So it's officially the holiday season now, eh? A and I were cruising the aisles of Target last night, cooing like dorks over the cute wrapping paper and Christmas cards. With yesterday's snow, I'm giving myself a pass on the early holiday excitement. But I wanted to take some time to ruminate on what I'm thankful for this year.
My job. My job my job my job my job my job. My job. My awesome job.
The people I babysit for. Had they not taken me in, I would have moved home to Rhode Island after ditching the rat-infested basement studio.
My family.
My friends. Without them, I would have even less faith in humanity than I do now.
My apartment. I love it. I hope I don't have to leave until I'm able to pay for a place with an actual bedroom.
Pumpkin beer.
Hot coffee.
My Mom's health.
America's Next Top Model.
Gossip Girl. XOXO.
MIKE LOWELL!!
24-hour Christmas Story marathons.
Pizza.
My iPod.
Zipcar. (I can use it again!)
My Mom's mashed potatoes.
Free laundry all weekend.
The fact that, as broke as I am, I don't need to worry about where my next meal will come from.
I hope you all have a wonderful holiday full of food and safe travels.
You should have to ride the T with your fans, sir.
Question: What's worse than your rush-hour commute on the T?
Answer: Riding a Green Line train full of Dane Cook fans. If I'd remembered he was playing the Garden last night, I would have taken the bus home from Brookline. Between them and the two college-aged hippies drinking gin out of Poland Springs bottles, I've pretty much decided I'm not having children.
I feel kind of awkward when I blog here now. I'm like that grandkid who never comes to visit—it just feels awkward when I show up. But I've been doing some really good stuff on the work blog, as have my internet-savvy cohorts. It's all the snark you've loved here, but with less first-person narrative.
Of course, I can't write about all the news items of note at Boston Daily, so I figured I'd give you a little taste of the things I've read that have made it onto my radar screen lately.
The one thing that had me muttering "Oh, GROSS" and scaring the interns this morning was this item. [via Jezebel]
Everyday thousands of people come to Disneyland to make life long memories. Apparently, some of those people want those memories to last forever, as in an eternity.
Scattering someone's ashes at Disneyland is strictly prohibited. But apparently that doesn't mean some people aren't trying. . . .
"Well it's been going on for awhile, it started sporadically with the Haunted Mansion and lately because of the spectral nature of the 'Pirates of the Caribbean' films, there's been this been this connection between people and that," Al Lutz said.
I've never been to Disneyland, but I've been to Disney World. And it is the last place I would want as my final resting place. To anyone over the age of 20, it is downright creepy. The entire experience is so carefully manufactured and happy happy happy that instead of having fun, I feel like I've walked in to the Stepford Wives on LSD. Also, for fuck's sake. Kids dip their hands in that water, lady. Find a Mickey-shaped shrub for Aunt Mert if you must leave her in the Magic Kingdom.
And John McCain started a small kerfuffle, laughing after one of his supporters asked "How do we beat the bitch?"
The camera is right up in his face, so he clearly thought he was going to get away without some flack for going along with the joke. A quick "that's disrespectful" would have done him a world of good. But McCain isn't looking to impress female voters, so he probably appealed to a lot of his supporters with his reaction.
Last week, I got a call from my grandmother while I was at work. My initial reaction was panic that someone had taken ill or died with her business-like tone. Turns out, she was calling to give me marching orders.
"Your aunt is coming home for Christmas," she said. "We're busy before Christmas, but after we want to come up to Boston for a day. Maybe your other aunt will come too. We can make it a girls night."
So I am in charge of finding a show or exhibit for my grandmother and aunts. While this sounds like a lame day, I am actually afraid it will lead to a criminal record. The women in my family like to party, and I fear after a few drinks they'll be accosting every single guy in the bar for me or my single aunt. Or my grandmother, for that matter. So if I end up in the papers, it's all their fault.
On a similar note, please remind me that drinking several girlie drinks leads only to headache, stomachache, and woe. Thank you.
