You Didn't Build That. Your Stupid Meme-Builder Did.

Sometimes - okay, often enough that you wonder if it's some sort of elaborate bet - politicians say dumb things. And, because this is the Internet of the America, those dumb things haunt you like the time you mixed crushed-up Ritalin into a glass of red wine.
Which brings us to Obama, who your thrice-married sistercousin has probably informed you is out to destroy America and was only elected because he's black. (Saying that is apparently NOT racist. Huh?) But, yes, he does hate America and loathes business and wants to reduce our country to a Commietopia. Here's the smoking gun:

"If you were successful, somebody along the line gave you some help. There was a great teacher somewhere in your life. Somebody helped to create this unbelievable American system that we have that allowed you to thrive. Somebody invested in roads and bridges. If you’ve got a business -- you didn’t build that. Somebody else made that happen. The Internet didn’t get invented on its own. Government research created the Internet so that all the companies could make money off the Internet. The point is, is that when we succeed, we succeed because of our individual initiative, but also because we do things together."

These are all perfectly valid things to say. If you think your achievements come exclusively by bootstraps and brilliance, then you're living in a fairyland where you never went to public school, never used a road, and never got a lick of help from anyone. Now, I'll be fair and say "you didn't build that" was a gaffe. All he had to do was say "You didn't build that by yourself," and the political narrative would have stayed in the land of magical tax break dressage ponies, vacation spots and whether it's racist to compare the Obamas to monkeys. (Answer: yes. So very, very much.)

Saying "You didn't build that," scares the crap out of people. That's because it is human nature to externalize failure and internalize success - as in, if something goes well it's because you're awesome, and if it goes poorly it's because somebody (usually the President, an ex, or your parents) screwed you over. It's all very human and normal. After all, if it wasn't for the fables we tell ourselves, society would collapse into a puddle of fetish porn, trans fats and despair.

But there's a silver lining: conservative memes. They're right up there with rapping little old ladies and dads using hipster slang on the Awkwaaaard Scale. Unlike liberals, who amass abundant time to dream up their memes during barista shifts, conservatives have to just sort of throw things against the wall and hope they stick. Like spaghetti made of one-liners. Mostly it's just a rehash of the Most Interesting Man in the World, Willy Wonka...yeah, I'm snoring already.

Sometimes it's semi-amusing, like this one:

Sure, using Footprints is only slightly less embarrassing than trying to make a meme out of Desiderata, but it's an attempt and it's even slightly cute.

But sometimes, in their girlish enthusiasm to pick the least-flattering Obama photo, they kind of prove the other side's point. To wit:

First off, yes, that is a freaking awesome expression on his face. Like the little girl suddenly grew fangs, and only he can see it.

But, well, the little girl didn't build the tower. She was helped by the good people of Lego, who molded the plastic to make the bricks, by the teachers and parents who nurtured her motor skills, and so on. The only way she could have credited herself with "building" the tower is if she worked in a Lego factory. If that were the case, most of us would be up in arms about child labor, while the rest of us would hope this meant cheaper Legos. (I'm Team Cheap Legos.) So, conservatives, thanks for helping Obama prove his point.

To continue the nitpick, I bet Obama helps out the other side by making those ridiculous faces. That expression? You didn't build that, either. (Doesn't feel so good to be on the other side of a nitpick, does it?)

So let's figure out what we've learned, before the narrative takes us to the next gaffe or creepy uterine obsession. The American political process is like that married couple you know who just never stop bickering. Either side will bring up a tiny quote out of context for the express purpose of damning the other, and in the Age of the Internet any quote can become a meme. And our society has elevated ignorance to the point that whoever wins this election will most likely do so by creating a meme that brings together Mordor, cats, Willy Wonka and a political gaffe in a glorious crescendo of all that's wrong with America.

Also, when the best you can do is a Footprints parody, it's time to wonder if your party's half stuffy/half crazy image isn't at least partially earned.

On Tosh, Gottfried, and Why "Edgy" is for Teenagers and Steak Knives

Hi! Miss me? Or, more exactly...remember me?

By now, particularly if you are my Facebook friend, you have probably heard about Daniel Tosh and rape jokes to a numbing degree. Everyone from feminists to Tosh apologists to Gilbert Gottfried has weighed in.

