Friday, September 30, 2005


Today's Asshole du Jour: William Bennett.
Yes, the author of The Book of Virtues thinks we should abort black babies to reduce crime. Because, as former education seceratary, he would know best that educating people certainly won't help. Every black baby in the country, y'all.
So, drink a beer for William Bennett, former gambling addict and advocate for eugenics. Then, when the glass is empty, break it on the bar and threaten to cut him.

Who'd've Believed You'd Come Along

A very interesting piece this morning on NPR about the origins of "Sweet Caroline" and the Sox. I admit freely to getting completely jazzed up at the repeated playing of Neil Diamond's song, and especially when the fan Susan Orlean interviewed sang off-key along with the song at Fenway.
In related news, I hear some pretty heavy baseball is going down in the Fenway this weekend. May the melody of "Sweet Caroline" and especially "Dirty Water" haunt the Yankees fans for another off-season of second-guessing and finger-pointing. I'll be at home, sculpting a clay representation of David Ortiz to worship five times a day, ten when walk-off runs/home runs occur.
Oh, and this is fucking hysterical too.
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This kid weeps as the swag of evil stings his verdant flesh.


If you're jonesin' for more writing, or more blogs to take up your day, you can check out the Whatever's home on the Intraweb, EducationGeek. I am a "contributor," and wrote a piece about an article in the Globe yesterday about kids not learning cursive anymore. Enjoy.

Thursday, September 29, 2005


So I surf over to channel 7, looking for a little Bouchard to brighten my day and I read this:

WEATHER ALERT: The National Weather Service has issued a high wind warning for the following cities until 5 p.m. Gloucester, Foxboro, Norwood, Cambridge, Boston, Taunton, Brockton, Plymouth, Foster, Smithfield, Providence, West Greenwich, Warwick and points in between. Wind speeds will reach 30 to 40 mph with gusts to 60 mph. A high wind warning means a hazardous high wind event is expected or occurring. Sustained wind speeds of at least 40 mph or gusts of 58 mph or more can lead to property damage.

West Greenwich is my hometown. The road my Mom lives on was dirt until about ten years ago. Until about the same time ago, we were known for being home to Rhode Island's only truck stop. When I tell people where I'm from, they squint and say "Is that near Providence or Newport?" I say, "roughly the same distance to either." Now the National Weather Service is using my little podunk town as a geographic reference point for wind warnings? Wowza.
So cheers to you, West Greenwich. Somewhere within your borders my mother sits, half-praying a heavy tree will fall on her hip, causing the surgery to be moved up a week.

I Haven't My Wit About Me

I'd love to write something funny, but I'm feeling crappy. It's hit me I'm going home for a month, leaving behind my boyfriend, friends, job-- basically my whole life. Granted, I would not have said life without my mother's able care, but I'm not thrilled to live in my goose-border room with the twin bed for a month. The stress of it all is causing me to flip out in unrelated areas of my life-- after an evening of watching America's Next Top Model with the girls, I called the Whatever promptly at 9 to tell him I'd be going to another friend's house for a bit, and he didn't pick up so I figured he was asleep. Then I called at 10 to talk to him about his day, see how his meetings went, and he didn't pick up then either. Usually if he's napping he'll call me back when he wakes up, even if it's late. When I woke up at 7am without word, I sent him a text, aware I was becoming the psycho girlfriend I'd vowed not to be. I got teared up in the shower, my mind going to the worst scenarios. What if he was in the hospital for some reason, if he'd crashed his car, or gotten food poisoning, or something horrible had happened? What if he needed an organ? How would I know? I didn't hear back from him until 8, at which point I called him in response to his text message, trying not to lose it, trying to keep my cool. It didn't work. Transformation into walking Bridget-Jones-stereotype (minus cigarettes, accent and about 25 pounds) complete. I hope that if it weren't for the preparations for my mother's surgery being the week of PMS I'd have handled that better.
Kristen's not in today since the Red Sox have apparently given her strep throat or something so I'm sitting at my desk, doing nothing but getting hysterical about my future, missing parties and television shows and playoff baseball. I can't leave the office since my coworkers who ventured outside have come back sandblasted like old houses from the windblown road dirt outside. I'm stuck inside, mentally pacing, checking my email so much I'm waiting for Yahoo's server to crash.
Hopefully some politician or famous person does something stupid so I can complain and get angry instead of sad. My friend S, way back in 1999, saw me cry one day after a bad day and she proceeded to lose it too. "Why are you crying?" I asked in the halting speech of someone who's been sobbing. "Because you don't cry," she replied, offering me a tissue. "I cry every day. You just get mad to deal with things."
Come on, good people. Distract me.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005


My love for Extreme Makeover: Home Edition has been well-documented. Yes, it's manipulative. Yes, it's extremely treacley. Yes, with every episode it becomes the television show equivalent of "U-S-A! U-S-A!!" But it allows me the release of all the negative emotions in this cold cynic's heart. Watching a medic who lost his leg in Iraq sob as he sees the windows and door from his old house being donated to a guy he met after his injury who lost both legs and looks all of twelve years old? You'd be made of stone to not cry at that.
However, I envision a perfect storm of annoying when Laura Bush visits the show later this season. I imagine that Ty Pennington wasn't allowed near her, since his spastic twitching and yelling would cause the Secret Service to put a death clutch on Mr. Pennington's neck and finally end all his yelling into a megaphone, jumping around like a two year old, and schilling for Sears. Laura Bush, the first robot, er, lady, will hand out clothes to people affected by the hurricane, her face set on emotion #2506, "sad, with hopeful outlook and creating a sympathetic front for the Republican party."

