seriously, i'm weirded out and tired of this shit

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moses edited

Twelfth commandment: Thou shalt not cut off thy penis!

Okay, that was much funnier last night, in context, and after a mojito and a little Jameson's. As most things are. But I was thinking, we need a new system of commandments. I dunno about you and whatever religion you believe/disbelieve in, but us Catholics? We try to shoehorn a whole litany of sins in under those ten commandments and it doesn't work.

For instance, in Catholic school, they tried to convince us that the "thou shalt not kill" was an indictment of all kinds of interpersonal violence, but I think that's stretching it. I really do not see where it says anywhere that if someone hits me in the ankle with their shopping cart at Shaws, I am not allowed to turn around and punch them repeatedly in the face to a nonlethal extent. If god was not down with that, then why'd he give me rage? I ask you. And don't get me started on adultery. The common English definition of that word has to do with married people having sexual relations with persons other than their spouses. Do not insult my reading ability by saying that prohibition covers what non-married people do. And coveting! That one's just outdated. We have a whole consumer culture based on freakin coveting. We all swear that off and we'll be back living in tents and sacrificing goats.

So, Ima work on writing some new commandments that are without loopholes, do not require stretching definitions, and fit in with the 21st century. Considering my new flipflops gave me "stigmata" on my feet, I'm thinking I may be being called to prophethood. Watch out. If I manage to start bleeding out my palms this week, it's a whole new religion, baby. (And you thought Andreanomics was a comprehensive world-view!)

Shoot me an email if you want to be a disciple. Kthxbai!

xoxo

random saturday post

I know, I know, there were three instances of bloggery yesterday, so I should be shutting up. However. NO ONE'S FORCING YOU TO READ THIS, ARE THEY?!!!??? <--(That's my Kanye impression. DID YOU LIKE IT?!!!! Okay, I know, you have no idea what I'm talking about. Despite what you might think, I have not gone completely insane, nor had a stroke, like I almost accused Mr Barma of. See, Kanye apparently has a blog, which I myself have never seen but only heard of second-hand, in which he hilariously posts only in caps, with lots of punctuation, mainly about how fabulous he is. N E way, if you only knew that, my joke would have been hilarious. Trust.)

I think spring is elevating my mood. It's not just the light. Being able to go out without eighteen layers of clothes (I'm down to three. Shut.Up.) and without falling on the ice makes Andrea a much happier old woman.

Without further ado, what I came to say:

1.) I think I actually remembered to do everything I wanted to do at work this morning (besides, you know, my actual work, WHICH I DID DO.) Is the caps thang getting old? Okay, I'll stop now. I emailed Marcy to change my appointment. I purchased my Tori tickets (on sale 5/30, suckahs) and gave in to the dark side and printed them myself. Can I just say...a $12.85 ticket fee plus a $5 venue fee? Do not tell me my ticket costs $45 when it really costs $62.85 and I have to print it myself. But it will be worth it. Do I need to say how much I wanted to cap that last sentence? Probably not, huh?

2.) My Indemnity emailed me this morning from his phone, which means the email had that annoying "Sent from my iPhone" tag on it. So when I emailed back, I ended it with "Sent from my crappy work computer." Because I crack myself up so very, very much.

I hope you all are in as good a mood as I am. If not, START DRINKING NOW, IT'S AFTER NOON!!!!!

xoxo

and another another thing

I got my US Commerce Department census today. Did you all? I thought I could whip through it while my pork chops were in the oven.

Um, not so much. How much I paid for electricity last month? How much I paid for home insurance last year? I do not remember these things exactly off the top of my head. (My dad: "They're not gonna check your answers, you know.") Yes, I know. But I am conscientious. I do not make up answers on official government documents. Fucking sue me. (My dad: "Isn't the house insurance around $500?" Me: "Um, no, dad, it's over $1000.") Note: $1100, I looked it up. Also? $1300 a year for water and sewer? Really? Someone's flushing too much around here. Or the city is screwing me. Or both.

For the record, I counted the "cat box room" as a room, even though I told you all I suspect it is really meant to be a large utility closet. But maybe I shouldn't have since they told me not to count bathrooms and, y'know, it's all pooping in there all the time.

But anyway. I thought I should let you all know I'M BEING A GOOD CITIZEN. Even despite my known problems with both authority and mandatory cardboard recycling.

xoxo

and another thing!

I guess my outrage at the world's stoopidity has been bottled up or something. Who knew?

My AOL mail welcome screen, which is often a source of outrage, today has a story about Melissa Joan Hart, who is on the cover of...something...in a bikini. (I don't remember and I can't be arsed to look it up, but assume it's People or something.) Why? Because Ms Hart, the mother of a three year old and a 14 month old, was so shamed by last summer's tabloid shots of her at 160-ish in a bathing suit that she had to go on a super shape up plan. (Also? When was the last time anyone offered her a TV series? I'm sure she needs the publicity.)

