Herding Cats

I emailed my mother to see if she needed any help before the weekend. There is still post-death cleanup going on in the land of the Likeys, you see, forms and a plethora of “This page intentionally left blank”s that seem neverending. I don’t recommend the death of a loved one for many reasons, but forms rank in the top 10.

“No, I’m ok. Thanks for asking. The house was cleaned yesterday. Now if I could just get the cat to behave.”

Mom’s cat scratches the furniture and the flooring and the thousands of suit skirts she dons for trips to the opera and Safeway. Nothing she tries seems to dissuade this persistent kitty, and apparently none of the Tasers I bought her has been of any help.

I don’t get it. What is this lack of control people have over their cats? Sure, Cricket is morbidly obese and may require a crane extraction by ’09, but other than that, both she and Bug do just what I tell them. If I want them to go to another room, I simply bring out the vacuum, and after a series of hisses and hateful statements about my chin they both retreat to the farthest corner of the apartment and cover themselves with the mattress. This is truth. I can also call either or both from the other room and they'll come running to me. This, actually, is truth. They know their names, when to come up on the couch, and that lying on the bathmat whilst I shower guards me against the evils contained in tap water. That last one? That seems to be a cat truth.

The real evil? The real evil, I want to tell Mom, is the adult softball player. If you thought herding cats was bad, try herding a team of grown, human, opposably-thumbed, completely amateur softball players. Two months ago, I sent out an email asking a) what shirt size they wanted, b) what name they wanted on said shirt, and c) what number they preferred printed, also on the same – not a different! – shirt. This wasn’t a 1040 written in haiku or a MENSA exam. Admittedly, I neglected to include a flow chart or an IKEA mini wrench. This was my mistake.

I received approximately three emails containing all requested information, and the rest were for the record books.

“Where is this week’s game?” Come again?

“Do you have time to swing by my place and pick up my money?” No, I have to wash my hair and ridicule babies from my apartment window. Oh, also? You’ve seen those blue boxes on street corners, right? They don’t only take the mail to Mr. and Mrs. Claus. Lick it and put a stamp on it.

“I want number 13.” Someone already picked 13. “But 13 is what I had last year.” You’re a grown man with a grasp of whole numbers. Pick another one. [Insert dumbfounded silence here.] And what nickname do you want on your shirt? “I think a nickname should be given to you, don’t you?” After beating my head against the wall and Tasering both the cats, I chose Asshat.

“Kris, I’m having problems reaching you by phone. Can I drop the money by your place?” I asked explicitly for the check to be mailed to me. “What is your address again?” I gave it in the first email. “How ‘bout I just mail you the check?”

Pure genius, I tell you, an exercise in frustration and newfound appreciation for those tutoring tee ball teams in the English language. Even Bug knew how to ask for a three-armed jersey.

not lying down

I try not to lie too much, but admittedly I fail miserably. I’ve fessed this up before to you, along with my fondness for Easy Cheese and Tony Danza vehicles, but the subject has come up in my life again more recently. I’m reminded. In my skewed tiny head – I’m not kidding, I can wear children’s sunglasses – I justify my lies. They are passable because they don’t hurt anyone.

I can’t go to your (happy hour or niece’s bat mitzvah or raging kegger) because (insert cat or gastric affliction here, which is often true as you well know, or plague of locusts or being in the middle of tutoring the unfortunate children of the inner suburbs in particle physics). I can’t make the event, no, but my excuse of wanting to stay home to write or my inability to look presentable in this God awful heat or me just not liking you all that much will never, ever suffice. You probably don’t want to hear it anyway.

You look great (wearing those pleated khakis, with a home perm, in your new electric blue Geo Metro, with inch-thick liquid eyeliner). I tell you this simply because I don’t know you well enough to say otherwise. If I did, and my friends can vouch for this, it would be time for an intervention, with or without the help of A&E.

No, we aren’t doing anything for your birthday. I’m sorry that none of us remembered it. Better luck next year.

Yes, I like your boyfriend. I especially like the way he walks two feet in front of you and buys his beer without getting yours. Yes, of course, he could very well be the One! I say this knowing that you’ll break up in two weeks, and that then, and only then, we will split a jug of rose Gallo from Walgreen’s and I will dish about how much I wanted to twist his scrawny red neck.

