Snaps To You Award: My Baby Brother, Questicle

It has been far too long, eons and eras, and almost long enough for Kristen Stewart to blow all the money she made from "Twilight" on weed, since I have given out the S2U Award. Today, reminding me that perhaps I'm not giving it to the right people, my mom suggested that I also give out an award to people and entities who do stupid things with zero flair and no panache, and call it "The Pork and Beans Award."

No, I don't know, either.

But I do know that for now, we'll stick with the S2U, and this week, on his 24th birthday, I know of no better recipient than my little brother Jordan, who should get the award for no other reason than the fact that he can totally rock the middle name "Quest." No one believes that it's his real middle name, but at birth, each of us was graced with a grandmother's maiden name for a middle name, and I drew the much less Questionable "Scott." Frankly, I'm shocked that it took me 24 years of being the nerdlier sibling to realize that I ought to be calling him "Questicle."

My brother and I aren't twins, but aside from his ultra-laid-back demeanor and my obsession with handicrafts, we're very similar. I kinda feel like we are twins--twins who were, by some trick of fetal magic, born two years apart, giving me the chance to solidify my position as The Responsible One, so that he could arrive fashionably late and slide right into the role of The Cool One. When we were kids, he was always the one running ahead while I watched from behind to make sure no one kidnapped him. As a teenager with my first-ever boyfriend, my lame, lame curfew was 10, and I was just stoked to be let out of the house with a boy at all. When Mom and Dad told Questicle that he should be home by ten, he'd argue until they pushed it back to 10:30; then, around 11:30, he'd start thinking that maybe, after one more beer, it was time to head home. In high school, he was the kid who always knew where and when the parties were, and which ones were worth gracing with his presence. I, conversely, was not actually aware that there were parties in high school.

You know you're perhaps not the sought-after sibling when you're the older child, and people know you by your younger brother's reputation.

Today, his 24th birthday, we are miraculously close to another major life event in The Life and Times of J. Questicle: college graduation. After six years of a long and twisty road to adulthood, which sometimes looked to be heading to adulthood, and sometimes looked like it was going to trail off into Beach Bummery or The Art of Professional Fratitude, Questicle rises triumphant to claim his slip of academic sheepskin* from Clemson U and set forth into the world of gainful employment and shitty office coffee. My dad gave me the best example to date of how laid-back and easygoing my brother is: The other day Dad called to shoot the sheeot with him, and said, "So, when's your last day of school?" Meaning his last day of school EVER. After 19 YEARS of school. Questicle's response? "Um...I don't really know. I'll ask someone!"

Despite the fact that I've painted the picture of a totally stereotypical fratalicious slacker, Questicle is ridiculously smart and, even more importantly, is one of the most well-loved people I know. Everyone wants to be his friend, and once they're in the circle, they never leave, so help them God. He's an awesome kid/man/functional human. So Snaps to You, Questicle, the best little brother I could have asked for. Happy birthday!!!!

I'm fairly confident he's reading this right now, drunk. And I'm totally cool with that--because I've taken some lessons in coolness from him.

*Not a reference to sheepskin condoms. You stop that, this is a family post!

Snaps To You Award: My Heart, The Rockstar

I've written before about my fear that my heart was going to explode at any minute, ruining my life and probably preventing me from posting for awhile, but I've never explained where this paranoia befitting a forty-five-year-old, smoking fat man originated. Well. To make Mini Me-short a story so long it makes Gone With The Wind look like a picture book, I went for a run in June, thought I had a heart attack, went to the ER, had a bunch of tests run, was poked and stuck like an innocent voodoo doll in really cute sandals, was determined to have not had a heart attack, and was told to come back in a few months for a cat scan because my aorta looked big.

Oh yeah. That's right. My aorta's bigger than your aorta. Think of my badass blood-flow garden hose, supplying blood to me and at least seven other people, next time you get winded on a run because your little twisty straw of an aorta starts to cry.

