I just watched Alvin Poissant being interviewed on the local news about the new book he wrote with Bill Cosby, entitled Come On People. Apparently the book deals with problems in the black community such as absentee fathers, low self-esteem, and the devaluation of education.
I have no opinion on the merits of said book, but I do have one suggestion. If you want to talk about the importance of education, you might just want to put a comma somewhere in that title. Because otherwise? Dude. You're just advocating bukkake.
Happy Halloween!
xoxo
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
book review time!
I just finished Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman (not to be confused with Chuck Palahniuk, not one of whose books I have ever been able to finish, and oh yeah, I hate Fight Club the movie too, so there). But back to Mr Klosterman. While some of the lines in the book made me laugh out loud, chortle even, I was somewhat disappointed in the book. Part of it may well be that the back cover lead me to believe the book was about one thing when it was actually about something else. And part of it may be that, for a music critic, Mr Klosterman appears to have, well, suspect taste. But people who know the complete lyrics to "Hotel California" shouldn't throw stones, eh?, and it's really not fair to judge someone's writing negatively because you're kind of thunderstruck that they like KISS and admit it in public.
So I'll say this: even though this book is more about Mr Klosterman's complex relationships with various women than it is his road trip to visit the sites of various famous rock star deaths, anyone who keeps a never-unwrapped CD of The Best of Peter, Paul, and Mary next to used copy of Husker Du's Zen Arcade in the hopes that they'll "slowly fuse into a Pixies' B-side collection" probably deserves your book-buying dollar. Especially since you could whip through this book in three hours if you're stuck in an airport or something.
xoxo
So I'll say this: even though this book is more about Mr Klosterman's complex relationships with various women than it is his road trip to visit the sites of various famous rock star deaths, anyone who keeps a never-unwrapped CD of The Best of Peter, Paul, and Mary next to used copy of Husker Du's Zen Arcade in the hopes that they'll "slowly fuse into a Pixies' B-side collection" probably deserves your book-buying dollar. Especially since you could whip through this book in three hours if you're stuck in an airport or something.
xoxo
Monday, October 29, 2007
rosewater mango martinis & world championships
Yesterday was a lovely day with a little unpleasantness between the bookends of very good stuff.
You know the right side bookend: baseball lurrrrve rewarded. The left side bookend was a party thrown by one of my massage school classmates, a reunion of sorts. A good half of my class showed up. And, as always when I see or speak to a friend from school, I am struck with how very much I miss them all, goddammit. It's kind of funny how much we bonded with each other, unless you realize what our massage school experience was--the same people together in all the same classes for a year and a half, during which we were constantly touching each other.
Now, you don't go to massage school unless you like touching other people. Or, if you do, you don't stay long. A certain tactile predilection is necessary. But there's also somewhat of a necessary predilection for empathy, an awareness of other people's energies, a basic kindness. The vast majority of my classmates have, I guess I'd say, good hearts and they know how to use them. (Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm malevolent, not Mother Theresa. But there's a bad penny in every change jar.) So, for a group of people who were together a lot for a year and a half, there was very little draaaama and much love. I miss 'em, and that's not just the rosewater mango martinis talking, 'cause I'm all sobered up now.
(In a related tangent, a friend who will remain nameless told me the other day that he was thinking of writing to this woman on JDate but hesitated because she was the manager of a massage clinic, until he remembered, oh, yeah, I know Andrea and she's not a New Age fruit loop who lives on wheat grass juice and asks to balance your chakras. Heh.)
The unpleasantness is that, upon arriving home from the party and preparing to watch the end of the game, my dad said something craptastic to me, solely because he was upset I went out two nights in a row. (You can't fucking make this shit up. Oy.) Usually I'm really good with ignoring shitty remarks that people make because of their own issues--if there's one good thing with living through one's offspring's puberty, it's that it'll teach you that skill--but maybe because I'd come home in such a happy mood or maybe because I had the slight buzz going, I let it bother me. It made watching the Sox win slightly less fun than it should have been.
It was still fun, though.
I only wish I'd bought a sofa, eh?
xoxo
You know the right side bookend: baseball lurrrrve rewarded. The left side bookend was a party thrown by one of my massage school classmates, a reunion of sorts. A good half of my class showed up. And, as always when I see or speak to a friend from school, I am struck with how very much I miss them all, goddammit. It's kind of funny how much we bonded with each other, unless you realize what our massage school experience was--the same people together in all the same classes for a year and a half, during which we were constantly touching each other.
Now, you don't go to massage school unless you like touching other people. Or, if you do, you don't stay long. A certain tactile predilection is necessary. But there's also somewhat of a necessary predilection for empathy, an awareness of other people's energies, a basic kindness. The vast majority of my classmates have, I guess I'd say, good hearts and they know how to use them. (Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm malevolent, not Mother Theresa. But there's a bad penny in every change jar.) So, for a group of people who were together a lot for a year and a half, there was very little draaaama and much love. I miss 'em, and that's not just the rosewater mango martinis talking, 'cause I'm all sobered up now.
(In a related tangent, a friend who will remain nameless told me the other day that he was thinking of writing to this woman on JDate but hesitated because she was the manager of a massage clinic, until he remembered, oh, yeah, I know Andrea and she's not a New Age fruit loop who lives on wheat grass juice and asks to balance your chakras. Heh.)
The unpleasantness is that, upon arriving home from the party and preparing to watch the end of the game, my dad said something craptastic to me, solely because he was upset I went out two nights in a row. (You can't fucking make this shit up. Oy.) Usually I'm really good with ignoring shitty remarks that people make because of their own issues--if there's one good thing with living through one's offspring's puberty, it's that it'll teach you that skill--but maybe because I'd come home in such a happy mood or maybe because I had the slight buzz going, I let it bother me. It made watching the Sox win slightly less fun than it should have been.
It was still fun, though.
I only wish I'd bought a sofa, eh?
xoxo
Sunday, October 28, 2007
more baseball luv
Maybe even lurrrrvvvve.
Did you see Dice-K get that hit last night? "Way to help yourself out, Dice-K!" I yelled at the TV. I also told Manny Del Carmen that that stuff on his chin looks like nothing so much as pubic hair, asked Mr Ramirez how his oblique's doing for the first time in a couple weeks, told Tim McCarver to shut up about 6,747 times, and when he wouldn't, mocked 2/3 of what he said, and on commercial break, kept seeing some chick running into a car. All in all, it was a satisfying night of baseball.
The hard pear/apple cider we were drinking didn't hurt, either. Mmmm, cider.
When this is all over and done with, it's going to be such a let-down.
xoxo
Did you see Dice-K get that hit last night? "Way to help yourself out, Dice-K!" I yelled at the TV. I also told Manny Del Carmen that that stuff on his chin looks like nothing so much as pubic hair, asked Mr Ramirez how his oblique's doing for the first time in a couple weeks, told Tim McCarver to shut up about 6,747 times, and when he wouldn't, mocked 2/3 of what he said, and on commercial break, kept seeing some chick running into a car. All in all, it was a satisfying night of baseball.
The hard pear/apple cider we were drinking didn't hurt, either. Mmmm, cider.
When this is all over and done with, it's going to be such a let-down.
xoxo
Saturday, October 27, 2007
cake!
I made a Double Chocolate Gooey Butter cake last night--Paula Deen recipe--and can I just say? Best. Cake. Evah.
