Waking up is hard to do

For whatever ungodly reason, having moved to NoVA has completely disrupted my sleep schedule. Not in an "I-stay-up-until-3-AM" kind of way. No, that I can 100% handle. Kind of. In college, I distinctly remember routinely staying up until 4 AM, getting AN wink, and waking up cheery for my 10 AM class. While I don't think I'd be quite so chipper with 5 hours of sleep under my belt, I'm sure I'd be able to tough it out. No, moving has somehow made me get into the habit of waking up unreasonably early every morning. Right now, it's quarter of 8 in the morning, and I've already been awake for an hour and a half. And I don't even need to be at work until 9. And my commute lasts all of 10 minutes. This does not compute.

This isn't necessarily a problem (Think of all the wildly productive things I could do with my mornings!), it's just that I'm seven different kinds of useless before eight o'clock in the morning. I can plan in my head any number of activities for my newfound hour and a half of downtime in the mornings, but they all fade into oblivion as soon as I open my eyes in the morning. Example, this morning, having just woken up, I stumbled into the bathroom to shave. Put toothpaste on my razor. Minty fresh skin, check!

But seriously: let me tell you exactly how my mornings play out currently:
6:30 Wake up.
6:31 Look at clock, realize I've woken up at 6:30 AGAIN and groan audibly.
6:32 Turn over, put pillow on head, and try desperately to fall back asleep.
6:48 Accept I'm not falling back to sleep and curse loudly at the clock for mocking me with its cheery green numbers.
6:49 Take covers off to get out of bed, realize it's freezing in apartment, get back in bed.
7:02 Muster up enough balls to sprint the 10 feet from my warm bed to a warm shower.
7:03 Turn on shower, sit in bathroom waiting for shower to warm up.
7:10 Realize I dozed off.
7:11 Get into shower, stand directly under warm water until I have the energy to lift my arms to grab the shampoo.
7:36 Mentally scold myself for taking a 25 minute long shower.
7:45 Finally get out of warm shower into frigid bathroom.
7:47 Shave, put on deodorant, become an otherwise acceptable member of society hygiene-wise.
7:50 Try to find some sort of "business casual" outfit from the hundreds of lazy college freshman clothing I own.
8:12 Eat breakfast.
8:20 Leave insanely early to catch the Metro to work because what if today is the day it kills someone and therefore I'm late.

Honestly, I wish I was joking. But I'm not. That's very much what my mornings are like every day now. In NY, I'd casually roll out of bed 15 minutes before I had to be at work, hustle into the shower, throw on some clean clothes, and head out the door. I'm not saying I want to go to there again, but maybe I want to go to there.

On the plus side, if I became a human sooner than 7:45, I'd have an entire hour to myself in the mornings! That could be the most revolutionary hour of my entire life. Think of all the possibilities! You can't? Well don't fret, because I've got this handy list of all the possibilities right here!

1. Go to the gym. This is obviously the most prominent example of something that I could do in the morning. Every night before I go to sleep I think to myself, "Alright Chris, tomorrow is the day! You're going to wake up, throw on work out clothes, and head to the gym! You can do this!" Then there is a small fanfare and ticker tape parade in my head to get me more amped about going to the gym. And every morning, when I open my eyes, I literally just give the finger to my work out clothes and roll over. Think of all the benefits to going to the gym in the morning: endorphins, getting into better shape, etc. Plus it's super convenient to have a "gym" (or fitness center, aka AN machine) in the building. Sure, I can be a Positive Polly about this now that I'm actually awake and a functioning member of humankind, but in the mornings at 6:30 my only thoughts about the gym are: "You're going to get so sweaty. And it's probably crowded. And you'll be on the treadmill for 5 minutes before wanting to throw up your kidney." Needless to say, I am a negative person before I've showered. Some people need to drink coffee; I need to stand under running water for an extended period of time to wake up.

2. Write. God, this is a fool's errand. I'm not funny on a good day. Trying to be witty before the sun comes up is never going to happen. That's like telling an ostrich that it can fly IF it flies before it's morning meal. (See? I'm making ostrich-related similies! Even I don't know what I'm talking about!) And I'm not talking about just the blog here. My friend Emily and I had a steady email rapport during my work days in NY. Since I haven't had time to email at work at my new job, I've tried to email her in the mornings before heading out. Since moving here, my emails have quickly devolved into rants about why tables have four legs and long strings of curse words. It's not exactly what I'd call a fun email to read.

