Excuse Me, Would You Like to Make a Donation, or Are You a Complete Douchebag?

As a nonprofiteer, I can tell you that charity is a wonderful thing. I can also tell you that I am sick to death of being hit up for money everywhere I go.

Fresh, eerily zitless young fundraisers for Human Rights Campaign and Greenpeace have an ongoing turf war outside of my office. I simply cannot run out for a sandwich without some preternaturally cheerful kid asking if I have a moment for gay rights or the environment. The implication is that if I cannot spare a moment for their sales pitch, I am a horrid person who hates the Earth and all the gays upon it.

But, oh, it gets worse. I can't buy nacho cheese dip at the Safeway without being asked for a dollar for breast cancer. (I'm sure they mean the prevention/treatment of breast cancer, but I like to picture a tumor holding a tin cup.) So I guess I hate boobs, too.

Last night was the final straw: a very nice cashier at Borders hit me with the nickel bag tax (aka, the absentmindedness surcharge), and then asked if I wanted to buy a bag of coffee for the troops. I demurred, because, THE HELL? If Borders wants to support the troops, they should do so on their own dime. Don't make me out to be un-American because I want to buy a few puzzle books and get on with my life.

I told the cashier that I don't throw donations around willy-nilly, instead, I make a budget and a plan, research charities, and give wisely. His response was along the lines of, "So, you're broke. Hey, it's cool."

No, I'm not broke. I have enough money that I can afford to give some away. I just want to do so on my own terms, instead of being shaken down for loose change every time I make a purchase.

So that's the state of modern charity: You're either a selfish uncharitable douche; or you're too broke to support the troops, but you can still afford to buy vacuous fashion magazines. So, you're still a selfish uncharitable douche. Douched if you do, douched if you don't.

In the comments, tell me if you have a moment to leave a comment. If you don't, you hate me, my blog, and everything it stands for.

Changeling Booze Babies

My home bar is frequently the victim of troll-baby changeling booze swaps.

What? Exactly!

Let me explain. A changeling is more than an Angelina Jolie movie that mostly existed so she could tuck those big lips under a cloche and look all glamorous. Anyone with a respectable amount of dungeon master experience could tell you that. There's an old folk tale that trolls would swipe human babies and replace them with troll babies, known as changelings. As I have no children for the urbanite trolls to take, they take my wine.

My wine supply usually includes a variety of reds and whites of various brands and price points, a bottle or two of prosecco, maybe a rose or two. Then I'll invite my usual assortment of friends and enablers to stop in for drinks or dinner. The next morning, I prop my eyes open with toothpicks, fix myself a Bloody Maria and take a good look at the bar.

The number of wine bottles on the shelf will be unchanged. However, all of the original wine will be gone, replaced with Yellow Tail, Barefoot, and Korbel. Every damn time. Not that I have anything against those brands, I just find it weird that my bar has an exclusive Sunday morning contract with them. Deepening the mystery is that I have yet to see anyone drink, hide, or steal the original bottles.

Conclusion: Sometime in the night, the trolls change out my booze babies for Yellow Tail, Barefoot, and Korbel, and expect me to raise those bottles (or glasses full of them) as my own.

In the comments, tell me why no one ever drinks the Yellow Tail. Are they insulting my Australian heritage?

PS - Hi! I'm back!

A Menagerie of Decorating Pet Peeves

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crowdsourcing My Hair

I suffer from a highly conflicted form of vanity: I don't really care too much about how I look, but I want a lot of attention for the fact that I'm not vain.

I've spent the last two days demanding that my friends choose my next hair color. Stick with the reddish, or go back to dark brown? Granted, these changes are so imperceptible that I'm more or less asking them to choose between ecru and bone. (What? Exactly.)

The scariest option so far has been that I return to my natural color (thanks, Tyler!). Sure...if I had the faintest clue what that was. In fact, one of the meanest things anyone can do to me in a round of Trivial Pursuit is ask, "For the pie...WHAT IS YOUR NATURAL HAIRCOLOR?" My heart stops for a minute, then I realize the joke. And I start to throw things. (I'm a little slow on the uptake...I had to be TOLD Spinal Tap wasn't a real band.)

