Subject: You’re a Douchebag (DCD Trick of the Week)

Dear DC Douchebag,

Email subject lines are for the general subject of the email – they are NOT for the actual text of your email.  For example, the following is a flagrant abuse of the subject line:

Now, I know this doesn’t seem like such a terrible crime (and in the grand scheme of your DCD tricks – it’s pretty low).  However, it’s a flag – a big red, DCD, waving flag that the recipient of said email is warned…they are walking in DCD territory – be alert.

This email says several special things about you, my little DCD friend:

1. You are lazy
2. You think you’re too important to send actual proper emails with a REAL subject, greeting, message, and closing (not that tricky, I promise)
3. You don’t think your potential companion is important enough to even bother with an actual full email – you didn’t even write “hey” in the subject line.  C’mon boys, it’s three extra frickin letters and a tap on the return key.  (Your potential date is TOTALLY worth a tap on the return key).
4. If this is how little effort you’re putting in at the beginning of the “relationship” – sweet Christ – imagine how terrible you will be when you actually feel comfortable!!!

So, buck up – take five extra seconds and write an actual email…OR…and I know this is going to sound crazy, but stick with me.  Why don’t you just CALL the girl???  She’ll appreciate it and you’ll avoid this doucher mistake.

Love always – your guide to living a douchebag-free life,

fanfrickingtastic

Lyrically speaking, this is…

Rubbish. Midnight Train to Georgia is absolute rubbish. Don’t get me wrong, I bop along and sing the tricky back up vocals like I am an original member of the Pips. HOWEVER, the catchy nature of this tune does not make up for its terrible message. Let’s dissect:

Verse 1:

L.A. proved too much for the man,
So he’s leavin’ the life he’s come to know,
He said he’s goin’ back to find
Ooh, what’s left of his world,
The world he left behind
Not so long ago

Synopsis:  Things got tough for some man, so he’s being a big time quitter and going back to what’s easy after hardly trying at all.

Verse 2:

He kept dreamin’
That someday he’d be a star.
But he sure found out the hard way
That dreams don’t always come true.
So he pawned all his hopes
and he even sold his old car
Bought a one way ticket
To the life he once knew,

Synopsis:  Shit didn’t go as plan, so he sold all his crap (aka he’s broke) and he’s moving 3,000 miles away from you.  Hope you don’t mind.

And after all that, Gladys Knight has the gall to sing:

He said he would
Be leavin
On that midnight train to Georgia, (Did he even consult you???)
And he’s goin’ back
To a simpler place and time.
And I’ll be with him
On that midnight train to Georgia, (I sure as hell hope he bought your ticket)
I’d rather live in his world
Than live without him in mine

What the f*ck, Gladys? You are a following broke man who gave up on his dreams and you (after like two weeks), and you’re going to move to Georgia with him??? Do you know how far away Georgia is from California? I’m sure things are all peachy keen on that 30 hour train ride, but what happens when you actually get to Georgia? What happens when “his dreams” don’t work out in Georgia either? Who is going to dry your tears when you find out he’s sneaking around with some two bit trick? Plus, is your life so sad that you had NOTHING else going on in LA that you can just drop it all to be with him? Pathetic. I am not a fan of this poor decision-making, Gladys, not a fan at all. How did the Pips even let you get away with this business?

Of course, I also believe that you should live without regret and that “what the hell” is almost always the best policy, so who am I to judge?

(world, world)
(is his, his and hers alone)
(world is his)
(his and hers alone)
(all aboard)
(one world)
(her man, his girl)
Ive got to go

Convenience – Not perfect, but it will do

IMFB, here is your response…finally! Sorry it has taken me so long!

“It’s the perfect trifecta…what could be better than living between a cheap grocery store, a Sheetz gas station, and a dirty, dive bar?!?” According to Fiance #1, the proximity of the aforementioned establishments to our shit hole apartment meant we were living on the most coveted slice of man ground on earth. Even though the apartment (with its brown shag carpeting and fake wood paneled walls) was less than ideal, its amazingly convenient location made it his perfectish, little palace. (Hell, he only slept, ate, and spent 50% of his time in that apartment, why does it matter how nice it is??? It’s got the trifecta!)

