I Hate People When They're Not Polite

There's nothing worse than facing a multitude of niggling annoyances on the Monday before a long weekend. I spent the day contending with some technical difficulties at work, and when I left I had visions of al fresco margaritas. I stopped at the bank to get a money order for my rent because the new checks I ordered hadn't arrived, and then hopped on the Green Line.

Somehow, I managed to get a seat on the crowded train. After a bunch of people got off at Park Street, a tall, grey-haired man moved to sit down next to me. He stepped on my toes on his way into the seat, and apologized quickly once he was seated. Then he flipped open his dungeons and dragons fantasy novel and started bouncing his leg.

Bounce bounce bounce bounce. I did my best to shift my weight to my left ass cheek to avoid contact with his bouncing leg, but I could still feel his leg twitching. Bounce bounce bounce bounce. Never had the ride to North Station felt so long. I was practically in the lap of the bored woman who was playing solitaire on her iPod to get away from his bouncing limb. Still could feel it. Bounce bounce bounce bounce.

It was all I could do not to slam my fist down on his upper thigh to make him stop. Finally, I got to North Station and bolted off the train toward my tequila-laced libations.

After sitting in the sun and sipping my drink, my mood was much improved. Until I came home and found my new order of checks waiting for me. So I didn't need to spend $5 for my money order.

Is it Thursday yet?

Back in the Kitchen

Generally, I really enjoy cooking. There's something nice about following set steps and ending up with something tasty. But for the past six months, I haven't felt like cooking. Sure, I'd whip up some noodles or sautee some chicken in a sauce, but not a complete meal from scratch.

But I'm happy to report that I woke up today and went right for my cookbooks.

I decided to make Ina Garten's (love!) shrimp and orzo pasta salad. My kitchen was decimated, covered in escaped chunks of cucumber or springs of dill. I was dripping sweat (not in the food, naturally), my fingers smelled like onions and herbs, and I couldn't be happier. (Well, I could have been had I not had to de-vein the shrimp. I hate taking their poopers out.)

I think I have Martha Stewart to thank. As I was on my way to Gloucester for the Fisherman's Festival yesterday, I flipped on WGBH and saw Everyday Baking and a picture of lemon cupcakes. While that isn't the sweet treat I'm making in a little while (blueberries were cheap, so I went with blueberry cobbler), it got me interested in cooking again. I'm not even sure if my beloved KitchenAid will work when I turn it on again, but hopefully we'll find out soon.

And no, you can't have any.

Sigh

Dear Whatever Higher Power,

You keep doing it wrong. You take Russert and George Carlin, and still Rush Limbaugh saunters the planet?

Please rectify the situation immediately.

Yours,
Amy

If It's Sunday...

This morning, I woke up after a night of crappy sleep on my Mom's couch. I flipped on the TV to keep me company, and was greeted by a serious-looking Matt Lauer talking to NBC's medical correspondent about heart attacks. Then I saw the graphic.

"Holy shit," I said to no one. "Tim Russert died?!"

I watched Lauer get all misty remembering Russert's passion for politics and a good story, which got me going. At least he died doing what he loved, which is all any of us can hope for. I guess.

I hate Father's Day weekend.

I'm in the Business of Misery

Tonight, A, S, and I went to the Harpoon Summer Session. After getting checked out by Ernie Boch, Jr. (he did not as us to come on down, thank God) we had too much beer and then decided to eat some sausage. (Not a euphemism. We were hungry, and there was sausage.)

A cute boy with a buzzcut and a green fleece jacket asked us how we liked our meat. Naturally, we said we enjoyed it, realized the double entendre, and went about our business.

Later, we were dancing to the awesome DJ and Green Fleece stood on the periphery, clearly wanting to dance but unwilling to come over and make a move. Eventually, his bombed friend E came over and jostled his way into my friend S, his less-bombed friend E came over to my friend A, and I danced with Green Fleece.

Later, I spied him groping my friend S while dancing with me. Which, hey, whatever. Bombed E, Less-Bombed E, and Green Fleece all took turns dancing with us. Eventually, the fine people at Harpoon decided to close up shop and we hopped on the shuttle bus. A, S, the two Es, and Green Fleece went out drinking, while my bitter ass got on the Red Line and went home.

I probably should have gone out for another drink with the cute boys and my friends. But I'd consumed a lot of beer at Harpoon, I got up at the asscrack today, and the last time I pushed my patience beyond my limits I ended up accusing a guy of homicide. So, I think I made the right call. Though I do miss Green Fleece. He was pretty.

Misadventures in Dating

The a couple of weeks ago, the day job let out early and my work cohorts and I went out drinking. Several hours and half a dozen beers later, my friends picked me up and we went to a bar in Cambridge. At that point, I'd gone from drunk to hungover without sleeping and my stomach was distended from all the carbonation in my beers, so I ordered a Pabst and did my best to be social when really, all I wanted was to be in my bed.

A trio of guys came in to the bar, and did that annoying thing that boys do where they scan the room to see which girls are cute and most likely to talk to them. Sadly, the trio (which my friend M named "Dorky, Dull, and Douchebag") decided my friends and I would be the best candidates.

Douchebag chatted with my friend A and I, asking us where we went to school and what we do for work. He told us he worked for an architecture firm as a structural engineer, and that he'd worked on Emerson's new dorm and classroom building on Boylston Street.

"Oh," I said. "Did you engineer the scaffolding that fell on that guy and killed him too?"

My friends immediately shouted "Amy!" at me, along with several "I can't believe you said that"s. For his part, Douchebag was completely flabbergasted and stopped talking to me entirely. I was striving for jovial, but my unconcealed disdain for this drunk buffoon and my hangover combined to have it come out as entirely bitchy.

Not that I mind. The guy was a douchebag. But it does confirm that I will be a burden on society as I prepare to die alone in my old age.