It's the Final Countdown! (Try not to picture GOB in a wedding gown)

Hello, four remaining readers! Remember me? I've been rather busy lately, what with the fact I'm getting married in TEN DAYS. According to common (and sexist) stereotyping, my life right now should be a fondant-flavored blur of errands, meltdowns, manicures and utter self-absorption. Unfortunately, that's my usual state of being.

My bridal state seems to be one of eminently not giving a flying frick.

I started off with mild wedding hysteria. Towers of magazines, dress excursions, overly complex emails to my ever-patient bridesmaids, and a round robin of color schemes. I even had a nightmare where my bowling-themed wedding was changed at the last minute to a hotel ballroom wedding with ice sculptures, and I fell on the ground and wept. (Note: why DIDN'T I have a bowling wedding?)

A few weeks ago, however, a switch flipped. I achieved bridal burnout, which is sort of like a Demerol high*. If I could distill this stuff and hand it 'round like a flask of bourbon-flavored joy, I would. It's amazing.

I knew it was all over when I ordered a light-up plastic arch for ceremony decor, as, hell, it got stuff off the list and was on sale for $34.99. We'll just glue something festive to it and be done. I realized I didn't have something old or borrowed to wear, and fell upon the idea of kidnapping a nursing home resident for the day. Brando asked me about the menu, my response was, "Is there food on it? OK, that works." I even plan a ceremonial torching of my Martha Stewart Weddings, as there was never a time in my life I'd contemplate baking anything, let alone my own wedding cake.

I'm sure most of this is a sort of stress-induced catatonia. But at least some of it is a rare flash of maturity. Hell, I get to spend the rest of my life with someone who will gleefully watch homicidal bird films like ThanksKilling and Birdemic: Shock and Terror. We love bourbon, good food, and each other. He's my best friend.

And the wedding? Well, I've learned that the people who love you just want to wish you well and have something mind-altering to drink. Anyone who expects a shebang, or makes the event about themselves, isn't a true friend. Your wedding is as good a time as any to learn that.

In the comments, tell me if I should have held a ThanksKilling theme wedding, complete with a malicious rubber turkey as the officiant.

*No, I've never been high on Demerol. (Hi, Dad.)

Who's Got Two Thumbs and Ten Extra Pounds?

What with all the Marie Claire brouhaha this week (just Google "Marie Claire hates fat people" or similar if you want to see it), and my recent doctor's appointment, weight has been on my mind lately.

Yesterday, I asked my adorable Yoda-esque doctor to shove me onto that scale.

Please note that, due to a history of disordered eating, I only weigh myself at the doctor's office. (Also, please note that, due to a history of disordered eating, any icky troll comments will not be deleted, instead, my cadre of commenters will issue a verbal beatdown, the likes of which has not been seen since, "You're no Jack Kennedy." I prefer to let trolls show themselves for their true gruesome nature, vs. just quietly deleting them.)

The results were not surprising, but they were pretty damn scary. I am at the very tippy-top of a healthy BMI range, and 16 pounds more than I was at my physical last June. Ideally, I should weigh about 10 pounds less than the current total. I'm usually a little underweight, and I have never been anywhere near overweight.

I could blame any number of factors:

1. Thyroid and/or metabolism issues. Which, yes, I'm being tested for.

2. Those delicious breakfast Sunny Sandwiches at my deli. Canadian bacon, egg, and tomato mayonnaise on a kaiser roll? Yes, please!

3. My Italian-American fiance's preferred meal of pizza with a side of pizza, and sharing a home with all those carbalicious habits. On average, women who live with a male partner weigh more, because they start eating bigger portions of heavier food. (So sorry Brando, it's not you, it's not me, blame science!)

4. Copious indoor time brought about by Snowpocalypse, followed by Snowmageddon, followed by the new frontier of stretch pants in public.

5. The evils of the fast food industry. Never mind that I never actually eat fast food.

6. Stress! Of which I generally have plenty.

7. The chronic sinus infection that has sapped my energy and made me less active on weekends.

Or, instead of casting blame, I can start making some changes. Due to my medical history, diets are right out. And I don't run unless something is chasing me. And I sure as hell am not turning my wedding into an excuse for a weight-related anxiety freefall. (The second you turn your FB status into "Engaged," you get a bunch of ads exhorting you to lose weight for your wedding. One even cut to the chase and just said, "Hey! Fat bride!" Don't believe me? A bing search of "bridal weight loss program" turned up 2,890,000 results.)