That's right. GILBERT GOTTFRIED. Has an opinion. On CNN.com. For real. I suppose Carrot Top was unavailable? That or the Apocalypse is nigh and it's time to stock up on gin and firearms.

Here's the article.

So, what have we learned? We learned that Gilbert Gottfried, aside from being numbingly unfunny, has yet to learn a damn thing about anything. So far he's been called out for bad tsunami jokes, bad terrorism jokes, and just bad jokes in general - and yet, he thinks he's qualified to be an arbiter of humor and what others should and should not find hurtful.

Sigh. Did anyone else read this and imagine a petulant teen?

Look, I love humor. Wrote this blog for years. Dealt with trolls, harassing emails and all sorts of silly drama in order to come on here every day and hopefully make someone laugh. I adore comedy. The more ridiculous and inappropriate, the better. But the purpose of comedy is to take pain and turn it into laughter. It is not to be offensive and hurtful for the sake of being offensive and hurtful, and then pretend that it's just you being "edgy." Edgy is for teenagers and steak knives.

Moreover, if you realize that you've metaphorically poked someone in the eye, the correct response is to simmer down and reflect, and perhaps learn something from the experience. It is not to lay blame on the other person for having the temerity to have eyeballs in the first place. And maybe you'll hone your craft and be funnier the next time you put yourself out there.

Finally, the whole Tosh brouhaha isn't about heckler etiquette, it's not about "edgy" humor, and it sure as hell isn't about the First Amendment. At no point has anyone said the government should ban rape jokes. So please step off the silly "freedom of speech" arguments.

The issue is that rape is used as a threat to keep women in line - be docile, don't go out by yourself, be a lady, don't get drunk...because if you don't follow those rules, ugly things will happen and it's going to be your own fault. So when Tosh uses the threat of gang rape (even as a "joke") to dismiss and subdue a woman who disagreed with him, it's a whole level of ugly beyond "tastelessness," "offensiveness," or, silliest of all, "edginess." She stepped out of line, and he used rape to bludgeon her back into being a "lady." It's misogyny, it's real, and it's scary stuff.

Pretending it's just a "slip of the tongue" is pretending that misogyny is over, and you don't have to be a woman to know that's bollocks. You just don't get from rape jokes to rape threats without some serious underlying issues.

Thanks for reading, and I look forward to your comments. (Which, yes, is my way of saying I'd like to be coddled out of retirement.)

I'd Call this Wedding a Raging Success

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

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

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

A few memories, from what we can remember:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Barbiegeddon Bunker

This isn't the place to come to for informed, intelligent post-election analysis.

Instead, I've decided to skip ahead and map the road to 2012. Why live in the present, when the past has the lovely glow of idealism, and the future is yet to be shaped? So I'd like to get all Nostradamus on you, minus creepy predictions about blue turbans and Hister.

Instead, I'll forecast something scarier. I predict a Palin-O'Donnell ticket.

In fact, I would highly encourage one, just because I would love the entertainment value of Tea Party Barbiegeddon. And, due to circumstance, the endless gullibility of the public, and jerks like me who would vote Palin-O'Donnell for giggles...they could win.

They'd be taken at their word for everything they have ever said they could fix (hint: claiming you will balance the budget by eliminating "waste" is intellectual laziness of the highest order). And then they'll be forced to read the Constitution once in a while, and be disappointed with its actual contents. And then the electorate will be forced to take "Second Amendment remedies" to manage our disappointment.

This will hasten the onset of the Apocalypse, complete with Michael Bay explosions and a merry band of elitist survivors with artfully applied dirt and bruises. My current plan is to be one of those survivors. Heck, I want to be their leader.

To that end, I've decided to build the Barbiegeddon Bunker. I will stash it with gin and Twinkies and books above a fourth-grade reading level. I will interview participants, for both bartending skills and ability to fend off looters. And it will be fun. Karaoke among the cockroaches. Martinis amid the mayhem. Merry toasts to the decline of civilization. You don't even have to agree with my politics. You just have to be civil and agreeable. Who's in?

In the comments, tell me why you should be allowed to live in the Barbiegeddon Bunker. Or tell me how my college education, which I earned via hard work and graveyard shifts, makes me an "elitist" who is out of touch with the "Real America." Because I love divisive language and electoral nerd-bashing.

Who's Got Two Thumbs and Ten Extra Pounds?

