EEEEEE!!!!!!, EEEEE!!!!!, !!!!, and !!!!!!!!!!!!!

Here's the thing. I'm not what anyone would call "observant" or "prone to paying attention to anything at all." I've fallen for "gullible isn't in the dictionary." More than once.

So, Saturday, when my boyfriend said we had to get up early and go to brunch at Belga Cafe, because his parents were arriving around 1:00 and we should eat first, I didn't put two and two together. (Let's face it, I can't put one and one together before noon.) I was just grumpy that I had to drag myself out of bed at the ungodly, unreasonable hour of 10:00 a.m.

Things that did not occur to me, but probably should have:
1. It was our anniversary, after dating for a year.
2. We went to Belga Cafe on our first date.
3. There was no logical reason for us to take a walk down Pennsylvania Avenue after brunch. Especially not to "find out the schedule for the World Cup."

So, let's just say I didn't add it up until there was a bended knee, a beautiful ring, and a whole lot of shrieking and bouncing up and down. And being congratulated by the bouncer from the 18th Amendment.

But that wasn't the end of the surprises. My future in-laws came down from New York to celebrate with us, and take us out for dinner. We decided to pop over to Capitol Lounge for a quick drink after dinner.

Things that did not occur to me, but probably should have:
1. It was almost impossible to get anyone on the phone Saturday. Seriously - it was like all of Washington had vanished.
2. Capitol Lounge? In the basement? Was the basement even open yet?

It was open. Moreover, about twenty of our friends were gathered there to celebrate with us! A surprise engagement party! There was champagne! And brownies! And decorations! And people! From all over D.C. and even New York! And there was shrieking! So much shrieking it was like the Jonas Brothers were in town! EEEEEEE!!!!! And photos! Lovely photos! And lovely people! And so much love!!!

In related news, Cloud Nine is composed almost completely of exclamation points.

Having Needs is Not "Being Needy"

Everyone has needs. Mine revolve around fresh air, salted margaritas, stinky cheese*, and self-respect.

One of the hardest lessons of adulthood is finding the line between having needs and being needy. However, if you have any desire to be involved in healthy relationships, it's worth it.

Having needs is a legitimate statement of self-esteem. We all need to be respected, treated compassionately, and liked for who we are. Needs are manifested by clearly stating fair and reasonable expectations for others. It drives the bad, selfish people away from you, because they're too self-involved to meet your standards.

Neediness is born of low self-esteem. It's a constant barrage of loyalty tests, anxiety, and desperation for approval. Neediness is no way to live, and it drives good, healthy people away from you because they get sick of your drama.

You need for your significant other to meet up and play nice with your friends. It is needy to expect your friends to emphatically approve of your significant other, especially if he's not that nice/doesn't treat you well/is married (and not to you).

You need your friends to RSVP to a dinner party in a reasonable amount of time so you can plan a menu. It is needy to hound them weeks in advance for a response, because you're anxious to see how much they like you.

You need for your significant other to make an effort, so you know you are valued. It is needy to expect a thousand yellow daisies because you saw it in a TV show once.

You need for your significant other to make specific plans with you, in advance, so you are not stuck waiting by the phone, or dropping everything and running like a puppy the second he whistles for you. It is needy to actually wait by the phone or act like a puppy. Make plans with your friends instead.

You need your significant other to notice when you've gone all-out to look your best. It is needy to expect your significant other to notice a microchange in your hairstyle, or that your socks match (even if that's a rare thing).

You need for your significant other to care about your birthday. It is needy to schedule your birthday party on a date that poses a big conflict, just because you want to stage a manipulative loyalty test.

In the comments, tell me your line between "needs" and "needy."

*However, may I suggest never eating blue cheese while lounging barefoot? It's hard to tell where the smell is coming from.

I'm a Gun-Toting Rapist Slavemaster!

In between a flurry of highly observant, "It's Monday and it's raining!" Facebook status updates, I noticed a fellow Hylton alum had posted his views on health care reform. It was thought-out and interesting, so I added a comment basically saying I hadn't totally made up my mind, but would be willing to pay higher taxes so more people can have access health care. I also expressed a wish that both sides of the debate would engage in more civility.

My viewpoint, according to the next commenter, makes me handmaid to the political traditions of basically everyone who has ever been evil.

Actually, it's even better than that. I'm a gun-toting slavemaster rapist who, in the words of the great political mind of our time:

"You fail to realize that in order to help person B you must rape person A."