3. Watch the news. Here's a viable option, you'd think. I know as much about what's going on in the world today as a newborn baby: where I just was was so warm and dark, where I am now is cold and bright. I want to go back. Back in NYC, I watched NY1 with Pat Kiernan every morning (when I wasn't running 15 minutes late). He's just so soothing and maybe I have a huge platonic crush on him and I might be following him on Twitter. Is there anything of that caliber in NoVA. I'm not saying NY1 was a particularly great news show, but I do not need to watch people yelling at each other about the news in the mornings. I'm already yelling at inanimate objects; more people yelling is just apt to make me crankier. Which would make me the most popular person in my office.

4. Read a book. This actually might be my favorite idea so far. I like books. I like reading. This is a low impact activity to do in the morning that does not involve sweat, my personal humor, or people yelling. Here's the trouble: you remember that feeling you get when you're trying to read something for class, but all it's doing is putting you to sleep? You're eyes start to cross, you realize you've read the same sentence about 15 times and the repetition actually makes sense to you, your head is nodding. Ok, this would happen to me at 3 o'clock in the afternoon. What makes me think I'm capable of staying awake while reading a book at 6:30 in the morning. Not to mention I just woke up and cannot open my eyes any wider than a squint. Let me just pull out War and Peace. This seems like a brilliant idea. (ALSO: I have a bone to pick with Arlington, VA. Why are the libraries only open 9-5 M-F?! WTF? Sorry, nerd rant over.)

5. Prep food for dinner. Hm, not a bad idea. I've been cooking a whole lot more lately and I've been loving it. There's just something about food that you make that always makes it taste better. And think how much better that chicken would taste if it were marinating all day! Wait, this would involve the use of a knife. Prior to 7:00 AM, probably not a good idea. Veto.

6. Take up a hobby. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I'd like to get involved in a hobby. Preferably one that won't turn me into an eccentric recluse. Like ship in a bottle building. Or anything that could classify me as a hoarder. Knitting and crocheting involve far too many sharp objects for me to use so early in the morning, plus I'm about 60 years too young to think about taking up knitting. (I'm sure some of you out there knit. Or build ships in bottles. Or collect stamps/porcelain dolls/Beanie Babies/bellybutton lint. I'm not making fun of you, I'm just saying these things aren't for me.)

Welp, I've effectively talked myself out of any possible morning activity that could take up an hour of my time in the morning. I just need to reconcile myself with the fact that I'm not a morning person. And I never will be. It should also be noted that I do not drink coffee, nor do I ever intend to start. Would that vastly increase my productivity in the morning? Maybe. Would it also stunt my growth? YES. And that is a rock solid argument if I've ever heard one.

You Know What Ruffles My Feathers?

You have no idea how many times I've attempted to write this post. Because Lord knows it needed to be written; I just haven't had the strength or the stamina to be the one to do it. Now I've dissected, studied and successfully attacked some of the most irritating people in our society—Red vests; Playfully Difficult People; Smug Pugs; Backpack Rollers; Meghan McCain—and biting words normally flow right out of my head and onto this blog at an alarming rate. However, every time I sit down and try to analyze those god damn Metro Pole Leaners, I become so overwhelmed with an unprecedented amount of confusion and anger that the only thing I can manage to do is mash my keyboard with clenched fists of rage, attach this picture and call it a post:


But that's not fair. It's not fair to me, it's not fair to you and it's certainly not fair to Metro Pole Leaners. Because they deserve to have new assholes ripped thoroughly and properly and who am I to deny them that? Sigh. Look. What it all boils down to is this:

 Things that are appropriate to lean on:
- Sturdy walls
- Appropriately high safety railings
- Backs of chairs
- Counter tops
- Friends
- Family
- Bill Withers

 Things that are not appropriate to lean on:
- Plate glass windows
- Things made out of trick wood
- Jenga towers
- Stilt walkers
- A one-legged friend
- Me after a few cocktails
- METRO POLES DURING RUSH HOUR

For the sweet love of all that is holy, you can not lean on the poles in the metro during rush hour. You just. Can't. And the fact that people do everyday—morning and night!—boggles my mind and makes me question everything I've been taught about right and wrong and the definition of voluntary vs. involuntary manslaughter.

For those of you who don't live in a major metropolitan city with it's own subway system and have no idea what I'm talking about, allow me to explain. A subway (conversely called a metro, T, El etc.) is a system of transportation in which people are shot through a tunnel underground at high speeds. Having taken high school physics and shown up the day when Newton's First and Second Laws of Motion were explained, the metro car designers were savvy enough to install poles for people to grab onto in an effort to not go flying about and topple all over each other. Now I will give you this: it is genuinely more comfortable to lean against said pole than to just hold on to it with your hand. TRUE STATEMENT, yes. However, during rush hour, commuters are jammed into cars like cattle and there isn't enough room to keep your butt virginity, nevertheless enjoy little luxuries like leaning against the pole. Because when you do that, you render the entire pole useless from ass to neck for your fellow riders. And that, in a nutshell, makes you a piece of shit.