This same reasoning can be applied to boys and relationships (at least according to yours truly). They subconsciously do a little balancing equation…whoever they find that satisfies as many of their needs most conveniently wins. It’s simple, painless, and clear cut. If you meet the basic beer, burgers, sex needs and you’re convenient (either in personality, location, religious belief, fill in the blank), then you, dear lucky lady, are the winner of your very own boyfriend.

Now, let’s say you don’t have the convenience factor, and this boy dumps you.  Don’t take the breakup (or the disappearing act) personally. You might be an absolutely fabulous, ridiculously amazing apartment in the sky, but you’re just slightly too far from the nearest dive bar.  (Lame, but true).  So it momentarily sucks that your ego has been bruised, but you’re a hot ass, bangin’ apartment and he’s well… just bangin’ a shit hole of an apartment with brown shag carpeting.

Sidenote: This does not apply to real men like Mr. Fuede McMandals and others. I’m seriously not convenient to Fuede. I am a gigantic pain in the ass. Thanks for putting up with all of my beautifully packaged poo.

Grilled cheese, anyone?

“You should be begging me to be your boyfriend,” Fuede said, as he prepped the chicken. Moments earlier, I had been staring with panicked eyes at four pieces of thawed chicken and wondering how the hell I was going to get them cooked without the aid of the mighty George Foreman mean, lean grilling machine. I could put the steps together…put the chicken in a baking dish, put the dish into the oven, leave it in there for an extended period of time…and voila non-diarrhea-inducing chicken is served. However, I was missing several key facts and my brain went into overload. Can you just put chicken in the dish without anything else? Do I need a spray of some sort? Is there an oil involved? Which oil? Do I even own that kind of oil? How long do I cook the chicken? On what temperature? How do I make sure it won’t poison my guests? These are very serious questions that stood between me and a delicious plate of chicken, rice, and broccoli (I could handle boiling water to make the other two dinner ingredients…I had those bitches covered!  It was just the raw bird products that were giving me trouble).

I said none of this to Fuede. I just used my remaining three brain cells to say, “I don’t know how to cook chicken.” Fuede took a long, slow inhale. It was the same kind of inhale that the country collectively took back in 2000, when Bush said “Rarely is the question asked, ‘Is our children learning?’” It was as if we all realized at the same time that Dubya’s stupidity wasn’t funny. It was serious and we were all f*cked. My domestic disability breathed into Fuede’s lungs and permeated his being the very same way. Though I might look cute standing in the kitchen, I was going to be absolutely useless and we were all pretty much f*cked on the food front.

After the inhale, Fuede rolled his eyes. Hard. He rolled them so hard, I feared it might impact his vision. However, as he went about prepping the chicken (with olive oil…yessss…the secret is mine!), he let out several sighs and I figured all was well. Afterwards we laughed hard, and I did the dishes as penance for being an idiot.

A few more weeks of impressing Fuede with these kinds of skills and I don’t think my relationship panic will be much of an issue anymore. I’m pretty sure he’ll be high tailing it to friendlier kitchens with owners that can make more than just grilled cheese.

You’re only good, when you’re trapped

Girls totally get the shaft (and not in a good way). Men constantly think we are trying to wife them, especially DCDs. Although I suppose it is true that girls typically are looking for a relationship, I have a new theory for this particular phenomenon. Unless guys are in a relationship, they are positively TERRIBLE in bed.

No offense, boys, I love many of you. However, you are selfish beasts, especially when it comes to hook ups. Generally speaking, hooks up are fun for girls for about 2% of the hook uppage. That 2% consists solely of the time while all clothes are still on. As soon as the clothes come off, you guys turn into nasty humping jack rabbits. It’s as if you think we might change our minds (which, trust me…this is a wise move…since we definitely are regretting the situation). The repulsive jack rabbit routine also goes on FOREVER. This is no testament to your skills, the real problem is that you are wasted (the regret grows as our ability to remember your name shrinks. I hope and pray that you have also forgotten my name, there is no reason for anyone to ever relive this experience…just find your underoos and hit the road.)

So you see, we need to be in a relationship to have a man who cares enough to f’in take his time. It has nothing to do with actually wanting you as a long term partner, so quit flattering yourself. It’s just nicer to snuggle up to you afterwards than a vibrator…although if you snore, I’ll take the vibrator instead (cause it comes with a super handy off button).