I don't know about y'all, but every time I send a donation to UNICEF, I like to make a stop along the way to rape the mailman.

There was also a lot of language about holding a gun to his head to enslave him and his family via his financial dealings with his doctor. Plus, I'm stealing from him so I can feel self-righteous about other people getting health care. Because taxes are theft. Or something. I don't get it, either.

See, I don't speak "Willfully ignorant screaming crazy teabagger man." But I suppose next time I'm out raping and enslaving, I'll have to bring my gun along for emphasis.

Or, maybe, just maybe...we could all chill the hell out? I'll take back my accusations of "willful ignorance" and teabaggery if we can all agree that there are many ways of seeing the world...and not everyone who disagrees with you is a gun-toting rapist slavemaster.

I would have been happy to listen to a conservative viewpoint on health care reform, if it was presented calmly and fairly, with a minimum of insults. But calmness and fairness are all too rare these days.

Demonizing the opposition does not add to a discussion. It only stirs in more vitriol and negativity, which in turn makes more moderate (and less frothingly angry) people less and less engaged in the political process. I'm a former pollster, and every election I worked on that involved attack ads saw depressed turnout. Folks get skeeved out by the nastiness and stay home, tipping the scales to the incumbent - which is one of the reasons over 90% of Congressional incumbents win reelection. New blood and fresh perspectives become more and more scarce.

Eventually (and this is what I believe the current political scene has come to), it's just a room of people seeing who can scream the loudest. Nobody's listening any more, nobody wants to give an inch, and nothing gets done. All we're left with is shouted threats, fingers waving in faces, and Obama-as-Hitler posters.

People, we can do better.

Ask the Etiquette Vigilante

Since I'm now a semi-famous schoolmarm, I thought I'd turn that useful-but-unsexy reputation into a public service. I'm adding a semi-regular feature called, "Ask the Etiquette Vigilante."

Want to know how to cope when your married friends start bickering at the dinner table (I mean, aside from not ever getting married yourself?). Unsure how to politely turn down a second date with Mr. I Pick My Teeth at the Table? Wondering if you can bring your newish boyfriend to the Wedding Event of the Century, names listed on inner envelope be damned?

Look no further. Well, look over here: scannerjockey@gmail.com. Send your dilemmas and awkward moments, I'll post answers.

Disclaimers: All letters are mine mine mine, to publish, or not. I may not be able to publish every letter, because sometimes I like to gaze at shiny objects or run off to find Shermer, Illinois. All letters will be open to reader comments...though as real people with real feelings are involved, I will monitor comments to make sure everyone plays nice and shares toys. Names may be changed to protect the innocent...and the guilty. The People's Court may be shamelessly quoted. Readers may shamelessly read to the end of the disclaimer to see if I say anything embarassing, so, fine...when I was a kid, I thought Oil of Olay was Oil of Old Lady. Also, I accidentally put my underwear on inside out this morning. Happy now?

Jet Packs and the Secrets of Optimism

I believe in all sorts of cheesy needlepoint throw pillow philosophies. "The greatest pleasure I find is in my garden," for instance. Not that I have a garden, but a metaphorical garden of sorts. OK, that was a stretch. So let's just admit that my worldview is populated mostly with Hallmark sentiments, squishy full-body hugs, and the air-raid siren that heralds my latest terrible idea.

If I had to pick a guiding philosophy, it would be, "Happiness is a choice." I'd also add, though, that happiness involves careful planning and robust organizational skills. My version of happiness is simple, but takes a lot of hard work: a well-prepared dinner, routines, the occasional surprise, people who pick me up when they hug me, long-term friendships, that look coworkers give me when they haven't yet realized that I'm kidding, a closet full of great (deeply discounted) outfits, and always having something to look forward to. I think that last one is the most important.

In the short term, I have a four-day weekend coming up, a new duvet cover, a hike with friends, my birthday, a Michelob the size of my head, Sundays slobbing on the couch while pretending to care about football, and wiping the dust off my Crock-Pot.

In the long-term, I have that point where I can finally get away with letting my hair go gray, a lifetime of love, dreams about everything from marriage and family to a trip to Buenos Aires, the chance to be a batty old lady who hands out stale cookies to the neighborhood kids.

And jetpacks. I'm astounded and kind of pissed that we don't have those yet.

In the comments, tell me what makes you happy.

You Can Pick Your Nose but You Can't Pick Your Readers. Unless Your Readers Are Boogers.

