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?

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...

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!

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.

The Seven People You'll Meet at the Cocktail Party of the Damned

Lemmonex wrote a great post yesterday about manners. Basically, her point is this: HAVE SOME. I’d like to add on to her peeves by teaching y’all something you should already know. That is, how to be a good party guest.

I’m something of an expert at this. Not only am I an irredeemable partier, I’m a recovering diplomat’s wife, and throw at least a dozen gatherings per year in my 481-square foot studio. Cramming up to 30 people in my place and having it still be fun takes a LOT of creativity and know-how.

Because I’m sure all of you want to be my friend, chill on my sofa, and avail yourselves of the Shangria, let me share with you my Seven People I’ll Meet at the Cocktail Party of the Damned*. These are the guests that send even the most charming, laid-back hostess into shrieking fits. A party of all of these folks combined would get me to hang up my hostess hat forever:

1. The Unannounced Entourage. Some folks can’t go anywhere without their half-dozen closest friends. Cool. The more the merrier. But if you’re going to double my party population on zero notice, bring some extra beers. Also, don’t spend the whole evening sequestered on the balcony with the little clique you walked in with - that's just snobby.

2. The Guest List Cop. These people drive you nuts before the party’s even started. They go over your guest list with a baleful eye and complain that they don’t exactly approve of your choices. Don’t like everyone who will be there? Think you’re incapable of a cordial hello and a hasty retreat to another corner of the room? Spend your Saturday night somewhere else. This should be quite basic, here: you don’t have the right to tell me who I can and can’t invite to my own home. I mean, really.

3. The TwitterBits. These folks twaddle their thumbs across their keyboards the whole time they’re over. It’s one thing to check in with your ride, place a bet with your bookie, or ask your secretary to line up your booty call. But why spend the whole evening glued to a machine? Why not just stay home and make sweet, sweet love to your laptop?

4. The High-Maintenance Helpmate. I love when people offer to bring an appetizer or a dessert. Especially desserts, as I hate to bake. But please don’t bring something that requires tons of fridge space (I have, like, none to spare), destroy the kitchen (it’s already gonna be revolting), or involve lots of prep (in my tiny kitchen). Just bring a plate of cookies instead.

5. The Eeyore Extravaganza. We all have bad days. However, if you have 1,000 bad days in a row, and spend the entire party bitching mightily to anyone who will listen, don’t expect a return invite. My home is my refuge, and, hell, it’s a refuge for anyone who wants to come over, relax and have a good time. Don’t take that away from us.

6. The High-Maintenance Momma. Bring your baby. I will happily hold it for you, and swear I won’t use its first tooth to crack open my bottle of Bud Light. Just don’t bring the super-extra-double-large SUV stroller, the fourteen bags of equipment, and the 27 buckets of food. A carseat, diaper bag and a few toys and snacks will suffice for a short visit.

7. The Robin Leech. This person sees parties as a venue for personal gain. They corner guests regarding the latest marketing strategy, or, even better, they’re disappointed when things aren’t as posh as they’d prefer. I serve Yeungling in a can because that’s what I can afford in mass quantities – the average party costs me around $200, and that's if I stick to the generic Cheetos. If you’re fussy about brands, BYOB.

Since I hate to end on a negative note, here are my Seven Guests Who Can Always Come Back:

1. The Iceman. Most often, Foggy, who knows I can’t fit more than two bags of ice in my freezer. So he brings extras for the booze bucket.

2. The Chauffeur. My friend Rowena often gives me a lift to the store the day of the party. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen two pocket-sized women haul 10 bags of food and three cases of beer down a hallway in a series of high-energy sprints.

3. The Early Bird. Nothing makes me happier than when a friend offers to show up a half-hour early and help me set up. Or, hell, just keeps me company while I knock out a few last-minute kitchen tasks.

4. The Slumber Party Guests. If you can’t get home, stay over! Many of my parties devolve into four or five people sprawled across sofas and air mattresses, asking one another about the meaning of life. Or, just as often, the sexual proclivities of Scooby-Doo. I'd rather you crash than drive home drunk, take over an hour to find a cab, or stumble onto the third rail on the Metro. Don't worry - I'll still respect you in the morning.

5. The Magi. That is, anyone who brings me a gift. One of the sweetest hostess gifts I ever got was from HP. It was a hangover kit with a little bottle of champagne, some orange juice, Alka-Seltzer, and Gatorade.

6. The Mingler. This person makes so many circuits of the room that my head starts to spin, and eventually becomes even more popular than me. Bonus points if the Mingler seeks out folks who seem a little out-of-place, and makes an effort to include them. That saves me a lot of effort.

7. Anyone who sends a thank-you email. I love being a hostess, but yes, it’s a lot of hard work, time, and money. Anyone who appreciates the effort is going to get a return invitation.

In short, anybody who makes my life easier, not harder, is going to be welcome. Or really anybody who doesn't suck and knows how to have a good time.

In the comments, tell me what kind of party guest you are.

*If you’re my friend, and you see yourself on this list, don’t worry – you have to rack up a LOT of demerits before I drop you off the party roster.