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Um, Dude...

If it's everybody else's fault, why did you quit your job? I'm just saying. If somebody changed the order of my page proof and put a nudie picture in the reading about the life of Robert Frost, you'd best believe I'd stick it out until somebody canned me. Why would you resign if it's not your fault a situation got royally fucked?
Oh, life was so much simpler when you ran pony shows.

Doctors, Doctors Everywhere

I didn't realize how bad she was until I got home Sunday. My brother picked me up at the train station, which was unusual. My Mom usually picks me up, her SUV waiting for me. Friends will sometimes pick me up, but they're either just pulling in as I get off the train, or late. My Mom leaves the house to give herself plenty of time to drive the forty minutes to the train station and forces my brother to do the same.
When we got home, my Mom greeted me from her recliner. Which wasn't unusual since she was poring over the Sunday advertisements. The Food Network was on, which I hooked my Mom on when she was recovering from her first hip replacement. I was home to help her prepare for her other hip to be replaced, the second in a year and a half.
I noticed how bad she was when she got up from the chair to use the computer. She used her cane like a lifeline. She walked with a shuffle, putting her weight on her left hip and gingerly shuffling the right hip, trying to put most of her weight on the cane. Her back was hunched over, and her face was scrunched tightly, straining to even move.
Last time she wasn't this bad. She put off this surgery to train someone at work to do most of her job, to get things straight. She went to a conference a couple weeks ago, and she felt that was what completely ruined her hip. She enjoyed the food and the view from the conference building, then could barely move after that. "It just gave out. My body warned me, with anxiety and high blood pressure. I wasn't resting, so my body saw to it I did."
I drove my Mom to Providence for her patient orientation class. My mother hates Providence and especially hates driving in Providence, but after developing the steely confidence driving within twenty miles of Boston promotes, Providence doesn't seem so bad to me. We were confused only because of the poor directions to the actual building the orientation was held in. We found the street, but not the building "on the corner" since there were many corners on that street. But after some creative thinking, we gave the valet the car and went inside.
A small chihuahua ran around a child's feet as we walked to the first bank of elevators. We went to the second floor, and found the receptionist. We were in the surgeon's office, not the orientation office. We should take the elevator to the first floor, which is actually the second floor from the ground, take a right (or was it a left? the receptionist wasn't sure) and walk over to the other bank of elevators and go to that second floor. My Mom groaned as she hobbled on the crutches she has to use whenever she leaves the house. She couldn't even carry her handbag as she went along. We went back down to the ground floor since I knew where to go. A small group of nurses chased the chihuahua around a severely retarded girl's wheelchair.
"Did you call security?"
"Is this someone's dog?"
"Don't let him on the elevators. Don't let him out the front door either."
The girl in the wheelchair swung her head around, trying to figure out what was going on. My Mom shook her head and laughed.
We got to the other side of the building and went to the second floor. A nurse greeted us.
"We're here for the orientation."
The nurse said we were in the wrong spot and to go to the first floor (second from the ground) and check in with that receptionist. My Mom rolled her eyes as we pressed the button to go back down.
A receptionist sat down as I approached (my Mom waited by the elevators in case we had to go back in), reading a pamphlet of some kind. I waited for about a minute before she looked up and saw me.
"Can I help you?" She asked, annoyed.
"We're here for the orientation."
She narrowed her eyes at me. "There's no orientation here. Try going upstairs."
I hadn't eaten breakfast and knowing it would hurt my Mom to haul herself around the entire building again made my temper short. "I was just upstairs and they sent me down here."
"Well, it's not the right place. Maybe you should go back upstairs. Is there a number or something I can call for you?"
I handed the receptionist the paperwork and she took it from me a little too quickly. She called the number on the paper and found out the orientation was indeed upstairs where we'd just been.
When the elevator arrived, the nurse who'd sent us to the wrong place popped out. "Just coming down to check on you. I thought you were looking for something else."
Yes, the woman who can barely walk probably isn't here for the joint replacement orientation, I thought. But the nurse was nice, so I calmed down.
