pictoral update

Shoes!




Something's sprouting!

No ants!

Hockey pits! (Have you ever *tried* to take a picture of your own armpit? It's harder than you might think.)

xoxo

my psychic powers desert me

When, in response to Mr Lopez coming in for the bottom of the ninth, I said, "This doesn't seem like a very good idea," I was thinking more in terms of 'walk-off home run'. Ah, a failure of psychic powers *and* imagination.

Also? Julie comes back, winning streak ends? Coincidence? Ha!

Also also? From another anonymous soul on the interwebz (paraphrased): "We don't even refer to Lugo by name in my house. We just call him E6." If I ever get sick of Julie, I may need to steal that.

xoxo

i wish to lodge a complaint

Actually, two.

First one, consumer-style. A week or two ago I was out with a friend and we were by CVS and I was like, can we pop in for a second, I just need a couple things. Well, one of the things I needed was the stuff I wash my face and take my makeup off with. Because I was imposing on someone else's good nature, I grabbed my stuff really quickly. Come to find out, the stuff I bought is not my usual product, but a similar one in almost identical packaging, and it a.) is too runny and b.) stings my eyes when I take off my mascara. Why would you market something as facial cleanser/makeup remover if you cannot use it to take off mascara without burning your eyes and why would you put two of your products in packaging that looks exactly alike unless you very carefully read the label (unless your fiendish plan is to make consumers grab the wrong one by mistake and have to return to buy the other product, thus making two sales instead of one)? Yes, yes, I know, read the fucking label, Andrea, but I was just trying to be polite and considerate. God.

Second one, nature-style. Ants! Every spring/summer you hear me bitch about my war with the fucking ants that get in by my kitchen window (off the deck) and upstairs from the door to the upper deck. Well, that time is here again. Yesterday I went into the kitchen to make tea for me and L and there were like eight ants frolicking in my sink. I took great satisfaction in powerwashing them down the drain with the sink sprayer while yelling, "Die, motherfuckers, DIE!" but seriously, I've got to get out the ant spray, which I am loathe to do because of Evil Kitty. Because this *is* war.

xoxo

P.S. Do you know that Blogger spellcheck, which balks at "hoodie", knows that motherfuckers is a word? Huh. How about that.

mental

Here are two true facts about me: I have an anxiety disorder with a side of depression (hold the ketchup, please) and I think a lot, often about things that other people don't ever seem to consider. These two true facts are related, but not, probably, in the way that you might first think.

What brings this up? Well. Today's work day (and, to an extent, yesterday's) has been rife with dead spots, not slow exactly, but with longer than normal spaces in between appointments. And since it is literally 95 degrees in here even with the back door propped open, I have not been inclined to do anything ambitious and productive in those spaces. Instead, I've been reading crap on the internet. And from two different sources, I followed two different links to two totally disparate discussions (one from an American Muslim woman living in Saudi Arabia, the other from an evangelical Christian perspective), both of which happened to involve a discussion of, and endorsement for, "modesty" in dress. And then, also separately, I read some people excoriating (and other people defending) Dita Von Teese as a feminist because she has implants and wears corsets. And all this stuff smushed itself together in my brain into another of my exceedingly crackpot theories, which I was going to blog for y'all.

And then I thought, Andrea, you are mental. The reason you are wasting your time reading this stuff, thinking about how it all relates, and distilling a cultural hypothesis from it is *not* intellectual curiosity, and you fucking know it. The reason you are doing it is that it keeps you from thinking about: a.) whether maybe dad has cancer and all the cupcakes in the world aren't gonna fix his weight loss or b.) what the chances really are that you've picked up a parasite from a patient or c.) how your house probably really needs a new roof (along with all the other stuff it needs) and how people with houses that need work shouldn't be buying shoes or getting pedis or acupuncture or d.) how you are in fact going to die alone and unloved and be eaten by your theoretical 12 cats before anyone finds you because you won't have any step-grandchildren to check on you or e.) the 53 other anxiety- or depression-triggering topics that could find space in your brain instead.

I wish I knew what normal people have going on in their brains at any given time. What's happening in there if you aren't continually thinking either about horrible things you'd rather not contemplate *or* stoopid stuff that is just so much mental masturbation? I really wanna know. Is that why people are extroverts, so they can spend all their time talking and no time thinking? Is it possible to think about nothing at all? (I guess meditation says "yes" but I usually have a big ol' FAIL at meditation.) Can you train yourself to just think about very concrete things like lists of what you're going to make for dinner or who's gonna win American Idol or today's Sox-Yankees game? My whole life I always thought having a good imagination was a positive thing, but the older I get, the more I realize that unless someone's paying you for your creative output, it's really more a curse than anything else.

That is all.

xoxo

fear my power

So, last night I was talking to my TV in that way that I always do when I'm watching a game in the privacy of my house with my kid, and I said, "Jason Bay"--because I always call Mr Bay by his full name--"Jason Bay, why don't you hit a home run right now and tie this. I *know* you can do it." Next pitch? Yeah, baby. D's yelling and laughing and pointing at me. I do wonder sometimes whether encouraging the belief that I can in fact predict the future in someone who is, let's face it, more prone to delusions than the average person is wise, but y'know, the seduction of being right is just too sweet to resist.

