Father Knows Best-ish

Let's play judging other peoples! Cloaked in the (relative) anonymity of the internet, we can shed the shackles of our own faults and throw stones all over this glass house. You don't even have to be on the internet to do it- just be a female on 18th Street in Adams Morgan on a Saturday night, with actual clothes on, and enjoy the lovely view as you gaze down your nose in disdain.

However, some cases get a little tricky. Consider the father (an elementary school teacher) who auctioned his son's Christmas pressie when he caught the tyke smoking pot.^1. Was the punishment too severe? Let's all agree that the kid who got caught smoking pot should be punished, since he needs to learn how to be way slicker about hiding his Stoney McStoopidface. As for the severity of the punishment, that depends on one crucial factor- did Dad confiscate the pot? Uh-huh, I see. And where is that pot now? No one knows? Hmmmm. Has Dad started adding Visine, breath mints, and Cap'n Crunch to the grocery list? Really?

So, what's Dad gonna use the auction money for?

1.I know, it is shocking that a teenage boy who is into guitars and Wii would be smoking pot. Back to judging.

Ewwwwwwwwwwwww!

Never. Gets. Old.

Not unlike Ernie, YouTube is a little cranky this morning. Press play for a little Christmas magic.

OK, so I lied about the Christmas magic. Sue me. I'm feeling oddly Grinchedy and Drummer Boy'd out.

Christmassacre

You know, I used to really enjoy the war on Christmas, but lately it's become so commercial.

Luckily, there are some people out there trying to are the holiday back down to its original roots, namely, making Christmas as ridiculous as possible.

Consider Traveldlodge, the motel that is offering a free night's stay to any couple named Mary and Joseph. While one must bring proof of identity and demonstrate that one in a long-term relationship, one does not need to submit proof of divine insemination- a classy touch from a classy motel.

"The 'gift' of a free night's stay is to make up for the hotel industry not having any rooms left on Christmas Eve over 2000 years ago when the original 'Mary and Joseph' had to settle for the night in a stable."

Finally, reparations. Granted, a room at the Travelodge is a little like giving your receptionist the bulky five-pound "travel" SuDoKu that found its way into your lootstash last year, but blessed are the meek or regifters or some shit like that.

Then there's the obscene letters from Santa:

"Canada's post office and police are trying to track down a "rogue elf" who wrote obscene letters to children on behalf of Santa Claus, a newspaper reported on Friday."

Rogue elf my ass. This is years of repression finally burbling to the surface. Remember that whole controversy when Santa asked the kids to leave their shoes out, and in the dead of night, he'd come along and do whoknowzwhat with thembut leave candy as a reward? A little pervy, no? So then he had that whole PR makeover with the going down the chimneys and whatnot, but we all knew we hadn't heard the last of the skeeve. Santa's what, like 600 hundred years old? He's starting to get a little senile; the perv is creeping back out, not unlike Gramps at the nursing home after a drink or two... who even knows what's next?

If You Can Read This, You're Too Sober

As we pulled into the driveway of the Object's parent's house to begin the Christmas festivities last year- the first we celebrated together- the Object turned off the engine, clasped my hand, looked me earnestly in the eye, and dropped the bomb:

"There's something you should know about my family."

My heart did the Law & Order guh GUNK. This is the sort of thing you want to hear long before agreeing to stay a week with someone's family. The Object took a deep breath and continued, "What you should know about my family, especially at Christmastime, is that it is always ok to get another drink."

And that's why the Object's parents think we're alcoholics - because the Object seems to think that any familial visit is an opportunity for a bender, and I follow suit, mostly because I'm usually three drinks in before I realize what he's up to. Our drinking levels go up 328% whenever his parents are around, which doesn't necessarily spell out R-E-S-P-O-S-I-B-L-E, but something closer to S-O-U-S-E-D.

Over the course of the last two years, I've gotten to know the Object's family better, and I have to say, I love them. Sure, they're neurotic, but they have the lovable, feel-good, Oscar-winning movie-of-the-year kind of neuroses, and I'm happy to sit there with a mimosa and watch it all go by. I'm pretty sure they feel the same way about me, but would like to see the Object and me a little more sober from time to time. At the beach this summer, the Object's mother pleaded somewhat in vain with her first-born son to engage in an example-setting evening of sobriety. We were happy to oblige, and made it till almost 10 p.m.- a new record!

And yet, according to The New York Times, we're doing SOOOOO much better than the average American, and thus WAY ahead of the average Luxembourgian - though the Object will likely argue that we're behind:

Every year, the average American adult drinks the equivalent of 38 six-packs of beer, a dozen bottles of wine and two quarts of distilled spirits like gin, rum, single malt Scotch, or vodka that aspires to single malt status through the addition of flavors normally associated with yogurt or bubble bath.

We are by no means the most bibulous people: according to the World Health Organization, 39 other nations outdrink us, a list topped by Luxembourg, where residents manage to ingest roughly 284 bottles of beer and 88 bottles of wine annually, no doubt to salve the indignation of explaining that their country isn’t part of Belgium.

