How Do You Solve a Problem Like Bridezilla?

I usually keep my spring cleaning pretty hands-off and metaphorical. But this year, I've decided to conquer the hall closet.

The hall closet is pretty well piled up with old school reports, a leopard-print Snuggie, more overcoats than seems strictly reasonable, party supplies, and my wedding gown.

*insert annoying cliche sound of record skipping*

Yeah. I'm approaching my fourth annivorcery and I still have my wedding gown. I just plain never got around to selling it. In fact, I even moved apartments with it. But it's time to evict this gown, if only to make room for my fantabulous collection of Pez dispensers.

To that end, I propose: Project Ditch the Dress.

In the comments, please tell me the best way to divest myself of the final (albeit classic and lovely) symbol of my mid-twenties absurdity. A few caveats: Ebay is too much work, I've tried Craigslist, and I'm not paying to ship it anywhere (too expensive). I'm not keeping it or re-wearing it, as 2005 Shannon and 2010 Shannon have somewhat different bodily configurations.

OK, fine: the only way I am getting into that dress involves olive oil and a shoehorn - one of the many reasons why the model in the above photos is not me.

Ideally, I'd like to give it to someone who wants it. It's ivory, has a lace-up back detail and is a street size 2. I have more pictures I can email to anyone who'd like to see them. I'll throw in a veil and a box. Does anyone know a deserving (not to mention very short) bride? Or, can you come up with something really funny we could do with the dress (elaborate pranks in Adams Morgan, anyone?)

So, whatcha got? There might be a dress in it for you...

The First Annual Snowmageddies

I'd like to issue awards to all those who gave Washington's week of Snowtastrophe that special tang of fumbling absurdity:

The Any Port in a Storm Award goes to the Irish Channel, which was open and serving...even though they really, really should have gotten off their keisters and shoveled their walk. Drunk people plus a sheet of ice? GENIUS.

The Are You Freakin' Kidding Me? Award goes to....the woman blocking Mass Ave in her stalled-out big ol' Mercedes. Why anyone would see a big pile of slush and ice and drive straight into it is beyond me. It's sort of like horror movies, where you always want the dippy blond to kick off her shoes and run, instead of breaking a heel, losing her will to go on, and hyperventilating her way to a grisly death.

Honorable Mention: Metro. Holy hell.

The Graciousness Under Pressure Award goes to the four men who, upon seeing the woman in her stalled-out Mercedes, tried to push her out despite her limited grasp of English, reality, and basic driving skills, and her assertion that she under no circumstances would call a tow truck. (At that point I gave up trying to help and told her I'd check in on her in the spring.)

The C'mon, Folks, Is That the Best You Can Do? Award goes to the two yuppie women in the RAV-4 who, upon seeing the stranded Mercedes lady, flipped her the bird and tried to get around her by jumping the sidewalk.

Honorable Mention: The Smithsonian, for not doing a damn thing to dig out any sort of pedestrian pathway on Fourth Street. My walk to work was a very slippery game of chicken with some very cranky motorists.

The Power to Say No Without Laughing Outright Award goes to the Associated Press reporter I ran into on the aforementioned Fourth Street slushfest. His SUV was stuck, so I stopped and offered to help. I'm sure he looked at me all, "Well, here's the strapping, muscular Colossus who can shove a two-ton truck out of a snowbank!" But he kept a straight face regardless, and even interviewed me for a story he was working on.

The All Life on Earth Would End Without You Award goes to the maintenance crew of my apartment building, who have been sleeping onsite for the last week to keep the walks shoveled and the residents safe. Way to go, guys!

Honorable Mention: Mint Chocolate Bailey's.

In the comments, award some Snowmageddies.

The Complex Arithmetic of My Paranoia

I've been living in the land of screwups. No, I don't mean Jersey Shore, I've never seen the show and I never will.*

What I mean is that various people are making various errors that are making my life very complicated. In the arithmetic of my narcissism and paranoia, it all adds up to one thing: they're all out to get me!

For example, I have, in the past, been somewhat...capricious in my romantic relationships. So I was not surprised when the travel agent seated my boyfriend and me together for our flight to Mexico, and then separately for the flight home. I can only assume the travel agent, and his network of spies, have decided that we will spend our entire vacation arguing, to the point that we fly home in stony, two-row-apart silence.

But oh, it gets worse. I ordered a batch of resort wear from J.Crew, because I must emit that inbred preppie glow that resort-goers find so attractive. White pants? Sure. Silvery passport cover? Sure. Size large bikini top?

