Counting Blessings

Since we haven't been talking about him recently, Mitt Romney has decided to reiterate his "controversial" opinions about stem cell research.

"“I believe it crosses a very bright moral line to take sperm and egg in the laboratory and start creating human life,"” said Romney, who is considering a 2008 presidential run. "It is Orwellian in its scope in that in laboratories you can have trays of new embryos being created.

"“It's almost like the movie the Matrix,"” said Romney, referring the 1999 science fiction film in which humans are used by machines for their energy.

Of course I still think he's being a short-sighted idiot for not exploring the possibility of all stem cells if it saves the people who are alive now, just because a sperm and an egg meet doesn't mean it becomes a child, yadda yadda. However, I think we should just be happy that Governor Romney managed to get through a whole event without using a racially charged term. It very easily could have gone like this:

"I believe that stem cell research has become a cultural tar baby," commented Governor Romney on Thursday. "I believe it is in our society's best interest to be niggardly with the embryonic stem cells as they have the possibility to create heterosexual human life. Scientists are waging a war of northern aggression upon the values the good people of South Carolina fight for. God bless the white, male or childbearing women and the heterosexuals. Good afternoon."

So, you know, small blessings.

But in other news, the remaining member of the Gas Can Twins gets the start for the Sox tonight. No. Seriously. I laugh so I do not weep.

Under the Gunn

Amy With Nuts brought this to my attention last night, and I thought I would share it with all of you. Take out all the stuff about queeny gays, and these are my sentiments exactly.

"If they made Tim Gunn Underoos, I'd have a drawerful."

Word.

One Year

Katrina happened one year ago this week. With Ernesto creeping toward Florida, the President rides around Mississippi and Louisiana to try and disassociate himself from the completely shittastic job the federal government did in handling the aftermath of the storm. The media takes some time to pause and remember the people who died and lost everything, but only for this week, as the fifth anniversary of 9/11 is coming up soon.

Last night I watched Brian Williams on a Dateline special about the long road back from Katrina, the first half-hour of which was a commercial-free documentary about Brian Williams' experiences in New Orleans during the first five days of the storm. He prefaced the documentary with the warning that some of the video would be disturbing, and it wasn't aired during the storm because NBC felt the video was "too intense."

This is the problem I have with our modern media. In an effort to keep the news family-friendly, they make everything safe. During the civil rights movement, networks showed black people being beaten or sprayed with fire hoses on the evening news. There is the question of taste, but the American people need to fully understand what is happening in their world, especially when they still have the power to effect a change. When you see a human being being beaten or hosed or starving, you have a stronger reaction that just hearing Brian Williams tell you about it. Americans need to see this video when the story is happening, not a year after the fact.

Last night, they aired video of the room of the Superdome during the storm, with the sound that Williams accurately described as a subway pulling into a station, the clang of metal on metal. The roof would lift up, then come back down with the banging noise of a subway car. This was disturbing, but the most disturbing parts by far was the video of the days after Katrina left. Elderly people swooning or dying in wheelchairs. Toilets and sinks overflowing with sewage. Dead bodies along the walls of the Superdome. Women clinging to limp babies, crying out for water. Michael Brown of FEMA insisting the government hadn't known how bad the situation was, even with Brian Williams basically spelling it out on the national news two days earlier. Someone on the Today show asking Ray Nagin why nothing had been done to help people in the Superdome. A cameraman pleading on television for help after visiting the Superdome three days after the hurricane itself was over. George Bush riding in like a cavalry once food and medical attention had arrived and he could have his photo op.

At the end of the documentary, Brian Williams summed it up by saying that he always believed the American assertion that all people are equal in America, that his two kids are equal to any of two of the kids who were sitting in their own feces inside the Superdome, and Katrina illustrated that this is not true. "We need to have a discussion about race, class, and what went wrong here, keep people's feet to the fire on this, or the media has failed the victims of Katrina."

This happened in America. A huge group of people was left to starve, wallow in their own bodily functions, dehydrate in the summer heat of New Orleans, watch their loved ones die, only to come out and find nothing left for them. The government, on the local and national level, failed the people they're supposed to protect. Don't forget this in the face of the 9/11 anniversary. That's a horrible anniversary too. But it's easy to rail against al-Qaeda, easy to have the good vs. evil to blame for that. Katrina doesn't have a single act or group to blame. The people who failed New Orleans look and act like us, and we need to remember this because it could happen anywhere in America.

Promotions and Demotions

Dear Theo Epstein,

I think it's pretty clear this season is over for the Boston Red Sox. Half of our big names are injured, having heart palpitations, or just electing to suck. Most of the Boston media is aiming to have you run out of town in another novelty costume. Lucky for you, I have a solution.

Let's promote the minor leaguers to the major leagues.

Seriously. I was at the Futures at Fenway game on Saturday. It was fun and good times. Both the Lowell Spinners and the Pawtucket Red Sox won. The crowd heard "Dirty Water" twice. I don't think the major league players have heard that in quite some time. Saturday's weather was perfect for a baseball game, with the sun shining down like God's approval of a Papelbaby getting a save for the Spinners. Lenny DiNardo was distracted by his delight at his boy JT playing Avalon across the street, but he got it done. Nobody named Craig is allowed to pitch for the Paw Sox. Jeff Bailey: Call me.

It's probably a stupid idea. The Paw Sox are 13.5 games out of first place in their minor-league division, so they aren't tearing it up down at McCoy. But at times like these, why not try something crazy? People thought you were nuts for trading Nomar, and that turned out to be a good move. Why not have auditions for a major league force comprised of members of the Lowell Spinners, Portland Sea Dogs and the Pawtucket Red Sox? (No, Lenny, not auditions for American Idol.) Maybe it'll work. At the very least, it'll light a fire under the asses of the major leaguers to shape up. Gabe Kapler won't want to be resigned to Jager shots at the Kevin Millar Memorial Strip Club two blocks away from McCoy. He'll miss Zaftigs too much and start producing.

Anyway. You're welcome for the solution to our problems. Please be sure to genuflect when I walk by.

Sincerely,
Amy

Adventures in Pants

It's going to be a long, hard fall fashion season for me.

