no no nicky

I mentioned our old (both in the senses of previous and elderly) cat Nicky in yesterday's comments. And it occurred to me that I should explain that the reason our very female cat had a boy's name (unisex naming being a topic that seems to be in the air this week!) was because my then two year old son named her such. Why? Because his very very favorite book at the time was No No Nicky, the story of a cute little kitteh who gets in trouble for all the things a toddler might be told "no" about. Going too close to the stove: "No, no, Nicky! Hot!" Getting into things that don't belong to him: "No, no, Nicky! That's not yours!" It was adorable, and D loved it. (And so naturally, Nicky was what you should call a cat who doesn't have another name.)

I was wondering if it were still in print, hence my trip to amazon, but alas, no. If you click on the link however, you'll see I could get a used copy for $33. Which is, coincidentally, how much it costs for a cat cremation. Huh. Anyway, my nostalgia for 1988 and my child's preschool days isn't strong enough to consider that. But the editorial review on amazon from the School Library Journal? Did you read that?

Parents may be troubled by how the concepts of friendship and safety are explored in these full-color board books for very young children. The cat Nicky has friends that include a baby, other kittens, two children, a man on a park bench, an elderly woman who feeds him from her porch, and a puppy. Although each character falls under the umbrella of friend, the relationships are not clearly defined, and the book will not hold children's interest. In No, No Nicky, the cat is pictured near a hot stove, an electrical outlet, spilled paint, and a cupboard full of cleaning supplies, but there are no clues as to why the situation is dangerous. Much adult interpretation will be required to help children understand the dangerous scenarios. The book itself fails to help children discern what is safe.

Are you fucking kidding me? I thought that in 1987 our society hadn't yet devolved into the over-protective hand-wringing idiocy that parenting is today, but apparently I remember wrongly! I will not buy a $33 copy of this book, but that doesn't mean I want my fond memories of it shit all over. Fucking children's librarians from Newark. God. (Plus? It held my kid's interest, bitch. So what do you know?)

xoxo

okay, fine

Since you all refused to care about my very important lunch question, being too busy "having a life" or some kind of nonsense like that, I just going to tell you more things you can refuse to care about. That'll teach you.

1.) Do you know how much it costs to have a cat cremated if you do not want the ashes back in a nice little urn? $33. Do you know how much it cost to have a cat cremated and returned to you in a nice little urn that you can put on your mantle or something? Somewhere around a hundred dollars. I cannot give you an exact figure, because that is not the option I chose. For one thing, I do not have a mantle.

2.) When taking your cat's rigor mortis'd little corpse to the vet's office for said cremation, do you know what is exactly the right size and shape to transport it in after you decide just bringing it in a trash bag is...wrong? Your yoga mat bag. I'm going to relate this to M1 when I see her at work next week and she is going to say to me once again, "Only you, Andrea." And she will probably be right. All y'all will never know another person like me. But we're all special little snowflakes, aren't we?

3.) If you ever find yourself in my position and decide to walk from the vet's office to the Y because it is sunny out and kind of warm and it's really not that far and some fresh air will probably do you good, after a mile and a half of scrambling over snow piles and dodging killer SUVs when you are forced to walk on the road, you will arrive at the Y and say to yourself, "WTF am I doing here? How did that NOT just count as cardio?" And you will be right. You will nevertheless go inside and run on the treadmill anyway, because you will decide that after only going to the gym twice the week before, it is not a good thing to get out of the habit of going several times a week. Or because you are stupid. One of the two.

xoxo

very important, crucial food question

Okay, kids, I bought me some Stop & Shop deli Swiss cheese. I just opened it and there are no holes. Is it possible to have hole-free Swiss cheese or did those idiots give me the wrong thing? Also? It kind of tastes like Parmesan, but I don't know if I am mindfucking myself into thinking that 'cause it looks wrong. So, incompetence of grocery employees or just what I get for being cheap and not buying the Boar's Head or Alpine Lace?

Answer soon. The fate of the universe and/or my lunch depends upon it.

xoxo

Also, please advise on how to tell if blue cheese and sour cream have gone bad. Extra points if you explain kefir.

(Blogger spellcheck does not recognize the existence of kefir. That's racist. Mongolian power! Um, no, Russian power! Wikipedia has corrected me. Maybe I should see what they say about effin' Swiss cheese. I'll stop editing this any.time.now.)

Swiss cheese is a generic name in North America for several related varieties of cheese which resemble the Swiss Emmental. Some types of Swiss cheese have a distinctive appearance, as the blocks of the cheese are riddled with holes known as “eyes.” Swiss cheese has a piquant, but not very sharp, taste. Swiss cheese without eyes is known as “blind.”[1] What the hell do I need you people for when I have the interwebs. God.

Mongolian kefir is "kumis." Everyone knows that. Duh.

tuesday tmi edition plus other stuff

First of all, I need to publicly announce that while I was digging out yesterday with the entire rest of my neighborhood--everyone seemed to come to the conclusion that the storm was mostly over at the exact same time--the old guy (not one of the sons) next door came over with his GIANT snowblower and shushed me out of the way and proceeded to do my whole sidewalk plus the part of the driveway I hadn't finished yet INCLUDING the tough part where the plows pile up the snow. Cookies apparently get you somewhere.

No, as I was saying elsewhere, apparently the whole family has decided to take pity on poor pathetic husband-less me. Part of me was going, "No, no, I've been going to the gym, I can handle this, I'M IN SHAPE," but fortunately I subdued it. I hate to perpetuate the stereotype of a weak and helpless woman, but sometimes it's just convenient to roll with it. (Yeah, I know, I'm going to hell.) But I'm sure it gave him the warm fuzzies to do his good deed for the week, I *was* the only chick out on the whole street for serious, and he has a GIANT SNOWBLOWER. That thing is monstrously powerful.

I don't know why I'm shouting at you with the cap lock key. Excuse me.

So now onto the TMI portion of our mutual day. Those of you who were cyber-with-me during D's long hospitalization four years ago may or may not remember that I truthfully maintained that, other than being at the hospital, school, or working, I spent the entire two and a half months distracting myself with baseball, bad TV (especially VH1 and VH1 Classic), and reading about and discussing other people's sexual exploits on the interwebs.

Well, yesterday, after sobbing about the cat and digging out/being dug out of the snowstorm, and having been told by Led Zep Girl that our department was staying closed, in my grief and sadness I really couldn't concentrate on anything other than zoning out on the internet. One of the weightlifting forums that I always read has a huge number and variety of different boards, including one that is simply "misc". Misc is almost completely populated by 15 to 24 year old males at their most obnoxious, sexist, and homophobic prime. If you took anything you read there as anything but a bunch of chimps posturing for each other, a.) your head would explode and b.) before it did, you would weep for the future of the entire English-speaking world. But if you keep in mind that it's really just a bunch of boys and men who haven't quite yet stopped being boys dick-measuring and showing off for each other, it can be amusing at times. Yesterday? In my inability to cope with anything else, I ended up on misc.

And thus I came across a "dat ass" thread, consisting of post after post after post of pictures of women with magnificent booties clad only in thongs or other brief undergarments. (If I didn't know Mr Indemnity is on vacation, I'd have sent him the link, 'cause that's the kind of friend I am.) I was fairly mesmerized because this was certainly the largest collection of female gluteal perfection I had ever seen. After some time perusing it, I also became aware that I was, uh, aroused. Now this was extremely surprising for two reasons. First of all, as you are all aware, I am the most heterosexual woman in North America. I enjoy looking at pretty women on an aesthetic level, but it doesn't make anything happen in my pants, yo. And, secondly, I am not generally visually aroused anyway. I read pron, not look at it.

I was musing over this and I remembered what I referenced above, how when D was in the hospital, one of the few things that diverted me was reading about other people talking about sex. And then I thought about how the summer after my mother's death, I distracted myself with what was, for me, unusually casual sex. It all came together into this stunning (haha) insight: grief makes me horny. In fact, the day of my dad's funeral? Oh, yeah.

I have no idea what this says about me, but it's probably nothing good. And nothing that years and years of expensive therapy couldn't cure, I'm sure. Maybe I'll get right on that.

xoxo

i can't keep saying muy triste

It gets old.

Evil Kitty is dead upstairs on my daybed. After getting worse and worse over the course of the last day despite being back on the other medications, I basically think D and I pushed her over the edge into shock by attempting to give her pills this morning. I am, as you might imagine, crying hysterically as I am typing this and feeling like shit that her last interaction with us probably felt to her like we were torturing her. I dunno. Even if it had been possible for me to leave the house yesterday afternoon or this morning, I think she'd have gone into shock and died on the way to the vet, just from the stress of leaving the house. But I am so fucking sad. A week ago she was doing so well, all fat and happy and feisty. We even bought her a giant tub of catnip for Christmas.

