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.

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.

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.

And Now for Something Completely Gizzardy

Boy, it's sure been a lot of Big Life Stuff around here lately. I'm sinking under the weight of my own profundity, here on my mountain of brilliance, above the valley that is the petty hum of everyday life. I am, like, so much better than all of you.

I'm getting a little sick of myself. This isn't a Big Life Stuff blog...we have Wil Wheaton for that. So, in no particular order, here are my most frivolous, petty thoughts of the last 24 hours:

1. Honking doesn't get you home any faster, so knock it the @@$*%(%! off.
2. Inebriated Facebooking is a hazard not because you might say something embarrassing (let's face it - even my sober status updates are embarrassing), but because undoubtedly someone from your 9th grade English class will come along and correct your grammar.
3. You're comfortably sitting inside your nice warm car. It won't kill you to wait a moment for me to get across the street. Also? It's the law.
4. When reading Yelp reviews, do you find yourself horning in on the worst review of the bunch? Like, if one person out of a thousand finds a fist-sized cockroach at the Ritz, does that make the Ritz a bad hotel? Or does it mean some prankster is going around planting cockroaches?
5. I understand that men are visual and all, but I don't get what's alluring about pornography crotch-shots. It's all gizzards and McNuggets to me.

In the comments, tell me something random.

Even Nosferatu Needs a Nap Sometimes

I've slept with probably 100 people. Ew, not like that.

What I mean is that when you factor in roommates, slumber parties, overnight guests and so forth, I have probably been in the vicinity of 100 sleeping people. Whenever I have a party, I usually just slide air mattresses under people as they conk out. And then I perform experiments on them.

OK, but not really. But I do like to stare at people while they sleep. I consider it a matter of scientific curiousity, and not a manifestation of complete and utter creepiness. I pay attention to things like who snores, who sprawls, who mumbles and who doesn't appear to sleep at all. I have a friend who will fall asleep on her side, and wake up in the exact same position eight hours later. I have another friend I dubbed the Starfish Sleeper, who manages to splay his arms and legs in perfect starfish formation and take up an amazing amount of room.

But in the dull glow of a hungover Sunday, I saw the strangest sleeper of all. A Nosferatu Sleeper. As of 3 am, he had fallen asleep flat on his back, arms crossed over his chest. When I checked on him several hours later, he was still in the exact same position.

Naturally, I threw crucifixes at his head and doused him in holy water and garlic.

Then I felt like a bit of a jerk...as it turns out, he was sleeping in that position due to the close quarters and mixed genders, and he considered it ungallant to accidentally wake up to a handful of girl-parts.

In the comments, tell me if Nosferatu Sleeping is the new vanguard of chivalry, above and beyond walking on the outside of the sidewalk. Or tell me about your weird sleeping habits.

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.

D.S.I.: Drunk Scene Investigation

As a frequent (and fabulous) dinner party hostess, I have a bevy of morning-after-the-party rituals.

First and foremost is making coffee for whichever drunkies made the 4 a.m. decision that an air mattress is the better part of valor. Then, I use context clues to determine the exact level of group inebriation from the night before. There are many ways I can assess this. Here are the examples from my last gathering:

1. Stereo volume. Sunday mornings, I like to toss in a little Sam Cooke or Marvin Gaye. If either one blares out at teeth-shattering Gwar-esque volume, that's about 20 points of drunkity. (If Neil Diamond was waiting for me in the CD player, that's an extra 10 points.)

2. A rain jacket stuffed between the cushions? That's an indication that I used it to cover up a particularly spill-prone guest. Minus 10 points, as I was clearly sober enough to encase a friend in plastic. However, plus 5 points, as I clearly thought that was a classy and tasteful thing to do.

3. Empty beer cans floating in the ice bucket? Either I thought they were full (sad and delusional), or I was having ice bucket races. Nevermind, it's worth 5 points of drunkity.

4. Location of furniture. Far too often, I find the patio furniture inside, and the indoor furniture out on the balcony. So either I am redecorating in my drunken stupor, or my friends are trying to be cute. I'll give it 10 points.

5. Kitchen conditions. If the recycling bin and the trash can appear to have had a bastard child, namely, a pile of cans and napkins piled neatly on the stove, that's worth 10 points.