Then there are suggestions that I get highlights, or go to a salon. No way...that's like saying I should upgrade from my Wal-Mart brand cocaine. Whatever a salon can do, I can do better with a $9 bottle of Feria, two glasses of wine, and some olive oil for the inevitable drips.

Now that I've written an entire post about my hair, it's time for you to vote. Red or brown? And, since I don't post photos of myself, many of you are doing this blind. That's what makes it awesome.

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.

Spend My Money

I’ve never been a financially motivated person. If anything, I'm more afraid of success than failure.

I was a recessionista in the boomtime. I avoided brand names, McMansion mania, vehicles with operational engines, and food that is not a Safeway Club Card special. (Really, I take the circular and plan a whole week’s worth of menus based on what’s on sale.) Even my consumer durables are disposable: my newish stereo died of a massive electric aneurysm, my TV is a hand-me-down, and, for that matter, so are the VCR, microwave, coffeemaker/toaster oven/hot plate combo (I call it, “Frankenkitchen”). I home-dye my hair, trim my own bangs, and don’t have a, er, personal waxer.

My frugality is pretty annoying, isn’t it? No, I’m not smug about it. I’ve never been the sort of person who will follow you around a shop and tell you how overpriced everything is (though I will tell you when that dress makes you look like a kangaroo). And I won’t grimace when you order a second glass of wine.

For the first time in my adult, non-freeloading life, I will have a little cash to spare. Yes, I know I’m climbing while the rest of the world crashes and burns, but I’ve always been contrary.

Starting next month, I’ll be looking into the little upgrades. Maybe I’ll get a larger apartment, but in the same building/rent-controlled warehouse of humanity. Maybe I’ll let a professional hide my nasty gray streaks. Sure, I’ll do the mature stuff: pay down my student loan (my only debt), sock away some savings…yawnworthy, no? Still here?

But I’m going to have some fun that doesn’t involve a vat of Michelob at Recessions, or lonely evenings of Netflix, prosecco and cheese dip. And that’s where y’all come in. Lemmonex asked how you would spend $5,000 of mad money, I’ll ask a slightly different question:

If you could upgrade your lifestyle in just one way, what would it be? More travel? Better furniture? Lasik? Exboyfriendectomy? Tell me, and maybe I'll try it.

Tell Me the Bright Side of Bethesda

Yesterday, I had to get up at first light and go to Bethesda for a training. This is even worse than it sounds.

I don't like Bethesda. I used to work up there, and I hated it for more than just the endless, rickety, barf-inducing Metro commute. A friend and I call it the Nexus of Evil, because the air is a little colder, no one ever smiles or holds the elevator, and the minivan mamas see pedestrians as little more than sentient speedbumps.

There are bright spots: if you're going to be stuck outside for a while, the Hyatt has outdoor heaters. There's a great cheap Chinese joint. There's also a Booeymonger and a Rock Bottom. And there was this great Red Line operator who would call it, "Betheeeeesda." But, once I stopped working up there, I never saw a reason to visit.

Which brings us back to yesterday: the Back to Bethesda Reunion Tour. I went, and nothing appears to have changed. None of the stores and restaurant had changed over. The same carpet joints still had the same, "Going Out of Business!" banners. (The least they could do is put a note underneath, "This Time, We Really Really Mean It!") The Bethesdians (Bethesdites?) wore the same downtrodden expressions they'd super-glued to their spirits two years ago.

It was all the same, and I hated all of it. But last night, as I teared up at the end of that inspirational tale of a delinquent-runaway-turned-teen bride, The Little Mermaid, I was hit with a ray of hope. Bethesda can't be all bad, after all, it's slightly warmer than Sarajevo. I don't like to write off an entire town (...except maybe Sarajevo). And, most importantly, I'll probably have to go up there for another training.

So, please, change my mind. In the comments, tell me something cool about Bethesda. If you can't think of anything, lie. Lie like a rug from a store that's been going out of business for two years. Just...help me.

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?

A Silver Lining in My Cloud of Superiority

I’ve been looking for silver linings. Upsides. The good news. There has to be something positive in having my salary cut in half.