More Musings on Dealbreakers

One of the more interesting things about Tuesday's dealbreaker talk is how they're all so... universal. Nobody really cares for rudeness or cheating, for instance. The only really quirky dealbreaker seemed to be "obsession with a philosopher" (sorry, Brett!). We aren't special snowflakes. (Hey, maybe we ought to all be in some sort of polyamorous bloggy love nest together!)

So I've spent a little time thinking about which of my dealbreakers are more me-specific:

1. Cynicism. Negativity is a dealbreaker, of course, because who wants to be around someone who needs constant propping-up? Cynicism goes a little deeper: I cannot bear to love someone who believes the world is an evil place, everyone is out to get theirs, and we're all hurtling toward oblivion. I know I'm on the rainbows and unicorns, true love and carousels side of the spectrum, but I've always considered that one of my better qualities. Don't try to take that away from me.

2. Gaslighting. If I have a grievance or a concern, I expect to be heard out. If I'm told that I'm overthinking, overanalyzing, or possibly crazy, I'll run for the exits. Because, let's face it: I probably am over-everything at all of it, and it's entirely possible that I'm crazy, but that's just who I am. Take it or leave it.

3. Lack of social skills and friends. Having dated a few lone wolf types, I have to admit it's exhausting to be the center of someone's social world. And I go nuts when I have to babysit someone at a social gathering. We're all adults, pick a victim and say hello!

4. Dislike of children. It's ok to be on the fence about actually wanting them, because it's the mother of all big decisions. And, yes, they're loud and annoying and sometimes it's pretty grody when one of my friends' babies unleashes a stream of shiny drool all over the table. But I'd like to be able to see my parent friends without hearing a bunch of bitching on the way home.

5. Road rage. Oh, macho idiot driving, how I loathe thee! If you're flipping the bird at every U-turn, it's all brittle masculinity and meathead foolishness to me. A real man cares too much about the safety of his passengers (especially me!) to get in some sort of Mad Max road battle on 395.

6. Punchiness. This falls under my general hate of meathead idiocy. If you've thrown a punch in the last decade, for anything other than the strictest of self-defense, get out of my way. I abhor violence and don't believe in solving problems with your fists.

7. Lack of demonstrated fear toward my girlfriends. Hurt me at your peril. My girls will beat you, cut you, and leave you for dead in an alley without a second thought. As a more positive statement, winning over my friends is the fastest way to win me.

8. Picky eating. I didn't always have the healthiest relationship with food, and hearing a bunch of fussing brings back ugly memories.

9. Lack of conflict skills. If you go nuclear to win an argument, or, more to the point, you care more about winning the argument than resolving the problem, I'm going to kick off my sexy heels and run like hell. Also, yelling freaks me out completely.

10. White Knight complexes. I don't need anyone to swoop in and make it all better. Talking me down off my occasional insanity ledges, and offering advice when I ask for it? That's all I ask for.

In the comments, tell me I'm way too picky. Or tell me more about your dealbreakers, and whether you feel they're especially unique.

Hair Crowdsourcing: The Results

I’ve been known to do some very awesome things to my hair color. There was that time in ninth grade I let my friend Molly give me a Manic Panic purple stripe. Or, there was that time in college I decided jet black would totally work on me…only to nearly jump out of my skin every time my hair would fall into my face (I thought it was a coordinated spider assault).

After a late rally for red, I decided to split the difference and go auburn. I also decided the easiest path was to hit the toiletries section of the Chinablock Bed Bath & Beyond. On Friday. After happy hour. And to take Zipcode with me and allow her to pick out the shade.

Well, really, it was a collaborative effort. We hovered around some Feria boxes, and a clerk suggested that we try her shade. As I’ve always said, anyone in a smock possesses the wisdom of Solomon. So we grabbed the box and drank our way down to Arlington.

Saturday, I decided to dye first and drink later. Wise, no?

I began to dig out my equipment: the box of dye. Olive oil (it gets hair color off skin). A 1995 counterfeit hfsTival t-shirt, complete with typos. And then I decided to look at the instructions.

I liked all the ones in all caps and boldface. CAREFULLY OPEN FERIA COLOR BOOSTER TUBE. USE CAUTION WHEN OPENING THE BOOSTER TUBE. DO NOT TAUNT HAPPY FUN BOOSTER TUBE. (Note: the contents of the booster tube were an arresting shade of menstrual red.)

After about an hour of smearing gooey dye into my hair, and then letting the color develop, it was time to rinse. Normally, you rinse out, then condition, and you’re done.

Not with this stuff. It’s always nice when your hair coloring has a half-life of a thousand years. I had to use the Rinsing Shampoo, which also included lots of capital letters and boldface. IT IS IMPORTANT TO SHAMPOO TWICE AFTER RINSING OFF MIXTURE TO AVOID STAINING ON TOWELS OR CLOTHING. Hrm. It took three passes with the shampoo, and about twenty minutes in the shower, to get all the dye out.

As for the results, well, they’re interesting. I don't post photos of myself, so you'll have to use your imaginations. It turned out exactly like the color on the box…the box of animal crackers, that is. I’ve dubbed this shade Thermonuclear Auburn, and it tends to glow preternaturally in the sunlight. It’s sort of fun, really.

