One bizarre thing about the internet, that's become somehow perfectly normal, is how you can get involved in the life of strangers. I don't mean your internet friends, because in my experience internet friends often become real life friends and, even when they don't, are often a source of as much comfort and amusement and pleasure as the people you see every day. No, I mean the people whose posts you read or blogs you follow but whom you don't ever interact with. They become almost like fictional characters whose lives you follow voyeuristically and whom you can project your own little fantasies onto. But then occasionally they invoke real emotion in you--as I guess all well-written fictional characters do.
What brings this up? Oh, I was looking at some pictures of a woman's newly decorated house on a crafting board. Now, it wasn't to my taste, but then, I'm the woman who painted her desk gold and who is seriously thinking about creating faux leather walls with kraft paper because every tutorial she's read says even a moron can do it, so we all know decorating taste is, like musical taste, subjective. But it was obviously a nice, and large, house, and because the woman's avatar seemed to show someone who looked quite young and a little "alternative" to own a mini-McMansion like that, I clicked on her profile.
And found that she's 28, has four kids the oldest of whom is 13, is on husband #2, and had to give up her plans of becoming a designer when she got pregnant so young, but loves being a mom and has never stopped creating and never given up her art. I kept thinking about her the whole time I was bathing. That's good, I thought. She seems happy, though people lying on the internet? Never! And she seems like she's doing well materially. I mean, people don't totally redecorate mini-McMansions that are about to be foreclosed, do they? But when you think of 28 year old women with 4 kids, the oldest of whom is a teenager, you first think the worst case scenario--slum apartment or trailer, an endless parade of "stepfathers" at least two of whom are in prison, and mom either drinking all day or killing herself working at the WalMart, not creating art. So you (I) feel happy that she still has dreams and she has contentment and she has some security. And then you remember she's a complete and total stranger and it's kind of weird to care other than in a "oh I wish peace and happiness to the whole world, kumbaya" way.
The internet. It's weird.
xoxo
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
diffuse postal rage
I'm really unsure who I should be cheesed off at: the USPS in general, my mail carrier in specific, amazon.com, or my dad. Actually, all's well that ends well, so I'm really not angry with anyone anymore. But, you know, blame must be affixed!
I got home from work yesterday to find the postman had left me one of those little postcards saying they could not deliver my package, because it was too big to fit in the package slot of our communal mailbox. And I could pick it up at the post office today after 9am. Not even the post office near my house, either. The big, main post office, which is nowhere near either my house or my office or, really, anyplace that I was planning to go any time in the next week.
My dad swore up and down that the mailman did not ring the bell; that he (my dad) in fact saw the mailman driving away after delivering the post, which means that he was not napping and he would have heard the door bell. Really! Of course the fact that prior to going out to see if the mail had come, he was watching TV in his bedroom, with the volume turned up to 126, couldn't mean that he didn't hear the bell. No. But, be that as it may, I did not understand why the mailman didn't just drop the package in front of the door if no one answered. It's been done before. Certainly UPS and FedEx have no problem with it, either. (Nor do I. School's out; there are no possibly-larcenous soccer moms in their SUVs lurking at the bottom of the street. I think my packages are safe.)
So then I thought, well, perhaps it's the b-day present I ordered from etsy for L, and the seller was super-paranoid about people claiming not to have received her merchandise, so she shipped signature required or something. Which would be a major pain in my ass, but I thought it was possible, and I was ready to excuse the mail carrier. I go online and track the various packages I am expecting and I realize that, no, it's not L's b-day present. It's the remainder of my amazon order I've been waiting for. Believe me, and as I'm sure you probably know, free super-saver shipping doesn't ever require a signature. Grr.
So, anyway, there was nothing I could do about it last night, because the post office was long since closed. And on closer examination of the postcard, the wording was a little vague. There was something about re-delivery, even though it was clearly telling me to pick my box up at the post office. So I threw it into my bag and at 10:30 today, when I was finished with my first couple patients, I called the post office. The gentleman there assured me that, no, they used to try to re-deliver but "they don't do that anymore." So, in other words, get your ass down here during normal business hours when most people have to work, and get your box. So very glad the postal increases are going to better, improved service.
I hang up and I realize I have a huge hole in my schedule due to a cancellation and something having been scheduled for more time than it took, and I make the executive decision to take a long, long, (long) lunch and go on a field trip to get my package. I feel somewhat guilty about this, but also defensive, because I never do it, unlike some people around here who are always taking off for two hour long doctor's appointments or their kids' doctor's appointments or to pay their cell phone bills or god knows what else when they're on the clock. So I take my entitled and somewhat cranky ass to the post office. It's a nice day. The weather is fine. I'm soon enjoying playing my little bit of hooky.
The lady at the post office asks for neither a signature nor any ID, which...why didn't we just drop the box in front of the front door again? Explain this? And it's a very huge box, with two tiny, tiny little books in it. Oh, thank you, amazon.com. This is why it wouldn't fit in the package slot. Sigh. Save a tree and my aggravation next time and use a little less cardboard, huh?
So. All this is someone's fault and that someone is not me (except that I was supporting the economy like a good consumer, which is exactly what I think my federal government has been telling me to do, so you know?)
Hmmpphhh.
xoxo
I got home from work yesterday to find the postman had left me one of those little postcards saying they could not deliver my package, because it was too big to fit in the package slot of our communal mailbox. And I could pick it up at the post office today after 9am. Not even the post office near my house, either. The big, main post office, which is nowhere near either my house or my office or, really, anyplace that I was planning to go any time in the next week.
My dad swore up and down that the mailman did not ring the bell; that he (my dad) in fact saw the mailman driving away after delivering the post, which means that he was not napping and he would have heard the door bell. Really! Of course the fact that prior to going out to see if the mail had come, he was watching TV in his bedroom, with the volume turned up to 126, couldn't mean that he didn't hear the bell. No. But, be that as it may, I did not understand why the mailman didn't just drop the package in front of the door if no one answered. It's been done before. Certainly UPS and FedEx have no problem with it, either. (Nor do I. School's out; there are no possibly-larcenous soccer moms in their SUVs lurking at the bottom of the street. I think my packages are safe.)
So then I thought, well, perhaps it's the b-day present I ordered from etsy for L, and the seller was super-paranoid about people claiming not to have received her merchandise, so she shipped signature required or something. Which would be a major pain in my ass, but I thought it was possible, and I was ready to excuse the mail carrier. I go online and track the various packages I am expecting and I realize that, no, it's not L's b-day present. It's the remainder of my amazon order I've been waiting for. Believe me, and as I'm sure you probably know, free super-saver shipping doesn't ever require a signature. Grr.
So, anyway, there was nothing I could do about it last night, because the post office was long since closed. And on closer examination of the postcard, the wording was a little vague. There was something about re-delivery, even though it was clearly telling me to pick my box up at the post office. So I threw it into my bag and at 10:30 today, when I was finished with my first couple patients, I called the post office. The gentleman there assured me that, no, they used to try to re-deliver but "they don't do that anymore." So, in other words, get your ass down here during normal business hours when most people have to work, and get your box. So very glad the postal increases are going to better, improved service.
I hang up and I realize I have a huge hole in my schedule due to a cancellation and something having been scheduled for more time than it took, and I make the executive decision to take a long, long, (long) lunch and go on a field trip to get my package. I feel somewhat guilty about this, but also defensive, because I never do it, unlike some people around here who are always taking off for two hour long doctor's appointments or their kids' doctor's appointments or to pay their cell phone bills or god knows what else when they're on the clock. So I take my entitled and somewhat cranky ass to the post office. It's a nice day. The weather is fine. I'm soon enjoying playing my little bit of hooky.
The lady at the post office asks for neither a signature nor any ID, which...why didn't we just drop the box in front of the front door again? Explain this? And it's a very huge box, with two tiny, tiny little books in it. Oh, thank you, amazon.com. This is why it wouldn't fit in the package slot. Sigh. Save a tree and my aggravation next time and use a little less cardboard, huh?
So. All this is someone's fault and that someone is not me (except that I was supporting the economy like a good consumer, which is exactly what I think my federal government has been telling me to do, so you know?)
Hmmpphhh.
xoxo
Thursday, June 26, 2008
conversations with M2 and updatery
I had lunch with M2 yesterday and got a massage, which is not a bad way to spend one's day off, all things considered. We ate at a vegetarian, not to say vegan, restaurant, outside in a little tiny courtyard which was, by the time we finished our hour and a half of gabbing, pretty much our own, all the other poor suckers having had to go back to work. Ha!
One of the things M2 ordered was a watermelon gazpacho and it made me remember what was probably the peak eating experience of my entire life. 1996, late July, somewhere in the Village, sitting in a cafe in a window open to the sidewalk, in the midst of falling in love/lust/deep infatuation, and eating cold strawberry soup. I had never before and have never since eaten anything like that soup and I probably never will again. Not even if the chef came to my house and used the same recipe with strawberries he grew and picked himself. Just perfection in every way. (The lust probably had something to do with that.)