Leggings, the scourge of the earth, are everywhere. Even my very close friends are wearing them. (Or at least own them, Alicia.) Girls parade down Newbury Street in impossibly short denim "skirts" (read: belts) and leggings. Wide belts and tunic sweaters abound. I saw a woman wearing a big puffy black tulle skirt, a black bustier bodicey thing, black ballet flats, and leggings. It was a cavalcade of fug. A fugvalanche.

I bought an issue of Elle magazine to try it out at the encouragement of Alicia and Steph. My Cosmo subscription has run out, but it's $20 a year compared to Elle's $10 yearly fee, so I'm tempted to switch allegiances. Elle is a little smarter than Cosmo, with less of a focus on sex and more of a focus on fashion. I put the gigantic tome with Lindsay Lohan (back to a redhead, thank God) on the conveyor belt at the supermarket, and the young cashier picked it up to scan it.

"God, that's a huge magazine," he remarked as I swiped my debit card.

"Well, yes. But I have to be aware of all the trends for fall," I snarked back.

"That's just fall?" He asked incredulously, taking in the girth of the magazine. I've seen encyclopedias with less of a spine width that this month's Elle.

I'm slowly working my way through the magazine (I have had several very important drinking matters to attend to this week) and I'm trying to get to the article that's going to advise me on how to wear skinny fit jeans to flatter my figure. Now, before you start shrieking, let me explain. I have at least three shirts in my closet I could wear with skinny jeans. One is a purple empire-waist gauzy tank-top with a little jewely thing in the middle. It looks stupid with flared skirts or baggy jeans, so slim fit would work wonders. I also have two long t-shirts which look good with anything, but I think would be nice with a slim fit pair. Also, I have a pair of wide-calf knee-high boots that would look pretty hot with the jeans tucked in, but my calves are still too big to fit all the flare jean fabric inside, so a thin-legged jean would be ideal.

On Sunday, my Mom and I had some time to kill before my train left for Boston, so we (I) decided to stop at Target. Figuring I could resist the call of clothing, I went through the section. There was a cute green and white wool skirt that I didn't try on because I didn't know what to wear with it, but I did find a pair of $30 slim-fit jeans to try. Looking over my shoulder to make sure nobody I knew was around, I ducked into the fitting room.

I pulled on the jeans. My calves immediately felt constricted due to the tightness of the bottom of the pant. I'm used to boot cut or flare jeans, so it was a change. Miraculously, I squeezed my thighs in (this is usually where I run into problems with pants), and the jeans went over my butt. I zipped them up, and looked in the mirror.



This is the attractive side view of what I looked like. Due to the laws of physics, I couldn't get a really good rear shot, which was the problem. The jeans fit fine in the legs, but the ass of the pants sagged and the front looked all weird due to the sagging in the back. However, I was not displeased by the fit in the legs. Granted, they were el cheapo jeans with the pockets positioned in a way that made me look like I had four asses, but I am tempted to try a pair from a store I usually buy pants from. (Express, don't let me down.)

I know it's a little '80s throwback, but I figure it's a stupid trend that I can enjoy this season and pretend never happened in 2007. I'll still buy bootcut jeans, but it's fun to indulge in a little trendiness once in a while. But if you see me strolling along Newbury Street in leggings and a fluffy skirt, kill me.

Good/Bad

First, the good news.

Women may buy the morning-after pill without a prescription -- but only with proof they're 18 or older, federal health officials ruled Thursday, capping a contentious three-year effort to ease access to the emergency contraceptive.

Yes, it's still not available to the girls who arguably need it most (high school girls whose parents would go apeshit bananas with a pregnancy scare), but at least it's available to women 18 and over. Small steps will get us closer to sales for girls under 18, so I'll take it for now.

Now, the bad news.

After a tumultuous week of clashing over the essence of the cosmos, the International Astronomical Union stripped Pluto of the planetary status it has held since its discovery in 1930. The new definition of what is -- and isn't -- a planet fills a centuries-old black hole for scientists who have labored since Copernicus without one.

Pluto was my favorite planet. Mainly because it was the "pizza" in the My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas in the mnemonic device that got me through elementary school science class. I also associated it with the Mickey Mouse's dog, and I also loved the fact that gravity is so weak on Pluto that I'd weigh next to nothing. Shut it, I'm vain, I know. So now I need a new planet to love. I guess I'll go with Saturn because of the cool rings, but Uranus is a close second because it sounds like "your anus." Shut it, I'm immature, I know.

Time to Make the Hot Dogs?

Dear Dunkin Donuts,

I love you. Let me say that first. My mother is responsible for 35% of my genetic makeup, my father 45% and you own 15% (the remaining 5% is Del's). The molecules of fat from your chocolate glazed donuts, your jelly donuts, your fat-bomb Coolatta line my arteries and will surely kill me prematurely as I've been indulging in your products since I had teeth. But I don't care. I love your iced coffee that gives me the jitters, your flat-packed boxes of donuts, and especially your most excellent Munchkins.

Did you notice I only mentioned your coffee and breakfast items? That's because when I think Dunkin Donuts, I think coffee and donuts. I do not, as you apparently would like me to, think of hot dogs. In fact, I do not associate your chain with any sort of protein source. Sure, you sell breakfast sandwiches, but those things are horrible. (Shout out to Croissant du Jour, home of Boston's Best Breakfast Sandwich, per me.)

Food chains are like people; each one has its strengths and weaknesses. You've held your own against Starbucks because you're affordable, quick, and lack the false pretentiousness that Starbucks serves up with lattes. You'll stand up against McDonald's because there are a large number of people like me who can't bear the idea of drinking coffee from McDoo's. Dunkin Donuts is for a quick, cheap coffee-rush and a reinforcing shot of sugar and fat when we're hungry. Office workers stop by to pick up Munchkins to provide midafternoon cheer to their coworkers. Nobody brings a dozen hot dogs back to the office.

