We Don't Need No Water...

Because I'm now the proud owner of a fire extinguisher.

I also am the proud owner of a renter's insurance policy. A lot harder to photograph (I can always photograph the statement when it comes in... yet another thing to pay for, dammit) but equally as helpful in giving me peace of mind.

And, for all you fire safety buffs out there, I should point out I'm lucky I didn't get electrocuted by throwing water on what could have been an electrical fire. My Mom warned me to get a fire extinguisher, and I should have listened. Seriously, folks, that fire extinguisher cost me $22. Be sure you have one around the house, even if you don't live in an apparent deathtrap.

Bawitiba

Is any one else delighted by the rumor that Borat broke up Pam Anderson and Kid Rock? Because I've got a smile from the schadenfreude that just won't quit. Seriously. Mr. Rock was threatened by this guy?

I knew Kid Rock was an idiot, but I didn't think he was that stupid. Why is it that nobody seems to understand that Borat is a joke? Is satire that doesn't come from the mouth of Jon Stewart dead? Maybe good old Kid was confused by Pam's pretty excellent acting job in the movie. (When she met Borat, I didn't think she knew what was happening, but she apparently was in on the joke.) If I were Pam, however and I had to chose between Borat and this clown

I'd take Borat.

God, what a maroon. I don't understand how Kid Rock lands all these women. I wish he'd just crawl back into whatever trailer park he came from and never cross my television or ear holes again.

Burnin' Down the House

VH1 has ruined my life. Every time something lights on fire that shouldn't, I imagine T-Boz of the late, great TLC describing her reaction on Behind the Music when Lisa "Left-Eye" Lopez torched her boyfriend's home: "Lisa burned the house down!" It's much funnier when you see her say it: a wide smile on her face, the old southern woman accent on it, delivered with a toss of her head.

It was not so much funny at about 4:30 this morning when I woke up to a weird smell. Seeing that I live in the boiler room, I thought the boiler was about to blow sky-high since it was an oily smell. I stood in my apartment, basically scratching my head. I went to the door of the boiler room and touched it, but it wasn't hot. I decided to open my window to air the apartment out, but my landlord replaced the screens with storm glass and the only way to allow air in would be to prop the glass up with something, which I figured would allow a host of vermin into my apartment to feast on pasta. While I was by the window debating what to do, I heard a pop pop pop near my bathroom. Figuring it was the boiler about to blow, I went back over to look.

Instead, I found my bathroom ceiling was on fire. The light fixture and fan were burning, as well as the ceiling panel around it. I stood for a moment, figuring I would finally have the certain answer to the "if your house were on fire, what would you take with you" question, and figured I should go down fighting. I grabbed a big pot, filled it with some water, and tossed it at my ceiling.

The lightbulb exploded, the water hissed as it made contact with the fire, and the fixture dropped the floor. The ceiling fire had gone out and just a little bit of plastic was still burning on the floor. I stared at the mess for a minute then went back to the kitchen sink, refilled the pot, then doused the last little flame. With the fire out, I turned my attention to the smoke that hung in my apartment. I figured a hungry rat would not be the worst thing to happen, so I propped open the storm glass and turned on my fan, hoping the smoke would clear out through the window instead of triggering the fire alarm right outside my door.

AAAARRRRRRRNNNNNNN.... No such luck.

I heard footsteps in the upstairs apartment and the voices of my neighbors on the front steps. I grabbed my cell phone and keys and went out to explain everything was okay. My neighbors were very gracious for being woken up at 4:30 in the morning by the fire alarm. I didn't realize how cold it was outside and shivered until one of my neighbors handed me his coat. Another neighbor was on hold with the fire department. Finally, about ten minutes after the alarm started, two fire trucks showed up. I led the curmudgeonly lead firefighter and two other firefighters into my apartment. A little childish part of me figured I was in trouble, even though I did nothing to start the fire except leave a light on accidentally. The firemen took the remaining bits of the ceiling panel down, grumbled to each other, and opened my door.

"Good job," the curmudgeonly fireman said, referencing the fact I had the presence of mind to throw water on a fire. "Luckily, there wasn't too much around it that could have caught." He didn't mention what caused it, but I suspect something wasn't wired correctly, or the light got too hot for the sheetrock and it caught.

I thanked the firemen, then went outside to tell my neighbors everything was fine. As I waited for the firemen to leave, my coat-lending neighbor pointed out a rat that was running for my window.