Let's deconstruct this, shall we? Having a 14 month old means that last summer, she had an infant that was, oh, less than six months old. And she was overweight! Oh, the horror! The horror! Because if you can't fit into your skinny jeans within six weeks of leaving childbed, obviously you are a big FAIL as a woman. And should be humiliated. Also, she apparently goes on in the article about how proud she is of this big weight-loss accomplishment and her many hours of grueling working out that led to it. I dunno. I personally think that if you have two children under the age of four, there are more important things you might be focusing all your time and attention on than looking good in a bikini, but that's just me. And, yes, yes, I understand she's a C-list (or below) actress and needs a job and, thus, publicity, but the fact that her publicity is then force-fed to me and millions of other people on our mail welcome screens and at the checkout counter and wherever else, leading to more brainwashing about what's an acceptable body standard for all women, pisses me right the fuck off.

So much so I might need to eat some cheese fries.

xoxo

why i generally hate psychologists

So, let me see if I can do this in a way that doesn't violate HIPAA. (God knows, you don't want me to go to jail.) Assume a few details have been changed to make the patient unidentifiable.

I was reading through someone's neuropsych report recently. If you don't know what neuropsych testing is, it's a battery of written testing, such IQ testing, personality testing, etc etc, administered by a psychologist. It's the kind of thing you might have done if someone thinks you might have learning disabilities or other cognitive or memory problems or if they're concerned you're tending towards psychosis or if you've had a stroke or a head injury. Among other reasons. But, basically? If anyone ever shows you an inkblot? Unlike the the movies, it ain't a Freudian, it's a neuropsychologist.

Now, the subject of the neuropsych report I was reading is a woman who has had chronic and severe medical problems since childhood and now, as an adult, has more than one child with other, different serious health problems, as well as relationship problems that would seem unavoidable (because how many people would really be able to deal well with a partner who has a chronic disabling illness *and* difficult kids?) Do you get the picture? This is the kind of person who makes me look at my own life tragedies and problems and know I haven't had it *that* bad, okay?

Well, the neuropsych report discusses that her personality profile is common in women who have been abused and have PTSD. Seriously? Do you need a fucking PhD to understand that this woman's whole freakin life would give most people PTSD? Well, no, apparently having a psych degree makes you *unable* to conceive of that. Jesus wept. The lack of common sense, she is stunning. Sigh. (This, incidentally, is why I still mourn the loss of D's Swiss/Austrian/German therapist, because the guy was *so* not a douche, and everything he said made [common] sense. Do you *know* how rare that is in a psychologist/therapist?)

But, anyway. I can't help but chuckle--okay, laugh my ass off--at one particular quote about personality types. "...tend to shy away from direct assertiveness, but can be controlling in a dependent and submissive manner..." Oh, man. Have I known a few people I'd like to give that subtest to. Ha!

xoxo

possible content

I swear to you, there very well may be some in here again some day, so, like, keep checking back. I can only make so many masturbation, sex toy, and anal copulation references in amongst the song lyrics and video linkage before I actually have something to say.

Today is not, however, that day.

I would like to blame the Red Sox, because their pitching has been so dire and depressing of late that I don't even want to talk about it. That isn't an excuse, but it's the best I can do.

I would, however, like to make a couple quick updates! I bought a bottle of wine over the weekend for when I was cooking L dinner. Not that L actually ever drinks any more, but I just wanted it for my nice dinner. Well, because L doesn't actually ever drink, only half that bottle was consumed. The rest has been in my refrigerator since Sunday night. I mention this for one reason only. This is the first time in probably five years that I have had any kind of alcohol in my house that wasn't well-hidden. D can't drink. He shouldn't drink on the cocktail of medications he's on anyway, but even without, he shouldn't drink. He's a blackout drinker. Like, totally intend to only drink one forty with his friends and then end up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning type blackout drinking, totally not having any memory of what happened after the second drink. After the *second* time he ended up in the ED with alcohol poisoning, when he was nineteen, he spontaneously said he'd learned his lesson, but I've never wanted to tempt it, never wanted to make it too easy for him to start drinking.

But over the past year or so, I've been feeling much more secure that he is, in fact, done. Done with the drinking, done with ever getting high, done with deciding spontaneously to stop his medications or refuse treatment, blah blah blah. Not that I'd feel as secure if he was out there socializing, because that's a whole nother set of temptations and stresses. But for now? I though half a bottle of wine sitting plainly in the refrigerator was a statement to both of us. And I haven't had to regret it.