24-hour Dunkins are almost always busy. Kids who aren't old enough to drink depressants instead sit in the plastic chairs and get hyped up on coffee. There's a distinct 3pm rush at the Dunkin by Back Bay of office drones who need a Turbo before they pass out on their keyboard. I don't buy that you need more business, and I certainly don't think a hot dog wrapped in dough is going to cut the mustard. (See what I did there?) Stick with what you're good at. I'm not going to become a physicist tomorrow, you're not going to be well-known for lunch. I saw those panini things you tried to sell, and it looked like you put kitty food in a sandwich and tried to pass it off as people food.

So, please, don't try to be everything. Just make the donuts, and we'll keep dunking them in coffee.

Sincerely,
Amy

Radioactive Spiderman

I am going to die.

Seriously. Something bit my right arm. I woke up this morning, still dreaming about whatever nonsense I dream about, and got in the shower. A stinging sensation started in my right upper arm. After I finished showering, I got out and looked at my arm in the mirror. Right above my elbow was a little welt like a mosquito bite, and the skin around it felt almost like dry skin. It doesn't itch but it's still stinging now and it hurts when I touch it. I do have spiders in my apartment-- it's possible one bit me in my sleep. By lunchtime I plan to be able to sling webs from my wrists, and will use this power to peer into the rooms in the Park Plaza because I am nosy.

The Line Forms to the Left of the Zakim

Once I read that the Sox lost 2-1 to the Yankees, losing five times to the Bronx Boys in four days, my iPod commenced playing "Raining in Baltimore" by the Counting Crows, which may be the most sad-bastard song Adam Duritz ever penned. As the song wound down and I stopped laughing instead of crying, my iPod seamlessly segued into "Road to Joy" by Bright Eyes, which is perhaps the least sad bastardy song by a wholly sad bastardy artist.

What else can we do? I found my 2004 World Series hoodie last night, and I remembered those happy times. We'll go back there someday. Don't line up to hurl yourself off the Zakim. It'll be okay. In fact, don't even stand around there with the suicidal masses, because the poorly constructed bridge will probably collapse under the weight of the sorrow on top of it.

Boston's Tenth Man is Fed the Hell Up

Photo from boston.com

Word, little dude.

Really, there is nothing to say. There are no words. I heard the score of the first Friday game when my Mom and I pulled into the parking lot of the Chinese restaurant and thought I was high. I watched part of the night game and went to bed while the Sox were still ahead. Clearly, they were upset I left them alone. I thought they couldn't possibly lose Saturday's game too. They did. Then I thought they couldn't lose Sunday's game. Oh, they did.

Whatever. I still love the Sox, even when they're imploding. The playoff hopes look increasingly bleak, but I will care until they pack up their stuff for the season and hit the links. I've got tickets to the Futures at Fenway game this weekend, so I can watch my true hometown team play, secure in the knowledge that they won't have a shot at the playoffs since they're ten games back.

Also, I'd like to mention that my blog has hit the 50,000 views milestone. Only about 25% of those views were me looking for comments, so I'd like to thank you all for your continued visits. My, how these blogs grow up so fast. Soon the template will be rolling its eyes at me and complaining about a curfew.

The Best Soy Latte You Ever Had And Me

Whaaaaaat?

It's all part of a new city effort to reduce waistlines in a town that has celebrated the cream in chowder, the batter on cod, and the frank in Fenway. Mayor Thomas M. Menino is prodding each of the city's restaurants to offer at least one healthy menu option, vetted by nutritionists, and is planning a citywide campaign advertising the virtues of a healthy diet.

``Drink healthy, eat healthy, have a healthier life -- that's what our goal is," said Menino, a mayor who has been known for disciplined dieting, as well as weaknesses for some sinful foods. ``When you feel good, you look good. You eat healthy, you are much more alive, and you have more vitality. If you eat that junk food that we all eat, it doesn't do anything for your body."

The mayor is planning to unveil the program this morning at the Haley House Bakery Cafe in Dudley Square in Roxbury, where zucchini olive oil bread and parsley scallion scones will be served.

Under the program, called Boston BestBites, restaurants will submit recipes they think meet the city's criteria for being healthy (restaurants would be guaranteed that their secret recipes would remain secret). The items would be evaluated by nutritionists at Brigham and Women's Hospital to determine whether they qualify, having less than 150 calories for an appetizer, less than 650 calories for an entree, and less than 200 calories for dessert. All items also have to be low on sodium and saturated fats, and have no trans fats.

I am all for healthy eating. Thanks to MsManda, my diet is somewhat healthier and I lost weight. However, I don't want restaurants like Bob's Southern Bistro or Redbones trying to sell me low-calorie cornbread. If I'm going to spend $50 on dinner and drinks, it's a special occasion and I know I am indulging. I don't make it a regular habit, so I want the full-fat, delicious corn fritters...

Damn. Now I'm hungry.

Anyway. I think the money spent on this program would be better spent in schools teaching kids about healthy eating at a young age. I didn't figure out how many calories are in a "healthy" fruit smoothie until I was old enough to drink calorie-rich alcohol. Dude. That smoothie alone has enough calories to count as my lunch. Maybe a flier or classes at community centers for parents to learn about proper nutrition for their kids would be more effective. I don't think some advertisements and stickers on a restaurant window is going to solve obesity in Boston. We need to educate kids and parents about nutrition so they can make responsible choices throughout their whole lives, not just when they go out to eat.

Rhode Island Born, Rhode Island Bred

Bob Kerr of the Providence Journal celebrates Rhode Island's lowest-in-the-nation approval rating of President Bush, at a paltry 22%.

Let's see if we can get that approval rating down to single digits and tell the rest of the country that Rhode Island is a place where you don't have to hit people upside the head with a tire iron to convince them there is a very scary man running the country.

Because this isn't going to get better. There are more than two years left of this dark White House folly, and George W. Bush is not a guy who's going to face up to disaster and turn it around.

So take a bow, Rhode Island. You have seen the truth behind the spin. You have led the nation in putting the proper numbers on a bumbling presidency.

There's not much more I can say. Rhode Island has out-liberaled Massachusetts. Well done.

Push Up My Bra Like That

I complain about my boobs on this blog quite a bit. Most of it is just self-deprecating humor. Some of my friends have smaller boobs than me. My friends with bigger boobs tell me not to wish for bigger ones since they lead to sore backs and scars from the straps of their bras. The last guy I dated said he liked my boobs (not too much since he dumped me, but it's nice to get positive user feedback). As I age I have come to accept that they're not going to get bigger, the rest of me isn't going to shrink much more, and they are what they are.