"Don't fucking go in there!" I shrieked, amusing my neighbor.

"It's okay," he said, "he ran up the water pipe instead."

I wish I could have met my neighbors in a more conventional manner, such as a neighborhood pot-luck dinner, but they were very gracious and also concerned for me. I said I was fine, and went back into my stinky, smoky apartment. I closed the window so the rats couldn't get in, sprayed the entire apartment with Febreeze so my apartment smelled both smoky and linen fresh, which was more nauseating than the straight smoke. I curled up under my covers, startling awake to the slightest noise, almost missing my old apartment with the fighting roommates and noisy neighbors. At least nothing was actually on fire there. I thought about my mother, who stayed at my apartment once when I'd just moved in and how she was afraid that it would catch on fire and I wouldn't have a way to get out if the door was blocked. I looked at my windows, wondering if I could break them and escape if the fire had been quick to spread. Am I living in a death trap? I can't afford to move again-- I have about $100 in savings and didn't pay a security deposit, so I'll have only one month's rent to work with for a new place. My Mom has made it clear to me I will not be borrowing money from her to pay deposits again since she's strapped for cash. I wish she lived closer to Boston so I could live at home for a few months so I could save up.

I had such high hopes for this place, but I keep being disappointed. It's caused me to need a second job, sleep with a light on in fear of rats falling on my head, and now it's required emergency services to be called. And I have no way out of it short of quitting my job and finding a job in Rhode Island until I figure my life out. I don't want to do that. I just want to sit on my couch and watch TV shows about other people's problems instead of dealing with my own.

She Said it Was the Communists, But We Knew Better

PBS has been cashing in on the renewed interest in the Kennedy family and airing their programming about RFK for the past couple of weeks. Since I'm a sucker for a video presentation of history (I loved when teachers just popped in a video during my public school days) I usually sit down to watch the overwrought images and historians. Last night, American Experience aired their program on RFK.

Let me say this: I am profoundly grateful I didn't have to live through 1968. With the civil rights struggle, Vietnam, the death of Martin Luther King, and RFK it must have been scary stuff. It would be like dealing with what we're seeing now in Iraq, but also having Hillary Clinton or Barak Obamba shot dead, along with a prominent gay rights activist (Lance Bass?). American Experience showed footage of RFK telling a crowd in Indiana that King had been shot, and the screams of anguish from the crowd were frightening. In these days of punditry, it's hard to find people in the public eye who connect so deeply as RFK and Martin Luther King did.

I'm also not sure how I feel about the Kennedy family in general. My family isn't the most liberal of folks, and I'm certain my mother doesn't like the hijinks of the "modern" Kennedys (Pat, D-RI). I don't really enjoy Pat because I think he's a spoiled rich boy who really isn't that smart. But it's fascinating how many borderline mythic figures one family from Massachusetts spawned in American history. I know JFK was a fairly middling president for the short time he held the office. Historians even didn't rank him in the top 100 influential Americans list that was recently published in the Atlantic Monthly. In fact, none of the Kennedys are on the list, which seems a bit odd. While RFK and JFK didn't actually accomplish much in the political arena, they influenced the American psyche deeply, I'd argue. People still debate that JFK was killed by the government and not some random whackjob. We obsess on "Camelot." American Experience went to great lengths to illustrate how RFK connected himself to causes and groups who didn't have much of a voice in Washington, such as migrant laborers and blacks. Robert Kennedy made some great promises in his speeches-- ending the war in Vietnam that had gone to shit (one of the clips the show aired could have easily applied to the civil war in Iraq [we can call it that now, NBC said so] if "Vietnam" were exchanged for "Iraq"), easing poverty and racism in America-- and it's debatable what he could actually accomplished. But since he didn't get the chance to do or not do what he said, he becomes a mythic figure in American life. Americans then got Richard effing Nixon, who certainly didn't help anything and cemented the Kennedys more solidly into the realm of potential saviors of thousands of Americans who died in Vietnam.

I am not Doris Kearns Goodwin, nor was meant to be. I have nothing based in any deep knowledge of politics in 1960s America, but I think it's a bit quick to dismiss either Kennedy from the list of important Americans.

Paris Hilton Will Kill Us All

Not with her especially virulent cooter diseases, but with her endorsement of exotic pets.

Exotic animals captured in the wild are streaming into the U.S. by the millions with little or no screening for disease, leaving Americans vulnerable to a virulent outbreak that could rival a terrorist act....