M2's watermelon gazpacho was not of this caliber, but we had a very pleasant meal. Except, you know? We split a vegan brownie? And, while tasty, it was the consistency of fudge. I don't think you can make real brownies without chicken embryos.
During my massage, M2 was telling me how loose and open my low back felt and asked if I was still doing the yin yoga faithfully. I had to admit that I've been slacking. (It's summer. I've been walking. There's only so much physical fitness I can cram into one day and still cook dinner, blog, and look at stuff for my redecorating. Give me a break. Sigh.) Well, she was of the opinion that all those weeks and months that I was working on my low back and hip openers was still showing an effect, because my QLs felt really, really strong while being not in the least hypertonic. So, yay, Andrea's QLs. I should probably go back to working on them, though, because I'm sure they'll start atrophying and tightening up any day now.
In other news, I finally bit the bullet and tried to put in the new deadbolt...and it went great! The back door can now actually be locked from the inside again. Yay, Andrea's mad locksmithing skillz. I'm so proud of how much money I saved doing this myself. I rock, I tell you what. Now to buy the exact same deadbolt and fix the other door.
Oh, and my super-discounted luxury bedding finally arrived, including my 800-thread count sheets, which are thick as a mofo and a very rich saturated color, but not the sublime sleeping experience I was visualizing. The bed looks good though.
xoxo
One of the things M2 ordered was a watermelon gazpacho and it made me remember what was probably the peak eating experience of my entire life. 1996, late July, somewhere in the Village, sitting in a cafe in a window open to the sidewalk, in the midst of falling in love/lust/deep infatuation, and eating cold strawberry soup. I had never before and have never since eaten anything like that soup and I probably never will again. Not even if the chef came to my house and used the same recipe with strawberries he grew and picked himself. Just perfection in every way. (The lust probably had something to do with that.)
M2's watermelon gazpacho was not of this caliber, but we had a very pleasant meal. Except, you know? We split a vegan brownie? And, while tasty, it was the consistency of fudge. I don't think you can make real brownies without chicken embryos.
During my massage, M2 was telling me how loose and open my low back felt and asked if I was still doing the yin yoga faithfully. I had to admit that I've been slacking. (It's summer. I've been walking. There's only so much physical fitness I can cram into one day and still cook dinner, blog, and look at stuff for my redecorating. Give me a break. Sigh.) Well, she was of the opinion that all those weeks and months that I was working on my low back and hip openers was still showing an effect, because my QLs felt really, really strong while being not in the least hypertonic. So, yay, Andrea's QLs. I should probably go back to working on them, though, because I'm sure they'll start atrophying and tightening up any day now.
In other news, I finally bit the bullet and tried to put in the new deadbolt...and it went great! The back door can now actually be locked from the inside again. Yay, Andrea's mad locksmithing skillz. I'm so proud of how much money I saved doing this myself. I rock, I tell you what. Now to buy the exact same deadbolt and fix the other door.
Oh, and my super-discounted luxury bedding finally arrived, including my 800-thread count sheets, which are thick as a mofo and a very rich saturated color, but not the sublime sleeping experience I was visualizing. The bed looks good though.
xoxo
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
thought it was time
The Adventure FAQ, or everything you need to know for this blog to make sense. Maybe.
1.) Who are Mr Barma, Mr Indemnity, and Uncle?
They are Andrea's friends who, in addition to having many other fine qualities, hold a special place in her heart because they blog-comment. Unlike all her other slacker friends/readers.
2.) So, do you like blog comments, Andrea?
Andrea likes blog commentary *so much* that, were it feasible, she would pay a nickel per comment to the writer. And a dime to the Portuguese spammers, because they're double the entertainment value.
3.) Who is D?
D is Andrea's son. He has schizoaffective disorder. Probably. That's the most current diagnosis. There've been a few.
4.) Who is L?
L is Andrea's best friend, whom she has known since 9th grade.
4a.) Who is S?
S is L's boyfriend. He may or may not have had Lyme disease recently.
5.) So, who is the other S?
The other S is Andrea's and M2's friend and partner in bodywork adventures and misadventures.
6.) Who are M1 and M2?
They are two of Andrea's friends who share the same name. M2 went to massage school with Andrea and lives in Cambridge. M1 worked with Andrea for many years and lives in New Hampshire.
7.) What/where is Shangri-Lowell?
Shangri-Lowell is, alternately, either Mr Barma's condo or the environs thereof. In either case, Shangri-Lowell is The Happiest Place on Earth. (Those Disney bastards are liars.)
8.) Why do you swear so much anyway, Andrea?
Well, see, you can take the girl out of the 'hood, but you can't take the 'hood out of the girl. Plus, let's be serious, it's a conscious literary device. Plus, Andrea's (charmingly) cranky. Especially at certain times. She's also Easily Irritated.
9.) Who is The Lawyer?
The Lawyer is a gentleman whom Andrea dated very briefly while she was in massage school a couple years ago, the thought of whom nevertheless induces such loathing that she is unable to refer to him without adding "::spit::".
10.) What do we know about Andrea's ex-husband?
He's D's father and Andrea's high school sweetheart, and he's active in local politics. He likes to see his picture in the paper.
11.) What do we know about Andrea's other long-term ex?
Nothing. You know nothing. He is occasionally referred to as her "ex-whatever-he-was" but he does not figure in the Adventures.
12.) "Julie, Julie, Julie"? WTF?
That would be one Mr Julio Lugo, inept and overpaid Boston Red Sox ss, who can't hit and certainly can't field. We here at the Adventures wish he would be traded. Until that happy day, we satisfy ourselves with calling him Julie. We suggest you do the same.
13.) What is Kelly's, and why should I go there?
That would be the famous Kelly's Roast Beef. Now there are several branches in places like Danvers and Medford/Everett that have such amenities as roofs and tables, but for the true Kelly's experience, Andrea recommends the original at Revere Beach where you eat in your car or across the street on the sea wall. The reason you should go there is to eat onion rings. Part of Andrea's funeral is going to involve this ritual.
14.) So, what else should I do in Revere when I'm done with my onion rings?
Well, there are a couple of very well-known strip clubs.
15.) What celebrity would Andrea most like to wake up next to, naked in bed?
That would be Anthony Kiedis.
16.) Who are Andrea's future step-grandchildren?
Since Andrea most likely will never have biological grandchildren (see question 3) but loves babies and little kids so, so much, she has cooked up a scheme to, some time in the next 15 years, marry some poor sucker not for his money, but for the procreative potential of his grown children.
17.) What is this "prison bus" of which you speak?
The prison bus is one of the two bus routes that run between Andrea's house and her place of employment. It is ridden, at certain times of the day, by a disproportionate number of parolees and court attendees, and is famous for overheard conversations about a.) what local jails have the best amenities b.) how long it takes to get all the blood cleaned from your cell walls if you jump on someone from the top bunk and c.) how selling your prescription drugs is the best way to afford a way better apartment, yo. There has also been some mysterious discussion of swabbing.
18.) And, most importantly! Who the hell is Possibly Irish Danny?
Possibly Irish Danny is an occasional prison bus patron and possessor of the world's ugliest shamrock/skull neck tattoo who first came to all of our attention having a cell phone conversation in which he discussed running into (the fabulously nicknamed) "Spanish Danny". This led, over time, to Andrea and her blog commenters giving him his alias and developing a whole fictional and/or theoretical life for him, based solely on the clues revealed in his many overheard cell phone discussions. If there is a mascot to the Adventures, Possibly Irish Danny would be he.
(Did I miss any?)
xoxo
song for today
"What It's Like" by Everlast.
Now there's a man who could kick some ass on the prison bus. If it were necessary. Well, probably not, since he's already had a heart attack. But he looks and sounds like he could kick some ass, and on the prison bus that's all that counts. You go listen to that song and tell me I'm wrong.
(Where's Possibly Irish Danny been? Now I am beginning to get worried the swabbing didn't go well.)
xoxo
Now there's a man who could kick some ass on the prison bus. If it were necessary. Well, probably not, since he's already had a heart attack. But he looks and sounds like he could kick some ass, and on the prison bus that's all that counts. You go listen to that song and tell me I'm wrong.
(Where's Possibly Irish Danny been? Now I am beginning to get worried the swabbing didn't go well.)
xoxo
Sunday, June 22, 2008
project update
I had a lot of things I thought I was going to get accomplished today, but really? I think I'm at about 50%. Which is better than 0% on the accomplishment scale.
I paid yet another visit to Home Depot for more paint swatches and all the free booklets on faux finishes they had. I got the stuff my dad wanted from CVS, using my this-weekend-only 25% off coupon. I bought another frame from the Tarzhay and then I framed and hung two of the New Orleans pictures Mr Indemnity printed for me (and I publicly take back my previous snark about how that wasn't ever gonna happen till the leaves were off the trees again!). I also framed the wedding picture of the woman who may or may not be my grandmother and put it on my bedside table. I finally put the seat I recovered back onto the desk chair I painted. And then while I had my tools out, I tightened all the bolts in my bed with an allen wrench. I downloaded a crapload of my CDs to the iPod. Oh, and I paid some bills for my dad. And I have clean underwear again.
