Long Time No Blog

Oh. Hello there.

When we last spoke, I was just getting into the swing of my new job at City Hall. The snow has since melted, the leaves are back on the trees, and things continue to progress well. Whether my boss is cleaning up the Boston Common or trying to save the mounted police unit, it's been wickedly busy.

Personally, things continue to move along. My family is still good. Spent a lovely Mother's Day weekend in Rhode Island with them. Despite my brother's hacking cough and the waves of pollen blowing across the yard, it was great to relax at home. Because I'm still ham-handedly managing my finances, I gave the gift of a very clean bathroom to my mother. She seemed to appreciate it, although years of watching TV have conditioned me to believe that I cannot express my love for her without dropping a few hundred bucks on nice gifts.

I've also hopped on the Celtics bandwagon as of late, even going so far as to go to Game 1 of the most recent series, which was the first playoff game I've ever seen live. I am keeping tabs on the Bruins. Really, my favorite thing about playoff hockey is this commerical. It makes me laugh every time.

I'm still not going to post regularly here. Just wanted to say hi to the few of you who've left kind comments recently, and to assure you I am not dead and that all is well. Oh, and Go Sox, Celtics, and Bruins.

The Rules of Friending on Facebook

I learned a few weeks back that I had some security preference on Facebook checked so that my name didn't come up when people searched for it. After I lost my job, I figured I should probably make myself available through all appropriate channels for the new media-savvy, and opened myself up to the teaming refuse of the Internet.

But what I hoped would turn into a networking opportunity has become a forced march down memory lane. Right now, I'm debating what to do with the friend requests waiting to be processed. One of them is from a girl who threatened to fight me in seventh grade after I called her a slut. Another is from a girl who barely gave me the time of day in high school. The third is from some distant cousin who reports all my comings and goings on MySpace to the maternal grandmother with whom I have little contact.

I feel like there's no set etiquette for how to proceed here. After an informal poll of my friends, many subscribe to the belief that if they didn't like someone a decade or two ago, they shouldn't give them access to information. But what if my classmates have changed as much in the ensuing years as I have? Shouldn't I let the petty shit that I said when I was young and foolish go?

And family is an especially fraught battle. I friended a distant relative on my father's side, but my grandmother had already passed along my phone number because we live in the same part of Somerville. I added my brother because he pretty much knows what's going on with me, but probably wouldn't add my mother if she joined, if only to spare her the shame of seeing the large percentage of my pictures which feature me holding some form of alcohol.

One of my friends also believes this is a good plan, and explained to her mother that she wouldn't be friending her. Another cohort encouraged her mother to join in order to foster hobbies other than "obsessing over her grandchildren and drinking."

So here are the rules as I see them: If you're not comfortable adding someone, ignore their request. If they keep bugging you and you don't mind burning that particular bridge, explain politely that you'd rather not add them. If it becomes an issue where you might not want to piss the person off, add them with limited access to your information. That way the family reunion isn't too awkward, either from hurt feelings or when that aggressive relative starts talking about that picture of you singing "Copacabana" at Sissy K's Monday night karaoke.

Not that I have any pictures like that, mind you.

Further Adventures in Car Ownership Borrowing

It was bound to happen eventually. After the Chicken Grease Incident of Aught Eight, my grandmother's car has suffered another injustice.

Its first parking ticket.

Which would have been fine if I'd forgotten about street cleaning, or if I'd left the car parked in a resident spot downtown. But it was just sitting in what I thought was a perfectly legal spot at the top of my street. When I'd parked it yesterday, I noticed it was a little close to the crosswalk, but moved it up later that night.

Apparently, I didn't shift forward far enough. When I went to get the car this afternoon, it had the bright orange ticket on the windshield. It accused me of parking within 20 feet of an intersection.

