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.