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

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

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

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

I could blame any number of factors:

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

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

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

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

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

6. Stress! Of which I generally have plenty.

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

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

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

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

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

Random Updates, the "I'm Still Here" Edition

Wow. "See you in September," went straight to, "I haven't seen you since September!"

My life has centered around work, which I don't talk about for ethics/common sense reasons, and wedding planning, which is excruciatingly dull to anyone who is NOT planning a wedding. My colors are black and white with red and yellow accents, the flowers will be Gerbera daisies, and the menu will be....HEY! Come back here!

See my point?

Also, my fiance moved in with me a few months back, which has provided a lot of entertainment. He's borne witness to the hoarder machinations of Marvellous. Also, the blasting boiler heat in our building has meant sleeping with the windows open, which leads to a lot of local color. Like the dude vomiting/coughing/violently ejecting his lungs below us, or the couple arguing, or the lady honking...and honking...and screaming out her car window...to pick someone up for church. Because nothing says "Jesus" quite like, "Get your butt down here!"

Most importantly, a great mystery has been solved. Have you ever wondered, "What happens when two people who buy disaster-ready, bulk quantities of toilet paper move in together?" Easy. They buy shelves, display their collection with pride, and dub it: The Tush Mahal.

Courtland Milloy: D.C.'s Very Own Tea-Partier

By now, we all know how much I admire Sally Quinn, and her amazing ability to hang onto a job despite her utter lack of talent. Well, kids, there's a new contender in town for Washington's Worst Journalist:

Courtland Milloy

He was previously known for filling up the news hole with the reasons women wear wrap dresses (so we can show our bits), or discussing his annual "blood fast" (whatever the heck that is). Sometimes, he even says it's fine when 80 kids brawl on the Metro, because at least nobody was carrying a gun. Yesterday, he sank to new levels. In Milloy's world, once you hit the bottom of the taste barrel, it's time to grab a shovel and see how tacky things look in China.

Read this. I'll wait. Then I'll start ranting, hopefully a mite more coherently than Mr. Milloy did.

First, I'd like to point out that the original title was "Ding dong, Fenty's Gone." Classy.

But let's take a page from Vincent Gray, and let's start healing and uniting and joining hands and buying the world a Coke. Let's get past Milloy's sore winner bleating, the flights of fancy, and the writing that reads more like a 13-year-old girl's journal entry. ("Adrian pushed my cafeteria tray out of my hands and then Michelle laughed at me! Mom says they're jus jellus. I'll show them tomorrow in study hall!")

Let's try to discuss his essay on its merits.

Lordy. What merits?

The argument: Adrian Fenty is a mean bad man because he didn't show proper deference to little old ladies, because he fired city employees (who occasionally happened to be black women), and because he just wasn't a nice enough guy.

Also, if you voted for Fenty, you're pretty much a racist.

Mr. Milloy, we get it. You really, really don't like white people. And you hate Facebook and Twitter, and wish the clock would stop and we wouldn't have to use those newfangled things called tellyphones. And white people who use "social media" (quotation marks courtesy of Mr. Milloy) are "myopic little twits."

Of course, if you object to his inflammatory rhetoric, it doesn't matter who you voted for. You're a racist, too! You're saying "You blacks, always playing the race card." (Milloy's words.) You also want to return to a "plantation-style" of government. Oh, and Fenty is a "fascist," which makes you a sympathizer if you voted for him. Personally, I can't picture myself as Scarlett O'Hara Butler Mussolini, but I do think it would make for a nifty Halloween costume.

Does anyone else get shades of Glenn Beck/Sarah Palin when they read this? A throaty sing-song of, "Only those who agree with me are the true patriots, so let's all demonize the enemy and shake our tiny fists at the heavens"? Just me? Ok.

I was an undecided voter right up until I walked into the booth, but in the end, I voted for Fenty. If that makes me a honky interloper and a "myopic twit," so be it. This city is my home, I love it here, and I'm not going to listen to anyone who tells me I don't belong because I enjoy the occasional cappuccino and think bike sharing is sort of neat.

I voted for Fenty because the city's school system is criminally inept, and it's been shortchanging kids for generation after generation. The best D.C. jobs are held by suburban imports because the locals don't get the required training, which excaberates poverty and hopelessness. We need real schools where kids can learn.

