Whatever Parody You Like

I don't know much about the artist, but I know I love T.I.'s music. Especially the song he did with Rihanna. I can't explain my deep love for her, but it's undeniable and true.

But perhaps the best song of T.I.'s is "Whatever You Like." Not only is it catchy on its own, but it has inspired several parodies that you should see. Like, right now.

Daily Intel links to Alphacat, who performs the song as Barack Obama.



"My country can get whatever it wants." Brilliant.

Then there's the highest form of compliment a musician can receive—a Weird Al parody. While it's no "White and Nerdy," I hope Mr. Yankovic decides to make a video for this clip, which is the first he ever distributed online as a single and not part of a full album.



He's a super-geek and old enough to be my father. But I'd totally hit that.

Here are some adorable children in Atlanta rapping that they can vote however they like. This isn't so much parody as it is antifreeze for my cold, cynical heart.



Aww.

I hope those kids didn't Google their performance and land on this clip.



It's totally inappropriate for the young folks, but the line "Late night sex so wet and so tight/ is probably something I won't be getting but I'm gonna do it right" should be eligible for a Grammy.

So thank you, T.I., for creating a song that appeals to school children, undergrads, and those performers who stand to make a buck of the election of our next president.

Ray-Ray Goes Bye-Bye

There's something surprising in this Herald story about Rachael Ray's recent Boston book signing. And I'm not talking about the revelation that Ray isn't as sickeningly perky behind the scenes as she is before an audience.

Still signing, the 40-year-old celebrity chef dismissed a question about favorite recipes - “I have no favorite foods” - one about her now-defunct Dunkin’ Donuts gig - “I am no longer associated with Dunkin’ Donuts. But I still drink coffee”[.]

Since Ray's been driving me insane since she started shilling for the Canton-based chain, I'm not sad to see her go. But I recall her contract running until 2010.

Maybe some of you entertainment legal eagles can fill me in on the nuances of endorsement deals. Is the 2010 date cited in the E! article like a baseball contract, and the last two years could have been her option years?

Or am I right in thinking that Dunks got tired of us questioning her dedication to its brand and exercised its Starbucks-drinking clause and gave her the boot? I guess I shouldn't question this good fortune, but I'm curious. If you know the reason, let me know.

Notice to Gawker: Clark Rockefeller Was Awesome the Whole Time

It seems that Gawker has had some trouble with Boston-based stories this week. Adam Gaffin at Universal Hub noticed that a law firm that the site thought was a fake is actually real. Now I'm all riled up because the New York-based site just realized the Clark Rockefeller case is fascinating because Vanity Fair wrote about it.

Hey, Gawker? Rockefeller has been intriguing since the days when those dying newspapers were covering him.

When I was with my previous employer (sob), my colleage Francis Storrs and I were blogging about this mystery man from the time he was nabbed in Baltimore with his daughter. We had a peg because he'd lived in Boston with her and tried to paint himself as a Brahmin. You had a peg because he claimed to be a member of the famous New York family. But you only have two posts (including today's) about him.

I know it was an election year, but surely you could have found some time this summer to write about the Rockefeller who turned out to be just a German immigrant?

Also, the my very awesome former colleague (sniffle) wrote a story on Rockefeller's time in Boston in last month's issue of Boston magazine, so Vanity Fair is a little late to the magazine profile party. I'll take this as further proof that Boston is better than New York and will move on.

License to Booze

Aside from giving us the greatest undercover video still since Plunder Dome, the investigation into Dianne Wilkerson also revealed what restaurateurs have known for years—that the process of getting a liquor license in Boston is harder to figure out than a Rubik's Cube. And much like those jerks who claim to have solved the puzzle but really just peeled the stickers off, most people who succeed are cheating.

Erm, excuse me. Have hired a law firm that has an astonishing success rate with the Boston Licensing Board. Which is just further proof that the system is in serious need of an overhaul.

The Boston Municipal Research Bureau, a business-funded city watchdog, says liquor licenses should be handed out by the city with more oversight.

"Why not give the city the authority to manage it?" bureau president Samuel R. Tyler said.

Here's what the city should do—hire me as Liquor Czarina. I'll allow any booze-serving hopeful the chance to obtain a license. I will judge these purveyors of drunkenness on the same criteria as the lawyers at McDermott, Quilty & Miller, but I'll be working for the city and judging everyone equally.

And each establishment will have to bring a signature drink to me to make sure they're properly serving customers. I have a taste for everything from Narragansett Beer to delicious designer cocktails, so I'll make sure every cheap beer is served cold and in a can, and that the balance between mixer and liquor is appropriate. Everyone (especially me) wins!

The Seal Station

I had my television tuned to WHDH as I was preparing to leave the house for trivia night. I use the station as a kind of background noise, really only paying attention when the weather comes on.