It seems that many young women who are getting breast implants are taking their problems with their bodies way too seriously, as a study has found that women who get breast implants are at a higher risk of suicide than women who don't.

Women with implants were, however, 73 percent more likely than those in the general population to commit suicide, while women who had other forms of plastic surgery also had an elevated suicide rate.

The risk was not dramatic, Morrison noted, as few women in the study committed suicide -- including 58 of the more than 24,000 breast implant patients.

Still, he said it "seems reasonable" to suggest plastic surgeons refer implant seekers for mental health consultation when they suspect the patients are at high risk of a psychiatric disorder or suicide.

Still reasonable to point women for mental health consultations? Uh, yeah. I know that Hollywood and rich baby boomers have made it trendy and acceptable for people to have a doctor cut them open in the name of vanity, but think about it. These women are so fundamentally repulsed by their own bodies that they willingly allow themselves to be drugged, cut up, have foreign things shoved into them, and sewn back up all in the hopes that they will feel better about themselves when they wake up. That isn't healthy.

I understand that not all breast implant surgeries serve vanity. Women with breast cancer often have them done to replicate a breast they lost to a mastectomy. But the majority of these surgeries are elective. I'm sure some of you think I'm overreacting, but the neurotic surgeries for women have only just begun. There's rhinoplasty, surgeries to reshape the butt, liposuction, and so on. But there are also operations that some women are having to reshape their labia. (SFWV.)

Women with exceptionally long or unequal lengths of the labia minora can have them aesthetically reshaped. Some patients desire to have a more youthful appearing external vagina by reshaping the inner or outer labia.

Can you imagine a culture where young women go to a plastic surgeon because she's embarrassed by her labia? Can you imagine a mother encouraging her daughter to have surgery so her clitoris is better exposed? Some mothers encourage their daughters to get breast implants, so it's not outside the realm of possibility. You don't hear about guys going to the doctor to have their penises reshaped, so why are we responsible for keeping our tits big, our labia even and hairless?

Maybe I don't want to have a daughter. I don't know if I can be a one-woman crusade against these fucked up practices our society is embracing in the mind of a child.

Get Your Speech On

Feel free to call your friends and discuss your boyfriend's penis size without fearing Dubya or Verizon listening in. A federal judge ruled that the domestic wiretapping program is unconstitutional.

"Plaintiffs have prevailed, and the public interest is clear, in this matter. It is the upholding of our Constitution," Taylor wrote in her 43-page opinion.

Heh. Sweet. I love when people respect the Constitution.

Nightmares

I don't even have children, but my entire being, down to the unfertilized eggs in my ovaries recoil in horror upon seeing this fucking creep.



That is one scary motherfucker. Seriously. Someone let this guy teach in a public school? Really? What would posses anyone to think this guy should be allowed near children? I know that you can't always judge a book by its cover, but sometimes you can. The guy is arrested in a seedy hotel in Thailand, which is known for it's sex tourism, looking like Mr. Rogers, saying he was "with JonBenet" when she died? Come on. I don't even have kids, and I'm scared of this guy.

Now I'm going to have nightmares. Great.

His Hair was White As Snow

For the second time in so many weeks, I find out news from people Googling my blog instead of major news outlets. Turns out Doug White, the evening news anchor in Rhode Island for longer than I've been alive, has died of cancer.

"We can'’t imagine our newsroom without him,"” his former co-anchor, Patrice Wood, said.

As anchorman on Channel 10 for so long, White was also the trusted face of local broadcasting for thousands of Rhode Islanders.

"There are not many people in a TV market who become an icon the way Doug became an icon here,'' Channel 10 meteorologist Gary Ley said.

I know it's a stupid thing to be upset about someone dying that I barely know. But it seemed like I knew him in a way. He was always on the 6pm news. He had a comforting, steady voice. He didn't hop networks like many Boston area anchors do (imagine my surprise when I saw Chris May on channel 4 instead of channel 7 the other day). He and Patrice Wood had the best hair in news. It's equally as stupid to worry about this girl I went to high school with, who swore she would one day meet and propose to Doug White. She did eventually meet him, wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with his image, but didn't propose. I hope she's holding up okay.

Pair this with the news that my coworker's father died yesterday of cancer (not Doug White) and it's kind of been a downer of a day. Add in a dash of our local baseball team who shall go unnamed Hoovering up the joint, and it really sucks. I'm going to take solace in my work now.

Jinx

Confidential to G.W. Bush,

If the cease-fire has been in effect for just a few hours, you may not want to start declaring who got the loss for the war until you're a little more confident the peace is going to take.

Sincerely,

The World

Sweet God, man, shut the fuck up. The fact that Israel and Hezbollah made it longer than five minutes without some appalling causality count is amazing. Perhaps just a nice blanket statement of "we hope this peace continues, God Bless America, goodnight" would have sufficed? It would be like the crowd at Fenway standing up and cheering because here comes one of the Gas Can Twins (Seanez, Tavarez) and he surely will allow us to maintain a razor-thin lead. Pack it up, this scene is done, cue Sweet Caroline. Uh, no. Same thing with a tenuous cease-fire agreement between two groups who hate each other. It's not that easy.

I wish I could find the text of a report NPR did this morning about how roughshod GW ran over this cease-fire. The reporter made a comment that was basically to the effect of "President Bush could have shut his yap after one insensitive comment, but he then proceeded to answer a question he could have easily sidestepped in an equally inflammatory manner." Maybe the president doesn't realize that people have radio and television in the Middle East. Perhaps someone should inform him.

Cussin'

I fucking love swearing.

This should not be of surprise to any of my regular readers. I imagine you come for talk of local sports/news anchor's boobs and stay for the insightful political discussion and stories about my young urban life. My vocabulary is good, thanks to a lifetime of reading and a love of obscure words that make my point concisely. But sometimes a girl's just got to drop an f-bomb to get her meaning clear.

The Globe has an article today about how kids these days swear a lot.