Though, maybe next time I'll consult a professional. Or, at least, take a Breathalyzer with me to the drugstore.

I Worry About the Kids. Because I Care! And Because I Hate iPods.

I worry about America’s children. Not because I think they’re headed for moral decay, morbid obesity, or toward developing allergies to every known food group. I worry because I don’t think they know how to be bored. Follow along, please:

Last night, I went out for tasty food in glamorous Loudoun, at a restaurant I now consider the Eavesdropping Center of the Universe. First, there was the woman who ranted about her money problems for twenty minutes (I do not know if she was on the phone, or dining with an especially patient, or perhaps bound and gagged, partner). Oh, honey, if you’re responsible for paying your own bills (like, uh, most people), including the rent, cellphone, and Comcast, and it’s breaking you, then ditch the cable. Do you really, really need Flavor of Love? I know cable really helps pass the time when you’re unemployed, but really.

Anyhow.

She left, and I was left with a few options. I could focus on my food, or my companion, or the music. Instead, the family next to us came in with the save.

Figuring out how they were all related kept me busy for fifteen minutes. My best guess was that it was Grandpa, Mom, Single/Possibly Gay Uncle, and Kid One (late teens) and Kid Two (eightish/nineish). It was also possible, due to group dynamics, that Kid One was actually much older, just a sloppy dresser, and the mother or aunt of Kid Two. Anyhow, they were all out for a nice dinner together, to celebrate the visit of Single/Possibly Gay Uncle. And maybe Grandpa. I don’t know if he was local or not.

Anyone who has ever been a kid knows one thing: family dinners are tedious, creepingly slow death. You have to sit still. You must use utensils. You will not be allowed to punctuate every sentence with armpit farts. Worst of all, you must listen to grownups talk about the sort of things even grownups find skull-crushingly dull.

But the Kids had a solution: technology! Kid One was listening to music on her iPod (yes, at the dinner table). Kid Two was watching a movie on his iPod (yes, again, at the dinner table). Kid One eventually unplugged, however, Kid Two kept his earbuds in while ordering, eating, conversing with the waitress, and mostly…while he sat there, sulked and watched a movie.

Mom, Grandpa, even Kid One tried to get him to actually participate in the dinner. Or, at least, to stop watching his movie and take his sulking acoustic. No dice.

This brings me back to why I'm so worried: if we do not teach the children of America how to sit around a table, in polite silence, but so bored they want to scream or bang their heads into a wall, how are they ever going to get by in the business world? They’ll combust at their very first department meeting, the economy will collapse, and we’ll all be reduced to selling fruit at the intersections of the world.

So, parents, please, teach your children well. Make them unplug, then bore the crap out of them. America is counting on you!

PS – No, I don’t have kids. But I will point out that, long ago, I was a kid, and no, we did NOT wear headphones at the dinner table. Ever. I mean, really.

Etiquette Guide for the Modern Holiday Mooch

Thanksgiving ranks high on the Shannon apathy-meter. It's not that I'm hostile to the concept, or that I have anything against turkeys or gratitude. It's that if I cared any less, I'd slip into a coma. And die. And then what would y'all do? Oh, right, you'd assume I was on hiatus again. And then you might have a tasty sandwich.

Put your sandwiches down, and let's get back to me. When you're a hearty puree of Eastern Cherokee, Welsh Aussie, and Hessian mercenary, the Pilgrims aren't too big a deal. My family celebrates the holiday by ignoring one another from our opposite coasts and multiple nations...except for the occasional inappropriate text message exchange.

Me: Happy Thanksgiving. Now go celebrate the annihilation of our ancestors!

Skye: Nothing says yay genocide like turkey!

From there, I usually either get drunk and play Grand Theft Auto, or I get adopted for the day. I can't remember the last time I spent Thanksgiving with a blood relative.

Over the years, I've become something of an expert at spending holidays with other people's families. Here's the summation of all my wisdom. I like to call it the Etiquette Guide for the Modern Holiday Mooch:

DO: Bring booze. I usually bring a bottle of wine, and maybe a specialty beer like Chimay. If your hosts are vehement nondrinkers, bring a generously-sized, yet discreet, flask. You know, just in case things get gnarly and you're reduced to hiding under a table and taking a few nips while you play with the dog's favorite bouncy-ball.

DON'T: Wear boots if there's any chance your hosts will ask you to remove your shoes at the door. It is impossible to look dignified while simultaneously shaking hands, avoiding the hyperactive dog, and shimmying your way out of a pair of three-inch knee-high boots. However, if you face-plant, most people are nice enough to find it endearing.

DO: Bring a gift for the hostess. A batch of fudge in a festive drugstore tin is easy and cheap (10-oz bag Ghirardelli semisweet chocolate chips, can of sweetened condensed milk, melted together in a saucepan over low heat, stir in a tablespoon of vanilla, pour it all into a 9 by 9 pan, chill overnight, chop it up, and you're done).

DON'T: Get visibly drunk. You want to spend the day with a faint glow, not a full-on radioactive liver. Pacing, my dear, pacing!

DO: Offer to help. Bonus points: Time your offers so cleverly that you, oops, never quite get that chance to help.