I can vote in broad daylight. My precinct is in the projects. If you follow the crime reports, look for the number of robberies and beatdowns that happen within one block of my polling location. Yeah…I lived in Bogota and I’m worried.

I can obtain amusing second jobs. I’m debating applying to be a CVS clerk. While I’m worried about possible permanent damage to my IQ, I’ve always wanted to wear a smock.

Daytime drinking. Who’s up for starting happy hour at 2:00? Give me a call, I’m down for it.

Not having money is the fastest path to being better than everyone. My impoverished state allows me to sit here on my cloud of superiority and mock you soulless consumerist nitwits. I can’t believe how much useless crap you buy. You are all that is wrong with America!

My apartment is the cleanest it has ever been. My refrigerator is stocked, I have all the time in the world to make Crock-Pot comfort food, and I’ve even ironed some clothes.

Bad days build character.

I get to keep my health insurance.

Half a job is better than no job at all.

My friends rock.

I think it’s going to be OK.

Photo credit: Jeremy Brazell

Low Rollers: A Postcard from Atlantic City

I have no idea how people can gamble all day and not die of boredom.

With that in mind, here are a few suggestions regarding fun times in Atlantic City:

Freeze your ass off running down the boardwalk in monsoon conditions.

Borrow a hair dryer from the hotel so you can dry your pants while watching Antiques Roadshow.

Visit the Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Museum, argue over whether or not to believe it.

Stay at the Chelsea Pub and Inn, a former synagogue and Jewish rooming house that underwent a stunning transformation into…an adorably quirky B&B and 24-hour bar. It’s like a Denny’s for drinkers! Your room reservation includes two free drink tickets! And your room key has a bottle opener keychain, and it’s run by your friendly neighborhood crazy people, and you can solve the age-old mystery of, “Exactly who sits in a bar at noon on a Sunday?” Answer: Pensioners who ran through all their money playing video poker at the Tropicana.

Eat dinner at midnight.

Lose a dollar at the nickel slots, get bored, go elsewhere.

Lose a dollar at Skee-Ball, decide it’s a better deal than the slots.

Watch the intricate mating dance of Guidos vs. Women in Glorified Tank Tops. Recall the Law of Dressing Pretty Without Looking Like a Hooker: The higher the hemline, the lower the heel…unless you’re in Atlantic City and it’s butt-ass freezing. In which case, wear even less than what you’d put on in July. (And, yes, I’ve become the grumpy old lady who thinks girls ought to cover up a little.)

Walk past a bar, wonder if it's karaoke night, then realize that's the house band...and they're really that terrible.

Spend the drive grousing about tolls, and telling each other New Jersey should be paying YOU to visit, and not vice versa.

Wonder why, in the glorious state of New Jersey, it’s illegal to pump your own gas. Is it just to add that extra dash of suck?

Wonder why, with the lousy weather and the Jersey-ness of it all, you're really having the most wonderful time.

A Joyful (and Legally Binding) Bridesmaid Experience

Alert reader Kevin sent me the following gem:
Bridesmaid Contract. According to Newsweek, these are cropping up in not-so-merry olde England as a way of guaranteeing the quality of your bridesmaid experience. I really, really hope it's a hoax.

Among the requirements: cannot gain more than seven pounds, cannot "intentionally" fall pregnant, and, cannot make any drastic hairstyle changes (a Felicity clause! Neat!).

Now, I could go on about bridezillas and entitlement and crazy social trends, but really, what I want to do is give advice to any bridesmaid who is faced with legally sanctioned indentured servitude.

Option one is to run like hell. Totally valid, and probably smart.

Option two is to recognize that the bride is not, was never, and never will be a true friend. You'd be well shot of her, and she deserves to have her Very Special Day sabotaged by a bridesmaid run amok. However, you'll have to be clever about it so you don't get sued. My ideas:

1. "I will agree to wear a dress of the bride’s choosing, regardless of my own opinions about style or colour."

Dead easy, that one. Buy a duplicate of her gown, after all, that is also a "dress of the bride's choosing."