See, wasn't that fascinating? You want I should post pictures of cake to make this blog entry not a total wash?
xoxo
I paid yet another visit to Home Depot for more paint swatches and all the free booklets on faux finishes they had. I got the stuff my dad wanted from CVS, using my this-weekend-only 25% off coupon. I bought another frame from the Tarzhay and then I framed and hung two of the New Orleans pictures Mr Indemnity printed for me (and I publicly take back my previous snark about how that wasn't ever gonna happen till the leaves were off the trees again!). I also framed the wedding picture of the woman who may or may not be my grandmother and put it on my bedside table. I finally put the seat I recovered back onto the desk chair I painted. And then while I had my tools out, I tightened all the bolts in my bed with an allen wrench. I downloaded a crapload of my CDs to the iPod. Oh, and I paid some bills for my dad. And I have clean underwear again.
See, wasn't that fascinating? You want I should post pictures of cake to make this blog entry not a total wash?
xoxo
"the new classics"
That's the theme of this week's EW: the best of everything of the last 25 years. Well, you know me. There's not a best-of -list or VH1 countdown show that I can resist, if only to sniff, "Are you seerrrrious?"
One of the first surprises for me was how many of their movie pics I haven't even seen: just in the top twenty alone, there's Hannah and Her Sisters, Moulin Rouge, Crumb, Jerry Maguire, Do the Right Thing, and Casino Royale. (I could also probably count Edward Scissorhands, because while I've seen parts of that movie on TV many times, I've never sat down and watched it beginning to end in one shot.)
Other surprises? Boogie Nights is #16, but Almost Famous doesn't even crack the top 100? Those are very similar films, if not in exact subject matter, in theme, mood, and quality of the performances. This is Spinal Tap is #11? That's a funny movie, but it's not the eleventh best film in the past 25 years, sorry. Dazed and Confused only #41? C'mon now. That could be in the top ten. And then there's the movies on the list that I absolutely hated and despised. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Fight Club. Sideways. Rainman.
And that's not even beginning to discuss the TV, music, or book pics. Those are posts for other days. Though, okay, I am compelled to add this: You put anything by Mariah Carey in the top 100 of anything, and you've lost me. Yeah, I know...we may just have had a discussion of musical tastes being individual. But Mariah Carey? Are you seerrrrious?
xoxo
One of the first surprises for me was how many of their movie pics I haven't even seen: just in the top twenty alone, there's Hannah and Her Sisters, Moulin Rouge, Crumb, Jerry Maguire, Do the Right Thing, and Casino Royale. (I could also probably count Edward Scissorhands, because while I've seen parts of that movie on TV many times, I've never sat down and watched it beginning to end in one shot.)
Other surprises? Boogie Nights is #16, but Almost Famous doesn't even crack the top 100? Those are very similar films, if not in exact subject matter, in theme, mood, and quality of the performances. This is Spinal Tap is #11? That's a funny movie, but it's not the eleventh best film in the past 25 years, sorry. Dazed and Confused only #41? C'mon now. That could be in the top ten. And then there's the movies on the list that I absolutely hated and despised. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Fight Club. Sideways. Rainman.
And that's not even beginning to discuss the TV, music, or book pics. Those are posts for other days. Though, okay, I am compelled to add this: You put anything by Mariah Carey in the top 100 of anything, and you've lost me. Yeah, I know...we may just have had a discussion of musical tastes being individual. But Mariah Carey? Are you seerrrrious?
xoxo
Friday, June 20, 2008
cupcake attack
I had a cancellation in work this afternoon and so I decided to work on a bit of boring paperwork, and because I need distraction while I'm doing that, I was also looking at b-day presents for L on etsy and e-mailing Mr Indemnity. (Who says I can't multitask like the 20 year olds? Hmph.)
Anyway, I stumbled onto the section of etsy where people sell baked goods by mail, and specifically, a person in Cali selling these amazing huge gourmet cupcakes in about 40 different flavors, 95% of which looked mouthwatering. So rather than keeping up my end of the discussion, I kept forwarding Mr Indemnity pictures of cake instead. Which, really, is far more scintillating than anything I've got to say anyhow.
This baked good window shopping is destined to remain so, because the baker ships priority mail (i.e. 2-3 day shipping) and I'll be damned if I'd ever pay seven bucks a piece for three day old cupcakes, no matter how imaginative their flavors are or how well they photograph.
But now I want some red velvet cake. I'm not sure I've ever had it, but I want some. Like, now.
xoxo
Anyway, I stumbled onto the section of etsy where people sell baked goods by mail, and specifically, a person in Cali selling these amazing huge gourmet cupcakes in about 40 different flavors, 95% of which looked mouthwatering. So rather than keeping up my end of the discussion, I kept forwarding Mr Indemnity pictures of cake instead. Which, really, is far more scintillating than anything I've got to say anyhow.
This baked good window shopping is destined to remain so, because the baker ships priority mail (i.e. 2-3 day shipping) and I'll be damned if I'd ever pay seven bucks a piece for three day old cupcakes, no matter how imaginative their flavors are or how well they photograph.
But now I want some red velvet cake. I'm not sure I've ever had it, but I want some. Like, now.
xoxo
forgive 'em or kill 'em
On my AOL welcome screen today, there was a headline about a sex offender winning a multimillion dollar lottery jackpot. I'm sure why they think this is front-screen news, to coin a phrase (perhaps), is that I'm supposed to be...outraged?
I'm not sure exactly who I'm supposed to be outraged at. God, fate, or karma, for letting a Bad Person win a lot of money, when I (just a regular bad person, not a Bad Person) win jack shit? The state of (I think) Michigan for not somehow enacting laws that say convicted criminals aren't allowed to play the lottery? The judicial system for not locking him up forever and throwing away the key, so that simple pleasures like gambling would be forever beyond his reach?
I dunno. I am perplexed. I am also, I suppose you can tell, not outraged.
There's this very weird thing in our society where people commit crimes, take the punishment that is meted out to them, and then are just supposed to--what?--never be let back into normal society ever again. Can't get any kind of decent job, can't--in the case of sex offenders, anyway--be allowed to live anywhere near, y'know, other people, need to be ostracized from normal daily activities of life like, I dunno, buying lottery tickets. And then we are outraged when and if they re-offend and say they should never have been let out. I mean, perhaps it is just me, but I don't think this system is working.
Therefore, I propose we bring back the death penalty and mete it out for all offenses over and above traffic tickets and jaywalking. If we can't give an honest second chance to people who've served their prison time, we ought to off them and end their, and our, misery. Keeping 'em locked up forever is too damn expensive.
xoxo
I'm not sure exactly who I'm supposed to be outraged at. God, fate, or karma, for letting a Bad Person win a lot of money, when I (just a regular bad person, not a Bad Person) win jack shit? The state of (I think) Michigan for not somehow enacting laws that say convicted criminals aren't allowed to play the lottery? The judicial system for not locking him up forever and throwing away the key, so that simple pleasures like gambling would be forever beyond his reach?
I dunno. I am perplexed. I am also, I suppose you can tell, not outraged.
There's this very weird thing in our society where people commit crimes, take the punishment that is meted out to them, and then are just supposed to--what?--never be let back into normal society ever again. Can't get any kind of decent job, can't--in the case of sex offenders, anyway--be allowed to live anywhere near, y'know, other people, need to be ostracized from normal daily activities of life like, I dunno, buying lottery tickets. And then we are outraged when and if they re-offend and say they should never have been let out. I mean, perhaps it is just me, but I don't think this system is working.
Therefore, I propose we bring back the death penalty and mete it out for all offenses over and above traffic tickets and jaywalking. If we can't give an honest second chance to people who've served their prison time, we ought to off them and end their, and our, misery. Keeping 'em locked up forever is too damn expensive.
xoxo
Thursday, June 19, 2008
the tease
So, really, the point of that pointless anecdote was not to have to defend Billy Joel, it was to reminisce about Mr Pizza Hut Manager and LL and think a bit about what that sort of little adventure meant in the grand scheme of the development of my womanhood. So now you're all just going to have to listen to another LL story. Sorry, that's just the way it goes.
LL and I got into a lot of sorta benign trouble together, which is all the more remarkable because at the time she was a virgin and not a drinker nor much of an illegal substance user. But she was a fun girl. I'll be grateful to her until the day I die for the simple fact that she was the person who taught me to pee standing up outside without getting my shoes wet, which, as a woman, is a valuable skill to learn. You menfolk have no idea.