I won't say 2010 has been the worst year of my life (hello, 2006!) but it's in the top five. Something good better happen soon because I really am on a thin edge here.





RIP, Goozy.

xoxo

a christmas present for YOU

The management of The Adventures wishes you a lovely day full of prezzies, eggnog, Chinese food, obnoxious relatives, or whatever is your tradition, all y'all.

xoxo

the xmas eve that doesn't feel like xmas eve

Evil Kitty started acting weird again last night, lethargic, howling, refusing food. "Goddamn it, cat," I told her, "do NOT die on Christmas, because I am on a very thin thread here." I was worried the vet's would be closed today, but I called at 8:30 and they were indeed open till 2 pm. They asked if I could be there by 9:20. Of course! And Evil Kitty is anemic again. 17, not 12, but 17 ain't good. The vet (ours was on vacay) said she probably was taken off the prednisone too soon. I told him the ultrasound vet was adamant she shouldn't be on it, and he said, yeah, it's a very delicate situation but she can't keep having this happen every three months either. (Note: yes, $265 visit today and we're going back Monday,; this cannot keep happening every three months.)

So then I came home and delivered my gratitude cookies (see comments for that) and then I went to Stop & Shop to buy veggies for tomorrow and a piece of fish for tonight. I line ahead of me was a woman with $60-something worth of groceries, whose debit card was rejected. "I was just at the bank," she said. "The money is in there. I'm about to cry any minute." She decides to try using the atm to see if her debit card will work there, but the atm inside the store was out of order. Her bank has by now closed. She decides she will go to their atm and asks the cashier and the manager who's come over if they will hold her stuff till she gets back. They promise they shall. And I'm standing there thinking, I should offer to pay for her stuff. Other than having just swiped my debit card at the vet's office, I honestly don't know why I didn't. And now I kinda feel like shit about it. Someone did something nice for me this week and here was my chance to pass it on. And I blew it. Sigh. No wonder my karma sucks so bad.

Oh, and I haven't wrapped presents yet. I had to sit down to eat my leftover chicken and type on the internet first, but I'ma get right on it. After I chug down this bottle of water so I can pour a glass of wine. Wrapping presents is traditionally an alcohol-fueled endeavour, yo. Plus it will probably make me feel better about my shortcomings as a human being!

If you are drinking and wrapping too, avoid paper cuts and remember scissors are sharp objects.

xoxo

Twinkle twinkle.

it's a christmas miracle

At some point while I was getting dressed this morning, the shoveling fairy came and cleared my walk and driveway. I am fairly sure it had to be one of the guys next door who a.) are the people who clear the mailbox if I don't b.) helped me bag up my leaves one time when they saw me out there doing it by myself and c.) finished snowblowing my driveway one time a couple years when the really heavy snow was clogging my snowblower and I gave up on shoveling for the night with plans to resume in the morning.*** But I am not positive. There were other people out on the street when I first woke up. Maybe one of them had a freak impulse to help thy neighbor.

So now I do not know how to approach this. Should I ask the first one of the guys next door that I come across whether they did it or not? Should I offer to pay them? Should I assume it was them and bring them some cookies? Or should I assume they did it just for their own satisfaction and just let it go? I'm leaning towards cookies, even though that is the kind of thing that will make me really really uncomfortable. I should suck it up and do it, right?

xoxo

***To explain all this let me say the household consists of a couple that is older than I am and their three grown sons, all of whom are older than D and some or all of whom live there some or all of the time, plus some little tiny grandchildren who live there part or all of the time or just visit a lot. I can't keep track of all their comings and goings. The woman, with a husband and three sons, is not the type of woman who has thus ever had to rake a leaf, pick up a snow shovel, change her own oil, patch her own drywall, or haul out her own trash and recycling, etc. If her sons have therefore had the sexist idea that girls don't do such things implanted in them and therefore feel bad for me when they see me clearing snow, etc, I guess I can throw away any and all of my feminist principles and gratefully accept the kindness. Obviously I am a healthy non-elderly woman who can bag leaves and shovel snow just fine by myself. But as you know I really hate every second of it.

do me a favor and don't put me in a box

I know you are all expecting me to be predictable and write an impassioned screed about how much I hate winter and snow and how it took 35 minutes to get home yesterday instead of 10 and how I couldn't go to the gym and now my schedule is all messed up and how if it gets crappy(er) today and my hairdresser cancels on me leaving me with roots for Christmas I will be homicidal and how months ago when I signed up for a work training on December 22 in fucking almost-Roxbury it seemed like a good idea at the time but now not so much. I know that is what you are expecting from me. But, hey, we have to mix it up a little.

So instead I am going to tell you that this morning, on the phone with my son, I realized there is another word I consistently butcher, at least in this one context. "D! Can you do me a favah?" If I were to use it in another sentence such as "I would be happy to do it as a favor to you" I would pronounce it correctly. This is odd. Maybe one only drops the R at the end of a sentence. Insert winky face here.

I like how I write this shit as if anyone is actually reading it. Too funny.

xoxo

the freshmen

When the Benevolent L and I sat down in the dining room yesterday to eat,there was a woman screaming in labor on the TV in the adjoining living room. Teen Mom marathon on MTV, all y'all. I swear, I rarely even realize the TV is on and block most of it out, but L asked if we might have something more...relaxing...to eat dinner to. So I switched it to one of the "adult alternative" XM radio channels we get.

And thus it came to pass that later as we were leaving to get coffee, we heard "The Freshmen" by the Verve Pipe. "I love this song," the Benevolent L said. "Me too," I replied. "That's why I turned it up!"

I can't be held responsible
'Cause she was touching her face
I won't be held responsible
She fell in love in the first place

What does that part about touching her face even mean? They just needed a word that rhymes with place. That's lazy songwriting right there. (Right up there with "I got warrants in every city cept Houston", but I digress.) But anyways, I have now had this cheezy, poignant, extremely hooky song stuck in my head since 6pm yesterday. What does that mean for you, boys and girls? Well, besides hoping that I've now passed the earworm along, 'cause I'm evil like that, it means you get to hear another pointless story of my youth. Consider it a holiday bonus!

Thirty years ago (gasp!) when I was a freshman at BU, I was in the library one evening, and as was sometimes my wont, I happened to be dressed up for no reason. I can tell you exactly what I was wearing that day, which is, by the way, one of my superpowers. I had on: brown cowboy boots, brown pinstriped tights, a rust colored pencil skirt that buttoned down the front with big buttons, and a grayish blue crewnecked chunky sweater with flecks of other colors in it. Do you think I looked hot in this outfit? Of course I did, I was 18 years old. Duh.

In fact, I looked so alluring (ha!) and older than 18 that I was hit upon at the library by a grad student/instructor who was, I dunno? 27 or 28--unspeakably old, anyway. Upon learning that I was a freshman and not a grad student like himself, the gentleman--because he was a gentleman--backed off on any lecherous type overtures, but we actually had a lovely conversation, and thereafter whenever we ran into each other randomly on campus would grab coffee or lunch or at least chat on the sidewalk. I cannot remember this guy's name (though it may have possibly been Glen) or what his field was (though it may have possibly been economics) but I remember he was from Ontario. This is the stream-of-consciousness memory that song has triggered in me.

And it occurs to me that this is the difference in me that life has wrought. Thirty years ago, I was open to speaking to random men who flirted with me at libraries. Today when gym douchebags try to engage in conversation, I stare off into the middle distance and block it out with the iPod, thus never learning whether they really are douchebags or not. I mean, yeah, I'm playing the odds, but still. This, my friends, is probably why I do not have a contractor future second ex-husband patching up my drywall (shut up, that's *not* a euphemism) even as we speak. God. You need to make eye contact and be open to possibilities.

For the life of me I cannot remember
What made us think that we were wise and we'd never compromise
For the life of me I cannot believe we'd ever die for these sins
We were merely freshmen

xoxo

star trek meets jay-z

I am so easily amused.

Okay, enough of that! The Benevolent L and I had, after much plan deliberation contingent on snowstorms my boss accurately told me were not going to take place, "our" Christmas today. I am about to tell you reason number one why she is the best friend ever, but first I am going to tell you the second reason she is the best friend ever. The second reason she is the best friend ever is that every time she comes to my house for dinner and I serve her something very basic and unimpressive, she acts like it's some kind of amazing meal and like I'm actually a good cook. It's very endearing and sweet.