In other D news, the shredding project is going well. But he's finding some interesting things amongst the shoeboxes. Like $150 in American Express gift checks in one of them. Score! I think those things are good forever, right? So what should I buy with them that I can buy in a brick-and-mortar store? (Feel free to link me pictures of semi-expensive shoes or purses in comments, because, like, *forgotten gift checks* baby.)

xoxo

another reason

...why knowing the real lyrics is good...

"You better bring your own sun, sweet girl" makes a lot more sense when you realize that's sun with a u. Especially in a song called Welcome to England.

Okay, I'll shut up about this now. Seriously. As soon as Tori's art director tells me where they got those cuffs that match my silver purse (that D insisted was brown.)

Um, yeah. How's everyone? What's new?

xoxo

i have a small problem

So, the fabulous Benevolent L was visiting this weekend.

There are certain things we usually do when she visits. For instance, usually I make her a home-cooked meal and give her some bodywork and we watch either chick flicks or stoopid comedies (this weekend she was introduced to the universe of Weekend at Bernie's, because I am a *good* friend). We also do Traditional North Shore Things to fill her with nostalgia, like eat at faux cow-or volcano-filled Route One restaurants, go to Devereaux beach, and drive around looking at her old house and, as it so happens, the houses of everyone she ever knew that ever lived in my zip code. This is how we roll. (On Memorial Day weekend, she used to always beg me to go to the parade, but that has mercifully stopped because she realized that it ain't happening and begging is unseemly in people our age. [S, if you're reading, don't tell her I said that or I'll be in big trouble. Gracias!])

Well, this weekend the other thing I did was download Abnormally Attracted to Sin, the new Tori Amos album, and make L listen to it, in preparation for when we go see Tori in August. My little tiny problem is that I now have "Fast Horse", which is the bonus track, stuck in my head. And because I can't understand even one--one!--lyric, I am going around singing "dadada mumble mumble something something" under my breath. Literally, the only words I am fairly sure I can decipher in the whole song are "drunk" "girl you gotta find you the man" "Maserati" and "Tennessee." Which paints an interesting picture of what it might be about, but really, I'm not doing too well making up the rest of the lyrics. And when a song gets stuck in my head like this, it could be there for days. Shaping up to be an interesting week, yo.

xoxo

Addendum: Oh for the love of sweet Christ, never mind. I just realized my download included the "digital booklet" which includes the lyrics. Along with photos of Tori with a dagger, silver leather wrist restraints, and bondage boots. Oh, and an iguana. But that's just weird.

oh, VH1Classic, i heart you

This morning? Real, real old skool "Mother's Milk"-era Chili Peppers, with a young, long-haired, surprisingly-less-tattooed (interesting game: date any piece of video by what pieces of bodyart the band members don't yet have) Anthony sexing up my TV. Oh.My.God. If I didn't have a million things that I have to get done this morning, I might have to take myself back to bed, if you get my drift. And I know you do.

But here, watch for yourself:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hU9vToZ8ti4

You're welcome! And happy long weekend!

xoxo

eavesdropping and sightings

To my shame, I am behind on relating prison bus conversations and the like. Coming to work this morning puts me in mind to remedy that.

1.) Yes, on the bus this morning, at 7:10 am on a Saturday, there was a young woman on her way to work at one of the local ghetto supermarkets, by which I mean of course "Market Basket", having a loud cell phone conversation with another woman about her tattoos. Now, I don't know who you call at 7 am on a Saturday to blather on about nonsense--well, as it happens, I do, because there was an "Awww, she's crying? You better go feed the baby and I'll talk to you on my lunch..." in there, but be that as it may, even mothers of young children who have to have their asses out of bed at an ungodly hour of a weekend morning probably would rather stumble around semi-conscious, sucking down just enough coffee to keep their eyes open while pouring Cheerios into bowls than listen to overly-animated inane conversation from their can't-shut-up friends or relatives. Or maybe that's just me. I never was a cheerful morning person.

2.) But speaking of lack of cheerfulness, I never told you all about the bus conversation I overheard coming back home on Mother's Day. Two guys, apparently old friends, run into each other randomly. One of them--and he was one of those black guys whose age is hard to determine at a glance, he might have been anywhere from 30 to 50, but he was not a *very* young man--was complaining that he had to leave the house that day, take himself off to Dorchester to have a few drinks and play dominoes with his buddies, because his girlfriend was being such a raging bitch. "I got her a little card for Mother's Day, made her a little breakfast, but she started in on me and wouldn't let it go...I said, 'Baby, I'm gonna take myself out for awhile...'" And his friend was all, "Oh, man, are we with the same woman? Because mine was being exactly the same way and I had to do exactly the same thing." My re-telling here probably doesn't do justice to just how hilarious listening to these two dudes commiserating about their wimmin troubles was, but trust me. But it does occur to me in the re-telling, that the gentleman most likely had to be closer to 50 than 30, because the wisdom to remove oneself from the situation gracefully, not take the bait and fight with a pissy and perhaps hormonal woman, is one of those which comes with age and experience. Or maybe he was just looking for an excuse to play dominoes. It could go either way.

