::is dead::

I think I am suffering from heatstroke. I am all dizzy, disoriented, and really, really tired.

My things are packed. I cleaned the kitchen as best I could. I have hauled endless piles of crap onto the curb. I now sit in the hollow shell that is the room I've lived in for the past three years, mostly glad to be leaving. A lot of shit has happened to me while I lived here. I started my job and my adult life in this apartment. I lost weight while I lived here. I met a boy while I lived here. We had some good times and a lot of very bad, door-slamming bad ones. I met a lot of good people (roommate Annette, Deb) while I lived here. It's a great neighborhood, and I'm sad to leave. But I am really excited to begin another stage of my adult life-- living alone. I'm excited that the next guy in my life won't have to do the walk of shame past my roommates in the morning. I'm glad I'll know I can pee whenever I want, have friends over whenever I want. I can get a cat without limiting myself to roommates without pet allergies. I hope it works out. I hope I don't get monster rats or broken in to or whatever. But I can't judge myself for all of that now. I just have to take a chance and hope it works for me.

I'll probably be incommunicado tomorrow, unless I can get a wireless network signal. Heh. If you hear general pissing and moaning from Back Bay tomorrow, it's probably my barbaric moving yawp.

Defcon 5

Otherwise known as, "OH HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, JUST PUT THE SHIT IN A BOX AND GET IT OUT OF HERE."

But, most of my things are packed. This is progress. Hooray.

I Think I'm Gonna Need a Bigger Box

For those of you who had tonight in the "Amy's moving stress breaks her down and she openly weeps" pool, I am sad to say you've lost. I am unhappy, sneezy from inhaling all the dust in my room, and kind of hungry since my leftovers from Sol Azteca were not that good warmed up, but not so stressed that tears have started flowing. How did I accumulate this much shit in three years? Last time I moved, it was two station wagon trips and two trips in a minivan. Now I've got my room and half of another room full of shit. I've stolen boxes from Deb all night, and STILL have shit all over my room. And why is it all so fucking heavy? What kind of sadist buys dumbells, anyway? Why didn't I realize I'd have to move them at some point? Just an extra ten pounds of shit to move. I'm an asshole. Rollerblades? Why am I moving these things? Mine are from the early nineties. They can't be safe. But they're in a box with the Doc Martens I very rarely wear anymore, but can't bring myself to toss since I bought them on my first trip abroad and wore them to my prom. (No lie.)

Thank the Good Lord and Baby Jesus for the fact work is kind of slow this week so I was able to take tomorrow off and not be completely wacky right now on coffee and just staring at my endless piles of shit, paralyzed with fear. I also have to call the realtor and also get a money order or bank check to pay the movers, so it's good that I'll have some time for all that before the roommates and I clean the place tomorrow. I'll also have time to drive my ass to Target and buy yet another plastic bin so I don't ruin my cute summer frock and "fancy dress." (Heh. Those of you who are either Reba or American Idol fans will find the reference funny. I have amazed even myself with my dorkitude.)

I have said the only way I will move is if giant rodents infest my apartment or it's another noisy neighbor situation. After packing all this shit, I don't think a cow taking up residence in my living room/dining room/study would convince me to move again. I wish I couldn't smell the Chinese food place down the street from my living room window. Assholes.

Expect more random posting as I stall on actually packing and instead regale you with the horrible stories of my elementary school gym teacher and complain about the Red Sox. Or something.

Cleaning House

FYI to those of you who may find their links deleted from my page-- if you haven't posted content in a few months (Will, Katherine, I'm looking at you) I deleted your link, because it is sad for me and the other bored workers of the world to click a link and find the same thing over and over. This means nothing about our friendship or your skillz as a writer, just your lack of posting. If you'd like to be reinstated, let me know.

Why no, I don't have anything better to do.

Road Tested

Since it was warm and humid yesterday, which everyone else complained about but I enjoy just because I'm not shivering from head-to-toe like I do all winter long, I tested out my American Apparel t-shirt halter dress, aka the Boob Dress. My Mom looked at me and said, "You're a bit dressed up, aren't you?"

"No," I said, putting my stuff in my purse to head to the fire station and buy chowder and clamcakes, "it's a t-shirt."

"Yes, but it's a little..." my Mom paused, glancing at my chest, "fancy."

"Well, jeez, Mom," I said, "it'd be risque if I had any boobs. You can't see anything."

We drove to the fire station, where the townies were out in force. One old guy had his trucker mesh hat adorned with those red poppies that veterans groups sell at the grocery store. Another old guy stirred the literal cauldron of greasy, peppery chowder. My Mom stood next to me, and advised me to watch the sides of the top, else I'd have a wardrobe malfunction in front of her neighbors and coworkers.

I ate my chowder, retied the straps in the "keyhole" formation, and left for Boston. I stopped at Ikea on my way home to pick up some necessities for my new place (wine opener, colander-- anybody who stops by in the first week gets Two-Buck-Chuck and Annie's Mac and Cheese) and learned that getting in and out of the car in this dress requires a nip check. Luckily, no one was around as I slid the top back into place. Could I have needed a size smaller? It seems unlikely, but maybe?

I dropped my stuff off at my apartment, and my roommate came out of her room to grab something and put it in a box. "What are you all dressed up for? Got a hot date or something?"

"It's a t-shirt," I argued meekly, not wanting to get into it and really wanting to start packing since once I saw how much she'd packed, I realized I was way behind.

So, I guess this dress made of t-shirt fabric is haute couture, per my roommate and mother. Watch the nips, girls, and you'll be fine. Also, here's a self-indulgent hipster chest photo. Soon to be added to my Friendster page!!

Is twenty-five too old for this? It is, isn't it?

Bitches on Wheels

Hi y'all. Moving stress has completely set in. I am FREAKING OUT. The movers called to confirm my move, but it turns out they only take payment in money orders or cash, so now I have to bust ass to the bank tomorrow and get a check written so I can pay them. Not only that, but I keep finding shit all around my apartment that belongs to me. I am running out of boxes. My shit, it is flipped. Maybe I'll have to take the day out of work tomorrow to make sure everything is all set up. It will all be worth it. It will all be worth it.

I did have an enjoyable weekend, as I hope you all did. I woke up ass-early on Saturday to head to Logan. I got in the van, and the eldest girl I babysit had a birthday last week, so I wished her a happy birthday.

"Thanks," she said, clinging drearily to her stuffed animal.

"CAKE!" Shouted the baby. "Moo cake!"

I dropped them off, and tried to go back to sleep once I got home, but once I started thinking about all the stuff I had to do, I got up and loaded up the van with crap I had to either get rid of or bring to my Mom's house. I stopped at my office to pick up a monitor my brother wanted, then drove back home. I emptied out the car, and cleaned the minivan for the family since they don't use it much, and don't worry about the cleanliness.

Saturday was pretty cool. After cleaning the car and showering, my Mom and I went to Wrentham, which was an absolute madhouse. Apparently, they have a big Memorial Day sale, so we sat in traffic while people tried to cut in front of us, with me yelling at them and my Mom clinging to the door, waiting for the violence to ensue. We got a spot, and I went looking for a pot and a pan, but instead came out with flour containers, a spatula, and $40 worth of shirts from J Crew.

Sunday I went to the beach. God, I love the beach. I stopped at CVS and bought a magazine and some water, then paid my $5 and grabbed a spot. I wore my bikini, and nobody openly laughed, so I was encouraged. Of course, the skin on my back is seared so badly you could probably make a pan sauce from my towel, but I feel better having sat on the beach. Exhausted, I went home and grabbed a nap, then went to Providence with Amanda to watch Roller Derby.

Did you know Providence has a roller derby? Neither did I. But Amanda's gone a few times and asked me to come with her, not only since I haven't seen her in forever, but because she was afraid she'd see her asshole ex. He wasn't there, and I got to watch some tough girls skate. I didn't know there was an actual goal to roller derby-- I thought people just skated and beat each other up. But there are actual rules to the chaos. There's a pack, and the "jammer" tries to pass as many opposing members of the pack while staying in bounds, and the shoving and violence comes in when the pack tries to push the jammer out of bounds. The games go in two-minute intervals, so it's fast-paced. Two girls got taken off the course with ankle issues on Sunday night alone. It was a good time, and definitely worth the $12 admission. The Trinity Brewhouse also sold beer there, and it was fun and good times for me. I'll have to try out the Boston roller derby sometime too. I'd love to try to do it, but I am a big wuss and would fall down in the fetal position if I tried to skate with these girls.

Yesterday I came back to Boston relatively early and packed some more crap, but I just keep finding shit I have to find a place for. This sucks. All the stress-melting aspects of my weekend are for naught, since I'm all stressed out again. Argh.

Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Mood

Word, holmes.

