Special Guest Post, by a Very Special Internet Wacko

This comment was left for me elsewhere on the Internet, and it was just so amazingly awesome I had to share it with all of you. You're welcome.

I'm putting it up without any backstory or explanation. I believe this paragraph of solidified vinegar can stand on its own, like a Jell-O mold of indiscriminate rage:

And you are Suzy homemaker who makes cakes, cheese fondue, and eats useless fats, has what leg to stand on? But let me think about this...I will give up my 2 mile run in the morning, my 7 miles on the elliptical, plus an hour of endurance training to go back to that slob that I looked like 6 months ago. Vain...oh yeah baby, you got that's right. Take a look at my abs...not from
eating your american flag cake, or drinking beer on a Friday. Oh, forgot the most important thing...I am 46, and this body and cocky ass attitude still turns heads...maybe not yours...and I am so glad you are not interested in us cocky, conceeded, ripped, chiseled, full of piss and vinegar, dago boys, who can go for hours in the sack, from all the useless hours put in the gym. You win...You can have your flag cake and eat it too.

Thanks for joining us, folks. Today's post was brought to you by the letters C, R, A, Z, and Y!

Go Ahead and Hate Me, But...

I have many qualities that could be considered downright un-American. I mean, aside from only being half American and all. I don’t drive a big car. Big houses with big lawns strike me as a whole lot of pointless backbreaking work. I can’t remember the last time I watched a SuperBowl, ate apple pie or called my mom.

But the least American thing about me is this: I don’t care for dogs. I don’t get what’s so great about them. I hate itchy, hot fur, slobber, the clack-clack of paws on linoleum, and being jumped on. Barking is the most piercing sound known to man (except possibly the two neighbor kids who slurp and gasp their way through their boxes of milk every morning on the elevator with me).

I’m completely skeeved by the people who buy expensive toys, gourmet food, and outfits for their dogs. Doggy spas appall me. I wonder if these people might be better off just adopting a Romanian baby. And there is a special category of hell for those who convert their dogs to a vegetarian diet.

I suppose there are exceptions. Mellow dogs, I can handle. Well-disciplined dogs, great. Ones that don’t bark are even better. Stuffed ones are the best option of all. I guess it’s like kids: I like the kids I know, and am generally annoyed by the ones I don’t. So if I know you, I'm probably cool with your dog.

I just compared dogs to children, which is another peeve of mine: dogs aren't kids. No matter how much you love them, they're still pets. Last week, I overheard a pet owner say, "I should be able to bring my dog into a store, after all, people can bring their kids!" I wonder how big a trampoline their brain needed to make THAT leap of logic.

But it all comes back to one of my laws of life: If I had wanted to be jumped and slobbered on, I would have dated more in high school.

Wow, that felt really good. It was cleansing and lovely. Anyone else want to make a confession? In the comments, tell me something you can't stand that everyone around you seems to adore.

Will the Real Me Please Stand Up?

Saturday evening, I gathered some friends together to share a post-Hanna batch of bourbon slush. We drank, we ate, we sang karaoke, we passed another beer to the man holding a baby.

At one point in the evening, my friend Mike noticed that my computer was on, and that Facebook was up. So he did what any sane person would do: pulled up a chair and pretended to be me for a while. A series of IMs flew to his brother in Kentucky.

The next day, I was up at the crack of noon to read the transcript. Some stuff he got right: “You stupid whore” as a term of endearment, for instance. Some stuff was wrong: even at my most altered state, I use excellent grammar and punctuation. At any rate, Mike’s target fell for the charade and we all had a good laugh.

So I’ve been wondering how easy it would be to impersonate me. And for that, I need a volunteer. I need someone to write a post, as me, which I will put up sometime in the next few weeks. And then I want the rest of you to identify the fake Shannon. It’s an experiment, lazy blogging, and shameless self-indulgence, all at once!

Remember, it’s not plagiarism when it’s science.

PS: Here’s how to make Bourbon Slush. (Though I bumped the bourbon to 3 cups…for an extra cup of fun!)