DON'T: Mediate family disputes, even when asked. ESPECIALLY not when asked. As the referee in more than one onion riot, I can vouch that there are no winners. There are only people with onion bits in their nostrils.

DO: Try a taste of everything, even if it's not necessarily what you'd normally eat. No one likes a picky eater. However, if you have allergies, discreetly ask the cook if any of your Dreaded Ingredients are there - if they are, good-naturedly eat something else.

DON'T: Play fetch with a toddler. Apparently, this insults their innate personhood. (Children aren't people, but I digress.)

DO: Find and befriend the Drunk Uncle. This person may actually be a Mormon teetotaler fourth cousin, but he'll still be the guy who finds everything amusing and wants a heckling buddy for the day.

DON'T: Engage in political or religious debates, even when pressed. Aside from being tacky to discuss either at the dinner table, it's bad for the digestion.

DO: Take off a whole bunch of time off from blogging and expect your readers to squeal like Japanese schoolgirls upon your return. I'm back, bitches.

The Express is Scheduling My Intervention

The editors of the Post Express BlogLog are famous for their lack of reading comprehension skills. I don't read the Express, and 90 percent of the time I don't even know when I've been quoted. But every time I do see the quote, I find some sort of lazy factual inaccuracy in the snarky postscript.

For the last time: I don't live in Petworth. I don't live anywhere near a 7-11, and I did not want to buy convenience store sushi on a Saturday (it was a Friday). I have mixed feelings and squishy opinions on gentrification, as well as many other subjects the Express has implied I see in cliched black-and-white.

But yesterday was the last straw in the Scarecrow of Remedial Reading Skills. They accused me of being an alcoholic. The wording I used was, "Between the beer, the beer, and the beer on Saturday." This implies several beers, as in more than two, but fewer than seven. My fourth-grade teacher (a suspected lush herself), would probably say I had three beers on Saturday.

Their wording, "Over many beers..." implies a much more substantial amount of booze. Perhaps a more substantial amount than would be strictly sensible for a woman who barely weighs triple digits.

Maybe they meant my friends and I shared these "many" beers. But I prefer to believe the Express editors pictured me hunched over a table, a row of empty bottles wobbling before me like a Rockettes line of the damned as I drunkenly ranted about child rental services.

Express, put this in your crack pipe and smoke it: When I was a child, my Barbie doll was engaged in pro-woman imaginary pursuits, such as founding her own business (a unicorn pony farm!), running for President, and establishing a women's art collective. She also had torrid, frequent, and wildly anatomically inaccurate sexual relations with Ken.

Add it up: I'm a feminist, and a bit of a pervert. Clearly, this means that in Monday's Express I will have announced that feminism is a perversion.

PS - Seriously, men, every woman you know did all sorts of icky things to Barbie. We may not admit it before the third (OF MANY!) rounds, but we so totally did.

PPS - I'll admit that I am a bit of a lush, but seriously...read for comprehension, Express people!

PPPS - And go check out that Gilahi post that I linked to...it's terrific.

Let's Get Dirty!

It is very difficult to skeeve me out. I suppose once you’ve finished lunch in a smart restaurant, headed to the ladies’ room, and been greeted by a hole in the floor and a couple of footrests, American attitudes about cleanliness seem a little absurd.

So I was amused to see that a grocery store in upscale/uptight Chevy Chase recently installed a shopping cart disinfection machine. It’s hazardous for small children to lick the handles, and it’s even more hazardous for hysterical germ-o-phobes to witness a child licking a handle. So they’re dousing each and every cart in a peroxide solution after every use. Good old soap and water? Not good enough for the denizens of Chevy Chase! I’m sure peroxide is a perfectly healthy dietary supplement for a small child.

I think we all need to get a bit grotty sometimes. It boosts the immune system and builds character. On my way to Screen on the Green last night, I saw a small child waving a stick around in a muddy puddle while repeatedly jamming his fingers in his mouth. His mother calmly watched from a bench, and for that I love her. My usual walk across the Mall involves watching parents chasing their kids around, exclaiming, “Don’t touch that! It’s dirty!” Yeah, lady, that’s because it’s dirt.

I loved the mom featured in the shopping cart article – her five kids are so busy lolling about in the mud she doesn’t have time to worry about shopping cart handles. I’m sure her prissier neighbors gave her hell for it, but I salute her common sense. I grew up on a well-rounded diet of dirt, mud, bugs, and horsehair, and turned out just fine.

I’m no scientist, but I think obsessive disinfecting just makes the germs bounce back stronger. I was kidney-punched by e.Coli and spent several months on antibiotics two years ago, so I can vouch that we don’t need to make germs any tougher than they already are.

I live clean. I mop, dust, change out the sponges, shower, use deoderant, wash my hands with soap and hot water, and refuse to eat mayo that’s been sitting out in the sun. It probably helps that I don’t even like mayo. But I don’t chase people around with Lysol, open doors with a paper towel, disinfect the desks of others (I worked with someone who did that!), or freak over the littlest bit of germiness. The Middle Ages are long over, and we are not doomed to die in vats of pestilence at the ripe old age of 35.