I once sprayed deodorant in my office in a desperate moment that had me turning to my emergency hygiene drawer, the one that for some odd reason also houses all of my lunchtime condiments. Because the universe fools with me on a regular basis, a coworker walked in within seconds. I lied and told her the scent was from an air freshener. Now how could I help her? She gave me a puzzled look. I had left a white streak of Soft and Dri on the black fabric under each of my arms.

Lying is easier. The words that come off the cuff in our everyday save us a good bit of uncomfortable interaction. And I also think it’s acceptable, something that you shall henceforth agree never, ever to use against me in the blogosphere or at real-life drinking events. It’s okay for the 17-year-old girl to be sent to the nurse with a headache rather than the cramps that kept her up all night. You can tell your friends that their newborn is adorable, even though you’re quite sure it will never be Prom King, or Queen for that matter, whenever you finally crack the code of its ambiguous gender via pierced ears or baseball appliqué.

But I was recently lied to in a way that didn’t fit my or any other rulebooks. It was a lie by omission, something I’m pretty sure others see as the brand of lie that warrants a footnote rather than its own chapter. It required not one lie, but a series of them, the kind that require planning. That demand strategy. It demanded so much intent and so many days of avoidance that it almost boggles the mind that one would engage in so much effort rather than telling the truth.

Is it worth it? Was it worth it?

I haven’t told a lie like this in some time, and the last time I did, it began a spiral of distrust that led to me losing someone very close to me. I remember the absolute panic I felt going into it, the desperation that followed an act that I couldn’t take back, an event solely of my initiation. I was vague in my account of what had happened, telling bits and pieces in short, stuttered phrases. I vividly recall that I couldn’t look him in the eyes and talk at the same time. I also knew I was making very conscious efforts to breathe deeply just so I could get the words out. I was completely wrapped up in my own head, worried defensively only about covering myself; not losing him in the process was completely secondary. I hadn’t given a thought to his feelings or the consequences or any of that tangential crap before I did it, of course. And I remember that I was almost flippant in my apologies to him. I defended my actions. But I knew it was wrong as I went through every planned motion. And he knew. He almost knew the story to the most minuscule detail before I coughed up the information. We always know.

When you’re the liar, you are that guy we’ve all sat down to a friendly game of poker with, the overeager, smarmy one with the odd tells, the one who repeatedly claims he doesn’t understand the rules but seems to know his way around the table just fine. Not only is no one sure exactly who invited him, but he takes all the fun out of the game. And he’s an ass when he wins the pot, scooping up your cash with a sweaty snort while you give the knowing glance to your regular players. This is the guy from whom you hide your good beer in the farthest reaches of the fridge. The one you rant about after he’s cleaned you out. The one you promise will not be invited back.

I’m not playing that game anymore.

to the asshat who broke into my car last night

Now how did you know I was a quart low on drama?

Thanks. I so needed that.

If any of you are called to testify against me, please empty your cache immediately

It never ceases to amaze me just how dumb the average American murderer is. Now don’t get all stars and stripes on me; I am convinced that statistical analyses would prove the United States criminal to be exponentially less savvy than those in most other countries. There must be a Polish joke I’m missing here, but there are Baked Cheetos to eat and very little time.

I often think, in a way that a young woman who publishes her thoughts for the worldwide Interwebs probably should not, just how I would commit the perfect murder. How I’d plan his demise, because of course he would be a philandering, formerly attractive HE, how I’d dismember his body with a sawing product under five-year Kenmore warrantee, wrapping up his bits in a tarp stolen from gypsies, topped with a madras bow I purchased while wearing an Andrew McCarthy mask.
Seriously, people. Who actually Google searches “top ways to screw a dead body and blame it on your father-in-law Larry G. Guomo?” And then. Four days later. Does it? At a Motel 6 at which they use their Discover Card? No, sir. Aliens interested in your Lladro did not commandeer both your Dell and your lame credit card, my dear.

