oh good, now we can blame mother

New research suggests that mothers may be responsible for their sons’ homosexuality. The research shows that younger sons in a string of brothers are more likely to be gay, not because they are around so much manly influence, but because their mothers’ bodies may develop some sort of immunity to male children with each son’s pregnancy. This research raises a couple of interesting issues:

1. If gay men don’t have control over their male gaiety, if it’s part of their biological make-up, this might explain the high failure rate by those Christian homo-recovery centers to convert them to good ol’ red-white-and-blue-blooded heterosexuality. Also, along these lines, this makes homosexuality a pre-existing condition, so logically it can no longer impede gay rights as it takes the responsibility for male sexual orientation out of the realm of voluntary conduct. (No word yet on how the unnatural abomination of lesbianism comes about—but let’s hope it’s dad’s fault so things even out.)

2. A mother’s guilt at her son’s sexual orientation now seems somewhat legitimate. Although, since it is an involuntary influence, there’s really no need to dwell it. There’s plenty more to blame one’s mother for anyway. And although there may be some overlap on these issues, it is still okay to blame her for signing you up for ballet lessons.

3. If this research path develops into scientific fact, will prenatal therapies be developed to prevent/promote the gaytrification of one’s sons? What would parents’/government’s/society’s motivation be? Fear of hellfire? Population control? A larger consumer base for assless chaps?

4. And finally, it cheers me to no end to think that all of those procreation-crazy, gay-bashing religious zealots are just shooting themselves in the foot with their 15-kid families. Any bets on whether the prevention of homosexuality will beat out the perpetuation of world poverty, overpopulation and AIDS as the reason why the Catholic Church will finally endorse condoms? I know my money’s on irony.

california melts your brain

This is Autumn. Although her name might imply otherwise, she is a puppy, not a stripper.



I must confess: despite the fact that she is a teacup Chihuahua, I find her extremely cute. I know, I know—Chihuahuas are disgusting. They shiver constantly and they have bulbous heads and large bulging eyeballs that look fit to pop any second. And they are toted around like living accessories, imprisoned in large pink purses and clad in bejeweled collars and tiny outfits. But Autumn is different. Well, sort of. Yes, her owner carries her in her purse. Yes, she has a fluorescent pink gem stone-studded collar. Yes, she arrived to work today wearing a hideous flowered dress, like a deformed time-traveling midget from 1986. BUT, her head is pleasantly proportional and her eyes stay put in her little head. She does shake a bit, but only when she’s being held (I think she’s nervous about being dropped, as I would be if someone dangled me twenty body-lengths from the floor). But once she’s on the ground she’s all wiggly and adorable.

She has enchanted most everyone in the office, except for a few men too insecure in their masculinity to admit that her cuteness balances out her lack of practical purpose. Today my office mate and I even made her a ghetto toy out of an ID badge string, a ball of paper and a rubber band to distract her from cutting her puppy teeth on our fingers. Passersby were unimpressed at our skills, but Autumn thought it was the most awesome thing ever. That is, until she pooped on our carpet and we had to use a whole roll of paper towels to clean it up—then she thought the empty cardboard roll was the most awesome thing ever. Later, in a stroke of genius, we gave her the flowered dress to chew on. She mauled it with great relish and even growled a little. I’m thinking of instituting this as a daily Two Minute Hate. She may only be a dog, but I believe that she deserves some dignity and an opportunity to avenge her humiliations.



Oh my dear sweet Jesus, I’ve posted two entire paragraphs about a Chihuahua. I fear I’m being sucked into the strange vortex of genial absurdity that is California. I can’t wait to get back to the DC area, with its muggy weather and its bitter racist filling. Only it can save me from this sunny abyss.

program pajama party

Engineer Man #1: I heard that Nestlé just bought Jenny Craig.

Engineer Man #2: Really? Does Jenny Craig still have an office here?

Engineer Man #1: No, I think they moved it to Carlsbad.

Engineer Man #2: Who is their spokesperson? I can’t remember.