Of course, nothing made with two sticks of butter, a package of cream cheese, and 2/3 of a box of powdered sugar can be, by definition, bad. Add in chocolate and, you know. (I'll note that the actual recipe calls for a whole box of sugar, but that's too too even for me.) It's chocolate cheesecake on crack. It's diabetes on a plate. It's an extra three miles.
It's good.
xoxo
Of course, nothing made with two sticks of butter, a package of cream cheese, and 2/3 of a box of powdered sugar can be, by definition, bad. Add in chocolate and, you know. (I'll note that the actual recipe calls for a whole box of sugar, but that's too too even for me.) It's chocolate cheesecake on crack. It's diabetes on a plate. It's an extra three miles.
It's good.
xoxo
Friday, October 26, 2007
here's the thing...
Did you ever notice how you start to pick the speech patterns of people you're around all the time? One of the doctors I've worked with a long time always says "here's the thing..." as he's walking up to tell you something job-related, and I find myself frequently wanting to start out blog entries that way. He also often says, in a completely sardonic way, "People are no damn good!" when somebody screws something up or a patient is late or whatever. I find myself saying that a lot too, often to people who have no idea that it's a joke.
When my son (and his friends) were in high school, they had this way of saying "Are you SERious?" to express perfect and complete scorn and disgust. (It was all in how you pronounced the "serious".) I like to say that one too. But unfortunately, I can't do it as well as they did, 16 year-old boys being all about the scorn and disgust as they are.
And, to prove it doesn't go in all one direction, one of my friends, not so long ago, used the phrase "'n shit" in either a blog reply or an e-mail. I laughed really really hard. Because, y'know, that's a sign you've been hanging around me way too much ('n shit).
xoxo
When my son (and his friends) were in high school, they had this way of saying "Are you SERious?" to express perfect and complete scorn and disgust. (It was all in how you pronounced the "serious".) I like to say that one too. But unfortunately, I can't do it as well as they did, 16 year-old boys being all about the scorn and disgust as they are.
And, to prove it doesn't go in all one direction, one of my friends, not so long ago, used the phrase "'n shit" in either a blog reply or an e-mail. I laughed really really hard. Because, y'know, that's a sign you've been hanging around me way too much ('n shit).
xoxo
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
quiverfull
Have you heard about this? Somehow it's escaped my notice until now, even though apparently there's been some attention to it in the national media over the past two or three years.
Quiverfull is the philosophy espoused by a certain brand of extremely nutty fundamental Christians that one should just have as many children as God fits to "bless" you with, and all forms of birth control (even the natural family planning that even the most old skool of Catholics--and the Pope--are down with) are sinful. This tends to go along with a bunch of related uber-fundie ideas, like women being submissive to their husbands, and homeschooling, and keeping your children away from the outside bad influences inherent in our culture.
I came across this in an online discussion of some Discovery Channel reality shows (really! that's shows, plural! as in more than one!) about people with a dozen or more children, which I have never seen. I gather they're a train wreck of monumental proportions and people watch out of morbid fascination. Tater tot casserole! Babies handed off to their siblings to raise! Dads who found their own basement churches! Neighbors dropping trash bags of old clothes on the porch, which are then descended on by swarms of children looking for something that fits! I have to try to catch at least one of these shows, to see if it's all as bad as the semi-horrified mocking would have me believe. Maybe when I get over my HGTV addiction.
What really astounds me, though, are the number of people posting to these threads who actually know people who are fundie religious whackos. It occurs to me that, living in what I fondly like to call my little blue-state paradise, while I get to meet all kinds of colorful and unusual people, I don't know any religious whackos. All the people I know who actually go to church or temple are nice, moderate, everyday kind of people. They aren't freaked by women wearing pants or cutting their hair, they don't make their four-year-old daughters wear bathing suits that cover them to the ankles, and they don't start their own churches in their garage. So, yeah, I think I'm missing out.
Does anyone want to take up a collection to send me on a field trip to Arkansas, or perhaps Texas? That'd be swell.
xoxo
Quiverfull is the philosophy espoused by a certain brand of extremely nutty fundamental Christians that one should just have as many children as God fits to "bless" you with, and all forms of birth control (even the natural family planning that even the most old skool of Catholics--and the Pope--are down with) are sinful. This tends to go along with a bunch of related uber-fundie ideas, like women being submissive to their husbands, and homeschooling, and keeping your children away from the outside bad influences inherent in our culture.
I came across this in an online discussion of some Discovery Channel reality shows (really! that's shows, plural! as in more than one!) about people with a dozen or more children, which I have never seen. I gather they're a train wreck of monumental proportions and people watch out of morbid fascination. Tater tot casserole! Babies handed off to their siblings to raise! Dads who found their own basement churches! Neighbors dropping trash bags of old clothes on the porch, which are then descended on by swarms of children looking for something that fits! I have to try to catch at least one of these shows, to see if it's all as bad as the semi-horrified mocking would have me believe. Maybe when I get over my HGTV addiction.
What really astounds me, though, are the number of people posting to these threads who actually know people who are fundie religious whackos. It occurs to me that, living in what I fondly like to call my little blue-state paradise, while I get to meet all kinds of colorful and unusual people, I don't know any religious whackos. All the people I know who actually go to church or temple are nice, moderate, everyday kind of people. They aren't freaked by women wearing pants or cutting their hair, they don't make their four-year-old daughters wear bathing suits that cover them to the ankles, and they don't start their own churches in their garage. So, yeah, I think I'm missing out.
Does anyone want to take up a collection to send me on a field trip to Arkansas, or perhaps Texas? That'd be swell.
xoxo
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
that's how I escaped my certain fate
Forgive the tangential title, por favor. I was listening to the Burma CD a kind friend burned for me this afternoon. (Shh! Don't tell the feds on us! [Oh, that joke never gets old.])
So, this is what I wanted to write about this morning but hesitated to. I'm going to try to take all identifying elements from this story, but I suppose if you're a really determined stalker, you could maybe figure them out. I'll take my chances.
My ex is involved in local politics. We don't live in the same city, but close enough that I get to read about his exploits in the paper now and again. He pretty much exemplifies what we all know, or at least strongly suspect, about local politics, namely that the people involved do not get involved out of any overwhelming sense of civic duty, but rather as the chance to feel like a big fish in a small pond or because they like the drama, the draaaama. In my ex's case, he originally became involved because his (ex)girlfriend was running for school commitee or fucking someone on the school commitee (at a time when he thought she was fucking only him) or some such. Believe me, I couldn't keep up with the draaaama, but basically he ran for office for revenge and/or spite. And then found out he liked it.
Fast forward several years, and he's up for reelection once again. I glanced at the front page of the local paper this morning to see an article about how incredibly dirty the race he's in is becoming and how one of his opponents supposedly is running a smear campaign, sending out info about every brush with the law, etc., that my ex has had from [insert year here] to [insert other year here], in an attempt to paint him as less than stable. My blood ran cold, I swear to god, because within the years referenced, our initial separation took place, and yeah, I had taken one restraining order out on him. I couldn't even keep reading because I didn't want to see if it was mentioned.
I didn't even want to know. If it was in the paper, I would feel so violated, seeing my private business from 20 years ago in print like that. I know that sounds retarded coming from a woman who posts ridiculously personal things on the internet. But writing what you choose to in a way that you choose to is far different than feeling raped by some fucking journalist putting stuff in the paper that feels like private family shit.