Why, for the love of God, would you stand outside your chosen crime scene and suck down a cigarette of obscure origin, say, a non-filtered smoke produced by Spam-loving Guatemalan little people? Bubble gum flavored cloves tax stamped by a progeria-suffering Montel guest? You idiot. Just like the damned career of David Caruso, the CSI Unit will find you. And if you must smoke the above and you must concurrently slaughter the humans, I’d advise you to stop tonguing the rim of your cigarettes. Both your high school photo and your redneck mama will thank you.

And stop burying your bodies in a damned remote shallow grave. How anticlimactic. Did you spend all that time in killer summer school to have your piece de resistance be a Shenandoah Valley barbeque pit? Please. Do something original. Feed your ex to the cats. Stuff the Barcalounger with a cocktail of ground limbs and his Mets bobblehead collection. Mount his genitals and tell the neighborhood children it’s an original Snuffleupagus. Just please, please fill the Court TV queue with something more interesting than the insufferable, predictable succotash that currently resides therein.

If not for your own cries of innocence, please, please do it for Kris.

SPF 0

So I'm happy to report that the creme brulee topping that encased the bulb of my nose completely chipped off last night. I almost saved the flaky goodness for show and tell with my coworkers. I thought better of it. Maybe next time.

Apparently sunburns don't happen all that often in the mid-Atlantic. At least 25 people have commented on the burn that ravaged my face and the front of both arms, as well as leaving me with an unattractive sock line on only one ankle. The rarity of these burns, like finding a straight man at Ikea, prompted one stranger to exclaim, "Oh my God, LOOK AT THAT!" which in turn prompted me to search the horizon for Godzilla, and the convenience store woman, who always thinks I want to buy Marlboros even though I only buy soda from her, to recoil and cry, "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE?!?" while making circling motions like she was exfoliating with a belt sander. I promptly checked for a third eye upon returning to my desk. All clear.

My Monday night date was kind enough to say that my face looked fine, and when I called him out on his gentle lies upon returning from the bathroom, he acknowledged that he could only make out three of the blisters camping on my nose. We like.

an open letter to dudes

dear dude,

you know how you have preferences about things? like how you like hardee's way more than arby's, and how you are the only man on the planet who still wears tightie whities given that you like how they "swaddle your junk"? right, well me not wanting to have kids is so much more than that.

you know how you just know in your heart that you want to live your life with both of your testicles? it's like that.

and how you know in your heart that the Redskins are number 1 even though they really never are? it's like that.

okay, let's recap.

i don't want to bear your children.
i don't want to raise the ones you currently have, whether they are five or 15.
and i don't want to adopt them from malawi with you.

you not listening to me is just like when the boys in the 8th grade locker room wouldn't hear it that you weren't gay.

you aren't going to change me, much like i won't change your god awful decision to name one of your cats after a lord of the rings character.

good luck with your pursuit of a barefoot woman,
kris

how to make my head pop off

Although irritating, I'm not talking about Lost having moved to 10 o'clock or people constantly telling me I'd be a great mom. I'm talking about this.

Not the fine reporting of a fellow DC Web site, mind you, but the ridiculous tendency for people to make proclamations about things not fully researched or explored. And to manipulate data to fit their view. And to speak without thinking things through.

Let's get something on the table: I am not advocating mass vaccinations; as a researcher I'm the first to say that we are not yet to that point. Instead, it's a change in attitude I'm advocating.

Your children are having sex.
And your children can get some bad things having sex.
Your female children can actually get cancer and die.
And although no one has been reporting this aspect of it, HPV can also cause your daughters to develop other painful complications that require extensive medical attention.

Wake up.

If HPV caused testicular cancer or resulted in the necessity for men to have invasive procedures such as this one, would we even be having this conversation?

Soapbox out.

Discretion

I don't think I'll ever forget the first time I walked into a host's bathroom and saw personal hygiene wipes in plain view. They weren't tucked away, as they would have been in my house, on a linen closet shelf covered by a hand towel, and then further encased in a brown paper bag labeled "Ken's extra light bulbs," so that if by some awful turn of fate the bag was discovered, no one would suspect it housed personal wipes or, God forbid, think said wipes were mine. But in that house, the box was placed on the back of the toilet between bathroom common fare like tissues and the requisite pastel hand lotion. Just a part of the decorating scheme.

