So much for sisterhood.

Of the ladies in the engineering girl gang, Margie is the most technical. I can follow most explanations, and Excel is my sweet, sweet lover; if you want a methodical, clean and accurate problem solution, Tracy’s your girl. But I think we all agree that Margie has the best engineering intuition and is the most hardcore of us. She brings that to everything she does, so when she decided to sell her house, we knew she would take a very rational approach.

Her rational approach led her to interview a few realtors, but she didn’t like the results of her search. She’s lesbian (which I don’t get at all, because she is totally pretty enough to get herself a man) and would rather hire a woman or even better, a lesbian. But the ones who came by hadn’t prepped or spoke in upspeak or apologized all the time. Margie showed up at lunch disgusted. "I didn’t just hire a man," she said. "I hired The Man. Fortyish WASP. I can’t believe my seller’s commission is going to The Man. But he was prepared and professional and the others weren’t."

"It might turn out for the best." I consoled her. "There are lots of big numbers involved in selling a house, and it’s important to get those right. You’ll want a man for that."

"I know!" said Tracy. "What if there are interest rates or present values? Those are complicated. Better to leave them to a man."

"You know what?" I asked, "If you have a man to do the hard numbers part, then you and your ladyfriend can focus on the important things, like whether the pillows match the paint colors when you show the house."

"Or if the flowers accent the pillows and the paint!"

"If you have a man realtor, he can tell you about the house you are looking at. You know, if anything that needs to be fixed."

"Better yet, he can just call your Daddy and tell him! Then your Daddy can call you and explain what the man-talk meant and what you should pay someone to fix your new house."

Tracy and I weren’t done, but Margie was. She made fun of some very personal things about me and Tracy, and threatened not to help us when we’re stuck on some difficult calculation. We stopped ‘cause we knew we’d need her help someday. Just like she needs a man to sell her house.

Anthony, you're so strong and handsome. Poke this beehive!

It might help my cause with the wives of my Ultimate teammates if I weren’t telling their husbands to be less whipped and more of a man. They’re forever “checking in” and “asking the wife” and I say that’s just weak. I was coaching Anthony, for example. At a Saturday morning pick-up, I invited him and his wife to a dinner party that evening.

Anthony: “I’ll ask Jess when I get home and we’ll call you.”

Megan: “You’ll decide if you want to go and let Jess know your decision when you get home.”

Anthony: “That’s funny. No seriously, I think we can make it, but I’ll ask Jess.”

Megan: “You’ll tell Jess.”

Anthony: “Have you seen my wife? Beautiful, terrifying?”

Megan: “Yeah. Poised, long braid, smart. Makes great desserts…”

Anthony: “Could level forests with a glance...”

Megan: “Who’s the man here? Here, we’ll practice. Say after me, ‘Honey, we’re going to Megan’s tonight.’ ”

Anthony: “Honey, Megan invited us to dinner tonight.”

Megan: “Honey, I’ve decided. Dinner at Megan’s tonight.”

Anthony: “Honey, want to have dinner at Megan’s tonight? It’ll be all Ultimate players, but they promise not to talk about it.”

Megan: “Listen, wife. Make something to bring to dinner at Megan’s tonight.”

Anthony couldn’t even say that. He was laughing too hard at the very idea. I kept a straight face the whole time but inside I was laughing too. I was hoping I could get Anthony to go home and be forceful. Just the idea is funny. I would never fuck with Jessica. She’s awesome, entirely gracious, but if she turned to me with an angry voice or stern look, I would run away very fast. She helped him out that day. She called me to rsvp; said that Anthony informed her they were going to dinner at my house. No doubt.

Imaginary grooms don't have preferences.

I went to a wonderful wedding yesterday. The light was beautiful; the bride and groom well beloved; the favors were frisbees; the bride’s father brought his shotgun. You just don’t see that enough. After the toasts, the groom stood up to thank us for coming. He started to cry as he said how wonderful it was to have so many of the people he loved in one room.