My crankypants are on. I think they're stress-related crankypants, because I was at Fenway last night and couldn't bring myself to be very chatty. It was sudden and inexplicable. Just cranky. I want to have this moving drama over. The kid who's in my soon-to-be-place isn't living there, but has left a few things there as to extort money from me (he'll take his stuff out early if I give him keys). Haven't you heard of karma? Do something nice for somebody you don't know. I like to think I'd do somebody a favor like that.

Fine. I'm taking my moving-drama ball and going home to Rhode Island, where the wild emu roam (seriously) and I can sit around in ratty pajamas. I am going to the beach. I may even swim even though the water is deadly cold and it'll feel like my joints are contracting like the metal joints in a bridge just because I want to.

::snits::

Women on Wheels

I am not a NASCAR aficionado. As a kid, I'd occasionally watch a race for about ten minutes, and if no cars crashed, I changed the channel. My father used to race cars, but more of the F1 type. I'm not saying NASCAR fans are solely rednecks-- my uncle like to go and watch races. However, I take issue with a fellow named Richard Petty, who believes that women should not be in car racing.

"I just don't think it's a sport for women,'' Petty said in an interview with The Associated Press. "And so far, it's proved out. It's really not. It's good for them to come in. It gives us a lot of publicity, it gives them publicity.

"But as far as being a real true racer, making a living out of it, it's kind of tough.''

I must give this guy some props, since he seems to be waffling on the degree of out-and-out sexism he should use in this interview. "Not good for women" makes him sound like a jackass. "Kind of tough" makes him sound like he's somewhat sympathetic to the fact that women may like to give it a shot. I can't pin him as an out-and-out mysoginist, but his views are at best antiquated.

Richard Petty first made his opinion known thirty years ago when a woman named Janet Guthrie tried to qualify for a professional car race. In her autobiography, she writes:

"When I shook hands with Richard Petty I thought I'd get frostbite,'' Guthrie wrote. "Later, he would be quoted as saying of me: 'She's no lady. If she was she'd be at home. There's a lot of differences in being a lady and being a woman.'''

Nice. Maybe thirty years ago women were concerned with being perceived as "ladies." Perhaps thirty years ago women were at home since that's where they "belonged." I think now we're past the point where we should be quibbling about where women should be. If she's qualified and can play by the same rules as men, why can't a woman race a car? If she wants to stay at home and be a "lady," she can do that too. I'd much rather be a woman, which I perceive as a lady with a spine who goes out and does what she wants, than some "lady" who sits around and makes dainty sandwiches without crusts and just waits for her man to come home. Remind me to send Mr. Petty a copy of The Feminine Mystique. That shit will blow his mind.

Even if Richard Petty's own granddaughter were to one day want to race in NASCAR, her grandfather wouldn't support her. Richard's son Kyle says:

But he said his father will never budge on his belief that women don't belong behind the wheel -- even if Kyle Petty's daughter one day decides she wants to be a racer.

"His position is not going to change because that is who he is, that is part of who he is,'' Kyle Petty said. "That's just a fact of life. That's how he was raised, when he was raised, the era he was raised in. And that's just the way it is.''

This is the entire problem with our society. We just let shit roll because, oh, it was different era or oh, he's just a sexist guy, too bad. "Just the way it is" never got anybody anywhere. Gays can't get married because they've never been able to get legally married before. Just the way it is. Women still make less money than men do? Well, we tried. Just the way it is. Shrugging things off as unfixable is the problem. If I were a girl's father and some clown was saying my daughter were unable to do something just because she's a woman, I'd be ripshit. I like to think that if my father were alive and I wanted to race cars, he wouldn't tell me I couldn't because it would be "unladylike." If I could qualify, I should get the same respect as the men who can qualify, as should any woman who works her way into the boy's club at NASCAR.

Goin' to the Chapel

NOOOOO!


Well, I aquired her in the offseason for cash and a big honkin' rock...

Damn it. Another one bites the dust.

You'd better be nice to him, Future Mrs. Theo Epstein. Or I shall be there to dry his tears. With my tongue.

Wonder of the World

I haven't written much about Pete Bouchard lately. Not only because the restraining order came through and I am nothing if not a law-abiding citizen, but because his weather write-ups are posted late in the day, and I'm not reading the weather then. I watch him on TV, but he truly shines when his inner music geek and snark come out online.

But, channel 7's web site has a new feature, called "Pete's 7 Weather Wonders." I know they're trying to work in the name of the station, but there are actually nine wonders posted on the page. Whatever. All I know is I have little clippy bits of Bouchard goodness to access whenever I am sad. He will give you very perfunctory weather tidbits all around Boston.



Also, how much swag to television reporters get? In these clips alone, Pete's got a navy 7 windbreaker, a red 7 vest, and a blue 7 vest. Do they have to return it at the end of the show? Does everyone get swag? All I get is travel mugs and tote bags at my company, and I had to fight for them.

But way to go, Pete. Keep up the good work.

Welcome Back My Friends To The Show That Never Ends

Wow.

Dude. American Idol? Best finale ever!

Shut up.

Mary J. Blige! Dionne Warwick! Motherfucking Prince. Yes, Prince, Prince of "Purple Rain" and "When Doves Cry" fame. There were others (Meatloaf, Toni Braxton) who were much less noteworthy because they sucked. Confidential to Toni Braxton: trying to give Taylor a boner while singing "In the Ghetto" may not be the most tasteful thing you could do.


Even Prince thinks Toni was in poor taste.

This show had me all confused as if I myself were Paula Abdul. Colors! Sparkles! Pretty dresses! Look, it's Chris Daughtry rockin' out with his cockin' out alongside Live. I loved it. I was a pawn of this show. I was manipulated and thoroughly entertained and didn't have an intelligent thought in my head for two hours. This must be why I wasn't so upset when Taylor won. They are the worst final two in the history of this show, as many have said, but by the end of that entertaining finale I didn't care. Prince just got off the stage. Who gives a shit about these two?

Best quote of the night goes to my friend Steph, who was speaking of Carrie Underwood's song. "That's what country music is all about: Jesus and driving."

Demolition Man

When I grow up, I am going to be one of those people who chains themselves to old buildings to keep them from being demolished. Fenway Park, should ever such an atrocity occur, is on that list. As is the Beavertail Lighthouse in Jamestown, RI. I think this because many old buildings can be renovated into something else instead of knocked to the ground, and us old fogies who remember their previous use can point to them and say, "See that? It used to be..." My Mom always pointed out the "Bad Girls and Boys School," which I don't know the real name of, when we drove by the old, grey stone buildings. Now they're being made into condos.

I bring this up, because the historic Ocean House hotel in Westerly was demolished last year, and will now be rebuilt as, you guessed it, luxury condos and hotel rooms. Would it have been so hard to keep the building and add an addition? Put the underground garage off to the side? It was such a pretty place. But, nope, knocked it down.

Sigh. Hopefully if they try to destroy anything I really love, I can get enough people together to stop them. At least I can walk into the foyer of a luxury building before the doorman escorts me out.

Bored

Today is one of those days when I wait around for everything to get going. I have to get keys from my realtor for the new place at lunch or after work, and if it's after work it'll preempt my post-work drinks with a departing coworker. I'm eating hamburgers and watching Taylor win American Idol. (He was better than Katherine last night, I will grudgingly admit, but, as the fantastic Joe R put it on Television Without Pity, "[Taylor's] a giant pile of jackass.") Tomorrow, I drink with a working mother who's been emancipated from her kids to go to the company Sox game. Friday I leave work early and maybe go rollerblading and visit with Jill. Saturday I get up ass-early to drive to the airport, then pack a minivan full of stuff to keep at my Mom's house. Next week, I move. It's all exciting, and I'm glad to be busy.

Why can't it get warm? Yes, I know that Monday is supposed to be 83 and humid, and I kind of wish it were Sunday that would be such an excellent beach day, but, whatever. No flooding and some sunshine will be awesome. I want to wear my boob dress! I need to get some color!

As you can see, I've got nothing new to report.

Election Day

Okay, America. Tonight's the big night. Pundits and talking heads have been on about this for weeks. It's divided America, and we must raise our voices in concert tonight.



Not this man, America. Not Taylor Hicks. While it's great that people with disabilities can make it so far in America these days (it explains the equilibrium loss and tourette's like spewing of "Soul Patrol!") this man should not be your American Idol. He's a one trick pony, and I can only hope he breaks something and America is forced to euthanize him by making him second-runner-up. (Too soon for horse jokes?)

Not like I'm the biggest phan of McPhee either.



Yes, she's completely gorgeous, but I feel like... I went to Emerson. I know you, McPhee. This is the girl who sings in hallways to show off to all the other musical theater majors that she has the best voice, and all y'all bitches best step off. Also, her mother is scary and probably locks her in a closet when she fucks up. "You go to your closet and you practice your scales!" But, barring an earthquake or the flu rendering them both incapable of serving, I'd prefer McPhee.

