The Potato of Injustice Wears a Green Dress

I’m an extrovert who hates people. This has set me up for a lifetime of disappointment.

I spend a lot of time in public places: the Metro, the street, retail establishments, assorted gutters and holding cells. And every Monday, I’m at that public festival of commonality, Screen on the Green. It’s fun to have a blanket, a picnic, some friends, a cartoon, the HBO dance, and an old movie on the Mall. And it’s free, which warms my cheapskate secretarial heart.

But some of y’all ruin the fun for everyone else. Most importantly, you ruin the fun for me.

Usually, it’s because you don’t understand the unique nature of flat surfaces. If you do anything of a vertical nature at Screen on the Green, you’re blocking other people’s view. I’m looking at you, the man who brought a bicycle as his date and left it standing up for the entire movie. And how about you, the group of old ladies in high lawn chairs right smack in the middle of the crowd? What’s your story?

I also like the people who make it obvious they came Straight from the Office! Honey, you don’t need to leave on the suit and tie. It’s 95 degrees out here. Take off the jacket, roll up the sleeves, ditch the tie. You just want us all to know that you came straight from your highly important job, which requires the best clothes Mens Wearhouse has to offer and a Blackberry in a holster.

Even better are the people who show up late. If you cannot get off work in time for a 9:00 film, clearly you have bigger issues than I can resolve here. Screw issues. You’ve got a subscription.
But if you’re late, discreetly make your way into the crowd and sit down. Don’t get your entire group to stand up and hug you, one by harebrained one. Just sit.

Even better than the latecomers are those who stand up so the latecomers can spot them in the crowd. And that’s what brings us to the Lady in the Green Dress. Her entire group showed up late. First off, she needs better friends. Second, she spent the first 20 minutes of the film standing up, flagging down her friends one by one in the dark and standing until they had all arrived to the safety of her blanket.

Sometimes, you have to look the potato of injustice right in the eye. And the only way to deal with injustice is mob justice. As in, asking my friends to help shout, “SIDDDOWNNNN!” at her. And watching as the glorious message of SIDDDDOWWWWWNN! carried from blanket to blanket, group to group, until it hit her with the force of a well-mannered tidal wave. The tower of her rudeness stood firm, we started another wave, and, eventually, she did sit down. Or maybe all her friends finally showed up.

Either way, I enjoyed the sweetness of victory. I was free to spend the next two hours engrossed in the hotness of Cary Grant, the casual sexism of the 1940s, and a wild desire to wear suits with hats and gloves.

In the comments, call me a hopeless fussbudget busybody, tell me my post titles really ought to make more sense, or tell me stories about bad manners on flat surfaces. Bonus points if you can tell me what movie uses the line “potato of injustice” without Googling it.

Skeevy Men, Volume 3: Online Dating Edition

Hey, let's milk the "Skeevy Men" series for another post!

I love men as a general concept. But a few out there are making the rest of y'all look bad. And these guys are always cruising the Internet, seeking the vacuous thong-flinging bombshell of their pre-adolescent dreams.

Some are just annoying. And some are skeevy, gross, creepy, and potentially dangerous. As a woman madly in love with her personal safety, I don't cut any of them any slack. I know there's a big difference between a guy with no social skills and a serial rapist, but I'm not willing to bet my safety to find out.

And we're off!

Tweener Typer Guy: This guy has not yet befriended grammar, capitalization, or spelling. So, although he claims to be a 38-year-old attorney with a sailboat, he reads like a 14-year-old at a Hannah Montana concert. "Dont u wanna hook up w me? lets bounce"

Can't Close the Deal Guy: Not only can he not get to first base, he can't even set up the first date! Instead, he will spend weeks emailing with you without attempting to set up a single meetup. It's a massive time suck, so if your online amour doesn't try to meet you within 5 email exchanges, stop responding.

Would Be Better Off With a Puppy Guy: He writes about how he's looking for someone to love him unconditionally, listen, agree with him, think he's the greatest guy ever, and spend time on the couch watching his favorite sports teams. As he doesn't seem to want a woman who brings her own ideas, opinions or interests to the relationship, he'd be better off just getting a dog.

Over-Familiarity Ahoy! Guy: This guy acts like he's already known you for years. He busts your chops about your favorite movie, tells you all about how his evil harpy ex-wife took him for a ride, and wants to meet you for a drink that very minute. It's the online equivalent of a smothering slobbery bear hug from Cousin Randy...except from a complete stranger.

