Same song, different verse

So, I missed a week. Again. Honestly, I don't know if I've held a decently consistent enough posting schedule to count absence as "missing." But regardless, this time I have something that resides in the same neighborhood as an excuse: I was in Vegas. Now, I could have just scheduled some posts to go up while I was gone but, I didn't. Because I was 1) tired, 2) packing, and 3) lazy. Mostly lazy.

So, yeah, I spent a week in Vegas, gambled, shopped, and became the official Nerd Queen. How, you ask? Well, apparently, my long genetic history of Midwesterners and Southerners means that I am simply not bred for dry weather. I had an awesome time,  but by day four I had to buy nasal spray.

Just like the cool kids do.

By day five, my husband was so worried by/sick of the horrible noises I made whenever I tried to do something frivolous like breathe, that he had hotel send up a humidifier. I spent an entire day reading and gradually taking our hotel room's humidity up to rainforest levels. It was a good day.

But, despite my Urkel-like levels of nerdy nasal distress, I loved Vegas. Did you know that they have cocktail waitresses there? And that if you sit at a penny slot machine long enough, one will come by and offer you a drink? And that they will bring you any drink you want, and all you have to do is tip? Because that is a thing in Vegas casinos. That is an actual thing.

Anyway, I'm back in the Midwest where I (apparently) belong, and back to blogging. See you in a couple of days.

Hopefully.

Probably.

We'll see.

Um...what?

Do me a favor and watch this:

Now help me understand. So, Summer's Eve had those hands-as-vaginas commercials which were basically universally put down as being anything from ridiculous to insulting. I know because I checked. I typed "Colbert Vagina" into my YouTube search field.

So this is their new plan? Seriously? The whole concept is basically "your lady-bits are really important, because men think so - they'd LITERALLY kill for it. Summer's Eve: keep your baby-hole clean."

Words...Phrases...Other words...

Do you ever wonder if fish find having their tank cleaned extremely traumatizing?

Because the process seems to go swimming/can't breathe/where am I?/can't breathe/swimming. Which seems like it'd be a bit much for your average angel fish to deal with.


This is where a segue would go if I had one... New Doctor Who this weekend, and there are so many questions to answer! Will the Doctor find Amy's baby? What's up with that chick with the eyepatch? Will my husband accept that were going to have three daughters that I'll name Sarah Jane, Romana, and Amelia and that's just going to be real for him?


Have a great weekend and, if you live on the East coast, make sure your hatches are duly battened!

Oh, and you've seen this video, right? Even if you have, watch it again.

There's no stopping her

I missed a posting day. But I'm already back so, when compared with my last scheduling failure (where I missed approximately 72 posting days), that's not really that bad. And this time I have a legitimate excuse - I'm rocking some serious overtime at work for the next couple of weeks. So if these next these next few entries aren't up to my usual standard of thoughtful and intelligent rhetorical deconstruction paired with sparkling, Dorothy Parker-like, wit, please forgive me.*


Moving right along, September is clearly going to be Tyra Month. In addition to the impending release of literary game-changer Modelland, next month brings us a new season of ANTM. More than that, it's an all-star season. Which basically makes no sense, because some of these women are now north of thirty. And it's not that I find thirty particularly old in any real world sense, it's just that this isn't the real world - it's modelling.

For the high-fashion stuff that Tyra seems to be leaning toward, 18 is a little old, and 24 is impossibly ancient. At thirty, I don't really know what there is, aside from catalog work (which Tyra talks about as if it were on par with modelling for escort service ads), so what's the prize? I mean, if it's just a crap-ton of money then awesome - enjoy the flaming shark tank catwalk that Tyra has probably constructed. But if it's another contract - who would it be with? Activia? Even the regular series' Cover Girl ads get minimal airplay (because, as my friend put it- what's going to sell more product: Some girl that a few people watched on a reality show for a few weeks, or an actual celebrity?), so if it's just another contract with them, how much support do you think a 29-year-old neophyte is going to get? Would a couple of commercials that will barely air really be worth a month plus in a house stacked with 50-70% Designated Cycle Bitches?

