Fourteen Hours and Counting

I have now been single for a little over 14 hours. It's for the best and I feel OK. Or this is that deceptive feeling of post-breakup goodwill, which will crash sometime over the weekend and leave me a self-pitying mess.

Either way, it's been making me think about how I deal with breakups in general. There are two main schools of thought. The first are the wallowers. They turn inward, and mark each breakup with ice cream, red wine, DVDs and sleeping in. Then there are the people who get busy, pack their calendars, and move on in a Brave Little Toaster sort of way.

I'm a "get busy" kind of girl. Every breakup has pushed me forward in some way. Most of the time, they lead me to study harder, work harder, be a better person, or even just reorganize the closets. I pack my calendar with discount martini nights, dinner parties and karaoke. I'm grateful for the jerks I dated in high school, because I would have never gotten into Carolina without them. And I'm grateful for the breakups that pushed me to change my hair or take up a new hobby. And I'm grateful I'm divorced, because I go into relationships with the idea that the worst has already happened and that the risks aren't such a big deal. I figure a failed relationship isn't a failure if I learned something.

Unfortunately, one thing is blocking me from packing my calendar: I'm sick. I've had a miserable cold for the last six days. So I can't really go out, and I've had to experiment with wallowing. So far I've watched three episodes of My So-Called Life back-to-back and eaten frosting right out of the container. Tonight I might send myself flowers and order pizza.

But wallowing is dangerous for me. It's already induced two fits of ohmyGodI'm31andsingleanddivorcedanddon'thavearealjobandtheholidaysarecreepinguponme. So, does anyone have any helpful survival tips? Combination cold/breakup remedies are especially welcome.

Who's the Nuttiest of Them All?

For the last few years, I’ve been playing a little game in my head. Namely, who’s crazier, Jim Moran or Marion Barry? Both politicians have clung to relevance despite years of bizarre behavior and shameless grandstanding. Both bring heavy doses of crazy, sprinkled with egomaniacal foolishness.

Jim Moran:

Fears the Jews

Messy personal relationships, including the time both of his young chippie girlfriends showed up at his house on his birthday, and proceeded to have a catfight on the front lawn.

Assaulted an eight-year-old on the belief that said eight-year-old was attempting to steal his car.

Marion Barry:

The bitch set him up.

Busted for crack possession at two o’clock in the morning, with young woman in the car in a deserted area. Alibi: he was mentoring the young woman on her career. (Note: nobody has ever offered to mentor me at two in the morning.)

Self-serving blowhard, claims relevance on issues he has no influence over.

But this week’s news takes the cake, and settles the question once and for all: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/11/12/AR2007111201906.html

According to the article, a Post music critic received an unsolicited Barry press release. In a private email to Barry's handler, he responded in the manner which many of us would like to respond: by calling Barry “half-witted” and accusing him of “political grandstanding.”

Barry, big fat baby that he is, went on the attack. The email was “lowlife activity”, he was hurt and offended, and blah blah so on. Hey, Barry…you’re a democratically elected official! That makes you a public figure! You need to take your lumps like a man, because, legally, as a public figure, you have them coming to you. There's this thing called the First Amendment that makes it permissible.

But here’s the part that makes me ill: According to the Post,

He (Barry) said the note amounted to "character assassination" at a time when "around the nation, it's almost open season on black people."

Can I be the first to say, “Huh?” Shameless and lingering on the edge of magical thinking. Barry, you didn’t get that email because you’re black. You got that email because you’re a worthless grandstanding blowhard that would rather thunder on about nothing than accept the tiniest shred of responsibility for your actions.

No, Marion Barry, the Post should not fire their Pulitzer Prize-winning music critic because he made you boo-hoo into your Cheerios. No, Marion Barry, the Post does not owe you a sloppy French kiss in the form of an apology editorial. You got a sincere apology, the critic is being disciplined by the Post, now accept it like a man and go back to doing your job.

Whatever that job is.

By the way, congratulations! Even in a crowded field such as this, you are the Washington Area’s Nuttiest Politician.

Maybe He Really DID Just Want to Chat About Pizza

I'm notoriously dense when it comes to flirtation. I'd say that 95 percent of the time when a guy hits on me, I don't even notice. The other five percent, I know I'm being hit on because my friends have clued me in.

Sample conversation from a few years back:
Me: That guy really liked my shoes. He spent 20 minutes asking me where to find Chuck Taylors with racing stripes.
Friend: Huh? Shannon, guys don't care about shoes.
Me: But he asked lots of questions! And then he bought me a drink because I had such cool shoes!
Friend: He was hitting on you. Guys have nothing intelligent to say about women's footwear.
Me (realization slowly dawning): Oh.

So take this natural obliviousness, and throw in the fact that I'm in a relationship. On the rare occasions that I do realize I'm being hit on, I have absolutely no idea how to react. When I was married, it was really easy. There was a Diamond-Encrusted Man Deflector on my left hand that I could flash as necessary.