Now, as mentioned previously, LL and I and frequent blog guest star L, were all high school and college friends. L comes from a big family. One day (I'm almost sure it was) the summer after we graduated high school, LL and I went to L's house looking for her. Ah, those mythical days before the invention of the cell phone. She wasn't home from work yet. In fact, of all her huge family, the only person around was one of her older brothers, P, who was working out in the yard. P was perhaps 4 or 5 years older than us and at the time quite good-looking. We, in fact, thought he was pretty damn hot, and on this particular day made the decision to hone our flirting-with-an-older-man skills some more.
LL was taking A&P at the time and she started in with complimenting P's musculature, using the proper anatomical names. Think "you've got great deltoids" and the like. I joined in, and P gamely tried to play along, delicately praising our "pecs" and so on. After awhile, when L still hadn't gotten home and neither had anyone else, we all went in, and down to the basement where P, who'd moved back home, was sleeping those days. And then we started playing strip poker.
LL and I cheated outrageously, not passing cards or anything, but, like, "Oh, I lost that hand, I'll take off...one of my rings." In no time, we had P down to his shorts and nothing else, and he was all kinds of shades of red, while we were both more or less not showing any more skin than we started out showing. I'll tell you, 28 years later, that I can still remember how turned on I was. Not just that this was erotic, and goddamn it was, but teetering on that edge between safety and danger, knowing that certainly P was too much of a repressed Catholic boy, not to say honorable, to actually do anything with his baby sister's friends, especially not in the basement when L or her mom or one of the younger brothers could come home any minute. But beyond that eroticism, and beyond that intoxicating whiff of safe danger, there was the heady sense of power. Knowing we had this "older man" blushing and sweating and really wanting us? That was the bigger turn-on than the turn-on.
Last fall when I was all depressed about my birthday and mourning my perceived loss of sexual power as I fall deeper and deeper into decrepitude, this is exactly the type of memory that brought it into sharp relief. Not that I would want to tease a man into drooling idiocy, pretending to hold out the hope of things that aren't going to happen, these days. (Never mind my more evolved sense of ethics in 2008 or that the novelty ship has come and gone; today I'm the cliched horny middle-aged woman who wants it.) But knowing that I couldn't pull it off anymore, if I did want to? Bittersweet, if not downright sad.
So what ultimately happened that summer afternoon in 1980? Oh, L's mom came home, P hurriedly got his shirt back on, and L was later bemused, because in her eyes? her brother? P? Are you kidding me?
xoxo
LL and I got into a lot of sorta benign trouble together, which is all the more remarkable because at the time she was a virgin and not a drinker nor much of an illegal substance user. But she was a fun girl. I'll be grateful to her until the day I die for the simple fact that she was the person who taught me to pee standing up outside without getting my shoes wet, which, as a woman, is a valuable skill to learn. You menfolk have no idea.
Now, as mentioned previously, LL and I and frequent blog guest star L, were all high school and college friends. L comes from a big family. One day (I'm almost sure it was) the summer after we graduated high school, LL and I went to L's house looking for her. Ah, those mythical days before the invention of the cell phone. She wasn't home from work yet. In fact, of all her huge family, the only person around was one of her older brothers, P, who was working out in the yard. P was perhaps 4 or 5 years older than us and at the time quite good-looking. We, in fact, thought he was pretty damn hot, and on this particular day made the decision to hone our flirting-with-an-older-man skills some more.
LL was taking A&P at the time and she started in with complimenting P's musculature, using the proper anatomical names. Think "you've got great deltoids" and the like. I joined in, and P gamely tried to play along, delicately praising our "pecs" and so on. After awhile, when L still hadn't gotten home and neither had anyone else, we all went in, and down to the basement where P, who'd moved back home, was sleeping those days. And then we started playing strip poker.
LL and I cheated outrageously, not passing cards or anything, but, like, "Oh, I lost that hand, I'll take off...one of my rings." In no time, we had P down to his shorts and nothing else, and he was all kinds of shades of red, while we were both more or less not showing any more skin than we started out showing. I'll tell you, 28 years later, that I can still remember how turned on I was. Not just that this was erotic, and goddamn it was, but teetering on that edge between safety and danger, knowing that certainly P was too much of a repressed Catholic boy, not to say honorable, to actually do anything with his baby sister's friends, especially not in the basement when L or her mom or one of the younger brothers could come home any minute. But beyond that eroticism, and beyond that intoxicating whiff of safe danger, there was the heady sense of power. Knowing we had this "older man" blushing and sweating and really wanting us? That was the bigger turn-on than the turn-on.
Last fall when I was all depressed about my birthday and mourning my perceived loss of sexual power as I fall deeper and deeper into decrepitude, this is exactly the type of memory that brought it into sharp relief. Not that I would want to tease a man into drooling idiocy, pretending to hold out the hope of things that aren't going to happen, these days. (Never mind my more evolved sense of ethics in 2008 or that the novelty ship has come and gone; today I'm the cliched horny middle-aged woman who wants it.) But knowing that I couldn't pull it off anymore, if I did want to? Bittersweet, if not downright sad.
So what ultimately happened that summer afternoon in 1980? Oh, L's mom came home, P hurriedly got his shirt back on, and L was later bemused, because in her eyes? her brother? P? Are you kidding me?
xoxo
pleasures, again
So, my little faux-argument with Mr Indemnity (though he is, of course, wrong) has me musing on the concept of guilty pleasures. There's a feature they run in the (I think) Saturday sidekick in the Globe called Guilty Pleasures wherein both staff writers and readers confess to theirs. I myself both enjoy this feature and reject the whole concept.
The idea that some things are okay to enjoy and others, while equally pleasurable to any one person, are not, is a silly and elitist idea and we won't stand for it when they make me Empress of the Universe. You've all probably (definitely) heard my story of how one of my college roommates' boyfriend once told me that I had "the best small record collection he'd ever seen," the unspoken finish to that sentence being "especially for a girl" but we won't go into the inherent sexism of 1981 right now since we have other fish to fry and other cliches to use. The reason that I had such an admirable record collection was, of course, that it was carefully edited, with all the albums that were (and I'll use the term even though it's not the term I'd have used in 1981, the 1981 term being lost to me) hipster-enough for me to have at college living in my Allston apartment and all the other others, many of which I still enjoyed just as much, living at my parents' house. Because the 18-19 year old Andrea was both savvy enough to know what was cool and insecure enough to care.
Middle-aged Andrea long ago said fuck that shit. You got pleasures? Don't feel guilty about 'em. Embrace all your lowbrow, uneducated, unhip, unsophisticated tastes as much as you embrace those which are socially approved. And if anyone gives you any crap, you tell 'em I said it was okay.
That'll fix 'em.
xoxo
The idea that some things are okay to enjoy and others, while equally pleasurable to any one person, are not, is a silly and elitist idea and we won't stand for it when they make me Empress of the Universe. You've all probably (definitely) heard my story of how one of my college roommates' boyfriend once told me that I had "the best small record collection he'd ever seen," the unspoken finish to that sentence being "especially for a girl" but we won't go into the inherent sexism of 1981 right now since we have other fish to fry and other cliches to use. The reason that I had such an admirable record collection was, of course, that it was carefully edited, with all the albums that were (and I'll use the term even though it's not the term I'd have used in 1981, the 1981 term being lost to me) hipster-enough for me to have at college living in my Allston apartment and all the other others, many of which I still enjoyed just as much, living at my parents' house. Because the 18-19 year old Andrea was both savvy enough to know what was cool and insecure enough to care.
Middle-aged Andrea long ago said fuck that shit. You got pleasures? Don't feel guilty about 'em. Embrace all your lowbrow, uneducated, unhip, unsophisticated tastes as much as you embrace those which are socially approved. And if anyone gives you any crap, you tell 'em I said it was okay.
That'll fix 'em.
xoxo
Monday, June 16, 2008
only the good die young
I was going to make a joke about how I had a crappy day today and now, mutheragod, I've got a Billy Joel song stuck in my head. But, despite that fact that I do indeed have a Billy Joel song stuck in my head, I am not going to slag off the alcoholic former-supermodel-boinking catchy-song-writing Mr Joel.
Instead I'm going to tell you a pointless anecdote, since we haven't done one of those for a while. According to wikipedia, which is never wrong, "only the good die young" was a single in 1978, but I can tell you, as old people who remember 30 years ago like it was yesterday even though they have no idea what they did three days ago always will, that in the fall of 1979, in my senior year of high school, you could certainly still turn on your radio and hear that song played often enough. My friend LL (not to be confused with blog-favorite L, who was however our good buddy) and I liked that song. We particularly liked to sing that song at the top of our lungs in her car, which was an AMC Pacer. (If I were to tell you the other distinguishing facet of that car, I would out my identity to anyone who ever knew us in the late 70s, because it was...unique. So I won't.)