Which, of course, isn't to say that I won't watch. The season premiere airs the day after the release of Modelland, and Tyra is Tyra. She's made contestants recreate her old pictures, live in Tyra-themed apartments, and perform in her music video. I have to believe in a world where this season includes at least one Modelland-themed challenge. And when Tyra sends those girls through a military obstacle course wearing thigh-high boots with 8-inch stiletto heels - all while telling thing that they shouldn't complain because it's TOTALLY like that time she had to walk a runway in Milan in platforms that were too small - I want to be there.


*A "does this just happen" to me question: do you ever worry that, when you're being self-effacing, people just think you have a severely inflated self-image?

Can we talk about Anthropologie, for a second?

Like any good broke but aspirational twenty-something, I have an Anthropologie rewards/frequent shopper card. I like to imagine that there will be a time when I'm wandering my elegantly ecclectic home, swathed in a gauzy floral dress, serving basil duck (in this fantasy, I can make Thai food) on whimsical dinnerware.

In reality, I think I've used my Anthro Card twice.


But, still, having it means that I'm entitled to...a birthday freebie! You know, like an email or a postcard with a coupon!
Or...

I guess you could send a 15% off coupon in a linen pouch with a teensy little star button. If you wanted to be all...Anthro about it.

I got linked! Just like the cool kids do!

A while back, I made a banner for my husband's birthday. I've been meaning to post about it for the better part of a month, but I keep stalling/procrastinating.

Then, yesterday, it got posted on Epbot (!!) with a link to my blog (Hi, Epbot Readers!), so I figured it was about time that I actually posted about it here. Though first, for those who aren't familiar with Epbot, it's the geeky and crafty blog run the same person who writes Cakewrecks. Both of her blogs are fantastic, and I highly reccommend them.

Back to the banner. My husband's birthday was last month, and we threw a party. Though by party, I really mean that we had about ten people over to drink and watch The Happening (which is a movie so ridiculous, that one of our guests seemed downright offended by it). I made a bunch food, I made honeydew vodka (which was crazy easy to do), and I made this:

Thanks to the many craft and decorating blogs I read, I've been wanting an excuse to make bunting. But, since we don't have parties (being around large groups of people requires a three-week psyche-up on my part) there was never really any reason...until now! But it occurred to me that a whimsical mix of yellow and white printed fabric triangles affixed to a coral-colored ribbon wasn't really up my husband's alley, so I suggested this instead.

It's specially designed to suit my husband's personal geek-loves. It was, unfortunately, not specifically designed to actually hang on the wall. Apparently, I seriously overestimated the strength/stiffness of two layers of felt held together by craft glue and invisible thread. To get it to stay up like this we had to use strategically placed sewing pins.

Though this is something that I would have to majorly re-think before trying again, I do like how it turned out. Particularly the 1-up Mushroom:

And the Radiohead logo, which I put in as a surprise because:
1 - my husband loves Radiohead, and
2 - I didn't want to tell him about it until I was sure that I could make it. As you can see, it has a lot of pieces

 

So, overall, it was a success! So much so that my husband left it up over our breakfast table (which would more accurately be called our "mail & empty serving platter table") for the entire month. And the party itself was a success, too!

Except for the cake. I'm going to be real with you - I'm pretty good with cookies, but cakes are not my strong suit. And by "not my strong suit" I mean that the cake was like a chocolate-frosted brick.

But there were cookies (sugar cookie cups filled with lemon curd. Just sayin'), plus guacamole and booze. So I'm still calling it a win.

If it's good enough for Tim Gunn

As of this weekend, I've started watching HGTV. I've been living in apartments for three years now, and decorating is still not a thing that's really happened for. At all.

Well, unless you count the cheap-o DVD shelves that I painted (rather poorly) on a whim a couple of summers ago.

But now: HGTV! Because I'm hoping that watching hours upon hours of home buying/renovating/decorating is the source of people's decorating knowledge and capability, rather than a symptom of some innate, untouchable, stylishness.

I just don't want to be that person whose whole house could be described as "A Study in Beige." Nor do I want to be the person who has a giant statue of a tiger - formed entirely out of stained glass and mirrors - serving as the base of her coffee table.

(Actually, it'd be kind of fun to be that person. How cool would it be to be some crazy, aging society dame with a fur turban, a ton of brooches, a gin habit, and maybe some sort of long-suffering personal assistant?)

So, anyway, I'm watching HGTV in the hopes that by the time I have a home, and some money, and a scroll saw (I should never own a scroll saw), I'll be full of clever decorating ideas.