My American Idol always has been and always will be La Clarkson. July 16th can't happen soon enough for me. But, enjoy the television hoopla for the next few days, because that's what this show is all about. Hoopla.

It's Only Mine Because It Holds My Suitcase

As the date moves closer, I get more and more excited about moving. I think about all the good things that will come out of this change in my life. Less of a rotating cast of roommates. Being able to come and go as I please and have people over without wondering who will be home, who I'll be disturbing, who the hell ate my last yogurt because, oh yeah, it was me. I'm almost twenty-five, and I haven't lived alone since the one glorious month at URI when I didn't have a roommate. Despite my irrational fear of choking without anyone to help me, I'm excited.

I am not excited about packing, however. I hate scrounging at every store I visit for boxes. I hate the plastic stretchy sound of packing tape. I hate the echo that creeps into my room as my framed pictures come off the walls, my books end up in seemingly infinite piles of boxes, and my life is all disheveled. Where's my address book? Do I need to keep the 2004 Writer's Market, or should I spring for a new one once I've moved? Which back issues of Cosmo are essential to my survival, and which should be put on the curb? When should I start packing up my pans? Will lifting The Complete Calvin and Hobbes slip a disk?

I hate the lack of cohesiveness that comes with the last month or so in a place. I can't find anything, I have to put away clothes I'm certain I'll desperately need even though I haven't worn them in forever. I don't have time to go to the gym much this week, so I know I'm going to be antsy and have a hard time sleeping. I want to pack my dishes, so I'm going to have to eat out more than I want to, or buy a lot of prepared food. I'm going to spend a ton of money on gas this weekend since I have to drive a minivan down to Rhode Island with my winter gear in it since I don't have the storage space in my Subterranean Fortress of Solitude. (Also, it's supposed to be 84 degrees. My pasty ass is hitting the beach. If you see a girl glowing like Casper in a polka-dot bikini, that's me.)

But then I think about (hopefully) not having asshole neighbors, being able to have my friends over without bothering anybody, and not having anyone to blame but myself (and my yet-to-be-born cat) for the state of affairs, and it all seems worth it. Remind me of this when I'm eating pizza for the sixth consecutive night and complaining about the bloat.

Capsule Review

Okay. I saw The Da Vinci Code on Friday night. Not only did I have the miraculous occurrence of not being seated next to some asshole who never shuts up, my six friends and I got seats all together. It was pretty awesome.

Oh, the movie? I'm no Siskel, but I'd give it a thumbs-up. It got a little draggy toward the end, and it definitely needed an intermission like the old-school movies used to have, but it was worth my $7 to see it. Car chases! Blood! Ritualistic sex! All the things that make you happy at a summer movie, but with the religious controversy chaser. Alicia saw protesters outside Loews on her way to meet me for dinner, but they must have left before we got there for the show because I didn't see them. Which was kind of disappointing, because I love a freak show.

There were a few points that the movie deviated from the book, and they were distracting. Mostly, the casting of Tom Hanks as Robert Langdon was bothersome. I know a lot of critics whined about how there's no chemistry between Tautou and Hanks, but that's not the issue. In the book, he's not openly trying to sex her up, but more admires her on an aesthetic level. But Langdon is supposed to be a bit of a heartbreaker, and a dashing kind of guy. I don't think Tom Hanks looks "dashing" in this movie. Or any movie. It's just not his bag.

So, my official opinion, with no film credentials or background, is that The Da Vinci Code is worth seeing. I am also officially excited for The Devil Wears Prada. I loves me some Meryl Streep.

The Odd Couple

Last night I crashed on the couch, and flipped between Good Eats and Ellen. Ellen was celebrating her 500th episode, and at the end of the show she interviewed President Bush, Sr. and President Clinton about how New Orleans was dealing with the Katrina aftermath. I love Ellen tons, because she's somehow gotten a homophobic country to love her, even after she faded into obscurity for a while. I prefer her to Oprah, as I've said before, but I'd prefer a colony of killer bees to Oprah.

Anyway. Ellen's interviewing Clinton, who still looks pretty with it and still able to accommodate some interns, if you know what I mean, and there's Bush Sr. sitting there like an old codger you'd see on any porch in Maine. Clinton answered Ellen's questions, and basically carried the whole interview as Bush plunked his Ellen mug on the table and grumbled on occasion.

After a pretty heavy discussion, with Ellen tearing up as she talked about seeing the destruction in the Ninth Ward, she ended the interview with this. I'm paraphrasing since somehow transcripts are not available on the internet.

"Now, I know you both have a lot of power," Ellen said, still serious, "so what can you do to get Chris Daughtry put back on American Idol?"

Clinton guffawed, and Bush kind of laughed like the guy who doesn't get the joke.

"Come on, you must have enough pull to work something out," Ellen said.

"Is this a bad thing?" Bush asked.

"Yes."

"A travesty? A gross injustice?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, Ellen," Clinton smarmed, "even when I was President, I don't think I had that kind of pull."

"The nice thing about being eighty-two is that I don't need to watch that stuff," Bush grumbled.

Seriously. If you put the Elder Bush in a L.L. Bean jacket, he'd be my grandfather, griping about being old and not understanding the big to-do about things. I really do believe that Bush Sr. and Clinton should have a sitcom, with the money made being donated to hurricane relief. I'd watch it.

The Duh Vinci Code

40 million heretics can't be wrong, but these ladies aren't so sure.

I must admit, I'm late to the whole Da Vinci Code party. I didn't want to part with the $25 for the book in hardcover, and it is never in the library, so I held off until it came out in paperback. I did read Angels and Demons in one sitting (one trans-Atlantic sitting) and liked it well enough. Dan Brown is not a fantastic writer. He shifts point of view in the middle of action without warning, and he relies heavily on the exclamation point (which is inadvisable in fiction-writing, IMHO). I bought The Da Vinci Code at BJs for $5, and figured I'd give it a go.

It's a quick read, and he brings up some interesting points. But The Da Vinci Code follows the same formula as Angels and Demons did. Langdon gets a call to an unfamiliar place, meets an attractive woman who is in distress, hijinks ensue. I'm not saying it's a bad read-- the book goes quickly-- but it's not going to win a Pulitzer.

I know the whole brouhaha about The Da Vinci Code novel, and now movie, is because of the subject matter. Christians believe that the argument that Mary Magdalene and Jesus were married is heretical. The Vatican is flipping its collective shit, throwing anything that will stick, trying to have a disclaimer at the beginning of the movie calling it fiction, in case that wasn't clear.

Here's the thing: I am excited for the movie. The novel reads like a screenplay, and I can imagine the cars dodging around Paris and the French countryside. As a book it isn't high art, but it should make an excellent movie. It apparently did not make an excellent movie, but I still plan to see it tomorrow so I can compare the two. Obviously, lots of people are excited for the movie, even if they're Catholics.

I just can't get behind the Church freaking out about what boils down to a cheesy novel and a cool action movie. The Mary Magdalene issue is almost secondary to the action of the plot. Maybe the arguments Brown presents go against your beliefs. That's fine. The Passion of the Christ goes against my beliefs and my tastes, but I didn't start a letter-writing campaign or go on a hunger strike to stop its release. People have different opinions. It shows that the Church believes the stories of its demise even more than us "godless" heathens do. If the Church really wanted to refute the claims The Da Vinci Code sets forth, they should start a web site or publish a pamphlet people can read with proof that Jesus was unmarried, and drop it. Making an international case of it doesn't help.

I'm not saying one person is right and another is wrong. Religion is the cause of a lot of violence and death in this world, but the majority of people derive a lot of good from religion. It gives people a community, a moral code, a sense of security that those we love are happier when they die. But true believers of religion know it takes faith. We can't prove Jesus existed. Hell, we can't know Shakespeare wrote Hamlet and that was much more recent than Jesus' exploits. You have to honestly believe that Jesus performed miracles, that he's the son of God. If a fictional novel and a summer movie can challenge so many people's faith so deeply, the Church is right to freak out. But people will either stay away from the movie on principle, just like I did with The Passion of the Christ, or they'll go and still have faith when they leave.

Postscript: Toothbrushes

Hi, again, Channel 7. It's me, Amy. The thorn in your side. The lover of your meteorologist. (Not in that way... I just really like him. Don't email me, Mrs. Buchard!) I wrote you yesterday about how I am not afraid of my toothbrush, and, despite your attempts to make me afraid, I still used my toothbrush this morning. So far, I have not died. I hope this trend continues.

"When you are not prepared, I shall kill you, tooth. Our friendship is not true. HA HA HA."