As I zipped up my boots around 4:30, the inanity of one particular story started to creep into my consciousness. (I preface this with the disclaimer that I wasn't paying complete attention to the item, and that the clip won't load on my computer for some reason, so some of the details may be a little off.) I started paying attention when I noticed Channel 7 had decided to trot out the breathless "JUST ONE STATION" logo.

For a story about a seal on a beach.

It would have been one thing if the story was a quick 30-second item that none of Channel 7's competitors elected not to pick up. But it just. kept. going.

There were interviews with eyewitnesses, who essentially told Byron Barnett that the seal rolled one way, then rolled back the other way. Children were delighted. Then Barnett chased the animal's rescuers down the beach as they carried the seal off the sand for observation. One made a snippy remark about how all the attention made it hard to save the animal, but Barnett wouldn't let their disdain keep him from the 4:30 show's big story.

I appreciate the cuteness of marine life as much as the next person, but the world has bigger problems than a little seal who couldn't manage to get himself off the beach. Unless we're using this as a metaphor for the continuing erosion of capitalism as we know it. Somehow, I doubt that was the intention.

Pat Purcell Gets Into the Townie Paper Business (Again)

It seems that Matt Amorello and I would do well to become friends with Rupert Murdoch. While the former Turnpike Authority chairman and I are still unemployed, Herald owner and publisher Pat Purcell has gotten a second job from the Aussie media mogul. Purcell will be responsible for Ottaway Newspapers, Inc., which has several townie papers in Massachusetts.

Purcell will keep his gig at the Herald, and the tabloid's report indicates that Ottaway and the Herald may work together in the future. (Is that a new hyperlocal online experiment to counter the one made by Boston.com I smell cooking?) There's no talk of any layoffs or restructuring right now, so I hope my journalistic brethren at the local Ottaway papers will fare well.

I can see why Dow Jones (the parent company of Ottaway), gave Purcell the job. He's got loads of experience with community papers. Granted, it wasn't all good experience, but maybe he learned from his mistakes.

Give a Damn About Financing Your Education

When I was applying to colleges in the late 1990s, it seemed like the world was my oyster. Bill Clinton was president, and we were still living in a dot-com bubble. Credit flowed freely, and the nation's biggest problem was where Clinton stored his cigars. Everything seemed limitless.

Fast-forward through nearly a decade of George W. Bush, risky investments, and my first-ever unemployment stint, and I have to say that you college-aged kids out there shouldn't worry about attending a school that isn't your first choice.

As a spendthrift by nature, I didn't worry too much about going into debt for college. My mother warned me that it was a lot of money to pay back when I graduated, but it didn't bother me. The economy was great—surely the rising tide would lift the boat of even the most poor writers, and I'd manage.

I did attend a state school for a year (thanks again for losing my financial aid paperwork, Emerson!), and I hated it. I loathed seeing everyone I ever knew in high school. The writing program at URI was horrible. I knew I wasn't going to get the education I needed there, so I transferred to Emerson my sophomore year.

I don't regret my decision to attend Emerson, largely because Sallie Mae has yet to develop the technology to repossess the education and experience I got there if I can't make the payments. But if I could have seen the financial landscape that awaited me in my late 20s, I might have chosen the University of Maine or another institution far enough away from home, but with a more affordable program.

So don't worry, young folks. If you've got the talent and the ambition to do something with your life, it doesn't matter if your degree says Harvard College or the University of Massachusetts, especially as you enter college during a recession. Just work your ass off where ever you end up, and it'll be just fine.

Unless, of course, things get worse. In which case, we can burn our degrees for warmth.

The Economic Downturn Hits Matt Amorello

Dear Matt Amorello,

Dude. I feel ya.

Today's Herald reports that your estranged wife and a judge say you need to get a job. Your Missus reports that you haven't brought home a paycheck since May. You're deep in credit card debt. You might even lose your Wenham home. So now you're under a court order to apply for 15 jobs a week.

Are there even 15 jobs to be filled in the Boston area? We have been in a recession since December 2007, after all.

But Matt, I know you've been trying. You joined Facebook last month to start networking with old contacts. It's hard for any Republican in Massachusetts to get a gig right now, nevermind one with a history like yours. It may come down to the accepting the position the Herald's designers helpfully suggest—slinging fries at a fast food joint. (Though I'm thinking I'd take a job at Dunkin' Donuts first. I'm afraid I'd scald myself with burning oil at McDonald's.)

Keep fighting the good fight, Matt. I'll see you on the bread lines.

Best,
Amy Derjue

Red Sox Fandom Springs Eternal

According to this year's Turnkey (mmm, turkey) Team Brand Index, the Green Bay Packers have the most rabid fan base of any pro football, baseball, hockey, or basketball franchise in America. Our beloved Red Sox came in second.

While I'm not doubting the amount of passion an adult must feel to be willing to wear a block of styrofoam cheese on his or her head, this doesn't seem quite right. Let's review the methodology.

The online survey measured such things as team popularity, fan loyalty and assessments of owners. It asked participants about their perceptions of teams — How entertaining it is to attend games? Is the organization’s appreciation of fans genuine? Does the team have likable players?