Here's an example: Friday evening, I was walking to a birthday happy hour. There was a light drizzle, but nothing major. A well-dressed, seemingly nice guy offered to share his umbrella with me. I declined at first, then we walked on together for about a block and a half. We were headed to different bars, so he offered to send me a review of where he was going (Ella's Pizza). Being old and wise now, I realized he was hitting me up for my contact info. I politely declined and moved on.

Afterwards, this bothered me immensely. I hate being rude to perfectly nice guys who chivalrously share their umbrellas. That sort of behavior should be rewarded. (Now, if he'd been a hyperaggressive little troll, I would have put him in his place with much joy and merriment).

Maybe I should have said, "Well, my boyfriend would think it was odd if I started getting pizza reviews from strange men." Then he'd know it was nothing personal. Or, "Get away from me, you foul incubus!" Just so I could assert myself. But I think my "thanks, but no thanks" reaction was probably for the best.

But give me SOME credit here. Five years ago, I would have thought this guy and I merely shared a common interest in pizza-centric happy hours.

Leaves of Grass: The Resume Creative Process

My resume is my own personal Leaves of Grass. I’m going to tweak and retweak that thing until the day I die. Now that I’m job hunting, the sprucing sessions have been near-constant.

My latest revisions involve emphasizing my skill set. You know, languages, computer programs, and so forth. Unfortunately, many of my most impressive skills didn’t make the final cut. I included palm reading on my resume, because my headhunter was really amused by that. So, as a Friday treat, here are the amazing things I can do that will never ever wind up on my resume.

1. I have perfect posture. I can walk in a straight line, in heels, arms out, with a book balanced on my head. Blindfolded. After two martinis.

2. I can put on a gas mask in under 30 seconds and administer nerve agent antidotes.

3. Thanks to having lived overseas, I can prepare virtually any American comfort food without any of the original ingredients.

4. I can repair a muffler with a Chicken McNugget.

5. I can recite the introduction to The Canterbury Tales in the original Middle English.

6. I can pack for a two-week vacation in under twenty minutes.

7. I have a sixth sense for when J. Crew's website is offering an extra 20 percent off all sale items.

8. I can open beer bottles with a corkscrew, a car bumper, and a man’s size 10 dress shoe.

9. I can contort myself to fit inside virtually any cardboard box.

Now all I have to do is troll the Craigslist job postings until I find a company where I can open beer bottles while standing perfectly straight and reciting in Middle English. While wearing a gas mask and administering antidote shots to passersby. Suggestions?

When Did Metro Become the Ford Pinto of Transit?

Seriously. I love Metro, but it has become such a royal pain over the last couple of years. And I can't figure out whether that's due to my getting older and crankier, or if they've fallen so far that even I can see it.

It's not just that Metro has significant delays and rude customers, it's that they've gotten downright surreal. This week, there was a deer wandering around the Red Line tracks for four hours, causing extensive delays. This brings many questions to mind:

• How did the deer get down there in the first place? Paper farecard or SmarTrip?
• How did the deer avoid electrocuting itself?
• How come a deer has an easier time navigating the Metro's inadequate lighting, slippery tiles and punchy crowds than I do?
• Why did it take so long to remove the deer? It's not like it could have hidden for long, it's a pretty big animal. Zap it with a tranquilizer, dump it in a wheelbarrow and haul it out.

And, let's consider the other insidious aspect of Metro: it's misogynistic. Seriously. New train cars have severely cut back on the number of floor-to-ceiling hold-on bars. Instead, we're supposed to move into the center of the car and use the overhead bars, which are useless for anyone under 5'6". As the average American woman is 5'4", I can only conclude that Metro has it in for women. Maybe they don't want us to get to our jobs, so then we won't have jobs. It's a plot!

With its cramped quarters and propensity to randomly burst into flame, Metro is virtually peerless. With one exception: The Ford Pinto. The Metro is the Pinto of Transit. You heard it here first.

Aging Before Your Very Eyes

Today is that day I love so much. My birthday. I'm 31. Technically, because I was born on the other side of the International Date Line, I really turned 31 yesterday. But as yesterday was devoted to DVDs and hangovers, I guess today will suffice.

Compared to turning 30, 31 has been kind of anticlimactic. Age 29, I got divorced, moved back to DC, and started my life over. Age 30 was a cakewalk by comparison. I expect 31 to be even easier.

But forces are conspiring to make me feel old. I tend to be mistaken for someone much younger. On a typical bar excursion, I am carded once at the door, and twice by the waitress. People ask me what college I go to. Nobody ever believes my real age. Well, until now.


Saturday, for the first time ever, I was not carded buying beer at Shopper's Food Warehouse. It's the end of life as I know it. I am no longer being carded! Next stop will be a dozen cats and a penchant for knitting.

The Masculinity Quiz

I think modern men don’t really know the difference between masculine and meathead. So they either swing too far toward the meathead end of the spectrum, or they grow up into wussy silly girly-men. So, guys, have you gone too far one way or the other? Take this quiz and find out. If you are off the market, many of these questions will require you to pretend that you’re single. Go with it.