I get so disgusted about that when I see it in the national arena: dirt about politicians being dug up that doesn't just affect them, but also embarrasses their innocent families. I just never thought I'd have to worry about it in my own life.
xoxo
So, this is what I wanted to write about this morning but hesitated to. I'm going to try to take all identifying elements from this story, but I suppose if you're a really determined stalker, you could maybe figure them out. I'll take my chances.
My ex is involved in local politics. We don't live in the same city, but close enough that I get to read about his exploits in the paper now and again. He pretty much exemplifies what we all know, or at least strongly suspect, about local politics, namely that the people involved do not get involved out of any overwhelming sense of civic duty, but rather as the chance to feel like a big fish in a small pond or because they like the drama, the draaaama. In my ex's case, he originally became involved because his (ex)girlfriend was running for school commitee or fucking someone on the school commitee (at a time when he thought she was fucking only him) or some such. Believe me, I couldn't keep up with the draaaama, but basically he ran for office for revenge and/or spite. And then found out he liked it.
Fast forward several years, and he's up for reelection once again. I glanced at the front page of the local paper this morning to see an article about how incredibly dirty the race he's in is becoming and how one of his opponents supposedly is running a smear campaign, sending out info about every brush with the law, etc., that my ex has had from [insert year here] to [insert other year here], in an attempt to paint him as less than stable. My blood ran cold, I swear to god, because within the years referenced, our initial separation took place, and yeah, I had taken one restraining order out on him. I couldn't even keep reading because I didn't want to see if it was mentioned.
I didn't even want to know. If it was in the paper, I would feel so violated, seeing my private business from 20 years ago in print like that. I know that sounds retarded coming from a woman who posts ridiculously personal things on the internet. But writing what you choose to in a way that you choose to is far different than feeling raped by some fucking journalist putting stuff in the paper that feels like private family shit.
I get so disgusted about that when I see it in the national arena: dirt about politicians being dug up that doesn't just affect them, but also embarrasses their innocent families. I just never thought I'd have to worry about it in my own life.
xoxo
desk update
...if only because the natives get restless when there are too many baseball entries in a row and I'm not yet sure I want to talk about what I really want to talk about today.
Yesterday I washed and sanded and gave my desk its first coat of this: http://www.behr.com/behrx/act/view/products_detail?prodGroupId=29&catName=Faux%2FDecorative+Finishes&catId=18 in 14 carat.
I now have a piece of furniture that looks like C3PO, and it is so cool. I also did not paint the drawers closed (I checked this morning) so I am not as inept with this sort of thing as I'm sure you people suspect I might be. The twenty-odd hours of HGTV that I've watched since I realized I get it on my satellite must have seeped into my subconscious or something.
After I do the second coat I think I'll be better able to tell if I want to decoupage it or whether it looks awesome just the way it is. Stay tuned.
xoxo
Yesterday I washed and sanded and gave my desk its first coat of this: http://www.behr.com/behrx/act/view/products_detail?prodGroupId=29&catName=Faux%2FDecorative+Finishes&catId=18 in 14 carat.
I now have a piece of furniture that looks like C3PO, and it is so cool. I also did not paint the drawers closed (I checked this morning) so I am not as inept with this sort of thing as I'm sure you people suspect I might be. The twenty-odd hours of HGTV that I've watched since I realized I get it on my satellite must have seeped into my subconscious or something.
After I do the second coat I think I'll be better able to tell if I want to decoupage it or whether it looks awesome just the way it is. Stay tuned.
xoxo
Monday, October 22, 2007
today's culturally insensitive moment
I was watching the beginning of the game last night with D--painfully, because watching Dice K pitch is always an adventure in anxiety for me. Some pitchers, you know pretty much immediately whether it's going to be a good game or a bad game for them. With Mr Matsuzaka, however, this can swing wildly from inning to inning. I never fully relax watching him throw, even when he appears to be cruising.
Last night at one point, getting extremely concerned about the direction the swing seemed to be going, I said aloud, "Please, God, let Dice K strike this guy out." On second thought, I amended it.
"No, wait--please, Buddha, let Dice K strike this guy out."
And he did. Thank you, Buddha.
Get with the program! You just have to appeal to the right deity and/or religious figure.
xoxo
Last night at one point, getting extremely concerned about the direction the swing seemed to be going, I said aloud, "Please, God, let Dice K strike this guy out." On second thought, I amended it.
"No, wait--please, Buddha, let Dice K strike this guy out."
And he did. Thank you, Buddha.
Get with the program! You just have to appeal to the right deity and/or religious figure.
xoxo
Sunday, October 21, 2007
necessary public apology
JD Drew, I take back everything I ever said about you. Srsly, man, you are not an overpaid washed-up hick.
Now go out and use the new-found appreciation of the fans wisely, 'k?
xoxo
Now go out and use the new-found appreciation of the fans wisely, 'k?
xoxo
Saturday, October 20, 2007
break out yer teasing comb
After much discussion and a flurry of frantic e-mailing, it's been decided: I'm going to be Amy Winehouse for Halloween. The friend who invited me to this little soiree is going to be The Other Baldwin Brother, and together we're going to be "Hey! I Signed Myself Out of Rehab to Come to This Fookin' Party!"
Actually, I have never heard Ms Winehouse speak, so I have no idea if she has the type of British accent in which "fookin" is a word. I'll have to study up on this. Perhaps whilst applying my temporary tattoos.
The eyeliner's gonna take my full concentration, however.
xoxo
Actually, I have never heard Ms Winehouse speak, so I have no idea if she has the type of British accent in which "fookin" is a word. I'll have to study up on this. Perhaps whilst applying my temporary tattoos.
The eyeliner's gonna take my full concentration, however.
xoxo
Friday, October 19, 2007
PG-whatever
Yesterday Dan was watching American History X (is that the name of it? the movie where Ed Norton plays the skinhead, anyway...that one) on FX. I had never seen it before and I got sucked in unawares, so much so that towards the end of the movie, I was going "Does he get killed? He does, doesn't he? I can see it coming..." And D was just smirking at me. "Watch. Just watch the movie. You'll find out what happens."
(If you've seen it, you'll appreciate that, um, yeah, I did not see what was coming.)
Anyway, what sort of freaked me out was that, seeing as the movie was on basic cable, they dubbed out all the swear words, the way they do. No fucks, no shits, etc. etc. But then they left in all the horrible, nasty racial, religious, and ethnic slurs the characters used, all those words that absolutely no one says in public anymore. The effect was really bizarre. You had dialogue overdubbed so that a neo-nazi's using the ridiculous euphemism "bullspit" while in the next line he's allowed to say "spic" and worse.
I understand that editing out the hate speech would have seriously diluted the power of the movie. But if you're going to leave in words that are going to make viewers cringe, why edit out terms like "bullshit" that aren't going to offend anyone other than maybe somebody's 93 year old spinster Auntie Bertrice? If anyone can explain this to me in a way that makes any sense whatsoever, I will...owe you one.
xoxo
(If you've seen it, you'll appreciate that, um, yeah, I did not see what was coming.)
Anyway, what sort of freaked me out was that, seeing as the movie was on basic cable, they dubbed out all the swear words, the way they do. No fucks, no shits, etc. etc. But then they left in all the horrible, nasty racial, religious, and ethnic slurs the characters used, all those words that absolutely no one says in public anymore. The effect was really bizarre. You had dialogue overdubbed so that a neo-nazi's using the ridiculous euphemism "bullspit" while in the next line he's allowed to say "spic" and worse.
