I Might Be an Amnesiac Stripper

When I visit people's homes, I tend to leave little pieces of myself behind. And not just pieces of my heart, or the final shards of my dignity.

No, I have possession leprosy. I have shed something I own at virtually every gathering I've ever attended. Umbrellas. Xanadu. Jewelry. Tupperware. Or, most often, articles of clothing, like shawls, sweaters, or socks. I spend my weekend afternoons revisiting the scenes of my various crimes, recovering my scattered belongings.

I'm starting to wonder what this really means. See, I'm obsessively organized, and I tend to freak out a little when I can't find something. I'm not at all forgetful by nature. And I don't think I'm attempting to move in with any of my friends so incrementally that they don't notice until I haul in the sofa.

Maybe there's something I'm not telling myself, and I think I know what it is:

I'm moonlighting as an amnesiac exotic dancer.

That must be why I get invited to so many parties! I take a shot or two of some kind of CIA memory-erasing medicine, shake my money maker, earn just enough for my cab fare home, and roll out of there. Or maybe one of my friends is secretly my stripper-pimp, and is skimming a little too much off the top. Because, at the very least, I ought to find the occasional stray dollar bill in my underpants. (That is, if I remembered to take my underpants home with me.)

In the comments, admit it. You're my stripper-pimp.

A Date with Me, as Imagined by my OkCupid! Personality Awards

This week is all about preparation. Imagine a training montage set to soaring synthesizer music, in which I practice Slow Wallet Reaches, firm handshakes, changing names in my phone to Handsy McInsincere and I'm the Tooliest Tool Who Ever Tooled, and climbing out of ladies' room windows.

I even briefly considered dusting off the old online dating profile. OKCupid! has you answer a bunch of personality questions, then they place little icons on the bottom of your profile. These are called Personality Awards. My awards, however, are so incredibly and hilariously man-repellent that I may as well change my screen name to DaddyDoesn'tLoveMe or TickTockBiologicalClock.

Here they are:

More literary
More optimistic
More spiritual

More compassionate

More extroverted

Less dorky

Less ambitious

More well-mannered

Less kinky

Less interested in sex

More emotional

I'm trying to see the humor in this. OK, the humor is hitting me square across the jaw. If all those things were true, and taken literally, could you imagine what it would be like to go on a date with me?

First, we'd go to a book signing, most likely for a self-help book with a title like, Hugging Your Rainbow: How to Love Yourself When You're Not Really Worth It. On the way, I'd probably adopt a puppy and introduce myself to every homeless dude on the block. Afterwards, we'd go to a cool, trendy little coffee shop. But you'll have to pay, as my job as a greeter at the Wal-Mart doesn't pay very much. I'll drink tea with my pinky stuck out, and perhaps correct your posture.

Afterwards, I probably totally wouldn't put out. But, if I did, it would be missionary, lights out, and I'd definitely keep my shirt on. Then you'd have to hold me while I cry for a period of 45 to 60 minutes.

So maybe I'll stay away from the Internet for now. Especially since, shortly after I logged on, I received a message from a polyamorous dude in Waldorf. What makes it even more awesome? He was my SECOND polyamorous admirer from Waldorf.

What the hell is in the water out there?

Deep Thoughts on Date-Cation

I had the sort of March that left me with only two options: take April as a date-cation, or write a rock opera and sing all about it. As “Shannon the Musical” is really just about the worst idea anyone has ever had, I went with the date-cation. Man Free ‘til May! Woot!

I had this vague idea that I would learn a great deal, and turn into this saintly being who could forever lose her interest in emotionally damaged men in rumply Oxford shirts (I can fix you! I can save you! ….Daddy? Why don’t you love me?).

Well, I didn’t really learn anything at all. I don’t think I really expected to. I just figured I could use a break. Plus, I love arbitrary deadlines and self-denial. I used my time off wisely, on things like my amazing girlfriends, my awesome job, and catching up on six months’ worth of ironing.

And now I’m looking at the last week of Mancation, and wondering what’s next. The extension idea has been shot down, on the grounds that I’d probably explode all over Washington like a miniskirted supernova.

I’ve chosen to use my last week wisely, on the things that make me happy: Makers Mark and Grand Theft Auto. Somewhere in the bowels of Vice City, there's a little slice of enlightenment just waiting for me to find it.

