DC Etiquette #10: Tell everyone how well-traveled you are.

Of course, in a city where everyone must boast about their foreign language skills, so too must extensive traveling experience be detailed constantly as well.

A few ways to do this:
1. FACEBOOK!

Thank you, Mark Zuckerberg, for creating an interface where douchebaggery has a chance to abound. Here, not only may you now post all the foreign languages you know (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) but you can list "travel" as one of your interests. Feeling super douchey and international? Instead of writing "traveling to exotic locations where I can practice my new found foreign language skills", try writing "getting my passport stamped". Then, you leave people with the impression that you've been all over the world, when really you probably just live in Maine or northern Michigan and have gone up to Canada several times each winter (for skiing trips? colder weather? I don't honestly know where I'm going with this), and asked them to stamp your passport. Not because it's necessary, but because you want to impress your friends who are leafing through your passport the next time they're over and you "accidentally" leave it on your coffee table with your cramped passport pages.

Oh, and remember a few years ago, like 2005ish when there was some... thing... on facebook where you could put dots on a map on your profile to show all the places you traveled to? Yeah, make one of those too.


2. Ordering in a restaurant.

At a Mexican restaurant, and you once overheard an exchange in Chipotle about the frijoles being negros or... pinto? Kudos, you can now say you've been to Mexico. So go ahead and tell your waiter you want frijoles refritos with your burrito (say that in your head in a dirty mexican accent), then launch into a long talk about how beautiful you found Mexico to be (because everyone's seen that recent commercial promoting how Mexico is so beautiful it's like Hawaii. Please, we all know it's a dirty poor people country, and Hawaii is not. There, I said it.)

Another option is to act like you've forgotten that you're back in your homeland. What I mean by this, is to order something like "lemon juice". When your waiter acts confused, explain that "overseas" if you ask for "lemonade", and not "lemon juice", you'll end up with a carbonated lemon drink, and not lemonade, proper. Yes, I've actually heard this go down in public.


3. Casual conversation

After recently meeting a new "friend", I regaled him with a great story of mine: the first time I went skiing. During this epic adventure, I was reassured by a friend that I didn't need lessons, and therefore ended up careening at full speed into the lodge with my friend yelling "PIZZA!" behind me, as I went full throttle into the shins of a 35 year old man (I was 15 in the Pocono Mountains at the time). I told this story because it's hilarious. The man started swearing at me profusely, and when his girlfriend asked, "Are you okay?" I thought it was directed at me, and answered, "Oh hey yeah thanks I'm fine," setting off my new 35 year old comrade into a new swearing charade which clued me in to the fact that the question had not in fact been directed at me. After telling this story, instead of the usual response of cackling laughter trying to imagine me as a 15 year old in a puffy bright blue marshmallow coat taking out a large 35 year old man by plowing into him on my back on skis at full speed ahead, his response was, "I've been to Everest, that wasn't a mountain you were on."

Take note: Clearly I've never been to Everest, since I fell down a mountain on skis at age 15. And there's a two-for-one here, since I now know my companion is better than I am since he's been to Everest.

Take casual sidenote: We all know Everest is a "real" mountain, even if we haven't seen it. If you really want to be impressive, start claiming you've been to Olympus Mons... and that Everest can suck its dick three times over (disclaimer: a friend who is much smarter than I am pointed out what Olympus Mons is to me. I am not this well informed on the mountains of our solar system).

So basically, all I'm really saying is...

...unless you're Amelia god damned Earhart, you're not ACTUALLY a world traveler. And she even failed. So go fuck yourself, 'cause no one really cares how many passport pages you have stamped, shitdick.

DC Etiquette #9: Love yourself. Too much.

So, I have a supplemental job waiting tables. Before you judge me by what I do since we're in DC and that's the only good measure of anyone's character, rest assured I have a real person functional 9 - 5 job that requires a college degree, etc. Calm down, everyone.

