Having Needs is Not "Being Needy"

Everyone has needs. Mine revolve around fresh air, salted margaritas, stinky cheese*, and self-respect.

One of the hardest lessons of adulthood is finding the line between having needs and being needy. However, if you have any desire to be involved in healthy relationships, it's worth it.

Having needs is a legitimate statement of self-esteem. We all need to be respected, treated compassionately, and liked for who we are. Needs are manifested by clearly stating fair and reasonable expectations for others. It drives the bad, selfish people away from you, because they're too self-involved to meet your standards.

Neediness is born of low self-esteem. It's a constant barrage of loyalty tests, anxiety, and desperation for approval. Neediness is no way to live, and it drives good, healthy people away from you because they get sick of your drama.

You need for your significant other to meet up and play nice with your friends. It is needy to expect your friends to emphatically approve of your significant other, especially if he's not that nice/doesn't treat you well/is married (and not to you).

You need your friends to RSVP to a dinner party in a reasonable amount of time so you can plan a menu. It is needy to hound them weeks in advance for a response, because you're anxious to see how much they like you.

You need for your significant other to make an effort, so you know you are valued. It is needy to expect a thousand yellow daisies because you saw it in a TV show once.

You need for your significant other to make specific plans with you, in advance, so you are not stuck waiting by the phone, or dropping everything and running like a puppy the second he whistles for you. It is needy to actually wait by the phone or act like a puppy. Make plans with your friends instead.

You need your significant other to notice when you've gone all-out to look your best. It is needy to expect your significant other to notice a microchange in your hairstyle, or that your socks match (even if that's a rare thing).

You need for your significant other to care about your birthday. It is needy to schedule your birthday party on a date that poses a big conflict, just because you want to stage a manipulative loyalty test.

In the comments, tell me your line between "needs" and "needy."

*However, may I suggest never eating blue cheese while lounging barefoot? It's hard to tell where the smell is coming from.

Someday, Somebody's Gonna Fix this by Installing a Wet Bar at Gymboree

Apparently, the good folks of Park Slope, Brooklyn, have their skinny jeans in a bunch over whether it's ok to bring babies into bars.

Well, Brooklyn, I can answer that for you: No. It's not OK.

Really. It's that simple.

Despite my tendency to take a random and intense dislike to strangers' children (especially ones with whiny voices), I really do like and enjoy the kids I know. They're usually fun and adorable. Hey, I even like it when the neighbor kids play tackle football in the hallway. Their high spirits are endearing, and they quiet down whenever I ask them to.

But that doesn't mean I want to sip a Manhattan next to your squawking brat. Bars are places where adults go to be with other adults. And I can't imagine being a parent out on their first grownup date night in ages...only to be confronted with a boozy version of Babies R Us. The anti-kids in bars folks in Brooklyn complained about mega-strollers blocking the exits, and being shushed or told not to curse, all while the parent holds a weeping, overstimulated kid who probably just wants to go somewhere quiet. Oh, MAN. I have yet to see that in DC, but I would probably lose my mind if somebody told me to tone down my language to suit their crotchfruit's tender sensibilities.

I get that it's lonely being the parent of small children. Really, I do. It's a relentless series of demands and compromises. But that's a choice you made when you spawned. You don't undergo a change as major as parenthood without anticipating that your life is going to be very, very different from here on out. You're not going to have the exact same social life for a long time to come. Is it so hard to ask your friends to stop by on a Sunday afternoon, or meet for coffee instead of drinks? Just for a few years?

In the end, it's about courtesy. There are so many confined spaces that cram the child-free up against children when they're at their most most miserable: airplanes, transit, casual restaurants, Camelot (just kidding)...so what's so bad about a few adults-only refuges, like bars and R-rated movies?

Oh, heavens. Don't even get me STARTED about kids in R-rated movies.

In the comments, say, "You have a baby! In a bar!" Or tell me what movie that comes from.

PS _ If you're one of my friends, and you're reading this, I really do like your child. Kids I know are awesome - it's just the random ones who tick me off. And you can bring them over anytime. Just please, don't bring them to Recessions!

PPS - I predict this will be a big controversy in Columbia Heights in 5-10 years.

A Menagerie of Decorating Pet Peeves

After last week’s love-in, I decided something: I miss the little things. By which I mean, I miss getting ticked off about the little things. Like that ridiculous wave of silliness that smacks into people when they begin feathering their nests.

Hey, a little venom makes the world go ‘round. And a lot of it knocks it off its axis, spinning us into the nether regions of the galaxy. And we all know how we feel about nether regions. So, without any further ado/lifting of the interstellar petticoats, here are my Top Home Decor Pet Peeves:

Inspirational wall decals. Whether it’s a single word, like, “Family,” or a sentiment consisting of treacle-flavored barf, such as “Family is Really Nice and Stuff,” it just comes across as a clutter of unimaginative hokum. Inspirational wall decals are for people too cheap to collect Precious Moments figurines.

Accent Walls. It just looks like the decorator got bored and moved on to something else. It's trendy, it's not all that cool...kind of like naming your child Madison and then claiming you came up with it first.

The West Elm Catalog. Who doesn’t like to flip through the West Elm catalog and imagine themselves in a world of sterile Bohemia? Who doesn’t want funny-shaped headboards and decorative octopi? Until you start reading the testimonials, which come from sanctimonious twits like the Surfer Skier who enjoys parachuting, the poor, and his girlfriend. My vision of hell is spending all eternity at a dry, no-dance Baptist wedding with the West Elm Catalog People.

Sage Green. Overdone. Annoying. I can’t decide whether it’s the Harvest Gold or Avocado Green of our generation.

Lucite Furniture. No, decorators, it does NOT make a room look airier. It makes my knees look bruisier from all the times I bang into your goofy invisible furniture.