A few weeks ago, I got extensions put in my hair for work. The salon that did it didn't have a location within range of the T, so I relied on my trusty Zipcar membership to get me there.
That's where it all went wrong.
The nearest Zipcars to my office are in the basement garage of a hotel. I hate getting cars out of this location-- you have to go into the hotel lobby and validate a parking ticket to get out, and the automated arm is hard to activate. The garage itself is hard to navigate as well. It's tight, and the Zipcars are located in a far corner that requires a lot of finagling to get in and out.
That day, I'd reserved a car that was parked next to a pole and a wall. It had been backed in by the last person who used it, and the space was so small I had to climb in the passenger door to get in. I got out of the garage, and hoped one of the other cars would have left its space when I got back.
No such luck. I got back to the garage and was faced with the narrow spot. My appointment at the salon had taken longer than I anticipated, and I was focused on getting back to work. As I pulled into the spot, I heard a crunch.
I'd hit the back passenger door against the pole.
I looked in the rearview mirror, and saw I was wedged against the pole. I tried to back the car away, but it continued to damage the car. Figuring I was already on the hook for what I'd done, I pulled the car into the spot with another squeal.
The back door was covered with yellow paint, and a four-inch gash was under some yellow flecks. Being the chronically honest person I am, I called Zipcar to tell them I'd messed up the car.
"Well, we'll put a hold on your account until we decide if we'll charge you the $500 deductible," the operator told me.
After a week, I got an untitled email (geez, guys way to make it easy for my spam filter to delete it) saying I'd be charged the deductible.
"Fuuuuck," I said.
It's going on my credit card, which is the last thing I needed. I can barely afford my apartment, and I've been very good about not charging things and putting what I can toward paying them off. Now I've got another huge chunk to rack up interest.
Another issue is that I want to get these extensions out of my hair, which I can't do until Zipcar reactivates my account, which may not even happen if they decide I'm too much of a risk. So if anybody's going my way, let me know. And if you want to organize a fundraiser for me, I'd be grateful.
Last month, I went to see my friend's band play a show at the Middle East. I'm one of those women who don't fancy themselves as easily attracted to musicians, but when I'm presented with a guy who I wouldn't normally pick out of a crowd on a stage playing an instrument I am totally smitten. One of those men was playing bass with my friend's band.
I'm of the age when I have to do the compulsory wedding band check. Much to my chagrin, I saw what was clearly a wedding band glinting on the bassist's left hand. Dammit, I thought to myself, and tried to assure myself that one of these days I'm going to meet a guy I'm attracted to who isn't married or in a relationship. I enjoyed the rest of the set, and went to talk to my friend when he was done clearing the stage.
The bassist was hanging around, so we were introduced. We chatted for a while, drank some PBR, and enjoyed the next band. I didn't get the married vibe from the boy, but that band kept catching my eye. He didn't mention a "we" or a "my girlfriend/my wife," so I didn't know what to think. I left the bar, figuring I'd run into him again.
Which I did earlier this week at another show. He wasn't playing bass for the band, but he was in the audience. We started talking again, and I noticed something strange.
The wedding band had moved to his right hand. He had a nomadic wedding band.
Gentlemen, it makes it difficult on us single ladies if you wear rings that travel between the "don't flirt with this guy lest his wife shiv you" and the "I just like silver bands" fingers. Pick a hand and go with it. I gave him the benefit of the doubt-- maybe he didn't want bookish writers hitting on him at gigs, so he wears the band to weed them out. But if he were single, wouldn't he want to meet cute girls at shows? My mind reeled.
I asked questions that could have led him to say that he had a girlfriend, but he didn't mention a significant other with a propensity for knives, so I dropped my number. He didn't seem scandalized by the move, but he hasn't called me either. Hey, at least I have a new story for the dating archives.
(But cute bassist, I'm around this weekend. Call me!)