The Other Half Lives with a Ham in a Holster

I am a woman of simple tastes. But one of my favorite hobbies is perusing the Dean & Deluca catalog, which is most assuredly not for simple tastes (or simple budgets). The one conclusion I can draw: the rich really are different. And most of those differences are due to their superior (and possibly somewhat bizarre) food intake.

I tailgate with hot dogs and beer. The Dean & Deluca squad would prefer I swap my pig lip surprise with relish for a foie gras burger.

In the "Pantry Staples" section, I am lacking a very basic item called the Texturas Spherification Minikit, for the miniature price of $200. This kit allows me to "transform [my] favorite flavors into spheres of different sizes." I cannot WAIT to serve spherical Goldfish crackers at my next party!

I'm also in need of another Very Important Item: A Healdsburg Decanter Dryer. From the sound of it, you would think it's a highly specialized device, when, in fact, it appears to be a $120 version of a paper towel rack. Also, I have no decanters to dry. I pour my wine straight out of the bottle. In fact, I often pour my wine straight out of the bottle and directly into my mouth.

My favorite find, however, is the Jamon Iberico de Bellota (translation: “Iberian Soap of the Ball”). If you’ve got twenty C-notes, you can buy an entire leg of ham. With a foot still attached. A leg of ham with a carving stand. A ham in a holster, if you will.

Really, all foods should come in holsters. Couldn’t you imagine your ground beef in a sling?

In the comments, tell me why a leg of ham could be worth $2,000. And, no, you cannot say, "A leg of ham would be worth $2,000 if it was wearing a diamond anklet."

The Science of Being Shallow

Today, there was a bit of a kerfuffle over at DCBlogs. Not quite a brouhaha, but definitely more than a spat.

A contributing editor suggested that we bloggers make our posts more meaningful, and stop writing until we have something to say.

It was very difficult to not take that statement personally. We all know by now that I do not possess a window to the absolute. I'm not usually even in the same room as the window to the absolute. I write about falling down, newspaper theft, dating, my own stupidity, and other happy things. Then you lovely people make fun of me, and I lap up the attention like the cuddly indiscriminate narcissist I truly am. Instant validation!

But, thankfully, science has come to the rescue. My utter lack of depth, mindless chatter, and silly opinions are a weight-maintenance program! Thinking too hard fattens me up. Idiocy keeps me in my skinny jeans. My sluggish mind is cheaper than Jenny Craig, more efficient than jogging, and far more palatable than a package of rice cakes.

This is why I love science. Science has a convenient explanation for everything.

PS - I bet Luke Wilson never has to put on his fat pants! Plus, he's dreamy. Mmmm, Luke Wilson.

Just Say...Maybe?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Wallet Or Your Ass?

Gentrification is the magic pixie dust of Washington. A few sprinkles, and a Starbucks springs to life. A good shake or two, and you wind up with a trendy gastropub, a wine bar, or an upscale pizza joint.

Progress has even been working its way to my little corner of the colony. Our ice cream truck has been upgraded. It used to make a whooping sound, have bars on the windows, and never come to a complete stop. Instead, the kids would trot alongside it to buy their Rocket Pops. But now, it plays actual tinkly music and stops right at the corner.

All this change has me worried. I enjoy skanky, trashy, dirty Washington.

Saturday night, I decided to console myself with a few beers at the Red Derby. My friend Sean and I walked up 14th Street together, and we came face to face with the Washington we remembered. Sure, there were the people smoking pot right there on the sidewalk, groups of bored teenagers, and loads of fast food joints. But, the best moment of all was when a drunk homeless dude lurched in my direction.

I sidestepped him deftly, no harm was done, and we continued up the street. And then I asked the question:

Me: Hey, Sean, was that guy going for my wallet or my ass?

Sean: Your ass, I think.

Me: Good, I’d rather be violated than have to go get a new license from the DC DMV.

Somehow, I just don't think I'd ever adjust to a life in the suburbs.