why i love why i hate dc

OK, love is a strong word. It'd be better to say I simply "tolerate" Why I Hate DC. (I only truly love three things: beans, bearskin rugs and David Lynch's daily weather reports.)

As you probably don't remember, not long ago I chastised the site on the site because I'm both incredibly meta and a huge bitch. I also found it quite pointless to do the same thing over there as I do here, namely, write for free. It was like trying to shine two turds instead of one. What's the point?

I probably also mentioned in that post a few other problems that I had with being associated with that site, but like you, I also don't remember. (Blog memory is notoriously short.) I do remember, however, vowing to stay away from that site.

But then I forgot. So I ended up visiting yesterday. But instead of being confronted by ridiculous, imaginary e-spars between a small contingent of idiots, I found something worthwhile. It seems, the site has recently gone through a sort of metamorphosis, including a downsizing of its staff and a restatement of purpose.

The first I really don't care about. Like I said, after I quit, I stopped reading.

The second, though, that's more important.

Not only does this new statement of purpose serve WIHDC well, but it serves me well, since I also aim to point out the pitfalls of this city.

Dave of WIHDC wrote, "I'd like to address the most frequent comment about this site:

'I don't understand that site, if they hate D.C. so much why don't they just move away?'"

Although the most frequent comment about my site is "Are you retarded?" I have also gotten a few commenters who ask why I live here if I hate it so much. What those commenters fail to understand is that, like Dave at WIHDC, I too don't necessarily "hate" Washington, DC. In fact, "hate" isn't even the right word for me to use. I'd say, I'm simply disappointed in this city. (I only truly hate three things in life: locusts who destroy bean crops, non-bearskin rugs and Topper Shutt's weather reports.)

See, aside from the horrid humid weather, most of the aspects about DC that disappoint me are human-controlled. Dave sums it up well: "There's a difference between hating living in Washington, D.C. and hating all of the incompetence and stupidity that makes it difficult to enjoy living here."

Yeah, what he said.

For me, DC has potential. If people would stop for a second while rushing to and fro to some sh*tty office job that makes them feel more important than they are, they'll notice this city is really quite stunning. If people would stop relying on Ann Taylor Loft for all of their work-appropriate outfits, they might notice that there are quite a few decent vintage and thrift shopping options here. If people would stop voting Potbelly Sandwiches the "Best Sandwich in DC," they would notice that there are several superior legitimate deli options around town. Wait, nevermind. But there are a lot of Subways.

The point is, DC's failures have nothing to do with the city, itself. Well, except for it's lack of bike lanes, well-placed mailboxes and L'Enfant Plaza -- that joint is ugly. Although, even thinking about those things, you'll realize those are all the fault of people for not planning and/or designing parts of this city to be either functional or ridiculously good-looking.

So, really, it's up to you and me to make this city livable. And if that means avoiding people and opting instead to watch hours of badminton via the new sports channel your government-subsidized digital converter box now picks up, so be it. (Go Albania!) But maybe for you that means opening a cheap and delicious deli in Columbia Heights. You're the working type, right? Because I'm too busy being FUNemployed and laughing at the word "shuttlecock" for any type of laborious activity.

But even if we all choose to watch hours of badminton and avoid human contact, at least we can rejoice that we don't live in Arlington. Although, at least they have a sense of humor...



By the way, why do so many dudes around here wear brown flip-flops?

welcome home?

I joke a lot about other people wanting to punch me in the face. Well, in a Seinfeldian twist, my little joke about nothing became something the other day. I got punched in the face. And by "face" I mean "arm," but, really, that's close enough for me to be a little concerned.

Of course, this punch to the face that was really my arm was also not intentional. The pain was thrust unto my limb by one of DC's ridiculously annoying teens. A teenage girl, to be exact, shouting something incomprehensible to her friend who also couldn't wait for those of us exiting the metro train to board themselves.

I guess I shouldn't have mocked that sh*tty video the metro authorities put out pleading with people to practice common courtesy, which as far as I know doesn't include punching people in the arm hard enough to leave a bruise while bursting onto the metro despite the exiting crowd.

Once again, DC is full of assholes.

And the timing couldn't have been better. It was just when I was getting back into the District after a nice relaxing few days in the country, where I didn't get punched at all.