RelaSHAMship

Bad news.  I’m in a relashamship.  A relashamship is an interaction where one party believes they are in or working steadily towards a relationship and the other party is entirely oblivious to any such level of commitment.  There are two main characters…Relationshipper and Sham.  Relationshipper (R for short) is usually great. R is all about making plans, futuristic talk of children and vacations together on the beach, cuddling, canoodling, late night phone calls, PDAs and the like.  Sham, on the other hand, is just chillin.  Sham is happy to be there, loves the attention, thinks R is great, probably showered and shaved for R, but also doesn’t really miss R when R is gone.  Sham just refocuses attention to S or T or work or the wall or sparkly things…oooh sparkly things.

Anyhow, I am Sham.  Latest date guy (fuede) is most definitely R. He is so adorably R, I wish I could be all R’in it up with him…but I am sham and sham is a stone.  A cold, hard stone. 

I might grow out of Sham and spread my little love dove wings to rise up and meet R, but at the same time R could just as easily do a nose dive into Shamville (that’s where things get UGLY – unless of course, I’m still chillin in Shamville too…then things just get fun).   Needless to say, relashamships suck (like your mom). 

This insightful view into Shamville, USA has been brought to you by your favorite crazy girl,

Fanfrickingtastic

P.S. This relashamship revelation has provided remarkable insight into my last “relationship”…I was R in that one.  Just in case you were confused…being R blows (also like your mom).

How to better serve the public

Dear Bartenders of the World,

Are you sick of your job? Looking for a promotion? Want to really serve the public??? Well I have the job for you…POLITICIAN. That’s right, you can move up from Beer Bitch to King of Congress with no further training or skills necessary. I discovered this career climbing ladder after a recent night of happy houring on the hill and shelling out student loan cash for a political fundraiser.

Here is why you already have the skills to lead our <<insert state, country, cult of your choice>>:

• You ply people with liquor in order to get money from them (fundraising – check!)
• You have an uncanny ability to remember faces and/or you are a fantastic actor (charisma – check!)
• You are in touch with “the people” and can talk to anyone about anything (voting base – check!
• You can sleep with your eyes open while patrons blabber on (constituent meetings – check!)
• You boss around minions waiters and busboys who happily suffer this abuse for $2.53/hour plus tips (disgruntled staff making $2530/year plus no tips thanks to the lobby reform crap – check!)
• You are loved by women, especially underaged women AND you love them in return, typically despite the fact that you have a significant other that many people know about (political scandal – double check!)

Congrats, Congressperson Bartender!!! Unfortunately, in order to move into this new world of power and prestige, you will have to take a pay cut.

Big Changes

I lost my blog guy (he was lots of other things to me too, but in terms of this blog…he was the blog guy AND he’s gone. See what blogging gets you! Karma, man, karma). So, you’ll notice some changes around these parts. The biggest change is that I don’t actually know how to do anything YET. The other change is that my blog moved. (It’s no longer on spidel.net for those of you who were confused by this before.) So currently, I don’t know:

• what my new feed is www.fanfrickingtastic.wordpress.com/feed Yay!
• how to get my old layout back New Layout coming soon. Thanks Oh! How Lovely! for referring me to Delicious Design Studio
• how i can have a subtitle: Pretty, Pink, and Powerful…yet have no pink on the blog or be able to properly operate my blog. (Thank god, I’m still pretty…or we would be in trouble on the subtitle front) Pink returns to the blog soon! Knowing how to operate is still a work in progress, but you’ll see I learned how to add widgets. Bravo, fanfrickingtastic!

So if you notice some crazy stuff happening or (not happening), you can blame yours truly. I’ll figure out the feed stuff and after that we’ll just take this blog business one day at a time.

The Never Factor

After the initial break up pain wears off, the hardest part of any break up is coming to terms with the never factor. Your brain tricks you into feeling completely okay, because somewhere buried deep in your heart is the glimmer of “maybe.” Maybe someday it will work out, maybe someday we’ll be friends, maybe someday it will be different…maybe, maybe, maybe. With that little sliver of hope, you can go on living your life nearly unaffected, because really you’re just living the best life you can until “maybe” shows up and turns into everything. Oh, the sweet, little lies we tell ourselves to avoid the thought that it’s never going to be.

So you’re floating along through life with your hidden bit of maybe, then something happens that threatens the fragile balance in your heart. Where that soft glimmer of maybe used to shine, now there are just black and white memories of what is never going to be. Perhaps the act that attacked your maybe is a small, seemingly insignificant act (I can’t even tell you what it is, because it’s so high school that you would laugh in my face, but I digress)…and maybe it’s not even about you (shockingly enough and contrary to my own popular opinion, not everything is about me – damn! – disappointments abound). Nonetheless, the maybe is holding on by it’s last lifeline and the power is flickering.