However, I did have a near death experience in reading this story on your web site. I was watching Channel 25 news at 10pm last night because American Idol had just finished (bye, Elliott! Enjoy obscurity!) and I was talking to A and Steph. First of all, why is everyone on Channel 25 dressed like they're going "to da club?" Maria Stephanos had this blue shimmery jacket and a bias-cut gauzy black skirt with hooker heels. Was she going to Avalon immediately following the newscast? Why did both blonde reporters have pale pink pleather jackets on, with big stipper hair? Why, after two stories about child molesters in public schools, did Maria Stephanos tell kids so gleefully that they had school today in Lowell? I know you are Channel 7, not Channel 25, so I should save these questions for another missive. But, I didn't watch your show because I was buzzed and sleepy.

Okay, the issue at hand. I read this article. It started out oddly punctuated, but nothing horrible.

Bacteria! We know its gross and can lead to infections, so why would you put it in your mouth?

Bacteria! Bacteria! As someone pointed out on Universal Hub's comments, bacteria is plural, so it should be "We know they are gross..." And don't judge me on what I choose to put in my mouth. But we fear bacteria! bacteria! I feel like I'm in a musical.

Well you may not realize your doing it. Every time you brush your teeth.

AUUUUUUUUGH! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME!? I HAVE DEFENDED YOUR SHITTY EMPLOYMENT PRACTICES BECAUSE THEY GOT RID OF TODD GROSS! I have done so much for you. And how do you repay me? By using the wrong form of "your." Good Christ, I practiced this shit in sixth grade! Mrs. Ferri made us do sheets with "your" and "you're" until we got it right. Clearly, you did not have Mrs. Ferri and these worksheets.

Store it up right, allowing any water that is still on it to drain down and keep it from touching other toothbrushes.

Upright. Up right is incorrect.

Listen. I love NBC. My favorite news back in Rhode Island was on the NBC affiliate. I really, really want to love you, Channel 7. I want to love you for more than your chief meteorologist. I want to love the content. I want to see the TVs at my gym on Channel 7, and not on Channel 5. I especially don't want you to look like a bunch of ignoramuses on the internet. So I'm making you an offer. You pay me $45,000 a year, and I'll proofread your stories before they go on the web site. I'll even proofread your screen captions so you don't have incorrect forms of the word "dam" on your programs. My email is on the sidebar. You know where to reach me. I'll be waiting for my offer.

Dear Channel 7

No matter how hard you try, I am not afraid of my toothbrush. I am not afraid of its bristly power to remove food bits from my teeth. I am not afraid of the bacteria that came from my mouth. Also, if I feel my toothbrush may be a little grody, I dip it in mouthwash to disinfect it.

Good try, though. And you did get to me on the shoelace-in-the-escalator-teeth-dismemberment threat a few years ago. But my toothbrush is a noble servant, not a harbinger of doom.

Good work with the flooding coverage, Pete. You are the only reason I watch that channel. ::sigh::

Sincerely,
Amy

It's Been So Long Since It's Been Here

I went outside this morning wearing wedge sandals, a skirt, a tank top and a jean jacket. I did not have my umbrella with me. I was not squinting into a fine mist, but rather into the sun. The early morning air swirled around my calves, and I was at peace with the world once more.

Then, I got on the train. Which is great, but the air conditioning wasn't on. Nor was the fan. I guess I should be grateful that the heat wasn't on like it sometimes is in the commuter rail in the summer, but it was unpleasant. I felt a trickle of sweat run down my thigh. Not sexy. My blow-dried hair got all curly and sweaty. If I wanted to do yoga in a heated room, I'd take a class. I would not contort myself into a pretzel to hold the bar, my coffee, my lunch and my iPod while trying to balance on heeled shoes.

But, MBTA, soon I shall not need your services in the morning. I will live close enough to work to walk there, my calves enjoying an extra twenty minutes of cardio (one way!) daily, and the fresh air. Sure, I'll still need you when I visit Brookline or Cambridge, but I won't have the daily frustration of cramming onto a train and sweating like I just did half an hour on the stairmaster. Do your worst now. Soon, I'll be gone.

Don't Pat My Belly: I'm Just Pre-Pregnant

In other keeping-women-down news (see below), federal guidelines now recommend that all women, from the date of their first periods, be treated as pre-pregnant. (Thanks to Bridget for the link.) So, in theory, the "women" (read: girls as young as eight years old, in some cases) that we aren't teaching sexual education to should have their bodies ready for any sort of accidental pregnancy take place.

New federal guidelines ask all females capable of conceiving a baby to treat themselves -- and to be treated by the health care system -- as pre-pregnant, regardless of whether they plan to get pregnant anytime soon.

Among other things, this means all women between first menstrual period and menopause should take folic acid supplements, refrain from smoking, maintain a healthy weight and keep chronic conditions such as asthma and diabetes under control.

That doesn't sound so bad, really. Women shouldn't smoke, shouldn't be over or under weight, and should take care of any chronic conditions they have. But saying that women should do this because they are little vessels for babies isn't right.

The recommendations aim to "increase public awareness of the importance of preconception health" and emphasize the "importance of managing risk factors prior to pregnancy," said Samuel Posner, co-author of the guidelines and associate director for science in the division of reproductive health at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), which issued the report.

Yes, women should take care of themselves before they get pregnant, when they know they may become pregnant. If a woman is even thinking about having a baby, she should know to look this shit up, or talk to her doctor. Yes, accidents happen. But women aren't just kept around to squirt out pups. Women should be healthy so they can continue making contributions to society. Not just because they may get pregnant and may have an at-risk baby.

This all mainly boils down to the fact that the United States' infant mortality rate is rising, and other countries have healthier babies.

The U.S. infant mortality rate is higher than those of most other industrialized nations -- it's three times that of Japan and 2.5 times those of Norway, Finland and Iceland, according to a report released last week by Save the Children, an advocacy group.

Well, now we kind of get to the meat of the issue, don't we? Do you know what Japan has that the United States does not? A public health care system. Yes, in Japan, you can walk into any hospital and get basic medical care for free, including pre-natal healthcare. I can't have my doctor rub my boob and look for cancer for less than $100 unless I have insurance. Do you know what else Japan has that America doesn't? A healthier diet. Ten days of time off from work per year. The United States' healthcare system sucks, and these little Dutch boy sticking his fingers in the dam (ew... perhaps not the best analogy for the topic) cures aren't going to fix it. Chemicals are in everything we eat, we don't get time off to think about anything, our cell phones are always ringing. I think having teenagers pop folic acid vitamins isn't going to fix the underlying problem: we're a country full of unhealthy habits and people.

Women should also make sure all vaccinations are up-to-date and avoid contact with lead-based paints and cat feces, Biermann said.

Well, damn. I really enjoyed all that contact with cat feces and munching on lead chips. I guess that party's over.

Some medical facilities have already found a way to weave preconception care in with regular visits. At Montefiore Medical Center in Bronx, N.Y., a form that's filled out when checking a patient's height, weight and blood pressure prompts nurses to ask women, "Do you smoke, and do you plan to become pregnant in the next year? And if not, what birth control are you using?"

See? The problem is, with all the abstinence-only sex-ed girls are getting, they won't know what birth control is. Or they'll think that no birth control is effective since that is what they're being taught, so they won't use any. This whole thing is squicky because the CDC doesn't have a solid line. If you're going to prep a young woman for breeding, you've got to tell her what her options are in regards to birth control. If you're not going to tell her how she can stop a pregnancy, don't make her super-fertile. Also, the CDC should be focused on getting women to quit smoking and managing chronic conditions because Americans, both men and women, are, on the whole, unhealthy. Fix the underlying problems (poor diet, lack of health care, environmental contamination, stress) that cause infant mortality. Don't only keep women fit because we're the breeders.

Bitches Ain't Shit

Well, maybe they are, since the king of Saudi Arabia has told newspapers not to publish pictures of women in the newspapers, fearing that young men will "go astray."

In recent months, newspapers have published pictures of women-- always wearing the traditional Muslim headscarf-- to illustrate stories with increasing regularity. Usually the stories have had to do with women's issues. The papers have also started publishing a range of views on causes that are not generally accepted in Saudi Arabia — such as women having the right to drive and vote.

I can't even imagine living like this. It's so easy to take for granted the right we have as American women to shoot our mouths off about how horrible the president/governor is, how we have the right to back this smack-talk up by voting, and how lucky we are to have the ability to drive ourselves to the polls. It's frightening to think that it was less than one hundred years ago that women in this country didn't have a voice in politics. It's more frightening to think that women can be so divisive in some areas of the modern world. But, it's also flattering to women that these men are so afraid of them. What is it about women that frightens dictators so much? The fact that they're a repressed group in that culture, and history has shown that oppressed women tend to fight back eventually? The fact that, ultimately, a woman controls how many children are born? What do we do to men that gets them so upset?