3.) But speaking of people whose phone calls we all would be happy to take, and whom we would never ever get pissy at, I must report Possibly Irish Danny lives! I was on my way to Mr Barma's house the other day, listening to my iPod and zoning out on the bus, when I was sort of aware of a guy getting on and sitting in front of me for just a few stops. His hoodie was ruched up around his neck, so no clues there, but when he reached his hand back to hit the "stop" button, the ink on it caught my eye. And, he was talking on his cell. "Wait!" I thought to myself. "Could it be..." He got up and turned to get off and, yes, I could see his face, and it was Our Boy. This just goes to show that I really need to keep my iPod volume down to eavesdropping levels at all times, because even in the space of just a few stops, there could have been resolution of the swabbing issue, more discussion of $20 Bill Girl or Spanish Danny, or any number of other fascinating snippets of conversation. Mea culpa! But at least we know P.I.D is alive and not in Middleton!

xoxo

to my shame

Maybe the best thing about that Russell Brand book I was semi-lukewarm about was his assertion that you can get away with the most shocking and disgusting admissions as long as you preface them with a "to my shame."

Steal money from your mother to buy heroin? Kick babies and molest dogs? Listen to Billy Joel? Refuse to read great works of English literature? As long as you throw in a "to my shame" or "shamefully" when relating these anecdotes, your listener/reader will go, "Oh! Well, s/he knows it's wrong. So that's alright then."

I've been trying this out. And I think it works! I suggest you do the same.

xoxo

and for the hypochondriacs in the crowd

And we know who we are, don't we!

So, apparently, Partners Healthcare, my ultimate employers as it were, are having a big two-day Health and Fitness Expo next month. My computer welcome screen/homepage at work is telling me all about it. Well. As part of this, they are having...and you cannot make this shit up...a "Glo-Germ screening" so that "people can actually see how many germs are crawling around on their hands."

I do not know whose idea this was, or just why they think it *is* a good idea, but man. Bacteria is everywhere on your skin. It's supposed to be. Some of it is bad, some of it is good, but trying to freak people out about it is not going to necessarily make them, like, wash their hands after using the potty if they're the kind of people who don't do that already. And for people who already worry too much about such things? No fucking enabling, please.

Unless your booth is next to the one for OCD recognition. Or something.

xoxo

classic literature query

One of the side effects of going to high school in a fairly crappy school system and then cherry-picking one's way through college requirement classes (and then spending most of one's adult life shamefully reading only trash, nonfiction, and of course the interwebz) is that there are many famous writers one will have never attempted. Now, in my case, I am just fine with never having read any of those famous Russian novelists, James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, or Kerouac, among many many others. I can live out my life in blissful literary ignorance, emphasis on the blissful. But for a while, I have been tempted to want to read some F Scott Fitzgerald, especially Tender is the Night (because of its subject matter, naturally).

My question to you, dear blog readers, is this: will I enjoy this undertaking or will it make me want to stick pointy things into my eyeballs? Advise me before my next trip to the bookstore, por favor.

xoxo

it's official

I am now completely over Kate Hudson.

I used to like her, based almost totally on her performance in Almost Famous (which, you may remember, is one of D's and my favorite movies of all time), the fact that she was married to Chris Robinson (whose band made that one really good album that I have listened to with enjoyment hundreds of times), and the fact that while she was married to Chris Robinson she used to dress in that funky rich-girl boho style (which, to my shame, is a style I myself gravitate to every time it comes back around.) But of late she has not been aging well, looking very hard, and very generic-Hollywood, her musician husband is long gone, and she hasn't been in an even half-decent movie for ages. So I was becoming disenchanted.

Well. Now she's dating A-Rod.

I'm done with you, Kate. Case closed.

xoxo

pictoral update

Without pictures.

Seriously, I was thinking of showing you all my new bulletin board up on the wall and how it was worth every penny, plus the really interesting color my aesthetician convinced me to let her put on my toenails, plus (just for shits n giggles) my back-to-normal armpits [sad face], plus some stuff that was on a picture card that D found in one of the boxes of shredding (!) that I thought I had lost forever (!) including some pictures of me that were probably the first pictures of me some of you ever saw before you knew me in Real Life, just for, y'know, old times' sake.

