Last month, the Washington Post Magazine printed an “XX Files” essay by Wanda Fleming. In “Suspended Disbelief,” Fleming wrote about struggling with the news that a friend’s husband had been accused of sexually assaulting a young girl. The essay’s sub-head reads, “Guilty or not, it’s a tragedy.” After a correction to the piece was published in Sunday’s magazine, the “or not” scenario seems a lot less likely.

Read More “Washington Post Missteps on Sex Offender Essay” »

* Slate’s XX Factor hashes it out over Rick Warren. Sara Mosley hates Warren, but admits that “engagement with the other side” sometimes “makes everyone a little unhappy and uncomfortable.” Noreen Malone thinks Obama’s “selling out.” Hannah Rosin thinks this is all “liberal group think” that amounts to “pretending evangelicals don’t exist”—and calls to let Warren speak for himself.

* In inauguration dating news: This 40-year-old seeks a date for a ball; this out-of-town 26-year-old is looking for a place to stay—not for the inauguration, just any old time.

* Local poet Sandra Beasley wrote this week’s XX Files essay on how to fake it: If “it” means becoming an impromptu motorcycle model for a televised magic show:

The director hadn’t instructed us on attitude, so I kept rotating expressions. Ten seconds smiling. Ten second scowling. Ten seconds of terrified, we’re-crushing-him! face. We kept rolling. Down the ramp. Steve cut the engine.

“That’s it?” I asked.

* The Candy Pitch presents: The Twelve Days of Christmas, burlesque style.

Photo via trialsanderrors.

The Washington Post magazine ruins a date before it starts, records political musings of awesome older lady.

Naughty Meanspirited Awesome: They didn’t stand a chance. In last week’s Date Lab, Washington Post’s resident sadists set up “Chrissy,” a 24-year old recruiter, with “Clay,” a 24-year-old farmer. Farmer and “recruiter”—a natural pairing, no?

No. By the time Clay set his eyes on Chrissy, it was clear that no Green Acres sparks would be a-flying. “She looked like a D.C. professional. And she was not fat in any way, but she was heavier than the girls I typically go out with,” he told interviewer Kelly DiNardo. Chrissy’s lifestyle was also a bit heavy for Clay. “I’ve been through the night-life thing. I did it in high school and college. Heavily,” said Clay, who, in his pre-date questionnaire, claimed to be looking for a woman like “Fergie in Black Eyed Peas,” a recovered meth addict.

When asked in a pre-date questionnaire how he is “D.C.,” Clay responded that “a farmer with a Beemer is dynamic in all environments.” When asked how he’s not “D.C.,” Clay responded, “I am a farmer.” Clay also noted that he was happiest “outside, working hard at my farm.”

Chrissy, who is not a farmer, described the remainder of the date. “He graduated with his master’s in agriculture this past May. Now he raises cattle. I’ve never even met a farmer or cattle rancher,” Chrissy said, adding, “I said on my Date Lab questionnaire that I wanted a cowboy, but I was doing that tongue-in-cheek.” Clay countered, “Women like the idea of a cowboy. A cowboy wears a cowboy hat every day. I’m not cool enough to wear a cowboy hat every day. I’m more of a farmer.”

Date Lab notes that “The daters don’t plan to see each other again.” It does not, however, record the number of inter-office high-fives received by Date Lab’s mail opener on the date Clay’s application rolled in. Thanks for taking one for the team, Chrissy.

Nice: XX Files’ “Hot for Hillary,” an essay by self-described “woman of a certain age” Mary Burgan. The title, which makes little sense, Burgan describes her experience working the phone banks during the Clinton campaign—and enduring her husband’s Obama support. “I felt a pull of loyalty, for despite my concerns about her lack of spontaneity and the dullness of her stump speech, I believed that she would be the last and most credible woman in my lifetime with a shot at being president,” wrote Burgan. “Actually, I was a bit surprised to discover how much that meant to me and how angry I could get at men who didn’t see the matter’s extreme importance.”

Burgan allows herself to inject some humor into that premise, though, making a killer Cash Cab joke and several old folks jabs along the way. In the essay, Burgan displayed a certain social grace that Jezebel’s Moe Tkacik found missing from the rheteric of some die-hard Hillary supporters. There was only one point of strangeness in the text, when Burgan says a fellow volunteer at the phone bank told her “There’s a special hell for women who don’t help women.” What, no Palin/Starbucks joke follow up? You’re showing your age, Burgan.

But if the prose doesn’t convince you, Burgan’s mug might:

I love this woman.