The Vuvuzelas of the Blogverse, or, Tell Me Your Peeves

I'll admit to being a persnickety, peevish old crank. I'll also admit to being a bit of a blowhard when it comes to, well, all sorts of things. And I'll admit I'm not perfect, or even merely extraordinary.

Enough disclaimers for you? Ok, then, let's rant n' roll. In particular, let's rant about Annoying and Grody Internet Stuff That Makes Me Bonkers. The vuvuzelas of the blogverse, so to speak. Here's my personal top ten blogverse and internet peeves:

1. Any variation of "nom nom nom." Eating noises, are, frankly, gross (I personally can't abide the sound of crunching or slurping). So why on Earth are we imitating those noises? What's next, literary interpretations of fart sounds? (Please, no.)

2. "I peed my pants," to indicate merriment. Beyond trite. And I really don't want to picture a bunch of incontinent people whizzing onto their laptops.

3. "I threw up in my mouth a little," to indicate disgust. Gross. And even more trite than wetting yourself.

4. "I just spat [hipster liquid] on my keyboard," to indicate amusement. Why are you still typing? Shouldn't you get up and get a rag or something?

5. "Nosh." Yes, I know it's Yiddish. You know what else it is? An annoying word.

6. Any variation of "Squeeeee!" or "Eeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!" Yes, I've used the latter. But that was to indicate that I was recently engaged, not that Miller High Life was on sale at Giant or that lavender was my new favorite color. It's annoyingly cutesy, like the Vera Bradley handbag of the blogverse.

7. Not really a word or phrase, but excessive quotes of any of the following: Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Family Guy, or, well, really, if I could get a one-hour break from Always Sunny references, I'll lump any number of other TV references.

8. Gchat transcripts as blog posts. Really. We know you have friends. Simply posting a transcript comes across as "Look how funny and awesome my friend @hotstuffblogger is! Eeeee and squeee!" It's also lazy - either ask your funny friend to do a guest post, or at least condense the transcript.

9. LOLcat speak. It's kind of cute when kittens and lizards do it. You're a grownup. Write like one. (Unless your blog is intended for an audience of kittens and lizards, because well, that's awesome and makes you really cutting-edge).

10. People who self-righteously complain in list format like persnickety and peevish weirdos. Like, uh, me.

In the comments, get it all out. Tell me your peeves. It'll feel good. Or try to tick me off.

Also, welcome back to Lemmonex.

Trolley Tours: Because I'd Always Wanted to Be Nearly Squished by Someone Argumentative and Rude

I'm not one of those bloggers whose fingers fly to the keyboard every time I have a consumer ax to grind.

However, since Trolley Tours made it completely impossible to find a live human being to discuss this issue, I have to take it to the blogverse. Enjoy the sputtering fury.

Thursday, August 5. About 5:25 pm. 10th and F NW. Last digit of the DC license plate was 9, second to last was most likely a 4. Hard to tell, what with all the adrenaline.

I approached the intersection, and saw a tour bus to my right with its blinker on. I had about ten seconds left on the Walk signal, so I looked for traffic and stepped into the crosswalk. The Trolley Tours driver proceeded to turn right, even though I was in the crosswalk, and very nearly ran me over. I scurried across and did the raised arm "What the hell?" signal that Washingtonians have to master during tour bus "Pedestrian as Prey" season.

Most drivers shrug or apologize (if they apologize, they get a pass - if they shrug, I report them to their employer).

This Trolley Tours driver (mid to late 30s, African American, heavyset), argued with me. He claimed that I had crossed against the light (I had not, I had a Walk signal - it turned red while I was blocked and then dodging for my life). Moreover, shouldn't he have looked both ways for pedestrians before turning? I pointed out that I would have made it across before the light changed, had he not blocked me from crossing. Then he yelled at me a little more, made some angry hand gestures, and drove off.

When I got home, I tried to call Trolley Tours. Oh, how I tried. The number is unlisted (I also tried to call right after it happened), the website sends you to a phone number, the phone number sends you to the website, and pressing 0 sends you to some woman in Key West who tells you to call back another time. Requesting "representative" gets you dumbfounded silence, followed by a continued spiel on why I should really just get back to the Trolley Tours website already.

So, Trolley Tours. Breaking the law, wholly inadequate with the service, and argumentatively homicidal. Have I mentioned the company name is Trolley Tours? Trolley Tours, folks. Trolley Tours.

In the comments, tell your friends to use anyone but Trolley Tours.

