DC Etiquette #16: Use empty words, such as "NGO", "consulting", and "The Hill", to describe your life.

When I first made the mindless decision to move back to DC from the safe haven of my hometown (I was probably drunk when I made this decision. Like I am whenever I write these posts. Just being honest.), I had to do some extensive craigslist hunting to find my first place of residence in DC as a "professional" (I am essentially the antithesis of a professional, casual sidenote). I don't know how much anyone else has had to craigslist hunt the group home scene for some affordable, low income rent, but it's nothing short of a party.

One of the first group houses I "interviewed" to be a part of was in Columbia Heights (I know what you're thinking. Why would I ever want to be around THAT many HIV infected minorities? For $650 a month including utilities on a low income, you too may consider taking this risk.), living in a decent house with two other people. On the day of my "interview", as my potential future roommates referred to meeting each other, "Mario" and "Krissy" did a great job finding out a lot about me. And by that I mean they spoke exclusively about themselves for 30 minutes while my hand was anchored in their snack bowl (filled with Reese's Cups. Well fucking done, to be fair) before my allotted time to talk about myself so they could discern if they were in fact better than I was ended (I hope you could follow that run-on sentence).

During this time, "Mario" spoke briefly about his career as some sort of ambiguous government worker (I honestly was not listening.) before "Krissy" interrupted to tell me ALL about her NGO work (I've put their names in quotation marks only because I can't remember if those are their real names or if I'm making them up). She rattled on and on and on about some shit she did with breast cancer or starving minorities or who knows or cares what, but I can still hear her saying (and this was 2 years ago), "...what can I say? I'm just an NGO kid!"

Now I've noted that a lot of people in DC will respond to our favorite, "What do you do for a living?!?!" question with, "I work for an NGO." I have a few questions about this: Why don't you just name the organization you work for so I can try to guess what the fuck you're doing during your work day? What ARE you doing during your work day? Does that mean you retrieve coffee for the president of your NGO so you can try to act like you're working for a real cause? Does saying you work for an NGO really mean you're an unpaid intern having your life fully funded by your parents? I'M SO CONFUSED.

Moving on, there is no single profession in the world that confuses me as much as when people say they work in "consulting". I lived in a group house senior year of college (oh, afterthought, needless to say I got rejected after my interview in Columbia Heights with "The NGO Kid" and "Mario"), where two of my roommates (both people who are actually not raging DC douchebags, not even a little bit) went into consulting. They were both extremely nervous about their interviews, where it seemed to me that interviewers would all but shove bamboo shoots into their nail beds. I can get behind really wanting a job, but it was always hard for me to get behind this one, as I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT CONSULTANTS ACTUALLY DO. Here's what I understand: you seem to work long hours, get mind fucked (maybe?), make much more money than I do, and travel sometimes? Lots of question marks??? From what I understand there are many fields of consulting...and that's about...all I really...understand...yeaaaaaaah (I seem to not be able to stay away from writing my side comments in parenthesis in this post. Enjoy.). I'd sincerely love to elaborate on this section of my post, but I legitimately have no idea where to go from discussing consulting other than to say I have no idea what it means. It's an empty word to me, like "hope" and "dreams" and "happy endings". Is that too much personal info? Moving on.

The other favorite "cool" thing to say as a person working and living in DC: "I work on The Hill" or, "I live on The Hill". Now, whenever someone says "I work on The Hill", regardless of his or her gender, I just imagine (I know this isn't accurate, just calm down and keep reading) a soulless 20-something on their knees under the desk of a member of "The House" with the house member's genitalia in their mouths. When someone tells me they live, "on The Hill", I imagine a shit load of people sitting on blankets on the lawn in front of the Capitol Building. I've heard there are great running trails when you live "on The Hill". But why would you want to claim to live "on The Hill"? Wouldn't you rather sound hipster and cool and say you live near Eastern Market, bordering dangerously close to a part of DC heavily populated by dangerous, gun-holding black people?


(Residents of "The Hill": I imagine you sitting on the lawn pictured here. All day long. And taking bucket showers.)

Perhaps even after four years as a student here and two as working professional (HAH), I am still wrapping my head around the complex entity that is the DC Douchebag.

DC Etiquette #15: Discuss your SAT scores well into your 30s.

Here's a good question, normal people of America: do you remember your SAT score? If so, do you use it as a means to compare your intelligence level to that of your peers past the age of 18, when you were accepted to college? If you answered yes to these questions, you should start considering suicide as a viable life option.

