1.) Eunice Kennedy Shriver. There was a story on the early news this morning about Ms Shriver being in MGH over the past week, probably prompted by some digging around as to why Maria and the Governator were in town for the Celts game on Friday. The news bit showed Ms Shriver receiving some award or other in the not-so-distant past--a tiny, tiny, emaciated woman in a sequined gown with a wild blondish shoulder-length bob framing a face so wrinkled you could barely make out her facial features. Now I really don't mean to be mean, but the effect was like nothing so much as if someone had unwrapped a mummy, stuck it in a cocktail dress, and plopped a wig on its head. First of all, you people have more money than God: buy the poor woman a fucking case of Ensure, okay? Secondly, this should be a cautionary tale to all of us about the importance of sunscreen. Seriously, she's only four or five years older than my dad and she looked about 116.
2.) The Police. Tripleindemnity and I mock Sting endlessly for a wide variety of things: Tantric sex, the lameosity of his solo career, the fact that on the reunion tour he apparently was no longer able to hit any of his high notes, the incident when tripleindemnity's bro played on a bill with Sting Jr. that proved--to me anyway--that Sting Sr. is, personality-wise, a self-important douche, and (finally) the fact that one of Eddy's life aims is to "have Christmas with Sting and Trudie Styler!" is one of the funniest Ab Fab jokes ever. Yes, I am aware that the mockery of a couple of middle-aged Massachusetts peasants/music fans probably makes Sting weep as he dives in his piles o' cash. Nevertheless, despite all the mockery, tripleindemnity recently gifted me with a two-disc Police CD, enabling me in my recent music nostalgiafest in which it is still 1981. (I swear, it'll pass soon.) I was listening to this CD today, and again, all Sting-bashing aside, I must say that The Police were an awesome band. Those songs hold up, sounding as good as they did 25 years ago. If you were to hear them on the radio today, they'd sound fresh and modern. I think there are two interrelated reasons for that (besides the fact that, yeah I know, the 80s nostalgiafest is not just going on in my head): no one else sounds like them and they were not endlessly copied by other, lesser bands.
3.) Exercise. Now that I'm back more or less working five days at the hospital, weight gain seems inevitable. There is nothing to eat in that cafeteria that isn't carbs and grease, plus there is always a crapload of food in the office itself, especially once holiday season rolls around. I've decided the only way I can possibly combat that is to exercise every day from now through Christmas, and I'm asking you guys to please hold me accountable. I do a lot better when someone's holding me accountable. Gracias.
4.) Chav. I learned a new word this weekend! Do you know what a chav, a chavette, or chavvy is? A chav is, apparently, a British species of white trash. Go look it up in the urban dictionary for further clarification, if you'd like. I loved the description of a chavette (female chav, of course) wearing a hairstyle called "the Croyden facelift"--i.e. a ponytail or bun so tightly pulled back that she has a permanent look of surprise. This is paired, apparently, with accessories like huge hoop earrings and a pram full of at least two crying babies which she is swearing at. And it occurs to me that I see women with that exact same hairdo and jewelry, (and poorly taken-care-of babies) just about every day here in greater Boston. Which leads me to wonder: how exactly do *poor people* trends spread? The teenage moms at the welfare office in Croyden UK or in Salem MA are not picking up that look from the pages of Vogue, TV shows, or even rap videos. So how do they dress and groom exactly alike with the Atlantic Ocean between them? It is a puzzlement.
xoxo
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