The Frogger Dilemma

Clearly, bus drivers in Washington are a special breed. They do things like punch out McGruff the Crime Dog* (though I have my own issues with McGruff). Then they are reinstated, with back pay for clocking a Crime Dog. Because anyone who punches a mascot is completely mentally stable and ought to be trusted with the safety of Washington's citizens.

And those are just the official drivers. In summer, the city gets flooded with all flavors of tour bus operators, most of whom have no experience with city driving and have never observed a pedestrian in its natural habitat. My daily walk home has gone from pleasant diversion to high-stakes Frogger.

The primary issue is that these tour bus troublemakers have never learned how to yield to a pedestrian. So I get stuck playing this game of chicken where I have the light, put one foot in the crosswalk, and stare down the driver until he stops the bus and lets me pass. Sometimes, instead of stopping, he'll nudge me out of the intersection. In a game of Tour Bus vs. Mighty Munchkin, there are no winners.

I'm fighting back, though. Every day, I carry a pen and a piece of paper. I also keep my cameraphone handy. I write down the bus company, vehicle number, intersection, time, and date, and call their employer as soon as I get home. I don't know how much it does, but it feels pretty good.

In the comments, tell me how you deal with homicidal tour bus drivers. Or just bitch about tourist season in general.

*Am I the only one who kind of wishes the police officer dressed as McGruff had been a woman? Because then the driver could have said, "The bitch set me up?" Just me? OK.

The ACOD Doesn't Fall Far from the Tree

Al and Tipper Gore...are no more. I do not know how I can go through life, or ever believe in love again, as my marital ideal has been irreparably shattered.

Oh, please. I was far more bummed when Buffy stabbed Angel in the gut and shipped him straight to hell.

Before anyone calls the men in the white suits and butterfly nets (who, for the record, are on the speed dial of all my nearest and dearest), I am aware of the difference between fact and fiction. However, since I do not know anyone involved, it's all the same to me.

What's even stranger to me is the media hand-wringing over what shall become of their poor children. (Who are, may I point out, competent adults.) There's even a term for it all: ACODs (Adult Children of Divorce), because anything bad that happens must be medicalized until it's completely trivial.

In fact, I recently came across this article in the Guardian. Not only is it awesome because it features quotes by Lee Borden (my divorce lawyer! Eeeeee!), it's awesome because of all the garment-rending that occurs when competent adults have to (gasp!) deal with adult things.

OK, I'm sounding heartless here. Blame it on Au Bon Pain being out of my favorite kind of sandwich. But not only am I divorced, I'm one of those tragic ACODs. My parents split when I was 21, just a few months after I completed college.

And, you know what? I lived. It was OK. In fact, it was better than OK, as my parents seemed happier for it. They're friends now and get along just fine. There was awkwardness, and transition, and mourning, but in the end it all worked out.

Here are some things I learned, may it help the Gore children* and the other ACODs of the world:

1. In the term ACOD, the keyword is "adult." You're a grownup. You can handle it. Really.

2. Yes, you will feel guilty that your parents stayed together "for the kids." But that was their choice, as adults, to do. It's not your fault. So let go of the guilt, and thank them for their sacrifice.

3. While we're talking about "not your fault," the divorce is not your fault. In fact, it basically has nothing to do with you. Seeing the divorce as 'all about ME and MY feelings!' is an act of narcissism - whatever pain you're going through, your parents are going through far worse. They did not do this to "break up your family," destroy your perfect world, or throw a wrench into Thanksgiving plans. Marinate yourself in a little Boone's Farm, sob to your friends, then dust yourself off and get on with it.

4. Understand that your parents are undergoing a profound emotional journey. Divorce is an ugly, miserable thing that upends your life, obliterates your daily routines, and erases all your plans for the future. It's a "reset" button that usually only gets pressed after massive system failure. Getting divorced, instead of limping along in a bad marriage, is an act of courage. Sadly, for many folks who haven't been there, it is seen as an act of weakness. Your parents aren't being weak.

5. A child of divorce is generally shielded from the inner workings of the breakup. However, if you're an adult, expect your parents to lean on you a bit and maybe give you some gory details. That's a good thing - they're demonstrating faith in your ability to handle it like an adult. Because, as we've established, you're an adult.

6. One of the great lessons of adulthood is being able to see your parents as people. Assets, liabilities, strengths, weaknesses, gaping character flaws and all. What you're experiencing is simply a crash course version of that lesson.

In the comments, tell me if I'm being really harsh, or find a way to make the title of the post have anything to do with the content of the post. Or speculate about the Gore divorce.

*Am I the only person who thinks they're all named Karenna?

Can You Hear My Body Talking?