My first week at Georgetown meeting new people, I always found that I was the "quiet" person in the group. Why is that, you ask? Because the topic of conversation was SAT scores. While my new "friends" were bragging about their scores in the 1500s, I sat there in stunned disbelief, trying to comprehend why anyone would give a flying fuck about this. I mean really, we're freshmen in college, shouldn't we be trying to find a fun way to drink underage til we puke violently in pulic? No. No, it seemed no one else felt that way. Aside from maybe my roommate. But we mostly spent freshman year of college watching this video:


(You're going to want to skip ahead to the part where the euromullet mustached hero sings. just a personal recommendation).

Now moving on, understand that a few (literally.) of the people I work with here in DC are really into the fact that I went to Georgetown. When I do stupid shit, like lose my pen when it's in my pocket, and call myself dum [sic], these people say things like, "You can't be stupid, you went to Georgetown." I, honestly reply to this with, "That doesn't really mean anything, my dad went to Georgetown for law school, I'm a legacy, acceptance was a fluke," or, "Ah, I was an athlete, I got in because I was a rower for 4 years (yes, I am that nauseatingly upper middle class white that I was a member of a crew team. I did it only because it's too white for minorities to want to partake. No, no, I jest. Kind of. Ok, no really that's why I did it.). Much to my chagrin, these deflective comments have only served to bring me back to one single question, time and time again, when the topic of me attending Georgetown comes up:

"Sooo, what were your SAT scores?"

Now, as anyone who took the SAT, I still selectively remember my highest combined (not separately low scores) score. Now, as anyone who took the SAT and was not a blowhard asshole does, I do not reveal this score openly. I personally think it's rude to ask this question, namely because the underlying reason for asking this question is so the interrogator may ascertain (suck on that SAT word. Thank you, Princeton Review) if he/she is better than I am. Therefore, I refuse to disclose this score. Of course I didn't get anywhere near a fucking 1600, but it JUST DOESN'T FUCKING MATTER. We all took our SAT scores at 18. In a professional environment, we are all over the age of 22. The person persistently asking this question, our secretary, a 33 year old black man who I've nicknamed DUBL (which I pronounce "double", standing for Dumb, Useless, Black, and Lazy) who is a college grad, seems to think it's an extremely important question. I've been employed at my "real" job since September. He's brought up this question at least 4 times since my first day.

DUBL: So, what did you get on your SATs?
Me: I don't think it's appropriate to discuss test scores.
DUBL: Well, what do you have to get to get into Georgetown?
Me: I think that's stated on the admissions sections of the school's website.
DUBL: But what did YOU get?
Me: Seriously, you should really google that shit. Georgetown + mean SAT score.
DUBL: But like, were you above or below the average?
Me: God I'm busy. I'm just so, sooooo busy. I can't even speak right now I'm so busy.

WHAT KIND OF MEANINGLESS, ABYSMAL JUDGEMENT SYSTEM ARE YOU LIVING BY THAT AT 33 YOU STILL GIVE A FLYING FUCK ABOUT SAT SCORES?! This useless shit, DUBL, takes AN ENTIRE HOUR for a bathroom break. I am not joking. SAT scores cannot save you from being that lazy and useless. If there were any sort of karma based Darwin system in play in the world, he would drown in the toilet in his hour long bathroom breaks. Here's a little comparison for you, DUBL: We both took the SAT. We both went to college. I do not take hour long bathroom breaks, and therefore I've managed to leg up into a different position than yours. It doesn't take an SAT score to discern who is doing better than who. And I don't mean that in the DC asshat way, I mean that in the I work harder and only go to the bathroom for 10 minutes max (depends on what I've had for lunch, you know?) way.

If I were to include an image here, it'd simply be a cartoon where a homeless man tries to one up a businessman by asserting that he did better on his SATs than the businessman, and the businessman curbstomps the homeless man Nazi-style. Alas this doesn't exist. So I am without. I'm sorry.

DC Etiquette #14: Be smart. Especially when you are not.

This may very well be one of the greatest rules of being a DC resident. Are you actually smart? Did you go to a prestigious school? Then I'm not concerned, because I'm sure you'll be sure everyone you meet knows it. Are you actually as challenged as Bristol Palin? Well you better make sure you talk over everyone who has a fucking clue what they're talking about. Allow me to elaborate.