So, anyhow, LL and I would sing that song with gusto and enjoy, especially, the part about Catholic girls starting much too late, which may have been true in one of our cases and untrue in another, and we needn't be coy about who was who, huh? And we would sing that song on our way to several of our favorite places to frequent, but especially, a particular Pizza Hut that for awhile in 1979 was the first stop after school. Why? Because of the manager.
Mr Pizza Hut Manager was perhaps 25, from South Carolina--and thus possessed of what was to us an alluring and fascinating accent, good-looking, charming, flirtatious, and best of all, married, and thus apparently safe. We would go in and practice our own flirting-with-an-older-man, assured in our still innocent little hearts that nothing serious, or bad, would or could ever come from it.
Does that sound like I'm leading up to something bad happening? Nah. Not to us, anyway. Pizza Hut wasn't so lucky. Mr Pizza Hut Manager emptied out all the cash and disappeared into the sunset one night.
I'll never hear that Billy Joel song without thinking briefly of him.
You've heard I run with a dangerous crowd
We ain't too pretty, we ain't too proud
We might be laughing a bit too loud
Aww, but that never hurt no one...
xoxo
Instead I'm going to tell you a pointless anecdote, since we haven't done one of those for a while. According to wikipedia, which is never wrong, "only the good die young" was a single in 1978, but I can tell you, as old people who remember 30 years ago like it was yesterday even though they have no idea what they did three days ago always will, that in the fall of 1979, in my senior year of high school, you could certainly still turn on your radio and hear that song played often enough. My friend LL (not to be confused with blog-favorite L, who was however our good buddy) and I liked that song. We particularly liked to sing that song at the top of our lungs in her car, which was an AMC Pacer. (If I were to tell you the other distinguishing facet of that car, I would out my identity to anyone who ever knew us in the late 70s, because it was...unique. So I won't.)
So, anyhow, LL and I would sing that song with gusto and enjoy, especially, the part about Catholic girls starting much too late, which may have been true in one of our cases and untrue in another, and we needn't be coy about who was who, huh? And we would sing that song on our way to several of our favorite places to frequent, but especially, a particular Pizza Hut that for awhile in 1979 was the first stop after school. Why? Because of the manager.
Mr Pizza Hut Manager was perhaps 25, from South Carolina--and thus possessed of what was to us an alluring and fascinating accent, good-looking, charming, flirtatious, and best of all, married, and thus apparently safe. We would go in and practice our own flirting-with-an-older-man, assured in our still innocent little hearts that nothing serious, or bad, would or could ever come from it.
Does that sound like I'm leading up to something bad happening? Nah. Not to us, anyway. Pizza Hut wasn't so lucky. Mr Pizza Hut Manager emptied out all the cash and disappeared into the sunset one night.
I'll never hear that Billy Joel song without thinking briefly of him.
You've heard I run with a dangerous crowd
We ain't too pretty, we ain't too proud
We might be laughing a bit too loud
Aww, but that never hurt no one...
xoxo
more stuff & things
Is it a sign of just giving up when you give your blog entries titles like that? I'm sure I'll have something interesting and/or creative to say any time now. So, y'know, keep reading! You never know when it's going to happen.
Anyway. Down to blog business.
1.) Project update: I re-covered the chair yesterday, though the seat isn't back on the frame yet, and I am very pleased. My new stapler was up to its task.
2.) Conspiracy theory: I think the NBA told the Celtics to throw that game yesterday, because the TV ratings have got to be pretty good. (If the TV ratings have not been good and I am totally out of touch with that fact, just disregard this theory and blame it on the X-Files reruns we've been watching on DVD.)
3.) Physician, heal thyself: I had a pretty stressful morning today, just because I had to go with D to an MD appointment and by the time I got to work, later than I had planned, all hell was breaking loose. My neck and traps and jaw muscles started spasming, reflexively, and I'm sitting there in my little back room, trying to stretch and do static compression on my own trigger points, and telling myself "if you just wouldn't worry about this shit, you wouldn't be in pain right now, moron." Which doesn't really help. Srsly.
4.) Mr Indemnity asked me what I did exciting with my dad for Father's Day and after I stopped laughing, I told him that while he was taking his nap (3/4th of the way through the game, once the outcome seemed certain) I snuck out unobtrusively to pick up some fried clams, since dinner was supposed to be a surprise. "Excitement" per se doesn't really happen any more when you're 82. But everyone likes fried seafood! so there you go.
xoxo
Anyway. Down to blog business.
1.) Project update: I re-covered the chair yesterday, though the seat isn't back on the frame yet, and I am very pleased. My new stapler was up to its task.
2.) Conspiracy theory: I think the NBA told the Celtics to throw that game yesterday, because the TV ratings have got to be pretty good. (If the TV ratings have not been good and I am totally out of touch with that fact, just disregard this theory and blame it on the X-Files reruns we've been watching on DVD.)
3.) Physician, heal thyself: I had a pretty stressful morning today, just because I had to go with D to an MD appointment and by the time I got to work, later than I had planned, all hell was breaking loose. My neck and traps and jaw muscles started spasming, reflexively, and I'm sitting there in my little back room, trying to stretch and do static compression on my own trigger points, and telling myself "if you just wouldn't worry about this shit, you wouldn't be in pain right now, moron." Which doesn't really help. Srsly.
4.) Mr Indemnity asked me what I did exciting with my dad for Father's Day and after I stopped laughing, I told him that while he was taking his nap (3/4th of the way through the game, once the outcome seemed certain) I snuck out unobtrusively to pick up some fried clams, since dinner was supposed to be a surprise. "Excitement" per se doesn't really happen any more when you're 82. But everyone likes fried seafood! so there you go.
xoxo
Sunday, June 15, 2008
extras: series finale
I rented this from Netflix, and I have to tell you, it is well worth seeing if only for George Michael's cameo.
Paparazzi, picking up a butt and a fast food wrapper: "I know he's been here. Here's a joint and a kebab." (That's in a gay cruising area, by the by. Oh, and George makes a little swipe at Sting. If there's a recent British comedy that doesn't throw in a joke or two mocking Sting, I haven't seen it. It does my heart good.)
I really enjoy how this series gets various celebs to make fun of themselves and their images. I'm still cracking up over the one about Orlando Bloom's insecurity about whether he really is as sexy as Johnny Depp.
xoxo
Paparazzi, picking up a butt and a fast food wrapper: "I know he's been here. Here's a joint and a kebab." (That's in a gay cruising area, by the by. Oh, and George makes a little swipe at Sting. If there's a recent British comedy that doesn't throw in a joke or two mocking Sting, I haven't seen it. It does my heart good.)
I really enjoy how this series gets various celebs to make fun of themselves and their images. I'm still cracking up over the one about Orlando Bloom's insecurity about whether he really is as sexy as Johnny Depp.
xoxo
interior design
I'm sorta kinda developing an understanding and a sympathy for why people a.) hire professionals or b.) stick with beige, beige, beige, with a dollop of beige. It's one thing when your "style" is a few nice major things that you've managed to buy mixed with a bunch of random stuff people have given you and you feel compelled to keep mixed with random things you've picked up just because you liked them mixed with utilitarian and ugly storage "solutions" (DVDs in a laundry basket, anyone?). It's another when you decide you actually want all parts of the room to work with each other and for every single thing in it to be actually attractive.
It's hard. It's especially hard when you keep finding stuff on the internet that's almost exactly what you want. That's enough to make people who (I swear to god) aren't cranky anymore a little frustrated.
Happy Father's Day!
xoxo
It's hard. It's especially hard when you keep finding stuff on the internet that's almost exactly what you want. That's enough to make people who (I swear to god) aren't cranky anymore a little frustrated.
Happy Father's Day!
xoxo
Thursday, June 12, 2008
things
1.) I am cranky. In case you haven't figured that out by two "rant" posts in three days. You could probably break out a calendar and start figuring out my cycle by pissy blog posts, but I wouldn't suggest you then tell me about it. Because I'd have to hurt you.
2.) So, yesterday I went to the discount fabric store in Chinatown and bought some upholstery material to re-cover the disgusting desk chair in my bedroom. And it is beautiful and it is cheap, but the colors I picked, while gorgeous, and while coordinating with the color I painted the desk and am painting the chair, don't go with my bedding--my comforter, to be exact. Which is a good excuse to get a new one and hand mine down to D or my dad, right? So I've been looking at comforters, quilts, coverlets, duvets, et al, for the past 24 hours, and you know what? Everything is either boring as shit or cheesy-looking or not the right colors. Or ridiculously expensive. This could have been avoided if, when buying a seven dollar piece of fabric, I had thought through the decorating consequences a little better.
3.) On the plus side, I did buy the stapler today. Which means, without a doubt, that I will stumble across the one I know is in this house somewhere within the next 48 hours or so.