Having gotten that out of the way, I encountered the King of the Douchebags earlier this week. For all intents and purposes, I think it's fair to refer to this grand douchebag as Summer's Eve.

When I approached Summer's Eve's table, I was slightly weary of the fact that the two people sitting there looked like they were roughly 14. As they immediately ordered a bottle of wine, I carded them. Summer's Eve did not like this, and tried to "relate to my struggle" if you will:

"I waited tables for 2 weeks once, and don't you feel so awkward when you have to card someone?"
"No. If I serve you and you're not 21, I could lose my job. So I don't feel very awkward about that."
"Right well I always just thought it was so awkward when I'd card someone and they were older than I am and-"
"I need to see your ID."
"Oh really? (surprised tone) But yeah, so awkward when someone is older than you are and you card them, so-"
"We're exactly the same age."

At this point I had a slight inclination that I was in for it.

I brought the bottle of the wine to the table. Which Summer's Eve immediately sent back, because, as he stated, "Ohh...yeah...I don't mean to be a douchebag (well that's pretty fucking ironic, Summer's Eve) but the menu said the vintage was 2006, and this bottle's a 2007."

When I returned to the table, he began to try to strike up conversation. He did this by speaking exclusively about himself for a solid 5 minutes (trust me, this is an absurdly long time in dbagville). During this point I found out a lot of things that were incredibly uninteresting about Summer's Eve: born and raised in DC area (shocking), went to school in Boston, started his own NGO, and was probably jacking off under the table listening to the sound of his own voice as he told me all of this. I can't verify that last one, but his hands WERE under the table the entire time. Just sayin'.

The conversation then took an unexpected twist as Summer's Eve asked me what I was doing with my life, and if I was planning to go back to school for anything. I said yes, and he asked how far along I was on the application process. I remarked that I haven't even taken the GRE yet. To this comment, Summer's Eve offered some stellar advice:
"Oh the GRE? It's easy, don't study, just go in and take it."
"I don't think so, I feel an inclination to prepare for any test I take."
"Well actually, men test better than women on the GRE. I read about it in an article, if you want to give me your email address, I could send it to you."
Awkward silence.
"You know, you could just take the GRE, get whatever grade you get, then explain to an admissions officer, you know, that you took it, didn't do so well, but really talk up your other credentials and that you feel the GRE was really just a waste of your time, and I think someone would really just respect you for that."
"Really? I think someone would think I'm just incredibly self important trying to go around application requirements if I did that."

I also appreciated the fact that he assumed my silly woman vagina and I would automatically bomb the GRE.

Nonetheless, I continued to "enjoy" Summer's Eve's inane ramblings throughout the duration of the wonderful experience of waiting on him. For example: "I love the W, it's the only place you can see the White House from, without actually being IN the White House." I've enjoyed the view from the benches with homeless people across the street from the White House myself, but whatever...

Finally, Summer's Eve paid and left, which was hands down the most magical part of the evening. And I say that because this is the receipt I picked up from the table upon his departure:

To be fair, I was at least well compensated for putting up with his bullshit for far too long. What you can't see very well on the check, since I blurred it out using my great photo editing skills/lackthereof, is a special message, just for me. He dropped his sweet digits (which he apparently forgot, and had to cross out the last four digits to write it properly?) but left the best line scribbled there on the bottom: "Talk more about me."

I know, I know, you're probably super jealous and extremely upset that I blurred out the number so only I can enjoy this man's company. Tough shit. This insufferable dbag is aaaalllll mine. I'm considering kicking off conversation by sending him a text saying, "I hope you die in a fiery car crash," but I feel like that could be misconstrued as slightly abrasive and quite immature. Plus that sort of talk would make my mother embarrassed of me. I'll hold my silence.

DC Etiquette #8: Have a really awkward holiday office party.