2. "I will not intentionally fall pregnant before the wedding."

I swear it was an accident! I somehow confused my diaphragm with a piece of Tupperware. (Note: fake the pregnancy, not even I'm sick enough to suggest you spawn out of mere spite.)


3. "I will not consume more than 10 units of alcohol during the reception"


Nobody said anything about alcohol units before the ceremony, now did they?

4. "I will be happy and positive at all times during the wedding and reception."


...with a few hits of Ecstasy!

5. "I will not make advances towards any inappropriate male guests attending the reception."
The groom isn't technically a guest.

6. "I will not attempt to out-do the bride in any way"

No matter how many of these suggestions you try, you won't outdo the bride, in any way. Someone who would legally bind her nearest and dearest to an absurd set of expectations will never be outdone.

In the comments section, tell me about the most obnoxious wedding, ever.

HGTV in HDTV, or, Why I Hate Everyone

No double sinks in the master suite? Well, fiddle-dee-dee!

I’m over 30 and in a relationship, so I spent much of my weekend watching Home and Garden Television. If you ever want to witness everything that is wrong with America, spend a few hours watching materialistic nitwits confuse wants with needs and hurtle toward financial chaos.

There are just so many HGTV options. Want to see a kitchen undergo a stunningly modern update from avocado green to, wait for it...vomit green? Or how about watching a young couple as they adorn their living room with surfboards and fake bamboo? Care to be a witness to a striking furniture rearrangement that shows putrescent floral sofas to their best advantage? Or maybe you’d like to see a guest room go arts-and-crafts style via so much hand-sewing and fussy frippery that you wonder whether these people have anything better to do. (Answer: No. No, they do not.)

But my favorite shows are the ones where young couples shop for houses. Sometimes they want a ready-made house, sometimes they want to renovate. But either way, it’s completely fascinating. It shouldn't be, because watching other people shop usually makes me want to staple-gun my eyelids shut. But it is!

I don’t know why economists spend their days poring over dull charts and graphs. Thirty minutes of “House Hunters” will tell them everything they need to know about the housing market crash, subprime loan disaster, and recession. Each episode starts with an examination of everything wrong with their current home. Usually, it’s “doesn’t have granite and stainless steel all over the kitchen,” which is our generation's answer to avocado green and harvest gold shag carpeting. Or they don't have enough closet space for all the yuppie doodads they never needed in the first place, or it lacks a four-car heated garage complete with built-in Slip n’ Slide.

So the couple troops from house to house, carefully noting the ways in which perfectly fine, nay, adorable homes just aren’t good enough. What they really need to do is tear out a bunch of walls, build a screened-in playroom to accommodate the entire Fisher-Price line of educational toys for their hyper-indulged children, and then install at least two bathrooms for each member of the family. Including the dog.

My favorite was the young married couple in Florida. OK, she’s pregnant and they live in a fourth-floor walkup. Fair enough, it’s time to move. But on closer viewing, these people are shopping exclusively for toddler deathtraps. Tile floors? Sure, Baby’s gonna want to fall down on those when learning to walk. Oooh, how about a pool and a hot tub? Multiple places for Baby to drown! And let’s pick the place behind the golf course, so Baby can get beaned on the head by the CEO of GimmeMore Industries as he finishes up eighteen holes and four martinis.

I guess I just don’t get it. What’s so wrong with a cute three-bedroom house in a safe neighborhood near the city? How could such a nice, wholesome place to live possibly need $140,000 in renovations? How could anyone turn up their noses at a fenced yard, two-car garage, good schools, and other standard-issue American Dream items?

Instead, everybody goes over budget, confusing what they need (a roof over their heads) with what they want (a roof over their heads that’s much nicer than what their friends have). And that’s why we’ve got a housing crash, credit crunch, and recession. Because people have no clue how to be happy with what they have, so they buy more than they need. Because they’re somehow entitled to the luxury and status that earlier generations would save up and wait for.