6. Scariest of all? The fridge. Ever and always. I almost always find something spectacular in there. This time around, I found a Cool Whip flag cake, uncovered, on the second shelf. On top of the cake was a crystal bowl, which had once upon a time held fruit salad but was now empty. The fruit salad could be found in a Ziploc bag, elsewhere. So, somehow, I was able to move the fruit salad into a bag, but decided an empty bowl belonged in the fridge, not the sink...and, moreover, decided it belonged square on top of the cake. That's a good hundred points right here:

D.S.I. Report: High levels of drunkity, marginally more drunk than the time I found a cupcake in the shower, and considerably less drunk than the time I climbed a tree in a dominatrix outfit.

This Tells You Everything You Need to Know

In honor of my annivorcery, I'm spending my mornings reconstructing my evenings.

Also, my gchat status is "rikki tikki tavi is my homeboy."

Robots and Naked Chicks

I am supremely nice, or, quite possibly, my life is empty and dull. Either way, I wound up going to Artomatic twice on Saturday to accommodate the schedules of my friends. No matter, though. After a cumulative seven hours of looking, I saw less than half of the works on display. So I'll be going a few more times.

Bearing in mind I know nothing about art, and even less about artists, here are a few impressions I had:

This year, people mostly painted naked chicks and robots. Last year, people mostly painted naked chicks and space aliens. I wonder when robots became cooler than aliens.

Speaking of naked chicks, it would be nice if more of these works had been done by people who knew, and perhaps even liked, women. I spent much of my evening contemplating walls and walls of uncomfortable, contorted, sad-looking naked chicks, nodding sagely, and saying, "So, tell me about your mother." The finest tableau was on the second floor, a believable scene of two bored-looking naked women hanging out by a gate. Really, that's totally what my girlfriends and I do when we hang out. We strip down and wait for the mail.


Incidentally, if you stand in front of a whole bunch of naked people paintings and laugh hysterically, people *will* stare at you. Best was when a bunch of backwards-capped frat boy types joined me, attempted to ogle the naked chicks, then, when I started heckling, joined in.

Mobiles are really, really cool...and, moreover, I made one in a free class on Saturday afternoon. It even matched my dress! I ran into the artist on my second visit, and he was really very nice -so go check out his forest of mobiles on the eighth floor.

Somehow, I've turned into the sort of person who hates dreams. Specifically, I hate the ridiculous things that privileged white people dream of. One photo exhibit included a 'life list' of each subject's top five wishes. The wish lists always included travelling somewhere outrageously expensive, becoming famous thanks to the efforts of others, opening a homeless shelter (or other noblesse oblige-y aim), or "becoming fluent in one of the languages I speak." What a tiresome group. I think if I saw them at a party, I'd run right back out the door.


I take that back...one guy's dream? "Meet Heather Locklear." I could totally party with that guy. I imagine we would sit in a corner and mock the aims of others.



In the comments, dream of something outrageously bourgeois.

I Might Be an Amnesiac Stripper

When I visit people's homes, I tend to leave little pieces of myself behind. And not just pieces of my heart, or the final shards of my dignity.

No, I have possession leprosy. I have shed something I own at virtually every gathering I've ever attended. Umbrellas. Xanadu. Jewelry. Tupperware. Or, most often, articles of clothing, like shawls, sweaters, or socks. I spend my weekend afternoons revisiting the scenes of my various crimes, recovering my scattered belongings.

I'm starting to wonder what this really means. See, I'm obsessively organized, and I tend to freak out a little when I can't find something. I'm not at all forgetful by nature. And I don't think I'm attempting to move in with any of my friends so incrementally that they don't notice until I haul in the sofa.

Maybe there's something I'm not telling myself, and I think I know what it is:

I'm moonlighting as an amnesiac exotic dancer.

That must be why I get invited to so many parties! I take a shot or two of some kind of CIA memory-erasing medicine, shake my money maker, earn just enough for my cab fare home, and roll out of there. Or maybe one of my friends is secretly my stripper-pimp, and is skimming a little too much off the top. Because, at the very least, I ought to find the occasional stray dollar bill in my underpants. (That is, if I remembered to take my underpants home with me.)

In the comments, admit it. You're my stripper-pimp.

The Secret of My Social Success

I like to take my social compass, spin it ‘round once or twice, shuffle a few things, and invite an ever-changing cast of friends and randoms over for what they believe is a small, friendly, casual cocktail party.