Case and point—check out this guy who graced my morning commute a few weeks ago at approximately 8:45 in the morning:


I mean, I feel like I could just post that picture and call it a day. It does all the work for me. The pole is quite literally being cradled betwixt this man's ass cheeks. Where in the name of Christ was I supposed to grab to steady myself? His ankles? The nape of his neck? I'm sorry, I wasn't aware I was on a third date, no thank you. Of course everyone around me was in the same predicament, so now not only are we all butt-fucking each other, we're also playing a massive game of human pick-up-sticks with arms going every which way, desperately trying to grab onto anything to steady ourselves. Unfortunately for me, by the time I realized Pole Fucker wasn't going to give up his precious pole real estate, it was too late and there was nothing left for me to grab. Suddenly I was in Lionel Richie's Dancin' on the Ceiling video and I had one foot on the wall, both hands on the ceiling and one leg wrapped around a total stranger, just praying to any and every god that will listen for the metro conductor to ease her into the next station and not jam on the brakes, sending me flying into an Asian man's lap.

Here's what really irritates me about Metro Pole Leaners: you could not find a more irritating, intrusive and inconvenient way to communicate to your fellow man that you just don't give a fuck. That's what MPL's are saying, by the way—"I don't give a fuck." And let me tell you something: in civilized society at 8:45 in the morning, crammed into a tiny tin can being shot through a tube at 40mph, genitals-to-ass and ass-to-genitals— you should give a fuck. I have very little hope left for society and even I feel like that's not too much to ask. I mean, you might as well whip your dick out and do pirouettes while pissing. Because that would communicate the exact same level of Dont-Give-a-Fuck to each and every individual in a 360-degree radius just as well.

I seriously show the above picture off to everybody and anybody who'll look at it like I'm a proud new mother. I am that desperate for someone to explain it to me. I was just showing it to my sister last Sunday at brunch when she brought up the point that most Metro Pole Leaners tend to be tourists who don't know any better. I personally think she's giving MPL's way too much credit because a.) I have experienced many an Executive Metro Pole Leaner in my day and b.) New York is just as touristy and I feel like when I lived there I never experienced this problem. You would have to be fucking suicidal to lean against a subway pole during rush hour in New York. This begs the question—is this yet another commuting problem unique to DC? Are we that much a city of nerds that we can't even get the courage to ask MPL's to ackrite?

It's a complicated question with an even more complicated answer. Because yes, I think we, as a city, are way too easy on MPL's. However, it's been my experience that even if you do point out to an MPL what they're doing, they still don't give a fuck. In fact, when I ask an MPL to move, 100% of the time (and I am in no way inflating that number just to get my point across) they get offended, as if I'm intruding on their space. In their minds, that's their pole and you have no business tryin' to get all up on it. MPL's are a strictly Pole Monogamous people. And that in and of itself is more mind boggling than the fact that they're on the pole to begin with! Because the metro is a mode of PUBLIC transportation. PUBLIC! Meaning for the people! You don't pay rent, asshole! GAHHHHH IT'S JUST SO FUCKING INFURIATING!!!!!1

Which is why I feel no remorse in having sucker-punched an MPL in the back of the head and urge you to do the same. Well, maybe don't punch them, but certainly don't be afraid to stand up for yourself when encountering an MPL! And if they give you shit (and they will give you shit) don't back down! Odds are everyone around you is thinking the exact same thing as you and if Jerry Seinfeld's career taught us anything it's that people have a soft-spot in their hearts for people who say what you're thinking. They'll have your back, don't worry. And even if they don't, I do. FIST PUMP OUT!

Foot on the Other Shoe.

Yesterday I was in the vortex of heat and humidity that is the Dupont metro station, just standin', mindin' my own business, not putting "g's" on the end of my words when a man walked by me. But this wasn't just any man. No no no. This man looked shockingly like Milton from Office Space. He was rotund, had an impressive comb-over, was wearing a bona fide pocket protector and of course was wheeling a rolling briefcase behind him. As if this weren't enough to ruin my morning, he wheeled his little briefcase directly over my foot and didn't apologize.

Now, I could go easily go into a rant here about the necessary eradication of briefcases with wheels and the a-fucks who roll them, but let me tell you why he didn't apologize to me (because it takes it to a whole nother level of mind boggling): he didn't apologize to me because he was too busy singing "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" from Evita. I swear to all that is good and holy, just picture this guy strolling through the metro yesterday, haphazardly dragging his briefcase behind him, singing show tunes from Evita and you pretty much have my morning down to a T:
A:

+B:

= C:


What boggles my mind the most is that he was shamelessly singing at full volume! He wasn't even wearing headphones and singing along to what he was listening to! Not like that would make it any better, just more understandable. But I will not cry for you, sir. I will not cry for you, for you just dragged the contents of your briefcase across my foot without a shred of an apology.