Apparently, no matter how a woman positions her feet, it means she totally wants to jump your bones. In related news, this article purports to explain women's body language.*

Let's get the obvious bit out of the way: yes, the article is sexist and full of obnoxious stereotypes.

Apparently, like all women, I am a manipulative, hyperemotional weirdo who, "Say[s] "I'm fine" when [I] mean "I am about to start bawling -- and I'll never let you forget it." And you can tell by my posture that I'm "prepared to be obedient." (Unless I'm decked out in bondage gear, an apron, and am making you a sandwich, stay far away from that assumption.) Finishing the article felt like coughing up a hairball of shame in a windstorm of self-loathing.

But that's not the worst part. The worst part is that it's the most godawful advice about women I've ever seen. I was waiting to be told that when I take a special lady to the movies, I ought to yawn and then drape my arm across her shoulder.

Every pose means that the headless babe in the photos totally wants you:

Hand on neck: Trusts you, wants to jump your bones.
Hand on waist: Apparently a very aloof form of zombie, but still wants to jump your bones.
Crossed legs: Obedient (ed note: barf), will sit there forever for the opportunity to jump your bones.
Crossed legs, perched on chair: Wants to aggressively jump your bones.
Sitting up straight: Thinks she's at church, but would jump your bones at church.
One knee on chair: The other knee would like to be jumping your bones.

I could go on, but you get the idea. If this article catches on, every fidget, pose, shifting of feet or neck itch will be interpreted as a blatant come-on. The bars of America will be filled with shrieking women, hurling bar tables and pool cues at the relentless hordes of clueless men, who are just trying to attain the impromptu bone-jumpings promised to them by Asylum. Eventually, women will invent new postures to throw them off the scent, so that every sidewalk looks like an interpretive dance recital. Eventually, women will find a way to live as motionless fleshy mannequins, men will give up, and the human race will die out.

That's right, folks: We're not just looking at awkward and juvenile bad advice, we're staring into the abyss. If this article catches on, it'll be the END OF HUMANKIND.

*Hat tip Adrienne for finding this slice of Internet glory.

In the comments, tell me about your posture, and whether it means you think I'm sexy. Or tell me the plot of your dystopian film, set five years after the Asylum article is adopted as the new gospel.

Henry Cavill Has an Awesome Butt, and Everything Else I Learned from "The Tudors"

You know how I'm always a few years behind the curve? Well, I recently "discovered" the Showtime series The Tudors on Netflix. Man, I've never seen anything quite as awesome as The Tudors. I'm only at the beginning of Season Two, and I've never been so entertained. (No spoilers, please, I really want to know if those Henry and Anne kids can work things out.)

I think the dirty little joke here is that the whole series is a joke, but nobody bothered to tell the audience. Instead, because there are actual historic figures involved, and everyone is wearing sumptuous costumes which get ripped off a lot, the audience feels like it's getting a marginally educational experience. It's like Masterpiece Theatre by way of Zalman King.

Personally, I've learned nothing, aside from the fact that Henry Cavill has a bare ass for the ages.

I'm not one of those tiresome people who squawk over every historical inaccuracy. It's nerdy and picky, like that guy from my college dorm who would count bullets during action movies and complain bitterly whenever anyone popped any extra shots.

I don't care about Henry's magically disappearing older sister, or that everyone dies in the wrong sequence and Anne Boleyn was by most accounts not half as hubba-hubba as Natalie Dormer. I don't even care that the costumes are often centuries off target, not to mention a bit skanky. People, it's entertainment involving boiling people to death like so much human ramen! Scads of nudity! And thuddingly bad dialogue interspersed with awkward pauses. (Really. It's pretty obvious the actors are waiting politely for the P.A. to turn over their cue card.) And it's hilarious that everyone goes commando for every occasion, like a RenFaire Lindsay Lohan.

Plus, all those inaccuracies open the door for further entertainment. In this world, the strapping (not to mention ginger) Henry VIII is a skinny brunette man-bitch who whines a lot. And, to show age, the costumers just sort of add a bit of extra padding and some unfortunate facial hair.

However, the finest moment of all, the second I realized that the writers hadn't even cracked open Wikipedia, let alone a book, came up over the weekend. They showed Henry VIII composing Greensleeves. Yes, I know there's a legend that he wrote it for Anne Boleyn, but sheesh. It's a style of music that didn't even exist yet. Henry would have needed prodigous musical talent, a time machine, and a magical compositional leprechaun to whisper the tune into his ear. And even then he probably would just come up with "Chopsticks."

At that point, I decided The Tudors is taking place in that purgatorial sideways place all my Lostie friends are complaining about. Next, I fully expect a scene where Henry VIII invents the hot-air balloon, meets some space people, founds a rock band, and then fakes his own death so he can retire with a robot Anne Boleyn, complete with pop-off head and detachable polydactyly. I bet they'll even set up household with a vampiric Catherine of Aragon (played by Jessica Rabbit).