This may be my neurosis, but I grew up understanding that all things of this nature were private. And by of this nature, I'm clearly referring to all things meant to or ever having touched my body. I vividly recall attending childhood sleepovers at which I'd barricade myself in the bathroom to change, only coming out when I was sure my already-worn underwear was deep in my overnight bag, safe from sure exposure when I unzipped to locate my toothbrush. The advent of puberty only compounded the complexity of my cover-up efforts: now there were bras and feminine hygiene products to be dealt with. I have hidden tampons in more places than I care to acknowledge, all to prevent the world from knowing that I was a bona fide, menstruating woman taking appropriate steps toward tackling my biological affliction (as outlined in the tiny pamphlet named Your Period: Friend or Foe? or some such nonsensical thing that all women in my age demographic seemed to receive.)

But like my wipe-displaying hosts, at some point this shyness is replaced by general apathy, and you make fewer and fewer efforts to be discreet. Sometimes three or four bras hang in my bathroom, because my lingerie chest just seems so far away in the morning, and the hardwoods in the bedroom are much colder than the tile in the bathroom, so of course logically it is more practical just to keep them closer to where I dress. I regularly tell my boss that I have cramps. My male boss. (My reserved mother spontaneously weeps in her house six miles away, unaware of the reason . . .)

And I'm clearly not the only one: a friend told me recently that while talking to a co-worker she noticed a wrapped maxi pad peeping out of the neckline of the woman's shirt. Apparently my friend interrupted her co-worker's anticipated quick run to the restroom. The moment crescendoed to ridiculous heights when, upon noticing that the pad was slowly creeping up her neck, the woman nonchalantly pushed it back under the bra strap from whence it came.

You've gotta love seeing visions of your future, I think upon hearing this story. By the age of 80 I'll probably leave the bathroom door open when my roommate has visitors and change clothes in the hallway of my nursing home. I'll go to group exercise and coffee events braless, and won't even attempt to conceal them when my breasts slip out of my waistband.

I think it might be time to move my personal wipes from the back of the toilet into their brown paper bag.

Convenient explanation

I hope this dragon's parents are more gullible than mine were.









crickets.

Unsolicited Advice

Because I wanted to.

I’ve read lately that the Gap has lost its footing in the just-missed-J. Crew market. Am I the only one who’s not shocked? Last I went to Gap, the quality of both the clothing and the perfume was on par with the intentionally less expensive, big-glasses-wearing Old Navy, and the staff seemed more interested in using their newfangled breaker breaker 1-9 headgear than in picking up the unusually wrinkled and miniature tees strewn about the place. Mr. Gap, even in college, one does desire more than washed out hoodies and 14 different cuts of the same color khakis. Just a thought.

DC, buy some plows and let’s get on with this. Love, your Jersey girl, who knows only 36+ inches really warrant a late opening.

To my local corner store guy: Why, for the love, why not organize the goods? Why just open the freezer and throw the shipments inside, whether vegetarian burrito or Lean Cuisine meatloaf or canned green beans? And sweet Jebus, for what reason did I have to wake you up from a counterside deep sleep? All that product separation wearing you out?

Paula Abdul: Xanax, baby girl. Even the cheap stuff will do.

Hi, check card, next time could you be doll and show your little blue face before mama calls to cancel you? Although I really enjoyed that little game of hide and seek we played under the car seat, next time it would be awesome to find you before I drink the rest of the good wine.

ABC, fire his ass. If any one of us had said that crap 1) at the weekly staff meeting and 2) again ON A LIVE MIC AT THE COMPANY HOLIDAY PARTY you know our asses would have been canned. And why is this different?

To Obama and Clinton: it’s time to suck it up and pair off. I had to do it with Scott Asker for 4th grade badminton and now it’s your time. You fight it? Say hello to President McCain.

John Mayer, leave the blogging and Grey’s Anatomy calls to us me. In the will of life, we got the computer and you the Jessica Simpson.

It’s just not a sofa a single woman should buy.

And Tallahassee, you know, being the capital of Florida and all, I was just thinking we could get us some more meaty news. Please don’t let this hunter have been a Bowden.

And finally, get. some. perspective.