The ACOD Doesn't Fall Far from the Tree

Al and Tipper Gore...are no more. I do not know how I can go through life, or ever believe in love again, as my marital ideal has been irreparably shattered.

Oh, please. I was far more bummed when Buffy stabbed Angel in the gut and shipped him straight to hell.

Before anyone calls the men in the white suits and butterfly nets (who, for the record, are on the speed dial of all my nearest and dearest), I am aware of the difference between fact and fiction. However, since I do not know anyone involved, it's all the same to me.

What's even stranger to me is the media hand-wringing over what shall become of their poor children. (Who are, may I point out, competent adults.) There's even a term for it all: ACODs (Adult Children of Divorce), because anything bad that happens must be medicalized until it's completely trivial.

In fact, I recently came across this article in the Guardian. Not only is it awesome because it features quotes by Lee Borden (my divorce lawyer! Eeeeee!), it's awesome because of all the garment-rending that occurs when competent adults have to (gasp!) deal with adult things.

OK, I'm sounding heartless here. Blame it on Au Bon Pain being out of my favorite kind of sandwich. But not only am I divorced, I'm one of those tragic ACODs. My parents split when I was 21, just a few months after I completed college.

And, you know what? I lived. It was OK. In fact, it was better than OK, as my parents seemed happier for it. They're friends now and get along just fine. There was awkwardness, and transition, and mourning, but in the end it all worked out.

Here are some things I learned, may it help the Gore children* and the other ACODs of the world:

1. In the term ACOD, the keyword is "adult." You're a grownup. You can handle it. Really.

2. Yes, you will feel guilty that your parents stayed together "for the kids." But that was their choice, as adults, to do. It's not your fault. So let go of the guilt, and thank them for their sacrifice.

3. While we're talking about "not your fault," the divorce is not your fault. In fact, it basically has nothing to do with you. Seeing the divorce as 'all about ME and MY feelings!' is an act of narcissism - whatever pain you're going through, your parents are going through far worse. They did not do this to "break up your family," destroy your perfect world, or throw a wrench into Thanksgiving plans. Marinate yourself in a little Boone's Farm, sob to your friends, then dust yourself off and get on with it.

4. Understand that your parents are undergoing a profound emotional journey. Divorce is an ugly, miserable thing that upends your life, obliterates your daily routines, and erases all your plans for the future. It's a "reset" button that usually only gets pressed after massive system failure. Getting divorced, instead of limping along in a bad marriage, is an act of courage. Sadly, for many folks who haven't been there, it is seen as an act of weakness. Your parents aren't being weak.

5. A child of divorce is generally shielded from the inner workings of the breakup. However, if you're an adult, expect your parents to lean on you a bit and maybe give you some gory details. That's a good thing - they're demonstrating faith in your ability to handle it like an adult. Because, as we've established, you're an adult.

6. One of the great lessons of adulthood is being able to see your parents as people. Assets, liabilities, strengths, weaknesses, gaping character flaws and all. What you're experiencing is simply a crash course version of that lesson.

In the comments, tell me if I'm being really harsh, or find a way to make the title of the post have anything to do with the content of the post. Or speculate about the Gore divorce.

*Am I the only person who thinks they're all named Karenna?

Cluck You Very Much: A Chicken Bus Travelogue

Everyone knows the routes from D.C. to New York. Planes are for the people who haven't figured out that flying is an overpriced time suck, Amtrak is for the people who are willing to pay the "Dahling, I don't do buses," surcharge, Bolt and Megabus are the province of the hipsters, and the Chinatown bus is for, well, the sort of humanity generally only experienced via film and television. Me? I like a good freakshow, and I love the Chinatown Chicken Bus.

Why do I call it the Chicken Bus? Because all that was missing from last weekend's ride was a live chicken, and perhaps a dice game in the aisle and an albino banjo player.

The ride began with various bus company employees gesticulating wildly, trampling one another in their haste, sorting us into a line, and hurling luggage into the bowels of the bus with resentful venom. The driver had a trendy mullet and a phone that blared snippets of dreadful pop music as we lurched our way through a hailstorm.

The women behind me yapped their way across the miles, question talkers both, with nary an oxygen break. One complained bitterly to the other about being pushed out of her family's business. Of course, the fact that she was the sort of person who would loudly air private family information on a crowded bus might have branded her as unprofessional, but I'm not one to offer free career advice. (If I was, I would have told the intern I shamelessly eavesdropped upon during a previous Chicken Bus journey that yes, interns do answer phones, and no, that did not mean their work was "unfulfilling.")