Overly Arty Book Arrangements. Why would I cover all of my books in matching paper? Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of, say, deciding which of my books I'd like to read? The people who do this are also probably the same ones who have those $300 stand mixers that never get used.

Black Leather Furniture. Why is it that virtually every man, once he starts making a little money, runs right out and buys a black leather couch? Forget, "I'll call you," the black leather sofa is the ultimate mystery of the Y chromosome.

Decorative Antlers. Unless you shot it, killed it, ate it, stuffed it, and danced on its carcass, you don't need antlers over the loveseat.

In the comments, tell me what sort of decor makes you cringe. Also, the image above is from Dictator Style, which is seriously the funniest book in the whole entire universe. It even has Saddam Hussein's collection of disturbing topless sci-fi art!

The Seven People You'll Meet at the Cocktail Party of the Damned

Lemmonex wrote a great post yesterday about manners. Basically, her point is this: HAVE SOME. I’d like to add on to her peeves by teaching y’all something you should already know. That is, how to be a good party guest.

I’m something of an expert at this. Not only am I an irredeemable partier, I’m a recovering diplomat’s wife, and throw at least a dozen gatherings per year in my 481-square foot studio. Cramming up to 30 people in my place and having it still be fun takes a LOT of creativity and know-how.

Because I’m sure all of you want to be my friend, chill on my sofa, and avail yourselves of the Shangria, let me share with you my Seven People I’ll Meet at the Cocktail Party of the Damned*. These are the guests that send even the most charming, laid-back hostess into shrieking fits. A party of all of these folks combined would get me to hang up my hostess hat forever:

1. The Unannounced Entourage. Some folks can’t go anywhere without their half-dozen closest friends. Cool. The more the merrier. But if you’re going to double my party population on zero notice, bring some extra beers. Also, don’t spend the whole evening sequestered on the balcony with the little clique you walked in with - that's just snobby.

2. The Guest List Cop. These people drive you nuts before the party’s even started. They go over your guest list with a baleful eye and complain that they don’t exactly approve of your choices. Don’t like everyone who will be there? Think you’re incapable of a cordial hello and a hasty retreat to another corner of the room? Spend your Saturday night somewhere else. This should be quite basic, here: you don’t have the right to tell me who I can and can’t invite to my own home. I mean, really.

3. The TwitterBits. These folks twaddle their thumbs across their keyboards the whole time they’re over. It’s one thing to check in with your ride, place a bet with your bookie, or ask your secretary to line up your booty call. But why spend the whole evening glued to a machine? Why not just stay home and make sweet, sweet love to your laptop?

4. The High-Maintenance Helpmate. I love when people offer to bring an appetizer or a dessert. Especially desserts, as I hate to bake. But please don’t bring something that requires tons of fridge space (I have, like, none to spare), destroy the kitchen (it’s already gonna be revolting), or involve lots of prep (in my tiny kitchen). Just bring a plate of cookies instead.

5. The Eeyore Extravaganza. We all have bad days. However, if you have 1,000 bad days in a row, and spend the entire party bitching mightily to anyone who will listen, don’t expect a return invite. My home is my refuge, and, hell, it’s a refuge for anyone who wants to come over, relax and have a good time. Don’t take that away from us.

6. The High-Maintenance Momma. Bring your baby. I will happily hold it for you, and swear I won’t use its first tooth to crack open my bottle of Bud Light. Just don’t bring the super-extra-double-large SUV stroller, the fourteen bags of equipment, and the 27 buckets of food. A carseat, diaper bag and a few toys and snacks will suffice for a short visit.

7. The Robin Leech. This person sees parties as a venue for personal gain. They corner guests regarding the latest marketing strategy, or, even better, they’re disappointed when things aren’t as posh as they’d prefer. I serve Yeungling in a can because that’s what I can afford in mass quantities – the average party costs me around $200, and that's if I stick to the generic Cheetos. If you’re fussy about brands, BYOB.

Since I hate to end on a negative note, here are my Seven Guests Who Can Always Come Back:

1. The Iceman. Most often, Foggy, who knows I can’t fit more than two bags of ice in my freezer. So he brings extras for the booze bucket.

2. The Chauffeur. My friend Rowena often gives me a lift to the store the day of the party. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen two pocket-sized women haul 10 bags of food and three cases of beer down a hallway in a series of high-energy sprints.

3. The Early Bird. Nothing makes me happier than when a friend offers to show up a half-hour early and help me set up. Or, hell, just keeps me company while I knock out a few last-minute kitchen tasks.

4. The Slumber Party Guests. If you can’t get home, stay over! Many of my parties devolve into four or five people sprawled across sofas and air mattresses, asking one another about the meaning of life. Or, just as often, the sexual proclivities of Scooby-Doo. I'd rather you crash than drive home drunk, take over an hour to find a cab, or stumble onto the third rail on the Metro. Don't worry - I'll still respect you in the morning.

5. The Magi. That is, anyone who brings me a gift. One of the sweetest hostess gifts I ever got was from HP. It was a hangover kit with a little bottle of champagne, some orange juice, Alka-Seltzer, and Gatorade.

6. The Mingler. This person makes so many circuits of the room that my head starts to spin, and eventually becomes even more popular than me. Bonus points if the Mingler seeks out folks who seem a little out-of-place, and makes an effort to include them. That saves me a lot of effort.

7. Anyone who sends a thank-you email. I love being a hostess, but yes, it’s a lot of hard work, time, and money. Anyone who appreciates the effort is going to get a return invitation.

In short, anybody who makes my life easier, not harder, is going to be welcome. Or really anybody who doesn't suck and knows how to have a good time.

In the comments, tell me what kind of party guest you are.

*If you’re my friend, and you see yourself on this list, don’t worry – you have to rack up a LOT of demerits before I drop you off the party roster.