DC Yin and Yang

No doubt about it. Yesterday was a beautiful, historic day here in Washington. Not only did the new government folk clog up my route home with their ridiculously heavy and unnecessary braking, but Nancy Pelosi was passed the gavel to serve as Speaker of the House (with a much more stylish choice of hairstyle than that last guy, I might add).

She'll be the first female in the role, the first woman to stand behind a president as he delivers the State of the Union Address to millions worldwide. As I watched last night's replay - introduced by moonlighting male Bain de Soleil model Brian Williams - I inhaled deeply, absorbing the full significance of the day. On January 4th, 2007, Ms. Pelosi indeed began to chip away at that marble ceiling. And that day signaled the dawn of the truth for which I have long waited: that women, not the feared ones, will indeed rule the world.

In other news, I find it amazing that while we can put men on the moon, women in the House, and cheese product in the middle of pretzels, idiocy still exists in our urban planning. Does it not strike anyone as ironic that while you cannot park with hazards blaring to hug a loved one in the kiss and fly departure lane at National Airport, there is an actual sitting/picnic/shoulder-borne-missile firing area at the end of one of the airport's major runways? Does that not make less sense than the closing of Polyesthers?

Where did I lose you?

I can't understand why Bug runs away when I try to braid his hair

Yeah, so I'm pretty sure I have no idea how to spend down time. Most of my people were out of town for the past two days, otherwise occupied, or keeping a safe distance from Kris: Outbreak Monkey, so I was alone a good bit. And suffice it to say I was pretty gosh darn bored. Should I have had any visitors to the abode they would have noted that I accomplished a lot - read: the bathroom sink no longer bears those strange stains and the little ones' nails are clipped and quite possibly polished - but rather than pen a Pulitzer-worthy piece or a meh post for either Web site to which I'm hopelessly devoted, I engaged in, among other things, the following:

-- Spending a good amount of time trying to dislodge tuna from the no man's land between my throat and my nose, forced there by an unexpected cough;
-- Watching a ridiculous number of episodes of the Office and Arrested Development and Body of Evidence and House and I should probably stop there;
-- Sleeping;
-- Reading old issues of Wine Spectator and most chef bios on the Food Network Home Page;
-- Napping;
-- Avoiding Constitution Avenue due to my aversion to both traffic and dead old people;
-- Baking brownies and then actually cutting them into the shapes of cats and stars.

In the 7th grade, my mother working and me many moons from a valid New Jersey driver's license, I spent a summer at home with only sporadic play dates and trips to the town pool. I read almost a book a day for those few months. During that time the smut lover in me was a sponge for the Young and the Restless (a pasttime I apparently reacquired during the recent illness with no name). I also ate my weight in Ellio's pizza given my mother's absence from the house and my complete disinterest in firing up a pan to warm up Steak Ums. And I was perfectly content.

So I'm left wondering what could be so different at 33, with the clear exception of the valid driver's license and the use of tampons.

The irony is not lost on me. When I am running ragged I absolutely beg for time in the quiet. If I could just sit down for 20 minutes and watch a movie or the 80 things I have recorded. I haven't seen my parents in a week and haven't dusted the bedroom in at least 12. Do the cats even have any litter and when did Cricket start drinking wine?

But when all those things are taken care of, then what?

Overkill

Am I the only one finding herself overwhelmed, disgusted and disturbed by the stimulus overload that is the repeated graphic video of Saddam's execution? Saturday morning television, indeed.

Driven crazy

Just home from Orlando, I left the apartment today only to pick up groceries (read: tomato sauce and wine) to find that my beloved car needed to be reinspected by this Tuesday.

Ugh.

When she failed her initial inspection, the actually very helpful DC DMV peeps gave me a bright orange paper that outlined the "drive cycle," a series of steps designed to both 1) reset something or other within the bowels of the car so she can pass with an A++, and 2) humiliate the victim driver, who must go through the following hoops suspecting inclusion on some new version of Punk'd WHILE LIVING IN A MAJOR CITY WITHOUT TRUE BACK ROADS.

Please don't skip a line. You can't really appreciate the full magnitude of the insanity until you read each and every line. Or, rather, DRIVE THEM ON YOUR BELOVED FIRST DAY OFF. Ahem.