It’s not. It’s actually an experiment of sorts, in which I serve them a potent (possibly lethal) substance known as Shangria. Then I watch the ensuing jackassery, take careful notes, and store the memories for later. (If I have any memories at all, that is.)

The original recipe came from allrecipes.com, back when it was a mere Classic Sangria. I’ve spent the last five years refining the recipe, building it into something light, tasty, refreshing, and destructive to your immortal soul. At some point, my friends dubbed it Shangria.

You start with rum. Lots of it. And sugar, and some sliced-up citrus fruit. Put all of that in a Tupperware, and chill it in the fridge for at least two hours. When time is up, pick out the citrus, and pour the rum and sugar into a punch bowl. Pour in some orange juice, and, once you’ve taken a deep breath…chilled Burgundy jug wine. Top it all with cut-up apples and pears.

I’m not kidding about that jug. If there’s a cork involved, you’re way too classy to party with me. Go sip tea with your pinky stuck out or something. The jug should weigh significantly more than your head, cost no more than $15, and should have a “Refrigerate After Opening” label. If it has an expiration date, even better.

Shangria has many achievements on its record. That astonished, rueful moment when guests realize they’re consuming rum-fortified jug wine (fortunately, by then they’re too plowed to care). A duet karaoke performance of “Tiny Dancer,” performed as “Hold me closer, Tony Dannnzzzzaaaaa.” A pervy voyeuristic hot pink shower cupcake. A stray can of Yuengling, found inside a low-top Chuck Taylor. A “Screw It, Nobody’s Walking Right, Anyhow,” impromptu slumber party. A ninja houseguest who vanished before anyone else woke up. World peace. Endless jackassery. And that was all in the same evening.

I think it's my Australian half that compels me to make this. I was born on a continent full of adorable tiny animals of outsize lethality. That has extended to both a pretty fair description of myself, and to my taste in party punches.

Because I’m generous, here’s how you can make your very own batch of Shangria. This should fill one large punch bowl. However, if your friends are anything like mine, you may want to go ahead and double the recipe.

Shangria:

Start with:

One each, sliced: lime, lemon, orange
3 cups rum (I like Bacardi, however, anything in a plastic bottle will also work well)
1 cup sugar

Chill for at least two hours. Then, pick out the citrus and pour the rum and sugar into a large punch bowl. Add:

2 cups orange juice (any more than that, and you’re a coward)
One each, chopped: green apple, red apple, pear
Top it off with as much of that glorious jug wine as will fit. Stir.

TMI Thursday: That Time I Fell Off a Barstool

I have a boundless talent for drunken self-injury.

Just a few weeks ago, I banged up my right arm while attempting to open my door. The weird part wasn't that I decided to cushion the blow...with my skull. It also wasn't the fact my left hand came out unscathed, because that was the hand holding my keys. It's also not that this injury came about because I decided the door did not, in fact, exist. No, the part I simply do not understand is...I'm right-handed. Why the hell was I trying to unlock the door with my left hand?

Anyhow, my most famous drunken fall occurred back in Bogota. I'd been glugging martinis at Pravda, the Russian bar, with a friend, a work contact, and my spouse at the time. We lucky four decided solid food was the better part of valor, and to go get dinner at the Italian joint next door.

We were going to have to wait for a table, so we arranged ourselves along the bar, requested a bottle of wine, emptied it, asked for another. At one point, I decided, etiquette be damned, to pour myself a fresh glass. I leaned over. At that exact moment, a waiter bumped my chair.

I fell. By which I mean, I somehow positioned myself so artfully that not only did it take me full minutes to hit Earth, my head collided with a marble floor. It hurt. And by "hurt," I mean the double vision spiraled into triple vision, angry gnomes did a spike-heeled tapdance in every corner of my mind, and...OK, just this once I'll admit that I'm out of metaphors. That's how much it hurt.

The sad part isn't the hangover I had the next day, though I will contend there are few experiences more singular than a high-altitude red wine hangover combined with an al dente bump on the noodle. The sad part wasn't that I stayed for dinner regardless, as you're supposed to stay awake after you bonk yourself on the head. (I had the veal.)

No, the sad part was the email I got from one of the previous evening's companions, mentioning that he had just gakked into a flowerbed at the Mormon Temple. After all my efforts, somebody out-jackassed me.

Why My Ass Can't Type

Friday was about as classy as you’d expect.

That is, I made a complete and total donkey out of myself.