We'd done the orientation last time my Mom had her hip replaced. Then the small conference room was packed with people. This time, there were four people in for surgery. A man in his mid- to late sixties sat in a walker/chair combination my Mom later told me she'd seen in an arthritis magazine. His wife, who looked younger than him by a few years, sat next to him. Another couple sat next to them. The man, who was in for the surgery, tried to listen, his hearing aid large and visible in his ear. His wife repeated things to him when he grumbled "what?" A youngish woman, about my Mom's age, came in as the physical therapist started to talk about the post-surgery PT. I felt like a kid who'd flunked a course and came back to repeat it. I knew about the way the surgeon, a small, "quirky" man (my Mom's description) will take my Mom's leg, bend it behind her and dislocate her hip. He'll take out the joint, replace it with a titanium ball and socket, sew her back up and send her to the recovery room. It will take six to eight hours, my brother, my grandfather, possibly the Whatever and I, waiting in uncomfortable seats in the OR waiting room with other people anxiously waiting to hear how it went. Daytime TV will blare from a small television. A volunteer will sit by a rotary phone, waiting to hear from the OR with updates, reading a book between calls. My grandfather won't eat all day for fear of upsetting his stomach. My brother will play video games. I'll read, watch Ellen, and try not to cry.
The nurse came back in to explain pain medication and post-hospital visit options (my Mom proudly announcing that "my girl" will be caring for her at home immediately after the five days in the hospital) why not to cross the legs or roll the ankle out (a high risk of dislocating the new joint) and how to pay for television and phone service in the semi-private room.
The people at these things are always interesting. The old man in the chair/walker barely spoke, but his wife advocated for him.
"Well, I think I'll put him in a rehab place since we have a lot of steps to get in and, God forbid, if he should fall. It's just him and me and our two pets. I'll need a place close to home to care for the pets."
The physical therapist explained the exercises, using an example to explain the glute squeeze. "Imagine there's a dollar bill between your cheeks. Someone's trying to take it from you and you don't want them to, so you squeeze."
"That won't be hard for him," the man in the wheelchair's wife quipped, breaking the room up into laughter. He laughed too, and his wife affectionately pinched his cheek.
The only time the man in the wheelchair spoke up was to gently tell his wife that my Mom and I had to go to our next appointment-- the pre-surgery testing. The nurse called a shuttle for us, and the friendly driver dropped us off. The old man with the hearing aid wished us luck and we left the bus.
We signed in for the testing, and despite the long wait we had last time, my Mom didn't have time to complete filling out the health history questionnaire before the billing woman came over to get us. I'd planned on getting a lot of work done on my freelance project, but my Mom couldn't juggle her pocketbook, the crutches and the clipboard with the forms on it, so I went with her to the billing office.
We sat back down in the waiting room after being processed and my Mom getting a writsband. An old woman with big blonde hair and a brightly colored jacket sat next to us and talked to someone on her cellphone.
"Okay, now, I'll need you to bring my suitcase tomorrow so I can dump out the little one and put my stuff in that one. Yes. Oh, and don't forget to pick up my books on the sewing table. There's two, and I'm almost done with one of them and he's a very good author. Thanks, hon."
A nurse called us into the testing room. My Mom went behind a curtain to get her EKG done. Then another nurse took a urine sample and a blood sample. My Mom had donated her own blood a few days before (2 units) and groaned at the thought of losing more blood.
"You'll need a steak after all this, Mom."
"Or liver," the nurse piped up.
"Oh, gross. My mother-in-law ate that stuff when I was pregnant with Amy and I thought I'd die."
My stomach growled at the thought of steak. It was 2pm and I hadn't eaten since the night before.
We then met with the surgeon's assistant who had cute shoes. She went over the surgery with us. No nail polish (except clear) since the surgeon will need to press her fingernails to see if the blood is still circulating to the extremities. No food or drink after midnight. No more anti-inflammatories until after the surgery. Be at the hospital two hours before the surgery. Yes, take the anxiety medicine ("we'd rather have you mellow and here than be nervous and not show up"). The family would be allowed in before the trip to the OR, when the clear bag marked "PERSONAL ITEMS" would be handed to the primary contact (me) and we'd say goodbye and be shown to the waiting area.
By this point, my Mom was in so much pain from walking that she had to be put in a wheelchair to be taken for her chest x-ray. The crutches were bad enough, but seeing my Mom in a wheelchair was much worse. She sighed with relief, but I knew it bothered her too. My Mom's independent, and hates asking anyone for help. Having her daughter wheeling her through the hospital wasn't easy for her, either.
I sat under the television in the x-ray waiting area, Roseanne cawing in syndication, as my Mom got her x-ray for the anesthesiologist. A pert blonde nurse came and told me she was ready to go. I wheeled my Mom through the entire hospital (the main hospital, the children's hospital), got lost, got directions, and eventually ended up back at the valet. They pulled our car up quickly, and we got in and pulled into the heavy traffic to get back to 95.
"I don't know what I would have done without you," my Mom said, panting from the effort getting herself into the car took. "I'd have an inferior surgeon, that's for sure."
As we got father away from Providence, my Mom relaxed. We met my brother for dinner, and my Mom ate soup and bread to warm up. She got steak but didn't eat much of it since she wanted to save it for lunch today. My brother brought me back to the train, my Mom sitting in her recliner, watching TV, relaxing as much as her body will let her.

Friday, September 23, 2005

Happy Friday

May this be your mantra today, too:
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(Yeah, I know. Not funny.)