Right. So, my assbaggery aside, that's not actually a good thing. It's bad like "Snakes On A Plane." Thus, a few weeks ago, I reported for my cat scan, which would determine whether or not the docs needed to carve me up like a holiday ham to put a fence around my aorta (white picket, natch). I was pre-Oscars nervous about this, and high on the drugs I had been given to take ahead of the scan, in case I was allergic to the intravenous tie-dye. I got to the hospital, broke my cardinal rule of never sitting next to people who smell like tuna, and only then was told that I couldn't have the scan--the scan that would determine whether or not my heart was trying to assassinate my other organs--because my insurance company had decided that it wasn't "medically necessary."

I'd warn you away from this company, just to save you the money and screaming matches down the road, but in the interest of not getting sued, let's leave it at this. They offer an HMO and their name rhymes with I violate my clients from behind while laughing maniacally and eating chocolates.

The day devolved rapidly from there, culminating with my stoned mouth shrieking impotently at the "nurse" in charge of my case at Satan's lair, "WOULD YOU COVER ME IF I DIED??? WOULD YOU, PUNK??!?!??!?!????" Not my finest moment. But really, not my worst, either.

After all this, calls from three doctors, and possibly a cautionary visit from Death himself, the insurance death-harpies agreed to cover a cardiac ultrasound, to find out once and for all if my aorta had gone rogue. I was excited about this, because ultrasounds don’t involve needles, and I want to know if I’m going to die soon, because if so, I’m going to start eating a lot more Big Macs and taking more cheap shots at my boss. I showed up at the appointed tee time, and was walked to the ultrasound wing by a lovely little old lady who would probably be very impressed with my obscenely large china collection.

I never did learn my ultrasound technician’s name, but I did learn very quickly that he was highly uncomfortable using medical terms like “chest” and “please take off your shirt and lie down” with me. Obviously I was given a chic and stylish tie-back gown, but, also obviously, in order to scan my heart, he had to put the gooey laser glow-pen* on my chest. I was surprisingly nonchalant about this, especially since I’m normally a caffeinated Pomeranian when confronted with medical procedures, but really, we were there for my heart, and I had the gown--plus a sheet, a towel, and a blanket that he had given me, more likely for his own protection than mine.

Once he was able to sit still, he fired up the Doppler Hurricane Seeker 3000 and I got to see what my heart’s been up to. If you’ve never had any kind of ultrasound, I highly recommend them—they’re the coolest home movie ever. I have no idea how they work, but word on the street is that Dumbledore was involved in the start-up. I got to see my heart, busily engaged in keeping me alive, and I have to say, my heart is awesome, even though it didn’t look like I was expecting. In terms of what you’re used to seeing from ultrasounds of marinating babies, my heart looked like a fetus playing a drum set. Really rockin’ out on a drum set, actually, performing like a total rock star on my behalf.

I was so touched and mesmerized that I almost forgot to ask if my aorta was trying to stealth-bomb my loving heart. Happily, it’s not. I am medically sound (if not mentally), and cleared to do all manner of things, including running and continuing to hate yoga.

All’s well that ends well, and this ended…like a bad prom date. When he had taken adequate surveillance footage of my rock star, the ultrasound technician reminded me to wipe the goo off my neck before getting dressed again. I thanked him, and he looked at me, then looked at the ceiling and said, “I’m actually supposed to help everyone wipe the gel off…but I’d rather not lose my job today.”

At that point I was so glad my heart was strong enough for me to run like Forrest. Snaps to you, my heart, for doing your job with such style and flair. If you were a person, you’d totally be Cher.

*Possibly not the technical term.

Snaps To You Awards: My Amazing Girlfriend and Vladimir Putin

This week, while not Friday, I am giving the S2U to two different individuals who are so equally deserving, in ways that make my little-girl heart soar, that I couldn’t divide my love between the two. So, in no particular order, this week’s S2U Award goes to my friend Erin King, and Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin.

