Since There's No One Around to Read This Anyway...

...Let's all admit something awesome about ourselves. Or embarassing. Whichever. It's a holiday week and no one is around, so...why not? It's cleansing, and fun! (Just like soap on a rope.)

I'll go first:

1. I own a copy of Dr. Laura's Ten Stupid Things Women Do to Mess Up Their Lives, read it several times a year, and find it inspirational.

2. I think the biggest challenge of relationships in your twenties is not really knowing who you are or what you want.

3. I think the biggest challenge of relationships in my thirties is that I know full well who I am and what I want, and have therefore become too set in my ways. (For example, I have become almost completely unable to be sociable in the mornings, and will instead zone out in front of the newspaper. Sadly, I've found that few people can deal with being ignored for hours on end.)

4. I'm grateful to the new readers who came here via the New York Times article...but I'm also grateful that my blog traffic has gone back to semi-normal. I find readership spikes a little overwhelming.

5. I get annoyed when friends suggest I be an event planner for a living, because I don't want to turn my beloved hobby into something money-oriented and stressful.

Your turn! In the comments, entertain us by admitting something awesome.

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.

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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.

Lazy Friday List Post: Something and Nothing

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

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

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

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

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

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

When The Heavens Open Up and It Rains Mr. Amazings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Yes, My Dad Is Completely Perfectly OK

Friday, I received the following email from my hilariously indestructible dad down in Costa Rica:

i m fine but wonder if they follow me iwas about 10 miles from the
epi i needed to straighen my pics and dust the
shelves any way about the same as the san fran one when thye
bridge fell i was i0 miles from center when i phoned
home in minutes after your mother spent 5 minutes telling me
about the quake in calif love dad

What, you aren't a fluent Skeeter-speaker? His emails read sort of like e.e. cummings poems, crossed with text messages from a preteen girl.

The message is that he got through the Costa Rican earthquake without a scratch. This was his second major earthquake - he was also in the 1989 San Francisco quake. He managed to find a payphone and call my mom, who gave him a breathless did-you-know report about...a quake in San Francisco. She apparently completely forgot that my dad was there on a business trip. (Which is still slightly better than all the times she addressed me by the cat's name.)

So, what have we learned? 1. Nothing kills my dad, and, 2. Earthquakes follow him around like stray kittens or disgruntled ex-girlfriends.

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.

Worrypalooza in Anxiety Town

I’m a bit of a worrywart. It’s my own fault. I read the Gloom and Doom (aka, Business) section of the newspaper every day. I drink too much coffee. I don’t get enough rest. And, whenever I try to meditate or do yoga, I get bored and start worrying all over again.

Anxiety makes me feel better. It’s an ice-cold hug from an inconstant lover. It’s a little slice of control in my crazy world. It’s just…my way of doing things.

I spent much of yesterday worried sick. The least of my problems was that the iron might have been left on. If the iron was on, it was also probably face down on the rug. Meaning it was burning the rug. And then my entire sale rack wardrobe would go up in flames.

And now follow the bouncing ball, chain reaction freakout: If I don’t have clothes, I can’t go to work. And if I can’t go to work, I can’t pay off my student loan. Can the repo men take my college degree? And what if I can’t pay rent? Not that it matters, as I’d be living inside a burned-out hulk of an apartment with winter on the way.

Maybe I should become a survivalist. I could live in a shack and grow my own food. There’s the ticket. But then I wouldn’t have friends. Unless I could get my friends to come live in my shack, so we could be our own little commune. But then we would have to sell those stupid, “Stop Bitching…Start a Revolution” t-shirts. Then I would wonder what’s so revolutionary about 100% cotton, and if selling t-shirts is just a more commercial way of bitching. Then the universe would implode from the paradox, and we would all die horribly explosive deaths.

So what have I learned? Easy. No more cheese dip before bed.

In the comments, tell me what you worry about.

Hangin' with Mr. Creepy

I don’t follow the skeevy, the skeevy follows me. Let me explain.

Last night, I decided to take a break from petty theft, hard liquor, and my own catastrophic character flaws. I wanted to stay in and focus on clothes: conduct the Great Seasonal Wardrobe Swap (summer-to-winter, which involves a meticulous rearrangement of my closet), do some laundry, and peruse the latest issue of Lucky. Thing is, I have terrible luck with laundry.

6:45 Carry basket of clothes to basement. Note the existence of Mr. Creepy loitering by the Coke machine. Take very careful note of excessive facial hair, shabby attire, dead eyes, and the weird shuffling walk. Realize he resembles an extra from The Day After.

6:55 Dump clothes in washer, return to elevators. Note the continued presence of Mr. Creepy, who is staring at me like I’m a tasty dessert with a magical unicorn candy bar on top.

7:30 Return to basement to move everything over to the dryer. Note the continued presence of Mr. Creepy next to the Coke machine. Wonder if he’s just really, really thirsty.