As of day two, the only idea I've had is this: HGTV totally needs scripted programming.

It could be about unreasonably young and sexy home inspectors looking at each other melodramatically while assessing basement water damage. And one of them could have a fraught relationship with a corrupt realtor who forces them to falsify inspections so that her sellers get good prices.

Season 1 could end with the delicate and naive (but damaged) lead female character inspecting a house that has been booby trapped with tons of mold! Oh no! "Will she survive?" you'll wonder, as the season closes with a close-up of her panicked (but carefully made-up) face.

But then, you know, of course she will. Because she's only been in there for a few minutes, and it's mold, for God's sake, not arsenic.

The gift that keeps on giving?

I've been searching for DIY Christmas gift ideas online, because this year is shaping up to be my brokest ever.I always lean toward food ideas, but since I give my friends their Christmas gifts at a party where I force-feed them sugar for a few hours, food-as-gift is kind of redundant.

But then I had an idea: I would give them jars of things! Homemade things like apple butter, and lemon curd, and other things you put on toast! It's like giving the gift of breakfast!

I got really excited about that idea for like, a day. Then I dropped it. Partially because I'm worried that the cost of supplies could end up higher than my miniscule budget, but that I'll be locked in to the project by the time I realize it. But the main reason is this: if I knit something for someone, worst case scenario is that they hate it and never wear/ use it. That's not ideal, because I try to make things people will like, but it's not the absolute worst thing in the world. Because with canning, the worst case scenario is that your homemade salsa's secret ingredient turns out to be botulism.

It's the gift that keeps on giving. Until it, you know, paralyzes you.

So canning is officially off the table.

I'm currently seeking less potentially fatal ideas.

It's like when your mom discovered flash mobs

I have a problem. I get super excited when I discover new things. I go from zero to obsessed in the matter of days, and I want to share it with everyone. That, in and of itself, isn't the problem (you know, unless you're one of the people that I've hounded). The problem is that I am NEVER on the cutting edge.

Between my distrust of new things and my general laziness, I tend to champion movies that just came out on DVD, and albums that came out three years ago. So bear my epic un-cool-ness in mind if I'm WAY behind the curve when I say oh my God, are you using Spotify? Because my husband (who's way more interested in music than I am) just introduced me to it this morning and IT'S THE BEST. It is to Pandora as Thundercats are to He-Man (by which I mean it's way, way, way, way, better). You can basically stream whatever music you want, whenever you want, and it's free!

So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go listen Adam Ant until it seems like a good idea to paint a giant stripe across my face with blue eyeshadow.


This is not a paid ad. Because paying bloggers with spotty posting histories and 10 readers (on a good day) doesn't really make for a great marketing strategy.

Stuff. Things. Words.

Ugh.

I have four different posts the the draft stage right now, and none are really coming together. One of them is even a timely discussion of current issues!

(Note: timely discussion of current issues = me talking about last night's Project Runway.)

But, due to my pledge to live every day like it's Rex Manning Day, I mustn't dwell. I'll get to those posts eventually.

For today, I'll just focus on calling upon my fellow geeks to rage at the injustice of Sy-Fy (which is still one of the dumbest name changes ever) ending Eureka. Rage at the injustice! Then read the article! Then feel slightly silly about your outsized reaction! Then mumble an apology for your behavior! And promise to pay for the damages!

Basically, Eureka is getting 6 episodes to wrap things up after the end of their fifth season. The show is currently airing it's fourth season, and filming it's fifth. Which means that they have time to make changes to season five, if necessary, to lay groundwork for a series finale. For any show it's a pretty decent set-up. For a sci-fi show, it's kind of living the dream: a show that gets plenty time to close up shop, rather than A) being unceremoniously pulled from the line-up; or B) gradually descending into a sea of garbage wherein the lead actor is replaced by some random dude, playing an alternate world version/dual- identity mash-up of the lead character, and all of the other mains are gone, the entire premise has been replaced with something largely nonsensical, and my favorite character has been turned into some sort of rarely appearing a head in a jar.

Sorry. Had a moment there. The point is, Eureka is ending, which is a bummer. But they're getting more than enough time to build up to Jack and Allison having a baby, Lupo and Zane getting married, and Beverly Barlowe... doing whatever it is that Beverly Barlowe does.

Or, I guess they could just start yet another timeline.