Not to sound like an entitled brat, but this is total B.S., Somerville. People park in that spot all the time and don't get ticketed. Twenty feet would put me halfway down the block. And it's not like my place is in a big intersection—there's plenty of room for cars to navigate. Is it my out-of-state plates? Some bored cop decided to make a quick buck on my dwindling dollars?

Sigh. Just another expense for my unemployed ass.

Examining the Christmas Haul

You guys, I'm in love. I'd like you to meet the very special additions to my life.

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Yes, that's a Big Blue Bug Christmas ornament (which will become a year-round desk ornament when/if I get a new full-time gig—it reminds me of my roots) and a 16GB iPod Touch. I know I say this every time I get a new iPod, but this is seriously the best thing to happen to me in months. Not only do I have all my music at my disposal again after years of using a teensy 1 GB Nano, but I think this may be the device that leads to my fiscal solvency.

Did you guys know about this site called Mint.com? You enter in all the information for your bank accounts, loans, credit cards, and investments, and it automatically updates and tells you what you're worth, what fees you've incurred, etc. I now know I'm worth -$49,532, and that's before I've added in my overdraft account and federal student loans. Which is a good thing to know, even if it does make me want to kill myself. And, provided there is WiFi available, I'll be able to see that before I make a stupid purchase.

This should be handy when my Mom and I hit the outlets tomorrow. Here's hoping for some good deals.

In other Christmas news, I'm happy to report I got a new coat, some gift certificates to Target, and some lovely soaps. And my brother hooked me up with a sweet USB hub and a portable battery backup which will keep me a-rockin' whilst I am on the road.

In honor of this special day, let's do the iPod meme.

Instructions: Go to your music player of choice and put it on shuffle. Say the following questions aloud, and press play. Use the song title as the answer to the question. NO CHEATING.

How does the world see you?
Let Your Troubles Roll By, Carbon Leaf [Um, I guess I'm easygoing? I don't think so, but, 'kay.]

Will I have a happy life?
Say Hello, Jay-Z ["I come from the bottom, but I'm mad fly." Sounds good to me.]

What do my friends really think of me?
New Slang, The Shins ["Never should have called but my head's to the wall and I'm lonely." Depressing.]

What do people secretly think of me?
Original Sinsuality, Tori Amos [This is cryptic, even for Tori. I cannot divine meaning from this. Maybe I'm a ho?]

How can I be happy?
Georgia On My Mind, Ray Charles [I do like warm weather and peaches.]

What should I do with my life?
She Loves You, The Beatles [Tell people I love them? OK. Done.]

Will I ever have children?
American Girls, Counting Crows [Guess they'll be girls, which is OK. Just sad they won't have a British father.]

What is some good advice for me?
Thunder Road, Bruuuuce ["Hey what else can we do now/ Except roll down the window/ And let the wind blow/ Back your hair." Run away. Gotcha.]

How will I be remembered?
Seamless Life, Vance Gilbert [This is a beautiful song by an artist you should know, but it's very depressing. Basically about living the 9-5 grind without any adventure or complications. "No rough edges/ and no loose ties/ living the seamless life." Swell.]

What is my signature dancing song?
Gatheration, Lady Sovereign [Awesome. "Lightweights, I really can't stand 'em."]

What do I think my current theme song is?
Tears Dry on Their Own, Amy Winehouse [Um, yes. "Even if I stop wanting you/ Perspective pushes through/ I'll be some next man's other woman soon/ I shouldn't play myself again/ I should just be my own best friend/ Not fuck myself in the head with stupid men."]

What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
God's Gonna Cut You Down, Johnny Cash [Holy crap. "You can run on for a long time/ Run on for a long time/ Run on for a long time/ Sooner or later God'll cut you down/ Sooner or later God'll cut you down."]

What song will play at my funeral?
Don't Stop Believin', Journey [Dudes. If I die, seriously, I want this played. For I am naught but a small-town girl living in a lonely world.]

What type of men/women do you like?
Never Coming Home, Sting [Ah, yes. This is true. The ones who run away.]