That may, officially, be the grodiest title I've ever chosen. Don't worry, it's not Thursday yet and I won't be writing about boogers. In fact, I promise this is the last time I'll ever use the word "booger."

Instead, I'll strike up the perennial blogger favorite (hey, did anyone ever notice how similar the words 'blogger' and 'booger' are?):

Virtually every blogger has written a post like this: "My mom/an old boyfriend/my boss/all my cousins discovered my blog and I told them to not read it! But they did it anyway. It's so disrespectful of them! It's an invasion of my privacy! Especially because I want to bitch about them at length without any consequences."

My response, now and ever, is, "Fat chance." Once you've hit that 'publish' button, you're accountable for everything you say about anyone who might stop by. That includes everyone you mock, anyone you've hurt, and the truth about any stories you tell. It's simple, really: don't write anything you wouldn't say.

And blogs are open to anyone who might stop by. You don't get to dictate your audience. Don't like it? Take it down, slap up a password, or watch what you say. I mean, really. The Internet is hardly private property.

I wish I could change my mind about these things, because it would make the second half of this post much easier to write.

Recently, I was found by someone I'd hoped could lose me forever. Someone I haven't seen in over a decade emailed with the sort of lengthy, emotion-dredging manipulative intrusiveness that made him such a negative part of my life to begin with. My response has been to not respond at all. I think that's best.

I don't know if he's changed, and I hope he has, but that's beside the point. The point is that I have changed. I've had enough love by now to know that I don't have to open up my life to anyone who stops by. I can pick and choose, something I get better at each and every year. I don't have to be that love-starved mess from long ago.

But I know I don't have the right to dictate who can and can't read this site. And I've always understood that blogging under my real name carries a price. On the whole, it's worth it, because I think anonymous blogging can make it too easy to be heartless or slippery.

Living in the open makes me remarkably easy to find. I briefly considered closing up shop or donning an alias, but we all know that wouldn't happen.

There are over six years of emotion-barfs, opinions and stories to choose from. I stand behind them all, even though I'm far from perfect and could always have further to fall. I like to think my stories are worth sharing. And I'm glad I have all of you along for the ride.

I just ask that those of you who belong in my messy past don't contact me.

In the comments, object to my repeated use of the word 'booger.' Or explain to me exactly what the hell I'm talking about. Because I have no clue.

Mantras for an Unusually Crabby Friday

My favorite law of living is very simple:

The Problem Is You

It's right up there with, "Don't trust anyone with a misspelled tattoo." Truth is, there are a lot of bad people, bad situations, and just plain badness in the world. But YOU are the unifying factor in all that you encounter.

If you go through a dozen jobs in a dozen months, it's not because your bosses are horrible people who spurn your dreams of advancement. It's because you need to get yourself together and do an honest day's work.

If you cut ties with a dozen friends, only to alienate a dozen more, it's not because they're toxic or graceless or ungrateful. It's because you have a lot to learn about friendship.

If you go on a dozen dates in a dozen days, and all of them end with your companion of the evening crawling out of the washroom window, it's not because your city is full of undatable, unlovable crazies. It's because you are turning them off somehow. Go up to your most honest friend, and ask, "Why am I single?"*

Remember: You are the unifying factor in all that you encounter.

In the comments, bitch about anyone who lacks personal responsibility. Or, just bitch. I'll listen.

*One of these days I'm going to start a blog called "Why Am I Single?" I'll ask people to send in their romantic histories, and I'll tell them exactly why they're single. It'll be a kick. Once I sift through all the tears and death threats, that is.

Let's Face It, I Probably Really Do Have a Relative Who Stirs Kool-Aid with Her Arm

Summer always makes me think of vacations. This is not necessarily a good thing.

For starters, I haven't gone anywhere for more than a long weekend since, oh, 2006 or so. And that was a somewhat misguided trip involving the World's Largest Manmade Illuminated Star, a Ford Focus that I kept losing in parking lots, and an accidental visit to an illegal off-track betting parlor. (Oh, wait, that trip was AWESOME.)

But mostly I think of the summer trips of my childhood. What's funny is that I can never remember where we went, what we did, or who we saw. My parents could mention that time we went to Upper Caledonia in the Zebulon Galaxy and battled three-headed cross-dressing Amway representatives, and I would not recall a thing.