But don't think getting punched was the only "interesting" thing to happen to me immediately upon my return. A homeless man also creepily approached me and told me and/or his imaginary friend that his leg "smells of Limburger cheese."

In retrospect, that really was interesting. And for the record, I didn't smell anything beyond stale booze and rat piss, although, I suppose, that could easily be mistook for Limburger cheese...

Yep. I'm so glad to be back...

where there's no smoke, there's an obnoxious fire alarm

I was going to write something brilliant today, I swear. But then at 4 a.m. -- right when my helper horse Sven and I are in our deepest bean comas -- my janky building's janky fire alarm started going off.

Of course me, being a person who has no desire to die in a raging inferno, popped out of bed, dressed Sven in his English saddle (he's classy) and readied to ride him down six flights of stairs like an ass in the Grand Canyon. But then the fire alarm went off.

"Phew. I guess the fire went out," I thought, which was good because I had forgotten to put on pants and everyone knows riding a horse without pants leads to major chafing.

So I settled back into my nest of packing peanuts to go back to bed. But just when I got comfortable in my box (I'm practicing for when I actually become homeless), the alarm started up again.

Then it stopped.

Then it started.

Then it stopped.

Then it started.

Then it stopped.

Repeat.

This went on until after seven in the morning. So, you'll have to excuse me, but my brain isn't up for any ironic sentence constructions. In fact, as u can c, I'm barely capable of righting a regluar sentance. Normally, I'd call in Sven for help, but he's too busy destroying all the fire alarms in the building. Safety first!

In the meantime, I invite you to take a look at what might be the greatest Web invention I've ever seen that was sent to me by a dutiful reader: http://mugshots.tampabay.com/

To quote said dutiful reader, "It's a constantly updated database of everyone who's been arrested in Tampa over the last 24 hours. Yes this sounds random, but if you check it out, you'll soon realize the genius-ness. You can sort by WEIGHT for christsake!"

Indeed, I've realized its genius-ness. Thank you.

By the way, I'll be leaving this urban sh*thole for the rest of the week to go to a rural sh*thole. But a sh*thole without faulty fire alarms where I plan to sleep for 72 hours, which means, I'll e-see you Monday.

Continuous yawn.

later dicks!

After a few nanoseconds of thought, I decided to quit the sex shop yesterday. Of course, I did this in the bitchiest of ways in that I waited for the manager to post the schedule with me on it before letting her know.

Whoops.

But I had my reasons. And, well, I was going to quit next week anyway...so...

Rightfully, though, the manager tried to make me feel guilty. Luckily, the knowledge that I earned a grand total of $2.37 an hour outweighed any modicum of empathy I may have had for leaving her with one less employee to do absolutely nothing for the mere 15 hours a week I was scheduled. Also, my conscience is made of Swiss cheese -- there's lots of holes in it, but it makes a delicious patty melt -- so feeling guilty is not something I do very well.

The truth is, for economic reasons and beyond, I had to quit yesterday. It was a do or die situation and sometimes you just have to look out for yourself no matter what the collateral damage. The collateral damage in this case means someone's going to get 15 hours of overtime. (You're welcome.)

I told my manager to blame logic or fate or the fact that I made less than the typical child laborer working in Malaysia for my sudden departure, but she didn't take to that idea too well. She said it was "unprofessional." Hmm, heard that before... Although, unlike last time, this was a sex shop. How professional can one be expected to behave when surrounded by rubber dicks?

I did feel a little bit sorry, however. I'm not one who usually balks at commitment. (HAHAHAHAHAHA!) Mostly though, I was sorry that the store always smelled like ass. I was sorry that the place looked like it was decorated by a blind child with spacial relations problems. I was sorry the shop's management didn't realize the economic benefits of making sure the shelves were stocked with stuff people actually wanted to buy. (Newsflash: No one wants to buy edible body paints that are opened and look like they've been used.) And I was certainly sorry to learn that one year later, some people were still getting the same hourly minimum wage that I was getting. That is a whopping $7.55 per hour. One year later? That's still a whopping $7.55 per hour. I don't care how bad the store's supposedly doing in "these trying economic times," there's something super f*cked up about that.

But just because I will no longer be working at the smelly understocked sex sweat-shop (not to be confused with the smelly understocked sex-sweat shop...ew), it doesn't mean I won't be writing about it. Au contraire, my experience has inspired me to try my hand at fiction. In fact, that's the sole reason I started working at the sex shop in the first place if you hadn't guessed that by now.