Instead, I'm walking home from work (about an hour), swapping those Sunny sandwiches for an apple with peanut butter, and swapping my beers for vodka and soda with lime. The good doctor Yoda recommends I lose 1-2 pounds per month by making small changes.

I'll admit this is partially about health, and mostly about vanity. I miss my cuter clothes with non-elastic waistbands. And I don't think there's anything particularly wrong with saying that. Looking good leads to feeling good. If I didn't care at all about how I looked, wouldn't that be worse?

In the comments, tell me about your favorite small changes for a healthier life. Or just kick a little encouragement my way.

In Which I Have Feelings. Which May or Not Have Something to Do With Tea Leoni's Legs.

I've been feeling a little overwhelmed lately.

This is due to several forms of maturity converging all at once. My job, which is one like a grownup would have, has been very busy lately. My impending marriage/wedding planning/upcoming installation of an in-house fiance have all conspired to keep my stress levels high. The worst part is that all this maturity means that I am no longer 22, which means I don't have the energy to keep up with it all.

So, woe is me. Life is hard. I have a great job and a fiance who loves me enough to endure repeated listenings of "The Promise" by When in Rome forever and ever, amen. And, when I get tired of that, I can always rock out to the Xanadu soundtrack. Also, my diamond shoes are too tight, my ruby crown is too heavy, and it's so inconvenient when I have to drive the Maserati instead of the Bentley. I know. My life is fantastic. I could really use a little more perspective and learn to appreciate everything that I have.

But I still can't get past that feeling of being overwhelmed. I feel sort of like that scene in Deep Impact where Tea Leoni is standing on the beach with her dad, waiting for the end via ginormous CGI tidal wave. Except the movie of my life wouldn't have such a porny title (unless 21 Hump Street is still available.) And I will never, ever have Tea Leoni's legs. Seriously, those things look like they were sculpted from the tears of angels and poured down straight from heaven. Thinking about Tea Leoni's legs have gotten me through many a difficult time in my life, and I'm not even into women. I just appreciate them as a work of art.

I'll leave you with a final thought: it's kind of awesome that can get from stress to porn to Tea Leoni's legs in four paragraphs or less. However, it's less awesome that my state of mind these days makes that a typical chain of thought, vs. anything out of the ordinary. It implies a certain amount of scatter-brainedness.

In the comments, tell me how you deal with stress. Or tell me if anyone has better legs than Tea Leoni.

My Five Rules of Gracious Living

I am not an etiquette maven. I almost always reach for the wrong fork, say the wrong thing, or invite friends to soirees with titles like, "Yes, I Just Evited You to Ask You to Help Me Move." (What's more fun than moving my 83 pairs of shoes two stories and 20 feet? Nothing. That's what. Plus I offer a competitive pizza-and-beer compensation program.)

But I do believe in five rules for gracious living:

1. Offer your seat on the Metro to the elderly, the pregnant, or, hey, even someone who looks tired or like they were on their feet all day. The average Starbucks barista makes $8.55 an hour to deal with caffeine-starved self-important morons all day - why not offer her your chair?

2. Bonus round: Offer your seat by merely saying, "Would you like to sit down?" Don't add a justification, like, "You look pregnant to me." Super-special bonus - this gets you out of being thumped when you tell a non-pregnant lady that she looks pregnant.

3. Never leave someone sitting alone in a corner at a party. Middle school is over, and so is ostracizing someone because they might be uncool. Go over and introduce yourself! Unless they're rifling through the sofa for spare change. Because that's just weird. But, overall, five minutes of potentially boring chitchat with a stranger won't kill you. And you might even make a new friend.

4. When you ask a coworker to do something, don't call out 'thank you' over your shoulder as you walk away. Thank them face-to-face. Don't treat gratitude as an afterthought.

5. When you have guests coming over, and they ask what they should bring, ask if they had something particular in mind. They might have a specialty they'd love to prepare for you. Doling out assignments converts your friends into unpaid caterers. Let them do what they enjoy, even if it means a dozen artichoke dips and four tater tot-and-bean casseroles.

In the comments, tell me what etiquette rules you've invented lately. Or tell me I've tumbled off the Cliffs of Nice into the Abyss of Insufferable.

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.

Would You Still Read My Blog if I Had a Nipple on My Kneecap?