Engineer Man #1: Hmm... Oh, yeah! It’s that lady from Cheers. What’s her name again?

Me: Kirstie Alley.

Engineer Man #2: Right, Kristy Alley.

Engineer Man #1: I can’t remember if it’s her, but in one of my wife’s Hollywood magazines—you know, the ones about the movie stars and their babies and stuff—I read that she had the largest shoe collection in the world, or something.

Engineer Man #2: Oh, yeah, I remember hearing about that. Like, she has thousands of shoes— just rooms full of shoes.

Engineer Man #1: Ha ha, she’s like my wife, then. She has a closet full of shoe boxes. Each one is color-coded for evening wear and everything. I spend my weekends just arranging all of those damn boxes!

Engineer Man #2: Yeah, my wife is the same way.

Engineer Man #1: I think it’s hereditary because her sister is the same way too.

(Side conversation)
Engineer Man #3: This is the girliest program review we’ve had in a while.

Me: It’s all going in the meeting minutes.

Engineer Man #3: I still have questions about the software design.

Me: That’ll butch things up.

mazel tov

Congratulations to Scott and Suzanne, who stomped the glass last weekend! Everyone had a really great time and left with the desire to have a Jewish wedding themselves sometime in the near future. Guys, just hold on to those complimentary yamakas.

Here are some weekend highlights:

First, Phoenix is motherfucking hot, yo. Why do people live in this city? It was at least 150 degrees the entire time we were there. This was exacerbated by the fact that we rode around in the Mustang convertible that Will rented—with the top down. The front seat passengers, though warm I’m sure, were engulfed in a small pocket of air conditioning, while the backseat passengers (Meatsweats and I) were blasted by inconceivably hot gusts of air while speeding down the roadways. In the words of Sweaty: “It’s like driving through a fucking convection oven! Uggghhhhh!!” The 90-mph trip down the highway to the dueling piano bar didn’t help either. When we got there I had to check to make sure I still had a face.

Second, I was pleasantly surprised by the Hampton Inn. It was clean, it was air-conditioned, the bed was gigantic, and the décor wasn’t overwhelming. I was shocked. I’d expected something slightly horrific, à la Great Falls, MT Holiday Inn. You know, artful arrangements of animal carcasses or some such. They had a pool, too, which we never checked out because I’m pretty sure we would have been boiled alive.

Channeling David Brent at the Hampton Inn

Third, the wedding! Having never attended an orthodox Jewish wedding, I didn’t know what to expect. I knew that there would be a bride and groom and a chuppah and the stomping of a wine glass and that’s it. Therefore, I was immediately unnerved upon arriving at the hotel when a smiling hotel staff member promptly separated me from my all-male group. As luck would have it, the only person who entered with me was a woman in a sari, so neither one of us knew what the hell was going on. We were ushered into the bride’s waiting room (the name of which I have forgotten) where we were served iced tea and lemonade and mingled with other lost gentiles while family and friends greeted the bride. At one point someone dropped their glass of ice water and it broke all over the carpet to a cry of “Mazel tov!” but it turns out that wasn’t the planned glass breakage—someone was just being a smart ass. Then the men swarmed into the women’s quarters carrying Scott on their shoulders. After narrowly avoiding a beheading by low-hanging chandelier, he veiled his bride and was paraded back out again. I met up with Sweaty for those two minutes. Turns out the guys got free yamakas and booze. Bastards. However, I’m not going to complain too much, especially since this is a much better set-up than the Muslim wedding I attended several years ago where all of the women gathered in one room to sit and stare at the bride for three hours before the actual wedding ceremony. Nothing makes you feel more conspicuous than being dressed like a giant meringue while having to stare down your entire family and religious community. Cree-py.