4.) I'm cranky. Did I mention that?
xoxo
2.) So, yesterday I went to the discount fabric store in Chinatown and bought some upholstery material to re-cover the disgusting desk chair in my bedroom. And it is beautiful and it is cheap, but the colors I picked, while gorgeous, and while coordinating with the color I painted the desk and am painting the chair, don't go with my bedding--my comforter, to be exact. Which is a good excuse to get a new one and hand mine down to D or my dad, right? So I've been looking at comforters, quilts, coverlets, duvets, et al, for the past 24 hours, and you know what? Everything is either boring as shit or cheesy-looking or not the right colors. Or ridiculously expensive. This could have been avoided if, when buying a seven dollar piece of fabric, I had thought through the decorating consequences a little better.
3.) On the plus side, I did buy the stapler today. Which means, without a doubt, that I will stumble across the one I know is in this house somewhere within the next 48 hours or so.
4.) I'm cranky. Did I mention that?
xoxo
people who should be smacked upside the head
Did you hear about the Wentworth students who video'd their (female) Mass College of Art neighbors having sex and then put it online? In court yesterday, one of them put forth the defense "it wouldn't have happened if they closed their blinds."
Seriously? I wish I were that kid's mother, so I could smack him in the head. Repeatedly. Hard.
Now, I'm not saying that if I were to realize that I could see my neighbors engaging in sex from my own window, I might not watch. Briefly. In horrified fascination. But does anyone really need to be told that that's as far as it should go, blinds open or not? Apparently so.
Three things that are particularly depressing about this story, in so much as it reflects on today's youth (yes, I'm sorry, I'm slipping into fogeydom here):
1.) As mentioned above, it's always someone else's fault. Personal responsibility? Admitting you fucked up and it's totally on you? What, what?
2.) One of the young women was recognized by a BU student, who said to her, "oh, cool, you're famous." Thank you, Paris, and thank you, Kim Kardashian. Apparently there are now college students who do think being a celebrity because your sex tape is on the internet is something to aspire to. Jesus wept.
3.) Apparently in the video, you can hear the Wentworth students and their friends who'd gathered to watch and tape making anti-gay remarks about the women. Oh, lesbian sex is so heinous. That's why you're wanking to it. Assholes!
I'm not sure which of these three points pisses me off the most, but I will say, I'm sorry that our judicial system does not allow judges to mete out creative punishments to fit the crime. Because I would like to see these two kids made to be filmed naked in embarrassing positions and have the video uploaded so that all their fellow students can judge and mock their endowments.
But first their moms should smack them upside the head.
xoxo
Seriously? I wish I were that kid's mother, so I could smack him in the head. Repeatedly. Hard.
Now, I'm not saying that if I were to realize that I could see my neighbors engaging in sex from my own window, I might not watch. Briefly. In horrified fascination. But does anyone really need to be told that that's as far as it should go, blinds open or not? Apparently so.
Three things that are particularly depressing about this story, in so much as it reflects on today's youth (yes, I'm sorry, I'm slipping into fogeydom here):
1.) As mentioned above, it's always someone else's fault. Personal responsibility? Admitting you fucked up and it's totally on you? What, what?
2.) One of the young women was recognized by a BU student, who said to her, "oh, cool, you're famous." Thank you, Paris, and thank you, Kim Kardashian. Apparently there are now college students who do think being a celebrity because your sex tape is on the internet is something to aspire to. Jesus wept.
3.) Apparently in the video, you can hear the Wentworth students and their friends who'd gathered to watch and tape making anti-gay remarks about the women. Oh, lesbian sex is so heinous. That's why you're wanking to it. Assholes!
I'm not sure which of these three points pisses me off the most, but I will say, I'm sorry that our judicial system does not allow judges to mete out creative punishments to fit the crime. Because I would like to see these two kids made to be filmed naked in embarrassing positions and have the video uploaded so that all their fellow students can judge and mock their endowments.
But first their moms should smack them upside the head.
xoxo
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
helpful hint for today
So, I need one of those heavy duty upholstery staple guns for my redecorating projects, and I didn't buy one at Target yesterday because I was absolutely sure there was one in this house that belonged to my mom. This morning my dad and I were looking through a bunch of drawers that still had her stuff in them in search of said mythical stapler and we found a ziplock bag full of photos.
These were my grandmother's photos. Some of them went back to the 20s, or even before. And, swear to god, I cannot tell who 90% of the people in the ones taken before the 60s are. I mean, I can recognize my mom as a child, and by context, her brothers. I recognized a 1937 picture of my "aunt" Jane (who wasn't really my aunt, hence the quotation marks) just because she's one of those people who apparently looked exactly the same from the day she was born to the day she died. But most of them? Dunno.
There's a wedding picture of (I think) my grandmother in the most incredibly cool flapperish veil and t-strap 20s shoes. I only am assuming it's my grandmother because of the bride's mouth. There's also a studio portrait of what I think is my grandmother, grandfather who no one ever talked about, and their three kids, including my mom as a newborn. This guy who I think is my grandfather had a very impressive moustache. Think Archduke Ferdinand or something.
There are also two copies of one photo of the outside of a building, circa 30s or 40s, which looks like nothing so much as, okay, an institution. There's no sign on it, at least visible...I think it might be the back of the building, because there's a dumpster to one side. And someone apparently walking by randomly, out of the shot. I have no idea where or what this is, or why my grandmother would have two copies of a picture of it.
So, my helpful hint is this. Label your fucking pictures so your descendants will not be frustrated. You're not going to live forever, you know.
xoxo
These were my grandmother's photos. Some of them went back to the 20s, or even before. And, swear to god, I cannot tell who 90% of the people in the ones taken before the 60s are. I mean, I can recognize my mom as a child, and by context, her brothers. I recognized a 1937 picture of my "aunt" Jane (who wasn't really my aunt, hence the quotation marks) just because she's one of those people who apparently looked exactly the same from the day she was born to the day she died. But most of them? Dunno.
There's a wedding picture of (I think) my grandmother in the most incredibly cool flapperish veil and t-strap 20s shoes. I only am assuming it's my grandmother because of the bride's mouth. There's also a studio portrait of what I think is my grandmother, grandfather who no one ever talked about, and their three kids, including my mom as a newborn. This guy who I think is my grandfather had a very impressive moustache. Think Archduke Ferdinand or something.
There are also two copies of one photo of the outside of a building, circa 30s or 40s, which looks like nothing so much as, okay, an institution. There's no sign on it, at least visible...I think it might be the back of the building, because there's a dumpster to one side. And someone apparently walking by randomly, out of the shot. I have no idea where or what this is, or why my grandmother would have two copies of a picture of it.
So, my helpful hint is this. Label your fucking pictures so your descendants will not be frustrated. You're not going to live forever, you know.
xoxo
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
is it just me?
I just overheard a brief news item, about a little girl in (?) South Carolina who shot herself in the chest in a Sam's Club store. With a gun that was in her grandmother's purse. Gammy had a permit to carry, so she's not facing any charges.
Excuse me, but WTF? Do they not have laws about child endangerment?
If you can face criminal charges for leaving a child in a parked car--if you can face criminal charges for leaving your fucking golden retriever in a parked car--then one would think you could face charges for leaving your purse with a loaded gun in it where a preschooler could pick it up while you're busy comparing prices on a crateload of toilet paper or some such shit. I mean, I know you need your concealed weapon because god knows when some crackhead will try to jack you for your crateload of toilet paper in the Sam's Club parking lot, but y'know, there are safety measures incumbent upon you if you're watching (or not watching) a four year old.
Gah.
I'm sure Gammy is really devastated and all. I'd still like to see her ass in jail.
xoxo
Excuse me, but WTF? Do they not have laws about child endangerment?
If you can face criminal charges for leaving a child in a parked car--if you can face criminal charges for leaving your fucking golden retriever in a parked car--then one would think you could face charges for leaving your purse with a loaded gun in it where a preschooler could pick it up while you're busy comparing prices on a crateload of toilet paper or some such shit. I mean, I know you need your concealed weapon because god knows when some crackhead will try to jack you for your crateload of toilet paper in the Sam's Club parking lot, but y'know, there are safety measures incumbent upon you if you're watching (or not watching) a four year old.
Gah.
I'm sure Gammy is really devastated and all. I'd still like to see her ass in jail.
xoxo
summer food
I had to stop at the supermarket on the way home today because I had to have lemon hummus and fresh mozzarella. (Um, not together; I mean I had to have some in the house.) Is it a coincidence that the heat wave makes me want to eat Mediterranean? I think not.
If I could keep alcohol in this house, I'd be buying myself a nice bottle of rose prosecco, too, but I guess I am stuck with Snapple.
What do you like to eat and drink when it's wicked hot?
xoxo
If I could keep alcohol in this house, I'd be buying myself a nice bottle of rose prosecco, too, but I guess I am stuck with Snapple.