What is my day going to be like?
Love At First Sight, Kylie Minogue [Hey, I did fall in love today. With my iPod!]

In Which the Derjue Family Saves Christmas

We've all seen those hackneyed Christmas specials in which someone saves Christmas. Ernest Saved Christmas once. So did Elmo.

Today, the Derjue family saved Christmas. For real.

A friend of mine had planned to leave for Las Vegas to celebrate Christmas with her parents on Sunday. Because of the snow, she figured it would be smart to change her flight to Monday evening. As an added bonus, she'd be on the same flight as the rest of her siblings and her niece.

Except JetBlue canceled their flight three hours before it left on Monday, sending the family scrambling to find another flight. Naturally, everything out of Logan was astronomically expensive, sold out, or would get them there well after Christmas. I offered to do everything I could for them. At the time, I figured that would be limited to fielding my friend's profanity-laced emails and text messages.

But when Sam and I got back to my Mom's house last night, my friend asked if I'd be willing to drive her to the airport in Manchester, NH to catch the one flight in all of New England that wouldn't force her niece into white slavery to pay for. I was on my way to Boston to look at apartments (know of a place/sublet? Let me know!) this afternoon, so I saw no reason why my Mom and I couldn't swing by and do a good deed.

I woke up an hour later than I'd hoped, told my Mom the plan, took a fast shower, and hit the road. At first, we knew we were getting my friend. Then her brother was on board. Then her sister, sister-in-law, and niece. All in one big (but not that big) vehicle.

Traffic was fine through Providence and Boston, and we got my friend with ease. Then we got on 93 to pick up our second passenger in Woburn. Our trusty GPS sent us through the cute little downtown area of the city, which was overrun with schoolchildren who'd just been let out and last-minute holiday shoppers. After we picked up her brother, we sat in Burlington Mall traffic. Then we sat in more traffic as we drove to another part of town to pick up the rest of the family at a Logan Express lot.

After an epic struggle, we somehow fit six adults and one preschooler into my grandmother's van.

"Are we going on an adventure?" My friend's sister asked her daughter.

"No," she said. "We're just going on a plane."

My friend commanded me to drive like the wind, which I certainly did. My mother shifted nervously in her seat as I tailgated and weaved in and out of traffic. I wished that I had some sort of flashing light to indicate that I was doing the good work of saving Christmas for an entire family to push the slow cars aside.

Because I used my excellent driving skills and did not allow my poor mother to use a bathroom all morning, we managed to get the family to the airport 40 minutes before their flight left. I just got a message from my friend, saying that they barely made it through bag check, but are safely in Nevada.

I'd have done it for any of my friends, and don't expect anything other than gas money in payment. But if this doesn't put me on the "nice" list, I don't know what will.

Tire Treads in the Snow

As promised, here are the pictures from my commute yesterday. Good times.

Spray-On Pancakes. Really

After my 2-hour epic drive to Rhode Island yesterday (pics to come—sorry to mess with the chronology), my mother and I went to the grocery store to pick up some milk and bread for my grandfather. As we walked through the refrigerator section, I did a double-take.

The store had pancake batter in a can more traditionally used for whipped cream.

My Mom and I had a good chuckle about the product, and decided it was worth trying on a snowy Sunday morning. Even if it did cost $5. But it's organic!

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It works just how you think such a product would. Press on the little white plastic dispenser, et voila. Organic pancake batter on-demand.

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Here was our first pancake. I used too little batter, so it came out looking more like a lace cookie.

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I was a little more liberal on my later flapjacks. And we even had some frozen blueberries to add to the flavor bouquet.

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I went into this experiment fully expecting to eat scrambled eggs for breakfast, but the batter was surprisingly tasty. It had a nice nutty flavor, and no weird chemical aftertaste from whatever magic substance propels the contents of those spray cans.

For single people like me, the spray pancake is a brilliant invention. Whenever I make pancakes for myself, or even for my family when I'm home, the smallest amount of batter Bisquick whips up is way too big. Now even losers who don't have a special someone to make doe-eyes at over Sunday brunch can still enjoy a special breakfast without wasting food.