Instead, this is what I remember:

I remember my mom's AMC station wagon, which was wood-paneled in homage to the Family Truckster. This was way back when booster seats and child seats were yuppie fripperies for the weak of spirit. (If I were a child today, parental paranoia would demand I wear a helmet and some bubble wrap.) My sister and I sprawled across the storage area on a pile of blankets, while our luggage was comfortably ensconced in the backseat (you know, where there was actual seatbelts and safety features, well, such as they were in the early 80s). I remember the gooey plastic ceiling cover which would melt and land on us in disturbingly vomitous chunks.

I remember the endless loop of our only two 8-tracks, Olivia Newton-John and ABBA. I remember being the only girl at Casita Elementary who knew all the words to "Fernando", which may have marked the beginning of my plummet into nerd-dom.

I remember the endless driving from hotel to motel to resort, as all lodging options in town were exhausted due to my dad's philosophical objection to making reservations.

I remember the endless driving as the source of my endless horking by the side of the road, at rest stops, and sometimes I-swear-it-was-an-accident onto my sister.

I remember leaving my favorite doll on the roof of the car.

I remember leaving my retainer at a Burger King.

I remember the time we returned to find my pet parakeet Sydney had committed suicide by trapping herself behind my dresser mirror. Upside down. And staring directly at me. Gross.

I also remember the time we returned to find a pescetarian Jonestown, as all of Skye's fish had jumped out of their tank in the week we were away.

I remember the funny way my dad would stick his tongue out just a little when we'd pass the same intersection half a dozen times from a dozen different directions. (The laws of physics never seemed to apply to my family in any real way. This is how we'd visit four states in an hour but teleport back from Tijuana.)

The one trip I do truly remember, we aimed for the Finger Lakes and landed in Montreal. I met a lottery winner and saw Turner and Hooch.

It's funny how family vacations have achieved a sort of American mythology. The food, the accommodations, all of it, is usually...just plain bad. It's all about bickering, getting lost, getting all the way to Wally World only to find out it's closed for repairs. But it's still something we do.

Voluntarily.

And I'll be damned if my hypothetical future kids, Union Carbide and Enron, get out of this fine American tradition of intergenerational torture. I may even drive a custom-built Truckster.

In the comments, tell me about your summer vacations.

Yet Another Experiment in Pointless Self-Denying Self-Improvement

As we all know, I love random self-improvement projects. Man-Free 'til May gave me all that self-esteem and decision-making ability I'd been missing out on. Plus, my perfect prince dropped out of the sky on May 2nd. We got married in a cliffside ceremony last week, both of us riding our purple unicorns down the aisle, we're expecting twins, and we spend our nights making blanket forts and eating perfectly balanced gourmet vegan dinners.

It's all true! Well, except for the parts that didn't happen. Which is pretty much all of it.

We all know that life happens in fits and starts, and my last project did little more than give me room to breathe. I needed the break, I needed the space, I needed the extra time nestled up to my lovely girlfriends. But I'm questing for a new exercise in self-denial and clever wordplay. And now we've got it:

No-Buy July

If I don't own it by now, I won't own it until August. I am not going shopping in July...at all. As the pile of magazines on my coffee table can attest, I'm a bit of a fashion freak and shopaholic. This will remove many items from my monthly budget:

Sundresses

Shoes

Playstation games

Books

CDs

Kitchen implements

Weapons

Dresses will totally be the hard part. I purchase, on average, a dress a week. (Sure, they're the cheapies from Forever 21, but it adds up after a while.) I guess I'll go all recessionista, and 'shop my closet' for the latest looks. That, or I'll go depressionista and make myself a frock out of my shower curtain.

So stay tuned as I torture myself doing something that doesn't matter, for reasons that are obscure even to myself. Should be awesome.

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.

The One Trend I Never Tried

I was pretty trendy in my twenties. Platform shoes. Ecotourism. Sleek sushi restaurants. A quarterlife crisis, starter marriage, fancy beer and bootcut jeans.


Somehow, in all that inadvertent love of the Next Big Thing, I never got a tattoo. My shoulder is not adorned with the mystic Chinese symbol for strength (which is far more likely to be the mystic symbol for Egg Foo Young, lifted off a delivery menu). No roses march across my ankle, my lower back is sadly free of a sunshine or butterfly tramp stamp, and a jailhouse strip search won't reveal a fairy or daisy.