When Life Hands You Turkeys...

...toss 'em in a sarcasm fryer and laugh your ass off. Yesterday in my (mostly neglected) OKCupid! account, I found a charmingly ungrammatical, incomprehensible piece of short-form literary goo, in the form of a private message indicating a desire to visit Washington (and subsequently rock. My. World). Because I can never resist a good freakshow, and because my Internet suitors are nothing if not blogworthy, I decided to check this guy out. You're welcome.

The accompanying profile included a reassuring burst of randomly capitalized enthusiasm.

all Emails will be answered!!!!

Operators are standing by! And a stunningly ambitious life goal...

Trying to get a Job.

A job or a Job? Biblical archetypal victims aside...we have a small issue of bean-counting, when the beans are the six things you can't live without:

Family,Friends,Music and Movies, Beer, Cigars and Women!

He spends his time thinking in near-haikus about:

The future and Money.

Places that I would love to see.

how to get more money.

I should message him if I...

Like my look.

Are not overweight.

And a final caveat:

I have no respect for women that do not even send a reply to an email

Sir, my truest love, as a woman who simply will not reply to that which stretches her tiny, non-overweight brain beyond its natural capacity, I apologize for preemptively losing your respect. Also, if your beer belly is swelling to flopover proportions, yet, you demand a funzies-partner who is not overweight, I'm gonna guess your respect for women in general runs somewhere between negative and nil. Never hold others to a standard that you yourself cannot meet.

Welcome to the delete pile! You'll make lots of friends there.

In the comments, call me a nitpicky mean-spirited bitch, or remind me that proper spelling and punctuation have no place in Zee Rituals of Zee Lovin'. Or, set a standard for me that you can't meet. "Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound," for example.

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.

Another Sad Consequence of Global Warming

Tour-group teens are the bane of my commute.

I cannot abide those dubiously groomed, floppy-haired kids gaggling about and shouting, gumming up the Metro escalators during rush hour while their chaperones pretend to be somewhere, anywhere else.

Well, I encountered my first tour-group teenybop horde at 8:14 this morning, on the 13th of February. Generally, they don't show up until April or so. In fact, several passengers and I commented to each other that tourist season started early this year.

So, does this mean that the Tour Horde Teenagers have seen their migratory habits align northward with global warming, much like birds?

Or does it just mean that I'm old and crotchety for complaining about those darn kids who won't get off my lawn/station platform?

I'm Sorry, Mass Media, But I Can't Buy a Bunch of Useless Crap Right Now

Last year, my morning paper would put out the occasional feature piece about how I'm a horrible person because I've yet to crank out my allotment of 2.4 babies. The media analysis is usually that I'm laser-focused on my career, I don't believe in biological clocks, and that I'm quite possibly a selfish whore.

"Divorced, no money, and living in a studio apartment," is the actual reason, but, hey, "selfish whore" works, too. Whatever.

With The Greatest Economic Disaster Ever, Ever, EVER going on, the media has taken a new tack. They are no longer chastising me for my dusty unfeminine womb. Instead, I'm being clucked at for a new form of unfeminine hagitude: I don't shop enough.

I caught this blaring Express headline on my way to the Metro yesterday:

"U.S. Thrift Hurts the Economy"

Well, golly. I'm no economic expert. My knowledge is limited to a daily digestion of the Business section, and that D- I got in Econ 10 my junior year of college. But I do know that we got into this mess, at least partially, because America's savings rate has been near zero for heaven knows how long, we all bought on credit like we were on a neverending shore leave, and we're stupid moronic idiots. So when the job losses rolled in, and mortgages ballooned, we had no cash reserves and immediately began to squawk for help.

We lost 55,000 jobs in one day last week. Health costs are leaping all over the place, 401(k)s are worth about as much as Zimbabwean paper money, and we have real concerns about the sustainability of the economy. But nearly every day, the Post writes a pity piece and chastises us to go help the poor sad helpless retailers. (Who, incidentally, are major Post advertisers...coincidence?)

Gack. Spare me. Thrift is a virtue. Savings are good. We're supposed to sock away money for a rainy day/retirement/a down payment. We cannot live forever as a society of people who go out and buy stuff they don't need, and can't afford, with no plan for the future. Yes, hoarding is bad, and money needs to circulate, but do we really want to encourage people to go buy a bunch of useless crap when a sacking might be around the corner? Doesn't that cost us more in the long run?

Oh, wait, what long run? Who needs to think ahead, anyhow? There's a bailout at the end of the every tunnel!

In the meantime, I will be saving my pennies. In fact, I will pour them into a kiddie pool and swim around, like a low-rent Scrooge McDuck.

PS - if you have differing opinions, and/or actually understand economics, please do weigh in. I love a good dialogue. Just don't be a dink - I've freely admitted that maybe I don't know everything, and appreciate when others do the same.

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

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

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

Anyhow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hell That Is My Safeway

I go to the market several times a week. And several times a week, I waste a few more of my precious hours on earth, grinding my teeth and forcing a smile like a Valium-addled 1950's housewife.

Problem one? The customers. I am surrounded by the sort of people who have never bought groceries before. They dicker over prices, they run back for "just one more item" right as they are being rung up, they fail to notice when their purchase is complete and gawp at the cashier. Note: in our capitalistic society money is exchanged for goods and services.

Moreover, every line has the Complainer. This person sighs loudly, shifts, nestles their way into your personal space, and whines their way through the entire grocery purchase procedure. The Complainer often fails to realize that their actions are having the opposite effect of what they intended: instead of speeding things up, time slows to a slurping crawl.

Problem two? The cashiers. Now, I believe all honest work has dignity. And anyone who can wear a smock and stand on their feet all day is worthy of my respect. But heavens.

