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

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

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

See my point?

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

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

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...

No Koalas Attended My Birth

Back in 1976, disco was king, malaise was queen, and I was off being born in Mona Vale Hospital in New South Wales, Australia. Technically, due to the International Date Line, I've been 33 for a day now, but, let's just call my birthday November 5th. It keeps things simple.

When I tell people I was born in Australia, they imagine my birth was attended by a tableau of koalas, wallabies and kangaroos, and accompanied by a soaring didgeridoo soundtrack, like a sort of antipodean Nativity play.

Sadly, the truth isn't quite so exciting. I was born in a normal hospital, among doctors and nurses, with zero marsupials in attendance. However, there's still a good story in there:

My sister's first memory is of our dad holding her up to the window of the neonatal ward, pointing out all of the babies to her, and saying, "So, which one do you want?" (Yes, all Stameys are extremely sick people.)

Skye pointed to a random baby. Probably a boy. Definitely not me.

So Dad pointed at me, and said, "What about that one?"

Skye's voice rolled into a high-pitched whine, "But she's too SMALL!!!!!!"

Luckily, despite my sister's objections, my parents still took me home. Otherwise I imagine this story would turn out quite differently.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

I'm moving this weekend. Even though I'm just transferring into a bigger apartment in the same building, I've been talking up the event like it's my biggest life change, ever. Ever ever ever!

So far I have: attempted to develop a mutant with handtrucks for arms, Evited a request to help me move, and asked friends and coworkers to grab a pencil and floor plan printout and take a stab at arranging my furniture. Somewhere in all this carefully arranged hysteria, Brando suggested I plant 'herbs and spices' on my balcony.

Except he typed it as, 'herps and spices.'

Well. I was instantly taken with the idea of my very own urban garden of venereal disease. I picture herpes as a vivid green moss. Chlamydia would probably be a delicate white flower, like baby's breath. Syphilis would be low-maintenance and popular among basement dwellers, like a spider plant. Gonorrhea would be a little more robust and colorful, perhaps like a cyclamen plant.

HPV? Not a plant, but the High Performance Vehicle I borrow from Zipcar to pick up my social diseases from the Home Depot.

When you think about it, most STDs have pleasant-sounding names. It's a rare word that sounds like what it is. 'Flabbergasted,' for instance. That sounds exactly like what it looks like: seeing every ounce of flab on your body, quivering and aghast at what you have just witnessed.

In the comments, tell me what various STD words sound like to you. Or just tell me your favorite word.

(500) Posts of Shannon

Welcome to my 500th post! It only took seven years, three blog titles, one involuntary shutdown, a marriage, a divorce, several breakups, about 20 posts I took down because I thought they were too mean/not very good, six apartments, several thousand Heinekens, nearly 8,000 comments, and a LOT of narcissism and jackassery to get here.

My original plan involved a parade with a float, and maybe people throwing money and going into convulsions on the sidewalk. However, that appeared to involve permits, bribes to the Taxicab Commission (because they ALWAYS need a bribe) and a trained goat. What? A parade should ALWAYS have a goat.

Instead, I asked a few friends to send guest posts and testimonials about how this blog changed their lives. Weirdly, some of them took me seriously (because, come ON, who takes me seriously?). I'll be posting these vocabu-tastic and occasionally heartfelt accolades for the rest of the week.

First up is Brett, who credits me with a failed relationship, enabling the creepiest aspects of her character, and a free cupcake. Yet, somehow, it's kind of sweet:

Cheers to Shannon's Lack of Anonymity Which Allows People to Stalk Her (And Leads to Me Stalking Others)

Disaffected Scanner Jockey is solely responsible for my last breakup. Well, no, that's a lie. But this blog is a large part of the reason I sought out the last person I dated. Let me explain...Shannon is obviously not an anonymous blogger. Nor does she go through great pains to avoid describing herself physically. Through the blog alone one could glean that she is a tiny redhead/brunette, depending on the month.

But really, we have her full name, people. You can easily pull up her picture on Facebook or G-chat. Which is exactly what one of Shannon's regular readers/fellow bloggers did. And when he later spied her from afar at Artomatic, he sent her an email from his nom de plume letting her know she'd been recognized.