I wish I could say I predicted Youk, but I just could not stay up any longer and went to bed during the top of the 11th. I know, shameful, but I did have to get up and go to my bastard job this morning. If I could turn my awesome psychic powers towards, I dunno, predicting lottery numbers or something, that whole eventuality could be avoided. I'll have to work on it.

xoxo

thoughts for friday

1.) According to the AP, Michael Phelps is "casually dating" (the anti-gay marriage) Miss California. Doesn't that kinda make you wish her interview question was about legalizing the ganja instead? Also? The headline for this was something along the lines of "Phelps dates beauty queen" which brought up my eternal question: why, when you become a famous athlete, you immediately are required to start dating (preferably blond) bimbos? Why is it beyond the pale for you to be hooking up with a nice, attractive lawyer or nurse or preschool teacher or, geez, I dunno, another athlete? It can't be just the looks thing, because there are plenty of real women with real jobs who are stunning. I was thinking maybe it's that at a certain point, your ego is so overinflated that you want a woman who is as vapid and empty as possible so she doesn't have any actual thoughts, ideas, or original opinions to interfere with her reflecting back your adoration of yourself, but then, I thought about Tom and Gisele, and that's obviously not what's going on there. All evidence points to him being her bitch and, I'm sure he thinks what she tells him to think. So maybe it's just peer pressure! But, mom! All the other superstars are doing it!

2.) Speaking of female attorneys, did you hear about the woman in Scarsdale who is in trouble, and being absolutely excoriated on the interwebz, for kicking her (behaving obnoxiously) 12 and 10 year olds out of the car three miles from home and telling them they could walk? Not exactly seeing this as child abuse myself, but I'm probably just a bad person.

3.) And, just throwing this out there, but I am totally willing to forgo shaving my pits for the duration of the playoffs (in solidarity with Mr Barma's hockey beard) if it will help the Bruins go all the way. Because that's the kind of girl I am.

xoxo

everyone's favorite little MILF

I know it's shocking, but today I'm gonna talk about someone else's lingerie.

It seems that our (faux) MILF's baby will need a bit of minor surgery and, anticipating needing to stay over at the hospital, she decided she probably needs to buy some sweatpants or similar. "What?" we all asked in shock. "You don't own sweatpants? What do you wear to bed? What do you wear around the house?"

In keeping with the high-heeled shoes and adorable outfits she wears to work, the answer is: negligees! She hangs out in the house in pretty, sexy little nightgowns. And she doesn't even have a (live-in) man, I marvelled. She started laughing. It seems that when her daughter's father and she were living together, she'd bitch to her friends that every time she got into bed, he was immediately all over her. Maybe, they would suggest to her, he's confused by your alluring night clothes into thinking they're a signal you're looking for some. (And really, gentlemen, I do sympathize. It must be hella difficult figuring out when we're dressing or grooming ourselves in a certain way so as to come onto you, and when we're doing it for ourselves because it makes us feel pretty.)

Anyway, even though it makes me aware of my own sartorial failings, her little admission made me love her even more. Of course she's not wearing Old Navy pj pants or freebie oversized t-shirts like the rest of us. She's her own little (glamorous) individual. In fact, I suggested we all buy her a pair of those spike-heeled marabou slippers for Christmas next year, because those she doesn't have them, and if anyone could pull those off, it obviously would be she.

xoxo

quickie book review

Undress Me in the Temple of Heaven by Susan Jane Gilman.

You should read this book. In fact, if any of you all would like to borrow it, lemme know.

This is a memoir of a woman, more or less my age, who in 1986, freshly graduated from college, decides to take off on an ill-advised around-the-world backpacking trip with one of her Ivy League classmates. As a starting point, they go to communist China which has just been opened up (by some definition of "open") to Westerners. It's all very fascinating. And then the classmate begins showing signs of paranoia which eventually leads to a complete psychotic break. Holy crap. Depending on the kindness of strangers and newly-met friends, the author has to get the sick woman out of the country without alerting the officials how far gone she is. Their panic is buoyed by stories of, for example, a Belgian woman who was committed to an asylum in China for a year for hallucinating from a fever.

Extremely riveting story, so much so that while I was reading it at North Station yesterday, I barely heard them calling my train. It would make a great movie, so hopefully someone's on that.

xoxo

more sexting talk

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB124026115528336397.html#mod

In case you don't care to read the whole article, let me excerpt the most pertinent paragraph:

He then told the parents and teens to line up if they wanted to view the photos, which were printed out onto index cards. As the 17-year-old who took semi-nude self-portraits waited in line, she realized that Mr. Skumanick and other investigators had viewed the pictures. When the adults began to crowd around Mr. Skumanick, the 17-year-old worried they could see her photo and recalls she said, "I think the worst punishment is knowing that all you old guys saw me naked. I just think you guys are all just perverts."

Ah, wise beyond her years, even if she did have a little lapse in picture-taking judgment. You are not telling me that this DA, Skumanick, is not getting off on shaming and humiliating young girls whilst also enjoying ogling their nude or semi-clad pictures. In fact, I would *bet you money* that he pleasures himself five nights out of seven to thoughts of spanking those naughty pubescent hussies and teaching them a lesson.

Um, not that I can really condemn anyone else's rich and full fantasy life. A woman who thinks her donut box says "orgasm" has no room to throw stones. It's the using of whatever petty amount of power you possess to make other people's lives miserable because of your conflict and shame over your own sexual urges that I object to. Plus, okay, 47 year old guys looking at 15 year old girls in their bras and calling it a work day just sticks in my craw.

xoxo

how to freak out your acupuncturist

In three easy steps!

Step 1: One half hour prior to your appointment, go to Starbucks and obtain yourself a grande green tea latte. You know, the ones that have the quarter inch of dark green not-found-in-nature sludge remaining at the bottom of the cup after you're finished drinking them? Yup, one of those.

Step 2: While in the waiting room, pop a Listerine cinnamon mouthwash strip, just in case your non-toothbrushed for 10 hours breath might be offensive to your health care provider.