After work I swung by the FedEx store around the corner from my office to send out a package. The chick at the FedEx store hates me because I always write our company's FedEx account number wrong and screw things up. The middle numbers are 722 and I always write 772. As I approached the counter and handed her my package (that's what she said,) the following exchange went down:

Sassy FedEx Employee: How you doin' today?
Me: I'm OK thanks, you?
Sassy FedEx Employee: Fine. Now you sure you wrote your account number right this time?
Me: Oh yea. Sorry about that. Dyslexia: she's a cruel, cruel mistress. I mean—mistress cruel Dyslexia is!

Sassy FedEx Employee then looked up from entering numbers in the computer and stared at me with a look on her face that clearly said, "the fuck??" I know this facial expression well. I give it to other people on a regular basis. And then I realized—I'm this woman's Milton Perón. I'm the weirdo who ruined her day. Not the other way around. She's probably going to go home and have a good laugh with her friends about the fucktard who referred to Dyslexia as a "cruel mistress." Why did I have to do that? Why couldn't I have just said, "Yes, I wrote the correct number" and moved on with my life? And why did I have to go the whole nine yards and make the "mistress cruel Dyslexia is" joke?

Humbling.

Drink everytime Chris says "Umbrella"

I don’t think talking about the weather is a particularly exciting topic of conversation, but holy hades, it has been raining forever. New York City has up and turned itself into Seattle. I’ve practically forgotten what the sun looks like. I think it’s yellow, but I can’t be sure. All this grey weather has turned me into an emo kid. I recently dyed my hair black, cut myself some severe angled bangs, and took self photos in sepia to post to my Myspace account.

But seriously, I think I’m getting seasonal affective disorder. But instead of getting depressed, I just get pissed off at people. Oh who am I kidding, I get pissed off at people no matter what the weather is. But can we briefly discuss something? I understand the purpose of umbrellas; we use them to prevent ourselves from getting sopping wet when Mother Nature is bawling her eyes out because she can't remember who El Nino’s baby daddy is. But if walking outside is the equivalent of diving into a pool, you are going to get wet and a comically oversized umbrella is not going to help your cause. Nothing makes me more crotchety than some douchebag, middle-aged power broker strutting around carrying a giant golf umbrella, taking up half the goddamn sidewalk, leaving a path of pedestrians in his wake clutching their eyes.


Look at that guy. Sure he’s dry—but he’s a total asshole. There’s not need for an umbrella-Hummer equivalent; a normal sized umbrella will suit you just fine, especially when you’re on a crowded sidewalk in a busy city, dickhead. I can probably think of 10 people who are in greater need of a gigantic umbrella than you on your two block walk from the subway to your office.

1.) Considering it’s called a golf umbrella, I think the most obvious choice are the spectators at a golf tournament.

While they are using them individually, it’s not out of place. Everyone is walking in one direction, so no one has to worry about losing an eye on their way to work.

2.) Jon & Kate plus 8. Scratch that, just Jon plus 8, because I sort of hate Kate and that hairdo deserves to get sopping wet.

If you have 8 children and you want to keep them all dry at once, a giant umbrella makes sense. If you are one person, even if you have an 8 inch penis that you want to keep all dry at once, you don’t need a giant umbrella. You need to put on pants, and then you need to call Meg. [Editor's Note: HOLLER!]

3.) If water is lethal to you like The Wicked Witch, you could use a huge umbrella.

This bitch has a reason to tote around a giant umbrella and not look like a jackass. She’s just trying to stay alive. Even the Bee Gees would support that.

4.)
A herd of mogwai would benefit more from a 62 inch umbrella than a disgruntled businessman. In fact, this would benefit everyone, since I’m not trying to get killed by a gremlin on my way to/from work.

5.) I’m not sure it rains in fairytales but if it did, I’d let The Gingerbread Man use this gigantic umbrella.

I'll cut this guy a break, because while he is extremely tiny, he is made out of baked goods. And he’s apt to go the way of the Wicked Witch if caught in a torrential downpour.

6.) Donna Summer might have been able to avoid that whole MacArthur Park fiasco if the man above would lend her his umbrella.

And she’ll never have that recipe again. Agaiiiiiin.

7.) If your job is to transport the Dead Sea Scrolls from one location to another in the pouring rain, then you have a worse job than anyone reading this article.

I can’t imagine they stand up to much of anything. And if your job is to keep those things safe, then by all means, have a continent sized umbrella.

8.) Or if you’re a continent sized person, like Hagrid, and your umbrella is proportional, then it makes sense.