Mostly, I'm relieved. Now that mortality is a slightly more concrete concept, it is far too easy to picture myself as that saggy, tarty, inky old lady on the beach. Also, back when I was a member of the tattoo demographic, I thought red pleather pants were pretty rockin'. I had loud taste, by which I mean you could generally hear my outfit from across the room. So I'm sure I would have picked something tacky and horrid. A battleship on my breast, perhaps, which would drop anchor in a few years.

Sometimes, though, it makes me a little sad. See, I believe that one should not pick up the ink habit after age 30. It's undignified, like developing a sudden prurient interest in the Jonas Brothers or taking up binge drinking. Tattoos, jailbait and booze are all habits best carried over from our twenties, not undertaken as new journeys after blowing out those 30 candles.

So I've missed the tattoo train, and one more option in life has been taken off the table. Life sometimes feels like the constant narrowing of options. However, the saving grace of maturity is that we realize not everything is right for everyone, and that narrow worlds are fine if those are the proportions we've asked for. I don't really care what sort of body art other people have, and I'm sure most people have a very good reason for getting inked, but I'm grateful I have none of my own.

And, best of all, I've been spared the sight of my slowly reconfiguring* early-30s posterior, graced with the face of Ozzy Osbourne. So, all in all, I'll consider my inkless body a win.

In the comments, tell me about your ink. Especially if it's a good story. Or, be silly enough to take me seriously here, and call me a judgmental unfunny twit. Or, tell me why you don't have any, or...try to erase the mental image of my naked hindquarters adorned with the grimacing face of Ozzy Osbourne. Can't do it, can you?

*Yes, girls, after age thirty, stuff, uh, moves around. Not necessarily smaller, bigger, higher, or lower, just...reconfigured. Like your body has reformatted your fatty hard drives without your consent. So be ready to laugh, get over it, and go buy some new pants.

I'm a Costco of Emotion

I have a surplus of feelings. I pull them around after me, like a little red wagon that comes to life and squawks for attention at irregular intervals. I laugh too loudly, and turn pink and ooze tears at the slightest provocation. I smirk at my own reflection, wince constantly, and jump out of my seat every time the phone rings.

My school reports had two main assessments: "has trouble with spatial relations," and, to no one's surprise, "high-strung."

I have yet to find a way to harness this surplus, and pass the savings on to you. I had a week of accumulated traumas and stresses, the sort that would be deemed a perfect storm if 'perfect storm' wasn't my second least-favorite cliche in the world. (The least favorite? "At the end of the day." That one makes me laugh, turn pink, cry, smirk, wince, jump, AND groan. I hurl metaphorical Gummi Bears at anybody who says it.)

So let's just call the last week one big honking mess.

And now I'm left with a new supply of surplus emotions, and nowhere to put them. And I think the best test of emotional maturity is knowing that you can't help what you feel, but you can help what you do about it. So what do I do about it?

Am I supposed to squash down all my ugly feelings until they explode from my ears, flood everything in sight, and eat away at the furniture like a hot-pink acidic Pepto-Bismol of the damned?

Or should I go condiment-style? Should I let out my feelings in tiny bursts at inappropriate times, like ketchup bottle explosions in rousing protest against receiving mayonnaisse on my hamburger?

Should I go numb, like a soul that has been strapped to a low-velocity vibrator for over twenty years?

Shall I do something constructive? I could build a beautiful cathedral out of the Popsicle sticks of my stress and pain and self-doubt. But with the real estate market being what it is, maybe I ought to be building townhouses or Dickensian debtors' prisons.

Or, I could mold my feelings into abstract clay forms and sell them at auction. But would there be any buyers?

Or, I suppose I could tell you all about it, but not really tell you, because these images don't even make sense to me. As far as outlets go, it's a pretty good one.

A Date with Me, as Imagined by my OkCupid! Personality Awards

This week is all about preparation. Imagine a training montage set to soaring synthesizer music, in which I practice Slow Wallet Reaches, firm handshakes, changing names in my phone to Handsy McInsincere and I'm the Tooliest Tool Who Ever Tooled, and climbing out of ladies' room windows.

I even briefly considered dusting off the old online dating profile. OKCupid! has you answer a bunch of personality questions, then they place little icons on the bottom of your profile. These are called Personality Awards. My awards, however, are so incredibly and hilariously man-repellent that I may as well change my screen name to DaddyDoesn'tLoveMe or TickTockBiologicalClock.