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Love of Pete

I haven't talked about Pete Bouchard in a while. Not because the restraining order went through (thanks, backlogged criminal justice system!) but because nothing of note has happened on the channel 7 web site. But today Pete captured the yin and yang of watching another area of the U.S. get ready for a major hurricane:

With winds of 175 mph and pressure of 887 mb (26.49" of mercury), Rita surpasses Katrina and makes history as the 3rd most intense hurricane (in terms of pressure) in the Atlantic Basin.
We enjoy a pleasant late summer night in the 50s & 60s.

The Gulf Coast is scrambling and fretting.
We're enjoying the sun.

The Sox lose the lead in the AL West.
We hit 80s on the first day of autumn.

Rita makes landfall near Galveston Friday night with a 15-20 foot storm surge and winds ranging from 145-155 (category 4, marginal 5).
We cool off to the 40s in many spots under clear skies.

Flooding rains inundate east Texas as Rita slows this weekend.
A shower passes through on Sunday afternoon.

Gas hits $4 a gallon next week.
We go from 70s to 60s...still with sunny skies.

At least the weather's on our side.

Did you notice the error in Pete's writeup? Three internet karma points to the first to point it out.
Oh Pete. Your prose is ruined by your inaccuracy. My world is turned upside down.
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Le sigh.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Good News/Bad News

Good News: The high price of gas is going down!
Bad News: Not until 2010.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Fresh Blood

Of course.
Despite what your Texas upbringing may have taught you, Mr. Bush, keeping it in the family is not the way to go. Then you end up with babies with an odd number of fingers and birth defects. It's kind of the same for hurricane response. Isn't keeping your friends close what got you into this mess in the first place? It's like asking your Mom if you're pretty to have a "close aide" head an investigation into whether or not you fucked up. You'll get an answer, but odds are it's not going to be impartial.
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"You like me! You really like me!"

Monday, September 19, 2005

Hip Sunday

When I moved to Boston way back when (2000), I envisioned myself enjoying all that the city has to offer. I imagined myself with artsy friends who made lots of art and drank coffee in small coffee shops I'd never heard of, and all my friends from Rhode Island would be jealous of my fabulously artsy life. I imagined myself in the society page of the Globe, smiling in a pretty cocktail dress. No one would know my name, but they'd know I was cooler than them because I was at a hot event.
Then I got here and spent most of my spare time window-shopping and eating in bars.
This weekend, I actually enjoyed all that Boston has to offer. Friday night the Whatever and I had sushi at Super Fusion Cuisine. I cannot say enough good things about Super Fusion Cuisine. I am considering bringing Shakespeare back from the dead, force-feeding him mango rolls while his eyes flick back and forth while observing the wonders of electricity and Asian people owning a business in America, and making him write a sonnet for the glory that is Super Fusion Cuisine. It may be a bitch to put in iambic pentameter. Don't care. Write it, Bard.
Sunday was the day of city living. After the "back to Catholic school" party on Saturday night and the requisite post-party calzone from Natalie's, the Whatever and I slept late, got up and went to the AltWheels festival in Brookline. We saw many electric cars. We even saw cars powered by used vegetable oil and diesel. It was cool, but the science of it escaped me. I just liked sitting in the cars and pretending I was driving.
We then hit the South End open studios. My boss has space on Tremont Street, so we walked around all the different studios in his building. Since we spent the morning moaning and trying to get up the moxie to walk our lazy asses down to 7-Eleven for snacks, we didn't have time to see even a fraction of what Open Studios had to offer. I'd anticipated just showing up to support my really nice boss and making bug-eyes at the prices of different pieces, but some artists had prints I could actually afford. One woman had funky etchings, my favorite being a stylized chicken pushing a stroller full of eggs. One man had medieval prints for fifteen bucks. The Whatever and I wanted to buy something, but we didn't have any cash and it was getting late by the time we needed to decide, so we didn't get anything. But if you're in the area next year, by all means go. It's worth it just to see the gorgeous building. My boss works in 551 Tremont, which is an old theater. You walk through winding steps, narrow hallways and find artists in glorified closets or huge rooms with a view that condo developers have wet dreams about. The artists are all incredibly friendly (taxing as that is) and there's much to look at, even if you don't buy. There was even a sting instrument studio that, as my boss put it, was a picture just waiting to be taken. Deep woods, with the sound of a cello playing through the foyer of the building.
Then, to complete the hip city weekend, we had dinner at Addis. I supported the arts (well, morally, anyway) and had ethnic food.
"I feel so hip," I said to the Whatever as we sipped out Ethiopian drinks. "I love that you enjoy all this cool city stuff."
"Well, it's only cool because you like doing it. You're not doing it just to be cool, are you?"
Maybe that's what I was missing when I moved here-- I was trying to do everything fun that Sex and the City told me was fun. I've found that doing things in the city is a trial and error process-- some of it will be fun, some of it will suck. You just go and hope for the best. And if you hate it, you can always eat at Bennigan's and see a movie at the end of the day.

Friday, September 16, 2005


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"Oh holy Jesus, the people are pissed. 'I'm sorry, so sorry...' Karl, are my approval numbers above fiddy percent yet? Keep singin'? Okay... 'so sorry...'"