Step 3: When asked, stick out for perusal your tongue, upon which apparently a chemical reaction has taken place, leaving a greenish-yellow square on the left back, the likes of which almost sends your poor horrified and perplexed acupuncturist for her camera and her tongue atlas.

Until she pulls herself together and questions you further. Oops.

I keep telling you people: learn from my example!

xoxo

do we like these shoes?

Well, do we? Notice the adorable zippers at the back? (They're knockoffs of...I forget. I thought they were knockoffs of BCBG, but those don't have the heel zippers.) Anyway, I kinda sorta ridiculously love these, but I am unsure what I would wear them with.

Would they look okay with a dress, do you think? Or just jeans? Skinny knee-length shorts?

A toga? Help me out here.

xoxo

sundry

1.) Yesterday, for the first time this year, I was on the Green Line at the same time as people heading to Fenway and, can I just say, the experience hasn't gotten any better with the passage of another long winter. These people who have no idea how to take public transportation need to either stay in their fucking suburbs or suck it up and pay for parking. Because the next cluster of douches in Sox jerseys and douchettes in pink caps who totally block the way out of the train, chatting with each other obliviously while other people try to disembark, are getting an elbow to the soft and unprotected parts from me. Swear to god. You heard it here first. There was this family on the train with me, mom, dad, little girl about 5, and a one year old in the dad's backpack. The baby was getting cranky. She kept spitting out her binky and howling. I thought, sweetie, I know how you feel. I wish it were socially acceptable for me to start yelling on the D train.

2.) I keep getting these free tea samples. Just now I had one that was Earl Gray. I'm not philosophically opposed to Earl Gray, but it's really kind of a weird beverage. I put milk in it, because I always put milk in black tea, and I dunno. That may have been a mistake. It's sorta like drinking milk perfume.

3.) Despite my hatred for the people going to the game yesterday, I actually was in a stellar mood for no particular reason. Giddy, almost. I think I might be having one of those unexplained mood swings again. So I bought myself some frivolous things while I was out: a new candle, earrings, fancy file folders, and a sequined change purse. I am such a girl.

4.) I am reading Russell Brand's book and I am kind of torn. I had heard people raving about it, but either they were just ridiculous fangirls or the book has lost something in translation (from, y'know, British, haha) because it's not *that* funny and/or *that* well-written. Not that I'm not enjoying it exactly. I was just expecting more.

xoxo

and in the "i'm dyslexic & a perv" annals

So, I just went and bought six donuts at Dunks in my new found quest to fatten my dad up, and, you know, they put them in a box. On the top of the box it says:

0 GRAMS
TRANS FAT

Not that I ever looked or noticed before. Well, as I was walking out the door, carefully holding the box so as not to upend it, I saw that out of the corner of my eye.

And thought, for a split second, that first line said "orgasm." I mean, yes, donuts can be almost as good as orgasms, but not the ones that have been sitting around at Dunkins. So that would be egregious false advertising, in my humble opinion. Also? I think this means I need more sex or less pastry. Something like that.

Okay! I'm going out for the day now and you will hear no more from me. (Aren't my Sunday morning posts your favorite? Admit it.)

xoxo

perspective

It's been brought to my attention that some people find the question "Why is someone as good-looking/cool/wonderful/(insert-positive-attribute-of-your-choice) as you single?" insulting and offensive, because they think the implication is what's wrong with you? Oh. Having been on the receiving end of this a time or two or a hundred, I never looked at it that way. I always took it as a compliment. A hilarious one, but a compliment nevertheless. I always took the implication to be what's wrong with those people who haven't snapped you up? I think I prefer to go through the rest of my life pretending I never heard the other interpretation and that there's no chance I'm being insulted. Why look for reasons to feel like shit, yo?

Actually, my first experience with this is one of my favorite stories evah. (Yeah, it's another anecdote. Suck it up and take it.) I think I've told you all that the year my kid was in kindergarten was a hard one. It was the year my grandmother was dying, so my mom was totally taken up with caring for her and my dad with taking care of everything else my mom usually took care of and since I couldn't count on my kid's father reliably for anything, I was totally the singlest of single parents that year, taking care of every last thing myself and frequently running into the kindergarten/daycare from work at the last possible minute before closing to get D. Now, the older woman who owned/directed the kindergarten really liked D and really liked me (despite my near-tardiness). One day I came to get him and she sort of took me aside and asked, "Have you heard so-n-so's mother is getting remarried?" No, I had not. She looked at me very kindly and seriously. "I don't know why you don't do that, Andrea. You're so much nicer and prettier and smarter than she is. And then you wouldn't have to work so hard." Ever nearly choked trying really hard not to break out into hysterical laughter so as not to offend someone? That was me. I think I managed to murmur something about not remembering working any less hard when I was married before making my getaway, but it was close.

The other really funny example of this happened much more recently. One of my boss's patients, who is in his early 20s and who is...I'm not exactly sure, but perhaps Aspergers, just slightly "off" anyways, came in, and I happened to be in the reception area. He saw me and said hi and we chatted for a moment in the "oh, how are you, haven't seen you for a long time, blah blah" kind of way. Then he went in for his appointment. I ended up having to go in and interrupt them to get my boss to sign a prescription or order or something for someone who was waiting, and the kid was watching me as I handed it over. He says suddenly (because, yeah, a little off and lacking in, y'know, filters), "I just don't understand why a woman as beautiful as you isn't wearing a ring!" Well, my boss couldn't hold it together. He's cracking up and saying, "oh, she left it at home," and I'm all like, yeah, just sign that, and turning, I'm sure, many shades of red, and the kid's mother looks like she wants to drop through the floor, though I can't imagine she's not used to the inappropriate public commenting.