Michelle Rhee managed to get a new contract with the Washington Teachers' Union, a body mostly known for stonewalling, advocating tirelessly for the downtrodden and incompetent, and egregious financial scandals. Tenure for life after two years of service? Not any more. I'm forever grateful. That alone gets my vote. And if the WTU endorses and campaigns for you, like it did with Gray? You better believe I'm voting for the other guy.

I'm willing to give Gray a chance. I'm all for healing and progress and scooping up those who have been left behind. What I'm against is the likes of Courtland Milloy, "responsible journalists" who gloat and excaberate tensions just for the sake of settling scores and slinging metaphorical monkey poo.

In the comments, tell me if I'm a racist. Or run a find-replace and republish Milloy's essay swapping the words "white" and "black," if you need to further understand what an offensive piece of schlock it truly is.

The Vuvuzelas of the Blogverse, or, Tell Me Your Peeves

I'll admit to being a persnickety, peevish old crank. I'll also admit to being a bit of a blowhard when it comes to, well, all sorts of things. And I'll admit I'm not perfect, or even merely extraordinary.

Enough disclaimers for you? Ok, then, let's rant n' roll. In particular, let's rant about Annoying and Grody Internet Stuff That Makes Me Bonkers. The vuvuzelas of the blogverse, so to speak. Here's my personal top ten blogverse and internet peeves:

1. Any variation of "nom nom nom." Eating noises, are, frankly, gross (I personally can't abide the sound of crunching or slurping). So why on Earth are we imitating those noises? What's next, literary interpretations of fart sounds? (Please, no.)

2. "I peed my pants," to indicate merriment. Beyond trite. And I really don't want to picture a bunch of incontinent people whizzing onto their laptops.

3. "I threw up in my mouth a little," to indicate disgust. Gross. And even more trite than wetting yourself.

4. "I just spat [hipster liquid] on my keyboard," to indicate amusement. Why are you still typing? Shouldn't you get up and get a rag or something?

5. "Nosh." Yes, I know it's Yiddish. You know what else it is? An annoying word.

6. Any variation of "Squeeeee!" or "Eeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!" Yes, I've used the latter. But that was to indicate that I was recently engaged, not that Miller High Life was on sale at Giant or that lavender was my new favorite color. It's annoyingly cutesy, like the Vera Bradley handbag of the blogverse.

7. Not really a word or phrase, but excessive quotes of any of the following: Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Family Guy, or, well, really, if I could get a one-hour break from Always Sunny references, I'll lump any number of other TV references.

8. Gchat transcripts as blog posts. Really. We know you have friends. Simply posting a transcript comes across as "Look how funny and awesome my friend @hotstuffblogger is! Eeeee and squeee!" It's also lazy - either ask your funny friend to do a guest post, or at least condense the transcript.

9. LOLcat speak. It's kind of cute when kittens and lizards do it. You're a grownup. Write like one. (Unless your blog is intended for an audience of kittens and lizards, because well, that's awesome and makes you really cutting-edge).

10. People who self-righteously complain in list format like persnickety and peevish weirdos. Like, uh, me.

In the comments, get it all out. Tell me your peeves. It'll feel good. Or try to tick me off.

Also, welcome back to Lemmonex.

Sorry He Hijacked Your Party

Ever meet one of those people who just tries way too hard? A social Sisyphus, struggling mightily against the forces of his own uncoolness?

I recently had the pleasure of meeting The King of That Person. He was loud. Very, very loud. Not as funny as he is loud. In fact, not really funny. At all. But that didn't stop him from making "jokes" for hours on end, and interpreting the pained smiles of others as ample encouragement. If you were going to host a wedding in Hell, this man would be your DJ. This man is the Electric Slide and the Chicken Dance rolled into one epically unfunny package. He was, in a word, oneofthemostdreadfulpeopleIhaveevermetinmylife.

He hit on the host's date, in front of the host. He was punched in the arm for his efforts (by the girl...and while I don't condone violence, this was exactly the sort of person who deserves to be punched by a girl). He also nearly took a sock in the face from another guest. He badgered us incessantly about going to a bar, while the rest of us were quite cozy and quite happy to stay in for the night. Luckily, we were able to tune him out enough to keep the evening enjoyable and pleasant, but it made me wonder...how do you avoid becoming That Guy?

