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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also, welcome back to Lemmonex.

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?

Even Nosferatu Needs a Nap Sometimes

I've slept with probably 100 people. Ew, not like that.

What I mean is that when you factor in roommates, slumber parties, overnight guests and so forth, I have probably been in the vicinity of 100 sleeping people. Whenever I have a party, I usually just slide air mattresses under people as they conk out. And then I perform experiments on them.

OK, but not really. But I do like to stare at people while they sleep. I consider it a matter of scientific curiousity, and not a manifestation of complete and utter creepiness. I pay attention to things like who snores, who sprawls, who mumbles and who doesn't appear to sleep at all. I have a friend who will fall asleep on her side, and wake up in the exact same position eight hours later. I have another friend I dubbed the Starfish Sleeper, who manages to splay his arms and legs in perfect starfish formation and take up an amazing amount of room.

But in the dull glow of a hungover Sunday, I saw the strangest sleeper of all. A Nosferatu Sleeper. As of 3 am, he had fallen asleep flat on his back, arms crossed over his chest. When I checked on him several hours later, he was still in the exact same position.

Naturally, I threw crucifixes at his head and doused him in holy water and garlic.

Then I felt like a bit of a jerk...as it turns out, he was sleeping in that position due to the close quarters and mixed genders, and he considered it ungallant to accidentally wake up to a handful of girl-parts.

In the comments, tell me if Nosferatu Sleeping is the new vanguard of chivalry, above and beyond walking on the outside of the sidewalk. Or tell me about your weird sleeping habits.

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.

Swamps Make for Awesome Analogies

On rare occasions, my friends will ask me for dating advice. On even rarer occasions, I'll spout something approaching wisdom. And so that brings us to a sunny day, a plate of Tex-Mex, and a boy with girl troubles.

My advice? "Not every personal swamp is there for you to wade into."

Once you're OK with how ungrammatical and obscure I'm being, it's a pretty good point. Dating is a reductive and nerve-wracking process, and sometimes you're better off cutting your losses and staying out of the muck. There's a point where you have to look at someone, decide that your flavors of crazy match up, and go for broke. Sometimes, however, you take a look, then you take a second look, and you run like hell.

I've done my share of running, when the dealbreakers became abundantly obvious and the relationship felt more project-oriented than it ought to be. And there have been times I've looked at the swamp and plunged on regardless, miring myself in the muck of yet another man's shortcomings. I've been talked down to, abandoned, failed, cheated and bullied. But I've come back each time as a slightly better version of myself.

I like to think I've learned something. And here's what it is: We've all got our swamps. Each of us is a bundle of raw emotions, childhood hurts, petty fears and impractical hope, and we're all doing the best we can with the emotional equipment we've been given. In the best cases, we're doing the best we can with the emotional equipment we've built for ourselves.

In the end, you have choose someone who doesn't drag you into their muck, because they have the strength to meet you halfway.

In the comments, tell me your dealbreakers. Or tell me how Clash of the Titans is the most awesome movie ever.

Robots and Naked Chicks

I am supremely nice, or, quite possibly, my life is empty and dull. Either way, I wound up going to Artomatic twice on Saturday to accommodate the schedules of my friends. No matter, though. After a cumulative seven hours of looking, I saw less than half of the works on display. So I'll be going a few more times.

Bearing in mind I know nothing about art, and even less about artists, here are a few impressions I had:

This year, people mostly painted naked chicks and robots. Last year, people mostly painted naked chicks and space aliens. I wonder when robots became cooler than aliens.

Speaking of naked chicks, it would be nice if more of these works had been done by people who knew, and perhaps even liked, women. I spent much of my evening contemplating walls and walls of uncomfortable, contorted, sad-looking naked chicks, nodding sagely, and saying, "So, tell me about your mother." The finest tableau was on the second floor, a believable scene of two bored-looking naked women hanging out by a gate. Really, that's totally what my girlfriends and I do when we hang out. We strip down and wait for the mail.


Incidentally, if you stand in front of a whole bunch of naked people paintings and laugh hysterically, people *will* stare at you. Best was when a bunch of backwards-capped frat boy types joined me, attempted to ogle the naked chicks, then, when I started heckling, joined in.

Mobiles are really, really cool...and, moreover, I made one in a free class on Saturday afternoon. It even matched my dress! I ran into the artist on my second visit, and he was really very nice -so go check out his forest of mobiles on the eighth floor.

Somehow, I've turned into the sort of person who hates dreams. Specifically, I hate the ridiculous things that privileged white people dream of. One photo exhibit included a 'life list' of each subject's top five wishes. The wish lists always included travelling somewhere outrageously expensive, becoming famous thanks to the efforts of others, opening a homeless shelter (or other noblesse oblige-y aim), or "becoming fluent in one of the languages I speak." What a tiresome group. I think if I saw them at a party, I'd run right back out the door.


I take that back...one guy's dream? "Meet Heather Locklear." I could totally party with that guy. I imagine we would sit in a corner and mock the aims of others.



In the comments, dream of something outrageously bourgeois.

The Warning Signals I Always Ignored

My wise and adorable friend Lemmonex offered some great tips today on mistakes women make while dating. They're mostly of the self-delusional, "I love him! I can fix him!" variety.

I thought I'd add some tips to help women determine whether their boyfriends are bad news, or quite possibly psycho loonies. As my last breakup involved changing the locks and circulating his description to my neighbors, landlord, and employer, I feel I am uniquely qualified. Much of this knowledge comes from over sixteen years of hilariously iffy taste and a kamikaze, devil-may-care approach to dating. (Also, I might like to learn things the hard way.)

Here, in rapid-fire list format, are the top ten ways to determine if the person you are dating is quite possibly a narcissistic emotional intelligence-deprived psycho loony:

1. He takes everything personally. My last boyfriend sulked for hours because he didn't like the ending of Slumdog Millionaire, and, in fact, felt the entire film had been deliberately engineeered to personally disappoint him.

2. Every cab ride home is contentious, usually because you're rehashing every microsecond of the evening to determine who behaved like the bigger dink.

3. He believes he's a vampire. (On the other hand, he had a leather jacket, drove a sweet vintage Mustang and my parents couldn't stand him. That's pretty hot for Hoodbridge.)

4. His idea of fun is spray-painting "Whore Bitch Slut" across the side of your house. Note: This was after my mom called the cops because he'd toilet-papered our trees, leaving me and my sister to pull everything down while Skye came up with a song called, "The Toilet Paper Trees Are Ready for Harvesting."

5. He has a bullet still lodged in his left thigh and an imaginary modeling career.

6. He wants a relationship. But he doesn't. But he does! But he doesn't!

7. He stops by your house to say hi. Your house in Woodbridge. Note: He lives in North Carolina. Also, I cannot remember if this was before or after he threw a rock through his own windshield and told people I'd done it.

8. You break up over a turkey, and the turkey was so totally worth it.

9. He doesn't like your friends, because they don't like him. Note: Friends? Almost always right in these cases.

10. He gets bitten by his own dog.

Anyone have one to add?