As for us? Tim was inspired to do some spring cleaning. Hopefully he won’t staple-gun plastic palm fronds to his walls or make a faux Magic Eye painting from his vacation slides. I was inspired to go home, look around my shabby little studio, and feel absurdly grateful. I’m glad it’s not a stainless steel McMansion in an exurb, shoving me towards a life of acquisition and the fear-laden ambition I’d need to sustain all of that pointless stuff. I don't see any reason to knock myself out attaining the sort of life I never wanted.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to hand-stitch some faux stained-glass curtains and use a nail gun to perform a home lobotomy.

Whole Paycheck Rant

A few weeks ago, I attempted to expand my horizons, do my bit for Mother Earth, and shoot my bank account to hell. Add it all up...I bought lunch at Whole Foods.

I despise Whole Foods. For starters, food is a basic human right and simply should not cost that much. There is no logical reason why a small bag of cherries should be $10, unless the cherries were sneezed on by Moses himself and polished by blind Bhutanese monks. I'm also a pretty simple person, and don't require that all my food be gloriously gourmet and farm-fresh.

But don't worry about the prices, because the customer base gives out the sanctimony for free. There's nothing like a yuppie guilt trip about factory farming and buying local/organic/raised by elves when food prices are skyrocketing and I am barely making ends meet. Apparently, if you do not spend an absurd amount on a can of beans, you are a Bad Person. This is much like the Prius evangelicals who want tax breaks and fawning admiration, because they can go out and buy a brand-new car when so many others cannot.

Whole Foods is not hippie-dippy counterculture. We have my parents for that. Whole Foods is a mega-corp that squashes competition and is working to replace all those little companies on its shelves with their own 365 brand. It's not the cute little grassroots mama Earth movement the yupsters seem to think it is.

But I could deal with the prices, the snootiness and the sanctimony if the store itself made even a smidge of effort to be pleasant. My neighborhood Safeway is infamous for its chaotic aisles, rude customers, bratty kids, long lines, and slow cashiers. Which, funnily enough, was just like shopping at Whole Foods. All the fun for twice the price!

On my visit, the lines were halfway down the aisles. And, to add to the pain, some genius decided to put a teenage trainee cashier on the line during lunch rush.

Trainer: Now you put the food on the scanner.
Trainee: I put the food on the scanner?
Trainer: Yes. That tells you how much it costs.
Trainee: It costs (absurdly stupid amount for a glorified snack).
Trainer: Take her money, then give her change.
Trainee: I don't understand!

Please note that this exchange occurred for every single customer.

So, Whole Paycheck, you can keep your yuppie sanctimony and silly prices. I'll be at my nasty old Safeway.

Newsflash: Animals Aren't People

The city of Alexandria is going to have a Dangerous Dog Registry.

The crux of the article is the case of a six-pound yippy terrier that got chomped by a much bigger dog. And then, the kicker: the owners spent $13,000 on vetinarian bills, and the dog is still partially paralyzed. That amount of money would more than pay off my student loans, it would buy a car, it would provide a ton of supplies for a third-world elementary school.

I do like pets, so don't write me off as a callous animal-hater. I was an inconsolable mess eight years ago when my cat Smokey died. I had dogs growing up, and went away to horse camp. Animal abuse upsets me greatly, and I wanted Michael Vick to do a lot of hard time. But they're just animals. They aren't people, and they sure as heck aren't children (which is why the designation "furbaby" instead of "pet" annoys me).

So, put the poor terrier down, don't spend $13,000 just so she can have what amounts to a fairly lousy quality of life. Don't shell out for gourmet dog treats, cashmere sweaters, organic food, or any other accoutrement of yuppie doggie love. If you've got that much money and love to share, do something worthwhile with it. Your pet doesn't care one way or the other.

PS - Yes, I know animals/pets/"furbabies" are so incredibly wonderful because they provide unconditional love. My point exactly. They don't care about organic farm-fresh goodies or designer collars, and they sure as heck don't want you to shell out $13K just to be kept alive with a broken back. They love you unconditionally, remember?

Love, Money, and Everything In-Between

My relationship with money isn't terribly complicated. That's because I don't have any.

And that's where the complications come in. And this is a post on behalf of my fellow broke Washingtonians.