I'm guessing the company didn't ask fans whether or not they had the opportunity to be buried in a coffin bearing their favorite team's logo, because otherwise the Red Sox would have ranked higher.

In yet another disclaimer-free Red Sox culture story, the Globe reports that the MLB has allowed a coffin company to use the Red Sox logo (and other MLB team logos) on its products. Green Bay Packers fans have to spiff up their own coffins, since Google doesn't turn up any companies that have the right to use an NFL franchise's logo on its urns.

To me, the fact that the MLB allowed this proves that Red Sox Nation is clearly more passionate about its team than are Packers fans. Although I choose not to dwell too long on the fact that the same company that makes the Sox coffins also makes caskets for Trekkies and urns for cat ashes. We're enthusiastic—not socially awkward fanatics like nerds and cat ladies. Right?!

The Economy Changes Its Facebook Status to 'In a Recession'

Well shoot. Looks like I am fortunate that I kept my job as long as I did.

The U.S. economy has been in a recession since December 2007, the National Bureau of Economic Research said Monday.

Man. Time flies when you're in the midst of a recession, doesn't it?

Emerson Still Hates Club Kids

While I may have graduated from Emerson College five years ago, I'm glad to see that some things haven't changed.

"Well, we're complaining about assholes blocking the street, getting drunk and [getting] in fights," said junior theatre studies major Brian Tweedy as he stood in front of the Gypsy Bar's doorway. "[Emerson] should give us somewhere that's convenient to smoke."

The entitlement of the Emerson community remains intact. As does its ingrained disdain for the clubs that occupy that space. Back in my day, my classmates and I would openly scoff at the eurotrash club kids who'd line up outside Pravda on weekend nights. But we also didn't smoke in front of their doorway. That's what the Little Building entrance is for.

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.

Rhode Island Treasurer Caprio Woos Massachusetts Shoppers

Greetings from the state of Rhode Island! Since I've spent the past few days camped out at my mother's house, I've been watching our local news. Amid the stories of the latest record-setting blood alcohol content (kudos for not dying, dude!) is this interesting item.

Rumored gubernatorial hopeful and current Rhode Island State Treasurer Frank Caprio has installed billboards near the border of Massachusetts telling Bay Staters to spend, spend, spend on clothes in the Ocean State, since there is no sales tax on clothing here. He's even spent some of his campaign funds to create a website, which features a video of the too-tan Caprio giving potential out-of-state visitors the hard sell.

But Caprio is really reaching with this. Massachusetts doesn't have a sales tax on clothes for the first $175. After that, the Bay State only taxes on the amount over $175. So if you spend $300 on some astoundingly expensive specialty item, you pay only $6.25 in tax. Unless you live in Attleboro or drive a hybrid, you'll spend more on gas to get here than you'd save.

Also: Why aren't Rhode Islanders really angry that their treasurer is using this opportunity to raise some extra money to better his political career? Rhode Island is facing a budget deficit of at least $357 million in FY2009, and perhaps as much as $486 million for FY2010. Legislators on Smith Hill are preaching the same breathless rhetoric about needing new revenue as their cohorts on Beacon Hill. Why not start taxing luxury items in the Ocean State to make a few extra bucks instead of cutting services for those who can't afford a mink coat?

Caprio will argue that Rhode Island will collect the various meal and lodging taxes from shoppers who come to enjoy a break from the tyranny of Taxachusetts. But maybe he should stop playing governor and start acting like a treasurer. Most Rhode Island voters will be happy to watch the state get some revenue from those who aren't as white-knuckled as they are during this economic meltdown.

Ethics, Schmetics

In an attempt to wipe the tarnish off its reputation, the Legislature has several competing plans to improve the ethical behavior of its members. Some ideas, like six-year term limits for the position of House Speaker, seem wise. Others, like ethics training every two years, are a complete waste of time.

(Can't you just imagine the retro film strip now? It will be titled "Ethics and you!" And just like the classrooms of yore, nobody would care.)

But none of the plans seem to address the major issue that's kept people like House Majority Leader John Rogers in place, even in the face of serious allegations.

There's no one agency or person who's responsible for investigating and prosecuting all the ethical violators on Beacon Hill.

Secretary of State Bill Galvin keeps track of the lobbyists, but does not have the power to compel them to talk. That's the responsibility of the Attorney General. Martha Coakley has asked a grand jury to look into the dealings of Cognos "strategist" and friend of Sal DiMasi, Richard Vitale. Galvin has also asked her to investigate the work Joe Lally did for the software giant.

For campaign finance violations, the Office of Campaign and Political Finance investigates and refers any criminal activity to the Attorney General. The FBI apparently keeps tabs on those who would use their position to help secure a liquor license. All this inter-agency volleying seems like it would lead to a lot of dropped balls. Perhaps we need one agency to keep tabs on all the players on Beacon Hill, be they lobbyists, friends of politicians with business before the Legislature, or just a good old-fashioned crooked salon?