In closing: Spray pancakes are pasquinade-tested, and pasquinade-approved.

My First City Parking and Snow Experience

I lingered over my Saturday morning bagel even longer than usual today because I dreaded what awaited me when it came time to move Grandmother's Car from its snowy parking place. I'd watched the snow coverage. I'd packed up the KitchenAid to ensure easy Christmas cookie baking. Resigning myself to my fate, I put on my clashing snow pants and big winter jacket and went outside.

Due to my own laziness and stupidity, I hadn't purchased a shovel before the storm hit, so all I had to get myself out from under 10 inches of snow was one of those orange foam Sno-Brooms. Luckily, I'd had the foresight to grab a spot just before a driveway, so nobody could park in front of me. I figured I'd just pull out of the spot instead of getting the snow jammed under my wheels while navigating between two cars.

I pushed the fluffy stuff off the windshield. I got as much off the roof as I could reach. I started the car, then used the Sno-Broom to clear some of the drifted snow away from the wheels. After surveying the scene, I got in the car, removed my gloves, and shifted into drive.

"Come on," I said to the car as I eased on the gas. And without any trouble at all, I was free of my spot.

It couldn't possibly have gone that easy, could it? Is this just dumb luck? How did I get a non-SUV out of ten inches of snow without a shovel? Although I kind of needed one to get out of the Dunkin' Donuts parking lot on my way to the highway. It was eerily reminiscent of the demolition derby pits I have seen.

Once I get my laptop working on the home WiFi, I'll post some pictures of my epic 2-hour drive. It was captivating stuff.

Damn Kids

This weekend, I attended a kid's birthday party in Salem. Despite the dangerous combination of seven-year-olds, drums, and my epic hangover, it was a good time. The party had a rock and roll theme, which was greatly enhanced by a three-year-old boy who vomited profusely all over his mother.

Seriously, it was like something out of The Exorcist. I don't know how a little body could produce so much bile. He went home with his puke-soaked mother, and I helped clean up the remnants before another kid fell in it. (And by help clean it up, I ripped up paper towels for my friend, who was doing that thing mothers do when they don't care how foul something is, they'll clean it if it needs to be done.)

I thought he might have eaten too much. But I later found out that the boy's sisters and mother had recently dealt with the stomach bug. And, lo and behold, I woke up today with stomach cramps. I suffered through a meeting this morning, and broke out in hives toward the end of it. Hives. What the hell kind of virus is this?

As I write this, I'm laying very still on my bed, hoping not to disturb whatever part of my intestines that are causing me so much pain. And reminding myself to get my tubes tied when I go into the hospital from whatever serious medical condition this virulent germ causes me. I have stuff to do, body. Sack up and fight it.

Just When I Was Confident in the Inherent Goodness of Mankind...

Out of the kindness of her heart (or the instability of her mind, depending on how you look at things), my grandmother has loaned me her car while she's out of town for a few months. One of the beautiful things about my area of Somerville is that you need not be a resident to park on the street. This morning happened to be one of the last street cleaning days of the year, so I parked further down the road than normal. I left the car in pristine condition.

But when I trekked down the hill to use it to run a couple of errands this afternoon, a strange sight met my eye. On the side of the car, I saw what I thought was diet Coke remnants splashed on the driver's side doors. Since it's cold out, I didn't think much of it. When I got in the driver's seat, I saw that there was goo on the windshield as well. I turned on the car, and tried to wipe it away with the windshield wipers and fluid.

Turns out, it was probably chicken grease that landed on the vehicle. After one pass of the wipers, I couldn't see a damn thing out the window for all the greasy white streaks on it.

I managed to clear off a small hole to peer through, and cautiously drove around the block to get a spot closer to my place. I went back inside and grabbed my grease-cutting cleaning products, a roll of paper towels, and set to work.