Also creepy:

The king also called on editors to stop printing stories that portray the country in a negative light.

"Don't write anything that can be harmful to the country. Some reporters, they want to stand out and they end up going too far and this should not be allowed to happen," Abdullah said according to Okaz.

If you replace some key words, it sounds like this:

The president also called on editors to stop printing stories that portray the country in a negative light.

"Don't write anything that can be harmful to the country. Some reporters, they want to stand out and they end up going too far and this should not be allowed to happen," Bush said according to Snow.

Doesn't sound so unusual, does it? Stephen Colbert better watch out before they lock him up for his satiric tour-de-force at the Correspondents Dinner .

Color Me "Not Sure"

As you can see from the picture of me in my profile, I'm a white girl. My family has been in America for many generations. The town I grew up in was overwhelmingly white. Rhode Island shares no borders with foreign countries. Thus, the immigration issue hasn't really been in the forefront of my life. Had I grown up in New Mexico or Texas, maybe I'd have more of an opinion about the new plans to fortify the borders and keep illegal immigrants from entering the country.

On the one hand, it's kind of shitty because the people who live here now were immigrants at one point, our families came on big boats to Ellis Island, tired, huddled masses, etc, and that we're the ones determining the cutoff of how many people from outside the country is enough. I mean, it's says something about the United States that so many people want to come here. Shouldn't we let them in?

But, on the other hand, we have avenues for people to come here and work legally, and it's unfair to the people who try to use those means that people who cheat get to benefit first. It's like when someone pushes in front of you in line and steals the last cookie. You played by the rules, you should get the delicious cookie.

I honestly don't know what the solution is. I don't know if using the National Guard is the way to go, since it's kind of stretched pretty thin, what with being in Iraq and hurricane season starting soon. We need the Guard for disasters. Can't we train border patrols quickly and hire a force of people to actually specialize in stopping illegal immigrants?

If you've got an opinion, I'd love to hear it, because I am kind of undecided on what the best policy is.

Hillary Clinton Cares About Poor People

I know I am going to catch flack from those of you who've been arguing in my Mitt Romney post that I was unduly harsh on him for singing the praises of Hillary Clinton. "What a knee-jerk liberal," you will say. If you think I'm a knee-jerk liberal, that's all well and good, but do know that I am not a rabid Hillary supporter. I think it would idiotic for the Democrats to run her for President because she is so divisive in this country.

Anyway. I clicked on this link, because it seems that the media reports on every single one of Hillary's missteps in speeches, and I wanted to see if what she said was offensive. I guess she said that the twenty-something's generation believes that work is a four-letter word. Chelsea called her up and argued the point, and Hillary apologized. However, what caught my attention was this bit at the end:

New York's junior senator, who is up for re-election this year, also told the graduates she plans to introduce a bill that would help college students manage and repay their loans. The proposal would limit loan payments to a certain percentage of their incomes, she said.

Please God, let this bill pass. I am begging you. I don't mind paying back the tens of thousands of dollars I owe to Sallie Mae, Citibank, and the Feds, but I do mind my payments being nearly thirty percent of my monthly income. I think this problem will only get worse with the cost of college education skyrocketing. I think I will write my representative now to see if he'd be willing to propose this legislation, because I would be really grateful. I'm working, Hillary! Someday, I'd like to buy a condo or a house, which will never happen if I can't save any money at all.

Only Happy When it Rains

This song came on the radio Saturday night, and my brother and I both delighted in the song choice. At the time, I was driving 35mph down my backwoods road and the wipers were at high-blast. The carcasses of many frogs littered the road. It rained in Rhode Island this weekend too.

It's a good thing my Cosmo came, because the only kind of sex I'll be having in the foreseeable future will be waterlogged, and now I am prepared. Except for the whole "willing partner" aspect. But since it's probably going to rain until July, I have time to find somebody.

The endless misty rain that an umbrella is powerless to shelter me from is bad enough. The cloudy wake-up without singing birds is also depressing. But the worst thing is walking outside into the cloudy mist and seeing the same model and color of your ex-boyfriend's car driving by the coffee shop. Awesome. And by awesome, I mean "last thing I needed to see on a shitty Monday morning."

Thanks again to my Mom for being awesome, and raising me right. I wish I could afford to pay your car off and take you on vacation, but I guess a frying pan and some bath goodies will have to suffice.

And the Winner Is...

Eagle-eyed reader Richard sent me an email (I am bad at checking that account, which is why I didn't get it until now) and sent along a definition of what a "suspended sentence" means. Since I am all about education, I thought I would share it with you:

SUSPENDED SENTENCE
A law to enable a court to order, in specified cases, that an offender shall not be imprisoned in accordance with a sentence of imprisonment it has passed unless the offender is convicted of another offence, committed during a specified period, for which the offender may be imprisoned; and for related purposes.

What I glean from this is if Daniel Biechele burns down any additional nightclubs after he serves his four years in the ACI, he'll have to serve the rest of his sentence.

Here is your cookie, Richard. I hope you like oatmeal raisin, because those are the only kind I keep around.

Have a great weekend, everyone.

The Baby Station: 7 News

It's been noted in the Globe, but you can hear it here too. Caterina Bandini is expecting babies! She's going to leave Channel 7 once she either gives birth or feel she can't work. So send in your anchor resumes now.

I think Pete Bouchard should be the new anchorperson opposite Randy Price. Since Massachusetts is in the forefront of gay rights (unless Mitt Romney is involved, see below) I'd love to have a vaguely homosexual anchor pairing. But, in reality, America, even the Boston part, isn't ready for that. I'd like to see Frances Rivera take over for Caterina when the time comes, because I think she could lay an unholy amount of smackdown on that newsroom when it gets out of hand. Also, it would be nice to have someone other than a generic blonde at the helm.

Congrats on the babies, Caterina. Have a safe pregnancy. Be sure to send in some pictures!

Mitt Romney Doesn't Care About Gay Youth

So much so that he's fine with threatening to cut the program that William Weld founded in 1992 to keep gay and transgendered kids from suffering harassment and preventing them from committing suicide.

Angered that his name appeared on a press release touting a gay pride parade, Governor Mitt Romney moved yesterday to curtail the activities of a 14-year-old advisory commission on gay and lesbian youth.

...The commission was created by Governor William Weld in 1992 to help gay and lesbian youths in school, where they face increased risk of victimization, harassment, and discrimination. The commission's work focuses primarily on violence and suicide prevention. A youth committee also organizes an annual youth pride parade. The 12th annual parade will take place tomorrow.

...The commission pays to train administrators, teachers, and student leaders to create a safe environment for gay and lesbian students. It supports community drop-in centers, and works with the Department of Education to train teachers to comply with antidiscrimination laws, she said.

Just, wow. When I let my guard down and think, hey, maybe Mitt Romney has the capability to feel for people who have different lifestyles than him, he pulls something so audacious and cruel that it actually physically sickens me. This is a programs that helps kids feel like suicide is not the only way out for them. This is a program that keeps gay kids from having the shit kicked out of them at school. I don't care what your political beliefs are, you don't disband an agency that keeps kids safe. Can you imagine if a kid got pummeled for being openly religious at school? Mitt would have every agency in the state on that case. But the queers? Fuck them.

Conservative activists apparently showed Mitt images that "physically sickened" him, thus making him upset that the parade would happen with his blessing.

Conservative activist Brian Camenker said he met with Romney aides last week, showing them photos from last year's parade, and urged them to abolish the panel.

''Last year [at the parade] they had boys in fishnet stockings and high heels parading down Boylston Street," Camenker said. ''They had boys dressed as women embracing. We presented stuff, and they were visibly sickened by what they saw. I said, basically, this group has to go. It's so manifestly destructive to kids that you have to get rid of it. They said they'd do something."

Oh my God! The queers! They're ruining Boston! Men dressed as women?! Horrific! Listen, Mr. Camenker, here is a news flash: men dress as women. Sometimes, it's used for comedy. Other times, it's how someone identifies themselves. It's not like people become transgender or gay for fun. The hatred of homosexuals and transgendered people in this country is open and nasty, and people just don't say, "Hey, being gay and wondering on a daily basis if I'm going to be beaten to death sounds great! Sign me up!" Just this week, a study showed that lesbian's brains respond like men's brains, thus lending more credence to the theory that homosexuality has a physiological basis.

People are gay and transgendered. End of story. This group strives to make them feel accepted at best, and at least keeps the open hostility and harassment at bay. Having a parade, once a year, that the state does not fund, that gives gay kids a time to hang out with each other and feel accepted is good. It's one thing if you don't want your name attached to it, Mitt. It's completely another to overreact and threaten to shut the commission down, ending the good work they do in schools to prevent harassment.

Yet Another Fucked-Up Election

Girl, you aren't the only one who's surprised.

