[noun] Mc[noun-er]pantsOr
[noun/adjective] Mc[new noun/adjective/anything]pants
Example:
Stinky McStinkerpants
Weirdo McWeirdsvillepants
Blah McWahWahpants
You can also substitute “pants” for “breath.”
Example:
Crazy McSillybreath
Orange McSmoothiebreath
(Cover the children’s ears for this one):
Poopy McPassGasserbreath
Happy naming!
Okay, time for another antiquated rule update. Once upon a time it was believed that neutrals were solid pieces in black, khaki, navy and white. Today neutrals can include bordeaux, chocolate brown, charcoal gray, burnt sienna and even patterns such as houndstooth, plaid, pinstripes and -- make sure you're sitting down for this -- animal print. We'll call these the new neutrals and they pair well with a wide range of colors and patterns.
Also, while adding a pop of color certainly brightens up most outfits, an all-over neutral pallet can be super chic when worn head to toe. Case in point:
Animal Print Neutral (raaaaarrrrrrrrrr)
- charcoal gray leopard print short-sleeve sweater
- white 3/4-length sleeve button down
- camel asymmetrical wool skirt with raw hem
- gold-tone cluster heart pendant
- chocolate brown knee-length boots
- over-sized pearl stud earrings
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chapter 29
Dear Body,
We both know I have an extensive list of qualms with you. Most days I’d rather puncture my eyeballs with dull forks than stare at your reflection. If you wanted, you could solve this whole squabble tonight while I sleep by morphing into a 5’7”, leggy, slim-curvy size 4 with flawless skin and hair. I’m not being unreasonable here.
For today, let’s address qualm #12098398 – you’re being a big fat PANSY.
You know you are. It’s like you wake up and say, “Good Morning, world. I’m Becky’s body and I’ll do whatever I feel like doing!” Lately you feel like cuddling up with every single nasty germ you run across. Then you sing it a love song. And spoon it to sleep.
At first I was cool with you bringing home an occasional germ. Who doesn’t love a sick day and the requisite time off work? After some rest I’d return to regular life with my religious hand washing and sanitizing, but your lusty germ desires trumped all hygiene attempts. And now, three months later, I’ve suffered your self-indulgence LONG ENOUGH.
The real problem is the Metro. And the fact that a stranger so much as sneezes in your vicinity and you’re sniffling by noon. I’m fed up with the perpetual coughing, sneezing, nose-running, body aches, fever and plugged ears.
What do we need to do – install sick-screeners to weed out the ill at all Metro stations? Actually, that’s not a bad idea. We’re not talking full physicals, but there’s got to be some sort of body scanner to detect both sickness and contagion levels. If not, DEAR WORLD, PLEASE INVENT THIS!
Or we could run quarantine trains. It doesn’t even have to be an entire train, just a few cars. These cars would be allocated to diseased riders. Feeling warm? No problem – Ride the Quarantine Car! Runny nose? Quarantine Car. Itchy throat? QUARANTINE CAR. I guess we’d also have to hire Quarantine Car officers to sift the "diseased" from the DISEASED.
Perhaps the solution lies in education. Metro riders should be required to complete “Metro Sanitation 101” before riding. (Let’s throw in “Metro Courtesies 101” for good measure). We’ll have an entire section about hand washing, and how to cough into your arm and NOT the hand used for pole balancing.
Then again, maybe the answer is simple. Just as I use hand washing to combat your affinity for dirty, dirty germs, maybe the Metro can use cleaning to combat the spread of viruses. Metro Janitors are rumored to exist, but I dare you to ride a train and conclude the stains, smudges and mystery spots are only a day or two old. I’m willing to bet those “janitors” use the same rag to wipe down all surfaces, essentially enabling wider germ distribution. That is, if the “janitors” even exist.
I’m getting sidetracked. What I’m trying to tell you is STOP LOVING METRO GERMS. Quit it! Seriously.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to draft a strongly worded letter to the Metro powers that be.
Disdainfully yours,
Becky
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I know it's Monday, but brace yourself -- the following information may BLOW YOUR MIND.
Remember the rule about no white after Labor Day? It's a LIE. (But be real -- a cotton lawn skirt and espadrilles is different than ivory slacks. Capish?)
And no wearing black and blue together? LIE! Trust me, navy and black is uber chic!
Breaking antiquated "rules"
- navy silk/cashmere bracelet-sleeve cardigan with black taffeta ruffle placket and stand-up collar
- black silk spandex cami
- black wide-leg, crease-front trousers
- black pointy pumps
- black faceted drop earrings
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Wayne Coyne, singer and guitarist for the Flaming Lips, surprised me yesterday during my typical NPR Morning Edition broadcast. Thank you, Mr. Coyne. Here's an excerpt:
I believe this is something all of us can do: Try to be happy within the context of the life we are actually living. Happiness is not a situation to be longed for or a convergence of lucky happenstance. Through the power of our own minds, we can help ourselves.Click here to read the entire essay.
chapter 21
I don’t remember formal classes or instructions, but somehow everyone knew those “join-in” songs at school dances – you know, the Electric Slide, He----y Macarena!, that annoying Chicken Dance, Y--M-CA. For three-and-a-half minutes the gym floor gyrated as a sea of sweaty bodies repeated 14 synchronized steps over and over and over and over until the music eventually stopped. I don’t remember how I learned the moves, but I was always amazed at their great equalizing power – jock, wallflower, Mr. Popular, that girl who acted too grown-up for your mom to let you sleep over at her house, punk – pretty much everyone lined up or threw their arms in the air when the intoxicating music lured them to the dance floor.