He, however, was much more bashful about his anonymity, which in turn made Shannon very very curious about this mystery man. You can't very well send someone an email saying "I see you" and not reveal your own identity. So we (I?) made it our (my?) mission to out this guy. I enjoyed his writing anyway, and most bloggers I've met have turned out to be relatively normal people. And so began the Twitter brigade.

For those of you unfamiliar with the phenomenon that is tweeting, it is often the quickest and most direct way to reach someone when you don't actually know them. I reached out under the pretext of finding him a job. Soon enough, we were emailing back and forth. I had his first name and his place of employment. If you're at all familiar with Google, there's a lot you can do with that information. And I'm a pretty good detective.Still, I had to meet this guy in the flesh. I knew I'd eventually wear him down with my incessant questioning, not to mention my wit and blurred yet seductive Blogger pic.

We met for drinks, then dinner, then cupcakes, and the rest is history.It was fun while it lasted. Alas, all good things must come to an end.Yeah, I know I'm leaving out the major details that would make some smile and others cringe.

But I know that both he and our mutual friends will read this post, and that stuff is proprietary information. I will tell you this, though: if this blog is responsible for fits of frustration and making me cry, it can also take the credit for romantic picnics, coconut kisses, and the first and only time I will ever imitate a chicken in public.

And now I am seeing someone else wonderful had it not been for your lack of anonymity. So cheers to you, Ms. Scanner Jockey. You've kept my hopes high and my bed warm. And my life full of laughs and love. -Brett

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.

Helpless Like a Newborn Kitten

One of my least appealing qualities is my tendency to turn into a complete and utter crybaby when I'm sick.

It's ridiculous, really. I turn as helpless as a newborn kitten, but not nearly half as cute. I loll and mewl and complain, even if there's no one around to hear me.

If I'm home alone, I refuse to do any task that might make me feel better. Why? Because most of those tasks also involve getting out of bed. Glass of water? Nah, the fridge is to far away. See a doctor? Nope, because if I can get all the way across town to the doctor, I may as well go to work. My snot-filled brain runs circuits of its own pessimism, and I get mired in self-pity.

Yesterday, however, was the lowest of the low. I refused to go to work, and instead sent a series of increasingly incoherent text messages to my colleagues. I refused to get out of bed, and instead spent my day sleeping or staring into space. Hey, this flu thing is serious business.

Worst of all, when I noticed that the fitted sheet was no longer tucked into the mattress, I didn't get up to fix it. Nope. I flopped about on the bed, like a hooked northern pike, struggling mightily to fix the fitted sheet while I was still lying on top of it. The small, not-sick portion of my brain watched the proceedings with bemused detachment. Who makes a bed while they're still IN BED? Me. That's who.

In the comments, tell me the silliest thing you do when you're sick.

The Underlying Reason I Don't Post Photos of Myself

There are oodles of reasons why bloggers don't post photos of themselves. A yen for anonymity. A desire to not have one's attractiveness assessed by eleven-toed basement trogolodytes. A desire to swat away the Internet freakdoodles. A prehensile tail.

In my case, it's about 25 percent warding off the freakdoodles and 50 percent wanting to be judged on the merits of my words, vs. the merits of my bone structure, figure type, and hairstyle.

But there's a 20 percent I haven't told you about. I am, to put it diplomatically, not the photogenic sort. Posting photos of myself would cause a clutching of pearls across the blogverse, a collective gasp, and a rapid drop in traffic.

(If you aren't looking at me, I cease to exist. Hello? Hi! Look look look! Aren't I fantastically adorable and so funny that you could just pick me up and cuddle me like a fluffy little snarky bunny?)

There are the obvious photographic indignities. Most of the time, I am snapped swilling Boone's Farm, being headlocked/molested by one of my girlfriends, gesticulating wildly, or dressed in some sort of monstrosity that makes me look like I'm about to give birth. At Woodstock. In a tent. After a few go-rounds with the brown acid. Eeeeesh.

But sometimes, I just plain mutate. There's the Feral Child version of me, with wild eyes, curiously hunched bunny-walk posture, and an expression that makes viewers wonder if I regard them as dinner.

Even better is Devil Baby Shannon. She has red eyes, mysterious cleavage, and oddly elongated teeth.

Sometimes there's Every Woman Turns Into Her Mother Eventually Shannon. That's when I look angular, Australian, and vaguely disapproving.