I understand that editing out the hate speech would have seriously diluted the power of the movie. But if you're going to leave in words that are going to make viewers cringe, why edit out terms like "bullshit" that aren't going to offend anyone other than maybe somebody's 93 year old spinster Auntie Bertrice? If anyone can explain this to me in a way that makes any sense whatsoever, I will...owe you one.
xoxo
fair and equitable compensation
So, my big news of the week is, after 2 1/2 months of HR dicking around, my raise has officially gone through. My boss came up to me yesterday, stuck his hand out, grinned and said, "Congratulations! You're now the highest paid [insert my job title here] in the whole Partners system!"
I told him I think that's crap: those people at MGH have a much higher pay scale than those of us working on the, uh, B team. (Which is totally unfair. The pay scales should be standardized throughout the whole of Partners Healthcare.) But, anyway, what I should have said is "As well I should be!"
Because, y'know, I'm working on the whole false modesty thing. Heh.
xoxo
I told him I think that's crap: those people at MGH have a much higher pay scale than those of us working on the, uh, B team. (Which is totally unfair. The pay scales should be standardized throughout the whole of Partners Healthcare.) But, anyway, what I should have said is "As well I should be!"
Because, y'know, I'm working on the whole false modesty thing. Heh.
xoxo
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
it's a good thing
...I've got a kickass immune system, because apparently I'm very stupid, and a person's got to have some superior genetic endowment, don't they?
Why am I very stupid? you ask. Well, let's discuss why HVAC Guy had to replace the motor in my heating system. Remember that story many blogs ago about the grossly dirty air filter in the vent with the "replace every month for best energy efficiency" suggestion on it? Apparently there was one in the basement in the actual heating system too that I had never replaced. Who knew? It was so clogged it made my poor little furnace work too hard.
Live and learn and whip out the friggin check book. I am really pretty embarrassed about my stupidity in this matter, though obviously not so much so that I don't feel compelled to post about it in a public forum.
In a somewhat-related-though-probably-shouldn't-be matter, because HVAC Guy came early and was in and out of here in no time, and I didn't get called into work, I was able to pop out to Home Depot this afternoon to buy some supplies for my desk project. (I have this old desk I'm planning on sanding and painting and maybe decoupaging, because, really, it's impossible for me to make it look worse than it does right now.) I love going to Home Depot, walking around, throwing things into my cart, pretending like I'm Uber-Competent Painter Chick or Carpentry Chick or Plumbing Chick. Obviously (see above) I am in no way any of those persons, but going to Home Depot allows me to indulge my fantasy that I am. Or could be.
xoxo
Why am I very stupid? you ask. Well, let's discuss why HVAC Guy had to replace the motor in my heating system. Remember that story many blogs ago about the grossly dirty air filter in the vent with the "replace every month for best energy efficiency" suggestion on it? Apparently there was one in the basement in the actual heating system too that I had never replaced. Who knew? It was so clogged it made my poor little furnace work too hard.
Live and learn and whip out the friggin check book. I am really pretty embarrassed about my stupidity in this matter, though obviously not so much so that I don't feel compelled to post about it in a public forum.
In a somewhat-related-though-probably-shouldn't-be matter, because HVAC Guy came early and was in and out of here in no time, and I didn't get called into work, I was able to pop out to Home Depot this afternoon to buy some supplies for my desk project. (I have this old desk I'm planning on sanding and painting and maybe decoupaging, because, really, it's impossible for me to make it look worse than it does right now.) I love going to Home Depot, walking around, throwing things into my cart, pretending like I'm Uber-Competent Painter Chick or Carpentry Chick or Plumbing Chick. Obviously (see above) I am in no way any of those persons, but going to Home Depot allows me to indulge my fantasy that I am. Or could be.
xoxo
kickass immune system 1, cold virus 0
Told you I'd be all better by today. My lymphocytes hit better than the Red Sox. But the less said about that, the better.
I'm not even really sad, though, because I know the Rockies are going all the way. Making it to the World Series would just be prolonging the inevitable.
xoxo
I'm not even really sad, though, because I know the Rockies are going all the way. Making it to the World Series would just be prolonging the inevitable.
xoxo
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
oh, look!
More pointless anecdotes!
I got embroiled, to my shame, in an online argument about working parents today. (I think HVAC Guy telling me I need a new motor for the furnace temporarily destroyed my reason or something.) But, anyway, there was a story I wanted to tell in the midst of this argument, which somehow I restrained myself from. You guys get to hear it instead.
When I was in third or fourth grade, my dad would often pick me up from school and take me to the branch library, where we'd pick out books. Then he'd drop me home and go off to work. One of my snotty little classmates said to me one day, "You could go to the library yourself, you know. Your dad doesn't have to take you." And in perhaps my first proud moment of actually having a comeback when I needed it, rather than two hours later, I said, "My dad works 3-11. This is when I get to see him. Do you have a problem with that?" Okay, maybe I didn't say "do you have a problem with that?" but it was implied. She apologized. We later became quite good friends for several years.
The point of this anecdote in relationship to the online argument is that in my experience, people who want to spend time with their kids will, no matter if, when, or how much they work, and people who don't want to, won't.
Also, reading is fundamental.
Also, if you do stuff with your kids, when you're 81 they'll read your mail for you, cook you dinner, and not yell at you terribly often.
See, that wasn't a totally pointless anecdote after all.
xoxo
I got embroiled, to my shame, in an online argument about working parents today. (I think HVAC Guy telling me I need a new motor for the furnace temporarily destroyed my reason or something.) But, anyway, there was a story I wanted to tell in the midst of this argument, which somehow I restrained myself from. You guys get to hear it instead.
When I was in third or fourth grade, my dad would often pick me up from school and take me to the branch library, where we'd pick out books. Then he'd drop me home and go off to work. One of my snotty little classmates said to me one day, "You could go to the library yourself, you know. Your dad doesn't have to take you." And in perhaps my first proud moment of actually having a comeback when I needed it, rather than two hours later, I said, "My dad works 3-11. This is when I get to see him. Do you have a problem with that?" Okay, maybe I didn't say "do you have a problem with that?" but it was implied. She apologized. We later became quite good friends for several years.
The point of this anecdote in relationship to the online argument is that in my experience, people who want to spend time with their kids will, no matter if, when, or how much they work, and people who don't want to, won't.
Also, reading is fundamental.
Also, if you do stuff with your kids, when you're 81 they'll read your mail for you, cook you dinner, and not yell at you terribly often.
See, that wasn't a totally pointless anecdote after all.
xoxo
Monday, October 15, 2007
dogtown and gulu gulu
Yesterday's little hiking adventure took place in Dogtown in Gloucester. (You'll note once again that I made it out of the woods alive. Heh.) Dogtown was once a town or settlement that was abandoned, and though the houses are all long gone, you can supposedly find the old wells and cellars if you are on the right path through the woods. Which is pretty cool if you ask me, but we all know I'm a sucker for that kind of thing, right?
Well, we didn't particularly find those, but we did come across a spattering of boulders that had mottoes inscribed on them (in the '20s, according to my hiking book) like Integrity and Intelligence and Kindness. Why anyone would think that carving random virtues on random rocks in the woods was a fine idea, I don't know, but it was amusing. I should probably do the google and find out more about this. Maybe tomorrow when I'm waiting for HVAC Guy!