Oh, hell no. I ordered the size small.

J.Crew does not make mistakes. No purveyor of cashmere tank tops could ever make a mistake. This was a deliberate message that my Nordstrom-verified 34As were insufficient, and I ought to consider surgical enhancement.

Now, a naive person would write these off as moments of human error. But I know better. J.Crew is in league with my travel agent, and they're sending me a specific message:

I can't keep a man because my chest is too small.

In the comments, tell me the last time someone made a mistake, and what their real message was. Or just remind me that I've got a lovely rack.

*You know those people who say they never watch TV, by which they mean they watch TV but are too snooty to admit the truth? I'm not one of those people. I don't watch TV, not out of snootiness, but because it would distract me from my usual schedule of watching Xanadu on a continuous loop while washing down generic Cheetos with gobs of Dr. Pepper.

Wacky Neighbor Update

You know my neighbor, the crazy hoarder lady? With the boxes and the five bicycles for two kids? I found out her name, and it's marvellous.

I mean, literally. It's "Marvellous," spelled with two 'l's. I cannot begin to tell you how thrilled I am to live next door to an adjective. This is beyond terrific, and hurtles toward awesome. My curiosity is running away with me. I bet whatever she does for a living, it's fantastic! And as a tenant association floor captain, I'm sure she's pretty darn superlative.

This is beyond excellent.

In the comments, tell me what sort of adjectives you would use to name your child.

Can I Be Completely Honest? Oh, Like Anyone Wants THAT

I come from a long line of excessively blunt people. Dinner with my family can feel sort of like going through a carwash in a top-down Mini Cooper convertible, as you are bludgeoned and buffeted by a thousand brushes and walls of soap.

Don't believe me? This is what my mother said when I asked why we had so many baby photos of Skye, and none of me: "Well, by the time the second baby comes, it's just not that exciting." She went on to point out that my sister and I looked astonishingly similar as infants, so she didn't want to waste the film.

My mother's take on childrearing might be slightly out of the ordinary.

Since every woman turns into her mother, my own honesty can be a little frightening. I must cross the line a dozen times per day, and never even notice. I've probably offended all of you without even trying. Hell, some days I offend myself.

I ought to know better. I know that if a friend says, "Can I be honest?" it means, "Can I be brutal?" I know "I'm just being honest!" means, "I'm being mean, but cloaking myself in forthrightness so I seem like a good person." And I know sometimes an indirect answer could keep me out of a whole mess of trouble.

But I also know direct questions deserve direct answers, that the truth will come out, and that nobody wants to be seen in pants that make their butt look like the hind end of the Hindenberg.

How did you decide your level of honesty? Or do you think it is predetermined, like hair and eye color?

When You Bet Your Bra Size, Everyone Loses

A few weeks back, I was holding up barstools with my friend Thunderbird. Because we're classy, we started talking about boobs. Because I'm classy, I mentioned that my size is 34A. Because he's even classier, he pointed out that most women wear too-large bands and too-small cups, and that there was no way that 34A could be my size. (I swear I saw him dig out a measuring tape and a jewelry loupe, but that could have been my beer-soaked imagination.)

Well, I can never resist a challenge (unless it involves oars, enclosed spaces, or reality television). So we bet dinner and drinks over whether I wear the correct size. Because, among friends, nothing is more important than brassieres. (Well, among my friends, anyway...is this why I don't have a lot of friends?)

Tuesday was my Measure of a Woman Day, and I pottered over to the local Vicky's Secret. I located a salesclerk, and requested that my measurements be taken.

Me: I think my bra size has changed. Would you take my measurements?

Clerk: Why would it have changed?

Me: I graduated high school. And filled out. Uh, about fifteen years ago.

Clerk: OK, set your bag down and stand over here please.

I realize, in horror and amazement, that this woman plans on strapping a measuring tape athwart my chest in the middle of a crowded store, downtown, during a sale...

Me: Uh, can we do this in a fitting room?

Her: It's over your clothes.

Me: Humor me.

Moments later, she whips out the (pink!) measuring tape, and she proceeds to measure me.

Her: You're a 33 band size. (more fiddling) And you're halfway between an A and B.

Me: So, my bra size is 33 A/B? That doesn't even exist. Hey, does that mean my bra opens the portal to John Malkovich's brain?

Her: Er, no. What that means is that you can wear a 34A or a 32B. (Note: Those are actually identical...I've been wearing either size for years)

Me: So, I'm wearing the correct size!