I'm sure Gov. Deval Patrick's 12-member ethics task force will figure it out at one of their closed-door meetings.

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.

More NewsQuiz Goodness

I need a haircut. But they still let me on the TV!



Round two:



And the final question:

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.

Civic Doodie

Everyone from Brian Williams to your Mom has told you to get out and vote. If you'd indulge me for a moment, I'd like to add my voice to the chorus. Vote. I don't care what or whom you vote for, as long as it's not yes on Question 1. Because that shit is crazy.

Now if you need me, I'm going to finish watching SNL's pre-election show, go to bed, and crawl into a bottle of tequila until we've got a new president. But, hey, free coffee!

Denis Leary Is An Assh*le About Autism

When I get pleas to donate to my alma mater, Emerson College, my typical reaction is a deep guffaw and a profanity-laden tirade about how they'll get a donation from me once my student loan balances dip below five figures. I hate to be deny my artsy brethren, but a girl's got to eat.

That was the reaction I had when I got a fundraising letter from Denis Leary, a fellow Emerson alum. But some other recipients are angry that the college tapped Leary to ask for money because he's since made some controversial remarks about autism.

Let's all calm down a little, please.

In his forthcoming book, "Why We Suck: A Feel Good Guide to Staying Fat, Loud, Lazy and Stupid," Leary, in a chapter titled "Autism Schmautism," wrote: "There is a huge boom in autism right now because inattentive mothers and competitive dads want an explanation for why their [expletive] kids can't compete academically, so they throw money into the happy laps of shrinks."

People. It's Denis Leary. The guy who wrote a song about how proud he is to be an asshole. It's probably best to take this with a grain of salt.

As an alum, I'm more upset that my college continues to cultivate a relationship with a man who got his career started by flagrantly plagiarizing Bill Hicks. In fact, has anyone checked to see if Hicks made any comments about autism before his death? Because odds are, Leary stole this from him too.

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.

Pond Day

Yesterday evening, I went to see the family I babysit for. They'd just come back from Europe, and I still had their car keys from when I'd dropped them off at the airport a few weeks ago. The kids' sweat-soaked mother opened the door and collected the keys. As we chatted, Baby (who is now four, which makes me feel older than a redwood tree) appeared on the stairs and repeated my name like a mantra until I looked up at her.

"I went to farm camp today," she announced proudly. Her older siblings had both attended this day camp, and she'd been excited to finally go for months.

"And tomorrow is pond day," she added.

"What's pond day?" I asked.

"We're gonna catch frogs and butterflies in nets," she explained.

In that moment, I was intensely jealous of a 4-year-old. The weather this week is beautiful, despite the sweltering heat. While I love my job, I miss summers spent outside, riding bikes and foraging for slimy creatures in swamps and lakes. Baby spent her day dripping sweat and picking strands of slime off her fingers. I spent my day sitting at my desk, drinking several cups of lukewarm office coffee, stopping only to venture to the gym to ward off obesity and arthritis as best I can.

I thought being a grown-up would be more fun than this.

God Bless America

On the Fourth of July, some friends and I made our way to the Mass Ave bridge to check out the show. Despite hating Rascal Flatts with a deep passion, I wanted to enjoy the pyrotechnics.

My friends and I got a spot along the railing that separates the road from the sidewalk because we arrived around 8 p.m. We waved at an adorable baby in front of us, who squirmed in the arms of his Indian parents.

As the bridge got more crowded, people tried to encroach on the space we'd staked out. Stragglers stood on a small concrete ledge directly in front of us, and we asked them to move. Tourists plopped half their bodies on our blanket. Eventually, I spread out like it was a game of Twister to maintain our line of sight.

As the Pops performance began, two kids who looked like they might be 20-years-old climbed over the concrete ledge in front of us, and stopped directly in front of the Indian family in front of us. The baby's grandfather tugged on their shirts and indicated they should get out of the way, but the kids just shrugged and ignored him.

Sick of people's bad behavior, my friend and I started yelling at the kids, explaining the basic rule that if they'd wanted to be in front, they should have showed up before the show began. They rolled their eyes at us, as my other friend hid her eyes to disassociate herself from the two harpies.

When I looked back again, a large man who'd been sitting in a lawn chair at the front of the bridge stood up. He towered above the two punkasses who'd been arguing with us, and weighed easily 300 pounds. He bellowed at the kids, who continued to try to negotiate and stand in front of the crowd. The big man gesticulated wildly, pointing to indicate that the kids should get off the bridge, pronto, and started bumping them forward with his sizable belly.

As the two kids finally scampered off, the crowd erupted into cheers. A woman stood up, faced the crowd, and screamed "That's my man!" as he took his seat again, completely calm about the affair.

That inspired my sense of patriotism more than any crappy Rascal Flatts song ever could.

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.

Random

This video is hilarious.



Don't ever change, you old dog.