At my "real job" (the one I never disclose to anyone because I prefer the shock value of announcing "waitress" as a permanent, degree-holding, career choice), I work with a lot of insanely smart and respectable people. However, I also work with an astounding number of individuals who think they're insanely smart, but in all reality are actually about as with it as my 90 year old grandmother with Alzheimer's who no longer forms sentences, but simply walks around using singing as her primary means of communication.

This all being said, one of the insanely smart members of my work force was trying to explain the concept of optogenetics to myself and two of my other coworkers (aside: it's seriously really fucking cool, if you care about it at all, check out the wikipedia article here) and how it could be applicable to different populations in the future. Here is how the Bristol Palin's level coworkers of mine responded to this:

Smart Coworker: So, what's happening is people who are suffering severely from anxiety could benefit from this by-
BP's Level Coworker: -Yes, right, people who are feeling sometimes very overwhelmed.
Smart Coworker: Um, right, yes, so these people could in fact receive the-
BP's Level Coworker: -Yes they could receive the treatment.
Smart Coworker: But the treatment would consist of-
BP's Level Coworker: -I just want everyone to hear my voice and know I'm actively participating in, and keeping up with the conversation.

Now, this concept does not need only apply in this type of setting. Just yesterday, at a salad bar in Georgetown, I overheard the following conversation, and this is verbatim what was heard:

DumbTwatWithBritishAccent: This stuff is SO good for you, Francine, just SO good.
Francine: ...Asparagus is?
DumbTwatWithBritishAccent: Yes, Francine, it's SO GOOD. It has negative calories, Francine, do you know what that means?
Francine: Well yes, it's when-
DumbTwatWithBritishAccent: -It means it takes more calories for you to digest it than it does to eat it, Francine. It's SO GOOD for you.
Francine: Yeah...

Standing behind this hot twatty mess, I was moved to say "YOU'RE THINKING OF THE RAW OR STEAMED FORMS, YOU DUMB FUCK!!", but that seemed both rude and inappropriate. Well, perhaps not inappropriate, but certainly rude. So I held my tongue. Regardless, this stupid whore was wolfing down pee-stinking asparagus by the pound, which was clearly soaked in butter and oil and who knows what, while preaching about negative calories. Granted, asparagus IS on the list of foods that are negatively caloric, but certainly not in this blatantly, butter-soaked capacity. REALLY?! If you're going to jump up on your soapbox, at least know what the fuck you're talking about. Or if you don't, know how to use your god damned smart phone to look up "negative calorie foods soaked in butter and salad bar shit". And this is coming from someone who is frequently outsmarted by her smart phone. Which is a Blackberry. And behind the times. Whatever. I still know that asparagus marinading in a pool of yellow liquid with oil bubbles floating around the top is not healthy. Not at all.

So, to recap: even though I felt like this bird could most appropriately describe how I wanted to address the Asparagus Asshole:

I instead glared at her with this expression, in adult form:

No, no, I jest. My 'WHAT THE FUCK?!" face is no where near this good. But I wish it was.

DC Etiquette #11: Be a huge cock when someone is trying to be nice to you.

For those who give a damn (i.e. my mother, if she were to read this) I took a brief holiday sabbatical from blogging about the douchebaggery of DC. Not to worry, within my first few days of returning to this great nation's capital, I had a top notch dbag experience.

Standing on the ground floor of a hospital, waiting to go up to the top floor, one of those insanely sweet old black women struck up conversation with me. You know exactly the type I'm talking about, not the AH!!-ghetto-black-lady-who-will-sass-me-if-I-don't-ask-her-what-floor-she's-getting-off-at elevator type, the unbelievably-kind-old-little-black-lady-who-smiles-at-everyone-she-meets. Seeing as I'm strikingly beautiful, she started off our bonding convo with one simple question, "Girl, you look real tired! You tired???" When I busted out laughing, she continued with, "Girl, you know what you need? You need to go home, draw a bath, then put your feet up, and have someone else make you a hot chocolate." I continued to laugh and agree with sweet old black lady, and when the elevator arrived to our ground floor, we boarded together, all smiles.

The doors next opened one floor up, on the first floor (as you'd imagine). On boarded a slew of med students with their overseeing attending, as well as approximately three other miscellaneous passengers en route to visit family members or on their own way to an appointment. My sweet black lady friend and the large cart she was pushing and myself all shuffled to the very rear of the elevator to make room for our new 6 or 7 med student companions and additional 4 other passengers.