You have an immune system and a brain. Use them both, live cleanly and sensibly, and leave the hazmat routine to the experts.

PS - I'm changing the "Greatest Hits" section on the right to a "Your Favorites" section - so if you have a favorite post you'd like to see listed, please let me know! ("Hey, what a great view! I can see Shannon's ego from here!")

It's the Friday Soy and Sperm Hour!

I’ve never quite understood vegetarianism. I love a fluffy bunny as much as the next girl, but I love Thumper even more when he’s cooked up in a pot with a lovely red wine sauce. I’d have a cheeseburger for dessert if it was considered even mildly socially acceptable.

My meat-related moral dilemmas don’t revolve around veal, foie gras, factory farming or sustainable species of fish. Instead, a dinner date with me is like a cross between Sophie’s Choice and Wild Kingdom.

Since it takes just a couple of people to polish off a chicken, and a whole soccer team to eat a cow, is it morally superior to eat beef so fewer animals lose their lives? But, cows are mammals. So does a mammal’s life matter more than a bird’s? And pigs are the only other animal that sunburns - as a fair-skinned woman, am I betraying a kindred spirit every time I eat pork? And what about insects? If I eat a grasshopper taco at Oyamel, I am robbing dozens of merry little bugs of their lives. The thought gives me pause, then I remember how much they taste like extra-crispy bacon and I’m chomping away.

I think the best thing about giving up meat would be the moral certitude. Meat production is bad for the environment, so the vegetarian gullet is like a spit-shined Prius. And who doesn’t love pigs, cows, and chickens? They’re so cuddly! I mean, don’t you just want to give that chicken a kiss on its tiny adorable little beak?

On the other hand, I’ve always been a little baffled by male vegetarians. I like men who like meat, beer and boobs. Most vegetarian dudes admit they originally gave up meat to impress a girl. That's dedication. And they will cheerily serve up meatless Philly cheesesteaks and tofu scrambles. But I have a little bit of trouble taking them seriously.

Thankfully, I have alert reader Kevin to tell me why. This article landed in my inbox yesterday. Soy is bad for the swimmers! Ergo, male vegetarians have lower sperm counts! Their boys are too busy looking for that perfect tofu burger to get to the egg. And the ones that can get to the egg won’t implant, as contact with the egg would violate their vegan principles.

So, a vegetarian is never going to knock me up. It’s not snobbery, it's not outdated standards of manliness, it's not a moral failing. My reluctance to date vegetarians is merely the gentle hand of evolution.

This Just In: The Land of Lincoln Moved 558 Miles East

One of the best things about tourist season is being asked for directions 10,000 billion times each and every day. And the best of the best is being asked directions to tourist landmarks that do not, in fact, exist. Moreover, the best of the best of the best is when the tourist blames me personally for the fact they are seeking a landmark which does not, in fact, exist.

Saturday evening, on my way to dinner, I was asked for directions twice within a two block stroll. First I was asked which way to the Mall, which was easy, “Turn around, go exactly the opposite direction from which you are currently travelling, and you’ll be there in 10.”

The second was a little trickier. A lovely English-impaired couple waved me over to their car, and asked for directions to the Lincoln Museum. The WHAT? Exactly.

Were they looking for the Lincoln Memorial? No, they’d already been there.

Ford’s Theatre? No.

I knew they weren’t really going to the Lincoln Museum…because that’s in Fort Wayne, Indiana. And, having spent a lovely night in the Fort Wayne International Airport (so-called because there’s one flight a week to Canada), I know that’s not a city where anyone would voluntarily go. The highlights of my Fort Wayne excursion included sharing a plate of nachos with a toothless man named Shiloh, and hearing all about the local murder scene from a cabbie.

At this point they became belligerent and cranky, because, really, it’s all my fault that the landmark they requested is (according to Google Maps) 558 miles and 9.5 hours of drive time from their current location. Plus, the trip includes three toll roads and a long slog across Pennsylvania.

Eventually, after feeling my evening, my sanity, and my soul slipping away, I sent them back to the Lincoln Memorial with the instruction, “It’s a big marble dude in a chair, and you’ll hear a bunch of tourists yelling, ‘Jenn-AY!’ and ‘FORR-est!’ to each other.” Then I ran away.

Is it September yet?

The Tyranny of Etiquette

One of the joys of dating me is watching me scrap with random strangers. Sunday was no exception.

Tim and I decided to catch Prince Caspian (my review: I’ll take intense battle scenes with a side of bland, please!). We got to the Columbia theater just as the previews began and settled into our seats.

Once the previews ended, the chatter began. The couple next to me began to discuss the film, in a hilariously non-subtle stage whisper.

“They must really be at Cair Paravel!”
“I bet they find their gifts!”
“It must be the dwarf that got captured earlier!”

I couldn’t tell whether they believed the audience required narration, or whether they suffered from some sort of delusion where they believed they were watching the film in their living room and it was therefore appropriate to talk. At one point, I was looking around for white canes to see if at least one was blind. Or perhaps they thought they were watching a different film from everyone else in the theater, and we needed to know what was happening in their version of Narnia. Or maybe they were just jerks.