When phones had cords, and you got your tax forms at the library

I love the internet. I do. I'm even using the internet to learn French.

Okay, by "using the internet to learn French" it's possible that I mean "I bookmarked the BBC languages site, and will definitely get around to using it at some point",* but that's neither here nor there.

The point is, internet = important. More than that, "check the internet" is kind of hardwired into my brain. It's my response to basically any situation. If the power suddenly goes out, or my internet is down, my first instinct is to use Google to check if the problem is widespread.

I've been on Pinterest for less that a week, but I'm already obsessed. When the servers go down, a tiny part of me freaks out. Because people are pinning things. They're pinning things and I can't see them.

And I know this isn't just me. There are tons of people who, when Twitter is down, are paralyzed by their inability to tweet about it. So they facebook it instead. Then they tweet about facebooking it later.

I'm kind of rambling, but I have a point: don't you kind of wish you'd become a functional adult before the internet? Because there are things that people must have been able to do before the internet, but I have no clue how. Like comparing credit cards. Or finding out about new books. Or figuring out who to call if the gutters fall off of your house. What the hell would gutter guys be under in the phone book? How would I know without Google to tell me? Plus, not having service reviews would increase my fear of being robbed/murdered by a random repair guy tenfold.

(I watched a lot of 20/20 as a kid. There were a lot of "kidnapped by the plumber" stories. Things like that are the building blocks of neuroses.)

I just feel like it'd be really nice if I could respond to my wi-fi failing in a way that didn't involve retreating to an interior room, and nervously waiting for the world to right itself again.


*Yes, I know that comma belongs inside the quotations, but I think that it looks stupid and wrong that way.

It's a matter of priorities

I had a post planned - it was going to be about how shamefully bad I am at blogging. But it will have to wait, because there are much more important things to discuss.

Specifically, Tyra Banks' book.

Tyra Banks' YA magical supermodel fantasy book. It's coming out in September, and I just don't know if I can do it.  I want to, because I love YA, and I love trashy urban-fantasy YA even more. 70% of the books I've read in the last three months have involved angsty witches and lovestruck half-demons. Modelland should offer all of that, plus some good old fashioned Tyra-brand narcissism.

And the magical supermodels are called Intoxibellas! That is the single most ridiculous thing that I've heard in months. Which is saying a lot, given my new-found infatuation with Toddlers and Tiaras.This book sounds like the exact sort of thing that I would buy with cash at a bookstore in a part of town where no one knows me, read four times, and NEVER EVER put on my bookshelf.

But then...

The internet tells me that about a week ago, Ms. Banks herself went on GMA with a giant feather glued over her eyebrow. She told GMA Lady Host that it was called a "smize" because of course it is. Apparently, a young Ninja-Fairy-SuperMagic Modelling School candidate increases her chances of being admitted to Ninja-Fairy-SuperMagic Modelling School by 91% if she has a piece of leftover Mardi Gras mask stuck to her face. Why? I have NO IDEA.

Because I tried, y'all. I did. But I only made it a minute into watching the video online (I don't watch GMA - what's the point of a morning show that doesn't include Kathy Lee downing half a bottle of wine?). I just couldn't take it. And if I can't handle three minutes of Tyra, how am I going to handle 576 pages?

That's right, 576 pages of pure Tyra. This could easily prove to be the most amazingly unnecessary book in the history of the world. I MUST KNOW what Tyra Banks spends nearly 600 saying about Tookie (actual character name) the Magic Model, and the perils of Thigh High Boot Camp (actual plot point), but I think that reading it might break my brain.


Note: This is the first time I've used "books" as a label. So, to the casual observer, this is the only book I've ever even considered. If you need me, I'll be in a shame spiral.

Out of touch with reality

It's been awhile. I'm going to blame holiday-related lethargy. It radiated into the entire month of November.

Anyway, I spent all last night preparing to post about ANTM, but it occurred to me that regardless of the winner, I didn't care that much. Ann can't do commercial work, and even at her best has a weird walk. Chelsey is probably  too old to really take off, and I keep calling her "Celia" in my head, so obviously I don't have some great love of her work either. I haven't really cared about a finale since Annaleigh (completely illogically) lost to "McKee" a million seasons ago. But that left me with nothing to write about.

And then I watched the premiere of Top Chef: All-Stars. (Warning: There are spoilers ahead. But season premiere spoilers, so they barely count).