Most wildlife arrive in the United States with no quarantine and minimal screening for disease. The government employs just 120 full-time inspectors to record and inspect arriving wildlife. There is no requirement they be trained to detect diseases....

Another newly discovered threat involves a current rage among exotic pet owners: a small carnivorous mammal with sharp teeth called a kinkajou. The nocturnal, tree-dwelling animals originally from Central and South America's rain forests have a dangerous bite -- as Paris Hilton recently learned.

The actress used to carry her pet kinkajou named "Baby Luv" on her shoulder as she partied. This summer, Hilton landed in an emergency room when Baby Luv bit her on the arm.

I cannot even begin to fathom why parents allow their children to do what Paris Hilton does. She has no redeemable traits that I have seen in the media. While Angelina Jolie is annoying, at least she donates her time and money to causes that are worthwhile. Paris Hilton is just a waste of space on this planet. If I have a kid and she says she wants something because Paris Hilton had it when she was her age, the kid's going to reform school.

As a kid, an exotic pet is always appealing. In stories, kids have weird pets like monkeys or gigantic red dogs and it's all fun and good times. If you're a parent and your kid wants an exotic pet, just remind them of poop. Yes, those exotic animals or giant red dogs also poop. If you've dealt with kids, you know they want nothing to do with the removal of animal waste of any kind. Imagine if junior has a monkey who starts chucking his poo all over the house. Then he'll be sorry. (Once he stops laughing at the poo-chucking monkey.)

I also can't wrap my head around the fact that the government only employs 120 people to inspect animals for potentially serious contagious diseases, and those people aren't even trained in how to recognize sickness in animals. 120 people for the entire country? I feel like we should have that many people watching out for rabid tree monkeys in New York City alone. If a giant Paris Hilton exotic animal finds its way into my apartment ceilings to hang with their American friends and keeps me awake, I am going to write a strongly-worded letter to my Congressman.

Paris fucking Hilton. Harbinger of the apocalypse.

Can Anyone Tell Me What Christmas is All About?!

Hello, Internet! How was your Thanksgiving? I hope that you had all the turkey you could hope for and a minimum of family drama. Things were fairly quiet down in Little Rhody. My brother and I got caught in traffic on Friday, got to Rhode Island, picked up my Mom and we went out for dinner, then brought my Mom home and went to see Borat. I was pissed that the movie cost me $10 (last time I saw a movie in Rhode Island it was $8.50) but it was good to see the moviefilm again. Instead of stopping at the new 24-hour Wal-Mart on the way home, we just went back to the homestead so I could keep my laundry moving and I enjoyed access to cable internet and expanded basic cable channels.

Thursday didn't really dawn in Rhode Island... it kind of dripped. Rain splattered against the windows as my Mom and I started up her breadmaker and waited for the Macy's Parade to start. Another thing I forgot to be thankful for was Katie Couric not being present for the festivities. Meredith Viera started out by saying "As a little girl growing up in Rhode Island, I loved the parade."

"Represent, Meredith!" I yelled back at the TV. My Mom clapped for the Rhody girl done good.

We watched the dancers and marching bands get soaked on TV, and set the table for the food my uncle was preparing. My mother got the news on Tuesday that she'll in all likelihood need back surgery next year, so she wasn't up for preparing a whole Thanksgiving meal. We steamed some veggies and heated some rolls since the bread machine was taking forever to work. My uncle and grandfather brought over the food, including tons of mashed potatoes for me. It's so odd that people stress out for weeks over Thanksgiving meals because by the time the food appears, everyone is ravenous and shovels it into their faces in about ten minutes before the bloat sets in. Everything my uncle made was very good, but I inhaled my plate of food in about ten minutes.

After we cleaned up our dishes and visited with my Mom's family, we ran out to the car and drove to my Dad's side of the family. Despite telling us they were going to eat early, we arrived to join them for dessert and found them just sitting down to their meal. My Mom, brother, and I sat in the living room, shuttling small tastes of whatever my aunt wanted us to try back and forth. I had some wine and listened to the banter in the other room. Their meal ended quickly as well, since my grandmother's aunt started feeling faint and my grandparents took her home before dessert at her insistence.

"Her sons need to take care of her," my aunt said once my grandparents had left with the frail aunt. "Her 'priestly' son, helping his flock while his own mother needs help. I know she doesn't want them around, but they need to have someone check in on her who isn't my mother."