In summary, why the fuck do you want to go through life getting offended by stuff like that when you can accept it as a very awkward and completely hysterical compliment instead? People need to work on that!

xoxo

...nification

Um, warning. Not PG13 today. Proceed at your own risk, campers.

In another fabulous example of everyone in the world wanting to discuss what I do (okay, not really), I read a discussion yesterday that was spurred by an article about how the pornification of America is leading us to hell in a handbasket. Now, the original article was from Adbusters, which I'm not familiar with, but from some of the comments I read, their editorial policy is more or less that everything is a harbinger of the fall of Western civilization and, oh yeah, the sky is falling. Be that as it may, you know that I personally am always going on about this pornification and its ridiculous influence.

My usual rant is directed at its effect on shaping the culture's idea of what a woman's body is supposed to look like: my fear that young men my kid's age, warped from all the easily available internet porn in their formative years, think that a skinny woman with artificially big and preternaturally perky breasts, devoid of all pubic hair, with featureless genitals--basically Barbie--is what a real woman actually looks like, and that any deviation from that pattern is less than perfectly sexually arousing, with the resulting pressure on women to try to look like that, with procedures ranging from the (relatively benign) Brazilian to (it goes without saying) implants to (the ridiculous extremes of) anal bleaching or labiaplasty. But you've heard me bitch about that before, I'm sure.

No, what I found new and interesting in the discussion I was reading was all the young women coming forth and complaining about guys who have picked up their "sexual technique" such as it were from watching porn. That is to say, they watch things that are faked, the women in the porn are moaning with "pleasure" over these faked things, and then the morons try these things in real life--things that are actually uncomfortable, possibly injurious, annoying, and/or downright painful to their partners--because they don't realize porn isn't real and real people's bodies don't work like that. (OMG, shades of The Lawyer! ::spit:: I had no idea this was an actual syndrome.) In other words, porn is making a whole subset of young men into crappy, crappy lovers. Hopefully, with more experience and/or a woman or two willing to work on setting them straight, they'll outgrow it, but then again, The Lawyer was in his 40s when I dated him and he sucked big time. Um, no pun intended.

The other interesting thing I heard from the young women in this discussion is that porn is leading to their feeling pressured to do every kinky or semi-kinky thing on the sexual menu, and to do it all immediately, because these dudes who have watched too much porn aren't satisfied with, y'know, just PIV. And while most or all of the women complaining about this were quick to say they aren't averse to less standard acts or to experimentation, they don't necessarily need or want to do that stuff the first time they sleep with someone or with every casual partner they have.

This ties in with something I've long wondered about. Some of my friends and I have discussed that in Our Day (when dinosaurs walked the earth, yo) oral sex was considered a much more intimate act than fucking and that you didn't engage in it with someone until after you were already doing PIV on a regular basis. We've been kind of astounded that that has apparently flipped, and Kids These Days don't see it that way. Well, in that discussion I was reading, it became clear to me that many of these young women did in fact feel that same way, but felt pressured by their peer group, the culture, and/or the guys they were hooking up with not to. There's all these young women saying that you hook up with a guy for the first time and he thinks you're going straight to facials and anal sex, activities they are fine with but, y'know, don't want to do willy-nilly with every casual partner or in a very new relationship. But these guys are so jaded from watching porn, they think every sexual encounter has to involve every possible orifice being penetrated and ejaculate flying everywhere, or it's boring. So, again, yeah, pornification leads to bad sex.

That's ironic, right?

xoxo

one more for today

See? I'm still thinking poker with Drew would be part of my Best Celebrity Day Evah. Isn't she adorable? Doesn't she look fun? And don't you think that dress would probably fit me? I could borrow it to play poker in.

xoxo

breaking red sox news

Apparently JD Drew reads Mr Barma's blog and was so upset at being referred to as "Nancy" that he stopped killing rallies, and instead stepped up his game to hitting three run home runs instead. And though Timmy W did not get the nono, he was a light at the end of the bad pitching tunnel.

So, I am somewhat pacified.

xoxo

slut-shaming

I guess that's what they call it these days.

On the cable news this morning, the very same cable news that alerted me to Tree in Lung Guy, there was a piece about that law they are trying to pass in Vermont, such that teenage girls who "sext" risque photos of themselves to their swains are no longer branded as sex offenders disseminating child pornography, and neither are the swains for possessing it. On the pro side was some legislator from Vt; on the con was...I dunno, some conservative chick. She was frothing at the mouth (politely) about how sexting was irresponsible and inappropriate behavior. Really, lady? Teenagers doing irresponsible and inappropriate things? You don't say.

Anyway, this led to a segue on some 18 year old young woman who recently committed suicide when pictures of herself that she'd sent to a boyfriend were leaked around her school. First of all, I don't necessarily see how this followed. Perhaps being labelled a sex offender would have made her *less* likely to kill herself? Really? Secondly, she had to have had a preexisting psychiatric condition; people who aren't already depressed don't kill themselves over a high school scandal. But be that as it may, I started getting really depressed about this myself, thinking about it.

In what kind of society do we (still) live, where a girl whose nude or semi-nude pictures, sent in trust to someone she is in a relationship with, reflect badly *on her* when *he* shows them around? Where is the recognition amongst their peers that *he* is the douchebag cunt for making public what was meant for him alone? Where is the recognition that if someone you are intimate with entrusts something private to you, you keep it private, or you are the lowest of the low and *you* should be shamed? Where is the recognition that it's never okay to do that, even if someone breaks up with you, cheats on you, or kills your fucking puppy? Do parents not teach their children that these days? Do the parents even know it? What kind of culture are we living in that slut-shaming is apparently still okay, but no one calls out a douche and makes them ashamed of their douchiness?