I feel like I do people a service with my job. I write about fund raisers, keep tabs on local politicians, and provide general amusement.
Yeah, I was wrong. A friend of mine from high school is in Uganda, running a school for teenage mothers who were abducted and raped by Ugandan rebels. Read up on what she's been doing in the Providence Journal. Good for you, Sonya.
Long-time readers of this blog know I like it warm. I enjoy a day at the beach, sunning my pasty flesh to various shades of red that I fully expect to regret in my later years when I walk around like Nelly because I've had cancer spots frozen off my face. But I also enjoy seasons. After all, without cold, we cannot know warmth.
So any time the weather wants to cool down, I'm ready for it.
Come on, Ma Nature. It was cute a couple of weeks ago when I went apple picking and didn't need to wear a coat. It's kind of nice to have it warm because I can't afford a whole new fall wardrobe, so being able to wear my t-shirts for a while longer is nice. But it's dark before 8 p.m. and leaves are scuttling across the ground while I'm padding around in my flip-flops.
October baseball is all about the chill in the air, dramatic photographs of an athlete's breath hovering. The Sox aren't even wearing their red turtlenecks for the most part. One does not think of earth-shattering end-of-the-world baseball when it's sweltering hot out.
And my flannel sheets are on my bed. I want to pull the covers over me without needing to chug water when I wake up because I sweat so much.
Halloween should be cold for full effect.
Leaf peepers should be able to enjoy a hot cider after peeping all day.
Fall in New England is cold, Nature. So hop to it. But if you could warm it back up, I'd appreciate it.
"Never has it been clearer how detached President Bush is from the priorities of the American people," Reid said in a statement. "By vetoing a bipartisan bill to renew the successful Children's Health Insurance Program, President Bush is denying health care to millions of low-income kids in America."
Due to your aversion to pinko commie state-run healthcare, there will be a bunch of sick kids running around who can't afford the health insurance your buddies priced out of the reach of their parents.
I like pirates. I do not like pirates as much as I like stealthy ninjas, but pirates use the word "plunder" liberally. I enjoy talking about booty. (Booty!) I used to enjoy today's holiday, Talk Like a Pirate Day, the celebration of the pirate vocabulary and cadence.
But now? I think it's just too commercial.
Talk Like a Pirate Day got its start in 1995, way before blogs blew every annoying trend out of proportion and we relied on Dave Barry to operate in that capacity. In 2002, Barry wrote about the Cap'n Slappy an' Ol' Chumbucket and their holiday. It caught on, and it was fun to talk about my friends' booty. More than I already did.
But just like Christmas, things got out of hand. Now the creators of TLaPD are cashing in on their success. They've released books. You can download ringtones. At some point today, your mom has called you to ask how you "Arrrr," then cracked up.
Next thing you know, there will be a touching cartoon special about how the lessons of Talk Like a Pirate Day should be honored all year long. We should always pronounce our Rs, which is an especially important lesson for Boston. We should always eat citrus to avoid being called scurvy dogs. It's all too much.
I just want to be left alone to honor Talk Like a Pirate Day without ringtones, books, or costumes. It's what my pirate forefathers would want.
Oh hello, readers. How are you? I've been remiss in writing here, I know. But I spend most of my days blogging on Boston Daily, so if you're looking for me, that's where I am. I'd write here more, but I don't have much else going on. I get up, write stuff, then go home. Right now I've got some time, so I figured I'd drop in and give you some random thoughts.
Update: Jesus Sing-A-Long Knock on wood, all's been quite on the neighbor front. A friend of mine pointed out to me this weekend that it was Rosh Hashanah last week, and maybe they were celebrating. But I think there was a Jesus or two in the songs, so it's probably not a Jewish thing. Whatever, at least it's quiet now.