In the comments, tell me if you nitpick inaccuracies in TV, and whether that makes you a doink. Or tell me what happens next on The Tudors, and be as inaccurate as you'd like. Or admit that you know who Zalman King is. I won't judge you, I promise.

Cluck You Very Much: A Chicken Bus Travelogue

Everyone knows the routes from D.C. to New York. Planes are for the people who haven't figured out that flying is an overpriced time suck, Amtrak is for the people who are willing to pay the "Dahling, I don't do buses," surcharge, Bolt and Megabus are the province of the hipsters, and the Chinatown bus is for, well, the sort of humanity generally only experienced via film and television. Me? I like a good freakshow, and I love the Chinatown Chicken Bus.

Why do I call it the Chicken Bus? Because all that was missing from last weekend's ride was a live chicken, and perhaps a dice game in the aisle and an albino banjo player.

The ride began with various bus company employees gesticulating wildly, trampling one another in their haste, sorting us into a line, and hurling luggage into the bowels of the bus with resentful venom. The driver had a trendy mullet and a phone that blared snippets of dreadful pop music as we lurched our way through a hailstorm.

The women behind me yapped their way across the miles, question talkers both, with nary an oxygen break. One complained bitterly to the other about being pushed out of her family's business. Of course, the fact that she was the sort of person who would loudly air private family information on a crowded bus might have branded her as unprofessional, but I'm not one to offer free career advice. (If I was, I would have told the intern I shamelessly eavesdropped upon during a previous Chicken Bus journey that yes, interns do answer phones, and no, that did not mean their work was "unfulfilling.")

After the first few hours, I thought to myself, "Oh, well, at least it can't get worse." A moment later, both women popped in some globs of chewing gum so they could slurp and smack their way across New Jersey.

The best part was the journey home. The two Question Talkers were in our bus line! I turned to my travel companion and, between clenched teeth, stated that I would lose. my. MIND if those women sat anywhere near us. I said a little prayer to Getoff Mylawn, the Patron Saint of Curmudgeons. My prayers were answered and the yappers moved to the back of the bus.

The victory was fleeting, however, as my new neighbor turned out to be a woman who ranted in sub-Saharan French, while shoveling noxious-smelling kebab into her mouth with nary a break to chew.

In the comments, tell me if you've ever ridden a Chicken Bus.

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.

The More Things Change...

...the more I stand behind some woman who is overcompensating for deficient arithmetic skills by micromanaging her grocery purchases.

I've expended a lot of calories over the years by ranting about my Safeway. It was a nexus of incompetence, wilted vegetables, long lines and short fuses. Now, it is freshly made-over. It's spit-shined, glamorous, and full of cheese bars and nut bars and shiny floors. They even sell wine. And the produce no longer looks like it was grown in a freeway underpass and watered with moonshine.

But let's get back to those nut bars. They're not just a kind of food, they're a way of life at my Safeway.

See, in all the reconfiguring, nobody really came up with a way to make over the customers.

Sunday, I was swanning about my fancy Safeway, skipping my way down the aisles and shopping for fancy cheese. By the time I got to the register, I had a heavy basket and somewhat diminished patience.

Line selection at an urban grocer is a do-or-die proposition. If you choose poorly, you'll lose hours of time. You'll get the folks who want to haggle over prices, or, one better, the people who don't realize that money is exchanged for goods or services. So they stand there, numbly, not sure when or how they should pay. (Hint: Now. With money. Your magic beans are no good here.)

I stood behind a woman who seemed relatively organized. Her cart was neatly lined up. She had her wallet in her hand. I was reassured. That is, until I saw what she was doing. Mayonaisse. On the conveyor. $2.99. Nod approvingly. Bread. $1.79. Total $4.78. Nod approvingly. The cookies can go on the conveyor, too.

I know that game. The customer slowly, gradually, infuriatingly puts one item on the belt, checks the total, and stops when they hit the amount of cash they are carrying. Then the player will scatter any leftovers around the register area, creating an obstacle course for the patrons and a cleanup job for the staff.

As a Nats fan and divorcee, I know when I've been defeated. So I moved to the next register over. There was one woman ahead of me. Yogurt. $.79. Lunchmeat. $3.50. Total $4.29.

Spectacularly, impossibly, I had stumbled into the Urban Grocery Olympics. The I Have Exactly $30 on Me for Groceries Event. And the women in both lines were going for the gold.

On a more comforting level, it's nice to know that gentrification hasn't changed the basic character of my neighborhood.

In the comments, tell me about your favorite event in the Urban Grocery Olympics.

The usual caveat: Lots of you know where I live. That doesn't mean you should mention it in the comments (lots of creepazoids out there.)