And, really, there's a stigma for young women's sexuality? Have we gone fucking backwards on this? I remember (OMG she's gonna tell another anecdote nooooooo) one day when I was a junior in high school, I was sitting in the bleachers in gym class (because if you really think teenaged Andrea participated in those stoopid games they made us play in gym without being forced, obviously you haven't been paying attention) writing a letter (the 1978 version of texting, yo) to my boyfriend/FEH, in which I detailed how incredibly tedious and boring the whole day had been up to that point and how I wished I were in bed with him instead. Well, there was this socially-clueless girl sitting behind/above me, not a friend, but someone I did chat with in the bleachers now and again, and apparently she was reading over my shoulder. She leaned over and said, not in a bitch way but a worried way, that I shouldn't write that kind of thing in school, because someone might find it and talk about me. Well, I gave her the "bitch, please" face and said, "I'm writing it to my boyfriend who I've been going out with for x months and who I love. Why would I be worried about people knowing I'm having sex with him?" She apologized.

I would like to think a high school girl these days, if faced with slut-shaming for sexting, would feel the same way: "I sent it to someone I loved/liked/trusted and it was for him alone. Why should *I* be embarrassed? Oh, yeah, and fuck you." Are we raising girls to be more full of shame, less secure in themselves, more accepting of douchebag behavior in guys than we were in fucking 1978? Jesus wept. Is it just me?

xoxo

your mom did not lie to you!

It's a damn good thing I did not see this news story when I was a little kid, because I think I would have turned out even more paranoid than I already am. Goddamn, that's bizarre.

http://www.mosnews.com/weird/2009/04/13/firtree/

xoxo

the "princess on the ceiling" story

I'm not sure I've ever told this story in public before. In fact, I'm not even sure any of my close friends have heard it. My mom and I, however, used to occasionally refer to it amongst overselves. And laugh and laugh, in that way you laugh about things that are so funny yet horrible that your laughing is both shameful and cathartic. I kinda think this story says a lot about me but you be the judge.

To set the stage for this story, you need to know a couple of facts. One: my dad is an alcoholic. He stopped drinking when I was twelve, so...33 or 34 years ago. He never relapsed. He never went to AA or any of that kinda thing. He bartended for my uncle for many years after he stopped drinking, and serving beer to other people never made him take a drink. I have always found it incredibly admirable, that kind of strength. When my dad says he's done with something, he'd done with it.

Two: we had these across the street neighbors the whole time I was growing up, and they lived there until the late 80s (when they won a *big* lottery jackpot and moved to Florida.) They were a childless couple, older than my parents, very, very nice to everyone on the street. When D was a toddler, he used to love to go over to their yard and play with their plastic flamingos (white trash, yur doin it rite) and they were the kind of people that had no problem with that. They also had a dog, a very nice dog, some kind of terrier I think, who was kind of their substitute child.

Okay, still with me? So, when I was twelve, my dad's boss took him aside and basically told him his functional alcoholism wasn't so functional any more, and it was affecting his job performance. And my dad, being my (never-missing-a-day-of-work) dad, decided then and there that he was going to quit drinking. Just quit. He didn't really know or conceive of the consequences of this, but he was physically addicted. And that means withdrawal. And, with alcohol, that means DTs. So not drinking led to...hallucinating. And the forever-after-famous quote in my family, "[my mom's name], why is Princess on the ceiling?"

I don't think I ever looked at that poor damn dog the same way ever again. My dad's hallucinating then led to him almost climbing over a banister at the top of the hall stairs and falling to his death had not his wife and daughter dragged him back, which led to, y'know, the EMTs being called and a dry-out in an actual hospital where they're better prepared for this kinda thing, so not, y'know, very funny after that. But "Princess on the ceiling" became kind of a codeword in my family for stuff that was so horrible yet so hilarious that laughing till your stomach hurts is the only way to deal.

xoxo

more to worry about

And I ripped the press ball out of my ear this morning, so I am without the help of the ancient Chinese sages, alas.

I had to take the morning off from work today so I could go to my dad's MD appointment. It was just a routine 6 month follow-up, because he's on blood pressure medication. Well, his blood pressure is good, all his blood work he had done last time is fine, his heart/lungs/belly all sounded and felt okay. But. Apparently he has lost 8 or 9 pounds since he was there in September and his doctor is concerned. Unexplained weight loss when you are 83 is not cool.

So now I'm supposed to weigh him every day for a month and report back. Plus he's supposed to go back in August, in addition to his regular appointment in September. I'm already catastrophizing about this, and trying not to be scared. I'm gonna try intentionally fattening him up and see if it works, but I don't know how I can feed him any more CAKE than I already do.

xoxo

important technical question for the sports-minded

So, yeah, I bought these insoles for my running shoes from The Sports Authority yesterday, not that I was planning to, or planning to buy anything, but oooo, shiny! They are supposed to be for people like me with the high arches. I tried them today and while they were nice and cushy and did apparently support my arches, they raised my foot up in the shoe so much that I felt like the back would rub against my heel where the Achilles' tendon is and give me a blister (a chronic problem, but not a fit issue I have with these shoes without the insoles.) So I took them back out. And my important technical question is, did I just waste $20? No, no, no, my important technical question is, was I supposed to rip out the insoles that are already in the shoes and replace them with the new ones, not put the new ones in on top? Am I doin it rong?

In other news, WTF, weather? I had to put my down vest on just to walk down the street to buy a paper, AND I WAS STILL COLD. C'mon now. I have photographic evidence of myself as a small child standing in front of our house in my Easter frock, little hat and little spring coat, ankle socks, patent leather shoes. If you tried that today here, your toddler would have frostbite. Is it the global warming??!??!