Sadly, I am in work, being dinked by a patient, and I have none of those photos available to me.

So, like, use your awesome powers of visual imagination and pretend this post has some actual content. Gracias.

xoxo

offered without (much) comment

Apparently, blocking the plate is not *all* my people are good for. Ahem.

http://jezebel.com/5255828/polish-priest-writes-catholic-kama-sutra

xoxo

excitement about the future

Oh, don't get your hopes up. I'm not moving to Bolivia or getting a boob lift or something.

I just saw an online clip of the "Real Housewives of New Jersey", which is the latest show in that franchise and which started last night. Now, I've never watched any of these shows before, but these women are like semi-mob-connected, tanning-bed-using and acrylic-nail-getting, marble-bathroom and huge-chandelier-having types, which makes me love them already. (Since Revere has become all Hispanic and Cambodian, where the hell am I supposed to go to see these people now, if not my teevee?) Anyway, in the clip, one of the women is being stood up by a guy she met online. She calls him and leaves him a voicemail, ending with: "Have a good life. Or die. I don't care." Heh. So, yeah, the rerun's on tonight at 9. I have got to watch this. That's entertainment, yo.

Secondly! Tori Amos. B of A Pavilion, August 19th. No tickets on sale yet. But I am gonna go. Tori Amos at B of A five or six years ago was fab.

xoxo

oh, more updates

1.) In the dad vs groceries saga, I more or less forced him to go with me to Stop & Shop today. He bought himself frozen yogurt and mini-donuts. So there is that.

2.) I've worn my new gladiator sandals twice now. Sunday with cropped jeans. Today with footless tights and this tunic top thingy that's (on me) too short to be a dress and too long to be a shirt. I think they looked very cute with both those options *and* they are super comfy. I've walked all over in them.

3.) As an aside (whoa, baby, two in one day), let me describe to you all the whole outfit I was wearing today: footless tights/leggings with above-mentioned black tunic over white cami under a cardigan and a denim jacket. With gladiator sandals. And big, obnoxious earrings. Can I tell you, I think when I used to dress like this when I was thirty-ish, I was pushing it even then. Now, fifteen years later? I look fucking ridiculous. And I really don't care. I felt funky and cute in my stoopidness, which is saying something, because I am in the midst of one of my cyclical bouts of body loathing.

4.) But after reading the comments people were making on a published article by a woman suffering from depression--i.e. that depressed people are incredibly tediously self-absorbed and narcissistic in their constant examination and expression of their inner emotional state, and that it's basically hard not to want to smack them, I am seriously wondering if I should ever mention anything to do with my anxiety disorder, my depression, or my disordered relationship with my body in here again. The last thing I would want to be, or to be perceived as being, is completely self-absorbed, selfish, and narcissistic (well, more than anyone else who blogs, anyhow, because c'mon now, blogging by nature is an exercise in self-absorption) or as someone you just want to tell to STFU. I think those of you who know me in real life will agree that I generally *do not* discuss my inner emotional goings-on unless specifically asked, but maybe I should back off on doing it in here too. That may mean fewer posts. But, hopefully, less tedious ones.

xoxo

west coast

Ever since I put "California Love" in my workout playlist, I only hear the phrase west coast in Tupac's voice in my head. Just thought you'd want to know that. Not that this blog is gonna be about Compton or anything. That's just an aside.

What I actually want to talk about is how glad I am that my Red Sox have decamped to the other side of the country, because those recent days (i.e. last Wednesday, this Sunday) when there were three sporting events I wanted to pay attention to going on at the same exact time were just exhausting. Last night I could watch the Bruins, switch to the end of the Celtics (face it, the only important part of most basketball games), and then watch a bit of the Sox before giving up and going to bed. No multitasking necessary.

Waking up and finding out the Red Sox won was just a bonus.

On the other hand, this sports bonanza has its other downsides too. Monday night I was momentarily nonplussed to realize there were no sports on TV. I mentioned this sadly to D just about the same time that Mr Indemnity sent me a random email that said, basically, "There's no sports on TV!" So, yeah, it's not just me. D solved the problem at my house by putting another basketball playoff on TNT on. Ha. It's not exactly the same thing as when one of your teams is playing but it's something. I thought I was going to be forced to, like, read. Gasp.

Okay. That's my random post for today. Now I shall go mow my lawn. West coast!

xoxo

vocational rehab

Oh, yeah, so a little more D news. When he went to the psychiatrist last week, he mentioned to her that he was feeling a bit more depressed and that he was sleeping more than he had been. Which, I'm glad he mentioned it, because it's hard for me to keep track of. Like, I dunno if he's napping when I'm at work or out of the house, or when he's up during the night.