The reason she is the best friend ever? OMG, you guys, she visited my amazon wishlist and bought me The New Rules of Lifting for Women. I wanted that book *so* bad, I cannot even tell you. Plus she got me an amazing Lush massage bar and some fabulous hand cream for my poor abused hands. Score!

The only glitch in our lovely holiday celebration is that we set out to the Gulu for after-dinner lattes and dessert, and they were closed. Staff Christmas party or some such nonsense. So we went down the street to a newer place, Coven, which is only counter service, BUT which has Original Sin on the menu. I wasn't drinking because I'd already had wine at home, but this bears keeping in mind for future reference. Plus the Benevolent L was pleased because they had gluten-free baked goods. So out of tragedy comes triumph. Um, yeah.

(Did I mention the package of meat from my SIL arrived on Friday? It did! Steaks and books on the same weekend is like whoa.)

xoxo

i'll take potpourri for 400, alex

I would love to tell you all about the horrible, horrible mistake I made in a.) going to the mall today b.) by way of public transportation when c.) I didn't really have to, but suffering builds character. Or something like that.

I will just say that my trip home was like the prison bus to the 18th power. There was a pack of guys who I could only charitably characterize as an entire halfway house given a pass to go Christmas shop(lift)ing. There was also a woman who was a friend of at least some of them, with her two children. With my earbuds in and my iPod set to "cochlea damage", I could still hear her children screaming. Not screaming with crankiness. That would be understandable, given that, judging from facial expression, 80% of the adults on the bus would have indulged in such if it were socially acceptable for persons over the age of five. No, these children were just being loud. I wanted to turn around and suggest to the mother that she teach them about the concept of indoor voices, but god knows you don't want to mess with people who are buddies with a good quarter of a work release program. Oh! On the way *to* the mall, there was a guy smoking on the fucking bus. He claimed he didn't know any better because he is from South Carolina and he couldn't read the no smoking signs 'cause he's "50% legally blind." Whatever that means. Seriously, you cannot make this shit up.

But while I was in Macys evilly-lit dressing room, trying things on I had absolutely no intention of buying once again, I examined my thighs closely in the nasty mirror to see how my cellulite is doing. (Shut up.) I must say, I am very pleased with my right thigh progress. The left is lagging. And neither could be characterized as "20 year old girl thigh" of course. But I am far more pleased than I have any right to be. Plus, even with my clothes on, you can see my quads are just popping. There's my effin' genetic endowment colliding with the leg press machine. You comin' home, you gonna have to slide, mofo. Ha!

In totally unrelated matters, I took an online quiz which purported to tell me which Jane Austin character I am. Here are the results:

42-50 points: Jane Fairfax (EMMA)
A sweet and trusting nature is both the making and the undoing of Jane Fairfax. She is the epitome of femininity and demure countenance, matched with an intelligent brain and an artistic though understated flair. All good, right? Except that this creature attracts and is attracted to the kind of man who falls wildly in love, almost in spite of himself, and perhaps before he is ready. Jane's open nature is far too trusting and she might not notice that she's falling in love with a Lothario until it is too late. That said, her strength of character and her many allures might be just the thing to take the "play" out of a "player", but at what cost to her happiness?

Best matched with an outgoing, friendly, center-of-attention type who will balance her quiet beauty, like Frank Churchill, Henry Crawford or Mr. Bingley.

Isn't that amazingly accurate? Besides the whole taking the play out of a player, Lothario business, that is. But nothing says "epitome of femininity" and "quiet beauty" like a woman who ends a sentence with the word mofo. Amirite? You know I am.

Oh, and I would like to tell you about the last half of that awful movie, because again, suffering builds character. Let's just say Naveen Andrews soon enough becomes a deranged opium addict which kills his pretty, so even the eye candy fails, and that there's an obligatory, dreary girl-on-girl scene when Maya and Tara make up, plus further totally unbelievable plot points, only a tiny bit redeemed by the death-by-elephant execution. If you ever get the urge to rent this mess, hit yourself in the head with a brick instead. It will be less agonizing.

Finally, M2 passed along this link, which I hope works after the last miserable FAIL. Very clever. Though I do feel a little guilty about the lulz, considering I am the woman who used to bring manuscripts to writing group with such scintillating titles as "Yeah, Like I Know What to Call This Thing." Which, honestly? I'd pick that up at Borders and at least read the back cover.

I'm tired. Over n' out.

xoxo

kama sutra, the movie

A few weeks ago when she was loaning me the hot stone video and also returning one of my DVDs she had, M2 also loaned me Monsoon Wedding. I've watched it a couple times and really enjoyed it. It's sort of a romantic comedy, but more tilted to the serious side. Cute chick flick. It's also interesting because it takes place in Delhi, so there are all the cultural pieces and the different wedding customs, plus the wedding in question is a semi-arranged marriage, so there's the "how could anyone DO that?" for us Americans. (It provides quite a relatable explanation for that. The bride is a modern young woman who's been having an affair with a married TV host and she both sees the writing on the wall that a.) he's never getting a divorce and b.) she's going to keep going back to him, and she's ready to settle down, so she sees this marriage as a way to make a clean break and a fresh start in a new life.) But this, my friends, is not the movie I am here to review. It's just backstory to explain why I looked up the director of this film I quite enjoyed and thus netflixed Kama Sutra.

One would think that what is basically a fairy tale about pretty people in beautiful clothes having sex in exotic historical settings would have to be at least watchable, but one would be sadly mistaken. Putting aside the horribly stilted dialogue which is an offense to me as a writer, we have the problem that, of the four main characters, there isn't one that I don't fucking hate.

We have the two young women, Tara (the princess) and Maya (her servant), who are supposedly raised as best friends together, but who apparently seethe with jealousy about each other. Maya is jealous of Tara for, y'know, being a princess and having nice things whilst she gets hand-me-downs, while Tara is jealous of Maya for being more beautiful and talented. (Sidebar: both these girls are pretty, but in my opinion equally so, and neither is the stunningly unbelievable beauty Maya is portrayed as being. Maybe this would all be more believable if they cast an actual unattractive girl as Tara.) Tara publicly spits in Maya's face when she catches her prince/king husband-to-be checking her out, so Maya gets revenge by seducing him the night before the wedding. ARE WE LIKING EITHER ONE OF THESE CHICKS YET? Ahem.

Then we have the prince/king himself. I think he's supposed to be the villain so the fact that I hate him? Uh, good job? He's also portrayed by a young Naveen Andrews (Sayid from Lost) so at least he does bring the pretty when he's nekkid and fucking these girls in various Kama Sutra-like positions. So there is that.

Which brings us to the court sculptor that Maya has an affair with. He is nothing so much as a 16th century hipster douchebag. First he seduces her with "brilliant" philosophical insights like, "I used to worship in temples till I realized the rocks, the trees, the hills are all sacred." Then he dumps her because she's harshing his art and creativity, man, and he's got to be freeeeeee. At least he's in a loincloth, not skinny jeans.

Oh, and a fifth lesser character? His friend, the retired courtesan who runs a courtesan school and takes Maya in? She is full of brilliant insights too, teaching her pupils gems like "men like when you pretend to love them" and "men despise that which they can get too easily." (Whoa. Is that my problem? Dude.) But I don't hate her so much as the writers that put those gems in her script, so my urge to slap her every time she comes on scene isn't quite as strong.

I made it about halfway through this film before falling asleep, but to my shame, I didn't mail it back to netflix this morning. So I'll probably masochistically finish it. Just to see how much worse it can get. Oy.

This has been a public service announcement.

xoxo

aww, and during the holiday season, too

Soon the poor bikers will have *no place* to go drinking. They shut down the skeezy bar in my neighborhood. And now this. All because someone was too freakin' lazy to make some sandwiches. God. Not being lazy would have paid off for them too. (Huh. Must be a new trend.) Also not allowing, condoning, or covering up felonious assaults on their premises might have been nice, but hey, it's tough to run a business these days.

My favorite part of the whole story? "You know exactly why I'm here, Suzy Q." Someone's been watching too much noir, that's what I think.

xoxo

in which andrea decamps from under the furry blanket

So first yesterday, I changed into my gym clothes, including the sports bra and my sneakers. The sports bra and sneakers are crucial because otherwise? My gym clothes double very nicely as nap clothes. Then I went outside to get the mail. I told myself if I felt like I was in danger of hypothermia walking across my driveway to the mailbox, it would be okay to stay home. But honestly, it wasn't so bad. So, fairly excuseless, I bundled myself up in outerwear and I headed to the gym.