And in further Easter news, and as a followup as to why I celebrate this despite myself, there's this. Let me set the scene by telling you all that on days he doesn't need to leave the house, which is basically usually 6 out of every 7, my son's wardrobe consists of basketball shorts, a crappy t-shirt, and all winter long, the exact same hoodie that I need to wrestle off his body on occasion to launder. Well, today he got up, showered, and put on a pair of jeans and a nice (doctor-appointment) t-shirt, no hoodie. Without being asked. Without even a suggestion on my part. I was like, oh! you got dressed up for Easter! (Meanwhile, I'm in, yes, yoga pants. Shut up.) So I guess carrying on traditions of religious holidays that are meaningless to you still has some value. Plus, I made lamb chops and they were yummy.

xoxo

relationship shit

Ah, there was a thesis when I was writing this all in my head, but I fear it may have flown the proverbial coop. I shall, however, soldier on bravely. Because god knows, you people deserve only the best.

So Mr Indemnity sent me this link to a NYT article suggesting I might find it interesting and perhaps blogable. It was about seekingarrangement.com, a dating website which matches up "sugar daddies" with "sugar babies". Now, I'm not exactly sure what Mr Indemnity thought I might find blogable (i.e. rage-inducing) about this. I mean, yes, I do find men in their 40s and 50s seeking out women my son's age mildly skeevy and I do maintain they ought to be satisfied with the attentions and sexual favors of sexilicious women my age, but c'mon, campers, we all know that's mainly a defense mechanism born out of my own sadness that I am no longer a young and pretty thing, and that if you take out the immaturity and penchant for draaahhhhmmmaaa and non-self-aware craziness endemic to young women my son's age (none of which you'd have to put up with for a second were you paying for the transaction), then *of course* a guy in his 40s or 50s would rather have the attentions and sexual favors of a nubile college girl, not the saggy, wrinkled, flabby ones of, say, me. (As an aside: run-on sentence much, Andrea?) Or perhaps, Mr Indemnity thought I would be outraged by the covert almost-prostitution involved in this website, though I think he's probably aware I ain't got no problem with *actual* prostitution, as long as everyone's of legal age and not being forced or coerced, and as long as the prostitutes don't offer "massage" since that just pisses off and inconveniences those of us who actually do massage, no quotation marks.

Anyway, I've got nothing to say about any of that, beyond that which I've, y'know, said. I would, however, like to expound on what I actually took away from the (very interesting!) article, and that is: what everyone in this world *really* wants is for someone else to make them feel special. While there are women on that site purely looking for someone to help pay their tuition or their credit card debts, there are apparently a goodly number who don't actually need cash, but instead, want someone who will buy them expensive, lovely gifts or take them to lovely places where they feel princess-like and spoiled because that makes them feel special. And for many of the men, it's not just sex with some hot little thing or the status that they feel when they take the hot little thing out in public, it's that they develop a mentor-like relationship with these women, that the women put them on a pedestal and treat them like they're important, and that makes them feel special.

Is there anyone who is immune from this, really? People who didn't get enough love, attention, or approval from their parents or caregivers when they were very young spend their whole lives chasing after it, and people like me (cf. stories of my beloved grandmother) spend their whole lives (futilely?) trying to recreate it. And when you get even a taste of it, it can be like a drug in its seductiveness. I spent a good nine or ten years of my life with/not with, in love with, pining for, a man almost solely because just about every minute we were together, he made me feel like the most fascinating, desirable, perfect woman ever. He made me feel like even my many and copious flaws were charming. He made me feel special. (And I daresay he felt the same back from me, because I worshipped him.)

While I regret nothing about that relationship now that it's long over and I am finally completely over him (except perhaps for the fact it dragged on so long when I should have cut the cord), and while I have many immensely happy memories of time we spent together, and while I recognize that it was good for me in many ways (showing me, for example, that you can love someone passionately and yet not spend all the friggin' time fighting, go figure), I also realize it fucked me up in many ways, too. That he would, ultimately, choose another woman over me when he made me feel that special? As long time readers will know, that left me feeling like, no matter how "perfect" I am, I am still not good enough for someone to actually want me, all of me. It has also made me put my defenses up a lot more against that feeling of being made to feel special, which I guess is mildly sad. If I'm honest, I'm more suspicious of it these days. When my charms are enumerated, or I feel a vibe of "god, you're fabulous", it's not as if I jump immediately to the conclusion that I am being lied to, or played, (because that's not at all what I feel my above-referenced ex did to me), but that I feel like, "well, yeah, you feel that *now* in the moment, but in the cold light of day, you're gonna feel like I'm not all that" (which is much closer). Oh, not to mention what my feelings are about having another woman ultimately chosen over me who, from what very little I know, has historically made the chooser miserable...but I think I wrote a little essay on here before about how you people with Y chromosomes are all closet masochists, so we'll just leave that. Ha!

See? I lost the thesis. But, yeah. Everyone wants to feel special, and if being someone's sugar daddy or sugar baby does it for ya, god bless. That's all I have to say about that. And don't eat too many jelly beans.

xoxo

oh hai, holiday edition

There's still no thesis, but I thought I should blog so you all know I'm still alive. In case you were worried. Though I've probably spammed most of you all begging for (charitable) money, so, yeah, you're probably aware I haven't expired. I've just been busy busy busy. Anyway.

