So it's officially the holiday season now, eh? A and I were cruising the aisles of Target last night, cooing like dorks over the cute wrapping paper and Christmas cards. With yesterday's snow, I'm giving myself a pass on the early holiday excitement. But I wanted to take some time to ruminate on what I'm thankful for this year.
My job. My job my job my job my job my job. My job. My awesome job.
The people I babysit for. Had they not taken me in, I would have moved home to Rhode Island after ditching the rat-infested basement studio.
My family.
My friends. Without them, I would have even less faith in humanity than I do now.
My apartment. I love it. I hope I don't have to leave until I'm able to pay for a place with an actual bedroom.
Pumpkin beer.
Hot coffee.
My Mom's health.
America's Next Top Model.
Gossip Girl. XOXO.
MIKE LOWELL!!
24-hour Christmas Story marathons.
Pizza.
My iPod.
Zipcar. (I can use it again!)
My Mom's mashed potatoes.
Free laundry all weekend.
The fact that, as broke as I am, I don't need to worry about where my next meal will come from.
I hope you all have a wonderful holiday full of food and safe travels.
You should have to ride the T with your fans, sir.
Question: What's worse than your rush-hour commute on the T?
Answer: Riding a Green Line train full of Dane Cook fans. If I'd remembered he was playing the Garden last night, I would have taken the bus home from Brookline. Between them and the two college-aged hippies drinking gin out of Poland Springs bottles, I've pretty much decided I'm not having children.
I feel kind of awkward when I blog here now. I'm like that grandkid who never comes to visit—it just feels awkward when I show up. But I've been doing some really good stuff on the work blog, as have my internet-savvy cohorts. It's all the snark you've loved here, but with less first-person narrative.
Of course, I can't write about all the news items of note at Boston Daily, so I figured I'd give you a little taste of the things I've read that have made it onto my radar screen lately.
The one thing that had me muttering "Oh, GROSS" and scaring the interns this morning was this item. [via Jezebel]
Everyday thousands of people come to Disneyland to make life long memories. Apparently, some of those people want those memories to last forever, as in an eternity.
Scattering someone's ashes at Disneyland is strictly prohibited. But apparently that doesn't mean some people aren't trying. . . .
"Well it's been going on for awhile, it started sporadically with the Haunted Mansion and lately because of the spectral nature of the 'Pirates of the Caribbean' films, there's been this been this connection between people and that," Al Lutz said.
I've never been to Disneyland, but I've been to Disney World. And it is the last place I would want as my final resting place. To anyone over the age of 20, it is downright creepy. The entire experience is so carefully manufactured and happy happy happy that instead of having fun, I feel like I've walked in to the Stepford Wives on LSD. Also, for fuck's sake. Kids dip their hands in that water, lady. Find a Mickey-shaped shrub for Aunt Mert if you must leave her in the Magic Kingdom.
And John McCain started a small kerfuffle, laughing after one of his supporters asked "How do we beat the bitch?"
The camera is right up in his face, so he clearly thought he was going to get away without some flack for going along with the joke. A quick "that's disrespectful" would have done him a world of good. But McCain isn't looking to impress female voters, so he probably appealed to a lot of his supporters with his reaction.
Last week, I got a call from my grandmother while I was at work. My initial reaction was panic that someone had taken ill or died with her business-like tone. Turns out, she was calling to give me marching orders.
"Your aunt is coming home for Christmas," she said. "We're busy before Christmas, but after we want to come up to Boston for a day. Maybe your other aunt will come too. We can make it a girls night."
So I am in charge of finding a show or exhibit for my grandmother and aunts. While this sounds like a lame day, I am actually afraid it will lead to a criminal record. The women in my family like to party, and I fear after a few drinks they'll be accosting every single guy in the bar for me or my single aunt. Or my grandmother, for that matter. So if I end up in the papers, it's all their fault.
On a similar note, please remind me that drinking several girlie drinks leads only to headache, stomachache, and woe. Thank you.
A few weeks ago, I got extensions put in my hair for work. The salon that did it didn't have a location within range of the T, so I relied on my trusty Zipcar membership to get me there.
That's where it all went wrong.
The nearest Zipcars to my office are in the basement garage of a hotel. I hate getting cars out of this location-- you have to go into the hotel lobby and validate a parking ticket to get out, and the automated arm is hard to activate. The garage itself is hard to navigate as well. It's tight, and the Zipcars are located in a far corner that requires a lot of finagling to get in and out.
That day, I'd reserved a car that was parked next to a pole and a wall. It had been backed in by the last person who used it, and the space was so small I had to climb in the passenger door to get in. I got out of the garage, and hoped one of the other cars would have left its space when I got back.
No such luck. I got back to the garage and was faced with the narrow spot. My appointment at the salon had taken longer than I anticipated, and I was focused on getting back to work. As I pulled into the spot, I heard a crunch.
I'd hit the back passenger door against the pole.
I looked in the rearview mirror, and saw I was wedged against the pole. I tried to back the car away, but it continued to damage the car. Figuring I was already on the hook for what I'd done, I pulled the car into the spot with another squeal.
The back door was covered with yellow paint, and a four-inch gash was under some yellow flecks. Being the chronically honest person I am, I called Zipcar to tell them I'd messed up the car.
"Well, we'll put a hold on your account until we decide if we'll charge you the $500 deductible," the operator told me.
After a week, I got an untitled email (geez, guys way to make it easy for my spam filter to delete it) saying I'd be charged the deductible.
"Fuuuuck," I said.
It's going on my credit card, which is the last thing I needed. I can barely afford my apartment, and I've been very good about not charging things and putting what I can toward paying them off. Now I've got another huge chunk to rack up interest.
Another issue is that I want to get these extensions out of my hair, which I can't do until Zipcar reactivates my account, which may not even happen if they decide I'm too much of a risk. So if anybody's going my way, let me know. And if you want to organize a fundraiser for me, I'd be grateful.