Timothy Jay , a psychology professor at the Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts and author of ``Cursing in America" and ``Why We Curse," sees cursing as a ``safety valve," a way to safely vent excess anger.

Jay said casual swearing has increased as the world has become more fast-paced and stressful. Teenagers, he said, are especially curse-prone because ``they're built to break the rules." But he said he surveyed 250 college students and found that mass media were not to blame for the swell of swears.

``They learn it in their backyard. They learn it on the playground," he said. Jay adds that disciplining children for cursing won't keep them from cursing as adults. Indeed, penalizing them often backfires by boosting cursing's allure.

I have always had a foul mouth. My friends and I could curse blue streaks in fourth grade. I'm not sure if I learned it from them or from my mother, who used to work in a shipyard and could let fly with some obsenity when things didn't go her way. I certainly did not learn it from movies, as I wasn't allowed to see movies with harsh language until I was twelve.

The important difference between my use of profanity and "kids these days" is that I can turn it off. When I'm around the kids I babysit, I can keep it G-rated. The only times I come close to uttering profanity is when I'm driving them around and some jackhole does a stupid manuver that nearly kills us. During my teenage years, I didn't swear around my mother. Now I figure I'm old enough that she can't really punish me for swearing, and she's also of the mind that I'm an adult now so she uses colorful language around me without saying "Don't say that word" as an afterthought. I feel like teenagers now just use swears without regard to who is listening. That's not going to work well in the workplace for them since no boss wants an employee who feels no hesitation calling a difficult customer a cunt.

In other words, keep on swearing, you little shits. Just be careful about who's listening.

Missive

Dear Boston Sox,

I am getting very tired of waking up to NPR and hearing Bob Oakes or Oats or whatever the hell his name is telling me in a semi-smug tone that you've lost. Today I heard "And the Red Sox get the broom in Kansas City, losing five straight."


Quit your bitching, Mr. Youkilis.

Let me say this. YOU ARE THE GOD-DAMN BOSTON RED SOX, 2004 WORLD CHAMPIONS, THE MIRACLE TEAM. There is NO EXCUSE for these shenanigans, this tomfoolery, these most unamusing hijinks. I am beginning to seriously be concerned for Red's liver. You made Kristen lose her grip on reality. She can't even muster up the sobriety/anger to chastise you anymore. Did you think you were off the hook? I DON'T EVEN HAVE CABLE AND YOU ARE DISAPPOINTING ME ON A DAILY BASIS, YOU NASTY MEN.

I don't want to hear you whining about injuries. I don't want to hear your stirring rendition of Whitman's "O Captain, My Captain." Jason Varitek is not dead. When he is recovered enough to hobble to Fenway he is going to kick the ever-loving snot out of all of you. He played with a sore ass for most of the season and you're actively fucking up the fruits of his labor. STOP IT. Same with Trot. You don't want Trotter mad at you. He'll make you give blood, and not in the needles then cookies and juice box way.

In short, sack up and start winning some damn baseball games.

Sincerely,
Amy

Croc of Shit

Big fat "word" to the Globe and their article on Crocs.



Folks, if Mario Batali finds these shoes fashionable, you probably don't want to get involved. And, my personal hero and co-life-coach Stacy London says no. And if Stacy says no, you'd better listen.

London knocks Crocs for making wearers' legs look heavy and short and notes that there are other "comfort shoes" that are more flattering.

For real. I mean, you can wear lovely sneakers (hello, Saucony!) or Pasquinade-endorsed Reef flip-flops (I have this pair!) but for the love of the Sweet Baby Jesus, do NOT wear these abortions on your feet.

Thank you.

"Every Day is September 12th"

It's frightening to wake up, shower, turn on NPR and hear "We'll have details about that terrorist plot in London when the Homeland Security Secretary has a press conference in a few moments." Americans (and the world) are still jumpy after 9/11; Londoners (and the world) are still jumpy after their terrorist attacks a little more than a year ago. And while Hollywood would like me to pay $10.50 to relive the stress, anxiety, and sheer panic I felt five years ago, this latest terror threat just goes to show that we don't need a movie to remind us to be vigilant.

(In an aside: Have you seen that the World Trade Center movie has a damn MySpace page? That's sick.)

I don't know what to think. I want to believe that the government is on top of this, that they foiled this plot completely, and that it's a legitimate threat. On the other hand, I remember the powers that be toying with the alert level around the elections two years ago, and there's the ugly idea that this may have been in the surveillance pipeline for a while and they just now chose to bust it open, with pro-war Lieberman's defeat in Connecticut and the news that 60% of Americans disapprove of the Iraq war. It's a conspiracy theory, and it's completely unfounded. But I don't trust this administration to do the right thing. At all.

I do believe that our activities in Iraq, Iran, and now the entire Israel/Hezbollah fighting has turned more extremists against America. That entire region of the world is a giant hornet's nest and we can't get rid of it. We poke it with a stick, we spray it with chemicals, we put on a beekeeper suit and try to remove it, but nothing is working. Lord knows I haven't studied international relations very much, but I personally think we need to make good on our promise to actually rebuild the infrastructure of Iraq. We need to foster some goodwill so the extremists can't play to the desperation and misery of the people in Iraq and blame it all on America. The US government needs to stop with the special interests, stop giving Bechtel all the reconstruction projects, hire Iraqis and make life better in the mideast. If other countries see us doing right by the Iraqis, then it will be harder to recruit terrorists. We need to lighten our steps and stop swinging the big stick at that hornet's nest like it's a candy-filled pinata.

The thing that haunts me most from the press conference this morning was Chertoff describing the viewpoint of the security agencies as "Everyday is September 12th for us." That's a depressing thought. Both because we must be hyper-vigilant all the time, but also that on September 12, 2001, I felt like the entire world didn't make sense. We didn't know why the attacks happened, for sure who was responsible, if any other attacks would happen, and how life would be in America from then on. I remember going to a prayer service/memorial type thing at Emerson on September 12, my heathen attitudes having dropped for a while, looking just to be with other people who were as confused and scared as I was. The entire Majestic was full of nervous college kids looking for some kind of relief. I don't want to spend the rest of my life as afraid and confused about America's place in the world as I did on September 12, and I certainly don't want the US government feeling that way. We need to shift our viewpoint from foiling terrorists before they can execute a plan to making a stable environment in the mideast so there will be fewer terrorists in the long run.