After twenty minutes of this nonsense, I’d had enough. So I leaned in and calmly said, “Excuse me, could you please stop the discussion? It’s distracting.”

A bit of back-and-forth, and the husband leans in to me and says, “I’m very sorry, but if you’re expecting complete silence, you may want to move.”

I’m very sorry, genius, but complete silence is exactly what I expected. It’s a movie theater. People pay their hard-earned cash to listen to the film, not to a pair of monotone exurb jackasses who are deluded enough to believe they’re better storytellers than C.S. Lewis. Criminy wickets on toast, people. This isn’t hard.

My response was, “It’s not complete silence I expect, but the ongoing discussion is quite rude.” Then I mentioned ducking out for an usher. The Twitter Twins fell unto an uneasy hush, and I went back to watching the movie. After a few scenes, the woman slipped out of the theater.

When she returned, her husband asked, “So, did you speak to the manager?” The woman stage-whispered back that the manager was unwilling to intervene.

And, here you have it, folks, in a package of self-righteous cheek and modern absurdity: someone actually complained to management to fight for their right to talk during a movie. They were right to be in the wrong, to ruin the experience for those of us who actually know better. This is the dawn of a new era of noxious self-centeredness. I deserved to be kicked out of the theater for wanting to watch the film.

After the movie, Tim and I had a good cackle over that one. We theorized that good manners are a form of tyranny, and the next civil rights crusade is going to be on behalf of rude people. Tim says the next culture war will be on behalf of public urinators, however, I think there will be an insurgency of people who turn without signaling. Or to throw darts in a crowded bar.

Or, perhaps, the Rudeness Crusade is already well underway. Saturday night we saw a man wipe his face with the hem of his shirt…in an upscale steakhouse. Awesome. America rocks.

In the comments section, please tell me what side you'd fight on in the Rudeness Crusade. Or debate whether Tim is going to have to wait outside with the car engine running every time he takes me somewhere.

PS - The photo is of Miss Manners, my personal hero.

The Demographic Wormhole

Human nature is a fabulous thing. If you want proof, take a look at some divorce statistics.


My perspective is pretty skewed when it comes to marriage. My parents are divorced. I divorced at age 29, the average age of female "first divorce" in America. Of the three people I ate dinner with Saturday, two are separated, the third is my boyfriend. (Who I am sure was quite impressed by the stat-citing, timeline expertise and legal wrangling of the Divorceketeers at the table.) Many of my high school and college friends are divorced or separated. I am the center of a bizarre demographic wormhole that sucks marriages and finances orthodontia for lawyer's daughters everywhere.



Pair the wormhole with the fact I'm a former pollster. I while away the hours researching divorce statistics on the Internet. The one that gets cited the most, with the least evidence? Half of all marriages fail. Hrm, not quite.



Forty percent of all first marriages end in divorce. Of those, half end in the first five years - so if you can make it five years, the gods of statistics will most likely let death do you part.

Second marriages have a failure rate of about 60 percent. Third marriages fail 70% of the time, and once you move into Liz Taylor territory, your chances of a successful marriage approach lottery winner/struck by lightning levels.

So, back to human nature: not only do we NOT learn from our mistakes, the harder we try, the more we screw up. And on that cheery note, commenters, toss in your favorite statistic. Or bemoan no-fault divorce, the greatest invention of the 20th century. No-fault is the sliced bread of the New America.

D.C. Dating Sucks? Only if You Do!

The only thing worse than dating in DC is listening to people complain about dating in DC. Getting trapped inside someone else’s dating rant is a recurring nightmare of mine, on a par with showing up to school naked for a pop final exam I didn’t study for that happens to be in Cantonese with Cyrillic characters and a background soundtrack of pop country and coffeeshop spoken word, all performed by Gilbert Gottfried.

Here is a synopsis of the date complaints I’ve heard over the years:

All men in DC are boring boorish egomaniac workaholics with no manners who think they’re players and treat women like dirt. They talk big but don’t follow up, don’t want to commit, and all the good ones are married or gay.

All women in DC are boring unfeminine hags who watch too much Sex and the City and aren’t nearly as funny or smart as they think they are. They talk endlessly about their stupid jobs, they see every date as spouse shopping, they can’t dress themselves, and they’re too materialistic and shallow.

I am aware that dating is a bit of a grind. From time to time, I have been known to go on dates. Sometimes these dates are bad enough for a good story, but more often they’re just OK. And sometimes they really work out. By no means am I a dating expert. But as a lack of expertise has never stopped me from mouthing off, here we go:

Shannon’s Law of Dating: The moment you say, “All (blank) in (blank) are (blank),” it’s over. Pull the plug. Leave town. Get a mail order spouse. Take up macramé. Whatever. Just. Stop. Dating. At least for a while.

Once you say “All (Blank) in (Blank) Are (Blank),” you’ve given up. You’ve externalized your internal problems. You’re aren’t the victim – the dating scene of D.C. is. And all because you’ve started to make some crucial mistakes:

Mistake #1: You’ve started to see your romantic quarry as the enemy, something to be dominated, controlled, and one-upped. This is why I see a lot of Pickup Artist stuff as counterproductive, as it’s all about one-upsmanship and power games. This is also why I cringe every time I see a commercial that depicts men as too stupid to perform basic household tasks, or a Cosmo article about how to trick a man into loving you. Could we all please remember we’re human first, and gender second?