The holidays are great, but it's sad to see my family getting old. I think about what life will be like when my grandparents aren't around, and then what will happen when my aunts and uncles are old. I don't expect to spend much time with any of my cousins-- two live in California, and my local cousin isn't exactly my buddy like he once was. I've lived twenty-five years with my family the way it is, and I can only hope I'll have my own family by the time things start changing too much. I cannot imagine a holiday where my grandmother doesn't return to the party after making sure her aunt was okay with a jam jar holding what looks like urine, but is actually hard alcohol, and my aunt getting up to get some ice in a glass for her without being asked.

Sam and I had planned to drive back to Boston on Thursday night, but it was raining so hard that two lights away from my aunt's house my Mom laid down the law and said we'd wait until morning to head in. Sam and I got up Friday morning and stopped at Dunkin Donuts, where the clerk had to ask Sam four times if he wanted whipped cream on his hot chocolate before it registered with him. I drove up while Sam stared into space. I unloaded my stuff, put on some makeup, pointed Sam in the right direction to get home, then walked to the part-time job.

It actually wasn't that bad-- I feel that if I'd worked in a big-box store like Best Buy or Target things would have been far more nightmarish than they were in my little corner of retail. We didn't have any doorbuster sales, nor any good deals on anything for the winter holidays so people tended to wander then leave. I stood by the door, watching people come in and out, getting more and more tired as the evening went on. I happily left at four, wandered to the liquor store to buy some beer, then crashed on my couch for a while.

Yesterday I went to Target and Ikea, neither of which was insanely busy. I wanted Christmas lights at Target, but for silly plastic lights all they had were chili pepper lights. I'd brought my "disco tree" out of my Mom's basement for the first time in a few years. Since Roommate Deb was sensitive about Christmas decorations (she's Jewish) and I didn't want to start any more fighting, I left the tree at home during holidays at my last apartment. I happily propped it up as soon as I opened my beer on Friday evening and watched as the fiber-optic tips of the branches light up. I also want a wreath to hang and smell piny in my little fortress of solitude. At Ikea, I bought a paper lantern to hang over my bed instead of the horrible fluorescent light, and the light was soft and nice. I lit a candle and sat on my bed, listening to classical music in the dim light. It dawned on me how much I want a little house of my own someday soon, with a nice little kitchen and huge bookshelves and tasteful decor.

The holidays are harder as an adult too, because everything I want this year is not available in stores. I want a sense of financial security. I want my student loans and/or credit cards paid off. I want a little condo someplace nice without vermin and with kitchen counters. I want a career I like. I want things that can't be put in a box. I made a wish list on Amazon for my Mom, but it's all little things (except a new laptop, which my Mom can't afford for me) because all the big things I want aren't for sale.

I wish I could be satisfied by a Barbie doll or a new bike like when I was a kid.

Thanks

Here is what I'm thankful for.

My health. Despite the fact I think I'm developing a heart murmur from too much coffee.

My family. Dysfunctional and weird as they are, I would rather have them and their unconditional love than a boring bunch of goobers.

My friends. They're all funny, sympathetic people who are my family away from home.

I'm thankful there won't be a casino in Rhode Island anytime soon.

I'm thankful I don't have to worry where my next meal or paycheck is coming from.

I'm thankful for a good education, even if it's bankrupting me to pay for it.

I'm thankful for a Democratic majority.

I'm thankful for To Catch a Predator. I know this is stupid, but every week I sit on my couch for an hour and marvel that these sickos show up, even when they suspect a rat. I marvel that as soon as they hear that actress's voice chirp out "Heeeey, you made it! Come on back, the hot tub's on" they don't run in the opposite direction. I am also surprised Chris Hanson hasn't gotten the shit kicked out of him for his smug, superior attitude. It's disgusting and salacious and I love it.

I'm thankful for the opportunity to write for InSite and Boston Magazine.

I'm thankful I'm single. While I'd love to have someone good in my life, when I see a couple who clearly can't stand each other walking down the street, or a couple comes into the part-time job and openly argues and I remember how much it sucked to be in a relationship with someone who I was always fighting.

I'm thankful my brother is picking me up today so I can bring the eight metric tons of laundry I need to do home.

I'm thankful for my Mom's mashed potatoes.

I'm thankful I can look forward to my uncle ranting about something that wronged him.

I'm thankful I can hear my grandfather talk.