I have always thought that must be one of the most amazing things about your wedding, so many people you love in one place. For the past few years I’ve thought the usual wedding format wastes that opportunity. I’m almost too superstitious to write about the wedding I want. But at this point there’s nothing to jinx, so I’ll tell you that if I do get to have a wedding, I am making the most of it. One evening with so many people I love around me is not nearly enough. Being too busy to visit with people is crap. I figure a wedding is the only time you have enough clout to summon everyone and I’m keeping them for the whole weekend.

I want everyone in one place and that’s pretty much all I care about. Flowers, colors, wedding party? Whatever. Games and chatting and yummy food? Absolutely. My friends and family are fun and brilliant and goofy; they would like each other. Presumably my groom’s friends are just as great, so I’ll want to spend more time with them. My secret fantasy, with the imaginary money, is to rent a bed and breakfast for the weekend and fill all the rooms with our guests. Ultimate in the mornings, picnics all the time, hanging out in the lobby, dancing at night -- I’ve got the weekend all planned. Somewhere in there, I’ll have to remember to fit in a twenty minute ceremony.

I wouldn't trade it.

Some kind person left this comment under the entry about fun:

I stumbled upon your blog quite by accident, and just wanted to say that you are strikingly beautiful.

I hope you find the fun you are looking for, and have an outstanding life.

I am flattered and grateful. Thank you. But I also hope those ideas aren’t linked; surely the author isn’t wishing me an outstandingly fun life because I am beautiful.

I am very pretty. I have been since I grew through an excruciatingly awkward puberty. It is an amazing gift. Being pretty adds a constant note of grace to my life. I’m sure it eases all my interactions in ways I don’t realize. Being pretty is also nothing I have earned. It is not an accomplishment and I don’t deserve any of what it brings. I don’t deserve an outstanding life for being pretty, or assumptions that I am a better person, or free stuff, or strangers demanding my attention, or jealous assumptions that I’m poaching someone’s man, or the slight but frequent pressure of being under a gaze.

I almost never bring the pretty. My clothes are nondescript and comfortable. I rarely wear makeup. My hair goes in a ponytail as soon as it is dry. I try to never interact with people on the basis of my appearance. If I ignore it and be goofy and enthusiastic or dorky and technical or even just regular, people will usually follow those cues; soon I’m one of the guys again. I occasionally want to use the pretty for some purpose. I’ll get dressed to host a party, when being beautiful casts a glamour on the evening and offers respect to my guests. I loved being trophy on my ex’s arm because I wanted to reflect well on him. I desperately wanted to be beautiful to him, some to keep his attention and some to give him the pleasure of my appearance.

There are good ways and bad ways for me to look beautiful. When I was in college I competed with the taekwondo team. Twice a year I would drop weight to fight as a middleweight. Twice a year I would watch as people stared more at me, stopped me more on the street, paid more compliments, paid more attention to me. By coincidence, the threshold where men started acting very strange was within a pound of my goal weight. The last week before nationals, when I was fasting to lose the last pound, men would turn to walk backward, walk into things, come up to me but say nothing, tug on my clothes and hand me things. I was coming home from workout late night a couple days before my last nationals, when I walked past a group of men. One guy, overweight, redhead, was watching me approach, so I caught his eye and smiled. Completely involuntarily, he shouted in full voice “YOU’RE GORGEOUS!”. Of course I thanked him, but by the time I got home I was so mad I was shaking. “That’s it? That’s all I have to do? Work out three hours a day, six days a week, for months? Not eat for a week? Hurt all the time? And for that, you’ll think I’m pretty?” It is not worth it.