When the elevator stopped on the 2nd floor to let out a passenger en route to visit family, all the med students shuffled off to yield to said passenger, and my little Aunt Jemima said, "God bless ya'll, have a great day." Sweet as she could fucking be. And then the med students re-piled onto the elevator.

The trusty ancient elevator again stopped on the 3rd floor, for no apparent reason, and all the med students again, shuffled off the elevator to allow anyone behind them to get off. At this point, again, Aunt Jemima said, "God bless, have a great day!" and all the med students, much to their chagrin, shuffled again, back on to the elevator. Upon the realization that the med students had been getting off and on the elevator to make room for her and her cart, she said, "Oh thank you sweeties, but I'm not getting off til the 5th floor, thank you, thank you."

At this point, some self-important, socially inept, pretentious dickhead motherfucker says to sweet little Aunt Jemima, "Yeah you'd better be getting off."

His tone, I assure you, was solemn, which can be confirmed by the uncomfortable silence that then filled the elevator as we slowly continued upward. Outraged, that some little shit med student could be rude to my new friend, Aunt Jemima, I leaned over to her and "whispered" (by whispered I mean nearly shouted), "I think it would be appropriate if you ran him off the elevator with your cart at the next stop."

At this point, the entire elevator, med students, overseeing attending, and random passengers alike all burst out laughing. I want you to know that I know my remark wasn't really all that hilarious. But I also want you to know that everyone in the elevator also hated this dbag so much for being an insufferable asshole that you would've thought I was fucking Robin Williams (or someone funnier).

The awkward ride ensued for another floor, during which said dbag med student's coloring grew brilliantly red from his neck to his forehead. Fucking little shit, being rude to my poor little Aunt Jemima who was only trying to bless his day with joy. Not like God ever listens to black peoples' (cite: Haiti, as a concept/country) prayers, but hey, it's great to be optimistic.
This is what Aunt Jemima looks like. No, jk, not at all, but you have to admit this is a funny photo.

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!

DC Etiquette #6: Wear your ID badge at all times.

The typical schedule of an employee of the Maryland-DC-Virginia area:

1. Wake up
2. Remove ID badge from pillowcase.
3. Clip ID badge to shower curtain.
4. Shower.
5. Clip ID badge to towel to walk back to bedroom.
6. Clip ID badge onto underwear while I decide what to wear to work
7. Clip ID badge onto pants pocket or belt loop.
8. Proceed to metro.
9. Be sure that ID badge is on the outside of my jacket during walk to metro or to car.
10. Reposition ID badge so ID badge is visible over a jacket, if necessary.
11. If driving, consider putting ID badge in a visible place. Perhaps the dashboard, or maybe clip it onto my driver's window and let it flap in the wind as I drive. Just want everyone to imagine how high ranking I must be with my ID badge.
12. Fish for compliments while drawing attention to ID badge by talking about how chronically awful I look in ID badge pictures to coworkers.
13. MY ID BADGE MY ID BADGE MY ID BADGE.
14. Wear ID badge to Chipotle/Taco Bell/Pizza Hut/Cosi/Subway/Panera on my lunchbreak. These are the places only important ID badge wearing folk go to loudly discuss pressing afternoon meetings to be attended and briefs to be written.
15. Spend my afternoon gazing at my name and picture on my ID badge instead of doing any real concrete work.
16. Return to car/metro. Continue to place ID badge in visible spot. Possibly get in a fender bender to block afternoon traffic when I get distracted by the sun glare coming off of my beautiful shiny ID badge.
17. Return home. Change for dinner with friends to discuss our vast knowledge of politics in a public area. Place ID badge on jeans.
18. Go to dinner.
19. Come home, brush teeth, put on pajamas, clip ID badge onto pajamas.
20. Clip ID badge onto pillowcase. Get excited to flaunt my awesomeness via my ID badge again tomorrow.

I mean, if even popular works of art are being caught wearing them at all times...


...people of DC, we clearly must therefore be onto something. Bravo.

DC Etiquette #5: Be a political conossieur.