I'm thankful for my father.

I'm thankful that I'll probably miss my aunt's thinly-veiled reference to my father, who died twenty years ago Monday. It's hard to keep it together when my grandmother and grandfather tear up.

I'm thankful for my coworker bringing her adorable kid into the office today. Having an energetic kid running around tossing his stuffed chicken in the air makes the day much better.

I'm thankful for the kids I babysit.

Lastly, I'm thankful for those of you who read this blog. I hope you have a very happy and safe Thanksgiving. And please be kind to those of us who are working in retail on Friday. ::shudder::

"Our Father, thank you for all the birds and trees,
that nature stuff. I'm grateful for good health,
food, air, some laughs, and all the other things I've never had to do
without." -Andrew Hudgins

MVP

Bad news:

David Ortiz didn't win MVP, which isn't too surprising.

Good news:

This guy didn't win either.

"I love interpretive dance!"

That's really all the insight I have. And I thank the Lord Jesus that that picture exists in this world.

Nickname

Many websites are trying to figure out what to call young pitching phenom Daisuke Matsuzaka since his name is apparently too boring. I would like to propose we call him Hiro.

The similarities are striking:


Save the cheerleader, Daisuke, save the world.

Feel the Rage, Part II

Yesterday, I walked our city streets. I always forget how nice it is to walk around Boston without a destination, just popping into stores or historical sites whenever you feel like it. I'm usually running from one place to another and it was nice to just meander, taking my time. My friends and I walked through City Hall Plaza and watched little kids manipulate one of the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade balloons around. We stopped in a cemetery we'd never been in. While looking at the old gravestones (the skulls and angel wings are totally going on my gravestone) we heard a din coming from the direction of the Common. I thought a skating event may have been going on until I realized it was Mitt Romney's publicity stunt, er, protest of the legislature refusing to vote on allowing the right of gay people to marry going on the ballot. Relishing the idea of heckling Romney in person appealed to me, so we walked to the State House.

Chills went up my spine as I rounded the corner and walked through the crowd. We were close to the police line that separated the voting supporters from the gay rights supporters. We'd missed Mitt Romney's speech, unfortunately, but whoever was speaking was being roundly booed by the gay marriage supporters.

Yeah, it was like that.

He's totally using this image in his presidential campaign. "This flag is not for gay people! I'm relatively sure none of the people behind me has inappropriately emailed young boys! God Bless America!"

I could see Mitt from where we stood, about a football field and a half away from the gubernatorial coif. Despite the fact he probably couldn't see me, I pulled one of these:

Just to let him know I was thinking of him.

Whatever pretentious blowhard was speaking wrapped it up, and then a singer came up and started warbling the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." No, I'm not kidding. The gay rights supporters roundly booed the proceedings, shouting "Shame!" and "You lost, go home."

I understand that not everyone is comfortable with homosexuality. My mom, who is fairly socially liberal is against gay marriage, which surprises me. The debate over gay marriage in the eyes of the state is infuriating, and I have yet to hear an argument that rings true on why gay people should not have the same right to a marriage certificate as a straight couple. Being gay is not a defect. A gay couple doesn't contribute less to society. Gay people aren't worse parents than the average straight couple. We're talking about civic marriage, which has nothing to do with any religion. It's a piece of paper that allows benefits to be shared and ease of transition if something should happen to one or both people in the relationship. A marriage certificate is a legal document, nothing more.

Specific to this fight, I cannot understand why any responsible legislature would allow the many to vote on the rights of the few. It is the government's place to protect the rights of minorities, and keeping the rights of minorities away from the grubby hands of the majority. If you don't like how the legislature works, you vote for someone who shares your views and the legislature amends the constitution.

Feel the Rage, Part I

Last night, after a lovely day of walking the North End, stopping in a graveyard, flipping Mitt Romney off (more on that later), and walking all the way to Coolidge Corner, I decided to watch the evening news. My emotions were kind of raw after watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition since it was a family who had just unexpectedly lost their father, and what does the channel 38 news lead with?

Some sick bastard stole one of the Salvation Army pots outside a Walgreens in Methuen. Not only did this sick fuck steal from charity, he stole from charity while a man with Down Syndrome was minding the pot and didn't even understand that he'd been robbed until someone told him.

A Salvation Army bell ringer kept ringing his bell as the red kettle was lifted from the tripod next to him outside a Jackson Street drugstore.