On the way, my sinuses were still killing me. I mean my whole head and face were aching. I started thinking the whole exercise thing was a big mistake and I probably would not be able to accomplish much. But I told myself that was okay. If I got there and felt like I shit, I could just take a nice not-too-strenuous walk on the treadmill and at least it would get my blood circulating. Well, I was in the building literally no more than 5 minutes when I started to feel better, and it occurred to me why. It's a Y. There's a big ass giant pool and a smaller pool. It is probably 75% more humid in that building than it is in my house. It also occurred to me that if I had half the brains I was born with, this would have occurred to me much sooner, and I would have looked up when open pool rec time was and brought a bathing suit. Because I'm sure being in the actual warm pool really would have fixed my sinuses right up. Anyway, I went on to do my whole lifting routine (except for lunges), and then spent 15 minutes really stretching, and I felt great when I left.

On very rare occasions, NOT being lazy works out for the best. I'm kinda sad I missed a nap chance, though.

In other news, I went to the downtown Salem post office today. Midmorning. The week before Christmas. They had, at first, one window open. One window. They had to be fucking with us, 'cause really? One window? Eventually a guy came out and opened up a second window. I think there were about 18 people in line as I finished and walked out the door. I must say, somewhat in their defense however, that the lady that eventually waited on me was a sweetie. I watched her look up all the various options for the woman ahead of me who was trying to get something to the Dominican ASAP. FedEX would guarantee it there tomorrow for $44, which is kinda amazing. The woman was going to take that option but after the post office lady produced the 6 frigging pages of forms that entailed, she changed her mind and decided to go with the post office's "Monday or Tuesday". I'm not sure the customer's written English was up to filling out all those forms in the post office without help. Anyway, as a postal employee, I gotta say this woman was very helpful and patient and pleasant, which takes the sting out of the long wait. A little.

And then, walking back to work through the historic district, which is in general very pretty in my opinion, it occurred to me why it looks especially pretty now. They ain't allowed to put up any of those tacky light-up plastic statues or any other kind of Christmas excess. However, I am sure that even in the 1700s, there must have been colonials with horrendous taste. Tackiness wasn't invented in the last 50 years. I'm sure there's some dark secret the historical commission is suppressing about how they really used to decorate. That's one conspiracy I'm willing to get behind, yo.

That's it for now.

xoxo

breaking news, with bonus questions

At least in the right light and at the right angle, and despite my documented loose skin issues, I have a visible 4 pack now. This will, I'm sure, cheer me up from the demonstrated proof that I fit right in with the clientele of WalMart. (Oh, just read the comments and all will become clear. Also? Try to keep up.)

Now, onto questions. First of all, I have a bunch of those "print out on your own printer" gift certificates to give people for Xmas. I think they are pretty tacky, but some places that you purchase gift certificates from do NOT really give you another option. Does anyone have any ingenious ideas about ways to present these that are festive? (Word of the week: festive.) Not that, for example, my son or my nephew really care, but I CARE, bitches. So hit me up with arts n crafts ideas.

Should I leave the house to do something useful today, like buy something to cook for dinner and go to the gym, or should I use the facts that it's 18 degrees out, my sinuses are killing me, I don't really need to be anywhere for once, and the laptop is now hooked up to my bedroom TV as signs that I should basically stay on this bed beneath my furry blanket all day? Think carefully before you answer.

Why would anyone choose to have their windows replaced *in December*? Okay, that's a rhetorical question, I guess, but some of my neighbors don't appear to be, y'know, overly bright.

I think I'm going to have some money left in my flexible spending account. Should I get prescription sunglasses? Those would be covered, right? I wish massages were covered, man. Fuck the gov'ment!

Four pack, baby.

xoxo

tuesday's another day

I have only had two cookies so far today. Yesterday I had six. The first pair of pants I put on today were falling off of me, so I had to change them before I left for work. By the laws of deductive reasoning, that means cookies are a diet food. Y'all take note, and eat accordingly.

I wish I had something fascinating (other than The Good News About Cookies) to report, but life is fairly dull and uninteresting these days. Except when I'm having a panic attack. Oh, my laptop is acting up again. I hope it will spontaneously fix itself, like it did the last time it did this, by the time I get home today. (Was that fascinating? No?)

I did have an encounter at the gym yesterday that was somewhere between annoying and funny. Let me set the scene, because you know I am good at that and it lets me pretend to myself I am still actually a writer. There I was in the free weights section, on an incline bench. Directly in front of me is one of the "heavy dumbbell" racks. I still have my hair in my festive updo and I'm wearing my new, extremely cute, long fitted yoga-ish hoodie over leggings. In other words, I am admittedly looking way less shlumpy than I usually do at the gym. (Can you see this is going to be one of those stories about how hoodies make me irresistible to douchebags? Is the metaphorical writing on the wall?) I have my iPod in, as I always do when working out.

And, on my incline bench, I am doing my incline presses, which I may just have complained about in here before. I have finally been able to go up to 20 pound dumbbells for these, after being stuck at 15 for a long time. I am on my first set, maybe my second or third rep, when this guy steps directly between me and the dumbbell rack and starts talking to me. Or rather, at me, since I can see his lips moving, but I can't really hear him. He is gesturing at a 100 pound dumbbell as he speaks and smiling at me. I vaguely smile back, hoping he will go away. Lips are still moving. I am forced to stop lifting and pull out an earbud. He is saying, "Do you want to switch?" "You need these?" I ask, somewhat confused. (Shut up.) There is more than one set of 20 pound weights. "Yeah, you wanna switch?" he asks again, gesturing to the 100 lbers, and grinning. "I don't think I can handle those. Get back to me in six months." I smile, because as a woman I am socialized to be fucking polite to douchebags, pop the earbud back in, and go back to lifting. He watches me for a few more reps before wandering off. I finish my incline presses, put my dumbbells on the rack they belong on, and go do lat pulldowns. He never retrieves them, so he did NOT even need them, and thus interrupted me *in the middle of a set with dumbbells over my chest*, JUST TO FLIRT. He is extremely lucky I didn't drop one of them on his foot, which is what I should have done. (Was that fascinating? No?)

I am now going to go over to the cafeteria where they are having a free dessert bar between the hours of 2:30 and 5:30, because, hey, I only had two cookies so far today. Then I am going to go to Tarzhay to buy some toys for the toy drive and to the pet store to buy Evil Kitty her prezzie. And then when I get home, my laptop will have spontaneously regenerated. Or something. (Was that fascinating? No?)

Have yourselves a fascinating day, bitches. Someone has to. Smooches!

xoxo

in case you were up all night worrying n' stuff

According to the kind people at Slate who put up a widget for those of us in Gawker Nation to check whether our email addresses were on the list the hackers released as being hacked, mine was not. So, between that and all my frantic password changing and credit card info deleting I did last night, I guess evil people on the interwebs aren't buying shit with my semi-hard earned money even as we speak.

In other news, we had our holiday departmental lunch today, which was somewhat of a comedown in the festivity league, considering a bunch of people didn't make it. So it was a very small and intimate gathering of my boss, our other surviving full time doc, Townie Girl, Girl With No Catchy Nickname, and me. I ate a boatload of Chinese food and two cookies and now, two hours after the fact, I am still so stuffed, I'm thinking I can't go to the gym after work or I will puke. The very expensive (sigh) cookies I made were a big hit***, proving that the recipe was indeed idiot-proof. And with a little more online shopping today, I am officially done with the Xmas gift-procuring, other than picking up a few scratch tickets and Evil Kitty's Cosmic Catnip. (We figure if she's gonna stroke out any day now, she should go out in a drug-induced haze, is all I'm saying.)

Oh! And I curled my hair again today and it did not come out as good as yesterday. I think it works better when your hair is a little dirty. Nevertheless, I have my hair in an updo (festive!) and I am wearing my ridiculous tunic/shirt/dress that looks like a wedding cake (festive!) so the lack of festivity in that luncheon cannot be attributed to me. Again, all I'm saying.

I hope you all are having yourselves a festive Monday full of good hair, cookies, and a lack of internet crime. If not, Tuesday's another day.

xoxo

***I have enough leftover graham crackers, chocolate and butterscotch chips, nuts, and coconut to make another pan of cookies, so you want some, you just speak up. Or else I'll just be throwing the stale baking supplies away three years from now in a cabinet-cleaning binge. You know how it goes.

my stupidity n paranoia intersect

I'm sure you all had better things to do this evening than pay attention to internet news, but there's been a huge Gawker hack. As in, the hackers have all the Gawker IDs, email addresses, and (encrypted) passwords of 1.5 million users. Of which I am one, which you may have figured out by all the reposts of shit from jezebel y'all get from me.