Thursday, I was stuck with a Food Molester. This woman, who was clearly new to the grocery game, felt she had to manhandle every item in my basket. I spent my walk home imagining a sort of vegetative group therapy, in which the produce section wept over its collective deflowering. The cilantro accused the cashier of date rape, the tomatoes got a sultry spanking, and the green onions will never be the same.

Sunday, however, was a topper. Wow. I ran in for some flour, saw a short "Express" line, and was ready to go. However, just as I was about to be rung up, a uniformed Safeway employee butted in front of me. "Oh, I was here before," she said, breezily and to the opposite of all evidence and logic. She then spent ten minutes arguing with her fellow cashier over the prices of various products. (I would think someone who worked there would already know this stuff.) I had lemon bars to speed-produce, my boss' party to attend, and a boyfriend waiting patiently in the parking lot.

"Look, I'm sorry, but I'm in a terrible rush, can we speed this up somehow?"

Answer: a synchronized pop of gum, two sets of rolled eyes, and the sarcastic slowness of four hands doing a Happy Hands Club wave of helplessness.

My options are pretty limited. I could stop eating entirely. That's the cheapest route, for sure. I could go to a different grocer, except for that whole thing where I don't have a car. I could order groceries for delivery. Or, I could complain about it on my blog, ask for your stories, and feel just a bit better.

I think I'll take the last option. In the comments, tell me your most painful tale of grocery woe.

PS - As some of you know where I live, please avoid giving out the name of my neighborhood. Stalking is not very awesome. Also, if a flood of would-be stalkers comes to my Safeway, the lines will be that much longer. Thanks.

Don't Be a Heel...But Do Know How to Rock Them

I’m not one to rail against bad fashion sense (though I will admit to spending my Friday nights torching Vera Bradley bags). But today, I have a PSA for the ladies. And it's not about the style, it's about knowing what to do with it.

Learn how to walk in a freakin’ pair of heels. Last night, as I wandered down Fourteenth Street with the Refugee, he took appreciative note of my fabulous four-inch Victorian streetwalker shoes. And, also, my ability to effectively perambulate in them.

Most women in this town take tiny, very deliberate steps, planting each foot down with ridiculous care. It's like watching Bambi wade across the Miljacka. Moreover, they don the nasty plastic flip-flops even to cross the street, so they just don’t get enough practice.

I had to practice walking in heels before I was allowed to wear them in public. I have an advanced degree in Heelology. And, like many of my more civilized qualities, all credit is due to Mom. She had me walk in a straight line, in heels, arms out, a book balanced on my head. (I can still do this, even after a half-dozen beers. It's my favorite party trick.)

So, ladies: If you’re going to rock the sexy heels, learn how to ROCK them. Take long, confident strides, and waggle your hips for balance (…and attention). Make sure your shoes actually fit – if you’re spilling over the sides of your slingbacks, you aren’t going to be able to walk in them. And don't stomp. You aren't a two-year-old in the throes of a sugar tantrum. Remember: long steps, and a bit of a wiggle in your walk. I swear it isn't hard.

PS: I rarely wear high heels, on the grounds that I’m 5’2” and not fooling anyone. But if I’m going to wear them, I’m going to ROCK them.

PPS: Sign of the Gentrification Apocalypse #457, I cruised Fourteenth in killer heels and no one attempted to purchase my company for the evening. Wow, this town has changed.

PPPS: I'm a little disjointed today, so excuse me. Thursdays tend to hurt.

PPPPS: At least I had a better night than this guy.

PPPPPS: Anybody else read that article and think, "I would totally pass out in a stranger's house for some free spare ribs"? Just me? Really?

The Potato of Injustice Wears a Green Dress

I’m an extrovert who hates people. This has set me up for a lifetime of disappointment.

I spend a lot of time in public places: the Metro, the street, retail establishments, assorted gutters and holding cells. And every Monday, I’m at that public festival of commonality, Screen on the Green. It’s fun to have a blanket, a picnic, some friends, a cartoon, the HBO dance, and an old movie on the Mall. And it’s free, which warms my cheapskate secretarial heart.

But some of y’all ruin the fun for everyone else. Most importantly, you ruin the fun for me.

Usually, it’s because you don’t understand the unique nature of flat surfaces. If you do anything of a vertical nature at Screen on the Green, you’re blocking other people’s view. I’m looking at you, the man who brought a bicycle as his date and left it standing up for the entire movie. And how about you, the group of old ladies in high lawn chairs right smack in the middle of the crowd? What’s your story?

I also like the people who make it obvious they came Straight from the Office! Honey, you don’t need to leave on the suit and tie. It’s 95 degrees out here. Take off the jacket, roll up the sleeves, ditch the tie. You just want us all to know that you came straight from your highly important job, which requires the best clothes Mens Wearhouse has to offer and a Blackberry in a holster.

Even better are the people who show up late. If you cannot get off work in time for a 9:00 film, clearly you have bigger issues than I can resolve here. Screw issues. You’ve got a subscription.
But if you’re late, discreetly make your way into the crowd and sit down. Don’t get your entire group to stand up and hug you, one by harebrained one. Just sit.

Even better than the latecomers are those who stand up so the latecomers can spot them in the crowd. And that’s what brings us to the Lady in the Green Dress. Her entire group showed up late. First off, she needs better friends. Second, she spent the first 20 minutes of the film standing up, flagging down her friends one by one in the dark and standing until they had all arrived to the safety of her blanket.

Sometimes, you have to look the potato of injustice right in the eye. And the only way to deal with injustice is mob justice. As in, asking my friends to help shout, “SIDDDOWNNNN!” at her. And watching as the glorious message of SIDDDDOWWWWWNN! carried from blanket to blanket, group to group, until it hit her with the force of a well-mannered tidal wave. The tower of her rudeness stood firm, we started another wave, and, eventually, she did sit down. Or maybe all her friends finally showed up.