Mistake #2: You see your city as the problem. Sometimes people move to new cities, and start getting more dates. That’s not about the city, because wherever you go, there you are. It’s because a fresh start has given you a more positive outlook, and being new to town has made you more open to meeting new people.

Mistake #3: It’s a cliché, but the definition of dating insanity is doing the exact same thing over and over and expecting different results. If you go out every weekend to the same three bars with the same three people, and you’re bored with everyone you meet, try something else. Duh.

Mistake #4: You’ve made too big a deal of things. Let’s say you meet someone who is practically perfect in every way. You run off and get married and it’s lovely. Well, your happily ever after is still going to include your friends, your family, your job, your favorite movies, your daily fun-size Snickers, your magazine subscriptions, your gym membership, your great-aunt’s cookie recipe, and your car payment. One person can only change your life so much, so spread your focus a little. Relieve some of that pressure before you get bitter.

Mistake #5: You’re changing who you are so you can be more appealing. Generally speaking, I prefer to be myself and let the chips fall where they may. If you think you need to be a flirty girly type or a “cocky and funny” guy, and start acting in a way contrary to your nature, it’s going to come across as weird and creepy. Weird and creepy? Not hot. Plus, the effort of keeping up the charade is going to exhaust you before the third date. (Depending on who you ask, I’m an abrasive unfunny preachy feminist buzzkill or a big-hearted sarcastic goofball with a reliable moral compass. Neither one really bags the boys, but whatever. I’d rather be attractive to one good man than a hundred so-so ones.)

Mistake #6: You aren’t clear about what you want. “I slept with this guy, which to me means we’re exclusive, but I found out he’s seeing other people!” Well, did you explain what your values were before hopping into bed? “I keep telling this woman I don’t want a relationship, but when I see her three times a week she acts like she’s my girlfriend.” Duh, if you’re asking her out that often, you’re saying one thing and doing another. No wonder she’s clueless. So, every step of the way, say what you want, then follow that up with a corresponding action.

Mistake #7: Your standards and your expectations are out of whack. I'm not saying "Settle for the first clod who will take you," or, "You're really great so be picky!" Just understand that the higher/more specific your standards are, the longer it will take to find someone who meets those standards. In fact, you may never meet that "right" person, and that's OK too. So adjust your timeline expectations accordingly. (Caveat: Don't hold potential partners to a standard you yourself cannot meet. Must be athletic? Must be successful? Only if you are, too.)

Daters of D.C., I still love you. This is a little bit of tough love, and I hope it’s taken in the spirit it was intended. And that spirit is: the problem isn’t the town, the problem is not the people you meet, the problem is you.

Fixing yourself won’t guarantee you’ll get what you want. But if you’re comfortable in your own skin, the hiccups of dating won’t matter so much.

Any questions?

PS: I’m aware it’s a bit hypocritical to complain about complaining, but kindly just go with it.

Kindergartener Bjorn?

I know I make fun of people with kids. A lot. And I write a lot of posts about SmartCar-sized strollers, school-age children in strollers with their ankles dragging along the ground, crazy yuppies who name their kids silly things, and people who try to be hipsters after the second trimester. So I was trying to move away from all that and be nice, on the off chance I have kids someday and my readers chase me around Washington with printouts of my blog.

I was laying off the kid stuff. Until yesterday. I was headed home from the grocery store when I saw a family walking up to my apartment complex from the parking lot. Mom, Dad, Grandma, and 5- or 6-year-old daughter. From the daughter's tutu, I guessed they were on their way home from a ballet recital. Everybody looked happy and wholesome.

There was just one thing wrong: the daughter was being transported in a Baby Bjorn. She was hoisted into a contraption designed for infants, and strapped to her dad's belly. She stretched across him from neck to knees. The kicker? She'd been strapped in for a trip of less than a block.

People, if your child is old enough to take ballet, and too big to fit in a stroller, and is larger than your torso, there is just no excuse for digging out the Baby Bjorn. It's just undignified.

In the comments, please please please tell me a logical reason why someone would transport a school-age child in a Baby Bjorn.

Everybody Blogs About the Weather...

...but nobody ever does anything about it.

I am, in the phraseology of Charles Dickens, an "eminently practical" woman. But today, a day in which I practically had to swim through the rain to get to work, your favorite Pocket Blogger:

1. Wore my hair down, thereby causing some sort of psychotic break in which my hair believes it belongs to Gidget-era Sally Field (there are schwoopy flippy ski-jump bits),

2. Wore jeans, patent leather shoes, and a leather jacket, all of which take on unholy amounts of water, and;

3. Left the fabulous houndstooth Wellies at home.

But, enough about me. Let's talk about people who annoy me. People with no sense of umbrella-quette. Please note that the standard umbrella is effectively an oversize, nylon ninja throwing star with pointy bits on all sides. That means you need to allow extra sidewalk space so you do not impale others in the eyeball.