You Owe Me Guy: This guy is upset when you don't respond to his missives, pouty when you don't write back fast enough, and reacts not at all when you respond with politeness and enthusiasm. In his entitled, tiny little mind, if he devoted 30 seconds of his day to emailing you, then clearly you're required to gallop straight in his direction, tearing off your clothes along the way.

Gets Sexual Right Off the Bat Guy: Like, he can't hold back. At all. He has to make some sort of sex joke within the first paragraph of the introductory email. As I doubt he could hold back in nonverbal sexual arenas, he goes straight into the delete pile.

If I Wanted to Date a Chick, I'd Be a Lesbian Guy: This guy tells you he loves footrubs, shopping for housewares, Gossip Girl and fashion. While I'm not obsessed with traditional gender roles, I generally question whether I should just date a chick instead. At least that way we could wear each other's clothes.

I Know Exactly When and Where We Should Meet Guy: ...and that would be late in the evening, at a bar near his apartment. At the very best, I'm going to get pawed at by a guy trying to shovel in a quart of booze and a gallon of empty flattery. At the very worst, I'm going to wind up with a roofie hangover.

Credit Where Credit Is Due: This was inspired by Belle's and Zip's adventures online. And my girl crush Velvet weighed in on the subject today, too.

Let's Get Dirty!

It is very difficult to skeeve me out. I suppose once you’ve finished lunch in a smart restaurant, headed to the ladies’ room, and been greeted by a hole in the floor and a couple of footrests, American attitudes about cleanliness seem a little absurd.

So I was amused to see that a grocery store in upscale/uptight Chevy Chase recently installed a shopping cart disinfection machine. It’s hazardous for small children to lick the handles, and it’s even more hazardous for hysterical germ-o-phobes to witness a child licking a handle. So they’re dousing each and every cart in a peroxide solution after every use. Good old soap and water? Not good enough for the denizens of Chevy Chase! I’m sure peroxide is a perfectly healthy dietary supplement for a small child.

I think we all need to get a bit grotty sometimes. It boosts the immune system and builds character. On my way to Screen on the Green last night, I saw a small child waving a stick around in a muddy puddle while repeatedly jamming his fingers in his mouth. His mother calmly watched from a bench, and for that I love her. My usual walk across the Mall involves watching parents chasing their kids around, exclaiming, “Don’t touch that! It’s dirty!” Yeah, lady, that’s because it’s dirt.

I loved the mom featured in the shopping cart article – her five kids are so busy lolling about in the mud she doesn’t have time to worry about shopping cart handles. I’m sure her prissier neighbors gave her hell for it, but I salute her common sense. I grew up on a well-rounded diet of dirt, mud, bugs, and horsehair, and turned out just fine.

I’m no scientist, but I think obsessive disinfecting just makes the germs bounce back stronger. I was kidney-punched by e.Coli and spent several months on antibiotics two years ago, so I can vouch that we don’t need to make germs any tougher than they already are.

I live clean. I mop, dust, change out the sponges, shower, use deoderant, wash my hands with soap and hot water, and refuse to eat mayo that’s been sitting out in the sun. It probably helps that I don’t even like mayo. But I don’t chase people around with Lysol, open doors with a paper towel, disinfect the desks of others (I worked with someone who did that!), or freak over the littlest bit of germiness. The Middle Ages are long over, and we are not doomed to die in vats of pestilence at the ripe old age of 35.

You have an immune system and a brain. Use them both, live cleanly and sensibly, and leave the hazmat routine to the experts.

PS - I'm changing the "Greatest Hits" section on the right to a "Your Favorites" section - so if you have a favorite post you'd like to see listed, please let me know! ("Hey, what a great view! I can see Shannon's ego from here!")

Never Say No to a Woman in a Bustier

Last weekend, I had a college buddy come to visit. And the Buddy, well, he's trouble. He sobers up with Jager bombs, runs up prodigous bar tabs, and goes on blind dates with crazy foot fetish ladies. So I knew I was in for a time.


Saturday night rolls around, and we decide to round up a few friends, and a few of their friends, and hit the bars together. After a few hours, one of the guys offers the classic D.C. Hipster Invite:


"Hey, I know of this club near here, where we can go dance and won't pay a cover, because I know people."


See, I hate clubs. I hate cover charges, I hate lines, I hate noise, I hate crowds, and I prefer to do my drinking from the comfort and safety of a barstool. But, the Buddy's in town, and it's just around the corner, so why not? Let's boogie!