Of course, I provided jezebel with my real, main email, like an idiot. Of course I used the password that I use for 80% of all my internet business (the perimenopause is fucking with my memory, I can only handle very few passwords, yo). I am fucking stupid and overly trusting that my firewall and virus checker and that little lock symbol that appears in my browser when I'm buying something will save me from having all my money stolen from me.

I am all extremely paranoid and freaking out now. I already had an ativan today, so taking another one probably isn't a good idea, but. I immediately changed my jezebel password. I immediately changed my email password to something completely different. I then spent several hours changing my password on all the online shopping sites I use that I could remember using the original password on, as well as on my Sprint account. I deleted my stored credit card info from the shopping sites. I don't bank or pay my bills online, so that I don't have to worry about. I don't think.

Do you think there's some hacker somewhere buying expensive yoga pants from Athleta with my debit card even as we speak?!??? Like I don't have enough to worry about. Bastards.

xoxo

kitschmas update

This year's dining room table.

Glitter Santa driving a plane joins glitter reindeer in the foyer.

Another angle.

Woodstove deco. (Don't worry, we never use it. No fire hazard.)

Closeup.

The lights around the front door and the lights up the staircase banister are the same as last year, as are the pillows on the foyer chair. You could look back to last Kitschmas if you re.ally really want a refresher. There are new IKEA snowflake lights in the front window, however, which I have not photographed. Alas, documentation isn't complete.

In other news, I baked those cookies for the forced cookie exchange in work, and I was absolutely correct in that not only did this require more labor than Secret Santa, it cost more too. Thirty bucks in cookie supplies at Stop & Shop last night. And now I have all this left over coconut and chocolate chips and butterscotch chips and graham crackers which will stay in my cabinet for a few years till I throw them away.

Maybe I should make myself a pan of cookies and eat them all, since rumor has it that I have an eating disorder. Eye roll.

And in other, other news, while I was screwing around, waiting for the rain to let up before I went to the CVS to pick up the cat's prescription, I got out this spiral curling iron that I had bought years ago and never got the hang of, and figured it out. I made myself an adorable curly high ponytail which looked really cute till I put my hood over my head and went out into the drizzle. Now it's mostly straight again. I guess it needed "product," yo.

Is your shopping and decorating done yet, bitches? (No pressure!)

xoxo

so here's the thing

One of my docs just gave me a hundred dollar Visa gift card as an early Christmas present.

Jacket or no jacket? Massage or no massage? A facial? My skin has been documented right here as looking like crap. Paint for the house (since I really am going to get back into the home improvement, what with the weather about to majorly suck for three months)? Just use it towards presents for other people? Or keep it till March when I'll really be needing to buy something to cheer myself the fuck up?

I got no idea.

xoxo

hot rocks report

While I was forcing myself to watch the instructional video last night--despite the cheesy music, the bad production values, and the aesthetically displeasing massage room--it occurred to me that the hot stone massage consisted of 80% therapist messing about with the stones and 20% client actually being massaged. And playing around with it with G and M2 today, my impressions were confirmed. We were all united in thinking there were parts of it that might be a nice luxurious adjunct to a regular massage (like warm towels!), but that we wouldn't be lining up to get a whole treatment consisting of nothing but. But, on the other hand, I'm kind of curious now to get one some place that does a lot of them just to see if I could be convinced to find it fabulous.

It would be, like, research, rather than a waste of money, right? RIGHT?

NO, IT WOULD BE LIKE HALF A FUCKING LEATHER JACKET.

Ahem. I'll stop whining about that any day now. Any.day.now.

xoxo

Addendum: Actually, I take it back. It's a whole leather jacket. I just checked a local place. $165.

december misc, procrastination issue

I need to watch the DVD before tomorrow's meeting of the Everybody Must Get Stoned committee, plus I need to make up some Merry Xmas arnica for M2 and G, but whilst I screw around on the internet instead, let me tell you a few things.

1.) I am getting callouses on both hands right where my middle finger meets the palm. This is not good for performing massage therapy. My hands are supposed to be as soft as the proverbial baby's bottom, yo. You know what this means, don't you? It means I have to get weightlifting gloves and then look like a douchebag wearing them at the gym lifting my weeny little weights. The affronts to my dignity never end. Sigh.

2.) I am reading Keith Richard's autobiography (on the Kindle--no tendinitis, baby!) and quite enjoying it. Keef says when he became a songwriter, something changed in him. He became more detached, more of an observer, always watching people and listening to what they said, because any little action, any little snatch of conversation could be the genesis of a song. See? Me n' Keef are kindred spirits. If only he rode the Prison Bus, just imagine how much career success the boy coulda had.

3.) I know I promised pictures of Kitschmas at Andrea's (which is like Breakfast at Tiffany's, only with less Audrey Hepburn) but I'm not *quite* done.

4.) But speaking of Christmas decorating abominations--I've got a lot to say. Remember how when people used to go bananas and over-decorate, it made people drive by their houses to gawk and maybe netted a puff piece in the local newspaper? To judge from my neighborhood, those days are gone. Now the house covered in 200,000 lights with 43 different glowing statues in the front yard seems to be the norm, not the exception. I could walk around here for a mere five minutes with the video camera on my new iPod and document ten of them. And if I wasn't so damn lazy, plus technically unsure of how to use that video function, I just might! Really, somehow over the past ten years, the concepts of "restraint" and "good taste" seem to have vanished. (Though, honestly? This *is* the lower North Shore. Our major highway landmarks are a giant orange dinosaur, a field of fake cows, and a humongous tiki hut. Good taste and restraint are relative here.)

5.) My tongue hurts.

xoxo

in which our sad national trade deficit saves me from myself

I went to the Nordstrom Rack today. Why? Because it's sorta kinda right next door to Pier 1, where I was going to peruse the Christmas decorations and see if there was anything suitably blingy for my holiday decor. There was absolutely no reason for me to go into the Nordstrom Rack, rather than past it. I am NOT supposed to be spending money on nonessentials that are unrelated to Christmas. Especially since I've been actually using the heat in my house for the past couple weeks; next month's electric bill should be, ahem, interesting.

But in I went. I like to look at the marked-down designer purses. What can I say? We all have our hobbies. Then I wandered over into the "contemporary" clothing section. And there I saw it. A Michael Kors black leather biker-style jacket, originally almost $400, Rack-priced at $165. OMFG. The leather was like fucking buttah. It was so soft, so supple, I wanted to marry that jacket and make little wallet babies with it. Or something.

Andrea, I said to myself, you just bought the expensive shoes you really, really wanted because they were half price. And you just bought a runner for the foyer--desperately needed since you tore the gross carpeting out of there this summer when you were taking a fit that one day, and also on sale, but still. And you spent a crapload of extra money on food for Thanksgiving. You CANNOT have a new $165 jacket, no matter that it is the most beautiful jacket on the face of the earth and you would look smoking hot in it.

So I wandered over into the active wear to see if there were any cheap yoga pants (nope) and I looked at some Lucky Brand t-shirts, and the whole time I was saying to myself that the shoes were my birthday present to myself and the jacket could be my Christmas present and that if my dad were alive, I would have bought and brought it home and said "Look what you just bought me for Xmas! Don't you have good taste?!?" And then finally, I pulled myself together and I said Andrea, go back and look at that jacket one more time. If it's not made in China, you can have it.

But here's one of the things I bought in Pier 1 where I *did* actually purchase Chinese-made crap.



In case you can't tell, it's me in ornament form: barbell, headphones, bangs in the face, eye shadow at the gym. I don't know how I'ma display it without actually putting up the big tree, which I'm not, but it had to be bought.


Plus bonus gun show! (I think eating pumpkin ice cream makes your triceps grow, 'cause mine are freaking popping all of a sudden.)

I want that jacket. Boohoo. Feel bad for me. Heh.

Addendum: I think this is it. Tell me that wouldn't look the shit on me.



xoxo

motivation

Just in case any of you were planning on sitting on your couch eating cake this weekend.





Go get some exercise, THEN sit on your couch and eat cake. Andrea said it was alright.

xoxo

it's that time of year

So, as I just mentioned *not* in this blog, I bought my first Christmas present today. The number of people I need to actually buy anything for this year is small. Money for the niece and nephew. Money in the form of an American Express personailized gift card for my son (along with the stocking stuffers). Money towards the group gift to our docs at work. Money to buy cookie-making supplies because the chicks in my department have decided we're doing a cookie swap instead of secret santa. (Have I bitched about *that* yet? Pain in my fucking ass.) Mostly it's all hand over cash and effin' bake. But there are a few friends I exchange gifts with, and one of those has been taken care of. Yay, me.