Either way, I enjoyed the sweetness of victory. I was free to spend the next two hours engrossed in the hotness of Cary Grant, the casual sexism of the 1940s, and a wild desire to wear suits with hats and gloves.

In the comments, call me a hopeless fussbudget busybody, tell me my post titles really ought to make more sense, or tell me stories about bad manners on flat surfaces. Bonus points if you can tell me what movie uses the line “potato of injustice” without Googling it.

Slacker Tuesday List Post: Rules for Living

Men who live alone with cats tend to be even more peculiar than women who live alone with cats. Don’t date a cat guy unless you have a very high tolerance for peculiar.

The best hangover cure is Gatorade, Dramamine, and a three-hour nap.

A gut-busting laugh will get you through any embarrassing situation that does not involve police, a corpse, or my mother.

You can’t help how you feel. You can, however, help what you do about it.

Doubts are healthy. Not having doubts is how you wind up in Las Vegas, standing in front of an Elvis impersonator who is marrying you to a man you only dated for six months who proposed over giant Russian beers and plans to run away to South America with you. (That happened, to, er, a friend of mine. Yeah.)

One of the happiest moments in any woman’s life is when she stops being appealing to frat boys, players, or men out to meet “girls.” It’s better to be attractive to one good man than a hundred jerks.

Anyone who says they want a partner who agrees with everything they do, loves them unconditionally, and never judges should probably just be done with it and get a dog. True love challenges you.

If your job is your life, then, clearly, dude...you need a life.

You don’t have to like everyone in the world. You do, however, have to find a way to live in the world, and that will occasionally include people you find annoying. You don't, however, have to deal with people you find repugnant. Grow up and know the difference.

A good relationship pushes you forward. A bad relationship holds you back.

Love is not a choice.

Know how to take a compliment. That includes how to deflect the back-handed ones, like, "You look good for your age," or, "You're awfully smart for a..."

Bad ideas, wild impulses, and broken hearts are the road to wisdom.

And, most importantly, always do anything that would make a great story later.

Diaper Bags for Grannies

As this lady can tell you, D.C. is full of atrociously funky fashion. Cheap plastic flip-flops. Saggy jeans and exposed underpants on otherwise handsomely turned out young men. Sweatpants with words across the rump (just once, I'd like to see one that reads, "LOOK AT MY BUTT," for some serious honesty points). Frumpy boxy pantsuits. Chunky, clunky hoof-like shoes. Tourists in Female Body Inspector t-shirts and trucker caps. Popped collars. Man-pris.

Many of these forms of nasty attire can be easily explained: Bad aesthetic sense. Ignorance of comfortable, but less absurd, footwear options. Lack of time to shop. Inbreeding.

But one thing I will never, ever understand is the popularity of Vera Bradley purses. (Guys, if you're still here: see above for examples). They aren't cute. They aren't sexy. They look like diaper bags for grannies. Grandma could stash her Depends in the front pocket and use the bag itself as a changing pad.

They're matronly, ugly, and, worst of all, quilted. No quilted item, with the exception of high-grade toilet tissue, should ever touch an adult woman's body. Yet every morning, I'll see an otherwise stylish young woman with a paisley pastel squishy Vera Bradley grandma bag tucked under her arm.

So, Washington, I'll make you a deal: if you get rid of those ugly bags, I will never again complain about some woman shuffling and thwacking along in plastic flip-flops, blocking traffic as she oh-so-delicately inches her way up the escalator.

The Tyranny of Etiquette

One of the joys of dating me is watching me scrap with random strangers. Sunday was no exception.

Tim and I decided to catch Prince Caspian (my review: I’ll take intense battle scenes with a side of bland, please!). We got to the Columbia theater just as the previews began and settled into our seats.

Once the previews ended, the chatter began. The couple next to me began to discuss the film, in a hilariously non-subtle stage whisper.

“They must really be at Cair Paravel!”
“I bet they find their gifts!”
“It must be the dwarf that got captured earlier!”

I couldn’t tell whether they believed the audience required narration, or whether they suffered from some sort of delusion where they believed they were watching the film in their living room and it was therefore appropriate to talk. At one point, I was looking around for white canes to see if at least one was blind. Or perhaps they thought they were watching a different film from everyone else in the theater, and we needed to know what was happening in their version of Narnia. Or maybe they were just jerks.

After twenty minutes of this nonsense, I’d had enough. So I leaned in and calmly said, “Excuse me, could you please stop the discussion? It’s distracting.”

A bit of back-and-forth, and the husband leans in to me and says, “I’m very sorry, but if you’re expecting complete silence, you may want to move.”

I’m very sorry, genius, but complete silence is exactly what I expected. It’s a movie theater. People pay their hard-earned cash to listen to the film, not to a pair of monotone exurb jackasses who are deluded enough to believe they’re better storytellers than C.S. Lewis. Criminy wickets on toast, people. This isn’t hard.

My response was, “It’s not complete silence I expect, but the ongoing discussion is quite rude.” Then I mentioned ducking out for an usher. The Twitter Twins fell unto an uneasy hush, and I went back to watching the movie. After a few scenes, the woman slipped out of the theater.

When she returned, her husband asked, “So, did you speak to the manager?” The woman stage-whispered back that the manager was unwilling to intervene.

And, here you have it, folks, in a package of self-righteous cheek and modern absurdity: someone actually complained to management to fight for their right to talk during a movie. They were right to be in the wrong, to ruin the experience for those of us who actually know better. This is the dawn of a new era of noxious self-centeredness. I deserved to be kicked out of the theater for wanting to watch the film.

