home from school, and on the way we'd stop at Taco Bell. We'd joke that you can only eat something as nasty as Taco Bell with someone you trust. We lost track of each other after graduation.

And then, today, I ran into him. He works just down the street from my office. The sun is out, my office has that post-crunch time teamwork glow, and it's Friday. My NewsHour segment aired last night ("Babies Having Babies" --- I didn't see it, and if I'm in that, I really hope none of my relatives see). And it's a Leap Year. So by the end of today, I'll either win the lottery or get hit by a falling satellite.

Either way, I can't wait to see what happens next.