Before we went hiking in Dogtown, we went to lunch at the Gulu Gulu Cafe in Salem, which was a very cute place with yummy paninis and well-meaning but hapless servers. Actually, our hapless server implied that it was the substitute cook who was to blame for the interminable wait time, but in any case, our cafe au laits were comped and I wasn't too miffed. I was more miffed at myself for forgetting it's freaking October, i.e., not the time to go into downtown Salem on a nice weekend day.
But seeing as I did, I will give you Andrea's Little Helpful Hint: if you go to downtown Salem on an October weekend, do not pay the exorbitant parking prices they are suckering the tourists with. Park, instead, in the commuter rail parking lot, which is free and also 3/4ths empty on the weekend. No one will check that you are not actually taking a train anywhere.
You're welcome!
xoxo
Well, we didn't particularly find those, but we did come across a spattering of boulders that had mottoes inscribed on them (in the '20s, according to my hiking book) like Integrity and Intelligence and Kindness. Why anyone would think that carving random virtues on random rocks in the woods was a fine idea, I don't know, but it was amusing. I should probably do the google and find out more about this. Maybe tomorrow when I'm waiting for HVAC Guy!
Before we went hiking in Dogtown, we went to lunch at the Gulu Gulu Cafe in Salem, which was a very cute place with yummy paninis and well-meaning but hapless servers. Actually, our hapless server implied that it was the substitute cook who was to blame for the interminable wait time, but in any case, our cafe au laits were comped and I wasn't too miffed. I was more miffed at myself for forgetting it's freaking October, i.e., not the time to go into downtown Salem on a nice weekend day.
But seeing as I did, I will give you Andrea's Little Helpful Hint: if you go to downtown Salem on an October weekend, do not pay the exorbitant parking prices they are suckering the tourists with. Park, instead, in the commuter rail parking lot, which is free and also 3/4ths empty on the weekend. No one will check that you are not actually taking a train anywhere.
You're welcome!
xoxo
my immune system
For two weeks I've been bragging, especially to one particular friend who (to my POV) seems to always have some virus or another, that I have a superior immune system and, thus, I am never actually sick. As long as I stay away from bad lobstah rolls and the like.
So, to spite me for my hubris, the universe saw fit to gift me with a scratchy throat and a slightly runny nose this morning. I am totally convinced, however, that with the help of the vitamin C drops I bought today and the many cups of tea I am drinking, my immune system is going to fight this right off and I'll be just fine in a day or two. Watch!
Also, my HVAC guy is coming tomorrow, at some point (so watch for lots of blogging as I wait around here all damn day!), so I'll have heat if I want it. Though I think a cold house is actually supposed to be better for killing off viruses. You all can correct me if I'm wrong about that.
xoxo
So, to spite me for my hubris, the universe saw fit to gift me with a scratchy throat and a slightly runny nose this morning. I am totally convinced, however, that with the help of the vitamin C drops I bought today and the many cups of tea I am drinking, my immune system is going to fight this right off and I'll be just fine in a day or two. Watch!
Also, my HVAC guy is coming tomorrow, at some point (so watch for lots of blogging as I wait around here all damn day!), so I'll have heat if I want it. Though I think a cold house is actually supposed to be better for killing off viruses. You all can correct me if I'm wrong about that.
xoxo
Saturday, October 13, 2007
it has to be said
I'm sorry.
Eric Gagne? You're still effin' dead to me. You would think when your team is ahead 10 to 3 in the ninth inning, you would be able to watch the end of the game without breaking out into a cold sweat and feeling like you'd been punched in the stomach. But, no.
In closely related news, Fox announcers? Hate. So much hate. I spent a good part of the game muttering "shutupshutupshutup" as the inane chatter, existing solely to keep one second of dead air time from occurring, rolled on. (Why, yes, I do know my remote has a mute button on it. But then what would I bitch about?) I so miss my goofy Remdawg and his jaunty "buenos noches, amigos!" as he explains the intricacies of the SAP function to us all.
xoxo
Eric Gagne? You're still effin' dead to me. You would think when your team is ahead 10 to 3 in the ninth inning, you would be able to watch the end of the game without breaking out into a cold sweat and feeling like you'd been punched in the stomach. But, no.
In closely related news, Fox announcers? Hate. So much hate. I spent a good part of the game muttering "shutupshutupshutup" as the inane chatter, existing solely to keep one second of dead air time from occurring, rolled on. (Why, yes, I do know my remote has a mute button on it. But then what would I bitch about?) I so miss my goofy Remdawg and his jaunty "buenos noches, amigos!" as he explains the intricacies of the SAP function to us all.
xoxo
Friday, October 12, 2007
luxury
I was all geared up to do another baseball post, but when my dad told me that even he is sick of the pervasive Red Sox media coverage, I reconsidered. I thought, instead, that I'd tell you all what I realized today.
I came home from work exhausted, having had my typical Friday, which is to say sucky. Dan asked if I was going to cook. I said, half-laughing, "Well, I'm really tired, but since I wouldn't want you guys to starve to death, I guess so." Immediately my dad (not obeying the 30 minute rule you'll note) chimes in, "Yeah, there's nothing here for me to eat!" Yeah, except for, like, hot dogs, eggs, grilled cheese, frozen pizza, and probably four different kinds of soup, just to mention a few things the cooking-impaired can handle. But I digress.
So D's looking in the freezer making suggestions about what I should start fixing and, as I go over to look too, I hug him and put my head on his shoulder and say, "You know what would be awesome? It'd be awesome to come home from work some day and have dinner waiting for me."
And I realized that it was true. I think of that as the ultimate in luxury: to come home to a delicious hot meal after a long and crappy day at work. I don't think I fully appreciated it back in the day when my mom was alive and I was often the beneficiary of her home cooking. Moral of the story? I dunno. If someone cooked for you tonight, tell them they rock? It'll do.
xoxo
***stir fried shrimp and veggies w/ rice, btw
I came home from work exhausted, having had my typical Friday, which is to say sucky. Dan asked if I was going to cook. I said, half-laughing, "Well, I'm really tired, but since I wouldn't want you guys to starve to death, I guess so." Immediately my dad (not obeying the 30 minute rule you'll note) chimes in, "Yeah, there's nothing here for me to eat!" Yeah, except for, like, hot dogs, eggs, grilled cheese, frozen pizza, and probably four different kinds of soup, just to mention a few things the cooking-impaired can handle. But I digress.
So D's looking in the freezer making suggestions about what I should start fixing and, as I go over to look too, I hug him and put my head on his shoulder and say, "You know what would be awesome? It'd be awesome to come home from work some day and have dinner waiting for me."
And I realized that it was true. I think of that as the ultimate in luxury: to come home to a delicious hot meal after a long and crappy day at work. I don't think I fully appreciated it back in the day when my mom was alive and I was often the beneficiary of her home cooking. Moral of the story? I dunno. If someone cooked for you tonight, tell them they rock? It'll do.
xoxo
***stir fried shrimp and veggies w/ rice, btw
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Bill Murray
I believe I may have mentioned last year, around the time I rented both movies in the same week, that I would do both the young, snarky Bill Murray of Ghostbusters and the old, rumpled Bill Murray of Broken Flowers. Well, I rented The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou this week, and I'd do that version of Bill Murray as well.
I have no idea why. He's just very appealing.
(He is heterosexual, isn't he? He'd be less rumpled if he were gay, right?)
xoxo
I have no idea why. He's just very appealing.