***

Despite my efforts to consume as much free iced coffee as possible, I am still a zombie today. I went to bed an hour after American Idol ended. What gives?

***

I think that Amy Winehouse's "Rehab" may be the best song ever. It's been a year since I bought Back to Black and I still listen to the song when it comes up on my iPod.

Speaking of iPods, I am going to do my best to resist the temptation to buy either an iPod Touch or iPod Classic when I check out the grand opening of the Boylston Street store tonight. Now that my computer is updated, I am tempted to update everything else. Must. Resist. . .

***

My landlord didn't raise my rent this year, so I don't have to move. Praise Jeebus.

***

Dear Democrats,

More of this.

KThnxbai,
Amy

***

Seriously. Why isn't this coffee working? Maybe I need more.

Bumper Bus

Since I've lived in my mercifully rat-free apartment in Somerville, the buses I take have had several close calls with erratic drivers. Horns blared, brakes squealed, and a bunch of commuters stumbled forward a few steps. I marveled at the talents of my bus drivers, who not only navigate tight corners in the unwieldy vehicles, but tolerate the assorted crazies who show up.

However, my accident-free bus streak has come to an end. As my bus poked its way toward a fork in the road, a cab suddenly swerved in front of it. I waited for the squeal of brakes and the stumbling commuters, but we came to a surprisingly gentle stop. Then the cabbie got out of his car and the bus driver put the bus into park.

"You've got to be kidding me," someone piped up behind me.

"You swerved right in front of me!" The driver yelled in his heavy Boston accent.

"I was right here!" The cabbie replied.

"No you weren't! You cut in front of me! Learn how to drive!"

The cabbie gave our driver such a death stare that I was absolutely sure he would either bust out a gun and start firing or come on board and issue a beatdown. My fears weren't assuaged by the bus driver throwing open the doors and looking at the right corner of the bus, which was nestled against the cab.

"I've got you on camera!" The driver shouted, pointing to the security camera in the front window. The cabbie looked nervous. "Pull up there and park," the driver hissed.

He closed the doors and went through the intersection. "Let me tell you how this is gonna work. I have to stay here until my supervisor shows up, so we stop here. The next bus will come up behind us." Midway through his explanation, passengers started heading for the exits. Some handed him their names and phone numbers to corroborate his story.

A kid who'd been standing at a pizza place nearby surveyed the scene as I walked by.

"He cut off the bus. What a cunt."

Indeed.

Adventures in Playoff Hockey

I spent the entire day on Saturday walking around the city. Annette and I did some shopping and just reveled in the fact that we didn't need heavy coats to tolerate being outside. After walking over to the Hynes Convention Center, we walked back to North Station to take in the Bruins game.

We ended up at Porter's and grabbed a seat at the bar to watch the Bruins on one screen and the Red Sox on the other. At first, hardcore hockey fans had a few pre-game beers but the crowd thinned out as it got closer to the puck drop.

As we ate our food, the Bruins fell behind and an older guy sat down next to me. He was dressed in a Red Sox windbreaker, and loudly ordered a beer from the distracted bartender.

"Do you girls need a drink?" He asked us. "You need a drink. Get these girls a drink," he said, slapping his money down on the bar. We thanked him and turned back to our food.

"I just left the Red Sox game," he explained, slurring his words as he sipped his beer. "I was freezing my ass off. Now I have to find my car. It's somewhere over here."

We nodded, watching the Bruins' futile attempts at scoring.

"The Bruins are going to win this game," he slurred, patting my arm.

I was just about to chastise him for jinxing it, but then the black and gold did score. The bar went nuts, largely for the benefit of the Channel 7 cameras that were filming for the 11 o'clock news. He gave Annette and I high-fives.

"You girls like to party. I can tell," he slurred. "If you want to do a shot, go ahead. It's on me."

Annette is getting over the death flu and I wasn't in the mood to be rip-roaring drunk with a bunch of volatile hockey fans, so we turned down his offer. He chatted with us about his jobs and the steak he'd had for lunch, while repeating his offer for drinks.

After the Canadiens scored shortly after the Bruins broke ahead, the mood in the bar darkened. But our new pal declared the Bruins were going to win.

As soon as he said it, they did it.

Shortly after what proved to be the game-winner, our drunk old guy left the bar. I hope he didn't find his car for the safety of himself and others, but I do wish we'd seen him when we were watching Game 7.

Say Hello to My Little Friend

I bought my last computer in 2001. Shortly after the 9/11 attacks, I figured life was too short to limit myself to the iMac I bought off my high school English teacher before I left for college. Also, having a portable computer made it easier to use Emerson's bandwidth to download mp3s.

But over the past few years, my baby wasn't as sharp as it used to be. All videos played in a Max Headroom-like manner. I had to upload pictures from my new digital camera at work because iPhoto couldn't handle the files. iTunes became a pain in the ass to run on the slow memory.