We get in, find seats at the bar, and settle in. I catch up with my old friend the bartender (he was working the night my sister got in a brawl at Asylum). Eventually, I begin to notice things around me. Like, everyone in the bar is a couple. It's like Noah's Ark in there. And the women are all wearing bustiers and fishnets and clearly took hours to put their faces on.

Hints are dropped, and my powers of observation finally kick in. I decide to play it cool.


"HOLY MOLY, KITTENS IN HEAVEN, CHECK IT OUT! I'M AT A SWINGERS' PARTY!"


And not, like, that Jon Favreau movie that annoying guys quote from all the time. I mean, keys-in-a-bowl, shag carpet and Ultraseude swingers. See, back in my day, when life was simpler and beer cost a nickel, the swingers hung out at Bar Nun. I had no idea they'd moved.


So we did what any sensible person would do: we stayed until closing. This meant that I was invited to the after party, by a lovely curly-haired woman wearing a bustier and little else.


"Why don't you join us for the after party?"

"Oh, no thanks. But you're very sweet to ask."

"You don't have to do anything you don't want."
"I guess I would sit there and watch?"
"Do you like to watch?"

Then she let me play with her ringlets for a bit. Not flirtatiously, mind you, but because when I drink I tend to play with people's hair. It's so bouncy and tactile!


We closed down the bar and went out to hail a cab. On the way home, the Buddy and I debated whether we should have gone to the after party. Nice girls from Woodbridge don't swing. But, man, just showing up would have been one hell of an experience. I missed out on a great story.


The Lesson: when a woman in a bustier invites you to a party of questionable morality, always say yes.


PS - No, I'm not in the business of judging what people do in their bedrooms. But I appreciate the absurdity of the experience. And, no, I'm not naming the club.

It's the Friday Soy and Sperm Hour!

I’ve never quite understood vegetarianism. I love a fluffy bunny as much as the next girl, but I love Thumper even more when he’s cooked up in a pot with a lovely red wine sauce. I’d have a cheeseburger for dessert if it was considered even mildly socially acceptable.

My meat-related moral dilemmas don’t revolve around veal, foie gras, factory farming or sustainable species of fish. Instead, a dinner date with me is like a cross between Sophie’s Choice and Wild Kingdom.

Since it takes just a couple of people to polish off a chicken, and a whole soccer team to eat a cow, is it morally superior to eat beef so fewer animals lose their lives? But, cows are mammals. So does a mammal’s life matter more than a bird’s? And pigs are the only other animal that sunburns - as a fair-skinned woman, am I betraying a kindred spirit every time I eat pork? And what about insects? If I eat a grasshopper taco at Oyamel, I am robbing dozens of merry little bugs of their lives. The thought gives me pause, then I remember how much they taste like extra-crispy bacon and I’m chomping away.

I think the best thing about giving up meat would be the moral certitude. Meat production is bad for the environment, so the vegetarian gullet is like a spit-shined Prius. And who doesn’t love pigs, cows, and chickens? They’re so cuddly! I mean, don’t you just want to give that chicken a kiss on its tiny adorable little beak?

On the other hand, I’ve always been a little baffled by male vegetarians. I like men who like meat, beer and boobs. Most vegetarian dudes admit they originally gave up meat to impress a girl. That's dedication. And they will cheerily serve up meatless Philly cheesesteaks and tofu scrambles. But I have a little bit of trouble taking them seriously.

Thankfully, I have alert reader Kevin to tell me why. This article landed in my inbox yesterday. Soy is bad for the swimmers! Ergo, male vegetarians have lower sperm counts! Their boys are too busy looking for that perfect tofu burger to get to the egg. And the ones that can get to the egg won’t implant, as contact with the egg would violate their vegan principles.

So, a vegetarian is never going to knock me up. It’s not snobbery, it's not outdated standards of manliness, it's not a moral failing. My reluctance to date vegetarians is merely the gentle hand of evolution.

Excuse Me...Do I Know You? Or Do You Know Me?

There must be about a dozen of me in D.C. A little troop of doppel-Shannons. Because at least once a week, someone comes up to me, addresses me by a random name (“Rachel,” most often), and chats as if we’ve known each other for years. I never know whether to play along or gently inform them of their mistake.

And, sometimes, I wonder if I’m at fault. Perhaps I have amnesia and multiple personality disorder and I really am Rachel.