As it IS our nation's capital, one would expect that there would be quite a bit of ongoing discussion of both national and international politics. Hey, fair enough, I get it. You work for the foreign service, or are a desk bitch for some international organization in DC and it's your job to talk about international politics. However, in DC, the international political discussion arena extends a bit farther than solely within the workplace. Here in DC, it is not only a job requirement to be able to discuss politics, but it's also a constant life requirement. And by it's a "constant life requirement", I mean it's pretty essential to look down on other people who aren't wholly immersed on a daily basis in "FP" (which you may call it if you're cool enough. To the rest of us, it's that magazine called "Foreign Policy" that we leave on the magazine rack at the dentist's office, as it's not our personal choice of masturbatory fodder).

This may be the most widespread douchebag phenomenon that exists in DC, in my extremely humble opinion.

While it's great to be up to date on current affairs as a citizen of the world, here it's on an entirely different level. If you are a DC citizen, you should in any situation strike up a conversation with anyone about politics. At a friend's baby shower? Good time to start a discussion about global overpopulation. Walking to the metro in the morning and passing a garbage truck with the trashmen frolicking about? Do they seem vaguely latino? You should probably strike up a conversation with them regarding their opinions on immigration laws, or the state of corruption among the police force in Mexico. I mean, who better to talk to about these issues than a native, right?? Extra point here, since that means you can probably show off your dazzling Spanish speaking skills. Just think how important passersby will think you are!!!!!

In any restaurant, bar, club, coffee shop, taxi, metro car, bus (etc, etc) you can overhear a shitload of inane, jacking-off-to-the-sound-of-their-own-voice, political discussing d-bags, eager to speak as loudly as humanly possible so everyone around them knows just how tuned into the political scene they are. And the more obscure the political fact, the better.

"I was stargazing on my balcony in Georgetown last night when I glimpsed a shooting star. It really reminded me of the flag of the Republic of the Marshall Islands. I know what that flag looks like off the top of my head because I'm sooo international."
(If you too would hear this and think "WHAT THE FUCK" see the flag here)
"Want to play a game to pass this metro ride? Let's see who can name all 27 members of the EU first!!!!!!!!"

Not only should you know any and every arcane fact about "the global arena," as it were, but it is IMPERATIVE to your DC citizenship that you attempt to make anyone who DOESN'T know that the president of Malta is George Abela seem like he/she was the very person who incited Hitler's hatred of the Jews.

The simple way of doing this:
Want to show your friends what a smart, pretentious, self-important twat you are? Finish any informative sentence with, "...but you already knew that, right?"
Examples:
"The whole Arab-Israeli conflict can be TOTALLY blamed on Henry McMahon's letters from October of 1915, but you already knew that, right?"
"Sarkozy's call for a 'two speed' Europe is really causing a stir. But you read The Economist of course, so you knew that, right?"
"The only girlfriend I've ever had is called Rosy Palm, but you knew that, right?"

Here's a minor point to ponder, self-important, 20 something "political experts" of DC: if anyone truly gave a damn about your political opinions, you'd be employed by CNN. No need to poison anyone's meal in a restaurant or wait time in the Panera line on a lunch break with your purposefully-loud-so-everyone-has-no-choice-but-to-listen-to-you political monologues. Juuuust something to think about.

PS - Every political fact and Economist reference ... I had to wikipedia (the world's most reliable data source, of course).

DC Etiquette #4: Drive like a blind Asian woman.

I believe Seth McFarlane had just visited DC when he crafted this little gem:



Having lived in DC on and off for nearly 6 years now and hearing all the horror stories of DC traffic, I've only recently become part of the clusterfuckery that is the DC driving population. Oddly enough, this has instantly coincided with an increased desire to kill myself, or somebody else. Emphasis on the "somebody else".

DC residents have a real unique knack for driving like complete and utter fucking morons. I mean, really, they even outdo the entire population of New Jersey as far as shitty drivers go. What I find most remarkable about the DC-Maryland-Virginia area is this: when you escape the death trap of the metro area for a weekend, go far north or far south, you can tell, without even looking at guide signs, when you're getting close to the metro area again. Here's how:

- First and foremost, what makes DC drivers so akin to Asian women: the complete lack of the use of a turn signal. You can be happily driving along on cruise control, only to slam on your brakes entering the Baltimore/Washington Parkway when some asinine motherfucker decides the only way to change lanes is by attempting to take off your front bumper as they fly into your lane without any type of forewarning.