Think about it. If you're a little less than self-aware, and you believe that you're funny, there is almost nothing stopping you from holding your fellow man hostage to your lectures and roundabout, amplified, yet limp flavor of humor. We've all been that person who droned on a little too long, or mistook politeness for interest, or made friends sit through eleventy billion vacation slides. Or we've been that person who felt awkward in a group of new people, and overcompensated by cracking too many jokes. How do you tell when you've crossed the line?

Easily. When you are threatened with bodily harm by more than one person in the course of an evening, you should probably cool it.

In the comments, tell me about the last time you were witness to a party hijack situation.

In Which I Have Feelings. Which May or Not Have Something to Do With Tea Leoni's Legs.

I've been feeling a little overwhelmed lately.

This is due to several forms of maturity converging all at once. My job, which is one like a grownup would have, has been very busy lately. My impending marriage/wedding planning/upcoming installation of an in-house fiance have all conspired to keep my stress levels high. The worst part is that all this maturity means that I am no longer 22, which means I don't have the energy to keep up with it all.

So, woe is me. Life is hard. I have a great job and a fiance who loves me enough to endure repeated listenings of "The Promise" by When in Rome forever and ever, amen. And, when I get tired of that, I can always rock out to the Xanadu soundtrack. Also, my diamond shoes are too tight, my ruby crown is too heavy, and it's so inconvenient when I have to drive the Maserati instead of the Bentley. I know. My life is fantastic. I could really use a little more perspective and learn to appreciate everything that I have.

But I still can't get past that feeling of being overwhelmed. I feel sort of like that scene in Deep Impact where Tea Leoni is standing on the beach with her dad, waiting for the end via ginormous CGI tidal wave. Except the movie of my life wouldn't have such a porny title (unless 21 Hump Street is still available.) And I will never, ever have Tea Leoni's legs. Seriously, those things look like they were sculpted from the tears of angels and poured down straight from heaven. Thinking about Tea Leoni's legs have gotten me through many a difficult time in my life, and I'm not even into women. I just appreciate them as a work of art.

I'll leave you with a final thought: it's kind of awesome that can get from stress to porn to Tea Leoni's legs in four paragraphs or less. However, it's less awesome that my state of mind these days makes that a typical chain of thought, vs. anything out of the ordinary. It implies a certain amount of scatter-brainedness.

In the comments, tell me how you deal with stress. Or tell me if anyone has better legs than Tea Leoni.

Everybody Dance Now. Because Emperor Marky Mark Wants Us to Swing It.

You know that point, right in the beginning of "Sweet Home Alabama," when the singer says, "Turn it up!" I always respond, "Why, of course!" (out loud, no less, and in a very chipper voice). And then I crank the volume. This does not endear me to my colleagues, but it has led to some interesting conversations with the mailman.

I've realized that I am highly prone to suggestion. I've also realized how much more fun the world would be if we all obeyed the imperative sentences within pop songs.

Picture it: C+C Music Factory's "Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now)," comes up on a speaker, and the whole street just starts rocking out. That is pretty much utopia!

Of course, there are dangers. The Funky Bunch tells us to "swing it" on a rainy day, and we all start swinging our umbrellas and poking each other in the eye. Then again, we'll have racial harmony in Washington, as "Black, white, red brown feel the vibration!" And then, as a racially united America, we'd fight the obesity epidemic together with "Jump Around."

In the comments, link to the song you think we should all follow for an Awesome New World Order. Or tell me I've lost my marbles, but never mind, the marbles are in your pocket.

Have a Blessed Day. I'll Wait.

First of all, how did my blog surpass 200,000 hits without my noticing? At the very least, I should have thrown myself a parade.

Anywhosits, longtime readers know that I have a talent for encounters with the differently sane. But a few weeks back, I experienced a true winner. Naturally, it was on the Metro, Washington's repository for the mentally overheated.

I trundled onto my train and took a seat. Between stations, my seatmate turned to me and said, "Have a blessed day." Assuming this was a farewell, I said, "You too!" I returned my attention to the Washington Post's Weird Disease of the Week Section (er, Health and Science).

This is where it gets weird. Instead of getting up at the next stop, she remained in her seat and stared at me. For the next three stations.