Listen up, you weasel. I am having a shitty day. I can't do math, I'm drowning in work everywhere I go, I'm preparing to leave my life for one month to care for my mother. It's raining and I had to drag my ass out of bed to get to my job, slog through puddles, watch my fellow Bostonians drag their collective ass through the queue at Dunkin Donuts to get the cup of coffee that makes their miserable Friday slightly less hellish. I get my paycheck and make cartoonish "awoogah" eyes at the amount of money the federal government takes from my paycheck. Do you know why they take so much money from my measly little check?
No other president has ever did that. NONE. Not your Dad. Not fucking Roosevelt, and that was a damn war. No, like an irresponsible teenager with his birthday money, you squandered money on a war we didn't need. Now we have an actual fucking problem on our hands that affects actual Americans, hundreds of thousands of them, on American soil, and you're going to pay for the rebuilding. How are you going to pay for it, Mr. Bush?
No! Stop! Once these people rebuild their homes, which shouldn't have been totally obliterated (just in need of serious repair work) because you squandered the money they requested to fortify their levees on the aforementioned pointless war, their children are going to pay for it because some other president is going to have to eventually raise taxes to pay this deficit. Yeah, it won't affect your poll numbers because you'll probably be dead and remembered as a shit-ass president with a heart of gold because he loved Jesus. Too mean? I don't care. I have put up with your shit for nearly five years and I am glad that people are finally realizing you suck. I know a seven year-old who would be a better president than you. At least she can read.
I know I've resorted to ad hominem attacks and cursing. But I'm sick of trying to phrase it nicely. You're an idiot. I don't care what party you're in. I hate idiots. You are an idiot. Therefore, I hate you. You let people down. If you'd read the damn press releases, you'd have known how dire the situation in Louisiana was going to be and done anything, something, to help. Maybe you'd have been in D.C. to hasten along relief instead of in Crawford. Maybe fired a director of FEMA who you knew wasn't qualified?
You know who I miss? Bill Clinton. He was on the Today show this morning and I just wanted to beg him to come back. Yeah, he's a schmuck. Give him all the interns he wants if he can get the budget deficit down to ZERO again and actually respond to problems before the media basically tells him to do it. I think Bill Clinton is smarter than me. Maybe it's because he's crafty, but I think he actually gives a shit about this situation. I think Bush is a slave to his approval ratings and rich people. Oh, and an idiot. The director of FEMA under Clinton didn't run horse shows, y'all.
So, thanks for the aid, jackass. I look forward to giving a huge chunk of my future paychecks to pay off the deficit you've made and not getting anything like healthcare or civil liberties in return.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

Mitt Meter

Bad news regarding Mitt Romney and pesky civil liberties.
Good news regarding the checks and balances system working and a woman's right to choose.

Remember how I used to rant along with providing you with information? I miss those times.

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No, God, No!

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Bronson and I both question fate for wounding Gabe Kapler.
If I'd been there, I'd understand. Gabe would be looking in the stands for me, drunk on Lebatt Blue and flashing my boobs at him. Instead, I can't explain it. Some sort of coordination exchange rate problem? Some kind of forigen karma throwing Kapler's game? I can't make excuses. I can just be sad.
I found out this morning as the alarm clock radio played as the Whatever and I got dressed. "A win for the Red Sox, but Gabe Kapler is out for the season with a ruptured Achilles tendon."
The Whatever turned to face me, and my lower lip was already out. I resisted the urge to exclaim "Gaaabe!"
The Whatever rolled his eyes at me. I patted him on the arm. "If you ruptured your Achilles, I'd be actually crying."
"Oh stop," he replied. "You're going to cry when you get to work."
To be fair, I didn't cry. But I did ramble in a high pitch to Kristen about how much it sucks. Let us remember Gabe, who was with us for such a short time this season but made us all so very happy:
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Billy Mueller is not taking it well either.
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I just really wanted to use some Sox pictures. Because I'm a goober. You can remember Gabe here too. Wowza. And, also, babies!

Wednesday, September 14, 2005


Looks like I'm not getting my independent commission on Hurricane Katrina relief. Because ALL of the Republicans don't care what happened after the hurricane, and will gladly swallow the placebo Bush investigation into the affairs of his own administration that he fucked up instead of maybe having to accept that their Fearless Leader fucked up, big-time. Hillary Clinton wanted a bipartisan commission-- not comprised of only liberals. She wanted to investigate all levels of government-- state, federal and local-- not just crucify Bush. She's not out to hunt down Conservatives-- she wants to know what the fuck happened, just like the rest of us do. I'm sure families from New Orleans that now find themselves living in Massachusetts would like to know what went wrong.
So, thanks again, Senate. I'm going to have to figure out why my guy Chafee went with party lines on this one. He's usually not a sheep and I'm actually comfortable voting for the guy. I'd like to think if a hurricane hit RI and decimated it, he'd be down in D.C. taking names and getting all indignant and shit.


of "bad to worse."