8:00 Return to basement to retrieve and fold clothes. Mr. Creepy is still there. Decide to heed the heebie-jeebies and ask a neighbor in the laundry room if he’s ever seen that guy before. He’s never seen that guy around…and he has now been loitering by the Coke machine for more than an hour.

8:10 Walk up to lobby, take elevator from there. Feel like a resident of Mayberry/Tombstone/Camelot when a chivalrous neighbor offers to go “check out the situation.” Decline the offer.

8:15 Call Security. Call the everlovin’ heck outta Security.

8:30 Call Security to follow up. Find out that Mr. Creepy does, in fact, live in the building (great!). The guard explains that Mr. Creepy is “not right in the head” (even better!) and has a habit of hanging around the Coke machine (whee!), to the consternation of virtually every woman in the building.

Don’t get me wrong, I dig the mentally ill. Otherwise, I’d have no one to spend Christmas with.

But it seems to me my building could be doing a little more about a “not right” gentleman in shabby clothes, who hangs around a Coke machine in a basement for hours on end, staring at women. He's probably harmless, but I'm not going to bet my personal safety to find out. I believe in listening to my instincts, and Mr. Creepy was setting off all kinds of alarm bells.

In totally unrelated news, anybody wanna come over tonight while I wash the rest of my clothes? Especially if you're musclebound and intimidating? I’ll make you a lovely shepherd’s pie.

I Swear This Isn't Turning Into a Dating Blog

I hadn’t had my ego crushed all to hell lately, so I decided to attempt online dating.

Plan A was Craigslist, which a friend of mine refers to as my “Boyfriend Netflix.” This is because I found two boyfriends in a row from that site. However, this time my options seemed to be limited to men who send me photos of themselves in their underpants. Or men who ordinarily live in Rome, but would love to mercilessly critique my writing and possibly buy me some lingerie.

So I tried OKCupid, which is also free. The good news stops there.

For starters, OKCupid has the annoying habit of trying to fix me up with my friends. It’s like an online version of my mother.

Also, the men of OKCupid have some of the worst reading comprehension skills of any men, anywhere, on the Internet. I live in DC. I say, in my profile, that I do not have a car. So, if you live in Leesburg, and somehow get through life in the exurbs without a car, how do you propose we date one another? Also, Exurb + No Car = DUI conviction. Or unemployed. Or, possibly, both.

The one guy I did meet and go out with from OKCupid sent me what amounts to a rejection form letter. “Thank you for your interest, however, we do not have any positions available at the Girlfriend Corporation.” This drab little punch in the gut was followed by half a dozen smiley face emoticons. Wow, rejection PLUS emoticons, it’s like my best day ever!

Lastly, I'm just not feeling any of the guys on there. Could it just be that I’m finally jaded, more than sixteen years after my first date? Or could it be the sinus infection that is gradually devouring my eyeballs from the inside? Most likely, I’m just not in “Date Mode” these days. If every email feels like a chore to respond to, it's time to take a break.

Who’s up for a girls’ night out?

PS - Yes, I’m aware this post outs me as single. I have been since July, I just thought an announcement post would be a bit self-pitying and ridiculous. Self-pitying and ridiculous are both par for the course around here, I know, but I tend to stay away from really personal stuff.

The Amazing Interchangeable Me

When the universe is trying to tell me something, it prefers shouting, waving of arms, semaphore, smoke signals, and perhaps a few neon signs. This is good, as I am dense. How dense? I had to be told Spinal Tap wasn't a real band.

Yesterday, I ran into a former temp job colleague on the Metro. The subtext of the conversation was that I was replaced within five minutes, and nobody ever missed me at all. This was the culmination of a week in which the universe walloped me in the head with lessons of irrelevance and interchangeability.

This should feel horrible, after all, who wants to be told they aren’t the super special child of a glorious and just universe? Why wouldn't I want to picture the people of my previous lives, weeping and clutching photographs of me? Why wouldn't I want to imagine life grinding to a halt without my amazing presence?

Clearly, I need a lesson in humility. And perhaps I could have some fun with how easy it is to swap myself out.

Secretary Shannon could be swapped out for a recording which says, “Thank you for your call. We are happy with all of our current vendors, and please do add us to your Do Not Call list.”

Friend Shannon could be replaced with a lever device that repeatedly picks up a glass of beer, and an intermittent recording which says, “Hey! Dude! Y’all! The hell? Indeed!”

Home Chef Shannon could be replaced by a gallon of melted cheddar cheese and first aid instructions on what to do in the event of a heart attack.

And Blogger Shannon could be replaced with Ikea furniture assembly instructions. “Insert stupid action by self/others into Slot A, place screw in pithy observation Slot B, attach pathetic/sarcastic bid for attention Slot C. Congratulations! You have built a Disaffected Scanner EXPEDIT.”

Really, I should set all of these up and just take the rest of August off. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be German.

In the comments, embrace your irrelevance and tell me how you could be replaced.