Her: Yes.

Me: I WIN!!! I just won a bet.

Her: Congratulations! (seeing me open my phone) Are you texting someone to tell them your bra size?

Me: Um, yeah. (pause) That cool?

Upon further reflection, however, I may not have won. And that's where I need your help. I need you to weigh in on whether I won the Great Bra Size Bet of '09. Factors to consider:

1. This is not the cheapest of bets. Thunderbird and I both drink like a fish fell in love with an Irish dockworker, had two half-fish/half-dockworker babies, and those babies grew up to be us. The bar tab shall be mighty.

2. Technically speaking, my bra size is 33 A/B. Wearing a 34A is a workaround...so, does that mean my size really is 34A? What is the nature of reality?

3. Victoria's Secret isn't the most scientific way to git 'er done. Should Thunderbird demand a, um, recount?

4. Why on Earth would anyone bet their bra size?

So, folks, dinner, drinks, and the final shards of my dignity weigh in the balance. Consider wisely.

Who won the bet, me or Thunderbird?

There's a Reason My Doctor Only Does this Once a Year

I just went in for my annual physical. In my twisted little brain-sized universe, this is about the most fun thing ever. The reason? Doctor-patient confidentiality. No matter how poorly I behave, my doc can't rat me out.

My doctor, who I have dubbed Dr. Methuselah, is somewhere north of a hundred years old. He probably made house calls with a horse and buggy, he does consultations in a leather-chair swank sort of office, and he's adorable. It's worth it for the exam alone, as I don't think I'd ever before gotten felt up by Yoda.

Dr. Methuselah is calm in the face of my dizziness. As most of you know, a stretch of alone time with me requires heavy sedation and the patience of a saint. Today, as I disrobed, I realized I was wearing red panties and stripper heels...and not once did he think I was coming on to him! I mean, it's better than the time a doctor asked if I was sexually active, but not by much. What a classy guy.

He's also direct and deflects my insanity in a way that I really and truly need.

A few gems:

During the consultation:

"I have trouble seeing Metro signs."

Diagnosis: "You need glasses."

During the exam:

"I have a funky red mark I've been referring to as my 'Check Engine' light."

Diagnosis: "It's a new mole. It'll turn black in no time." (Sexy!)

During the blood oath portion of the exam:

"I don't have any veins. I think my blood is transported by a system of levers and pulleys."

Diagnosis: "There's one vein on your left arm. Make a fist. A real fist. Thank you."

"I think I might be a pterodactyl."
Diagnosis: "Now you're just being silly."

OK, the last one might be a joke. But, really, if I could someday meet a man that patient, I'd marry him and only impersonate a pterodactyl once every 25-30 days.

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.

Behold Your Fashion Future

I like to think of myself as a stylish lady. I fight the frump with killer heels, never leave the apartment without at least a little lip gloss, and have pretty much bought every dress that has ever been made. I figured I would roll into middle age and beyond with fabulosity and age-appropriate cool.

That is, until this morning. I realized that today's ensemble (bohemian top, capris, stripper-hippie heels, jangly bracelets) was just a few steps removed from an all-out Chico's catalogue doomsday. It's an easy and witless slide, like alcoholism or voting Republican.

Step one: Trade the bracelets for the dreaded Statement Necklace.

Step two: Trade the sexy heels for some sensible slides.

Step three: Trade the (somewhat) skin-baring top for something looser and less revealing.

Step four: The worst of all. The horror. The humanity! I'd trade the capris for something with a drawstring waist.

And the final result?


Not that I don't love Bea Arthur, because heaven knows the woman rocked...but that doesn't mean I would ever want to dress like her.

In the comments, tell me your fashion future. Or make me feel better about being only four steps removed from Dorothy Zbornak.

What Have You Done, Lords of Science?

It's budget season at work. We each submitted proposals on how we could spend money in creative ways, that would make us better at our jobs. As I am a thoroughly sick human being, and a bit of a narcissist, and I love clones, and my proposal was looking a little thin...I included self-cloning as a bullet point.

As I am more thoroughly sick than you ever realized, I even asked my friend Len at the Max Planck Institute in Potsdam, Germany, to run the numbers and come back with an estimate. And, because Len is also a thoroughly sick person, he did it!

Here we go:

Hey Shannon, goodmorning.I just did a total cost based analysis for the cloning and then had it wiped away by a Netscape page change.