Being broke when you're in college isn't so bad, because nobody else has any money, either. But once you hit your thirties, everyone else is financially stable while you're still at the paycheck-to-paycheck kiddie table. (I call myself a P-to-P'er.) It ain't easy, and this is an absurdly expensive town full of marginally affluent, possibly overextended people.

(It's especially fun when you're a P-to-P'er because you dropped your career to get married to a virtual stranger and move overseas for a while, then had to come back and start over, which is what I did. So I really only have myself to blame. Oh, and the fact that the job market is really tough. Because it is. But, this post isn't specifically about me, it's about all of us broke folks.)

So you look at money-in vs. money-out, gasp at the discrepancy, devise a budget, and mercilessly chop out any form of frippery. Lunch is from a Tupperware, sodas have names like Dr. Skipper, and socializing revolves around half-price cheeseburgers and horrifically watery beer.

When you're broke, big group dinners are best avoided. Friendships can get strained when you order a salad, and everyone else orders the entirety of page 3 of the menu. Plus wine and dessert. Then they want to split the bill evenly, which is more efficient. This makes the P-to-P crowd want to scream and throw things (yes, it's an overreaction, but you try spending $10 and getting told to chip in $65, which is your food budget for the week, and see how you feel). Or when you can't make an event because it's too expensive, or you simply can't go anywhere at all for a while.

Dating is complicated, too, because if you always want to go to a museum or cook dinner at home, eventually someone is going to call your bluff. And who wants to look like a pauper in front of someone you want to impress?

Which brings us to the whole issue of pride: we're all supposed to have fabulous jobs and steady incomes and be able to go wherever we want. It's no fun to look like a tightwad because you're holding potlucks instead of dinner parties or dropping completely off the social map. And the deeper fear, of looking like you're incompetent at adulthood. And the deepest fear of all: that you may actually be incompetent at adulthood.

Which brings us to the anxiety. Don't read the business section of the Post, because you'll start hoarding rubber bands like a Depression survivor. Any reports on unemployment rates make me want to hide under my bed. But there's no room, that's where I've been stashing all of my economic Doomsday canned goods and penny jars. The recession isn't coming, folks, it's already here. Any of your unemployed and underemployed friends could have told you that months ago.

So maybe all of us will be in the same boat soon enough. And this entire post will be a moot point, because all of Washington will be at 15-cent Wing Night, tossing back discount beers together in a heartwarming moment of economic unity.

So, affluent Washingtonians, next time you think someone's a cheapskate, maybe they're just broke. And remember that it can happen to anyone, including you.

Foodie or Finicky? An Open Letter

Dear Women Who Can’t Just Order and Eat,

There’s at least one of you at every restaurant I ever go to. Usually, you’re the sour-faced lady in a turtleneck, whose husband has resigned himself to a lifetime of meals that are more testy than tasty. Occasionally you’re out with friends, and you’re showing off your knowledge of food to an indifferent and twitchy audience. You’re almost always two tables away from me, but the pitch of your voice follows me wherever I go.

Please do not involve me in your wacky food issues. I do not want to be forced to overhear while you harangue the waiter about your hatred of cilantro, béchamel (whatever the heck THAT is), or farm-raised salmon.

Do not ask the waiter to recite every ingredient of every dish, unless you’d like a little DNA sample with your meal. Don’t ask for the lineage and provenance of every sauce, side, meat and salad.

No, you aren’t really allergic to parsley, parsnips or par-broiling. Claiming a raft of fictional allergies just makes life more dangerous for the people who really DO have food allergies. We all have our preferences. Pick no more than three items that you will absolutely not eat (I chose two: mayo and mushrooms). Everything else is fair game. Think of all those poor children in Africa who will never know the difference between roux and remoulade.

If you are on a diet or have special dietary needs, ask the waiter for advice. But ask in a nice way, because it's not his fault that you're diabetic or only eat grapefruit-infused cabbage dipped in parsley or can only eat beef every other Tuesday when there's a full moon.

Also, don’t swish the wine around for hours and announce that you pick up notes of wood, tomatoes, roses and elves. Either you have a miraculous nose and moonlight as a bloodhound, or you are so totally full of it.