After the first few hours, I thought to myself, "Oh, well, at least it can't get worse." A moment later, both women popped in some globs of chewing gum so they could slurp and smack their way across New Jersey.

The best part was the journey home. The two Question Talkers were in our bus line! I turned to my travel companion and, between clenched teeth, stated that I would lose. my. MIND if those women sat anywhere near us. I said a little prayer to Getoff Mylawn, the Patron Saint of Curmudgeons. My prayers were answered and the yappers moved to the back of the bus.

The victory was fleeting, however, as my new neighbor turned out to be a woman who ranted in sub-Saharan French, while shoveling noxious-smelling kebab into her mouth with nary a break to chew.

In the comments, tell me if you've ever ridden a Chicken Bus.

The More Things Change...

...the more I stand behind some woman who is overcompensating for deficient arithmetic skills by micromanaging her grocery purchases.

I've expended a lot of calories over the years by ranting about my Safeway. It was a nexus of incompetence, wilted vegetables, long lines and short fuses. Now, it is freshly made-over. It's spit-shined, glamorous, and full of cheese bars and nut bars and shiny floors. They even sell wine. And the produce no longer looks like it was grown in a freeway underpass and watered with moonshine.

But let's get back to those nut bars. They're not just a kind of food, they're a way of life at my Safeway.

See, in all the reconfiguring, nobody really came up with a way to make over the customers.

Sunday, I was swanning about my fancy Safeway, skipping my way down the aisles and shopping for fancy cheese. By the time I got to the register, I had a heavy basket and somewhat diminished patience.

Line selection at an urban grocer is a do-or-die proposition. If you choose poorly, you'll lose hours of time. You'll get the folks who want to haggle over prices, or, one better, the people who don't realize that money is exchanged for goods or services. So they stand there, numbly, not sure when or how they should pay. (Hint: Now. With money. Your magic beans are no good here.)

I stood behind a woman who seemed relatively organized. Her cart was neatly lined up. She had her wallet in her hand. I was reassured. That is, until I saw what she was doing. Mayonaisse. On the conveyor. $2.99. Nod approvingly. Bread. $1.79. Total $4.78. Nod approvingly. The cookies can go on the conveyor, too.

I know that game. The customer slowly, gradually, infuriatingly puts one item on the belt, checks the total, and stops when they hit the amount of cash they are carrying. Then the player will scatter any leftovers around the register area, creating an obstacle course for the patrons and a cleanup job for the staff.

As a Nats fan and divorcee, I know when I've been defeated. So I moved to the next register over. There was one woman ahead of me. Yogurt. $.79. Lunchmeat. $3.50. Total $4.29.

Spectacularly, impossibly, I had stumbled into the Urban Grocery Olympics. The I Have Exactly $30 on Me for Groceries Event. And the women in both lines were going for the gold.

On a more comforting level, it's nice to know that gentrification hasn't changed the basic character of my neighborhood.

In the comments, tell me about your favorite event in the Urban Grocery Olympics.

The usual caveat: Lots of you know where I live. That doesn't mean you should mention it in the comments (lots of creepazoids out there.)

Snowchismo

Snowmageddon has brought us many wonderful things. OK, for a day or so, it was wonderful. Now that I have hit the fifth straight day of my confinement, I'm kind of over it. I have run out of clean elastic waistband-oriented clothing, my social skills have eroded, and my stock of Bloody Maria fixings are perilously low. I've flipped out, and flipped into the negative.

So let me tell you all the things that tick me off about big snowfalls. Sadly, none of them have anything to do with actual snow. Heaven's dandruff is cool with me.

1. Snowchismo. That's the macho idiocy some faux-rugged types exhibit in any major snowstorm. Monday, I overheard the statement, "I would just like to point out that I made it to work in my two-wheel drive sedan." Want a cookie? How about a medal, or possibly a parade? (Somewhat related note: those last few sentences took much longer than usual to type, as even now my right hand makes involuntary wanking gestures at the mention of the two-wheel-drive sedan.)

First off, these faux-rugged Snowchismo types tax precious resources because they just HAVE to get to work, so they run off into ditches or otherwise get themselves in trouble. Then the government has to swoop in and rescue them. Unless lives are on the line, be smart and stay home. Otherwise you are just creating more hassle for the rest of us.