So you now get the short answer:

budget: around 75K mostly for surgery (ie. egg isolation and embryo implantation)

company: to cover costs, around 150 - 250K

This is also assuming that they can get the science perfected, but to be honest, the procedure itself is quite simple.

1. isolate egg from you, remove nucleus - easy

2. isolate cell from you - easy

3. reprogram cell back to totipotent status (like a stem cell) - hard

4. put nucleus from 3 into de-nucleated egg -easy

5. let develop into embryo - hard

6. implant - easy

7. nine months later change diapers - hard

the scientific problems are mostly with steps 3 and 5, which are connected.

Basically what happens these days is that the embryo grows to the blastula stage and then things go wrong.The other option is to put you in a zerox machine, but then you would come out black. How about a mimeograph maghine, then you would be blue, a bit smeared, and smelling of alchol. :)hope this helps!gotta go work.

Len

First off, Len, I am pretty much always blue, a bit smeared, and smelling of alcohol.

Second, this totally doesn't jibe with my plans: which had been to create an army of insta-Shannons. You could each have your very own me! I could give myself out as party favors, send my clones on first dates so they could report back as to whether I should attend the second date, and perhaps, if I found the time, take over the world.

But, until the science catches up, you'll have to just settle for one of me.

(If you heard a wheezing sound, that was the entire Earth breathing a sigh of relief.)

In the comments, tell me how many clones you'd need to screw in a lightbulb. Also, let me know if you'd like to start a band called, "Blastula Stage."

I Left My Brain in San Francisco

Wednesday, my alarm went off at 4:00 am. I was awake and showered before my newspaper was even delivered. I made it to the mythical Terminal A of National Airport, got patted down by the TSA (and, uh, kind of enjoyed it), and wound my way to San Francisco.

Wheels down in San Francisco 11:30ish their time, hit the hotel at 12:30, check into my complimentary suite (free suite, bitches!), frantic changing of clothes/ironing a blouse while I was wearing it/patting down my hair with body lotion, lunch meeting at 1:00, site visit until 5:15, dinner reservations 5:45 (Slanted Door! Yum! Until I fell asleep face first into my glass noodles).

I realized I was too tired to party like a rock star in my rock star suite, so I settled for catching up on some work and doing a lap of my parlor, singing We Are the Champions. (Incidentally, that's how I react to all the good things in life.)

Thursday, up, showered, 8:30 flight, back in DC 7:00, home by 7:30, completely conked out by 9:30.

My circadian rhythms have a techno beat, I've spent the last few days in airports among people wearing surgical masks, I've sent nearly a dozen bizarre text message distress signals, and, moreover...the next jackass who reclines his seat until his head is in my lap is at least going to have to buy me dinner first.

My brain is fried. More next week.

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.

Showering with Cupcakes Makes Me Super Profound

I spend far too much time inside my own head. I like it in here. Once you get used to the air raid sirens, bear traps, and the floating image of Mrs. Duggar’s box falling out and being pulled behind her like a little pink wagon, my brain is pretty cheerful place to be.

Sunday, I was faced with little other to do than push back the corners of a blazing hangover. Oh, and figure out why there was a cupcake in my shower (migrating foodstuffs have become a big problem in my apartment lately).

So I did some thinking about forgiveness. First, there’s forgiveness for those who have hurt you, damaged you, or changed you for the worse in one way or another. For me, that’s always been the easy one. It takes a very long time to run to the edge of my charity.

I don't mean that in a wimpy victim sort of way, like, "Oh, Bobby slept with my sister and took all my money and conned me into going on Jerry Springer to tell me he'd legally changed his name to Monkey Spanker...but I love him SO MUCH!"

It's a little more like this:

If you’ve ever wronged me, I can promise you’ll be forgiven. That may not mean I want you around. I’ve learned over the years that some people can grind your soul into powder. But I’ve tried to drag some sort of lesson out of all my sorry messes, and I’m thankful for everything I’ve learned.

Then there’s forgiving yourself. I’m utter crap at that one. I’ve never learned to be as charitable and kind with myself as I am with others. I will torture myself over the smallest transgression, apologize in triplicate for forgetting the cocktail napkins, and I’m not quite over that time at horse camp when I accidentally busted my cabin-mate for dating a counselor.

The biggest challenge of all is forgiveness for the things I’ve done to myself. The list is extensive and messy: I’ve slathered my body in booze, wasted years on a complicated relationship with food, wasted further years on complicated relationships with virtually everything and everyone else, given an all-access pass to emotional vampires, squandered acres of opportunity and talent, mixed my best intentions with some of the worst men, and allowed my pride to block me from asking for help when I needed it most.