So, we shall see where this goes...

All I know is that I hope David Caruso will play the part of Perv #2 in the novel's film adaptation.

*Fingers crossed!*

oh, you've created a vmonster

If you couldn't guess, the "v" stands for vlog. And the "monster," well, that stands for monster. Duh. Anyway, the bottom, retardulous line is this: You've created a vlogging monster out of me. It's like you gave me a knife and a gun and I made a knife-gun. And then both shot and stabbed myself with it.

Honestly, I truly thought last week's vlogtastical experiment was going to be a one-time thing, but since I got so much feedback that didn't involve the phrase "that was f*cking retarded," I decided to try it again. And on a rare serious note, this whole video thing has served as a much-needed break to rest the remaining molecule I call my brain that is now dedicated to writing a work of (gasp!) fiction. Not to be confused with fictional work.

Besides, vlogging offers a clearly demented person like myself an additional benefit: When I inevitably hit rock bottom (scheduled for sometime next month), I'll have both written and filmed documents of the downward spiral. This should make the diagnosis much easier for when I'm finally forcibly committed.

But mainly, I hope you all just like my hair better this time...



Sadly, that was an actual phone call. A real conversation. And if you're wondering, yes, I too am both bemused and disturbed by how often I seem to talk about David Caruso.

Also, did you notice the toilet paper perched gingerly on the top shelf? That's probably the best part of the video.

But let's not bid our weekend adieus on that note. Instead, let's renew our faith in the capabilities of humanity (instead of its mental insufficiencies), and peruse possibly the most informative article I've ever come across on the Internet forwarded to me by a friend: "Seven Ridiculously Over-the-Top Modifications to Deadly Weapons." Because when I mentioned that knife-gun in the opening paragraph, I wasn't kidding. That sh*t exists.

City Paper does their part to kill print journalism

There are very few things one can do to kill time while working at a sex shop. You can talk to your coworkers. You can stare at all the merchandise and wonder why so many of them are named after dolphins, rapists of the sea. Or you can read and do crossword puzzles.

While I do engage quite often in options one and two, I am usually that employee with my back turned to the customers thinking of a four-letter word that means "Humpbacked ox of Asia." In fact, I'm usually so engrossed in these puzzles that a would-be robber could probably calmly go over to the cash register and steal the entire thing without me noticing. Remember, I only get paid $2.37 per hour, so not that much should be expected from me.

The highlight of my work week is always getting my dildo-peddling hands on the new Washington City Paper. It gets delivered on Wednesday nights around 9 p.m., just in time for me to ignore the evening rush. And once I finish the crossword, I usually decide to read the rest of the paper. Obviously, I start at the employment classifieds. (Apparently, surrogate mothers are needed. Anyone know if that's off the books?) Then I proceed to columns like The Straight Dope and Savage Love. Finally, I'll take a look at the front-page story.

For the most part, they're OK. They kill time. Sometimes they're even interesting, like the one a couple weeks ago about the chef contest held by the owner of Busboys & Poets and Eatonville. (That restaurant sounds like a disaster, by the way.) And sometimes they're actually clever, like the time they wrote about how they're going bankrupt. That one even got my HTML code all hot and bothered.

But sometimes (and thankfully not as often as they are simply so-so), they're horrible.

Take, for instance, this week's lead story: "Washington's Five Most Fascinating Post Offices."

Uh, what? I showed it to my helper horse Sven to make sure I was reading it correctly (remember, I'm functionally retarded). He said, "Ja!" and then went back to eating his smörgåsar -- he makes his with hay, oats and Beluga caviar.

So it was equine-confirmed. The editor, indeed, decided to dedicate 5,000 words to f*cking post offices. I honestly don't know where to even begin mocking this because, really, as a formerly employed reporter, I find this just so incredibly sad. I mean, can you imagine the editorial meeting?

"OK, intrepid reporters, I have a doozy for you. I bet you'll even fight over it," says the editor as the underpaid staff who got into this business because of an altruistic love of writing looks on in eager, wide-eyed awe.

"Tell us!" they implore. "Please!"

"OK," the editor would then pause dramatically for greater effect, "Washington's Five Most Fascinating Post Offices!"

*crickets*

"Who wants it? Do we have to draw straws? This is going to rock this city!"