A “foodie” is a finicky eater who likes to dress up. A gourmet is someone too old to use the term foodie, and you, my dear, are just a crazy lady with a plethora of issues stemming from the fact that nothing on this Earth is ever going to make you happy. Shut up and eat.

Thanks,

Shannon

Chillin' at the College Bar

Friday evening, I had a girls' night out at the Gay Men's Chorus of Washington holiday concert at Lisner Auditorium. (My friend Sean was the dancer in the fur coat in the Christmas Carol segment, if any of y'all went.) Afterwards, we decided to go out for a drink. We wound up at Red Lion because 1. the other option was a TGIFriday's, and 2. the other option was a TGIFriday's.

So, there we were, a bunch of 30-somethings and almost-30-somethings, hanging out at the college bar. I was gratified to find out that the cast of characters hadn't changed in the last ten years. There was the guy in the ski hat who kept hugging people. The not-attractive couple fondling each other at the bar. The dude who ran around telling all of us that if he could get the whole bar to sing "Another One Bites the Dust," his ex-roommate would pick up his next round. (I found the "ex-roommate" distinction pretty funny - I mean, why not just refer to the guy as your friend?) And, best of all, a very articulate part-time Hooters girl and her well-mannered date, stopping in for a nightcap after a sorority semiformal. The guy called me a "cougar," a term which used to refer to women over 40 who pursue much younger men, but now apparently refers to any woman old enough to rent a car and who is occasionally in the presence of younger men.

The service was outstanding. Our waitress offered to check the ladies' room for vomit before I went in. Who cares about amuse-bouches at Citronelle when you can have a personal barf scout? And Red Lion had its touches of upscale - like the "deconstructed nachos" and the, uh...deconstructed nachos.

But, much like the time in my life where I hung out at the Red Lions of Chapel Hill, all good things must come to an end. My hint that it was time to exit? The sorority girl/Hooters waitress inflated a Magnum ribbed condom and began batting it around the room. Check, please!

Another Bizarre Meal with Bob

Bob and I took a trip to the Eastern Shore over the weekend, and had a disappointing and thoroughly baffling restaurant experience. We had decided to have a stroll around town and have dinner wherever looked interesting. We settled on Scossa.

Once we walked in the door, though, I totally ceased to understand what was happening. Seriously, I felt like we'd wandered through some sort of restaurant world Looking Glass. I've never eaten anywhere so weird (and that includes the place with the Turkish toilet).

There seemed to be three hosts, none of whom could agree as to whether we could have a table. We asked to peruse a menu to see if we wanted to eat there (no menus were posted outside) and this simple request required two different people to fulfill it, along with a flurry of activity.

Before we had a chance to slip out unnoticed, we were emphatically ushered to a table. The food, which should have been a highlight, was a disappointment. Each entree was priced over 25 dollars, and the portions were skimpy. I'm a small person who usually only eats half of her entree, and I left the restaurant absolutely starving.

The food itself? My salmon tasted like it had been soaked for hours in margarine, and the endive was slimy in texture. Ugh.

Oh, and did I mention that we appeared to have two different waitresses, a waiter, AND a random woman who dashed off with Bob's coat without really checking with us first (and therefore swiping his wallet)?

Once my initial confusion had subsided, I noticed we were in Married Couple Date Night Hell. We were surrounded by ladies with pastel turtlenecks, big hair and sour expressions, and their embittered, desperately bored husbands.

And, last and most annoying of all, we were seated next to two very drunk couples who had brought along a small child. The child was being ignored in favor of pouring more wine, and proceeded to get cranky and howl intermittently throughout the meal. No effort was made to take him outside until he could calm down. I don't really mind kids in restaurants, I think it's good to expose children to different environments and cuisines. But proceeding to get tanked while your child howls in misery is beyond ridiculous. Especially since it was well after that kid's bedtime.

Restaurant experiences shouldn't be so hectic and confusing. And if they're going to charge $25 for mediocre food, can I at least have something that fills me up? Eesh. We went to a pub afterwards and split an order of inexpensive peel and eat shrimp. And it was about a hundred times better than the offerings of Scossa. Seriously, stay away.