In other frustrating apartment news, I motivated myself to go to the laundromat before the approximately eight hours of The Biggest Loser comes on, but when I attempted to leave my building, I saw that the pull handle on the lock was stuck in the out position. I tried to wiggle it, but it didn't move. I pulled on the door, and found I was locked in my building. Of course, the on-call maintenance guy said he can't fix the lock until tomorrow. Instead of risking being locked out, I'm just going to stink until I get to a laundromat next weekend.
Britney Spears Okay, her performance at the VMAs was awful. But I would kill a puppy to be "fat" like Britney Spears is "fat." If I ever have a daughter, she's not going to see a TV or read a newspaper until she's in college.
Britney Spears is not fucking fat. Not to get all weepy about it.
Casinos I feel like I'm always up in arms about this. A casino is not a cure-all. While Massachusetts can probably handle mega-casinos better than the already densely populated Ocean State, I personally still don't like them.
Former Sen. Lincoln Chafee said he has left the Republican Party because the national GOP has drifted too far from him on critical issues, including the war in Iraq, the economy and the environment.
"It's not my party anymore," Chafee, who represented Rhode Island from 1999 until 2007, told The Providence Journal in an article published Saturday.
Awesome.
This is terrifying There really are two Americas, folks. Here is a book on why women should wait to have sex until they're married. (Guess what? It involves "Satan's Big Fat Sex Lie." And the horrifying idea that one's parents should be brought into one's sex life.) Where is the edition that encourages men to wait?
I was a little tired when I got home tonight and felt like nesting. I baked some lovely pumpkin bread and called my brother to see how he likes his new job. As I spoke to the family, I heard a loud booming bass sound coming through the walls.
On Labor Day weekend, a couple move into the previously vacant apartment next door to me, and when I saw them moving in I heard one person playing a banjo through their open front door. I slammed my door to let them know I didn't enjoy loud music at all hours, and so far they've only had small jam sessions. This new noise was loud, with a woman singing a kind of folk song.
I got up to check on my bread, and heard the music more clearly through the kitchen, and thought I was hearing a Negro spiritual or something. There was a loud guitar and what sounded like a group of people singing. I figured they had their stereo up loud and decided to let it ride until 9.
At 9:15, I'd eaten a considerable amount of pumpkin bread and the music was still clearly audible through my walls. Sick of being passive-aggressive, I went next door and pounded on the neighbor's door.
As I stood waiting for someone to answer my loud and impatient knock, I heard more clearly what was happening. At least four people were in the neighbor's apartment singing a song about Jesus. Loudly. I waited for a while, but I was chilling in my hallways in my gross pajamas and decided to go back inside since the Lord apparently does not care about pissed off neighbors banging on the door.
Of course, once I sat back down to watch History Detectives somebody opened the door. After a minute, I heard doors opening and closing and the music stopped. I don't know if another neighbor complained or if some of the band had to go home. Someone is still singing, but I think once I turn on my fan for some white noise I can ignore them. But while Jesus may love them, I am going to be mightily angry if this keeps up. I'm going to go look for apartments in a fallout shelter now.
EDIT: Just as I pressed publish, someone broke out a harmonica. Oh hell no.
Seriously? Are we still making jokes about Hillary Clinton being a man-hating bitch? Really?
The Hillary Nutcracker, which sells for $19.95, is quickly becoming the most Hill-arious joke of the campaign trail.
The 8-inch plastic figure captures Sen. Clinton in all her walnut-crunching glory, with steel-lined legs (“stainlesssteel thighs!”) that can pulverize even the hardest shells.
Well, okay then. I'm going to go listen to my Sublime albums and put on my Doc Martens, since it's apparently still the '90s. Maybe I'm overreacting, but until somebody makes a Mitt Romney package of condoms for multiple wives or a John McCain paddle for little jerks I'm going to be kind of sore about this.
Living on a bus line isn't easy. For the past few weeks, I'd gotten in the routine of taking a bus that brings me to the Orange Line and into work, but with the new schedules the T started running this week, I've been taking a bus that brings me the Green Line at Lechmere. While the ride is a little slower, I always get a seat and can space out for a while.