- Next, you'll notice a bunch of fucking idiots driving up the right shoulder of the freeway. Is there a sign that says not to do so? Fuck that, DC metro drivers do what they want. I'm fairly certain the actual goal of all DC metro drivers is to get into an accident. Perhaps the train of thought here is they can eventually convert the entire world into driving electric Green Peace friendly bumper cars everywhere so accidents yield less fatalities and there's the added bonus of a smaller carbon footprint. Fuck if I know. I come from a land where everyone I know grew up wondering how the hell their mom or dad seemed to know everyone else on the road, due to a constant on-road wave to every other car. Around the time we all hit 16 (little slow on the uptake, honestly...) and started driving, we realized this was due to the "thank you wave."

-Which brings me to my next point. WHY IS THE THANK YOU WAVE FUCKING OBSOLETE AMIDST THIS MAYHEM??
-Quick obvious answer: 'cause DC is full of douchebags.


-Another sign you're back in DC? Try making a left hand turn at a traffic light. Does the asshat behind you start driving up on your left, like he/she is somehow going to manage to turn left before you are? Congrats, you've successfully navigated yourself into the Bermuda Triangle of Driving Clusterfuckery that is Maryland-DC-Virginia.

-Lastly, DC drivers enjoy completely ignoring signs and traffic light signals:
-Red lights? Nah, I think I'll just go ahead, thanks.
-No parking at any time? I'm sure it's fine if I wash my car on this narrow one way street in a no parking zone for 3 hours on a Monday morning between the hours of 6 and 9:30 AM, I'll just put my hazards on and stare indignantly if anyone trying to pass through glares at me.
- Stop signs?? Well those are only a suggestion, right?

All I'm saying is maybe we should try to be a little bit less of an area of supertwats so maybe we can drop down off of this list.

Weather permitting, that is. Seeing as when there's a downpour, a drizzle, a light dusting or even a forecast of snow, DC goes into a blind panic. Also, since even an intense sun glare seems to make us all frazzled, let's hope for just sliiiiightly cloudy conditions. Forever.

DC Etiquette #3: If you speak a foreign language (fluently or fallibly) it's important to let everyone know.

DC is a melting pot of a slew of internationals, and also a slew of some unimaginable douchebags. This is a fact.

In a part of the US where there are a ton of embassies and international organizations, you often overhear a myriad of foreign languages spoken all over the city and its surrounding areas. What I'm getting at is that in DC especially, speaking a foreign language is extremely beneficial in the job market.

However, only in DC is it beneficial to speak a foreign language in a group of all English speaking pals. As a matter of fact, it would seem that in DC, it is important to let as many people as humanly possible know that you speak a foreign language.

Here are a few tips on how to let everyone and their mother know you can speak a foreign language (note: These are all from my honest to god personal experiences meeting new people in DC)

1. Seize every opportunity to let someone know when you were studying your foreign language. Examples:

1a. Talk about WHERE you studied your language. For instance, "So this morning on the metro I was studying my Chinese, and there was a Chinese guy sitting next to me, and he like, looked at me, and laughed. Then I laughed. You wouldn't get it, it's a Chinese cultural thing." (also note: this is an exceptionally important line to drop, especially when you're a non-Asian speaking to another non-Asian.)

1b. Location, location, location. "There was a really long line at Subway on my lunch break. But I'd brought my CHINESE with me so I studied it in line."

2. Let some words "slip" in casual conversation. When someone hands you something, instead of saying "Thank you" try saying "Xie xie," to grab the attention of the person helping you. Remember, it's of the utmost importance that everyone else know you're better than they are because YOU study/speak a foreign language.

3. Claim you speak a language, even if you only know a few words. Listening to a speech from French President Sarkozy? Seen the Little Mermaid when you were little and retained a few words from the greatest part of the movie sung by the French chef? You know what I'm talking about, the "Les Poissons" song? Go on, nod along with his speech, you fluent putain.

4. Speak loudly in quiet places on your phone in your foreign language. Starbucks, the metro, a library, a restaurant. Disturbing other people in said quiet place? Doesn't matter, so long as EVERYONE UNDERSTANDS YOU SPEAK A FOREIGN LANGUAGE.

5. I like numbered lists.

DC Etiquette #2: Demonstrate your athletic prowess by flying DOWN the metro escalator steps.

There is one simple word that goes through every metro commuter's head when trying to exit the metro station, only to see that the escalator is completely stopped: FUCK.



This thought comes with the knowledge that if you want to get to work, your only option is to huff and puff your way to the top. God help you if you're stuck at Rosslyn or Dupont. They should have metro staff standing at the halfway points with cups of gatorade if you're forced to haul up those mountains.