Q and A

Todd Gross poses a question:

The sites'’ content ranges from downloadable videos of the meteorologist giving weather reports to ads touting Todd Gross-embossed teddy bears and other gifts.
"I'’m all over the place - it'’s either creativity or stupidity, I'm not sure which," the weatherman joked.

Amy answers him:

Stupidity, you idiot. I have that hummus in my fridge at this very moment. Now I'm afraid it's tained by creep.

(via Universal Hub)

Fierce

Oh HELL no.

I am not a fashionista. This is the worst thing about living in such close proximity to Newbury Street-- I must watch all the daddy's girls and people with better jobs than me walk around in their cool, hip clothes. My default look is flip-flops, jeans/casual skirt, tank top/t-shirt, glasses, hair flying all over the place. When I feel like looking nice I can do it-- I love girly sundresses, the Boob Dress, my hot black pumps-- but wearing hot clothes that are "of the moment" takes a lot of money.

I do, however, know what looks good on me. I look good in boot cut jeans. I can't wear shirts that hug my belly. Anything that shows off my meager cleavage is good. Ideally, I'd like to own a very good quality suit that I can mix and match with other items, more button-down shirts, a nice wool skirt, a nice tweed jacket, and an endless supply of cashmere sweaters for winter. Do you notice what's missing from that list?

Leggings.

My friends and I have been in an argument about this since the fashion magazines released their fall issues. All that's in there is denim and legging combinations. The window display at Lord and Taylor on Boylston Street has an off-the-shoulder black shirt, short denim mini, and leggings on display. I am of the mind, much like the girls over at Go Fug Yourself, that leggings are not okay. They are not okay under a skirt, they are not okay under a dress, they are not even okay for gym use. We, as women in our twenties raised in the Eighties, have been down the legging road before. We should allow that road to be closed and let moss and trees grow over it, not have it widened for more people to travel upon it.

Some of my friends, however, advocate for the leggings. Steph, who weighs all of 115 when fully dressed, thinks they are okay in some circumstances.

"What about an opaque tight?" she asked me in the midst of a heated argument over the leggings or no issue.

"I have no beef with tights because they cover the entire leg, including the ankle. A legging ends at the calf and cuts off the line of the leg and is completely distracting."

"But what about tucked in to a boot?" Alicia piped up. "I hate wearing tights with boots because they wreck my feet and my feet get all sweaty. If I wore leggings, then I could wear socks but still have warm legs."

It was a good theory, and I had a hard time defending my anti-legging, pro-tights stance in the face of it. But I believe that buying leggings at all only encourages clothing companies to keep making them, and girls who didn't live through the Eighties will buy them and wear them with flats. My Mom and I went out for ice cream a while ago and in front of us in line were two high school girls. One wore a long tunic top that I swear was made from a bedsheet I owned in 1984 with little hearts, rainbows, and clouds all over it, paired with runched leggings and those canvas shoes with the black and white tile print on them. The other wore a white top, denim skirt, black leggings and gold flats. They both had bleached-blond hair that was curly and huge. I have tried my best to hide all photographic and written evidence of my feathered bangs and begging my mother to allow me to perm my hair in fifth grade and these two girls were trying to drag my shame back out into the light and call it style? Bitches, please.

I take a stand here today: leggings are not okay in any circumstances. If you are so cold in your skirt that tights won't work and you need extra fabric over your skin, by god, put on some pants. There are many wonderful kinds of pants in this world-- wool pants, denim, fleece, khaki-- use them. Do not use semi-pants in their place.

Stay tuned. Next week I try to decide if slim-fit (NOT TAPERED, JESUS CHRIST) jeans work for anybody, of if they should join ultra-super-low-rise jeans in hell's fashion waiting room. I sense some camera-phone fun!

Fragile

So I checked my StatCounter yesterday and found that someone got my blog by Googling "sting performance narragansett beach." Thinking, "yeah, right" I went on my merry way. And, tangentially, I'd like to welcome all the Hazel Mae and Maria Stephanos mammary gland lovers to my site.

But, it turns out, Sting ACTUALLY PERFORMED A DAMN SHOW, FOR FREE, ON THE BEACH IN NARRAGANSETT, RHODE ISLAND AND I DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT IT UNTIL YESTERDAY.

Just as the sun went down, the British musician stepped out on the concert stage in the backyard of the Sandcastle-by-the-Sea mansion and faced a crowd of hundreds of ecstatic beachgoers.

Guitar in hand, Sting immediately launched into "Message in a Bottle," bringing people to their feet. On the water dozens of boats loaded with people bobbed. A half-moon hid behind clouds. Spectators waded, danced on beach blankets, and sang to the lyrics "a hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore."

People! This is the information age. Why didn't somebody TELL ME? How was I not warned? Why didn't my mother call me? I HAVE READERS IN RHODE ISLAND!! YOU WERE SLACKING, PEOPLE! SLACKING! I would have cancelled all my loosely made plans to book it down to Rhode Island, steal my brother's car and loiter on the beach for hours to see my beloved in such an intimate, romantic setting. I COULD HAVE BECOME STING'S CONCUBINE, BUT INSTEAD I AM STILL AT WORK. THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE.

I'm sorry to yell. But the next time Sting, Kelly Clarkson, the Indigo Girls, Tori Amos, Tom Waits, Nine Inch Nails or Tim Gunn is in town--either Boston or Rhode Island-- and you here even the loosest rumor, TELL ME. Y'all didn't even buy me the lighthouse for my birthday. ::sniffle::

My So-Called Life

Isn't it funny how a big change is preceded by a lull? Like God or Allah or Fate or just another impulse has pulled back on the plunger and I am just a little pinball, sitting in the gate, waiting for the push to get my shiny ass moving and bouncing around the pinball machine that is life with renewed vigor, hoping that everything works out and I rack up some points before I slip back between the flippers and need to start over.