Also, Lady at Au Bon Pain This Morning, this is not your personal rainstorm. It's not some little cartoon cloud, following you around like Pigpen's dirt cloud. Ergo, you are not the only person getting rained on. So do not walk into a cafe, stop just inside the door, and shake out and fiddle with your umbrella for several minutes. See that waterlogged short chick behind you? She's already closed her umbrella, and is standing there in the rain while you get everything just so. Move inside already like a civilized person.

Wow, I'm cranky today. Anybody else got a rainy-day gripe to share?

PS: The photo above is of the Nubrella, specially designed so people can use their Blackberries in the rain. I love the woman, who looks all sexy despite the fact she's wearing a bubble on her head...plus, that amount of makeup would just slide off on a day like today.

Adopt-a-Hag

Well, you're not going to adopt a hag, so much as marry one. Before you panic, we’re not talking about an actual hag, just a semi-hag. A hag-to-be. A bridesmaid to hagitude.

That's right, we're marrying off all the single 29-year-old women in America!

Bear with me. The media cycle is a predictable thing. As regular as old Aunt Flo, the media/cultural debate/Internet decides to put out a new op-ed designed to make women feel like crap about themselves.

Usually, it's because we're all supposed to be married by 30, and done with birthin’ by 35. In trailervilles/the pickup artist scene (they’re remarkably similar), you can round those ages down to 25 and 30. Women's failure in this regard is a national catastrophe. After 30, our looks diminish with each passing microsecond. And as we all know, our looks are all we really have to offer. It’s tragic.

Meanwhile, our society gives men a free pass. Thanks to biology, cultural norms, yesterday's breakfast, whatever, men don't face the same scrutiny/guilt tripping/societal hand-wringing. There are men who string their girlfriends along for years and years, shack up with them to no ultimate purpose, dump them, trade them in, cheat, or are just plain not suitable for the occasion. But women are still supposed to marry the first clod who comes along. Nobody ever tells these Xbox freak bachelor babies to man up and marry. The deck is stacked, so we’re reshuffling it.

Onward to my brilliant social engineering experiment.

I've made a list of people who lay on the marital/hagitude guilt trip. Most are articulate, some are successful, any and all can provide for their very own hag. Here we go:

Lori Gottlieb

Roissy and about 80% of his male commenters (sorry Roissy, couldn’t resist)

Bob Allen

Rachel Greenwald

Other nominees welcome!

If your name is on the above list, you're a mandatory participant in Adopt-a-Hag. We're taking you at your word. No longer will you badger women about marriage/looming hideousness before an arbitrary deadline without taking the plunge yourself. No further action is necessary on your part – your state-issued pre-hag will arrive via registered mail in the next 7-10 days. And, if you're a woman (aka, a traitor), you get a sex change and TWO pre-hags. If you’re not on the list, you can volunteer by adding your name to the comments.

As for me? I don't have a dog in the fight. This is my spectacularly selfless contribution to humanity. I'm 31, and I've had my turn on the marriage-go-round. I've resigned myself to a life of Botox oblivion and cruising the clubs at 40, like those sitcom girls with the funny clothes who talk dirty all the time. But don't cry for me, I live on through Adopt-a-Hag.

PS – this post inspired by the randoms on KassyK’s blog, who hassled her about marrying “before it’s too late” because she’s all old and used-up at 29 and her biological clock should be pounding in her ears and controlling her every action. Lordy lordy, people.

Venue Review and Striking a Blow for Short Chicks

Friday night, I went to see Longwave at Rock n' Roll Hotel with Tim. The show? Very good. The venue? Not a fan.

This club involves a serious time investment. The first band doesn't go on until nine, then there are not one, not two, but THREE opening acts. So it's usually midnight before the headliner even goes on. By then, the crowd is in one of three places: home in their beds, blearily checking their watches in the crowd, or so wasted they might as well be anywhere. (Lest you write me off as an old fogey, even the underage kids with the Xes were yawning by the time Longwave went on. And what decent band would want to play to a sleepy room, anyway?)

I will say, at $10 cover, $2.50 a band is a pretty sweet deal. And the beer isn't ridiculously expensive, parking is easy, and bar service is very prompt (especially compared to the Black Cat, where there's always some snooty club kid who cuts in line and throws elbows).

But since I'm all sorts of cranky today, here's a note to tall guys. Yes, you. I'm down here! Hi! When the club is full, stand where you want. It's every man for himself. But in a half-empty room, why not show a little courtesy? I will never figure out why the tallest man in the room always stands right in front of the shortest woman (me, usually). Is there some sort of tall guy radar going on? It would be nice not to spend every show bobbing, weaving, adjusting, and nudging guys to move over a notch or two. As soon as I get settled in, another tall guy pops up. It's like a sick carnival game. Whack-a-Giant.

You're tall, and male. Statistically you earn more money, get more promotions, and are more likely to be President. So with all those advantages, throw a bone to the short chicks. Do you not look behind you before you settle into a location? Could you, perhaps?

PS - I would like to thank the group in front of us at the show Friday. A couple tall guys moved in front of me, the girl in their group noticed, and gave them a talking-to. Then for the rest of the night, I had their permission to just reach over and nudge them when they got in the way. Manhandling strangers AND a decent view? Rock show heaven.