Erin is the proud recipient of this week’s award for sending me the first wedding gift thank-you note I’ve ever received that included the word shit. Erin got married in October, and it took Lawyer Boy and me three months to remember to send a wedding gift. I kept meaning to, but then the whiney back-up dancer in the corner of my mind would be all, “lator gator,” and I’d be like, “okay, fine, let’s take a nap,” and it would get put off again. I finally celebrated the union of two souls by sending Erin and her husband a vacuum-sealing wine preserver and a set of cheese knives—both of which they registered for, by the way. I didn’t just pick random boozephenalia and ship it off with warmest regards.

A couple of weeks later, I received a hand-written thank-you note on lovely monogrammed stationery. It followed the standard my-mother-made-me format of “thanks for X, it’s really swell, and thanks for not table-dancing at the wedding,” but then veered off into nuptial originality with the next segment: “The wine opener looks really cool. We haven’t used it yet, but if I stop buying wine that tastes like shit and isn’t worth preserving, we hope to.” I love this for both the unexpected profanity and rare honesty it showcases. If newlyweds were more routinely honest with their thank-yous, more notes would read something like this: “Thank you so much for the place setting of our beautiful bone china complete with platinum etching and feathers from real angels’ wings. We will take it out of the box and use it once we grow up and stop eating frozen corndogs for dinner every night.”

The second recipient of this week’s award is Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin, for being such a raging closeted ABBA fan that he reportedly paid $45,000 for a private performance by an ABBA cover band named (I am not making this up) Björn Again. As we all know, I LOVE ABBA, and I am so thrilled that someone as hard-edged and frosty as Putin shares my Nordic love affair. It really shows that there is so much more to our friendship than just a shared love of vodka, and of killing people with our bare hands on the secret orders of the government. Snaps to you, Puti (may I call you Puti?), for daring to bare your inner Dancing Queen and swaying to the Swedish beat in public. You’ll always be my super trouper.

Snaps To You Awards: The Butterfly Gift Fairy

Snaps to you, my best friend Shelley's mom, for consistently finding the most carnie-style and bizarre gifts for any and all gifting holidays (and some not, like St. Patty's Day). I've known Shelley for almost eight years now, and a garage sale at Michael Jackson's pad couldn't hold a candle to some of the gift-wrapped weirdness that's popped up in her lucky stocking. The thing about Shelley's mom is that, twenty-six years into (s)mothering Shelley, she's still not fully on board with the fact that she and Shelley are two extremely different people. Here is an illustrative chart:

Shelley's Mom's Likes:

• Butterflies
• Dainty flowers, dainty doilies, and other dainteries
• Kittens and all manner of cuddly things
• Pleated-front pants
  
• Things that kind of do nothing except sit around and collect dust and have flowers on them

Shelley's Likes:

• Running marathons
• Being in the army
• Being sporty and badass
• Not being dainty
• Cake and wine

I would have constructed a Venn diagram to make my point, but the only thing to go in the middle would have been "ovaries," so I felt like it would be a waste of my MS Paint skills.

Sometimes the gifts Shelley's mom gets her are clear attempts to get her things she thinks Shelley could use, and as an example of this, I offer The Year of the Glitterpants. Shelley's mom (who, for simplicity and no other discernible reason, will henceforth be known as Mrs. Batwing) was trying to get her, I think, fun party clothes for college, resulting in the tragic acquisition of a pair of skin-tight jeans entirely bedazzled in silver glitter. Like, so outrageously bedazzled that said pants snowed glitter 24/7. These would have been great for a fun college party, if Shelley had attended college at the Playboy Mansion, and was also RuPaul. Back they went.

Shelley's birthday is two days after Baby Jesus', so Mrs. Batwing really has to hustle and flow to bring the magic twice in one week. And oh, this year, how the magic was broughten. For Christmas, Mrs. Batwing got Shelley a tiny plate, covered in all sorts of dainty, precious baby flowers, big enough to hold a single Oreo. Shelley had no idea what it could be other than a portion-control diet plate. Apparently (and this is only hearsay) it's a plate whose sole purpose in life, its entire reason for being, is to hold a wet teabag. I have henceforth called it The Teabagger, and have not stopped laughing ever since.