On other days, when the metro escalators are fully functional, you do of course have the option of scaling the steps with the assistance of the escalator's motion, or to simply enjoy the slow crawl to the top. Me? I'm a rider, not a walker. I immediately adhere myself to the right side of the escalator and watch others get more and more out of breath as they continue up the incline. My crowd favorites have grown to be those who begin the climb to the top on the walker's side, get halfway, and duck back into the rider's side of the escalator. I applaud your effort, metro passenger, but join me on the lazy side of the escalator. Nice try.


My anti-crowd favorites? The douchebags who think they're training for a fucking escalator step decline marathon. If you've ever ridden the metro, you've been whacked in the shoulder by one of these douchebags' messenger bags. Satchels. I don't care what you call it, or if Jack Bauer on 24 used to carry one, they're still gay. In the morning, you will no doubt find these decline running douchebags on the rider side of the inclining metro escalator. In the afternoon, they're back with a vengeance, looking to show off their athletic eliteness by flying down the metro steps, and with luck, slamming their homo bags into the shoulder of everyone choosing to ride down the steps instead of walk/run down them.

To this I say, PUMP THE FUCKING BREAKS. Where the hell are you running to, when trains come every 5 minutes in the evening commute hours? I'm not campaigning for everyone to ride down the escalator steps, or for everyone to walk at a snail's pace down them either. A normal pace, as in not break neck-football-player-doing-tire-drills-knock-old-people-down-the-steps-with-your-man-purse speed, will more than suffice.

DC Etiquette #1: It's a great idea to charge onto an elevator before letting its passengers off first.

I work on the top floor of my building. This scintillating introductory sentence to my personal experiences with DC Etiquette, as I'd like to call it, is relevant to my personal trying tale from an idle, rainy, Tuesday trip down to the ground floor, as I had a first hand experience with the assholery that is DC elevator riding etiquette.

Allow me to begin.

After waiting a solid 5 minutes for the elevator to finish its stops on every floor of the building on the way up to my floor (which, allow me to remind you, is quite a long time in elevator waiting land, as our elevators are a far cry from "zippy"), the familiar arrival ding sounded and the doors hobbled open at a speed every old man in Florida could out-walk, I noted a middle aged man standing smack dab in the middle of the elevator, seeming poised to exit. I waited a brief moment to allow him to exit, during which period he only stared at me with the look of the subject of one of Chris Hanen's To Catch a Predator episodes just prior to the arrival of the camera crew, through wire rimmed glasses poised on a face boasting a thick, perverted old man mustache.

"...Going down?" I thought it pertinent to ask, wasn't sure if I should run back to grab my rape whistle before stepping into the elevator with him, or if I should wait for him to finish his perving, then let him out of the elevator before charging onward.

"You're on the top floor." the observant, mustached sexual predator informed me.

I nodded, purposefully not engaging the mustached sexual predator in conversation so as to avoid any attempts at conversation on the slow, painful coast down to the ground floor. However, my anti-social, stare at the floor, stand in the back corner of the elevator, conversation evasion tactics failed me, as the mustached sexual predator turned his body totally toward me and tried to casually position himself against the spot of wall directly next to me. Arms folded, he leaned in so as to more significantly violate my personal space, and with quite the sneer spreading across his face, he said, disparagingly, "You're on the top floor."

I seized the opportunity to try to bring conversation to a total halt with a clever reply:

"Yes."

"Where else were you going to go but down?"

Damnit, that didn't work. Alright, mustached offender, game on.

And so I informed him that I was taught to wait a moment before entering an elevator so as to afford others the opportunity to exit before stomping on. We quickly cleared up that I was not unsure of the number of floors in my workplace, but rather that I was merely attempting to be polite. He immediately straightened up and moved to the opposite corner of the elevator car. And when the doors opened to relieve us of our awkward journey, the woman waiting for the elevator on the ground floor came charging on before we had a chance to exit.




DC AREA ELEVATOR RIDERS: surely, you are familiar with the way boarding the metro goes in the morning. You wait for other riders to exit before boarding the train. Not only is this a bit of a common courtesy, but IT MAKES SENSE. Apply this rule to riding elevators, everywhere. Pausing .2 seconds for people riding the elevator to get off the elevator before you come barreling into the elevator with the urgency of a Jewish woman trying to get to the front of the line of Black Friday sales, will not significantly delay your journey to your end destination.