Big guy, big umbrella. Giving Hagrid a regular umbrella, you’d end up with a fat guy in a little coat scenario.

9.) Say you are this kid, just your everyday aspiring bandleader.

And it’s your first parade. And your baton is missing. Do you: have a super sweet 16 (super nerdy) shit fit and punch the tuba player OR do you grab your giant umbrella and John Phillip Sousa the shit out of it?

10.) And last but not least, Mary Poppins.

Sure, she gets by with that regular-sized, albeit magical umbrella, but think of how much further she can soar with a HUGE umbrella. Lift or some other physics property is sure to be at work here.

I think, in the future, people should refer to this list. If you aren’t made of sugary sweets or allergic to water, are not unhumanly in size or a magical nanny, then put the giant golf umbrella away. Their need is greater than yours, and you are just an asshole.

Wet Hot Drinking Game Friday

I want to share my morning with you. Because I want there to be a written account of what happened that caused me to die of shock and awe. I don't want there to be any ambiguity or leftover conspiracy theories about what happened. This is it. Case closed.

This morning started like any other. My alarm went off at six and I rolled around in my bed, audibly whimpering and feeling sorry for myself until about 7:50. Although I whimpered 15 minutes longer than I normally do, I was still out the door at 8:45, on-time and feeling good. I was having an unusually good hair day and today's outfit was cuter than I had expected, so I was in high spirits as I strode through my apartment lobby, ready to face the world.

That is until I stepped outside and realized I had forgotten my umbrella. I have what I lovingly refer to as "Frizzy Jew Hair," which I flat iron every morning. If even one single drop of moisture comes within a 30-foot radius of my hair, it poofs like a poodle on acid. So I had a decision to make: run back up and get my umbrella and risk being late to work, or sacrifice looking like Art Garfunkel for the rest of the day and go sans umbrella. Shockingly, I went the less shallow route and decided to be on time.

As I walked to the metro and felt my painstakingly straightened and styled hair begin to frizz and curl, my good mood plummeted. Plummeted into negative numbers. My hair dictates my mood, so I was pretty much ready to punch the nearest homeless person in the homeless face.

When I got to the metro platform, things went from bad to worse. Three No Passenger trains whizzed through the station without stopping before, 20 minutes later, a train finally stopped. Of course because not one single person in this god-fearing town understands the importance of the "MOVE TO THE CENTER OF THE CAR WHEN BOARDING THE TRAIN" warning, I had to wait for another less crowded train to arrive.

Five minutes later, one finally did. And come hell or high water, I was getting on it. Ass out and elbows flying, I fought my way through the herd of mediocre-looking people to ensure my spot in the car. I had just barely made it on when the person behind me shoved me forward and into the arms of a woman wearing a Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt. I turned around to confront my attacker, and what I saw made my blood pressure skyrocket.

There were three, count 'em!, three people with mother fucking rolling briefcases standing in the doorway behind me and one person holding his unicycle. WHAT. IN THE. FUCKITY. FUCK? That's what I had been shoved forward and forced into a homely lesbian experience for?! So you can fit your nerdy rolling briefcase and a UNICYCLE onto the train?! I don't recall buying tickets to the circus, but I certainly would like my money back, thank you.

I know I've already discussed this in my Rolling Briefcase Manifesto, but seriously, you people are the scum of the earth. How rude and presumptuous do you have to be to think it's A-OK to force people to make room for your unnecessarily large and inconvenient rolling briefcase? NEVERTHELESS A UNICYCLE! What the fuck was that?! He wasn't even being ironic or promoting a circus! That really was his means of getting to work! He was wearing a nice suite and an EPA windbreaker! I mean, I'm all for reducing my carbon footprint and all, but do we really have to throw all dignity out the window and ride unicycles to work like god damn circus acts?!

But it gets even more ridiculous! At Farragut North, an older man wearing a top hat got on the clown car. A large, unnecessary, Daddy Warbucks-style, top hat. What in God's holy name is wrong with you people?!

Oh, but this shit show aint over yet! Sit back down! As our train rolled out of the station, the conductor suddenly slammed on the brakes, causing (and I couldn't even make this up if I tried,) the Monopoly guy to lose his balance, which caused him to fall backwards into Jo-Jo the Circus boy, who lost his grip on the Unicycle, which fell over and smashed into the face of an Asian woman, who started hysterically crying.

I have no words. I'm officially spent.

Thank god moments later we arrived at Metro Center, where I bolted out this three-ring circus and booked it to work. When I finally arrived at the office, my boss gave my frizzy mane a disapproving look before she reamed me out for being so late to work. With boiling blood, I looked her in the eye and mustered a meek-little, "It'll never happen again."

