Your Life, My Thoughts

What? You’re still here?

In case you haven’t noticed, I have a life now.  No need for this anymore.  Take your issues elsewhere.  Perhaps here.  At the very least, you’ll get a nice song out of it. 

Not In My Backyard

Q. If squirrels are digging up my seeds and ruining my garden is it wrong to snipe them with a BB gun from my window if I plan to taxidermy them when they are killed?

A. What in the world? If this is how you problem solve, then I’d hate to see how you handle finding a parking space at the mall. There’s no way I can publicly endorse such cruel acts; neither those directed toward the squirrels, nor to the tastes of interior design professionals everywhere. PETA would put me on their hit list. 

I think you’re overestimating the intelligence of your tree dwelling troublemakers, just as I’m overestimating your intelligence by dignifying this question with a response. Put the pellet gun down and head to the hardware store. Scratch that, go to a nursery, they have fewer sharp objects and power tools that might get you in trouble. Get some chicken wire or hardware cloth. Maybe even some commercial repellant. Protect your petunias that way. Less blood shed, fewer worries you’ll shoot your eye out.

X Marks The Spot

 Q. How do you gracefully decline your boss’s black tie wedding invite - mostly because it’s too expensive to attend?!

A. I’m going to assume this was written by a potential flower girl, because any adult should know how to do this.  If it’s a black tie affair, surely it came with a formal invitation with an RSVP card. Go dig it up; I’ll wait.  

On that RSVP card, there should be an option to either “accept” or “decline with regrets.” Put a check mark next to the “decline with regrets” response.  Put the card in the return envelope, add postage if necessary, and mail it back. There you have it — an invitation gracefully declined.

Easing Off The Brakes

Q. I have gone on four dates with a dude and he has not even remotely attempted to put the moves on me yet. We’ve barely pecked on the lips, and he keeps suggesting dates that cannot easily lead back to one of our apartments. What’s the dillyo?

A. Maybe he’s a Civil War era southern gentlemen vampire who still prefers his anachronistic customs of courting, escorting, and protecting damsels in petticoats to dating today’s independent women in daisy dukes.  (Sorry, I’ve been watching a lot of True Blood in my down time.)

Honestly, it’s hard for me to tell you what’s going on in his head. I’m no Sookie. (It’s been a lot, a lot of True Blood.) But I can tell you that in these modern times, dating, ideally, is a two-way street. What’s stopping you from suggesting a date, or making a move yourself? Or god forbid you forthrightly ask him “what’s the dillyo.” (It pained me to have to retype that). Who knows, a conversation wherein you address the current speed of your relationship could result in the revved up action you’re after. Fortune (and foreplay) favors the bold. Be brave.

Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!

Q. What should I wear when I’m going to a monster truck rally and then the Manhattan Inn? - Miriam

A. A sandwich board that reads “I’m trying too hard to look cool.”  You’ve got a 11211 ZIP code, live in a converted warehouse, and work as a designer.  We get it, you’re the ne plus ultra of “in”-ness. You really don’t need to go to such lengths to prove your hipster mettle.

But if you’re insistent upon asking me for style advice (despite the fact that I could not care less what you wear, as I will most certainly not be in attendance with you), I should take a second look at your day’s itenerary.

You’ve set your sights on attending, in an ironic manner no doubt, a monster truck rally at Madison Square Garden.  Forget the absurdity of bringing oversized gas guzzlers to a city of 8 million people that has fewer and fewer stretches of open tract; such fawning for rural Americana is right on trend! Well done.

From there you’ll visit the opposite end of the hip-to-be-square spectrum — Manhattan Inn.  One of our fair borough’s examples of urban sophistication featuring repurposed materials, pricey cocktails, and a working piano as a focal point. A place more likely to attract Lindsey Naegle than Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel. 

So what’s a lady like you supposed to wear to two such disparate events? Denim. Lots and lots of denim. Sorry, I mean chambray.  

Personally, I think you’d be better off saving your country mouse/city mouse escapades for a 2-in-1 event.  Say a New York Times Talks presentation with Larry The Cable Guy.  I’d hate you 10x more for attending that than I do for your current social calendar. 

Wise words, people. 

Hi Hater

Q. I hate New Year’s! Hate it. Last year, I had some friends over to combat the hatred, but I can’t rig a balloon drop two years in a row. What are some alternative ways to celebrate New Year’s? I have zero money, hate the cold, and I don’t wanted to get barfed on. I also don’t want to ring in 2011 in a way that makes me contemplate suicide.

A. This better not be a cry for help. Being tasked with preventing your suicide is above my pay grade.  The best I can offer in that department is a hotline and a reminder that “it gets better.”

[Taps foot impatiently while looking at watchless wrist.] Have things gotten better yet? Great. Moving on.