By contrast, the picture in my profile is one of the best I have ever taken. I hope that is what my friends see when they look at me, because I can only think that picture came out like it did because I was with so many people I love. Every good thing in the world was happening just as Chris took that picture. Christy was finishing making apple pie. Anand and I were drinking margaritas and playing cards; we were about to deal Joe in. Dan and Eric were talking on the couch. Chris was wandering through, taking pictures of us to put on Hot or Not. We had another night and day left in the weekend, all talking in combinations and sleeping in a pile, and I knew we were so lucky to be together. In that picture I am laughing and joyful and that is how I want to be beautiful.

That's right. Long AND fluttery.

I got this today, from my running partner Ali.

peanut,

please consider joining me & some other people this evening to celebrate the 24th anniversary of my birth. I realize this is very last-minute, but i would love to see your pretty ass this evening & feed you delicious bread dipped in herbed olive oil and then hold your hand as we waltz our way to the kasbah lounge where i can put my legs across your lap and look deep into your eyes as i exhale white billows of water-filtered tobaco smoke into sensuous rings around your um, clavicles?

thinking of your long, fluttery eyelashes,

ali

xox

Every last one of you, listen up. If you are not sending me invitations like this, I am skipping your lame get-together to go running with her. I don't know why she calls me Peanut, but I do know she gets mad if I call anyone else Sugar.

And we need a lead singer.

The show I went to on Monday night was David Grisman, playing the mandolin with his jazz quintet. I should keep quiet and let you assume that I am a terribly cultured person who goes to jazz quintets all the time. But it was Roxie who told me David Grisman was playing, and I mostly went because I mistakenly thought it would be bluegrass.

I was raised on bluegrass and old-timey gospel music. My Dad was a college radio DJ during the folk revolution and loved bluegrass ever after. It was what my parents played around the house, both on the stereo and my Dad’s mandolin. By the time I got to high school I had found KROQ, but growing up I thought it was normal for nominally Jewish kids living in Los Angeles to know hundreds of Baptist hymns.

No one was more surprised than I was when O Brother became popular. I had gone way into the closet with my tastes in bluegrass music. In college, if I was homesick I might listen quietly behind closed doors, but before that movie came out my friends had zero patience for bluegrass. I still don’t expect other people to be fans, so I was thrilled to find out that lots of the crowd from Ultimate were going to Hardly Strictly Bluegrass last year.

It was during Dolly Parton’s great, great show that we decided to form a bluegrass band. My Dad gave me a mandolin, which I keep meaning to learn to play. Rox and Barb would learn to play dueling banjos. I forget all the other instruments and people, but everyone loved the idea. By the time we stopped mentioning it to people, the band had at least fourteen or fifteen people, some playing instruments that aren’t really part of a strict bluegrass tradition.

I’ve been worried about our band for months now. When we first thought of it, we all figured that we would each learn to play our instruments, practice a few songs together, and then perform in Hardly Strictly Bluegrass 2006. That seemed like an awfully high first step to me; I thought we should do some gigs first. Nothing could be more natural than for us to perform at the spring league party in June.

I realized we should perform at the spring league party back in December, and even then I thought the timing was awfully tight. There is just so much for a band to do before their first gig. At the very least we should learn to play instruments and practice in a garage. I thought we would just cover the usual four or five bluegrass songs, but Roxie tells me that we have too much integrity for that and we will perform our original pieces. I just want to know who is supposed to be writing those songs when no one is even working on the basics. By now I think we should be fighting amongst ourselves, sleeping amongst ourselves, talking about how to spend all the money we’re gonna have when the record company comes through and developing drug problems. We are desperately behind.

I refuse to call the first band meeting because I am already in charge of too much stuff. Someone else will have to take the initiative. I am sorry that the date for our first performance keeps slipping, because I am pretty sure that groupies don’t throw panties at you until after you have done a show. I am also sorry that the world is being denied a chance to hear our music. But I am not sorry enough to take on the job of managing all these irresponsible musicians.

She knows what she likes.