1. An attractive female friend calls and asks you to bring a drill to help her install some shelving. Do you:
a. Show up with a drill and a condom, because the “drill” thing HAS to be a double entendre.
b. Show up with a drill and the cheerful thought that handyman work might be a prelude to removing her underpants.
c. I don’t own a drill.

2. A cursory glance of your closet shows:
a. Five t-shirts and two pairs of jeans.
b. An assortment of jeans, slacks and shirts, predominately in shades of blue and green, plus one or two suits.
c. A bunch of stuff your last girlfriend picked out for you.

3. You’re at a bar. Another dude, approximately the same size as you, attempts to grab your date’s ass. Do you:
a. Ask the guy to meet you outside so you can punch him.
b. Fix him with a steely glare, tell him to back off, then walk on.
c. It’s the girl’s problem, not yours. Let her deal with it.

4. True or false: You have purchased tampons.
a. False. Hell no.
b. True, but only for a serious girlfriend.
c. True, what's the big deal?

5. You’re a college student. You’re taking a women’s studies class. Why?
a. I figure I’ll be the only guy there, and these hairy feminist chicks just need some good lovin’.
b. My GPA needs the help, and why not? I might learn something.
c. I want to understand how centuries of oppression have hurt women, who are the most amazing creatures on Earth.

6. Your girlfriend or wife makes more money than you. Your reaction?
a. Feel threatened and make sideways slams about her potentially having man-parts.
b. Feel a little weirded out sometimes, but support her ambitions.
c. Quit your job as soon as possible to stay home and learn how to make a perfect soufflé.

7. You are on a first date. Who pays the check?
a. Me. Always.
b. Whoever asks, pays. But I’d feel more comfortable paying.
c. We split the check, down to the penny. I brought a calculator.

8. I open doors for women because:
a. It’s a great way to check out her ass.
b. It’s the polite thing to do.
c. I don’t open doors, it’s chauvinistic.

9. You spot an attractive woman on the Metro. She’s wearing sweats and appears to be on her way home from the gym. What do you do?
a. Compliment her on having a great body and inquire about her workout routine.
b. Smile and say hello, but back off if she doesn’t make eye contact or seems uncomfortable.
c. Have an entire imaginary relationship with her over the course of four stops and a transfer, but don’t actually approach her.

10. In your serious relationships, who is the first to say, “I love you”?
a. Her. Almost always.
b. About 50/50 split.
c. Me. Almost always.

11. Quick! What’s the difference between a BMW 318 and a BMW 325?
a. None. Both are total chick magnets.
b. One has a four cylinder engine, the other has six.
c. Seven?

12. Your girl had a bad day at work and starts crying. Do you:
a. Suggest she look for a new job.
b. Feel a bit helpless and embarrassed, but ask her how you can help.
c. Make her some tea and try not to cry yourself.

13. You are going to a fairly upscale restaurant with a date. You hope she’ll wear:
a. A cleavage-baring top and high heels.
b. A little black dress.
c. A t-shirt and jeans.

14. You once got in a fistfight because:
a. A guy looked at me funny.
b. I was defending myself.
c. I’ve never been in a fight.

15. When you think about marriage, your biggest fear is:
a. All those hot chicks you’ll miss out on banging.
b. Marrying the wrong person.
c. That she’ll cheat on you.

Now, tally up your scores.

If you scored mostly a’s, you are a Macho Meathead:
Meatheads embrace that swaggering, ass-kicking alpha male form of masculinity. You’ll punch a guy, then buy him a Scotch. You eat nails for breakfast, and you nail chicks for dinner. You think you’re hot stuff.

Thing is, you’re not. It’s all bluster and overcompensation. True masculinity is a whole lot less showy. Plus, you treat women like dirt. Certain types of women will be attracted to you, but they will mostly be clingy, brainless and neurotic.

The remedy: dial down the testosterone. Develop listening skills, a bit of sensitivity, and don’t get in stupid barfights.

If you scored mostly b’s, you are Masculine:
You’re comfortable being a guy. You don’t itch for a fight, but will defend yourself if attacked. You treat women honorably, but don’t engage in fawning adoration and you don’t idealize them. You can do typical "guy stuff" like change a tire, unclog a drain, or operate a grill. You're a guy's guy who can also pick out a bottle of wine. In short, you are what you should be and therefore appealing to many kinds of women.

Congratulations! You require no remedy.

If you scored mostly c’s, you are a Mouse:
You spent your formative years getting your butt kicked. You pull sensitive wounded artist routines to obtain a pity screw. You’re also the guy whose chief breakup routine is a complete disappearing act. You call AAA for the most minor of problems, you can't grill a steak, and you cry during long distance phone commercials. You really and truly need to grow a pair.

The remedy: You need to go to Man School. Buy a toolkit. Get in a barfight. Toughen up. Sheesh.

DISCLAIMER: This quiz is all in good fun. If you are upset about your results, chill. Freaking because a random chick on the Internet assailed your masculinity is SO not masculine.

And I dare my male readers to post their results, and for readers of both genders to post their analyses.