For Shelley's birthday, Mrs. Batwing dug deep into the bowels of her creativity and really yanked out a winner. She took a picture of Shelley with which she is inexplicably obsessed, and did nefarious things with it. Exhibit A, the mug shot:

Shelley is completely mortified by this picture. So of course, for the sake of weaving my intricate web of storytelling, I'm sharing it with the whole wide Internet. LYLAS, chica!

Anyway, Mrs. Batwing had this Mona Lisa made into real USPS stamps, for spreading the humiliation far and wide, and in case that wasn't enough dignity damage for one holiday, she also had it emblazoned on every page of a notepad for Shelley. Outside of the envelope, for postal worker viewing pleasure: Army Shelley! Inside the envelope, visible only to the lucky recipient: Army Shelley! For a small finder's fee, I'll give Shelley your address, and you, my friend, can constitute the only time these rare objets d'art see the light of day (and thank G0d).

Capping off the festive oddities in a totally unexpected way, Shelley's mom also gave her a silver Tiffany's necklace. It really brings out the sparkle in the glitterpants, and that nice silver button on the green beret.

Snaps To You Awards: The Frat-alicious Network

First off, snaps to you, procrastination, for being so addictively delicious that I'm continually tanked off your lazy goodness. The Snaps To You Award will be issued every Friday...or as close to every Friday as my slow ass can get with it and rub two brain cells together till I make a fire.

And now, the real star of the show! Snaps to you, DIY Network, for blatantly ignoring the obvious Freudian connotations, and televising, for my viewing pleasure, a nightly segment called "Nailed At Nine." I can't quite remember, but I'm 99% positive that I attended a frat party by this same name in college. Therefore, I can only assume that "Nailed At Nine" involves matching t-shirts, Solo cups full of warm crappy beer, and roofies.

This is a fitting and appropriate addition to the DIY Network, which already bandies about the words "screw," "stud," and "male-female adapter" frequently enough to make me giggle like the eleven-year-old boy that I kinda still am, but with cuter shoes and the ability to frost a cake.

DIY Network: I'd totally be willing to do a 60-second tribute commercial to "Nailed At Nine," heralding their receipt of the S2U Award. It would do wonders for their viewership, AND I'd send you cupcakes. Well, roofiecakes. It's only fair.

The First Weekly (Ever) Snaps To You Awards!

Snaps to you, Pakistan, for finally jumping on the bandwagon and issuing typewritten passports—as opposed to the handwritten, handicraft-style passports that were still issued out the back of a rickshaw as of 2008. We're so proud. Also, thanks for papadums.

If Turkey could please take note, and stop issuing passports with vital information spread over seven pages in eight colors like a bizarre children’s picture book, I’d appreciate it.

Secondary snaps to Pakistan, also, for winning the inaugural (both of 2009 and ever) Snaps to You Award, as designated by me. I’ll issue this award every Friday in celebration of things that make my life easier or generally delight me, that I feel you, my loyal/four readers, could benefit from knowing. I will not include people, places, or things that are already heralded worldwide, such as Dame Judy Dench, the iphone, and orgasms.

If you’d like to submit yourself or someone you’d like to publicly embarrass for the Snaps to You Award, I am open to bribes. I love jewelry, homemade muffins, and suitable-for-framing lolcat prints. Please be warned, though, that should you happen to submit your request the week that Helena Bonham Carter finally chooses to shower, you will automatically lose. Bribes are non-refundable, void where prohibited, nonredeemable for cash, and should be issued in small, unmarked bills/lolcats.

Should you be chosen as weekly recipient of the S2U Award, you will gain immediate fame, glory, international acclaim, and my permission to link to the prestigious award on your resume. Actually, my abject begging and pleading to link to me on your resume.

Please?