*crickets*

"Uh, I don't think you guys understand what kind of opportunity this could be! We can blow the lid right off this USPS scandal!"

"What scandal?"

"The, um, scandal about, you know, which post office is easiest to buy stamps in..."

"But what's the scandal?"

"Look, if one of the you two remaining fulltime employees doesn't take this or at least find a touring musician and owner of a small record label to take this, you're fired."

Fortunately, the editorial board found just that. Justin Moyer, "a touring musician and owner of a small record label," sacrificed himself for the cause of publishing sh*t that doesn't matter. See, Justin's "spent a lot of time at the post office." He's "mailed a lot of sh*t and knows exactly what he wants from the blue-clad public servants he pays to handle his correspondence." He then proclaims himself the "postal-inspector-for-the-people" and vows to "spotlight five of the region's best, worst and otherwise fascinating post offices for your benefit" based on seven criteria: Automated Postal Center, Safety Glass, Prompt Service, Parking, yadda, yadda and yadda.

Honestly, it was hard to read even that far (and not just because I'm barely literate). But I trudged on, as I am the "ombudsman-for-the-people" and I vow to spotlight the region's most pointless, idiotic and otherwise unpublishable articles for your benefit based on one criterion: Retardedness. My two word Washington City Paper front-page article is below:

WHO CARES?

Maybe it's just my gut and my helper horse Sven's logic, but when you live in the assumed Capital of the Free World, you'd think there were more pressing issues to dedicate 5,000 words to than whether you have to show ID to the clerk if you choose to pay with a credit card at one of five area post offices. That, apparently, adds to the post office's "Triflin' Factor."

OK, I get that this article is supposed to be light-hearted, humorous, etc. But why not combine humor with usefulness? Not that I know anything about that as I try to keep this blog as uninformative as possible, but that's my point! There's a reason everything I write on here is strictly published for free on the Internet; it's useless and uninformative! So why then, was this ridiculously long, useless and uninformative review of post offices not simply put on a blog? What makes this useless and uniformative article printable?

Nothing. And we wonder why newspapers are on a death watch...

As far as I know, people turn to printed publications to learn something -- be it news, movie reviews, restaurant openings or what have you. They don't rush out to pick up a publication to read reviews of sh*t that no one cares about. First of all, how many people go to the post office more than twice a year? Moreover, the post office is a federal institution. Can you really reasonably expect it to be anything less than "triflin'" at any given time no matter where the location? I mean, is one post office so glorious that you would shirk your local joint in favor of driving several miles out of your way (assuming you even had a motor vehicle) to return your helper horse's manure basket there just because he didn't like the color option you chose?

No. No. And, once again, no. (And by the way, Sven, you'll drop a deuce in that maroon manure basket and like it!)

Alas, Washington City Paper is usually a small glimmer of joy at my menial labor job. But honestly, I'd have almost rather been actually doing my job than killing those not-so-precious moments reading about how the post office in Southeast Station "sucks balls." (Although kudos, Justin, on getting paid to use that phrase in print.)

And for future reference, Washington City Paper, when the idea starts floating around to pick out the five best Departments of Motor Vehicles in the area, just picture this:


You DO NOT want to taste Sven's pain. Trust me. Maybe just print five pages of crosswords next time...

a funny thing happened on the way to cure cancer

Washington, DC, is filled with assholes. Don't believe me? Then you're probably one of them. The kind who makes hitting pedestrians a sport. The kind who considers date rape a legitimate form of wooing. The kind who drunk drives for fun. The kind who hates pancakes.

But delicious breakfast foodstuffs aside, DC is filled with the kind of asshole who gets his jockstrap in a bunch over the supposed disorganization of a charity race to cure cancer.

Apparently, the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure goes down this weekend. For those of you not in the cancer know, this is a charity event that invites individuals and groups to run or walk a 5k in order to raise money for breast cancer research. It's really a good cause and if I was able to run/walk for more than a few feet without running into a stationary object, I'd totally participate. But that would require me to be sober.

Anyway, the bottom line is this: the SGK race is not really a race. There's no glory in coming in first. There are no prizes for the winner, well, unless of course you're not a dick and knowing that you've done something to help cure a deadly disease is prize enough. Alas, however, DC is full of dicks, with the ability to run or walk, who refuse to participate because the race doesn't fit their high standards. Moreover, they're recruiting other would-be charity runners on DCist to also not participate.