Accelerate part throttle to 36 mph and maintain speed for 50 seconds. Decelerate to 20 mph.

Accelerate to 30 mph and drive for 4 minutes. Decelerate to 20 mph.

Accelerate to 36 mph, drive at 35 mph for 2 minutes. Decelerate to 20 mph.

Accelerate gradually to 26 mph and drive for about 3 minutes and then decelerate to 20 mph.

Accelerate to 27 mph, drive for 3 minutes, and decelerate to 20 mph.

Accelerate to 26 mph, maintain speed for 5 minutes, decelerate to 30 mph.

Accelerate to 23 mph and drive for about 4 minutes, then decelerate to 15 mph. Accelerate to 28 mph and back to 15 mph.

Accelerate gradually to 34 mph. Vary speed between 34 and 19 mph for 5 minutes. Vary speed. Decelerate from 25 mph to 15 mph.

Accelerate to 29 mph, drive for 3 minutes, decelerate gradually to 20 mph.

Accelerate gradually to 28 mph and drive for 5 minutes back to 20 mph. Accelerate gradually to 27 mph and back to 20 mph.

Accelerate to 24 mph and drive for 3 minutes decelerate back to 15 mph. Accelerate gradually to 22 mph and back to 10 mph. [Emphasis not mine, but I can personally, without a doubt, certify it as excellent placement nonetheless.]

Accelerate gradually to 30 mph, drive for 5 minutes then decelerate to 20 mph.

Accelerate to 25 mph and drive for 5 minutes, decelerate back to 20 mph.

Do not shut the engine off after the drive cycle has been completed and during the drive cycle!

Has your head exploded yet? Oh, right. I forgot that one final step.

Just prior to completely losing it, mostly due to the stares and ridicule and middle fingers of fellow drivers on 395 who somehow fail to comprehend that hazards mean I probably won't be speeding up, so freaking pass me already, asshat!, drive on empty stomach on verge of hypoglycemic crisis with engine still running and minimal gas to one and only DC Inspection Station to find that they closed only minutes earlier and the computers are already shut down. Please come back on Monday morning at 6 am, when we'll be more than happy to serve you.

Oh --

And be a peach and repeat the drive cycle before you come in again.

I'm pretty sure even Pa Ingalls had diversity training

Friday night was planned to include paid comedy and Points-friendly eating and imbibing. The Best Friend and I began the evening at a chain restaurant with a run in with an old friend and three Points worth of Miller Lite. Eat your hearts out, Carrie and Samantha.

Halfway through our mildly appetizing, fully Iceburg salads, the manager approaches. Are you ladies enjoying your evening?

Miller Lite Girls: Yes. (My brain continues: Now let us finish these drinks and order the next round before happy hour prices run out.)

He lingers with a smarmy smile. Can I ask you a question? This guy looks like his lunch table sent him to talk to us on a bet.

The Best Friend and I exchange knowing glances. (Read: Sweet Lord we know what the question is, because you’ll find it too rude to ask Kris about how it feels to have the world’s largest chin pimple, so you must be heading for the other one of us.) At least one of us being an ex-Girl Scout, we politely offer, yes.

But there are no free drinks, no questions about how our service has been, no notification that hey, asshats, you left your lights on. Instead, Mr. Original offers, how tall are you?

Ugh. Can men ask nothing original of this woman? We get it. She’s tall. In the 15 years we’ve known each other, we have often thought of creating some sort of stats nametag for her: I’m 6’1”, no basketball, no volleyball, now leave me alone before I kick your ass and choke you with your own flare.

The Best Friend coughs up her stats with a smile. Thank goodness the beer has reached her bloodstream.

You are tall! You taller than me! You know what? We have the training staff this weekend. He clearly finds himself hilarious. This guy probably loves him some Carrot Top. He continues, I asked trainee if he seen anything he had questions about, never seen before, and you know what he said?

The Best Friend and I check for escape routes. Seeing none, we continue drinking beer and waiting for the punchline.

Most unfortunately, he continues. Trainee said, ‘why is it that when you see the tallest woman you then see the shortest man?’

And then, oh, yes – wait for it! I promise, it’s worth it! – he turns away from laughing at the Best Friend (who we're guessing at this point to be the "tall" portion of the equation) and proceeds to POINT HIS FINGER AT A LITTLE PERSON SITTING NEXT TO US AT THE BAR.