After a few slugs of my purse bourbon, I was able to formulate some theories. Perhaps she was a guardian angel, and wanted to remain with me to ensure that I had a blessed day. Maybe she was an elaborate social experiment. Or, maybe, she was so intent on my stunning new shade of lipstick that she found herself distracted and she missed her stop.

Or, she was just a loon. What do you think?

Trolley Tours: Because I'd Always Wanted to Be Nearly Squished by Someone Argumentative and Rude

I'm not one of those bloggers whose fingers fly to the keyboard every time I have a consumer ax to grind.

However, since Trolley Tours made it completely impossible to find a live human being to discuss this issue, I have to take it to the blogverse. Enjoy the sputtering fury.

Thursday, August 5. About 5:25 pm. 10th and F NW. Last digit of the DC license plate was 9, second to last was most likely a 4. Hard to tell, what with all the adrenaline.

I approached the intersection, and saw a tour bus to my right with its blinker on. I had about ten seconds left on the Walk signal, so I looked for traffic and stepped into the crosswalk. The Trolley Tours driver proceeded to turn right, even though I was in the crosswalk, and very nearly ran me over. I scurried across and did the raised arm "What the hell?" signal that Washingtonians have to master during tour bus "Pedestrian as Prey" season.

Most drivers shrug or apologize (if they apologize, they get a pass - if they shrug, I report them to their employer).

This Trolley Tours driver (mid to late 30s, African American, heavyset), argued with me. He claimed that I had crossed against the light (I had not, I had a Walk signal - it turned red while I was blocked and then dodging for my life). Moreover, shouldn't he have looked both ways for pedestrians before turning? I pointed out that I would have made it across before the light changed, had he not blocked me from crossing. Then he yelled at me a little more, made some angry hand gestures, and drove off.

When I got home, I tried to call Trolley Tours. Oh, how I tried. The number is unlisted (I also tried to call right after it happened), the website sends you to a phone number, the phone number sends you to the website, and pressing 0 sends you to some woman in Key West who tells you to call back another time. Requesting "representative" gets you dumbfounded silence, followed by a continued spiel on why I should really just get back to the Trolley Tours website already.

So, Trolley Tours. Breaking the law, wholly inadequate with the service, and argumentatively homicidal. Have I mentioned the company name is Trolley Tours? Trolley Tours, folks. Trolley Tours.

In the comments, tell your friends to use anyone but Trolley Tours.

Weekend in Maine, or, What Happens When You Mix Microbrews with Floor Tequila

Opening sentences I contemplated using for this blog post:

1. If I had a bucket list of items guaranteed to shoot me straight to Hades, I would have crossed off at least half of them last weekend.

2. Have you ever vomited hot coffee by the side of a road in New Gloucester, Maine?

3. Hallmark does not make an apology card stylish enough to express the regret, "I'm sorry I got sick in your tent."

4. Maine is the South of the North: everyone is terribly nice, they like their trucks and their dogs, and most of all, they love their beer.

5. Keep a close eye on your camera when your drunk tablemate is wearing a kilt. You may get a nasty surprise.

6. He went into that tent a NASCAR boy, he came out of that tent a NASCAR man.

7. When I feel a little low, when I feel a little ashamed, I just have to remind myself that I have never motorboated a pregnant woman. I'm also a little ashamed that I didn't think of that one myself.

8. I did, however, apparently get in a catfight over blankets while both I and my opponent were completely asleep.

9. When the tiny private plane hits turbulence over a graveyard, and there's a funeral going on, there's only one lesson you can learn: turn around! Unfortunately for the state of Maine, we kept on going.

10. I always thought of myself as an impressive drinker. Then I went to Maine.

Since any and all of those sentences give you the gist of the most awesome weekend I've had since the last time I went to a wedding where the groom and one of the guests went joyriding in a golfcart using a cellphone as a flashlight, and people played volleyball in formalwear, and one of the guests showered while drinking a beer, and this sentence is a glorious run-on as it is, I will instead close this post with a song:

Toddy, by Black Taxi. No song better encapuslates my weekend. NSFW due to the fact that most of the comprehensible lyrics are f-bombs, aside from a reference to scratching a truck, and because such unrelenting awesomeness cannot be confined to a cubicle.

A Short Monday Story

So, there I was, standing in the kitchen, eating leftover Chinese food over the sink.

Suddenly, an errant and goopy snow pea lodged itself in my throat. I started to cough, and hack, and gag. At that moment, my fiancé came to my rescue, running in from the living room.

