Are You a Carrie, a Samantha or a Tyler Durden?

They're dressed like boy versions of Samantha and Charlotte! Neat!

There is one kind of man that I love to mock. And that's the guy who will go on about how much he hated Sex and the City, and how it was the stupidest show ever, and women got way too into it. Then he'll say his favorite movie is Fight Club.

Guys, Fight Club is Sex and the City for boys.

SATC had Manolos. Fight Club had the Ikea catalog.

Both SATC and Fight Club were about single people who form their own little urban family. It's just that one family was a little more violence-prone than the other. Both had all sorts of deep thoughts about city life, jobs and relationships. Both were, essentially, trite and fluffy, with neo-feminist/neo-masculinist philosophies as a cover for all of that fluff.

However, fans everywhere were silly enough to take it seriously. Women picked up ugly fashions and debated whether they were Carries, Mirandas, Samanthas or Charlottes. Men tried pretending to be badasses who could hate their lives with the best of them. And I daresay a few tried to make their own soap.

So, everyone, next time you "couldn't help but wonder" about "single-serving people," remember, we're all more alike than we are different.

I Knew I'd Never Be Cool: The Famous Bird Poop Story

I've never been one of the cool kids. I tend to fall down, mistakenly curse people out in Bosnian, or do other ridiculous things. And I can tell you exactly when I knew I'd always be a hopeless dork.

The date? September, 1990. My parents, in a fit of misplaced ambition and suburban sadism, enrolled me in a fancy private school. I'm in the ninth grade, and I'm enduring my adolescent Ugly Year. The Ugly Year is that time nothing fits, nothing looks right, and various body parts are growing faster than others. I was all nose and no boobs.

But I'm doing OK. There's no worry about expensive clothes, I've got a uniform. I've also got the right spiral perm (poodleriffic!), some purple eyeshadow, and the braces really aren't as bad as I thought. So far no one had noticed my basic Hoodbridge-iness or that my mom drove the wrong kind of car. (True story: because all the moms drove identical Volvos, there was a problem with kids getting into the wrong cars at the end of the school day. And because of the uniforms, the moms would sometimes drive off with the wrong kid. The rich really are different. Except when they all look the same, apparently.)


So, back to the story. The new school is OK. I figure I can hack it. Until we take a class trip to a ropes course at the hoity-toity Madeira School. Yup, there's no better team-builder than encouraging 14-year-olds to hurl one another over logs or shove each other onto zipwires. It was like a coed Lord of the Flies.


But it's OK. I'm fitting in. That is, until it's time to get back on the bus. As we're assembling, I feel something. A LOT of something. That's because a passing bird decided to let out its stuff on my head. It was, like, a bucket's worth. I think there was more poop than there was bird. I was absolutely drenched.

A few of the nicer girls and one of the teachers tried to clean me off with napkins. Most everyone else stood there and gawped. Eventually a hose was procured, and I was forcibly de-pooped in front of the entire freshman class. And from that day forward, coolness was over. I was the Bird Poop Girl. Endlessly mocked, treated as outer-burb trash, target of bullies.

Overall, and I really mean this part, the Bird Poop Incident was a good thing. I spent the rest of the year openly disliking most of my classmates, which was much easier than playing along and being phony. I developed a lifelong aversion to bullies, snobs and jerks. And, thankfully, my parents let me switch back to public school the following year. And that's when I met some of the people who are still my dearest friends.

The only drawback I can still see is that birds hate me. It's partially due to some suicidal parakeets I kept as pets, and mostly due to the Bird Poop Incident. Pigeons follow me around and fly at my head. Seagulls strafe me. Parrots try to bite me. It's just all really, really weird.


Anybody else up for telling an embarrassing high school story? Come on, I want to see if you can top the Bird Poop Incident.

Lazy Sundays

Did you know that it can be tiring to cook dinner for a dozen people? I sure didn't!



I have this slight tendency to overdo things. Did I really need to make fruit salsa AND cowboy caviar? Plus the cinnamon crisps and the pulled pork with the homemade slaw and vinegar sauce and...well, at least I punted on dessert, which was lovingly prepared by Shoppers Food Warehouse. After the famous Lemon Meringue Devils Tower incident of 2006, I avoid making desserts.



I spent all day Sunday in bed. The morning was spent recovering from the beer. The afternoon was spent recovering from cooking all day Saturday, and the evening was spent recovering from a late-night emotional sucker punch (what's a party without drama?).