My boss (jokingly) asked me why I was in work today, since wasn't it a religious holiday or something? And this led to a discussion of how I asked *myself* why the fuck I was celebrating Easter anyway, since I'm a heathen. I don't go to church (and really haven't on any kind of regular basis since I was, oh, 14 or so) and my spiritual beliefs are along the lines of "I believe there's probably some kind of higher power in the universe and I believe he/she/it probably is totally indifferent to our existence or at the very least too busy with bigger things to worry about if I go to church, who I fuck, or even if I'm a good person, nevermind my joy or suffering." And I certainly don't have any little children who are expecting the Easter bunny. And though for the second straight year I am refraining from dying eggs, and my candy-buying was restricted to picking up two bags of Easter M&Ms at CVS yesterday (2 for $4) and tossing one at each of the menfolk with a jaunty "here ya go, Happy Easter" when I walked in the door, I nevertheless am feeling obligated by feelings of--what? guilt? nostalgia? I dunno--something to make a holiday dinner on Sunday. Why is that? Why can't I let this holiday go?

In other news, I have potting soil, seeds, and at least one book on growing herbs. What I do not have, is anything planted. Probably because I'm kinda scared. But also because *I've been very busy*, goddamnit. Maybe on Easter. That'd fit in with the new renewal theme of the day, right?

Happy whatever it is you do or do not celebrate, even if that's just the weekend!

xoxo

someday there will be a thesis

But today there will just be more miscellaneous crap.

1.) I hear the Sox won today while I was occupied elsewhere, thus making all right with the world. Also, I'm informed that Tek hit a home run. I'm sticking by my contention that the reason his hitting sucked so very, very much last year was that the boy's head was all messed up by the dissolution of his marriage. Divorce is stressful, yo!

2.) There is right now, even as I type, a device called a "press ball" in the cartilage of my right ear, which can apparently stay there for a week (or till I get irritated with it) through hairwashing and showering and, I dunno, ear molestation or whatever may occur, and by which I can stimulate an acupuncture point that will calm me the fuck down if I start having an anxiety fit. I kinda think that ancient Chinese medicine might well be trumped by modern American pharmaceuticals in this case, but do I *have* a script for klonopins? No, I do not. Sigh. So we'll give this thing in my ear a shot.

3.) I bought a book today entitled I'm Sorry You Feel That Way (the astonishing but true story of a daughter, sister, slut, wife, mother, and friend to man and dog), and then I read 54 pages of it on the bus. I am so very convinced I have one of these books in me. But since certain of my friends are already somewhat uncomfortable when they appear *in this blog*, even though they are referred to only by pseudonym, catchy nickname, or initial, I'm pretty sure if I wrote an amusing yet poignant, smutty yet thoughtful, book about my marvelous adventures and got it published, no one would ever talk to me again and I would have to make all new friends and get another family. And then I'd be so sad I'd need weird Chinese shit in both my ears. Or something like that.

4.) I am also informed that Eminem's new video, in which he portrays both Bret Michaels circa "Rock of Love" and Sarah Palin (in bed together yet!), is on the interwebs now, so I think I'm gonna eat some chips and go watch it. <---yes, a person who writes a statement like that is going to get a book published, yup yup, uh huh. I think my friendships are safe.

xoxo

good night!

Yeah, apparently I can't shut up. Deal.

1.) I noticed that in my last post I said "in the bottom" of my playlist, when I guess what I actually mean is "later in" or "at the end of." Does anyone else have a weird mental spatial association like that? I know I do it often with tech things/the internet. Like, back in the mid-late 90s when I was first online, there were a couple of AOL message boards I hung out on, and because one of them was below the other in the menu, I always literally felt like I was going downstairs when I left one to go to the second. Stop looking at me like that. I'm sure it's perfectly normal. My playlists are like that. The end of one is the bottom to me, not the end, because in my brain it's organized by how it looks on the menu display.

2.) I was reading this woman this evening talking about how her son asked her to pick up deodorant for him when she went to the store, but it had to be a very specific brand and variety, and I cracked up, because she was saying that she was standing in the aisle looking at the 59 different men's antiperspirants and thinking, "Why do they need so many different flavors of deodorant, for god's sake?" I honestly think "flavor" is going to take on a new meaning, because I've been hearing people misuse it all the time as synonym for variety when speaking about things *you don't eat*. In fact, I couldn't swear that I haven't done so myself a time or two. Especially for things like Body Shop shower gel which comes in like mango and papaya and satsuma and coconut etc etc and smells like you could possibly eat it. But, sadly, mango or no, shower gel technically does not come in flavors. Anyway, have you noticed this too?

xoxo

good evening!

1.) So, this whole weekend was a big cooking FAIL. I already told you about yesterday's salmon texture problem. Well, today I inadvertently had this piece of beef brisket (don't ask) that I would not have intentionally bought, but since I had it, and it had a sticker on it that said "pot roast", and I was planning to be home for a few hours doing my taxes, I thought, "Okay! Make pot roast!" As you do. I do not know what I did or failed to do, but that was one tough piece o' meat. Usually I would use, like, chuck for pot roast and it turns out all fatty and falling-apart tender and yummy. This, not so much. But the natives chowed it all down, so I guess I am the only one who was dissatisfied.

2.) But it was a very lovely day today, so after the cooking fail and the taxes win, I went for a nice walk down to the beach. And once again I wanted to run. However I had not planned ahead, and thus was not wearing my new sports bra, so running was a FAIL too. I lasted less than three minutes before my bra strap was falling off my shoulder and my boobs felt like they were about to break free in a horrific wardrobe malfunction. (How do I know it was less than three minutes? Because I was walking along thinking I wanna run. Should I run? Even though I'm not dressed for it? But I wanna... and then I got to "Breed" in the fast and aggressive bottom section of my workout 2 playlist, and it made my mind up for me. But I couldn't make it through the whole song without my underwear thwarting me.) So I returned to walking. This is what poor planning leads to. Learn from my mistakes.

xoxo

good morning!