He kept ringing it as the thief walked away with the kettle and the money the bell ringer had collected for the poor at Christmas.

He finally stopped when an employee of the drugstore, who witnessed the theft, called police.

Then the bell ringer, a 41-year-old man with Down syndrome, became frightened.

Let's make this clear. Whoever stole from this guy just sealed his place in hell. I hope that Satan pulls your toenails out by the millimeter with white-hot tongs. I hope the Dark Lord pulls out your innards through your mouth so you can watch. You stole from the poor and a retarded person at the same time. That is completely heartless and cruel, and I hope the police find whoever did this and punish him/her as harshly as possible. The Salvation Army has had a rough enough time of it lately with many stores not willing to let the bell-ringers set up shop outside their stores (Target, I'm looking at you) and now people are stealing from them? In doing research for this post, I found several other bell-ringers in other cities have been forcibly robbed as well. But just walking away with the pot from a person who didn't know better? Sick.

Psycho Killer

What the fuck is wrong with people?

Two armed thugs tried to rob a line of people waiting to buy the new Playstation 3 gaming console early Friday and shot one who refused to give up the money, authorities said.

And, closer to home:

Police were called to Copley Place Mall early this morning to restrain crowds clamoring for the new Sony PlayStation 3, according to broadcast reports.

When security at the Copley Place Mall opened the doors, hundreds of waiting people rushed the mall in what witnesses called a stampede.

Police eventually cleared the mall, but those who had been waiting in line for hours, and in some cases days, lost their place in line.

You got shot for a video game. You got stampeded for a video game. You sat outside a mall for days for, you've got it, a motherfucking video game. If you've ever watched Dateline or the local news, you give someone with a gun your money because you may get out of the situation alive. If little fifteen-year-old Jimmy is pissed you didn't get him a Playstation for Christmas, kindly remind the insolent little brat that he wouldn't have a parent if you'd held onto the money.

This is what happens when we equate stuff with love and success. People freak out and start shooting each other-- or literally stepping on each other-- to prove their love is true or they're truly happy because they have a freakin' $500 video game machine.

I Check the Odds, I Place My Bet

Dammit. (Thanks to CO for the tip.)

Gov.-elect Deval Patrick, who’s been known to pull the handle on a slot machine himself from time to time, is signaling he’s open to the possibility of casino gambling in the Bay State.

First of all, I'd like to take issue with the fact that the Herald immediately assumes that if you've played slots you support casino gambling. I've played slots down at Foxwoods (hell on earth) and Mohegan Sun (slightly better) but it doesn't mean I want to be able to gamble in my own neighborhood. It's fine once in a while, but I don't want casinos and their inherent social problems on my doorstep.

I don't quite fathom how Patrick thinks casino gambling is a good idea. Didn't somebody ask him this question while he was on the campaign trail, especially in New Bedford/Swansea which would have been impacted by a casino in Rhode Island? Maybe he slipped a mention into one of his ads that card games and slots as a means of making Massachusetts great? By the end of the campaign I was kind of tuning all the ads out. It's possible I missed that. I remembered Patrick talking about scientific research, education, and attracting businesses as a way to make Massachusetts better. I do not remember buffets being mentioned as part of the solution.

Sigh. I cannot continue being all uppity about this. It's exhausting. I do not want New England to be the new, less-glittery Las Vegas. I guess I can only hope Deval Patrick catches his snap before Harrah's sets up shop looking for another ballot question.

Miss Manners

In the area of my office, there are at least three textbook publishing companies. Magazine publishing offices are not too far away. Thus, it is no surprise there are a plethora of coffee shops in the area. Today at lunch, which I take around 2pm, Kristen and I walked over to Starbucks to partake of their holiday lattes. I elected not to get one since I'm saving my money for booze this evening and I'm already edgy, but I savored the walk over.

Once we walked inside the Starbucks, it was bedlam. Bedraggled people in thick-framed glasses and sensible shoes waited in line, visibly craning their necks to see how many people separated them from their precious three-o-clock caffeine hit. The order-takers were dealing calmly, but the coffee drink preparers were moving around like worker bees in a hive. Kristen placed her order, and we waited in line to pick up her drink.

Directly in front of us was a short woman in black pants and a sensible gray wrap sweater, her dark hair pulled back. She had a tray in front of her, waiting to pick up her coworker's orders. The barista (that is a stupid word) gave her her caramel iced something or other and the woman immediately tried to get the coffee-slinger's attention back. Since the line was about 150 people deep, the coffee-slinger turned away. The woman rolled her eyes and got the attention of the coffee-slinger as coffee-slinger deposited another cup on the counter.