I am not happy. Not in the "call the Samaritans, she's walking up the bridge" sense of unhappy, but enough things have gone wrong that I realize the way I'm living isn't the way I'm going to find what will truly make me happy. I haven't written anything in a long time. I write this blog, and while I love that I have a readership, but this isn't the kind of writing I want to do. I want to write novels and stories and have them made into lucrative movies that actresses try to win Oscars in. That sounds snotty, but I know I am capable of it. I'm a good writer. I'm a good writer who hasn't written anything new in years. Whether that's due to fear, a lack of ambition, or the distracting power of the internet and television, I don't know. But once I figure it out, I will get back to work. Ideally, I'd take a class at Grub Street or something to motivate me to do something by a due date, but that costs money I don't have.

That's the other thing. I'm sick of worrying about money so much. This is going to be part of my life and that's fine. I knew when I loaned the tens of thousands of dollars to attend Emerson it would curtail my ability to buy Prada. But I've been worried about having enough money for food for nearly two months, and that's unacceptable. I need a part-time job that's a source of reliable income. The freelance work is great, but it dried up through the one avenue I had. I went to apply at J. Crew for a weekends-only gig, but got such a hairy eyeball from the hiring manager that I haven't gone back with my application. Right now, I'm thinking of being a Gansett Girl (doing promotions at bars for Narragansett Beer) since I spend most of my free time in bars, drinking 'Gansett, or both. All I need is a head shot and I'm good to go. I've also been told by friends and manicurists that I have nice hands, so maybe I could do a Costanza and be a hand model. All the glory and money of modeling with none of the orders to live on rice cakes and celery alone.

The answer to my problems is elusive. All I know is I'm sick of being bored, I'm sick of not being able to pay my bills without worrying, I'm sick of not writing. The smack from the plunger is going to happen soon. I hope it hurries up.

Warm Frontin'

In the wake of Caterina Bandini leaving channel 7 to start her family, the much-touted news team of Caterina and Randy Price has been broken up. Until they name an heir to the co-anchor spot, lookie who's fronting the channel 7 web page; resident AMS-certified hottie Pete Bouchard.

::sigh::

I missed him this week. He must have been on vacation since I had to hear the words "hot and sticky" coming out of Terry Casey. Not as nice as the dulcet tones of Mr. Bouchard, but it got us all through.

I'm just CRAZY about Tiffany's

Last night I watched Breakfast at Tiffany's for the first time. It was cute, and I definitely want Audrey Hepburn's hair and clothes from the movie, but I don't really get the big deal. Perhaps I'm not well-versed in the style of 60s cinema but Hepburn's diction drives me nuts. George Peppard, however? Hottie. It's also interesting how only forty-something years ago men were still telling women they "belonged" to them. "Belong to each other" I'm okay with, but "you belong to me" gets on my nerves. I guess it's the "Every Breath You Take" association that didn't exist in 1961.

The one thing that does impress me in that movie is how Holly gets men to fawn on her. Women in modern movies have to ooze sexuality, wear short skirts, and have cleavage to their chins before a man in a movie gives her a glance. Audrey Hepburn's character manages to captivate men with her tits under fabric. Having the world's prettiest face doesn't hurt, but she gets guys to take her out while still being classy. I love how she suggests that Paul take her out, and Paul does it. Holly is unabashed and gets what she wants without being a stank ho. I think I will take a lesson from this. Of course, the best example of this is when Holly sees her ex-husband, and tells Paul to take her out.

"Only promise me one thing, don't take me home until I am drunk...very drunk indeed!"

Tonight I get to have the semi-exciting, semi-sad experience of going to the airport and not going anywhere. The family I babysit for is coming back from vacation so I'm going to pick them up. I haven't seen the kids in nearly a month so it'll be nice to see them tonight, even if they're jetlagged. I'll utter a Hail Mary as I go through the tunnels and hope for the best. Have a great weekend!

It Ain't Me

What in the hell is wrong with this country?

I know I say this about five times a month and I'm also aware it makes me sound like an octogenarian when I say it. But this place is completely fucked up. Aside from our fucked up social priorities, the fact that people hardly take vacations, the fact that we're out to only get the hottest newest thing, there's this new tidbit.

The state is considering a proposal to boost turnout during elections by awarding a $1 million prize to one randomly selected voter, just for casting a ballot.

"It gives them something to shoot for," said Rosie Coyote, 55, a process server from Phoenix. "It gives them motive. I think it's a good idea."

Here's an idea. How about we teach children (you know, those little things that look like us that we pump full of Ritalin so they'll sit in front of the Playstation?) that voting is a right that millions of people have died for in the relatively short history of this country? Black people got sprayed with fire hoses for the right to simply vote, even without a goddamn jackpot. We've had to pass legislation to keep elections fair, to eliminate poll taxes and literacy tests. One reason boys sign up for the military is to protect our right to democracy, and voting is an integral part of democracy. And don't even get me started on women who don't vote.

Also, voting isn't just about turnout. I'd rather have a relatively low voter turnout of people who are informed and voting their conscious even if I disagree with them than a bunch of people trying to commit voter fraud to get another chance at the $1 million voter lottery. As much as I hate the fanatical social conservatives, they know their stuff and are passionate about it, just like fanatical social liberals are. When it's all said and done, voting is the one time when we as ordinary schmos can turn out and have our voices be heard. It's the one time we have an actual say in what happens. Sure, I am not so idealistic to believe the system works completely fairly and that every vote is counted properly. But it shouldn't become a goddamn sweepstakes every two years.

Luckily, many Arizonians agree with me.

"Voting is a privilege of an American. That's the way it should be viewed, not as a bribe to get me to come do what I have the privilege to do," said Mammen, 33, a pastor in El Mirage.

David Garcia, 36, said the idea makes him uncomfortable: "The government encouraging democracy through a monetary reward I think starts to go down some slippery slopes. Just for some reason, mixing the two together doesn't sit well with me."

This place is fucked up. I want better for America. I love it here, but come on. Vote because it's a great honor to do so, not because you want a mansion in Tuscon.

Nano Nano

or, Eating my words.

Well. Not only were there cookies in the snack cabinet when I came back with my lunch, my office manager was handing out free iPods for the company's anniversary. It's black. It's sexy. It's engraved!

So shit isn't quite so bad as it seemed. Though I still covet those boots.