1.) The "totally 80s" show on VH1Classic is sucking this morning. They are not playing the cheesy and enjoyable music of my youth, but instead, stuff I hated even the first time around. If they don't play me some Billy Idol or Billy Squier (see what I did there?) soon, I'ma gonna have to change the channel and my whole Sunday morning ritual will be crushed. Even the commercials aren't amusing this week. Feh!

2.) In case I didn't mention it, yesterday was Evil Kitty's birthday. So, last night for dinner, I decided to make these frozen Trader Joe's salmon "burgers" that have been in my freezer for probably too long, and honestly, they weren't so good. Very strong tasting salmon and a rubbery texture (though maybe the being-in-the-freezer-too-long had something to do with the texture problem?). Anyway, there was one left over, so Evil Kitty got it, which made me feel less guilty about not actually getting her anything for her bday. But I don't think she was too thrilled with it either. Unlike most of the other cats I have had, she's not big on "people" food.

3.) I've had this urge to do an "unpopular opinions" or "true confessions" blog post, where I admit things that I am reluctant to say in many venues and ask you all to do the same in comments, but I am willing to bet you all won't play along, so I haven't.

4.) We're only one day away from baseball, my Dice K's been apparently pitching great, Tek's been hitting homeruns, and Julie's on the DL, so! Happy!

xoxo

drunk swiping

Apparently there's an article in the Wall Street Journal today about how (high-end) men's clothing stores are attempting to increase their business by serving alcohol to their browsing customers, so that they'll linger, which increases sales. Also, drinking lowers people's inhibitions. Or so I've heard. And not, of course, wimpy little glasses of wine, like a chick might get at an expensive hair salon, but, like, actual scotch. I bet you if I went to, say, Burberry (no "s"), they wouldn't be plying me with tumblers of scotch. Which proves that this is, sadly, still a man's world, and you all have all the privilege.

So I was thinking about this, and whether I have actually ever gone shopping buzzed, and I think the answer is no. I will say, I'm pretty sure the day I was wasted on the gummy bear martinis was the day I first saw my new purse, but I did *not* purchase it. So apparently I can feel safe in saying even if they did ply me with scotch, I would not be suckered into buying luxury goods I should not have and cannot afford.

Also? I think I forgot to tell you this, but I paid for our bar bill on gummy bear day with my ATM card and when I got my bank statement for February, they had charged it back, for no reason that I could tell. So not only did I have drinks with candy in them that day, I drank those drinks for free. That was an exemplary Sunday, I'll tell you what.

Hope your Friday is turning out exemplary too.

xoxo

the good, the bad, the amusing

You pick which is which.

So, I like to think that this blog performs a valuable public service, that is, keeping it real for those of you all who live in zip codes in a higher socioeconomic bracket than mine and/or don't trouble yourselves with ever taking public transportation. In this spirit, I'd like to give you a wee glimpse into just how klassy the average prison bus rider is.

A young woman was sitting directly in front of me, giving me a prime view of the back of her head. (No! She did not have the name of either her boyfriend or any of her children inked onto her neck. But good guess.) Her hair was up in a huge, bright white plastic claw clip. She was also, to help you complete the picture, wearing big gold hoop earrings, the kind with a name or other writing in the center, the kind you get at Joe's House of Bling. (Okay, I made that up, but if I ever open a jewelry store that's what I'm calling it. You heard it here first.) Fair enough.

Then she turned her head slightly to the side to look out the window, giving me a different view. And there, on her bright white hairclip, was an even brighter orange price sticker (1.00). Reader, I almost lost my shit. I managed to contain my laughter not because laughing at someone's forgetting to remove a price tag is petty, low, and very bad karma (but, c'mon, it was bright orange on a white background; how does anyone who isn't high miss that?), but because in my experience? Women who wear that kind of earring aren't usually loathe to cut a bitch.

In other news, do you remember me swearing that I was never, ever going to buy anything but jeans from the Gap ever again? Well. This is what happens when I don't listen to my own better judgment. I bought 5 new t-shirt camis from them within the past six weeks, two white, two gray, one black, to wear beneath my cardigans and v-necks for the spring. Ten bucks each. They're nice. The right length. The right proportion of cotton to spandex. Not too-long straps. Comfy. I've been washing them on *delicate* and drying them on *low*. I've had them, I'll mention again, for six weeks or less. I did laundry last night. Both gray ones were in the load yesterday. Today? One has its stitching coming apart at the left seam. The other has a strap that came apart at the top. All the way. Such that I had to tie a knot in it to wear it today. I CAN'T TAKE IT. Since when do $10 pieces of underwear last five washes or fewer? On delicate? Underwear is not supposed to be disposable. No, no, no, no.

And, then, when I was just now cooking, my stove apparently blew a fuse for no apparent reason in the middle of my dinner preparations. For no apparent reason. I was freaking out that it was in fact my stove that broke, or that I wouldn't get it working before all my food was ruined. Neither was true. Thankfully. But I remain perplexed.

I think that's it.

xoxo

and one more for ewan mcgregor's bday

Renton: It's shite being Scottish! We're the lowest of the low! The scum of the fucking earth! The most wretched, miserable, servile, pathetic trash that was ever shat into civilization! Some people hate the English; I don't! They're just wankers! We, on the other hand, are colonized by wankers! Can't even find a decent culture to be colonized by! We're ruled by effete assholes. It's a shite state of affairs to be in, Tommy, and all the fresh air in the world won't make any fucking difference!

Andrea: Trainspotting? One of the best movies ever made? True!

xoxo