If your boss is a Snowchismo, then you've learned that your safety isn't the priority - so your priority should be looking for something better. Oh, and there's a special place in hell for bosses who make their employees report to work, but fail to show up themselves. What would that be, Snowchismo-by-Proxy Syndrome?

Second, whether you believe in God or not, every human has the instinctive knowledge that nature is far, far bigger than what we can imagine, and sometimes nature is going to make herself known. Stop thinking of the world as something to be subdued for the sake of your convenience. Kick back and experience a little awe.

2. SNIMBYs. Snow, Not in My Backyard! These people kick up an enormous stink because they haven't been plowed out yet. Really? You had notice, you knew that this storm was big, that it was coming our way, and it was going to knock us on our butts. You also knew that every local jurisdiction bled its budgets dry cleaning up after December's Snowpocalypse. Did you really think you'd see pavement anytime soon? Besides, the road crews are unfortunately busy weaving around the Snowchismos, and it's causing delays. Toss a slug of Bailey's into your hot cocoa and chill the heck out.

3. Metro Whiners: Aboveground stations close when there are more than eight inches of snow. Why? Because back in the 2003 blizzard, they didn't close...and the tracks and cars sustained damages that crippled the system for a week. Kudos to Metro for keeping even limited service running, and offering plenty of notice before closing aboveground stations on Friday night.

However, if John Catoe would like to make it up to me by pushing me around town in a wheelbarrow, I would happily take him up on that offer.

4. Flinty Carpetbagging McShowoffs. These people combine snowchismo with a heaping helping of Yankee hot air. Yes, you're from somewhere that gets a lot of snow. And you'd like nothing better than to beat your chest and bray about how Minneapolis/Buffalo/Nunavut would have cleared this out in no time flat. Except? They wouldn't. There is nearly three feet of snow out there, and that would cripple even the flintiest of Flintsters. (Also? Washingtonians amp up the hysteria a bit so we can get the day off. Sometimes we even like to wail at the sky for emphasis. Don't mess with our local tradition.)

This is a once-in-a-lifetime winter, that you can brag to your grandkids about. ("We walked uphill both ways, in the snow, only to discover school was cancelled for the week...") So I wish all of Washington could quit with the braying and the whinging, and experience the history and excitement of it all.

In the comments, tell me that in Upper Yankonia, everyone gets to work in two-wheel drive sedans after 80 feet of snow, the plows are made of diamonds, and nothing ever goes wrong.

Sally Quinn: Let Them Eat Cake. At My House. Or Else.

Oh, Sally.

Does anyone else picture Sally Quinn in an elegant room, typing away as uniformed butlers slice her tethers to reality one by inevitable one?

Her latest batch of pap is not quite so great as the Great Editorial Page Freakout of 2001, where she advocated we all buy gas masks and carry them everywhere, stock beans and peanut butter in our cars (for the protein!), and eventually barricade ourselves into our homes with tarpaulins and duct tape. (Where, thanks to the duct tape and tarps, we'd promptly suffocate. Which, to be fair, is probably better than slow death by nuclear mutation.)

But it's a hoot nonetheless. First, she compares herself and her posh Georgetown friends to the kindly Na'Vi of Avatar...then, thankfully, completely drops the analogy on the grounds that it makes no sense whatsoever.

Then she bitches, at length, that the last six or so presidents haven't hobnobbed enough with her for her liking. In an acrobatic feat of logic, she takes this as a sign of the increasing irrelevance of the Presidency, and not of her own increasing irrelevance. Then she advocates that the Obama administration make it mandatory that their staffers come to her dinner parties from time to time. Which I am sure would be the best HR move ever, considering these folks already work 12 to 20 hours a day.

Unfortunately, there are a few apples spoiling the Semiannual Shredding of Sally Quinn. Some folks take this as an opportunity to accuse Quinn of sleeping her way to the top, having her job only because she's Mrs. Ben Bradlee, looking a little too much like the Crypt Keeper, or various other 'Sally the Unpretty Skank' broadsides.

I have two issues with this. One, is, of course, that it's appallingly sexist. Until no-talent men are accused of sharing their goodies for success, we need to just drop the notion of a journalistic casting couch. And her looks? Just. Not. Relevant. At all. Drop it. Now.

The second issue is that there are so many wonderful and fair-minded reasons to mock her, so why focus on the unsavory? She has nothing to say, and no interesting way to say it. She's odiously elitist. She lacks the self-awareness to realize that bitching about her fancy dinner parties in a city with 12.1 percent unemployment is on a "Let them eat cake" wavelength.