Maybe I wasn’t hugged enough as a zygote, or perhaps all those years of hardcore Pixy Stik abuse have finally caught up with me. At any rate, I’ve started to test the limits of my friends’ affection for me. And I don’t mean by stretching their patience, running to the edge of their compassion, or by mocking them until they cry. That’s just a typical Tuesday for me.

Instead, I construct bizarre hypothetical scenarios and hope for the best:

Would you still find me attractive if I had a third boob? What if it was on my kneecap?

Would you still love me if I moved to New York to try my luck as a ninja pirate karaoke artist and perform vaudeville routines in Times Square?

Would you still be my friend if I invented my own language consisting entirely of taps and squeaks?

Would I still be pretty if I shaved the word “MOM” into the back of my head? How about if I wore a Vanilla Ice “Word to Your Mutha” jacket?

Would you still be my friend if I got a job kicking puppies, then using the puppy carcass to club a baby seal? Would it make a difference if I ate both the puppy and the baby seal? A good difference or a bad difference?

As humor is both my favorite coping mechanism and my first line of defense, I can only assume there’s a deeper reason for all my third boob and ninja queries.

Maybe the pain and brute force of the changes I’ve been through in the last six months have left me feeling wobbly and unsure. My life spun from awesome to painful to damn near perfect, and back again, and landed somewhere near terrific. I’m thrilled and giggly, and, more importantly, I’m content. Life is pretty much where it’s supposed to be.

But, perversely, nothing shakes my confidence quite like the feeling that everything is going a little TOO well.

We’re all just a few wrong turns from disaster. I could lose any number of the people I love, in any number of ways. Or I could lose my job, or get sick. Or the insides of me could change, and I could become someone I wouldn’t want to be. To some degree, I have control over these things, but much of the time I do not. So I try to appreciate everything I have, and to be someone worthy of everything I've been given.

But I have the occasional ugly moment where I’m waiting for disaster. And because I hate uncertainty, I hide behind my imaginary language of taps and squeaks, and wait for the other shoe to drop. I’m afraid to admit how much everything and everyone means to me, and I’m hiding behind jokes about baby seals.

In the comments, tell me I’m crazy. Or, tell me to be careful what I wish for, because I just might get it. Or admit that sometimes you feel like life is going a little TOO well.

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.

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.

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.

The 2009 Great Date-Cation

There is nothing I love more than a random self-improvement project.

Among my all-time favorites: listening to every CD I own, in alphabetical order. Reading the entire dictionary. Re-memorizing the first eighteen lines of The Canterbury Tales, in the original Middle English. Making sure I take my makeup off before I go to sleep, for 30 days in a row. Emailing one friend per day just to say hello. Paying a minimum of three compliments per day.

I live at the crossroads of Zen methodology and rampant (but highly precise) self-absorption.

So, what with things getting a little dull and all, it felt like time to seek a new project. I hereby declare the launch of the 2009 Great Date-Cation. Because, let’s face it, that’s one area of my life where I’ve made no improvements whatsoever. When your most recent breakup involved changing the locks, it’s time to take a step back and draw some conclusions.

Conclusion One: I am a lousy judge of character. This is my own fault, as I am both impulsive (bad) and have a charitable and optimistic spirit (good).

Conclusion Two: Conclusion One is terribly, terribly important, and I could have figured that one out years ago if I'd just tried a little harder.

So, here we are, hangin’ at the Man Hiatus. Until May 1, when I may consider a 30-day extension.* Depending on whether I’ve grown up a little, or a lot, or I’ve moved on to eating at least one vegetable at every meal.

*I know that doesn’t sound like a terribly long break, but as I don’t really excel at long-term planning or abstract thought, it’ll do.

In the comments, tell me about your most recent dry spell, and whether or not it was self-imposed.

An Abundance of Caution

I’m a big believer in taking chances. I live my life like it’s a lottery ticket at a carnival in a perfect town. I take candy from strangers, because a stranger is just a friend I haven’t met. I assume that everyone has the very best of intentions.

Today, I’m learning that not every gamble can pay off. Sometimes, someone you trusted decides that you have become The Enemy. So, sometimes, you spend your Saturday barricaded into your home, your Sunday at a hardware store buying a new lock, and your Monday blocking him out of every corner of your Internet.

I’m probably overreacting. I am sure it’s all just a case of brittle pride, of someone trying to scrape his dignity off the floor. The past 48 hours have been blissfully calm. But I have chosen to act with an abundance of caution. I've decided that it's time to be sensible, to de-escalate, to cease all contact, to not seek closure or victory. Scorched earth. Heartless bitch. A plan for every eventuality.