Here they are:

More literary
More optimistic
More spiritual

More compassionate

More extroverted

Less dorky

Less ambitious

More well-mannered

Less kinky

Less interested in sex

More emotional

I'm trying to see the humor in this. OK, the humor is hitting me square across the jaw. If all those things were true, and taken literally, could you imagine what it would be like to go on a date with me?

First, we'd go to a book signing, most likely for a self-help book with a title like, Hugging Your Rainbow: How to Love Yourself When You're Not Really Worth It. On the way, I'd probably adopt a puppy and introduce myself to every homeless dude on the block. Afterwards, we'd go to a cool, trendy little coffee shop. But you'll have to pay, as my job as a greeter at the Wal-Mart doesn't pay very much. I'll drink tea with my pinky stuck out, and perhaps correct your posture.

Afterwards, I probably totally wouldn't put out. But, if I did, it would be missionary, lights out, and I'd definitely keep my shirt on. Then you'd have to hold me while I cry for a period of 45 to 60 minutes.

So maybe I'll stay away from the Internet for now. Especially since, shortly after I logged on, I received a message from a polyamorous dude in Waldorf. What makes it even more awesome? He was my SECOND polyamorous admirer from Waldorf.

What the hell is in the water out there?

Deep Thoughts on Date-Cation

I had the sort of March that left me with only two options: take April as a date-cation, or write a rock opera and sing all about it. As “Shannon the Musical” is really just about the worst idea anyone has ever had, I went with the date-cation. Man Free ‘til May! Woot!

I had this vague idea that I would learn a great deal, and turn into this saintly being who could forever lose her interest in emotionally damaged men in rumply Oxford shirts (I can fix you! I can save you! ….Daddy? Why don’t you love me?).

Well, I didn’t really learn anything at all. I don’t think I really expected to. I just figured I could use a break. Plus, I love arbitrary deadlines and self-denial. I used my time off wisely, on things like my amazing girlfriends, my awesome job, and catching up on six months’ worth of ironing.

And now I’m looking at the last week of Mancation, and wondering what’s next. The extension idea has been shot down, on the grounds that I’d probably explode all over Washington like a miniskirted supernova.

I’ve chosen to use my last week wisely, on the things that make me happy: Makers Mark and Grand Theft Auto. Somewhere in the bowels of Vice City, there's a little slice of enlightenment just waiting for me to find it.

In the comments, mock my love of failed experiments. Or, imagine the musical of your life.

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?

Lazy Friday List Post: Something and Nothing

Nothing makes you question your own judgment like waking up on a Thursday morning, on top of the covers, in a floor-length satin nightgown and wearing only one shoe. Particularly when there were no sailors, moonshine, or streaking involved.

Something I’ve learned is that when my hair gets unruly, I’ll run into an ex on the Metro. If I look like a lumpy zitty frizzy little redheaded dandelion (with rapidly expanding gray-brown roots), then I’ll run smack into my ex-husband. It's like Murphy's Law of Metro Hotness: How good I look that day is in inverse proportion to the significance of the ex.

Nothing is lovelier than an authentic compliment. Few things are uglier than empty flattery, oozing with ulterior motives (many of which seem to involve the acquisition of my spirit or the removal of my pants). I wish I was better at knowing the difference.

Something I’ve never learned is to be as charitable and kind with myself as I am with others.

Nothing cheers me up like hearing from a long-lost friend.

Something tells me this is going to be a really good day.

For Once, It Was Hard to Write About Myself

Recently, I had to submit my bio for work. Considering I’ve spent the last six years expending copious amounts of bandwith on myself and my varying levels of awesome, this proved surprisingly challenging. I had no idea what to say.

So, today, I submit the (sadly, completely true) bio I wish I had written:

Shannon Stamey is our Administrative Ninja. Her duties include barking at vendors (when she isn’t requesting free ponies), making inappropriate editorial comments during staff meetings, and running every aspect of the known Universe.

She is on her third, or perhaps fourth, career. She started out as a secretary at a fancy hotel. Then she was a political consultant for a few years there, where she slept under her desk many nights and lived up to her Cherokee heritage by occasionally trading her cubicle for some shiny beads.

There was a wilderness year or two, when she inadvertently killed some minke whales. Consumed with guilt, she upped and married a near-stranger and moved to Bogota. There, Ms. Stamey specialized in newsletter editing, overly detailed festive party decorations, shopping, and daytime drinking.