Worst of all, her writing is ponderous, dull, and lacks craft. It's like slogging through a ninth grader's book report. On a macro note, the fact that the Post retains her while exfoliating legions of copy editors heralds the death of substantive journalism.

So, folks, let's band together. Stop the sexist insanity. Let's hate Sally Quinn for all the right reasons.

In the comments, tell me why you've been turning down invitations from Sally Quinn.

Shannon Getting Ranty about Rachel Getting Married

Spoilers and Spoilsport Alert: If you haven’t seen this movie, and you don’t want me to ruin it for you, click away! Or if you liked this movie, you REALLY want to click away. Look, kittens!

Rachel Getting Married is about recovering addict Kym (Anne Hathaway) wreaking havoc upon her sister’s wedding weekend. However, after meeting her family, you can sort of see why Kym would hurl herself into a Percocet abyss and never come out. Personally, after two hours of the cinematic equivalent of a bearhug from Mr. Van Driessen, I wanted to climb inside a bottle of Makers’ and take some airplane bottles of Absolut along for the ride.

These people are dreadful. This is the most tedious wedding ever captured on film. It drags for hours. It drags for days. It kills your spirit. It eats babies and sells crack to orphans. It takes Rush Limbaugh as gospel, compares Obama to Hitler, and buys every copy of Going Rogue. It buys non-free trade coffee and exploits child workers. It is a force of evil upon this Earth.

I should have known. I should have turned it off five minutes into the interminable rehearsal dinner sequence, in which there are performances, and performance art, and then toasts. And more toasts…EVERY SINGLE PERSON takes the microphone, and I am there to watch it. Worst of all, nobody appears to be eating anything.

I’m getting ugly flashbacks to a wedding I attended years ago, where, thanks to a whole bunch of slideshows and toasts and being the last table called up to the buffet, dinner wasn’t until 10:00. And they ran out of potatoes, too. No wedding event should lack for potatoes. I bet the Rachel Getting Married people oppose potatoes, as potatoes are a force for good upon the world.

The wedding itself is self-consciously and self-servingly multi-culti, like a live-action We Are the World mashed up with a Pier 1 Imports. It’s got upper-class Connecticut whites co-opting Indian wedding traditions for no apparent reason other than saris are kind of pretty.

Oh, Lord, the groom is delivering his vows. In a capella Neil Young song format. I am cringing. The wedding guests are weeping. They are happy about this development. That tells you everything you need to know about these people. They think there’s no better wedding vow than a song that rhymes “diner” with “finer.” I hate everyone. I truly do. I want to die.

Plus the luncheon and the tent and the dancing and the…good heavens, this wedding is eternal. I am sick of celebrating the happiness of you insipid artsy-fartsy twerps and your narcissistic friends, all of whom have to get up on stage and be acknowledged time and again. Cut the cake and let us all go home. I wanna go home!

Oh heavens, they’ve cut the cake, but there’s hours and hours more to go.

This is like Synedoche, New York, but worse. And I thought nothing could be worse than Synedoche, New York, which attempted to elevate "Life sucks, then you die," into high art.

I hate everyone.

In the comments, tell me if you’d want to be a guest at the Rachel Getting Married wedding. Or tell me that movie was totally heartwarming and authentic, and I just don’t get it because Jonathan Demme is an auteur and resides outside the grasp of my tiny little mind.

A Menagerie of Decorating Pet Peeves

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never Mess with a Little Sister

For claustrophobics, there are few experiences more enchanting than sealing yourself up inside a big tinfoil Tylenol and hurtling across America.

I’ve built some coping mechanisms. Being too broke to ever go anywhere, for instance. But when a flight becomes necessary, I go for headphones, mild hallucinogenics, meditation and occasional walks up and down the aisle.

Except when I’m on a cross-country nonstop with a non-reclining seat and so much turbulence my teeth were sticking out of my eyebrows. Walks became impossible and the walls closed in.

What made the experience even more completely awesome was the spiky-haired hipster in front of me. He’d reclined to the point that I was tempted to dig out some chopsticks and perform a head lice inspection. After about three hours, my chest tightening, and a panic attack rolling in, I decided to take action.

I put on my best Happy Secretary voice. *tap tap* “Excuse me, would you mind moving your seat up a bit for a little while? I’m starting to feel squashed.”

Well, the look he gave me implied I’d asked something along the lines of, “Hello good sir, I was wondering if I could have your left nut, your mother’s virtue, and perhaps a cottage in the countryside.”