In the comments, mock my love of failed experiments. Or, imagine the musical of your life.

Sexy Secretaries Always Get the Best Stuff

I really only have time for a half-assed update today. Which is sad, because I tend to prefer to go after things with my whole ass.

Instead, I offer a vignette:

Yesterday morning, when I walked into the office, there was a big box of Godiva chocolates waiting for me, in honor of Administrative Professional's Day.

Observation: Being an executive assistant on Administrative Professionals' Day has netted me more chocolate than seventeen years of dating.

Conclusion: My job rocks. Also, more people should give me Godiva in honor of my awesome-osity.

The Secret of My Social Success

I like to take my social compass, spin it ‘round once or twice, shuffle a few things, and invite an ever-changing cast of friends and randoms over for what they believe is a small, friendly, casual cocktail party.

It’s not. It’s actually an experiment of sorts, in which I serve them a potent (possibly lethal) substance known as Shangria. Then I watch the ensuing jackassery, take careful notes, and store the memories for later. (If I have any memories at all, that is.)

The original recipe came from allrecipes.com, back when it was a mere Classic Sangria. I’ve spent the last five years refining the recipe, building it into something light, tasty, refreshing, and destructive to your immortal soul. At some point, my friends dubbed it Shangria.

You start with rum. Lots of it. And sugar, and some sliced-up citrus fruit. Put all of that in a Tupperware, and chill it in the fridge for at least two hours. When time is up, pick out the citrus, and pour the rum and sugar into a punch bowl. Pour in some orange juice, and, once you’ve taken a deep breath…chilled Burgundy jug wine. Top it all with cut-up apples and pears.

I’m not kidding about that jug. If there’s a cork involved, you’re way too classy to party with me. Go sip tea with your pinky stuck out or something. The jug should weigh significantly more than your head, cost no more than $15, and should have a “Refrigerate After Opening” label. If it has an expiration date, even better.

Shangria has many achievements on its record. That astonished, rueful moment when guests realize they’re consuming rum-fortified jug wine (fortunately, by then they’re too plowed to care). A duet karaoke performance of “Tiny Dancer,” performed as “Hold me closer, Tony Dannnzzzzaaaaa.” A pervy voyeuristic hot pink shower cupcake. A stray can of Yuengling, found inside a low-top Chuck Taylor. A “Screw It, Nobody’s Walking Right, Anyhow,” impromptu slumber party. A ninja houseguest who vanished before anyone else woke up. World peace. Endless jackassery. And that was all in the same evening.

I think it's my Australian half that compels me to make this. I was born on a continent full of adorable tiny animals of outsize lethality. That has extended to both a pretty fair description of myself, and to my taste in party punches.

Because I’m generous, here’s how you can make your very own batch of Shangria. This should fill one large punch bowl. However, if your friends are anything like mine, you may want to go ahead and double the recipe.

Shangria:

Start with:

One each, sliced: lime, lemon, orange
3 cups rum (I like Bacardi, however, anything in a plastic bottle will also work well)
1 cup sugar

Chill for at least two hours. Then, pick out the citrus and pour the rum and sugar into a large punch bowl. Add:

2 cups orange juice (any more than that, and you’re a coward)
One each, chopped: green apple, red apple, pear
Top it off with as much of that glorious jug wine as will fit. Stir.

I'm Narcissistic and Overly Imaginative, What Else Is New?

Friday, I alluded to one of the greater challenges in my life: Murphy’s Law of Inverse Hotness.

Essentially, the sloppier you look when you leave the house, the more likely you are to run into an ex, and the more significant the ex is likely to be. I went out with frizzy hair, a slowly unraveling top, and jeans, and ran smack into my former husband.*

Once I’d arrived at the office, I posted a Facebook update declaring that if I left the house in pajama pants, no makeup, one shoe, a baseball cap, and drunk at noon on a Thursday, I’d run into a support group of everyone I’ve ever dated.

Naturally, as with everything in my life, the gates flew open and the mockery ensued. “The support group actually meets on Tuesdays,” said one old flame. “I have trouble making the Tuesday meetings but I did receive a copy of the newsletter,” said a former flicker.

This got me to thinking. Not about why my Facebook friends list is the Ghosts of Beaux Past. No, I’m enough of a narcissist to imagine what a support group of everyone I’ve ever dated would look like.