In short, I am not taking any chances.

I’ll be back soon.

Yes, But at Least My Bangs Are of Average Size

Me (responding to Facebook request): Hey! You look well. What have you been up to since high school?
New Facebook Friend: Wow! You look exactly the same! You haven't changed a bit.

Note: In high school, I had a bad perm, an ass like the inside of a spoon, and dressed, er, creatively. As in, I WORE RAINBOW LACE DOC MARTENS AND CARRIED AN ANIMAL CRACKERS BOX AS A PURSE.

Conclusion: If a glance in the mirror so easily becomes a field trip into 1993, it's time for a makeover. It's time to get vacuously, unforgiveably, hilariously vain. Who wants to help me out?

Spend My Money

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Aisle of Your Early Thirties

Last night, a friend and I took a spin through Target’s Aisle of Your Early Thirties.

I think it’s technically called the “Bridal and Baby Shower Gift Wrap” aisle, but let’s not split any hairs. Every option made me want to shoot my eye out, punch somebody, or weep. Perfect little wrapping-paper baby butts. Fairy tale weddings. Faux-engraved invitations. Pastel storks. And that was the tasteful stuff. The Aisle of Your Early Thirties presented such a skewed and cutesy view of adulthood that I could only respond in one way: shrugging and going out for a tasty beer.

Life doesn’t go according to plan. It’s trite because it’s true. Schedules are for suckers. And we all have those moments where we realize adulthood is in full swing…and that sometimes it’s going to swing on without us. It’s hard to not feel left behind. But then I remember how important it is to live life at your own speed, and to hell with everyone else.

At 32, I’m about to make a more solid income than, well, ever. It’s terrifying, as being underemployed, befuddled and broke have been such major parts of my identity. I’m saving for retirement, paying down student loans, and no longer eating Taco Bell over the sink. I avoid hard liquor on school nights, toxic friends, and anyone who refuses to take me seriously. This is my show, and I’ll run it however I want.

Of course, I should probably have had this epiphany five or even ten years ago. Five years ago, I was a lady of leisure in Bogota. Ten years ago, I was crashing in my college town. Neither scenario really lends itself to personal growth.

Then again, I think the biggest mark of maturity is no longer waiting around for a soul-scorching insight. I don’t seek out those tiny moments where everything makes sense, because I know now that it’s a process that will likely never end. And I’d be bored out of my mind if it ever did.

And to think, all this is just because I couldn’t find a Metro-accessible Babies ‘R Us.

In the comments, tell me about your most recent, "Dear God, I'm a grownup!" moment.

Class Warfare in the Washroom Line

Longtime readers, friends, and that checkout lady at Macy’s all know one thing: I spend a lot of time scrapping with people who blame me for their own poor manners. New Year’s Eve was no exception.

I don’t like to go to bars on New Year’s Eve. It's a soup of amateurs, drunkards, morons, crowds, and idiots. But I made an exception, and trudged up to Cleveland Park.

All was well until about 1:00, when it felt like time to leave. I decided to hit the washroom one more time before grabbing a cab. I arranged myself in the (rather long) ladies’ room line, chatted with my neighbors, and patiently waited for my turn.

When I was nearly to the front, a woman stepped in front of me and brusquely said, “I’m next.”

What happened next comes down to this: I don’t like bullies. I hate them, actually. While there will always be people who bulldoze and tantrum their way through life, I do have the option of (politely) not putting up with it. And, yes, cutting in line is a petty offense, but I’d already waited for some time and nature’s call had become more of a bellow. Also, you did know that I'm not perfect, right?

Me: Excuse me? I’m sorry, I didn’t see you in line.
Her: I was waiting over there. *gestures in general direction of…elsewhere in the bar*
Me: Well, the rest of us were waiting patiently in a line. Why not just join us and wait your turn?
Her: blah blah blah…(as hard as I tried to listen, her tone made me think I was in Mean Girls. Perhaps I had worn pink on the wrong day?)
Me: Please, just wait your turn.
Her: You know, I can tell you’re from here. Because only in DC would anyone actually care about this. You’re a privileged D.C. b*tch.
Me: *open-mouthed, dripping with pity and consternation, Miss-Manners-approved stare*

At this moment, the ladies’ room door opened, and a woman gestured to me and said, “Your turn!” (Victory One) Then the crazy lady’s friend dragged her off, scolding her under his breath (Victory Two).

As I returned to my table, I thought through a myriad of responses, the benefits and drawbacks of each, and ranked them from worst to best.