“Here, Shan, have a glass of water.”

Unfortunately, there wasn’t any water. In his haste, he left it sitting on the coffee table. Instead, his hand was in almost a perfect pantomime of holding a glass of water.

Thought one: Oh, so this is how I die.

Thought two: This is hilarious.

Luckily, the helpless laughter dislodged the snow pea. Call it a Heimlich via hilarity.

Fever Kvetch

Sometimes, it's a blessing that Netflix delights in sending me defective DVD's.

Last night, I sat down to watch Fever Pitch. The American version about the Red Sox. Can we just rename the movie, "Every Annoying and Oppressive Gender Stereotype, Ever?"

See, Lindsay (Drew Barrymore) is around 30 and single. Which, in this film, means she's chomping at the bit to settle down. Especially because she's the last single person in her group. In rapid order, we learn that she's single for the same reasons all movie women are single: she's too into her career, her success scares men off, her girlfriends aid her in overanalyzing every relationship, and, oh, she's too picky.

In fact, there's a whole scene where it takes hours and several trendy workouts for her friends to alternately convince her to go on a first date, or cancel, with the Jimmy Fallon character.

Could we, just once, have a movie where the woman is single because she just hasn't found the right guy yet? Or because she's focusing on other things, or, even more radically, just prefers to be alone?

Enter Jimmy Fallon, playing Jimmy Fallon. I'm sure his character has a name, I just don't remember it. So Jimmy is this goofy schoolteacher, and romance blossoms amid all the vomit (really...there's a food poisoning vomit sequence).

He goes to meet her friends. The girlfriends are all astonished that he's "still single" (at 30ish! Horrors!) and hadn't been "tagged and bagged." So they all begin to speculate on what is wrong with him. (Maybe he just hasn't met the right person?) All this movie needed was a woman saying, "All the good ones are either taken or gay."

At this point, I may have started yelling at my television.

As it turns out, he's a nerdy sports fan. And sort of immature, and he dresses like a "man-boy." Because what this movie really needed to do is remind us that all men are immature twits until some woman comes along and makes them over and forces them to grow up. And then they don't have any fun anymore, because women are harpies who press a man to commit, then suck all the joy out of his life.

Anyways, there was something about a pregnancy scare and a trip to Paris. Right then, in my Kevorkian cinematic moment, the DVD died.

So I tried to imagine the rest of the movie. In my version, Lindsay realizes she could just go to occasional games, and let Jimmy nerd out all he wants because that gives her more time to hang out with her friends. And she figures out that it's OK for a guy to dress a little schlubby, if he's nice to you and makes you laugh. And Jimmy undergoes a neurological testing, and realizes he has some sort of curable disorder that makes him all schticky and annoying. And he gets cured, and her girlfriends stop being total pills, then they all live happily ever after.

In the comments, be a script doctor for Fever Pitch.

Have You Hugged a Bridezilla Today?

Opinions on weddings are like dead salesmen under the staircase: everyone has a lot of them.

Or is that just me?

Anyway, the moment you say you're engaged, you will absorb opinions from virtually every corner of the Known Universe. Weddings are too stuffy nowadays. They've become tacky and gauche. Registries are a courtesy to your guests! Registries are gauche! Dollar dances are fun! Dollar dances are gauche! (Note: I hadn't even heard of the 'dollar dance' until recently, and let me just say I am not combining an open bar with people safety-pinning money to my dress. It sounds like a great way to get stabbed.) And the saddest, most common opinion of them all: weddings are stupid and lame and expensive and everyone should just elope.

Killjoy, party of one!

I want a wedding. I love to throw a good party. I just don't want to throw a good party that is filled with people I don't know or care about, that adds up to years of debt.

But I'm just a few weeks in, and I can see why some brides lose their headpieces altogether. There are very strong, and often conflicting, expectations on How Weddings Are Done. And you feel like virtually anyone will hurl the word "bridezilla" at you for virtually anything, from demanding your bridesmaids get matching haircuts (yes, 'zilla) to not wanting their single guests to bring a random date because it will shoot the budget to hell (no, not 'zilla).

One bride on the wedding forum I frequent (shut up) asked the group if what she was doing was bizarre and unheard of or totally inappropriate.