Her opinion was that part of his sleeping more and being more depressed has to do with not keeping himself busy enough, which obviously is true, though he has been both working out some and doing some drawing, which I support, both as positive uses of his time and as things he used to enjoy before he got sick. She encouraged him to find more productive things to do as well. Good for not being bored, and good for his self esteem, to feel like he's getting something accomplished. (She would like him to go to "program" which a.) ain't gonna happen anyway and b.) I personally don't see as likely to help with the self esteem.)

So when we left, we were talking and I had an idea. We have this room in our house which is sort of the size of a very large closet. Originally when we moved in, it was my office, but over the years it has devolved into "the cat box room" and a depository for junk. And in there, in many, many shoe boxes, I literally have bank statements and Verizon bills (was it even Verizon then? probably not) and receipts and so forth and so on from like 1995 on. (I'm the woman who only last year threw out her tax documents from the Reagan administration, if you remember.) I'd say, again, don't judge me, but I deserve to be judged. It's just part of the anxiety disorder that all my documents are important documents and I am afraid to throw them away lest the gov'mint or someone demand to see them. Well, yeah, I've decided that no one wants proof that I paid my utility bills in 1998 and, okay, the contents of that room need to go. So I said to D, "You want to do a big project for me?"

As of this morning, he is shredding. I told him I will pay him at the completion of all this shredding, though we have not yet negotiated a price. My dad saw him with the shredder and wastebasket and now he wants stuff shredded too. I think this ought to keep him busy for weeks if he does a little bit each day. And I will be pleased because it's a ridiculously tedious job I don't want to do myself if I can help it. Win-win. Plus, this is one of the things he used to do when he worked for us at the hospital when he was in high school and even after he got sick: boxing records to be sent out, filing, and shredding. He did really good with the kind of tasks other people would complain were boring due to the lack of social interaction. Ha.

I'm thinking $200 for the whole job. Does that sound kind of reasonable to you all?

xoxo

you know you want to know

Oh, I am pleased. He did awesome. There was actual thought involved, and a demonstrated knowledge that he's been paying attention. Now, I should probably be embarrassed to say he nailed it when I tell you what I actually got, but you people know by now I have no pretensions to maturity or good taste. So, book: Stuff on My Cat. And DVD: Weekend at Bernie's...II. (I already own the original, yo.) Don't judge me. There is nothing funnier than a corpse in sunglasses and bad late 80's/early 90's clothes. And I'm sticking by that.

Now, if I can only train him to actually wrap presents (by which I mean, stuff them in a gift bag with some tissue paper crumpled over them) before he presents them, he will be well on his way on another step towards being a sweet, considerate boyfriend for some lucky young woman some day. If, y'know, we can ever get him to, like, leave the house and socialize. Sigh. But, believe me, ladies, I am reinforcing all his natural impulses towards *not being a dick* to the best of my abilities in preparation for that day. I was going to say "gotta fight his father's genetics" but that would be petty, huh? Ha!

In other news, I did lose my shit at my dad this morning, when, once again, he told me I didn't "buy anything for him" after I spent $150 on groceries. Let's count the things that are solely or primarily for him, shall we? Motherfucking Cheez-Its. Entenmann's danish. Devil Dogs. Raisin bread. The coffee he drinks, which is different than the coffee I drink. Apple juice. Vanilla cookies. Two out of the three kinds of sandwich meat. Bananas. Then there's the rest of the food that we all eat. Plus, can I just tell you? I've managed to put three pounds on him in the almost-month since I began trying to purposely fatten him up, so don't tell me he isn't eating plenty of high caloric crap. I guess he didn't get the memo about *not being a dick.* Forgive me. I know he's just a needy, cranky old man and I will probably be as annoying as fuck when I'm 83 too. I just needed to vent. The end.

Happy Mother's Day.

xoxo

the "meh" list

Have you seen this meme going around? The idea is to list four, exactly four, and only four, things that you personally think are way overrated. Four things that everyone else seems to think are fabulous that make you personally go "meh" or "huh?" or "please".

After some amount of deliberation, mine are:

1.) Macs

2.) Harry Potter (speaking only to the books; I've never seen any of the movies)

3.) The Office (American version)

4.) Michelle Obama's looks/fashion sense

In comments, I would love everyone to add their own four. That's an order. Okay, it's a humble request from a woman who has brought you probably hours of free entertainment, such as it were. Also? In comments, do not try to argue me out of mine. (That means you, Mr Indemnity.) These are meant to be totally idiosyncratic and not up for debate.