Crickets.

Crickets.

Oh cripes. Let’s be honest. These were full blown cicadas.

Gone are the days of yore when out of sheer reactivity the Best Friend and I used to a) attempt to educate the masses on how rude rudeness really is, b) embark on a drunk screaming fest regarding the rock these people must call home, or c) spend the rest of the night rhetorically asking just what they would have said if someone had rudely pointed out their accents or botched highlights or halitosis.

With happy hour almost up, the Best Friend simply stated, “I guess it's just the balance of the universe.”

Brilliant. And this seemed to satisfy Rudeness, as It was next seen smarmying away from the table to report back to Trainee.

I couldn’t help thinking of yet another way we might achieve a little balance in our universe. Sadly, I don't think he was wearing any flare.

And on the third day, God created the airhead.

HR notified me today that in my first act as Newly-Employed Thirtysomething, I designated myself as my own life insurance beneficiary.

Play that funky music white girl

I arrived at the weekend with a need to burn off steam. I found myself a) unemployed, and in that state following one of the most stressful weeks of work on record, and b) with an awful post-cruise cold, likely picked up from one of the many coughing-sans-coverage passengers on my 767. Saturday arrived, and with it the promise of a Redskins playoff game. The beau and I had a tiff that day, so in true Kris fashion, I donned my largest boyfriend-defiant hoop earrings, took his beer out of my fridge, and headed to the Best Friend's house for some football and Baked Lays.

I'm convinced that Redskins football is literally in her blood, the promise of a Super Bowl ring something that pulled her through the days of the clots. With each passing play, the two of us drank more cheap beer, cheered our hearts out, sang the Redskins fight song, drank the rest of the white wine, made the cat cheer much to his chagrin, drank red wine, broke open champagne, and danced. Yes, my friends. A la Bridget Jones, we two solo females got our groove on right there in her 50's kitsch-filled Arlington pad, courtesy of her excessive drunken iTunes downloading, while her tailless cat hid in the kitchen.

From the moment the Best Friend started playing her AC/DC air guitar, I knew it was SO on. I spent those first few seconds contemplating the dance moves that would follow. Ohhhh, yeah.

She was a fast machine
She kept her motor clean
She was the best damn woman I had ever seen

I recall there being a lot of hip movement at this point, the old reliable college move that, accompanied by a badass game face, could definitely pass for dancing in the right lighting.

She had the sightless eyes
Telling me no lies
Knockin' me out with those American thighs

I took it up a notch, introducing Rockettes kicks into my routine, puffing with pride that my legs could clear the height of the sofa.

Taking more than her share
Had me fighting for air
She told me to come but I was already there

Shake it! Now back to the hips. And some booty shaking with the arms high over the head. Man, I probably looked hot, Claire's Boutique hoop earrings and all.

'Cause the walls start shaking
The earth was quaking

BRING IT!

My mind was aching
And we were making it and you -

My sassy hips crescendoed with the music, and I decided it was time to bring out the big guns. I hadn't attempted it since college, but it was time once again for the worm.

You shook me all night long

Hands strategically placed on my hips, I attempted to let the hard rock genius flow from the soles of my black Chucks up to my pursed lips.

But something went terribly wrong.

Yeah you, shook me all night long

The smooth, 20-year-old hip action was no longer there, and it was replaced by a jerking motion that made me appear to be in the front row of a certain fitness enthusiast's Sweating to the Aussies.

Working double time
On the seduction line
She was one of a kind, she's just mine all mine

I was in bad shape. Bucking to and fro out of control, I tried to think quickly, and in my tipsy haze did the only thing I could think of to save myself: I pulled out the thumbs.

She wanted no applause
Just another course
Made a meal out of me and came back for more

That's right: the thumbs. I had reverted to the Solid Gold kiss of death and there was no way out. I found myself sashaying to the right, pausing at the end with a raised right foot and hitchiking move of dramatic proportions.

Had to cool me down
To take another round
Now I'm back in the ring to take another swing

I checked to see if the shades were down and if my friend still appeared too drunk to notice me.