This morning found me getting to work insanely early through some flux of the time-space continuum, so my Green Line train was unusually empty. At Park Street, a man got on the train and sat next to me. He then unfurled his Metro onto my lap, and leaned forward to read.
My purse was on my lap, but it was still annoying to have this guy gazing in the direction of my crotch. I started wiggling my leg to give him the hint that he was in my personal space. No dice. I rolled my eyes and gave a death stare so fierce the male nurse across from me who seemed quite nice was afraid. Nothing.
Instead of just waiting the guy out or talking to him (I was pre-coffee and therefore not verbal at this point) I too leaned forward and started reading his Metro over his shoulder. I got a few paragraphs into a piece about the Patriots before he caught the hint and maneuvered the paper away from me. But by the time I got off the train, the paper had wiggled back onto my thigh.
You know what's nice about a newspaper? You can fold it in half to make it easier to read. It doesn't have to be spread wide open and take up three seats. So keep your papers off my freakin' lap, people, or else I'll whack you with my bag as I get off the train.
My little brother went to Baltimore a month ago with his friends on vacation, and was startled to watch one of Baltimore's hobos picking pigeons up off the street and stuffing them in a bag. Lucky for us, he had a video camera with him and taped the act as it happened. Behold, Pigeon Hobo.
I'm never quite sure if I make a good feminist or not. I rail against pro-lifers, I make sure I vote in every election, and I believe that women should be equal to men. Ellen Goodman's editorial in the Globe has me questioning the voracity of my feminism on a Friday before a long weekend because I liked a movie I saw this summer. This couldn't have waited until Tuesday?
Goodman's editorial doesn't seem to have a big point, but I think she's perturbed by the reinforcement of gender stereotypes at the movies and in bookstores this summer.
The remarkable thing is that the best-selling book [The Dangerous Book for Boys] and the number-one movie [Knocked Up and/or Superbad] are out there offering the most opposite and fanciful revised images of boyness since the culture became obsessed with the "boy crisis," the "boy trouble," and assorted imaginary "wars against boys."
I didn't have an entirely positive reaction to The Dangerous Book for Boys, either. A friend emailed me after seeing the book on the Today show, recommending I buy it for a boy I babysit. After reading the synopsis, I got a little angry. Why shouldn't the boy's sisters learn how to tie knots or make paper airplanes? If the authors had titled the book The Dangerous Book for Kids, I probably would have bought it, but the entire book implies that these hobbies are for boys exclusively. The idea that girls shouldn't like Latin or want to know about important historical battles put me off enough where I bought the boy a different gift.
But my take on Judd Apatow's movies is the opposite of Goodman's. I haven't seen Superbad yet, but feminist blogs like Jezebel loved the movie. I did see Knocked Up, and I liked it. Was the movie vulgar? Of course it was. Yet underneath the veneer of vulgarity there is emotion that saves the movie from being There's Something About Mary. Seth Rogen's character tries (albeit in a misguided way) to impress Katherine Heigl's young professional character. Rogen's character also promises to be a part of the child's life, and changes from a stoner to a corporate sellout to provide for the baby. Aww.
The moral messiness of Apatow's male characters is what I like about his movies. Women's comedies have hapless women like Bridget Jones who spend the majority of their waking hours jumping through hoops to attract and keep a man. In their own foolish way, Apatow's geeky high schoolers and stoner layabouts are going through the same thing, but they use booze for underage girls instead of makeup and heels to do it.
I may not agree with Goodman on frat boy comedies, but she and I can team up to torch a crate of The Great Big Glorious Book for Girls when that shipment comes in. Stage faints and "fairy flower parties"? Fuck that. If you need me, I'll be teaching little girls how to hog-tie their younger siblings.
I am not a very athletic person. Yes, I work out regularly, but I do that to keep my ass from growing to the size where it will knock over the Pru. But when it comes to activities that require coordination or grace, I am not very good.