Roxie and I went down to Stockton to catch a show last night. We met friends of ours for dinner first. We were joined by a friend of theirs who came out because she particularly likes the Thai restaurant we went to. Seems she really likes this Thai restaurant because she can get a bowl of rice, like she always does. I sortof heard the joking about her rice, but I didn't realize it was literal until she ordered a bowl of rice and nothing else.

She was excited and happy for her plain bowl of rice. She knew it was strange, but she was entirely sure she didn't want anything else. She declined tastes of our dishes, or spoonfuls of sauce to put on her rice. She had tried new things before, she said, but they just don't work out. I liked her certainty, and I liked her even better when she started singing to herself under her breath: Rice, rice. Rice is nice, doesn't need spice, I like it twice.

Her rice song reminded me of one of my favorite poems:

Cheese is stretchy
Cheese is nice
Cheese is the last
Temptation of mice.

Love is testing me but still I'm losing it

I was lamenting to my friend Sean about my long drought. Before you go clicking away from another boring water entry, I mean a drought of a more personal nature… a bedroom nature. Sean and I agreed that it is ridiculous that I don’t have a boyfriend; I am presentable and pleasant enough. Since I’m a great girlfriend once I am in a relationship, Sean figured there must be something about my approach that I could work on.

“Meggie,” he said, “What do you wear when you are working on a guy?”

“You’re looking at it.” I said. “No,” he said, “Those are your clothes for doing chores and gardening. What do you wear when you are out where boys could see you?” When I gestured at my clothes again, he winced, which I totally didn’t get, ‘cause these are my new jeans. “Meggie,” he said, “When was the last time you dressed up?” “Oh! That was for the fall league party. I wore this tight red dress with four inch red heels and cocksucker red lipstick.” “And was there a boy you liked at the party?” “Yeah.” “What happened when he saw you in the dress?” “He jumped and spilled his drink. Someone must have bumped into him.” Sean patiently explained that no one bumped into him, and that if I want boys to notice me, I am going to have to wear girl clothes.

“Girl clothes!” I shouted. “That’s outrageous! They don’t have pockets, and you can’t sprint in them if you need to beat the light, and you can’t just throw them on from the previous day because they get wrinkled! Besides, the colors have to match and you have to wear jewelry, and that takes like twenty minutes!” I can patiently explain things too, so I pointed out all the ways that girl clothing is a repressive tool of the patriarchy to physically restrain women and keep them from full actualization by requiring them to spend their time on stupid shit like earrings. Sean didn’t argue, but he did force me to make an unpleasant choice between fighting blatant injustice and getting some horizontal actualization of my own.

Moving on, Sean asked me how I flirt with the guys I like. “Well, you know how I am usually friendly and smiley and I talk about dorky things? Just like that, only more.” “So if you saw a guy you liked…” “I would probably give him a hug like everyone else, and then tell him about the things I’ve been thinking about recently. Like right now I’m super into Geoffrey Chaucer’s blog, so I would be all ‘hah, hah, hah, and then, he makes fun of John Gower, hah hah’.” “And you still don’t score?” said Sean. “Remarkable.”

Sean told me that I have inadvertently crossed over into one-of-the-guys territory. He listed flirting techniques that might get me out of there. “Do you flip your hair? Giggle? Ask him to get you a drink? Smile demurely? Hit him on the arm?” Now THAT was interesting. “Hit him on the arm? Like a jab, or more of an uppercut? Should I kick him, too?” “Not like that”, said Sean, and he demonstrated with sortof an openhanded swat on the arm.

Gentle reader, I did taekwondo for thirteen years. During college I trained with the team twenty-five hours a week. It would be impossible to count the punches I’ve thrown or the hours I’ve spent with a heavy bag. I have broken boards and a brick with a punch. It has been many years since then, but I imagine I could still return to the gym and learn to box in a matter of months. Those skills aren’t entirely gone, but I am quite sure that I could never learn to swat men on the arm.