At this point, I thought she was going to enter the reception on a carousel horse that had been mounted on a giant Pogo stick, to the strains of "Babalu." And I was ready to applaud her unique vision.

No. The poor lady just wanted to have a dessert buffet with cannolis and tiramasu, instead of a standard cake. And for this, she fully expected to be shamed and hassled. And, honestly, I am sure some nosy, badly-in-need-of-a-life old biddy relative will lay on the guilt because she expected to see a flavorless mass of white fondant.

Ultimately, I don't agree with the people who say, "It's your day! Do what you want!" Because if that were the case, wouldn't we just do away with guests altogether? But it's a feat of tact and class to balance what you want and what your intended wants, all while making sure your guests will be pleased and the expenses won't haunt you for years to come.

Now, this post isn't me complaining. I have a long and storied history of not giving a damn about what people think of me. But if you have an engaged friend who left her better senses somewhere in a pile of tulle, cut her some slack. She's probably just stressed and doing the best she can.

In the comments, tell me the fine line between bride and bridezilla.

The Pants Really Made the Outfit Hang Together

After the debacle of the Bridal Book, I decided to swing by Staples last night to pick up some office supplies and make my own Bridal Book.

While I was there, I noticed that Cleanser with Bleach was on sale for a dollar. (Yes, I know it’s bad to wash your home with chemicals. But I don’t have pets or kids, so I will use chemicals until such time as I catch party guests licking the kitchen counters. At which point I will continue to use chemicals…once I have moved to a new home without leaving a forwarding address.)

Anyway, I picked up a bottle of Cleanser with Bleach from the bottom shelf. The bottle, as it turns out, was unscrewed. A torrent of cleanser and bleach washed across the floor, my arms, and my pants. With tingly arms and a wounded spirit, I wandered up to the cash register. I asked for a restroom, paper towels, and a chance to wash up.

The very nice Staples clerks, discombobulated as they were, granted my requests. I washed up, and again, and again, until the bleach tingliness had subsided.

After I left the store, I deliberated on my next course of action. I’m pretty sure Staples owes me a pair of pants. I decided to write a letter. An angry letter demanding restitution for the dishonor done to my pants.

I was set upon this course of action until I remembered one thing: I’d watched The Big Lebowski over the weekend. And, since I’m pretty sure it’s a totally true story, demanding a new rug led the Dude to a dead friend, a trashed apartment, a kidnapping mystery, and a destroyed car. So maybe I ought to not tempt the Fates in such a way.

However, it’s somewhat gratifying to know that, no matter how happy I am, the real world will always be there to ruin my pants.

In the comments, imagine the movie where I get involved in a Staples-centric film noir.

I Promise this Won't Be a Wedding Blog

So, now that I'm engaged*, I get to plan a wedding.

Goals: Have a fun party the guests enjoy, not have crushing stage fright in a room stacked full of random strangers, while not going into debt, not putting anyone else into debt, not getting any urge to dress up like that bride there on the right, and, most importantly, to get married. Yay!

Last night, I decided to kick off the process by swinging by the going-out-of-business sale at my local Borders. I seem to recall, from weddings past, that you can buy these "wedding organizer" binders. And they have pockets. For receipts and contracts and things! And checklists! And you can walk around with your big-ass Bride Binder and watch as legions of strangers on every sidewalk stop and swoon with joy! Because it's all about me! Me! Wonderful me! (And maybe my fiance.)

As you can probably already tell, this excursion was not a raging success. First I had to ask the staff member if wedding planning books could be found under "Political Science," or, "History of Warfare," as those struck me as the most logical locations. Apparently they live in a land called, "General Reference."

Then I went to the Bride Shelf. It was hell. Arsenic-laced cotton candy with a side of dead puppies hell.

Everything was this shade of pink I can only describe as "flourescent gynecology textbook." There was the pink Budget Bride. The pink Elegant Bride. The pink I Have a Life Bride. There was even a pink "Anti-Bride's Guide." (I briefly considered stacking The Bride's Guide and the Anti-Bride's Guide on top of each other to create an explosion. But that would have only improved the aesthetic of the Bride Shelf.)

Eventually, I gave up and bought a box set of Ed Wood movies. Hey, at least the Ed Wood box was pink, right?

*As my friend Worth pointed out, Monday's post never mentioned whether or not I said "yes." I did. So there you go.