1. “Actually, I’m a single mother of a special needs child, and I teach the third grade in Anacostia. I grew up in a dirt shack in Kentucky with six sisters, and we had to take turns wearing the shoes.”
Benefit: HA!
Drawback: Not even remotely true.

2. *POW*! (punch to face)
Benefit: Well-deserved.
Drawback: No need to kick off the New Year at the police station.

3. “Yes, I’m privileged to be the sort of person who actually waits her turn and treats others with respect, instead of bullying and insulting her way through life. Also, may I point out you’re carrying a rather expensive-looking handbag?”
Benefit: True. Also, funny, if a bit prissy.
Drawback: A potential *POW* from her to me. Yet again, kicking off the New Year at the police station.

4. “Here’s a copy of my award-winning inspirational autobiography, Dead Dogs and Outlet Malls. The inscription says, ‘Take THAT, beeyotch.’”
Benefit: Perhaps she’d learn something? Also, HA!
Drawback: First I’d have to write an award-winning inspirational autobiography. Also, I don’t need to rattle off my life story to a total stranger when I haven’t done anything wrong, anyhow.

5. “Thank you for pointing out my bourgeoisie shortcomings, Comrade. Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?”
Benefit: It would have been really fun to say that.
Drawback: It would totally fly over her head. Which, come to think of it, may be a benefit. Perhaps I could have swapped it for some French Revolution propaganda?

In the end, the pitying glare was probably the best solution. I know myself, and I do know I’m privileged in many ways. I grew up in a safe neighborhood, among books, in a family that valued education. Food was nutritious, home-cooked, and plentiful. I went to excellent public schools (and one extremely gnarly private one). But I don’t think of myself as that stereotypical (and mostly mythical) “privileged DC b*tch.” I imagine that sort of person has the self-awareness of a tiny asteroid, does not home-dye her hair, and definitively did not grow up in Woodbridge.

So, once I’d dusted off the initial shock and hurt from my bully run-in, it was all really very funny. But next time I go out on New Year’s Eve, I’m taking a marshmallow gun. Look out, line-jumpers! You're about to become human s'mores.

Friday Thoughts: Career Trajectory Edition

I wonder if my (highly variable, largely downward) career trajectory might not be completely due to outside forces. Maybe I have a little, tiny bit to do with it. Take, as one example, the following phone conversation with my staffing agency handler.

Me: Good afternoon, Shannon speaking.

Handler: Hi, just wanted to let you know your job site will be closed from Christmas to New Year's.

Me: Thanks for the heads up, my supervisor had mentioned something about that.

Handler: So we'll try to find intermittent work for you that week.

Me: Great! Just please don't schedule me for New Year's Day. I'll be hungover. (sound of colleagues cackling in the background)

Handler: ...

Me: Have a great weekend! I'm off to happy hour.

Then, a one-woman version of the sort of fights couples get in on their cab ride home from parties:

Shannon's Brain: Hey, Shannon's Mouth, please don't ever take a call while assembling a coatrack with your bare hands, on Friday, fifteen minutes before closing time. Also, could you please consult me once in a while before activating?

Shannon's Mouth (to colleagues): Hey, guys, check it out...it's beer o' clock!

PS - Clearly, I felt so strongly about this I had to hit the submit button twice.

A Silver Lining in My Cloud of Superiority

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad days build character.

I get to keep my health insurance.

Half a job is better than no job at all.

My friends rock.

I think it’s going to be OK.

Photo credit: Jeremy Brazell

I Need to Embrace My Inner Grody-Girl

Aside from my disco nap of a marriage, I’ve spent the last decade living alone. I love it. If I ever get remarried, my husband will have to rent the apartment next to mine, and we’ll carve a doggy door into the drywall.

My décor is exactly how I like it, I don’t have to use any of the top shelves if I don’t want to, and nobody has to know how many sailors slept over last night. I can categorize my skirts by length, have bourbon for dinner, or only change the sheets upon the changing of the seasons.

But I don’t really take full advantage. I don’t know whether it's because I’m a recovering housewife, my inner Miss Priss is a domineering witch, or I've lost my ability to really grab life by the man-parts. But today’s post by Lemmonex made me think of all the living alone clichés I have yet to embrace:

I don’t walk around in my underpants. Nor do I dance around naked to Justin Timberlake. (I do dance around to "Mmmmmbop" while fully clothed.)

I don’t let the dishes pile up until they ooze their way across the entire apartment.