'Cause the walls were shaking
The earth was quaking

And now that I had gone the whole way right, there was no way out other than to thumb my way back to the left.

My mind was aching
And we were making it and you -

The song lasted another couple of minutes, and I cut my losses by hopping around in a circle Flatley style throughout the entire chorus and lengthy guitar solo. I was winded with anxiety, and mortified that my dance moves were so bad. Hi, my name is Kris, and I am a twentysomething no more. I contemplated going to buy my first pair of elasticized pants from Penney's.

In hindsight, I'm proud to say that I never resorted to biting my lower lip while the thumbs were in play, a middle-age dance move best displayed with a loosened tie at weddings.

But let's be honest with each other, friends. It's really only a matter of time.

Most forgettable, that's what you are.

Within a two-hour period on Sunday, I ran into three people who I have met on separate occasions within the past four months. Each of these individuals reintroduced themselves to me, stating emphatically that it was so good to meet me. "But we've met before," I wanted to say. "Don't you remember?"

To one, "it was a warm evening in October. You were having a cocktail in a scotch glass and I distinctly recall that there was a lime resting on the ice cubes. We discussed the gentrification of DC, how a neighborhood can be turned into an entirely new world within the span of five years. As evidence of your tightly-knit community, you told me about sitting your neighbor's cat - a man whose name I distinctly recall to be James - anytime he is on travel for work. I remember you mentioning the year you bought your apartment, and the irony of the story of the teacher who made the sale. How does the memory of even my face elude you?"

Context clues be damned (e.g., you have been a friend of the beau for years, you spent last Thanksgiving with my family in this very same house), this has happened to me since the dawn of time. I find it infuriating. It's also slightly confusing, given the fact that I have a face that many have told me is not run of the mill. You see, I have been afflicted with a chin that can only be explained as the likely result of my mother being a comedy club groupie in the early 70s. It is paired with a nose that lacks both cartilage and structure; think a ball of Play Dough smashed with a frying pan. I'm not easy to forget.

What might be even more insulting to my ego is that people cannot place the content of our discussions. I find many of these brief, informal encounters to be some of the richer interactions I have in life. The five-minute discussion with the housekeeper in Toronto who tearfully recounted a teaching life left behind in India. The colleague with whom I braved an uncomfortable icebreaking exercise. The couple whose Pleasantville role assumptions made me alarmingly uncomfortable while apparently working beautifully for them. The close friend of an ex who spent at least three days on my couch during his last visit.

I think if we're honest with ourselves, we will collectively admit to remembering exactly what we ordered the last time we went to IHOP. I bet most of us recall to the penny how much the last gallon of gas was that we got on the cheap. But isn't life in the human details?

Maybe therein lies the key. More unleaded plus and Belgian waffles coming to a memorable Kris conversation near you.

Hit me with your best . . . spit

Dear unidentified male,

Good morning. I hope this rant finds you well.

It is such a beautiful day today. The leaves are just turning and as the weather people are prone to say, "it's unseasonably warm." Young tikes are enjoying a sleepy dawn on the playground. Yes, those are cumulus clouds you see. That's right, the ones that look like Mickey. The scene is virtually unblemished, with the exception of one tragic thing: YOUR DISGUSTING AND INEXPLICABLE NEED TO SPIT GLOBS OF MUCOUS ON THE GROUND DESPITE VIRTUALLY EVERY SOCIAL NORM DICTATING TO THE CONTRARY.

I do not enjoy stepping in it.
I do not enjoy gagging as I repeatedly pass it while walking in the park.
I do not enjoy watching said children swirl it around with a stick.

This is not acceptable behavior whether in your suit or workout clothes.
It is only appropriate should you find yourself a) finishing the Tour de France ahead of Lance Armstrong, or b) birthing a child in the street.

And I'm guessing it will be a while before either of those happens for you.

So as the Olsen twins once said as chubby cherubs: CUT. IT. OUT.

In other news, I'm not sure I can take the sexual tension on the Office much longer. I'm either going to have to force those two to make out or start rubbing up against my office copier.

WWJD?

I can't be entirely sure, but I'm guessing the one sticker He'd put on his truck wouldn't be of Calvin and Hobbes peeing on Satan.