Yes, I held up my offer letter in the bar and boogied in my seat. I sang, "We Are the Champions." I chucked half a glass of Malbec onto my lap, and wasn’t too worried, because, after all, red is my favorite color. I woke up with my makeup still on, and my eyeliner had migrated to my earlobes.

So, basically, I did all sorts of other immature and ridiculous things, which I hardly remember and someone better not tattle on me for.

But, sadly, the most embarrassing thing I did happened after I was already home.

I tried to do the responsible thing, as in, text Jamie to say that I’d gotten home safely. However, “Home safe. Good night!” came out as:

“Aw. Thx will b rey to crask ourpxeo.”

At this point, Jamie probably thought I’d been sold out by my cabbie and kidnapped by a gang of hand-stealing bandits, and I was tapping out a distress signal with my elbows.

Naturally, he texted back to see if I was OK. Of course I was completely and totally fine, and safe and snug in my bed (nevermind that I was, uh, still in my clothes...though, unlike a certain someone, I at least removed my coat). Which is why I responded with,

“Omg, coppl!c.tnn’”

So, at this point, the gang of bandits had sawed off my elbows, and I was sending distress signals with my nose. Or, I’d sat on the keyboard and allowed my hindquarters to type for me. Who knows?

Either way, I had to call and slurrily and sleepily report that I was, in fact, home, and had arrived in one piece. I wasn’t, however, safe from a hangover so remarkable in its scope and intensity that I was in awe of it myself.

Happy Monday, everybody.

I'm a Real Boy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

In summary: woo hoo, huzzah, hurray!

PS - and, as ever, thanks Brett!

Dodging the Obamapocalypse

After reviewing umpteen many Inauguration maps, I realized I live within the charter bus/no fly/strip search zone. As we are smart and (mostly) wise, J. and I decided to flee the Obamamania, leave town, and visit my friends in North Carolina. It would be far less crazy in the South, where we could hang out, see Charles Kuralt's grave (he's buried behind my dorm!), and eat Bojangles for every meal.

Everything seemed great until I received the following email from our host:

Going to the store Friday. Any special requests? I have tequila,wine and absinthe.

Mind you, our host is the famous Buddy, the man who sobers up with Jager Bombs and once ran up a $180 tab in less than an hour at the Eighteenth Amendment. (Considering that I, a Duchess in the Court of Prodigious Bar Tabs, have always maxed at $35, this is quite a feat.)

So, sure, Buddy, I have some special requests. I'd like Gatorade, a pallet of painkillers, an enormous trash can to heave into, and maybe one industrial-size preemptive hug.

See you next week...if I survive.

Class Warfare in the Washroom Line

Longtime readers, friends, and that checkout lady at Macy’s all know one thing: I spend a lot of time scrapping with people who blame me for their own poor manners. New Year’s Eve was no exception.

I don’t like to go to bars on New Year’s Eve. It's a soup of amateurs, drunkards, morons, crowds, and idiots. But I made an exception, and trudged up to Cleveland Park.

All was well until about 1:00, when it felt like time to leave. I decided to hit the washroom one more time before grabbing a cab. I arranged myself in the (rather long) ladies’ room line, chatted with my neighbors, and patiently waited for my turn.

When I was nearly to the front, a woman stepped in front of me and brusquely said, “I’m next.”

What happened next comes down to this: I don’t like bullies. I hate them, actually. While there will always be people who bulldoze and tantrum their way through life, I do have the option of (politely) not putting up with it. And, yes, cutting in line is a petty offense, but I’d already waited for some time and nature’s call had become more of a bellow. Also, you did know that I'm not perfect, right?

Me: Excuse me? I’m sorry, I didn’t see you in line.
Her: I was waiting over there. *gestures in general direction of…elsewhere in the bar*
Me: Well, the rest of us were waiting patiently in a line. Why not just join us and wait your turn?
Her: blah blah blah…(as hard as I tried to listen, her tone made me think I was in Mean Girls. Perhaps I had worn pink on the wrong day?)
Me: Please, just wait your turn.
Her: You know, I can tell you’re from here. Because only in DC would anyone actually care about this. You’re a privileged D.C. b*tch.
Me: *open-mouthed, dripping with pity and consternation, Miss-Manners-approved stare*

At this moment, the ladies’ room door opened, and a woman gestured to me and said, “Your turn!” (Victory One) Then the crazy lady’s friend dragged her off, scolding her under his breath (Victory Two).