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Fearless Leader

Well, I've got to give credit where credit is due. Bush admitted he fucked up.
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Hey, I can think. Sometimes.
I'm glad he's admitted fault for his part of the disaster in the Gulf Coast, nearly three weeks later, but at least he did it. He hasn't admitted it was wrong to go to Iraq, and that was nearly three years ago. We're slowly making progress here. Maybe by the time he leaves office, he'll be able to respond to predicted disasters before they actually happen. I know. Wild. Now he'll hopefully start the independent commission I requested yesterday. And buy me a pony.


Speak up, kid. I can't hear you over the Tori Amos blaring from my headphones.
This is so true. I've had an iPod for about two years and I can tell my hearing has gotten worse. In fact, since I've gotten the new one I'm having a hard time hearing the Whatever when he talks and faces away from me. And the Whatever is not a quiet guy.
"Turn down the iPod," he cautions me, "you're going to make yourself deaf."
I guess I should get some of the over-the-ear headphones. My audiology professor at Emerson (had a brief flirtation with speech language pathology) warned us against the earbud headphones way before the iPod came out. But earbuds wrap about the iPod for convenient travel. I don't want to tote earmuffs around with me. That impedes the portability of my portable music player. So, I guess I can choose between my hearing and toting a bigger bag. Right now, I'll handle some detriment to my hearing.

Monday, September 12, 2005


Check this out:

In a sign that Bush is growing weary of the accusations, he testily replied to a reporter who asked whether he felt let down by federal officials on the ground.
"Look, there will be plenty of time to play the blame game," he said. "That's what you're trying to do. You're trying to say somebody is at fault. And, look, I want to know. I want to know exactly what went on and how it went on, and we'll continually assess inside my administration."

Um, okay. Like, I've been procrastinating on my freelance work, right? And I'm completely screwed now because I haven't slept in a week, but not because of the freelance work, but because I'm out enjoying my life? I have assessed the situation in this administration of one, and realize I have fucked up. I realized it a couple of weeks ago, but has that stopped me from slacking? Nope. What will keep me from slacking is the threat of nasty emails from the freelance pimp (the outside commission, if you will) to keep me honest.
Shut up, Bush. Independent commission NOW. Because there are years of cleanup ahead of us, and it's best to get rid of the dead weight now instead of after the fact. (See also: 9/11 Commission.)

Signed, Sealed, Delivered

I would like very much to make President Bush read this article, holding his eyes open Clockwork-Orange style, so girls don't end up getting pregnant.
Apparently, something about the majority of parents (or at least the adults who set policy) conveniently forget that they spent the majority of their teenage years trying to get laid. Maybe a lack of sex makes people want to keep everyone else from getting it-- I don't know. In any case, people forget that hormones overwhelm kids, making them do such crazy things as wear ruffly little skirts, listen to Mariah Carey songs, and do just about anything to get attention from the opposite sex. Telling kids not to do it is like putting a sandbag on a weak levy-- it will hold the waters back, but only for a little while.
Perhaps the most disturbing statistic is this one:

Half of teen pregnancies occur within six months of losing virginity; however, most teens don't see a doctor for contraception until they've been sexually active for about a year. Almost half of teen couples didn't use a condom during their last intercourse. As a result, 40 percent of American girls get pregnant before leaving their teens.

Forty percent? Let that sink in. Forty girls out of one hundred will get pregnant before their eighteenth birthday. Holy. Shit.
I've said it before, but kids aren't brainless. There's a lot of pressure out there to have sex. But I managed to keep it in my pants until I was ready. And when I was ready, I knew I had to use a condom because I learned it in school. I'm not advocating that ten year-olds should be having sex, but I think that if kids are going to do it, they should be aware of their options. I agree with Dr. Sanghavi-- encourage abstinence, but explain how contraception works.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Crass Commercialism

Guess what? Ikea is coming!
Someone take my credit card and shred it into little bitty pieces, please.

New Job

I think I have found my true calling, y'all. I'm going to be on the Supreme Court.
The article above quotes President Bush as declaring the list of nominees for the Supreme Court as "wide open." Some may interpret this as a call for people with actual law experience to apply/start with the sycophantry. I believe that the President is modeling his next nominee for the Supreme Court after his own ascendancy to the presidency-- someone with tangentially related experience and a lot of connections can be called an "outsider" and get the job. Granted, I don't have a ton of connections, but if we're all separated from everyone else by six people, I'm sure I can find a way in. So, in preparation for this event, let me prepare my elevator speech.
Hi, my name is Amy, and I believe I should be a justice on the Supreme Court of the United States of America. Why are you laughing? I have a degree. A bachelor's. Of arts. No, I didn't go to law school after that. But I did take a class on the U.S. Constitution with Mike Brown at Emerson, and let me tell you, that gave me quite an education. It was the only "C" I ever got in college. But I learned from my mistakes. If the President can blow lines of coke while he's supposed to be fighting a war and can then become president and declare a war, why can't I get a C in a class on the constitution and then be nominated to the highest court in the country? I'd be coming from nothing and making something of myself. And isn't this the kind of person Americans want in their government these days?
I don't have a scandalous background-- I never had an abortion, never staged a political rally (unless you count the petition I circulated in 4th grade to get ice cream sold on a daily basis instead of once a week), I engage in only the mildest of kinky sexual activity. I don't have a mistress or any incriminating documents condemning abortion or women who have abortions-- if anything, I'd say I embrace the right to choose. I know this won't play well in the red states, but... self-made woman! Educated! Pulled up by my lower-middle-class bootstraps! Hillary Clinton and I will have a great relationship. We will go to Chippendale's and laugh about Bill's philandering and Antonin Scalia's stash of little blue pills.
I also think I'm good at dispensing justice. The kids I babysit for will fight and I can usually solve the problem. "You guys need to stop fighting." "But I want to play Go Fish and he wants to play Old Maid." "Why don't you just take a bath and get ready for bed?" "Okay!" The solution would work for adult problems as well.
"Abortion should be a state's rights issue!" "The federal government needs to protect the right of all women to choose!" "Why don't you guys talk this out yourselves? If you need a time-out to think about what you've done, I'll send the states back home and the government to it's room. Let's have a beer."
So, I'd like you to consider me as a candidate for the judiciary. I think I would lend an air of fun to the proceedings. It would be like a reality comedy, much in the vein of Head of State. Except more "nerdy white girl" and less "zany black guy."
This is SO going to work.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005