Gracias.

xoxo

one more baseball post

Before I totally turn off the non-Red Sox fans in the crowd. Did you *see* Julie as the DH yesterday? Bold move on Tito's part, considering he can't, y'know, hit. But perhaps the lack of pressure from not having to worry about E6 was just what Julie needed, because he done good. (Or maybe it's just the blind monkeys in the locked room full of typewriters producing Macbeth thang...eventually anything can and will happen, right? Even Julie can get a few productive hits.)

And MISTER Jason Bay with 5 RBIs in one inning. So much love. He's the kind of Canadian that makes one forgive them Celine Dion and Rush.

xoxo

oh, manuel aristides

Performance-enhancing drugs, papi? I am so disappointed. Tsk.

Last night I made a public apology for ever having said, "Jason Bay? Jason Bay? That's all they could get for Manny?" Today I would like to double that apology and go to wherever it is that Mr Jason Bay lives and, like, kiss his cleats or something. I am not worrrthy.

How much you want to bet Man-well spends his *fifty game* suspension in the DR, by the pool, counting his pile o' money without a care in the world?

xoxo

cross-cultural exploration

In other news, since today is Cinco de Mayo, our cafeteria here in work is offering that traditional Mexican delicacy, taco salad. So I ate one.

I'm gonna drop a little note in the suggestion box that on Bastille Day they serve French fries.

xoxo

backordered, my fat ass

So, you know, I ended last month with a bit more money than with I started, thanks to ET Cash-In (yeah, baby) and my tax refund from the gov'mint, not to mention the end of the winter heating season. I decided to spend this windfall (ha!) on--besides acupuncture, pedicures, my new shoes, and charitable donations--a couple things I did not need, but wanted, for the house.

I've been wanting a bulletin board for Boho Paradise for like a year, but since, c'mon now, it's Boho Paradise, it couldn't be just any ugly, utilitarian bulletin board. So imagine my delight when in the Ballard Design catalogue I got in the mail, thanks to being on who knows what mailing list, they had these fabulous gilt framed bulletin boards in a choice of sizes and a choice of chalk- or corkboard. They were kind of expensive and the shipping more so, but where in god's name am I ever going to find a more appropriate bulletin board for my bedroom? I mean, really. So I sucked it up and ordered the next-to-smallest size.

But before that, when I was idly perusing the Anthropologie website, I found an also-fabulous Indian-inspired bedskirt on sale. Now, we've discussed, I think, how much I lurve Anthropologie. It is an incredible store, but it is too pricey most of the time for my poor white trash blood. I have, in my life, bought exactly one piece of clothing there that was full price (the autumn leaves coat, and it was well worth it) but many things from the deep discount sale room in the store. The only other things I have bought full price in there are small housewares, like candles or the occasional gift for a friend. (As an aside--oh shut up, there hasn't been one for awhile--my friend LV was once telling me about staying over at our mutual friend AK's house, and how AK was making up the daybed with quilt after beautiful quilt for her. When LV asked her where they came from and AK said casually "Anthropologie", LV had to manually close her own dropped jaw as she recalculated in her head what AK's income bracket probably was. We agreed that *we* ourselves kinda were restricted to $18 candles in there.) My point being, even a sale bedskirt from Anthropologie is still a fairly pricey thing, but because it was so cute and I was spending tax return money and I haven't bought a new bedskirt probably in this millennium, and there was only queen-size left so that, my bed being a queen, god and the universe obviously wanted me to have this, I ordered it online.

This was all last week. Today I get an e-mail from Ballard, telling me my bulletin board has shipped. Hmm, I think to myself, I haven't gotten a shipping confirmation from Anthropologie. So, I go online and check. Apparently, my bedskirt is "backordered." How something *on clearance* in the only size they have listed, is "backordered" and why they didn't see fit to tell me this either when I was ordering or in a later e-mail, I just couldn't tell you. But I was not pleased with this customer service. I want my semi-expensive dust ruffle, please. Now.

Bastards!

Not that this will make me boycott their store or anything. Because it is so cute and I am weak. The end.

xoxo

i'm kind of afraid

So, a couple weeks ago, I reminded D that May 10th was Mother's Day, and since we don't have (Cougar) L to take him out shopping, that if he was going to, say, buy his mother a gift online, he should probably snap to it, so that it would come in time. Because, you know, I'm subtle like that. A couple/few days after that, I said, "Hey! Did you buy me anything yet?" and he just smirked at me and said, "Maybe." So then last Friday, he got an Amazon package in the mail, which he hid in his room, and I was all, "Is that my present? Is that my present?" Because, again, I'm subtle like that. And he wouldn't commit, he just smirked at me.

Well, this morning he had a psych appointment and afterwards we went in the supermarket across the street. I always make a point of doing that with him whether we particularly need anything or not, because, y'know, it's a good desensitization exercise for him, and he's gotten better and better with it. So today I was like, "Do you want to maybe buy your mother a card while you're here?" And he said, "I already got you presents." Presents. Plural.