Sean persevered. “Meggie, is there anyone you flirt with?” “Oh yeah,” I said. “I flirt with lesbians all the time.” “What do you do?” “Oh, it changes. Sometimes I walk up boldly and look them up and down real slow, then nod, all satisfied. Sometimes I’ll smile shyly, and look down, and look back and blush. I’ll hold eye contact while I tuck my hair. Wearing a shirt that shows downtown Cleveland seems to make me clumsy, ‘cause I just keep dropping things…” “And do they like you?” “Oh man, dykes love me. They’re always hanging on me and asking for sugar. If I only liked the ladylovin’ I would be all set.” “Meggie, that’s it! You just have to do that with men.” “Do that with men… I could never… they would totally get the wrong id- HEY!”

So, dear readers, there is hope for me yet. Perhaps one of you is the dorky gentleman for me. When we meet, there is a good chance that I will revert to my awkward ways. If I am bringing up esoteric shit and asking about your dissertation, please understand that I am flirting with you. If, on the other hand, I am looking at you through lowered lashes and gasping at your wicked lines, please understand that I am imagining you as an especially butch lesbian. Either way, your prospects are good. Go ahead and put the moves on, ‘cause this drought has got to end.

Thanks, guys.

Sometimes, when you work in an engineering girl gang, they send you spiteful little graphs.

I just love to help.

I walked by Tracy’s cubicle the other day, while she was at a meeting. She had left the presentation she was working on up on her screen; the title of the otherwise blank slide said: New Process. I don’t know if I have ever seen such a plaintive cry for help, and in seconds Margie and I were there for her. We weren’t sure what her presentation was about, but we sure knew what the new process would be.

New Process
• Maximize synergy by sharing multiple benefits between a nexus of coalescing stakeholders.
• Utilize a systems-based approach to develop holistic solutions.
• Increase efficiency by integrating our strategic, multi-faceted knowledge base.

It can’t fail. No, Tracy, don’t thank us. That’s what friends are for.

Kaimana III - High spirits

My team gave me the Spirit award this weekend. Some of it was probably because I wasn’t one of the better players. Some of it was probably because it was my birthday on Saturday. But I mostly got the Spirit award because they loved my New Year’s resolution to drink more.

We were putting on cleats for our first game on Saturday when it came out that it was two of our birthdays. When someone asked what we were going to do about that, my good friend Tracy threw me to the wolves. “Well, she did make a New Year’s resolution to drink more.”

Oh man, they loved that. Screw working out more or being on time. Drinking more was the best resolution ever, and how did I ever think of it? I knew it was a mistake, but the words just came out: “It’s just, you see, that I started drinking so late, and I have so much to make up for, and you know, I’ve never been drunk.”

I knew that would be bait, but I didn’t know it would turn those lovely girls into sharks. I’ve never been drunk, it was my birthday, we’re in Hawaii and the party has an open bar? Val had a new mission; sweet Bridget immediately offered to hold my hair; Mac said that maybe I was the kind of person who could live with myself if I didn’t uphold my resolutions, but she wanted better for me. Honestly, there hasn’t been such ferocious interest in my virginity since I was one of the few girls at a math/science high school.

The booze leis appeared at our 8:30 game the next morning, and we finished those right after the game. But I was mostly worried about the party, and with good cause. Rookies, if a friendly Ultimate player ever casually suggests that you couldn’t finish a frisbee’s worth of beer, do NOT take her up on it. A full frisbee holds an entire pitcher, and those girls brought three frisbees of vodka and cranberry juice back to our team table. I shared as best I could, but they kept coming back to me.

I’m not sure why, but I didn’t feel much from the drinks that night. I escaped to dance, and a torrential rain gave me good reason to return to my tent. I still don’t think I’ve been drunk, but I’ve now had a team of girls pounding the table and chanting for me to drink. And I don’t know if it counts as a morning eye-opener, but two mixed drinks before noon on a Sunday has to be good progress.

Sadly, for all of the intense interest in relieving me of my sobriety, no one paid the slightest mind to my other virtue. It was a fun weekend, but there was no birthday nookie for me.