"Can I have more ice?" The woman asked.

"Well," the coffee-slinger replied, "I can't fit more ice in the cup. I can get you a bigger cup."

The coffee-slinger brought back the drink in a bigger cup.

"Can I have more caramel?" The woman requested. The coffee-slinger popped the top of the new cup and drizzled some more on top.

"This looks awfully light to me," the woman said to the visibly annoyed coffee-slinger.

"The tall only comes with one shot," the slinger replied.

"I come here all the time, and this is the only thing I get, and it's usually not this light."

The slinger relented. "I'll remake it."

The woman looked at another customer who rolled her eyes. "It's expensive. How about a little coffee with that milk?" She bitched.

Listen, lady, Starbucks isn't tea at the Ritz. You weren't the only customer there. You had multiple drinks in your order. If you want to be treated like a princess, go someplace else. If you want a size up on your caramel whatever-the-fuck, ask for it. Don't make the harried coffee-slinger remake your order entirely because it's not the right shade of brown for you. You're lucky she didn't do like the bartender I saw at the Foundation Lounge a couple weeks ago who nearly got into a fistfight with a customer who kept her unnecessarily running when it was busy.

^$%&

Okay. Figuring that Blogger would be like Yahoo! and that I'd eventually have to switch to Blogger in its new form eventually whether I wanted to or not, I switched the ol' Pasquinade over to the Beta Blogger yesterday. I was lured by the idea of futzing with my template and having labels for my posts (such as this one with the insightful label of "bitching") but I am having some major issues with it.

First of all, I use one Gmail account for my blog email and another for my actual personal email. I get about 120 spam messages a week from the blog and I don't want them in my regular email account. When I signed up with the original Blogger, I used a Yahoo! email account, and used that as my user name for Blogger. Beta won't allow me to use any other user name than a Gmail account so I decided to use the blog email account. Now, whenever I want to log into Blogger, Gmail signs me out of my personal account and into the blog account. It's supremely annoying when I'm emailing strings of profanity to Kristen and trying to blog at the same time. I probably could sign in with my personal email and still list the blog email on the page, but I don't want to.

I also liked the new template I had for about an hour yesterday, but Haloscan hasn't updated how to install their codes into the Beta Blogger templates, so I would have to use Blogger's comments, which I don't want since I have about two and a half years of comments stored on Haloscan and I want to keep them, so I'm back to the "classic" template. So, for all this freaking hassle, I got labels.

All of this could be avoided if I got a book deal. Publishers: Email me. On the blog account.

Hungry Heart

This is scary.

An advocacy group warned legislators today that hunger has spiked as they presented a study that found that the number of Massachusetts residents going without food has more than doubled the last three years.

Project Bread found that the percentage of hungry Bay State residents has surged to 18 percent from 8 percent in the last three years. The numbers were part of the group's annual Hunger in Massachusetts report, which it released today after presenting the findings in a PowerPoint presentation at the State House.

Well, if they presented it in PowerPoint, it must be comprehensive!

Anyway. During this time of year, it's easy to get excited about all the food you're going to eat, complain about being too full, and complaining about the two-month-long gorgefest that is the holiday season. But do keep in mind that there are people all around you who are going hungry. I had a month or so where I worried about being able to buy food, and it was frightening. It's easy for a person to fall behind and not be able to buy food for themselves or their families. Please consider making a donation to a local food bank during this holiday season so a family in Massachusetts or Rhode Island can enjoy the sensation of being full.

Rhode Island Food Bank.

The Greater Boston Food Bank.

Project Bread.

The Food Bank of Western Massachusetts.

new

Oooo. Blogger beta. Hi!

Does anybody know of an easy way to back up an entire blog? I should do that, probably, or else I will toss myself off the Zakim if I lose two years of articulate bitching.

Also, this site is under construction. Please excuse all wonkiness and the deletion of your links. I hope they shall return by the end of the day.

Separate Ways

As you may remember, I got my brand-new cell phone in July. It was an exciting gift to receive in the mail during my perilously broke time (now I am just regular broke) and I was excited about it. It worked fine. I downloaded annoying ringtones. And now, I must send it back.