The episode itself was pretty good - the All-Stars are pretty well-selected (though I wish Nice Voltaggio or Future Santa Claus Kevin signed on instead of Mike), and the producers can be happy that most of the people known for being a-holes seem largely unchanged and unapologetic (looking at you, Marcel). Everything was exactly as it should be, including the first challenge - revamp the dish that got you booted from your season. Even better, while half of the chefs cooked, the other half ate their competitions dishes with the judges. And the chefs who cooked watched the diners on closed circuit TV from the kitchen. All good stuff. Then Anthony Bourdain called Fabio's pasta dish one of the worst things he'd ever eaten. Only, you know, in a Bourdanier (let's agree that that's a word) way. Fabio was pissed, which is fair.

Here's what isn't: at judging Fabio went off on this whole thing about how he came here to be criticized in a constructive way, not to be made fun of (question: how do you rephrase that to move the preposition? I mean, without sounding like a douche). He even implies that, if they weren't in a judge/contestant situation, he might even actually fight Bourdain.

That's where I got kind of annoyed - it's not just that I'm pretty sure Bourdain is a scrapper who could totally take Fabio. Nor is it just that I'm of that camp that thinks getting in the judges faces is petty and unprofessional. No, my main problem is that being made fun of is EXACTLY WHAT YOU CAME HERE FOR. Because, before anything else, this is a reality show. So when Tyra calls your walk goofy, Michael Kors says you made your model look like a slutty disco ball or Tom Colicchio says your food was so bad it actually offended him on a personal level, yes it sucks, but no one made you audition.

If you're looking for a bunch of people to taste your food, then focus on helping you improve it using really constructive and ego-bolstering language, you should take cooking classes at Williams-Sonoma. These are judges. Their job is to judge. Preferably in a way that's entertaining. And using language strong enough that it helps the audience get really committed to the idea that this  person deserves to win, and this person should be banned from ever cooking again ever.

Not knowing this going into a competition-based reality show is naive (the format is hardly new); not knowing this going into your SECOND competition-based reality show is just plain dumb. But that's okay. Given the competition, I'm sure Fabio will only have to deal with it for a few weeks.

La Croix, sweetie, La Croix!

Ok, so this is far from a certainty, but I'm opting to get really excited now even though it may mean being horribly disappointed later : AbFab may come back! 

Jennifer Saunders isn't currently working, because she's in treatment for breast cancer, but it seems like she's been kicking the idea around with Joanna Lumley. BUT she's not making any statements about it at this point (which is understandable- she got bigger things to deal with), so she may never opt to advance it past the "kicking the idea around" stage. Plus, who knows if June Whitfield, Julia Sawalha and Jane Horrocks would necessarily be interested in coming back.

But who needs a measured and reasonable perspective on the situation? AbFab may come back!


While we're on the subject of fashion comedies, on this week's ANTM Tyra (who is basically a parody of a parody of a parody of herself at this point) aired her directorial debut. And it is...so many things. Mostly it's like a really bad student-level art film. But there's a wonderful segment around the 1:15 mark where Tyra seemed to ask herself "What if that girl from The Ring had been FIERCE and SMIZED?"

It's one of my new favorite things.

Best thing ever

I haven't seen The Social Network yet. I know I need to, but on the weekends I always go back and forth between absurdly busy and embarrassingly lazy.

But that's not the point. The point is that apparently, the guy who plays the Winklevoss twins is named "Armie Hammer." Armie Hammer. When I read that, I thought "No way," because that has to be a typo, right? Or a stage name like "Ethan Tremblay"?

So I wikipediaed him (is there a good way to past tense "Wikipedia" as a verb?), and his real name isn't Armie.

It's Armand.

Armand.

Armand Hammer.

HIS NAME IS ARM AND HAMMER. That is AMAZING. It's like that time that Bart prank called Moe's and there was an actual guy there named "Hugh Jass."

It's like the example line on a form. It would say, Mr. Armand Hammer of 12301 Deodorizer Way, Anytown USA.

It is one of the most awesome names I've ever heard. I sit in awe of it.


Though I bet, when he was a kid, his parents would say thing like "with a name like Armand Hammer, you think your room would be a little cleaner." And then they'd laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

That probably got old fast.

Fear and logic don't really mix

I've been meaning to talk about The Walking Dead. Mostly to say that it's a really good show.