After the movie, Tim and I had a good cackle over that one. We theorized that good manners are a form of tyranny, and the next civil rights crusade is going to be on behalf of rude people. Tim says the next culture war will be on behalf of public urinators, however, I think there will be an insurgency of people who turn without signaling. Or to throw darts in a crowded bar.

Or, perhaps, the Rudeness Crusade is already well underway. Saturday night we saw a man wipe his face with the hem of his shirt…in an upscale steakhouse. Awesome. America rocks.

In the comments section, please tell me what side you'd fight on in the Rudeness Crusade. Or debate whether Tim is going to have to wait outside with the car engine running every time he takes me somewhere.

PS - The photo is of Miss Manners, my personal hero.

D.C. Dating Sucks? Only if You Do!

The only thing worse than dating in DC is listening to people complain about dating in DC. Getting trapped inside someone else’s dating rant is a recurring nightmare of mine, on a par with showing up to school naked for a pop final exam I didn’t study for that happens to be in Cantonese with Cyrillic characters and a background soundtrack of pop country and coffeeshop spoken word, all performed by Gilbert Gottfried.

Here is a synopsis of the date complaints I’ve heard over the years:

All men in DC are boring boorish egomaniac workaholics with no manners who think they’re players and treat women like dirt. They talk big but don’t follow up, don’t want to commit, and all the good ones are married or gay.

All women in DC are boring unfeminine hags who watch too much Sex and the City and aren’t nearly as funny or smart as they think they are. They talk endlessly about their stupid jobs, they see every date as spouse shopping, they can’t dress themselves, and they’re too materialistic and shallow.

I am aware that dating is a bit of a grind. From time to time, I have been known to go on dates. Sometimes these dates are bad enough for a good story, but more often they’re just OK. And sometimes they really work out. By no means am I a dating expert. But as a lack of expertise has never stopped me from mouthing off, here we go:

Shannon’s Law of Dating: The moment you say, “All (blank) in (blank) are (blank),” it’s over. Pull the plug. Leave town. Get a mail order spouse. Take up macramé. Whatever. Just. Stop. Dating. At least for a while.

Once you say “All (Blank) in (Blank) Are (Blank),” you’ve given up. You’ve externalized your internal problems. You’re aren’t the victim – the dating scene of D.C. is. And all because you’ve started to make some crucial mistakes:

Mistake #1: You’ve started to see your romantic quarry as the enemy, something to be dominated, controlled, and one-upped. This is why I see a lot of Pickup Artist stuff as counterproductive, as it’s all about one-upsmanship and power games. This is also why I cringe every time I see a commercial that depicts men as too stupid to perform basic household tasks, or a Cosmo article about how to trick a man into loving you. Could we all please remember we’re human first, and gender second?

Mistake #2: You see your city as the problem. Sometimes people move to new cities, and start getting more dates. That’s not about the city, because wherever you go, there you are. It’s because a fresh start has given you a more positive outlook, and being new to town has made you more open to meeting new people.

Mistake #3: It’s a cliché, but the definition of dating insanity is doing the exact same thing over and over and expecting different results. If you go out every weekend to the same three bars with the same three people, and you’re bored with everyone you meet, try something else. Duh.

Mistake #4: You’ve made too big a deal of things. Let’s say you meet someone who is practically perfect in every way. You run off and get married and it’s lovely. Well, your happily ever after is still going to include your friends, your family, your job, your favorite movies, your daily fun-size Snickers, your magazine subscriptions, your gym membership, your great-aunt’s cookie recipe, and your car payment. One person can only change your life so much, so spread your focus a little. Relieve some of that pressure before you get bitter.

Mistake #5: You’re changing who you are so you can be more appealing. Generally speaking, I prefer to be myself and let the chips fall where they may. If you think you need to be a flirty girly type or a “cocky and funny” guy, and start acting in a way contrary to your nature, it’s going to come across as weird and creepy. Weird and creepy? Not hot. Plus, the effort of keeping up the charade is going to exhaust you before the third date. (Depending on who you ask, I’m an abrasive unfunny preachy feminist buzzkill or a big-hearted sarcastic goofball with a reliable moral compass. Neither one really bags the boys, but whatever. I’d rather be attractive to one good man than a hundred so-so ones.)

Mistake #6: You aren’t clear about what you want. “I slept with this guy, which to me means we’re exclusive, but I found out he’s seeing other people!” Well, did you explain what your values were before hopping into bed? “I keep telling this woman I don’t want a relationship, but when I see her three times a week she acts like she’s my girlfriend.” Duh, if you’re asking her out that often, you’re saying one thing and doing another. No wonder she’s clueless. So, every step of the way, say what you want, then follow that up with a corresponding action.

Mistake #7: Your standards and your expectations are out of whack. I'm not saying "Settle for the first clod who will take you," or, "You're really great so be picky!" Just understand that the higher/more specific your standards are, the longer it will take to find someone who meets those standards. In fact, you may never meet that "right" person, and that's OK too. So adjust your timeline expectations accordingly. (Caveat: Don't hold potential partners to a standard you yourself cannot meet. Must be athletic? Must be successful? Only if you are, too.)

Daters of D.C., I still love you. This is a little bit of tough love, and I hope it’s taken in the spirit it was intended. And that spirit is: the problem isn’t the town, the problem is not the people you meet, the problem is you.

Fixing yourself won’t guarantee you’ll get what you want. But if you’re comfortable in your own skin, the hiccups of dating won’t matter so much.

Any questions?

PS: I’m aware it’s a bit hypocritical to complain about complaining, but kindly just go with it.

Adopt-a-Hag

Well, you're not going to adopt a hag, so much as marry one. Before you panic, we’re not talking about an actual hag, just a semi-hag. A hag-to-be. A bridesmaid to hagitude.

That's right, we're marrying off all the single 29-year-old women in America!