Much like the acquired-by-osmosis crowd dancing moves, there exists what I affectionately deem a “Modern Metro Shuffle.” No instruction manual can be purchased for this dance; the body just knows. And some are naturally better at it than others (like those people who knew the “extra” or “fancy” spins, knee bends and twists for the Electric Slide. And they acted all haughty and thought they were so cool. Where are they now, that’s what I want to know. What secret Electric Slide society do they belong to? What other secrets do they know that I don’t?)
The fundamental basis of the “Modern Metro Shuffle” is going with the flow, finding a balance between fluid movements and rigid stances. Fewer steps are involved but because of quick, unscripted changes of pace, this dance is much more difficult than its earlier Macarena-esque predecessors. And there’s no music.
Less experienced shufflers have not mastered the ability to stay in their own dancing zones. As the train abruptly stops and starts and the passengers absorb the changes with their bodies, these people break from the moves and fall into someone else’s personal space. Others inch toward their neighbors at each stop and start, eventually usurping handholds and forcing experienced riders to perform a version of the “Modern Metro Shuffle” using precarious holds and standing awkwardly close to total strangers. This often results in unsolicited spooning.
For those struggling with the join-in Metro dance moves, please find an underground society to teach you. Maybe you can call the Electric Slide folks – they might know someone.
chapter 20
9. You lose your balance and swing wildly from the holding spot with each stop and start of the train.
8. Your travel uniform consists of jeans (preferably tapered and acid washed), a D.C. tee shirt, tennis shoes, a windbreaker and fanny pack; your camera dangles from a lanyard around your neck.
7. You look at fellow passengers, smile and act friendly instead of avoiding eye contact by staring at the floor.
6. At each station, you anxiously ask, “What stop is this?” while staring at a map and reading the station name through the window; you repeat question/map/panick cycle at every stop.
5. You are riding the train with six other people who are smiling, cheerful and excited.
4. You insert a Metro fare card with the arrow and “insert this way” directions facing the wrong way, requiring station manager assistance, clogging the line and provoking loud sighs and eye rolling.
3. You are the only person without a book, newspaper or iPod.
2. You stand on the left side of an escalator.
1. You talk loudly (even an iPod cannot drown out your story about your friend who came to D.C. once and blah, blah, blah), oblivious to the fact that no other person on the entire train is making a sound.
chapter 10
I’ve become one of “them.” I don’t know if “they” entered my brain through osmosis or if I’ve been unknowingly subjected to subliminal messages.
Either way, it’s done. In retrospect, I’ve felt a subconscious paradigm shift during the past few months. But I thought my resolve was deeply rooted. I thought I was immune to “their” influence.
This morning, reality ran me over like a speeding freight truck as I tried, unsuccessfully, to endure my morning reading routine on the Metro. Although the seats were filled and I was standing, I found myself swept away in the 19th century romance of my novel – English countryside, long gowns, proper diction. I mentally mimicked the character’s accents and mannerisms, blissfully disconnected from the real world.
Frequently, when people enter or exit the train, I peek over the pages of my book to skim my surroundings. And even today, though I was mentally sunning on a faraway island, I automatically glanced up a few times. At the third of seven stops on my trek to work, three intern-age girls boarded the train.
Just as I diverted my eyes down after a quick scan, one of the girls grabbed the poll I was holding and stood directly in front of me, forcing me from my stable spot. Annoyed, but not altogether surprised given the frequency of this type of Metro conduct, I moved back and white-knuckled a lower, less stable horizontal bar on the seat beside me.
Then, as if the train wasn’t full of silent strangers, the three commenced loud, annoying girl talk. The ringleader who usurped my spot must have been perfecting her stand-up routine while the others practiced their high-pitched girlish giggles. I read two or three pages, which I will have to re-read tonight on my commute, before realizing my attempts to concentrate on anything other than the three distractions were fruitless.
I shut my book and unleashed a hole-burning, crusty stare in their direction. I also let out a few over-emphasized sighs to be sure they understood the degree of my disapproval.
They didn’t notice.
But my behavior forced me to confront my personal belief system. Three months ago I would have smiled, wished they would be quiet and ignored them. Now, even though it’s been six hours, I’m still annoyed. Don’t they get the “no talking” rule? Look around, girls, you’re the only ones gabbing!
Yikes. It’s true. I’m one of “them” – impatient, grumpy, falling prey to the unpublished Metro guidelines. I’ve become the very person at which I formerly rolled my eyes and silently mocked. Honestly, the Metro is not a morgue or a funeral home or a church. You can talk all you want.