Eventually, I got the crap off the windshield enough where I could complete my errands, but it was still streaky and gross in the middle of the glass where my arms couldn't reach. After I wiped the wipers with some Lysol kitchen cleaner, they stopped spreading the grease and the car is back to normal.

My mood, however, still is not right. You've got to be some kind of asshole to throw chicken grease on a car. It's not trash night, so this can't be blamed on a burst garbage bag. Did some jerk get angry because he didn't get a spot on the correct side of the street for cleaning day, and decided to take it out on the car with out-of-state plates?

Whoever it was who fucked with my car, I hope he or she enjoyed themselves. I hope they delighted in watching the chicken grease roll down the doors. I hope they laughed and laughed at the idea of an unemployed woman heading out to run a few errands in her nearly 80-year-old grandmother's car, which was loaned to her out of the goodness of someone's heart, and instead finding it messed up not even 24 hours after it arrived in the city.

They'd better hope I don't find them. Or else I'm going to sic my grandmother and grandfather on them when they get back in a few months. Trust me, they'd rather have me or the cops coming for them than my outspoken French grandmother or stoic German grandfather.

Failing that: I hope he or she dies in a fire.

D.C. or Bust

If you're not willing to sleep on someone's sofa, then you clearly don't want to attend the inauguration of Barack Obama as badly as you claim. Today's Globe is filled with stories about the scads of blue-state Bostonians who want to be in D.C. for the big day, but may settle for a Hub-based party.

My motto? No sleep till Washington.

There's no reason not to head to the nation's capital for this historic event. Amtrak links Boston and D.C., so you need not even fly. And it's not like you'll need a place to sleep.

Here's what you do: Get to Washington on Monday night. Head to one of the bars or raging house parties that will doubtlessly be going until all hours of Tuesday morning. Grab a cup of coffee and stake out a place along the motorcade route early on January 20 and enjoy the spectacle. Hit another party that night, and catch some sleep on the first train back to Boston on Wednesday morning.

Sure, it makes for an exhausting couple of days. But with the terror attacks in India and an economy that refuses to stop sinking, it won't be anything like the sleepless nights that await President Obama.

The Derjue-Turner Disadvantage

For single people in their twenties, Thanksgiving Eve is the time when they go out to their local townie bar with the few people they've remained in touch with during high school and get drunk. The thought occurred to me last night as I was emailing my former colleague, Joe Keohane, last night.

I was sitting in my Mom's house on Thanksgiving Eve, alone. Stone-cold sober. The people I still talk to from high school were out of town, and I feared to brave the dive bar alone. The only person lamer than me was Keohane, who was emailing while on vacation.

"Do a post about who's worse off, you or Chuck [Turner]," Keohane suggested. Hmm. The embattled Boston City Councilor and I both had a pretty tough week. It seems like a worthwhile experiment as I rest my stomach between Thanksgiving meals.

• Chuck Turner has the FBI meddling in his affairs.
• I had to deal with the less than cheerful staff at the Unemployment Insurance TeleClaim Center. Did everyone get laid off two days before the holiday? Because I was on the phone for an hour.

Disadvantage: Turner

• Chuck Turner spent the day before Thanksgiving handing out meals at a Goodwill in Roxbury with City Council President Maureen Feeney, who's looking to oust him. Awkward.
  
• I spent my day before Thanksgiving explaining to a classmate from high school that I'd just lost my job. At least Tom Brady and Gisele Bundchen were bringing sexy to Goodwill.

Disadvantage: Derjue

• Chuck Turner was caught with his fly down. Literally.
• ::Checks zipper:: I'm good to go!

Disadvantage: Turner

• Chuck Turner is viewed as a raving lunatic, except by his army of sign-toting supporters.
• Nobody has come forward to say as much about me.

Disadvantage: Turner

• Chuck Turner still has a job.
• Me? Not so much. (Email's on the sidebar!)