Bear with me. The media cycle is a predictable thing. As regular as old Aunt Flo, the media/cultural debate/Internet decides to put out a new op-ed designed to make women feel like crap about themselves.

Usually, it's because we're all supposed to be married by 30, and done with birthin’ by 35. In trailervilles/the pickup artist scene (they’re remarkably similar), you can round those ages down to 25 and 30. Women's failure in this regard is a national catastrophe. After 30, our looks diminish with each passing microsecond. And as we all know, our looks are all we really have to offer. It’s tragic.

Meanwhile, our society gives men a free pass. Thanks to biology, cultural norms, yesterday's breakfast, whatever, men don't face the same scrutiny/guilt tripping/societal hand-wringing. There are men who string their girlfriends along for years and years, shack up with them to no ultimate purpose, dump them, trade them in, cheat, or are just plain not suitable for the occasion. But women are still supposed to marry the first clod who comes along. Nobody ever tells these Xbox freak bachelor babies to man up and marry. The deck is stacked, so we’re reshuffling it.

Onward to my brilliant social engineering experiment.

I've made a list of people who lay on the marital/hagitude guilt trip. Most are articulate, some are successful, any and all can provide for their very own hag. Here we go:

Lori Gottlieb

Roissy and about 80% of his male commenters (sorry Roissy, couldn’t resist)

Bob Allen

Rachel Greenwald

Other nominees welcome!

If your name is on the above list, you're a mandatory participant in Adopt-a-Hag. We're taking you at your word. No longer will you badger women about marriage/looming hideousness before an arbitrary deadline without taking the plunge yourself. No further action is necessary on your part – your state-issued pre-hag will arrive via registered mail in the next 7-10 days. And, if you're a woman (aka, a traitor), you get a sex change and TWO pre-hags. If you’re not on the list, you can volunteer by adding your name to the comments.

As for me? I don't have a dog in the fight. This is my spectacularly selfless contribution to humanity. I'm 31, and I've had my turn on the marriage-go-round. I've resigned myself to a life of Botox oblivion and cruising the clubs at 40, like those sitcom girls with the funny clothes who talk dirty all the time. But don't cry for me, I live on through Adopt-a-Hag.

PS – this post inspired by the randoms on KassyK’s blog, who hassled her about marrying “before it’s too late” because she’s all old and used-up at 29 and her biological clock should be pounding in her ears and controlling her every action. Lordy lordy, people.

Now That I Hate Puppies, I'll Hate Blogs, Too

I'm not really a part of DC's blogging "scene." I tried to go to two happy hours, which didn't work out. So, I figure I'll chuck a few water balloons and see what happens. Hopefully, this will engender some healthy, respectful discussion. Or at least keep me amused for a bit.

I read and comment on a fair number of blogs, but, honestly, there's so much out there that just isn't to my taste. I don't see the point of monotonous woman-bashing, writing posts that are full of in-jokes and nicknames (sort of like one of those epic TV shows you have to watch from the beginning), posting tons of photos of myself (unless they serve a narrative purpose, or are funny), or dutifully cataloging every aspect of my weekend. So I choose to click my way over to things that catch my fancy. I like thinking blogs and humor blogs, vs. this-is-what-I-did-yesterday blogs. Differences in taste are not moral failings.

By the way, I'm not talking about any blog in particular. This is a post inspired by five years of writing this site, reading blogs, and thinking about what it all means. I got here a long time before most of you, and I have no plans to hang up my spurs. So if you're still convinced that I'm talking about you, lower your defenses for a minute and hear me out.

Because the defensiveness is exactly what puts me off reading blogs. Especially comments sections. Yes, blogging is a very personal thing. No, that does not mean that everyone is going to laud you as a misunderstood genius. We're all imperfect beings. So when we put ourselves out into the world, it's totally unreasonable to expect perfection back. Far too many blog comment threads run something like this:

Anonymous: I don't agree, because of A-B-C.
The Blogger: Well, I cannot believe you just called me a stupid hairy ape, you twit.

No, I'm not talking about random anonymous hate comments. I get 'em too, after all, and if they bothered me I'd forbid anonymous commenting. I'm talking about bloggers who respond disproportionately to any opposing view, or freak at even the slightest whiff of criticism.

Criticism is an opportunity. It helps you grow. When your boss gives you feedback, do you whine or do you listen? You listen. Well, your audience is your boss. If you really were writing "just for you," you wouldn't be broadcasting live on the Internet. You'd keep a diary. So see what you can learn if you just put your dukes down.

Also, it's almost impossible to convey tone over the Internet. So if there's a nice way and a mean way to interpret a comment, go with the nice way. Guaranteed to extend your lifespan in no time flat.

We all have our reasons for doing what we do. But if invisible commenter elves are going to ruin your day, then you need to just chill. And if you respond to this post with anger and froth, or decide that it means I've called you out personally, well, then, you just proved my point. According to the rules I just made up in my head, you now owe me a drink.

What do YOU think? Bloggers, readers, lurkers, step on up. I promise to not call any of you stupid hairy apes.

PS - I really do believe commenters are a bunch of invisible elves. I also think that tiny musicians live inside radios, though, so don't take my word on it.

Ambulatory McMansions and Why I Hate Parents

Man, do I want kids! Today, right now, immediately.

At this point, my boyfriend has probably shrieked, switched off his computer, and hightailed it to Mexico. But my other readers can stick around for the real reason:

I want to be an ill-mannered boor who gets in everyone's way. And I want to be self-righteous and complain a lot while I do it. And there are only three ways to get away with that level of obnoxiousness: 1. be a group of scary-looking rowdy teenagers, 2. be famous, 3. have kids. As my teen years are long over, and I'm not famous, option 3 looks like the best bet.