That, boys and girls, is the sum total of my holiday preparation so far. Other than the fact that I cleaned the hell out of my house prior to Thanksgiving, so now all I have to do is keep it clean. Somehow. I did ask D last weekend whether we should start decorating and he said, no, it was too early. Probably this weekend I will attempt a bit of that. After last year's Merry Kitschmas, I really need to outdo myself.

There will, of course, be photos. Stay tuned. As they say.

xoxo

welcome to december misc

1.) Well, I experimented and it is possible to put my phone on silent and still have the alarm work. On the other hand, after I told my kid that I would kill him if he texted me at 4 am again, last night he emailed me to tell me we're out of Q-tips. So it's all a win-win.

2.) Every time the commercial for "The Fighter" comes on TV, I get all excited and tell D I can't wait till it comes out. My excitement has proved infectious and he thinks it's really cool that it was filmed in Lowell, etc. (Perhaps not infectious enough that I can convince him to see it in the theater, but where there's life there's hope. Or some other platitude.) Anyway, I was lying in bed this morning with those kind of random thoughts that flit through one's head flitting through mine, and it occurred to me that while it is a boon to have Wahlberg, Affleck, and Damon as big box office stars so that they can keep having movies set in eastern Massachusetts (all of which I am compelled to see) with leads who don't fucking butcher the accent, they're getting older. Which is to say, we need a new crop of Massachusetts boys as up-n-comers. Someone's gonna have to carry the torch so that in fifteen years the Boston Crime Film genre doesn't die out and leave me with nothing to see at the movies. God. Someone get on this.

2a.) Why doesn't Maura Tierney get roles in those movies? Is she typecast as a TV actress or is it just that she's too old by Hollywood standards to act opposite Affleck/Wahlberg/Damon? I always liked her when I used to watch ER. She's a good actor, and pretty in that "normal person pretty" way.

3.) I made the traditional after-Thanksgiving turkey soup, but I had so much leftover turkey (see: emergency preparedness extra turkey breast, which btw, caused M1 to say "only you, Andrea" which, yeah) that it is kinda like turkey sludge. Delicious though!

4.) The shoes I wanted for my bday were on sale for about half price on Zappos so I bought them. We're also getting a surprise bonus in our paychecks this week (for me $100, which is about $65 net) so I suppose I shouldn't feel guilty for treating myself.

That's all I have to say about any of that. Namaste. Bitches.

xoxo

and now for something completely different

Did I tell you Led Zep Girl's daughter left college a couple weeks into her first semester because of panic attacks, inability to live in the dorm, etc? Why this girl would rather come home and live with her mother, who is as far as I can see an absolute witch to her, I dunno. I myself would not be homesick for a parent who had absolutely no compassion towards or empathy for me. Nevertheless, she came home, got a part time retail job, and is going to transfer to a local college next semester. Led Zep Girl also has the kid doing copious amounts of housework for her in, I suppose, lieu of rent, but more so as punishment, because she is so pissed at her for coming home.

Today she went on and on about how the kid is sleeping till 3 pm, then rushing around to do the things she's supposed to be doing before she goes to work. Apparently some big blowout occurred because she then had laundry in the washer at some point where Led Zep Girl wanted to use it. First of all?--and I speak from experience here--when you are cohabiting with an adult child, if they are holding up their part of the contract and doing what they are supposed to do, you have no right to try to control and micromanage them into doing it your way, on your schedule. Secondly, when you are cohabiting with an adult child, you need to approach things with a bit of flexibility just as you would when living with any other adult. (Clue: LZG's been divorced *twice*.) If someone other than yourself is also doing laundry in your home, you must be prepared that sometimes they'll be doing it when you'd like to too. What is the big fucking deal? Chillax. It's better for your health.

The fact that *my* kid keeps sending me texts in the middle of the night so he doesn't forget to tell me whatever and then the tone invariably wakes me up? THAT is worth bitching about. Ha! (Not really. But has the current generation lost the ability to write a note on a piece of paper and stick it on the refrigerator? Is that a goddamn lost art or something? Sigh.)

xoxo

shmexxy

Here's a quote from Elsewhere. For context, this is a man in his early 40s whose wife is a former personal trainer who has "let herself go." She's 5'3 and now 165lbs. So, a little chubby, yeah, but not, y'know, Discovery Channel needs-to-be-cut-out-of-her-house fodder. Here's what her loving spouse has to say:

The hard part is giving compliments that are not true. She has talked to me about that. Wants be (sic) to tell her she is sexy, but that is hard to do. I tell her I love her all the time and that she is beautiful, but she has 42% bodyfat. I feel if I lie and say she is sexy, then she will think "Oh he is happy with me just like I am." Maybe I am wrong I don't know.

I honestly am perplexed. Is "sexy" totally determined by someone's looks, most specifically their body's looks, to this guy? To most guys? Is "hot" the only thing that equals sexy? I know all y'all are supposed to be visual creatures, but sexy has so many other components to me this does not compute.

Is a beautiful woman with whatever is your personal perfect body type still sexy if she never wants to have sex? What if she's willing to have sex but it's a very small and rigid set of things she'll do and she's never willing to try anything else? What if she's willing to have sex but she doesn't much care for it and is bored or passionless? What if she loves sex but she's selfish and it's all about what she likes, and your needs and likes are unimportant? Isn't sexiness more of an attitude than a look? Wouldn't you rather fuck an enthusiastic, generous, experimental, skilled "six" than an uptight, joyless, selfish "ten"? ARE THESE LEADING QUESTIONS (from a 6.5)? Ha!

Seriously, menfolk, tell me what's going on in your heads and penises. If your wife gained 40 pounds but you loved her and she was still the freakazoid she always was, would you not want to do her? Explain.

xoxo

we can all get behind this, right?

xoxo

to reiterate

For those of you who don't read the comments (i.e. everyone), let me just say again that not only did frying my turkey not involve any visits to the ED or calls to the fire department, it also resulted in the most delicious turkey EVAH! How could I have doubted myself and/or all those people who gave this contraption five stars on amazon? It did take 45 minutes to drain and clean the damn thing, but even so, it was *still* worth it.

Other highlights of the day included being hustled at Scrabble. The Benevolent L: "Oh, okay, I'll play, but I'm not good at games, and you've got a much bigger vocabulary than me," followed by "Oh! I won? Really?" D enjoyed Scrabble with us as well, and lemme tell you, getting him to socialize and actually have fun? That made my day, above and beyond all the other pleasures. Oh, and we also watched Winter's Bone, an excellent movie that is not really up there in "uplifting holiday entertainment" but I guess it does make you thankful that you're not growing up in the Ozarks with a father who cooks crank and then goes missing and a mother who's so mentally ill she's almost catatonic, that you don't have an uncle named "Teardrop", and that you don't need to shoot and skin squirrels for dinner. So there is that! And the young actress who plays the lead is just transcendent. Highly recommended.

Hope you all are enjoying spending today digesting and/or contributing to WalMart's profits or something, whilst I work (boo!).

xoxo

go hard or go home update

The backup (smaller) turkey breast has been roasted in the traditional manner and is ready for emergency usage if need be. Cranberry sauce is done and cooling. Cranberry cheddar is sliced. Cava and non-alcoholic beverages are chilling. Dining room table is set. Kitchen floor is scrubbed. The whole house is vacuumed. Guest bed is made up. Massage room is made up. Everything else is as clean as it's gonna get.



xoxo

prison bus conversation on the non-prison bus

Picture this: 40ish, very tall, Irish-appearing guy, with that Frankenstein/Kevin McHale/Marfan's Syndrome look, construction worker/laborer, tattooed on the neck *and* the knuckles. Dude is deep in conversation with an older guy. I am paying them no attention till the following snippet catches my ear. "I said, 'That's not going in there, is it? You're taking it off my record, right?' Because I do NOT want that on my record. My next case, no matter what it's for, they'll see that and--"

Do you see my sticking point, boys and girls? There's no "if" in there. There's no "should I ever be arrested again..." Dude has no doubt that he'll be in front of a judge some day soon, and it could be for any number of different things. Rehabilitation, yur doin it rong!

But, I'll have you know, Bizarro McHale proved my point that many of these unrepentant miscreant felons have better manners than your supposed better class of guy. He was the one to get up and offer his seat to the woman with the two small children and a stroller, while the two or three other douchebag men sitting at the front of the bus kept their asses planted. He probably says thank you after he jacks your wallet.