NewHCE commented: "For all you runners out there, stay away from the Komen races. Worst run races ever. Even potentially dangerous. There are plenty of other charity races to run."

Thankful for the info, DrLRonHoover (I hope to God this man isn't a real doctor...) replied: "Thanks for that! I was actually considering running the race, but not now."

I guess the big problem has to do with something called "chip timing" and "a corral system." The SGK event doesn't offer either, ergo, making it not legit enough to not quit. Instead, all the SGK race offers is a chance to raise money for cancer victimes. And clearly, that's not good enough.

Boondoggle said: "With chip timing and a corral system, you can have a competitive race and help people. But without some way of encouraging the slower folks to start in the back, the promise of chip timing is just going to frustrate serious runners. And if those people get frustrated enough no to running [SIC] it next year, your [SIC] left no better off than if you just called it a fun run to begin with."

THAT'S BECAUSE IT'S NOT A RACE, JACKIE JOYNER, IT'S A CHARITY EVENT TO CURE CANCER.

Oh, and if those comments aren't enough to make you want to punch this city in its proverbial junk, then maybe this will goad you (that is, if you, yourself, aren't a cancer-loving asshole). Wah, say these naysayers on DCist, there's not even any free stuff to collect! Blasphemy!

NewHCE writes: "Lawyers Have Heart (Ed. Note: LOL!). That is a good race."

To which DrLRonHoover replies: "I have to say the course is a disappointment. Out the Whitehurst, then Canal and back again. It used to be more fun when it went through the sidestreets in Gtown. Still, it's one of my three to four races a year. Good atmosphere and freebies."

Because the thought of doing something to help others without the promise of a free tote bag made in China filled with crap you'll inevitably throw into a landfill within a couple of months is pointless...

Says Boondoggle: "Thanks for the advice. I'll run Lawyers Have Heart 10k instead."

I guess cancer can wait.

But what about the metaphorical butt cancer that is DC? Is there a race to cure that? Maybe I should organize a race. I already designed the free tote bag.


I'd sweat for that.

i implore you to stop, media

A literate reader forwarded me an article from Rolling Stone the other day and, to my chagrin, it wasn't about Jonas Brothers. Instead, it was about all the ways DC has changed since Barack (we're on a first name basis now) moved to town.

Um, really? Again?

I feel like we've heard this before...or several times. And every single time, I come to the same conclusion: what a bunch of bullsh*t.

Newsflash: DC is STILL full of politico douchebag types. That's what this city was built on. And it's probably what this city will prattle on being until the world ends or the system collapses or my helper horse Sven gets sober.

So, needless to say--let alone type--I am upset with Rolling Stone for wasting valuable column inches on drivel like this:




Nary is a Jonas Brother even mentioned! Instead, it's all about how "Shaw" (which, by the way is not even really on the map) is totally the coolest neighborhood in DC now. This is a non-starter with me because, really, there are no cool neighborhoods in DC. There may be neighborhoods that are more tolerable than others, but just because you don't feel the need to stab yourself in the face all the time, doesn't mean it's cool.

My other major contention with these two pages is the Power Shift table, which looks at "what's in and out of the nation's capital." First of all, nothing is ever "in" in DC except for khakis and humidity. Secondly, how embarrassing is it that we traded in Jack Bauer for Oprah Winfrey as our cultural icon? While both can kill you, Bauer's methods of assassination are so much cooler than Oprah's. She wants to kill you slowly; Bauer wants to kill you quickly. And, apparently, to the soundtrack of Rammstein. And at least Bauer is fictional...

Now please, mainstream media, come up with some new material. Or at least get back to covering more important topics like what the Jonas Brothers are wearing.


Oh look! Ladies' jeans! I think I have that exact outfit being sported by that Jonas on the left. Sanjaya. Or whatever his name is...

while you were working...

Hell's bells, it's been an interesting week over here. And to top it off, I'm trying to plan a hot non-date betwixt me, a pizza and Wii MarioKart. Oh, and a good friend who I haven't seen in weeks because I hate human contact.

Thankfully, though, all the time I spend avoiding humans of all colors, shapes and sizes (I an equal opportunity hater), I came across some pretty sweet sh*t on the Interweb. And as tradition here dictates, I'm forced to count off in some random language in order to share it. (Tradition also states all Anti DC traditions must be idiotic.) So, how about Turkish? After all, baklava is delicious.