Well. Point of clarification: the pilot is fantastic. Apparently the second episode is as well, but since I haven't yet watched it (and may not ever), I wouldn't really know.

You see, me and horror? Not so much. My husband and horror movies/books/shows are BFFs who would gladly wile away a weekend French braiding each others entrails, but I just can't handle it. But I watched the pilot for The Walking Dead, because I read the comic and - as my husband repeatedly pointed out - it's more character-driven than scare-driven. So I watched it. And here's the thing about a character driven zombie story: instead of sudden moments that make you scream, you instead have sort of a looming sense of panic and danger that just never goes away.

But I made it through, even in spite of some very realistic-looking zombies. I was super proud of myself. Until after the show was over. Because it was then that, walking by the bathroom,  I saw that the shower curtain was pulled shut.

I looked at it and thought to myself "I'd better pull that curtain back, so I can make sure that a zombie didn't come up the drain."

And then I thought about the fact that for that to be possible:
1) Zombies would have to BE AN ACTUAL THING.
and
2) A full-sized (albeit slightly decomposed) human being would have to be able to fit through our bathtub drain.

I gave both of these things some thought and decided that yes, that seems entirely plausible, and actually checked my tub for hiding zombies. Because if I didn't, and a zombie later ambushed me when I was trying to use the restroom, I'd have no one to blame but myself.

Why I don't watch game shows

Sometimes, I watch Jeopardy and someone misses an answer that I know. Then, of course, I point and laugh because "ha,ha - you rage against the dying of the light, not fight against it! Look at how stupid you are, with your stupid face!"

And then I remember that these people are making thousands of dollars by correctly answering questions that I not only don't know, but occasionally don't understand. Then I go back to rotating between Snapped and A-list New York so that I can get all cozy with my inflated sense of superiority.

Obligatory Bone Thugs-N-Harmony Reference

It's November first, which means that it's Rabbit, Rabbit Day.

Rabbit, Rabbit Day, according to something I saw on Nickelodeon when I was about 10, occurs on the first day of every month. The idea is that if the first thing you say when you wake up on the first day of the month is "Rabbit, Rabbit" you'll have good luck all month.

Rabbit, Rabbit Day has been the bane of my existence for sixteen years. It's not even that I believe in it, it's just that I want to say it just once, just for the sake knowing I did it. But on Rabbit, Rabbit Day, I always fail. Always. 70% of the time it's because I completely forget it even exists, but the other 30% it's...more of a personal failing.

Apparently, it's impossible for me to go more than five minutes in the morning without announcing "I'm going to watch Scooby Doo until breakfast is ready," or "wouldn't it be cool if Alan Tudyk was on Supernatural?" or "man, I wish I still had a Popple." This happens without fail. Even if no one's listening.

For sixteen years, I've been unable to achieve the (relatively) simple goal of saying "Rabbit, Rabbit" on Rabbit, Rabbit day just once because I am physically incapable of keeping my mouth shut.

Which, I guess, is why I have a blog.

For the Stylish Risk-taker in All of Us.

I bought a butane refill for a candle lighter this week, and saw this:

There are butane curling irons? Is this a common thing? Because I think filling something with flammable liquid and then using it on my head sounds like a terrible idea. However, when I mentioned it to my mom (who I'd previously thought to be under some sort of biological imperative to think really highly of me), she said that she used one for years when she was young and that I was just "being a punk."

I say that when she was young they still put lead in paint, so I'll just stick with my initial assessment about what does and doesn't sound like it could kill me.

A dubious honor, but still...

I've created a new game; it's called "Businessman Chicken."

Which, technically, in the name of equality, should probably be "Businessperson Chicken," but whatever.

It works as follows: First you initiate a handshake. Then you continue the handshake way past any reasonable point. Then you start saying vaguely businesslike things to the other person. But businesslike in a 60-year-old on an 80's sitcom sort of way. Examples:

"I'll have Johnson fax you those reports in the morning."

"You just don't have what it takes to get ahead in this game, son."

"How are your quarterlies coming along?"

"I won't stand for you whipper-snappers running around like you own the place."

"You've got the steely-eyed glint of a true negotiator."

This continues until the other person either laughs or disengages the handshake and walks away, shaking their head at your inability to carry on a normal, adult conversation.

I am the queen of Businessman Chicken.