Categories for prizes

We are thinking of giving out prizes for things at our rehearsal dinner. Silly little tokens, not expensive gifts. We've got some ideas but I would love any thoughts.

The point is more to get people talking to each other, to give them a starting point. Because none of our friends know each other, and in fact, we have only met a few of each other's friends. So we thought this might be fun, and might facilitate conversation.

So far, we've come up with a few categories, but we're having a hard time. We thought for each category we'd give out a prize to one of Nick's people and one of mine.

Longest distance traveled to come to the wedding. We have friends coming from some far-flung locations, like Australia, England, Macedonia. . .

Shortest distance traveled. It's in downtown DC - We have friends who can walk there. Or metro one stop.

Friends who have known us the longest.

And that's as far as we've gotten.

Nick was thinking of things like "tells the funniest joke" - but I don't actually want to risk a bunch of long-winded jokes. Or no jokes, which would be worse. He's not averse to having people get up and do stuff, but I don't think I want a contest.

We are considering categories like "most likely to get into trouble this weekend" or thoughts along those lines, but really need some creative help.

Any suggestions?

How to piss me off in a huge way. Or, find your own warthogs.

I like to think of myself as generous. You can use almost anything of mine. As long as you ask.

But if you use my, oh, blog content, for example, my memories and my words, all without asking, you will make me really, really mad. If you pretend my words are your own, you will piss me the fuck off.

I know for most of us, anyway, the point of blogging is to write. And when I say write, I mean the following: To come up with something and then put it down in your own words. Not, oh, say, MY words. On YOUR blog.

Because doing that, it's called plagiarism. It turns out it's also called copyright infringement. And my friend Dagny pointed out that the good people at Blogger have a place where you can file a complaint.

Because I don't know if you've ever visited a blog that linked to yours (well, which did yesterday - but today, no longer does), started reading a post, and thought, "Wow, that sounds veryvery familiar!"

This was the first time this had happened to me.

The post starts out talking about her third date. In which she goes on to have the exact same conversation with a guy from New Jersey that I had!

The one I wrote about last year!

And when I say exact same? I mean, um, verbatim. Glad you liked the dialogue. Except that it's mine.

What I discovered was that there are several posts that use large chunks of my writing. Verbatim.

So, you know, you can call it "Of doors and rabbit holes," but The One who wasn't the one, the door that was closed over and over - that's MY not-One - not yours. That's MY door! That's MY hurt the size of the Grand Canyon!

And "Warthog theory" - are you fucking kidding me? That's my Warthog Theory Goes Out the Window angst from last July! My warthog theory, and my unicorn! I don't even care if you use the same ideas. Just don't lift my text and pretend it's yours!

Theft always makes you feel violated, but somehow taking ownership of my warthogs, and my devastation over my ex-boyfriend are more galling than someone swiping money from my wallet. It's like someone reached into your brain and your heart and snipped off a little piece of each.

I share all this stuff on LG because I want to. But I don't expect people to take pieces of me and pretend they're theirs.

Who takes your stories and your words and offers them up as their own?

Find your own warthogs. Draw from your own heartbreak. Honestly.

The measure of a man who loves you?

"You know I love you immensely."

"Enough to kill for me?"

"Pardon?"

"Do you love me enough to kill for me?"

"Oh. Well, sure, sweetie."

"Who?"

"What?"

"Who would you kill for me?"

"Um. That one woman at your office?"

"OK."

"Or maybe some public figures? If that were what you wanted."

"Oh, that's great."

"Yeah. Maybe I'd waterboard them. And strike deals with them for their lives. And then I'd kill them anyway."

"I..."

"I would do that for you. I'd say 'This one's for Lisa!'"

"Yah, well..."

"And then I'd go ahead and use their credit cards. That's how much I love you."

"Huh."

"Or, maybe I'd dress up in a dangerous outfit, and follow people around until... "

"Yes, good, thank you. That's fine. Thank you. I'm glad to know."

Under the table and other games

So about these bombings in Istanbul. . .

As some of you know, the honeymoon location went back and forth, back and forth. There was seemingly no end in sight, till one of us said, "I've always wanted to go to Turkey!"

Turkey would be perfect. Spendy flights, but affordable lodging and in-country travel. So much history! Great weather! Turkey! So last month, we bought ourselves two tickets to Istanbul.

And though the news lately isn't great, we are not freaking out. But it's not precisely news you want pre-honeymoon either. Realizing, of course, that our honeymoon is not the part that's most tragic about this news.