Because really, it better not happen again! I don't want to live in a world where it's a normal occurance to have to commute to work on a crowded train full of briefcase rolling, unicycle riding, top-hat wearing, Asian face-basing, three-ring-circus FREAKS! So don't worry sugar-tits! It'll never fucking happen again!

Sigh...

Given this week's Michael Showalter reference and the ridiculous events that transpired this morning, it seems like there's only one movie Showalter-y and ridiculous enough to be this week's drinking game. Yep, you guessed it. I give you the Wet Hot American Summer Drinking Game!

Rules:
Drink When:
- Writing is shown on the screen to indicate what time of day it is
- The Bee Keeper does a radio broadcast
- Bethesda's own Jewish Day School is referenced
- Katie thinks of someone for Coop to date
- Victor says "fuck"
- The cook clarifies what he just said
- The talent show is referenced
- You hear the sound of a clay pot breaking
- Someone asks for a piece of gum
- Anyone makes out
- Gail talks about her ex-husband
- There's an astrophysics reference
- Andy throws a kid in the woods
- The 12-sided die is rolled
- Shirts are swapped
- The talent show emcee makes a joke about how old he is
- And finally, just chug during the chase scene, simply because it's my favorite:


That's a lie. This is my favorite:


That's a lie too. The entire movie is my favorite.

Thank you as always for reading and we'll see you back here Monday morning!

Embarassment of the day. And it's only 9 o'clock.

Every morning as I commute to work, I listen to the same thing on my ipod: the incendiary Dr. Dre album, The Chronic 2001. I love this album. Eight years I've been listening to it, and for eight years I've been a better person because of it. Asking me to pick my favorite track would be like asking your Nanna to pick her favorite grandchild; she loves them equally and how dare you offend her with such a ridiculous question! (But if you held a gun to my head, I'd pick The Next Episode. Don't tell Xxplosive, he gets so jealous.)

Dre is my nutritious breakfast. He is my coffee. He gets my morning started right. If I'm going to wake up and attack the day, I'd prefer to do it with swagger in my step and a glock in my hand. Some people have affirmations; I have Dre. When Dre tells a few bitches and motherfuckers to akrite, it reminds me not to take any guff from co-workers or clients. I am an intelligent, independent and capable young woman, damnit! I roll wit my shit off safety - for [n-words] that been hatin' me lately and the bitches that wanna break me. So don't ask me to update the marketing binders without saying please, motherfucker!

Sometimes blasting Dre on my ipod can get slightly uncomfortable when I'm on the metro. I tend to listen to my music at the maximum volume level (I know, I know, I'm ruining my hearing, thank you,) so if it's particularly quiet in our car, I'll pause the song and resume it when I get off at my stop. This morning, there were some embarrassing complications, however.

This morning's metro ride was especially packed. Only a thin layer of denim separated a strange Asian guy's manhood from my ass, which is a situation I wasn't thrilled to be in. I was also essentially in a slow-dance position with the older gentleman in front of me, our eyes desperately looking anywhere but forward and into eachother's because this entire situation was already far too meaningful and romantic for 8:30 in the morning.

For some ungodly reason, the metro conductor decided to slow the train down to a slow and painful crawl after we left Dupont. Without the normal screeching and hissing sounds of the metro truckin' down the red line, it became painfully quiet in the car. Nobody was talking. You could hear a pin drop. It was clearly time to pause Dre. I quickly clicked pause on the clicky-controller-thing on my headphones, but pause it did not. The controller had mysteriously broken. I tried again. No dice. I reached into my pocket and took out my iphone to pause it manually. It had frozen. Specifically, it had frozen midway through the song "Ho's A Housewife," which it was becoming apparent the entire car could clearly hear, judging from the looks I was getting. Because my left hand was doing double-duty holding my giant bag and steadying myself so as to avoid making this a conjugal visit with the Asian guy behind me, I could only remedy the Dre situation with one hand (which was proving to be a difficult task.) I had two options: rip the headphone cord out and hope the song will pause rather than blast through my iphone, or just let it ride and accept my fate as That Girl. I chose the latter.

So as the train crawled at a rate of .5mph, I essentially DJ-ed one of the most offensive Dre songs in existence for the entire car. After each offensive lyric, more people started to stare in my direction and I had to look back and shrug like "welp, the man has a point!" Feel my pain:

At the ho-tel, mo-tel, or the Holiday Inn (say what nigga?)
I said if that bitch keep fuckin up (beotch) then we'll fuck her friends
[-shrugs- = fair enough, right?]

I said I dip, dive, what can I say?
Niggaz need to stop fuckin with O.J.
[-nodds head- = when the man's right, the man's right.]