Bir! (And yes, that's pronounced "beer.") City Paper published something worth reading! Of course it was on their blog first...but who reads blogs anyway? Oh yeah. But whatever. It's about my forté: RAPE JOKES!

Iki! Ever yearned to find a Web site dedicated to depicting otters doing human-like things? Me neither. But that's because I didn't know what I was missing!

Üç! Oh my! It's a gnarly pizza crusade in Adams Morgan! Thank you, Ward 1 City Councilman Jim Graham?

Dört! Shoot. This pygmy jerboa's vlog is better than mine. Of course, that's to be expected. Anything a human can do a pygmy jerboa can do better.

Bes! Look at this f*cking hipster.

Have a boss weekend!

skinny and dumb

According to a new and probably questionable study, Washington, DC, is the "fittest" city in America.

The American College of Sports Medicine decided this on the following criteria provided by the government:

• Availability of parks, walking and bike trails and public transportation.

• Percentage of people who exercise regularly, maintain a healthy weight and eat the recommended daily servings of fruits and vegetables.

• Percentage of people who have access to health care and have health insurance.

• Percentage of people who don't smoke.

And here I thought it was because the take-out options in this town blow...

And speaking of blowing (that came out weird), let's talk about the public transportation, and specifically, this new propaganda imploring people to be polite on the trains.

Now, is it just me, or is it $9-scrunchie sad that grown-ups have to be reminded to treat each other like, well, grown-ups?

The best line, in my opinion, was about the handicap seats, for which the video reminds grown-ups that they should "give these seats up for the elderly or disabled." Fair enough. But then the video says this: "If you are unable ... to perform these functions, please find another seat." Uh, let's see. If you're unable to give up your handicapped seat for someone who's disabled, MAYBE IT MEANS YOU'RE ALSO DISABLED. So in effect, the video should really say, "If you are unable to perform these functions, then, um, remain seated, I guess..."

But seriously, is this necessary? Then again, considering the great majority of the human race is populated by legitimate morons, maybe I'm being too quick to judge this video as a waste of taxpayer money. Although judging from the animation, a dollarmenuaire could have paid for this production. However, those are dollars that could've been spent on a delicious and nutritious $5-footlongs from Subway®. I mean, we gotta stay fit for the city, right? And Subway is pretty much the best take-out so...

While we may be idiots, at least we're not fat?

I kid, I kid. There was a legitimate plus-side to this video -- it looked like it took place in Second Life (DCist noticed that too), which reminded me of good ol' Rep. Ed Markey (D-Mass.) and his foray into Second Life a couple of years ago. I really wish he'd have kept that creepy e-habit up.

Yep, those were the days...when we were fatter; when disabled grown-ups didn't have to be taught to give up their handicap-designated seats to other disabled grown-ups; and when Ed Markey lectured floating blue dragon furries about the environment...sigh...

hat the f*ck?

So it seems I've been presented a challenge from my computer, a MacBook. As of last night at about 7 p.m., my "w," "2," "tab" and "esc" keys stopped responding to my gentle touch.

"But, Marissa, you just typed the letter double-u and the numero dos in that last sentence!"

That's because I copied and pasted those. I may be an idiot, but I'm fairly e-savvy.

Under normal circumstances, I might simply shrug my burdened shoulders and call it a day, but since I promised to blog after my horrendous stab at a vlog yesterday, I feel obligated to type an online essay using the gosh darn double-u or not.

And so here I go...sans the stupid double-u...

Although this is nothing not old, I nearly got ran over coming home from laboring at the sex shop a couple of nights ago. In a fissure of fate, though, I hadn't done anything to violate any traffic rules. That's right, I rode completely in the confines of everyone's road rights. I stuck near the curb in the righthand lane and had a flashing red bike light attached to my bag, so although the sun had set, my presence on the street could not be missed. And like I usually do to leave the douchiest neighborhood in DC that I'll simply refer to as "George," I rode dirty at a vigorous pace. In summary, there appeared to be no good reason to explain the activity that happened next.

Mid-ride on a surprisingly empty M Street (probably due to the inclement elements), a cab driver in a minivan decided to nearly snuff me out. He could have passed me in one of the duet of deserted left lanes beside me, but I guess it must have seemed more fun at the time to instead pass me IN MY LANE leaving less than a foot of space on my left side.