It’s not about failure. I can colossally screw up, and scrape my dignity off the floor in no time flat (once you’ve failed at marriage, hey, you can fail at anything!). It’s those sucker punch moments, when I see that I’m far from my best self, and that there’s always further to fall and no easy path to anywhere. I don’t think I’m all that unusual: ask your friends for the top ten worst things they’ve ever done, and I promise the things they’ve done to themselves will rank the highest.

There’s no easy way to wrap this up, so I’ll throw it out to the commentariat: among the worst things you’ve ever done, how many were things you did to yourself? And how did you forgive yourself?

Easter Is Creepy

Easter is a bit like Mulholland Drive, speed dating, and leggings. Not that Naomi Watts would ever speed-date in leggings, it's just that...I don't get it. I get the religious aspects (yay, Jesus!), I just don't understand...

1. The Easter Bunny. I would never take candy from a strange lagomorph. There was a man in one of those giant bunny costumes at my Metro stop the other morning. It was really skeevy, especially with those cold, dead, plastic eyes. I hated the false good cheer of his pastel bow-tie.

Conclusion: I could never be a furry. Also, the Easter Bunny is creepy with a capital FREAK.

2. Those plastic eggs. They make me think of tiny little alien pods, about to unleash a master race of thumb-sized conquering Liberaces.

Conclusion: Just give me the candy.

3. Dyeing Easter eggs. This was one of those things we never did at my house, as my mom attributed it to American inefficiency. Why go to the effort of tarting up something you plan on eating, anyway?

Conclusion: I was in my mid-20s before I stopped eating the garnishes at upscale restaurants.

4. Easter Ham. If it came from a pig, I don't need a special occasion to eat it.

Conclusion: I shouldn't have had mac and cheese with a side of fries last night. I should have had a side of ham.

Oh, there are things I like about Easter. Buying myself a new frock, but never quite making it to church. Church lady hats. Cadbury Creme Eggs. Jesus. Candy, and lots of it. Watching my then-boyfriend's nieces collide in a frantic Easter Egg hunt. And, of course, candy.

In the comments, try to soothe my squeamishness.

Is It Wrong to Only Want What's Old?

I’m a proud little Luddite.

My apartment is the Home for Wayward Tempermental Electronics, including multiple nonfunctioning CD players, a CB radio, a PlayStation 2, and a 1970s slide projector I use as a bookend. My television is a hand-me-down, and it’s connected to a VCR. Nothing has a remote control.

I wouldn’t even have a computer if my sister hadn’t given me one (an Asus eee, which is actually smaller than the attached CD drive I found for 17 dollars). I had to be dragged screaming and howling from Hotmail to Gmail. I don’t use Google Reader, I don’t even use bookmarks. Instead, I click from blog to blog on a perpetual treasure hunt for new comments.

My CD collection (those iPod things are just a fad!) involves mostly music I loved in college, copied CDs lavished upon me by prior boyfriends, and whatever was on the oldies station when I’d ride along on my dad’s sales trips. I do have two Hold Steady albums, which makes me pretty hip for 2006.

I also like vintage jewelry, alarm clocks with actual bells on them, my mom’s antique chairs, the batiks my parents bought on their honeymoon, and newspaper home delivery. I love etiquette guides from the 1950s and 1960s, which mostly tell me how not to “appear easy” and to interact courteously with “cripples.” I fully intend to host a dinner party where I prepare horrendous retro recipes like Fried Spam with Pineapple. My favorite Muppets are Statler and Waldorf.

So, clearly, I do not embrace novelty. But, what with the whole “having a job” thing, I’ve decided to enter that brave frontier of home Internet access. This has created another one of those situations in which I’m an old lady: I have the exact same conversation over and over.

“How does one get…the Internet? Couldn’t I just attach rabbit ears to my computer? What sort of company sells the Internet? How did you buy your Internet? How do I turn it on and off?”

Then I get a little agitated. How agitated? Imagine your loopiest great aunt’s first frenzied efforts to use a remote control, the outcome of which involved head injuries, sedatives, and a tiny fist-sized hole in the TV screen.

I suck at this. As I see it, I have two options: either pay someone in home-cooked meals to figure it out for me, or abandon the Internet entirely and communicate exclusively by text messager pigeon. Help?