What do you like to eat and drink when it's wicked hot?
xoxo
Monday, June 9, 2008
today's slightly disturbing developments
1.) Evil Kitty 1, chipmunks 0
2.) I learned that a.) there is such a thing as Led Zep fan fic and b.) our office manager writes it. Dirty Led Zep fan fic. Which is, y'know, why no one I work with will ever find out the existence of this blog if I can freaking help it. You just don't really need to know what people you have to deal with in a professional capacity are up to on the internet. Srsly.
xoxo
2.) I learned that a.) there is such a thing as Led Zep fan fic and b.) our office manager writes it. Dirty Led Zep fan fic. Which is, y'know, why no one I work with will ever find out the existence of this blog if I can freaking help it. You just don't really need to know what people you have to deal with in a professional capacity are up to on the internet. Srsly.
xoxo
Sunday, June 8, 2008
realizations for the day
Or, yeah, sure, public humiliation!
We'll start with the non-embarrassing one first.
1.) If I had an extra $5000 lying around, I could buy myself a solid copper clawfoot bathtub. And my life would be, if not complete, close to.
Now, for the items that make me look like an idiot.
2.) I went to the beach yesterday after work and, um, I guess didn't shave my pits yesterday. And possibly not the day before either. Not that things were at French-tourist level or anything, but I think I need to hang a sign in the bathroom or something that says, "Yo! It's June. Shave every day."
3.) As I was changing my clothes eighteen times today, looking for something that wouldn't irritate me in this heat (I didn't break down and turn on my A/C until this morning and it takes a long time to cool down the house), it occurred to me that, because I know, or at least strongly suspect, that some of the guys who work at my 7-11 are Muslim, I subconsciously try not to go in there too skimpily dressed. Which is the stoopidest thing ever, because I'm sure my baring my elbows or my calves, never mind cleavage, makes me look like a complete and total slut in their eyes, and secondly, really? I'm trying not to offend the guy who sells me the newspaper and orange juice? Just when you have yourself convinced you aren't completely nutz, realizations like this one smack you upside the head. Sigh.
xoxo
We'll start with the non-embarrassing one first.
1.) If I had an extra $5000 lying around, I could buy myself a solid copper clawfoot bathtub. And my life would be, if not complete, close to.
Now, for the items that make me look like an idiot.
2.) I went to the beach yesterday after work and, um, I guess didn't shave my pits yesterday. And possibly not the day before either. Not that things were at French-tourist level or anything, but I think I need to hang a sign in the bathroom or something that says, "Yo! It's June. Shave every day."
3.) As I was changing my clothes eighteen times today, looking for something that wouldn't irritate me in this heat (I didn't break down and turn on my A/C until this morning and it takes a long time to cool down the house), it occurred to me that, because I know, or at least strongly suspect, that some of the guys who work at my 7-11 are Muslim, I subconsciously try not to go in there too skimpily dressed. Which is the stoopidest thing ever, because I'm sure my baring my elbows or my calves, never mind cleavage, makes me look like a complete and total slut in their eyes, and secondly, really? I'm trying not to offend the guy who sells me the newspaper and orange juice? Just when you have yourself convinced you aren't completely nutz, realizations like this one smack you upside the head. Sigh.
xoxo
1977 was a very good year
Actually, no, it wasn't; it sucked. However, between all the talk of bell bottoms and pink ruffly tux shirts and other vintage matters, you can only image my delight when I came across this:
http://tinyurl.com/4vm4qd
(I tried to just put the picture in for you all, but unfortunately Blogger didn't like the format.)
Anyway, if you clicked it, OMG! Real Gunne Sax from the 70s! I think I actually squee'd when I saw it. Not that I am going to spend 50 bucks on a 30 year old dress that may or may not fit, and not that I am not very slightly squeamish about the idea of vintage in general what with wearing clothes that were worn by strangers, but holy crap, is it tempting. That is So. Cool.
xoxo
http://tinyurl.com/4vm4qd
(I tried to just put the picture in for you all, but unfortunately Blogger didn't like the format.)
Anyway, if you clicked it, OMG! Real Gunne Sax from the 70s! I think I actually squee'd when I saw it. Not that I am going to spend 50 bucks on a 30 year old dress that may or may not fit, and not that I am not very slightly squeamish about the idea of vintage in general what with wearing clothes that were worn by strangers, but holy crap, is it tempting. That is So. Cool.
xoxo
Friday, June 6, 2008
quoting yourself
I almost wrote an apology or disclaimer for this entry, but then I remembered we're not doing that any more. So FUCK YOU, reader, if this bores you. (Oh, c'mon, I don't have to * that, do I?)
Anyway, there I was, reading the fat/body acceptance blogs again, and I came across an interesting post on tattoos, and specifically, whether your tattoos are for art or for marking. I thought this was a brilliant question, frankly. Mine are for marking.
Occasionally people will be bemused that both of mine are on the back of my body, in places I can't easily see, even in a mirror. And I always say that they're not there for me (or anyone, really) to look at, they're there for me to know that they're there. I got both of them at times when I was going through changes in my life and I wanted to either commemorate who I am or remind myself of it. Also, since one is my initial and the other is a word, they feed a fascination in me with writing on the body. (It's a quirk, like the doorway/stairway/window thing. Deal.)
All that being said, as I think about what I would like to do some time in the future, it occurs to me I would like to go a step further and have, as some people do, a whole sentence/quote/line of verse tattooed on me. The problem with that little plan is that I don't particularly have a favorite quote. I have a few song lyrics that I particularly like, but I'm afraid of the whole irony problem. For instance, from "On a Plain": Love myself better than you Know it's wrong So what should I do? If I had "love myself better than you" tattooed on me, would I have to * it and have a second tat that says "*self-mockery, do not take seriously"? Actually, that'd be funny, but even I don't find my own jokes so amusing that I need them permanently inscribed on my body, yo.
I do have, however, a line or two of poetry that I've written myself (shut up) that I am particularly fond of, that symbolize certain feelings I have about who I am (much as my existing tats do) but which are opaque enough that the meaning wouldn't be apparent to the casual viewer. But then I think, Dude. Isn't that about the height of douchery to quote yourself in your tattoo? But then I also think that's just...I dunno...some kind of weird false self-deprecation. Why should one's own writing be less worthy than another person's?
Feel free to vote on this issue. Even if it's only to mock that I've ever written poetry. Kthx.
xoxo
Anyway, there I was, reading the fat/body acceptance blogs again, and I came across an interesting post on tattoos, and specifically, whether your tattoos are for art or for marking. I thought this was a brilliant question, frankly. Mine are for marking.
Occasionally people will be bemused that both of mine are on the back of my body, in places I can't easily see, even in a mirror. And I always say that they're not there for me (or anyone, really) to look at, they're there for me to know that they're there. I got both of them at times when I was going through changes in my life and I wanted to either commemorate who I am or remind myself of it. Also, since one is my initial and the other is a word, they feed a fascination in me with writing on the body. (It's a quirk, like the doorway/stairway/window thing. Deal.)
All that being said, as I think about what I would like to do some time in the future, it occurs to me I would like to go a step further and have, as some people do, a whole sentence/quote/line of verse tattooed on me. The problem with that little plan is that I don't particularly have a favorite quote. I have a few song lyrics that I particularly like, but I'm afraid of the whole irony problem. For instance, from "On a Plain": Love myself better than you Know it's wrong So what should I do? If I had "love myself better than you" tattooed on me, would I have to * it and have a second tat that says "*self-mockery, do not take seriously"? Actually, that'd be funny, but even I don't find my own jokes so amusing that I need them permanently inscribed on my body, yo.
I do have, however, a line or two of poetry that I've written myself (shut up) that I am particularly fond of, that symbolize certain feelings I have about who I am (much as my existing tats do) but which are opaque enough that the meaning wouldn't be apparent to the casual viewer. But then I think, Dude. Isn't that about the height of douchery to quote yourself in your tattoo? But then I also think that's just...I dunno...some kind of weird false self-deprecation. Why should one's own writing be less worthy than another person's?
Feel free to vote on this issue. Even if it's only to mock that I've ever written poetry. Kthx.
xoxo
Thursday, June 5, 2008
fight! fight!
Did you see it? Did you enjoy it? I did.
Unfortunately, I also saw our boy Jacoby hurt his wrist, which I did not enjoy.
xoxo
Unfortunately, I also saw our boy Jacoby hurt his wrist, which I did not enjoy.
xoxo
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
more quick hits
1.) Another good mail day! All the stuff I ordered has arrived, including the frame/mat for my print, and as predicted, the matting alleviates the problem I had with the darkness. Looks good.