So, what's the lesson to be learned here, people? Don't space out on public transportation or you'll never know what the hell was supposed to be expunged from record!

xoxo

various complaints and non-complaints

1.) I am at that point in the year where my skin starts to look really horrible. I have the incipient dry, flaky patches near my eyes, but when I try to head these off with moisturizer, my skin looks greasy all day. And believe me, I have tried many different types of moisturizer.

2.) Part of the problem is that as soon as it gets cold, I cannot keep myself hydrated enough. In the warm weather, I'm sucking down water and assorted beverages all day long. In the winter, that is torture. I've been trying to drink more cups of green or herbal tea, but that involves constantly making cups of tea. Impractical, especially at work. So not only does this contribute to the skin dryness, the circles under my eyes look a thousand times worse. Even after applying concealer (which is not the miracle product the cosmetic industry would like me to believe), today I look like I got punched in the face, basically. It's depressing.

3.) I was up bright and early, 6:45-ish, this morning, even though I did not have to be at work till 11, and despite that, and despite the fact that I have so much shit to do before Thanksgiving, I got exactly nothing accomplished between then and when I left for work. And I was running out of the house even then, no gym clothes with me, no lunch, no water. Oh, I did get the trashcans back in the garage after the garbage men came, so there is that. But I am so disgusted with this frittering away of time.

4.) My three week old iPod died over the weekend. Luckily, it was still under warranty (ya think?) and the nice man at the Apple store yesterday just reached in the drawer and gave me a new one. But I also wasted an inordinate amount of time and aggravation trying to restore the broken one myself on Saturday.

5.) I bought an indoor countertop turkey fryer, because Amazon spammed me with Thanksgiving bargains and I bit. There were like a gazillion 5 star reviews of this thing. Now, however, I am getting nervous that it won't work and my Thanksgiving will be ruined. So I'm going to go out and buy a back up turkey breast and cook it in a more conventional manner so there's a fail safe. I think this shows that I'm a pussy, because no guts, no glory. However it may instead show that I am always prepared, just like a boyscout. You be the judge.

6.) I did manage to get Trader Joe's pumpkin ice cream. Even if I fuck up two turkeys, you cannot argue with pumpkin ice cream, yo.

7.) Plus a nice cava. I should probably not start drinking it before I'm done fucking around with large amounts of very hot cooking oil, right? Boyscout or pussy? You be the judge.

I think that's it for now!

xoxo

okay, okay, after this I really am done

As you may have heard, my boy Felix Hernandez, he of the summer-long Adventures suicide watch, had his season of crushing defeats and stellar pitching vindicated yesterday when he won the AL Cy Young despite his 13-12 record. And what did he say about his fellow Mariners, the ones I personally would have kneecapped in the clubhouse or at least punched repeatedly in a fit of rage? "They tried to do too much for me. I love my teammates."

And what did Roy Halladay, NL Cy Young award winner, say about the appropriateness of Felix winning? "Ultimately, you look at how guys are able to win games. Sometimes, you find a way to win games." Oh, fuck you, Halladay.

xoxo

drink!

That's not a command, though if you choose to interpret it as one and pour yourself something, I won't dissuade you. No, Drink is a bar in the South Station/waterfront area where you go to have cocktails. Not that they won't serve you a beer or a glass of wine, but if that's what you choose to imbibe, you're missing the point. See, Drink has a conceit: they don't have a cocktail menu and their bartenders are mixologists. You inform them what you might be in the mood for or what sorts of things you usually like to drink, and they take their creativity and encyclopedic knowledge of alcohol and make you up something they think you are gonna like.

And so it came to be that I spent last evening imbibing various champagne cocktails, since it was my birthday eve and I wanted something celebratory. 3 and 1/2 variations of champagne cocktails, to be exact. (We'll get back to the half later.) The second one, which contained champagne and bourbon, is, I think, the one that got me wasted, despite my efforts to drink it slowly. There was a fuckload of alcohol in that thing. More alcohol than the delicious little finger foods they also serve could keep up with. I recommend the fancy grilled cheese that's served up in bite-sized pieces, and not just because I've been relatively carb-deprived the past few months. It was good. Also good were the cupcakes the bunch of girls down the bar, who were celebrating someone's 30th, shared with us. Don't you love the camaraderie of friendly drunken generous strangers when you're out on a mission to get annihilated? What's NOT to love?

But back to the half drink. Those of you who know me well, know that I am fairly clutzy. I have next to no hand-eye coordination, and it's a daily marvel to me that I manage to pull together enough fine motor skills to actually perform my job. So even under the best of circumstances, the chances of my dropping, spilling, tripping, etc, are not inconsiderable. When I'm drunk? All bets are off. And thus halfway through drink #3, whilst making an expansive hand gesture to punctuate my point in the conversation, I sent my flute flying off the end of the bar and onto the floor, where some poor peon had to come out with a flashlight and pick up shards of glass before any mixologists pierced their feet. I apologized profusely to my bartender, who said NBD, and that the lifespan of a glass in a bar is not a long one, generally. Then he said he'd like to make me another drink, to make up for that one. Imagine my surprise when the bill came and it was on there. I totally thought he was offering me a freebie!

But even a non-free drink did not harsh my buzz, because as you people also know, I am a very happy drunk. Also a hungry one. Mr Indemnity walked me to Haymarket to make sure I got on my bus home in my inebriated condition. (Who then got him home on the red line safely in his inebriated condition, I dunno. But he is alive today, so it happened somehow!) But on reaching Haymarket and finding I had twenty minutes till my bus, I insisted we run over to the North End and buy a cannoli. You would think this would be easily accomplished in twenty minutes, but we ended up cutting it very close and stuffing Italian pastry in our faces as we speedwalked back. There's some kind of white residue on my purse straps today. I can only assume it's powdered sugar, because, hey, the night didn't get *that* out of hand.

In summary: we give this evening two thumbs up even though my belleh understandably feels like crap today. That will not, however, keep me from eating birthday onion rings tonight. I'm tough like that!

xoxo

my government speaks to me

So, as I guess many of us know, once you sign an online petition for something, you are then forever more inundated with requests to sign others in your inbox. I do so on rare occasions. And then I get like an automated response from Senator Kerry's office thanking me for me opinion or some such. Well, this past week I did get such. I also got a response from our other senator. This one seems to have been written by an actual human being. To wit:

Dear Andrea, Thank you for contacting me regarding your views on abortion and an amendment proposed by Senator Roland Burris (D-IL). As always, I value your input on this and other issues, and strive to keep you updated on the important issues facing us today. As you are aware, Senator Burris offered an amendment related to abortion access during the Senate Armed Services Committee's consideration of the Fiscal Year 2011 National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA). His amendment was designed to give service members and their dependents the ability to use private funds to have abortions performed in military health facilities. On May 27, 2010, this amendment was passed by the committee and will be included in the NDAA when the bill is considered by the full Senate. As a member of the Senate Committee on Armed Services, I voted against the amendment because the language did not ensure that federal funds would not ultimately be used for these abortions. While I believe that a woman’s reproductive decisions should be made by the woman in consultation with her physician, especially when the pregnancy results from either incest or rape, or when the life of the woman is endangered, I am against federal funding for abortion. Further, since 1995, it has been the policy of military hospitals to only perform abortions in cases of rape, incest, or life endangerment. Government funds are used only when the service member’s or dependent’s life is in danger. Again, thank you for sharing your comments with me. I will keep your views in mind when the NDAA comes before the full Senate for debate. Should you have any additional questions or comments, please feel free to contact me or visit my website atwww.scottbrown.senate.gov.

Sincerely, Scott P. Brown United States Senator

Huh. Did I say Scott could call me Andrea? I don't remember doing so. Perhaps Ms. ______ would have been more appropriate when addressing someone whom you might need a vote from someday. Or perhaps this is part of the whole folksy pickup-driving, flannel-wearing shtick. I don't like it, Scotty. We're not close personal friends nor do I wish to be yours. And I'm sure you'll consider my point of view on this issue. Really hard.

All of which is why signing these petitions are a waste of clicking, but hey, who says I'm not involved in the political process.

xoxo

And look at that! The guvmnt done fucked with my blog formatting!

modern parenting

Townie Girl's daughter (and only biological child--she has a stepdaughter about D's age with whom she is very close) turns nine today. This nine year old is getting $130 Ugg boots, half of which are being paid for by her grandmother. Far be it for me to criticize a love of expensive shoes being instilled early, but I tend to think $130 boots belong on feet which have, y'know, stopped growing. And then I think of the $120 (in 1998 dollars, yet) Nikes my kid wore when he was 12 or so and I tell my brain to shut the fuck up. But, anyway, these expensive boots are not to be Townie Girl Jr's biggest and best birthday present. No. Townie Girl Jr is, like every other nine year old girl in America--or so I hear--enamored of one Justin Bieber. Guess who is playing at the Fleet/Banknorth/TD/Boston/Center/wtf/Garden tonight?!?