Some niggaz bang blood, some niggaz bang crip
And bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks
I had to dream of hoes, I had to scream at hoes
I seen my hoes in all kinds of clothes
Lil' Almond Joy, I truly enjoy
if you blew my balls, right through my drawers
[-raises eyebrows- = blowing balls through the drawers, frankly that's impressive.]

Come back to the mansion, chill at the spot
From the way she was blowin, I know she does it a lot
[-shrug- = who hasn't blown a lot in their day, right? Can I get an amen?? Lady in the sweater vest, I'm lookin' at you!]

I have a eight-and-a-half, nine-and-three-quarters
The hoe started callin when I started boss ballin
Gimme some head, gimme some ass (uh-huh)
Gimme some cash, pass it to Daz
Pass it to Snoop, or pass it to Nate
See hoes eat dick like eggs and steak
[-eyes widen- = God I could go for some Steak 'n Egg right now. I haven't eaten there since senior year of college.]

It was about when we hit the chorus that the train finally lurched into Metro Center and I ran off the train in embarrassment.

Sucks to be me. All day. Every day.

You know what ruffles my feathers?

Those red fleece-vested Children's Miracle Network volunteers who harass you on the street to sponsor a sick kid. God, you people are just the worst. I know that they're just trying to save lives and build hospitals around the world and I recognize that that's noble and beautiful and blah, blah, blah, so keep your emails to yourself. But really, they're the worst. And here's why:

First of all, those be some strategic bitches! I first encountered the Fleece Mafia when I worked in midtown Manhattan and they worked along 42nd street, which I took to get to and from my office. I ended up re-routing my morning commute to avoid their shenanigans, but I've had enough run-ins to know how they work:
1.) They work in pairs and are staggered down the street. That way when you see one and veer towards the other side of the sidewalk to miss them, you run directly into another (see helpful Microsoft Paint document below.)

2.) They're engaging. They don't start off by directly asking for money. They first ask about you. And you love talking about you, don't you? Normally they'll start by innocently asking how you are. And the thing is, they seem to genuinely care about the answer, which I always accidentally appreciate. Seriously, it always gets me. Like I just can't deny someone the privilege of knowing that I'm doing, "okay, thanks." BUT DON'T FALL FOR IT! YOU CAN'T ANSWER! Because then they've got you. You might as well just punch yourself in the heart, give them your wallet and walk away. Because people are sick and if you give them an inch, they'll take a mile. You think you're having an innocent conversation about yourself with an attractive fleece-vested individual and all of a sudden you're sponsoring a kid in Africa for $30 a month—which is only a dollar a day when you really think about it, L0LZ!
3.) They're normally young and attractive. This increases the odds that you'll answer when they ask how you are. I've had my heart broken this way before and it's not pretty. One time I was walking down Madison when I locked eyes with an attractive, slightly punk-looking, regulation hottie. I gave him the old Meg McBlogger sex-smirk, and he responded with a full-blown ear-to-ear smile. "Hey," he said casually. "Hi," I said coyly. "What are you up to?" "Just gettin' coffee." "Well what if instead of buying an overpriced cup of coffee every afternoon, you decided to make a difference in the life of—" GOD DAMNIT! He was wearing the red fleece vest under his leather jacket, that sneaky motherfucker! I pushed him out of the way, picked up the pieces of my heart and got a venti latte at Starbucks, which I threw away without drinking to prove a point.
4.) They've got some BALLS! Whatever strategy you normally use to deflect solicitors in the street won't do a damn thing to deter those fleeced-assholes. Listening to music on your i-pod? They'll shout. Read their lips. Not making eye contact? They'll get up in your personal space and make sure you see them in your peripheral vision. Got a "don't fuck with me," look on your face? Yea. They'll fuck with you. Trust me.

It's not that I don't want to help people. I do. I really do. It's just that I don't have the means. Despite this fabulous lifestyle I lead of wearing Target and stealing toilet paper from work, I don't actually have a lot of disposable income. So I don't appreciate you making me feel like a soulless asshole for not wanting to give $30 a month to a non-profit founded by the Osmond family. I've got bigger fish to fry, thank you. Like my rent. Specifically, like how I couldn't come up with $300 of it last month. So my condolences to Mufasa in the Sudan, but I really don't want to sleep in a refrigerator box tonight. I think I'm going to go keep the $30 a month, if that's okay with you.

Also, don't fucking harass people for money in the morning. I don't know about you, but the morning for me is just a big one-woman battle not to cut a bitch. I got Khakis McGee walking in front of me with her big fat ass waddling to and fro so I can't pass her and a woman walking behind me who keeps ramming her god-damn baby stroller into my ankles. At this point, my #1 priority is to keep myself from playing the ass of the woman in front of me like bongo drums before turning around and shouting, "HEY LADY, KNOW HOW TO MAKE MONGOLIAN BABY? HERE'S A SPOILER: I KILL YOUR CHILD AND EAT IT WITH SOME TERIYAKI SAUCE IN THE END! KEEP KNOCKING INTO ME AND I'LL GIVE YOU A DEMO!"