The “Rachel” dilemma is pretty much what it’s like to have this blog.

I routinely encounter or hear from those who believe, because they read my daily trainwrecks and unsolicited opinions, that we are the oldest of friends. The over-familiarity is unsettling, but I’m enough of an adult to realize I brought it on myself. I’m grateful a bunch of amusing, cool people check in daily to see what I’m up to. And I’m humbled that they’re invested enough in my narcissistic little hobby to comment, email, or want to meet me. I’ve made some lovely new friends.

But that’s the blogger version, and she’s not necessarily me. The vast majority of my real-life closest friends don’t read this site at all. They like the woman they went to school with, shared an office with, took out a few times and later befriended. They don’t need her cheap, boozy online equivalent. And, sometimes, neither do I.

That’s why I leave a lot of personal details off this site. I don’t put up photos. I don’t emotion-barf details of my private life (though a gold star to anyone who noticed what was different about the FAQ and connected the dots). I don’t talk about work, I don’t say where I live, I don’t give specific updates about what I had for lunch yesterday.

Mostly, it’s because emotion-barfs and lunch are boring subjects. And I feel my writing is best when it zips along and chucks water balloons in all directions.

But it’s also so I can achieve some privacy. That’s a pretty tenuous thing on a non-anonymous blog, but I do what I can.

So, the point…and there is one. Please email, comment, stop by. Bring your friends and neighbors and maybe even Bill from Accounting. Y’all rock, and the door is always open to you. Just please don’t assume you really know me because you heard all about the time I was too short to be a stewardess.

And, if anyone knows that Rachel woman, hook me up with an introduction.

PS – we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled goofy hijinks tomorrow. I can’t sustain multiple days of self-reflection without my tiny little brain caving in from the weight of my enormous self-esteem. And I’m not talking about anyone in particular, this is just sort of a bunch of thoughts finally falling into place.

My Failed Attempt at Introversion

After an Alabama state fair defective rollercoaster of a fortnight, I was feeling drained and sick to death of everybody. That includes you, and you, and most especially YOU. So I put out the word:

Shannon is Staying In on Friday! (This was announced in a sort of breathless, "Film at 11!" mode.) Please hold all calls, emails, text messages, Facebook wall posts, and drunken pleas to come out and have some fun. I will not be cruise directing, mother-henning, social chair-ing, or anything of my usual sort. I am Staying In.

I get pretty uptight about relaxation, apparently.

The Evening at Home went a little like this:

6:15: Arrive at my shoebox apartment and lay out my carefully selected provisions: Slim Jims, queso dip, chips, Dr. Pepper, SourPatch Kids, and an episode of old school Doctor Who.

6:30: I am going to sit here. I am going to sit very, very still and relax. I’m really, really good at relaxing. I can totally pull this off.

7:00: I know! I’ll do all my laundry! Just think how great it will be to get all my chores done so I can relax all the rest of the weekend!

7:15: Wow, the laundry room is really crowded. I need to live in a cooler neighborhood. I bet if I lived in Columbia Heights, the laundry room would be empty. Because my neighbors would be out either cruising the hipster bars or knifing each other. And then I’d have the laundry room all to myself.

8:30: Laundry’s done, which means I can cross one of tomorrow’s errands off the list. (#3: “Buy underwear and socks.”)

8:35: Anybody online?

8:37: Anybody online?

8:45: Just me? OK, then, I can totally entertain myself.

9:00: OK, it’s time to sit down to the best Doctor Who episode ever: Earthshock! It never stops being funny. So, like, there are these tinfoil dudes, the Cybermen, who are assisted by these latex android dudes, and then, like, all these people die, and then this really annoying character Adric crashes a freighter into the Earth and kills all the dinosaurs. Then, to mourn the tragic death of Adric and all those hapless dinosaurs, the credits run silently over his shattered golden Award for Mathematical Excellence.

10:45: Wow, I bet if I blog about Doctor Who, only Ibid will get the whole way to the end of the post.

11:00: OK, I am now completely and officially bored. And this is really the worst stomachache I’ve ever had. Had I forgotten my rule? “Slim Jims or Queso, Never Both.”

11:15: I’ve exhausted my entertainment options, so I’m off to bed. But not before the following decision:

Friends, if I ever say I am Staying In on a weekend evening, laugh at me. Then make me go do something, because, wow, Friday’s attempt at relaxing totally stressed me out.