(He is heterosexual, isn't he? He'd be less rumpled if he were gay, right?)
xoxo
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
addendum, correction, whatever
It occurs to me from a couple people's comments that my previous entry may have been misconstrued. Or rather, since the onus is on the writer, not the reader, that I failed to make myself clear.
No mocking of Mr Ramirez was intended. I'm a Manny supporter. I get behind the whole "just Manny being Manny" concept. I smile fondly at whatever he does and says next, secure in my certainty that he's gonna keep putting up those numbers. (I will admit that every time he's come to bat on my TV in the playoffs thus far, I do feel compelled to say outloud "How's the oblique, Manny?" and then giggle madly. C'mon. It makes my son laugh. [Yes, I realize he's on a lot of medication, but still.] Seriously, if Manny felt he needed three weeks to nurse the oblique back to health, god bless him, especially since he's resumed smacking the ball all over the park, and out of it, ever since.)
No, what my last post was meant to convey is that I see "Manny being Manny" as the mark of a deeply secure man. A man who doesn't worry much, if at all. A man who thinks all will be well--and if not, hey, tomorrow's another day, papi. Is it a coincidence that such a man wasn't weaned until he was good and ready? I think not.
We won't discuss at what age he was probably toilet trained, 'k?
(Kidding, just kidding.)
xoxo
No mocking of Mr Ramirez was intended. I'm a Manny supporter. I get behind the whole "just Manny being Manny" concept. I smile fondly at whatever he does and says next, secure in my certainty that he's gonna keep putting up those numbers. (I will admit that every time he's come to bat on my TV in the playoffs thus far, I do feel compelled to say outloud "How's the oblique, Manny?" and then giggle madly. C'mon. It makes my son laugh. [Yes, I realize he's on a lot of medication, but still.] Seriously, if Manny felt he needed three weeks to nurse the oblique back to health, god bless him, especially since he's resumed smacking the ball all over the park, and out of it, ever since.)
No, what my last post was meant to convey is that I see "Manny being Manny" as the mark of a deeply secure man. A man who doesn't worry much, if at all. A man who thinks all will be well--and if not, hey, tomorrow's another day, papi. Is it a coincidence that such a man wasn't weaned until he was good and ready? I think not.
We won't discuss at what age he was probably toilet trained, 'k?
(Kidding, just kidding.)
xoxo
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
why, yes, yes, it does explain everything
So, I'm reading Now I Can Die in Peace by Bill Simmons, ESPN.com's Sports Guy columnist. You know, because it's the playoffs and there are no actual games till Friday and a girl's got to do something.
Mr. Simmons loves a good, digressive footnote and, um, so do I. (Not that I've ever used that particular literary device or anything.) On page 114, in footnote 188, Mr. Simmons says, and I'm just quoting the whole damn thing because it's perfect: "This is actually now my second-favorite Manny story of all time. The first? When his mother revealed that Manny was breast-fed until he was four years old. Never has one sentence revealed so much."
I don't know where I was or what was occupying my attention when this news item originally came to light, making me miss it entirely, but uh, yeah. I don't think I've ever read a paragraph that made me laugh as hard while also triggering that "ohhhhh, okay, all becomes clear now" sense of rightness as the above. The book's worth the $14.95 for that footnote alone.
Oh, and the chapter entitled "Is Roger the Anti-Christ?" That's just gravy.
xoxo
Mr. Simmons loves a good, digressive footnote and, um, so do I. (Not that I've ever used that particular literary device or anything.) On page 114, in footnote 188, Mr. Simmons says, and I'm just quoting the whole damn thing because it's perfect: "This is actually now my second-favorite Manny story of all time. The first? When his mother revealed that Manny was breast-fed until he was four years old. Never has one sentence revealed so much."
I don't know where I was or what was occupying my attention when this news item originally came to light, making me miss it entirely, but uh, yeah. I don't think I've ever read a paragraph that made me laugh as hard while also triggering that "ohhhhh, okay, all becomes clear now" sense of rightness as the above. The book's worth the $14.95 for that footnote alone.
Oh, and the chapter entitled "Is Roger the Anti-Christ?" That's just gravy.
xoxo
friends
I ran into an old friend today I haven't seen for probably fifteen years. We were close when we were in high school and in our twenties, travelled together, had the usual wacky misadventures. She was the one who taught me to pee standing up! She was there on the skeery clueless-tourist nighttime subway ride to Coney Island, where the NYC police officer told us we should get our white girl asses back on the train and return to Manhatten because it wasn't safe. She was there when the guys at the next table to us in the IHOP at 2 am suddenly started having a knife fight in the middle of our pancakes. She was a "partner in crime" kind of friend and she was a sweet, funny girl.
But we grew apart. She occasionally did things that hurt me, as friends will. One time--and I remember this well--she was in the MGH, rehabbing from surgery on her arm, and I went to visit. There was a guy on the floor that she'd made friends with and whom she had a crush on, and she introduced us. And proceeded to tell him this story from our high school days that showed her in a very flattering light while making me seem...pathetic wouldn't be too strong a word. I was mortified. And while I understood even then why she did it--she was terribly insecure that he might like me better than her--it hurt. There were other rare occasions like that, never purposefully malicious, just the kind of things girls do to each other when they're young and not very self-aware. But that wasn't what eventually made the friendship lapse.
What happened was that she was struggling with depression, and how this presented was in her just dropping off the face of the earth for months. She wouldn't call or return calls, she wouldn't want to see anyone. Then six months later, she'd call and want to be best friends again. Well, I was struggling with depression too, a broken marriage, and single parenthood, and somewhere along the line, I decided I only wanted friends who were going to be there for me when I needed them. I cut a lot of people out of my life. She was one of them. I moved during one of her six month disappearing acts and never bothered to give her my new address or phone number, even though I occasionally ran into her sister.
I've felt kind of bad about that over the years.
There were a lot of hugs this morning, a lot of "ohmygod, what have you been up to"s and "you look great!"s, and we exchanged phone numbers and promised to get together. And I'm feeling kind of weird about it, actually. I'm a different person than I was fifteen or twenty years ago, as I'm sure she is. Can we pick up this friendship? Will it be more mature and healthy if we do?
xoxo
But we grew apart. She occasionally did things that hurt me, as friends will. One time--and I remember this well--she was in the MGH, rehabbing from surgery on her arm, and I went to visit. There was a guy on the floor that she'd made friends with and whom she had a crush on, and she introduced us. And proceeded to tell him this story from our high school days that showed her in a very flattering light while making me seem...pathetic wouldn't be too strong a word. I was mortified. And while I understood even then why she did it--she was terribly insecure that he might like me better than her--it hurt. There were other rare occasions like that, never purposefully malicious, just the kind of things girls do to each other when they're young and not very self-aware. But that wasn't what eventually made the friendship lapse.
What happened was that she was struggling with depression, and how this presented was in her just dropping off the face of the earth for months. She wouldn't call or return calls, she wouldn't want to see anyone. Then six months later, she'd call and want to be best friends again. Well, I was struggling with depression too, a broken marriage, and single parenthood, and somewhere along the line, I decided I only wanted friends who were going to be there for me when I needed them. I cut a lot of people out of my life. She was one of them. I moved during one of her six month disappearing acts and never bothered to give her my new address or phone number, even though I occasionally ran into her sister.
I've felt kind of bad about that over the years.