Okay. I try not to trumpet my love of American Idol too loudly. I know it makes me uncool, I am all that's wrong with America by watching this show, yeah yeah.

But what the fuck, America? Every time. EVERY election we have, whether for a President or a pop star, you fuck it up. Every. Time. Why? Katherine sucked this week. Elliott is boring. Taylor is an asshole. Chris rocked America's face off. And how does America repay him? By giving him das boot for wearing sunglasses, or some other dumb ass reason. All I can imagine is Simon Cowell pulling a Mr. McAllister from Election and sweeping ballots into the trash, except he plucked them from Chris' pile and not Elliott's, thus creating the "oh shit" expression on his face.

It was utter shock as the results were revealed. I shrieked. Stephanie said "NO WAY." Gretchen huddled under her blanket more. I called Ryan Seacrest a little bitch for springing it on us that way.

All I can say is, ef a dumb America. Enjoy Taylor's twitching and writhing, you dumb shits. I'll wait for Fuel's offer to make Chris lead singer on Extra tonight at 7pm.

Hey Mr. Postman...

There are very few things in this world that I get truly excited about. Perhaps I’ve become jaded in my old age. Maybe it’s because my subconscious is trying to limit me from spending all my money. In any case, I get very excited about precious few things. I get excited for baseball games. I get excited for new coffee drinks at Dunkin Donuts or Starbucks. I go completely batshit crazy for finales of reality shows. But one of the really great surprises in my month is when I come home from a long day of squinting at words on a page and find a giant, stinking tome known as Cosmopolitan magazine sitting in my mailbox.

Yes, I know my Serious Writer Cred goes right out the window when I admit this. My application to be a card-carrying Hipster (should such an application exist, which it DOES NOT) is tossed immediately. But I love it. I love the garish colors on the cover. I love the perfume samples that form an unappealing odor to permeate my annoying neighbor’s mailbox. I love seeing Mandy Moore’s face next to the headline “Orgasms Unlimited.” I like how the same pose is repeated on the cover every month, but with a different face. It’s a good indication of the content. Every month, it’s the same thing, said differently. You should try masturbating if you have trouble coming. You should try sex toys with your partner. Touch his balls! How to deal with a bitch at work. How to deal with a bitchy friend.

I always worry about myself when I get so excited to curl up in my pajamas, get under the covers and read the Cosmo from cover-to-cover in one night. What do I get out of this magazine? As a feminist, it should bother me. Yes, Cosmo gives lip service to strong, fearless women. But on the next page, there’s a bone-thin model implying you’re not hot unless you’ve got the Prada bag she’s struggling to hold up with her bony wrist. Cosmo feels they put women ahead by objectifying men the way that Maxim does to women. Treating men like sex objects doesn’t solve inequities in women’s salaries or the disadvantage women with kids face when they try to get hired.

I think that I take comfort in this exact philosophy. It is impossible for me to be dead serious about every Issue in the world all the time. It’s tiring. The world is full of disadvantages for women. There are many complicated issues that we all need to deal with, and these issues don’t have any easy answers. But all Cosmo is is a monthly question and answer session. Are you unsure if your man loves you? If he holds your hand a certain way, you can tell. Are you a bitch? Take a ten-question quiz and see how you could possibly benefit from a change. All these questions are answered so quickly. It’s a surface fix. Your man may hold your hand in a protective way, but he could still cheat. You can easily lie to yourself and pick the less bitchy answers on the quiz and still think you’re not a nasty girl. But it’s nice to have everything black and white, even if only for once a month.

All this is to say that I am unreasonably upset that this month’s Cosmo has yet to appear at my apartment. I fear my mailman, or a vindictive asshole neighbor, has stolen it. I am unreasonably upset by this development. Stephanie flipped through and there are sexual positions for use in summer situations, such as on pool stairs and on an inner tube. THIS IS INFORMATION I NEED, POSTMAN/NEIGHBORS. Who knows when I’ll have a beach ball and a man to have sex with in one place at the same time to use in concert? (No lie.) Also, I need the information on how to get the positions printed out as a waterproof guide (also no lie). Come on, guys. I don’t want to spring for a copy at full newsstand price. Deliver it. Now.

Handed Down

Well. I guess that's fair. Biechele gets four years "to serve," eleven "suspended." I'm not sure what that means. Parole? Home confinement? A cookie for the person who clarifies.

I'm glad they didn't let him off with just a slap on the wrist. No amount of time in jail is going to make up for the death of 100 people, but I am glad they're sending him to jail for a while. Like I said this morning, sorry doesn't cover what happened here.

Oh HELL No

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

"Whaddya say, Jebbie? It's a helluva job."

Oh my God in heaven, no. No. The Bushes must stop in 2008. NO GOD, NO MORE! I won't be able to take another four to eight years of my civil liberties being eroded, another four to eight years of southern twang, another four to eight years of a Bush in the White House. Almost half of my life has had a Bush of one generation or another in the White House. HALF OF MY LIFE! The other presidents? Reagan and Clinton.

I am in a cold sweat. Please say Ashton Kutcher has branched out into political Punk'ing or else I am going to barf.

Judgment

I know I've beaten this whole Station fire thing to death on this blog. I've said how I feel about this a million times-- it's a shitty situation for everyone. It was a collusion of stupidity on the part of the town, the owners of the club, the band Great White, and the band's manager, Daniel Biechele. Biechele's sentencing hearing should end today, with the harshest possible sentence being ten years in jail. If you've been watching the news, you may have seen some of the victim statements. ProJo has a list of excerpts, which are horrifying. Women who were pregnant losing their husbands, recent college graduates dying, a woman in a coma for months with burns over forty percent of her body. One of my Mom's coworkers got called in to help at the scene, and he said it was a horrible thing to see.

I hope the judge gives Biechele the maximum sentence. The guy will be 39 when he gets out of jail. He made a mistake, but it was one that killed a hundred people. Parents had to bury their children. He deserves ten years. People have killed one person and served more time in jail than Biechele will. I know he's sorry. You can see it in the picture above. But sometimes sorry doesn't cut it.

Basic Instinct

Did you know that a woman can tell if a man would be a good father just by looking at him? These findings, however, do not take into account the occurrence of douchebaggery in a relationship.

Researchers cautioned, however, that there's no proof that a man who prefers baby pictures will want to have children or make a good father.
This is an "important limitation" of the study, Roney said.

Speaking of which, Britney Spears is pregnant again.

Sigh. Why has God elected Kevin Federline to populate the earth? Are women-hating, manpri-wearing, freeloading white "rappers" the next evolutionary step for humanity? If so, check please, I'm done with this mortal coil.

Ayi, Papi

Is it going to be this way for the next eighteen games? Some sort of media/blog mudslinging between Boston and New York about some grievance that has yet to happen? Last week had the Boo/Worship Johnny debate. This week, it's should Johnson plunk Papi. Jeebus.

Listen, Sports Media of BOTH cities. There is more than enough drama inherent in the meeting of Stripes and Sox. We don't need a big media bruhaha every time our nine men meet about one issue. How about you report on something if Johnson does throw at Papi, which is a stupid fucking idea anyway since Johnson looks like a strong wind could blow out his knee, and Papi's gonna eat a whole bowl of black bean salsa before the game. You know? E.nuf. My heart doesn't need it. YES and NESN don't need the ratings boost. Let the drama stand.

And on another completely unrelated publicity stunt out of New York. Why are people all thrilled about David Blaine? How is putting yourself in harm's way intentionally a brave and amazing thing? For a cause, it's admirable. You know, like this. THAT is amazing. People who sign up for the military during a time of war to defend their country, knowing they'll be shipped off to a desert? Brave. But who benefits from Blaine's moronic attempts to tempt fate? Blaine. Blaine, and ABC, who gets a big thumbs-down from Pasquinade for putting this shit on the air for two whole hours. This guy is a famewhore, completely and totally, and one without a sense of humor, which I gathered from the 25 seconds my roommate and I watched that crap yesterday. It's not amazing; it's foolish. People lose family members all the time who are just doing normal, everyday things that go wrong. I know it's human nature to watch this stuff, because it's like knowing the train will crash before it happens, but it just rubs me the wrong way. This guy shouldn't be a headline; he should be in a freak show.

Random

Sweet God. Did everyone with an internet connection try to get a blog today? Because Blogger hates my ass right now.

Not much to say. Work continues to spirit away my soul in small increments. I know that work, by nature, isn't always comprised of things you like to do. This is why they call it "work" and not "vacation." But I always end up with doing the one thing I hate most about my job for a month and a half straight. What I must do is measure every little element on a page to make sure the font is right, the space above it and below it are right, etc. Basically, it involves as much measuring as building a house, but in much smaller units. HATE. Unfortunately, I am good at it, and the new assistant hasn't learned this yet, so it's all mine to work on. HATE.