Disadvantage: Derjue

So there we have it. In a squeaker, Chuck Turner has had a worse week than I have. While I may not have an income for the time being, at least I didn't have to pony up a $50,000 bond. Just another thing to be grateful for on this day of thanks.

Giving Thanks. Yes, Really.

Well. That happened.

I'd like to thank everyone for the kind emails, calls, text messages, and riotous comments left on Boston Daily. I haven't responded to everyone yet, but know that I really appreciate it.

And yes, I'm fine. Really. That's not to say this doesn't suck mightily, nor that I'm not really disappointed. But I can't be angry with my colleagues over at BoMag. They took a big gamble in giving a girl with a writing degree and a Blogger account a job with a major city magazine. That kind of thing usually only happens in movies or chick lit novels. I think it worked out better than they thought it would. As I've been writing for the past year and a half, the media business is horrible right now, and I'm the one they chose to let go. That's baseball.

It's funny how losing a job is like a breakup. I'm in Rhode Island for the holiday, and I went out to get some last-minute Thanksgiving fixings by myself. I must have heard that Leona Lewis song that says "It'll all get better with time" about four times. And it will.

I also heard the song "Amy." You know, the one with the chorus that says "Amy, what you wanna do?" That one, I'm not so sure about. I'm thinking about it, obviously. I'd love to keep writing and snarking for my pay, for sure.

But I can't freak out over how that will happen this weekend. I'm going to drown my unemployment sorrows in turkey and wine, enjoy the one holiday I'll have with my paternal grandparents this season, and start making some calls on Monday.

But, since this is Thanksgiving, let's run down the list of things I'm thankful for. Obviously, the first item from last year's list will be a little different.

• I'm thankful that Boston gave me the opportunity to work for them.
• I'm thankful for the nice blogging on the part of Adams Gaffin and Reilly, and Paul Flannery.
  
• I'm thankful for all the great people I met while I worked at BoMag.
• I'm thankful for my excellent friends and family who have offered me their couches, their booze, and their efforts to get me a new gig ASAP.
• I'm thankful for the family I babysit for, who've already offered me my a room if I need it. And it's a bigger room than the last time they housed my broke ass!
  
• I'm thankful that I'm healthy.
• I'm thankful the election worked out the way I wanted it to.
• I'm thankful as always to my vices of coffee and alcohol.
• I'm thankful that Tina Fey is working.
• I'm thankful that I finally found a pair of skinny jeans that doesn't make my butt look weird. Now I can wear boots AND pants at the same time!
• I'm thankful for Facebook. Seriously, I have a problem.
• I'm thankful in advance for the person who gives me my next job.
  

Until I get a new gig, you'll find me back here, at long-neglected pasquinade. It's all the snark you loved (or hated) at Boston Daily, but with more first-person profanity and interaction in the comments. Hopefully I'll spruce this place up a little bit in the coming days. And if you'd like to feed me, buy me some booze, or give me a job (hey, it's either shameless self-promotion or the bread lines), hit me up at the email in the sidebar.

Stranded in Singleville

I've recently become sick of being single. Usually, I can deal with it, especially when I watch couples who clearly hate each other bicker on the street. I have been that couple; I do not wish to do it again. But lately, the couples who are all schmoopy and hold hands and do things together in Red Sox hats on Sunday afternoons are resonating with me.

So, I've been trying to put myself out there. I'm casually seeing someone, but I'm not sure if it will work, so I'm trying to make an effort to be open to new people. I'm smiling back at men on the train. And last night, I decided to chat up a dude who'd been ogling me at the bar.

He was cute—maybe in his late 30s, with glasses and a touch of gray in his hair. Things started out well enough. He was asked about what I do, talked about his job in marketing, and chatted a little with my friends.

Then, the ass-grabbing began. And apparently, when I left to hit the ladies, he described himself as "a prick" to my friends. He used the fishing dance move only semi-ironically. He was bombed. The situation was fast deteriorating, so I started to ignore him.