S.O.S.

I left work with a headache and a mile-long To Do list. Top item on my list: get a room in Honolulu for tomorrow night. Kaimana is this weekend. I told the Sac women's team that I would go months ago, bought plane tickets weeks ago, and somehow just realized this week that I get in too late on Friday to go straight to the fields. I meant to get to it this week, but for some reason, I painted my front bedroom instead. So my house is exploded, with bedroom furniture and painting stuff everywhere. I haven't begun to pack for four days of camping in Hawaii. I have vaguely thought through how I'm going to get to SFO. When I went to look for hotel rooms, the cheapest room available is for $638 per night. I nearly cried.

I hate to ask for help. I hate it. I'll do a ridiculous amount of work by myself to avoid asking for help. I really, really hate to ask for help when I desperately need it. I don't know why it is so hard for me just to ask. I help other people a lot. Ride to the airport? Moving day? House sit? No problem. I truly don't mind helping other people, so I should assume that they don't mind helping me.

I couldn't think of any other options tonight, so I started making calls. Roxie said she would check on my cat, and told me everything would be OK. Drew suggested I send my gear ahead with other team members and he would set up my tent. My true knight in shining armor is Tracy, who will pick me up from the airport and let me stay in her room for the night. Chris came over and we rearranged two bedrooms to make my house habitable again. Getting help works so damn well!

My kind friends transformed my evening, house and vacation. I'm getting excited about playing again, and about girlie drinks with umbrellas, and pretty Ultimate boys. I'm also kinda excited that when I get home, my house will be all new and shiny. I'll be back next week, and I'll be sure to tell you everything.


(Maybe I should think some about why I've been so uninspired by this trip that I couldn't be bothered to make minimal arrangements for it. Not looking forward to a solo trip to Hawaii? Not ready to return to playing in tournaments? Don't want to travel in general?)

Mi casa es su casa, guapo.

If you have been to my house a few times, it is very likely that you know where I keep the emergency key. As I show people where I keep the key, I explain to them what constitutes an emergency. It is an emergency if you are in Midtown and would like a beer. It is an emergency if you are in Midtown and have time to kill before your next destination. It is an emergency if you are driving to Tahoe and feel hungry. If you are Chris, it is an emergency if you need another CD player for your Space Party.

Jean-Michel is the only person who has really internalized the purpose of the emergency key. He lives in Davis with his girlfriend, and last summer it was easier for him to come here after work and before practice. I completely loved walking up to my house and seeing him on the porch couch, reading one of my books. On one occasion he surprised me, coming out of my bathroom freshly showered and dressed, when I hadn't known he was here. What a great precedent! I love the idea that beautiful men break into my house to shower. I can't think of a better use for the emergency key.

It's practically a documentary.

I mentioned this blog to my friend Anthony, who dug up an old email from me. In his original email, he wanted to know if he had been traded from a team I was captaining to a team Tracy was captaining. You also need to know that the theme of the league was underdog sports movies; the teams were named for movies like Rocky, Breaking Away, Cutting Edge, Coach Carter.

Anthony wrote:
Did I get traded on the DL? I thought I was on your team... I am now on Cutting Edge. (No problem, just confused in this new world of free agency and separate leagues.)

And what happened to Honey? I wanted to be on Honey.
:)

Peace,
Anthony

I answered him with:
Hey Anthony,

You did get traded on the DL. Tracy and I both wanted you on our teams so bad. When we were lotioning each other the other day, we decided just to wrestle for you. I did the best I could, but she SO cheated.

I'm sorry. Honey didn't work out. Although she valiantly overcomes her difficulties, the problems she faces are more sociological (with roots in our class and race-divided society, not to mention the objectification of her body and the systemic patriarchal undervaluing of her talent for choreography) than a mere physical contest. We'll keep her in mind for a league focusing on persistent societal problems: Motorcycle Diaries, Salaam Bombay, Bowling for Columbine, Honey.