It is your duty to bust out those stats when you're three drinks too deep at your office holiday party- nothing says hooray for Baby Jesus and Kwanzaa spirit like using statistical evidence to avoid self-awareness.

Why You Little Sluttforhandlinger!

Sniffle snuffle. Just leave me to weep into my pillow.

I don't want to talk about it.

Troy Perkins, you are a SLUTTFORHANDLINGER!

At least, I think that's what they're calling you over in Norway. And you deserve it, and it is also my new favorite epithet. Look, just because it's better money, a better opportunity, will make you a better player, and enhance the overall image of MLS doesn't mean you can just pack up and LEAVE ME.

SOB!

If anybody needs me, I'm going strip naked except for my DC United scarf and a pair of black knee socks and drink black and tans (closest I can think of to black and red) till the rest of the uniform magically appears on me.


[I suppose it's worth noting that Bobby Boswell and the li'l website that could are also leaving for Houston, and one has to admit- for a man who asked for a transfer, he's been a supremely class act, even in leaving: "It was in my best interests to move on. They found a situation that helps them out and helps me out. It was handled really well and just goes to show what a class organization United is... They gave me an opportunity, and I will always remember that. The fans are the best and I did my best on the field. I leave with nothing but positives. It was a great experience in D.C."]

Problem? Solution!

"Do you miss me?" I probed the Object over the phone from my hotel room in Atlanta last week, trying to guilt him into his feelings.

"Um, I guess so. You've only been gone a few days." Dammit. He never falls for the bait. I guess I should be glad he's not a complete sucker. Of course, the question was slightly ingenuous, meant to imply that I couldn't bear another moment without him. And yet, as I spoke, I was rolling around my 6048 square inches of king size bed- a plushy paradise that was mine, mine, all MINE DAMMIT! No sharing with overindulged kitties and oversized boys who claim more than their share of bedspace by whining they don't fit into it otherwise. And oh, how I relished the freedom to yank the covers and nestle them around me however I saw fit.

"You know what I miss?" The Object "Having you around to take care of the cat."

Ugh, not this stupid business again. Kitty and the Object have an adversarial relationship that tends to lay dormant until the middle of the night or when I leave town, whichever is more obnoxious. The Object has never lived with a pet, and kitty has never lived with a big, smelly boy. (His words, not mine. And considering he's 17 pounds of animal that shits in a box, um, kettle? Pot? Who's black?) Anyhoo, when I left for Uganda at the beginning of November, I abandoned the two of them to figure out how to deal with each other, hoping, not unlike Condi, for some sort of magical peace agreement. Apparently the entire time I was gone, the two of them sat on opposite ends of the house, warily staring at each other and plotting how to convince me the other needed to go when I got home. As a result, kitty developed a charming habit of ripping the hell out of the woolly area rug in the middle of the night, while the Object developed an anxiety disorder worrying about it. Midway through the trip, my friend Meghan emailed me, pleading me to come home soon. "The Object sent me an email involving an elaborate fantasy of him and the kitty getting drunk together. Come home soon before he totally loses his mind...."

The whole business manifested its ugly badness in full when I came home from Uganda jetlagged out of my mind. While I tried my damndest to stay awake past 8, I apparently had brought some form of the SARS home with me and found myself surrendering to a losing battle. And so began the nights of routinely and reliably being woken at least three times.

The first wakage was performed by the Object, who would come to bed several hours after me and wake me up to announce that he was going to sleep. He would then begin a lengthy process of forcing me (literally, taking my limbs and pushing them into proper positioning) to assume the position he had determined will afford him maximum snugglage, regardless of whether or not I wanted it. Past ten p.m., he loves me for the living pillow that I am; my thoughts and/or comfort are completely irrelevant. The second wakage would be performed by Kitty, scratching the fuck out of something or pouncing on our faces, meowing pitifully and begging to play nocturnal animal games. Honestly, he's not terribly difficult to ignore, roll over, and fall promptly back to sleep. But then a third waking would occur, this time by the Object, nudging me back out of sound sleep to discuss the options we have in getting the cat not to scratch the fuck out of stuff or pounce on the bed, which would invariably lead to me buying the latest miracle pet cure on the internet at 3:30 in the morning. By the time I left for a work trip to Atlanta last week, I was broke, exhausted, and more than happy to let the two of them duke it out, mano a gato. I even left some guns of the squirt variety out for dueling purposes.

In Atlanta, one of my single coworkers announced that she wished she could have at least had some company to take full advantage (nudge nudge wink wink y'know what I mean) of the plushy hotel beds, I thought she'd had just a little too much to drink. But apparently, I've been overlooking one obvious solution this entire time- probably due to my blinkered vegetarian existence:

Bacon. Tape. Kitty.

And so, problem solved. And yeah, I'm so ridiculously glad to be home, overcrowded bed, hostile flatmates and all.

Oh Hai! (A-tus)

Soooo... it turns out that when you go to Africa for work, you have to write reports and tell people about it. And the annual meeting starts in two days for me... 20,000 of your nearest and dearest fans of blood (no crips!). I'm a little in over my head whatwith the working and the Object and Kitty pawing at me for a modicum of attention. But stay tuned, I shall return soon, more glorious than EVAH!