She continued her illustrious career in Sarajevo, where she served as a Community Liaison Officer. Her most brilliant achievement was the Shot for a Shot Happy Hour, in which she encouraged her colleagues to receive flu shots by promising Jell-O shooters in return. Her other tasks included the invention of Sarajevo Rules Karaoke Revolution, ordering a divorce over the Internet, and achieving a level of depression spiral that she is still finds quite amazing. After all, why shower or sleep when there are 12-hour crying jags to be had?

After she crash-landed home, she took a part-time temp job as a file clerk at a government agency. She ran documents through a scanner, fooled the IG into believing all the required informational binders had actual contents, and occasionally left staples in the documents for the awesome screechy sound they would make. This job, and her continued apathy with regards to showering, inspired her to rename her blog, “Disaffected Scanner Jockey.”

Ms. Stamey has temped her way across the administrative offices of virtually every nonprofit in Washington. Her favorite assignment was two weeks of formatting boobs in a breastfeeding manual. For a period of several months, she could not look down while showering without picturing ducts, machinery, and properly positioned infants.

Ms. Stamey has a (still in the box, minty fresh) degree in Journalism from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Her Spanish language skills are rapidly deteriorating, but she has retained the entirety of her six-word Bosnian vocabulary.

Ms. Stamey is intermittently single and, to the relief of many, has no children. Her hobbies include falling off of things, orchestrating the social lives of her friends, and hugging pretty much anybody who will let her hug them. She showers daily.

Sometimes, I Like to Pretend That I've Learned Something

Three years ago tomorrow, I crash-landed home after a disastrous sojourn in Sarajevo. I'd spent a year in the three smallest, bleakest rooms of my mind: “Woe Is Me,” “Man, This Sucks,” and “Why Doesn’t This Country Have Any Root Beer?”

My marriage was whirlwind, mad, and unworkable, but my biggest problem was me. I’d turned into little more than a seething ball of resentment with an eye for party decorations. Running away was the best of all my bad options. I packed my things, filed for divorce, and landed at Dulles Airport on April 4, 2006.

It’s safe to say I was slinking home in defeat. My scorecard read something like this:

Successful marriages: zero
Job: none
Prospects: zilch
Plans: nada
Home: a rent-free futon crashpad among sympathetic friends.

I am often asked what divorce feels like. Whether you were married six months or sixty years, it’s hell. It’s like being reincarnated, but you take only your ugly bits with you. It’s seeing every plan for your life evaporate, replaced by feelings of confusion and catastrophic failure. Plus, you exude this vaguely toxic, self-loathing substance that can poison even the most promising relationship. But that's OK, because you're scared and run hell for leather towards the relationships that hold the least promise. Oh, and if the divorce was your idea, you can tack on some overwhelming guilt for good measure.

Basically, it’s horrible and it sucks.

I tried to see the whole thing as something better. All that emptiness meant I could start over. I could put together the sort of life I could be proud of, that allowed me to be someone worthy of all the good things I'd been given. I had a second chance.

And what does a second chance feel like? Well, it's like jumping off a diving board into an empty swimming pool, and hoping there’s water by the time you hit bottom. But there’s never any water. In Douglas Coupland’s Girlfriend in a Coma, there’s a line that's both right-on and hilarious: “Most people, given a second chance, f*ck it up completely.”

And, boy howdy, did I screw up. A lot. There’s that Lost Weekend-esque Summer of 2006. And a whole slew of bad choices, from bad friends, iffy men, and McJobs, to more important things like hairstyle and wardrobe. I trusted everyone without regard for instincts or history. Somewhere around the fifth chance, though, things started to click.

I learned to surround myself with good people. Every day, I hear from at least one person who loves me. I learned that self-esteem is something you earn. It's not something handed to you by your parents, or by some guy with a hot car and a dozen roses. I learned that caring about the right people can patch even your biggest potholes, to give more than you get, and that the most important thing you can do in life is just show up.

Which takes us back to Dulles Airport on April 4, 2006. My dear friend of 14 years, the Foggy Dew, took the afternoon off to meet me at the airport. I was jet-lagged, shellshocked, and more than a little freaked. He dragged my suitcases out to the car, opened the door, and I hopped in. Foggy said there was a surprise in the backseat.

You bet your sweet asses it was a cooler of root beer. And, you bet your sweet asses that's when I knew I'd come home.

UPDATE: In a spooky coincidence, I wrote this on a friend's annivorcery. Ah, the Divorce Club. We meet every second Tuesday and have a secret handshake.