Case in point: this morning, I squished and jostled my way aboard the Metro's Red Line. Just inside the doors, blocking everything in all directions, was the biggest stroller I have ever seen in my entire life. It was a double stroller, but one of those super-expensive, tricked-out models the size of a Volkswagen Golf. It was very Spawn of Hollywood. This stroller could buy and sell us all, and still have cash left over to take itself out for a nice lunch and a little shopping.

Aside from the hulking beast of a conveyance (which did include two kids - I checked), there was a mother, grandmother, and abundant luggage. All, of course, blocking the doors, the aisles, the poles, the entire transportation system of Greater Washington. I bet the stroller was blocking traffic as far back as the Mixing Bowl. Suited-up commuters squeezed past, or squashed themselves into yoga-esque positions while the mother and grandmother cluelessly complained about how crowded the train was, and that people kept jostling them. They were very surprised that the train was so busy, they didn't know "when Washington got so popular." They also worriedly back-and-forthed about how their precious angels were becoming anxious because of all the crowding.

Hello, ladies? I know the thrill of genetic continuity and space-age baby gadgetry is a beautiful thing. But are you so blinded by your own importance that you don't realize that 8:45 is rush hour? As in, not kiddie time. As in, not the time to reconstruct an ambulatory version of your McMansion-Ford Excursion-grande latte exurb lifestyle. You clearly own everything else in the world, did you forget to purchase a watch? Would it have killed you to wait an extra fifteen minutes?

I get that yes, people with kids will occasionally cross paths with the rest of us. Fine. But not during rush hour. And if you must join us for rush hour, don't bring a stroller the size of a pony. And if you must bring a stroller the size of a pony, don't bring luggage as well. Oh, fine. Bring the pony and the luggage. Just don't have the gall to moan on about it, when the crowding is actually your own fault because you're taking up half the train.

So I want kids, so I can be a jerk and get in everyone's way. Is that so wrong?

Prince William County: Legislating Xenophobia Since 2007

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/07/10/AR2007071002093.html

So, I grew up in Prince William County, Virginia. Woodbridge, to be exact. And I usually don’t think too much about it. For a county with nothing but strip malls, bowling alleys and chain restaurants, PWC has produced some great people. But I’ve been following the illegal immigrant crackdown with both detached sarcasm and occasional gut-twisting flashes of annoyance.

If you haven’t been following the immigration debate, here’s the story so far:

There are probably over 12 million illegal immigrants in the United States. Nobody really knows how many, of course, because they aren't documented. For a long time, nobody really cared except for xenophobic hillbillies, talk radio hosts, and shady employers in search of cheap labor. Then suburbia was looking a little more crowded than usual, and they started selling piñatas at the Wal-Mart. Illegals wanted fair pay and justice, and locals wanted them to just go back to Mexico (even if they weren’t Mexican, because anything south of Texas is Mexico). Congress recently fell on its collective ass and failed to pass any sort of immigration reform bill. Cities and states, attempting to rival the stupidity of Congress, began dreaming up strategies to make illegals so miserable that maybe, just maybe, they’d disappear. Then we could all just go back to normal. Wal-Mart could once more be the province of the sort of folks that spank their kids in public, and suburbia could once more be the home of Mom, Dad, and their 2.4 kids.

But the world only moves in one direction: forward. You can’t turn back a clock, uncrack an egg, or erase every Pauly Shore film ever made.

All of this brings us to Prince William County. Good old PWC recently passed a resolution exhorting county staff, including police, to rigorously deny whatever services they can to illegal immigrants. Supervisor John T. Stirrup Jr. claims this will stem the tide of “economic hardship and lawlessness” in Prince William.

Before I say anything else, “economic hardship and lawlessness”? Is this guy for real? Since when did Nokesville become the West Bank? Are roving gangs of Janjaweed lighting fire to the kiosks of Potomac Mills? Are rebel armies taking hostages over at Chinn Library?

By “economic hardship and lawlessness,” Stirrup means heavier traffic, an extra fight or two on Saturday night, and a multitude of ugly cars in Dale City’s driveways. A hassle and a problem, yes, but hardly the end of society. And I do get that we can’t open our doors to everyone who wants to come here. And Prince William went from predominately rural to extraordinarily congested in just twenty years. That’s a hard pill to swallow.

What this resolution really seeks to do is make illegal immigrants so freaked out that they’ll just pack up and leave. They’ll move to Stafford County, Stafford will pass a resolution, so they’ll go to Spotsylvania, and so on and so forth until they’re far far away.

I doubt that’s possible. I get queasy at the idea of punishing people who just want to work and support their families. I figure that if you're willing to swim a river, travel in the back of a U-Haul, or cross a desert, you deserve to be an American more than I do. I doubt Joe Illegal (or Jose Illegal, as the case may be) wants to turn Woodbridge into the Wild West.

It seems like the politicians who beat the “family values” drum are the same ones who want to raid workplaces, deport everyone they can, and split up families if they have to. Whatever it takes to ensure that the only families we value are the ones that look exactly like ours.

And I can’t believe I have to point this out: America is a nation of immigrants, both voluntary and involuntary. Only about two percent of the US population claims Native American ancestry. So, Mr. Stirrup, you’re an immigrant. I daresay you have ancestors who staked their claim with broken treaties and smallpox blankets. Nowadays those same claims are being staked with flophouses and day laborer pickup lots.

Everything we hear now about Hispanics is the same stuff we said about the Irish, the Italians, the Germans, and so forth. This is a story we’ve all heard before. And the ending is always the same: eventually we get over ourselves and learn to get along.

What we need is a way to track these guys, give them a fair shake and a decent salary, and not scare the crap out of people. We also need to change the rhetoric from “us vs. them” to “we’re all in this together.” There are 12 million people living in limbo, and nothing is going to change unless America is willing to share its toys and play well with others.