As I returned to my table, I thought through a myriad of responses, the benefits and drawbacks of each, and ranked them from worst to best.

1. “Actually, I’m a single mother of a special needs child, and I teach the third grade in Anacostia. I grew up in a dirt shack in Kentucky with six sisters, and we had to take turns wearing the shoes.”
Benefit: HA!
Drawback: Not even remotely true.

2. *POW*! (punch to face)
Benefit: Well-deserved.
Drawback: No need to kick off the New Year at the police station.

3. “Yes, I’m privileged to be the sort of person who actually waits her turn and treats others with respect, instead of bullying and insulting her way through life. Also, may I point out you’re carrying a rather expensive-looking handbag?”
Benefit: True. Also, funny, if a bit prissy.
Drawback: A potential *POW* from her to me. Yet again, kicking off the New Year at the police station.

4. “Here’s a copy of my award-winning inspirational autobiography, Dead Dogs and Outlet Malls. The inscription says, ‘Take THAT, beeyotch.’”
Benefit: Perhaps she’d learn something? Also, HA!
Drawback: First I’d have to write an award-winning inspirational autobiography. Also, I don’t need to rattle off my life story to a total stranger when I haven’t done anything wrong, anyhow.

5. “Thank you for pointing out my bourgeoisie shortcomings, Comrade. Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?”
Benefit: It would have been really fun to say that.
Drawback: It would totally fly over her head. Which, come to think of it, may be a benefit. Perhaps I could have swapped it for some French Revolution propaganda?

In the end, the pitying glare was probably the best solution. I know myself, and I do know I’m privileged in many ways. I grew up in a safe neighborhood, among books, in a family that valued education. Food was nutritious, home-cooked, and plentiful. I went to excellent public schools (and one extremely gnarly private one). But I don’t think of myself as that stereotypical (and mostly mythical) “privileged DC b*tch.” I imagine that sort of person has the self-awareness of a tiny asteroid, does not home-dye her hair, and definitively did not grow up in Woodbridge.

So, once I’d dusted off the initial shock and hurt from my bully run-in, it was all really very funny. But next time I go out on New Year’s Eve, I’m taking a marshmallow gun. Look out, line-jumpers! You're about to become human s'mores.

TMI Thursday: Non-Instant Karma

Fine, LiLu. You got me. For you, a TMI tale of embarrassment.

Long ago, in early 2002, I was dating (my now-good-friend) Simple Math. One Saturday, we decided to drop by the now-defunct Cozy Corner Cafe for a diner breakfast. And, boy, I needed it. I'd spent the previous evening double-fisting single-malt scotch and cheap beer.

Our food came, and I broke the Cardinal Law of the Hangover: don't ever reach for the eggs first. Start with toast. I turned shades of green unknown to Crayola or Pantone. My face was a rainbow of sickly fruit flavors. I lurched out of my seat and dashed for the upstairs restrooms.

I imagine my fellow diners heard something like this: tap tap tap tap tap tap...(pause for turning at the landing)...tap tap tap tap (I clearly remember exactly four stairs)...STOMP STOMP STOMP (running down the hall)....SLAM! (restroom door closing)....Bleeeeeeeeaaaaaarggggggh! (no explanation necessary).

I expelled the contents of my digestive system (in what turned out to be the men's room...to complete the humiliation). I staggered downstairs, and returned to the table to find that Simple had settled the check. Before I had a chance to warn him, Simple headed up to the men's room. After he left, two waitresses sidled over.

"So, how far along are you?"

Forgive me, oh, forgive me for this....

"About two months."

They looked to my ringless hands, and clucked sympathetically. Word of my ignominous illegitimate imaginary pregnancy flew about the restaurant. Simple returned to find a collective Waitress Death Stare. It's a good thing we'd already eaten, or he might have gotten some DNA with his omelet. At any rate, he never got good service there again.

But that's not the punchline. More than four years later, I was road-tripping around the South. I realized I was close to Simple's hometown, so I rang him up and badgered him until he told me some fun places to go.

"Oh, go get a burger and a soda at this one diner. You'll love it."

I went to Simple's "diner," sat down at the counter, and wondered why I was the only woman there. I also wondered why all the locals were staring at me as if I was wearing a fedora made of human entrails.