I don’t eat tacos over the sink.

I don’t drink milk out of the carton.

Worst of all, I CLOSE THE BATHROOM DOOR. Sometimes, I even lock it.

That last one makes me squirm with embarrassment. I am, amazingly enough, grossed out by the fact that I am not gross enough.

Does anyone have suggestions on how I can make my loner lifestyle a little more disgusting? Have you ever developed any living alone mannerisms, and exactly how icky are they? Scale of 1-10?

Warning: Post May Contain Actual Human Emotions

If there is one thing on this Earth I have a sense of humor about, it’s my height. Or, rather, the lack thereof.

During my first attempt at Algebra II, I sat next to my very lanky friend Jim. He often wore green, so we called him the Jolly Green Giant. One day I wore green, and became Sprout. That nickname stuck for umpteen many years. Also, whenever I wear that color around my sister, she'll start shaking me and demanding my pot of gold.

On the whole, I’ve learned a valuable lesson: don’t wear green.

I’ve learned another valuable lesson: know your boundaries. And communicate them, with calmness and clarity.

I’m amused and pleased when Lemmonex offers to carry me home in her purse, or when my former coworkers would stuff me into small spaces around the office to see if I’d fit. Because I know when I’m being picked on, and when it’s just adorably warped affection. I don’t expect my friends to carry around a comprehensive list of what does and does not offend me. Of course, the list of what does offend me would be ridiculously short (racism, sexism, saying something mean about someone I care about).

But one thing that drives me nuts is this: implying my figure is somehow inferior or a symbol of what’s wrong with America. I’m short, I have a small frame, these are my factory settings and they cannot be altered. I wish people would stop referring to plus-size or curvy women as “real women.” It implies women like me are somehow imaginary. All bodies are different, and it’s possible to feel good about yourself without tearing others down.

And, women, stop asking me to apologize for how I’m built. I cannot tell you how many conversations I’ve had with groups of women where they comment on my smallness as if there’s no “me” attached to any of it, then demand my dress size, measurements, and bra size. And after that, they want an apology for the grossly unfair beauty standards of twisted America. I wind up feeling picked on, belittled, and objectified.

This isn’t a cry for pity. I’m aware of how ridiculous it sounds to be all “woe is me” about life as a size 2. I wouldn't complain that my pile of pirate treasure takes up too much space, or that I can't decide which Porsche to drive. I like my body, and I wouldn't trade it for anyone else's. And, honestly, I don’t care all that much about how I look. What I do care about is being judged for it, being taken less seriously because of my appearance, or being treated like that’s the sum total of who I am.

I promise I’ll be funny tomorrow. Today I decided to have a feeling or two (in case you were wondering, blog-as-therapy is usually a sign that I have writer's block).

Just Say...Maybe?

One of my favorite hobbies is the arbitrary disqualification of my fellow man.

A date with the vegan teetotaler? Yeah, I can probably skip that one. What would we even talk about? How much fun he isn’t having in his life? How much I dig his hemp shoes, tofu pies and moral superiority?

Or, speaking of superiority, I think I can skip the guy whose online profile specifies, “Absolutely NOBODY - overweight, has kids, divorced/separated. “ Well, clearly, buddy, you’re looking for the cutest little tabula rasa in Washington.

Meet at Starbucks? Sure...I take my coffee with cream, sugar, and a little less of your sanctimony.

Then there’s all the people who specify, “Absolutely no drama." Because life totally works like that. If you can’t deal with relationship problems, don’t be in a relationship. Get a dog or a new grill or something.

The point, and there is one: why do so many people focus so hard on what they don’t want, what they don't like, and what they simply can't approve of? I get sick from both aspartame and mushrooms. But when picking a restaurant, I don’t keep a list of places that ban Sweet n’ Low and Portobello. I go where I want and make do with what’s offered.

It’s not just dating. There’s a whole life out there that so many people haven’t bothered to experience.

And I'm the worst of all: I never go to Virginia. I figure I grew up in Virginia, and that's plenty for one lifetime. I don't fly, because crowds freak me out. I don't camp, because I like to sleep in my own bed. Even when one of my friends busts the slats and I spend the next week sleeping at a forty-five degree angle. It's my bed, and I like it. I don't take the bus, instead, I walk miles out of my way. I live too much in my comfort zone.

So, I'm taking suggestions. What should I try out, start saying "yes" to, and open myself up for? I'm game for anything...except that date with a vegan teetotaler.