In short, the move made absolutely no sense. DC cab drivers are like a glass of $9 scrunchies -- that is, completely confounding, ruthlessly gnarly and, most of all, just plain stupid.

Speaking of a glass of $9 scrunchies, I'm quite surprised that my recent find in Club Monaco inspired just a duo of the comments yesterday. And one occurred only to insult my flyover country upbringing. Fair enough. I sported the hell out of a scrunchie in my day. That is, in 1990. My point is, it's nearly dos decades later. I get that fashion trends come and go and come again, but the scrunchie? Really? Am I the only one outraged by the idea of the scrunchie becoming a legitimate hair accessory again? Especially at $9 a pop?

I mean. This is shambles.


Let's not repeat our mistakes. Please feel my ire. Don't make me touch you again...

maybe in another dimension...

As a reward (or punishment, depending on how much you hate my face), I have a special treat for you today for not forgetting about me during my 6-day hiatus: A VLOG!

Actually, it's sort of the anti-vlog. (I'm good at being anti-stuff.)

See, over the weekend I received an email from a reader (who's not related to me!), who asked, "Marissa. I like your writing a lot. Funny stuff. Wondering if you've ever done stand-up or even a any vlogging or anything. You should try it!"

Well, reader, thanks for the compliments and your belief that I'm articulate enough to speak in full sentences. Unfortunately however, I don't think I'm suited to do anything oral [insert dirty joke here]. See, although I give off the image of being a legitimate moron, I'm smart enough to know what I'm good at and talking out loud isn't one of them.

That was my first thought, anyway. And then I forgot about that email entirely while I whittled away my weekend whittling. What? I'm good with a whittle [insert another dirty joke here].

But then yesterday I rethought. I noticed I had been talking to myself. Or my whittle. Whichever. And what I was saying wasn't in gibberish, but in English. So I thought, "Hmm. Maybe I could be a video blogger!" After all, having never tried it, how could I possibly know I'd automatically suck at it?

And so I made a vlog.

And upon rewatching the footage, I learned never to doubt my first instincts ever again.

But despite its all-around sh*tiness, I've decided not let this well-intentioned, rather retardulous effort go to waste. Nope, instead I've decided to make it into a permanent reminder to myself that I should stick to writing.

So without further ado, allow me to present to you, my first and probably last vlog appropriately titled, "Why The Anti DC Will Never Be A Vlog."

And if you can get through the whole thing without punching your computer screen where my face is floating around, then I commend you. You are my true e-friend. Either that, or you like torture and your name is Dick Cheney* and/or you're just a dick.



Wow. I'll never get a fulltime job again. Meh.

My lifelong hobo pass aside, however, I promise I'll get back to what I'm good at (or less bad at) tomorrow. (And I don't just mean whittling!) Now, if you don't mind I have to go record myself watching The View. It's awkward because even I don't know if I'm kidding at this point! Although if that actually does happen, I've made the mental note to shoot from a different angle. Gratuitous up-the-nose shots aren't necessarily flattering. I will also brush my hair. Maybe.

But before I go, I must also share with you the shambles I spotted at Club Monaco in Georgetown this weekend. Behold...


And no, that's not an optical illusion. That, indeed, is a scrunchie. And not just any scrunchie, but a $9 scrunchie. Notice how carefully I'm touching it (I Purelled that whole arm after this encounter). Scrunchies are to me what holy water is to the devil. It burns.

On the other hand, this did provide a new insulting simile to insert into my lexicon -- "glass of $9 scrunchies." As in, Washington, DC, is a like a glass of $9 scrunchies. I will never understand it, yet someone must be buying...someone blind and ignorant, that is.

Wow. Suddenly, spending three minutes staring up my nose and watching me serenade legumes wasn't so bad now, is it!?

*Whoops! Amid trying to spot my boogers and trying to fathom who is actually going to buy a $9 scrunchie, I almost forgot about the asterisk I slapped on the end of Dick Cheney's name. But thankfully I remember my extra Cheney tidbit -- my Dickbit, if you will -- now: My friend almost got ran over by Cheney in the Salt Lake City airport on Friday. He was riding in the back of one of those airport senior-mobiles. Apparently, Dick "The New Old Man White Oprah" Cheney flies commercial now. Who knew!? I bet going from flying private to commercial is like a glass of $9 scrunchies.