So never factor please stop creeping up on me. I want so badly to believe that good things don’t just die, but I’m not 10 anymore and I know that sometimes despite all of my best efforts and all the want in the world…they do die. I’m just asking for a little more time to believe.

A DC girl’s guide to saving money

Just in case you were wondering, DC is pricey.  For example, we own a $5 bottle of syrup.  Generic syrup.  (You end up with a five bottle dollar bottle of generic syrup, when your roommate’s boyfriend forgets to bring the syrup from the big fancy chain supermarket out in the burbs.  That five dollar bottle saved his life.  Picture two hungry, angry women munching on dry pancakes.  Not pretty.)  So, to combat the ever skyrocketing price of food, gas, and living the life in the city, I have come up with a few tricks.

Major expense #1:  Drinking.  I hate beer and sometimes I hate men, so if I ever have to buy drinks for myself the average drink will run me around $6.  It takes approximately 3 drinks for me to be sociable happily wasted, so there’s $18.  Once I am happily wasted, I don’t stop drinking…so we’ll add another 3 drinks based on a “keep the good times rolling until I puke” factor.  That leaves us at $36 not including tips and not including drinks I buy for other people when I decide that group shots are a good idea.

Solution:  First and foremost, NEVER leave the house sober.  A cheap bottle of my favorite Riesling costs $8.  (All the wine snobs can shut it.  You are missing the point.)  One bottle of wine at home and I am completely blitzed.  Result???  Primp (1 hour + 1 bottle of wine).  Party (2 hours).  Puke (20 minutes).  Party (2 hours).  Pass out (12 hours).  Perfection, a successful night on $8.

Major Expense #2:   Groceries.  FIVE DOLLAR GENERIC SYRUP.  Groceries are NOT my budget’s friend.

Solution:  There are several solutions to this particular dilemma all of them wonderfully beneficial.

• Eat less.  Lose weight and save cash.  It’s a win-win.  (Bonus:  having less in your fridge means using less energy to keep the fridge cool.  See how easy and fun it is to be green!  Correction:  having less in your fridge is actually less efficient, thanks Emma.  Apparently, the cold food helps maintain the cold temperature, whenever you open the fridge.  So…if you have nothing in your fridge (like me!) and you want to be green, you have to just leave the damn thing closed and not longingly look at your empty ice box.)
• Network more.  Functions, functions, and more functions.  Get yourself invited to every last event being hosted in town.  Don’t care much about nuclear proliferation?  Me neither, but I heard they’re serving delicious crab cakes.  (Bonus:  make great connections and get fabulous new job making the big bucks.  Then hire chef to shop and cook for all of your meals.)
• Date more.  Because of said weight loss and networking, dates abound.  I am a girl, so dates generally like to buy meals, especially first dates.  Since I am much more prone to ONLY have first dates, the dating process really works in my grocery budgeting favor.  (Bonus:  there is no bonus in dating, dating sucks…the meal is the best you’re going to get!  Quit being greedy.)

Major Expense #3:  Health Insurance.   As a lowly law student (with all kinds of ridiculous student loan debt), health insurance is what we like to call a premium expense.  (Premium = ain’t never going to be able to afford it.)

Solution:  Insurance is a tricky beast to conquer.  It requires several modes of attack.

• The 4″ high heeled super uncomfortable gold shoes are out.  You just can’t afford that kind of risky behavior.
• People who sneeze, cough, look pale, have children, and/or work in a hospital are no longer social friends.  They are PHONE friends.  You can resume your relationship with them after you do all that networking and get a real job.
• Pay fastidious attention to your teeth.  Have you ever heard someone say I should have married a dentist?  (I say it all the time.)  Dentists work only three days a week and yet are supremely rich.  What does that tell you???  Dentists love to rape you and every last penny you have ever saved (or in my case didn’t save and are forced to put on credit).
• A “it will go away” and “i’m sure it’s nothing” mentality.  You have a sharp, searing pain in your side that lasts for two days combined with a 103 degree fever???  It will go away.  I’m sure it’s nothing.

Major Expense #4:  Gas.  I hate you, Dubya.

Solution: