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Want to submit a question? Enter it in the Formspring.me box to your upper right, and I’ll include it in a future installment. All questions are completely anonymous.

First, I should apologize for not checking the Formspring website sooner. For some reason, it’s not dropping e-mail to me when I receive a question, and things have been pretty busy the last couple of months, so major fail on my part. That said, you’ll probably forgive me. I have candy. And bacon. In the future, though, if you’ve submitted a question and you’re wondering why I haven’t answered, click on the little envelope at your top right to shoot me an e-mail.

Now that minor housekeeping details are out of the way, let’s read on …

Oh, Jacque …: I am a relationship destroyer. I will meet a guy, we will start dating and everything is fine, but I find reasons to break it off, for things as stupid as how he orders dinner or a shirt I don’t like. I’ve just started seeing someone I like, and I don’t want to ruin this. Help!!

Forgive me for the first thought I have: “You drive me crazy the way you chew your walnuts.”

Let me level with you. In any relationship, especially one that lasts past the bar parking lot, you’re going to find things about each other you don’t like. It’s inevitable. As soon as the chemical haze of “new relationship” wears off, you very well may hate the way he chews his walnuts. Is this a deal-breaker? It really shouldn’t be.

Cue the broken record: Are you sure you’re not projecting your unhappiness onto others? What strikes me most about your question is you repeat this pattern of behavior, you know you repeat this pattern of behavior, yet you are unable or unwilling to stop this pattern of behavior. Do me a favor. Take five minutes and write a list for yourself of qualities you like in this current boy and keep it in your purse. Then, when he orders a peanut butter and bacon sandwich and you feel yourself ready to pull this trigger, look at this list. I have a feeling if you can stop this vicious cycle, even once, you’ll be fine.

Oh, Jacque …: What do you look for in a boyfriend? Help average guys (like me) who are on the search and want to know what women like you are looking for.

Your question made me giggle a little because I’m pretty much as atypical a female as you can find, I think. (I mean, outside of my love of body-boosting hair products and beekeeper sundresses, but I digress.) So, because you asked what I would want, I’ll tell you, but know that your mileage may vary. Maybe one of my female readers can weigh in. I have some girly-girls in my ranks.

For me, item No. 1 on the list, non-negotiable, is a sense of humor. Life is absurd, and I want to go through life with someone who finds it to be about as absurd as I do. I’ve said a million times, “If I didn’t laugh, I would have cried,” and I think for me, having someone who either makes me laugh regularly or can laugh with (or at) me is critical.

Also makes the cut: Trustworthy, honest, self-respect, intelligence, kindness to others, patience (Lord, I’m a difficult woman), sense of adventure, independence, romantic. (I make romantic the last, because things I find romantic I’m sure are nowhere on a normal girl’s radar.) Good luck!

Oh, Jacque …: How do you dump a friend? A woman I have a casual friendship with is trying to turn herself into a bestie and I don’t know how to make her see I don’t feel I have a bond with her. She isn’t getting the hint.

Isn’t this one of the most awkward situations in which you can find yourself? I’ve lived this, and in hindsight, I wish I’d been more honest. I kept putting this girl off for weeks, months at a time. The harder she pushed for “girl time” the further I pushed her away. It took me finally losing my patience and saying some pretty hurtful things to get the message across, and at that point, I hated myself. I should have just told the truth.

This isn’t a easy conversation, so you just have to couch it gently, or use one of my favorites: the compliment sandwich. Tell her you think she’s a great gal; you don’t feel like you’ve built a closeness with her; you think she’ll be great as somebody else’s best friend. (Feel free to manipulate that as needed; this was just off the top of my head.) We’re all grownups here, so if she’s an adult, she’ll take the news and her disappointment and move on. If you find this doesn’t work, you can either be more firm, or just refuse to take her calls. I have mixed feelings about how that works, likely tied to my viewing of “Single White Female” in a half-asleep state late last Saturday night.

Oh, Jacque …: I am sleeping with my boss. It wasn’t planned and he’s much older and married, but I’m afraid to break it off because I don’t want things to get awkward around work. I know this isn’t cool. How do I get myself out of this?

Jesus. You’re a cornucopia of poor decisions. I’ve made some pretty awful, pretty questionable choices in my 31.5 years, too. I understand that. However, a decade (and a lifetime) ago, I didn’t have anybody to tell me what I’m telling you right now.

Just stop. Today. Right now. Don’t wait another week. Don’t accept any more alone time, any more presents, any more anything. I’ve also got news for you. Things, already, are awkward at work. Seriously.

I’m not going to get moral or preachy on you because I’m a flawed human being and I couldn’t possibly judge you for what you’ve done. You can’t change what you’ve done, and no advice I give you will change what you’ve done, either. The only thing I can do for you is to tell you to walk away, right now. Right. Now.

While this feels like a crappy Lifetime movie, it’s not. I don’t believe your boss is stupid. He stands too much to lose if he makes this difficult on you, so that should be the least of your concerns. Getting your life back on track should be No. 1.

Previous columns:
* ‘Oh, Jacque …’ (Vol. 10): How do I deal with my black widow ex-wife?

* ‘Oh, Jacque …’ (Vol. 9): Am I obligated to invite my Happy Hour buddy to my wedding?

* ‘Oh, Jacque …’ (Vol. 8): A little white lie is OK … or is it?

* ‘Oh, Jacque …’ (Vol. 7): Is there a woman who loves me for being a nerd?

* ‘Oh, Jacque …’ (Vol. 6): Why can’t we leave?; Just because I’m a nice guy doesn’t mean I want to be your friend; Are the good ones really all gone?

* ‘Oh, Jacque …’ (Vol. 5): Why can’t we be friends?; Some skank is messing with my man

* ‘Oh, Jacque …’ (Vol. 4): What do you mean ‘no plus one’?

* ‘Oh, Jacque …’ (Vol. 3): Your kid is faaaaat; Can we have dinner without your kids this time?; Can a broken heart kill you?

* ‘Oh, Jacque …’ (Vol. 2): Married with(out) children; I’m checking on my ex-boyfriend checking on me; Wedding toast etiquette; Slipping into the dark side

* ‘Oh, Jacque …’ (Vol. 1): Wedding present registries … and warts

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(via phone)

Me: So, is it wrong that I’m driving back from Silver Spring and I pass all of these people standing in front of my building holding signs for Michael Jackson for County Executive and I may vote for him on principle? Just because I want to be able to say I voted for Michael Jackson?

Known Associate: Seems like something you’d do. I actually encourage that.

Me: Yeah, I just really want to be able to tell people, “I voted for Michael Jackson for Prince George’s County Executive.” I know nothing about him. I just know his name’s Michael Jackson, and that’s good enough for me.

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I do not have it in me to be without electricity another 24 or so hours … I just don’t. I realize this is totally an “advantaged white person” kind of fear, but people who love me know my idea of roughing it is pretty much a 3-star or less acquired through a rare Priceline mishap.

I’m over you, and your biblical-like weather events, D.C. I really am.

So, if I could cash in some of the banked-up goodwill from my 31 years, and you agree to keep the lights on, I promise that next week, I won’t glare at a single person on the train and I’ll take a co-worker out for a sandwich. Seems fair, right?

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(via Google Talk)

Me: we don’t need the Vault

Me: is the Vault still even open?

Ann: NO!

Me: WHAT?!

Me: hahahahaha

Ann: my birthday bash fundraiser shenanigan was the last thing there

Me: What happened to it?

Ann: and they were like calling tyrone in the middle of it

Ann: didn’t have TP and stuff

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Rick Pitino defiant in cross-examination

I don’t care what’s happened.

Your dog could have been run over. You could have been fired. You could have been evicted. You could have been dumped, or found out your spouse is a dirty cheating whore. You could have been hit by a bus and left in a full body cast.

But there’s no way you’ll ever convince me it was worse than the entire country finding out your sexual prowess clocks in at 15 seconds, tops.

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(via Google Talk)

J: Why does Roasters suddenly smell like sulfur????

Me: Weird!

Me: I don’t get that at all

J: I mean seriously, I was getting into a groove here. Listening to James Taylor on Pandora, got my tea, and now the smell of rancid farts. Awesome.

Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAH

J: You are welcome to use that comment as you will…

Me: I may have to blog that one.

Me: I think we have a winner.

J: Always happy to help.

J: After all, it’s not often that you get to use the word rancid.

Me: No, no you don’t.

J: I do puffy heart Pandora…

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So, on Sunday afternoon, I watched a thunderstorm come at me from the Ikea. (And not just a trail of hipsters moving inexpensive, solid furniture out by the truckload.)

This was some of the freakiest stuff I’ve seen in my time in Prince George’s, which is really friggin’ saying something. There was a tornado warning, and the sky was green, y’all. Green. And there were incredibly low-hanging, swirly clouds right above the apartment. The fourth-floor apartment.

And then the wind started. The wind shook the entire building, my cats went into hiding and 10 minutes later, when it was done raining sideways, all that was left was a darkened, warm apartment.

Without electricity.

… Crap.

Without any estimate as to when electricity would be restored.

… FML.

So, I was determined to make the best of a bad situation. I’d come to work early. Work had both electricity and air conditioning. And I’d sit here at my desk and write a handy how-to for how to deal … because all of these, at some point, crossed my mind yesterday in the 15 hours of dark and silence. For those of you playing along at home (i.e., you bastards with electricity), I’ll give you a stoplight status update for me, as of 5:30 p.m. Monday.

1. If you must be trapped in less than 1,000 square feet of space in the middle of summer with no electricity (and, by token, no air conditioning), make sure it is with someone with whom you get along very well.
Status: Yellow. This thing could blow like a Pepco transformer at any second.

2. Do not make your most recent grocery trip a box of pierogies and cereal and milk.
Status: Red. Food storage fail = milk and pierogies are now enough to kill you. If situation deteriorates with 1, you can eat either of these on the off-chance you’ll be lucky enough to be hospitalized with food poisoning.

3. Have a variety of snacks on hand that don’t require the microwave, refrigeration or any other prep.
Status: Red. Real good, Pop Secret. You asshole.

4. A good stack of reading material can help you pass the time quickly.
Status: Green. I’ve got enough books to last me until sometime after I turn 40. Right now, I’m a goodly portion through “Fame: Ain’t It a Bitch: Confessions of a Reformed Gossip Columnist” by A.J. Benza. (Am I the only person who even remembers that guy?) Known Associate got me the book in some Big Lots discount bin. So far, I can’t say I feel sorry for A.J. Benza. Other than his book was in a Big Lots discount bin. That’s gotta hurt.

5. Have an assortment of candles and flashlights so you can keep reading your pile of materials after the sun goes down.
Status: Red. God, I suck at life.

6. If your only link to the outside world is your BlackBerry, for the love of all that’s holy, have backup batteries.
Status: Green!! True story: Some time in early June, Known Associate used his Amazon Prime to ship me an external battery charger and a spare battery, but only because I had a habit of going out on Saturday nights and blowing my battery completely by 10 p.m., which in this city is just not healthy for your desire to continue being alive. What started out as a plan to help me continue my level of rock star partying at lesser-attended events turned into the only thing that’s helped me not knock over a 7-Eleven that may, or may not, be open.

7. Don’t focus on the hundred or so dollars of food in your refrigerator and freezer you’ll be throwing away as soon as power is restored.
Status: Yellow. I wasn’t thinking about it until my Mom called and asked me if everything in the freezer had melted. Sigh. Siiiiiigh.

8. If you have animals, make sure they’re happy and comfortable.
Status: Red. I’m convinced if Inky had thumbs, I’d be a dead woman right now. Dead. I figure while I needed a sweater in this air conditioned office downtown today, she suffered some form of heat-related psychosis in suburban Maryland.

9. Know what’s open, because you know the odds are, something’s got to have electricity and, well, since you won’t be cooking or storing food until, well, September, you’ll need to eat.
Status: Green. This morning, it was the Beltsville 7-Eleven. Pretty much the only thing in Beltsville that was open, and everybody knew it. I waited in line 20 minutes for diet Mountain Dew and the first food I’d had in 18 hours. I ate those taquitos like I had just washed up on shore after six months, and everybody in the store was doing the same thing. It looked like a refugee camp. A sad refugee camp for people who had prepared to fail as hard as I had.

10. Keep your sense of humor about it all, because nobody loves a Polly Pissypants.
Status: Yellow. You know, I laughed about it an hour after it happened. I was even good-natured about not having power when the sun started going down. And then it was 9 p.m. And dark. And I couldn’t read. And my phone battery was running at 50 percent. At that point, I almost started crying. Especially when I thought about not having power for four or five days. But then I thought of my cat trying to fashion an escape ladder out of bedsheets and started laughing, and felt better. And around 6 a.m., when I woke up, I realized if this is the worst thing I go through this week, I’ve had a pretty good week.

So, really … learn from me, young grasshopper. Buy dry goods. And candles. And don’t think about what’s going on in your fridge.

(Updated: Holy crap, at 6:45 p.m. the power came back. Sorry you had to get through all of this to find out I’m not living like a refugee anymore.)

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So, while I was keeping it Prince George’s real at Shoppers, Known Associate e-mails a post from Twitter telling me Lou was gone.

James Gammon (Lou Brown from ‘Major League’) Passes Away at 70

My reply, via e-mail, was “Sigh. Officially depressed.”

And, seriously, I am. This movie is in the top five (or six, depending on season). Every year on MLB’s opening day, I watch this movie. It’s just tradition at this point. I can’t say it made me an Indians fan, but what I saw in this movie was so much what I saw with the 1997 Pittsburgh Pirates — the last time they were even freaking close to playoff contention.

There’s so much to love about this movie, but I think Lou’s a lot of the glue that holds the pieces together. There’s something to love about a hero figure who brushes off an offer to manage the Cleveland Indians because he’s got a guy on the other line about some white walls.

And telling Dorn to get in front of the damn ball, and don’t give him any of that “Ole!” bullshit.

And telling Ricky to give ‘em the heater.

And, of course, “We’re contenders now.”

So, consider this an open thread for Lou tributes. Pour one out for our fallen homey.

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It rained here for a couple of days. Hard. It started last night and kept going through today, soaking me as I walked to grab the bus for work. As I stood along U.S. 1 waiting for the bus to make its way to me, I had a really vivid flashback of what later became known simply as The Raw Hamburger Incident of 1991.

(You love my family. You know you do. I’m willing to bet there are three, maybe four, families in the entire country who can say they had a raw hamburger incident.)

There’s really nothing to love about rain, unless you can sleep through it. And sometimes, when you sleep through it, you wake up the next morning to find that it’s flooded. And it didn’t just sort of flood, it was complete devastation.

In the middle of June in 1991, it did that. And the devastation didn’t hit my family directly, but my extended family. The creek that ran along the front of their home completely spilled out of its banks and wiped out almost everything in its path. And, like family does in times like that, we all pitched in to help clean up.

So, if you will … picture it. It’s the middle of June, and it’s every bit of 90 degrees. I was 12. My sister, Ashlea, was 9. We were roused from our summer slumber early to put on “work” clothes and go help by doing minor tasks like carrying broken branches to a pile or pushing mud out of the garage with a squeegee or hosing down various salvageable objects.

(Here’s a parenting tip: There’s absolutely no way to sell flood cleanup to kids as a fun way to spend a summer afternoon. You’ve been warned.)

I can still feel the sun burning my face, when I think about it. It was so hot. And so humid. And so miserable. And I was so covered in mud from my canvas Keds to my unfortunate softball coach-style femullet. After a healthy amount of 12-year-old whining, I was given permission to take a break.

Here’s where my mother regrets not asking exactly how I planned to take that break …

I walked down to the creek and decided to just get in to try to clean some of the mud off my legs. (Which, of course, made absolutely no sense because it was still running at good pace and was full of … mud.) Eventually, my sister made her way down, too.

I was really mad at my sister that morning. It didn’t matter to me that she was just 9 years old. I didn’t feel like she was pulling her weight. She flitted about from room to room being cute for all of the adults.

I was not cute. I was never cute.

As I was standing there, dirty, sweaty and angry, she started splashing around, giggling, having a great time. I could feel the rage welling up inside my 12-year-old body. The righteous indignation that she was having fun, and I was not.

… And then I noticed a refrigerator floating my way.

See, when this flood came through, it took out houses and garages left and right. We’d seen all sorts of fun things float by in the morning hours — tires, a swing set, toys — but a refrigerator? This was worth investigation.

I walked a few yards upstream to try to meet it halfway. It’s door had been warped and was partially open, so I peeled back the last bit and looked inside.

Looking back at me was raw hamburger. Packages and packages of raw hamburger. Raw hamburger that was certainly well past any sort of acceptable temperature for food purposes and covered in mud and water.

And, I don’t know if it was the smell of the raw hamburger or the heat piercing my ginger kid skin, but something in me just snapped at that minute. I grabbed two handfuls of raw hamburger, and started walking back toward my cute, blonde, unsuspecting sister.

“Ohhhh, Ashhhhleeeea?”

Impact.

I wish there was a way to use words to describe what it sounds like when raw hamburger hits a 9-year-old, but it’s a sound I’ll never forget. Nor her scream of shock and betrayal.

By this time, the fridge had gotten within reach, and I went back in for two more handfuls, and fired them in rapid succession, pelting her over and over and over with expired meat product. Finally, she was able to start retrieving the wads of hamburger and throw them back.

Within minutes, it had escalated into full-out hamburger war.

… And that’s about the time the Red Cross drove by.

… And looked, in absolute horror, at two mud-covered children without adult supervision in a dirty, filthy creek throwing expired, dangerous balls of raw hamburger at each other.

… And came running out of their Jeep like we were on fire.

… And asking us where our parents were.

Less than 24 hours later, my humiliated mother (who, I’m sure, is still on some Red Cross parenting watchlist through no fault of her own) had to take my sister and me to get tetanus shots. We were sternly lectured about the dangers of playing in flooded creekbeds, and reminded it’s never, ever OK to throw raw meat at each other. Germs live in raw meat, and throwing up isn’t fun for anybody.

And, that, my dear friends and readers, is why you never hire the Bland sisters to do your heavy cleanup.

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(via text message)

Me: Area woman flipping channels and disgusted with herself for pausing on “You’ve Got Mail.”

Known Associate: AOL? Really?

Me: It didn’t last long. It was like as soon as I became self-aware, I found a show on A&E about murder.

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