Aaaaiiiieee!

Also, I began packing last night. Lord, I hate packing. Luckily, my office always has a ton of boxes kicking around, so I brought some home last night and started putting away books. It's always when I move that I wish I were into something that didn't involve so many heavy things. I like music, so my CDs weigh a ton. I love to buy books, so I have to move them. As you can see from the image, I have a lot of crap that I haven't even taken off the walls yet. This is going to suck. Hard. And, no, I can't just get rid of some books because I love them all. I can't get rid of my CDs either. I know I could get one of those books and put them all in there, but I like keeping the jewel cases. The little cracks from my friends in junior high breaking them, the notes people wrote about Tori Amos sucking on my extensive collection of European import singles. I can't get rid of them.

My stomach hates me, which isn't helping matters much. I do right by feeding it delicious foodstuffs, and it repays me by cramping up twenty minutes later. Has the media's messages of "skinnyskinnyskinny" finally permeated into my body's reflexes, and my body wants only enough calories to propel me into work? And enough calories to sneeze, apparently, since I woke up on Saturday with an entire western state's worth of greenish-yellow pollen cowboys marching their little spurs into my sinuses, making it actually painful to breathe. Generally, I don't have problems with allergies, but Pete Bouchard said that the pollen levels were higher than he's ever seen them, so I don't feel so bad.

Well, that was a nice pause from my busy day. I suppose I should get back to it. Enjoy the never-ending rain. If you need me to take measurements for your ark, give me a call.

::slaps forehead::

Come the fuck on, Pat.

"I simply do not remember getting out of bed, being pulled over by the police, or being cited for three driving infractions," Kennedy said. "That's not how I want to live my life. And that's not how I want to represent the people of Rhode Island."

Thanks. Now the whole country, aside from not knowing Rhode Island isn't part of Massachusetts, thinks we're not only a bunch of Pinko Commie Liberals, but thinks we're a bunch of drunk-driving, drug-abusing Pinko Commie Liberals.

I wish him the best. But he's managed to mess up the Kennedy name (again, some more) and Rhode Island as well. Thanks. Be prepared for Kennedy's new memoir: A Million Little Antidepressants.

Kennedy

Way to go, Patrick. Way to usher in a new, drunk-driving-allegation-free Kennedy generation. Way to give Fox News some ammunition. Asshole.

Amy 1; Boobs 547

Yesterday, I decided to get myself presentable again. My feet were calloused and dry, with the nail of my left big toe still slightly fucked up from stubbing it against a seven-year-old's sneaker. Since today is going to be gorgeous, I figured I should get my nails done. I had a gift certificate that Heather bought me for my birthday last year (thanks, Heather!) in my desk, so I decided to skip the gym and get a mani-pedi for only the price of a tip.

Walking down Newbury Street, I strolled by the American Apparel store. I normally try to avoid the place-- it is a den of hipsters, the t-shirts run small and make me feel porky. American Apparel treats their employees well, which I appreciate, but; hipsters. Lord. But my friend Stephanie, who is also afflicted by little boobs, told me about a dress they had there that was good for the little boobed women.

"I bought in five colors," she said. "And it has straps that you can wear as a halter or a strapless. It's super-cute."

Since I was in the neighborhood, had no appointment to get my nails done, and there was a relative dearth of hipsters in the store, I popped in. The dress was right in the front of the store in my favorite kelly green, so I picked it up and went into the back of the store to try it on.

The dressing room was small, and had the signature American Apparel advertisements I call "hipsters photographing hipsters." A girl, who was "a self-described Jersey warrior of Greek and Cuban descent" wears various American Apparel clothing (leg warmers? unitards? come the fuck on, you guys) while writhing on a bed. The pictures are vaguely pornographic, but with the added layer of self-importance that drives me batshit. Fucking hipsters.

Oh, the dress? IS FANTASTIC. I was scared I'd have the whole gut/boob problem, but the dress has a slight empire-waist, so it doesn't hug the gut enough to make it look horrific. The straps have enough support to make my boobs look great, the color is awesome, and it's like wearing a full-body t-shirt-- which it is, really-- but it's comfortable. Since the straps go strapless, halter, twisty halter so you get a keyhole for cleavage-viewing without being obscene, it's like getting three dresses for $36. I advise you to check it out before I buy out all of the mediums. You were warned.

I can't wait to wear this this summer. It'll be great for the beach, and I think if I get it in black it'll be great to wear out to the bar after the beach. I'm not wearing it today since it's too cool out for it (I've told myself it must be in the mid-80s to wear it) and it's a smidge casual for work, but I'm glad Stephanie told me about it.

I am, however, wearing my Michael Kors (the King of American Jet-Set Fashion, per Heidi Klum) halter top with the long straps with capri pants and open-toed shoes. Thank you, global warming, for this summer day in May.

Happy Cinco de Mayo, which is Spanish for "Amy drinks too much tequila and barfs on something she can't launder."

She's Gonna Eat a Sandwich All Niight, All Night Long...

For the love of God, Ritchie, of course you're too thin. We, the World, have been telling you this for over a year now. What was your first clue? The fact that your sweaters got runs like nylons from your bony elbows? That you had puncture wounds from your collar bones?

Being a bobblehead is not hot. It is sick. I hope you get some help. Skip the newest Prada-embossed convertible, and get yourself some therapy.

They're My Girls

Last night I had some time to kill after I left the gym and before I went to Alicia's to watch America's Next Top Model, so I went to the H&M in Back Bay. This one is much nicer than the one downtown, and at 6:30 it was nearly deserted. I strolled through the racks without one pushy tourist or college student in my way.

I'm broke, as usual, but I am in need of some tank tops. The ones I have are unraveling, grease-stained, or make my boobs look weirdly flat. I figured if I needed something cheap, H&M was the place to go. They had some cute low-v-cut tanks, a cute tank with a little ruffly trim on the top, and a polka-dot tank top. I looked them over, and grabbed a small and medium of each. I ventured into the dressing room, dreading what awaited me.

Throughout my adult years, I've had a struggle with shirt sizes. Even before I lost weight, I needed one size shirt for my boobs and another for my waist. Since I've been working out, I figured I might be able to carry off a small instead of a medium, especially if I'm trying to keep the girls from popping out. I tried on a small v-cut tank in green. I did a little shimmy in the mirror. My stomach didn't look too bad. My boobs, however, looked awful. Somehow, my B-cups are saggy.

How is this possible? How? For the love of God, if I don't wear a push-up bra, you'll pass right by without noticing my boobs. I see the models in the J. Crew catalog with their little pert boobs in white shirts with no bras and, thanks to the miracle of Photoshop, not even the shadow of a nipple. Yet there I was in a dimly lit dressing room looking like gravity had pulled on my boobs with a greater intensity than the rest of my body. I do push-ups and the weight machines that should be firming up the muscles under my boobs to make them perky, but I think it just made them smaller. Somehow.

It progressed the same with the other shirts. I almost bought the polka-dotted one because I could wear a bra with it and the blue ruffled one to try with a strapless bra, but I put them back. If it's ninety degrees and humid, I'm not going to want to mess with a strapless bra worming its way between my ribs as I move. If you see a girl walking around with just a bra on, that's probably me. I'll be sure it's a push-up bra so you don't pass me by.

The Cat's at the Purity Ball with Humbert

If any of my readers are parents, you may wish that you spent more time with your kids. A father may feel disconnected from his teenage daughter, whose juvenile breasts and mood swings indicate she may be led by the media and liberals into the arms of some pimpled, sullen teenage boy, horror or horrors. What is a father to do? Sit his daughter down and explain the birds and bees? Or react like the father in Ten Things I Hate About You and slap the pregnancy vest on his daughters to remind them of the dangers of the pimply, adolescent flesh? Why not combine the two for the Purity Ball?

Like Humbert Humbert's dream prom, this group throws a prom "for daughters to pledge commitments to purity and their fathers to pledge commitments to protect their girls." Why do I toss Lolita's molester into the mix? Isn't that an innocent, though slightly out-of-date, enough goal? Any parent wants to protect a child of any gender, I'd imagine, but that's neither here nor there. The problem is the testimonials this page has. Read on. I hope you can beat a path to a shower, because it's pretty icky.

"The moment I put my hand in my father's, I felt like a princess. In those six precious hours, I believe I grew in relationship with my father more than I ever have," says eleven-year-old Anna Tullis.

Her father also enjoyed the dance. "How can you measure the value of your eleven year old looking up into your eyes (as you clumsily learn the fox-trot together) with innocent, uncontainable joy, saying, 'Daddy, I'm so excited!'" Quoth Mr. Tullis. Oh my God. This sounds like a romance novel or a love scene from a movie, NOT the platonic, unsexual love of a father for daughter. Except for the vulgar American dancing, Humbert would totally get along with this guy.