Bad Taste Will Get You Out of Everything

I had plans for Saturday morning. Not the usual plans, which involve sending home the sailors and squishing down my hangover with Dramamine and Gatorade. No, I was going to take Foggy out for brunch, and then prance around in the sunlight with my shiny new hair. (Yes, it’s kind of red now. Kind of an Angela Chase effect. Actually, it’s so red that one of my guy friends noticed. So it must be quite red. )

I wound up at Pentagon City with a little time to kill. I wandered into the Best Buy to view all the new technology that I would never want, know how to use, or comprehend the purpose of. It’s like a whole World of the Future Museum in there!

As I was leaving, I set off the alarm. The guard pulled me aside and asked to search my backpack.

“Do you have any electronics with you?”
“No, just a cellphone.”
“That wouldn’t do it. DVDs?”
“Actually, yes.”

I opened up my backpack and began to root around. Out tumbled:

Xanadu, the Pirate Movie, and...Dolemite. Gene Kelly on roller skates, The Pirates of Penzance as re-imagined by the year 1982, and a sleek action film featuring hooker ninjas and frequent appearances of the boom mike.

The guard looked at me, looked at the movies, and tried not to laugh. I cracked up, he busted out a grin, and I said, “I would hope at least I’d steal better movies.”

“Yes ma’am, now get that out of here! Those are some bad movies.”

So, if you ever want to take up shoplifting, use Olivia Newton-John as a cover.

Because Claustrophobia Just Wasn't Dorky Enough

You know how I’m kind of a jackass? Well, strap in for this one:

The moment I found a lime in my bed, I knew it was all downhill from there.

Friday night, I had one of my Celebrations of the Mighty Uteri, in which I take several girlfriends, line them up in a pretty row, and lob prosecco and chocolate at them until they wobble. Everybody plunges from karaoke-tipsy to home-in-a-wheelbarrow sloshed at a rapid clip, and these evenings tend to wrap up pretty early.

So, I was all alone at 11:00. I gathered up the (somewhat abundant) wine glasses, found an elusive and mysterious lime tucked between my bedsheets, and arranged the empty bottles into amusing shapes. I washed a few dishes, drank water, sobered up, changed into pajamas, and decided it was time to hit the restroom.

Yes, I hereby admit that I have, on occasion, used a restroom for its intended purpose.

However, that’s not the galling admission. That comes after.

We’ll start with the fact that the doorknob wouldn’t turn, the lock was jammed, and the door wouldn’t open. We’ll continue with a little slice of knowledge: I am not kidding, or being cute, by saying I am claustrophobic. I am, to a crippling degree, unable to deal with being confined. I have my little workarounds, and I don't make anyone else suffer for it, but there you go.

So, there I was, all alone, trapped to a small space and struggling to get free. At some point, I whacked the light switch with my elbow. I was plunged into sudden and complete darkness.

...and what’s even dorkier than claustrophobia? I am also afraid of the dark. I’m pretty much night blind, and find darkness utterly disorienting. So began a very ugly panic attack in which I forgot where I was and hyperventilated for what felt like eons, but was probably mere centuries.
Eventually, I came to. I put my hands out, realized I was touching a bathmat, realized that, statistically speaking, I was probably in my own bathroom, found the light switch, and forced open the door. I got out, stood on my balcony, and breathed in enough night air to quell the panic.

You know, I’m not completely sure why I’m telling this story. It makes me seem like a crazy lady. (Perhaps no more so than usual?)




But I think everyone has had the same freakout: “I’m (AGE), single, I live alone, there’s no rescue.” My version just includes a toilet, a sink, and several layers of full-on crazy. (And, yes, no matter what age you are, tacking it onto the title of your latest freakout gives it an extra air of poignancy.)

Anyhow, like everything else that has ever happened to me, I find it all very funny. I told this story several more times over the weekend, between Connect Four and Clash of the Titans and birthday parties, and everyone was incredibly sympathetic. They all declared they would have likewise lost their heads, or, if not, they could at least cheer me up by telling me about the time they accidentally wound up on Taxicab Confessions.

So, why am I really telling this story? I think it’s fair to point out that, no matter how far we think we’ve come, we’re all still full of foolish fears and complete jackassery. Most of us are three wrong turns away from total wreckage, panic, and being trapped in a dark and tiny space that may sometimes be merely metaphorical. Those dark and tiny spaces belong to everyone, and, the faster we acknowledge them, the faster they fill with light. I also think, just maybe, it’s because:

I live alone. Why was I closing, let alone locking, the bathroom door?

Hrm. Maybe that’s the lesson.

In the comments, tell me something, anything, to prop up my shattered ego.