Townie Girl, in an absolute masterpiece of stealth, planning, and discretion, bought the tickets to this "concert" back around July and has successfully kept it a secret from her kiddo from now till then. I do not know at what point Townie Girl Jr is going to be informed of how she will be spending her birthday evening--hopefully before boarding the commuter rail, I'd think--but as of yesterday she didn't yet know. If it is possible for a tweenager to die of joy, you'll be reading about this in tomorrow's paper I'm sure.

Yesterday Townie Girl asked for the assistance of my awesome google-fu to help her find whether there was going to be an opening act, so as to plan what time they actually would arrive. (While we were dicking around unsuccessfully trying to find this info on the interwebs, Led Zep Girl called the venue and got the answer. God, that's so last millennium.) But, anyway, this led me to telling Townie Girl that she's a good mom. I know this is coming from a place of absolute love and generosity and a desire to make her kid the happiest child on the planet. But I dunno. Where do you go from there? Is this the kind of thing that makes someone look back with complete happiness and fondness and think "my parents really loved me" or is it the kind of thing that sets up an (unobtainable) expectation of some kind of unbelievably awesome surprise for every birthday or every occasion? I mean I'd still go with the former, because it *is* the best surprise a little girl could have, but nine is kind of young to have any perspective.

Meanwhile, I think this is the sort of thing that makes unenlightened people grouse about only children being overindulged and thus selfish. I have always called bullshit on that. As you know, I am an only child who was smothered with love and attention and I am less selfish than a lot of people. (We won't go into what neuroses it did engender, but selfishness wasn't one of them, thanks.) My son, another spoiled only child, has grown up into a very generous and, within the limits of his gender***, thoughtful person. So, yeah, bullshit. You can't make a kid feel *too* loved in their formative years.

And, finally, in a totally unrelated note, and at the risk of breaking my promise to be all done with the baseball talk till spring, did you see who the two Rookies of the Year were? Mr Buster Posey and Mr Neftali Feliz. I will point out that our Mr Barma had both of these gentlemen on his fantasy roster. Which begs the question of why the fuck *he* doesn't have Theo's job. Because I'm becoming totally convinced someone other than Theo should.

Ok! Philosophy and baseball talk ovah, bitches! Happy Bieber Day!

xoxo

I forgot the goddamned footnote again. Oh, perimenopause, I lurve you.

Footnote is supposed to say:

***So, remember how I told y'all that my dad insisted on doing dishes even though he couldn't see any more and thus I'd end up with unwashed plates in the cupboard and how it was a battle to wash them before he could and how it made him sulk and feel sad? Yeah. Well, since his passing, I have become aware that even the horrible job he did, the times he managed to do it despite me, was some sort of help, 'cause I've been feeling like there are always dirty dishes and I'm constantly doing them. A few weeks ago, I asked D if he would put away the clean dishes during his nocturnal waking hours. He did, and it felt like a big help to not have to put away clean dishes in order to do the dirty ones.

Okay, so I got in the habit of asking him to do this, and he would do it readily. But if I didn't ask, he wouldn't. So one day I pointed this out, laughing. I was like, "What? You put the dishes away for your mother if she asks but you don't if she doesn't, huh? It doesn't occur to you that, 'oh, my poor mom, she works so hard, I should put those dishes away so she doesn't have to do it!'" And ever since then, I've woken up every morning and it is done. And we are both happy. There's some kind of thoughtfulness block about this kind of thing on the Y chromosome, I'm positive. No offense, guys.

new experiences every day

This is going to be one of those posts in which I have to tell you about two different, apparently unrelated things in order for them to converge at the end so that you understand my point, and after which you will say to yourselves, "Andrea, it was not worth my time reading all that nonsense for such little payoff." You've been warned. Bail if you must!

Okay, first thing! I don't know if I mentioned it here or not, but a while ago it sort of randomly occurred to me that, aside from my ex-husband who was a couch potato stoner when we were together, every guy I have been in a serious relationship with (and one or two who I've been in a non-serious relationship with) has been the "it's not really exercise unless it makes you want to puke" type. This is a slight exaggeration, but only slight. I don't know if this sort of person attracts me or if I attract them***, but in retrospect the pattern is clear. I've told you how Whatever He Was to Me and I had a mutual love of hiking, right?, and engaged in it frequently together. Except we had different definitions of hiking. My definition involved taking a strenuous but pleasant walk through some pretty woods. His involved finding the highest point in the surrounding three counties and climbing to the top of it.

You see the difference in philosophies? While I have always been an active person and have never been really out of shape (and, as you know, it pissed me off greatly when several people doubted my ability to complete the 20 mile Walk for Hunger last year just because I didn't look like some kind of scrawny marathon runner or something), I have always looked at exercise as something that felt good, not something that was more rewarding when it made you want to die afterwards.

Okay, second thing. When I was doing weights with Liz, we would do a whole body workout each time, circuit training style. This worked well in a group situation, plus it was supposed to be more cardio-like and geared to fat loss, which is what the chicks want, amirite? (Which is why Liz was so happy to work with me, being as I want to get muscles and lift heavy shit.) As Liz was graduating me and we were discussing how I might proceed, she said I could break up my workouts: lower body one day, upper the next, for example. Last week I tried this. Thus freed from having to do my whole body in like an hour's time, I added one more exercise to my lower body workout (6 rather than 5) and went up to 4 sets each instead of 3. Plus, because I was taking more rest time in between sets/exercises, I was able to go up on some of my weights. Last week I did lower Saturday, upper Sunday, rested Monday, lower Tuesday, upper Wednesday, lower Thursday, upper Friday, cardio Saturday. So I was in the gym 7 days out of 8. Killing it.

However, this week is my birthday week. (Still time for yous to look at my amazon wishlist, bitches. Overnight shipping n' all.) Anticipating that there will most likely be some excessive drinking and excessive eating taking place, I knew that realistically I will not be at the gym almost every day. So I figured today I would do a whole body workout, BUT I would keep the extra sets and the extra exercise or two and keep up the heavier weights. (In fact, today I progressed from using 20 lb dumbbells for my dumbbell rows to 25s. First time.)

And here is where this story converges, because after an hour and twenty minutes of whole body heavy lifting, I knew what it was to workout till you almost, but not quite, puke, boys and girls. OMG. The very last thing I was going to do was my preacher curls, but when I went over to the preacher curl bench, someone had left it adjusted for someone approximately 6'6. I was so stupid from physical exhaustion at that point, I spent about two minutes trying to figure out how to readjust it, until a gentleman who I always think of as, and who we will thus call, Kettlebell Guy****, came over and kindly asked me if I needed help. He fixed it for me and told me the secret. I did my curls and staggered out of there. In fact, I staggered over to the Gulu and got a latte and a blue cheese salad with chicken because my need for food at that point was beyond my ability to get home and prepare some and beyond what the organic food protein bar in my purse could quench. So, yes, this was the hardest I have ever voluntarily worked out***** and...yeah, I almost see the appeal. Huh.

Final only tangentially-related aside: when you eat out alone do you over-tip your server (assuming you're sitting at a table, not the bar, that is)? I do, and did today, because I feel as if I am taking up a space that two people would have otherwise been sitting at, and the server is thus losing the amount of the second diner's tip. And s/he's making just as many trips to the table. I dunno. I feel better leaving a generous amount, unless of course the service sucks.

xoxo

***I'm leaning heavily towards "I attract them" on the basis I have yet another one flirting heavily online with me right now. This guy's typical pleasant weekend morning is a 41 mile bike ride with a 2300 foot climb. Insane. Anyway, believe me, I am not encouraging this flirting because a.) he lives in Alabama and b.) being originally from NYC, he's a Yankees fan, and you know how I feel about mixed marriages and c.) I think he's religious and most importantly d.) he's not a contractor, so what the fuck good is he to me? I ask you.

****What is the deal with those things anyway? I don't see anybody doing anything with them you couldn't do with a regular dumbbell. Is it just that they look cool or what?

*****The hardest I have ever involuntarily worked out was climbing that goddamned mountain in the Adirondacks which almost cost me two toenails and after which I literally almost could not walk for a day and a half. August 1998, the athletic peak of my life. Sigh.