Wow. This just about puts the nail in it, doesn't it?

City Living

Today Kristen and I went to DSW during our lunch break. She wanted some new shoes so I went with her. While we were along the back wall of the store that's against a building, I happened to look up and saw a greasy guy standing half-naked (as far as I could visually confirm) in a window opposite the store. I looked away quickly, because he had his arms in front of him in such a way that it looked like he may have been indulging in a little self-pleasure.
I turned around as if to look at a particularly captivating pair of wool-sweater clogs and squealed, "Kristen, I think that guy up there is jerking off."
She looked up and immediately started laughing without looking away.
A minute later I looked up again. The guy had tattoos on his arms and chest, had a shaved head, and was muscular in the way that guys are when they were beefy, but haven't worked out in about three months. I made eye contact with him before I nearly confirmed visually that the guy was naked from the waist down. I ran away back toward the sexy black boots before I learned anything else.
"Maybe he likes feet," Kristen and I said, nearly in unison.
Seriously. What if this guy looked for apartments all his life, desperate to find a place where he could gander at all the naked feet he could from the privacy of his own home? Maybe he joined the military (hence all the tattoos, bald head and soft-meatiness) so he could save money, and finally found a place in Boston next to the DSW, where women slipped off their sandals to try on loafers, sensible heels and tall boots and he could revel in his foot fetish without an internet connection. There are stories everywhere, people.

It Looks Like Home to Me All Right

There is something about my apartment. No, it's not mice, nor the bass-loving neighbors on all sides. No, it's not Roommate's Den of Mystery, thus named because the pile of crap in her room will spill into the foyer if she keeps the door open for longer than .5 seconds. There is some sort of couple mojo, because at any given time, no more than three people actually live in the apartment.
I've lived in my apartment since September 2003. When I moved in, there was L, E, D, and myself. E had a boyfriend who lived nearby, but they split time between houses fairly evenly, so she was around often. D was unemployed and new to the area, so she was around a lot. L dated a couple guys, so she was in and out. I was new to my job and lazy, so I was around a lot.
Then L decided to date one guy exclusively. Then she got engaged to said guy. Then she moved to her boss' district to help his campaign (also where fiancee lived) but left her bed and leopard-print rug in my apartment, so she still paid rent (sometimes). When the lease was up for 2004, she left. Enter A.
A made it for even less time than L did-- about two months before she met her boyfriend, and started crashing at his house. Then her clothes started disappearing. And D and I were sad, since A is awesome and much fun to be with. She claims she's moving back in to spend the nights, but as far as I know, she hasn't returned.
I don't know because I'm the latest victim to this couple mojo in my house. Thanks to the numerous trips to Ikea the Whatever and I have made (current count: 4) his room has gone from a twin bed and plastic clothes drawers to a queen bed with a hot comforter cover, two nightstands, a dresser, a TV stand, a nice desk and sexy mood lighting. Despite the fact I'm closer to the city, we stay at his place because a) it's got design cohesiveness and b) he's got one roommate while I have three. Three rommates makes showering a harrowing experience in the morning, and keeping extra food around problematic.
The Whatever's roommate is really busy-- she works full-time and attends law school. From what I've seen of her, she's a sweet person and has a good sense of humor. But since I see so little of her, and the living room is still "a work in progress" I don't have much to say. Although I do need to have the whole, "Hi, I'm here a lot" speech with her. Which goes a little something like this:

Hi. I'm here a lot. I have a toothbrush in your toothbrush holder. I assure you this freaks me out too. At first I showed up under the cover of darkness and left in the wee hours of the morning. Now I show up with groceries after work and leave after I use your shower. So please, if at any time you are annoyed by my presence, tell me and I will gladly return to my home where my beauty products all live and the bass massages my tense shoulders. Sincerely, Amy.