I know, I know, this is not DC specific, this is a global phenomenon. But I'll post about what I feel like posting about, damnit. Be advised, however, that the awkward story I'm about to share with you has a lot to do with the fact that people in DC are socially inept. As the tv that keeps me company on a nightly basis while I drink a bottle of wine alone in bed can tell you, I certainly have plenty of room to talk about being socially graceful and outgoing.

Regardless.

The holiday season is upon us. To many, this means dealing with fuckloads of people who are running around shopping malls, awkward once-a-year-reunions with extended family, and great eruptive family fights. While in the throes of all of these great holiday emotions, one fantastic holiday tradition may have escaped your mind: the office holiday party.

I have a pretty great track record with holiday parties. And by that I mean I've never been able to remember one.

What great tidbits I do have in tact from my work Christmas party last year entail my great friend and I failing to sing any of the words correctly to "Wonderwall" by Oasis (bet you're sad you missed that) and one of my managers slinging an arm around my shoulders while throwing a camera at someone shouting, "TAKE A PICTURE OF THE TWO BITCHES!"

I did not know I was thought of this way. Consequently, the photo looked something like this:

Well, you know. With females in normal dress. But the same expressions. Use your imagination.

However, this year at my office Christmas party, I experienced the most awkward holiday party moment known to mankind. I challenge you to come up with something more uncomfortable.

I will change names to protect the integrity of my coworkers. Therefore, the woman known as **** will now be referred to as Twatbreath.

Twatbreath and I were always friendly with each other. As in she always remembered my name when I saw her in the hallway, and would greet me very excitedly using my first name, while I would only be able to respond with "HI! .... ahm... how are... YOU?!", trying to muster up the same enthusiasm she had in knowing my name by demonstrating I had zero knowledge of hers (note social grace reference from the first paragraph).

One day, Twatbreath and I had an extremely minor altercation that resulted in Twatbreath giving me a partial death look when she greeted me by my first name every time I saw her walking down the hallway from thereon out. So you can imagine my surprise when the events I'm about to describe transpired between myself and Twatbreath at my recent holiday party.

Seated at a table with two other coworkers, I saw Twatbreath was getting ready to leave the party. I had only had one other interaction with Twatbreath at the party thus far, when I saw her and said, "Hi Twatbreath!" in the friendliest and most enthusiastic tone I possess, only to recieve an I-hate-you-smile as she walked past me to the cake table (note: I did not really call her "Twatbreath", I called her by her "real" name). Moving on. She warmly parted ways with one of my coworkers with a hug and kiss on the cheek. As I was at an awkward angle seated in my chair with my back to her, I simply wished Twatbreath a safe journey home and said goodbye with a friendly wave and a smile. I thought this was the universal signal for "DO NOT FUCKING TOUCH ME".

Tip: Do not try this evasive maneuver at your next holiday party.

I say this, because apparently that body language is actually indicative of wanting to be touched. As Twatbreath headed for the door by walking behind my chair, she did a surprise-Twatbreath-sneak-attack. She then rounded on me, and while I sat at the table with an extremely puzzled look on my face, Twatbreath bent down over me like Rafiki about to anoint Simba in the opening scene of the Lion King, and kissed me on my forehead.

It is important here to note that up until this point in my life, the only woman who has kissed me on my forehead to part ways has been my own mother.

The other people seated near the table and myself all fell into an extremely uncomfortable silence. The silence eventually gave way to teeth-baring grimaces of sympathy and awkward I'm-just-going-t0-look-sideways-to-avoid-eye-contact-with-you expressions.

I hope envisioning this scenario has also caused you to die just a tiny bit on the inside, as my coworkers and I all did after Twatbreath left the room with her awkward forehead kiss.

Thankfully, it was time to leave the party, and I pretty much immediately seized my jacket and ran for the safe haven of my car.

However, I'm thinking when I see Twatbreath at work tomorrow I'm going to walk up to her, say nothing, place a hand on each side of her face, and kiss her forehead with vigor. I may accidentally spit a little on her. I also may or may not currently have a cold. Just sayin'.

Happy Holiday Season!