2.) I've been listening to the B-52s' greatest hits pretty solidly for four days, and I have a question and a comment. Well, a question/comment and a comment. First of all? "Then I'm gonna kiss your pineapple"? I mean, from context, it's pretty clear what we're talking about, but I've just never heard that particular euphemism. I don't know about you but mine isn't, y'know, prickly. Secondly, the song "Is That You, Mo-Dean?" reminds me, inexplicably, of my friend G. That part about "Well, it had been 987 years in outer space time when I got back. Couldn't seem to find any of my friends to tell my interesting stories to"? G is just the kind of person who would get abducted by a UFO and come back with a series of absolutely hilarious anecdotes about the experience (and be slightly disappointed if all his friends were too dead to listen to them.) I hope I remember to make this observation to him the next time I see him.
xoxo
2.) I've been listening to the B-52s' greatest hits pretty solidly for four days, and I have a question and a comment. Well, a question/comment and a comment. First of all? "Then I'm gonna kiss your pineapple"? I mean, from context, it's pretty clear what we're talking about, but I've just never heard that particular euphemism. I don't know about you but mine isn't, y'know, prickly. Secondly, the song "Is That You, Mo-Dean?" reminds me, inexplicably, of my friend G. That part about "Well, it had been 987 years in outer space time when I got back. Couldn't seem to find any of my friends to tell my interesting stories to"? G is just the kind of person who would get abducted by a UFO and come back with a series of absolutely hilarious anecdotes about the experience (and be slightly disappointed if all his friends were too dead to listen to them.) I hope I remember to make this observation to him the next time I see him.
xoxo
Monday, June 2, 2008
quick hits
1.) Once I stopped compulsively staring at Christina Hendricks' picture on the cover of EW and actually read the issue, I saw that Margaret Cho has a new show coming up on VH1 this summer, wherein she will tackle such subjects as anal bleaching. Some of you all will remember when Mr Indemnity wanted me to be all outraged and blog about this topic, but I just couldn't get myself worked up. Yes, we all know how I hate that the media and modern American society as a whole keeps finding new areas of the female anatomy that we're supposed to hate about ourselves, and spend time and money to groom, modify, and change. But, I'm sorry, anal bleaching is too stoopid to take seriously. If you can really be convinced to worry about the skin color of an orifice you poop out of, you have bigger problems than unreasonable cultural expectations. Nevertheless, I will probably check out Ms Cho's take on this.
2.) One media item I did get worked up about recently is the sidebar of the story in the Globe (Thursday? Friday?) about Obama releasing his medical records, in which they reported to us his blood pressure, his cholesterol count, and his prostate screening figures. I'm sorry, but none of that is any of my business. Nor is it any of your business. The only persons whose business it is, is Obama and his PCP. It disgusts me that somehow there has become a presumption that no one in public life is entitled to any privacy, whether medical or otherwise.
Personally, I blame Reagan's colon.
xoxo
2.) One media item I did get worked up about recently is the sidebar of the story in the Globe (Thursday? Friday?) about Obama releasing his medical records, in which they reported to us his blood pressure, his cholesterol count, and his prostate screening figures. I'm sorry, but none of that is any of my business. Nor is it any of your business. The only persons whose business it is, is Obama and his PCP. It disgusts me that somehow there has become a presumption that no one in public life is entitled to any privacy, whether medical or otherwise.
Personally, I blame Reagan's colon.
xoxo
home deeeeeepot
I think I may have mentioned before, but I do so love going to the Home Depot. It reinforces my little fantasy world in which I am really the kind of person who could re-tile her own bathroom blindfolded and with one hand tied behind her back.
Anyway, yesterday there I was, wandering through, picking up paint swatches, some more (gold) furniture paint, and a new small paintbrush (did you know that you have *one* chance to get a paintbrush really clean, and that's immediately after you use it? I do now) and I wandered into the lock section. Well, here's the thing. I now have two, count 'em, two, doors in my house that need new deadbolts, because they can only be locked from outside with the key. I've been putting off calling a locksmith because after the recent glass door replacement, I'm just not in the mood to write big checks to random tradesmen. So, yeah, I wandered by the deadbolts in Home Depot and thought, how hard can it be? See: re-tiling fantasy above. So, y'know, I bought one. Then I chickened out. I have not taken the door apart yet. But HOW HARD CAN IT BE????
It occurred to me that perhaps the perfect grandfather of my future step-grandchildren would be a contractor, if, y'know, we're making up a wish list. So maybe I ought to hang around Home Depot more, flirting with mens who look like they have a way with ::ahem:: power tools. In fact, I should probably have been flirting with the guy in front of me in line buying the huge load of lumber. I mean, he was a little short and bandy-legged, but he had a big truck! All life is trade-offs.
(Do I need to * any of this? We do all realize I'm not really planning on hanging out in Home Deeeeepot looking for a guy who'll say, "Gimme ten minutes and I'll pop that deadbolt right in," don't we? Though, actually, you could give that line a really filthy read if you were so inclined. But I'm not hanging out in Home Depot for that, either. Seriously. Keep up.)
xoxo
Anyway, yesterday there I was, wandering through, picking up paint swatches, some more (gold) furniture paint, and a new small paintbrush (did you know that you have *one* chance to get a paintbrush really clean, and that's immediately after you use it? I do now) and I wandered into the lock section. Well, here's the thing. I now have two, count 'em, two, doors in my house that need new deadbolts, because they can only be locked from outside with the key. I've been putting off calling a locksmith because after the recent glass door replacement, I'm just not in the mood to write big checks to random tradesmen. So, yeah, I wandered by the deadbolts in Home Depot and thought, how hard can it be? See: re-tiling fantasy above. So, y'know, I bought one. Then I chickened out. I have not taken the door apart yet. But HOW HARD CAN IT BE????
It occurred to me that perhaps the perfect grandfather of my future step-grandchildren would be a contractor, if, y'know, we're making up a wish list. So maybe I ought to hang around Home Depot more, flirting with mens who look like they have a way with ::ahem:: power tools. In fact, I should probably have been flirting with the guy in front of me in line buying the huge load of lumber. I mean, he was a little short and bandy-legged, but he had a big truck! All life is trade-offs.
(Do I need to * any of this? We do all realize I'm not really planning on hanging out in Home Deeeeepot looking for a guy who'll say, "Gimme ten minutes and I'll pop that deadbolt right in," don't we? Though, actually, you could give that line a really filthy read if you were so inclined. But I'm not hanging out in Home Depot for that, either. Seriously. Keep up.)
xoxo
Sunday, June 1, 2008
if you are keeping track
...you'll remember that I said I had to save a May baseball-themed blog post for Manny's #500. Ahem.
Better late than never, Manuel, and I'm sorry I missed it, but I went to bed ridiculously early last night, overwhelmed with fatigue of unknown origin. (It's not like I had a particularly grueling day at work yesterday; I spent the last hour and a half of it shopping online for a frame for my new print and a shower curtain. As an aside, I don't know what the fuck has happened to my work ethic. I never used to waste time I was getting paid for like that. As another aside, I'd like to alert you all to the fact that Tarzhay online has far, far more items than they carry in their stores, and often free shipping offers. Plus, if you have an amazon account, you can checkout with that. It's genius.)
Where was I? Oh, yeah, Manny. Congrats, and I think I'm even more fond of you than ever on learning that your middle name is "Aristides." Actually, I guess I'm even more fond of your mom. Mrs. Ramirez, you obviously rock. Except your name probably isn't Mrs. Ramirez, and I'll be arsed if I can be bothered to google whatever it is. (See, there's that missing work ethic again. Um, I don't have to * any of this, do I, readers? You're keeping up with me, right?)
See, this is what happens when I get ten hours sleep. It's not pretty. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got people to go harass in e-mail.
xoxo
Addendum! Mr Barma has kindly informed me that Manny's mom's name is Onelcida Ramirez and his dad is Aristides. Therefore, we can conclude that it is actually Manny's grandmother who rocks, and that Onelcida is not one of those old skool Hispanic ladies who doesn't take her husband's name when she gets married. Glad we cleared that up.
Better late than never, Manuel, and I'm sorry I missed it, but I went to bed ridiculously early last night, overwhelmed with fatigue of unknown origin. (It's not like I had a particularly grueling day at work yesterday; I spent the last hour and a half of it shopping online for a frame for my new print and a shower curtain. As an aside, I don't know what the fuck has happened to my work ethic. I never used to waste time I was getting paid for like that. As another aside, I'd like to alert you all to the fact that Tarzhay online has far, far more items than they carry in their stores, and often free shipping offers. Plus, if you have an amazon account, you can checkout with that. It's genius.)
Where was I? Oh, yeah, Manny. Congrats, and I think I'm even more fond of you than ever on learning that your middle name is "Aristides." Actually, I guess I'm even more fond of your mom. Mrs. Ramirez, you obviously rock. Except your name probably isn't Mrs. Ramirez, and I'll be arsed if I can be bothered to google whatever it is. (See, there's that missing work ethic again. Um, I don't have to * any of this, do I, readers? You're keeping up with me, right?)
See, this is what happens when I get ten hours sleep. It's not pretty. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got people to go harass in e-mail.
xoxo
Addendum! Mr Barma has kindly informed me that Manny's mom's name is Onelcida Ramirez and his dad is Aristides. Therefore, we can conclude that it is actually Manny's grandmother who rocks, and that Onelcida is not one of those old skool Hispanic ladies who doesn't take her husband's name when she gets married. Glad we cleared that up.
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