Hope your ankle is feeling better.

Megan


Now I am ashamed that the whole internet knows I saw Honey.

"He did NOT! What did you say?!"

It sucked this past December, when I finally had to admit that he wasn’t just acting like he wasn’t interested in me. When I got home, I especially wanted to talk it over with an old friend. She’s a sweet good person, so I knew she would do all of the following things:

listen to my story as if it were interesting
laugh at me for being ridiculous
tell me about the time she did the exact same thing
find compassionate motives for everyone involved, while
saying that he made the mistake of his life.

We see eye to eye on most things, so I wasn’t surprised that we agreed on the moral of the story. “You know,” she said gently, “we all play every role at some point.” I laughed and laughed, because I had just thought exactly that. Only I said it as “Everyone’s bitch to someone.”

Maybe today I'll get to the Post Office. Sorry, hon.

I’ve been supposed to send Anand’s cell phone charger back to him since Thanksgiving. Instead, I send him the occasional update.

A few weeks ago:
Well, I am pleased to say that there has been some real progress on Operation Home on the Range. About a month ago, your charger was boxed neatly, and the box was taped. The sealed box went down to Los Angeles for a week, and then returned safely to Sacramento. Just this very morning, the box was addressed (black scented marker), and clear tape affixed over the address.

I think these are definite breakthroughs, and am optimistic that an agent could carry the addressed box to a post office ANY DAY NOW to mail it to Dallas.

If you get a new job and move first, please inform headquarters.

Megan


Bulletin, 31 January 2006, 13:00pm PST.
Phone charger held on terrorism charges
After weeks of misinformation, the Department of Homeland Security admitted they have been holding Anand’s cell phone charger for suspected terrorist activities. The charger is a known accomplice of Anand’s cell phone, which was the device used in communications critical of the President’s energy policy, Texas barbecue, and driving alone to work in SUV’s. The phone charger has not been allowed to contact his family, and has been held in isolation in a cell he describes as “little more than a box”.

Homeland Security denies violating Amendments IV, V and VI of the Bill of Rights, pointing out that the phone charger is not an American citizen. “This phone charger was built in China, and never naturalized. The Constitution affords him no protections against search and seizure, no guarantee of a speedy trial of his peers, no right to know the charges against him.” Homeland Security says the Geneva Conventions for prisoners of war also don’t apply to the phone charger: “Geneva Conventions? They aren’t for appliances that know appliances that were used to discuss heresies against our American way of life.”

Homeland Security refused to agree to a release date for Anand’s phone charger. “Considering the threat terrorism poses to Americans every day, it is not too much to ask Democrats to go without their preferred means of communication until this danger passes. Besides, if he can’t be talking on his phone, he can’t be calling George W. Bush a freakin’ moron. He’ll get his phone charger back when he gets it back.”

Grrrl power!

I wrote to my pretty friend as soon as I heard that a longtime crush would be bringing his new girl to an event I was arranging.


Megan:
HATE being gracious. I'll just have to be smiley and nice. I HATE that.

Pretty Friend:
I know!
I totally hear you!
I can be mean and nasty for you, if you want...*

Megan: No, no. Let's just be fake and pleasant to her face, and then really mean behind her back. I like to do it that way, because when I have other people to make fun of, I feel better about myself. Also, it’s nice to have a group of girlfriends who will tear other women down, instead of supporting the sisterhood.

Pretty Friend: I meant to him! But I'm totally good at pulling hair too, if you want me to go after her!

Megan: Sweet. We could take her. And remember? We only blame other women, not men, who are sweet and naïve and can't be held responsible for their choices.

Pretty Friend: You should be chair of the women's studies program in Berkeley!! Those bitches over there don't know what they're talking about!



Fortunately, the event was rained out. I didn’t have to be classy after all.

*This was a lie. She couldn’t really be mean and nasty to anyone.