The story that this triggers is a kind of odd childhood one. It's one that's mine, although really only because I've heard it so many times.

So I don't know how much you know about the history of Bangladesh, but odds are, not a whole lot. We were in Delhi during the war for independence, and as India sided with the rebels in East Pakistan, which then became Bangladesh, India and (then West) Pakistan were at war.

I turned two that summer, and I feel like I remember the blackouts, but these probably aren't memories but visuals created from hearing the stories. Plus then we moved to Bangladesh, where our car had the top of the headlights painted black during the war. Imagined memory makes the most sense to me, since I was so young at the time.

Anyway. In these memories my parents turned the blackouts into play time. Everyone had paper over the windows so no light would shine through. All the lights in the neighborhood would have to go out when there were planes overhead. And my parents made a game of turning all the lights out so we could play in the dark.

My memories, the ones I think I can pull, they aren't scary.

But my parents have this story of a boat trip we took a year or two later. We would come back to the US to visit grandparents every summer, and once, instead of flying, we took a boat from England to the States.

Apparently one night there was a big celebration. An anniversary of the boat or the queen's birthday or something. There was a huge cake with candles. And just before they brought in the cake, they turned off all the lights at once.

And I yelled, "Air raid! Under the table!"

The lights were flung on, as you might imagine, and there were two of us crouching under tables. Me. And a woman who'd been a child in Britain during WWII. She said that muscle memory just took over.

Well, first she said, "Where on earth has this child been?"

How to make the front desk person hate you in three to seven easy steps

Go to a work retreat at a lovely country club in Charlottesville with your future husband.

Wake up all leisurely, and realizing you have the whole day to screw around while he and his people make important work decisions. Heh.

Then let your own personality kick in. Which means: find yourself unable to resist checking personal and work email. Which means: you need to access the wireless that the hotel literature says is available throughout the club.

Try connecting to the one network that pops up. Get nowhere. Decide to call the front desk.

A pleasant-sounding person who identifies herself as Cynthia thanks you for calling and asks how she can help you.

"Hi, Cynthia. I was wondering if you could tell me how to get on your wireless network."

"I'm not sure. Let me connect you to someone who can tell you."

"Thanks."

Music music music. Click.

You've been disconnected. So you dial again. Same pleasant greeting.

"Hi Cynthia. I just called about Internet. I think I got disconnected."

She apologizes and says she'll find the person for you.

Music music music. And then you get connected to a random voicemail box.

So you hang up and call back.

Same greeting, slightly less pleasant.

"Hi, Cynthia. I got connected to someone's voicemail."

"OK. Hold on a moment."

You hear buttons being pushed. And then a recording that says, "If you'd like to leave a message, press one. . ."

And so you call again. And there is no answer. You let it ring and ring and ring. And finally it picks up. A recording. "Thank you for calling the country club. . ."

You can tell me you don't have the answer, and that you will find it for me. That's OK. You can tell me that the person who has the answer is not around, but you will help me as soon as possible. That's OK, too. I'll go have breakfast in the meantime. What you cannot fucking do, without thinking that I'll call you every 30 seconds if need be, is keep hanging up on me or putting me into voicemail.

No, no, and more no.

You slam your phone receiver down hard several times. This makes you feel marginally better. You wait a minute or two. And you dial again.

Cynthia answers. With a very perfunctory greeting.

"Hi, there!" you say. "This is the person who has been trying to get on the internet."

This time she tells you what you need to do. So maybe she wasn't avoiding the phone but rather, was off finding the answer to your question.

You tell her you've connected to the only network available, and it says you're connected, but your browsers won't go anywhere. In other words, you still can't get onto the Internet.

She tells you something must be wrong with your computer.

At which point you feel compelled to tell her that no, really, no. There may be many things wrong with many things, but currently there is nothing wrong with your computer. Every other hotel's wireless has worked for you. Hilton gives you a screen to log in. Do they have a screen that should pop up?

Yes, they have a screen. If it's not popping up, it's not working. She will send the bellman to see if he can help.

You turn off your computer. You turn it on again. You reconnect to their wireless. And this time, the magic screen appears.

You log the fuck on as fast as possible.

You call the front desk.

Cynthia answers, with a good deal of irritation and loathing in her voice.

"I just wanted to tell you I was able to get on. Thanks for your help!"

She says you are welcome. But in a tone that suggests she'd rather you fell off a bridge.

You decide not to greet the person at the front desk when you walk by for breakfast. In case she recognizes your voice.