It would take place somewhere blank and depressing, like a VFW hall, or north Raleigh. The meeting would be called to order by a guy with floppy hair and a bullet still lodged in his thigh (people, I’m from Woodbridge). Then there’d be an affirmation:

“Going out with a woman who believes there are tiny musicians living inside her stereo does NOT diminish me as a person.”

From there, men would get up one by one and tell their tales of woe.

“I showed up with a dozen roses, and she STILL didn’t know it was a date!”

“Yeah, well, at least she’d learned how to cook by the time she met you…you have no idea how soggy grilled cheese can be when it’s prepared by an iron.”

“Does she still scream and run away when someone walks in on her while she’s brushing her teeth? Or does she save the insanity for when someone tries to take her picture?”

“She’d be cuter if she was Jewish. Told her that on the first date. Don’t know why there wasn’t a second one.”

“Yeah, well, on our first date she got drunk and face-planted into the side of a taxi!”

Then there’d be group photos, perhaps one in height order from that mid-twenties phase where the men I dated got progressively shorter and better-educated. Then refreshments would be served (I’m picturing danishes, fruit display, and free-flowing Makers Mark). Then everyone would shake hands, pledge each other to secrecy, and return to their everyday lives.

In the comments, imagine a support group of your exes. Or, diagnose me with narcissistic personality disorder.

*Incidentally, I behaved like a dork. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, people will talk,” is not an invitation to say, “Dude, my dad would be THRILLED.” Also, when one’s ex alludes to seeing one another at a mutual friend’s birthday party, one does not say, “See you there, I’m bringing my girlfriend HP along, she can’t wait to see if you have horns! Bye now!” Someday, someone will invent a device that snatches all the doofy things I say out of the air, before they reach the ears of the intended recipient. That will be the happiest day of my life…however, I will have to shut down this blog as I will be fresh out of jackassery to write about.

Showering with Cupcakes Makes Me Super Profound

I spend far too much time inside my own head. I like it in here. Once you get used to the air raid sirens, bear traps, and the floating image of Mrs. Duggar’s box falling out and being pulled behind her like a little pink wagon, my brain is pretty cheerful place to be.

Sunday, I was faced with little other to do than push back the corners of a blazing hangover. Oh, and figure out why there was a cupcake in my shower (migrating foodstuffs have become a big problem in my apartment lately).

So I did some thinking about forgiveness. First, there’s forgiveness for those who have hurt you, damaged you, or changed you for the worse in one way or another. For me, that’s always been the easy one. It takes a very long time to run to the edge of my charity.

I don't mean that in a wimpy victim sort of way, like, "Oh, Bobby slept with my sister and took all my money and conned me into going on Jerry Springer to tell me he'd legally changed his name to Monkey Spanker...but I love him SO MUCH!"

It's a little more like this:

If you’ve ever wronged me, I can promise you’ll be forgiven. That may not mean I want you around. I’ve learned over the years that some people can grind your soul into powder. But I’ve tried to drag some sort of lesson out of all my sorry messes, and I’m thankful for everything I’ve learned.

Then there’s forgiving yourself. I’m utter crap at that one. I’ve never learned to be as charitable and kind with myself as I am with others. I will torture myself over the smallest transgression, apologize in triplicate for forgetting the cocktail napkins, and I’m not quite over that time at horse camp when I accidentally busted my cabin-mate for dating a counselor.

The biggest challenge of all is forgiveness for the things I’ve done to myself. The list is extensive and messy: I’ve slathered my body in booze, wasted years on a complicated relationship with food, wasted further years on complicated relationships with virtually everything and everyone else, given an all-access pass to emotional vampires, squandered acres of opportunity and talent, mixed my best intentions with some of the worst men, and allowed my pride to block me from asking for help when I needed it most.

It’s not about failure. I can colossally screw up, and scrape my dignity off the floor in no time flat (once you’ve failed at marriage, hey, you can fail at anything!). It’s those sucker punch moments, when I see that I’m far from my best self, and that there’s always further to fall and no easy path to anywhere. I don’t think I’m all that unusual: ask your friends for the top ten worst things they’ve ever done, and I promise the things they’ve done to themselves will rank the highest.

There’s no easy way to wrap this up, so I’ll throw it out to the commentariat: among the worst things you’ve ever done, how many were things you did to yourself? And how did you forgive yourself?