This weekend, I imagined her in her yellow room, typing away at her blog, titled "Who the Hell is this Girl and Why is She in my Apartment?"
Friday: Girl came back with Whatever tonight. They are in bed. Lameasses.
Saturday: Still in bed at noon. Christ. Now they have gone to get their eyebrows waxed. Yes, both of them. Also left dirty dishes in the sink from the eggs Girl burned at breakfast.
Saturday night: Finally, they left. Hopefully not dead.
Sunday: Back with more Swedish furniture. Wow.
Monday: Does she even have an apartment of her own?

It's times like this I wish I lived alone, despite the love I have for my apartment. I do miss having all my stuff (and seeing my funny roommates)-- I have become the girlfriend in a suitcase. But I like waking up next to someone more.

Which Finger am I Pointing?

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"So this is what a person who has nothing looks like. I must study this and tell all my friends when I get back to the White House."
Well, now's not the time for finger-pointing, apparently. Don't worry-- our fearless leader who ignored warnings about 9/11 AND what would happen if a catastrophic hurricane hit the Gulf Coast will get to the bottom of this. "Go back to sleep, America, your government is in control."
I don't think we should spend money on a commission right now to figure out what went wrong (since, you know, people were STILL IN THE DAMN SUPERDOME until Sunday), and I honestly don't think it'll take too long to figure it out. The government had money earmarked for strengthening the levees in Louisiana. When all the departments were combined into Homeland Security, that money was funneled into Iraq and counterterrorism. It's a failure on so many levels of government-- as I heard somewhere today, the senators are supposed to argue to get fundage for the projects that their home states need-- did the senator from Louisiana do that, or just let it slide? Did the governor put pressure on the Senator? Did the mayor put pressure on the governor? There's a long line of people who failed to help the residents of New Orleans.
But, then again, if we'd suffered some horrendous terrorist attack and there were levees in New Orleans, would people have readied their Bush effigies because he failed to stave off another attack? It's a difficult situation, because no matter what happens someone isn't happy. I'm not saying that we shouldn't defend ourselves against terrorism, and it's too late now to leave Iraq. And, sadly, it's too late to fix the levees before a catastrophic storm hits New Orleans. I just think that the hurricane illuminated the fact that America is not invincible, nor is our infrastructure as sound as it should be. Saftey first doesn't refer only to bombs, Bush Administration.

Doug's World

Poor Doug White.
This guy has been the evening news anchor at Channel 10 in Rhode Island since I was little. His hair turned white, he got a little loopy, and now he's ill. The girl who I went to high school with who said she would one day marry Doug White must be devistated.
Good luck, Doug. Hopefully you'll be back soon and rescue us from the horror of Mario Hilario's overplucked eyebrows. I fear for what will happen to Channel 10-- it's one of the few local news outlets that hasn't gone completely to sensational journalism.

Friday, September 02, 2005


You guys? I need a vacation. I'm going to settle for a long weekend, but a vacation would be ideal.
Much like business over at Steve Brady's, it's been largely hurricane-related around here this week. There's not much humor (okay, no humor) to be found in the situation. There's much outrage to be felt-- the fact that the government has been slow to respond, the icky feeling that may be because a large number of people stranded in New Orleans may be poor, black, old or a combination of the three. Also, there's this article on the Yahoo! front page. Hey, Hollywood? Not about you right now. Our celebrity worshipping culture should take a time-out. Do your little telethons this weekend, then go back to pulling each other's hair out.
Not much humor to be found in my day-to-day life either. I'm still astoundingly behind schedule on my freelance work. Things with the Whatever are great. New neighbors moved in upstairs and immediately began assailing us with their loud bass. It's the last official weekend of the summer, which is a sad thing. I try to enjoy the fall-- I do like light sweaters, crispy leaves underfoot, and apple pie, but the fall means winter is coming, which makes me homicidal. I hate the six months I spend kicking sludge off the bottom of my pants every time I come inside and spending ten minutes every morning looking for my other mitten. But, I can't complain, because, well, my mittens aren't awash in a flood and my house is still standing. I've got problems, but nothing like some people have problems. It's odd how it takes something so huge and tragic to remind us of how good we've got it. We're assailed with ads, television shows, stories of how great other people have it-- we're not cool without the new Lexus, Johnny Damon has a closet bigger than my apartment-- and then you realize that you really only need a place to stay, some clothes for your back and the people you care about.
I wish you all a great long weekend-- I've got some fun stuff to do, but also have to work on the freelance stuff, which always seems to fuck up my holiday weekends. Maybe if I didn't procrastinate so damn much...

Thursday, September 01, 2005


E. Nuff.
I can't take it. Just when it seems there may be hope, that for some reason Huston is the promised land for thousands of refugees, that it can't get worse, it gets worse. Just when I think it's done, that the government that is supposed to protect people when they can't do it themselves, just when I start to wrap my head around this, Britney Spears has to waddle her pregnant, cheetos-lovin' ass over to her computer and post to her Web site.
At least she can name her state and some states that border it. If thinking about the hurricane gets you all bummed out, scroll down to check out the cute picture of Bit-Bit from the baby shower.
The apocolypse is nigh. And I can't afford gas to drive away.
Image hosted by"Hurricanes is sad, y'all."