Given that information, maybe it's not the best idea to get all up in my face and ask, "Got a minute?" because, guess what Gandhi? I don't. So I'm going to look away and keep walking. And after I do, I wouldn't suggest that you laugh it off and say, "Welp, I guess someones in a hurry! I'll catch you later!" ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! Yes asshole! I am in a hurry! It's 8 fucking 45 on a Monday morning! I'm not taking an early morning stroll before I go to a jerk-off club meeting! I'm in a hurry and I have things to do, I'm sorry, trust me, I am! Maybe we can rap about Malaria and what horrible person I am some other time.

My new strategy for dealing with the Fleece Mafia is to simply say "recession" when they approach. I can't suggest it enough. Don't even make it a full sentence like, "Oh, I'm sorry, it's a recession." Just say it quick and forcefully. "Recession." I dare you to argue with that, fleece-fucker.

You know what ruffles my feathers?

I really shouldn't be complaining about my commute to work. My "commute" (if you can even call it that) involves walking out of my apartment, pivoting my body slightly to the right and walking one and a half blocks to the metro, where I ride the red line two stops to Metro Center, exit, walk one single block and arrive at my office. When I lived in the boonies of Brooklyn, it took me well over an hour during rush hour to get to the office, which was considerably more taxing than the actual work I was doing once I arrived there. So I shouldn't really have anything to complain about, right?

Wrong my friend! Oh so so wrong. My most hated group of individuals, nerds, have found a way to make my easy, breezy, beautiful commute irritating. They would.

People with rolling briefcases are Nazis incarnate. There, I said it. I feel better. What the fuck is up with you people?! Do you realize that during the hustle and bustle of rush hour, the streets, metros and metro escalators are already crowded? Why do you feel it necessary to double the amount of space you would normally take up with a rolling briefcase? It's like you people are just giant bubbles of inconvenience floating around my morning commute. I'm going to wear a giant hoop skirt and walk with arm crutches during rush hour and act inconvenienced when you bump into me, just so you know how it feels.

I've also noticed that there's a correlation between people who opt for rolling briefcases and intelligence. Specifically that they lack it. If you know that you're surrounded by people rushing around to get somewhere on time, why would you think it's a good idea to drag your briefcase behind you? If the strap to someone's messenger bag broke, do you think that person would just drag it behind them by the broken strap like a petulant child? No, because that would make them a complete asshole. So what makes you think you can essentially do the same thing, pop a few wheels on it and call it socially acceptable?

I want to get the email addresses of all the people in the world with rolling briefcases and send them the following memo:
To: The nerd population of the world who uses a rolling briefcase
From: Meg
Subject: Suggestion
Message: Hey assholes! I have a friendly little suggestion for you. If you insist on using a rolling briefcase while commuting, you can't suddenly just stop walking without looking to see if there's someone behind you who might run into your fucking nerdmobile if you stop short. You're the ones who brought wheels into the equation, so follow traffic laws. I would never do 85 on the highway and then slam on my breaks to find the nutrigrain bar in my trunk.
Thanks,
Meg

There's so much bitchery in this city about the stand left, walk right rule, but I've personally only had a few encounters with it. However, I almost trip and break an ankle on at least three rolling briefcases a morning, no exaggeration. I thought I was going to snap like a twig this morning and start punting people's briefcases onto the third rail. The highlight of rolling-retardation came the other morning when an individual a few people ahead of me went up the escalator with his rolling briefcase behind him and then stopped at the top of the escalator to get something out of his bag, causing the long line of commuters behind him to topple over like dominoes. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? This is why New York has stairs. And speaking of New York, I would like to say from experience that this rolling briefcase conundrum is a problem unique to DC. New York might be overpopulated, but those bastards know how to commute. They let people exit the train before getting on, they move to the center of the car and they can hustle up and down the stairs with ease. Come on DC, I'd like to think we don't suck so hard we need to have our escalator privileges taken away...

Now, I can already hear the rolling briefcase nerds breaking out their calculators and carrying the one, ready to point out that rolling briefcases actually relieve vertical lumbar pain caused by the disproportionate ratio of an individual's height to briefcase weight and nerd speak, nerd speak, nerd speak. Here's what I have to say to that: suck it up. I booked it from Metro Center to Georgetown yesterday in six-inch stilettos and didn't complain once. And when I got to my destination, guess what I did? I bench pressed 280 lbs and karate-chopped a board in half with my head. AND WHAT, NERD?!