Are you familiar with the ever so popular pastime known as sleeping? It’s free, relatively temperate and for most people, though not all, it is a vomit-free zone. A good night’s rest will do wonders to mellow out your crankiness. 

If you’d rather be conscious, you could always go the Risky Business route. Not the hiring a prostitute part, (sex workers don’t do freebies my broke friend), but the raiding your liquor cabinet, blasting (bad) music and dancing around in your skivvies part.  Just be sure to mind the floor wax.

Here’s hoping both your temperament and money situation improve in the new year,

yours truly

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot?

Q. I’m having a big New Year’s party. Two of my friends (Clarice and Hermey) recently had a falling out. Clarice seems fairly mellow about it, but Hermey is rumored to be avoiding any social activities that involve Clarice. Do I have to send Hermey a warning e-mail that Clarice may be in attendance? I’d rather not have tufts of claymation fur strewn around my apartment if a scuffle breaks out.
 

A. First off, -5 points to you for making me look up these asinine Rudolph and the Island of Misfit Toy references.  Secondly, New Year’s Eve celebrations (in NYC at least) have always paled in comparison to the 4th of July because they lack fireworks. So why douse the flame when you have the makings of what could be a very dramatic display?  I say let the sparks fly. If the rumors are true, then you’ll have gotten the new year off with a bang, if not, then you will have celebrated with two of your favorite claymation figures.  Just don’t tell your stuffed animal friends from your weekly tea parties that they weren’t invited.  They might be jealous. 

Xmas with Future Ex-coworkers

Q. Since my supervisor let me use her season tickets for the Eagles last week, I’m officially obligated to get her a gift. Ditto for her colleague, who’s paying for me to come to the holiday luncheon. And as long as I’m faking generosity, I should probably acknowledge the two part-timers in the office too. But I’m a broke grad student, so it’s gotta be on the cheap. FWIW, they’re all women, and all but my 40-ish boss are a step away from (re)retirement.

Grinch-turned-gift-giver

A. Know what I got for Christmas from a coworker this year?  Baked goods. Do you know what I’m advised to no longer eat?  Gluten and dairy. 

 But that’s totally fine. I don’t expect to get world-class gifts from coworkers. No working-class stiff should; certainly not from a grad student.  As long as the recipient can easily pawn it off on someone else, the present itself doesn’t matter. It’s the thought that counts. It’s an honor just to be nominated. I can’t believe it’s not butter. 

With that burden lifted, you can skip over to your nearest strip mall and pick one of the following holiday-themed gifts with your head held high:

1. A holiday sweater from the “returned” aisle at from TJ Maxx 
2. Fruitcake!
3. A VHS copy of Behind the Music: Stevie Nicks  (let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!)
4. A label maker (the gift that keeps on giving)
5. Alvin and the Chipmunks’ “Christmas Don’t Be Late” on vinyl  
6. A hula hoop
7. Old christmas cards repurposed as christmas postcards (hint: cut off the second page)
8. Flu shots
9. Coupons for snow tires
10. Any and everything from the seasonal aisle at the dollar store

P.S. You should really get your supervisor some booze. She’ll need it when the Eagles are in the playoffs. 

Baby Blues

Q. My step-sister recently had a baby (her second one). When she spawned the first one, some family members told me I was being “mean” for refusing to hold Junior/making a big deal about him. I am not a baby person! How can I avoid holding Junior Junior without starting WW3?

A. Unless this was an immaculate conception, you seem to be missing the “holiday” theme I’ve been pushing as of late.  But no matter, like Pavlov’s dog, those incessant Salvation Army bells have me trained to act a wee bit nicer to the needy (e.g. you) during this time of year.

Your best course of action is plain and simple - lie. Tell your family you think you’re coming down with something and would rather not get Junior Jr. sick. Or, pretend you’re revealing a deep dark secret and convince them that you once dropped a coworker’s child and have been fearful of holding one ever since.  If a family member foists it upon you anyway (and yes, I do mean “it”), convolute the lie further by telling them that your shrink says you’re not ready for immersion therapy.  If we can’t comfortably lie to the ones we love, then to whom can we lie? 

Also, I would be remiss in not correcting your nomenclature for the new baby. If I’m following your family tree correctly, your step-sister already has a child named after it’s father. (We’ll call the father Abraham, and the son Isaac Abraham Jr.). If said step-sister has a second child with Abraham, it would be in everyone’s best interest if they just thought of a new name. But since they decided to go to the George Foreman route, the name would be Abraham III.  Acceptable nicknames would be Trip or Trey (or, duh, Abe), but never Junior Junior. Junior Jr. denotes some sort of backwoods inbreeding shenanigans, which is only acceptable in very rare and very wealthy instances.