And, really, Sunday was a great day. I hate dreariness, so I stay inside when the weather's bad. Multiple naps, sticking to the fun parts of the Sunday paper, and the bare minimum of housework required to keep my apartment from being smelly. I enjoyed the endlessly entertaining sexual double standards of 90210: Brenda loses her virginity, is happy about it, and is thereby rewarded with a pregnancy scare. That shameless hussy! Meanwhile, Brandon loses the big V and all he gets is a quick condom talk from Dad.



I didn't clean my apartment, I didn't clean myself, I didn't even change clothes. I wallowed, I napped, I dozed. It ruled.

What Shannon Did on Her Spring Blog-cation

Sorry for the unannounced hiatus. Instead of making a big deal over the fact that I was taking time off, I decided to just go away and see if anyone missed me. You didn't miss me at all, did you? Not even a bit? Thanks, guys. Nice to know I'm such an essential part of your daily existence.

As punishment for not missing me, I'm going to tell you a bunch of really boring stuff about my life. Things are amazingly awesome and busy right now. I started a new job Wednesday.

I took Monday and Tuesday off to clean my apartment and redo the bathroom. Two straight days of cleaning? Whee! And, after a year of not being able to buy stuff, go anywhere, or do anything, I've been indulging in a few lifestyle upgrades. My new cellphone, which in no way resembles a brick, log, or outhouse. A shelf system. My classy new penguins-in-sunglasses bathroom scheme. Buying out West Elm's stock of my (discontinued!) stemwear. A happy little journey to the Clinique counter (it's free bonus time at Macy's).

And, best of all, my bangs have finally grown back!

I've also been filling in various forms for my new job, most of which involve the pull-the-plug, slice-the-pie aspect of Death. This has created some heartfelt discussions with my sister:

Me: So, you're the beneficiary on my life insurance.

Skye: Cool, how much do I get?

Me: 15 grand.

Skye: That's it? You're worth more alive than dead? I can't even bury you for that.

Me: I know! Just get some Hefty bags and dump me in a river.

Skye: Then I can use the rest of the money for a party.

Me: Or you can give me a Viking funeral. Put me in a boat, set me on fire.

Skye: I can't buy a boat for $15K!

Me: Just a little dinghy, for, like 500 bucks.

Skye: Are dinghies flammable? They're metal. I bet it would cost me a fortune in lighter fluid.

Me: Fine, we'll go back to the original plan: Hefty bags and a swift-flowing river.

Skye: Cool.

Note: Skye's life insurance is way better than mine, and I get double the money if she bites it on the job. So is anybody up for some office booby-trapping?

Profiles in Occupational Hotness: Retail Edition

I’ve had some odd jobs. Night receptionist in a dorm, where mostly I was there to call the police every time spoiled residents chucked lounge furniture off the balconies. Reader/guide for a legally blind lawyer. Diplomat’s wife.

None, though, will ever compare to my tenure as a Hot Sauce Salesgirl. Like many of my high school classmates, I had a part-time job at Potomac Mills Mall (“Come for the Bargains, Stay for the Tacky”). Most of my friends slung popcorn at the AMC, a few worked in the nicer shops or the Silver Diner, the saddest souls gave out quarters at the Planet Fun arcade.

Meanwhile, I worked at a hot sauce cart. It was this little kiosk that sold hot sauce, salsa, barbecue sauce, jerk sauce, sauces and rubs aplenty. Plus a few badly-squashed fancy chips and some t-shirts bearing the shop logo (more on the logo later).

Not impressed yet? I haven’t gotten to the best part: the cart was called “Burning Desires.” Level One of Wrong: I was 17 at the time. Level Two of Wrong: I was about a ten-minute drive from Quantico Marine Base. Level Three of Wrong: I had to wear an apron and a polo shirt bearing our logo. Level Four of Wrong: The logo was two peppers dancing, but they, uh, didn’t look like peppers. Defcon Level Five of Wrong: I had no customers, so I spent most of my shifts fielding prank calls.

“Do you sell edible underwear?”
“Can I sample your hot sauce?” (accompanied by heavy breathing)
“So, do you have barbecue rub? And I apply it directly on myself?”
“I’d like to slather YOU in hot sauce!” (accompanied by a call to the police)

The store went out of business within six months. This was Woodbridge in 1994, when "adventurous ethnic food" was a TGIFriday's fajita and spicy food was too big of a dream.

Nowadays, it all seems so tame. I was such a prude! Teens today would gleefully get a job at Burning Desires, take cameraphone pictures of their underpants surrounded by jars of Dave's Insanity Sauce, and broadcast it on their Facebook pages.

In the comments section, tell me about the most inappropriately suggestive job you've ever had.

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.

One Sentence Movie Review

I liked In the Land of Women better when it was called Every Other Movie, Ever.