Then came the wedding ceremony. The lights were dimmed and the candles lining the aisle glowed cheerfully. The guests seated in the aisle seats did their best not to catch on fire. I waited anxiously, convinced that one of them would eventually catch alight and I’d have to jump in and save them. My plan was to snatch the yamaka off the victim’s head and use it to smother the flames on his jacket. I contemplated using one of the flower arrangements as well—the head gear looked like a small pot-holder but who knew how well it would manage the heat? I hoped that I wouldn’t catch fire myself during the rescue operation. How embarrassing would that be? Anyway, soon the ceremony began and the bride, groom, their parents and the rabbi piled under the chuppah and vows, contracts, and rings were exchanged. Scripture was read and speeches were made. Finally the fun part—Scott dutifully smashed a wine glass to smithereens. Mazel tov! The wedding party filed out and someone tipped over and broke one of the glass hurricanes placed over the big candles lining the aisle, almost setting the hotel ablaze. More mazel tov! I didn’t get to save anyone from a fiery death, but I did help them spot and pick up the stray pieces of glass on the dark floor. Heroics come in many shapes.

Their parents rub their hands together triumphantly

(Yeees, it's all going as planned--we'll have grandchildren in no time!)

Next, cocktails, appetizers, and small talk. All were pleasant, some extremely delicious. Fried avocado pieces? That sounds… scrumptious. You know what would go great with this? I thought. Bacon. But I kept this thought to myself.

After the preliminary feeding we entered the ballroom where frantic Jewish dancing ensued for a full 45 minutes. These Jews, I tell you what—what they lack in grace, they more than make up for in enthusiasm. There was twirling and circling and hopping and jumping around. People were hoisted up onto what looked to be the most cumbersome chairs ever made and tossed high up into the air. When Scott’s parents were perched upon their rocking thrones I could see his mother chanting: Letmedown letmedown letmedown! This apparently means “Go faster and higher!” in Hebrew. The cheering crowd obliged.

Traditional newlywed torture

After everyone collapsed at their respective tables there were more speeches and then some more dancing. I was hesitant at first, but apparently my boyfriend is a dancing machine, so I eventually gave in. (Please note: Anyone who posts pictures of said event will be unceremoniously executed at the next group event.) Hours later, after dinner and dancing and cake and drinks and more dancing, the band reached the end of its set and we set off for the Hampton Inn. Determined not to go to bed by midnight we headed out to find a bar where we could continue the festivities a little longer. But it being Sunday night, none were open, so we fell back to the old standby and went to In-and-Out for the second night in a row. The original plan to only order a basket of fries instantly disintegrated and so we ate burgers for our fifteenth meal that day. Then, finally, it was bedtime, followed too soon by the farewell brunch with the newlyweds the next morning.

Dancing Ma-CHEEEN

So congratulations, bitches! We had a really good time and we really hope you enjoy your new life in NY.

And I really really hope my seared face grows back.

softball wisdom

Resist your soccer instincts. Although trapping the ball with your shins may seem like a functional idea, it is extremely painful and should be avoided if you value a normal life that includes legs and walking.

As in life, in softball there is no mercy rule, so you must set your own goals and limits. And although losing a game by ten points may seem bad at the time, losing by fifteen is worse, and losing by twenty is just humiliating. When you get to the twenty-five point discrepancy mark, next season you should sign up for bumper bowling instead.

The umpire does not appreciate a player who makes the calls before he does, especially if the opinions differ and the home plate ump takes the player’s side on the call. Pumping one’s fist in celebration and yelling “In yo’ FACE!” is also frowned upon.

Playing with co-workers outside of work can be a fun bonding experience. However, resist the temptation to high-five them at the office. Besides potentially making non-team office mates feel uncomfortable and excluded, you risk looking like a giant tool.

Curb your impulse to scream “Fucking balls” or “Cheating ass-monkey!” during heated game moments. You may offend your teammates' children in the stands and your boss will never look at you quite the same way again.

Despite popular opinion, beer does not give you softball superpowers. You’ll need that depth perception for the game, you twit.

Don’t throw like a girl. It will embarrass you and everyone in the vicinity.

Generally speaking, if your boss is a man he will remember that awesome play you made at second base in the bottom of the ninth inning during the fourth game of the season but won’t remember the revolutionary accounting system that you developed to save the company from bankruptcy. That’s okay, he’ll still make a really good work reference.