"You're mad," he said, his breath reeking of gin. "You're ignoring me."

Um, yes. I am ignoring you. Which I might not have done had you not fondled my butt two seconds after we started talking. I might have given you the benefit if you didn't advertise your douchebagginess to my friends, then backed up your claim by not once offering to buy any of us a drink. And I was 100 percent confident in my choice when I looked back and saw you feeling up yet another girl once you caught the hint that I was not going to go home with you.

"There are a lot of jerks out there," my mother told me this afternoon. And my ass is apparently their catnip.

Recollections of Election Night

I didn't get to experience CNN calling the election for Barack Obama first-hand. Some friends and I had just left the Sonia Chang-Diaz celebration at the Alchemist Lounge (read the work blog here) to head to the MassEquality party at Club Cafe. We were fervently hailing a cab on South Huntington when a huge, boisterous cheer went up inside the bar.

Just then, a cab pulled up. As we piled in, we heard the muted voices of NPR, and asked our driver if Obama had won.

"Yes," he said. My friends cheered, and our Ethiopian cabbie joined in.

As we sped through the South End, the NPR broadcast continued, with several cheers audible from the studio. As one of my friends, who volunteered for Obama during the primaries, called her parents and cried happily, I thought about what we'd just experienced.

When I was a kid, I was told that anyone could become president, even a person of color or a woman. But it always seemed remote and impossible, like hovercrafts or the idea most people would one day own cellular phones.

Last night, I saw a man be elected not because of the color of his skin, but in spite of it. There was plenty of ugly race baiting throughout this nearly two-year campaign, but most Americans didn't fall for it. Instead, they voted because they think this awkward-looking guy will be the one to pull the country out of its many problems.

I've never experienced the mind-blowing elation that many Obama supporters exhibit, largely because I'm the hard-hearted cynical type that the president-elect railed against in his speech last night. But I hope that he can make good on the promises he's made to help the little people and make the presidency something other than the world's punchline.

A Weekend of Autumnal Fun

As much as I hate what fall means (the precious few hours of daylight; six months of trudging through snow), I do love fall weekends. Yesterday, I took the kids I babysit to Salem for the day. It's a much different experience when you have the under-12 set with you. There are many trips back to the car for supplies. Making sure everyone has used the bathroom that needs to. And walking the fine line between boring and terrifying.

After taking in the pumpkin festival on Salem Common, I took my charges to see Cry Innocent, a neat mock witch trial. I figured it would give the kids some history, but wouldn't scare the crap out of the baby like the Witch Museum would have.

The actors presented their testimony, and then asked the audience if they had any questions. Eldest raised her hand, squirming she was so eager to be heard. After a guy in a Darth Vader costume had questioned the witch, Eldest got to say her piece.

"How come everybody believes these people? All the things they're talking about happened at night while they were asleep. Maybe they were just dreaming." She said it in a tone that screamed What the hell is wrong with you people? which caused the room erupted in applause, and eldest sat back in her seat, face bright red, but smiling.

At the end of the play, she said to me, "These people are crazy." Ah, history.

Today I spent the day cooking and cleaning. At long last, I trudged to the laundromat and washed my comforter cover. I swear that when I wash this thing, the colors become way more vibrant. I need to be more diligent in this regard.

I finally made some pumpkin bread, and also some roasted butternut squash with blue cheese and pecans. It's been weeks since I last ate a vegetable, so I shoveled the bright orange goodness down at a fast pace. Now I'm working on the chicken and rosemary I made. Healthy!

And on Friday night, I was on NECN again for the ever-popular NewsQuiz. Jim Braude wasn't there, but Chet Curtis made a fine substitute. Here are the clips. (And if you haven't seen me in a while, yes, my hair is very short. I love it, because I am too lazy to style it when it's long.)





So that's what's up with me. How are things with you? Oh, and Go Sox!

Oh Hai

Wow. Two months fly by, eh?