That's because it wasn't a diner. It was an illegal off-track betting parlor.

You win, Simple. You win.

Friday Thoughts: Career Trajectory Edition

I wonder if my (highly variable, largely downward) career trajectory might not be completely due to outside forces. Maybe I have a little, tiny bit to do with it. Take, as one example, the following phone conversation with my staffing agency handler.

Me: Good afternoon, Shannon speaking.

Handler: Hi, just wanted to let you know your job site will be closed from Christmas to New Year's.

Me: Thanks for the heads up, my supervisor had mentioned something about that.

Handler: So we'll try to find intermittent work for you that week.

Me: Great! Just please don't schedule me for New Year's Day. I'll be hungover. (sound of colleagues cackling in the background)

Handler: ...

Me: Have a great weekend! I'm off to happy hour.

Then, a one-woman version of the sort of fights couples get in on their cab ride home from parties:

Shannon's Brain: Hey, Shannon's Mouth, please don't ever take a call while assembling a coatrack with your bare hands, on Friday, fifteen minutes before closing time. Also, could you please consult me once in a while before activating?

Shannon's Mouth (to colleagues): Hey, guys, check it out...it's beer o' clock!

PS - Clearly, I felt so strongly about this I had to hit the submit button twice.

Bah, Humdrum!

I'm not a holiday person. Christmas music is the auditory version of the world's most boring cocktail party: all small talk, repetition and tiny thoughts. I've never seen It's a Wonderful Life. Travel, crowds, and lines give me panic attacks. I can't bake cookies, as I lack counter space, a reliable oven, or the inclination to swan about my tiny kitchen, measuring and sifting like some sort of prissified dork.

The only hooray of the season is that I can put on a pretty dress, swallow up huge portions of free booze, and call it, "networking." I have several "networking" events this weekend, for which I will need a pair of shoes.

And that's the tragedy of it all: I can't find the shoes I need. I went to the DCUSA complex in Columbia Heights with an ample budget of $25, and hit Target, Marshalls and Payless. All had satiny party shoes.

Let me correct that statement: All had satiny, strappy, OPEN-TOED party shoes. Because what I really want is to run around in 35-degree weather in sandals and no stockings, with my pasty white winter skin on full display. (My deeply tanned summer skin is a slightly less flourescent shade of white, more of a bony ecru with a hint of shimmer.) Why can't these emporia of holiday cheer stock something, I don't know, wearable during the holidays?

Garghhhh! Thanks for ruining Christmas, Target! Or, rather, thanks for being a minor logistical hiccup in my master plan to slosh my way through the weekend, lurching at people and hopefully attempting something godawful-but-hilarious, like licking my boyfriend's boss.

In the comments, please tell me I can wear Chuck Taylors with my party dress. The high-tops are dressy, right? Or are low-tops classier?

Happy Skin-o-Ween!

My menagerie of pet peeves includes the skankification of Halloween. Sure, once upon a time, I paraded down Franklin Street tricked out as a dominatrix, but that was more funny than anything. Really. Try and keep a straight face while picturing me with a bustier and a whip.

I don't care if it puts me in "You kids, get off my lawn!" territory, or makes me the Princess of Prudity, but I'm sick to death of sexy nurses, sexy fairies, sexy French maids, sexy stewardesses, and sexy construction workers. To me, the average Halloween party looks like the opening scene of a very cheap and derivative porno film. Imagine it: boom mike hovering into the action, *boom-chicka-wow-wow* on the hi-fi, nubile, surgically enhanced barely-18s hanging out by the punch bowl.

Sexy Fairy: Ooooh no, my faerie wings have lost their sparkle!

French Maid: I'll shine them up for you!

Sexy Nurse: Don't worry, I'll make you feel better!

*cue tickling with a feather duster and frolicking among the thermometers*

And, scene.

Really. If you're going to trash it up for Halloween, show a little imagination. Give some sex appeal to those occupations that so desperately need it. Both men and women can get into the action (so to speak). Be a sexy colonic irrigation aesthetician. A sexy undertaker. A sexy fishmonger, a sexy laundromat manager, or even a sexy proctologist. Hell, even a fry cook can be saucy if you try hard enough.

If you're out on Halloween, look for me dressed as a sexy toll collector. Nothing spruces up a miniskirt and tube top like an orange vest and some rolls of quarters!

PS - Post based on tipsy girl talk at Liv's party.