Finally, a few weekends ago I lost it. I was trying to get some work done on a Saturday, and my laptop couldn't even handle loading Boston.com without being a giant pain in the ass about it. As is my wont when I'm frustrated, I picked the thing up and slammed it on my wobbly IKEA laptop tray and yelled "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"

It was time to say goodbye.

Later that weekend, I came home from a completely unsuccessful day at the Natick Mall Collection and checked out Apple's refurbished items page. Among the still-outrageous MacBook Pros and huge displays, I found a low-end MacBook for a mere $850. It was still too much money for me to spend in my debt-addled state, but it was impossible for me to work from home on my old laptop. That, and I'm a professional blogger. Mama needs to be able to blog while on the road. Justifying it as a tax writeoff for next year, I used the available credit and the remainder of my tax return to pay for my new baby.

Now that I have my new precious, I've realized I was navigating the Autobahn that is the information superhighway in an Edsel. My computer can ably play music while I use Microsoft word. Boston.com loads swimmingly. Gmail and Blogger can keep up with my keystrokes as I type. I can even use the WiFi on my new baby (a few months ago, my old laptop stopped recognizing its AirPort card). That, and there's this new application called Photobooth that allows me to take goofy self-portraits to my heart's content. I bet it will be fun at parties.

I will always have a soft spot for my old laptop. We went through a lot together, from freelance projects to the end of my college career to shitty basement apartments. But I hope my new baby and I have an even better life together.

What's My News IQ?

Yeah, yeah, I suck. I haven't blogged here in approximately eight years. I do hope that you guys are checking out Boston Daily. Writing all day long has forced me to "hone my craft" (barf, but true) and it's probably funnier than what I wrote here. Also, I am tired after writing all day and don't have much energy or material left for here. I'm not as dedicated as Gov. Patrick and won't write much on nights and weekends.

Another bonus of working for a "real" publication is that the PR people occasionally parade the writers around like show ponies. Last night I took my first spin around the ring on Jim Braude's NewsNight News Quiz. Every Friday, three media-type people answer questions about the week's news for nothing more than bragging rights and free publicity.

I went up against Joe Joyce and Bill Fallon. Both had been and felt pretty confident heading in since I was a newbie and a blogger. Unfortunately for them, they neglected to realize that my job is to obsessively read the news.



Enjoy. Hopefully they invite me back soon.

Just a Fool

While I'm exhausted and looking forward to wearing color again tomorrow, I am happy to report I held it together well at the funeral today. Aside from a few sobs during the hymns and after watching my friend's dad kiss his wife's coffin, I was okay. I was able to talk reasonably with my friend and even comfort another friend.

My friend's Mom was a loved lady. Cars stretched far in front and behind us as we drove from the church to the gravesite, and the line of well-wishers at the wake was out the door. While I wish there could be some way for her to have had more time, all any of us can hope for is to be so loved while we're here.

Crying Fool

I wish there were some way I could practice getting better at dealing with death. I guess the only rehearsal any of us gets is imagining what it will be like to live without a loved one while he or she is still here. But that doesn't work for me.

I thought about this on the way to New Hampshire for the wake of one of my best friend's mother. She called me on Saturday morning to tell me her mom had finally lost to the cancer she'd been battling for more than two years. As her voice cracked on the other end of the phone, I immediately started to sob. I got myself together only to immediately lose it again when I called a mutual friend to pass along the news. I was watching something on TV I wanted my mother to see, and cried again when I told her.

Stupidly, I decided to see There Will Be Blood last night, and was trying to finish the Charles Schulz biography I was reading (spoiler: he dies of cancer), leaving me so emotional that I was that person who cries quietly on the train while other passengers look away. I woke up this morning, hoping I could keep it together in front of my friend and her family at the wake.

I was fine until I started looking at the pictures of my friend's parents on their wedding day. They both looked so cute and so young, and it wasn't that long ago they were married. I got it back together until I waved at my friend, who sadly waved back. A friend handed me a tissue as I got close to the casket and I composed myself enough to hug her family and choke out an "I'm sorry."

"Don't cry," my friend warned as I started to lose it again after I let her out of a hug.

I hate being the emotional basketcase when people die. I wish I could just mist up at the appropriate times and save the sobbing for the privacy of my apartment. I want to be able to hug my friend and be strong for her, but I can't manage to do that. Instead, I'll be hiding in the back of the church tomorrow at the funeral. I know the most important thing is that I show up and show my friend I care. I just wish I could accomplish that without sobbing my way through a box of Kleenex.

Eureka!

I've finally learned why I'm broke.

If you're sad and shopping, watch your wallet: A new study shows people's spending judgment goes out the window when they're down, especially if they're a bit self-absorbed.

It's like they know me.

Now to find a way to justify my credit card balances as a legitimate mental problem so I am no longer responsible for paying them off.

Ouch

Um. What the fuck just happened?

Pride Goeth Before Being Triple-Charged

Yesterday, I read all about commuters who couldn't buy their T passes yesterday morning because all the Charlie Card machines were overloaded. I smugly noted that I'd bought my T pass on Thursday night, so I was all set for February. Suckas!