There were a lot of hugs this morning, a lot of "ohmygod, what have you been up to"s and "you look great!"s, and we exchanged phone numbers and promised to get together. And I'm feeling kind of weird about it, actually. I'm a different person than I was fifteen or twenty years ago, as I'm sure she is. Can we pick up this friendship? Will it be more mature and healthy if we do?
xoxo
Sunday, October 7, 2007
awww, cute
Did you ever stop to think about the phenomenon of cute? I know your evolutionary psychologists and anthropologists and people like that say we're hard-wired to see big eyes and round heads as cute, mainly so we don't throw our own offspring in the river when they get annoying. Which I guess is useful.
This, however, does not explain why when I was perusing the Target sale paper this morning over coffee, I immediately went "Ohmygod, cute!" when I reached the Halloween costume page, with the adult in the gorilla suit holding the baby in the banana costume. I was so taken by this that I wanted to show it to someone else immediately so they could "awww" too. (Unfortunately, D's sleeping, my dad was watching the Mass on tv [and who am I to come between a man and his half-assed religious observances?], and the cat didn't care.) It's actually fairly disturbing when you think about it, not cute. What's the message, that you can eat your own infant? Shades of the worst of hamster behavior and, y'know, probably no better than chucking the baby in a body of water.
I still went "awww." There's got to be a reason for that. Other than that I have ovaries.
xoxo
This, however, does not explain why when I was perusing the Target sale paper this morning over coffee, I immediately went "Ohmygod, cute!" when I reached the Halloween costume page, with the adult in the gorilla suit holding the baby in the banana costume. I was so taken by this that I wanted to show it to someone else immediately so they could "awww" too. (Unfortunately, D's sleeping, my dad was watching the Mass on tv [and who am I to come between a man and his half-assed religious observances?], and the cat didn't care.) It's actually fairly disturbing when you think about it, not cute. What's the message, that you can eat your own infant? Shades of the worst of hamster behavior and, y'know, probably no better than chucking the baby in a body of water.
I still went "awww." There's got to be a reason for that. Other than that I have ovaries.
xoxo
Saturday, October 6, 2007
buggin the Yankees
Wasn't that sweet? Even Mother Nature hates them. Or else someone on the Indians sold his soul to the devil for the power to call up swarms of insects when needed to win a game.
I hope it's the former, because the latter might be inconvenient in the next round.
xoxo
I hope it's the former, because the latter might be inconvenient in the next round.
xoxo
Friday, October 5, 2007
the deal
For the uninitiated, my dad is 81 years old, and of the men in this household, he is definitely the more needy. Every day, as soon as I walk in the door, I am inundated with immediate demands to look at what came in the mail, to listen to every detail of everything that's happened in the x hours since I left for work, to explain this for him and do that for him.
What I really want when I walk in the door after work, tired and irritated, is to, oh, read my own mail, maybe get something to drink, begin cooking dinner in blissful silence as I decompress. So today, after he stuck a piece of mail in front of me fifteen seconds after I entered the kitchen and began peppering me with questions about what it meant before I could even read it, I went off on him. "Why are you yelling at me?" he asked sadly.
So then I felt bad. "Listen," I said. "This is the new deal. When I come home, you say hi to me, then you leave me alone for half an hour. After that half an hour, I'll do anything you want."
He thought about it. "Half an hour? No. That's too long. No deal."
I was, like, what do you mean 'no deal'? That's the deal. There's no other deal.
I told you people my negotiation skillz suck. We'll see what happens tomorrow.
xoxo
What I really want when I walk in the door after work, tired and irritated, is to, oh, read my own mail, maybe get something to drink, begin cooking dinner in blissful silence as I decompress. So today, after he stuck a piece of mail in front of me fifteen seconds after I entered the kitchen and began peppering me with questions about what it meant before I could even read it, I went off on him. "Why are you yelling at me?" he asked sadly.
So then I felt bad. "Listen," I said. "This is the new deal. When I come home, you say hi to me, then you leave me alone for half an hour. After that half an hour, I'll do anything you want."
He thought about it. "Half an hour? No. That's too long. No deal."
I was, like, what do you mean 'no deal'? That's the deal. There's no other deal.
I told you people my negotiation skillz suck. We'll see what happens tomorrow.
xoxo
Thursday, October 4, 2007
what to say, what to say
I can only surmise from the lack of comments that you people don't want to hear any more charming stories about my childhood or youth, heh, and my baseball commentary today can be summed up with a peppy "yeah, baby!" I've got nothing to rant about, as surprising as that might be, no semi-amusing anecdotes about people on the T, and no books/music/movies/TV shows to critique.
We could talk about how I bought a sweater, not on sale, at BR the other day and how that apparently shows that my inability/unwillingness to spend money has bitten the dust, but that's too depressing. We could talk about how after cleaning most of the upstairs, I now have an urge to paint it in funky colors, but that's too scary. We could talk about how I missed Pete Earley's appearance at Cambridge Hospital the other night, but that's kind of bumming me out, too. We could talk about how every time I've gone to the cafeteria in the last two weeks, I've bought fries, but that's too scary as well.
So maybe I'll just say that Evil Kitty was in a fight yesterday and I think she won (but of course!) and that, seriously, I really was planning on coloring my hair tonight.
xoxo and an extra xoxo for lack of content
We could talk about how I bought a sweater, not on sale, at BR the other day and how that apparently shows that my inability/unwillingness to spend money has bitten the dust, but that's too depressing. We could talk about how after cleaning most of the upstairs, I now have an urge to paint it in funky colors, but that's too scary. We could talk about how I missed Pete Earley's appearance at Cambridge Hospital the other night, but that's kind of bumming me out, too. We could talk about how every time I've gone to the cafeteria in the last two weeks, I've bought fries, but that's too scary as well.
So maybe I'll just say that Evil Kitty was in a fight yesterday and I think she won (but of course!) and that, seriously, I really was planning on coloring my hair tonight.
xoxo and an extra xoxo for lack of content
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
your reputation precedes you
I had the pleasure this morning of being in close quarters with one of those very friendly, very talkative people who immediately engages everyone in the vicinity in conversation. Upon hearing that I had once upon a time many years ago lived on _____ street, he asked whether I knew [equivalent name to "John Smith"]. I told him I'd gone to first and second grade with a "John Smith" but had no idea if it was the same guy. Mid-forties? I asked. Yeah, he replied. Red-headed kid.
So, again, let me interrupt myself. It's a funny customary thing for guys from greater Boston, of a certain socioeconomic class, to refer to their contemporaries as "kid", even if those contemporaries are now in their forties, as long as they in fact knew them when they were actually kids. I find it quite charming.
Anyway, it turns out that "John Smith" who apparently did go to second grade with me, drives a dump truck and is a Hell's Angel now, though "he's a good guy, he just likes to ride." I find that...almost what I would expect.
"John Smith" was always in trouble when we were in second grade. In retrospect, I'd say he probably had ADHD. Circa 1970, he was just a bad kid. That was my impression of him, one of the bad boys, fooling around in class, always getting in trouble.
Well, every winter, the city froze the common, so people could skate on it. One cloudy Saturday the winter I was in second grade, my dad and I were skating there, and my dad fell. He fell and hit the back of his head on the ice on the way down. And was concussed there on the ice for at least a couple of minutes. I sure as hell didn't know what to do. I was seven. People, grownups and kids, skated past and around us, not paying any attention to the guy down on the ice and the little girl crouched next to him. "John Smith" was there, and *he* came over, and he waited with me till my dad came to and was able to sit up, then get up.