I know it's been a while since I posted, and for that I apologize. Boston Daily is keeping me pretty busy, and when I get home I'm usually not tempted to fire up Blogger and lay forth some more.

But life goes on, even if I don't blog it. I still have zits. I'm still in dire financial straits. Still single. You know, the same shit that's been happening since I started blogging a few years back.

Here's an anecdote for you. The other day, I was heading out to Brookline to babysit after work. I'm sitting on the train, reading my book, when a woman gets on a Coolidge Corner with a gigantic Trader Joe's bag she half-parks on my lap. I glare at her, but she only slightly shifted it off me. Then she opens a plastic bag and the strong smell of chocolate comes out.

And she starts to eat ice cream. And, hey, I understand the power of a craving for chocolate ice cream. But she was eating it with a soup spoon, and it was kind of melty.

Sluuuuurp. Slurp. Sip. SLUUUUURP.

It's not like she was eating anything stinky or repulsive, but it was a disturbing sound to hear while commuting. I thought it was just me, but the people sitting around the ice cream slurper were also shooting daggers at her.

So, commuters, do us a favor. Don't eat ice cream while riding.

I Can't See the Destiny You Sold

I was making the rounds last night, and I started chatting up this cute Northwestern guy. He was considerably older than me (late 30s? early 40s?) but was cute in a slightly paunchy silver-haired way. I checked his hands—no ring.

The silver fox was visiting from out of town, and asked me if I knew of any restaurants. I figured he'd want some company, but played it cool. Then, it happened.

"I can't be out too late tonight," he said. "My wife will be mad if I come home exhausted."

What is it with guys who don't wear a wedding band? Not only is it disappointing for me, but after I find out I've been digging on a guy with a Mrs. at home, I feel like a whore. I believe that married men should have some kind of identifying mark on them at all times. It's hard enough being single without getting into fights with a wife we didn't know existed.

The Trouble With Social Networking

In these days of Facebook and MySpace, it's hard to get excited for a high school reunion.

Last night, I logged on to Facebook and found that I'd been invited to join a group for my high school graduating class. We're coming up on our ten year reunion (?!) and one of my super-organized classmates wants to get a head start on gathering information and planning the event.

The whole fun of a high school reunion is "catching up," which is a euphemism for "finding out who got fat." But when I check the group page for my reunion, there are the slightly aged faces of the people with whom I spent my hate-filled adolescence. If they don't have private profiles, I can read all about where they're working and what their kids look like. What's the point of losing five pounds and hiring a male escort finding a date now?

Don't get me wrong—I'm still going. It just would have been more fun to show up skinnier and less miserable without people already knowing that's what's happened to me in the past decade.

We're Not Little Children, And We Know What We Want

Sometimes, I wish I could have a birthday likes the ones I had when I was a kid.

You know, the parties where there was a Slip-n-Slide and a cake with a unicorn on it off of which your little brother had already stolen a smidge of frosting when your mother wasn't looking. Waterballoon fights, noisemakers, all of the fun without any of the self-doubt.

Not that I didn't have a good birthday weekend. A and S came down to Rhode Island for a day at the beach. It was perfect on Saturday, aside from the surf that was so strong the lifeguards were dashing into the waves every few minutes to save someone who'd gotten sucked out on a rip current. Then we went out in Newport, where actual straight men checked us out.

Which would have been fine, but my partying spirit had left me shortly after our delicious dinner. Just hours away from officially entering my late 20s, it hit me. Late 20s.

For a woman in her late 20s, I'm kind of a fuck-up.

Yes, I have a good job. But I've also got more debt than some third world countries. I've got more acne than I did when I was a teenager. I'm so chronically single, even my great grandbaby-hungry grandmother has stopped nagging me about bringing a man home to meet the family. While I never had a detailed plan for my life as a kid, I figured I'd have my shit a little more together by 27.

But at least I have good peeps, a good job, and beer to get me by until I pull myself together.