Alas, my smugness has come back to bite me. When I checked my bank account this morning, I found that my T pass charge had posted on Thursday night. But there are two pending charges from the MBTA. One $59 charge is marked as a deposit, and another is marked as an additional withdrawal.

I hope that all works out. I can't even begin to fathom trying to reconcile the two most inefficient entities I deal with on a regular basis—the MBTA and Sovereign Bank.

Hillary Clinton Has a Vagina, As Do I. So What?

Most of my political reflection has been confined to the work blog lately. But one thing that's been bothering me during my endless searching around the internet for Mitt Romney's latest misstep is the idea that women may feel like a traitor to their sex if they don't vote for Hillary Clinton.

Finally, I've found a story about how black women voters are sick of hearing about their internal conflict over who to vote for. CNN ran a story about black women voters who must be so torn about whether to vote along racial or gender lines. The reaction was quick, with one CNN viewer hitting it right on the head.

"Duh, I'm a black woman and here I am at the voting booth. Duh, since I'm illiterate I'll pull down the lever for someone. Hm... Well, he black so I may vote for him... oh wait she a woman I may vote for her... What Ise gon' do? Oh lordy!"

I can't speak for a racially motivated vote, but Hillary Clinton's gender doesn't really matter to me. Yes, as a woman I'm happy to see a viable female candidate. But that doesn't mean she automatically has my vote. I'm still not sure who I want to have the Democratic nomination, but I'm going to decide who to vote for based on their stand on the issues, not by the candidate's genitalia or skin color.

Winter Whining

I have long said that winter should be over after Christmas. No more snow, no more cold, an immediate start to the budding of leaves and the sun setting after 8 p.m. But since it doesn't work that way, I've got a bad case of the winter doldrums. I get up. I go to work. I go to the gym. I go home. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I'd love to go on vacation, but I've got no money. I know George Bush is allegedly going to send me a few hundred bucks, but I should pay off my soul-crushing credit card debt with it instead of flying to some tropical island for a weekend. Or buy a new laptop, since mine is struggling to process my keystrokes fast enough as I write. And I want to buy an XBox so I can buy Rock Band. I played it at a party last night and have determined I must have it. So if Congress could be so kind as to add another 0 on my rebate check, I'd be grateful.

All this has put me into hunker-down mode, trying to save my money. I don't go out much. I try to eat cheap at home. I'm plotting selling my eggs for some quick financial relief. Since I don't think I'm ever going to use them, somebody should be able to utilize my superior genetic material.

At least there's football today, and American Idol is back. I may be single and broke, but Tom Brady and Ryan Seacrest are going to help me through these trying times.

Bedlam at Market Basket

I had no choice. After an afternoon of hunting for a window fan (my old one died and it's so hot in my apartment I sleep with the fan on me-- please direct all criticism to my landlord) and picking up A's new cat, I had to make one last errand: to pick up some food at Market Basket.

On an average Sunday, the Market Basket is insane. Even walking through the parking lot is taxing. Clerks run and try to complete the Sisyphean task of collecting carts as overflowing cars jockey for one of the few vacant spots. Huge families pile out of their rusty SUVs and grab a couple carts and slowly file into the store.

When there's a snowstorm on the way, however, it's a complete madhouse. Carts abandoned so shoppers can grab an item down a jammed aisle. Children stopping abruptly. Old women banged into without apology. During last month's nor'easter, I made the mistake of picking up too many items to use the express lane. After spending half an hour in line as two people in front of me loaded their completely full carts onto the belt, I knew better than to make that mistake again. I may not have everything I need for the week, but I had a delicious taco dinner tonight and have some veggies and whole wheat pasta for tomorrow.

Come and get me, Mother Nature. You can't frighten me more than the people at the Market Basket.

Late-Night Train Travel

Last Friday, my friends and I went out to see Juno. (Cute movie—highly recommended.) Our show got out around 9, so we proceeded to hit the Intermission Tavern for some post-movie drinks. A's boyfriend got out of work around 10:30, but didn't end up at the bar until 11. After ordering some fries and another round, we realized the last train to Oak Grove would be coming by soon. We hastily paid our tab and went around the corner to the Chinatown stop.

It was around midnight when we got to the station, but we saw that the gate was still open. We walked downstairs and found no T employees around. After paying our fare, we saw some other people waiting around for a train.

We stood around in the cold train tunnel. A couple of T cops walked onto the platform, then walked away. A train went by on the opposite track. By the time 1:15 rolled around, we decided if a train didn't come in five minutes, we'd grab a cab.

Just then, a T official came into the station and told us we'd missed the last train. Naturally, we freaked out.

"We've been waiting here for nearly an hour!" my friend M spat at him.

"There's no sign upstairs that says what time the last train arrives," A pointed out.

"And some T cops were just here and didn't say anything," I said as we were herded up escalator to the street.