In my concrete seven year old brain, this didn't make much sense. "John Smith" was a bad kid, always in trouble, but he was the only one who helped me. He was *nice*.
I think he got kicked out of school the end of the year and went to public school, and I never ran into him again. But, seriously, I've thought about him and the skating incident on occasion. (My dad and I reminisce about it, haha.) I am so not surprised that he grew up to be a "nice" Hell's Angel, yo.
xoxo
So, again, let me interrupt myself. It's a funny customary thing for guys from greater Boston, of a certain socioeconomic class, to refer to their contemporaries as "kid", even if those contemporaries are now in their forties, as long as they in fact knew them when they were actually kids. I find it quite charming.
Anyway, it turns out that "John Smith" who apparently did go to second grade with me, drives a dump truck and is a Hell's Angel now, though "he's a good guy, he just likes to ride." I find that...almost what I would expect.
"John Smith" was always in trouble when we were in second grade. In retrospect, I'd say he probably had ADHD. Circa 1970, he was just a bad kid. That was my impression of him, one of the bad boys, fooling around in class, always getting in trouble.
Well, every winter, the city froze the common, so people could skate on it. One cloudy Saturday the winter I was in second grade, my dad and I were skating there, and my dad fell. He fell and hit the back of his head on the ice on the way down. And was concussed there on the ice for at least a couple of minutes. I sure as hell didn't know what to do. I was seven. People, grownups and kids, skated past and around us, not paying any attention to the guy down on the ice and the little girl crouched next to him. "John Smith" was there, and *he* came over, and he waited with me till my dad came to and was able to sit up, then get up.
In my concrete seven year old brain, this didn't make much sense. "John Smith" was a bad kid, always in trouble, but he was the only one who helped me. He was *nice*.
I think he got kicked out of school the end of the year and went to public school, and I never ran into him again. But, seriously, I've thought about him and the skating incident on occasion. (My dad and I reminisce about it, haha.) I am so not surprised that he grew up to be a "nice" Hell's Angel, yo.
xoxo
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
truth or consequences
I was going to write a big rant Elsewhere in response to another ridiculous internet thread about lying, but frankly I can't be arsed.
I will say this: people who habitually lie about small things often do so because, either in their families of origin or in another significant longterm relationship, they had to deal with another person who (even if they paid lip service to the concept of honesty being the best policy) flipped out whenever they were told something they didn't want to hear. The future habitual liar learned that life was much more easy and tolerable if such unpleasant truths were thus glossed over or distorted and a survival mechanism was born.
One of the things that I personally am working towards in my quest to be a more mature and healthy individual is to be the kind of person that the truth can be told to. That means being honest about the things I don't want to know and to accept the truths about the things I do want to know with grace and calmness and rationality.
Oh, stop laughing.
xoxo
I will say this: people who habitually lie about small things often do so because, either in their families of origin or in another significant longterm relationship, they had to deal with another person who (even if they paid lip service to the concept of honesty being the best policy) flipped out whenever they were told something they didn't want to hear. The future habitual liar learned that life was much more easy and tolerable if such unpleasant truths were thus glossed over or distorted and a survival mechanism was born.
One of the things that I personally am working towards in my quest to be a more mature and healthy individual is to be the kind of person that the truth can be told to. That means being honest about the things I don't want to know and to accept the truths about the things I do want to know with grace and calmness and rationality.
Oh, stop laughing.
xoxo
Monday, October 1, 2007
naked Viggo
Did that get your attention?
I went to see Eastern Promise the other night (which I insist on calling "Eastern Standard" despite each and every reminder that that's a restaurant, not a movie title). I was accused of wanting to see this film solely because of the naked Viggo factor, but that's a filthy lie. I wanted to see it because I'm a complete sucker for a mob movie.
My fascination with organized crime dates to my childhood, where the confluence of media depictions and stories about the (comparatively) palatial home of the bookie my mom babysat for in her youth led me to view that kind of criminal behavior as more than vaguely glamorous. Then, in my own youth, my future ex-husband met, through friends of friends, a low level Mafia guy and his wife, and started doing some work on the guy's cars for him. We would occasionally go by their house--new construction in a very nice suburb, and thus, about 2,000x better than our crappy, secondhand furniture-filled apartment in a semi-bad neighborhood--so the guy could pay my ex money he owed him or have him look at something. And they were always very, very nice to us. It was all, "Oh, come in, sit down," and "Have a drink. Want something to eat? Do some coke with us!" and amusing anecdotes, like the one where their four year old found a bag full of cash and was throwing piles of twenties all around the first floor of the house while the wife's mother rang the doorbell and they raced around trying to pick up the money and get it stuffed away. I was enchanted by this couple, finding them a magnitude of charm and glamour and cachet above any other petty criminals and drug dealers we knew.
Then the woman became pregnant again. And the coke usage didn't stop. I was only 20, 21, and in college, and not particularly well-versed in the intricacies of proper prenatal care, but even I knew that snorting large amounts of stimulant drugs probably wasn't included. And the scales fell from my eyes (or however that saying goes) and I began to realize that despite the money and nice things, the hospitality and funny, titillating stories, these people really were pretty skeezy. I stopped wanting to go over there. The spell was broken and my romanticizing of crime, especially organized crime, came to a crashing end.
But I'm still a sucker for a mob movie. Especially when it contains a naked, tattooed Viggo, okay?
xoxo
I went to see Eastern Promise the other night (which I insist on calling "Eastern Standard" despite each and every reminder that that's a restaurant, not a movie title). I was accused of wanting to see this film solely because of the naked Viggo factor, but that's a filthy lie. I wanted to see it because I'm a complete sucker for a mob movie.
My fascination with organized crime dates to my childhood, where the confluence of media depictions and stories about the (comparatively) palatial home of the bookie my mom babysat for in her youth led me to view that kind of criminal behavior as more than vaguely glamorous. Then, in my own youth, my future ex-husband met, through friends of friends, a low level Mafia guy and his wife, and started doing some work on the guy's cars for him. We would occasionally go by their house--new construction in a very nice suburb, and thus, about 2,000x better than our crappy, secondhand furniture-filled apartment in a semi-bad neighborhood--so the guy could pay my ex money he owed him or have him look at something. And they were always very, very nice to us. It was all, "Oh, come in, sit down," and "Have a drink. Want something to eat? Do some coke with us!" and amusing anecdotes, like the one where their four year old found a bag full of cash and was throwing piles of twenties all around the first floor of the house while the wife's mother rang the doorbell and they raced around trying to pick up the money and get it stuffed away. I was enchanted by this couple, finding them a magnitude of charm and glamour and cachet above any other petty criminals and drug dealers we knew.
Then the woman became pregnant again. And the coke usage didn't stop. I was only 20, 21, and in college, and not particularly well-versed in the intricacies of proper prenatal care, but even I knew that snorting large amounts of stimulant drugs probably wasn't included. And the scales fell from my eyes (or however that saying goes) and I began to realize that despite the money and nice things, the hospitality and funny, titillating stories, these people really were pretty skeezy. I stopped wanting to go over there. The spell was broken and my romanticizing of crime, especially organized crime, came to a crashing end.
But I'm still a sucker for a mob movie. Especially when it contains a naked, tattooed Viggo, okay?
xoxo
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