I thought I could handle some boogie boarding at the beach on Sunday. Annette and Amy P. came down to the fine state of Rhode Island to partake in the glory that is Narragansett Town Beach. After hearing that the surf would be two to four feet high, I grabbed the boogie boards from my Mom's basement. We got to the beach and watched as the surf pounded the shore.
"Awesome," Annette said, shedding her clothes to head for the water.
Amy and I took the boards out first. Annette stood by and coached Amy in how to use the boards as I tried to get the hang of mine again. The last time I used the boards was at least three years ago when I brought the kids down for a beach day, and I'd gotten rusty. When I finally caught a wave, I rode it but tipped my nose down, shooting a heavy spray of salt water into my sinuses. Undeterred, I took the board back out into the growing surf.
A wave came at me that I thought I could handle, but I noticed I'd kind of timed it wrong. Instead of just bobbing over the crest of the wave, I paddled for it. I caught the wave and soared toward the beach. On my high-speed journey to land, I rolled or tipped the board and threw myself into the crashing foam.
I couldn't find which direction was up for a few seconds, until-- SMACK. My right cheekbone hit the sandy bottom of the ocean. I held my breath until I could get my feet below me again and stood up in the relatively shallow water.
Amy and Annette laughed at me until they saw how freaked out I was. "Am I okay? Did I lose any teeth?" I asked them. (In my defense, I'm without health insurance right now, so I was making sure I wasn't looking at a huge dental bill.)
"No, you've got all your teeth," Annette said. "And a fat lip."
"And you're probably going to have a shiner on your face too."
Shaken, I brought my board back to our towels and then slowly waded back into the crashing surf. Between waves I stuck my head into the cool water to keep the swelling down. As you can see, it didn't help too much. Hawtt.
I sat around, thinking of excuses for the huge shiner I figured would bloom on my face at any moment.
"I just wouldn't listen," I suggested.
"Fucking sharks, man," Annette added.
"There's the classic 'what do you mean what's wrong with my face?' line," Amy P. said.
Luckily, I haven't needed to formulate any excuses. My face looked much better on Sunday night. Beach hair and a semi-shiner. Why am I single?
Nobody's noticed my injury unless I've pointed it out to them, which negates all the cool excuses my friends and I developed. So I am pointing it out here to warn you that if you are thrown from any board to put your arms over your head to protect your face. That way, you won't have to explain how you got that bruise on your face and spraying liquid all over your bathroom because you lip is still kind of swollen.
At work today we had some hamburgers and beer for lunch. After the employees feasted on the delicious meaty and/or veggie burgers, we found ourselves with eleven leftover burgers.
"What do we do with these burgers?" asked one coworker.
"Maybe bring them to the post office?" Someone else replied.
"It would be nice if the Pine Street in were near here." Someone added.
Determined to unload the burgers on hungry people who could appreciate them and not unload them into a garbage can, my coworker Feifer and I decided to leave the office and try to peddle nine (a couple people took burgers on our way out) burgers on the public at large.
"Free burgers!"
As we stepped out of the office, a crowd of four people stopped as we announced our free burgers. They were initially suspicious of a couple of giggly people with an unmarked sack of hamburgers, but hunger won out.
"I haven't eaten breakfast yet," one of the women told us as she grabbed a burger.
We walked down Mass Ave., calling for people to liberate our burgers. One tourist came out of one of the Christian Science Center buildings and told us in broken English that she was on her way to buy a burger anyway, and thanked us. A man in a Yankees hat turned us down, but smiled and said, "You guys are nice."
After a while, we were down to one burger. "This is going to be hard," Feifer said, "because if you come up to me with a collection of something I like and offer it to me, I'll probably accept it. But if you said 'Do you want this particular item?', I probably wouldn't take it."
It turned out he was right, and despite our loud calls to the tourists around us, we returned to our office with one lonely hamburger in a big plastic bag. Luckily, one of our coworkers took it and all the hamburgers found a loving stomach today.