You have to understand, when he would go shopping w/ Cougar L, it was so stressy for him, I would tell him exactly what I wanted and what store he could find it at. This time he's totally on his own. If I get a DVD of Friday the 13th Part 86 or something...

Can my male readers please assure me they knew what to buy their moms on gift giving occasions when they were D's age? Lie if you must.

xoxo

speaking of starving

I shouldn't brag, but I will anyway.

Some people in Massachusetts won't be so hungry because I raised $411 for the Walk for (against) Hunger and did the whole twenty miles. Thanks and hugs and kisses to all of you who so generously donated. Muah! It's a very important cause and you rock.

xoxo

here's an example of what i put up with

Forty-five minutes or so ago I come home from work and the first thing out of my dad's mouth, after hi, is "I'm starving. Are you cooking?" I affirm that yes, indeed, I am making dinner, and as I go in to the refrigerator to start getting out food to prepare--the first thing *I* do after hanging up my jacket, by the way--I ask him why he didn't eat the three leftover chicken legs for lunch, because if he had he wouldn't be "starving." Well, apparently he didn't know they were there because he didn't look. He also didn't look at the second shelf, where there were canned peaches that are for him alone. But despite this failure to actually look for something to eat when he is hungry, the blame for his starvation apparently lies on my shoulders--not that we're casting any blame stones, you understand--because I forgot to buy him any CheezIts this week. Whatever. And I'm supposed to be fattening him up.

Then he starts telling me about the Kentucky Derby coverage, not that I've evinced any interest in same, and how many people are there and how apparently *they're* not afraid of the swine flu. This segues to a remark about how he hopes I don't get the killer flu...because then who would take care of him and D?

I'm not making that up.

So when D comes down for dinner, I ask him. "If I were to die from the flu, would you miss me because you miss me or would you miss me because there'd be no one to make you supper?" He picked the former. (Because, say what you will, I did not raise any idiots, yo.)

But, you know what? This is seriously what I think at times when I am down. That every single person in my life who supposedly cares about me cares about me solely for what I do for them and what I give to them, whether that's dinner and clean laundry, advice to the lovelorn, massages, emotional support, or what-have-you. I know, I hasten to add, that that's not true. Certain of my friendships are totally uncontaminated--if that's the word--with any taint of this and I do know my son loves me (even if it is hard to separate out from the "yes, I know I can trust you and count on you to always be there for me" as a basis for that love). But when things are really dark, it is what I irrationally feel.

And inadvertently insensitive remarks from old men DON'T HELP. Such as.

xoxo

where's jerry?

Did he have a serious cardiac event or the like, or is he just down with the H1-swine whatever? Whatever it is, he'd better Get Well Soon, because I really can't deal with Sox games broadcast by other people. In fact, if D was awake right now--but he's not--I'd make him switch to hockey for me. Yeah, yeah, I know, I could scroll through my 900 satellite channels until I find whatever the hell station they have it on, but *in case you don't remember*, I'm lazy as fuck. So perhaps I'll just go take a bath instead and then read in bed. Or watch Hot Fuzz. (Any of you all see that? I love me some Simon Pegg, but it really wasn't grabbing me when I tried putting it on yesterday.) Yes, I do know my Friday nights are pathetic. Your point?

In other news, I do so love hearing men talk when they're (mostly) amongst themselves. I just observed a guy rhapsodizing about how blowjobs--being free, non-time-consuming, and extremely happy-making--are the easiest shortcut in the world for a woman to take if she wants to be perceived as a wonderful girlfriend, and asking what the analogous action for a man would be. Off the top of my head, I myself would suggest it would be spontaneously taking over some tedious chore for your woman that she absolutely hates (and knowing what chore that is). For most women, that would make you seem like a wonderful boyfriend/husband.

I also, in the same conversation, observed another guy saying that he has never, and will never, buy his wife flowers, because he thinks they are a waste of money, and she has "grudgingly" accepted that. Dude. People who don't understand the whole concept of gift-giving perplex and, I'll admit it, frustrate me. The purpose of giving people gifts is to show your affection for them by providing them something *they* like and enjoy. Whether you think that something is stoopid, silly, or a waste of money is immaterial. If Dude #2's wife likes flowers and would enjoy being gifted with them on one occasion or another, then Dude ought to suck it up and buy them, despite his distaste. I mean, geez, he might even get a blowjob out of it.

/relationship advice from single-loser-girl!

xoxo

P.S. How does spellcheck accept motherfucker as a word, but not blowjob? Oh, this is also perplexing.