“Why, yes, I would mind.”

He clamped his earbuds back in place. I politely said I was claustrophobic, and that I really needed the space and air or I might have a panic attack. He ignored me while his traveling companion looked a little embarrassed (the companion, though, was in the process of crushing my next-door neighbor, so I guess jerks of a feather really do fly together).

I briefly entertained the idea of calling over a flight attendant. After all, if I had a fit on the plane it would be unpleasant for everyone. But then I pictured myself saying, “Mo-ooom, Hipster’s on my side of the car again!” I’m more mature than that.

I swaddled myself in a shawl, took deep breaths, pictured open spaces and light, and pulled myself together. After a while, I calmed down. Crisis averted. Until I heard a squeak and a clack.
The Hipster was reclining even further.

Fine. Keep your seat the way it is. I'll live. But reclining further is just being a petty, mean-spirited, vindictive little bully. I know I seem like an easy target. I’m girly and giggly and small and my voice is so chirpy that I could probably speak the language of parakeets if I only tried.

But Hipster didn’t know something important: I'm also a little sister. And, like any little sister anywhere, I know how to turn any journey into a relentless sort of hell.

I propped myself up and proceeded to dig my knees into his back for the remaining two hours of the flight.

No Man Can Eat 50 Eggs. Nuggets Are a Whole 'Nother Thing

Have you ever noticed that the Universe will take your state of mind and push it to an illogical extreme? Likewise, have you ever noticed that if you are not feeling your best, the Universe will continue to exploit your weakness until you squawk?

For about the last week, I've been feeling queasy and headachy and so tired I get out of bed in the mornings by rolling off the mattress and onto the floor. The parquet floor, mind you. It's the thump and the bruising that finally wakes me up. Then I'm ready for a day of trudging through my obligations and climbing back into bed.

The Universe, for its part, has been playing merry hell with me. I've been assaulted with gnarly smells and lurching Metro drivers. The late summer malaise has hit me with full force.


However, nothing can quite compare to the Logan's Run office across the hall. Everyone is young, everyone is loud, and everyone cranks a cacophony of tasteful boy-rock. It's awful.


What's worse is that, as young folks are wont to do, they've begun daring each other to do revolting things, and then divulging the details. Friday's dare was to eat one hundred Chick-fil-A chicken nuggets, in one sitting. Apparently, the lucky contestant got to nugget number 75 and then puked a rainbow of fruit flavors.

Trust me, the image of 75 reconstituted nuggets is not helping with the nausea. Does anybody have a better remedy?

When The Heavens Open Up and It Rains Mr. Amazings

I suffer from a particularly pugnacious form of optimism. If you’re my friend, I’ll try to make you love everything that you hate: Mondays (they’re a fresh start!), bad dates (who doesn’t want a front seat at a freakshow?) and black licorice (so unique!).

But there is one thing I will never, ever tell someone I love:

Once you stop looking, the perfect partner will fall into your life!

Oh, I hate that one. Kittens in heaven, I hate it. It’s a mean-spirited patronizing little cliché wrapped up in gauzy good intentions.

First off, it’s rarely true. When I stop looking, I tend to hibernate in plain sight with my girlfriends and swap out my bloodstream for Heineken. Or, if a man does crash-land into my life, he's married and has an unsettling tendency to email me dozens of times per day in logic-averse Princespeak.

Second, it implies that single people are chumps. We’re too stupid to assess potential partners on their merits. Instead, I suppose I ought to just fall on the ground, put my legs in the air, and see who stops by. The third customer is my special prince! It's all just random luck.

Third, it’s just so goddamn smug. “You’re doing it wrong. You have to be so totally happy being single, but kind of want a partner, but not really look for one, and then one will appear as if by magic and you can be happy like me and spend your weekends doing stuff like explaining to your husband that underpants ought to be replaced every now and then.”

Being single is so much better than being in a bad relationship (if you don’t know that one yet, learn it…NOW). I’m single and surrounded by amazing friends, and every day I'm absurdly grateful for the amount of love and support I have in my life. Doesn’t mean I’m going to stop looking, and it sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m going to leave such an important part of my life up to random chance.

When it comes down to it: most people would rather be in love. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying...if only to themselves.

In the comments, tell me what relationship cliché makes you want to punch things. Or, tell me that the moment I stop looking, the heavens shall open and it will begin to rain Mr. Amazings.