Then sometimes, a bad angle makes my chins be fruitful and multiply. I call her Shannon the Hutt.

But I'm guessing the math whizzes among you are less concerned about a feral man-eating demonic multi-chinned blogger, when you can focus on the mysterious five percent missing from my formula.

I have a prehensile tail. You heard it here first.

In the comments, tell me if you're photogenic.

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?

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."

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.

The Tale of Happy Fun Loft

Our sophomore year of college, my roommate Hoyden and I seized upon a wild and brilliant idea. We would loft our beds! We'd maximize our floorspace! It would be completely awesome, like a treehouse with booze.

The first step was finding a loft. We rapidly procured one from an off-campus Christian collective for $40. Several "facts" were left out of this "deal."

1. The loft had been stored in some sort of medieval dungeon, and the wood was damp and warped.

2. The loft, a double, was actually the size of a small village.

3. Make that a BIG village.

4. The loft required assembly.

So, once the Christians had departed, it was time for the Stoners. See, down the hall from us, there were these two guys. They were, without a doubt, the most famous people in Alexander Dorm. (Even more famous than the guys who would stay up all night watching pornographic screensavers, and then sleep all day, mostly because the Porno Screensaver guys had all flunked out the year before.)

The Stoners were the only people on the hall with a toolkit. The toolkit was used to construct proceedingly more elaborate pot-smoking equipment. I have a theory that if one-tenth of one percent of the energy devoted to Weed Science was directed toward the other sciences, we'd have cured cancer and colonized Mars by now. They grew pot in their room, held Harvest Festivals, and still achieved GPAs that were approximately double my own.

Hoyden and I seized upon a plan: we would ply the boys with liquor, and they would help us assemble our loft! Flaws in the plan:

1. Stoner guys are not master builders.

2. Being 19-year-old girls, our drink of choice was the glorious, calcium-fortified White Russian.

3. Stoner guys drinking girl drinks are really not master builders.

The loft was eventually...aloft. Thanks to the warped wood, lack of instructions, consistent errors in spatial relations and the varying levels of sobriety involved, our loft resembled a sort of lumberyard parabola. The slightest of touches would set the whole thing quivering like a porn star gearing up for her big interracial stereo repairman scene.

We dubbed it Happy Fun Loft. Do not taunt Happy Fun Loft. Do not have any sort of active dreams while sleeping in Happy Fun Loft. Do not have any sort of, uh, active in Happy Fun Loft.

The final step was Loft Inspection. We passed with flying colors. Those flying colors being:

1. Screw that minor in Women's Studies! Time to flirt with the inspection guy!

2. Hey, that redhead from Maine thinks you're pretty cute.

3. What? She totally does!

4. We passed? Thank you! Thank you so much! (There may have been a curtsy.)

5. Hoyden, I didn't REALLY pimp you out. It was all implication. A pimplication, if you will. A pimplication for the simplification of our lives.

Happy Fun Loft survived many things. Parties. That time I stood up and vacuumed the quilts. More parties.

And, lastly, what is either the best punchline of any blog post of mine, ever, or, completely abundantly over the line of good taste (stop reading NOW, Skye! Look over here! Otters are awesome.):

I lost my virginity in Happy Fun Loft. The loft didn't wobble, not one little bit.

I spent Winter Break wondering what all the fuss was about.

If you have an even less dignified tale of virginity loss, you are welcome to post it in the comments.

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.

Sexy Secretaries Always Get the Best Stuff

I really only have time for a half-assed update today. Which is sad, because I tend to prefer to go after things with my whole ass.

Instead, I offer a vignette:

Yesterday morning, when I walked into the office, there was a big box of Godiva chocolates waiting for me, in honor of Administrative Professional's Day.

Observation: Being an executive assistant on Administrative Professionals' Day has netted me more chocolate than seventeen years of dating.

Conclusion: My job rocks. Also, more people should give me Godiva in honor of my awesome-osity.

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.

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.

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.

Yet Another Spring Blog-cation...

...see you next week! I'll be sure to bring you prezzies from Blogcation Land, where I plan to eat lots of corn dogs and maybe do some barfing on the Ferris Wheel.

I'm a Real Boy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

In summary: woo hoo, huzzah, hurray!

PS - and, as ever, thanks Brett!