Well, you can talk, but you’d better not force me from my spot or interrupt my book. Got that?
chapter 9
Open letter to Metro riders
To Whom It May Concern:
I understand, really I do. Riding the Metro is becoming a very economical travel method for commuters – especially considering the cost of gas! I mean $3+/gallon –ouch! And while there are certain drawbacks (see Misadventures on the Metro Chapters 1-8), overall the Metro provides a quick, convenient and reasonably comfortable commute. In general I can put up with grumpy riders, stop-and-go trains, an occasional offensive odor and a host of other Metro variables. Even the delays allow me to peel through a few extra pages of my novel.
But standing in a packed car today was not my idea of a good time. My usual 20 minutes on the train turned into an hour of torture. And as the time ticked away, I became more and more exasperated.
Alas, I digress.
The entire purpose of this letter is to warn all who may have a propensity for motion sickness or are feeling under the weather, no matter how slightly – STAY OFF THE METRO! The Metro is not an infirmary. And just because paramedics are available in emergencies doesn’t mean you should meet them face-to-face just because you are too cheap/lazy/dumb/thick-headed/oblivious to refrain from public transportation when your health is not 100 percent.
Before you board a Metro train, especially during busy commuting hours, ask yourself:
- Am I feeling queasy, light-headed or faint?
- Is my blood sugar at an adequate level?
- Have I tossed my cookies in the past 24-hours and do I feel any residual uneasiness?
- Is my post-nasal drip upsetting my stomach?
- Am I comfortable with small spaces and traveling underground?
- Do I have ready access to Dramamine? Have I taken my daily dose?
Perhaps most importantly, ask yourself if you really want to bear the guilt of causing thousands to be late for work just because you did not adequately evaluate your health condition before boarding the Metro.
Thank you for your time and for observing these helpful, healthful tips in the future.
Sincerely,
Late for Work in D.C.
chapter 8
Do you hear that?
It’s the sound of silence; deep, penetrating silence.
Not that you’d hear a pin drop. No one is talking, true. But there’s a constant throbbing rumble interspersed with metal-on-metal clashes, causing your dental work to throb like fingernails screeching down a chalkboard.
Other than that it’s quiet. I don’t exactly know why or how this happens. Considering the amount of traffic on the Metro lines any given day, it’s perplexing that a crowd of people so large can be so mute.
I must have missed the day the Metro powers that be knighted all riders and armed them with the Rules & Regulations Procedural Booklet. Fortunately I have extracted the pertinent information based on the qualitative research of my observational analysis (see, I do remember something from college). There are more rules, to be sure, but here are the important ones:
Rule 1: Don’t talk (pretty self-explanatory).
Rule 2: Don’t acknowledge the other human beings around you (see Rule 3 for additional information).
Rule 3: Avoid eye contact at all costs (read the three words on the train’s only sign over and over if you have to, but NEVER look at anyone. If you must, quickly divert your eyes when they notice your gaze. Act like nothing ever happened. See Rule 2 for additional information).
Rule 4: All devices that make sounds must be stowed in their silent position (unless you have a cool ring tone).
Among the obedient throngs there are sly rule breakers. Their disobedience is sneaky, covert. They do, however, have a distinguishing hallmark which is small, skinny and electronic in nature. If you can spot it, those passengers transform into robots tangled in wires. Their eyes are cold and glassy. Their head bobs to the side automatically.
They seem lost on planet…Mariah? Wait, did I just hear Mariah Carey? Hold on a second…let me consult my rules booklet. Nope, no exceptions for Mariah. My eyes move from their fixed carpet-burning position to the source of the sound. Then I spot it. Not Mariah, but a robot passenger. I see the small, skinny, electronic-in-nature clue and follow it to the white ear buds. Then I notice other passengers glancing up in the direction of the rules violator. Snears and loud sighs commence.
But it does no good. Planet Mariah is very noisy and the robot can’t hear the other passengers. The same is not true, though, because everyone else can hear all the lyrics to “We Belong Together.”
I need to find out the hotline number to report rule breakers. Maybe next time I’m on the train I’ll ask someone. Oh, wait…
chapter 4
Talking on the metro is totally taboo, although pressing your body against a complete stranger on a packed car is acceptable. This morning the “zipped lips” policy was blatantly violated and the results were staggering.
A poor guy with an injured knee and crutches boarded the cram-packed metro car (snow does wacky things in this city). He said, “Excuse me,” to a man occupying one of the seats designated for senior citizens and persons with disabilities. The seated man, who frankly was not far from senior citizen age and therefore legal occupation of the seat, shuffled a bit and before he could respond, a woman pierced the morning silence, “He asked you to move. You’re sitting in a seat for the disabled. You need to get up.”
The man shot back, “I am aware of the situation - I heard him and if you’ll just give me five seconds I’ll move and help him get to the seat.” Exasperated and red in the face, the man gathered his things, got up and squished against the nearby passengers to allow the injured guy to sit.
As quickly as it began, the exchange was over. Time seemed frozen for a few moments before the silence crept back. Business as usual was interrupted and those who witnessed the event were forever changed. Life doesn’t choose when to teach its little lessons – it just happens. And today, all within ears shot of the conversation learned this: when riding the metro, keep your mouth shut.