The T official was patient with us. He explained to us that the T doesn't have the money to staff both the Chinatown and Downtown Crossing stops that late, so he has to shutter the Downtown Crossing stop then drive to Chinatown and close that one up too.

I brought up the T cops who'd come by. "They don't care," the official said bitterly.

He did give us one piece of advice. When the last train gets to Downtown Crossing, it stands by for a little while. So if you think you've missed the last train out, head toward the more northern stops and you might still have a shot. I'm still not pleased that the T doesn't staff one of its sketchiest stops late at night, but I did learn that a cab to Wellington doesn't cost too much from downtown either.

Of Fingers and Neighbors

Oh noes!

So the apartment I live in was damaged by a fire. Thankfully, it was before I moved in (this time). The owners of the building fixed the place up nicely, and in my tiny studio alone there are several fire detecting apparatus. When the fire alarm goes off in one apartment, it goes off in all the apartments in the large building.

I know this very well, because for the second time in a month my neighbor set off the fire detector in the wee hours of the morning by cooking bacon. While I certainly understand a love of fried cured meats in a morning meal, come on, dude. At least today he set it off at 7:15, nearly a full hour later than the time he set it off last month while I was in the shower, mid-hair-sudsing.

Bacon is equally delicious when cooked on paper towels in the microwave, and much less smoky. If you must pan-fry your meats, open a window and keep the smoke to a minimum. Please.

My Globe delivery guy kind of sucks. I think. I can't tell if some hoodlum is filching my paper off my stoop or if he's not stopping at my apartment, but at least once a week I go downstairs to find nary a newspaper in sight. It's infuriating because instead of having an idea of what's going on as I get to work, I have to grab a copy when I get to the office and slog through it once I'm here.

Today was a newspaperless day, so I put in my headphones and spaced out on my commute. As I rode the Green Line, I noticed a guy who was holding the pole had a gnarly fingernail. After I turned away, something occurred to me.

That guy's gnarly fingernail was on a second thumb.

Not wanting to stare but desperate to confirm what I saw, I turned my head back toward the man. Indeed, there was an additional thumb on his hand. It was a short thumb, kind of only like another of the top joint, and looked a lot like a tree branch. The man got off at the next stop, leaving me with the single most strange sighting I've ever had on the MBTA.

Belated Holiday Cheer

Despite my best intentions, I didn't make it to ye olde blog to write up my typical holiday post until after the big daddy of holiday ends. But I hope you'll accept my slightly buzzed and very full tidings of comfort and joy. I know I've been horrible at writing here despite my promises to keep at it, but I do appreciate the five people who still check back here to see what I'm up to.

It was a good Christmas. As always, I went overboard on buying for my Mom and brother, but they seem really happy with their gifts. We got my Mom a GPS, which is helpful since she has no sense of direction and is therefore scared of driving to new places. I got my brother a cool hoodie. In a selfish bent, I got a teeny tiny HD TV for my teeny tiny apartment. I guess I'll have to splurge on actual cable now.

But the best gift I may have gotten this year was a hand-made bowl from my grandfather. It's made from a maple that was just beginning to decay, so it has this amazing marbling on it. I probably won't use it that much, but I'll put it right next to the sewing basket my grandmother made out of a gourd ("In an effort to domesticate you," she explained when I opened that a few years ago). As I watch my family age and wonder what it will be like when they're not around, I love to get these things they made for me, that will outlast the expensive television and sweaters.

That's enough sentimentality for now. I'm off to plan how I'm going to spend the money gifts. (Pay off my credit cards? Whaaa?!)

A very Merry Christmas to you all. And, since I may not get back here before, a very happy new year.

Nor'easters: Better Than Adderall?

Those of you who've been reading Boston Daily (all of you, I hope) know I had tickets to see A Celtic Christmas Sojourn today. Unfortunately, God has smote me and decided to send every manner of precipitation to New England and my Mom couldn't make it up to see the show. Instead of slogging through the mess to see it alone, I hunkered down at home and ate the $50 I spent on the tickets.

Here is what I accomplished today by not leaving my house:

Spent a leisurely morning with coffee and my bagel, though my Sunday Globe was conspicuously absent. Guess my paperman didn't want to deal with the snow either.

Watched Mitt Romney on Meet the Press.

Baked chocolate cherry cookies.

Baked peanut butter cup cookies.

Made risotto.

Did all those dishes.

Loaded Arthur's annual Christmas CD to my iPod.

Paid my bills.

Scrubbed my kitchen sink.

Vacuumed.

Washed the floors.

Cleaned the bathtub and bathroom sink.

Remembered my PIN for the library's website, so I can reserve books online again.

Reserved a bunch of books.

Watched the Pats.

Emailed and chatted with friends.

Packed my bag for tomorrow's epically long day.

Now I'm watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Then I'll probably take a bath, read, and go to bed at a reasonable hour. What an exciting life I lead.

Gorging Myself on Thanks

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.

Question and Answer

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.

Everybody Get Random

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.

Not So Zippy

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.