I had to work the part-time job Saturday morning and despite my intentions to keep Friday night mellow, it erupted into an evening of drunken dancing. The kind where you don't realize how into the dancing you are until you wake up the next day with your thigh muscles feeling like rubber bands about to snap. I woke up, groaned, and dragged my ass into the shower. I was fairly slow in getting going and ran out the door. I stuck my water bottle in my pocketbook and forgot to remove it when I shoved my bag into a little locker at work. Unfortunately, the water bottle leaked. When I went down to get my bag to head to lunch I found my phone was damp, and the backlight on the display stopped working.

It was working Saturday evening when I left work, which gave me hope. But when I woke up on Sunday, the display was dark again. I can read the display, barely, in a well-lit room, but it's not going to work as a long-term phone. Luckily, when I switched my plan over my insurance on the phone carried over. During the months when I was scary broke I kept meaning to take the insurance off the plan and save myself about five bucks a month. Now I'm glad I kept it. The insurance people were very nice, and I should have my new phone tomorrow. All I had to pay was $50, which sucks since I am now officially playing roulette with when charges to my checking account clear, but it's way better than paying the full cost of the phone. And I'm mad because I downloaded "Separate Ways" as a ringtone on Friday and I think I'm going to lose it when I mail the old phone back to the insurance people. But, it could be worse.

Dum dum da dum...

Finally, it's happening to me.



My friends are getting married.

(No, I'm not getting married. Calm yourselves.)

This is not a bad thing. I have been to two weddings in my lifetime: my Mom's second marriage which took place in a courthouse, and one that I'd rather not get into because I was delirious with fever, looked a hot mess, and was an emotional wreck about it. For my Mom's wedding, I was seven and looking forward to wearing a pretty dress and having my hair braided in tiny braids so it looked crimped. (Shut up, it was 1988, I cannot be held responsible.) For the other wedding, I took delight in the best man recounting the story of the first date the groom had with the woman he dated before he met his wife while her face grew red from embarrassment and anger. I sure do hope hell is as warm as they say it is.

Now, my old friends are starting. Kerri and Will are getting hitched. I love Kerri and Will, and I fully support their union. They both love animals and have a menagerie at their house. They cook really good food. They have good parties. They're both smart and logical. I've known Kerri since early in my high school career and known Will since he showed up on the scene a few years ago. (It was around my birthday they had their first date, a double-date my friend Yvette went on with Will's roommate, and I remember them telling me about the date as we had dinner in Providence.) They are good people and I'm happy for them.

However, I have no idea how all this wedding etiquette works and I am living in fear of making a great faux pas. A couple of my other friends were in weddings this summer. Missy was in three in the space of three months, and was a member of the bridal party in one and the maid of honor in the other. It nearly bankrupted her. Another friend was called in as a replacement co-maid of honor and it made her broke and angry with the other maid of honor. We talked about bachelorette parties, how much bridesmaids dresses cost, the cost of hotel rooms, the cost of registry gifts while my head swam.

Now I am left to figure out the ways of celebrating marriages for myself. I cannot attend the bridal shower because of the part-time job. Do I send a gift even if I can't attend? According to Peggy Post, I don't have to, but I can if I want to. What kind of direction is that? "It's generally not done, but sometimes it is." Crap. I may send a gift just to assuage my guilt over not being able to go and celebrate them in person. (I tried to get out of it!) I also am attending the rehearsal dinner because I am doing a reading for them. Do I need another nice dress for the dinner? I only have one really good dress for formal occasions. Peggy Post is again of little help. My Mom, whose weddings were both incredibly casual affairs, can't help me. I just want to make sure I do the right things because I like the couple and don't want to make them feel like I'm not excited for them. I am. I just don't know what shoes to wear and if dark green is an acceptable color to wear to an evening wedding.

How much?

(Yes, I have a lot to say today. No, I don't have anything better to do.)

For those of you who've seen Borat (and those of you who have not, I really don't know what to tell you), you may remember the three drunk frat boys in a Winnebago that Borat meets. You may also remember the horrible, heinous things the frat boys say (starting out with "How do you like our American bitches?" and getting worse from there). I leaned over to Annette while watching this display of crass behavior and said, "These guys are never getting laid again."

Clearly, I was right because the frat boys are suing.

The film "made plaintiffs the object of ridicule, humiliation, mental anguish and emotional and physical distress, loss of reputation, goodwill and standing in the community," the lawsuit said.

Yep. Totally not getting laid.