Veruca Salt

Here is what I want.

I want the sky to darken up in an eerie, Independence Day alien ship about to blow up the White House way. I want hail as big as SmartCars to fall from the sky. I want lightning to fork the sky like an overstuffed silverware drawer. I want to have to wade home through lake-sized puddles. I want the temperature to drop twenty degrees, the dew point to fall, and a night where I can sleep under my blanket.

I want a damn huge Frappachino. With whipped cream and chocolate syrup. Not a diet one, either. Full-fat me, barista!

I want to spend the last Sacagewea dollar the CharlieTicket booth gave me in change for a 5 at North Station last night on a scratch ticket and win $200,000 (after taxes) so I don't have to worry about my loans and credit cards and can begin my life as a globe-trotting yuppie in earnest.

I want good pad thai.

I want all that stupid old shit like letters and soda. Letters and soda.

I want to go home.

No. I want to go to the beach.

I want all of J. Crew's fall line (including these hot boots) delivered to my apartment. Gratis.

I want a milkshake.

I want the Boob Dress in every color.

I want the hot shoes I saw at Marshall's last week. Peep toe!

I want to be motivated to write the book I want to write.

I want a nice guy at a bar to buy me a drink.

I want the nice guy's nice friends at the bar to buy my friends drinks.

I want Tim Gunn to come and read me a bedtime story.

I want to be anything but here, feeling any way but this stuck-in-the-mud way. I don't care how. I want it now.

Power Emergency

Also.

If it's imperative that we conserve energy, why is it that my toes are growing icicles in my office? Sweet Jesus. I want to be cool, not in a meat locker.

C is for Customer

When I was a kid, my Mom went through an audiobook phase. She bought some fairly cheap motivational tapes at an outlet, and we'd listen to them in the car. My brother, mother and I loved the one with the silver-haired man who talked about demanding what's rightfully yours as a customer of a business. I don't remember much, except the refrain that he'd use.

"C is for Customer."

This, of course, was hilarious, especially when paired with the "c" shape we'd make with our thumb and forefinger. If we were in a drive-through and my Mom had to ask for ketcup, my brother would pipe up "C is for Customer" and we'd laugh. We'd make the "c" sign at the drive-through window.

I remember this now because I called up Verizon, as many of you lovely commenters suggested, and spoke to a customer service representative named Tyra who insisted she could not remove the charge from my bill. I then politely asked to speak to a supervisor. After about five minutes on hold, my line was released, either by my office or by Verizon. I called back, spoke to another woman named Selena and told her about the line being released, and she seemed genuinely sorry that had happened and connected me to a nice gentleman named Eric. I explained my situation to him (I hate the tightness my voice gets when I'm arguing with someone) and without any fuss he immediately removed the charge for the prorated minutes from my bill, since I'd only used about 200 minutes for the whole month.

C is for Customer, bitches.

Hot Hot Heat

Goddamn, it's hot. And not in the "wow, I'm sweaty" way, but in the "this transcends sweat and my feeble lungs can barely wring any element of oxygen out of this smog/smoke/humidity cocktail I'm trying to pass off as oxygen" way. I am sure you are aware of this. But I thought I would just bring it to your attention again.

However, it is too cold in my office. I feel like my body is going to tell me to fuck right off because it is so confused. Also, I still want iced coffee or a root beer float.

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants is a good movie. I bawled. It was cathartic.
Under the Tuscan Sun is okay. I spent most of it wondering how these American women could just pack up and live in Tuscany indefinitely. Is there some "bitter woman" visa? Because if there is, I want in on that shit.

Jason Varitek will be out for a month. I'm surprised my neighbor didn't come running when I cried out in dismay. I feel like a visual representation of the Red Sox at this point would be a cartoon jalopy puffing smoke from the hood, bopping up and down, essential pieces flying off, while the occupants (fans) look vaguely nauseous and unsure if they'll make it to the end of the journey.

At least I have my precious Project Runway to keep me happy tonight. Tim Gunn will kick someone off the show. I am so excited!

Pigf&ck*rs

You know how I just was so excited about Verizon Wireless last week?

They give babies cancer. So says I this week.

I renewed my plan with them a couple of weeks ago. Since it had been a while, I got more minutes with the new plan for the same amount of money. I got my phone, life was good. Until yesterday, when I got my statement in the mail and I owed them $20 more than usual. Initially, I thought that perhaps my text messaging plan hadn't carried over from my old plan. But when I reviewed the bill, it was a cryptic "usage charge" that was costing me so much money. I called them today and found out that when I renewed my plan, my minutes were prorated since it wasn't quite the end of the month when I renewed. This was not brought to my attention when I renewed the plan, because if it had, I would have not used the phone unless absolutely neccessary until the next billing cycle. Since it wasn't brought to my attention, I had an hour-and-a-half long conversation with my mother, ironically enough about how broke I am, and the extra time ended up costing me $20.70.

I don't think I have a leg to stand on here-- it's on the bill, the woman wouldn't hear that I wasn't informed my minutes were prorated, and I did make the call that ran really long. But I feel like if I have the good faith in a business to continue to give them my business for the next two years, they should have the presence of mind to tell me that my minutes will be prorated for the next few days. It's especially surprising since the new plan should be giving me more minutes. And the cosmic kick in the pants is that I don't even use that goddamn phone that much.

Anybody know of any part-time work? Because I'm about two weeks away from moving back home with my current financial situation. And, Verizon, if I find out that I have a leg to stand on, I will sic Hank Phillipe Ryan on your asses so quick you won't even know what hit you.

Offense

Last night, I was at the gym. Since the gym has cable and I do not, I was watching channel 7 news. When the 6pm news started, Mike Macklin was standing by the "Welcome to Roxbury" sign. Instead of talking about the wave of violence that's hit Boston recently, he began talking about Mitt Romney's unfortunate comment comparing the Big Dig to a tar baby. I am not sure which is most offensive-- Mitt's comment, or channel 7 deciding that the only place in the city of Boston to find black people to ask about it is in Roxbury.

Sorry about the lack of content. Work is busy, I continue to be broke, and I'm wigging out too much to complain. Fear that.