Mr. Tullis continues adding evidence to the state's case:

"It is impossible to convey what I have seen in their sweet spirits, their delicate, forming souls, as their daddy takes them out for their first, big dance. Their whole being absorbs my loving attention, resulting in a radiant sense of self-worth and identity."

Whole being? Absorbs? Incorrect word choice. Way, way, WAY off-base, Mr. Tullis. Don't you think a ceremony that tells your daughter not to get involved in premarital sex should involve much less touching? Does this creep anyone else out? Bueller?

Devil Went Down to Georgia...

But he pointed it out as Texas on the map.

Turns out Americans are stupid. Who'd have thunk it? Some of the frightening statistics:

• One-third of respondents couldn't pinpoint Louisiana on a map and 48 percent were unable to locate Mississippi.

• Fewer than three in 10 think it important to know the locations of countries in the news and just 14 percent believe speaking another language is a necessary skill.

Wow, man. How far up your ass does your head have to be to think it's remotely okay to not know where fucking Louisiana is? And have you been awake for this whole immigration/National Anthem debate? Second languages are a huge, huge issue in this country. I am not fluent in a second language, but I think it's important to teach people other languages. The girl I babysit is learning Chinese in the third grade. My school's curriculum wasn't so forward-thinking, but I did take three years of French. In Italy, my knowledge of French helped me decipher Italian. While I'm not sure how I feel about this whole immigration debate, I do think we need to understand that Americans are doing more business with the rest of the world, and we need to be willing to try to communicate with other countries on their terms.

• While the outsourcing of jobs to India has been a major U.S. business story, 47 percent could not find the Indian subcontinent on a map of Asia.

• Nearly three-quarters incorrectly named English as the most widely spoken native language.

• Six in 10 did not know the border between North and South Korea is the most heavily fortified in the world. Thirty percent thought the most heavily fortified border was between the United States and Mexico.

Wow. Just, wow. You can't find INDIA? Maybe we are too busy arguing morality in schools and sex ed and letting education fall by the wayside. I mean, I'm not perfect, but I can name most of the states and find goddamn India on a map. I weep for the future.

Well, That Was Awesome

(Photo of hail of dollar bills falling around Johnny Damon with the vigor and disrespect they usually fall around his dear Michelle from Boston.com)

I love this town. I love kittens and rainbows and Doug Mirabelli and that baby Jesus rejoiced last night, his coos sounding like the crack of David Ortiz's bat as the ball sailed into the glove of Johnathan Papelbon(bon bon) in the bullpen. Ahem. Perhaps I am overstating. But I do love Sox/Yankees games because I know the players on the other team, and I get to use my extensive vocabulary of curse words to describe them.

Alicia and I watched the game at Game On. Before the game began, the place was a madhouse. Overrun with Sox fans (and many more Yankees fans than I'd liked to have seen) and Bud Lights running at about $4.25, the din of pop music overpowering even my loud voice. We eventually got a table, and our eyes popped out of our heads as we beheld the price of food on the menu. Game On can charge a ton, of course, since they're right next to Fenway and have about 3,000 plasma-screen televisions. I don't think I can make a habit of going there, but it is a nice place. They keep the NESN audio on during the play-by-play, but play music over the commercials, thus sparing you Bernie and Phyl. Also, at the top of the second inning, they give away two tickets to the Monster for every home game. I entered my name, but was somewhat relieved when someone else's name was called. The dark grey clouds were ominous, and I had only a light coat on.

Doug Mirabelli rolled into Fenway like a pimp, with his police escort, coming out all ready-for-battle in the freshly-laundered 28 white uniform. Kristen thought he had it in a dry-cleaning bag, but I think he had it in one of those ultra-high-tech silver briefcases. "I knew the time would come," he said this morning, opening the case with a "shssick shssick" and making sure there were no wrinkles.

I attracted stares from a chinless wonder as I yelled at the television for Johnny Damon to shut up, shut up, SHUT. UP. I hate your helmet doff, I hate your douchy new hair, I don't miss your lackluster offense (HA HA). This chinless wonder did make my viewing experience less than enjoyable. He stared at Alicia and I for most of the game, but hit on a couple girls who somehow ended up near him. During a split-screen moment where Johnny Damon was giving an interview about world hunger or something, Wily Mo got a base hit, so I cheered. The chinless wonder came up to us.

"You're not cheering for Johnny Damon, are you?"

"Uh, no. I am cheering for Wily Mo."

"Oh. Well, good, cuz Johnny's a traitor."

"I am aware of this."

The guy patted the table, then walked away. Even in Boston, the most sports-crazed city on this planet, guys can't deal with boobed creatures knowing about baseball. It is just like Sars says in her diatribe about this.

Also, Other Guy Who I Thought Was Gay, why you gotta hit on the bartender? She has zero interest in talking to you. The bartender is the LAST woman you hit on at the bar. I have a hot bartender in my life, but I know better than to try to go anywhere with that. The bartender is an attractive person who has a supply of alcohol at his/her disposal. I get the appeal. But she's paid to be pretty, she has a steady stream of cuter guys who will hit on her, and she'll probably turn them down too because she thinks they're hammered.

Anyway. This happened during the middle of the game, clearly, since I resorted to people-watching. After hearing the chinless wonder say to his friend "let's go talk to them" Alicia beat a hasty path home, and I headed upstairs to watch the end of the game without a lecture on baseball.

Watching David Ortiz hit is like watching one of those Dateline specials where a long-lost siblings find each other. You know something amazing is going to happen at the end of the episode, but you're not sure exactly how it happens. It's kismet. Otherwise known as Big Papi. I could hear the cheers from Fenway. I loved Boston.

I did not love Boston when I left the bar to meet Kristen to start walking home. Not only was it starting to rain, the wind blowing the drops onto my cheeks, but I watched a group of young thugs walk past a cab that was either occupied or just wouldn't take them, and called the cabbie "nigger" about four times. Not only did they call the cabbie the n-word, a woman walking next to them said, "Oh, they're just all pissed about the traffic" instead of "way to make people who think Boston is a racist city justified, asshole."

But, on the whole, a great day. Hooray baseball.

May 1, 2006

Doug Mirabelli is back on the Sox payroll. Mrs. Wakefield, Kristen's brother, God, Shiva, Puppies, Cute Babies and all that is good in this world unite in a chorus of thanks.

Bye, Cla. It's been real. But Dougie is back again (da dada na na na).

Broke-Heart Stripes

Johnny Damon's coming to town.

Eh.

I do not like Johnny Damon anymore. In fact, if anyone has a fireplace, please email me, because I have a mixed bag of Johnny Damon paraphanelia that would be great to watch go up in a cloud of smoke, the ghosts of the past screeching as the flames burn blue and white, Steinbrenners' evil face evident in the curls of flame. I'd like to do this before June 1, when this bag of "WWJDD" t-shirt and a Johnny Damon promotional Puma poster from the Rolling Rally will be unceremoniously dumped on my curb.

See? I'm getting all sentimental. I have pictures of me pretending to kiss his giant face on the Puma truck after the parade. I still have my "Our Papi, who art in Fenway" poem up in my cube, with "For ever and ever, Damon" as the last line. Johnny Damon is like the bad boyfriend who breaks your heart, but when you catch a whiff of cologne or you think of a place you went together (2004 ALCS, World Series) you get kind of sad, like you'd like to let him back into your life. You know it would be, like, the worst idea in the world, but there's a little place in your heart that dumbass lives forever. "Being mentioned in the same phrase as Jesus or God? Man, those guys are awesome." What a dumbass. But wasn't he sweet?

No. I know there's a whole kerfuffle about should Johnny be booed today when he shows up in CF in the dreaded pinstripes, or applauded. Johnny's appealed to everyone to be nice, since it's disrespectful to Coco Crisp to boo Johnny for leaving. But it's got nothing to do with Coco, Johnny. It has nothing to do with the great new man in our lives. It has to do with you hurting us. We defended you from Yankees fans who said you were slow, who said you were vain, who said you weren't a great hitter. We were vindicated when you showed them in Game 7. We'll always have that. But when we saw you in those stripes, with Michelle and Torre by your side, you broke our hearts, and that's unforgivable.

I am in the camp of booing him. I wouldn't boo him as loudly as I would A-Rod, because Johnny and I had some great times. I loved him on Queer Eye. I watched his episode of Cribs, although it was painful to hear him talk. I loved his beautiful long hair. But he chose to go to the Yankees. Not the White Sox or the Dodgers, but our sworn enemy. It's like our ex-boyfriend went to our best friend, who we never really trusted and secretly hated. It hurts too much to be civil when we run into each other, Johnny. The pain is too fresh. We're running into you at the punch bowl, and we're calling you out on being an asshole.